Page 18 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
I rise, drop the book into my pocket, and smooth my apron. Then I follow him down a spiral flight of stone steps and into a brightly carpeted hallway, where he opens a glossy wooden door.
When I look inside, it’s just like he said—a cozy bedroom with a bright fire, a few gaslamps, and a bed covered in lush blankets and plump pillows. There are stacks of books I won’t be able to read, but perhaps some of them have pictures. On a thick, plush rug stands a tea table, with a sofa beside it.
It's the bedroom I’ve always dreamed of having, instead of a dingy garret room with a rickety bedstead, a thin straw mattress, and a moth-eaten blanket. This room doesn’t look as if it would leak during rainstorms.
“How delightful,” I say. “But I’m not used to gaslamps. Would you please tell me how they work?”
The masked faerie hesitates. Perhaps he isn’t quite sure how they work, either.
“Of course.” He steps into the room, walking toward one of the lamps. “Come here, and I’ll show—”
But I’m already slamming the bedroom door. I don’t have the key, so I can’t lock it, but I race back up the stairs as fast as I can. When I reach the top, I slam that door as well, shoving the bar into place with shaking hands. The very existence of the bar proves what I suspected: that stairway is the entrance to a dungeon.
The faerie’s body crashes against the door, and I jump back. He must have practically flown up the steps behind me. If I hadn’t caught him by surprise, he’d have captured me at once.
I rush out of the study and down a paneled hallway. There’s a room off to one side—some chairs, a table—I keep going and yank open another door. Shelves packed with bottles and jars. Nothing useful there.
Behind the next door is a parlor with a strange beast’s head mounted to the wall. Then some stairs—I consider running up them, but there’s a concussive blast from somewhere behind me. The faerie has broken through the barred dungeon door, and I can’t waste time climbing stairs.
I race down the hall, skidding against another door, fumbling with the handle. It opens, and I dive through, into a room with a checkerboard floor. A ballroom, perhaps. No place to hide.
I need to find a way back to my world, or a hiding spot, or someone to help me.
I suspected a trap from the moment he said “lovely room,” and when I saw the gaslamps, my suspicions were confirmed. Why would a faerie need gaslamps when he can conjure balls of light? The entire room had to be an illusion. Probably a dank prison cell cloaked in magic.
I pelt across the ballroom and wrench both handles of a pair of double doors. I’m a farm girl, with arms strengthened from scrubbing pots and toting two children at once, so the doors yield to me easily and I charge through—
Slamming straight into a lean, solid chest.
“Careful, mousie,” says a low male voice.
I look up—and scream.
I’ve never seen anyone with a smile like that—so wide it’s practically ear-to-ear. His purple eyes have vertical slits for pupils, and they’re brimming with a mocking malevolence that terrifies me. He’s pale-skinned, with a shock of untidy black hair and a pair of cat ears decorated with gold hoops.
This figure is somewhat shorter than the rabbit faerie, though still taller than me. He’s slimmer than the rabbit faerie, too.
His hands close on my upper arms with a strength I don’t dare resist, especially since I can feel the points of sharp claws digging into my flesh.
Heavy, measured footfalls echo across the ballroom floor, and the cat-eared faerie looks over the top of my head. “Who’s this?”
The Rabbit’s deep voice sounds from right behind me. “A troublesome human. Nothing for you to bother yourself with.”
The cat-eared faerie examines me, his nostrils flaring. “She smells good, and her eyes are the color of a gray winter sky. You promised me I could have the next human for a while, before you dismantle them.”
“Notthisone,” protests the Rabbit. “I need her. She has clumsily gained ownership of the Tama Olc, and I must persuade her to yield it to me.”
“Why not simply kill her?”
“My connection to it will be stronger if it is yielded,” says the Rabbit. “And if I kill her, I will have to wait an entire year to use it.”
“That’s a stupid fucking rule.”
“Tell me about it.” The Rabbit reaches down, into my apron pocket, and touches the book lightly. It sparks and sizzles, causing him to jerk his hand back. “In eldritch times, such protective measures were the fashion for tomes like these. Besides… you know me, I don’t like to kill my subjects right away. I prefer to harvest everything I can, slowly, holding off their death until the last possible moment.”
He and the cat-eared faerie and I are standing very close together now, one of them at my front and the other at my back. The Cat’s scent slithers into my nose—violets and moonlit darkness. But there’s a competing scent—a bright citrus heat, with the faintest coppery tinge. The Rabbit.
I want to scream. I’m shaking with terror, caught between two males whose strange, feral beauty and power writhe around me, binding me in place like living chains. There’s nowhere to run. All I can do is stand still and wait for them to decide my fate.
