Last time we stopped, I slept on his lap like a lover. And now, he slaughters a kuri because he simply can’t be bothered with another one.

  At least he made it quick and relatively painless. I’ve seen dark fae kill humans before, and not all of them are as swift and kind about it as Cliff was.

  Stifling back tears, I do my business in the loo then flush. I use supplies from my bag to brush my teeth, once, twice, until I only taste and smell like minty paste. Stealing a cloth from the basin, I soap it up with some tepid water and give my body a harsh scrub. I’m so thorough that I actually feel clean once I’m done. Like I’ve bathed.

  Before I finish up, I wrestle out the pill bottle from my bra wire and tuck it safely in my bag.

  Soon, my lovelies.

  Soon.

  Just as I reach for the handle, something gives me pause.

  On the other side, maybe out in the shop, growls rumble the air like vibrations.

  An animal, maybe?

  I push the door open and sneak out into the cubed hall. Cliff isn’t crammed in here—he stands at the door to the shop, his back to me. That rumbling clears now that I’m closer to the sound and I can make out that it was no growl—it’s a voice.

  And it isn’t Cliff’s.

  He turns to look over his shoulder at me. His black eyes flash with sparks of amber panic, and my heart stops at the sight. His expression is slack and, just as he turns back to face whoever is in this shop with him, I take a step closer.

  I peer through the crack of the door. Think I’m being sneaky, but eyes on the other side are quick to latch onto me.

  A shuddering breath escapes me.

  “Ah,” the stranger’s voice says. “You have a kuri all to yourself.”

  A dark fae warrior stands on the other side of the shop, smiling darkly at me through the gap of the door. And by the icy fear radiating off Cliff’s tense back, I know this can’t be good. Not one bit.

  30

  This is bad. Real bad.

  Moving away from the gap—and the other fae’s line of sight—I slip behind the door, coming closer to Cliff. He doesn’t look at me, paying me as little mind as a dark fae should pay a kuri slave.

  His attention is on the fae in the shop. He speaks in his barbed, thick language; a sound so earthly that it shudders my spine.

  Aches flood me; the urge to move closer to Cliff sinking into my chilly bones. The fear is like ice, raining through my insides, quaking the muscles in my legs as though they wobble holding me up when all they want to do is run.

  Run where?

  Not only are there no windows back here that I can fit through, out there in the dark there just appears to be more and more lone fae wandering around, not to mention the critters—I’ll never forget about them—and the armies, too.

  It’s a dead world out there.

  Slicing into my thoughts, Cliff snakes the rope into his hands and gives me an unnecessary tug (I’m standing right next to him!). That tug, I’m sure, speaks more to a warning than anything.

  As he fastens me to his belt, he doesn’t risk a look my way, but the tension radiating off his bolted muscles and how closely he ties me to his belt (with mere inches to spare), I know what he’s telling me.

  Keep my head down, my mouth shut. Be a slave, not a mouthy kuri who sleeps on his lap and smokes her cigarettes whenever she pleases.

  Cliff wanders back into the shop, me at his heels. His pace is slow, confidence clinging to his demeanour, and I get the sense that he’s more important than the other—oh no.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

  I keep my head down but that doesn’t stop me from casting a glance up from beneath my lashes as I come out from behind the shield of the door. There’s not just one dark fae intruder in the shop.

  There’s two of them.

  The other one, taller than even Cliff at maybe around 7ft, leans back against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest and ankle crossed over the other.

  I’ll call him Tower.

  Like Cliff, he’s shirtless. No body armour to shield him. He carries no sword either, only a belt of knives and daggers low on his hips and a razored whip coiled from his wrist to his bicep.

  The sight of the whip stirs nausea through me as Spike’s voice seeps into my mind; ‘…a girl whipped to the bone…’

  Stories of the fae armies.

  The bell above the door grazes his cropped yellow hair—a shade that is rivers of sunshine and honey tones; one that makes me realise just how dull my own hair is, when I once thought its golden warmth made it beautiful. But all humans are plain next to the fae, I’m quickly realising.

  The other one is just as beautiful, if not a little soft. His jawline is cutting, feminine in its cascade down to his pointed chin and his eyes are slanted up to his hairline like fox-eyes.

  He’s Fox. And he’s slender (for a dark fae), shorter than the other two, his muscles softer in their detailing, and covered neck-to-boots in thin-leather armour.

  Fox is the one who watches me.

  Tower spares me a mere, fleeting glance before he turns his focus back onto Cliff. The pair talk in their language, leaving me entirely out of the loop. But even if they spoke English, I wouldn’t be listening really, not since Fox hasn’t taken his tilted, almond eyes off of me since I stepped out from behind the door.

  Familiar tendrils of fear unravel down the base of my spine, over my bum, and that tingling sensation attacks my scalp.

  Don’t trust the hunger in his gaze.

  Faintly, I recall Cliff telling me that the dark fae are similar to the humans in one way—that each of us are individuals, and there are some worse than others.

  Every fraught nerve in my body is buzzing beneath my skin, desperate to inch me closer to Cliff for protection, but of course that would be a dead giveaway that I’m a tad more than your average slave. And that’s not a good thing—I think.

  Really, I’m just going off Cliff’s indications, and there have been so few since I came out of the loo.

  Feels like, once again, I’m all alone.

  For me, that thick layer of tension hangs around for the next few hours.

  It’s a suffocating air lingering around me, and it all stems from the fox-eyes that shift to me every few minutes. And the more they slide my way, the further down they drop on my body.

  I won’t lie, it’s like being with a deadlier, fiercer Spike and again, without the protection of Cliff. Because surely he won’t stand up against his own kind to protect someone like me, right? He told me himself that he couldn’t offer me that.

  So I’m on my own in the worst of situations that this world can bring.

  I would rather the critters, the armies, the fires, the bloodshed—I would rather it all than what is darkening the fox-eyes that graze over my exposed, curled up legs.

  In response, I tuck myself closer to the shelf in the middle of the shop, tugging the hem of my torn dress over my knees. That’s as far as it’ll go, and it makes little difference anyway. His restless gaze then lifts to my exposed bra-shielded-breast and my answer comes swiftly; I wrap my arms around myself.

  Beside me, Cliff seems not to notice the constant fox-eyed looks aimed at me. He leans back against the toilet-paper shelf and uses his slender fingers to spindle thread around a short knife, an absentminded gesture. He talks to the other two, seated opposite us in the aisle, sprawled out legs and eating from tins of mostly meat (spam, corned beef, ravioli) and I feel ill at the sight.

  Canned meat is dog food. Fight me on that.

  Can’t keep the sick from grimacing my face. I turn my cheek to the fae, looking down the aisle at the line of refrigerators instead. Thick glass coated in dust, yet I can still make out the outlines of wine bottles.

  Wonder what the punishment would be for downing an entire bottle to chase down the painkillers stuffed safely in my bag. No, now is not the time. There will be a better moment; a precious moment gifted by my Mother Earth, where I can down all the pills in privacy, and be given enough time to let the effects sink in without Cliff noticing before we have to move on again.

  I’m banking on when we reach the English Channel. According to his map, we’ll make it there a day or two before his unit will. That gives me enough time to let the poison of these pills steal me away before Cliff realises what I’ve done and makes me up-sick them.

  Then finally, I’ll get what I want. To finish it all—the fear, the running, the dark fae, the slavery that awaits me at the end of the Tunnel.

  I’ll be free.

  Just not yet. Got to stick it out for a few more days.

  If I can, that is.

  Threats are rising up all around me—I can feel Fox’s eyes burning a hole into the side of my freckle-dusted face.

  Thinning my lips, I hope this somehow makes me less appealing to him, and I hug my arms around myself that bit tighter.

  Unbothered by it all, Cliff kicks out his legs, his hand casually resting on his thigh near his sagging weapons belt, and he ends the barbed conversation as he leans his head back against the shelf.

  Fox—to my relief—follows suit. Spreading out, he gets himself comfortable and lies down on his side, his back to me. Smudges of tension wipe away from my constricted chest. Not enough to relax completely, but a loosened breath escapes me, and my shoulders slump a little.

  Soon, it’s just me left in the land of awake when Tower skids the last can of corned beef away from him, then he folds his arms over his chest, reclines against the shelf, and shuts his eyes.

  I won’t fall asleep.

  No way, no chance. Not crammed in an aisle with three dark fae, one of whom prickles my skin like little alarm bells, and all three of whom could tear me to pieces with their bare hands.

  I’m just fine sitting here upright against the shelf, tucked up into a ball, and resting my chin on my knees.

  But eventually, I do shut my heavy eyelids and my mind goes blank…

  31

  I stir to a hand over my mouth.

  My eyes snap open, wild and wide, and latch onto a set of almond eyes hovering above me. An icy breath catches in my chest as I come to, realising what’s happening.

  Fox is crouched over me—his knee presses into my stomach, hand on my mouth to muffle me, and his face brought so close to mine that our noses touch.

  Those dreaded tingles erupt all over my body, crawling all over my goosepimpled flesh. The quakes are quick to steal me and, with wild eyes, I dart my gaze to the side in search of Cliff. But he’s down at my boots; all I can see is a pile of discarded tins and the profile of Tower.

  Tower is stirring awake. I reach out my hand for him, flapping it like a wing ready for take-off. In answer, he blinks once at us, then shifts his back to face me. He goes back to sleep and I’m left all alone.

  Screaming—I’m screaming and shouting and crying against the hand muffling me. But it’s all silenced, just like it was back on the road when Cliff and I fought. So the fae have this ability, then.

  And it’s going to stop me from getting help.

  Not that Cliff will help me…

  He might already know what’s going on and did just what Tower did. Turned his back on me and returned to sleep.

  Fox’s other hand snatches my throat with enough pressure to block all the blood from leaving my head. Can feel the pulsations behind my face as I’m hoisted up by the neck. His hand slips away from my mouth—he doesn’t need to muffle me anymore, now that even though I scream with all my might, not a sound escapes me.

  Please, Mother Earth, Gaia, please don’t let this happen.

  Then, as though answering my prayers, the image of the rope flashes in my mind. A silent breath of hope jolts through me and, as Fox pushes me back against the shelf, his hand reaching down for the hem of my dress, I snatch the rope and yank it, hard.

  Fox’s head tilts back and a dark chuckle runs through him. He’s laughing at me—at my plight for help from one of his brothers.

  And I feel as foolish as he wants me to, since the rope falls to my feet, and I realise that it’s been severed from Cliff’s belt. Maybe he did that—maybe he let this happen to me.

  If I’m on my own, then so be it.

  A switch flicks inside of me—and I’m no longer pleading for help. I am my help. If this is going to happen, it won’t without a fight.

  My hands come flying up to Fox’s face. I aim for the eyes.

  He reels back before my nails can gouge out those almond-shaped lumps I despise so much, and his cheek turns to me, warped by the vicious grin he wears. He wants the fight.

  I erupt in a frenzy, and it all comes out at once. Supported by his hand on my throat, I lift my legs and boots out at him; at his groin, his knees, his shins. My fingernails scrape down his neck, snatching clumps of hair and yanking at whatever I can grab.

  He’s had enough. His grin fades and I’m wrenched away from the shelf for a beat before he slams me right back into it. The impact winds me instantly. My eyes roll back, my legs coiling beneath me, hands coming to my constricted chest.

  Then it all happens so quickly—

  Fox reaches under my dress. I feel his fingertips nearing me, but before he can touch, a black blur speeds through my dazed sight and boots Fox away from me.

  Fox goes spinning through the air then hits the opposite shelf hard enough to send it all flying backwards.

  I crumple to the floor, hands clutching my chest.

  Wheezing, I look up at Cliff standing over me, his back facing me, and his sword drawn. His spine is tense with bolted muscles, shoulders stiff yet heaving with the harsh breaths of rage pushing through him.

  For a beat, he looks over his shoulder at me and the sheer murderous anger on his face steals my soul away. He looks as though he could destroy the entire world in one fit just to quench his bloodthirst.

  Black eyes are alight with torchlight, making them blaze like pools of molten lava. I shudder under his fleeting gaze, sinking back into the base of the shelf.

  He turns his fury back on Fox, who’s just getting to his feet, a dagger suddenly winking in his fist. His upper lip curls into something savage, and he growls barbed foreign words at Cliff.

  “Mine,” is all Cliff hisses in response, and that shudder reignites down my spine. He said it in my language.

  He wanted me to hear that.

  Shouts erupt in that strange, alien language, the jagged and rough sounds flooding the shop.

  Tower has gotten up, too. He stands, looking between the two other fae, uncertainty biting into his grimly-set mouth.

  Then the wink of the sword catches my attention before I even realise that Cliff has moved. His speed is a blur when he’s stepping around the severed pieces of Fox on the bloody floor.

  My mouth falls open. I stare at the two pieces that were, only a heartbeat ago, whole. An upper body and a lower body, severed and spilling black blood all over the linoleum floor.

  Cliff turns on Tower.

  Tower shakes his head, spreading his hands away from his weapons belt and murmurs words in their tongue. But I don’t need to know their language to understand what he means—he is trying to barter for his life.

  It does him little good. Cliff spins around and, with the gesture, the sword goes cutting through the air—and takes Tower’s head clean off.

  Shutting my eyes, I turn away and hide my face in my hands. Can’t look, don’t look.

  I mutter words over and over again, can’t look, don’t look, until I’m snapped out of it—and a hand snatches my chin.

  My face is forced to align with Cliff’s stony one.

  Bringing his nose to mine, a flash of pain and rage ignites the fires of his amber eyes. “Why did you not call for me?” he growls.

  Numbly, I blink at him. “I tried. He stole my voice.”

  Understanding spears a crack through his stoic mask, then I watch it crumble to dust and, before me, there’s a face fuelled by raw pain and fury. His jaw tightens so hard that it’s a wonder his teeth don’t shatter in his mouth.

  Releasing my chin, he shoots up to his feet and stalks to the end of the aisle. I watch, dazed, as he steals a bottle of wine from the fridge before he yanks off the lid and comes back to me.

  “Drink,” he orders, handing me the bottle.

  Trembling hands reach out for it. I pause, flexing my fingers, then try again. He helps by guiding it into my hands, not letting go until I’ve got a firm and steady grip on it.

  Before I can bring the rim to my mouth, Cliff scoops me up from the floor by his grip on my arm, then snatches up the satchels.

  He takes us to the rear aisle, where no black blood spills or severed limbs and a head rolls.

  I sink down the wall, taking a swig of the wine. Cheap stuff, but still, I drink it. Mind, I would rather something better.

  Really, I should want to wash up or something, right? But all I want to do is sit here and drink and forget what almost happened to me, and that I can still taste Fox’s crisp breath on my face as though he had recently eaten an apple, and the smell of blood coming from the abandoned aisle.

  Cliff balances the torch on the edge of the shelf, where it’s in no danger of catching fire. Dumping the satchels on the floor, he comes up beside me.

  He sinks down the wall to join me.

  In silence, he stares ahead at the shelves opposite, and so do I.

  As I down a swig of wine, I tell him the only thing on my mind—

  “Remember what I said about figure skating?”

  Out the corner of my eye, I catch the frown that tilts his face as he looks at me.

  “I didn’t tell you how good I was at spinning,” I go on, bottle loose in my grasp. “I mean, I’m no Tonya Harding, and landing jumps was a pain in the ass—literally—but I did a mean spin.”

  “A mean spin,” he parrots, unsure.

  “A great one,” I explain, my dazed gaze fixed on the bottle of bleach facing me. “Unmatched by my competitors in those ranks. I still had a lot of work to do, a ladder to climb, but my spins made a reputation. Do you know why I was so good at them?”