Chapter Five

Verve could only stare at him, her jaw working soundlessly as she tried to take in what he had said. When she found her voice again, and Dacre seemed amused to watch her bafflement, Verve spoke barely above a whisper. “What do you mean if I decide whether or not you’ll kill me?”

But Dacre didn’t answer at first. Instead, he pulled her around the mansion to the back at such speed that Verve felt as though her bones were made of jelly. There the house was not so imposing and stood at a shorter height. Perhaps Verve would have asked why, had her very life not been in question. Nonetheless, Dacre answered her unspoken thought before addressing the pressing matter. “It’s an illusion. Servants and mortals see what they’re meant to see when and where they’re meant to see it.” He waved his hand and the crimson back door whined open, revealing a dimly lit room with two plush green chairs sitting before an empty fireplace. Dacre gave Verve a nudge, effectively moving her inside and entering behind her.

A pulse ticked behind Verve’s right eye, and she moved forward and away as she felt his hand rest on the small of her back. “Out with it, then. What did you mean?” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She turned, and Dacre motioned for her to sit in one of the chairs. For a moment she hesitated, but she had walked enough that day to feel tired, and the prospect of sinking into a chair was inviting.

Perhaps noticing her inner conflict, Dacre rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, and Verve at once found herself sitting in the chair on the left. Moments later, he took the one on the right and the fire in the hearth roared to life. “I don’t want to kill you, Verve. But you know much more about the Cunning Blade than you should.” He watched her as he said the last five words, as though expecting a reaction. When he received none, his brows shot up. “All right, you don’t know what I’m talking about. But I know you received a letter from your father, one with information about a certain special knife.”

Verve stiffened slightly, and Dacre’s grin returned. “I received a letter, but what’s this about a clever blade?” It was a half-false impression she was giving, as she had received the letter from her father and it had contained information about the whereabouts of a blade. But a cunning blade? Nothing had been said about what type of knife it was.

Unfortunately, Dacre seemed to read her words and the tenor of them correctly, as he said, “Being clever isn’t going to get you anywhere with me. Not now.” He sat forward in his chair, his eyes boring into her own. “Tell me where the blade is now and what else your father’s missive said. Co-operate, and I will tell King Midras you are dead so he’ll leave you alone.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll kill me, is that right?” She sounded braver than she felt. Good.

Dacre shrugged. “Your life for the good of the realm sounds like a fair trade to me. But I don’t want it to come to that.”

It was Verve’s turn to sit forward, her heart racing. She swallowed before asking, “What happens to me if you get the information you want?”

His lips curled upward in an unpleasant smile and he reached out and snatched one of her hands. “Weren’t you listening? Midras wants your information and he wants me to then dispose of you.”

“I gathered as much. But you’ll return me to my…realm and leave my kind alone?” As she spoke, Verve resisted the urge to yank her hand out of his own too-cold ones.

Dacre regarded her silently for a moment. “If you tell me everything that was in that letter, I will make certain you are returned to Etterhea unharmed. That is all I can promise.”

“And my realm will be—”

“Your realm is of no consequence to Letorheas. We’ll extract the blade and be on our merry way.”

Verve studied him, much to his apparent amusement, and did not see any lie in his eyes. Not that she was always the best judge of character. “I don’t know,” she said at length. “My father warned that your kind was going to come after mine.”

He snorted at that. “To retaliate? Verve, if we wanted your kind dead, we could have destroyed your realm ages ago. The Cunning Blade belongs in immortal hands, not ones who can’t comprehend or employ its power.” He released her hand, and she couldn’t pull back fast enough. Dacre sighed ruefully and shook his head. “I could torture you.” He watched her but she did not reward him with a reaction. He leaned back and drummed his fingers on his armrests, light dawning in his eyes. “You love your sister, don’t you…the mousy one?”

Verve flinched, the only opening the terrible creature needed.

“We’ll make this easier for you to decide: tell me the contents of your father’s letter or I’ll torture her in your place.” His voice was excited, confident, and his eyes glimmered like two hot coals.

The devil’s eyes, she thought. Before she could answer, Dacre was on his feet and striding toward the door with purpose.

“Wait,” she said.

The devil kept walking.

“Wait!” she shouted, and still he did not turn back or pause. She ran to him, yelling and waving her arms. Only then did he show any signs of stopping. “I’ll tell you, just – don’t hurt her.” She drew in a quick, deep breath and began to recite the letter from memory.

As she spoke, Dacre turned slowly, his face blank. He watched her closely, eyes on her lips the whole time, no doubt trying to detect a lie.

There were no lies to detect. Verve only spoke the words from the missive. And yet, when she got to the most vital part, she became aware of a prickle at the base of her skull. “You, Verve, know the answer to the first question. The latter two are blackcurrant and none. Once you have obtained the correct answers, give Bear this message: ‘Markson roams Th….’” It was as if the words had become lodged in her throat and would not pass. She swallowed and tried again, the look in the creature’s eyes changing from annoyance to confusion in a split second. “You, Verve, know the answer to the first question. The latter two are blackcurrant and none. Once you have obtained the correct answers, give Bear this message: ‘Markson roams Th… Th….’” It felt as though her throat was closing every time she attempted to say the words ‘Thistleback Wood’. She tried once more, and wound up nearly fainting.

“Enough,” said Dacre, his tone tinged with disappointment. “The words are cursed for you. Someone’s put a hex on you so you can’t say them.” His eyes narrowed and then he threw his head back and laughed. “You’ve been in the range of another fae’s spell-casting and you didn’t even know them for what they were? I mean, you didn’t know me for what I am, but I am particularly gifted at hiding.” He sniffed and frowned. “But you don’t even smell like one of us. It must have happened weeks ago.” He stepped around Verve and took to pacing in front of the fire.

Was he going to hurt Helena? It wasn’t Verve’s fault she couldn’t speak the blasted words to save her life.

The fae stopped pacing and regarded her for a moment, his expression resigned. In a flash, he drew the knife from the sheath at his side and approached Verve. “We’ll have to make this convincing.”

“Stay away from me.” Verve backed away, and Dacre didn’t stop her. Soon enough, she ran into a stone wall, its cold dampness seeping through her blouse and into her bones.

Dacre caught her by the arm and murmured something strange that she could not understand as he brought the knife down on her arm and slit it open.

A scream was torn from Verve’s lips as the wound bled and bled. It stung and burned like no cut she had ever experienced before, and at one point, Verve thought she was going to faint. In fact, she knew she should have fainted by the amount of blood she saw pouring from her arm and soaking into her blouse. The sight itself was enough to make her knees wobble, and Dacre caught her around the middle before she could tumble to the floor.

His eyes were strange, wild, but Verve could not look away from their glowing depths even as her terror intensified and she struggled. It went on like this for five minutes, and then the fae tossed the blade aside, murmured the same strange words he had said before, and Verve’s arm went numb and slack. He lowered her to the floor and stepped back.

The cold was unbearable, and she felt her body begin to shut down. Breathing was nearly impossible. A pressure built in her chest, and then her head lolled to the side and she lost consciousness.

It only lasted a moment. She awoke to Dacre tearing her blouse off.

She batted at him as harmlessly as a kitten with her good arm, and he ignored her entirely. Trembling, Verve attempted to sit up and cover her corseted form, until her captor said, “I wouldn’t advise moving. You’ve lost and replenished a lot of blood.” He held the torn and bloody garment up to the light of the fire and nodded before reaching into the air and pulling on a crimson rope that appeared from nowhere.

Overhead, there was the faint tinkling of a distant bell, followed by the light, quick tread of feet. A set of mineral-stained stone stairs materialized in the far-left end of the room as a door at the top opened, admitting a man with blond hair.

It took Verve a moment, but she recognized him as being Mr. Tubsman, the strange man Dacre had brought with him that day he had visited Maplehurst. Again she tried to crawl away, only to be overcome by a wave of dizziness and nausea.

“Send this to His Majesty and tell him the human died under interrogation,” said Dacre, holding the blood-soaked garment out to the other fae, who bowed and then took the blouse from him.

“Very good, sir. Anything else?” said Mr. Tubsman.

Dacre nodded. “Send the witching woman to the red room and tell her to start a fire. It’s got to be as cold as the king’s heart in there.”

The blond man bowed at the waist and retreated up the stairs. There was something in the way he moved that indicated he wasn’t entirely right. He swayed as one drunk, and his form blurred around the edges.

Verve blinked, and the man was gone. “Hey,” Verve snarled when Dacre lifted her like she was a mere rag doll.

The fae gave her an amused look before carrying her up the stairs. The light that met them above was nigh blinding after the darkness of the downstairs, and Verve had to close her eyes against it. “Take this up to the red room,” Dacre said to a woman in a silky green dress and no shoes as he passed Verve over into her arms.

“What’s happened here?” asked the woman, looking down at Verve with distaste.

“Now is not the time to ask questions, Lystra. Just do as you’re told or I’ll add another year to your indenture.”

The fae woman – Verve assumed she was fae, at least, because of her pointed ears – merely rolled her pale eyes and carried Verve through the bustling halls. “Someone has put his lordship in an interesting mood,” she muttered as Verve’s eyes drifted closed.

In her semiconscious state, Verve was vaguely aware of being borne up stairs and past hurried beings, all murmuring their surprise at something. The fae bearing her paused and said, “Open.” There was a groan of wood on hinges, followed by a blast of icy air that roused Verve somewhat from her stupor. “Here’s this.”

There was some creative cursing and a haggard old woman came into Verve’s line of sight. “‘Start a fire,’ he says, like I’m some ruddy scullery maid.”

“Aye,” said the woman carrying Verve. “Be careful what you say. His lordship is in a mood this evening.”

Verve’s eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, and she flinched. From the wallpaper to the curtains to the canopied bed, everything was crimson, reminding her painfully of her arm.

The grumpy fae carried her to the bed, and the red sheets and blankets peeled themselves back from the mattress. “You, don’t be no trouble now.” The creature set Verve on the feather bed, and the sheets and blankets covered her themselves. “It’s got a nasty cut on its arm.”

The crone sighed. “And I suppose I’m to see to the wound?”

Tucked in, Verve felt an overwhelming need to sleep, though she fought the sensation tooth and nail when the old woman approached her with a scowl. The crone’s craggy, jowly face was the color of parchment and her graying hair flowed over one shoulder. As she regarded Verve, something changed in her expression. “Careful what you say, Lystra.”

“How’s that?” The fae, Lystra, appeared at the crone’s side and frowned.

“She can understand every blasted word you and I are saying.”

Lystra groaned. “Why did he have to charm it? He knows the mortal tongues well enough.”

The crone shooed the fae away and made a hushing noise. “You. What’s your name?”

“Verity Springer.” The words had been startled out of her, and she regretted speaking them as soon as they left her lips.

Giving her a knowing look, the woman cackled. “You’re right. Even you know names have power.” She looked around, leaned in and whispered, “Be careful who you give your true name to.” Her breath reeked of ale and rot, and Verve grimaced. The crone rolled up her flowing black sleeves…or, rather, attempted to. “Blast. These uniforms may look nice, but they’re not practical.” With a mere wave, she managed to pull the covers back enough to reveal Verve’s arm, which she took in her hands, tsk-tsking as she inspected it. “Dear, oh dear. This is a deep wound.”

Verve flinched when the crone pressed down on the gash.

“Well, it’s nothing I can’t mend. You might have a faint scar for a few days, but it should fully heal. It’s infection we want to prevent.” Then she looked into Verve’s eyes, deeply. “You’ve lost quite a bit of blood. We’ll need to keep you awake. Can’t have you dying just when things are getting interesting. This will tickle.”

It did not tickle. In fact, as the crone waved her fingers back and forth over the cut, it burned like the dickens, and Verve sat up with a silent scream on her lips, one that never formed entirely. She would not give the fae – especially him – the satisfaction of hearing her cry out twice in one day.

But almost as soon as it had begun, it was over, leaving a dull ache in her arm. The crone stared at Verve, as though expecting some sort of response. “You want me to thank you?” Verve’s words were acid and ought to have caused the woman to strike out or at least respond with venom of her own. Instead, the crone gave Verve a crooked grin and pushed her back down onto the mattress.

“It isn’t going to be easy for you. You never do get used to Faerie.”

Verve’s lip curled. “You mean you don’t call it—”

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to put a waking spell on you.” The crone ran her right little finger down Verve’s forehead, causing Verve’s eyes to itch. “There are magical locks on every door and window, and guards patrol the halls when there’s a new guest, so don’t be getting any ideas.” She lifted Verve’s mended arm as the covers folded themselves back over Verve’s chest. “Must see the wound gets plenty of air, else the magic could suffocate and the wound will open again.”

Exhaustion tugged at Verve’s eyes, threatening to drown her. Furious with herself, she found that she just wanted to rest and escape the pain and strangeness. My family must be worried sick. Her mind went to Helena, whom she remembered Dacre had cast a spell on before stealing Verve away. Was she safe? Would the horrid fae return to the mortal realm and—

“Worrying is a one-way ticket to madness,” the crone barked. “And you’ll need all your wits about you now.” With that said, the bed curtains fell, blocking her craggy face and the light of the room from Verve’s view.

Verve waited what she assumed was half an hour, her heart beating sluggishly in her breast. The bed was cold, and she found herself shaking uncontrollably as she cast the covers aside with her good arm. Her wounded arm still felt weak and noodle-like, so she did not attempt to employ it. She could be lying about the locks. It was doubtful, but Verve knew it would be foolish not to try the door and the window. She reached out and touched the velvety bed curtains, and yelped when they pulled aside for her. Lightheaded suddenly, Verve swung her legs over the edge of the bed and lowered her feet to the floor.

The floor was even colder than the bed and it stung Verve’s feet. She tried her best to ignore the freezing temperature of the room – her breath fogged in front of her face – and scurried to the window, which was shielded by two large crimson curtains. Again with her good arm, Verve tried to peel one back, but it was so heavy, she knew she would need both hands to move it. She pulled away, cursing. Next she went to the door and pressed an ear to the wood. For a moment, she listened but there was nothing to hear. She took the brass doorknob in her hand and attempted to turn it. Nothing happened. It wouldn’t even jiggle a little. “Blast,” she said, striking the door with her fist. Cognizant that she had perhaps made enough noise to draw attention, Verve limped back toward the bed, ready to pretend she had been resting. But halfway there she paused.

There was only silence in the house. No guards came running, no one yelled at her to stay put, and no alarm rang out in the halls beyond. Either they hadn’t heard her or they simply did not care enough to check.

A heavy feeling settled on Verve like a cloak. It weighed her down and caused her to sink to her knees. Gone was her rage, the one thing that might have propelled her to try the window again or at least explore the room for weaknesses.

The ceiling had to be sixteen feet high. The room itself seemed to expand before her eyes, giving Verve the feeling of being a mouse trapped in a giant’s house.

Her breaths became shallow. There was so much room, all of it blood-red. Verve’s chest tightened, and her skin flushed even as she shivered. Everything began to spin and blur. Verve laid her head on the floor and closed her eyes, willing sleep to take over, but it would not. Trapped.

It would have been a relief to cry, but tears would make her weak, and she might never stop if she started. So gasping, she lay there, trying to distract herself until she heard footsteps approaching the door.

There was a click and the door groaned open, bringing with it a warm blast of air. Feet shuffled into Verve’s line of sight and gentle hands lifted her.

Verve was too busy trying to catch her breath to lash out…not that it would do any good. The arms were strong and bore her to a chair by the fire. Then, after several heartbeats, the person sat down with her in their lap and began to rock.

Ragged breaths were all Verve could manage, until she felt her corset loosen. A finger ran down her face, and she felt herself sinking to unconsciousness as they rocked. It reminded Verve of being a child, of Mother singing sweet songs of a faraway land at night.

All was silent and still, save for the gentle creaking of boards and her own yawn as she at last succumbed to the trials of the day and fell asleep.