Dave sprawls out, further prostrating himself in his angst.
“I was leading them by the hand through the halls. Until they fell through a hidden trapdoor—”
“An oubliette!” cries Bulan.
Goddamn it. Death traps are, officially, my least favorite home design concept.
“Why didn’t you keep better hold of them?”
Kicking the floor with his Oxford heels, Dave whines, “Itried, I did. But I kept gravitating to that hole. It seemed so much better down there, so much darker. And I just let go-o-o.”
Bulan crows with delight. “See, Sabby? What did I say about vampires? Weak. Wristed.”
“Never mind that. Dave, I need you to fly down and see where that trapdoor leads. Maybe all the oubliettes dump the castle’s prisoners in the same place.”
“I see! And perhaps, there, we’ll find Hanry!” Bulan exclaims.
“Exactly.”
Done kicking, Dave says, “It’s so muchworkto do all this reconnaissance. Why not just ask the groomsmen?”
The world seems to shift beneath my feet. The wedding day schedule I’d submitted in the Rochester Wedding Proposal suggested that a round of groomsmen photos be taken at 3 p.m. It seems like Mandy never crossed that item off the final schedule. So I guess it’s still on. Butwho are Hanry’s groomsmen, anyway? He doesn’t have a lot of guy friends—besides Dave, I’ve not met a single one.
“Dave,” I say, flipping through my clipboard. “Did you see groomsmen anywhere?”
The vampire covers his eyes, moaning.
“Yes, yes! They opened the doors, repeatedly! Lighting up this very hall! They were big men, Samantha, dressed as fancy as you or I, with horrible, shiny swords on their belts. Supremely intimidating.”
Everything falls into place. These people Dave’s describing aren’t Hanry’s groomsmen.
They’re his jailers.
After sending Dave to free Gustavo and Jurgis, Bulan and I set out for a set of formal royal rooms. A rushed conversation with a minion has revealed that fay royalty fashionably have two bedrooms. It’s the second one where, supposedly, Hanry’s groomsmen are congregating now. In addition to the frustration that I got faked out last night, I’m bringing a wine bottle in hand, Stefan the crow on my shoulder, an unhappy head under my arm, and a newly snapped glow stick in my pocket. It is alot.
While climbing the tree staircase and turning us into the dark abyss of the Royal Wing, Bulan says for the umpteenth time, “I don’t like this, Sabby.”
“We won’t fall into the oubliettes,” I assure him. “Dave said they’re all on the right-hand side. Ergo, we’ll keep left.”
“Perhaps you should go alone,” Bulan says. “I’m a no-good, useless head, after all.”
Where is this sudden humility coming from? “You are a fantastic head.”
“Fantastically useless, if I enter the quarters with you. How, then, can I mount a rescue in case anything goes wrong? Moreover! Should things go right, I suspect you and Hanry will be grandly reunited. No one likes a third wheel, Sabby.”
Uh-huh. I’m starting to suspect something else is bothering Bulan.Something having to do with how he avoided Rochester’s gaze. Something connected to Mandy finding his body in the possession of his fairy ex, Princess May. The body which I now suspect I’ve seen myself—and may or may not have misidentified as a mannequin with a rug on its head.
I probably should’ve let Bulan have his story time last night. My bad.
“Fine,” I say, seeing no way around his reasoning. “Get out of here. Scram.”
“Thank you, Sabby! My dear friend Stefan: Could you lend me your beak?”
Stefan the crow lifts off my shoulder and swoops over to Bulan. Grabbing him by his bristly red sideburns, the creature manages to lift the head midair, albeit with some swinging. Apparently impervious to scalp pain, Bulan achieves a grin.
“Good luck, Sabby,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get into trouble. And no going after your body without my permission.”
