Page 10 of Beyond the Cottage

He locked the door, and the key went into his coat pocket as he walked away.

Ansel rounded a corner and slammed his back against the wall. His lungs constricted, sucking at the damp, moldy air, rejecting it. He wasdrowning. White speckles dotted his vision, nearly blotted out by the familiar dark shadows seeping into his mind. He hunched over with his hands on his knees and dry heaved.

She’d woken up.

And he’d locked her in a cell.

In between, he’d panicked. When she’d come to and their eyes first connected, a powerful current had passed between them, hitting him with so much despair and regret, he’d nearly staggered to her and ripped off the bindings. Then he got a look at her dust…

You locked her in a cell!

…and his mercenary instincts took over.

Her dust was amazing. Delicately potent, lividly pink. And it smelled like fucking ambrosia. Just thinking about its scent made the shadows dissipate and his chest relax until he could finally breathe again.

What she produced must truly have narcotic properties—his judgment had been compromised the moment he’d sniffed her neck. But what the hell had he been thinking to strap her down and take it from her? He wasn’t usually so impulsive.

You locked her in a fucking cell!

Ansel slumped against the wall, shoving a hand through his hair.

What was he supposed to do with her now? He couldn’t let her spend the night roaming the halls, looking for eyeballs to gouge. He certainly couldn’t let her run to the police. Holding hercaptive was a crime far more serious than pixie dust trafficking, and she’d seen their faces.

The shadows crept in again, but he managed to shut them out. Inhaling deep, Ansel focused on the facts, freezing out emotion. He could only figure this out if he remained calm. He trained his ear to the corridor and didn’t hear anything.

Quiet was good. Perhaps it meant the situation wasn’tcompletelyfucked and the pixie might still be reasoned with. Though her clothing was of decent quality, she didn’t wear the expensive, luxurious gowns her species generally favored. She looked practical. Like someone who might set aside her grievance with him in favor of a lucrative business deal. Down-and-out pixies were his stock in trade, after all. Maybe this one simply needed a night to settle down.

The shadows in Ansel’s mind parted, letting in ancient and unwanted memories. The squeak of a cage door shutting, the yeasty smell of bone-bread. An oven with guts as warm and terrible as a dragon’s maw.

You’re no better than the Eater, asshole!

Ansel abruptly straightened. He resisted the childish urge to double over as he banished the guilt tightening his insides.

A roomy cell wasn’t the same as a cramped cage. He’d bring her something decent to eat and things to make her comfortable. In the morning, he’d let her out and convince her she had more to gain by working with him than fighting him.

They’d approach the situationrationally.

Ansel in particular needed to remain rational. Her dust’s effect on him was dangerous. However artificially, the guilt, regret, and protectiveness it inspired were potent liabilities, and he needed to keep his distance from her.

Fully back in control, Ansel wiped at the glowing smear the wall had left on his sleeve and briskly started for the supplyroom. He told himself he imagined the final scream following him down the corridor.

Chapter 4

When his footsteps faded, Gretta let go of the bars and stumbled deeper into the cell. It was spacious, bigger than her bedroom, except here the walls closed in on her, getting closer when she squeezed her eyes shut.

She dropped to the floor and pressed her face against her knees. The mildew and humidity were soup in her lungs. She inhaled with desperate pulls, only getting small sips of air, and the walls came closer, faster, pressing in,groaningwith anticipation…

With a gasp, Gretta whipped her head up. The walls were where they belonged.

She scooted along the stone floor until her back hit the bars, keeping all three walls in her line of sight. It was silly, childish. But it helped.

She counted backward from fifty, keeping time with the crickets outside. She pictured a vast meadow with miles of grass in every direction, smelled cool dirt instead of mold.

As her heartbeat slowed, she drew a breath and let out one final scream.

That also helped. A long time had passed since she’d been locked in a cage, but her memories of coping with it returned as easily as the fear. At least now she wasn’t a defenseless kid.

When her pulse stabilized, she swatted tears off her cheeks. Crying was more pointless than begging that fucker to release her. Gretta was on her own. If she had any chance of escaping, she’d only find it if she stayed patient, calm. Qualities she’d unfortunately never bothered to develop.

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