He opens the door to the Mercedes for me, and I climb into the back seat. “The cells are guarded by unseelie creatures.”
“What sort of unseelie?”
He looks at me in the mirror and grins. “Does it matter?”
I shake my head. There isn’t a single unseelie creature I’d want to meet in person. For the first time, my stomach gives a fearful twist at the thought of visiting Ashgate, but I push it aside. River’s a good friend and he needs me.
It takes us about an hour to reach the mountain and another twenty minutes to pass through three modern security checkpoints. But when we arrive at the prison itself, it feels like we’ve gone back in time. No sliding metal gates or video technology is anywhere in sight, just a cave-like opening at the top of three flights of stone steps.
“What now?” I ask Saul.
“We visit the gate warden. She’ll tell you what to expect.”
“You don’t know?”
“No. I’ve never been.”
“But you told me it was dangerous and guarded by unseelie. How could you know that if you’ve never been inside?” My words come fast and furious, that niggle of fear in my gut now a raging anxiety that threatens to expunge my breakfast.
He turns to me at the base of the stairs. “Jules Strickland, a fellow leprechaun, visited in 1985 and was never seen again. Went in but never came out. By the time anyone tried to investigate, all they found was a pile of bones and his signet ring. It’s dangerous.”
My stomach churns. “Great. I wish I didn’t know that.”
He cuts a judgmental glance in my direction and shrugs. “I tried to keep things vague. You insisted on details, Ms. Larkspur.”
“Call me Sophia.”
I follow Saul up the stairs to the entrance. The gate warden is a satyr with tattoos covering all her exposed skin and a wild mop of curly gray hair. Silently she hands us both a flyer with instructions.
“Only one visitor may enter at a time—” I begin to read aloud, but she grabs me by the arm and holds a finger to her lips. I continue reading to myself.Remain absolutely silent until both feet are in the circle outside the cell of the prisoner you wish to speak with. You will be given a maximum of ten minutes with each prisoner you wish to visit. When you are finished, place an offering on the platter beside the door and step out of the circle. Remain silent until you reach the exit.
“I didn’t bring an offering,” I say to the woman.
She answers me in sign language.
Oh, so she’s mute. I shake my head. “I don’t understand ASL,” I whisper.
She frowns and points at a bowl of fruit on the table, then at a cup for donations. I dig in my bag for a few dollars and exchange them for a shiny red apple.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” Saul says, backing against the wall across from the gate warden.
I stare into the dark passageway, fear turning my hands cold as I cradle the apple in front of my chest. I can’t get my feet to move. Saul said the guards are unseelie. Is that what eats the apples? I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I’ve now been standing here so long things are getting awkward. Saul is watching me with a suppressed smirk, like he’s just waiting for me to yell “oh hell no” and head for the car.
But River is down there. He’s shown up for me on more than one occasion when I really needed him. As frightening as it might be to visit him, it must be exponentially more frightening to be imprisoned here.
With that thought held tightly in my mind, I start forward in the only direction I can go. The stone walkway slopes down and curves until the natural light is snuffed out, leaving only flickering illumination cast by candles that burn in wall sconces lining the tunnel. I’ve walked for a good five minutes before I reach the first cell and realize I have no idea which one River is in. Worse, there aren’t bars on the doors like a human prison. The openings are blocked by giant stones. You can’t see in or out.
However, the circles referred to in the instructions are outside each stone, and when I step near the first one, a name scrawled in blood across the stone glows to life—Crawfoot Gallery—a rather infamous unseelie fae who was responsible for a mass killing before I was born. I shudder to think how long he’s been in there.
I move forward, my gaze drifting over each name as it surfaces with my nearness. My skin pebbles from the cold, solemn atmosphere. It feels like I’m in a crypt, and I realize why. This isn’t so much a prison as a place where fae are buried alive.
My heart aches for River. The restaurant isn’t just his livelihood. He lives for social interaction and thrives on physical touch. This isn’t just prison for him—it’s torture. The longer I think about that, the faster I walk. I’ve got to get him out of here.
A familiar name flashes on the stone to my right, and I pull up short. Chance Delaney—Seven’s father. The leprechaun kept six pixies prisoner in his own personal sex dungeon and ended up murdering one of them along with two humans. Just seeing his name brings back horrific memories of the night I confronted him. He deserves to be behind that stone.
I hurry on, relieved when I see the name River Foxwood nearby. Drawing a deep, fortifying breath, I step into the circle and wait. Almost immediately, a beam of light with no clear origination surrounds me. The stone melts away. River is sitting on a lumpy-looking cot with a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He lifts his face, and I can tell he’s been weeping. I’ve never seen him like this before. My heart pounds. I decide right then that I will clear his name no matter what it takes.
“Sophia?”
