Chapter 45 The Phoenix
THE PHOENIX
Slaide hung his head in defeat.
“What? What is it?” Hazel asked, frantically grabbing him by his shirt.
“He just announced her sentence. They’re…”
“Don’t.” Hazel held her hand up. “I get it.” Fuck. I should be there. I should be tied to a post right alongside Agnes.
She certainly didn’t need Slaide to give life to the words. If the King had announced her sentence, the only thing left to do would be to light the pyre. Her insides knotted.
“Hazel, I—”
“How long?” she interrupted, eyes shining.
“What?” He frowned.
“How long until…” She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t bring herself to ask what she wanted to know. How much time did Agnes have until the flames licking her skin were no longer bearable? How long until they heard her involuntary screams?
He sighed. “Minutes, maybe. Perhaps not at all. I don’t know what she’s capable of. She said something about going home. I don’t think this is the end for her.”
Hazel looked at her feet. “She said not to worry about her pain. Is there magic that can ward off the pain of such a death?”
“I don’t know the answer to that, Hazel.
But I need you to find out for me, okay?
We need to get you clear of this castle before my plans come to fruition.
I am going to have enough people to evacuate that I don’t need to worry about whether or not you made it out alive.
Which is why you’re getting on this wagon. Now.”
The group’s members were distracted with their departure preparations, and for that Hazel was grateful. It allowed Slaide and Hazel ample time to cross the carriage grounds to the wagon they’d chosen for her escape.
Multiple crates were stacked beside the wagon, along with several bulging burlap sacks that had yet to be crammed into the wagon they’d hitched to the coach. There would be plenty of places for her to hide among their belongings.
Slaide offered Hazel his hand to assist her into the wagon.
She took it, and was hefted inside without any obvious effort on his part.
But when their hands separated, Hazel found two vials in her grasp: one contained fine, black powder; the other contained larger black granules.
She read the labels, and her eyes snapped up to Slaide.
Witchbane. Obsidian Salt.
And there was a note attached that was short and to the point.
One is for ingesting—to help disguise what you are during your travels. The other will get you across the Border without dying. Don’t mix them up.
-S.
Hazel stashed the note and vials in a small knapsack and scooted back as far as she could, keeping her head ducked below the animal hide cover.
As she squeezed in among the boxes and crates that had already been packed, the heel of Hazel’s palm came down on something soft, and she was met with an angry, screeching yowl. What?
It was that gods-damned orange cat. He hissed.
“Cat!” she snapped in a scolding whisper. “Of all the places you decide to show up. Here? Shush!”
Though Hazel supposed it wouldn’t be terrible to have a travel companion, so long as he could keep quiet and out of sight. And seeing how he hadn’t made a sound until she’d landed on him, she figured it was more her than he who needed to worry about getting caught.
She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the cat. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He eyed her suspiciously, tail flicking side to side. He didn’t seem convinced.
Slaide’s face popped up into view. “You good in there?”
“I suppose so.” She grinned, hefting the giant orange feline up in her arms.
“Are you kidding me?” He smacked his palm against his forehead.
“To be honest, I’m starting to think he’s… well…” She faded off, not wanting to say the stupid thing she was thinking out loud.
“Your familiar? Like one of those creatures that bond with witches?” Slaide finished for her.
She nodded. “It can’t be that simple.”
Slaide snorted. “I guess it makes sense. It is the same one, right? You don’t just have a horde of weird orange cats following you around?”
Hazel looked at the beast in her arms, everything about him oversized. The too-large ears and giant furry paws.
He looked up at her with his eerie, emerald eyes. Those weren’t normal either. Not compared to any cat she’d seen before, anyway.
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s him.”
When Hazel looked from the cat to Slaide, the weight of his gaze warmed her cheeks. He reached a hand up, cupping her cheek gently. Hazel rested her hand atop his.
“I love it when you do that,” he said softly.
“Do what?” Hazel asked, feeling as though the air had been stolen from her lungs.
“Blush for me.”
The pinkish glow on her cheeks deepened and she looked away quickly.
Whatever this moment was they were sharing was shattered by the sound of voices calling up ahead, toward the front of the wagon.
“Just throw it in the back with the rest of our things!” a man’s voice yelled. “We don’t have room for your smelly socks and dirty underthings up here, Mutt!”
Another man groaned, grumbling something under his breath as his footsteps carried him in their direction.
A woman’s voice said something inaudible, causing the first man to laugh at whatever she had said.
Hazel’s eyes bugged. In a few moments, she’d find out if her hiding spot was as stupidly obvious as it felt.
Slaide disappeared into the shadow of the carriage house. Between the natural shadows and his own, he was nearly invisible.
Hazel pushed herself as far into the wagon as she could, pulling her feet behind a wooden crate with what appeared to be performance props sticking out of the top.
She was out of sight, for now. Of course, if anyone decided to roll back the animal hide tarp over her head, she’d be completely exposed.
The footsteps grew closer and then the man, presumably the one they’d called Mutt, stepped up to the back of the wagon, grumbling something about how it was stupid that he couldn’t keep his belongings close to him. Seemed a little paranoid about someone nabbing his things.
Reluctantly, Mutt tossed a burlap sack in, and it thumped next to Hazel, falling open on impact.
A few moments later, Hazel understood why the others had insisted he stow his belongings in the back. She was blasted with the awful stench of Mutt’s unwashed clothes. It was a terrible mix of feet and sweat and body odor. She clamped her hands over her face in disgust.
Mutt crouched down, sniffing loudly. Hazel pulled the cat in close to her body.
And then he sneezed, causing the cat to jump violently. She managed to hang on so the startled animal wouldn’t get them caught.
Mutt wiped his nose, sucking the snot back in audibly. “Cats… stupid castle cats,” he grumbled, walking away.
Hazel loosed the breath she’d held in, releasing her grip on the orange cat.
The woman’s voice called out again, harrying her party to get a move on.
“Roland! Bode! Bor’tuk! Drobak! Mutt! Fall in!” she shouted over the growing din. “We need to get a move on before this place gets any more chaotic.”
Hazel could hear murmuring near the front of the wagon. Then footsteps came her way again, forcing her to pull her knees into her chest. Large, calloused hands lifted the edge of the tarp, causing Hazel’s heart to skip a beat.
But instead of lifting it any further, he tossed a small sack into the wagon. It landed with a clink, sounding of metal. Against her better judgment, she peeked in the bag and found it full of about a half dozen throwing knives. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat.
They’re performers, Hazel, not assassins, she reminded herself. Just performers.
The smell of smoke drifted over on a warm breeze.
Somewhere through the castle archways, a few women were crying and someone shouted their disapproval.
Someone might have screamed, but it wasn’t the scream of someone suffering.
No, it was just a reaction to the horror that had begun to unfold before them.
A whip cracked somewhere toward the front of the coach. The cart lurched as the lone horse abruptly pulled it into motion. As it pulled away, Slaide revealed himself, springing forth from the shadows, a wraith materializing in the night. His own shadows swirled around him as though they were alive.
Hazel noted his change in appearance: the addition of a chest plate and a flowing black cloak…
and a darkened, glazed-over expression. This was not the Slaide she’d come to know, but the Slaide nightmares were made of.
His wings were out, no longer glamored from sight.
He had them folded tightly into his body.
Under his arm, he held a helmet so reflective it looked almost white.
No, it was white.
Because it wasn’t a helmet at all.
It was a skull. A wolf skull with horns.
Holy gods. Hazel reeled. She wanted to give up her hiding place and leap from the wagon. She wanted to run Slaide down and demand answers.
All this time. All. This. Time. Slaide had been disappearing at odd hours and without explanation because he was the traitorous Wolf Mask.
He’d saved her from the Striga, he’d led the ambush during the third trial… he’d killed many, many people.
But there was a whole host of things Wolf Mask had done that were admittedly good.
According to circulating rumors, Wolf Mask and his bandits had taken down supply lines transporting crucial imports to the castle.
He’d taken out a Border patrol unit that had supposedly allowed refugees to escape beyond the Border.
He’d saved her the night her father was slaughtered. Slaide was nowhere to be found when Wolf Mask appeared that night, leaping over bodies and through flames on his devilish black war steed. Phillip.
It was them the entire time.
The nights she’d had horrible nightmares, he wasn’t on the castle grounds. He was out creating chaos and wreaking havoc against King Magnus.