Page 7 of Beyond the Cottage

Ansel ran a hand over his face.

He was deluding himself, of course. If he did this, he’d be truly irredeemable. He already fell somewhere on the spectrum between no-good trash and emotionally stunted bastard. Stealing her dust would make him an unequivocal villain.

But did it really matter if he became a villain? What would it effectively change? His record was hardly spotless to begin with.

The pixie made a quiet humming sound as her sleeping face tilted toward him. She looked so innocent, like a baby deer who’d lost its mother. Like she neededprotecting.

Numbing himself to the bizarre effect she had on him, Ansel stood. “What did you dose her with?”

“Somnia tincture.”

“How long ago?”

“Couple hours.”

They’d be cutting it close. He needed to work fast.

“Take her to the tap room,” he said. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

Chapter 3

Two voices broke through the haze, both deep and far away. Gretta couldn’t separate the words and was too tired to try, so she left them in the darkness surrounding her.

There was a smell. Raspberries. No…strawberries. Not the real kind. The kind that came from a candy shop or one of those stores that sold perfume to girls. It cloyed, sticky-sweet, as though someone had plugged her nostrils up with spun sugar.

Consciousness returned all at once, more like a bullet fired than a train gathering steam. But everything remained dark. Animal panic filled her limbs with energy, but they remained limp when she tried to thrash them. Despite the pounding in her chest, her breath came out slow, shallow.

What thehellhad happened to her?

She grasped at memories as they filtered in. Antrelle, Brand. Philip, too. A pub, a brothel, then a bar. Had she gotten so drunk she blacked out somewhere? But she never blacked out. And that didn’t explain why she couldn’t move.

Stay calm.Think, Gretta.

The bar was the last place she remembered. She was pretty sure she hadn’t drunk anything there. She’d used the rancid bathroom, started down the hall—

And someone had grabbed her from behind.

Her pulse hammered again, so she breathed slower.

Whoever took her had pressed something against her face, either a paralytic or a sedative. Didn’t matter which. It had to wear off sooner or later.

She concentrated on her fingers, trying to wiggle the index. It brushed against her pants, which meant the drug was wearing off. Her eyes refused to open, so she focused on her other senses.

The voices were gone. Condensation dripped somewhere to her left. The air was musty, and she smelled old mildew under the strawberry fog. A basement? A cave, maybe?

Her skin registered a clammy sheen of sweat. She rocked her head to the side and felt a sharp sting in her neck.

“Shit…” a voice said. “She’s waking up.”

A low, masculine inhale came, then heavy hands tilted her face forward. “Goddammit.”

“Give her more somnia.”

“We can’t give her a second dose, it could put her into cardiac arrest!”

The voices were clearer and much closer than they’d originally seemed. Gretta fluttered her eyelids, willing them toopen.

Something shifted next to her, and she felt pressure in her neck. The sting intensified before disappearing as a calloused finger rubbed something cold on the area.

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