Page 3 of Enslaved

I bite my lip, adjusting my grip on my pen. I want to pull out the empty book I brought with me and scrawl a hasty binding. I want to wrap this creature in layers of enchantment, trap him with my words, but . . . The threads of thegubdagogclosest to me vibrate softly. There’s power here. It’s strange and foreign, and I don’t understand it. But I’ve got to give this a chance to work.

Bheluphnu’s gaze fixes on my quill. He watches it like a true cat might watch a toy dangled by a child. I chew the inside of my cheek. Then, uncertain what else to try, I stretch out the quill and trail it along the floor:flip-flip-flip-flip.

The cat’s gaze sharpens. The next moment, he drops into a crouch, haunches wriggling. His pupils dilate until the green irises all but disappear. I have just enough time to regret my decision before he springs.

With a yelp of terror, I drop the quill and start to my feet. My movements are too erratic. I step back into a swath ofgubdagogthreads, which immediately wrap around my arm. For a moment, the magic flares, compromised by my clumsiness. I freeze. The vibrating threads settle back into place, humming softly. Only then do I turn, looking down to where I’d dropped my quill.

Bheluphnu sits just where I’d crouched a moment before. He’s got my quill in his mouth. As though he knows exactly what it is: a tool for his binding. He tips his head slightly to one side and begins to purr.

I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Every instinct tells me to run while I still can. When I take a step back, my arm pulls on thegubdagogthreads. I cannot risk yanking the whole thing down, so I freeze again. With painstaking care, I twist my arm, trying to pull it free.

The cat drops my quill. Then he stands. Takes a step toward me. I retreat, tugging at my captured arm. The cat’s mouth drops open. He utters a long, low yeowl,and his mouth keeps opening and opening, wider and wider and wider, revealing a massive red maw with five rows of razor teeth and a long, purple tongue. That awful sound reverberates in the threads of thegubdagog, which sing and hum in horrible, discordant response.

With a cry, I throw myself to the ground and scoot underneath the lowest threads, feet kicking, frantic to get away. I crawl to the center of the room and that empty frame. The cat’s voice rings in my ears, and the threads are alive with sparking magic.

Then suddenly, all is silent. Not a sound, not a hum. Not so much as a purr. Nothing but my own rasping breaths. Twisting in place, I look back the way I came. The cat isn’t there. Did he leave? Did he escape the room? Is he even now slipping through the shadows of the palace, stalking unsuspecting members of the household?

The children!

I sit up, catching a face-full of threads. Above me, the frame sways dangerously on its delicate suspension. I pull away, desperate not to bring the whole thing down, twist my torso to the left.

The Noswraith is right beside me.

I stare into Bheluphnu’s green eyes. His wicked cat’s mouth curves in a smile. Then his jaw drops open once more. That long, purple tongue waggles out at me, and his howling voice rips through my ears.

I scream.

Reach out.

Catch the picture frame.

With a single tug, I bring it swinging down, drawing threads ofgubdagogwith it. The cat lets out a single, confused,Meeerow?

Then the frame scoops the Noswraith up.

I hardly know how to explain it. One moment, the wraith is beside me, its hideous mouth open to swallow me whole. The next, thegubdagogaround me hums a strangelycontentedvibration. Not a sound, not something I can hear. A feeling, pulsing against my skin, my mind. The frame, balanced by counterweights, settles back into position in the center of the tangle, swaying gently. Though I cannot see it, though I cannot perceive it with any human sense, I know it contains Bheluphnu.

With a ragged sigh, I drop onto my elbows, head hanging heavily from my shoulders. I can’t do anything but breathe. I might have stayed in this same position for hours were it not for the sound of the chamber door opening. “Not yet, Lir!” I blurt. I don’t want either Lir or the children to come stumbling in, not until I’m certain the Noswraith is safely bound.

But it isn’t Lir who stands silhouetted in the open doorway. No, for this figure wears a long, sweeping coat with bright silver buttons, and a billowy linen shirt, unbuttoned halfway down a tanned and muscular chest.

“Well, Darling,” the Prince says, surveying the mess before him, “yet again I find you in a . . . shall we say acompromisingposition?”

I scramble to my feet, tangling my skirts and arms ingubdagogthreads in the process. Hastily I pull myself free, careful not to bring the frame and its captive crashing to the floor. With a deep, steadying breath and a hasty swipe to smooth hair back from my face, I turn again to meet the Prince’s stare.

He looks at me. Long and slow. Then with equal leisure he turns his gaze to survey the mess in the room, his expression one of mild interest. At last his attention fixes on the frame, half-hidden behind me. His eyes narrow. “Dare I ask what in the worlds is going on in here?”

“I can explain.” The words burst from my lips in a frightened bleat.

“I should hope so.” The Prince blinks, his expression so like the cat’s it makes my blood run cold. “Though how you will manage it, I am agog to learn.”

I open my mouth, close it again. It takes a few tries before I finally manage, “It’s . . . it’s agubdagog.”

“I can see that.” One eyebrow slides up his perfect brow. “As you might recall, I have ruled this island for the better part of four hundred centuries. In that time, I’ve seen my fair share ofgubdagogs.”

“But have you seen what theyare?”

At this, he frowns. “What they are? Troll art, I suppose you could say. Festival decorations. Probably sacred to their god in some way. Not particularly pleasing, but to each his own.”

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