Meeting my eyes, she says, “If you get caught—”
“I never saw you,” I finish.
She gives me a tight smile. Then she reaches behind the shelf, hits some sort of lever, and making a sound akin to a cat in heat, it opens to reveal an exit outside. Elsbeth holds a finger to her lips for me to be quiet, then leans out of the opening, her head whipping left then right, checking for guards. She ducks back into the garden, pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve and proceeds to clean the water and remaining blood from my face. “This will only get you onto the grounds. You’ll have to get past the guards on your own.”
“I will.”
She finishes her grooming and tucks the handkerchief back into her sleeve. “Good luck, my friend,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze. And with that I step through the doorway and onto the grounds, leaving Elsbeth to close the hidden door behind me.
On one side, the palace ends in a cliff, at the bottom of which waves crash against the stony wall. On the other is a massive hedge grove that blocks most of the road from view, but the sound of a crowd gathered outside the gates is unmistakable.
There really isn’t a choice, and so I start for the hedge grove. The wind swirls like a tempest whipping my hair into my face as I cross the lawn. I angle my body to pass between the bushes and slowly make my way to the gate. I want to make a run for it, but logic says that’s a good way to get shot, so I put on my bestaristocratic façade—chin up, shoulders squared, my face devoid of emotion—and press forward. The guards are busy dealing with the horde of townspeople standing outside the gate and don’t even notice me until I’m standing directly in front of the iron bars.
“What are you doing?” one of them asks, clearly confused as to why a disheveled fae female would be going out into this mess.
“Let me out,” I say.
And they do.
16
Troi certainly loves to hear himself speak. This was supposed to be a short announcement about the queen’s death and a warning not to interfere with searches going on. Instead, he’s been droning on for at least a half hour, and he hasn’t even spoken to the masses outside yet. I drag a hand down my face. I can’t deal with this anymore. I need to speak to Katya.
I wave Captain Petrea over. Of course, his swagger doesn’t permit him to come quickly. I wouldn’t be surprised if he walked right into battle that way.
“Yes, sir,” he says when he finally reaches me.
“Take my place here by the king. I need to start interrogating the prisoners.
Petrea smooths out his bushy mustache, his brows pinched. “It was my understanding Lord Fredrick was handling the interrogations.”
A rush of ice-cold fear sweeps through my body. I whirl on the captain. “On whose orders?”
“The king’s, sir.”
“Gods dammit.” The bloody bastard went over my head. “Stay here,” I command, and storm out the side door without waiting for a response.
I’m taking the steps two at a time, racing for Katya’s room. Fredrick. Of course, he would choose Fredrick. His moral compass dips even farther south than the king’s.
I round the corner to the holding rooms, praying, praying Fredrick hasn’t gotten to her.
Her door is open.
“Fuck.”
I spin around and sprint the other way—heading for the prison.
I’m going to kill him.
I’m going to kill him.
I’m going to kill him.
The words replay in my mind like a mantra all the way to the prison door. My hands shake as I fumble with the keys. Finally, I get the door unlocked and plow into it with my shoulder, sending it crashing into the wall. My eyes go straight for the interrogation room, and I stop.
The door is open.
Why the fuck is the door open?
