Page 28

Chapter 28

Kat

I don’t have the luxury of the prince being gone for my raid this time. I wait until after dark, after he has dismissed me for the day. I left him in his study, and now I ease the window open and slip outside.

The night is unusually chilly, with a biting wind and a smell like rain. Clouds cover the stars and the moon.

I grab my Ivy Mask bundle from behind the outhouse. I must keep Prince Rahk off my trail, and judging by how things went last time, using ollea isn’t enough. So I’ve hatched a new plan. A very different, risky plan, but one that I believe will pay off well. I put all the things I need in a sack—including a little present for Ymer—don my usual Ivy Mask garb, swipe the ollea on the bottoms of my shoes, and start my run toward the forest. I keep my eyes sharp, and several times a tree’s moving shadow in the wind spooks me and I duck into hiding.

When I get to the forest, drenched in sweat and hot despite my cold ears, I pant for a moment, and then I hurry toward my cart. My task is made difficult by the forest’s recession, which has left faint shimmers like fireflies along the ground. The ground itself almost seems to vibrate beneath my feet. Strange .

“Who goes over yonder?” booms a loud voice.

I startle straight out of my boots and whirl.

There, sitting with his thick legs stretched out in front of him, his back bowed forward, is the enormous form of Ymer the Indefatigable.

On this side of the border.

His moon-wide yellow eyes latch onto me.

For a moment, we just stare at each other. I’m not sure which of us is more shocked.

Then his rocklike fingers clench around his club and he lurches to his feet. “You nasty elf! Ymer will skewer you and roast you over a spit!”

Well, this is going to complicate things.

I throw myself into a somersault as Ymer smashes his cudgel into the ground where I was just standing. I roll back up to my feet only to nearly fall on my face as I try to dodge his next blow. “Ymer the Indefatigable!” I cry, and yelp as he tries to grab me with his other hand. “I come in peace!”

“You have stepped foot into Ymer’s territory, and now Ymer will eat you!” he roars.

I spew a string of curses as I dart behind him, taking advantage of his slow maneuvers. If I’m not careful, he really will eat me, and I would never get over the shame of that. “You’re not supposed to be here! You need to go back to Faerieland— saints !”

The cudgel lands mere inches from my foot.

“Ymer will not leave unless the ruler of this land bids Ymer go!” he roars. “Which you are not. So now Ymer will eat you!”

I trip. I catch myself on my hands and knees. My heart slams into my throat as stoney fingers clamp around my waist and lift me straight off the ground.

“Ymer!” I shriek as he brings me toward his craggy lips. “You can’t eat me because I brought you a present!”

His mouth is open, a rotting stench assaulting me mid-air, so I get a clear view of all the lumps on his blackened tongue. But he pauses, my legs dangling a solid four or five feet above the ground, his grip digging painfully into my waist.

“A present?” he echoes.

“Yes!” I cry, wiggling to loosen his grip. “I brought it for you because I felt bad that I kept passing you and not letting you eat me!”

He narrows one of those massive eyeballs at me. Something is growing on his eyelid. “How does Ymer know you are not trying to trick Ymer?”

I lift both my hands. “If you put me down and let me open my bag, I will show you the gift.”

“Ymer does not know if he should trust the nasty elf.” With that, he turns me upside-down like I am a doll to abuse. I cling to one massive, rusted fingernail and brace myself as blood rushes to my brain.

“If I am lying,” I say between gritted teeth, “I will leap into your mouth myself. You have that on my word as a nasty elf.”

He drops me unceremoniously on the ground. I roll in an effort to not snap my neck clean in half. Then I cast about desperately on the ground for my dropped sack. My fingers close around the cloth and I nearly sigh aloud in relief.

“Here!” I say, digging around in my sack until I find the smaller sack inside. I yank it out and hold it up.

He studies the knotted kerchief and sniffs. He tilts his head to one side— curious .

“It smells good, right?” I fumble with the knot until I get it open, revealing the present. It is a picked over chicken carcass. Charity served several for dinner last night, saying she would make chicken stock today with the leftovers. I swiped one of them when she wasn’t looking. “It is all for Ymer.”

Ymer’s hand, the one with the cudgel, slackens as he leans forward, his nostrils flaring with interest. I toss the carcass toward him and grab my pack, skittering back a step.

He picks up the chicken’s ribcage and inspects it. I’m not sure if he enjoys herbal seasonings, but surely he cannot hate them, right? He snaps a rib and brings it to his jagged teeth, taking a tentative bite that crunches down my spine.

“Enjoy!” I call, a little shrill, as I turn on my heel and race toward my cart as fast as I can while he is distracted. To my vast relief, he seems content with the chicken and does not chase me. I reach the cart with no incident.

I duck behind it and change as swiftly as I can, tossing my ollea coated shoes into the cart inside a bag with the rest of my Ivy Mask garb. Now my clothes are all fresh, never worn before, and carry their own scent.

I tuck the bottle of ollea into my pocket. Then I allow myself one moment to feel the splitting in my heart for Bartholomew’s loss. “I’m going to get you back,” I vow into the night. “And I will give you so many carrots you’ll be sick of them.”

After that, I have no room for anything but the task before me. I glance back at Ymer’s great, hulking shadow as he digs into his meal. Maybe he will be satisfied enough that he won’t chase me when I return. I’ve got other things to worry about now.

I don’t know how Rahk tracked me before, but this time, I’ve got to outsmart him. The saints know I haven’t a hope for success otherwise!

I don’t take the Path to Nothril.

I search along the edges of the forest, watching for those faint sparkles. It takes about a half a mile of walking before I find the right Path. The end of the Path shimmers in the ether—barren trees and green mud slung between their dead branches.

“If you let this kill you,” I mutter under my breath, “Mary will skin your hide.”

Pulling the hood of my new cloak low and affixing my mask, I slip onto the Path and let the forest swallow me whole.

This Path is darker than many of the others. I’ve never walked it before, but Tailor always warned me not to step foot on it. My awareness is tight and tense, listening for any sign that something is already following me.

The trees begin shrinking slightly. Lush greenery gives way to broken, sad stalks of wood. The ground shifts from well packed earth and pine needles to something wetter and slicker.

A pungent rot makes me press my sleeve against my nose. I dare not cough and draw attention to myself, but my eyes water from the stench.

My foot slips.

I catch myself with both hands in the muck. It is sludgy, green, and already deep enough to bury my wrists in. I restrain the sound of disgust in my throat and push myself upright again. This time, I move slower, more carefully, dodging around the muddier parts as I enter the swamp.

A low hum reaches my ears just as the Path ends.

I stand on the edge of a swampy pit. The remnants of blackened trees stand like blades as far as I can see. The horrible green mud is everywhere, sliding down the sides of large, sunken boulders, covering the rest of the way into the pit.

I reach one of those boulders, gripping it tightly with the pads of my fingers and leaning to get a better look inside the pit.

My heart stops beating.

A great . . . thing rests in the center of the pit, mostly buried in the mud. It has a smooth, bulbous body that protrudes from the mud like a dome. And that is all I can see of it—though I know there is much beneath the surface. The hum comes from the creature, the mud around it shivering from that noise.

I refuse to breathe, scooting behind the large rock, putting it between me and the Path—exposing myself to the monster and its reach.

As silently as I can, I change clothes. It’s so vulnerable to be half naked in Caphryl Wood, at the mercy of this monster that can wake at any moment, knowing Rahk can be here at any second. But I do it anyway. When I’m finished changing, I pull the bottle of ollea out of my pocket, unstopper it, and smear it on the bottoms of my usual boots. I glance at the vial. Less than a third is left. I chew my lip and determine to worry about that problem later.

I sneak out of my spot and hide my first change of clothes as close to the monster as I dare.

Now it’s time to make my escape.

But just then, a long shadow falls over the pit.

I slip back into my hiding place, barely willing to breathe, my heartbeat thrashing in my ears, and squeeze my eyes shut. I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but it looks like I have no choice.

Kneeling silently, I search along the ground until I find a mud-coated stone. I wait as Rahk’s silhouette, with the shadows of the hilts of his two great swords rising above his shoulders, comes down the Path I just trod. He silently approaches the monster—following the scent of the new clothes I wore.

His tracking ability is frighteningly good. How did he get here so fast?

I crush my teeth against one another, not daring to move, watching his shadow as it falls over the form of the sleeping monster.

He will catch me some day.

The realization strikes with the force of a whip. The question isn’t if —it’s when . It is only a matter of time until I make a mistake. How long can I stay a step ahead of him?

All it takes is one stumble, and then he’ll be upon me.

I squeeze my fist.

Not tonight. He is not getting me tonight.

Rahk stops a few paces away from the sleeping monster. I watch his shadow as his nose lifts into the air. When he turns his head, so his profile is clearly set against the smooth surface of the monster, his mouth is downturned. Confident in his own stealth, he silently marches toward the monster, and if not for his shadow, I never would have known he’d come. His right hand goes to the hilt of one of his swords, but he does not draw it as he approaches.

He kneels right in front of it. Where my discarded clothes are.

Then his head jerks upright. He scans the area. Looking for me. I keep my shriek firmly locked behind my teeth. I shift the rock in my grasp, but hesitate.

What if something happens to Rahk? What if this monster kills him—or both of us? The idea of him suffering harm is more upsetting than I want to consider.

But he’s the prince of the Nothril Court. He’s a fae warrior. He took down those assassins without hardly a thought.

He’s got to be able to handle this monster.

I have no other option to shake him off my trail. There are humans in the fae world right now, being ruined by their fae masters. As much as I may want to believe Prince Rahk isn’t like the rest of the fae, I have no choice in the matter. I will always choose my fellow humans over one of their kind.

So I throw the rock with every bit of power I can muster. Straight at the lidded eye of the monster.

The monster surges with a roar that sends shockwaves through the mud. Its tentacles—lined with long, sharp blades—unwind from around its body at a dizzying speed, sweeping the area around it with the force of a tornado. Rahk flips backward out of the way, catches the low hanging branch of a nearby swamp tree and hoists himself upright.

The monster’s tentacles come for him even there, slashing into the tree branch. Rahk swings to the opposite branch as he withdraws his sword and slices through monster flesh. The air splits with a rumbling roar. Then he drops to the ground, dodging another attack. The tentacle misses him, but slams hard into the rock I’m hiding behind. The force knocks me to my knees.

Rahk’s attention whips to me, no longer concealed. I stare at him through the slits of my mask. His gaze widens slightly.

Another slicing tentacle shoots for me at once, the large, gray monster eye fixing on me. The heel of my boot snags on the uneven terrain, and I fall backwards. I catch myself with my palms, unable to do anything but watch in the split second before the tentacle slices open my chest.

Rahk’s body suddenly blocks me, both of his swords swinging. The sliced bit of tentacle goes flying. I gasp. Mud sticks to my clammy skin. Why is he defending me? My senses return with that thought, and I scramble to my feet and try to run.

It’s Rahk’s own foot that I trip over next. I barely keep from swearing aloud in fury.

“I’m not here to hurt you! I need your help!” he shouts to me, his swords slashing as one of his feet presses into my ankle, keeping me from running.

I dare not speak to him for fear my voice will give me away. Instead, I grab my one not-very-good knife and, out of desperation, slice it lightly across the skin of his ankle. Barely enough to draw blood. Surprised, he shifts his weight, and I take the meager advantage to yank free.

He curses, then shouts as he dives and rolls back to his feet, dodging another flying tentacle: “Ivy Mask! Please! I need you to save my sister!”

His sister. The one he loves.

My heart fissures. He’s lying to me. He’s lying to trick me. To trap me. I hate myself for the way it almost works—the way I nearly stop running, pausing, to hear his case. I desperately want to believe that he hunts me for the purpose of gaining my alliance instead of hunting me down for his wicked parents. I want so badly for him to be on my side, and not working toward my death.

But I am not a fool. I saw what these fae did to my mother and many others. I know what they’re capable of. I’ve seen Rahk in the Nothril Court. He isn’t to be trusted—no matter how much I long to do exactly that.

I cannot risk my raids and the future of the people I rescue.

The monster shoots tentacles out of the pit. They latch onto trees, the few boulders, wrapping around them and then pulling —dragging itself out of the pit. Rahk hacks at each tentacle, but he’s not fast enough. New ones shoot past him with every second. He leaps backward to keep from being skewered. I take the window of opportunity and run as fast as I can away from the scene. I glance back once to see Rahk trying to follow me, but tentacles keep coming for him.

I run and run and run, leaping onto the Path, but just as I think I’m safe, a snap resounds behind me. Fire erupts across my leg, followed by wet warmth. I manage to withhold my scream, but I fall hard to the ground.

The back of my calf has been sliced open. Blood soaks through the torn fabric of my trousers. I curse viciously under my breath. That is a deep cut. But I don’t have time to tend it. I push myself to my feet, ignoring the screaming pain, and keep running—limping violently. Blood streams down my leg.

I make it to the end of the Path before I stop, breathing too hard, and use my knife to cut a strip of cloth from my cloak. It’s not clean, but that doesn’t matter right now. I wrap it around my calf and knot it so tightly I nearly cry out from the pain.

A thousand questions flood my mind, panic about how I’m going to manage this raid, how I’m going to keep this wound hidden from Rahk when I return to his house. I shove them all away. There is nothing except the task before me.

I keep running. I take the right Path this time, one that goes to my next target: the Pyrenar Court.

I don’t know how much time until Rahk frees himself from the monster, but I have to act fast. Pushing past the pain, I sprint through the Path, careful not to accidentally fall off it and into the unforgiving depths of Caphryl Wood.

Waiting at the end of the Path, before a white, ornate gate is Tailor. His spectacles sit askew on the bridge of his nose, his face wreathed in fear. “Kat!”

“No time!” I gasp. “We need to get them out—”

“I’ve already gotten them out,” he says. “But you—you’re bleeding!”

“Bless you. Prince Rahk is on my trail,” I say by way of explanation. “I’ve got the lead on him, but I cannot go back the way I came.”

“I have an alternate Path for you. This way! How bad is the injury?”

“I can barely feel it, to be honest.” I duck after him around the gate. In tall rushes, a young couple hides. They look only barely older than I am. He has his arm around her shoulders, and she grips his hand in hers. I spare a relieved thought that they both look like they can move quickly.

“Thank you, Ivy Mask,” says the young woman. “We owe you everything.”

“You’ve given us a chance to live—and to marry.” The man gives me such a look of earnest gratitude as he pulls the woman I assumed was his wife—but apparently is his intended—to her feet.

Their praise turns my stomach. “Don’t thank me yet,” I mutter, reapplying ollea . The three of us follow Tailor through thick foliage until we reach a new Path that shimmers before us.

“He won’t be able to track you here,” the tailor says. “It’ll take you to Valehaven, and from there you can take the usual Path to your part of the world.”

I cannot help myself and I grab him by the collar and kiss his cheek soundly—a slapping of my mask against his face. “You are a miracle, Tailor. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“Yes, yes, now go!”

It’s a longer distance than usual, and I could weep from missing Bartholomew, but we make great time for being on foot. When I stumble, the fabric tying my wound soaked through, the young man scoops an arm beneath my shoulder blades and under my armpit, dragging me back to my feet and helping to bear my weight.

“Thank you,” I gasp.

We make it to the edge of Caphryl Wood an hour later. My leg shakes from the ill use. But I don’t stop as I yank out my precious little supply of ollea. I cannot take chances tonight. “Put a drop on the bottom of your shoes!” I tell them. Now that I know Rahk is here in the human world, along with Ymer, I’m painfully aware of how unsafe this place is. It’s like the shimmering ground of the receding border is only a reminder of how dangerous Ashbourne is while Rahk is on the hunt.

I search the darkness for sign of Ymer. In the distance, a great lump is sprawled on the ground, and if I strain, I can hear something resembling snoring. I exhale in relief. As long as we stay quiet, we should be fine.

The couple does as I say, and I give them the usual instructions. Sweat streams down their faces as they pant. The young man’s eyes flick between my face and my wounded leg. “We’re not leaving you like this.”

“Absolutely not!” insists the girl.

“I will be completely fine,” I lie. “You’re the ones in danger. I have only a little way before I am safe. Please—you must make it to the city. For me. You’ll leave me in worse danger if you stay.”

They look dubious, but accept my explanation and break into a run.

I watch them disappear into the darkness and spare a prayer that they will rebuild their life together and have a long, happy marriage. Then I take stock of where I stand, a good half of a mile from my cart and the Nothril Path. My limbs shake from the exertion and pain, yet I have no choice but to work as fast as I can. I need to be back in bed at Rahk’s house before he returns—and I must be free of all signs of Faerieland when I do. I rip off my mask and stuff it into my pocket.

It seems impossible.

But I must make it happen. There is no other option.

Thunder rumbles overhead, low and menacing. I take another strip of my cloak and wrap it around my leg. I cannot leave a trail of blood behind me. I find a stick I can lean on and hobble my way as fast as I can back to Rahk’s estate. It’s agonizing work, sweat streaming down my face and salt stinging my eyes. Each step is more painful than the one before it. I grit my teeth and push onward.

I’m beginning to believe I’ll never make it when the light woods near Rahk’s house and the burbling of the creek nearly make me gasp in relief. I pick up my pace, ignoring the throbbing that now shoots up my entire leg.

With a whimper, I collapse against the side of the stream. I breathe hard, leaning against the trunk of a tree, my head tilted back toward the night sky. The reprieve from the sheer agony of walking is almost pleasurable. But I cannot sit still for long.

I groan as I unwrap my makeshift bandages. The cut is nasty, still bleeding, and deep enough to require stitches—though not deep enough to leave permanent injury. I hope .

I sift through my sack until I find Mary’s makeshift bag of injury treatment tools. She always keeps me prepared. I’d be dead without her so many times.

I open the bag. A flash of lightning overhead illuminates the long needle I had hoped to never need. The thread is a high-quality silk. I thread the needle and bring it to my torn flesh.

“There’s nothing to it,” I mumble with a quiet laugh.

The first puncture of the needle through flesh nearly makes me pass out. I clench my jaw, refusing to slow down—lest I be here all night until Rahk returns and finds me like this. By the second stitch, tears stream down my cheeks. The third stitch hurts worse than the injury itself.

“Keep going. Don’t stop,” I growl at myself, forcing my shaking hand to keep going. “The faster you go, the faster it’ll be over.”

I curse every inch of this wound that requires another stitch. Despite my intention to not stop or slow, I take a break halfway through. My hands are a bloodied mess.

I sag against the tree trunk, tilting my head up. Tears stream down my cheeks. “This is all my fault. And it’s your fault, Mama. You never should have come after me. Why did you have to go into the Wood? I needed you. I—I need you now. But you’re not here.”

It’s hatred that rises from deep inside me, fueling my needle as I begin stitching again. The worst part is the tug of the thread through the skin. I cannot yank too fast or risk tearing the skin, so I’m forced to pull long and slow. It’s agony.

I hate my mother for getting lost in the Wood. Even though she was a captive, enduring horrors I can only begin to guess at. I still hate her for it. I hate her for not abandoning me when she should have. I hate her for the empty shell of the person she was when she returned.

And I hate Father too—who remarried for me . Father—who died of a broken heart when Mama returned from the forest only to find he’d moved on.

But most of all, I hate myself. My family was torn to shreds, leaving me among ashes. Leaving me with a stepfamily that I never belonged to. All because of my idiocy . If it wasn’t for me, I would be with my family now, instead of pretending I was part of Agatha’s.

“Better I was left destitute,” I snarl through the tears.

I miss Bartholomew so terribly much. I must believe I will get her back. If I don’t—

“You’re going to get her back.” I wipe my nose on my bloodied sleeve, swearing into the darkness. “That is the end of the story. You’re going to get her back, and all of this will be worth it.”

I pull the last stitch through. I knot it quickly, then fall against the tree, my mouth open as sweat drips from my cupid’s bow onto my tongue. My leg pulses, and every heartbeat brings a fresh wave of agony.

It’s a mercy, a blessed mercy when the rain begins. Each drop stings against my stitches, but it is cooling on my fiery skin. A soothing balm. I let the rain soak me through, washing away my blood into the creek, washing away the scent of Faerieland.

It gives me just the scrap of determination and energy I need to push to my feet, still leaning on my makeshift cane, and hobble to the outhouse, which is empty—yet another blessed mercy. There I switch my clothes and hide my bloodied Ivy Mask garments to be cleaned later when I have a chance.

My luck cannot hold forever, however. When I get to my window, I nearly crumble in anticipation of the pain of climbing inside. I’m so exhausted the thought of just sleeping on the ground in the rain sounds far more appealing.

“This isn’t just about you,” I growl to myself. “You cannot let yourself get caught. For the sake of all the other raids that still need to happen. For the sake of those you haven’t rescued yet.”

So I toss away my walking stick, hoist myself into the open window, and endure the brand of fire that sears all the way to the bone when I swing my legs inside. I land on the floor of my small room, soaked and shaking. The jump slightly ripped a couple of the stitches, and fresh blood leaks into my wet trousers.

I change as fast as I can without dislodging more of my work. I rub my wet hair with the quilt on my bed, drying it as best as I can. Then, because Rahk still isn’t home, I sneak out of my room and go to the roll of bandages in his wardrobe. I fumble with the clean white bandage before cutting a good length. I scurry back to my room, leaving everything exactly as before, and the moment I shut my door, Rahk’s heavy boots thud down the hallway.

He survived the tentacled monster.

I didn’t realize how afraid I was for him until this moment. It strikes me like a wave on the seashore. He is alright.

Then, the relief passes, and panic nearly overtakes me. I hide the bandage, fling into bed, and pull the quilt over myself. I hide my still-wet head beneath my pillow and try to calm my breathing.

I listen as the door to his bedroom opens and closes. His boots thud a few steps, and then they land in a pile. His steps are quieter then, but the slight shuffle is enough to give away that he has also gone to the bandages. I listen to the sound of scissors clipping the bandages, the splash of water in the basin on the dresser, a singular grunt.

Not once does he come near my room.

Finally, I release my tightly held breath. I keep my eyes on the light under my door, watching for any sign of his approaching shadow. As quickly as I dare, I pull out the bandage and wrap my calf before I bleed on the mattress. It still throbs, but my fear has deadened the pain slightly.

When the wound is sufficiently bound and hidden beneath the legs of my night clothes, I lay back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Waiting for the racing thud of my blood to calm enough for sleep. Tremors move through my body.

I keep waiting for Rahk to come, for his shadow to appear beneath my door, for him to rip me out of bed and hold up proof in front of my face. Some mistake I made, something I overlooked, something I forgot. Something that betrays my identity.

Then he will drag me to my knees, take one of those great swords, and break his promise of protection.

But he never comes. It’s not until dawn do I realize that I have successfully lived another day.

As I swing my wounded, aching leg to the floor, I do not feel comforted at all.