I press, “You needed that black powder. But you used it on me. You shouldn’t have.”

  His voice is ice, “Should and shouldn’t. I’m forgetting the meaning now.”

  He falls silent, cutting off our chat so that he can simmer in his rage a while longer.

  As I study the bow of his full lips, then lift my watchful stare to his eyes that dance amber with the lantern light, my belly stirs with thick, fat moths. Tendrils of ice-cold anxiety rope through me, coiling around my tensing muscles. It’s all numbed by the pills, an echo down a cold cave.

  My worries should net wider than his motivations for me. It’s me I should be concerned about, because I do feel something for him. I don’t know what, but I do.

  Whatever it is, it’s dark and twisted and painful; altogether just wrong. Yet I feel it all the same.

  But he kissed me.

  More than the hateful, furious kiss that he crushed against my mouth back at the cottage, he really kissed me in that bedroom. His lips were soft against mine, his tongue swept my mouth like a caress; and he hesitated on it too. An inner battle fought against him. And he lost.

  Something in the way he kissed me, in the way he beheld me, warns me that this thing between us is opening up like a dangerous and deadly chasm.

  I’ve never been more certain that those pills were the right decision. This needs to end, now. Not when his army comes, not when I’m abandoned to join the other kuris and fated to become a slave in his magical realm. Now.

  Good thing these pills have already hit me. I’m out of it. My eyelashes are heavy down my eyes, my heartbeat has slowed into a dangerous beat, and I can feel the numbing grip tighten its fingers around me.

  To disguise my growing illness, I lift the vodka bottle to my lips and take a swig. It burns down my throat in the most delightful way.

  Cliff sighs quietly, throwing me a dark look, but he says nothing about the vodka. All he says is, “You let your nerves win.”

  “Try being in my shoes,” I mutter, holding the bottle to my chest like a mother holds a newborn.

  Setting aside the knife, he reaches for another. As he starts to clean it, he says, “If you keep your head down, you will not be bothered by my people. Do your chores, stay silent, and keep up. And don’t mention anything about the bomb—you know nothing about that.” He pauses before he adds, “When you are in my world, we might meet again.”

  This spears my heart with a sword-sharp icicle.

  My face crimps. “You said we will be slaves. Why can’t I be yours?”

  I have no intention of reaching his world or the slavery intended for me. But the question aches in my chest, swallowing up my failing heart.

  Why can’t I be with you?

  Why can’t you see I want to be with you?

  “My dishonour,” he simply says.

  Leaning my head back against the curve of the wall, I frown at him, sleepiness strengthening its grip on me. I could fall away into a coma right now and be at peace. But I hurt myself more as I ask—

  “What’s that got to do with us?”

  He twists on the couch, the lantern light cascading down the tensing muscles that ripple like water over stones. He starts to sheath his collection of weapons back into the belt.

  After a pause, he says, “With my house stripped of honour, and my demotion,” he adds bitterly, “consequences came. My home can possess no slaves. It is empty,” he goes on, his tone loosening into something distant. “It fades away to disrepair with no one to care for it.”

  I look down at the vodka bottle loose in my grip. My hand tightens around it before I take another swig.

  “You have had enough,” he says without looking at me.

  “It’s not the vodka you have to worry about,” I murmur with a small smile.

  Too late now to save me. He could force his fingers down my throat and no pills would come up. They are absorbed into my body already.

  I feel the intensity of his fiery eyes lift to me. Heat burns into my cheek but all I do is smile and slowly turn my gaze to his.

  Cliff’s face is slack, a flutter of panic passing through his eyes.

  “You really did waste that powder on me,” I tell him with a snort. “As if I wouldn’t find another way.”

  He moves in a blur of caramel and black. Before I can blink, he’s down on one knee at my side, his hands snatching up my face.

  He forces me to look at him, that lazy smile still plastered on me.

  “What did you do?” he seethes, a hitch to his tone. He shakes my head. “What have you done, Cora?”

  His panic steals away the extra syllable of my name. Call me twisted, but I savour it a little.

  “I made my decision for me,” I whisper—and it’s all I can manage to say before I’m thrown away from the window.

  The floor hits me hard. Just as I try to push up, Cliff has straddled my back and, forcing up my chin, he rams his fingers into my mouth. He pins me in place, shoving his fingers down my throat.

  A spill of vomit is quick to come up. No pills. Just ground-up tortilla chips burning my throat and the burn of vodka.

  Cliff grunts an exasperated sound before he shoves his fingers deeper. I fight him; slapping at his hands, reaching back and hitting out at him. The strikes go unnoticed by him before another heave pushes me forward.

  Sick splatters to the carpet.

  Then he pauses. I feel him stiffen against me, his muscles jumping beneath his skin. Slowly, his fingers slip out of my mouth and a horrid gasp wrenches through me.

  The light in the apartment is growing.

  Through the tears in my eyes, I look up at the lantern. The flame isn’t strong enough for the light starting to creep into the room.

  I choke on a gasp and twist around. Falling onto my bum, I glance at Cliff—he is standing now, peeling apart the edge of the curtain—and then to the light blazing in through the gap at the window.

  His army…

  They are finally here.

  Cliff reacts, fast.

  Forgetting me, he races to the couch and snatches up his weapons belt. Then he’s out the door in a blur, slamming it shut behind him.

  For a moment, I stare at the door he just disappeared through. I’m too numb to feel anything, but that should hurt. He just … left.

  But he also left his sword—and that’s too precious to him to abandon. So I realise he will be back.

  He’s gone to get help, the fucker.

  With a groan, I fall back against the window and reach for the fallen vodka. My hand trembles as it curls around the bottle, then I roll it to my side. Best drink as much of it as possible before he comes back with some black powder or something.

  I drink it until I can’t stomach another drop. Can’t go throwing it all up, that would make the whole effort utterly pointless.

  Soon, the bottle slips from my grip and I’m in a battle to keep my eyes open. Before my eyes inevitably shut on me, I see the front door burst open and a sweep of fae invade the apartment.

  Cliff heads right for me, three others shadowing his steps.

  And then it all goes dark.

  Please, Mother—don’t let him heal me. Make it too late.

  Take me into your warm embrace.

  43

  White devours me. It’s all around me and it’s all I see as I come to; white walls, pinched ceiling, the sheet that covers my body, even the pallor of my skin.

  Am I dead?

  Did I succeed and finally manage to join the afterlife?

  All I know for the moment is that I’m far from the apartment I died in. But did I die…?

  Doubts are creeping in the more I blink the gloss from my eyes. Tired arms reaching up, I peel away the remnants of sleep and look around.

  The all-white space is a tent, I fast learn. And I’m very much alive, chained by the ankle to a black-metal bed in the corner.

  Pushing myself up on my elbows, I narrow my glazed eyes on the metal table at my bedside. All sorts of peculiar tools are spread out evenly there. One, I recognise to be a syringe—like those ones from sanatoriums circa two hundred years ago. It’s the size of my forearm. Just the sight of it makes me cringe.

  By the syringe’s foreboding appearance, I’m not keen on inspecting the other tools on the table. Instead, I turn my gaze on the bed on the other side of the tent—and my heart sinks down to my watery gut.

  A dark fae sits there, black leaf-like plasters stuck to his dark-chocolate chest. He watches me from beneath white eyelashes to match his ghostly hair.

  A shudder rinses through me. Instinct has me pulling back to the bedhead, as far as the chain will allow.

  The fae stares at me for what seems like a whole lifetime until, finally, he breaks his gaze away with a grin and calls out, “Riktav!”

  I flinch at the booming, rough sound of his voice and again when the tent flap whips open. Another dark fae invades the tent—one who wears a black tunic and plain cotton-like trousers, whose hems are tucked into her soft-soled boots.

  Her yellow eyes land on me instantly. And they aren’t friendly in the least. Then they slide to the dark-skinned fae on the other bed.

  As though I’m not here, they talk in their barbed thick tongue. The tunic-wearer wanders to my bedside, but keeps her attention on the other fae. She pauses to unlatch me from the chain around my ankle.

  I pull my leg up to myself the moment I’m free. My knee knocks against a leathery material and, with a curt glance down, I realise that I’m still wearing my shoulder bag.

  This gesture draws in her attention.

  “Out,” she orders, her softer voice still tangled in barbs and gravel. “Go to work.”

  Go to work?

  Stupidly, I blink at her, then turn my gaze on the other one. They both simply stare at me, waiting for movement.

  Slowly, I slip off the edge of the bed, making sure to keep at least an arm’s reach between me and the fae. I move around her, hesitation clinging to my steps as I aim for the tent flap. Only their eyes follow me as I suddenly rush for the exit.

  An icy breeze hits me like a slap to the face. The weather has taken a drastic turn for the worst. Droplets of rain hang in the air, gathering a fog of mist. The fragrance of freshly damp grass invades my nostrils, and I know we aren’t in France anymore. This scent, I recognise—I’m in England now.

  But that’s the least of my worries.

  Standing at the mouth of the white tent, I am frozen as my surroundings dawn on me. I’m planted in the middle of a dark fae camp.

  The white tent is perched on the edge at the tail of a line of black tents whose arched roofs grow taller the further up camp they go. The looming black metal throne that overlooks the camp is hard to miss; it towers as high as the tallest tent beside it and at its foot there’s a small table with a map spread out and a post with hooks embedded into the wood.

  Spike told me all about a similar post in his time with a dark fae army. It was the most dreaded place in camp. If a kuri wound up at the post, that meant only one thing—the whip. Some would be whipped until all the flesh was stripped from their spines, others would be killed, and the really unlucky ones would end up fastened to one of the carts to be dragged to death.

  The sight of the post sends chills roping down my spine to my tailbone. Tingles clutch onto even my bottom and I suddenly suffer a watery sensation flooding my gut.

  It gets so much worse than a whipping post.

  Between me and the post swarms a horde of dark fae warriors.

  None of them seem to notice me. I’m invisible.

  They go about their business. Small circles huddle around modest fires, most clean their weapons with black rags, and one even uses the tip of a knife to pick at his teeth.

  An unusual, foreign music unravels through the air. In the distance I catch one cleaning out an instrument that looks somewhat like a wooden flute.

  There are hundreds of them. The dark fae swarm, but the divide is unavoidable.

  Down the tail of the camp, a rope is tied to two carts, cutting a boundary between the fae and the kuris. Down their end, there’s only one beige tent and a whole lot of humans going about chores.

  Pots are boiling soups on fire pits, the smell of tomatoes thick in the air, a group of three scrubbing blood-stained armour clean, more carting pots of water and baskets stacked full with crockery.

  With Cliff nowhere in sight, I know I need to join them.

  ‘Go to work’, the fae told me.

  I’ve been standing at the tent too long, now. The longer I’m out here, the more exposed and vulnerable I’ll become. I make to leave but before I can turn towards the kuri end of camp, a pair of embers catches my attention—

  My heart leaps up into my throat.

  Midway up the camp, Cliff stands near a fire pit, the orange flames blazing in his eyes. The skin pulled tight over his chest glistens like liquid caramel and the reflection of his black straps remind me of tar.

  The urge to go to him seizes my legs; I take a step forward, but stop when I catch the gentle shake of his head. Lashes lower over embers as he warns me off coming to him and, with a jerk of the head, he gestures to the kuri side of camp.

  My heart is still lodged in my throat. Now, it swells and suffocates me, stealing me of all my breath.

  Can’t stop the burn of tears on my eyes.

  With dampening eyes, I trace his gesture down to the kuris.

  He did warn me of this, time and time again. Only, I never expected to wake up after those pills took me, never anticipated that I would actually be here in his camp, so how could I prepare myself for his detached dismissal?

  It hurts worse than I thought it would.

  Inside my chest, a knife twists and at the same time, he guts me clean. Turning my back to him, I make my way to the other kuris, feeling the wetness of tears rolling down my cheeks.

  Guess I’m on my own now.

  44

  Curious eyes shadow me as I duck under the washing line pulled tight between two carts. A ripple of interest washes over the kuris and, as I right myself, all gazes seem to be on me.

  Hushed voices ignite all around me.

  Unease is quick to lash in my gut.

  Two things my anxieties never liked—complete silence and the whole attention of others. Thankfully, the pops and crackles of the fire pits and the noise from the dark fae side of camp are enough to drown out the gurgles of my gut.

  Standing at the row of drying armour, I fold my arms over my chest, my gaze restless. Have no idea what to do with myself. So I just hover for a moment before I decide on the single beige tent down the way, where I can escape the stares and this wretched thick moment.

  I make my way through the stilled group. As I pass, I cut a look around and estimate the kuris to be around two dozen in numbers. More than what they had back when the earth split and Cliff was separated from his people. They lost some kuris in that earthquake, but by the look of the ones around me, that wouldn’t seem to bother them much.

  These humans are decrepit, all hollow faces, clothes hanging off bony bodies like rags, and sets of sunken eyes.

  One of the more fuller-figured ones—yet still thinner than I am—comes into my path before I can reach the tent. Honey-brown eyes, round and shiny with a compassion that should be abandoned in this world, settle on my wary gaze.

  He sticks out his hand, nails caked in dirt. “Gerard,” he introduces, his voice soft and fading like a breeze.

  For a moment, I study the calluses on his fingers and lining the edge of his palm. Gingerly, I take his hand and shake it with my cleaner one.

  Before it can invade, I shove the thoughts of Cliff’s better treatment of me out of my mind. Can’t afford any more knives to plunge into my crumbling heart and break me.

  “Coralie,” I mumble, pulling my hand back, resisting the urge to wipe it on my hip.

  A small, knowing smile slides onto his mouth. He nods. Then he speaks in my mother tongue, “We know who you are. Obviously we didn’t know your name. We’ve been calling you the fae pet.”

  My face crumbles to ruins, a blend of moodiness and hurt. “I’m not a pet—”

  Innocence softens his face before he lifts up his hands in surrender. “No offence meant,” he tells me, then peels back a strand of sawdust blond hair out of his eye.

  In dire need of a hairdresser. But in this world, who isn’t? My honey-blonde is so flat and lifeless that it’s begging for some highlights. Never again, I suppose.

  “How else am I meant to take it?” I challenge, the words fae pet rising back up in my mind.

  “Oh, it’s just that we didn’t know your name,” he says, as though that explains it all. By my stony face, he realises it doesn’t, and adds, “It didn’t help that he—you know, the fae—carried you after the healer mended you … then you were put in the healer’s tent.” A faint blush crawls onto his high cheekbones as he shrugs one shoulder. “Kuris don’t get that treatment.”

  “Right.” I nod briskly, then turn my gaze around the lower end of camp. The interest in me has fizzled somewhat with all the kuris getting back to their chores, but still, eyes cut to me every other heartbeat. “So I’m the new shiny object around here.”

  “Guess so,” he says with a wide grin, revealing a set of yellowing crooked teeth. But he doesn’t look so awful. Some of his lean physique has been maintained, so I summon a thought that he might be more into the labour work.

  “There are some rumours,” he adds delicately. At my bleak stare, he goes on, “Not that those matter. Any news around here sprouts some gossip. We don’t have much else to talk about.”

  With a hum, I nod again, this time wandering my attention around the other kuris. Bet all they have to gossip about is murder and torture.

  “What actually did happen?” Gerard probes, his voice dropping to a gentle whisper.

  I turn my stare on him and blink. “He broke me,” is all I say.

  Grim-faced, he latches a look of pity onto me for a beat, as though he understands my pain and experience perfectly. But of course, he’s thinking of broken bones and spilt blood, whereas I mean tangled together on the floor, his hot mouth on my core, his loving and tender kisses in the lantern light, and sitting on a bench in the dark, eating toffee and listening to the sea.