I refuse to consider it further until I have more proof. My anxiety lowers to a simmer, but I can’t shake the wariness I feel in this unsettling environment.
“I liked the last dream better,” I say, voice like a croak.
Aspen whirls back toward me, relief washing over him. “Where are you?”
I shrug. “I’ve never seen this place. I don’t know why I’m dreaming about it.”
“You need to get out of here,” Aspen growls. “What happened?”
I ponder his question but can’t seem to make sense of anything through the fog in my mind.
Aspen takes me by the shoulders. His touch feels the same as the last time I dreamed of him—warm but with something missing in our touch, like a barrier lies between us. “Evie, tell me what’s going on.”
I open my mouth, but a rumble of voices distracts me. The voices sound both near and far at the same time, but I recognize one of them. It’s Mr. Meeks. I stagger to the other side of the room and through the doorway. To the right stand three shadowed figures at the end of a dingy hall, lit by the faint glow of a single light bulb overhead. There isn’t a window to be seen, and only one other door occupies the hall, just across from where I stand.
Fearing I’ve been spotted, I pull myself back into the room, then slowly peer out again. I see the faces of Mr. Meeks, Mr. Osterman and—I suppress a shudder—Mr. Duveau. None, however, appear to have noticed me.
Aspen tenses at my side as he stares daggers down the hall. He seems far less concerned about being seen and ignores my every attempt to pull him behind the threshold with me. When sudden movement catches my eye, I stop tugging Aspen’s shirt. Instead, I watch Mr. Duveau pass a pouch into Mr. Meeks’ hands, expression hard. “You have some nerve bringing the Fairfield girl here,” Mr. Duveau says. “I can’t have her dying before the trial.”
“I’m not going to kill her, Henry,” Mr. Meeks says. “The girl is dear to me, regardless of bloodline.”
“I can’t have her talking about this...operation...you and Mr. Osterman have here either.”
Mr. Meeks waves a dismissive hand. “Why do you think I brought her in unconscious? She will leave the same way. She agreed to help me with my scientific research. I believe once the shock wears off, she will understand quite well what had to be done. She’s a sensible girl, I promise you.”
“You better be right. If anything goes awry, I’m holding you responsible. If she takes word of this to the Council of Eleven Courts, the fae would consider it a breach of treaty.”
“I assure you,” Mr. Meeks says, “she will know nothing of her whereabouts or what we do here aside from this being a place for scientific study.”
Mr. Duveau gives a curt nod. “I’ll be back for the wood nymph this evening when it’s time to take Maven Fairfield to the Spire.”
Mr. Osterman’s face breaks into a dark grin. “Can I have fun with her first?”
Mr. Duveau fixes the large man with a glare. “The patrons of the Briar House have exotic tastes, but they don’t like their merchandise damaged. Do what you will, but be sure she is whole and of sound mind by the time I return tonight. You have her in iron?”
Mr. Osterman nods.
“Good. Until this evening.” Mr. Duveau turns from the men and ascends a narrow staircase behind them. Daylight flashes overhead for a moment before the hall is plunged back into semi-darkness.
Mr. Meeks faces Mr. Osterman, an exasperated look on his face. “Did you have to mention having fun with the wood nymph in front of Henry?”
Mr. Osterman grunts. “He didn’t seem to mind.”
“Well, I do. I don’t like hearing you speak like that.”
“You know what happens behind my door as well as I do.”
Mr. Meeks brushes his hands on the apron he wears, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Well, do be quiet about it. I won’t have you frightening Miss Fairfield while we are at work.”
“I can do quiet.”
“No screams.”
“I’ll grab rope then.”
“Rope?”
Mr. Osterman’s mouth twists with a disgusting grin. “I like using rope when I don’t get to make them scream.”
Mr. Meeks shakes his head. “Your tastes are far beyond my means to understand.”
Mr. Osterman chuckles, then heads toward the staircase while Mr. Meeks starts down the hall toward us. I spring back into the room, pressing myself against the wall, chest heaving as I process everything I just heard. Aspen stands in the doorway, eyes still locked on the hall as his body trembles with rage, his violet aura writhing to match.
That’s right; this isn’t happening. This is a dream.
With shaking steps, I return to Aspen’s side and watch Mr. Meeks approach. The man shows no sign that he can see either of us. “Why am I dreaming this?” My words do nothing to snag his attention. Mr. Meeks opens the door across the hall and peeks inside. It’s too dark for me to see what lies within. His expression is grim as he closes the door and faces this one instead. Now I know for certain we’re invisible. He should be able to see us.
As he enters the room, he flips a switch and the buzz of electricity hums overhead, illuminating several bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The dim room comes into full view, and I see now what lines the shelves. A vibrant, ruby-red heart is preserved in a thick green liquid encased in glass. Bones, talons, and teeth fill countless jars. A pair of enormous blue wings like a dragonfly’s rest on the topmost shelf. A set of smaller green wings are set upon it.
Aspen takes my face in his hands, his terrified eyes locked on mine. “Evie, it’s time to wake up now.”
I pull my face away, craning my neck to see Mr. Meeks nearing the table I had been lying on. A table I’m still lying on. As if standing outside myself, I see my unconscious form strapped to the table by metal cuffs locked around my wrists and ankles. I’ve been stripped down to my corset and knickers, sending a wave of nausea through me. Even my rowan berry necklace has been removed.
Mr. Meeks approaches his table of tools and selects a scalpel. With his free hand, he gently brushes a strand of my hair off my face as he looks down at me with his kind, fatherly smile.
Aspen forces my gaze back on him. “Wake up, Evie.”
My entire body is racked with tremors.
Aspen’s eyes are pleading, hands warm on my cheeks. His voice rises to a shout. “WAKE UP!”
I open my eyes and find myself in the same room I was dreaming about. How can that be? My mind still feels cloudy, but it’s slowly beginning to sharpen.
Mr. Meeks stands over me, just as he was in the dream. Only my perspective has changed. “Miss Fairfield, so good to see you awake.”
“Where am I?” My throat feels like it’s coated in cotton. Aspen is nowhere in sight.
“I’m so sorry to distress you, but this was the only way I could bring you here.”
“Where. Am. I.” I say it through my teeth.
“In my laboratory. It’s a rare thing I get to do this kind of work, and I’m so grateful to have your assistance.”
I try to sit but remember the metal cuffs around my wrists and ankles.
He follows my gaze and runs a finger over the cuff at one of my wrists, brow furrowed. “Does the iron hurt you?”
I almost say no but stop myself, some instinct urging me to lie. So I wince. “Yes, the iron burns. It weakens me.”
He nods and returns the scalpel to the tray, then faces the counter behind him. I lift my head and watch as he scribbles notes on a sheet of paper. “Interesting,” he mutters.
I drop my head as he finishes his notations and turns back to me. “Where’s Lorelei?”
“She’s fine.”
“She was stabbed with a spear.” Even though I didn’t see it, I know it’s true.
Mr. Meeks offers a comforting smile. “I’m sure it appeared that way to you, but Mr. Osterman meant her no harm. She reacted violently when she saw him with the spear and may have been injured when Hank defended hims
elf. But she has already recovered and returned to Faerwyvae.”
Lies. That is, if my dream had any truth to it. Something tells me it was more than a dream. “What’s the Briar House?”
He narrows his eyes for a moment. “Nothing you should be concerned with.”
It was real. Aside from Aspen being there, of course. I must have been half-awake. I must have seen this room, heard the conversation in the hall, my mind constructing it into a dream. “What are you going to do to me?”
His eyes widen as he lets out a gasp. “How could you ask such a thing as if you’re frightened of me? I’m not going to hurt you, Miss Fairfield. I’m only going to gather some data like we spoke of. You said you would help me.”
“I didn’t say you could knock me out and restrain me.”
“I’m sorry you feel like I betrayed your trust, dear girl, but I couldn’t have you knowing the location of my laboratory.”
“And you couldn’t have asked me to come willingly with my eyes closed?”
“I never said I was a patient man.” His lips pull into a grin. “This kind of work simply cannot wait. Not when you’ll only be here for two weeks.”
“Does that mean you plan to experiment on me for two weeks?”
“If only we had years,” he says. “If only I’d known what you were when we started working together. Just think how much more the humans would know about the fae by now.”
“This isn’t what I agreed to.”
“Which is why I had to do what I did. I do hope you can forgive me someday.” He lays a gentle hand on my arm. With the other, he retrieves his scalpel.
I shout as he drags the blade over the flesh of my forearm. Once he finishes the cut, I crane my neck to examine the wound, a red line of streaming blood. I bite back tears at the searing pain. My voice comes out strained, panicked. “I thought you said you weren’t going to hurt me.”
“Curious,” is all he says in response, brow wrinkled as he studies the wound. “You aren’t healing as quickly as a full-fae would.”
“I told you, I’m only one-quarter fae,” I hiss through my teeth. “I may not have rapid healing abilities at all, which means this experiment is pointless.”
“Not pointless.” His eyes glitter with excitement. “I’m desperate to know what kind of healing can be done. In fact...” He turns toward the counter and reaches for a stoppered vial on one of the shelves above it. As he brings it to me, I see it’s a deep red color.
“Is that blood?”
He nods, grinning with pride. “This one is from a brownie. I’d like to see if the blood will heal your wound. So far, fae blood has yet to show any positive effect on a human wound.”
“How many fae have you killed?”
He puts a hand to his heart. “I don’t kill fae, Miss Fairfield.”
My eyes rove from the vial of blood to the jar of hearts, then land on the two sets of wings. “But Mr. Osterman does. You simply experiment on the ones he captures.”
His expression darkens.
“Is that before or after he has his way with them?” Heat burns my core and I do nothing to extinguish it. I let it burn, radiating from my chest to my—
Mr. Meeks plunges the scalpel into my bicep, and I shout as I feel the blade dig into muscle. “Perhaps we won’t experiment with healing just yet. Perhaps we will experiment with pain tolerance first.” He pulls the bloody scalpel from my arm and slams it onto the tray along with the vial of blood. With a frown, he takes up a much larger knife.
I let my anger and pain burn away my fear, let it fuel the fire that rages down my arms.
Mr. Meeks moves to my other side, the tip of the knife pressed into the top of my shoulder. With a thrust, he cuts down my arm.
I scream, arching my back as the restraints hold me in place. My fire gathers hotter and hotter inside me, searing my wounds, flooding my hands.
Mr. Meeks takes a step away, eyes alight once again. “Now this is odd indeed. It seems you are beginning to heal—oh my.”
The cuffs grow hot around my wrists, burning me. I close my eyes against the pain and feel the metal begin to warp. Once I can take it no longer, I lift my wrists through the molten metal, the force of my raging fire fueling me. With my wrists free, I reach for the scalpel as Mr. Meeks darts at me with the knife. I whirl toward him, thrusting the blade with a violent swipe. I don’t see what happens through the blur of motion, but I feel the scalpel meet resistance. Mr. Meeks staggers back, dropping the knife and grasping his throat, ribbons of red streaming beneath his fingers.
I try not to focus on the gory sight, on the guilt that threatens to extinguish my fire. Instead, I focus on the pain of my open wounds, on the anger still burning inside me. I sit forward and press my hands over the ankle cuffs, vaguely noting that the burn marks on my wrists are beginning to heal. Once the cuffs reach a molten state, I pull my ankles from them, gasping at the pain from the blistering heat.
I push myself off the bed, landing with a cry as my ankles protest the motion. Hobbling toward the doorway, I’m suddenly aware of smoke filling my nostrils. I hazard a glance behind me to see the table linens have caught fire from the burning cuffs. Mr. Meeks still grasps his bleeding neck as he slides to the ground.
I feel another shock of guilt, but I burn it away, forcing myself out of the room, into the hall, and to the door on the other side. A soft whimper comes from within the room, and I throw the door open wide, letting the light from Mr. Meeks’ laboratory wash inside. As my eyes adjust to the new environment, I see a figure against the far wall, iron shackles hanging from the ceiling, pulling Lorelei’s arms overhead. A cloth gag is tied over her mouth.
I run to her and summon my rage, letting it burn through my palms as I place them over the cuffs. “I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt.”
She lets out a muffled cry as the metal burns hot around her wrists. With a deep breath, I wrap my hands around the molten cuff, stifling a cry as the heat blisters my palm. Once free, she drops to the ground. I pull her up, dragging her to her feet. We cross the room just as the laboratory grows brighter, the fire blazing over the table, flames licking toward the shelves. Knowing what kind of chemicals Mr. Meeks must have in there, it’s only a matter of time before the flames set off an explosion.
“We need to hurry,” I say, pulling her down the hall toward the staircase. Once we reach it, I see a door at the top. “Can you climb?”
Eyes glazed, she pulls the gag from her mouth. “Yes. Let’s get the bloody oak and ivy out of here.”
Smoke chases us, filling our lungs as we climb to the top of the stairs and push open the door. We scramble outside and collapse onto the earthen floor, chests heaving as we struggle to catch our breath. My vision spins but I manage to make out dense trees all around us beneath a sunset sky. I lift my head toward the smoking building we emerged from. From this vantage point, it looks like nothing more than an old-fashioned outdoor toilet, revealing no evidence of the underground operation hiding beneath it.
I think of Mr. Meeks trapped inside, fire dancing around him while ribbons of blood spill down his throat from a wound I gave him. In contrast, I recall how he sliced the scalpel and then the dagger through my arm. I think of the way he sold Lorelei to Mr. Duveau and offered her body to Mr. Osterman with nothing more than a few minor qualms.
I scoot farther from the door and lift my leg. With a kick, I slam it shut. I lay my head back in the grass, willing it to cease its spinning.
I can’t stay here. I know I can’t. The fire will reach the stairs, then the door, and that’s only if an explosion doesn’t happen first. Despite knowing this, I can’t find the strength in my limbs to stand.
“Evelyn.” Lorelei’s panicked voice beside me prompts a rush of adrenaline. I roll onto my side and follow her line of vision.
There, between two trees, stands Mr. Osterman.
13
Mr. Osterman’s eyes bulge as he stares dumbfounded at me and Lorelei. A spool of rope hangs over his shoulder, s
pear in hand.
My body protests at the thought of moving, but I force myself to scramble to my knees, then my feet, pulling Lorelei up with me. “Run!”
As we take off, darting toward the trees, Mr. Osterman unshoulders the rope and charges after us. “Get back here!”
“We can’t outrun him,” I say through gasping breaths. My back tingles with the fear that any moment I’ll feel the tip of his spear pierce my flesh.
“We don’t have to outrun him,” Lorelei says. Her voice sounds stronger now. “We’re near the wall. I can feel it.”
“Mr. Osterman can cross the wall, and he’ll catch us before we find it.”
“All we need to do is get closer to it. Just a little closer.”
“Why, what will that do?” My voice is strained, the fire of my rage smothered to ash beneath my fear. My muscles scream with every move, flesh pulling at the half-healed wounds on my arms, wrists, and ankles.
Lorelei, on the other hand, looks stronger, more vital with every step, her stride becoming more and more even. A look of euphoria crosses her face.
Her confidence is of little comfort when Mr. Osterman’s pounding steps and heaving breaths draw nearer and nearer. “Forget the councilman’s orders,” he calls out, voice taunting. “I’m going to cut you both into a thousand pieces.”
I pump my legs harder, faster, stumbling over the uneven ground, ignoring the sting of branches that whip my face and arms. My lungs burn, vision going bleary. I can hardly keep up with Lorelei as she whips between the trees. I try to feel what she must feel, the call of the wall, the magic of Faerwyvae drawing her closer, strengthening and healing her. But I feel nothing. Nothing but an internal weight dragging me down.
My legs nearly give out beneath me when Lorelei holds up her hand and skids to a halt. I stumble at her side, my momentum not nearly as gracefully controlled as hers. But why have we stopped? The wall is nowhere in sight and Mr. Osterman is within range to spear us.
Lorelei takes a step toward the man as he closes the distance. He lifts his spear, an angry snarl on his lips. Lorelei raises her hands, thrusting them outward. Mr. Osterman moves as if he’s about to throw his weapon when the ground rocks beneath his feet, forcing him to stumble back. A root as thick as a man’s arm shoots from the earth, its tip sharp like a blade. It rears back, then barrels into Mr. Osterman, piercing straight into his chest and coming out the other side. The man convulses, blood seeping from his lips.
To Wear a Fae Crown (The Fair Isle Trilogy Book 2) Page 9
