The vines moved toward me like they were hunting.
Their tips curled and twitched, alive with that sick silver glow. They slithered along the bark of the tree, reaching for my arms, my shoulders, my throat. The mark on my palm pulsed in warning. Heat flared beneath my skin. My breath hitched.
Then Simon jerked.
The vines tightened around his ribs and pulled. His body arched like he was being dragged upward, his eyes snapping open with a bright flash of silver rot.
“Simon.” I choked. “Hold on.”
His jaw clenched. The vines squeezed harder. His skin cracked in places, stone spreading across his arms like frostbite. His breath came out sharp.
“Margot.” His voice scraped like gravel. “Cut them.”
“Cut them with what.” I snapped. “I did not bring magical gardening shears.”
The vines lunged
