Page 21 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
“In my true form, with my usual powers, I would have demolished all eight in a moment,” he says, lifting his chin.
“Yes, yes. Perhaps don’t oversell your ‘true form’ too much, Your Illustriousness,” Louisa says dryly. “Else we may be disappointed when we finally see it. Now drink.”
She lifts her arm higher. Reluctantly he tips his face forward until his mouth contacts her bleeding flesh.
He drinks. And he looks at her… and suddenly I feel as if I’m observing a delicately intimate moment.
“I can see a stream down there, and I’m parched. I’m going to get a drink of water,” I say.
Neither Louisa nor the Nutcracker respond, so I move down the hill, following a barely visible track through the bushes. It’s a steep slope, and halfway down I begin to skid uncontrollably. My skirts catch on a sharp broken branch, halting my dangerous slide—but then, with a horrible ripping sound, half my dress tears away and I continue down the slope, tumbling into a patch of thorny bushes at the bottom.
Angrily I fight my way upright, ripping away more of the gown’s fabric in the process. My shoes are scuffed beyond repair, my stockings are in shreds, and the remnants of my skirt and petticoat barely cover my upper thighs. Beyond my short puffed sleeves, my arms are covered in bruises and scratches. I should have worn a long-sleeved gown to dinner, like Louisa did. I even have scratches across the tops of my breasts, thanks to the dress’s low neckline.
If Papa could see me now, looking like a derelict doll someone dragged out of the refuse bin, he would have an apoplectic fit. I must make a dreadful contrast to the Fae beauty all around me.
I struggle through the undergrowth until I reach the stream. Its sparkling waters look normal enough—clean and clear. I scoop a double palmful of the liquid and take a sip.
It’s sweet. Really and truly sweet, as if someone sprinkled sugar at the source of the spring. I drink again, more deeply.
Delicious. I do believe I could drink this water forever.
A guttural sound from the shadow of a tree catches my attention. I startle back, my hands finding the blades at my waist.
The tree in question is directly across the stream from me. It’s some type of willow, but enormous—three times my height, with papery blue leaves and long dragging limbs bearing small pink and purple fruits.
A figure devolves from the dappled shade under the boughs. It’s another rat—not a soldier this time, not lean and trim and male in form. This one is a bear-like, hulking monstrosity, even more terrifying when it rises on its rear paws. The stream flows between us, but it’s not much of a barrier if the thing decides to attack. Which it seems to be preparing to do.
I inhale, planning to scream.
The rat-bear lunges across the water and bowls me over. My spine hits the ground and all the air rushes out of my lungs.
The monster waddles over me, settling its heavy bulk against my body, sniffing at my face with its hairy, oozing nose. Its mouth hangs open, gusting noxious hot breath onto my neck.
I can’t breathe.
Something heavy and bristly is coiled around my leg—its tail.
I turn my face aside and draw in a desperate breath. My body revolts immediately, and I gag.
The rat’s lips wrinkle back, exposing narrow yellow teeth.
A soft whirr. Something shears through the air and sinks into the rat’s eye with a gelatinous thump.
I vent a tiny, hoarse scream that’s lost in the creature’s agonized bellow. It recoils, moving backward, partway off me. The thing sticking out of its eye is striped red and white—like a peppermint stick, but clearly sharp as an arrow.
The rat’s eye is leaking dark fluid, but the monster doesn’t seem entirely dissuaded from its interest in me. It pauses to sniff my chest, then my belly, and then it snuffles toward the space between my legs.
I reach for my knives, but before I can draw one, another striped dart sails through the air. This time it pierces the rat’s quivering nose.
With a scream of pain, the rat lumbers off me entirely, then rears up on its hind legs and peers around, as if it’s searching for the source of the attack.
Drawing my knives, I sit upright and plunge both of them into the monster’s underbelly. The hair is so coarse and thick I can’t shove them in very far, not with my limited strength.
The creature roars, lifting a paw rimmed with sharp claws while I scramble backward. The heavy paw swipes toward me, each claw the length of my knife—it’s going to tear me apart—
A rainbow blur passes between me and the monster. Gauzy blue wings, moving almost faster than sight. A slim, graceful figure, a trickle of light laughter.
A faerie. And not a cursed faerie, or an Unseelie—this is a Fae in their true form.Histrue form, because the laughter rippling through the air is young and male. The sound of that cocky, masculine laugh sends tiny, naughty thrills racing through my body despite my terror.
