“Howdy,” I said. “So you know, she’s not paying you nearly enough for this. Seriously, you guys should have renegotiated your rates the second I walked into Dreamer’s Glass.”
The Folletti frowned in confusion but didn’t lower their swords. I’d been expecting that, too.
“Now, you may be asking yourselves, ‘How is she up and wandering around and coming to see what we’re up to after the beat-down we gave her earlier’?” I kept beaming. It seemed to be making the Folletti uncomfortable. Cool by me. “You may also be asking yourselves, ‘What do we know about her species?’ I mean, that’s what I’d be doing, if I were you. That, and maybe running like hell.”
The Folletti’s confusion turned into scowling. “Surrender,” commanded one of them, his voice almost vanishing into the wind blowing across the moor.
“No,” I replied genially, and pulled my right hand out of my pocket.
This close to Chelsea and one of her gates, the Luidaeg’s charm went into instant overdrive. It was red when I pulled it out, but as it hit the air, it turned a shade of incandescent scarlet that was almost bright enough to mistake for white if you tried to look at it from the side. The Folletti, who hadn’t known what I was about to do, weren’t looking at it from the side. Their eyes had been drawn to the sight of my hand emerging from my pocket, trained soldiers looking for signs of a weapon. I guess they weren’t expecting a pocket-sized piece of the sun.
They screamed in eerie unison, like a hurricane trapped inside an echo chamber. Riordan shouted, clapping her hands over her ears. I wanted to do the same. Sadly, that wasn’t an option. Instead, I broke into a run, heading for Quentin as fast as my legs could carry me.
I was almost there when Samson appeared in front of me, surrounded by the weirdly mingled scents of Chelsea and Riordan’s magic. Blood drenched his shirt, smeared over his face and neck. He snarled, face contorted with an inhuman rage, and drove the claws of his right hand into my stomach, bringing me up short. I felt things inside me rip and tear—things that were never meant to be ripped or torn, things I’m pretty sure you need in working order if you want to stay alive. Pain lanced through me, overwhelming enough to make the screaming of the Folletti seem like an understated counterpoint. Evisceration will really focus a girl’s thoughts.
Most of me wanted to black out. The rest of me wanted to live. It was the part that wanted to live that drew the knife from my belt, slamming it into Samson’s belly in a parody of what he was doing to me. His eyes widened, the reflection of the light from the Chelsea-chaser making them seem to glow. Then he twisted his fingers inside me, and I screamed.
Please, Tybalt, please, I thought, even as I struggled not to drop to my knees. The Luidaeg’s charm fell from my hand, rolling off into the bracken. The world was starting to go fuzzy around the edges. There was a time when this much pain would have been unimaginable; I would have been dead long before it could hit me. Please stick to the plan. Get everyone else out of here. Please.
“At least I’ll take you with me,” hissed Samson, and raised his other hand at an angle that would allow him to bring it down across my throat.
Maybe I could have survived that. Maybe. If I’d been running at full power, and hadn’t already used up most of my body’s resources healing from my earlier injuries. As it was, when that hand came down, I was going to die. I knew it, and so did Samson. I closed my eyes. Better that than watching the blow descend.
It never came. Samson made a choking noise, his fingers going limp as they released their hold on whatever vital part of my insides they’d been clenching. I opened my eyes to see Etienne behind him, with the iron cuffs that had been used to bind Tybalt’s ankles hooked around Samson’s throat. The skin of Etienne’s hands was visibly blistering. That was nothing compared to what was happening to Samson, who was trying to turn red and go pale at the same time. He settled for splitting the middle and going limp. He wasn’t breathing anymore. Etienne still gave the cuffs one last twist before he dropped them, a disgusted expression on his face.
“Are you—?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I wheezed, shoving my knife back into my belt without bothering to clean it before I clapped my hand over the hole in my stomach. I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to hold my insides in place or keep Etienne from seeing the extent of the damage. Maybe a little bit of both. One thing was for sure: I was never going to get into a hand-to-hand fight with a Cait Sidhe again if I had any choice in the matter. I like my internal organs to stay internal. “Get Quentin loose. Tybalt is taking care of Chelsea.”
Etienne nodded and disappeared, leaving the scent of smoke and limes behind him. I shakily straightened, looking down at Samson’s body for a moment before I started stumbling forward, toward where Quentin was tied down. Ahead, through the black spots clouding my vision, I could see Etienne appear next to my squire and start dealing with the knots.
The Folletti weren’t screaming anymore. I had time for that to register, barely, when the first of them struck Etienne from behind. He shouted and disappeared, leaving the Folletti to stumble forward. Quentin ducked as best he could while tied to a chair, missing a sweep of the Folletti’s sword, and kicked out at the same time. His feet impacted with the Folletti’s ankle, sending him stumbling and sending Quentin’s chair over backward. I forced myself to walk faster, every muscle in my body protesting the movement. I could feel the twisted things inside me trying to untangle themselves and my skin trying to knit back together at the same time. It was too much. All of it was too much.
The Folletti got his balance back and raised his sword, the tip aimed at Quentin’s chest. I had no more running left in me. It was all I could do to stay upright, still stumbling forward, knowing that I would never get there in time. On my best day, I couldn’t have made it there in time. There are races in Faerie who can bend space, sling fire, and freeze their enemies with a glance. All I could do was refuse to fall down and die. And it wasn’t enough.
Quentin didn’t make a sound. He didn’t even move. He just stared up at the Folletti standing over him, his hands balled into fists and still held down by the ropes that bound him.
I was so distracted with the effort of staying upright and moving that I barely heard the gunshot. The Folletti who was standing over Quentin stiffened, his sword dropping from his hands before he pitched forward, landing on Quentin with a thud. There was a second gunshot. I whipped around—too fast, way, way too fast, according to the still-gaping wound in my abdomen—to see Officer Thornton standing at the edge of the clearing, his service weapon held at arm’s length. One of the temporarily blinded Folletti must have dropped it. If Officer Thornton had been hiding in the brush, he would have seen his chance when the gun hit the ground.
As to how he wasn’t blinded, I guess there are some advantages to having less sensitive eyesight.
“All you…you…whatever you people are, drop your weapons!” he shouted. “Drop them right now!” Prolonged exposure to Faerie isn’t good for human sanity. From the look on Officer Thornton’s face, he was finding that out firsthand.
Riordan scowled. “Where the fuck are my guards?” she shouted. With a sound like the wind, screaming, the Folletti finally descended on the officer.
I was injured, and he was the one with the gun. Much as I wanted to worry about him, I couldn’t afford to. I turned back toward Quentin, forcing myself to keep going, and finally dropped to my knees next to his chair. Pulling the bloody knife from my belt, I began sawing through the twists of braided bracken that held him.
“Toby!” Quentin’s eyes went wide, fixing on my middle. “You’re hurt!”
“Understatement of the week,” I said, still sawing. “I’ll be fine. Can I borrow your shirt? I need something to bind the wound so I can use both my hands.” The blackness had receded to the edges of my vision. I honestly didn’t know whether that was a good sign or not.
“What happened?”
“Samson. Again. What is it about Cait Sidhe and disem
boweling me? Do they need more hobbies?” The last of the bracken holding Quentin in place snapped. I leaned back, only wincing a little as the motion pulled on the skin of my stomach. I was out of resources. This was taking too long to heal.
Quentin rolled out of the chair and scrambled to his feet before pulling his shirt off and offering it to me. That gave me an excellent view of his injuries, which weren’t as severe as Tybalt’s or Etienne’s, being confined to massive bruising of his abdomen, throat, and arms. It was still enough to make bile rise in my throat, barely outpacing the rising tide of rage.
I took the shirt and wound it around my stomach, tying it as firmly as I could with the blood soaking through the fabric. “Help me up,” I said, once I was sure the knot would hold. Quentin reached down and took my arm, pulling me to my feet. “Come on.”
Officer Thornton was keeping the Folletti occupied on the other side of the clearing. I hadn’t been counting gunshots, but the odds were good they hadn’t either; most of them probably had no idea how many bullets were in a standard sidearm. The latest of Riordan’s wagons had rolled clear of the portal, its drivers looking with confusion and awe at the landscape…
And on the other side of the portal I could see Tybalt creeping up behind Chelsea, moving slowly, so as to remain as much a part of the scenery as possible. She seemed oblivious to his approach. That was good. That meant he might actually be able to get hold of her. All he had to do was grab her, get her through the portal, and not stop to think about what that was going to mean for the rest of us.
No Chelsea, no portal to Annwn. No portal to Annwn, no way we were getting out of here. “I hope he can forgive me,” I murmured. At least we had farming supplies. We really could take over one of those castles, as I’d been joking with Raj about.
We probably wouldn’t paint it pink, though.
Quentin followed my gaze. His eyes widened as he realized what my plan had to be. Then he nodded and offered me his arm. “You look like you’re going to fall over.”
“That’s because I am,” I said, taking his arm and leaning on it heavily, grateful for the support. Then I paused, frowning. “Wait. Where’s Etienne? He didn’t reappear after the Folletti—”
“Behind you!” shouted Etienne.
We whipped around to see one of Riordan’s empty wagons bearing down on us with Etienne on the driver’s seat. He rode past us and pulled the horses to a stop. “Get in!”
Quentin scrambled to obey, crawling up into the back of the wagon before turning to pull me up after him. I helped as much as I could, finally collapsing onto the rough wood. He put a hand on my shoulder, steadying me. Then he turned and bolted for the front of the wagon, joining Etienne on the driver’s seat.
I heard, rather than saw, what came next.
“Take the reins!” shouted Etienne. The smell of cedar smoke and limes drifted back to where I was lying, and the wagon started moving again, rattling across the uneven ground with bone-shaking jerks and bounces. I was in enough pain that I didn’t care as much as I might have. I just lay there, watching the sky pass overhead, and wondered what was going to happen.
More gunshots in the distance; more screaming from the Folletti. And then a hand grabbed hold of the foot of the wagon, and Duchess Treasa Riordan yanked herself up into view. Her face was distorted by rage, and there were bits of broom in her red-black hair. She grabbed for me, snarling, “All you had to do was stay out of the way, you stupid little half-blood bitch! I was giving you people what you always wanted! I was getting out of your precious territory!”
I managed to shove myself out of her grasp—barely—before saying, “You shouldn’t have started by kidnapping kids if you didn’t want me to get involved.” I kicked at her hand. She shifted her grip out of my reach, and kept pulling herself up, while Quentin continued to drive us, full-speed, toward the portal.
Riordan reached into her shirt, producing a slender knife. It was a ritual blade, the kind some Daoine Sidhe purebloods use when a spell calls for bloodletting—like the tool you use to hurt yourself can somehow make the act less painful. And it didn’t matter, because I was already so hurt that one more injury might well push me over the point of no return. I tried to scramble farther toward the front of the wagon, pushing against the wood with my ankles and elbows.
Light glinted off the ruby around her neck. The ruby…in Samson’s earliest memories, she’d been wearing a diamond, but after she got hold of Chelsea, the stone changed color. And Riordan made blood charms. Suddenly, I understood how she’d been calling Chelsea back to her over and over again. All it took was a little bit of blood. Any extra would have been used to craft the teleportation charms she’d been giving to Samson.
He was the one who opened the door to the Fire Kingdoms. He killed Tybalt. The realization made me furious and tired at the same time—it was just one thing too many.
And not everything had been dealt with. “Changeling children exist to be disposable,” said Riordan, getting to her feet. She straightened, holding the knife in front of her as she effortlessly kept her balance in the jouncing wagon. “Why else would anyone lower themselves to copulating with a mortal?”
I kicked at her again. She stepped aside. “Children are never disposable!”
“Spoken like someone who should have been drowned before she could grow up to bother her betters.” Riordan shook her head. “You’re still a changeling. Even if you spoil things for me, no one’s going to be able to touch me.”
“Quentin’s not a changeling,” I gasped, levering myself into a half-seated position, with my shoulders braced against the back of the driver’s platform. Raising my voice, I shouted, “Quentin! Drive faster!”
“The horses don’t go any faster than this!” Quentin shouted back. He sounded strained, but not worried. That could only mean one thing.
He didn’t know Riordan was in the wagon.
Riordan herself grinned, clearly coming to the same conclusion, and took a step toward me. I fumbled my own knife from my belt, holding it in front of me. I wasn’t going to scream. No matter what, I wasn’t going to scream. If there was any chance of Quentin getting out of here—if he could keep his panicked horses under control long enough to get to the portal that Chelsea was still holding open—then I had to make sure he would take it, and that meant not distracting him with my own impending stabbing.
“I really hate you,” I muttered, trying to get into a defensible position. It wasn’t working. I’d lost too much blood, and my body was giving up on me.
“The feeling’s mutual, sugar,” said Riordan, and raised her knife.
Tybalt seemed to appear out of nowhere, vaulting over the side of the wagon and grabbing Riordan by the throat. His teeth were too large for his mouth, distorting it until there was no way he could have managed human speech. He didn’t need to. The roar he directed into Riordan’s face made his message perfectly clear.
“Tybalt!” I shouted. “The charm!”
He grabbed Riordan’s ruby with his free hand, yanking it loose and tossing it to me. I caught it, barely. Then he lifted her, struggling, and flung her off the back of the wagon. She screamed as she fell. I didn’t see her hit the ground.
“October!” Tybalt rushed over to me, dropping to his knees as he tried to gather me into his arms and check my injuries at the same time. It was an impossible task. He did his best. “Are you all right?”
Manic giggles bubbled from my lips before I could stop them. I pressed my forehead into his shoulder, and said, “No. Not even a little.” Then I stiffened. “Tybalt, Chelsea—”
“Etienne has her. He’s helping her keep the portal stable long enough for us to get through.” Tybalt raised his head, looking past me to where Quentin was steering us, hell-bent, toward the portal. “We’re almost there. Can you hold on?”
“I made it this far, didn’t I?” I tucked the ruby into my pocket and closed my eyes. Sometimes the hardest part of heroism is admitting that the battle is out of your hands. This wasn’
t my fight anymore. It was Etienne’s, and Chelsea’s, and Quentin’s race against a changeling girl’s endurance. All I could do was let Tybalt hold me and try to pretend that I wasn’t still bleeding. At least it was slowing down. Maybe that was a good sign. Or maybe I was just running out of blood.
My wounds weren’t closing. The damage was done.
The smell of sycamore smoke and calla lilies grew as we approached the portal. Tybalt snarled, carefully settling me on the wagon floor, before leaping to his feet and swatting something out of the air. One of the surviving Folletti screamed. I sort of wished I could lever my eyes open long enough to watch. Then the smell of smoke and lilies became overwhelming, and the whole wagon shuddered, shaking hard from side to side.
The ground beneath us changed textures, going from uneven earth to the smoothly polished stone of Duchess Riordan’s “parking garage.” Chelsea wailed, and I heard Etienne answer her. I couldn’t make out words, but his tone was soothing. The wagon slid to a halt. Almost immediately, a hot wave of magic washed over us, mingling the scents of smoke, calla lilies, and limes. Etienne was helping his daughter close the portal.
Somewhere behind us, Riordan screamed, the sound cutting off in the middle, as if a plug had been pulled—or a hole had been closed.
“October?” Tybalt’s voice was close enough that I knew he had to be right beside me. I just couldn’t have said exactly where. “October?!”
There are limits to everybody’s endurance. Mine have changed a lot in recent years, but they still exist, and I had reached them. With a sigh, I stopped clinging to consciousness and let myself tumble the rest of the way into the dark.
TWENTY-FIVE
Ashes of Honor: An October Daye Novel Page 33
