Chapter Four
“Where are you taking me?” I demand as the guard pulls me across the glass bridge that connects Vandenberghe to the main castle.
The school was built atop a knoll on the Mist-covered lake, its stony turrets and high walls emerging from the waters.
Crossing over the bridge means staring down into the watery depths below.
I can see faces there in the water—the corpses of those left behind when the Mists came, choked to death by their vapor.
“Quiet,” the guard growls.
I pull against his hold on my wrist again. “You can’t just drag me off without telling me why.”
The guard whirls toward me, slamming my body against the glass wall. My back knocks painfully against the stone casing.
“If it were up to me, girl,” he hisses, “I would throw your body in the lake right now. But the Queen gave her orders.”
Oh Saints … The Queen knows what I’ve done.
I glance toward the lake beneath our feet, and for a moment, I imagine my face floating there, gray with death, among the waters, my own wide eyes staring back at me.
We burn most of our dead—there is no room for a graveyard in our walls.
Traitors, however, are doomed to a watery grave in the lake, thrown into the Mists to choke on them and drown.
“The Queen,” I repeat. I say her title the way many do lately—a fearful, choked whisper, like we’re all haunted by our sovereign. “What orders?”
“Don’t be coy with me, traitor.”
My blood chills.
“I’m not a traitor,” I insist, but it sounds like a lie even to my own ears.
“I know what you are. Your very existence is treachery, little witch.” The look he gives me is pure disgust.
A witch—Roze must’ve told them what he saw.
“I’m not,” I plead.
“Your words are useless,” he says. He grabs my arm once more and drags me farther across the bridge. “Your life is out of my hands.”
We pass through the doors into the main castle and step into the grand entrance hall. The chandeliers overhead are as large as my dormitory room. I have never felt smaller as I follow the guard up the carpeted stairs.
The ceilings soar in every hall we pass through, masterpieces on every wall—portraits of kings, works of masters. What I consider extraordinary is ordinary in Prince Roze’s childhood home.
Roze.
This is his fault. I knew he hated me, but this? Telling his mother what I am?
But of course he turned me in. It’s in royal blood to hate all meigas, and Roze has more reason to hate me than that.
Finding out that I was one of them must’ve been a gift.
His cruel smirk flashes in my mind as the captain marches me up the stairs, farther up in the castle … not toward the dungeons.
“Where are we going?” I dare to ask.
“Silence,” he commands.
I decide it’s best to obey this time.
Finally, we reach an enormous lancet door, ornate depictions of the moon and stars carved into its wooden surface—the door to the cathedral. I try to take a breath to steady myself, but the guard opens the door and unceremoniously shoves me inside.
“Wait here,” he commands, and he slams the door behind me.
I blink, my heart still hammering against my rib cage.
I don’t understand. Couldn’t I just … leave?
Perhaps the captain is guarding the other side of the door, waiting for someone else to arrive.
Quietly, I try to pull the handle of the massive cathedral door.
If my life is already at stake, what do I have to lose? But it’s locked.
I sigh and turn to the cathedral. It seems empty, though the candelabras are lit with flickering candles, and the barest shimmer of moonlight penetrates the windows that line the walls like sentries—the stained glass faces of saints leering down at me.
I step into the space, and the sound of my boots on the stones beneath my feet echoes through the room.
I’ve been here for religious services before, but never alone, never at night.
The silence makes my skin crawl as I pass pew after pew.
It’s an enormous space, meant to make the parishioner feel small and insignificant, and I feel just that as I approach the altar, strewn with candles, the enormous rose window towering over it.
All around are shadows that seem to move and flicker in the dim light of the candles. I pull my school sweater more tightly around my shoulders. What am I meant to be waiting for?
My fingers toy with the corners of the book inside my sweater pocket.
When another minute ticks by and no one appears, I pull the book from my sweater and open it.
My first thought when the professor handed it to me was that it could be the Book of Odds, the text we’ve been searching for.
If it is, it could be all our salvation—and if I can help Professor Borges lift the Mists, maybe the Queen will overlook my supposed treason.
I lift the yellowed pages carefully. On the very first page, in handwritten ink, there is a single sentence in ancient Aragoise. One I recognize …
I frown and close the book again, running my hand over the silver embossment on the front, the thorny vines curling their way around the cover, the lion, the dragon, and those four runes circling them.
I’m not particularly spiritual. I like things that I can see and touch, like a well-constructed sentence or a cup of strong tea.
But now, standing before this little black book and the strange symbol in silver relief, I feel the weight of something otherworldly pressing in upon me—whether to warn me or threaten me, I’m not sure. It feels heavy, suffocating.
Something shifts out of the corner of my eye.
I jerk back, dropping the book on the altar.
The great doors to the cathedral creak open behind me.
In panic, I drop to the floor and pull myself under the cloth that covers the altar, barely concealing myself before I hear someone step inside.
The steps are heavy, booted … masculine. The guard again? Maybe I should come out of my hiding place—I’m in enough trouble as is. But some instinct tells me to stay hidden. My pulse throbs in my throat, and I try to control my breathing. My shadows lick the edges of my fingers. Not again.
I am calm.
I am control.
“Girl?” calls the captain’s gruff voice. He growls like a beast, and I suck in a breath.
He steps forward, his boots coming closer to the altar where I’m hiding, stops for a moment, then paces quickly down the length of the cathedral.
He’s right next to my hiding place. I can see the shadow of his legs by the light of the candles, hear his harsh breathing. And then … a chill travels down my spine as I hear him pick up the book. Stupid. How could I have left it?
I’m sure he can hear my pounding heart.
Then there’s another sound—something from several yards away.
“Is there a reason you’re here?” says a familiar voice of twisted silk and spider softness. I’d know it anywhere. Roze.
“The Queen requested I come to ensure you’ve done your duty,” says the guard. He has turned now, and I can see the tip of his sword and the soles of his boots beneath the altar cloth. “Where is the girl?”
My heart stops. Roze must have been watching me from the corner the entire time. He knows where I am. But he doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he says, “What are you holding?”
“This book was on the altar. I thought—”
“Do you make a habit of taking whatever you wish from my family’s place of worship?”
“Of course not,” the man barks.
Roze comes closer.
“I’ve already dealt with her,” he says.
The guard pauses. “And the body?”
The body. My eyes screw shut. Oh Saints …
“I am more than capable of cleaning up my own mess,” Roze says.
“And can you explain how you were able to execute the meiga and dispose of her body in such a short amount of time, Huntsman?”
The Huntsman?
I suck in a breath, the sound of it too sharp, too audible. I slam my hand against my mouth.
“Are you an expert in meiga hunting now, Captain? There is a reason Her Majesty leaves such things to me.”
But the guard isn’t listening. “Did you hear that?”
No. No no no.
I curl in on myself, making my body small.
I am calm.
I am control.
“Hear what?” Roze drawls lazily.
“I heard something.”
“I heard nothing.”
The guard takes a step forward.
Roze sighs dramatically. “Your presence is exhausting me.”
“My orders were to assist you.”
Roze’s voice lowers. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Captain. Your assistance is not required. Leave.”
I can feel the guard’s attention turn to Roze—the Huntsman. “I’m here on the Queen’s orders. She’s beginning to lose confidence in your ability to perform your duties—always lurking about where you don’t belong.”
“I’m not lurking about.” Roze’s voice drips poison. “This is my home.”
The guard hesitates for a moment.
“Leave,” Roze demands.
The guard finally steps away. “Offer the Queen my regards,” he says, halfway to the door.
“I make a point to never offer the Queen anything I’m not required to,” Roze says.
“That mouth of yours will be the end of you someday, boy.”
My brow furrows. I’ve never heard anyone speak to Roze that way. He’s a prince, after all. Then again, I haven’t seen his life outside Vandenberghe.
The guard’s feet move to the door, and I nearly sigh with relief. And then my foot slips. Just barely, but it’s enough to create a sharp squeaking sound. I hold back a gasp. The two men halt.
My heart pounds, and my shadows slip free.
No, no, stop.
I am calm!
I am control!
But it’s too late. True terror races through my heart, and they run from my hands, spilling over the floor, snaking under the altar cloth.
No. Oh Saints, no.
I try to reel them back, drawing myself in, but it’s not working.
No no no. Tears spill down my face as I desperately try to pull them back into myself, hide them in my skin.
“I knew you were a liar,” the captain spits. He marches toward the altar. I have nowhere to run or hide—I hear the slick whine of the captain’s sword as he draws it from its scabbard.
Roze—the Huntsman—slides in front of the guard, quick as a serpent. I hear a sick squelch, a gurgling noise, a heavy thump, and the guard’s body lands right in front of the altar, right in front of me.
His face is poking under the altar cloth, just inches from my foot. I yelp and jump back.
The guard’s eyes are wide, and his mouth opens and closes desperately as blood pools beneath an open slit on his neck—Roze slit his throat.
He is still alive, blinking at me while he holds his neck, blood so dark it looks like oil leaking through his thick fingers, pulsating with every beat of his heart.
The guard’s eyes sharpen into a glare as he sees me, and he reaches out for me with his bloody hand. I squeal and try to kick him away.
And my foot collides with his neck.
I feel the soft give of wet tissue as my toes lodge inside the wound. I try to yank it back, but my foot catches. Even through my boot, I can feel the squishiness and moisture of his open flesh.
Bile rises in my throat, and with it a strange, desperate gasping sound escapes me.
The captain’s eyes go wide, and blood spurts from his mouth, sprinkling my skirt and the skin of my arms, my face, my lips. I cry again and try to pull free, try to crawl away, but my boot is pinched securely in the underside of his jaw.
I wrench it, and my foot tears at the man’s flesh, impaling him deeper. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t work. The metal pieces on my shoe have caught on something inside his head, and I can feel his pulse in my toes.
I jerk it as hard as I can, and blood bursts from the wound. A pool grows beneath his head, and his eyes widen and deaden.
The thought flashes in my mind—I know I will never be able to cleanse the feel of his jawbone wrapped around my toes from my memories. At last, his head goes limp and his eyes glaze over, staring blankly at me.
I am frozen. I beg my muscles to move, but they don’t listen. The fear is too much.
And then I heave, vomiting onto the carpet beside me. My whole body trembles, and in my stupor, I see a gloved hand reach down and deftly lift my foot free from the guard’s throat.
Another hand lifts the altar cloth. Roze’s sinister, pale face appears.
“Hello, Sinclair.”