“This is a terrible idea,” Anabelle whispers as we walk into the pub. The hood of her sweatshirt is tugged halfway down her face, so I have to guide her around the dimly lit tables.
I’ve already commandeered Kieran’s cap. His scarf too. I take in the early evening crowd, mostly paunchy, middle-aged men leaning over pints, watching reruns of a football match. The man closest to the end of the bar gives us a side glance as we walk in. The rest stay glued to the screen.
The princess is right. This isn’t the best of ideas, but our need to get off London’s streets has escalated to crucial levels. Just like my hunger. It’s been over a day since I’ve had anything more than the expired, crumbling granola bar I foraged from the Jaguar’s glove box.
“We need to eat and regroup,” I tell her. “If someone recognizes us, Kieran can wipe their memory.”
“Right. Because his spell worked so well last time.” Anabelle flops into a booth. “That was a Grade A, bloody circus of a disaster. I think every news venue in Britain caught that on tape.”
Most of the pub’s screens are switched to the football match, but the closest one is all news. In the brief time we’ve been sitting here Richard’s image has flashed twice. The first photograph shows him in his polo gear, arm slung around Edmund, one of his Eton buddies. The second is from the red carpet at the Winfreds’ gala. It has to be, because I can see the embroidered sleeve of my dress.
My face is cut out completely.
Kieran shrugs off his peacoat and moves into the booth next to Anabelle. “I underestimated the power of this city. I’m sorry, I didn’t feel the spell slipping until it was too late.”
I look at the coat still draped over his arm, burn marks wormed into its sleeve. The ring of ruined fabric hugs his thermal shirt too, in the exact pattern of his scar—the one Titania was so certain meant betrayal.
The Ad-hene can’t be trusted.
Was Titania right? I think of how solid and sure Kieran’s magic felt in the square. How little the sickness of the machines seemed to affect him, despite his age. Was it possible Kieran let the veiling spell fall? That he meant for us to be exposed?
Kieran’s slate-gray eyes catch mine. “I won’t be able to hide all of us again. Perhaps just one. If the situation is dire.”
“At least we found something.” Anabelle picks up a menu. Lets it fall back down to the table without so much as a glance. “Queen Titania will send us the dog and we can find out who spelled it.”
A woman comes up to the table, takes our order. Anabelle slouches far into her end of the booth, and I can’t help but tug down my cap. But the waitress has eyes only for Kieran. She doesn’t even seem to notice the burn on his sleeve.
I can’t help but look at the screen. The reporter’s voice buzzes through the speakers. Eternally loud.
“What was supposed to be a national celebration turned tragic yesterday when King Richard’s coronation carriage was attacked by a spirit known as a Black Dog.”
The screen flashes to shots of that morning. Eight plumed horses pulling the Gold State Coach through a sea of cheers and flags. Richard peering out the window. Then, a sudden jerk of the camera, to the huge hulk of shadow which barrels through the crowd. The Black Dog.
I wait for the camera to pan back to the carriage. To show the masked men and my fight, but the scene stays glued to Blæc. The swirling chaos of people and Fae around it.
A distraction. That’s all the Black Dog was. A savage, deadly distraction. I wonder if any of the hundreds of cameras managed to capture Richard’s kidnapping.
It’s like the stage magicians from the Victorian age. The ones veiled in smoke and capes, who yanked rabbits from top hats in the name of magic. Who used beautiful women and shining lights to lure the audience’s attention from the truth. The simplicities of hidden compartments and trapdoors. The art of sleight of hand.
So what were the mechanics of this trick? How did all those men and Richard simply disappear under so many watchful eyes and lenses? In such a space as Trafalgar Square?
Another piece of the puzzle. Missing.
“The monster left a wake of bodies and missing persons. The most notable being King Richard himself. Rumors are circulating that Princess Anabelle has gone missing as well. Like King Richard, she was last seen in the company of Emrys Léoflic. The alleged former Fae has also dropped off the radar.”
A portrait of Anabelle seated at a grand piano flashes across the screen. Another picture fades in over it: me leaping off Lord Winfred’s yacht. Braced for battle with the Kelpie.
“Many are speculating that Emrys’s involvement in the royals’ disappearance is more than just coincidence. Meryl Munson uncovers more in an exclusive interview with one of King Richard’s closest friends.”
The screen flashes over to Edmund. He’s suited in his polo gear, smiling at the pretty brunette reporter beside him. “I never did like Emrys. Richard never was the same after she started showing up. Almost like he was possessed, like he’d been put under some sort of sick love spell.”
“Do you think this is the case?” Meryl Munson leans in close.
“Definitely.” Edmund nods. “The Richard I knew was never into gingers.”
I sigh at the steaming plate of food the waitress shoved in front of me. Anabelle mumbles something about first-rate arses and stabs her fork into her jacket potato. Kieran stares doubtfully at the fish and chips he ordered for show.
“Ever had chips before?” The princess nods at the basket. Its newspaper lining is nearly translucent with grease spots.
“I don’t eat.”
“They’re best with vinegar on them.” Anabelle grabs a bottle from the condiments stand, douses the greasy pile. Once the chips are thoroughly soaked, she shoves the basket closer to the Ad-hene. “Try it.”
To my surprise Kieran fishes out one of the larger pieces, gripping it between his fingers like a cigarette. His nose wrinkles as he shoves it between his lips.
“Delicious, right?” The princess grabs a couple of chips for herself.
The Ad-hene’s eyes turn to slits, his cheeks puff out like an angry fish’s. He nods anyway.
I can’t help but smile at the squeeze of distaste on his face. Anabelle doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy shoving past Kieran, out of the booth. Excusing herself for the water closet.
As soon as the princess is out of sight the Ad-hene grabs a napkin and spits out the chip. His handsome face is still crinkled as he downs half a glass of water, trying his best to drown out the taste.
“You didn’t have to try it,” I tell him.
“It’s a small thing.” Kieran shrugs, looks over his shoulder to where Anabelle’s hooded silhouette coasts past the bar. “If I hadn’t tried it, I would not have known how terrible it was.”
I snatch a chip of my own. Salt and vinegar swim like cold fire across my tongue, through my nose. “Some things are an acquired taste.”
“Like mortality?” The Ad-hene pushes the entire basket across the table. Scar-silver glints through the elaborate burn of his shirt. Some of it has already changed, shifting to the color of flesh with the pattern of the Labyrinth’s tunnels.
Kieran glances down at the singe-mark. “You don’t trust me.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to. It’s in your eyes.” His eyes meet mine—so steely, so beautiful—and for a moment I believe the mortals’ stories about the Ad-hene. Too evil for heaven. Too pure for hell. Forever in limbo, suspended on the earth. “You don’t trust me, but you need me.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Let’s say the Ad-hene are tricking you. Let’s say we did free the prisoner. Why would they send me to help you? What would I have to gain from you finding your king?”
I bite my lip, stare at the basket of soaking chips.
The Ad-hene pulls his arms off the table. “Stories of you traveled through the Labyrinth. How gifted you were in the art of your magic. You and I both know you could follow this trail yourself. If you truly did not trust me.”
“My magic is gone.” I say this with force. As much for myself as for Kieran.
“Is it? Beyond recall?”
I think of the day Herne’s gloved hand grasped mine. How my powers twisted out, leaving me grounded. I think of the night when I stood on Windsor Castle’s green and watched mortals and Frithemaeg dancing together. Laughing, happy. How I turned to Herne and asked without words. Bared the weakness of my soul under the Wild Hunt moon.
Not beyond recall. Not completely.
I could return to Windsor and accept Herne the Hunter’s offer. I could have power again: singing through me like a hurricane, some fearsome force of nature. The want I felt at the first touch of Kieran’s veiling spell returns. Swells through my insides with fearsome strength.
No more weakness. No more being pinned down like an insect while my heart is torn away.
But the cost . . .
As if on cue, another clip of Richard flashes on the screen. It’s from the same night as the red carpet. I know because this time I’m still in the frame. His eyes are on me: smiling, full of light. Our arms are hooked together as we walk to the boat. I’m smiling too.
Another emptiness rears inside, the pain of him gone. It’s a wonder I can sit here at this table. Swallow vinegar and chips, talk like a normal person.
“I can’t.” Take my magic back. Give Richard up. Go back to living the way I was before.
“I saw the look on your face in Trafalgar Square. You want it,” Kieran presses. He’s speaking in that sly voice of his—sowing words and ideas into the folds of my brain. To seed and sprout and grow. “You were never meant to live this way.”
“There are some things I want more. I made my choice,” I say again. “Some love is worth death.”
“Is it worth him dying?” Kieran nods at the television, where Richard is still guiding me to the yacht ramp. The words TAINTED LOVE: KING RICHARD’S FATAL MISTAKE? scroll across the bottom of the screen.
I want to tell him his question is ridiculous. Pointless.
But it’s not. And we both know it.
Anabelle returns, pushing Kieran to the far end of the booth. Worry is all across her pretty face. She nods at the screen. “We might want to eat quick.”
The television blares, extra loud: “This just in. There’s been a fresh attack in Trafalgar Square. Emrys Léoflic and an unidentified male were sighted, just before a brutal spell was unleashed on authorities. Princess Anabelle was also seen with them, apparently as a hostage.”
A shaky camera shot shows my hair, streaming so very red behind me like a banner as I drag Anabelle across the square.
My hand drifts up to my new cap. A dead giveaway.
I steal a glance over to the bar. The football match is gone, the bartender’s remote flicking all the screens to the news report. The man who gave us that first side glance is looking over his shoulder. His pint is half-empty and his cheeks are ruddy, but his eyes stay keen. Straight on me.
“A hostage?” Anabelle straightens, the worry on her face twists into indignation. “That’s ridiculous!”
How did the truth get so warped? So out of focus?
The man at the end of the bar stands, drains the rest of the beer from his glass. His eyes don’t leave our table.
I might not know where I’m going, but I know it’s time to leave.