With my arm around his waist, I hurl us backward through the opening. Two stories. Should be fine.
We land on hard-packed dirt with a heavy thud, me on my back, Bowie’s weight square on my chest. My lungs whoosh out all my air at once. I sputter as he scrambles to his feet and lifts me off mine. As he swoops me into his arms, I struggle to catch my breath.
Bowie races away, and I fling a backward glance at the window. Guards stare out, their faces a picture of shock, and I know why. To them, we’ve disappeared. I was stunned when I first witnessed the phenomenon as well.
To be on the vanishing end is equally astonishing, but I can’t help the triumphant smirk as we leave them behind in a blur. I suck in air gratefully. We’re across the bailey and surrounded by the smell of horses in seconds.
Bowie sets me down, his eyes full of concern. “Are you hurt?”
I assess, still recovering my breath. “I don’t think so. Perhaps some bruises. It was a short fall, and you’re not so heavy.”
Relief flares in his gaze. “I’ve never been so glad to be thin-boned.”
Taking in our surroundings, I find we’re alone outside an enormous stable, between the turnout pasture and the castle wall. Seeing no guards, I reach for Bowie. “That was a close call.”
He returns the embrace, his body still tense from flight. “We’ll have to go back.”
“I know.” Being so close to Cecily and not yet having her safe in hand brings my frustration to a boil. “I had her, Bowie. We were almost there.”
Bowie’s gaze flicks past me and up toward the wall. “Guards. Into the stables, now.”
We creep to the entrance and duck inside. Horses squeal their discontent, snorting a warning to the others.
Danger. Stay alert. Intruder.
I wish I could tell them I mean no harm, but I don’t speak horse. Their neighs could attract more unwanted attention. Would guards pay notice to distressed horses? Probably. We’d best be on the move.
A man rounds the corner from behind a set of stalls, checking for the cause of the commotion. A young lad follows at his heels. Both spot us.
My stomach clenches. Bowie could silence them in seconds, but these men are likely innocent. They don’t deserve to be caught up in this.
The older man—middle-aged with messy graying hair peeking out from beneath his hat—casts us a wary glance. We must paint a confusing picture. Bowie, who carries himself like a noble but dresses like a merchant, and me, obviously a peasant like himself, neither of us important enough to order horses to be saddled or hitched to a wagon.
But it’s his servant’s nature that wins out. He gives us a deferential nod. “What will ye be needing?”
The boy behind him isn’t so easily fooled. His gaze suggests a level of scrutiny that makes me squirm.
Bowie takes over. “We’re here to speak with Daniel Vas. Is he around?”
The man brushes his hands off on his pants and steps forward, arm extended. “He sure is. I’m Daniel.”
Bowies takes his wrist. “Bowie, and this is Andras. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
Daniel looks around at the stamping, disgruntled horses. “Something you can’t say in front of them?”
Bowie stares pointedly at the boy.
“Oh, that’s just my apprentice, Tamas. He won’t bother ye none.”
“All the same if you don’t mind. The matter is somewhat delicate. Perhaps Tamas could quiet the horses while we talk?”
Daniel heaves a shrug and nods to the boy. “Go on.”
Tamas gives us one last pointed look and makes his way to a snorting red roan, hand outstretched to pet her head.
We walk with Daniel toward the far end of the stalls.
“Apologies for sending Tamas off like that,” says Bowie. “I’ll come straight to the point. We’ve spoken to Petru, who says you may be of assistance. We’re here to help the girls Báthory has tormented and imprisoned.”
