A grunt catches in my throat as I’m slammed up against a wall.

  The pressure shifts to my underarms and hoists me up.

  My boots dangle above the tiles. He’s so close to me that my nose grazes against his. I can taste the fresh toothpaste on his breath.

  “Next time,” he warns darkly, “I’ll take those photographs from your boot.” He leans closer, his lips tingling against mine. I hitch my breath. “And with them, I will deliver one hundred cuts to your flesh. Then you may complain about pain.”

  The pressure releases and I land on my boots, upright. Aches shoot up my spine like long needles.

  A grimace hides my wince. The threat he delivered is what tightens my chest most.

  The dark fae snatches my upper-arm and drags me out of the bathroom. He hauls me down the stairs at a pace too quick, and I stumble and stagger beside him.

  When we reach the pillar, I see that Spike is awake. Well, sort of. His lashes hang so low that if they didn’t flutter, I would think he was still asleep.

  But I don’t go to the post to join the dazed Spike.

  The dark fae steers me into the open kitchen, only releasing me when I stumble into the island bench. He’s about to leave before he pauses to run me over with a narrowed, dark look, then cuts his gaze to the backdoor.

  I trace his stare. But before I can even think about any possible escape plan, he’s got the fridge in his grip and starts pushing it to the door, as though it’s nothing but a coffee table.

  He blocks the door.

  Before he makes to pass by me, he studies my pinched face. “Is there an issue?” he asks, arching his brow.

  Looking down at the scuffed toes of my boots, I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know how to cook.”

  Sort of.

  It’s not like I haven’t helped along the way when I could to learn, in case I ever ended up on my own. But I burn a lot of stuff, so my practice was limited by the others in the group.

  The dark fae gives me a dark look.

  My hands find each other at my front. Fingers fidgeting, I explain, “I had people always do it for me.”

  I feel his watchful eyes on me.

  And then he leaves me to cook for him like a fucking servant.

  19

  Call me a hopeful idiot, but I’m making a lot of spaghetti and pasta sauce. There’s quite a supply in the pantries and since the gas still works on the stove, I have no problems boiling the water.

  As I set the saucepan on the burner, I glance back at the lounge.

  The dark fae has his back to me. He’s rubbing a balm over his almost-totally-healed wounds. The firelight flickers over his muscles, giving the illusion that they ripple. He throws no looks over his shoulder at me—no telling me off for my over-the-top pasta estimations.

  I made enough for all three of us, two servings.

  Spike is still slumped against the pillar at a twisted angle, but I squint at his profile and see (with the help of the firelight) that his hooded eyes are open. So he’ll be awake for meal-time. If he can stomach what I make, that is.

  At the bubbling sound of a pot boiling over, I rush back to the stove. Water foams all over, but all I do is turn down the burner a tad then give the spaghetti a stir. Not my kitchen, so there’s little use in cleaning down the cooktop.

  Another look back at the lounge.

  Spike is still in place.

  With a damp cloth, the dark fae cleans his leathered armour clothes.

  And I’m left feeling like a fucking maid as I set out bowls on the island bench. My hands are clammy from all the steam off the pot; a bowl slips from my grip and crashes to the floor. It shatters at the toes of my boots—

  I feel the tension suffocate the air.

  I stiffen, looking up at the lounge.

  Spike has twisted all the way around, his wide and puffy eyes on me, filled with terror. And the dark fae has risen from the couch, wandering his way towards me.

  My gaze swerves to his hand. Loose in his grip, he carries a small knife.

  As he steps into the kitchen, his eyes do a quick sweep of the space before he advances on me, moving like a panther around the island bench.

  He looks down at the tiles.

  I’m frozen by the sudden terror in the air; radiating from Spike. I can’t look anywhere but at the dark fae’s stone-cold face.

  He studies the shattered bowl hugged around my boots for a heartbeat. When he finally lifts his gaze to mine, a tedious frown pinches his brows together.

  “Be quiet,” he says then walks out, back to the couch.

  Uh...

  Well I was expecting a bit more than that.

  I’m not ‘disappointed’ of course, but by the way Spike was acting and looking at me, I definitely was expecting a beating or something. It’s a relief that he left me alone, but really ... why did he?

  Is he just one of the nicer dark fae warriors out there?

  My forehead creases as I turn my perplexed stare on Spike. He looks just as baffled as I feel and, after a moment in which he seems to forget all about my breaking his nose, he just shrugs and turns back around.

  I’ve heard stories of the dark fae from Spike. Stories that they have stripped skin from bone for a kuri simply over brewing their earthy coffees or failing to pitch their tents on time, or one time—for refusing to dance for them.

  So how did I get away without a scratch?

  Then it dawns on me. Be quiet, he told me.

  He doesn’t want anyone to know we are here. Any nearby survivors could be alerted to our presence—his presence. After our bombing, he must know by now that to some of our groups, he is vulnerable, all alone with two kuris who would turn against him in a heartbeat.

  So be quiet it is—for now. Because I don’t need another group coming to my rescue. I only need time and a plan to do what I promised I would.

  Kill the warrior.

  Plates are balanced on my spread-out hands and another is tucked in the edge of my bent elbow. Never done this before—balanced so many plates and forks—but I’ve seen plenty of servers and waitresses do it, so ... that’s practically the same thing, right?

  Apparently not; I rattle louder than I walk.

  The dark fae looks up from his weapons belt—he’s polishing the blades—as I come in. For a beat, he glances at the three very full plates of pasta and sauce. But he cares little about my making meals for both me and Spike, too.

  He goes back to his dagger, the same one he plunged into the corpses back at the village.

  I take the plates over to him first and I wait. He might like to choose which one he wants. But he spares no more looks my way, so I crouch and slip a plate from my palm onto the coffee table before joining Spike at the pillar.

  Sliding down the pillar, I hand him a plate.

  His scowl furrows deep into his skin, ageing him a decade. Fury ignites his ordinary brown eyes into pits of shimmering mud. Oh, he wants revenge for me busting up his nose.

  Still, he takes the plate, his bound hands clenched so tightly that they make me think of claws. Just by looking at his tense, crooked fingers, I can feel his aches in my own.

  Hesitantly, I wrap pasta around my fork then lift it to my mouth. I cast a glance at the warrior. He’s turned all the way around to lean against the spine of the couch. Ignoring the cutlery, he eats with his fingers, staining his fingertips blood-red (I might have added a half-bottle of red wine to the sauce, but when and where you can, right?)

  In silence we eat.

  Both Spike and I stay tucked over ourselves. The fear of having our meals snatched away is dug into our hunched shoulders and curved backs.

  The warrior seems to have entirely forgotten about us, though. He watches the flames in the hearth, his eyes glistening like liquid fire, and his mind far away from this moment in time.

  Still, despite his distraction, I eat too fast. And I end up with a tummy ache by the time I’m licking my plate clean.

  With a groan, I slide my plate from my lap to the floor. Reclining against the pillar, my hands find my bloated belly and rub, and I browse my gaze around the lounge.

  The only welcoming feature of this space is the white-painted bookshelf against the wall, at the corner of the seat window. Oh, I’d love to snatch a book from there, spread out on the window-seat, and bask in the sun.

  The sun.

  Shit, I miss it. I miss the sunshine warming my skin and lightening my hair and drawing out beads of sweat down my spine. All of it; the pleasant and the unpleasant.

  What I would give for one more day with a bright, hot sky glaring down at me.

  And what I would do for one of those books on that floor-to-ceiling shelf. Even with the firelight, it’s hard to make out the dusty titles, but I do recognise a spine here and there.

  ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ stands out to me. One of my favourites from school, learning all about the coded messages in the book for the gay underground back in those days.

  Capote was a brave bastard. I still can’t believe this book of his isn’t in the literary canon. That shit needs to be branded a classic.

  Total dejection suddenly crushes me like a rainfall of stones.

  I’ll never read another book, another classic. I’ll never discuss the suspected homophobia of Bloom—and thus, the rejection of Capote’s ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ from the canon—with anyone ever again.

  I’ll never discuss the perfect lighting for photographs, the classic cameras, how difficult it is to capture the perfect moon on the perfect night.

  All those people with the same interests as me—dead.

  All those people still surviving around me—dangerous and completely uncultured and uneducated in this world ... Just as I would be in the dark realm, if I was ever unfortunate enough to get there.

  In fact, that’s something I make note of to ask Spike later. Are the dark fae armies carting bands of kuris simply for slavery in this world or ... do they intend to make them slaves in their world?

  That thought terrifies me. It floods me with ice-cold spears through my body until I press back against the pillar and bring my knees to my chest.

  I swallow, hard.

  Need to kill him before he kills me or worse, take me back to his world.

  But—

  Fuck!

  I had the chance.

  I had the chance and I missed it completely!

  I made his damn dinner—a direct passage way between potential poison and his insides. A perfect way to commit murder ... for me anyway. Not about the blood and gore, but I can deal with some vomit.

  Next time.

  And there will be a next time, because he trusts me to make his dinner now. He sets the plate down on the coffee table, then leans back to rest for a bit, shutting his eyes.

  Ok, so maybe I missed my first shot, but that doesn’t make a loss. No failures, only lessons learned, right?

  The lesson I learned?

  Poison the shit out of his next meal.

  Hopefully that comes sooner than later. Because right now, I’m suffering. Not only do I have the worst spot at the pillar (a little too away from the heat of the fireplace for my liking) and I have this ghastly swelling in my tummy (note to self; don't overload on carbs when you’ve been starving for weeks), I have to stare at that fucking bookshelf.

  I have counted a few more in my quiet, sullen moment.

  ‘Jane Eyre’; ‘Sense and Sensibility’; ‘Catcher in the Rye’; ‘Twilight’ (what an odd addition to the collection).

  My faraway book thoughts are shattered as the warrior suddenly pushes up from the couch. My eyelids are heavy and tired as I look up at him.

  He advances on me, the same food-coma pulling at his eyelids. Then I realise, as he reaches down for my rope, that he needs to secure me to the pillar before taking rest.

  I blink, surprised, as he tugs the rope, guiding me to stand. I get to my feet, balance swaying, hands still pressed firm against my belly.

  Peppermint tea, I would order if I were at home in my villa.

  He guides me over to the couch and the frown in my forehead deepens with each step. Face like a crumpled hand-towel, I watch as he scoops his free hand under the couch and—easily—lifts it up. He hooks my rope around the leg of the couch once, thrice, around and around until he fastens it into a knot that I don’t recognise.

  I only know sailing knots, but this one is ... complicated. Maybe from his world, not mine.

  Either way, when he lets the couch thud back into place, I hear just how heavy it is, and I know there’s no way I can lift my way out of this restraint.

  He flops down on the couch. It creaks under his weight as he turns his back to the fire and gets himself comfortable.

  I throw a look back at Spike. Hard to tell with his busted nose and all, but he looks like he’s scowling at me. Confused or furious, I don't know.

  It isn’t lost on me that I got the better position here. I’m directly across from the fire, I have the couch to lean against and the fluffy rug to lie down on.

  The pull of my full stomach can’t be fought for long. Soon, I can’t keep my eyes open or stifle the yawns stretching through my jaw.

  I lean on my side, curl up, and shut my eyes.

  Food coma gets its hooks deep in me.

  20

  “She’s killed people before. She’s dangerous.”

  Those hushed words snare into my dreams.

  Where a woman howls in agony, cradling her lover’s head on her lap, her cries are those viciously spoken words. Her grey hair falls down the side of her face like a veil to the afterlife, and she just howls and cries, tears running down her wrinkled face.

  She looks so oddly familiar with those faint freckles on her cheeks and her ocean-blue eyes wet with tears.

  Turning my back on her and all her pain, I see that we are in the middle of a cobblestone street. Not one I particularly recognise, since they all start to look the same after some time. And the houses here are faceless; no doors or windows or even any roofs.

  Feels like I’m not supposed to be here.

  It’s too ... quiet.

  That’s when I notice the thickness, the pressure, of the silence.

  I look back at her; the woman stops screaming. She stares right at me, no more lover’s head on her lap, no more tears streaking down her face.

  Her expression is slack, almost stunned. I blink once before I see it. The growth of crimson on her chest and—the wink of a dagger glinting out from between her ribs.

  Her thinned lips move. She speaks out the corner of her mouth, “She will kill you, I promise that. Can’t you see how violent she is? I’ve seen her disembowel your kind before.”

  I cock my head to the side, a curious frown wrinkling my face. Her voice is deepening into something male, but weak and slimy.

  I watch the older woman as she goes on, “The bomb was her idea.”

  “Why are you lying?” I ask, an innocent and curious touch to my soft voice. Dream has its hooks in me.

  In answer, she bows over herself, her shaky hands come to the crimson pool at her middle. The dagger is gone, no more winks or glares. And darkness starts to seep in from the edges of the street.

  “Open your eyes,” the woman whispers, her voice gentle suddenly, so unlike the male tone she wore before.

  And those are her final words before I’m plunged into the familiar thick black. I stand alone in nothingness, blinking and blinking, trying to wake myself up.

  As dreams start to slip away to reality, I begin to feel the plush touch of the rug against my side, my stiff and aching body curled up into a ball—

  And I hear the familiar male’s voice speak in a whisper; “If you don’t get rid of her now, you will be next. I mean only to serve you, master.”

  Spike.

  Fucking Spike, selling me out to the devil.

  It all locks in place, puzzle pieces coming together after a fog. He wants revenge for my self-defence, the slime ball.

  Before I can open my eyes and defend myself again, the couch creaks near my head.

  There’s a shuffle. The sound of feet on the floor, muffled by a rug. Air disturbs all around me, and I get the sense that the dark fae is walking past me on the floor.

  Peering out of one eye, I watch through the daze of sleep glossing over my sight. The warrior strides towards Spike, still tethered to the pillar.

  Spike recoils from him, a wince twisting his face. But all the warrior does is touch his fingertips to his neck—then Spike gapes up at him, his mouth opening and closing like a stunned goldfish.

  He can’t talk.

  I’m yanked back to a moment in time when something of the same sorts happened to me. The dark fae had me on the ground, cornered and defeated, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t cry out the pain he inflicted on me. I couldn’t so much as make a squeak.

  So he really does have a power to silence us.

  Fleetingly, I wonder if this power extends to the other fae as well, or just him. Are they unique in this way? A specific, special ability for each of them? Or is it a trick of the fae that they all share?

  Those thoughts need a good slapping out of my mind.

  I don’t need to understand my enemies to kill them. And really, I only need to kill one. Among all the lies that Spike told, he was right about one thing—I will kill this warrior.

  Just give me the chance ... again.

  I wait a long while before I realise the dark fae hasn’t come back to the couch. His near-silent footsteps pad to the corner of the room, where I think the bookshelf is (my hearing got a whole lot better after being in the dark for so long).

  Finally, I take the chance and pretend to have just woken up. I start with a dazed blink, the kind that comes after a thick and heavy dream. Then a natural yawn stretches my jaw and with it, I push out my arms and legs, feeling that euphoric sensation ripple through me.

  The sigh of pleasure that escapes me draws in his attention.

  He’s moved to the fireplace, holding stacks of books in his hands, and he watches me over his shoulder. Long, thick lashes hang low over ember eyes; his jaw is clenched tight, indents marking the space between jawline and cheek.