Hazel
Iam Alice. I am falling down the rabbit hole. I don’t even know who Alice is or why she fell, only that I am too. I don’t even think I’m screaming.
Someone else must be.
Arms wrap around me from behind, heavy, muscular, a mouth beside my ear.
“I have you, my lady,” it whispers, and the screaming stops.
And the falling stops as suddenly as it began. The mist which accompanied the drop in huge swirls thins to a light fog which is pierced by a thin light as if nothing much matters anymore.
“Where…” My teeth chatter. “Where are we?” I ask the arms.
“The Underhill,” the arms reply in a deep, familiar voice. “And it is not where we should be, nor any creature living.”
“I can take care of myself.” I wriggle against the arms, despite the fact my entire core is telling me to stay in them.
“I’m counting on it.”
I am released, and I turn to face the owner of the appendages.
“You!” I spit out at Warden. “You did this,” I add with a growl. “I need to get back to the Dark Gibbet. There’s work to be done.”
“I don’t think that will be possible.” Warden lifts his head, shoving his chin into the damp air as his nostrils flare. “Not immediately.”
He looks back at me, dark eyes burning into my soul.
“And you are correct, this is my fault.”
I feel my jaw drop.
“It is?”
“There is a reason my presence interrupted the good running of your tavern.” Warden stares off into the distance.
“What?” My head spins. “I don’t understand.”
“And I don’t understand how you can have no magic but wield the sword at your side,” Warden says.
My hand instinctively goes to the hilt. “It came with the tavern. The owner always wears it,” I say, far too swiftly for my liking, as if the words are not my own.
Warden rubs at the scruff on his chin, scratching at it with dark claws I don’t recall he had before. “And when did you come to own this tavern?”
“I’ve always been there,” I respond.
But I don’t think I have.
I square my shoulders. “The Dark Gibbet is mine and I need to go back.”
“This is the Underhill. Going back, even to the Night Lands, is not easy, if, indeed, it is possible.”
“I’ve never heard of the Underhill.” I glare at the Brag who is looking weirdly at home in this misty place, which is boggy underfoot.
“Not many have,” he says. “Few have visited and returned to tell any tales.”
I blow out a long breath.
“Well, we’re here now. How about you tell me what you know and perhaps we can work out together what to do about being here.”
Warden cocks his head on one side, and his gaze rakes over me.
The strange light of this place reflects on his face, and while I might have consciously decided he didn’t look like a bag of spanners, here and now he is incredibly handsome.
Sharp cheekbones, romanesque nose, eyes which hold so much promise, and the cute little horns peeking out from his mass of hair, presently pulled back into a low ponytail secured by a leather band and specked with both gold and straw.
“I like it,” he says, with a slow blink. “What are you, my lady? Because I’ve never met your like before.”
“I am…” No one has ever asked what I am.
I think everyone presumed I was a witch like Millie, Hilda, and Edith. They had no magic and I had no magic. But I’m not sure I am a witch. And if I’m not a witch, what am I?
“I am Lady Ryle,” I finish, attempting to sound confident. “Landlady of the Dark Gibbet.”
Warden slowly circles me with an almost predatory gait.
“Is that so?”
“Look, let’s cut the crap. We can’t stay here. I can’t stay here, I’ve a tavern to run, so what do we do?”
Warden stops in front of me.
“The Underhill is a place some say doesn’t exist, but then they haven’t spent as much time with the Faerie as I have,” he says folding his arms over his massive chest. “It is the place they all hope to find the entry to because it contains magic they can only dream of.”
“So why are we here? Neither of us are Faerie, nor magical,” I demand.
“I do not know, my lady,” Warden intones. “But, like you, I have a profession waiting for me back in the Night Lands, and we should find a way out of the Underhill, preferably alive in your case.”
“What about you?” I respond. “I don’t exactly want a centaur with a death wish by my side.”
“I have no death wish as you put it,” Warden says, taking a step closer to me and making my head spin with his proximity. “Because I cannot die.”
“You can’t die?” I huff out a short bark of a laugh. “Not possible.”
“It is entirely possible, my lady.” Warden grasps my hand, the one which still has hold of the dagger.
And he plunges it into his chest.