Page 76 of Across an Endless Sea

That tongue flicks out, slipping across my cheek in a wet lick that causes my gut to revolt.

The wyrm’s hiss changes pitch, becoming a whistling shriek that sends a shiver up my spine. Once again, I wish I could close my eyes. I don’t want to see this death. I have a feeling it will be worse than the crossbow.

A war cry, weak and strangled, echoes down the tunnel, but I spin on the rope again before I can place the source. A stranger leaps between the wyrm and me. His head is wrapped completely, obscuring his features, but he’s tall and lanky. In one hand, he brandishes a lit torch and the other is grasping a handful of grubbyfeathers?

For the first time since I entered the tunnel, something other than the smell of salt water and damp fills my nostrils, and I grimace. Is that… shit?

The tunnel wyrm rears back, its whistling hiss reverting to the lower pitch of before. It puffs out another mouthful of acid green smoke, but the stranger’s mask seems to protect him from it.

He roars, and this time, the sound is a little less feeble as he brandishes the fire and the feathers. The snake seems caught between the two, tongue flicking out to taste the air before it turns and dives back the way it came.

After wafting the fire and the feathers all over the entrance to the newly created tunnel, the stranger turns back to me. I still can’t make out his face. He’s wearing thick goggles, and a threadbare cloak that’s covered in yet more feathers.

He speaks, but his words are completely muffled by the cloth wrapped around his head. His shoulders rise and fall in a silent sigh as he moves closer, staring intently into my eyes. It’s then that I realise that—peeking free of the wrappings are two pink, pointed ears.

Fae.

He must be fae.

Unfortunately, this place has proved that being my species doesn’t make him my friend, and my eye colour makes me easy to identify.

So when he stands, drops his torch and draws a knife, I brace myself for the incoming blow.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, I drop like a stone, caught in a pair of surprisingly strong arms.

The stranger hefts me closer against his chest, deliberately drawing his feather cloak further around us. I wish I could say that I was grateful to be carried, but he reeks. If I could wrinkle my nose against the harsh ammonia scent, I would.

He looks down, says something indecipherable, then kicks dirt over his abandoned torch and starts the trek down the tunnel.

Around us, my guides hover like ghosts, peering at my rescuer, keeping watch for more of the dreaded tunnel wyrms. With nothing else to do, I try my hardest to recover the feeling in my body. About fifteen minutes later—maybe longer, as time is hard to tell below ground—I manage to blink my eyelids once.

Then we reach a new challenge. A fissure in the tunnel wall. The stranger sets me down, then eyes it critically, like it’s a new challenge.

Do we have to go through there? It looks tight, almost too small for a person to fit.

Yet my rescuer seems determined and I remain paralysed in every way that counts, so when he starts trying to squish me into the gap, I have no choice but to allow myself to be shoved through.

After a lot of pushing and muttered noises of annoyance from him, and scrapes and bruises on my part, I finally tumble through the gap and onto the floor on the other side. I lie sprawled in the dirt for a while, grimacing as I realise the stink of wet feathers and bird dung continues in here as well. A second later, I learn why as two spindly legs fill my vision and a hard beak pecks at my brow.

A noise startles the hen. Gloved hands shoo it away and drag me into a sitting position. Propped up against the wall, I take in a narrow, but cosy cave. A dying fire illuminates the back wall, filling the air with smoke and covering the ceiling with soot. It’s surrounded by a low fence made of twigs and rope, presumably to protect the small flock of chickens that’s freely roaming across the rest of the space. There’s a pile of straw and rough blankets in one corner, and a beaten and battered leather trunk beside it. The rest of the space is crammed with sacks, and I idly wonder how he got all of this stuff down here.

Has he found a different way to the surface? There must be one, because there’s no way anyone could climb back up the waterfall.

Putting the question aside, I turn my focus to the walls which are painted with charcoal diagrams—designs for traps?—but also smeared with a brown and white guck that I’m pretty sure is chicken shit.

How long has he lived down here like this? And how on earth does he suffer the stink?

The stranger walks over to the fire and prods it back to life, then crosses to the trunk and starts unwrapping his face. His hair is freed first, long, matted black locks that might once have been curly. His diamond shaped face is a soft bronze, despite the lack of sun, and when he tugs off his goggles, he fixes me with a pair of pale brown eyes that are almost amber.

The moment Mab sees him, she elbows Titania, whose eyes almost bulge out of her skull. Maeve—the least subtle, practically throws herself in front of him, before turning to the others with an expression that screams happy disbelief. As one, the three of them beam and turn to me, winking before they disappear entirely.

“Why are you in Fellgotha?” he demands. “How did the Fomorians get past Florian? What about the temple guard? The Knights?Your Guard? Did we lose the war so badly that our people couldn’t hide you?”

He speaks so fast I can barely keep up, and even if I could, I can’t move my lips to answer him. Seeming to sense this, he rips off his gloves and threads both of his hands into his hair. He said Florian’s name with such familiarity, and I desperately want to ask him if he knows my brother.

“I am not the person to deal with this,” he mutters, turning away. “Danu, why would you send her here? Have you abandoned us?”

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