“Why did you bring me here?”
“It’s a ten-minute walk from Saint Lazaro. If you ran you could make it. But only if you were on the other side of that door. Trust me, you won’t be getting out of here. You can shift forms, change your face, it won’t matter. This cell was designed to hold fae. The officers will pay no mind to your screams.”
Realization dawns in her eyes, but she seems unable to accept it. “Our bargain is null. You didn’t give me the Chariot.”
“I said I’d give you what I held in my hand, and I did. I gave you my comb. You agreed to kill Dorian within five minutes of arriving at your next destination. We’re here now. And we both know what happens when someone of full-fae blood fails to fulfill a bargain.”
Even without a curse like the one Nimue placed on me, a broken bargain means excruciating pain for a fae. Pain that eventually ends in death unless the other party revokes the bargain.
I know what my choice will be. Zara’s fixation on revenge makes her Dorian’s lifelong enemy. Which makes her mine as well.
She throws her head back in laughter. “You idiot. You may have condemned me to die, but in doing so you condemn yourself. If I won’t be making it out of here alive, then I no longer need to obey Nimue’s wishes. Five minutes is more than enough time to kill you.”
With a roar, she leaps for me.
But her claws never make contact.
Instead, she freezes, her body and the walls around us now a shimmering, pulsating violet.
“Goodbye, Zara,” I say, my voice hollow in the Twelfth Court.
Then through the wall, I disappear.
40
It’s a gamble to assume Zara can’t enter the Twelfth Court like I can. From what I know of fae magic, it’s a rare ability, one I now understand I inherited from my mother. A power I still hardly comprehend. The only renowned fae in history known to walk through the Twelfth Court like this is Queen Evelyn of the Fire Court. And she is said to have been blessed by the All of All, chosen to end the last war with the humans. Even so, I remain outside Zara’s cell for minutes on end, long enough to ensure she makes no miraculous escape. Long enough to hear her shouts turn to pleas. Her pleas turn to cries. Her cries turn to agonized wails.
Only then do I enter the Twelfth Court again and sneak out of the jail altogether.
Still soaking wet, I ignore the strange looks I get from passersby as I make my way from Halley Street to the church. Once there, I pause on the sidewalk.
Now that I’m here, I don’t know what compelled me to come. I can’t show my face inside. Can’t risk even sneaking in through the Twelfth Court. I’m desperate to know how Dorian fared after I left, and I’m sure Podaxis is worried sick. But I doubt Dorian has kept quiet about my guilt. The entire church probably knows I’m an assassin by now. There could be a warrant for my arrest circling the city already.
I smooth my matted, damp hair over my eyes, but I doubt it does much good. People know who I am. They’ve seen me in the papers, at the Blessing Ceremonies. At least the night is dark and Salvation Street is relatively empty this late in the evening. On quick feet, I scurry around the corner, casting only a brief glance down the alley for any sign of Podaxis. Seeing none, I pick up my pace—and nearly smack into a towering figure. An unfamiliar man steps before me as if out of the alley’s shadows. How had I not seen him? I lurch back, glimpsing a painfully handsome face, a well-tailored suit, and a frock coat. He wears a top hat that makes it hard to ascertain if he has pointed ears. Whether human or fae, he looks like a true gentleman, someone who belongs East of Third Avenue. But there’s something dangerous in his bearing, his height, his silence.
Panic surges, making my pulse kick up. I fear Zara somehow escaped her cell, survived the pain of our broken bargain. I take another step back, my fingers fumbling for a weapon, but my shell comb is gone. Only the Chariot remains, and its two uses are up for the day.
“You’re Princess Maisie,” comes the man’s deep voice. It isn’t a question, but I refuse to confirm the answer. He seems unperturbed by my obvious wariness of him. “Your father sent me to relay a covert message.”
Mention of my father has my heart pounding, but I bristle with suspicion. “How do you know my father?”
“I know many and many know me. Especially the royals. They call me the Huntsman. I have a knack for finding people.”
I want to say finding me couldn’t have been a challenge, considering I’ve been in the papers all week, but I keep my lips pursed tight.
“King Ronan got wind of rumors that you were here and participating in a bridal competition. He wanted me to confirm if the rumors were true or if you were being impersonated by someone seeking fame and fortune.”
I cross my arms. “You think I’m her?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the message?”
“It’s more of a correspondence.” He shifts his jaw side to side as if talking with me is growing tedious. “It begins with a question. Did she find you?”
I consider keeping my mouth shut, but if this man truly was sent by my father…
With a deep breath, I say, “She did.”
