Page 4 of Beyond the Cottage (After the Fairytale #1)

Chapter 4

W hen his footsteps faded, Gretta let go of the bars and stumbled deeper into the cell. It was spacious, bigger than her bedroom, except here the walls closed in on her, getting closer when she squeezed her eyes shut.

She dropped to the floor and pressed her face against her knees. The mildew and humidity were soup in her lungs. She inhaled with desperate pulls, only getting small sips of air, and the walls came closer, faster, pressing in, groaning with anticipation…

With a gasp, Gretta whipped her head up. The walls were where they belonged.

She scooted along the stone floor until her back hit the bars, keeping all three walls in her line of sight. It was silly, childish. But it helped.

She counted backward from fifty, keeping time with the crickets outside. She pictured a vast meadow with miles of grass in every direction, smelled cool dirt instead of mold.

As her heartbeat slowed, she drew a breath and let out one final scream.

That also helped. A long time had passed since she’d been locked in a cage, but her memories of coping with it returned as easily as the fear. At least now she wasn’t a defenseless kid.

When her pulse stabilized, she swatted tears off her cheeks. Crying was more pointless than begging that fucker to release her. Gretta was on her own. If she had any chance of escaping, she’d only find it if she stayed patient, calm. Qualities she’d unfortunately never bothered to develop.

But she would. Starting now .

She checked her pocket watch—11:08. On what day, though? Did Brand and Philip even know she was missing?

Gretta stood and turned in a circle, evaluating the cell. Watery green light from the corridor reached halfway inside, and the high, narrow window left a streak of moonlight on the floor. The walls dripped the same glowing ooze that filled the mounted bowls in the hall, giving the already creepy space an otherworldly feel.

There was a small metal table bolted to the floor, as well as a pit toilet. The room was otherwise empty, so she approached the window. The top of her head came well short of the ledge. She tried flying again and was no longer startled when her feet remained on the floor.

Now that she could think clearly, it was obvious what those pigs had done to her. Somehow, they’d found a way to steal the secretions of volatus glands.

Dust , they’d called it.

Gretta didn’t perfectly understand the biology of her volatus, just like she couldn’t explain how her kidneys worked or how dryads metabolized energy from trees. She only knew those glands made pixies fly without wings.

Was Lab Coat harvesting it for himself? Selling it? Gretta had never heard anything about pixie dust during her foray into Antrelle’s black market, but she also hadn’t known to ask. Hell, until that night, she hadn’t known it could be extracted in the first place.

She touched the weeping needle hole at her neck. The moisture turned to powder as she rubbed it between her fingers. She experimentally sprinkled it on her bare feet, and with a lurch, she floated, grabbing the window ledge to keep from passing it. The loose powder was harder to control than her body’s natural process, and she wavered unsteadily at the window, clenching its bars.

Gretta looked outside, and air puffed from her lips.

Everything glowed. Iridescent moss laced the black branches of cypress trees. Chartreuse water shimmered like an oil slick, rippling as something with incandescent scales broke the surface. A dragonfly landed near her fingertips, flicking its wings as its bright thorax lit the window well.

The Radiant Swamps.

Gretta was in the exact place she’d planned to visit for weeks.

A boon or more bad luck? The swamps were big, and she didn’t know their depths well. Navigating them without a guide would be…tricky.

But it had to be better than ending up in some far-flung, unidentifiable location. She was still close to Antrelle, which meant Brand might be able to track her scent if she couldn’t escape on her own. Even Philip wouldn’t brush her disappearance off as irresponsibility. If nothing else, he’d help find her out of professional obligation.

Gretta walked her hands down the slick wall until she landed on the floor. After brushing the remaining dust off her feet, she sat in a corner, concealing herself in shadows.

The situation was fucked up but not totally hopeless. She produced something her captors wanted, so they were unlikely to kill her right away. If she didn’t get the opportunity to escape, her colleagues would eventually find her.

She just needed to stay calm and patient. If she did, she could learn about this operation and the pieces of shit who’d taken her. Then escape, then bring the fuckers down . Especially the one who’d tossed her in the cell.

Gretta’s stomach twisted when she remembered his penetrating eyes. That jolt upon first seeing them disturbed her. There was something seriously off about him, and it went beyond the fact that he was a debased lunatic. His partner seemed like the more unhinged of the two, but Lab Coat unnerved her. Like the cell, he dredged up fear much older and more complex than her earlier panic. His crime felt personal, somehow.

Of course, it wasn’t actually personal for him. To Lab Coat, she was a nameless commodity, little more than livestock to be penned and harvested. But it sure as hell had become personal for her.

A distant door banged, and Gretta scrambled to her feet. Heavy footsteps and squeaking wheels came down the corridor, and Lab Coat rolled up with a pushcart. He turned to her, arms at his sides, face blank.

Bathed in the creepy green light, he looked every inch the villain. Shadows hollowed his cheeks and eyes, and a tiny scar split the side of his upper lip, giving it the vague appearance of a snarl. He remained deathly still, barely breathing, but power and menace rolled off him, tautening his shoulders and the muscles in his arms.

He seemed…tightly wound. Like a snake coiled to spring. Ironically, he was the type Gretta usually found attractive, in a severe, ghoulish sort of way.

As he stood there brooding, Gretta forced her pulse to calm. Chin high, she emerged from the shadows, and his dark eyes met hers.

Another jolt came, this one so brutal she nearly crumpled to the floor. It was loss and betrayal, the death of someone dear. Tears stung her eyes, yet she couldn’t look at anything but him.

What the hell was that? She’d think he’d doused himself in a potion, but with an effect that strong, she’d have sensed magic coming off him. Could it be a pheromone of some kind? A chemical vapor?

Really bad cologne?

Shaking it off, Gretta approached. Lab Coat blinked and retreated a step.

“Let me out,” she said.

After an unnecessarily dramatic pause, he straightened. His size made her almost grateful for the protection the bars offered.

“Did you come to kill me?” she asked. May as well get it out in the open.

“No.”

“Are you letting me go?”

He glanced away.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I?” No answer, but she hadn’t expected one. “At least tell me how long I’ve been here.”

“An hour and a half.”

More shitty luck—Brand and Philip had no idea she was missing. “What do you plan to do with me?”

“For now? Nothing.”

“What about tomorrow?”

He scrubbed the back of his neck and dropped his hand.

Sick of dragging non-information from him piecemeal, Gretta marched to the bars with her arms crossed. “If you aren’t going to kill me or release me, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I…brought provisions.”

“I don’t want them.”

As though she hadn’t spoken, he pushed a bedroll between the bars. A small lantern and a blanket followed, then he held out an oily paper bag.

Gretta’s stomach juices came alive at the smell coming from the bag, but she didn’t take it. He set it on the ground before the bars, along with a full burlap sack.

“I said I don’t want them!” she cried. “Let me out .”

A canteen thudded at her feet.

Gretta screeched and yanked on the bars. He moved out of reach, watching her struggle.

The fucker probably got off on her misery. He probably fell asleep fantasizing about the women he tortured. Choking down her frustration, she released the bars with a snarl. He continued staring at her, and she stared back. A charged, uncomfortable silence pulsed between them, but she refused to be the one to break it.

He blinked hard, and neutral coldness returned to his expression. Like an orderly finishing his rounds, he turned the cart and pushed it the way he’d come. With her face squeezed between the bars, Gretta watched him go.

“You’re a piece of shit!” she called. “A worthless freak! I swear on my life, you’re going to regret this.”

The cart stopped. He turned his head, giving her his profile. Then the squeaky wheels resumed, and he disappeared into the dark.

Deflated, Gretta pushed off the bars, and her eyes strayed to the paper bag and canteen. Accepting anything from him grated, but she wouldn’t have the energy to escape if she didn’t eat something . Her supper of rum shots and pilfered crayfish hadn’t exactly been a banquet.

She pulled the bag inside and nibbled on cold chicken as she poked through the items in the burlap sack. A boring book. Tooth powder and a clean rag. Soft-soled shoes that actually fit. She’d rather have her sturdy leather boots, but these would at least offer some protection when she escaped into the swamps.

Gretta uncapped the canteen. Within three seconds of sniffing its contents, she was chugging, too thirsty to care about poison. When she’d had all she could take, she dragged the bedroll into the shadows and curled up on her side to wait.