by KB Anne
I stretched both my arms out to the sides tracing the hallway walls. Five. Six. Seven steps without incident. A strange object appeared in front of me. For a second I thought it was a ghost. Then the giant web ensnared my face. Before a chocked scream escaped, I slapped both hands over my mouth and choked it back, before gagging on dry filament. I fought frantically to free myself while trying not to think about the gigantic arachnid that created the web.
Spider webs are not ghosts, Starr.
Avoid both at all costs.
To avoid future web encounters, I reached my right arm out in front of me while my left hand followed the trim of the chair rail. My fae vision only gave me a faint hint of the hallway, so the going was slow. I swept my feet out in front of me to avoid knocking into anything else. I kept scratching and wiping off phantom webs from my face. Everything went according to plan and was mostly uneventful until I saw what looked like stairs.
I hesitated. Climbing up stairs didn’t make sense, but as far as I could tell, there was no other way, and I wasn’t going back to the library and into the suffocating embrace of my grandparents. I took a deep breath to calm my jagged nerves and began climbing.
One…two…three…the steady rhythm of counting stairs kept my brain occupied. There was comfort in knowing they couldn’t go on forever, and hopefully I’d be long gone before my grandparents discovered I was missing. And when they did, would they figure out I found the secret door? Did they even know about the secret door? My brain couldn’t wrap around the image of Grandmother or Grandfather whispering about daydreams and shooting stars to my dad when he was a child, especially when spending time with their only granddaughter wasn’t one of their interests.
And if my dad was a faerie prince, that must mean Grandmother and Grandfather were what? Faerie Royalty?
It was too much to wrap my head around, and lucky for me, at step twenty-four, my head whacked against the ceiling throwing my fae vision to hell. When I finally regained my bearings, I searched for a doorknob or a lock or even a slide, but there was no way out. Refusing to even consider someone built a set of stairs leading to nowhere, I braced myself and threw all my body weight into the ceiling. I tried once. Twice. The third time a trapdoor opened.
I peeked my head out and looked around. I was on a small flat island with steep roof pitches on three sides. I slowly tiptoed over to the edge, careful not to be seen in case they were already looking for me. The hedges and garden sculptures looked miniature. There was a good sixty feet between where I stood and the ground. Escaping from rooftops might be my specialty, but there was no chance of jumping and surviving that distance even if I was a faerie. Stepping back, I surveyed the roof. No obvious doors or exits, but a secret passage leading nowhere didn’t make sense.
Think Starr, think!
I closed the trapdoor and studied it. The access point for the door was two small holes not much larger than a finger width. On hands and knees, I crawled around the roof investigating every nook and cranny until I found two similar holes. I slipped my fingers in and pull, but nothing happened. Refusing to admit defeat, I stood up for leverage and pulled again. A second trapdoor opened. A permanent ladder hung from one of its sides. I could make out a table on what must be a landing.
I climbed down without hesitation. After about ten rungs, my feet hit the landing. A collection of candlestick holders, candles, and matches sat clustered on the dust-covered table. The heavy layer of dust was a good sign. No one had been here for years. I struck a match against the box. My nose crinkled from the sulfur rising in the air, but the sight of the flame was positively delicious. I no longer had to rely on my faint fae vision.
With a pewter candlestick and a lit candle in one hand, I climbed back up the ladder and closed the trapdoor. I wasn’t about to leave a single trace of evidence that I had come this way. When I returned to the landing, I grabbed some spare candles and a box of matches. I planned to prepare for the unexpected—although given my recent track record, I wasn’t shining with powerful knowing in that department.
The pewter candlestick would serve a dual purpose—light source and weapon. If anyone got too close, I’d whack them over the head with it.
Holding the candlestick in one hand, I reached out with the other and knocked down cobwebs to clear my path. The dry filament ensnared my hand, but it was a thousand times better than my face. I counted the stairs as I descended back into the mansion. One story was about twelve steps. If my calculations were correct, I climbed about two stories to get to the roof and the trick door in the library was about three stories up. After approximately sixty steps, I should reach the first floor and an escape route. Or at least that was the plan forming in my mind.
My descent was slow and uneventful and happily spider web to the face free. There was no sign that anyone was following me. At each landing, I searched for a door or a window or some means of escape, but there was nothing. Not a blocked door. Not a covered window.
At step seventy-two, my fears multiplied like the spiderwebs. I overlooked a trapdoor somewhere. Maybe I was following one of the hidden passageways for the Underground Railroad. My gut told me I was heading in the right direction. I just needed to trust my instincts and continue downward. I prayed to the gods that I wouldn’t wind up in the family crypt or some secret dungeon. Poetic justice indeed.
At step one hundred, a heavy wood door with a brass ring handle stopped me dead in my running sneakers. Beside it, there was another table covered with candlesticks, candles, matches, and a thick layer of dust. My pockets were already bulging after I took precautionary measures at the first table. I didn’t plan on getting plunged into complete darkness again if I could help it.
Grabbing the handle, I pulled with every muscle in my body. The door groaned, annoyed that I’d disturbed it after all these years, but it reluctantly opened. I thrust the candlestick through the opening. The small flame illuminated a very primitive walkway. There was no floor to speak of, only packed dirt. Thick wood posts and beams anchored the walls and ceiling. The strong, musty order of decomposing earth filled my nose. I rubbed it to stop from sneezing, but the urge to sneeze only intensified until I couldn’t control it, and it released into the silent tomb. It echoed off the earthen walls for the entire world to hear. My heart skipped a triple beat, as I waited and listened for approaching footsteps. I counted to thirty until I moved on.
With the spare candles in my pockets, I entered the tunnel. I was prepared for this part of my escape and ready to bolt out of there. However, I soon discovered that speed and candles didn’t mix. The flame kept dancing around in the darkness, flickering and sputtering. I slowed down to keep it lit, but unfortunately, I had a better view of my surroundings. My confidence in the structural integrity of the tunnel diminished when I lifted the candlestick to the ceiling. Many of the wood boards framing the corridor overhead were cracked or broken, revealing exposed earth and roots—not what an architect’s daughter wanted to see, but I had little choice but to continue forward.
Time stood still in the tunnel, but my mind wandered. I found it ironic I was escaping my grandparents through the very tunnels my descendants created to allow safe passage to those enslaved, but that was exactly what I would be to my grandparents—a slave to their every whim and fancy. A doll Grandmother could dress up and show off to her friends. An object Grandfather could add to his collection.
The overwhelming musty scent of decomposition wafted in my direction and blew out my only source of light, plunging me into mind-numbing, all-consuming darkness. I thought I knew what pitch black was, but I was wrong, so very wrong. Fear and dread oozed into every pore of my body, as panic took over. I couldn’t breathe because of the freight train that stopped on my chest. My shaky fingers fumbled with the box of matches. In my blind rush, I accidently knocked it to the ground. The sound of scattering matchsticks ricocheted all around me, teasing me, taunting me to find a needle in a haystack. I dropped to my knees. My fingers searched for the box and a match a
s if my life depended on it, because right now it did. Right now, I needed that light to keep moving forward. I couldn’t do it on my own. Not yet.
My right hand found the box on my first sweep. Matches rolled away, but I managed to grab a handful. I took deep breaths in and out to steady my nerves. When the panic was all but gone, I swiped the match across the box. The match began as a slow, small spark. As the spark devoured the splinter of wood, the flame grew, and I lit the candle. I stared at the flame, mesmerized by its power. The power of light. The power of hope.
I moved farther into the tunnel. The walls closed in around me, and the supports became less and less frequent. I climbed over fallen beams, crawled under collapsed sections, and crouched when the ceiling got too low to stand. Eventually, I moved to my hands and knees, and it became impossible to hold a candle. I blew out the candle by my own power and came to peace with the inevitable, suffocating blackness. As the blackness consumed my vision and my body, I began to see faint silvery outlines of the tunnel. In my earlier panic attack, I had forgotten about my ability to see even in the darkest of spaces. I loosed a sigh of relief.
As I crawled through the tunnel, I lost all sense of time or distance, but I kept moving forward. That was the key to success—just keep moving forward. I inched my way through the tunnel for what seemed like hours. Sharp rocks and pointy shards of wood sliced and diced the sensitive skin of my forearms. My eyes felt heavy and tired. All I wanted to do was stop and sleep, but I knew I couldn’t. If I stopped, that was it. My story couldn’t end like this. It just couldn’t.
A cold numbness took over my body, but it was better that way because I no longer felt my throbbing hands and knees. The walls of the tunnel closed in to the point where I had to wiggle my way through. An old Alfred Hitchcock episode about getting buried alive came rushing back to me. I never dreamt it would become my reality, but it was a very real possibility. I refused to give in. Defeat was not an option.
As my last sliver of hope disappeared, a strong gust of fresh air hit my face. I had to be near the end. But what would happen when I got there? Was Grandfather’s sidekick waiting for me? Should I try to find Christian or do I just disappear? The thought of never seeing his hair, his eyes, his smile again sickened me, and what of the connection between us? Was it my imagination or was there something almost magical happening? And if there was, who was I to put his life in danger? He deserved better. He didn’t deserve a life on the run.
A sliver of glass sliced my palm. I sucked it and let the salty tang of metal firm my resolve. I wouldn’t put his life in jeopardy. Christian wanted to be a hero, my hero, but I couldn’t let him. Besides, I wasn’t a damsel in distress. When I got out of here, I would disappear. Christian Evergood would never see or hear from me again.
I slithered through the tunnel determined to make it to the end. Soon I was clutching clumps of wet grass instead of dirt. I had made it. I had made it! I gulped down the fresh air in gigantic mouthfuls. It had never tasted so sweet—I became drunk on it. When I got my fill, I stood up and staggered across the grass unaware where I was headed. I was just moving…away, far away from the tunnel and the estate. A sliver of moon shed enough light for me to see, but it wasn’t until my feet crunched on gravel that I realized I should slow down. That I could be anywhere. That the Organization or my grandparents could scoop me up and lock me back into their own sick version of faerie hell.
Bright lights froze me in place. Tires screeched to a stop. Gravel scattered. A car door opened. My brain screamed at me to run, but my body refused to cooperate. Finally, I blinked and my body jump-started into action, but it was too late. Two strong arms wrapped around my waist just as I turned to run.
I punched and kicked until I became aware of electrical currents shooting through my body. What momentum I had left vanished as I collapsed into his arms. He found me.
Chapter Fifteen
Christian deposited me into the passenger seat, as if I might break into a million pieces and really, he wasn’t far off. He sprinted around the front of the car and jumped into his seat. He threw the car in drive and hit the gas. The wheels skidded as rocks and gravel spit from the back tires. I stared at him, unable to process that I was in a car with him. Finally, the power of speech returned to me. “How’d you…?”
“Later. You rest,” he said, glancing over at me. But as fast as he was driving, he needed two hands on the wheel and two eyes on the road.
Every ounce of my being wanted to close my eyes and sink into the seat, but the sight of Christian revived me. “How did you find me?”
“We’ll talk later. You need some rest.”
I glanced at the clock. It was 3:00 a.m. “You need rest too.”
“I’m okay now.”
But the dark shadows under his eyes suggested he wasn’t. I hated myself for what I had done to him. “I’m a horrible person.”
“What are you talking about?” he said, taking his eyes off the road to look at me. “You are not a horrible person. The farthest thing from it.”
“I keep getting myself into trouble, and you keep saving me.”
“Well, that’s true,” he said, “but what good is a guardian angel without someone to protect?”
He didn’t just...
“Wh…what did you say?”
“Guardian angel,” he replied with a smug grin. “Last night you called me your guardian angel.”
“I said that out loud?” My cheeks burned with heat. For the first time all night, I welcomed the darkness.
“Yes you did, but I’m not doing a very good job so far.”
Sitting upright in my seat, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “How can you say that? You’re doing a great job!”
“Yeah right!” he snapped. “I can’t seem to keep my eyes on you long enough to keep you out of trouble.”
“Me getting into trouble has nothing to do with you. I did that all on my own.”
He turned to me, his face seething with anger. “You asked a secret organization to turn you into an assassin?”
I shook my head, “No, but I did go for a run, and I did go on that stupid tour.”
“You were at the mansion?” he cried. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “I drove past that place a dozen times and kept buzzing the gate. I knew you were there. I just knew it! The sign said it was open until five, but the gate was locked and no one answered the buzzer. I can’t believe you were in there. I was so close, so close.” His head shook back and forth.
Way to go Starr! Way to go!
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Why did you go on the tour anyway?”
I shrugged my shoulders. It seemed stupid now, but instead of denying the truth, I wanted to make him understand.
“I love old buildings and architectural detail. The mansion was familiar to me, and I couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t until my grandmother recognized me that the trouble began.”
“Grandmother?”
I was divulging in secrets I’d never told anyone in my entire life. Well, most of them. Secrets that only my mom knew. I didn’t know if she’d be very happy with me telling Christian, but she’d understand. Neither one of us expected my current situation. “Ever hear of Silverlain Chocolates?”
“Of course! I grew up in the south. Dream Creams and Bee Buzz Sticks are my favorites.”
They were my favorite, too. I remembered sneaking the sweet treats from the crystal bowls scattered around the house. Mom always knew I ate candy by the telltale chocolate mustache. “My grandparents own the company and the estate.”
His blue eyes nearly popped out of his head. “The owners of that place are your grandparents?”
“Y—e—p,” I said, crushing my head against the headrest. “They’re my grandparents.”
Chapter Sixteen
The soft glow of a motel window lit the room enough for me to make out Christian’s outline. He was asleep in a chair with his head cocked back at a violent angle, with his le
gs stretched out in front of him. Why was he sleeping in the chair? A quick inventory of the room revealed only one bed.
Christian was a hero and a gentleman, but the person who kept saving my life should have a comfortable place to sleep. I wondered if I could lift him over to the bed. He was like six-two or six-three. Probably not, but if I pushed the chair over, I could shift him into it.
I climbed out of bed and stood in front of him. I smiled as I watched him sleep. He looked like a guardian angel, a very uncomfortable guardian angel.
His eyes flashed open. My heart jumped. I was so busted. “Is there something I can help you with?”
His voice was thick with sleep.
“No, I just wanted to move you over to the bed.”
A sheepish grin crossed his face. “All 125 pounds of you?”
“I didn’t say it would be easy, but since you’re awake, go sleep in the bed.”
He straightened in his chair. His eyes danced with mischief. “Where will you sleep?”
My breath caught in surprise. We shifted into flirty mode without me even realizing it, but I’d never admit my attraction to him. Not with so much at stake.
“I’ll sleep in the chair a while.”
He collapsed back into it. “No, you sleep in the bed. The chair’s perfect for me.”
“We’ll both sleep in the bed.”
He held his hands to his chest his eyes wide. “What about my virtue?”
His adorable virtuousness made my cheeks hot. I thanked the gods the lights weren’t on. “Your virtue will remain intact. Now get in bed!”
“As you wish.” He stood up in front of me our faces only inches apart. My stomach tightened. I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t sure if he was going to kiss me or if I was ready for him to kiss me. I mean I just met him officially last night. Or was it the night before? Everything was a blur.