Chapter 10
FASCINATING AS THE tour is, I’m not staying in the Underworld.
So I update my notebook with everything I can remember about the fortress’s layout and doze in my room until sunrise when the place quietens.
I pack up the food that was brought to me for dinner, securing it in jars I’ve cleaned out from the bathroom.
There are no large bags, so I use a pillowcase to carry a blanket, the food and a bottle of water.
The clothing is a little more difficult.
It’s not exactly practical and the warm clothes the king mentioned haven’t arrived yet.
But digging through the drawers, I manage to find a stash of see-through shirts that I layer and fine woolen leggings that look suspiciously like the ones I’ve seen back home, and a pair of leather trousers.
Hopefully it’s enough to keep out the cold.
Sturdy leather boots fit over doubled-up socks.
For good measure, I set out a fitted coat and a pale-gray cloak that might blend with the snowy landscape, but don’t put them on. Not yet.
I throw a dressing robe over my outfit and hold my breath when I reach the door. If it’s locked, my plan could be over before I’ve even started. Admittedly, it’s a fairly basic plan.
But when I turn the door handle, it opens.
There’s still one more obstacle, though. In the form of Astrid standing guard in the corridor. I bite back a sigh of relief when I see it’s her—I get the impression she’s most likely to be sympathetic.
It’s the middle of the night for her yet her attention snaps to me at once. “My lady?”
I tug on my robe and bow my head as if embarrassed. “I—uh… I’m not sure if fae have this, but human women… bleed?” Not me. I haven’t in years. But she doesn’t know that.
“You… Oh! Once a month?” When I nod, she goes on. “I’ve heard of that. Seems inconvenient.”
I huff a laugh. “You have no idea. It’s just… usually we have rags or sea sponge to…” I gesture vaguely, glancing up to find her looking at me with curiosity.
“Oh, right. Inconvenient and messy.” She nods thoughtfully.
Not getting the hint. “Could you… get me some?”
She glances along the quiet corridor as if weighing up the risk to my safety. There’s a pang of guilt in my stomach, like a phantom cramp for the bleed I don’t have. I was so focused on escape, I didn’t consider my success could get her into trouble.
But I have to get back to my family and especially to Lowen. I should’ve told him the moment I understood why he stayed. The guilt of keeping him at home, even if it’s in the hope I return, will be a much worse pain to bear than any cramp.
So I give Astrid a rueful smile and when she nods, I hold my excitement in.
“I think I know where I can get some sponge for you and rags—whatever you need. I’ll be right back.”
As she disappears down the corridor, I wave and retreat into my room. The dressing robe comes off. The coat and cloak go on.
With the pillowcase-cum-sack over my shoulder, I slip into the empty corridor.
Step one, complete.
I pass through the fortress, thinking back to my arrival and the king’s tour.
I’ve gone over my notes enough times that I don’t need to consult the notebook in my pocket.
Not a single soul passes me—not a corporeal one, anyway.
Shadows slip by and around corners, and I hurry my pace.
I’m not taking any chances in case they’re spying for the king—if they whisper in his ear and bring him back here, I’ll be long gone.
After hitting a dead end in my search for an exit, I eventually reach the door to the kitchens.
We didn’t enter them on my tour, but I’m counting on the layout being the same as on the surface.
Annem used to work in the kitchens of a grand house when I was a little girl.
She would borrow books from the library for me, and a few times, I even went with her.
The first time I collapsed from one of my episodes, she stopped so she could stay home with me.
But that bustling kitchen is still fresh in my mind. As is the separate entrance it had to allow for all the comings and goings of staff and deliveries.
Inside, warmth still radiates from the huge ovens. The familiar scent of herbs and recent cooking eases my shoulders.
I can do this.
No sooner have I nodded to myself, than my breath catches. Movement. Someone’s here.
If those shadows have told Drystan…
Then my eyes adjust to the dim glow from the ovens and I see it’s not the king, but a girl, curled up in a low bed. She hugs a lumpy green toy closely—I can’t work out what it’s meant to be. A frog, perhaps?
Frozen, I hold my breath.
She smacks her lips and nestles into the cuddly frog.
Sound asleep.
One hand braced on the counter top that dominates the center of the kitchen, I creep by. Because ahead there’s a hefty, bolted door, and I’m willing to bet my remaining supply of tablets it leads outside.
There’s a jar of the ginger biscuits on a shelf and I can’t help pocketing a handful before I pause at the door.
With a glance back, I reassure myself the girl is still asleep and no one has followed me.
Dark shapes gather at the oven doors as though curious about the orange glow within.
But they aren’t sauntering off to tell the king about my nighttime jaunt and there’s no one else here.
Shoulders squared, I ease the bolt from its keep and open the door.
The ice snatches my breath and pulls on my hair, forcing me to rush outside and push the door shut before the blast of wind wakes the girl.
I stand there, leaning against it, squinting while my eyes adjust to the bright daylight.
Step two—I’ve escaped the fortress.
Now to tackle the Underworld itself.
The light here is strange and cold, carving harsh lines in the snow-clad landscape. A snowbank heaps against the inside of the fortress walls. Someone’s cleared a path from the kitchen door. It seems logical this would lead to a gate… but what if it’s guarded?
This is where my plan could fall apart.
I’m no fighter. The cold is already making my limbs stiff, and I can feel the clumsiness setting in—sneaking isn’t much of an option. Besides, fae are known for their keen senses. I doubt the most dextrous human could sneak past them.
But I have to try. And who knows? Maybe there will be no guards at the gate. After all, who would dare attack the King of Death in his own fortress?
I grimace and push into the brisk wind. At least the cleared path won’t reveal my footprints. And at least it isn’t snowing.
I cling on to those small mercies as I work my way through the frozen gardens.
There’s a flicker of something overhead and out the corner of my eye, I think I see the ravens that accompany the king everywhere.
But when I turn, there’s no sign of life, save for the bare-branched trees.
Huddled against the building are shrubs not covered in snow, but with leaves and pink petals encased in ice.
I peer closer. Double flowers and waxy dark green leaves. Camellias.
But camellias flower in spring—their blooms should’ve fallen months before winter closed in.
Still, I don’t have time to linger on that puzzle, however intriguing. I forge onward along the path and after a few turns I’m rewarded.
The fortress gates.
And the gods smile upon me because there isn’t a single guard.
I could crow with delight.
Biting back a grin, I throw a triumphant glance over my shoulder.
I’m already taking a step toward the gate as I register the terror flooding me, colder than the snow just starting to fall.
I blink at the gate. At freedom. But my mind trips over what I thought I saw over my shoulder. What I pray was just the product of an overactive imagination and shapes in the snow.
Slowly, slowly, I turn back.
In hazy silhouette, there’s a rider. I stare, piecing together features as they drift in and out of focus, blocked by falling snowflakes one moment, clear the next. A spiked helm. His mount’s great, branching antlers.
The wind gusts, clearing the flurry, and the gray mass behind him emerges. A dozen more riders. Horses and stags, skeletal with impossible breaths somehow steaming in the cold.
I can’t see his eyes. I can’t see any of their eyes.
But I know they see me.
It’s a shriek in my bones, telling me both to run and that it’s pointless.
Because I will never escape. Because this is the Wild Hunt.
I haven’t even finished the thought when my legs burst into movement and I’m running.
I haven’t done this in years. There’s a surreal kind of joy that my body remembers how, but the clamor of my heart throbs through my entire being.
Run. Run. Run.
I obey. My breaths burn. My muscles groan. I won’t be able to keep this up for long.
Somehow, over the rushing, thundering sounds of my own body, I hear it.
Haunting howls breaking the day’s cold quiet. White hounds emerge from the snow, eyes glowing with feral fire as they lock on me.
Undead and untiring, the Wild Hunt come each month. We shut up the doors and windows and close the curtains—anyone they catch sight of becomes their quarry. And they will chase a soul to the ends of the earth.
Every child knows it. We have nursery rhymes that warn us about the new moon. But here they are in the Underworld’s cold daylight, chasing me.
Just as I try to push harder, my steps grow clumsier and exhaustion sets in, heavier than the burst of energy trying to flood me. My heartbeats blur together, choking, drowning, a terrified buzz that shakes my entire body.
Still, I try to run.
Please—please. I beg my body.
Ahead, the gate looms. Eyes fixed on it, I run. Jog. Stumble. Try to bite back whimpers.
The hooves of their mounts thunder through the ground, closer, louder.
They ride me down without effort. One grabs the back of my cloak, bony fingers biting through my clothes, and suddenly I’m running in midair.
I don’t have the breath to shout, “No.” It’s just a gasping plea before I’m slung over a saddle and every hope in me dies.