She sets the lantern down on the round table in the middle of the room. The light is weak, but it’s enough to work with, and we both set to sifting through the cabinets.
I find a tin box that rattles when I push it aside. Interest piqued, I slide the box out of the cabinet and gently settle it on the counter. It’s a medical kit. Filled with bandages—that might come in handy with my morbid habit—and some pill bottles.
I swing off my bag and rest it on the counter, then lift up the pill bottles. Bringing them closer to the lantern light, I try to read the labels.
“You’re from Switzerland, right?” I ask her. That’s where we picked her up.
She looks over her shoulder at me, then slowly draws away from the boxed pasta she found. Pasta is useless. We need boiling water to cook it, and that means starting a fire. A fire is a good way to shout your location to anyone around, by smell or light, and end up dead. We have a strong no-fire rule.
“Yes,” she says and comes up to my side.
“So you speak French,” I assume and angle the pill bottles her way.
Her mouth sets into a thin line, her narrow lips nearly swallowed whole, and she shakes her head. Greasy, dark hair swings with the gesture. “No, my language is German,” she says. “I speak some Italian too.”
And English, apparently. It’s the only language I speak.
Tiffany goes back to her boxed pastas and continues looking through the cabinets, but I keep my attention focused on the pill bottles. They might be something we could use, something that might fight off infection or numb pain or even—for me—dull the eternal ache that comes with the end of the world. But no matter how hard and long I stare at the labels, no amount of high school French lessons comes back to me, and I’m left as stupefied as when I first tried to understand Greta—a definite gypsy woman in my opinion—attempt to trade with me in her thick German accent, and she spoke barely a lick of English. She’s better now, though.
I bag the pill bottles just in case, and make a mental note to ask around the group later for someone who speaks French. I stuff some of the bandages in my bag too, but mostly leave the medical kit untouched.
I rummage through the kitchen for a while.
Tiffany and I work in silence, making our way around, then back to each other. Under the sink, I shove aside the cleaning product and feel around for torches. It’s always in a cabinet around the sink that I find those little weak torches and their batteries. This time, I come up short.
I let out a sigh and my shoulders slump.
Without light, I’m chained to Tiffany for the rest of the raid. And this is the kind of thing I like to do alone. I’m a slow worker, but it’s more than that. I like to redress my wounds in peace, snoop through diaries, sneak a few extra books (more than what I should be carrying with me), and change clothes.
I need light. So I don’t give up.
After the kitchen is clear, I leave Tiffany to raid the bathroom, and feel my way around for a bedroom.
Bedside tables often have matches at least, for candles and whatnot.
I don’t find any matches in this bedroom. I find a torch, and my heart skips a beat of joy. I slide down the switch and on-flicks a wispy white light. My smile feels unnatural, since it’s not the kind of world that deserves a lot of grins.
I don’t find any more batteries, none that will fit my bigger torch, so I move on to the wardrobe. It’s an aged, orange-wood structure that gives me a hint about the people who used to live here. Old and stiff.
Still, my cardigan sleeve is starting to dry crisp with my blood, and I’ve been wearing these sweatpants for too long. I strip down to my overworn underwear—that barely cling to me anymore—before I tear through the wardrobe.
I haven’t found even a t-shirt before the light in the room suddenly grows. I peer around the wardrobe-door, expecting to see Tiffany with her lantern in hand. But no one else is in the room with me, and the light isn’t coming from a lantern.
I freeze, my blood running cold, and my heart suddenly jumps into a hammering rhythm. My grip on the door tightens, my nails leaving crescent-dents in the wood.
With my heart leaping up to my throat, I slowly turn around and face the opposite wall. Windows stretch from floor to ceiling, and the bright orange light is piercing in through them.
It’s firelight. And it’s not coming from one of our own.
4
A frightening gasp escapes me. I drop to the floor in a blink.
I can feel every violent punch of my heart beating against my ribcage. I lie on my back, hands pressed to my mouth, as I try to think.
The light is faint for fire, which means whoever is coming into this village is far away enough that I have time to escape. But I won’t have time to save anyone. Everyone will have to realise what’s happening on their own.
Slowly, I push myself up to look over the bed. The windows flicker with orange hues, not yet red—not yet here. And with the faintness of the light, I imagine its source is fire-torches, not the village burning to the ground. Only the dark fae would carry fire-torches…
I don’t give myself another moment. I’m scrambling to my feet suddenly, then tearing though the wardrobe.
I grab whatever I can, then sweep up my bag and torch from the floor. It’s all bundled in my arms as I race out of the room and stagger into the corridor.
“Tiffany!” My panicked voice carries through the apartment as I drop my things on the floor.
I’m hidden from view of the windows in here, and I make quick work of stuffing my feet into the pair of leggings I snatched up.
“Tiffany, we’ve got to move, now!”
I’m tugging on a too-big cardigan when she comes tumbling out of the bathroom. In her hand, stacks of toothbrushes and paste stick out, her lantern in her other hand.
“What?” she says, but then her gaze lifts to behind me.
I turn and trace her stare to the wall opposite the bedroom door, where orange light is climbing up to the ceiling. I look back at her as her face crumples, and she drops the toothbrushes. The paste hits the carpeted floor with a muffled thump.
“We need to go,” I tell her again.
Tiffany looks at me, frozen for a moment.
I can see the same fears in her eyes as I felt when I first realised the firelight, the same questions I asked myself as I lay on that bedroom floor.
Who is coming?
Will they mean to harm us?
Is it the dark fae, here to burn and destroy everything in their path? Will we lose our group, be separated forever, or can we find a few before it’s too late?
And the kicker—is it already too late?
The moment cracks and she’s scrambling back into the bathroom for her bag. I tie up my boots then hook my arms through my bag straps. With one measly torch in my hand, I’m ready to go.
Tiffany nearly runs into me, she comes out of the bathroom that fast. I hit the wall to avoid her. She mutters no sorry before she’s running ahead, and spears off into the kitchen.
I shadow her, keeping close to her heels. But she stops in the kitchen and rips open one of the drawers. I stare at her, wide-eyed, as she yanks out two kitchen knives and passes me one. With a shaky hand, I grip the faded handle. Then she turns her lantern off.
We’re submerged in darkness.
It takes our eyes a few moments to adjust—the light starting to rise up from outside certainly helps—and we’re rushing out of the apartment. The front door to the building opens up right onto the street. We stagger down the path and push out the iron gate. It creaks, loud. I stagger to a stop, a cringe seizing my whole body, and I look back at the source of the light. It’s coming up the hill that leads to the village, and it’s coming fast. We have minutes, if that.
And then I hear it.
Battle cries.
The foreign sounds rise up in the darkness and, like claws, rip up along my shivering spine. The dark carries the cries all over. They sound like they’re coming from eve
ry direction. But it’s just a trick, just a trick of the darkness.
It’s the dark fae. No doubt about it. They’ve come, an army of them, to destroy this village and everything in it. If God is real, then I pray she has mercy on all of our souls.
We won’t survive this.
Even with the orange glow of fire starting to swallow the village, I can barely see. I just run ahead, following the rapid thumps of Tiffany’s footsteps. But the light is gnawing at my heels, and we’re too exposed. In moments, the feral beasts descending upon us will spot us on the road.
“We have to get off the street,” I pant, a few paces behind her. I reach out for her, following the sound of her running, but I grab thin air.
“Tiffany,” I bite, my whispery breath a panicked sound of wind. “Go down the alleyway!”
If she hears me, she doesn’t let me know. I just hear her shoes pounding against the cobblestones. The shouts are crying louder, they are drawing nearer.
With a quick glance over my shoulder, I can see the shadows of the army stretching up the faces of the buildings, leeching over the ground.
With another swipe out at Tiffany, I come up short. She’s too far ahead of me, and I can’t spend another second out in the open.
I take no chance.
I veer off left, headed into the darkness of an alleyway.
Tiffany doesn’t follow me. And within heartbeats, I can’t hear her anymore. She just keeps running.
I hope she makes it.
But I doubt she will. And the same goes for me.
The alleyway might be dark for now, but as the army spills into the village, it will light up and betray me to all of the dark fae. I’ll be a target.
Down here, I’m not safe. But the alley ends in a stone wall, too high to climb. I stagger back from it, hands outstretched. I can’t see a thing without my torch, and I dropped that little one when I rushed to put clothes on. I only have a kitchen knife and a blocked alley.
I’m trapped.
5
I throw my back against the nearest wall and spread out my arms.
Breath hitched, I feel along the wall and slowly move back to the street. There has to be a door or a window here, somewhere.
My hands are starting to tremble against the stone. Palms are aching already from the course texture scraping against them. But I stretch out my arms and feel all around for something—anything. I just need to get out of this alley.
Maybe Tiffany had the right idea, running ahead. Leaving me behind.
It’s like I said, we’re everyone for themselves around here. But that doesn’t mean there is no sting when I’m abandoned, especially when I know I’ll be the first found by the dark fae.
Their cries are so loud now, it’s like their calling right beside me. The street is really lighting up. The orange has given way to a blazing red light. They’ve already started to burn down the buildings. The fire is catching.
And I’m going to burn.
If they don’t find me first.
My breath hitches when stone gives way to glass against my palm. I spin around to face the wall and lift up my hands, running them along the window.
Close enough to the ground to climb. But I can’t break the glass. That’ll give me away instantly. I have to stretch up on my toes and try, with all my withering strength, to push it upwards. It gives, slowly at first, and then with a final shove that aches my arms, the window slides all the way up.
Light starts to leak into the alley. Darkness at my feet is fading away, and I can now hear the heavy bootfalls of the army descending upon the street.
I don’t give myself a moment to breathe before I haul myself up onto the windowsill. No point trying to clamour, I just throw myself through the gap.
I land on the floor with a thump, and feel every bit of impact spread over my back like hot water. I ache everywhere, all at once.
My breaths come out in short, hoarse wheezes. I roll onto my side not a second before light suddenly blazes through the room, and I see that I’m in a little cafe. The firelight rises up from the alley just a moment after I escaped it. Still no time to waste—they’ll be hunting us, scouring the streets and windows for humans to slaughter, and they’ll be burning us all to the ground.
My best hope is to find a back door somewhere and bolt out into the darkness, never looking back.
I flip onto my front and push up on my hands and knees. I scurry behind a counter. I can’t risk standing up. The window isn’t high enough to conceal me—any monster that looks through it will spot me easily.
Leaning back against the counter, I give myself a moment to breathe, and I look around the café. All the tables and chairs are stacked against the wall that parallels the main street, and there’s a small kitchen on the other side of the counter. I crawl for it, fast.
The door is one of those half-sized ones, cut in half. It makes it easy to rush under before any dark fae can look inside the café window I threw myself through.
I hesitate at the door as a sudden scream splits the dark air in two. I cringe, hearing every curdle of the scream. It rattles my bones and claws at my thrumming eardrums.
It’s not like it is in movies, where women and men scream in totally different ways—no, in this world I’ve learned that we all scream the same. Which makes it impossible to tell who is screaming out there where the beasts are.
I take a fleeting moment to wish it’s not Tiffany, then I shove off the ground and run into the dark kitchen. No time to take it slow.
I barrel through the room like a bull in a china shop. Pots and cutlery are knocked off the countertops. I don’t care, I keep my hands outstretched as I scramble around for another door.
Screams pick up from the outside. More of my people caught. Maybe the dark fae have started setting fire to the village, or maybe they are dragging us out one by one to torture.
Still, the screams are masking the noise I’m making. But it’s not enough. I hear a tangle of words—a strange-sounding language I’ve never heard—coming from outside the kitchen. The foreign tongue is nearing the window to the café. I know this because, within seconds, the chatter stops and is replaced by the shatter of glass. The dark fae break the window.
I hear them jump inside, the heavy slam of their boots on the floor.
I move fast, feeling along the wall for any way out of here, a door, a window, a fucking portal for all I care. If I don’t find one, I’m trapped in here with monsters. If I don’t find a way out of this café, I’m dead.
My heart jumps up into my throat when my hands find the cool touch of a doorknob. The strange language has picked back up in the café behind me, a rough garbled sound that’s spoken in soft murmurs. They are coming.
I twist the doorknob and slowly open the door. My heart punches against my chest, threatening to burst out from between my breasts any moment.
I slip through the doorway and gently close the door behind me. The less noise I make now, the harder it will be for them to track me.
Without any light, I can’t see where I am. Not even windows let in the orange glow of the fire-torches outside. I’m entombed by walls.
I throw my back against the wall, then side-step along it. My palms are flat, spread-out, feeling for another escape. On the other side of that door, dark fae talk louder.
I can hear their foreign language, and it brings to mind broken glass slicing through flesh. It’s cutting, sharp and brutal. The fierce sound of it shivers my spine with pure, cold fear, like the tips of icicles dragging along my bones.
Something solid knocks the edge of my boot, and I stagger to balance myself. I almost fell flat on my side. Once I’m steady, I crouch down and reach out to feel along the solid object. In the complete dark, it takes me a few seconds to figure out what it is—a step. The first in an ascending staircase.
For a beat, I hesitate.
The voices are drawing nearer, and I’m starting to hear the crackle of fire. They have fire-torches. Enough light to illum
inate me the moment they step through that door. My end is within sight. But I can’t run up the staircase. Not if I want to live. Going up means not coming back down when they set fire to the building. And that, they will.
But I can’t stay down here out in the open either.
An idea strikes me like lightning out of nowhere, and I pray to god it works. It propels me forward and I run into the wall opposite me.
Before the door can swing open, I rush down the side of the staircase and feel along its edge. There’s no gap under the staircase—I find the rusty handle of a cupboard instead. My heart skips with a beat of relief, and I throw myself into the cupboard under the stairs.
Just as I gently close the door, I hear the other door crash open as if kicked. It slams, hard, against the wall and I cringe back into the dusty darkness enveloping me.
Bounding bootfalls shudder the floor. I hear them separate—one of the dark fae runs up the stairs, his heavy boots slamming just above my head. The other charges around the hall—and I learn that there are doors down here. He boots them open, one by one. Then, there’s the fading sound of his steps as he investigates and searches each room he’s found.
I’m careful not to move. Not even an inch. All around me is total darkness, but in it there could be all sorts of things hidden. Brooms propped up against the wall, coat-racks balanced on top of buckets, precarious cleaning supplies on a rotten shelf that’s ready to fall over at any breath aimed its way. I need utter silence if I’m to survive this.
My breath doesn’t want to come out. My whole body is seized up with quiet. Only my heart wants to scream noise as it hammers against my chest.
But eventually, the dark fae downstairs will open this door, my hidden place will be betrayed by his fire-torch, and I’ll be dismembered. I know it. He won’t leave a door unchecked. So I wait until I hear his bootfalls soften again, and I’m certain he’s searching one of the rooms.
Slowly, I twist the doorknob. It’s as silent as when I first took refuge behind it. A saving grace—a small detail that might just spare my life.
Dark Fae: A Dark Fantasy Romance (The Dark Fae Book 1) Page 3