Chapter 2
This time, when the Nomad murders me, it’s with a pillow over my face.
It’s the silk kind, soft against my skin as it occludes my mouth, as the pressure collapses my nostrils. Ice spikes in my lungs. They’re running out of air, but no matter how desperately I thrash, no matter how deep I dig my nails into my murderer’s wrists, I find no air to supply them.
My lips part against the pillowcase, my desperate plea for mercy silenced before it leaves my tongue.
“I regret it had to come to this,” my murderer purrs. “I doubt you’re inclined to believe me, but I really could have done without chasing you around the world. Rather inconvenient, if I do say so myself.”
I can’t make out what else he says. It’s rather difficult to hear when you’re dying.
When I wake, it’s to drool-stained silk across my cheek. I jolt, the memory of my murder spurring my aching muscles into action. My bare feet meet the bitter cold of the wooden floorboards, grounding me.
One would think that by now, it would take me less time to recognize that I’m not actually dead.
Now that I’m certain I’ve returned to reality, I assess my surroundings. The room is almost empty, the silk sheets out of place when compared to the bed frame, which looks to be almost as worm-eaten as the only other piece of furniture in the room, a wooden dresser with half of its knobs missing.
There is no window, but I can still hear the lapping of waves outside, feel the almost imperceptible sway of movement below my feet.
If I’m lucky, we’re still close to land.
I’m rarely lucky.
I don’t know why the Nomad hasn’t killed me yet. And I certainly don’t know why he felt the need to supply my bed with such fine sheets. What I do know is that I have a limited window to get out of here, and the gap between that particular window and its sill is narrowing by the minute.
Luckily for me, there’s never been a cage I haven’t been able to escape. Eventually. Not even Neverland. The Nomad might be the most fearsome criminal in the world, but he’s not the keeper of an alternate realm, so at least I have that going for me.
Without bothering to check whether the door is unlocked (the Nomad is no fool), I scavenge the room for anything that might help me pick it.
I’ve been making my own lock picks since I was ten.
A particularly grisly dream in which the Nomad starved me to death in a dank cellar prompted the pursuit of that skill set.
Of course, there’s a reason this room is practically empty. One doesn’t simply store prisoners in the same room as spare tools. The drawers of the dresser creak as I slide them open, but they’re vacant. There’s a closet door to my left, but when I try to open it, the handle refuses to budge.
Inconvenient, but I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. I stare down at my hands and smile.
They forgot to trim my nails.
Lady Whittaker called them talons. I chose to take that as a compliment. Never mind that I’d stopped trimming my nails as a child because some fortune teller in the marketplace told me it was bad luck and would summon an early death.
As an adult, do I understand that she was just trying to scare me into buying her nail-stunting elixir? Sure.
I still don’t like trimming them, though.
I drop to my knees and scan the floorboards with my open palms until I find what I’m looking for.
There’s a plank at the foot of the bed that’s suffered from the bed frame sliding one too many times.
While this one is smooth and will do me no good, it’s been worn down enough that the plank adjacent to it juts just slightly, allowing me plenty of space to dig my nails into the divots of the wood.
A simple snap, and a splinter the length of my little finger comes free. One more pry, and I now have a set of lock picks.
Pleased with my work, I glide toward the door and press the side of my face against it. My ear twitches at the sound of shallow breaths on the other side. The guard is sleeping.
I’m never this lucky, which has me wondering what cruel adventure the Fates have in store for me on the other side of this door.
Even so, I can’t linger here. Last night (or however long ago it was that I passed out in the Nomad’s arms), I’d been ready to succumb to death.
At that thought, a chill taps against my spine, running across the veins of my tattered wings.
The flame in my spirit had burned against Peter for what he’d done to me in trading my voice away to the Sister. For what he’d done to John. But my anger had burned so hot, it had consumed the wick.
Now, rested and in my right mind, terror turns my blood cold at the realization of how I could be dead now, and that the only thing that had spared me was likely the Nomad’s affinity for perfect timing.
I slip the splinters into the lock. Feel the resistance of the inner cogs like old friends. If John were here, he’d ramble on about its mechanism and when it was invented.
I close my eyes and with a strained swallow dismiss the memory of my friend.
A few turns later, and there’s a click. My heart jolts, both with exhilaration at my success and anticipation of the guard posted outside hearing it as well.
But when I press my ear against the door again, there’s not a stir.
At least, not until I turn the knob. The latch clicks, and there’s a banging sound on the other side as the guard jolts.
I swing the door open just as the guard whirls toward me.
It’s a woman, shorter than me, with sturdy shoulders and a grim, albeit startled, look.
She reaches for her blade, but I’m faster and get to it first. As I raise the dagger before her, she opens her mouth to cry for help.
So I bring the hilt down across her temple.
She’s still breathing when her body slumps to the floor. I’ll have to be quick. I drag her into the room I just escaped, wincing as her armored legs clang against one another. Once in the room, I shut the door and get to work undressing her.
The armor isn’t too complicated, but what I really need is underneath. Well—what should be underneath. I was hoping the woman would be wearing a binding around her breasts, but apparently I’ll have to make do with her belt.
I slip it from around her waist, her body stirring as I do. Pulse racing, I wind the belt around my tattered wings, securing them to my waist as best I can. I would have preferred a more complete binding, but now’s not the time to be choosy.
Once my wings are secured, I don the armor, the woman’s helmet snug as well. Apparently, even my head is large. Good thing her boots are a size too large. They’re the only place I have room to stuff my pouch where I keep John’s tiles.
I’m about to head for the door when the woman’s eyes open. She takes one look at me and screams. “Escaped prisoner!”
Great.
One swift kick to the head has her out cold again. Not that this does me much good. I can already hear boots pounding down the hall.