He looks away first, tugging his attention back to the fireplace.

  Then my heart thrashes in my chest as he tosses the piles of books into the fireplace.

  “No!” I cry out, kicking the blanket off my legs (when the hell did I get a blanket?). “No, you can’t do that!”

  Bare back to me, he simply responds, “Words are fuel.”

  Words are fuel?

  What the fuckery does that mean and how does it give him the right to burn our books—our histories and cultures?

  Well, it’s not like that isn’t an obvious part of their mission, to destroy all that we have ever created. But still, watching him toss those precious, beautiful bound lumps of paper and words and blood, sweat and tears into a roaring fire just kills me inside.

  Something inside of me bursts open, red hot flames flooding me.

  I scramble towards him as fast as I can. I make it halfway across the rug before the rope (I forgot about that) yanks me back.

  This catches his attention. With only a few books left in his hands, he turns all the way around to look down at me. For a moment, he watches me frantically pull against the rope. It’s no use.

  Purposefully, he stretches out one hand—one book—and drops it. It thuds to the rug within arm’s reach of me.

  ‘Little Women’.

  A gasp catches in my throat, one of hunger, and I propel myself forward. Just as my hand slaps down on the cover, a bare foot comes crashing down on my palm.

  My cry is muffled by gritted teeth. Seething, I glower up at him, my chest heaving with breaths of rage.

  He’s baiting me, the sick fuck. Punishing me still for shooting him.

  The pressure increases; my bones crackle and my muffled gritting sound swells into an outright shout.

  “What would you give for it?” He taunts me with his light tone and wicked smirk and dancing-amber eyes. “A finger? A whole hand?”

  Your life.

  Those words sting my tongue. But I’m smarter than that.

  Bide my time to take us both out. An obviously better option than just feeding into Spike’s planted seeds of doubt and having him kill me right here and now.

  Looking up at him from beneath my lashes, I hiss, “What do you want?”

  His face falls for a beat; shuttering. In a blink, it’s turned to stone and he stares down at me like a statue in Rome, utterly impassive.

  “From you,” he says darkly, “nothing.”

  Lifting his foot, he releases my hand. I jerk it back and hold it to my chest, fingers massaging out the aches and pains buried deep in my bones.

  Before I can flick my attention back to ‘Little Women’, he’s snatched it up. He tosses it into the flames to be devoured and destroyed.

  Eyes on me, he adds, “You have enough on your person.” And he cuts a look to my boot, where the photographs are tucked away.

  I swallow back a lump in my throat.

  I lose the stand-off and slink back to the couch. As I lean against its base, I slide a glower to Spike. He watches me with narrowed eyes, his bruised lip lifting at the bow into an ugly snarl.

  In answer, I flip him off.

  Try me, bitch.

  But no one tries me for the rest of the hour, and beyond. I’m left to wallow in my pit of misery as the fae burns every single book in the lounge. When he’s done casually destroying a full collection of human history and culture, he fishes out a folded parchment sheet and a charcoal stick from a satchel, then spreads it over the coffee table.

  A map.

  I lean closer, my chin lifted to better look down at it. He makes no effort to hide it from my prying eyes either. It’s as though I suddenly don’t exist anymore.

  Using the charcoal stick, he amends an already-there line around the map. And I recognise it all; what the map is, what he is doing. It’s the path of his unit—and he’s rerouting his way around the villages and farms to meet his comrades. He finishes by drawing an X at the end of a landmass—France’s coast.

  By leaning a little closer and squinting my eyes, I can faintly make out where the X is. Around Calais. Near the English Channel Tunnel.

  That’s where he plans to link with his unit (whose path on the map curves all the way around the coast). He’ll make it in time, since he’s redrawn his own path in a straight diagonal line, cutting off most of the villages and towns between us and his unit.

  My mind whirls with times and hours and days, but I can’t make sense of any of it anymore. Somewhere around a week is what I would guess for us to make it to the Tunnel. A few days longer for his army since they have to stop and burn towns along the way.

  Before I can study the map a second longer, I’m suddenly thrown back. The warrior shoved me hard between the breasts, and I slam back against the couch.

  He glares at me and my response is a glower of my own.

  Shaking his head, he packs up the map. He’s buckling the satchel when I feel the weight in my belly and bladder.

  “I need the loo,” I tell him.

  Tensions stiffens him for a beat. He’s hunched over the satchel, his head bowed and, after a heartbeat, he lifts his dark gaze to mine. There’s a warning in there somewhere, but I find I don’t quite care when my body is starting to writhe for release.

  “Weak human,” he mutters before he pushes up from the floor, kicks the satchel to the side, then reaches down for me. As he unties me from the couch’s leg, he murmurs more insults in his own language (sounds like barbed wire to my ears).

  Out the corner of my eye, I catch Spike’s lips moving. He looks to be shouting at us, his mouth forming readable words ‘Me too!’, but I just smirk at him still under the silence-spell, and look away.

  I told you to try me.

  The warrior makes no effort to hide his hard expression or sigh of annoyance as he takes me upstairs, his hand firm around my bony bicep, his other grip loose on the lantern.

  A bit too chirpy at getting under his skin, I tell him, “Think happy thoughts. Think about the smells you’re avoiding.”

  “Be silent.” His tone is firm and gravelly, reminding me all over again of barbed wire.

  “Make me,” I mutter, and I know he can.

  But he doesn’t.

  He just shoves me into the bathroom (the tub is still full of water, calling out to me) and gestures to the toilet in the corner.

  It hasn’t gotten any easier the second time around. My cheeks still burn with the flames of fire as I empty myself. And I avoid his gaze the whole time, knowing full well that he’s watching me too closely.

  When I use the bidet to clean my bits, I glance up at him, keeping the dress down far enough to shield myself. There’s a trace of a frown on his forehead, his mouth turned down at the corner, and he studies me as though I am some sort of puzzle to be worked out.

  Maybe fae don’t need the loo as much as we do, and that baffles him?

  I chance my luck when I’m done and wash my hands in the sink. Glancing at him in the mirror, I see that he still watches me—but his eyes are faraway and glazed, and he doesn’t really see me. I risk it and use soapy hands to wash my face.

  He doesn't stop me.

  A part of me itches to riffle through the cabinets and drawers and see what else I can get away with. But I think I’ve pushed my luck far enough today, so I dab my face dry on a towel, then wander over to him.

  He blinks out of his thoughts, his gaze landing on me. He watches me for a beat before he kicks away from the doorframe, then leads the way out of the bathroom. This time, he doesn’t hold onto my arm with the strength of a boulder crushing bone.

  I follow behind him.

  And this newfound trust he has of me doesn't go unnoticed; it works quite well with my plans of poisoning him.

  21

  It truly seemed like we were going to move on from this house sometime this day (or night, or whatever), but he settles in on the couch, legs spread out, hands tucked behind his head and stares at the chandelier on the ceiling.

  The dark fae’s wounds look completely healed, his strength has returned tenfold. The only thing that would slow us down now would be me and my injuries.

  Unfortunately for me, I don’t have any magical powders to treat the bruises littering me or the blood-clotted gash at the back of my head.

  But of course I’m not foolish enough to think he’s hanging back here for my benefit. Why would he?

  No, he’s waiting for something else. Maybe he senses more survivors in the area, and means to avoid them. Maybe he knows he has more leisurely time for rest with his new route to meet up with his unit.

  I don't pretend to know the workings of a dark fae warrior’s mind, but I’d bet my left leg it’s all fucked up in there. And that’s my strong leg—the one I best used in ballet and figure skating back in the day.

  Fuck, I miss those days.

  I dodged most of university classes for those hobbies.

  That’s what my mother called them anyway. Hobbies. But to me, like my terrible photography, it was just a part of who I am—was. There is no ballet or figure skating anymore. There is no part of any of that still within me, other than hollow yearning.

  At least I have the photographs.

  At the bottom of the couch, I slip the pictures out from my boot and study them in the strong firelight.

  By the pillar, Spike still squirms and mouths for the loo, but he goes ignored. Don’t know why the dark fae forgets about him. It’s not like Spike is any worse than I am to the warrior. Surely we are the same to him, equally as despicable and ... gross?

  Now that I think about it, what does he see when he looks at us? How do the dark fae see us not as a whole species, but as individuals? I wonder if they even have the compassionate capacity to see beyond their missions.

  Probably not. I make my decision on it firmly when a bare foot nudges the small between my shoulder blades.

  I throw a dark look over at the warrior, sprawled out over the couch.

  “Meal,” he demands, then looks back up at the ceiling.

  My mouth puckers in annoyance, and I stuff the photos back into my boot. Not sure I’m cut out for slavery.

  But...

  Buuuut!!

  This is it. The chance I’ve been waiting for—the chance to poison this demon. And instantly, cold fear floods my belly and I have the urge to use the loo again.

  Still, I force myself up from the couch (he hasn’t tethered me back since the toilet) and straighten out the skirt of my dress. It’s all crumpled from the blanket that falls to the floor.

  “Take him,” the dark fae adds.

  A frown tugs my brows together.

  My pout puckers even more and I slide my stare to Spike.

  Going to be a lot harder to poison the fae while Spike is in the kitchen with me. I study him for a beat, my mind spinning.

  Somehow, he’s managed to hold his toilet urges, but I see the hope light up his eyes. And I can use that.

  “Fine.”

  I march over to him and untie him from the pillar (it takes a solid five minutes, and I’ve worked on plenty of sailor’s knots before). His silence still swallows him whole, so for the moment, I say nothing about his need for the loo.

  I wander into the kitchen, Spike at my heels, his body clenched tight. He stands in the middle of the room, away from me thankfully, and watches as I start to rummage through the cupboards and pantries.

  Don’t want pasta again since there’s a bit more variety than what I’ve been used to these past twenty months (that’s my guess, at least). Now, I have options—and what a delight to be able to choose my final meal.

  So I make it a good one.

  Ordering Spike around (fill that pot with water, boil that, cut these), I unload my loot on the island bench: tinned asparagus, a bottle of lemon juice, canned peaches for dessert (my dessert, at least), ham-flavoured baked beans, rice and soy sauce, and finally the one that matters, the one that I can stir the poison into, pumpkin soup.

  Quite the spread. A lethal one.

  And it’s now that I study my loot that I make my decision. I should poison the life out of Spike, too.

  Yet that risks my plan.

  You see, I need him to use the toilet. To poison the food, he needs to be in the loo and so does the warrior. After that, it still works for me, because if the warrior survives the poisoning somehow, I need Spike to take the fall. We will play the blame game, and I have a feeling I’m the one with the most trust here. But then, all those threats I made might fall back to the opposite of my favour.

  Ahhh, it’s so risky. All of it. But I’m determined, and as I start pulling out plates and bowls, I shout out to the dark fae that Spike is about to wet himself. To better my plan, I add that it’s unhygienic around the food.

  There’s a gruff groan from the lounge before he appears at the archway and summons Spike over.

  I get to work as soon as I hear them head halfway up the stairs.

  Under the sink is my first and only destination. Really, I was hoping for detergent or bleach, but what I find is much, much better than that.

  Rat poison.

  Ah, the countryside.

  The warrior’s ploy to take quiet roads and villages backfired.

  I empty the box of powdered rat poison into the pumpkin soup. All of it, every last dusting of beige. Then I stir it in, fast, and shove the empty box to the back of the under-the-sink cupboard.

  They return sooner than I expected. But I’m safe, just stirring the soup when Spike scurries into the kitchen.

  Before the dark fae heads back to the lounge, I call out to him, “I need the loo again.”

  He throws me a withering look.

  In answer, I shrug. “I think I’m about to bleed.”

  His eyes roll back for a fleeting moment. His exhaustion of me is palpable. Yet, he summons me over and leads me up to the bathroom for the second time that day—providing me with the alibi I need. Now, Spike is alone with the food, and I have plausible deniability.

  I head straight for the cupboards and drawers. Inside, I find a half-empty pack of pads and one tampon. Not a woman’s house, then. Or the residents took most of it when evacuations spread through the countryside.

  To the vexation of the warrior, I take my damn time. Eventually—when I’m reading the trivia on the pad-wrapper (I love this brand)—he slides down the wall to sit on the floor, and just watches me.

  Some of this trivia I’ve read before. It’s my preferred brand for this very reason, I have reading material when I’m changing the bits. But today, I learn a new piece of utterly useless information.

  “Did you know humans can’t lick their elbows?” I ask, tossing the wrapper away. I ache to try it, but that’s embarrassing, isn't it?

  He says nothing.

  I lean back against the basin and unravel the pad in my slender fingers. “Can your kind lick their elbows?”

  His lashes lower. “I have never tried, nor heard of such nonsense before.”

  I hum. “If you can’t do it, you could just say that.”

  His mouth twitches, fighting off a snarl.

  Reaching under my dress, I slap the pad onto my undies (keeping my bits from his gaze—a gaze that flicks downwards), then fix them back up.

  “Are there humans in your world?” I ask, kicking away from the sink.

  He pushes up from the floor, his weary stare on me. I don’t expect him to answer me but before I reach the door, he says, “Some.”

  I arch a pale eyebrow. “Slaves?”

  “Among other things.”

  My lashes flutter with a startled blink. “Like ... what?” What could be worse than slaves?

  He doesn't answer and instead, ushers me out of the bathroom.

  On the way down, another thought pops into my mind and, really, what do I have to lose with our looming deaths?

  “Is there any light in your world?”

  Silence is my answer as we take the stairs. When we reach the bottom, he says, “The fruit shines, the grass gleams, and the roads glow.”

  My heart twists at the thought, pictures of what this fantasy land could look like swarming my mind.

  Before I can settle on any one image, I see the coffee table—and the plates and three bowls on it, waiting for us.

  My stomach flips with dread.

  Spike sits cross-legged at the corner of the table, watching us with suspicion narrowing his eyes.

  As far as I know, all three of those bowls are poisoned. But a new threat chills me—what if Spike had the same idea, and poisoned my food too?

  I intend to die after the warrior does. But not before I have a wash in the tub and enjoy a cigarette from my shoulder bag and browse through the house, then maybe sit outside in the fresh air for a while.

  I’d hoped to enjoy my last moments.

  Now, I don’t know if I’ll get the chance.

  22

  Eyes on the plates, my steps slow as I move around the couch. Just as I come to the coffee table and make to crouch down, a sudden hand snatches the nape of my neck—and I’m yanked off my feet.

  The warrior has grabbed and pulled me onto the couch.

  I go sprawling over his lap, face-down on the leather. His hand still grips tight onto the nape of my neck, holding me down.

  For a heartbeat, I’m utterly still. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. Somehow, he’s learned what I did to the soup—and I’ll be crushed for it.

  But then...

  A strange, itchy sensation tickles the back of my head.

  Stunned, I blink as I figure out what the odd feeling is: He’s peeling away strands of my hair from my head wound.

  Total silence crushes the room, and that pressure keeps me down on his lap more than the grip on my neck. I’m motionless as he shifts away for a beat, then I hear rummaging as he fishes through a satchel.

  Before my mind can click onto what he’s doing to me, he’s doing it—spreading a balm over my head wound. And that stings, I tell you.

  Against the leather, my face twists with a grimace and I sink my fingers into the couch as far as they will go. A groan rumbles up me, but he keeps on dabbing his salved-fingertips over the gash.