Page 34 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
“Where exactly would you want to go, in your world?”
I open my mouth to say “home,” but then I think of Master Drosselmeyer’s house—and then I think of all the places that aren’t either of those—places where I could learn, and be free of everything that I was. I could be someone new.
Is that what I want? To leave my family in the past, even Saylie? Isn’t that terribly selfish?
“I don’t know,” I reply.
“If you don’t know where you want to go, it doesn’t matter whether you get there or not.”
I hate that he makes sense. “I just want to be somewhereelse. Not here. Not a prisoner of two mad Fae.”
He sits up, sloughing off the bloody remains of his shirt. “Everyone in Faerie is mad, mousie. Mad for power, for pleasure, for love, for pain. And you must be mad as well.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You told me yourself—you jumped into the portal. He didn’t push you. I know something about humans—mostly from watching my friend torture them—and I’ve learned that for humans, self-preservation is the ultimate motivation. No human leaps into a deep hole in the ground without being just a little mad.”
“I suppose you’re right.” I push aside my hair with trembling fingers. A rush of energy sustained me while I was helping the Cat, but it has ebbed now, and the weakness of hunger is overtaking me again.
“Was your life so terrible, then?” asks the Cat. “Did you crave escape so badly?”
“Not terrible, no. Much less terrible than this place. But I craved change, and—and more. I wanted to learn.”
He’s watching me closely. Not grinning at all. “Mortals. Such short lives, and you spend them fretting over what could happen to you, or longing for something to happen to you. It’s very strange.”
“And what do the Fae want? What doyouwant?”
He traces a finger idly through the blood on his chest, then puts out his tongue and slides the crimson fingertip over it.
He’s tasting his own blood. It’s disgusting. Why does my body suddenly feel hot all over?
“I want to free this kingdom from the crawling rot of its Queen,” he says. “We’ve had abominable rulers before, but none so bent on destroying everything around them. It’s as if she wants to drag the whole of Unseelie into a mass grave.” His gaze flicks back to mine. “Not that you care.”
“You’ve given me no reason to care. Since I arrived, you and the Rabbit have treated me like an animal. A talking pet.”
“You call him ‘the Rabbit’?” He chuckles. “And what do you call me, inside that golden head of yours?”
“The Cat,” I mutter.
“Inventive.” He leans forward, cupping my neck with a bloodstained hand, his thumb tracing the corner of my jaw. “Tell me your name, mousie.”
“Alice,” I whisper.
“Alice. Beautiful.” His grin widens. “And I’m Caer.”
He starts to say something else, but then we’re both distracted by the sound of hasty footsteps pelting along the hall.
Caer sniffs the air delicately. “Ah, he’s back. She kept him for two full nights this time. He’ll be panicking over your open cell and the blood on the floor, no doubt.”
Sure enough, the Rabbit rushes past the storage room, glancing in—then does a double-take and comes back. He halts in the doorway, one forearm braced against the frame, his chest heaving.
My eyes widen at the sight of him.
He wears a satiny white shirt that glistens when he moves—except it’s not really a shirt, more like drapery that leaves much of his smooth brown skin bared to view. I have never seen such beautifully cut muscles on a man. But that’s not the only thing that draws my eye—golden powder glistens on the contours of his chest and gleams along his collarbones. His eyelids are painted gold and black, with tiny red hearts beneath the lower lashes. Through the mouths in his cheeks, I can see that his teeth are stained with blood. His brown hair is rumpled, and his long brown ears stand straight up, quivering with the same rage that vibrates through his whole body and tightens his violet lips.
His dark pants are half undone, partly shredded across the thighs as if someone dragged claws through the fabric. His scarred hands are bare, covered in heavy jeweled rings. He looks like a wretched, debauched courtesan, ghastly and sensual at the same time.
“Whatthe fuck,” he says tightly, “is going on here?”
