Page 102 of The High Mountain Court

She wasn’t sure if he scented her or if he felt the sorrow and furious rage burning off of her skin at the sight of him. If she had resolved to kill the King before, the sight of her beaten Fated was his death sentence.

“Remy,” Hale whispered. His voice was scratchy and raw.

Remy lifted the chicken bone clenched in her hands. She jiggled it in the lock.

“Remy, what are you doing?” Hale’s voice slurred as he spoke. She wondered if he had a concussion. “You need to run, Remy. Now. Before someone comes.”

“I told you,” Remy said, wiggling the bone some more. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

Pain filled his voice. “Remy.”

The lock shuddered and gave a little, and she wrenched the bone harder. It snapped beneath her fingers.

“No!” She cursed. She shoved the door, but it remained locked. She tried twisting the fragment, but the sharp splintered bone only sliced into her hand and clattered to the floor.

“Leave me, Remy,” Hale pleaded.

“No,” Remy snarled, forcing back her tears. “I only just found you. Do not ask me to leave you.” She looked around his cell. There was nothing there she could try on the lock. “There’s more bones back in my cell . . .”

She heard the stomping of feet to her right.

“Run, Remy,” Hale hissed.

Remy turned to run just as the door to her right banged open.

* * *

Remy wasn’t sure if she had blacked out or not; she was somewhere in between. One of the two burly guards had hit her with enough force to knock her to the ground. She wasn’t sure if it was the past injuries or the lack of food, but her eyes went black. Ears still ringing, she heard the faint faraway echoes of Hale screaming her name.

She could not feel her limbs as they hauled her back to her cell. Her limp feet dragged across the floor.

When her body hurtled back into her cell, the putrid smell revived her a bit. Her vision came back, spotted with black patches. She was not sure if it was a blessing or a curse as she felt more in her body again.

Two guards stood in the cell between her and the open door. The Northern guards wore suits of armor, different from the ones she had grown up seeing in other fae courts. They wore much more metal and fewer leathers. Remy assessed her opponents. She could not let one of these towering monsters use their weight against her in a fight—with all that metal, they must weigh a ton.

They had flat-top helmets with a half faceguard shaped like the letter M, a thin shaft of metal protecting their noses. Metal spikes on their rounded shoulders curved towards their backs. The Northern crest was almost unrecognizable. Someone had etched it poorly into the metal of their breastplates. There were enough dents in their armor to let Remy know battle had tested them.

Remy was already eyeing the spaces left unprotected: cheeks, slivers of thighs and calves, and gaps in their armpits. It seemed they didn’t wear thick leathers under the suits but a lighter fabric, so if Remy could find an opening she could slice a dagger into them.

It would be her first goal: find a weapon. The guard’s swords were her full height. There would be no taking their own weapons to use against them. Still, she wondered if she lured them in close enough if she could stab a piece of chicken bone in one’s eye. But then there would be another one coming at her.

No, that wouldn’t be a good plan.

The guard who had knocked her to the ground grinned. The color of his icy blue eyes was barely visible under the shadows of his helmet. One eyebrow stung and her eye was already swelling shut again on her left side. When she blinked warm liquid out of her left eye, she knew her eyelid was bleeding.

Remy glared at the sentries, wondering why they stood in her cell and why the door was still open. Her answer came a moment later with the sound of footsteps on the stone.

Turning the corner, holding a plate of food, was Renwick.

He looked so out of place in the filth and gloom of the dungeon. Regal as ever, not a single speck dusting his clothing. He wore a burgundy jacket, the sleeves wide, reaching down well below his fingertips. The rectangular neckline revealed part of his refined bone-white shirt, tied at his throat in an intricate knot. He tied his long, ash-blond hair back with a matching burgundy cord.

He chucked the skin of water in his hand to Remy by way of greeting. She tried to catch it, but with a bruised arm and one swollen eye only beginning to open, she missed and it fell into her lap.

“Look at the state of you,” he said. His features seemed even sharper in the flickering torchlight.

Remy sneered as she twisted the top off the waterskin. As she sniffed the water, Renwick laughed.

“You think I’d poison you now?” He chuckled, his cruel smile not meeting his eyes. Remy did not miss that he said now, implying that he may very well poison her later.

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