Page 19 of Cherish

10

Fashion à la

Murder

I’m not one to care much for interior design—that’s definitely more my grandmother’s department, now that she’s over her whole frozen-murder-cave phase—but even I can tell this place needs work. Just being in here scares me. Or maybe that’s the point.

I’m used to being surrounded by weapons—the gargoyles do love their broadswords and battle-axes—but what’s in this room is a step above all that. A big step. From the chains embedded in the walls, to the various knives and tools I can’t even imagine the use of displayed on giant hooks and shelves, to the stone floor stained a dull orange-red, this room clearly has only one purpose: to cause a lot of pain.

My stomach churns with horror, but I swallow down the bile burning its way up my throat. Nothing like that is going to happen here today, even if I have to wrestle Hudson to the ground. That’s pretty much the only thing I can guarantee about whatever’s coming next.

“What’s your name?” Artelya asks as Hudson closes the door behind us with a sickening clang, then leans against it to size up the spy with a predatory gleam.

The hunter—who is currently sitting on a chair in the center of the room, her arms and legs shackled by chains as wide as my arm—doesn’t answer. In fact, she doesn’t so much as glance our way. Instead, she keeps her gaze focused on the wall directly in front of her.

The lighting is dim, but I can’t help but notice that the table against the back wall is covered in a plethora of pouches and vials in various sizes and colors.

More instruments of torture, I wonder as I walk closer to the display,or something else entirely?I’m leaning toward the latter, given the closer I get to the jars and other paraphernalia, the more agitated the hunter becomes. She still doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the turmoil rolling off her in waves.

Because her reaction intrigues me, I lean forward and pick up one of the glass vials. It’s small and hourglass-shaped, with a cork stopper that keeps the viscous yellow liquid inside from pouring out. I have absolutely no idea what it is or what it does, but the second I lift it up to the light, the hunter strains against her bonds.

Artelya and I exchange a glance, and I put the vial down in favor of a royal-blue pouch with a drawstring. Curious, I open it up, but all that’s inside is a strange white powder.

I close it quickly, with thoughts of anthrax-laced envelopes dancing in my head. Even with my back turned to her, I can feel the hunter’s angst lessen the second I put the pouch down.

“What’s your name?” Artelya asks again from behind me.

Again, silence.

“What are you doing at the Gargoyle Court?”

No sound at all. Not even breathing, really.

I glance over at Hudson, curious to see if he might step in, but he’s still leaning against the door, between two very large maces on either wall. His arms are crossed as he studies the prisoner with a bored expression now—but his eyes are laser focused.

“I’m going to ask you one more question, and you’d better answer it,” Artelya says, and I can hear the annoyance rising with each word she bites out. I turn around to see if I can defuse the situation, just in time to watch the hunter flip Artelya off.

Artelya’s teeth snap together with a sharp click that has the hair on the back of my neck standing up. Before I can think better of it, I’ve put myself between them, which makes Hudson bristle, but he doesn’t move.

Artelya makes a low sound, but she stands down as I take the lead. Or whatever it is I’m doing right now.

To begin with, I pull up a chair so I can sit facing the hunter. I make sure to stay several feet away, out of reach of her hands and feet and the chains that currently keep her shackled, and take my first good look at her.

She’s not young by human years, but she’s not particularly old, either. Maybe forty, forty-five, with blond hair cropped close to her scalp in uneven waves. She’s tall—even chained and sitting down, I can see that—and the left half of her face was obviously badly burned at some point, because her skin is ridged and discolored there.

But the most interesting—and horrifying—thing about her isn’t the burn or her unusual hairstyle. It’s the clothes she’s wearing.

At first, I thought she was outfitted with snakeskin leather pants, but now that I’m sitting across from her, I realize the reptilian pattern isn’t snake. It’s dragon.

Oh. My. God. She’s wearing pants made of dragon skin—and since dragons don’t molt, there’s only one way she got them. Suddenly, the burn on her face makes a lot more sense.

As I take a deep breath to combat the bile once again churning inside me, I realize dragons haven’t been her only prey. Her jacket is real fur, a beautiful, fluffy white-and-gray coat that I know is a wolf’s pelt—partly because of the color and partly because of the claw she left attached like a brooch that’s currently hooking around her shoulder. Circling her wrist is a bracelet of vampire fangs, and hanging around her neck is a chain with a ring attached. I notice the large moonstone before I spot the witch’s bony finger inserted through the ring.

And on her hand, sticking straight up from the center of the ring she herself is wearing, is a chunk of a brilliant red gargoyle heartstone.

Suddenly,interrogationdoesn’t sound so bad.

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