Page 32 of When Sorrows Come

“Yes, Sire,” I said, dismissing him as I turned to Raj. “Go back to the others. Tell May I need her to get the biggest canister of canned frosting Kerry has, and that she, Jazz, and Cillian should come join us as quickly as possible.” “Cillian” was our code name for Quentin. Hidden in plain sight or no, he was still my squire, and I wanted his help.

“On it,” said Raj, and dove into shadow, vanishing. The Daoine Sidhe guard was already hurrying Aethlin away down the hall, leaving me alone with Tybalt and the corpses.

So a pretty normal date night for us, really.

“Canned frosting?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Kerry’s addicted to the stuff,” I said. “She puts it on her Oreos, and I’ve seen her use it to make cheap-ass eclairs by shooting it into donuts from the grocery store bakery case. I can’t imagine she came to Toronto to make a formal wedding cake without bringing an entire case of it.”

“And what are you planning to do with, ah, canned frosting?”

“Spray it all over that damn hallway,” I said. “The problem with relying on tripwires is that not everyone has the same gait. A Silene will step higher than a Bridge Troll. So there are probably multiple wires set, with multiple associated traps. I hate to leave them in there when there’s any chance they’re still alive, but...”

“But if you decide you’re willing to die rather than marry me, I will be deeply disappointed,” said Tybalt, voice dropping lower and taking on an undertone of resignation that I didn’t like one little bit.

I took the three steps necessary to close the distance between us and touched his cheek, trying not to dwell on how often I ran off alone when danger loomed, and how not seeing that look on the faces of the people who cared about me was at least half of why. It’s a lot harder to be casually self-destructive when people keep looking distressed about it.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m not charging in there without a plan. I’m not being stupid about this. I’mgoingto marry you, and I’m going to do it this week, in Toronto, before Kerry’s cake has time to get stale.” Which was a sort of ridiculous thing to say, since Kerry had probably layered that thing in so many preservation spells that it would still be good on my hundredth birthday.

It was also apparently the right thing to say, because some of thetension left Tybalt’s shoulders. Not all of it—we were still standing in front of a room potentially full of traps and at least one corpse.

Delaying the night-haunts’ dinner is a hobby of mine, I guess.

The smell of pepper and burnt paper came from behind me a split second before Raj was tapping on my shoulder. Because his magic had already given his location away, I neither jumped nor stabbed him, only turned and held out my hand.

“May and the others are on their way,” he said, dropping a canister of spray frosting, the shitty kind they sell in grocery stores, into my hand. “Cillian knows how to get here, and he seemed relieved to have something to do.”

“I thought I told you to have May get the frosting.” Kerry guarded her sweets jealously, and always had. She didn’t know Raj well enough to have handed the can over voluntarily.

“I told her it was an emergency, and that you’d buy her fancy Canadian canned frosting as an apology.” Raj shrugged. “It seemed more efficient.”

It was, and I was putting off dealing with the room. That wasn’t kind to the people inside, who might not be past saving, or to the High King, who had to live with the knowledge that he’d sent one of his courtiers in there without thinking through the possible consequences. All these deaths were on the person who’d set the traps, but some of them also belonged, a little bit, to him.

I walked back to the doorway, shook the frosting canister as hard as I could, and started spraying bright pink frosting into the room. Silly String would have worked better, since it wouldn’t have broken when it hit the wires, but the frosting was vividly colored, and it stuck to the wires as it hit them, making them increasingly visible as it built and caked along their length.

In addition to the wire our Satyr friend had tripped, there were two more at floor level, and one at slightly more than average head height. Someone hadreallywanted to make sure no one made it into this room.

“You can follow me if it makes you feel better, but no magic, and don’t touchanything,” I said to Tybalt and Raj. “I’d prefer if one of you could stay here to tell the others what’s going on.”

“Raj will remain,” said Tybalt, in a voice that left no room for argument.

I couldn’t blame him for that. I’ve run off into certain danger often enough without giving him the chance to come along, and ifhe wanted to stay with me now, that was reasonable. Ridiculous, but reasonable. “Make sure you don’t hit any of the wires, and try to avoid bumping the walls,” I said, starting for the door, canister of frosting still in my hand. “The tripwires activated powder, so we’re looking at something inhaled, but it could be something that acts as a contact poison.”

“Poison existed before I knew you,” Tybalt said, sounding half-amused, half-exhausted. “I assure you, I understand how it works.”

“Then let’s go.”

eight

Stepping over the frosting-coveredwires was easy enough, although I had to hike my dress almost to my knees to keep it from dragging in the mess on the floor. It would have been easier to cut it off at mid-thigh, but—and this was key—Stacy was already going to kill me over one little easily mended stab. I didn’t want to antagonize her further until it was me or the dress.

The frosting was slippery, but not quite slippery enough to knock either one of us down. Once, it would have been. Once, I would have gone ass over teakettle before I made it to the first body.

And sadly, itwasa body. Any regret I’d had about showing sense and not immediately charging after the Satyr went away when we reached him. He had fallen face-up, and his eyes were red, like every blood vessel he had had burst at once, flooding his field of vision. A narrow trickle of blood had run from his nose to his upper lip, and when I inhaled, I could smell it, rich and loamy and cold. Satyrs are almost as connected to the land as Dryads are, and it was reflected in his magic.

I could also smell the poison. Not in the magic, but in the blood, which resented its intrusion and warned me away at the same time. To try to ride this man’s memories would be to invite the same death upon myself, and while I couldn’t be sure it was a death I wouldn’t recover from, it felt like it could be.

Maybe “will this kill me” isn’t the best game to play by gutfeeling alone, but when my choices are that or risking exposure, I’ll go with my gut, thanks.

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