Reckless Cruel Heirs

by Olivia Wildenstein

  The barb cut deep, and I combed my hair forward with my fingers until it hid my nipples. Faeries weren’t particularly prudish. After all, Seelie women were accustomed to flying around in dresses, flashing ground-dwellers, and Daneelies, male and female, enjoyed skinny-dipping, not to mention selling your body was legal in certain taverns.

  “I am nothing like the call girls you sleep with.” My voice didn’t waver but my pulse did. It beat erratically. I suddenly hated myself for having bared my breasts—breasts no one besides Giya, Nana Vee, and Nima had ever seen. “Now get out.”

  He looked up, his gaze skipping right over my torso, and stood. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?” I snapped.

  “Manage to make me feel like the bad guy when I do nothing wrong.” He tapped his pen against his open palm.

  “Nothing wrong? You barged into my bathroom!”

  “To make sure you were safe.”

  “You could’ve knocked and asked through the door.” I shivered from the wet hair plastered to my chest and the damp material plastered to my legs.

  I turned so that even in the mirror he couldn’t catch another flash of my bare cleavage and tugged on the suit, managing to get one arm in. Spearing the other, the one I’d injured, proved trickier. I gritted my teeth, afraid my shoulder would pop out of its socket this time. At least the shallow ache and aggravating outfit took my mind off the fact that I’d just flashed Remo.

  What in the Neverrian Skies had gotten into me?

  Even though I was in no way warm, sweat broke out over my upper lip as I wriggled my hand down my sleeve. I had to stop to catch my breath, before pushing more of my limb through. When I stopped again because the fabric was forcing my arm to bend, I considered ripping off the sleeve which had begun to tear anyway but then decided against it. Who knew how long it would be until we got out? Bare skin was more fragile, and even though it had felt warmer in this world, what if nights were freezing?

  The strain in my shoulder suddenly eased as the fabric stretched away from my skin and a warm breath pulsed against my lobe.

  “I don’t need your help,” I grumbled.

  “I know, but you’re still getting it. Consider it an apology for coming in without your permission.”

  As I wormed my arm through the sleeve and got the material over my shoulder, I said, “We’re never discussing what happened in here. With each other or with anyone else.”

  “What happens in the Scourge stays in the Scourge.” His knuckles grazed my skin as he released the top of the suit, and goose bumps appeared. I prayed he hadn’t felt them.

  I gathered my hair and pulled it out of my suit, then tugged the zipper up, squashing my upper body back inside. I was never taking this outfit off again, not until my Infinity was functional and zapped it away. When I finally turned, my nerves were still behaving spastically.

  “I need to get my boots on, and then I’ll be ready.” I spoke to his Adam’s apple since there was no way I was staring any higher.

  “Are you going to avoid looking at me from now on?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not going to be awkward.”

  Because looking him in the eye wasn’t awkward? “I’ve never flashed anyone before, Remo. No one. But here I am flashing you of all people, and for what? To prove you don’t intimidate me?” I lowered my gaze to the chipped red polish on my toes. Polish in Neverra never chipped. Here, everything chipped. Including egos. “All I’ve proved is that I’m insecure and idiotic.”

  A beat of uneasy silence passed before he said, “I didn’t mean to make you feel insecure or idiotic.”

  “Oh, you didn’t do that. I managed it all on my own.” I tried to step around him, but he boxed me into the corner, the corner I’d put myself in. A pattern was emerging. “Can you back up?”

  “For what it’s worth, you have very nice breasts.”

  I shut my eyes. Gejaiwe, strike me down. “Please forget you saw them.”

  “Hey . . .” His breath pulsed against my forehead. “You saw my ass.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m working on erasing it from my mind.”

  “Why? I have great glutes, or so I’m told.” The smile in his voice plucked away a layer of my embarrassment.

  I dared to lift my lids. “Where do you get your information? From your harem of women?”

  “Exactly. And just so we’re clear, I’ve never paid for sex. You mentioned call girls earlier. I have nothing against them, but they’re not my thing.”

  I neither nodded nor apologized. I just waited for him to back up so I could slip past him. When he didn’t, I said, “It’s none of my business. If our engagement were real, it would’ve been, but since it’s all fake, you don’t owe me an explanation.”

  However, as long as we were considered betrothed, we weren’t supposed to date other people. Unless I used my gajoï to make him dissolve our sham union, but locking Remo out of Neverra seemed suddenly unfair.

  “We’re going to have to be really discreet about seeing other people. We wouldn’t want the Cauldron to punish us or kick either of us out.”

  His eyes lost their playful glimmer, and he pursed his lips. Had he not considered this? Had he forgotten what had happened to my aunt when she’d broken her engagement off to Cruz Vega?

  “Did you find some ointment for your cuts?” He pivoted toward the sink and opened the cupboard, revealing empty shelves. “I’ll go check the other bathrooms. Put your shoes on.” He shut the doors harder than necessary and stalked out of the room.

  Way to avoid a subject. Did he think I enjoyed bringing it up? Discussing solutions to our amorous dilemma was weird. And considering how weird the entire day had been, that was saying something.

  Hopefully, it would all be over soon. Hopefully, my plan to swing us back into the portal would work, and Remo and I could finally go our separate ways.

  18

  Locked In

  A low grinding noise resounded around me as I finished pulling on my knee-high boots. I lunged toward the window, fear sprinting into my veins that we were about to be hit by another earthquake. Although my borrowed bedroom gave onto an alley and the white wooden siding of a neighboring house, there was a tree, a thick vibrant oak of sorts. I watched it for tremors, but no branch shivered and its leaves were so still they looked painted on.

  “Amara!” The urgency in Remo’s tone made me bang my head against the window frame.

  Rubbing my forehead, I strode out of the bedroom.

  He was standing on the bottom stair, gaze affixed to the front window, which was no longer see-through, or rather, was, but no longer gave onto the street.

  “What the?” I whispered, staring at the sheet of dark metal that had risen behind the glass. “Did you press some kind of button?”

  “Of course not.” He sounded offended I’d dared to ask. “It just fucking came out of the ground.”

  The obscured glass made me think of the train. “You think the house is about to transport us somewhere?”

  “Are the windows upstairs obstructed too?” The strain in his voice echoed throughout my body, scouring my already raw nerves.

  “They weren’t, but I’ll check again . . .” I ran back to the bedroom, which was as black as a moonless night on Earth, as though the curtains had been drawn and the blinds lowered, but there were no blinds, and the navy curtains hung motionless on either side of the window.

  I sprinted down the hallway, sticking my head into every bedroom, praying one of them gave onto the blindingly white sky I so hated. I’d have given anything for a glimpse of it. Although not a born claustrophobic, I was developing into one.

  When I turned away from the last room, the one with all the pictures, Remo was standing at the end of the hall, ghost-white in the darkness. Fear ramped up my pulse and spread the taste of copper inside my mouth. I flicked on the light switch, which, thank Gejaiwe, made the row of ceiling bulbs fizz to life.

  For a moment, we stood on either end of the
hallway, looking at each other without really looking. Like me, his attention was turned inward. Was he also running through a list of scenarios of what the inn had in store for us?

  I fisted my palms, felt my dust pulse against my skin. An idea sparked, and I opened my hands, then skimmed the whorls, coaxing the dust out. Once the threads clung to my fingertips, I fashioned an axe, a monstrously large one that could not be mistaken for a butter knife, then went back into the bedroom. I tried opening the window, but it was either painted shut or magically bolted, because it didn’t even budge. I raised my arms, putting all my pent-up frustration and dread into the blow, turned my head, and swung. The blade banged against the glass before bouncing off. I gritted my teeth as the impact vibrated into my sore elbow.

  “What part of laying off that arm didn’t you get?” Remo stood a couple feet away from me, tucked safely behind a rocking chair, his fingers wrapped around the top rung. “Hand it over, Lara Croft.”

  I glared at him, then at my stupid joint, then at the armored window. “My arm isn’t the problem. This glass—”

  “Your arm isn’t working the way it should.”

  I handed him the axe, then backed up and docked my hands on my hips. “Knock yourself out. Or at the very least, knock out a pane of glass,” I said sweetly.

  All the bones in his face clenched as he raised his arms and swung. The blade pinged against the glass, jolting his arms right back behind his head.

  “Huh. Could your arms not be working properly?”

  Letting out a low snarl, he gritted his teeth and tried again. Again he failed.

  “Wait. Could the glass be magical?”

  “Your sarcasm isn’t helping, Trifecta.” He took two steps to the side and thrust the axe into the wall. Just like the window, the blade clanged without causing a depression. Not even a blemish appeared in the plaster. He growled this time and spit out a litany of Faeli curse words.

  “Is there a back door? Or a window in the basement?”

  “No.”

  My hands glided off my hips. “So, how are we supposed to get out?”

  “Maybe we’re not.”

  That sent a chill through me. Not even the prospect of running water and working electricity made our predicament comforting. I sucked in a breath and found it lacking in oxygen, although that was probably my imagination.

  “Maybe we just can’t use a weapon made of wita. Maybe there’s a knife in the kitchen—”

  “You even having wita is a fluke, prinsisa. A fortunate one, but still a fluke. Trust me, when our grandfathers designed this place, they didn’t take into account that Huntresses able to wield confiscated dust would be sojourning in their prison.”

  “I’m still going to try.” I walked past Remo and out the door, then dashed down the stairs, skidding twice but catching myself on the handrail. I flicked on every light in the kitchen, then jostled open the drawers and flung open cupboards in search of knives or pans. I’d even have settled for a whisk at this point. I found nothing. Except for the bowl I’d filled earlier. Before emptying it out, I twisted the tap to make sure the pipes hadn’t dried. The spout hissed and ejected a single drop of water, then nothing.

  Well . . . crap.

  There was a bar in the restaurant, which meant there were glasses. I was about to head out to grab some when I spotted the pie in the middle of the island. I glared at the steam curling off the top, sweet stupid steam that shouldn’t be curling off the pastry anymore. Animated with a violent desire to dump it on the tiles and stomp all over it, I dragged the pan toward me, singeing my fingertips on the warmed metal—again.

  “Are you really going to eat at a time like this?” The door flapped closed behind Remo.

  I narrowed my eyes at him, and then zeroed in on the axe dangling from his fingers. My axe. I crossed the kitchen, grabbed it, then cleaved the taunting dessert in half, pan, filling, and all. The slimy peach slices slithered off the edge of my blade and dropped onto the floor like slugs.

  “There isn’t a freaking knife in this entire kitchen.” My words came out calm as a gathering storm.

  Remo stared between the mess and my rage-flushed face. “Well, you didn’t have to portion it out; I’m not much of a pie person.”

  A chuckle fled out of me. A slightly crazed chuckle. “By the way, the pipes are dry, so that bowl contains all the water we have left.”

  Remo’s eyes widened a notch.

  I recalled my dust. The axe crumbled like chalk, then flickered like starlight, before turning liquid and flowing back into my palm.

  He opened his mouth to speak just as something began to beep.

  “Do you hear that?” I was hoping he didn’t.

  He nodded, jaw flexing.

  Beeping never heralded good things, although why was I still expecting anything good to happen in the Scourge? The pie and soapy bath had been flukes. As I shuffled toward the door, the globs of peach and smashed crust flickered as though made of dust, except they couldn’t be, since food made of wita was inedible. And then the divvied pan scraped across the island and welded back together.

  “Remo,” I murmured as a new crust materialized, puffy and steaming. I swallowed saliva that felt as thick and slimy as the syrupy fruit. “To think I ate some earlier. What if it’s making pie babies inside my stomach?” I blanched and peered down at my stomach, half expecting to find it bloating outward. It was flat, but that didn’t mean the pie wasn’t preparing to do damage.

  “How do you feel?”

  I looked up to find Remo’s gaze locked on my abdomen. “Like my sweet tooth might end up killing me if whatever’s beeping doesn’t.” I didn’t eat quite as many chocolates as I used to, but if a box happened to find its way into my room, it never found its way out.

  Remo’s tensed lips quirked up.

  Nothing like humor to deflect tension. That was Iba’s mantra. How I missed him. Nothing bad ever touched me when he was around. My eyes stung, but I refused to cry. This wasn’t the moment for tears. This was the moment for action.

  “On the upside, no ghost baker. Nima’s all about finding silver linings.” My heart thumped hollowly. My strong and resilient mother would’ve known exactly what to do.

  I was a such sorry excuse for a future queen. Seventeen and still completely reliant on her parents. I held on to that . . . the will to see them again—I was not dying in this damned place. I sidestepped Remo and went after the source of the beeping. Beside the front door, a red pinprick blinked in the corner of a bulky cream box containing an outdated keypad with ten rubbery buttons ranging from 0 to 9 set underneath a screen with four dashes.

  “I’m guessing we’re supposed to find a four-digit code.” Remo’s voice scraped across my temple, blowing against my damp hair. Did he have to stand so close?

  “You think?” I squirmed to the side, so that his chin wasn’t propped against the back of my skull.

  He shot me a glare that would’ve made a lesser woman shrink, or at least one who wasn’t inflated on adrenaline and enchanted pie. “Do you have any constructive input, prinsisa? Like perhaps an idea as to what numbers we should . . . punch.”

  I didn’t think it was the keypad he wanted to punch. “This place’s creation. In Earthly years.” In Neverrian years, we were still celebrating new years in three digits.

  Remo lifted his finger to the keypad. “What year was it created?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, that’s going to help.” He started to lower his hand but then raised it again and hit: 1-7-7-5. The little light stopped blinking but stayed red. Was that a good sign?

  “Why 1775?”

  “It’s my grandfather’s Earthly year of bir—”

  The box shrieked.

  I slapped my palms over my ears as Remo let out a new string of expletives and tried two other combinations. His year of birth: 2018—why he would think that could be the code was beyond me—and then the current Earthly year: 2124. And then he punched 2-0-3, his index hovering bet
ween the numbers five and six. “What’s your birth year?” he yelled over the loud screeching.

  “Five!”

  He punched the five. The keyboard kept trilling and the light stayed red.

  Remo struck it with his fist. The light neither magically turned off nor did it quiet. He growled and raised his fingers to the sides of the box, trying to pry it off the wall, but like the bricks behind it, the box was indestructible.

  Panting hard, he lowered his hands and fisted them at his sides.

  I racked my brain for combinations but there were too many to try out. I stared around the room, on the lookout for numbers. None had magically appeared on the walls, or on the tables. The only thing that had magically appeared in this room, which hadn’t been there before, was the damn pie.

  Remo must’ve followed my gaze because he muttered something—probably roared it, but since my palms were still sandwiched on either side of my head, it sounded unintelligible.

  Suddenly, the high-pitched wailing stopped. We both spun back toward the box, hopeful to find the light off. It wasn’t. It had simply gone back to blinking, and then the beeps started again. I lowered my hands, the sound bearable but most definitely not enjoyable.

  “What’s Linus’s year of birth?” Remo asked gruffly.

  “Um. At the start of the 1800s, but I don’t know the exact date.”

  “Well that’s gonna help.”

  I’d have stuck my tongue out at him if I weren’t so busy gnawing on my bottom lip. “He was forty-four when he died.” I remembered this because Iba had just turned forty-four, and he’d mentioned something about being the same age as his father had been on the Day of Mist.

  “Did he ever live on Earth? Because if he did that would change the calculations.”

  “I don’t know . . .”