Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Drawing his sword, Benedict waited just behind Ariadne and the other swordmaiden, ready to leap through the doorway.
With so many rescued prisoners in tow, there was no point in trying to leave subtly.
But now they’d have the numbers to overwhelm the guards quickly.
If they took out the guards at this door and the one above without making much noise, perhaps they could still sneak out past the rest without more fighting.
Beatrice, in her squirrel goblin woman glamour, stood near the back of the group, staying well away from the others to avoid an accidental brush or bump revealing the truth.
If the guards reported the jailbreak to Claudius and if he told King Oberon and if King Oberon chose to make a stink about it, then King Theseus would be able to claim that this was a Primrose mission and not something officially sanctioned by the king and queen.
What Lord Chauvlyn would report to the fae he served was anyone’s guess. But considering he had yet to tell anyone the true identity of the Wild Fae Primrose, he likely would keep his own counsel, at least for the time being.
Several of the other rescued prisoners—like Domitius—had complained about Lord Chauvlyn’s inclusion in the prison break. But they’d quickly been silenced by reminding them that the longer they stood there protesting, the longer it would take to get out of there.
At a nod from Ariadne, she and the rescued swordmaiden leapt through the rift anchored to the doorway.
Benedict followed a second later, his sword in his hand. The shredding pain of passing through a rip in the fabric of the realms tore through him, leaving him gasping as he stumbled out the other side.
One of the guards already lay on the ground, Ariadne quickly gagging the fae and tying his hands and feet.
The other swordmaiden, weakened by her imprisonment, struggled with the second guard, her hand over the male’s mouth.
Even as Benedict lunged in their direction, the man threw the swordmaiden away from him and shouted.
Benedict tackled the man, smothering his shouts only a moment later. But it was already too late. More shouts and the pounding of running feet proved that all the guards within the cottage were now alerted and headed their way.
The swordmaiden picked herself up and, while Benedict kept the guard pinned, proceeded to gag the man and truss him up much as Ariadne had the other one.
The other rescued prisoners tottered and fell through the doorway one by one until Lord Chauvlyn and finally Beatrice stepped through.
Her eyes—still blue in this glamour—widened as she glanced first at him, kneeling on the fae guard’s back, to the stairs that led upward. Even now, footsteps stomped on the wood, getting closer with every moment.
“Get the rift closed. We’ll hold them off.
” Tearing his gaze away from her, he grabbed his sword from the floor where he’d dropped it and leapt to his feet, facing the door.
It was three of them—more if any of the other former prisoners showed fighting skills—against however many fae guards poured through that door.
And their only retreat was back into a dead-end rift through the realms.
Beatrice’s heart pounded, her feet frozen where she stood beside the doorway rift. This wasn’t at all what she’d had in mind. A quick slip in, rescue the prisoners, and tiptoe right back out again. She wasn’t supposed to be caught up in a fight at all.
Benedict’s shout jolted through her, and she gasped in a breath as she spun to face the black hole of a doorway. How was she supposed to close the rift? Munch hadn’t given her instructions. “How am I supposed to close it? Anyone have any ideas?”
At least she no longer appeared as the Primrose. The rescued fae would’ve had a pretty poor impression of the fae hero by the time this was over. Then again, he’d just disappeared on them before the rescue was finished, so that likely wouldn’t help.
“True love generally does the trick.” Demetrius flexed his fingers around the wooden club that Benedict had passed to him and glanced from Beatrice to Benedict. “That was how Basil and Meg closed those rifts years ago. A kiss is especially powerful.”
Beatrice squeaked as her throat closed. Kiss Benedict? Why did that thought intrigue her far more than it horrified her?
Benedict whipped around, his eyes wide, as he stared at her. The door behind him burst open, and a fae guard raced through, already swinging his sword. Frozen as he was, Benedict would have lost his head if Ariadne hadn’t stepped forward and dispatched the guard.
The other rescued prisoners—including Domitius—screamed as they huddled in a mass in the far corner, trying to stay out of the way. At least they all seemed too distracted to pay any attention to the discussion about closing the rift.
Next to Beatrice, Lord Chauvlyn sighed. He’d taken up a position against the wall, either nonchalantly leaning against it or propping himself upright with it, she wasn’t sure.
He flicked a glance over them. “As this rift is anchored to the doorframe, I highly doubt a kiss will be sufficient. It needs to be untethered before it can be closed, and as it was tethered with human blood, only human blood and the application of iron can untether it.”
Human blood? Beatrice’s stomach churned.
Munch had said a human needed to go along.
And hadn’t she heard some story of Munch closing a rift with his blood years ago?
She’d only caught a few snatches of that story, as her siblings had done their best to avoid telling her things up until recently.
Overprotective siblings were great and all, until one became an adult and suddenly needed to know these things.
As another fae guard charged down the stairs and through the doorway, Demetrius shoved his way past Benedict to take up the position supporting Ariadne. Not that Ariadne needed a lot of support. She had things well in hand, and the other swordmaiden had been stepping in as needed.
“Not a chance.” Benedict’s face twisted into a scowl, his eyes hardening. “How do we know this isn’t some kind of trick? Human blood can be powerful, and I won’t let you manipulate her into shedding hers for some scheme of yours.”
With a faint sigh, Lord Chauvlyn languidly waved at the door before Beatrice, though his gaze remained locked on Benedict.
“There is a rift to a dungeon, where I was imprisoned, in my own cellar. It is in my best interest to see it permanently destroyed. I would consider it a fair recompense for a favor if you would trust my word in this.”
Benedict held Lord Chauvlyn’s gaze for a long moment, and Beatrice couldn’t read the message being communicated between them. Then Benedict turned to her and gave a nod. “He’s telling the truth.”
“All right.” Beatrice met his gaze. She didn’t trust Lord Chauvlyn, but she would trust Benedict. He’d proven himself trustworthy the last time, even if she’d failed to trust him then.
Three more fae guards dashed down the stairs, and Benedict spun to join the fray, raising his sword.
With a deep breath, Beatrice faced the black doorway once again. “So…any instructions on how to do this?”
“The one time I am aware of a human closing a rift like this, he was already bleeding.” Lord Chauvlyn shrugged and gestured at the doorway again.
“I suppose you just cut yourself and smear the blood on the doorposts. Perhaps give the frame a few whacks with that iron rod.” He tilted his head toward the iron bar hanging at her side.
Her stomach churning, Beatrice dug a small knife from her pocket. She normally used it when she helped Meg in the book repair room. It was sharp enough to cut leather so slicing skin shouldn’t be a problem.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, she paused with the knife poised over her palm. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t cut herself.
Lord Chauvlyn heaved another sigh and held out his hand. “Allow me.”
It went against all her instincts to hand a knife to Lord Chauvlyn and hold out her palm for him to cut. But with the clash of swords ringing behind her, she didn’t dare hesitate.
Still, she rested her other hand on the iron rod at her side, causing the filmy feel of her glamour to waver. She’d give Lord Chauvlyn a whack on the head if he did anything but a tiny swipe.
Taking the knife, Lord Chauvlyn gripped her wrist with his other hand.
Instead of slicing her palm, he twisted her arm and, before she could make more than a noise in the back of her throat, he swiped the knife across the top of her forearm.
At her look, he huffed. “Trust me. A wound there will be much less annoying than having your hand out of commission.”
That was strangely considerate of him.
Even more strangely, he handed the knife back to her without so much as a token protest.
After stuffing the knife back into her pocket, she touched her fingers to the throbbing cut on her other arm and reached forward into the edge of the rift.
Pain flared through her hand, clawing far deeper than the mild cut Lord Chauvlyn had given her.
Gritting her teeth, she smeared her blood over the doorpost. This had better work.
She had to do it again and again until the rift finally started to constrict and waver, tearing away from the posts until she could see into the bare room beyond.
After disentangling the iron rod from her sash, she gripped it in two hands and whacked it into the doorposts and lintel at the places where the rift still clung to the frame.
The rift shrank, but a large, swirling spot of it remained centered in the doorway, fully disconnected from the door itself.
“It’s free, I think.” Beatrice frowned at the remaining piece of the rift, which didn’t seem to be shrinking. “But it’s not going away entirely.”
“This would be the moment when a kiss would be advisable,” Lord Chauvlyn drawled, his arms now crossed, his shoulder still propped against the wall.