by Violet Grace
‘What are you doing out so late?’ I ask.
‘Not late. Early. Got a paintin’ job first thing. Work starts soon as the sun comes up.’ He takes a swig of chocolate milk and then offers me the carton. ‘Want some?’
I shake my head, noting the food crumbs around the rim.
‘Suit y’self,’ he says, and takes another swig.
I rest my head against the window. It’s cold and the vibrations on my forehead are uncomfortable. I stare out at the lights of the oncoming traffic, and count all the different ways I’ve screwed up. I ruined Tom’s life amongst the humans and then almost killed him. And now he’s going to spend goodness knows how long unconscious.
Abby’s face haunts me the most. I know she abandoned me with the pycts, but I promised I’d save her brother. I’m sure putting him in an indefinite coma is not what she had in mind. And I’m seriously questioning my ability to keep all three of us safe, fed and hidden.
Gladys and the rest of them shouldn’t have put their faith in me. I was stupid to start believing I was worthy of it. A fairy princess to bring peace and hope? What a joke. I can’t even keep my friends safe. They’re pinning their hopes on the belief that I’ll be as powerful as my mother, or as clever as my father.
They’re all doomed.
I notice Santa watching me out of the corner of his eye. I stare down at the fire extinguisher, trying to estimate how fast I can grab it. He has one hand on the wheel and the other one in a bag of crisps. After a quick check in his rear-view mirror he lunges across at me.
I freeze, my fingers digging into the seat. He is a psychopath after all. The fire extinguisher seems so close but also so far.
He fumbles with the catch on the glove compartment, the van swerving slightly as he drives with one hand on the wheel. My mind skips through all the things that could be in there – gun, knife, bloodied crowbar.
The leather-bound book of poetry he tosses into my lap is the last thing I expect.
He leans back over and plants both hands back on the wheel, straightening the van.
‘’ave a look,’ he says, nodding at the ancient-looking volume.
I run my fingers over the binding. The book is not old, even though it’s trying to look it. The faded patches of leather look tacky, as if they were applied by the same machinery that makes designer faded jeans.
I open the book at the page with the folded corner and start reading.
‘And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.’
‘Know what that means?’ he says.
I shrug.
‘Nah, me neiver. But it impresses the ladies. Works every time. Right.’ He laughs but then his eyes grow serious. ‘It means you can’t give up when fings get rough. You’ve got to come out swingin’, luv. Even if you’re scared. Especially when you’re scared.’
He turns to me. I wish he’d just concentrate on the road.
‘You fink it’s ’ard to keep fightin’? Well, it’s a lot ’arder to spend the rest o’ your life cowerin’ in the bloody corner o’ the bleedin’ ring, right, Princess.’
I sit bolt upright. Princess? Does he know who I am, or does he call all young women ‘princess’? I search his face for signs of recognition but he just smiles at me, creases deepening around his soft eyes, and then turns back to the road.
We drive on in silence.
Santa seems content to leave me with my thoughts. Somewhere beneath my massive pile of hopelessness a tiny ember of purpose sparks to life.
I think about Tom lying in the back of the van. It’s not too late for me to clear his name. Maybe by the time he wakes up, his life will be able to go back to normal, to what it was before I came along and ruined it. Backing down or running away isn’t an option for me. I owe it to Tom to make things right, and fight whatever battles lie ahead of me.
As we near London I give Marshall’s address to Santa. His callused hands tense on the steering wheel and the sparkle fades from his smiley eyes.
‘Sorry, princess, Musgrave lands ain’t for the likes o’ me.’
From the look of revulsion on his face I guess that Santa must really hate rich people. I don’t want to press the issue so I just ask him to drop us as close to Marshall’s house as he’s willing.
He stops his van two blocks from Marshall’s Bedford Square residence. Most of the townhouses have three windows across. Marshall’s has six.
It’s just past five in the morning, but the lights are on. Marshall must be an early riser. Or his staff are.
I thank Santa for the ride and hop out. As I walk to the back of the van and unlatch the door, I’m hoping I’ll find Tom sitting up. My heart sinks as I take in his motionless body. Jules jumps down from the van and I see that she’s tense. She sniffs the air and scans the quiet, well-ordered street as if she’s expecting danger.
‘I am not convinced that coming here is the best course of action, Your Highness.’
‘Neither am I, but do you have a better plan?’ When she offers nothing, I say with an edge of frustration, ‘We have nowhere else to go, Jules. The Agency will be crawling all over Tom’s house and the laundromat. The police will be at the V&A, trying to arrest me for murder. Believe me, I don’t want to ask for Marshall’s help any more than you do. It’s humiliating. But we don’t have the luxury of being choosey right now. And I think he was trying to tell me something important, something that might help us.’
Jules concedes with a curt nod as she lifts Tom’s body from the van and effortlessly folds him over her shoulder.
The van’s engine rumbles to life. Santa drives off as we walk in the direction of Marshall’s townhouse.
I press the buzzer on the solid front door and the intercom rustles to life.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m a friend of Mr Musgrave,’ I say, trying to sound convincing. ‘I really need to see him.’
Silence.
I look at Jules with Tom slung over her shoulder, and realise that it might have been smarter to come to the door alone. The three of us look like criminals who’ve forgotten to take off our Halloween gear. I sense that security cameras on us.
‘Name?’ the voice says eventually.
‘Chess. Chess Raven.’
‘And your associates?’
‘Friends of mine. We need to speak with Mr Musgrave urgently.’
More silence.
My stomach sinks as it dawns on me that my plan isn’t going to work. Marshall may not even be home. There’s no way his security detail is going to let us in. I imagine the security guy is calling the police, conferring with someone right now. And just as I’m about to tell Jules that we’re going to bail out, the intercom crackles.
‘Someone will be down shortly,’ says the voice. The door unlatches and swings ajar. I smile hopefully at Jules as we walk in, relieved that at least something I’ve done tonight has worked. She gives a weak smile in return.
I’m almost knocked over by how posh the house is. The foyer is a chessboard of spotless black and white marble tiles that terminate at a closed door. Oil paintings and large mirrors in gilded frames hang on white walls. To one side there’s a staircase with a strip of red carpet running up the middle; on the other side are three doorways leading to other rooms, but their heavy wooden doors are blocking my view so I can’t see inside them.
We wait for a moment, then the door at the end of the foyer opens and a man in his thirties with slicked-back hair appears, wearing a suit and tie. From the way he walks, I’d say he’s ex-military. An ex-military butler? For a man in Marshall’s position, it figures, I guess. Close behind the butler are two more men, who look like they’re still in the military. One of them has a Rottweiler on a leash. Despite her dog-whispering abilities, I can tell by Jules’s tense body language that the snarling Rottweiler isn’t helping to allay her concerns about Marshall’s trustworthiness. None of them seem remotely concerned about Tom’s body slung over Jules’s shoulder. Or even am
azed that Jules is able to carry such a weight so effortlessly.
‘If you’ll just come with us,’ says the man in the suit.
‘Where’s Marshall?’ I say, growing uneasy.
The man ignores me. ‘Bring them,’ he orders the guys in uniform.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Jules raise her knuckledusters. But before she has time to fire off a spell I grab her wrist and shake my head. It’s no wonder they’re suspicious of us, but Marshall is my sponsor. He’s all I’ve got here in Volgaris. The last thing I need is someone getting hurt. Not to mention the explaining I’d have to do about the magic.
One of the uniformed guards takes advantage of the distraction and slams Jules up against the wall while the other manhandles Tom off her shoulder. The butler pushes me towards a doorway under the stairs.
‘Marshall!’ I scream. ‘Marshall!’
I’m too late. The guards push Jules and me through the door and down a short flight of stairs. Tom is thrown in after us. Jules and I do our best to break his fall but I wince as his shoulder hits the concrete floor. The door slams behind us and I hear a heavy bolt shift into place on the outside of the door, plunging us into pitch blackness.
chapter 23
I fumble around in the darkness until I find a light switch.
The light flickers to life and I’m greeted by a sight that almost makes me forget that we’ve just been locked in Marshall’s cellar.
Tom’s eyes flutter open and he rolls over onto his side. He looks around the cellar and then at me directly. My heart does a little flip-flop. I rush over to him, but he shuffles out of my reach.
It’s like he just died all over again.
‘Where are we?’ he says, his voice laboured. He’s mustered enough energy to look annoyed, though. Annoyed with me. Again.
‘At Marshall Musgrave’s house,’ I say. ‘He’s sort of a friend of mine.’
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Tom says. ‘I’d rather be a prisoner of the Agency than a Musgrave.’
‘We’re not prisoners. There’s just been some sort of misunderstanding,’ I say, but there is not nearly as much conviction in my words as I had hoped.
‘What have you done?’ Tom says.
‘What have I done? I just rescued you from a freaking cage. I was the only one who wasn’t going to just leave you there to die. You’re welcome!’
He shakes his head in frustration. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I’m bad for you, Chess. You need to stay away from me.’
‘Is this about the stupid spell? I don’t care about that.’
If I’m being completely honest, I am actually freaked out by the cataclysmic spell thing. Being told you’re going to die because of some ancient voodoo will do that to a girl. But I’m not about to admit that to anyone, least of all Tom.
He looks at me as if I’m being completely unreasonable.
‘What was I supposed to do?’ I continue. ‘You’re the only person who knows me – really knows me. You were the only one who cared enough to save me. I couldn’t just turn my back on you.’
He gets to his feet, looking remarkably well for someone who’s just woken from a coma.
‘I didn’t save you, Chess. All I did was make your life worse.’ He lets out a bitter laugh. ‘You’re now wanted for murder because of me. But none of that will matter if you don’t keep away from me. You’ll be dead.’
‘Tom,’ I say, raising my palms for him to stop. ‘You’re the only one who didn’t look the other way. You did save me.’
‘But I didn’t. What you said back at my place was right. I wanted to be the hero. I wanted to be your hero. I didn’t think about the consequences.’
Without thinking, I step forward and wrap my arms around him. My head nestles into his neck, with my chin resting just above his naked, hard chest. He hesitates for a moment but then wraps his arms around me.
And it feels, well, right. I don’t sense his anger anymore, or even coldness. It’s more like sorrow.
‘Can you ever forgive me, Chess?’ he says softly.
‘I’m the one who should be begging for forgiveness. The only reason we’re still in this mess is because I can’t work out where the key to the Luck of Edenhall is, even though I’m somehow supposed to know.’
He looks down at me with the faintest of smiles that pushes away all the sadness that creeps into my heart whenever I recall my past. I’m very much in the present, acutely aware of the heat of Tom’s body. As I stare up into his pools of blue, I feel safe. Even though I’m trapped in a cellar with no idea what’s going to happen if I can’t get us out – or even if I can – I am somehow confident that as long as we are together, everything will be okay.
Jules clears her throat, puncturing our little bubble. She’s staring intently at her boots but I can still see that she’s embarrassed by our public display of affection. Without looking up, she says, ‘Something is not as it should be, Your Highness. We can’t transfer. We are trapped.’
I scan the room, registering that it’s bigger than I first realised. Clean, whitewashed walls give it the appearance of a wine cellar. But there aren’t any bottles of wine.
Jules goes over to the wall and rubs it with her hand. She knocks on it.
‘Graphite,’ she says. ‘The walls are coated in graphite. It’s as good as bars on a cage to us.’
Tom swears. ‘You can never trust a Musgrave.’
‘This must be a coincidence,’ I say, the certainty leaching out of my words. Marshall kept me out of jail. He saved Gladys’s life. Why would he turn on me now?
‘Coincidence?’ Tom scoffs. ‘A Musgrave who just happens to have an unused cellar with walls painted with graphite paint? Wake up, Chess. What do you really know about him?’
Jules interjects with a calmer voice. ‘If I may, Your Highness, the Musgrave family has never been a friend of the Fae.’
‘Look, I know his family history with the Luck of Edenhall. But that was a long time ago,’ I say desperately.
‘The Musgrave luck ran out,’ Tom says. ‘It was the price they paid for claiming the Luck of Edenhall, which didn’t belong to them. A Musgrave should not have the power that Marshall now wields. He wants something.’
I roll my eyes. ‘That’s just a lot of prejudice built on fairytales.’
‘And his interest in you is all kinds of wrong,’ Tom says.
I look up at Tom, wondering what he’s insinuating. That Marshall’s keen on me? That’s crazy. My mind races over our past meetings, searching for signs that Marshall was in any way attracted to me.
There was the time he took me to his country estate to ride his horses. He’d explained it would be a good way to get to know each other a little better, in a more relaxed environment, away from the formality of the Second Chances program. Despite our present predicament, I find myself smiling briefly at the memory. The day was a complete disaster. My horse bolted, I went tumbling and ended up in the Emergency Department. Marshall insisted on driving me to the hospital and waited with me the whole time until I was discharged. And then he drove me home.
Certain that Marshall is not, and has never, hit on me, I’m relieved to dismiss the unwelcome thought.
‘I counsel that we focus our attention on present matters,’ Jules says urgently.
I take a deep breath. ‘Well, now that you’re awake we don’t need Marshall’s help anyway. Let’s just get out of here.’
If the Agency couldn’t keep me in a graphite cage, I figure that a bit of paint isn’t going to stop me. I motion for Tom and Jules to step back. I have no idea what’s going to happen; the last time I did this the roof exploded. But just as I start to gather my thoughts and focus my mind, there’s a sound at the door. The bolt unhitches and the handle begins to turn.
Jules steps protectively in front of me.
‘Chess,’ calls a familiar voice down the stairs. ‘I’m so sorry.’
A warm smile spreads across Marshall’s face but it doesn’t have the same effect on me as
usual. He’s wearing a suit but his hair is wet, as if he just got out the shower.
‘I owe you and your associates an apology. My guards. They’re good, very good, but, shall we say, a little overzealous where my personal safety is concerned.’
Marshall stops at the bottom of the stairs. He barely reacts to seeing Tom half-naked. He’s slightly less composed at the sight of Jules, his jaw tensing briefly before relaxing again as his eyes lock with hers. I guess it’s not every day he finds a woman dressed as a superhero in his cellar.
Marshall orders the man who met us at the door to take Tom and Jules into the kitchen and get them something to eat. ‘And find some clothes for the gentleman,’ he adds. ‘Chess and I can talk in private.’
Jules and Tom object in unison.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, with more confidence than I feel. I can’t waste the opportunity to find out what Marshall really knows about the Luck of Edenhall, and anything else that might help me. Marshall and I can have our private chat and then we can be on our way back to Iridesca in no time. ‘Go. Eat,’ I say to Tom and Jules.
Neither looks pleased. Jules passes Tom one of her knuckledusters and he slips it onto his hand. He tells me to call if I need him.
My gut’s churning. I’ve never been able to relax in Marshall’s presence but this is different. I don’t know where I stand with him anymore. Seeds of doubt are starting to take root.
I brush aside my misgivings, and follow Marshall into what looks to be his office. It’s about four times the size of the house I grew up in. The room is surrounded by solid bookshelves, full of neatly shelved books.
A large desk sits just off the centre of the room. Its contents are a mix of old and new. Right next to the laptop – a model I’d kill to get my hands on – is a Montblanc fountain pen, a paperweight and a letter opener. I wonder if Marshall actually reads these books or uses this stationery, or if he just displays them the way other people might display art or flower arrangements.
He motions for me to sit down in a leather-upholstered chair, the type that curves around your body like a glove. But I can’t relax. I can’t even pretend to.
