Page 13 of Beyond the Cottage (After the Fairytale #1)

Chapter 13

T he next morning, Gretta put on her own tub-washed clothing and belt. Since she’d forgotten to ask for her knife back, she pocketed the scissors she’d found in Ansel’s office.

The night before, she’d used the key he’d given her to go snooping. His desk mostly contained dry accounting documents and impersonal correspondence, but she’d also found a ledger detailing his dust buyers. Rather than shady characters with names like Malagrim Darkheart or Gorgozel the Enforcer, his clients were shockingly benign.

He sold to a few underground sports leagues and a high-profile adventurer. His biggest clients, though, were the FWDA—Fairies With Disabilities Association—and a clinic for harpies with broken wings.

Gretta was glad pixie dust didn’t go toward nefarious purposes. If his paperwork was any indication, Ansel wasn’t actually a hardened criminal.

But somehow that made her feel…worse. It made what he’d done to her feel personal. He hadn’t recognized her, but he’d known all along how devastating captivity could be. She’d begged and fought him, screaming for help. She’d cried . And he hadn’t given a shit.

In this, he was no better than the Eater.

But to hell with rage, to hell with letting him rip her heart out and grind it under his boot heel. She couldn’t bring the real Ansel back, so why bother feeling anything at all?

Gretta tied her boots, nearly ripping the laces, and approached the window. Dawn had come an hour ago, but the sky remained a dark, putrid green. The wind whipped glowing leaves around the yard, and rain pelted the windows like buckshot.

How long did storms in this part of the country last? What should her first step be when it ended?

Since she was already in the swamp, tracking the swamp witch tempted her, but it would probably be best to regroup with Brand first. He and Philip must have messaged Nat about her disappearance by now, and they’d all be worried.

Yet another mark on Ansel’s piss-poor record.

She poked her head from the room. All quiet, except for echoing drips and water trickling in a floor drain. No breakfast tray awaited her, but scrounging up food would at least give her something to do, so she started down the hallway.

Gretta had done her best to keep track of the corridors, but none led to a kitchen. As she wandered, she cursed the sprawling, moldy maze of a prison.

Hushed voices came from ahead. Palming the scissors, she hid behind a corner.

“He told us to lay low,” Seven said.

“What the fuck do you think I plan to do there, run for mayor?” Jonas. “It’s the only place I have connections, and I’m not letting her force us to some other backwater shithole.”

“It’s the first place the police will look!”

So they expected Gretta to rat them out to the cops? The thought hadn’t crossed her mind, since she was as likely to find herself tossed in the clink. Still, she saw no reason to ease their minds.

“I suppose you have a better plan?” Jonas asked. “Some big network of family and friends who are eager to take us in?”

Seven grew quiet.

“Oh, right. I’m all you’ve got. And you sure as shit can’t take care of yourself.”

Gretta narrowed her eyes. Though Seven had a hand in this train wreck of a situation, she found herself rooting for the other woman.

“…Maybe it’s time we found out if that’s true.” Not exactly a savage comeback, but steel threaded Seven’s words.

“Cute.”

“I mean it.”

“You always do. Then you go back to letting me deal with all our problems. I have to do everything , Sev, and you’re so fucking oblivious to it.”

A long pause. “Perhaps I will find my own way, then. You can stay in Antrelle with your paramours and prostitutes.”

“Grow up already,” Jonas laughed. “I’m sick of explaining how the world really works.”

“Explain again, anyway! After all, I’m just a naive girl who needs a sophisticated bog man to teach me.”

Jonas growled, and Gretta’s knuckles whitened around the scissors. She inched closer, preparing to intervene, when he said, “I’m not getting sucked into another one of your dramas. We’ll talk when you’re ready to quit playing the scorned orphan.” His heavy footsteps retreated.

“I’m not an orphan!”

When Gretta no longer heard him, she rounded the corner to find Seven staring vacantly down the corridor.

“How the hell did you end up with that piece of shit?”

Seven jumped. “Miss Hacker! Did you, ah…need something?”

“I was looking for breakfast. Couldn’t help overhearing.”

Seven’s eyes slitted. “You mean you couldn’t help spying on a private conversation.”

Gretta shrugged.

Crossing her arms, Seven nodded at the scissors. “Do you intend to assault me again? I’m afraid I don’t have anymore keys to offer, since you lost my only set.”

“Sorry about your cheek.” The scissors went into Gretta’s pocket. “I didn’t really want to hurt you.”

Seven sighed, waving the apology away. “It’s healing fine. I apologize for not insisting they release you from the start.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I know where the blame lies.”

After an awkward silence, Seven cleared her throat. “Well, come along, then. I’ll bring you to the kitchen.”

As they walked, a thousand questions about Seven’s personal life came to mind, though Gretta didn’t think she’d get answers. Still, there was no harm in offering some basic facts. “He’s a prick. You can do a hell of a lot better.”

“I suppose you agree I’m a simple half-wit without any agency.”

“I don’t think that. But why do you keep hanging around those assholes?”

“I’d rather not discuss mine and Jonas’s relationship. As for the director, he has nothing to do with it.”

“No? He doesn’t seem to be helping you.”

Seven drew Gretta to a stop. “Miss Hacker. While I understand your animosity toward him, you will not lay this at his feet. He’s helped me in ways you can’t imagine. He’s tried to intervene to the point of vexation.” Her chin lifted. “But my decisions are, in fact, my own.”

Gretta put her hands up in surrender. Far be it from her to disparage Seven’s precious director.

They continued walking in silence and arrived at an enormous, industrial kitchen. Ansel stood at the stove, and when he heard them enter, he looked over his shoulder. His spatula clattered to the skillet.

“I’ve already eaten,” Seven said to Gretta. “Will there be anything else?”

No good excuse to detain her came, so Gretta shook her head. It had probably been too optimistic to hope she could avoid him all day, and there was no way in hell she’d let him see her run again.

As Seven left, Gretta looked everywhere except at him. Slab counter tops and rough-hewn cabinets surrounded her. Sacks labeled as oats, flour, and sugar lay stacked in a corner, as well as bushels of produce. The butcher block island made her stomach turn, so she skirted it to sit at an empty farm table.

Posture stiff, Ansel returned his attention to the stove. “Would you like bacon and eggs?”

“Fine.” Why starve herself?

When he finished cooking, he set a heaping plate before her. “Do you still like apples?” His face flushed as though he’d asked what color drawers she wore.

“Yes.”

He chose two from a fragrant bushel and sat across from her. Gretta attacked the food, too busy chewing to tell him to leave. He picked at his own breakfast without enthusiasm.

“When do you expect the storm to end?” she asked.

“It’s hard to say. Another day or two, probably.”

“What are you going to do after? You’ll have to tie me down if you think you’re keeping me here.”

His shoulders went rigid. “I’ll escort you to Antrelle when it’s safe to do so.”

Gretta’s fork lowered, and she stared at him. “Really, it’s that simple now? You’re just going to let me go, come what may?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t entirely disbelieve him, but he’d done little to earn her trust. If he reneged, the master key would at least let her leave on her own. Maybe her dust would replenish ahead of schedule?

As Gretta continued eating, she caught him repeatedly glancing at her.

“Can I ask…” he finally said. “How long have you lived in Antrelle?”

“I don’t.”

“Where do you live?”

Gretta swallowed a bite. She didn’t have much interest in swapping life stories, but offering a few broad details was better than uncomfortable silence. “I live in the capital. I was only in Antrelle for work.”

“What do you do? It sounds dangerous.”

She debated answering that one before deciding it was worth feeling out if he could point her in the right direction. “I hunt witches. A type of witch, technically. I believe the one I’m looking for lives in your swamp.”

Ansel abruptly stopped fidgeting with his apple. “I see. Do you know where to find her?”

“Not specifically. If you have any ideas, I’d be much obliged.”

“Considering our history, your profession surprises me. I’d think you’d prefer to avoid witches.”

“Our history is one of the reasons I hunt them. In my pursuit of the right one, I slit the throats of the wrong ones along the way. It’s quite cathartic.”

He recoiled slightly.

“You disapprove?” she asked.

“I don’t know. While I obviously understand your perspective, mine has become nuanced.”

“What does that mean? Have you forgiven her?”

“Of course not. What the Eater did is unforgivable, and I imagine you’ve rid the world of many like her. But I don’t believe any species is all good or evil.”

He was right—except for witches. “Talk to me after you’ve seen three teenaged boys chained to a mattress in a lust witch’s basement or the jars of eyeballs a clairvoyant believed would improve her second sight.”

His expression grew concerned. “How do you hunt them? They have a rather unfair advantage over the rest of us.”

“I’ve had some close calls.” Gretta’s first year hunting, a fire witch had singed off half her hair. “I surprise them, and I wear a spun silver cloak when I attack. But mostly the job is research and recon. How long have you lived in the swamp?”

He glanced away. “I grew up here.”

“For real? You told me you grew up out east.”

“I suppose I didn’t want you to know I was swamp trash, as you’re so fond of putting it. Call it adolescent insecurity.”

“I’d call it lying, however you spin it. I guess there was something of Lab Coat in you even then.”

He leaned in. “You lied to me, too. Why did you let me believe you were human?”

“I—” The air in Gretta’s lungs thickened as memories flooded in. She crumpled her napkin, resisting the urge to hide behind it.

“Why, Gretta? Tell me.”

She threw her napkin on the table. “Have you forgotten what happened to that girl, Esme? How the Eater paid her special attention because pixie glands were especially sweet ?”

Esme had been older than Gretta. Until volatus glands developed, younger pixies were visibly indistinguishable from humans, so Gretta had kept her species a secret, even from Ansel. She’d been too scared to speak it out loud, unsure how magic worked and what might’ve been listening.

“I remember,” he said gently. “But why didn’t you tell me ?”

Gretta threw her shoulders back. “Because I didn’t trust you. I assumed you’d go running to the Eater to save your own skin.”

No part of him moved, but his stricken eyes indicated her lie hit its mark.

She stood. “I’m done eating. I can find my own way back.” Spine rigid, she started for the doorway.

“Gretta,” he called. “Wait.”