A Faerie's Curse

Chapter 21

Twenty-One

I’m pulled slowly toward consciousness by the growing ache in my neck. My eyelids peel back a fraction, revealing a mottled pattern of light and dark, before sliding shut again. I try to stretch out of the painful position I seem to be lying in, but a rustling prickliness obstructs my limbs. I become aware of the smell of soil and the texture of hard earth beneath my cheek, and that’s when every horrifying detail of the Seelie Palace party slams into me.

The Queen is dead.

Princess Audra is dead.

Princess Angelica has claimed the crown.

And the last I saw of Chase, he was lying motionless upon the dais, his body battered, bloody and broken.

My head swims as I push myself up into a sitting position. I blink a few times before I can focus on anything. Through the rosebush leaves, I see the morning sun peeking out from behind streaks of lavender-peach clouds. I shift so I can see past the bush. The Seelie Palace gardens spread out before me, serene and still with the pink flush of morning light. Against this beauty, last night seems like nothing more than a nightmare.

As I climb to my feet, using the wall to help me up, I step on something hard. Looking down, I find the small bottle my shaking fingers were clutching as everything faded to black last night. It’s empty. That, combined with the fact that I don’t feel utterly drained and exhausted, must mean I managed to drink it all before passing out—and that it’s still effective enough to keep the curse at bay.

I turn and look through the ballroom window. It’s as still and quiet as the gardens, but frozen in disaster. Smashed glass and platters of food; scattered masks; feathers, sequins, and the odd shoe lying here and there. My eyes move to the dais, to the two bodies still lying there. The sight of them turns my stomach, so I look away and notice the guards frozen in place behind the throne. Are they dead? Is it a spell that keeps them in place? And where is everyone else? The other guards, the remaining royals, the rest of my team.

“Gaius?” I whisper. “Lumethon?” I peel back the sleeve of my jacket and find that the words I wrote there have vanished. The communication spell has faded.

I turn back to face the garden. With no idea where any of my team members are or if they’re even still alive, there seems to be only one course of action left to me: complete the mission on my own.

I step around the rosebush and set off across the grass toward the open room with the decorative pillars. There are so many uncertainties, I don’t know where to start with my search for Chase. If Angelica left the palace, would she have taken Chase with her? If not, would she have sent him back to the dungeon? Would she have … killed him? No. Not if she plans to use his power to bring down the veil. He can’t be dead. I refuse to consider the possibility. I will search, and I will find him.

I start by returning to the passageway painted midnight blue and decorated with stars and moons. No guard stands beside the unicorn tapestry, and the door, I discover when I pull the tapestry aside, isn’t locked. Stepping beyond the door is like entering another world: I leave behind delicate architecture, white marble finishes, and fresh-scented air, and walk into a world of cold stones, lamps flickering in darkness, and the smell—the smell. Darius mentioned it was bad, but I can barely breathe as I descend the stairs.

I find no guard at the bottom. I continue past cells of stone and metal. In those that are empty, chains trail across dark, dried stains. I start to call Chase’s name. Prisoners look up at the sound of my voice. Some reach through the bars for me, but none of them are Chase. I pass torture rooms in between the sections of cells, pausing only long enough to ensure Chase isn’t inside any of them before cringing away from the spikes, whips, tools, and more blood stains.

It’s ridiculous how long it takes me to reach the other end of the dungeon. What does the Seelie Court need so many cells for? Don’t most criminals end up in normal prisons rather than down here? And I can’t do a quick scan of the area. I need to search every single space, just in case Chase is in the next one. When I eventually find myself at the end of the dungeon with nowhere else to go, I turn and run all the way back, aware that time is ticking by.

The sun has moved substantially when I get back up to the palace, indicating that I’ve been down in the dark for hours. Flip! How did that happen? A spell? Some form of magic making me wander the dungeons far longer than I thought? I continue my hunt with renewed fervor. As I search through endless empty lounges, bedrooms, bathing rooms and more, I start to lose my sense of direction along with my sense of time. Have I been this way already? That chaise longue beneath the painting of a faun looks awfully familiar.

I move up to the next level and keep going. Why does this palace have to be so big? Why? I find myself in an area with no windows to the outside, and no matter which way I turn or which passages I run down, I can’t seem to get myself out. Panic rises along with the irrational certainty that the walls are closing in, trapping me, suffocating me.

Stop.

I force myself to stand still in the middle of a room and close my eyes. Breathing in shaky breaths, I imagine Lumethon’s voice. I picture my lake. I know I’m wasting time with this silly exercise, but I’m of no use to anyone in a state of panic, so I remain still, breathing in and breathing out. When finally I’ve calmed myself, I open my eyes and continue on. Several minutes later, I reach a corridor where I can once again see outside. I note the afternoon light and instruct myself firmly not to freak out about how much time has passed. It’s fine, I tell myself. You’ll find him. Just keep looking.

I enter another bedroom—and I’m startled to see a dark-clad figure on the other side of the room. I freeze—and so does the figure. It takes another moment for me to realize I’m looking at a tall mirror and seeing my own reflection. I almost laugh. I’d forgotten about my mask-like black makeup, coal-black hair, and even the tattoos across my hands. Elizabeth was right. I do look totally badass—and nothing like myself.

I glance around the unoccupied room. I’m about to leave when I hear voices. Swinging around, I look toward the sound. An open doorway beside the mirror leads onto a balcony. I hurry to it, duck down, and creep outside. Peering out between the balusters, I see them: the two witches and Angelica. She walks tall with the crown upon her head, pausing to look up at the sky. I follow her gaze and see something that either wasn’t there this morning, or was somehow less visible in the light of sunrise: A great silvery dome sitting over the palace and part of the grounds. Translucent, like the layer of magic that protected the dais last night, but not invisible like normal shield magic. Still, I’m almost certain it’s a shield of some sort.

The witches stop to admire the shrubs clipped into shapes resembling winged creatures. One of them reaches out to touch the red petals of the little flowers hidden amongst the topiary creations. My hatred for these women burns anew. While they walk around, free and unconcerned, my brother sits at home in the dark, mourning the loss of a child who will never grow up to know the beauty of this world, and the wife who may never return to him. Did the witches consider this when they sold the spell that would kill a child? Did the thought even flit across their minds? I doubt it.

But despite my hatred for them, I can’t kill them. The image of the decapitated former queen is too fresh in my mind. Too horrifying. I may have entertained the fantasy of the witches’ deaths. I may have tried to embrace the dark part of my soul that craved revenge. But witnessing the violent end of a life was a shocking reminder that I do not want to do that. I’ll happily blast them with stunner magic and dump them in the Guild’s hands, though. Problem is, I can only stun one of them. I’d have no time to gather enough power to stun the second, and there’s Angelica to worry about too. I could certainly injure the two I don’t stun—I have a knife in each boot and several throwing stars secured inside my jacket—but with their magic, the two of them might still overpower me.

“How long can you hold it in place?” Angelica asks, still squinting against the midday sun as she looks up at the silver layer.

“A week,” one witch says. “Perhaps longer.”

“Without growing any weaker?”

“Yes. We prepared for this before leaving Creepy Hollow, remember? Together, we have the magical energy of at least fifty men.”

Fifty men? What kind of magic could give them so much power?

“Wonderful. If you—” At that point, a guard hurries up to her. The first guard I’ve seen since last night, other than the guards still frozen in the ballroom. Any hope I might have had of this guard running toward Angelica to attack her, to take back the crown she stole, dies when I see him bow his head.

“You asked me to keep you updated, Your Majesty. Several guards have confirmed that your brother and nephew and the rest of the royal family got away in one of the carriages last night as the guests were fleeing.”

Angelica clenches her fist and punches the air as she lets out an angry shout. One of the topiaries catches fire. “I should have slain them before they ran off the dais,” she grumbles. “And you should have worked faster in getting the shield up.” She directs her fury at the witches for a moment. After taking a breath, she turns back to the guard. “Well, there’s no point in guarding the tunnel anymore.” She crosses her arms. “Where is everyone else hiding?”

“The palace staff are in their quarters, Your Majesty.”

“And the guards not loyal to me are still under control?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Down in the kitchen. Once we’ve stunned them all, they’ll be moved to the dungeon.”

“Good.” She breathes out a long sigh. “Now I suppose I’m going to have to hunt down the rest of my family.”

“Leave it until after the full moon,” a witch suggests.

“Yes, it can wait until then.” Angelica dismisses the guard. To the witches, she says, “Do whatever you want around here to pass the time. I’ll be busy for the next few hours.”

I perk up at her words. If only the two witches are left out here, I can risk taking them on. Stun the one, and immobilize the other with illusions, magic and knives. If I have enough strength left, I can even get them into a dungeon cell. They can wait there for the Guild—which I assume is sending guardians back here as soon as possible—to find them.

As Angelica turns to walk away, I begin gathering magic above my palm. “Where will you be if we need you?” asks the older witch.

Not bothering to look back, Angelica says, “With my son.”

Three simple words, and my plan evaporates.

Chase. He’s alive and she’s going to him now. I have to follow her. But … my eyes dart back to the witches, to the swirling magic forming above my palm, and then to Angelica once again, disappearing around a corner now.

Dammit!

I wrap myself in invisibility and leap over the balcony, landing as lightly and silently as a cat with the assistance of the magic I just gathered. I follow Angelica from a safe distance, treading lightly and remaining invisible in case another guard appears or she looks over her shoulder. As we walk on and on through the palace, I start to believe that it must be bigger on the inside than it appears from outside. Finally, after climbing another three floors, traversing a great hallway, and walking through a hollowed-out wall between two rooms, Angelica reaches the end of a passage. Stopping in the open doorway, she looks down. I move to the side so I can see past her. At her feet is a spiral stairway leading down to the bottom of a circular room. At the level of the door, a balcony rings the circumference of the room.

Angelica descends the stairs. As I move into the doorway, the room below comes into view: richly embroidered curtains hanging on either side of the window, a pedestal holding a bowl of fruit, and—

And Chase. Lying on the floor on his side, his wrists and ankles still cuffed to chains and his skin a crisscross pattern of gashes and cuts. Silent and unmoving.