by Emily Mckay
“Thank the Thread—” She breaks off. “You!”
Oh good. She remembers me.
And she’s clearly super excited that I’m here to rescue her.
Then she points at Kendal and says blandly, “And you’ve allowed a Kellas cat to sneak up behind you.”
“Kendal is with me,” I say. “She’s helping me rescue you.”
The princess huffs. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“How is the Curator?”
“Can you get us out?”
The princess is standing at the bars. She isn’t touching them, so they must be made of iron. But she’s so close, the folds of her dress pour out from between them. The cell is empty except for a lump of what looks like old blankets in the corner.
All the cells I passed were empty. The cell opposite this one is as well. Which means that lump isn’t a pile of blankets. It’s the Curator.
“How is she?” I ask. “Have you done anything to help her?”
“What could I possibly have done?” The princess’s hands flutter in a gesture of futility. “I have none of my powers here. I can’t heal her. I can’t heal myself.”
I step back just long enough to look at the princess. She is in the same rose-petal-covered dress she wore before, but the past twenty-four hours have clearly taken their toll. Her skin is smudged with dirt, the dress torn where the hellhounds grabbed her. She is bruised but not injured. On the other hand, I’ve seen no more than a faint shuddering from the lump in the corner. The princess may be fine, but the Curator is not.
That sense of unease I had when I turned into the hall condenses into a hard seed in my chest. I need to get them out of here. Fast.
Panicking won’t do the Curator any good. I need to focus. I grab the metal bars to give them a shake. The instant I take the metal in my hands, the princess gasps and leaps back. When the bars don’t burn me, she leans forward, ogling my hands.
“Oh, right. Your callused Dark-Worlder skin protects you.”
She holds out her own hand and examines it, clearly admiring her pale, translucent skin.
There’s no easy hack, like the bolts from Kane’s Faraday Cage, so I crouch in front of the lock and examine it.
“I am correct, am I not?”
“Yeah. I guess.” Does she think this is helping?
She nods, looking satisfied. “That explains why you are so small and stunted.”
“I’m not stunted!” I blow out a breath.
I do not have the emotional energy to put up with the princess right now. Not when the Curator is barely moving.
Like the rest of the hardware here, the lock is sturdy but outdated. It’s a simple pin tumbler design. The security must rely on the fact that the prisoners can’t even touch the lock. “Do you have a bobby pin or something?”
“A what?”
“Anything long and pokey.”
The princess frowns, but reaches into her hair. Then she holds out her hand to reveal four long, U-shaped pins. I reach through the bars and scoop them out of her hand. They should do the trick.
I pull my messenger bag around the front of my body and dig through it for a moment before I find my Leatherman tool and flashlight.
“Okay,” I say. “Step back.”
“Oh! I have read a lot about your many explosive devices in the Dark World,” the princess says. “Are you going to blow the door off?”
“No. I’m going to pick the lock.” I gesture to her frothy skirt. “You’re in the way.”
The princess takes a step back. “Oh,” she says, sounding disappointed.
“If I had a grenade in my bag, don’t you think I would have used it against the hellhounds?”
“I thought perhaps you had made such a device before coming to rescue me.”
Restraining an eye roll, I crouch down in front of the lock. I’ve never picked an actual lock on a jail cell before, but I know the theory. I use the nail file on my Leatherman as a tension wrench and slide it into the lock. I slide the smallest pin in above it and rake it forward, counting the number of pins in the lock. There are only three, and I can feel the first one catch already.
“Are you a thief in your world?” the princess asks.
I nearly laugh, then realize she’s serious. “Oh. Um, no.”
I slide the bobby pin forward and up, but it slips. My hands are shaking.
I glance at the lump in the corner. She’s still not moving.
I have got to get my shit together. I shift so that I’m sitting cross-legged instead of crouching on my haunches. I place the Leatherman and the bobby pins on my knees and scrub my palms on my jeans.
I give my hands another shake to get the tremors out and try again. Slide in the tension wrench, slide the bobby pin in until it catches a pin. Focus on the feel. Don’t think about the Curator, in pain, huddled in the corner.
I slide the pick back, then forward, and gently press up the next pin. I exhale and launch into another bout of nervous babbling.
“My mom works for a lot of rich people. People with drivers and paid security and stuff. You’d be surprised the things someone will teach a bored kid. I know how to make a soufflé. How to hotwire a car.” I press the final pin up and use the tension wrench to turn the tumbler. “And how to pick a lock.”
The gate swings open.
I give a sweeping gesture.
I expect to see gratitude, or at least relief on the princess’s face, but she sweeps out of the cell without comment. Kane is right—she is a brat.
But I don’t waste time on the princess. The Curator can’t wait.
As I move into the cell, that seed of fear cracks and sprouts, nourished by the intangible sense that something is deeply wrong. I crouch beside the lump of blankets, my hand hovering over the peak where her shoulder seems like it would be.
“Curator,” I whisper. “We’re here to rescue you.”
The lump shudders but doesn’t rise.
I find the edge of the blanket and peel it back to reveal her face, barely visible in the misty, dawn light. Her temple is marred by a nasty gash. The blood from the wound has dried into the wrinkles on her skin. But that’s not what freaks me out. It’s the pained shuddering of her breath. The pink foam of blood on her lips.
I put my hand on her cheek. Her skin is blazing hot. Almost tight.
Her eyes roll before settling on me, like she doesn’t really see me.
“It’s me, Edie,” I say.
Her eyelashes flutter, but her gaze doesn’t clear.
“We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“No,” she mutters again. Then, suddenly, her vision clears. She grabs my arm with surprising strength and she squeezes hard. “You must get back to the Dark World, Edena Allegra Keller. To find the lost Oidrhe.”
So she does recognize me. I hold her hand tight. “Yes, I will go back to the Dark World,” I agree. “I need you to open the threshold for me.”
Her grip on my arm tightens as horrible gurgling accompanies her rasping breath. “No. You must open the threshold.”
“I can’t open the threshold.”
“Yes. You can. You did it before.” Again, her gaze seems to sear mine. “I release you from our first binding promise.”
Behind me I hear footsteps. Kane skids to a halt behind me. Ro must have followed him in, because she’s right behind Kendal and the princess, who are just outside the doors of the cell.
I look at Kane. “Her injuries are bad. We have to get her back to the boat. Or Crescent Island. The princess can heal her there.”
But the hand on my arm clenches with unexpected strength, pulling me closer.
“I waited for you…” There’s another horrible bubbling sound, as her gaze meets mine. “Edena Allegra Keller, promise you will find the lost Oidrhe.”
“Yes, of
course! I will, but—”
“Your word.”
“Of course, I give you my word. But—”
Her hand is barely strong enough to grip my arm, but, still, I feel it. The magic that courses between us. The moment I give my word, she pushes the last of her will through the thread between us to bind the promise.
From behind me, I hear the princess gasp.
Okay, so I didn’t imagine it. That promise really was knock-me-on-my-ass powerful.
“Step aside,” Kane says from behind me. “I’ll pick her up. We can be at the boat—”
“No,” the Curator says. “Tell them, Edie.”
Her gaze holds mine for another heartbeat—for another agonizing, shuddering breath—and then her eyes flicker closed.
I look over my shoulder at the others. They’re impatient. They’re not willfully blind, just ignorant.
The Tuatha live long lives. They get wounded in battle, but their wounds are healed by magic. They don’t have Ebola or AIDS or famine. They don’t have cancer. They don’t know death.
Not like I do.
I know death. I have seen it haunting my mother’s eyes. I have felt it whisper past my room in the night. I have heard it rattle at the window and seep in under the door.
I know death. It’s not always the enemy. Sometimes, it’s a blessing. It’s a relief.
I lean over the Curator. “I will do it,” I murmur. “I’ll find the lost Oidrhe. I promise. I’ll restore order to the Kingdoms of Mithres.”
This promise isn’t a binding promise. Not like the last one. I give it freely. Not because I have to, but because it’s the right thing to do.
A thin-skinned hand reaches toward my face. Instinctively, I grasp it and cup it to my cheek.
“My child,” she murmurs. “It is your destiny.”
Then before I can do anything else, her hand goes limp in mine. She is gone.
That seed of panic in my chest blooms into a full-grown plant, big enough to push a sob out of me.
I feel hands on my shoulders. Kane pulls me to my feet. I try to wrench myself from his grasp, but he holds tight to my shoulders and pulls me against him.
“Shit,” I mutter. “How the hell am I supposed to get home now. Let alone find the lost Oidrhe.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“I hate to be the one to interrupt this touching display of grief,” the princess says with cool disdain. “But shouldn’t we leave before the hellhounds come tearing in here and rip us to shreds?”
“Shut up,” Kane says over his shoulder.
I look from her to Kane and back again.
Oh, crap.
This isn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to rescue her. This was the moment when they were supposed to start falling in love.
And I’ve buggered it.
I pull away from Kane. “No. She’s right. We need to go.”
We move quickly after that. I push aside my despair and fall in line beside Kane, who seems to have some idea about where we’re going, even though I don’t. We race through the abandoned wing of the prison and out into the misty sunlight of dawn.
And find ourselves surrounded by hellhounds.
Excerpt from
Book Five of The Traveler Chronicles:
The Traveler Undone
“Did you get the princess?” Morgan asks as soon as the loop closes behind me.
I step to the side to reveal the princess.
Morgan nods. He heads back to the wheelhouse, pausing halfway there. “You run into any trouble?”
“I always run into trouble, don’t I?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I’ve mentioned how terrifying hellhounds are, right?
I mean, I’ve never been a dog person to begin with, but these things are so damn big. And muscly. And drooly.
Yeah. Really, none of it is okay.
We all skid to a halt right outside the doors to the fortress, Kane thrusting out his arms like he can somehow protect us from them. The princess gasps and takes a step back. Kendal growls low in her throat.
A single hellhound would be bad enough to make me pee my pants. But now, we’re facing nearly a dozen of them spread out, two deep, in a semicircle around the door.
No, wait—I do some quick counting—thirteen.
A baker’s dozen.
Which is a lot.
“Anyone else notice they aren’t moving?” Kane asks, sotto voce.
Sure enough, they are still, their muscles taut and poised, but unflinching.
“Um…yeah,” I whisper back. “The lack of having my throat ripped out would be hard to miss.”
“What’s wrong with them?” the princess asks.
“What is wrong with them,” a voice calls out, “Is that I have ordered them not to attack.”
The only movement is from a single man wending his way through the hellhounds.
Like all the Tuatha, he is tall and thin, impeccably dressed in a gray pin-striped suit. His crisp white dress shirt is buttoned all the way up. His features are fine-boned, almost elegant, despite the pinched quality around his eyes.
Kane tenses. “Smyth.”
Of course. Smyth. The leader of the Council of Sleekers. Kane’s most powerful enemy.
Mine, too, since he is, undoubtedly, the man who has dispatched hellhounds to attack me not once, not twice, but at least three times.
“What do you want?” Kane asks.
Which is pretty ballsy, considering.
“What do I want?” Smyth taunts. “Interesting question, considering you have come to my home. You have removed one of my guests from the safety of her confinement. And worst of all”—he pauses as his lips curl in disgust—“you had the unmitigated gall to bring with you this Dark Worlder.” His voice rises sharply. “To my island!”
The hellhounds lean forward, drawing closer to his rage.
Smyth pauses and takes a deep breath. And then he says, noticeably more controlled, “All of which I might have overlooked…if you were not obviously attempting to renege on our bargain.”
Kane’s shoulders slump, almost imperceptibly.
“Wait! What?” I ask. I look from Smyth to Kane. “Your bargain?”
Smyth’s nose twitches and for the first time, he looks at me. “Yes. Bargain.” He nods at Kane. “Did you fail to tell her that you were in my employ?”
“I don’t work for you,” Kane growls.
“I disagree,” Smyth says smoothly. “I hired you to keep the princess from her wedding. When that job is complete, I will pay you in an agreed-upon currency. That is the very definition of employment.”
“Wait! What?”
I’m repeating myself. Yeah. I get that.
I take a step away from Kane. “You were hired to keep the princess from her wedding? I don’t—”
My mind stumbles over this new information.
But Smyth is clearly unconcerned by my confusion. “Lucky for you, I am a forgiving man. And you happen to have something I want.”
Kane’s gaze narrows. “I do?”
Smyth tips his head. “Indeed, you do. So, Mr. Travers, I will strike you a second bargain. One you will find more than fair.”
“I’m listening,” he says.
“You, the princess, and the rest of your companions may leave this island unharmed. Your Siren has already been returned to the boat.” He pauses, tipping his head ever so slightly in my direction. “And in exchange, you will leave the Dark Worlder with me.”
“Not. Likely.”
“Then you will all die,” Smyth says simply.
Then, as if he’s tired of the conversation, Smyth turns away. The hellhounds inch forward.
“Wait!” I yell.
Smyth raises a clenched fist in the air, and the hellhound
s freeze again. Slowly he turns back around, his gaze on me.
I step forward without thinking. What else can I do? I can’t let my friends be killed. I can’t let Kane die, not after all I’ve done to save his life.
“I’ll go with you. But I need a moment. To talk to Kane,” I add hastily.
Smyth studies me for a moment as a chilling smile crosses his face. “Very well.”
I glance back at the princess and Kendal. Kendal seems to know what I am thinking because she nudges against the princess’s legs and then the two of them step back, giving Kane and me space.
Smyth is not as polite. I put my hand on Kane’s arm and lead him a few steps away from the others.
Kane talks before I do. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“It’ll be okay. Smyth isn’t going to hurt me. I know this.”
“Really? More knowledge from the books?”
“No.” Surprise flickers over Kane’s expression. “Remember? I’m Sleeker born. Smyth isn’t going to want to kill me. I’ll be fine.”
I almost even believe it. But the truth is, I have no idea what Smyth’s intentions are. I know only that I have to get Kane and the princess off this island. That’s why I’m here.
And I’m running out of time.
“But before you go, I have to tell you—”
“I know.”
I must look confused, because Kane continues. “I know that I’m supposed to fall in love with the princess. That I’m supposed to marry her and take my place as High King. Kendal told me.”
“Good.” I nod, squelching my own feelings. That’s how the books are supposed to end. “But that’s not what I need to tell you. When you go to St. Lew, don’t trust anyone. There’s an assassin at the church. You’ll be shot.”
I blurt the words out, relieved to be able to voice them now that the Curator has released me from my binding promise.
Kane doesn’t even have the good grace to look surprised. “An assassin?”
I can’t tell from his expression if he believes me or not. “Yes. If you know what’s going to happen, you can—”
“Enough!” Smyth barks the word like in order. “Your time is up.”
“No.” I hold out my hand to ward him off. “Just another—”