Page 17 of Lord of the Hollow Court
“Get Misman,” Katty heard the lead fae growl. The other carried her through the hall at an uneven hobble, which worsened the farther they went. When they reached the foot of an ascending stair, he slung her onto the floor like a flour sack.
From her place on the cold floor, Katty felt her eyes goggling. Down was slow to return to up, sliding back into its proper place while the lead fae barked orders.
Poor Ichabod,she thought blearily.Outside, and all alone.And in the next thought, she contemplated how such a firm looking tile could be so comfortable. Her thoughts bounced into one another, then bounded away like children skipping through a meadow.
“Misman!”
“Here, sir. I—Oh.” The newcomer stopped short, heels clinking. The buckles on his shoes were so highly polished that a warped version of Katty stared back at her. “A human girl? Tonight?”
The lead fae answered with a growl.
“What shall I do, m’lord?”
“I need her locked in a servants’ room—as far from the guest rooms as can be had.”
“You can use my room, sir!”
“Thank you, Rineke, that will do fine.”
A head bobbed into view, causing Katty to gasp. Was the headless horseman back? But this was a fae man with a long face. He didn’t look unkind, though. “I see you enchanted her, m’lord.”
“What else was I to do?” Her lead captor paced anxiously, the cane at his side tapping thrice at every turn. His other hand ran over his hair, though it was neatly slicked back already. “This night could not go more awry.” He gestured vaguely to her. Katty batted her lashes in reply. Hewasawfully handsome, and she remembered something about finding a husband tonight. She could do far worse than that solid slab of a man. A tattered memory reminded her she almost had. “No, I shouldn’t say that,” her gentleman captor said. “It will be far worse if ourguests”—she wondered why he emphasized the word—“catch her scent.”
As the long face disappeared, the nearest set of legs stiffened. “A Wild Hunt?”
At that, the clink of feet and squeak of doors and ting of platters ceased. Katty had not realized just how noisy the hall was until the sounds of a busy kitchen ground to a halt. It was like the silence of the gristmill’s machinery when the river was too low to operate it, a constant, dull drone that lived in the back of her mind lifting suddenly. Without it, Katty was almost lightheaded.
No, shewaslightheaded! What had that fae done to her? Or that other fae Muis, for that matter. Katty gazed up at her captors, brow furrowing, nose wrinkling, and was about to demand an answer—when the thought floated away on pretty faerie wings. Which is to say, a rather lovely set of pinkish wings fluttered by her, darting around the sets of legs.
“Surely not, m’lord,” the kind-faced newcomer, Misman, said, dread lacing his voice.
“But—but they’re too,” a high voice stammered as its owner searched for the word. “Well, they’re so sophisticated!”
“I thought the Wild Hunt was a myth,” said another, a hopeful question hanging in the air.
“The High Fae have a bloodlust we don’t,” Misman replied. Why did he sound so serious? “You might think low fae and small folk like us have naught in common with humans, but compared to the High Fae, we are men among beasts. The High Fae hide their savagery through bargains and alliances, meant to keep their darker tendencies at bay.”
“Then why must we bow to them?” a low and strained voice croaked.
“They are the superior warriors,” her lead captor said softly, “precisely because of their feral natures.”
It was exceedingly odd, how quiet it was, as if everyone in the hall held his breath. She could hear the susurrus of small wings beating, the rustle of her own hair. Did she have beautiful hair? She hoped she did. The fae were all so beguiling, and her lead captor so—
“The cellar, quick!” he hissed.
Was that the sound of footsteps on stairs? Katty had no time to decide whether this was the case, as the newcomer tipped upside down and jangled her down a set of stairs that reared up from nowhere. The pretty pink faerie followed with one of Katty’s slippers. She had not realized she’d lost it, or that it was ruined.
A distinctly clunky swagger brought Aleksandr, Lord of the Court of Swords, down the stairwell and into the servants’ hall. His shirt was open, exposing the pale v of his chest, chiseled as if from ice. Braam nearly quailed at the sight. He had never looked that way, even at his best. Now a tinge of pewter ran through the hair on his chest and threatened that of his head.
But at least hehadhair on his chest, and dark hair on his crown. Aleksandr had been platinum-haired all his life, though he kept it long to his waist. He had the appearance of dashing, and none of the manners.
Aleksandr greeted him with a sneer. Braam had the uncomfortable feeling then, not just that his relationship with Madeleif was some kind of foray into lowly territory, but that Aleksandr knew his thoughts exactly.
“Milady is so demanding,” the ruler of the Court of Swords drawled as he brushed matted white Alstrands from his forehead. “Perhaps one of you servants could fetch me some water? Oh, not you, Braam, please don’t trouble yourself. You must have your hands full. I heard there was a horse in the hallway before your audience chamber—as if this place were little better than a stable.”
“Always the easiest slights from you,” Braam said, setting his cane against the wall so he might fold his arms imposingly. He was bigger than Aleksandr, and strong, despite being low fae. If they had been of an age, Braam was sure he could best him in a fight.
And now? Braam prayed to the five goddesses of the low fae that his cane would not slide from the wall. He might never stop hearing the sound of it clattering to the floor and the bang of the raven’s beak as it hammered into the tile, or forget the shame of Aleksandr’s smirking face watching him scramble to regain it.
