Chapter Three #3
Not all of the chains had snapped. Some spells, no matter who procured them, from Iron Crows to the Toad Witch of London, were not enough. And the Collector would always have more at his disposal.
But a lady always came prepared. Her mother had taught her that. Of course, she was referring to hairpins and thread for a dropped hem, but never mind.
The stable was all smoke and the snap of flames, teeth, and gleaming iron chains.
One of the bound wolves turned to glare at her, eyes burning like hot coals.
She paused, then reminded herself there was no time to pause or regret or question her life choices.
Except for that Iron Crow. She was definitely going to push her into the sea.
The spell had broken only some of the chains and two of the silver collars.
Although, to be fair, that might have been due to the goblins.
Things tended to go wrong in their vicinity. Quickly.
“Are you mad?” the wolf shifter snapped when she approached, his human form tall and lanky. One of his incisors was chipped.
“Probably,” Sorcha said with a kind of cheerfulness that took them all aback. They stared at her. She was used to that, at least. The smoke stung her eyes and her throat. “Does it matter as long as I get you out here?”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Not tonight.”
With any luck.
She tried not to let any of her misgivings show on her face. Sometimes bravado was the only magic you had left. So she would use it. It had always served her well before.
The fire really was inching a little closer than she liked, though.
She was out of spells, so she crouched low, the back of her neck prickling as she tried to make her wet fingers work nimbly.
She had picked locks before. With varying degrees of success, it had to be said.
The hot breath of an impatient wolf on her cheek was not particularly helpful.
“Stop thinking about how much you want to bite me. It’s distracting,” she muttered.
He drew back with a grumble, and she resumed her work. The wolf with the chipped incisor moved to shield her from view as much as he could. His human companion was curled up in the mud, barely breathing, lips blue. The second wolf was curled around her, trying to shelter her.
Sorcha’s fingers were cramping by the time the lock finally snicked open. The chain linked them to each other, human wrists to wolf throats. She went to work on the next lock as the smoke thickened.
There was a shout from the courtyard. The burning stables had been discovered.
Sorcha reached for the lock again, finally managing to get it open. The woman opened her eyes, snarled, and shifted back into her wolf form, white fur with blue eyes. She snarled again and lunged, knocking Sorcha over in her haste to get through the door. The flames licked higher and higher.
The shifter with the chipped incisor swore and then coughed. “I don’t think we’re getting Orla back. They’ve had her the longest.”
The fire flared.
“Go through the roof,” Sorcha said. “I’m right behind you.”
She had learned a long time ago that if you told someone you were staying to wrestle with certain doom, they generally tried to interrupt.
And she couldn’t go yet. The spell had not worked on the ropes that bound the shaking Pegasus. Elderberry flew over her head, glittering with agitation. Somewhere outside, a crow cawed in warning.
“I know, I know, time to go,” Sorcha muttered.
She took the dagger from her belt and used it to saw through the ropes.
They were wrapped with ivy and flowers she could not name, but as she was not a magic horse, they did little to deter her.
The Pegasus pawed the ground sharply when she turned to unpin his wings.
The fire crackled through the straw. She couldn’t get to it; she was too busy leaping out of the way to avoid being trampled when they shot toward the stable doors and thundered into the courtyard. “You’re welcome,” she muttered.
“Run,” Fergus called, sticking his head back down into the lingering smoke at the rooftop. “They’re coming.”
She couldn’t make it to the ladder, not with the flames and the smoke. She would have to take her chances in the courtyard. It was still raining, so she could cling to the shadows and hope no one noticed her. With any luck, they would be too busy fighting the fire.
Which was as fine a plan as she could hope for.
Until she heard the trill of the barn swallow inside her head, right before he dove through the roof to the sky.
He had sent her a flash of images: tiny paws curling, burning straw, a turned-over bucket.
Tiny pink paws that looked like hands. When birds communicated with her, they sent images.
And she knew those little pink toes. A hedgehog.
There was a hedgehog still trapped inside. Sorcha coughed, pulling her cloak across her nose and mouth. The swallow had shown her the tipped-over bucket to the left. Which meant the hedgehog must be stuck somewhere nearby.
Sorcha ducked her head low against the acrid smoke and ran. The snap and hiss of the flames was loud. Menacing. There was a squeak.
She darted forward, leaping over a flame that must have seemed like a towering inferno to a small hedgehog.
She saw it tucked into the corner, sides heaving with the effort to breathe, and plucked it up and dropped it into the pocket sewn inside her red cloak.
Fire snapped at her ankles. Elderberry gave his throaty cry from above her.
Run, idiot.
Sorcha ran.