Page 85 of When Sorrows Come

“May!”

“Yeah?”

“Come watch this guy, make sure he doesn’t try to escape.” I looked back to the Doppelganger. “You’re not going to try to escape, are you?”

He swallowed hard. “You’re terrifying, but the lady in the angry neon dress just hit a bunch of people with the actual ocean, I’m not goinganywhere.”

“Good boy.” I turned around again. “Etienne, I need you to take me to the dungeonsright now.”

He blinked. “Why would I—”

“Because there’s about to be a jailbreak, and I’d like to stop it.” I moved toward them. “Now, Etienne.”

“Sire, I—”

“You heard Sir Daye,” interjected Sylvester. “She would like to go to the dungeons.”

“Yes, sire,” said Etienne, and waved his hand through the air, leaving the scent of smoke and limes in his wake. A hole appeared, showing a dark, dingy room. I dove through, and they followed me.

“Tybalt is going to kill you,” muttered Etienne. “And then he’s going to kill me. This had best be worth it.”

“The attack on the wedding was planned for if King Shallcross was captured,” I said softly. We were standing right at a corner. I inched forward, looking around the edge to the line of cells. They were certainly less palatial than the little mini-apartments where the first Doppelgangers had been tucked away. I didn’t have a problem with that.

What Ididhave a problem with was the group of guards standing outside one of the cells, unlocking it at the apparent direction of a very familiar bronze-haired teen who couldn’t possibly be here in that form, since he was currently a Banshee, and back at my thoroughly disrupted wedding. How the hell did they evenknowthat face, much less steal it? I stepped around the corner, sword up and at the ready.

“That isn’t the Crown Prince, and you shouldn’t open that door,” I said.

The guards turned. Most of them, anyway. One grabbed for the keys, while another moved to put himself in front of their pseudo-Quentin.

“Doppelgangers don’t bleed,” I said, and ran my hand along the blade of my sword, laying my palm open. I held it up to show the guards that I was bleeding. “Really me, really the visiting hero who’s been flushing out Doppelgangers all over the knowe, really telling you that I know for an absolute fact that that is not your Crown Prince.”

The guards—who had behaved the way guards were supposed to behave—paused, looking at the pseudo-Quentin and the two guards flanking him. He responded by shooting me a look full of fury and snapping, “Get her!”

“Oh, now, the voice isallwrong,” I said, bracing myself.

Two charging Doppelgangers pretending to be royal guards were no match for an enraged Duke, the captain of his guard, and a hero who just wanted to get things over with so she could get back to her own damn wedding. They went down hard and slimy, and we advanced on the sole remaining Doppelganger and the actual guards.

“He’s not your prince,” I said, keeping my tone as light as possible. “He’s trying to make you release an enemy of the crown.”

“You would listen to this bloody urchin over me?” demanded the Doppelganger. “I’m going to be your King!”

“That’s the future, and right now, I represent a much shorter, more painful potential future,” I snapped. “Standdown.”

The guards looked at the Doppelganger, clearly anxious, before stepping away. The Doppelganger snarled and lunged for the closer one, trying to grab his keys. The man reacted without thinking, slapping “Quentin’s” hand away. Everyone froze.

Now I had to be right, because otherwise, he had just laid hands on the Crown Prince.

Etienne abruptly appeared behind “Quentin,” knife already drawn. He slashed the Doppelganger’s shoulder with the blade. Ichor welled forth. The Doppelganger roared, swatting Etienne away. Etienne went sprawling but kept his grip on the knife.

“Well,” I said, lowering my sword. I had nowhere to sheath it, and so I just held it. “Guess that’s that, then. Etienne, can I get a ride back to the wedding?”

“Of course,” he said, picking himself up from the floor and offering me his arm. I took it gratefully.

“I’ll remain here to see to the formalities,” said Sylvester, with a note of regret. “October...”

“Yes?”

He smiled, and it was the best wedding present I could have asked for. “You make a beautiful bride,” he said.

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