Page 27 of Enthralled

“Do you remember the way, Danny?” I ask softly.

He nods. “The price will be terrible,” he says, his voice raw. “More than you should pay.”

“Perhaps,” I reply. “But I abandoned my children. Vespre. Castien. I must go to them now and make what amends I can, whatever the cost.”

Danny looks deeply into my eyes. I see in his face a glimmer of something that might be resignation and might be relief. But he says only: “I’ll take you then.”

A tall, spare creature in a ragged, lace-trimmed blouse stands at the door of the old warehouse. Catlike yellow eyes with narrow pupils watch the three of us approach through the gloom. We come to a stop before it, and though Danny and Ilusine stand on either side of me, those eyes fix on me alone.

“Password,” it demands in a deep, stomach-churning tone.

Ilusine and I both turn to Danny first. He blinks back. “The password I had was from weeks ago.” He looks over my head at Ilusine, expectantly.

She stares him down. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know it.”

“But it’s fae,” Danny says.

“And am I the same as this”—she waves a vague hand at the tall door guard—“in your view?”

Danny lets his gaze run up and down Ilusine’s bony frame. He doesn’t say a word, but her eyes flash, and I swear the two of them will come to blows if I don’t do something right this moment. I take a quick step forward, lick my dry lips, and say,“Felaadar.”

Immediately the tall guardian steps to one side and pushes the door open with one hand, indicating with the other that we should pass through. Danny and Ilusine stop spatting behind me, both shocked into silence. Then Ilusine grabs my wrist. “What did you say to it?”

I repeat the word, which I once heard Castien say when we came this way together. Ilusine hastily clamps a hand down over my mouth. “That is a word of great power, not one any but the royalty of Eledria might speak. Did Castien give it to you? Of course,” she interrupts herself before I can answer. “Of course you are his Fatebound. I suppose that gives you certain rights.”

I don’t bother explaining to her that Castien never officially gave me the word, that I merely picked it up. Nor do I mention that I’ve used it before. I suppose there have been indications all along that I and Castien were bound by more than mere Obligation, if only I’d had eyes to see it.

We pass through the doorway and enter a dark passage. A wall of peeling paint stands directly before us. Laughter and song come from our right, beyond a shabby curtain, but I turn left. There a globe lantern burns like a small moon, illuminating a bare board floor, listing walls, and an open doorway into darkness. Everything around that doorway is strangely and subtly warped. I almost can’t detect it, but my soul feels the wrongness of that space. Something about it draws me. I approach, both hesitant and intrigued, until I stand on the edge, staring across the threshold into absolute black.

“Is this the way you came, Danny?” I ask, my voice a mere breath.

Danny grunts an acknowledgement but otherwise does not speak. Ilusine heaves a sigh. “Go on!” she urges. “We’ve come this far; no use in second thoughts now.”

These aren’t second thoughts. More like tenth or twelfth if I’m honest. After the pain I’ve endured these last three days, I’m not sure I can bear to make another bargain with the crones.

Danny inclines his head to my ear. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispers.

His dream still clings to him. The agony of that dream being dragged from his heart is so intense, a powerful, horrible magic. I wish I could stop it, wish I could offer him comfort and relief. But Danny is not my responsibility.

I close my eyes and feel the pressure of Castien’s final kiss pressed against my lips, hear again the last words he ever spoke to me:“I love you beyond life, beyond death. To the end of all worlds.”

I will find him. I will save him. I will save them all.

Drawing a deep breath, I step through the doorway . . . and into my home. Not the rackety house on Clamor Street. This isn’t the hovel where we all landed after Dad ruined our family with his excesses. This was ourhome,the beautiful townhouse on Chilworth Drive where we lived at the height of Edgar Darlington’s popularity, when money was as plentiful as friends and social opportunities. When all was—on the surface at least—right with the world.

I turn my head slowly, taking in the familiar space. There is the marble fireplace with its frieze of dancing satyrs. Oscar and I used to sit together on that hearth, scribbling away at our own stories or reading juicy passages from the latest G.H. Godswin novel out loud to each other. Later on we would set up games of checkers with Danny and Kitty Gale, listening to the autumn rain pound against the glass outside while we enjoyed our snug security.

It was here, in this very room—while Kitty and Oscar were distracted fetching biscuits from the kitchen—that Danny had leaned forward and whispered “I love you” in my ear. He told me he’d marry me when we were grown up if I would wait for him to finish medical school. Gods on high, how intense my feelings were for that boy back in those days! The kind of intensity which can only blossom in an adolescent heart, still so new to such feelings and sensations. I remember the exquisite thrill of his hand resting on the floor beside mine, of his pinky finger stretching out to just brush the edge of my palm. It had seemed in that moment as though my whole world was on fire.

It all comes back to me in a rush, stopping me dead in my tracks. Then Ilusine runs into me from behind. “Make way, human!” she snarls. I hastily step to one side while Ilusine looks around the pristine space. She sniffs. “I would not have expected beings as powerful as the Daughters of Bhorriel to live so crudely.”

Before I can reply, Danny emerges. He takes one look around and inhales sharply. Is he too overwhelmed by the flood of memories? I can’t bear to look at him, can’t bear to meet his eyes. Not here.

The double doors on the lefthand wall open. Those doors once led to the music room, where Mama obliged me to practice piano every day. I vividly recall slogging my way through a series of resentful chords while Oscar wrestled with the family dog underneath and made fun of each sour note I struck. There’s no glimpse to be had of the music room through that opening now, only more of the profound blankness through which I’ve come.

A hunchbacked little woman appears, all wizened and shrunken as she totters into view. She looks exactly like the crone I met before . . . but this time, she wears one of Mama’s gowns, her best violet silk with the bustle and the line of gold buttons down the front bodice. It even boasts the exquisite lacework collar she used to pin on for special occasions. The sight is a jolt to my senses. I want to scream, to dart forward and rip that lace collar off the hideous crone’s throat. But I stand firm. She’s trying to bait me; I’m sure of it. I won’t be so easily manipulated.

Gritting my teeth, I watch her carry a silver tray with mugs of some steaming hot drink. It smells sweet, but not like any sweet I recognize. She sets the tray down on the cherry-wood coffee table and finally looks up. One eye blinks up at us through the rising steam from the mugs; the other empty eye socket sags in a bed of wrinkles.

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