Court of Shadows

by Madeleine Roux

  “What are you doing, Louisa?” he whispered.

  “He told you the truth,” I pushed on. My hands were sweating profusely. The earth felt like it was moving underneath me, like I might be sick at any moment. My throat was closing in panic, but I went on, determined now to see my plan, not Henry’s, through. “He told you the truth, sir, but I did not.”

  “I knew it.” Sparrow was elated, springing toward me with a throaty laugh.

  “Shut up,” I spat, glaring at her. “The truth is that Mr. Morningside does not know the location of the book, but I do.”

  Henry’s eyes found mine and he shook his head urgently, mouthing things at me that I could not and would not obey.

  “I lied to him,” I said, and that was a lie, too. He had told me to conceal the location, to keep it to myself until he asked for it. This, at least, would somewhat exonerate him. “That’s how he passed your Judgment, Sparrow. He honestly knows no other location.”

  “Why would you do this?” the shepherd murmured. He didn’t sound angry, exactly, just sad.

  “Because the book is gone,” I called back. The pavilion became one massive gasp. “It’s gone, forever. Only one person has its knowledge because he devoured it. It’s in him, in his mind, in his blood, and I have delivered him to you. Tonight.”

  It was no longer gasps I heard but outraged shouts. Liar! was the most popular response to shout at me. I stood still, absorbing it all, letting them curse at me and fling insults. For once, Sparrow was reduced to stunned silence.

  “There,” I said, turning and pointing. I had half expected Father to flee altogether once he divined my intentions. But no, he had arrived, moving to the center back of the pavilion. All eyes raced to find him, and a ripple of fear and excitement followed his discovery. He stood looming over the others, taller and larger than them all, the ashy mist rolling off his face darker and more sinister than I remembered it. The fairy lights seemed to dim around him, as if shying away.

  “Blood and thunder,” Mr. Morningside swore, diving toward me and taking my arm. “What are you trying to do, Louisa?”

  “Unhand my daughter,” Father said, so softly and surely that I almost could not hear him. But all had gone quiet, for everyone wanted to hear what he would say. Under that curiosity I sensed a rising fear, and I noticed more than one person in the crowd begin to edge toward us, preparing to run for the portal.

  “You were defeated.” The shepherd’s voice shook with emotion, his angels gathering around him. “Your kingdom sleeps eternal.”

  “Does it?” Father laughed, taking the flour sack and the book within it and hoisting it over his head. “Night fades, slumber breaks, and now those you betrayed are waking up. My daughter is one such child, one of mine, the first and last children, and she has brought me a magnificent gift.” His gaze fell on Mr. Morningside, who had not taken his hand from my elbow and was, in fact, squeezing it hard enough to bruise. “I smell your fear, Lier-In-Wait; remove yourself from my daughter or I will tear this book in half before your very eyes.”

  Mr. Morningside released my arm, taking one giant step away. I heard his noisy swallow of fear and looked to him, lip quivering with shame.

  “That’s not possible!” Chijioke rushed forward from the crowd. His face was pained, his red eyes filling with moisture. “Louisa!”

  “Do it, you old bastard,” Mr. Morningside jeered. “You lack the courage.”

  Now the crowd broke in earnest, screams rending the air as I was pushed this way and that, the onlookers running for the way out. An empty no-man’s-land appeared before Father, a swath of carpet that no one dared to tread.

  “Defend us, defend us all!” the shepherd shouted, and his Adjudicators sprang to life, each of them gliding above us on massive white wings, their golden bodies almost blinding as they charged.

  “How could you do this to us?” Chijioke begged, snatching up my hand and shaking me. “How?”

  “Peace, good man.” Mr. Morningside had waded back toward us through the sea of bodies streaming toward the portal. He slapped Chijioke on the shoulder and gave me a wink. “You underestimate our dear Louisa.”

  “She betrayed us,” Chijioke thundered, and it tore at my heart.

  “Did she?” Mr. Morningside, holding his shoulder, turned him back toward Father and the melee ensuing.

  The angels descended on him, golden arms rippling, reshaping into scythes and shields. They amassed before him, preparing to dive, shining weapons held high. Father seemed to grow larger, bolder, the swirling dark mist around him gathering like smoky armor. Sparrow gave a mighty cry and swooped down toward him, scythe slashing. He smashed his arm through her golden shield, shards of bright metal showering the last of the crowd to flee. They screamed as she did, though her cries were loudest, Father’s talons ripping across her throat as he grabbed her by the neck, then tossed her across the pavilion. She slammed into the pole nearest us, shaking the ground and the tent, her limp body sliding to the ground in a heap.

  “No!” The shepherd vaulted off the stage and ran to her. He lifted her head and she moaned.

  Finch was the next to give his shout of battle and charge Father, and I stumbled toward them, not wishing harm upon someone who had been so kind to me. But he was joined at once by Big Earl, whose hand had become a lance. He landed a glancing blow before Father knocked them both across the pavilion and over our heads.

  Chijioke made as if to run in and fight with them, and I grabbed the back of his red coat, yanking him away. “Don’t, it isn’t worth it!”

  “The book!” he cried. “We must get it back!”

  “You dare send your fledglings after me,” Father shouted, taking up the bag again and brandishing it like a dagger. “You will pay, you will pay what you owe, the blood of those you love, the blood of your people, the very foundations of your kingdoms will shiver before they fall!”

  Chijioke ducked as if to shield himself as Father gave an ugly laugh, pulling the flour sack away and tossing it over his shoulder. He held up the book, black, slimy, decorated with the crossed eye, and those left dazed and watching and recovering in the tent gasped. Even Mr. Morningside went rigid at my side, but then the charm faded. My Changeling powers could not withstand the potency of the pavilion, which revealed all things in their true form.

  “Ooh.” Mr. Morningside stood up, nodding approvingly. Father’s face fell; he must have felt the weight of the book shift and its size adjust, for it was not the black book, it was nothing of consequence at all. “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,” the Devil teased. “Is that from my library? Good choice.”

  The book was hurled into the air, aimed directly at me. I had no time to dodge, and it hit me squarely in the gut. I doubled over with a grunt, Chijioke wrapping his arm around me in support.

  “I thought you were a real shit for a moment there,” he said with a relieved laugh. “Another work of art, that.”

  “Don’t gloat just yet,” I wheezed. “I had half a mind to turn on Henry, and Father is still an ancient god. . . .”

  Yes, he was, and we soon learned the consequences of it. Roots exploded through the bottom of the tent, wrapping around our calves and ankles, bolting us to the ground. Father was coming toward us, stalking across the pavilion with his claws flashing and at the ready.

  “You ungrateful, faithless deceiver!” he bellowed. His voice filled the entire tent, shaking it, his wrath terrible as the roots began to pull, taking us slowly into the churned earth. He would suffocate us, I thought, but my fate would surely be worse. I had believed him when he told me he was weak, and now I would pay the price for my trust. Chijioke struggled against the roots beside me. I reached into my apron, pulling out the spoon and bending it to my will. If only I could turn it into a knife for just a second, just long enough to cut free of these roots . . . But it was no use. The pavilion was fighting me, keeping me from even the most basic transformation.

  Even Mr. Morningside was powerless against the pull of the earth. I
could see him trying to blink forward, but when he managed it, another root lashed out, taking hold.

  Father was upon us, his cloak of mist and leaves billowing out around him. His black-and-red eyes were only for me, the ugly skull face twisting into a hideous smile.

  “You were going to kill me all along!” I screamed, defiant. “Now’s your big chance!”

  “Yes, foolish child, and I will relish it. . . .”

  The mist reached me, cold and paralyzing, wrapping around me as if to choke me while the roots took me into their annihilating embrace. Chijioke clawed at the ground, wheezing, finding no purchase and no strength against the fury of nature. Distantly I smelled smoke, and heard a soft, almost dance-like crackling. Father reared up, claws sparkling; they flashed red and purple and yellow in the fairy lights before they came for my face.

  He managed only one swipe, a single talon grazing my cheek, hot blood pouring down my face. But then there came a crack, clear as lightning, and Father froze above us, then collapsed to the side in a heap.

  A bronzed young man stood over the fallen body, chest heaving. He was dressed only in rags, heavily scarred, with strange tattoos covering his arms and shoulders. Was I going mad? It wasn’t possible. . . .

  There was no time to wonder or speak as a gout of red flower bloomed to our left. Then came the smoke. Then the fire.

  The pavilion was going up in a blaze.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Smoke carpeted the pavilion as the lower edges of the canvas burned away, the flames leaping higher and higher, spreading to the ceiling. The roots went suddenly slack, and I glanced toward Father—he was still out cold. I climbed to my feet, helped up by the mysterious young man who had interceded on our behalf.

  The shepherd limped toward us, holding up Sparrow. Finch and the shepherd’s dog were well enough to walk, and followed, then aided us in gaining our feet. Cursing, Mr. Morningside ran first toward the front of the pavilion and then changed his mind, joining us again in the middle.

  “It’s . . . it’s too hot. We cannot go that way!”

  “Out the back!” Chijioke yelled, gesturing for us to follow. “And if that fails, we take the portal.”

  “Where does it lead?” I asked as we moved as one slow group past the tables, the stage, and around toward the very end of the pavilion.

  “Leeds Castle,” Mr. Morningside shouted over the crackle of flames. “Which is only slightly better than burning to death.”

  The tattooed man at my side grabbed my hand, pulling hard. He was shaking his head, trying to speak to us, but I did not understand the language. It was like nothing I had ever heard before, and I looked to Mr. Morningside helplessly.

  “Can you understand him?” I cried.

  We had reached the portal, which was little more than a curtained doorway. I heard its pulsing magic behind the fabric, and wondered what lay beyond. But the back of the tent had suffered fewer of the flames, and Finch sprang forward, using his weapon-like arm to slice through the fabric and give us a way out. The smoke was rising, choking us, my eyes and mouth burning from it, heat licking at us from every direction as the fire swept toward this last safe bastion.

  “Something, something, something surrounded, I don’t know. My Egyptian is not what it used to be,” Mr. Morningside muttered, shoving us toward the cut in the tent. “Yes, my friend, the flames are surrounding us, good of you to notice. Come on, whatever it is can wait!”

  But the stranger was intent on making us listen, drowned out by the fire and Mr. Morningside’s calls for us to leave while we still could. We stumbled out into the night, scattering, all of us gasping for clean air as we put distance between us and the blaze. Then I stopped, panicking, whirling back toward the tent.

  “No!” I cried. “We have to get Father out!”

  Chijioke grabbed me and held me fast as I attempted to rush past and into the fire. “It’s going to collapse, it’s madness to go back in there.”

  “He has the book,” I said, extricating myself from his grasp. “And he knows where Mary is, he must! He used her hair or her blood to impersonate her. That’s how it works. We can’t let him burn!”

  Perhaps that was what the stranger had been trying to communicate all along, for he took one long look at me and bit his lip before turning and charging back into the pavilion.

  “Wait!” I screamed, trying to follow. Chijioke pulled me back again. “He helped us.” It was too smoky, too hot, but I knew we could not let Father perish. I had no idea what it would mean for all the creatures of his world, of his kingdom, and I so badly wanted to see Mary again.

  “I’m only doing this to get Mary back, the bastard,” Chijioke muttered. He pushed me away roughly and was gone, joining the boy in the tent, disappearing into the swallowing flames.

  “I won’t let them go alone; this matters to us, too,” Finch offered, sweeping past us. His body was human for only one more instant before he, too, pushed through the opening in the tent, a flash of gold blinding me before the smoke overcame him.

  “Ah. So that’s what he meant by surrounded.”

  Coughing, smoke still eating at my throat, I saw what Mr. Morningside had, that three men had emerged from the darkness, each of them holding a bayoneted rifle. Lee was right; they were more than squirrelly; they were avenging Amelia’s honor. I stared into their eyes one by one, and saw only the intent to kill. They were drawn to Coldthistle House, after all. I doubted we were the first to see the ends of those rifles.

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Morningside said, spreading his hands wide. Somehow he still looked dapper and self-possessed, even while covered in soot, his hair wild and uncombed. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  “Where’s Amelia?” Mason took a few tiny steps forward, brandishing his weapon.

  Behind us, I heard the men calling to one another in the tent. There was a terrible, heart-stopping crack as one of the interior beams gave, snapping in half. The moon shone brightly above us, not full but impressively mirrorlike, its light gleaming off the metal barrels of the guns and knives.

  “Can you not read, Mr. Breen? She left this place. You may search my pockets; I assure you she is not hiding in there,” Mr. Morningside chuckled. “But in all seriousness, this can be resolved without the use of arson or murder.”

  “Them girls in the house didn’t say much neither.” It was Samuel Potts, spitting, hammering back his rifle and lifting it to his shoulder. “You’re a creepy bunch, eh? Who’s to say you didn’t bring harm to that girl? We’ve searched this whole forest, the whole bloody county, she’s not ’ere. What’d you lot do with her?”

  A shower of fiery canvas and wood exploded into the sky, falling down on us like scarlet rain. They were running out of time in the tent and we were running out of time out here. The shepherd huddled over Sparrow, the dog curled up between them, showings its teeth and growling at the men. That seemed to make the elder Breen nervous, and he kept his gun trained on the dog, waiting for it to lunge.

  I was tired and aching, my cheek bloodied, my ankles skinned and raw. My patience felt paper thin, and then it tore, a strangled cry breaking from my throat as Mason took another daring step and poked his bayonet toward me. It nearly stabbed my hand. And I stared down the gun, knowing what came next, remembering the shot as it ripped through Lee, remembering it as if I were living it again. His terrible cry. The sound of his body hitting the floor. The press of his uncle’s body against mine as he tried and tried to snuff out my life.

  It would be different this time, I told myself, closing my eyes. It had to be.

  “Louisa . . .” Mr. Morningside had tried to nudge me but I did not move. I was concentrating, dipping deep into what little vigor remained in my body, finding a last reserve of strength and a welcome burst of inspiration.

  To become smaller was pain, most certainly; to become bigger was agony. My skin erupted, bones lengthening, flesh sprouting fur as I became not woman but beast, massive and terrifying to behold, wielding hands with
claws and a snout with fangs, and purple eyes that could pierce the night. I had drawn his blood, after all, a lucky shot, a graze of the cheek.

  My scream startled the men as much as the transformation, and they fumbled backward, clumsily bumping into one another as the whites of their eyes flashed. I could smell everything. Fear, the ash, the smoke, the musk of perspiration and the pine tang of the trees, the sweet grass and the blood welling from Sparrow’s wounds. The blood ignited something in this thing I had become, and I gave another jackal’s cry, lumbering toward the men, claws ripping at air and then, I hoped, at flesh.

  The moonlight felt like silk on my furred body as I sprang into violence. It was exhilarating even as it was exhausting. They lost their footing as I charged, and I tore into Samuel Potts first, clawing a gash in his chest that exposed bone to starlight. More blood, and more. This form could not get enough of the rich, coppery smell. Pain seared across my left side, and I yelped, spinning, batting Mason back as his bayonet sank into my hide. There was another stab and I flailed blindly, catching the elder Breen on the chin. He flew backward, but not before discharging his weapon. The bullet was fire in my chest, the blood that poured out of the hole hotter still.

  My strength was failing, my grasp on the transformation slipping. Another stab. Another. I heard Mr. Morningside bellowing at my back and I saw him, briefly, charging at the men when all their bullets had been discharged. My vision blurred, trees becoming sky becoming moon. It was so itchy all over, so warm, but then, horribly, very cold.

  I reeled, stumbling, falling from hind legs to fore, and then slowly I felt small again and the pain was worse, much worse, not endured by the body of a massive beast but that of a young and frail girl.

  There were voices all around me, a man’s cry of pain, and then another. I rolled onto my back and stared up longingly at the sky. The moon was so, so bright and beautiful. I tried to reach up and touch it, but there was no way to move my arm.

  Mr. Morningside was suddenly at my side, trying to herd me into his lap. He shook me once, hand on my cheek.