Chapter 12
When I came to, Banshee was licking my hand. She placed her paws on my arm when she saw my eyes open, then butted her head against my chin.
My head spun. The shelter smelled of magic, and where Havelock had disappeared into that dark forest, the floor was stained black, as if from spilled ink.
I rolled onto my side, dislodging the cat, and threw up.
This had the useful effect of both settling my stomach and giving me something to do.
Once I was certain I could stand, I cleaned the floor, then picked up Banshee, who’d been shadowing me the entire time, a worried look on her small face.
“It’s all right,” I whispered. “I’m all right.”
I don’t think I convinced her any more than I convinced myself, but she nestled into me as I shivered, her claws pricking my arm.
I desperately needed fresh air, so naturally I decided to ignore everything Havelock had said.
Why he thought I’d listen to him after what I’d seen, I had no idea, but the overriding thought in my head was to put as much distance between myself and Havelock Renard as possible.
And anyway, I didn’t share his belief that Valérie would bother abducting me—why would she?
Havelock cared nothing for me, and therefore I was useless to her as a bargaining chip.
Before I could do anything, though, including get my head on straight, I had to attend to the cats, who were chirruping at me in the way they always did when they wanted food.
Either they were unaffected by what they had seen or they simply deemed cohabitation with a monster of lesser concern than getting their breakfast on time.
Never have I been so thankful for my checklists!
I went through the morning one, luxuriating in its familiarity and orderliness, how it took a project of overwhelming complexity—the care and maintenance of several dozen demanding beasts of varying temperaments and health—and reduced it to the size of a sheet of paper.
If only every problem in life could be dealt with thus.
I looked around for His Majesty, but I couldn’t find him anywhere—not unusual, that; the creature liked to skulk about, perhaps to cultivate an air of mystery.
I left his breakfast on the floor in the kitchen and went to the nearest telegram office to send a semi-coherent message to élise.
Then I went to a bakery, bought a chocolate brioche the size of my head, and ate the entire thing with my bare hands while sitting on a bench, barely noticing the stares of passersby.
The pastry was warm from the oven, the chocolate like ribbons of silk, and it calmed me a little.
I hadn’t taken note of a single thing I’d seen on my walk along Rue Sainte-Sophie.
I knew the street well enough, though I didn’t usually come as far as this block; it was busy here, unlike the gentle bustle of Rue des Hirondelles, with a tram that ran every four minutes during the height of the day.
Colourful awnings advertised restaurants and cafés, all packed, but there were also a number of office buildings.
The headquarters of The Daily Gazette, the city’s largest English newspaper, was on the next block.
Despite the snowstorm, the street was crowded, the shop owners having already cleared the snow from their sidewalks.
A snowplow drawn by blanketed horses rumbled slowly down the street.
When I reached our newly relocated shelter, I stopped and began to laugh.
The stone shop front was conventional enough. It had no awning or signage, and the windows were covered by the same green curtains from the Rue des Hirondelles shop. What was curious about it was its location.
To the left sat Les Trois Soeurs, one of Montréal’s most expensive restaurants, which naturally I’d never set foot in. It wasn’t open yet, but I could make out several waitstaff circulating within, adjusting the mahogany furniture and setting elegant lanterns atop each table.
To the right of my new cat shelter, even more ludicrously, loomed the imperious facade of the city’s main bank, with its towering columns, grand portico, and gleam of chandeliers visible through the glass doors.
Impeccably dressed men and women, most carrying briefcases, marched up the wide flight of stairs, their expensive coats billowing behind them.
A pair of women hurried past me, shoes clicking on the sidewalks, and I abruptly became aware of how shabbily I was dressed.
The bank’s staircase merged with the sidewalk outside the cat shelter, so that if you exited and took three paces in that direction, you would find yourself mounting the immaculate stone steps towards the towering grandeur that was the heart of the city’s business realm and home to more wealth than I could conceive of.
I stopped laughing once I realized I was attracting stares and ducked back inside the shelter, locking the door behind me and then leaning against it.
I was going to kill Havelock.
I repeated this to myself because it was fortifying; in truth I knew I’d do no worse than scowl at him and try desperately not to cower—and that was the best-case scenario.
Now that I knew what the Witch King truly was, I was inclined to think his reputation had painted a rosier picture than the reality.