By the time I’ve finished ransacking the rooms and laying every cunning snare I can devise, I’m exhausted. For hours, I’ve been running back and forth, up and down, this way and that through the fortress, placing various objects, setting traps, adjusting and readjusting my plans.
I focused my efforts on the front door of the keep, along with the two second-floor windows, since each of them are big enough to accommodate a person. From what I could see on the map in the observation room, there are no other entrances or exits. Ravager’s gang will most likely enter through the front door or try to surprise me by coming through the big windows.
Given the caliber of the traps I’ve placed at all three locations, those men will be lucky if they survive with their minds and bodies intact.
My stomach is growling loudly, so I head back to the kitchen. It used to be pristine, but it’s a mess now. Kitchens, as it turns out, are excellent places to find supplies for home defense.
After gulping water straight from the sink faucet, I enter the cool pantry, carve a wedge of cheese from a wheel, and help myself to a couple of sausages. The large table that was in the center of the room is now elsewhere, so I perch on the sideboard to munch my snack. Beside me, nestled in a stone bowl, is the sphere I took from the observation room. I’ve placed a couple more on the third floor, as part of a backup plan if I need to retreat up there.
I’m lifting the first sausage to my mouth when I hear a loud thud, a muffled roar of pain, then another yell, higher and sharper. Judging by the location of the sound, that would be the Fae-Hunters’ iron-tooth trap, positioned near the west window. I wince and giggle at the same time.
That device functions exactly like a bear trap, catching the leg of the person who steps in it, but it has an additional component as well. When the first part of the trap is sprung, the chains on the other two sections tighten, triggering a horde of needle-sharp slivers which fly up and embed themselves in the victim’s flesh.
I wonder which of the men is now trying to pry the trap off his leg while he’s studded with scores of tiny iron splinters. They won’t poison him like they would a Faerie, but they’ll hurt like a bitch—especially if they got in his eyes.
Muffled shrieks, curses, and bumps continue from that room, and then I hear a skid and a thump outside, which I suspect is a body falling from the second floor. Dead or injured, Idon’t really care. I just want these wretches to be incapacitated. The longer, the better.
Though I watch intently, no one crosses into the viewing range of the sphere I brought with me, so I indulge in a few mouthfuls of cheese and sausage. I expected them to try the front door right away, but apparently Ravager took his men around the back of the building to see if there was another way in, then decided to try the windows. How unfortunate for them.
More minutes pass before I hear the next scream—also upstairs, but at the eastern window this time. That’s where I set the trap Maven called the “eternal flame curse.” It’s one of the Fae-Hunter traps she was most familiar with, and also the most powerful one at my disposal.
The snare itself is a thin circlet of ash wood, like the hoop for a very large cross-stitch design, but when you step into it, you feel as if you’re burning alive. The sensation continues until the curse is broken, and it can only be dispelled by water from something called the Unending Pool. I doubt these fools have such a thing on hand.
I hid the hoop beneath the window, under a rug, right where someone would step into it unawares when they were climbing in.
This time, the screams continue for much longer. I keep munching my food and listening, with a watchful eye on the sphere.
More screams erupt from the same room, blended with muffled shouts from below. At last, there’s a crashing thump as the man affected by the curse finally drops from the east window to the ground, greeted by exclamations from his companions. I can hear his cries and I lean over the orb, watching my rivals come into view.
Slaughter is writhing and running, beating at the invisible flames on his body while Ravager yells at him to stop so theycan help him. Needle is digging through his pack, looking for something to break the curse. Grisly brings up the rear, limping, bleeding, and swearing as he plucks shards of metal out of his body.
I grin, kicking my feet before setting aside my food, scooping up the sphere, and heading for the second floor. The first trap I’ve planned for the entrance requires direct intervention from me. I relocked the front door from the inside, so they’ll have to pick it, and I want them to pay for that privilege with excruciating pain.
Taking care to avoid the tripwires I’ve placed, I hurry down the second-floor hall to the narrow window above the front door. It’s too small for an adult, though maybe a child could squeeze through. But it’s big enough for what I have in mind.
I position the sphere nearby and activate the sound. Then I wrap my hands in protective cloths and stand ready to lift the steaming, covered pot that I placed near the window earlier.
This trap isn’t cunning or clever—it’s as simple as they come, and hopefully effective.
Through the sphere, I watch Needle sprinkle the remaining drops from a small vial onto Slaughter, who stops screaming. Looks like they did have the special water they needed to break the curse, or something equally effective. It’s disappointing, but I have other tricks up my sleeve.
“Forget the damn windows,” Grisly snarls, plucking another sliver of iron from his shoulder. “Let’s go in through the main door and fuck up this little cunt.”
“Settle down, Griz.” Ravager’s voice is terse, his mouth grim through the hole of the mask. “I’ll pick the lock. You take care of yourself. You’re still—spiky.”
Grisly curses and yanks two more bits of metal out of his cheek.
Keeping my eye on the sphere, I wait until Ravager is on the doorstep, kneeling to pick the lock. Then I wedge the small pot through the window and give it a calculated push.
There’s athunk-clang-splashand a roar of pain. I angle my body sideways, poking my head and one shoulder through the window so I can get a first-hand look at my handiwork.
“You all right down there, ass-clown?” I call.
Ravager has backed away from the door, and he’s holding the top of his head where the pot struck him. When he hears my voice, he rips off his drenched, steaming mask and looks up at me, red-faced, with vengeance in his eyes.
“Sweetheart,” he says icily. “When I get in there, I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“Promises, promises.” I smile down at him. “Have you had enough yet? Or are you still starving for punishment?”
