Blood, Glass and Sugar

by Lyndsay E Gilbert

  He gazed out into the darkened street and felt like actually growling when he saw the Unseelie Prince on his doorstep, hands shielding his eyes as he peered into the shop.

  Bran stormed to the door and flipped the sign to ‘closed’ in Auran’s face. He glared out at him over it, for extra emphasis.

  Auran motioned behind him at a gathering of knights, and monsters too. A nasty looking wolf-man prowled about at the back of the men, yellow eyes cruel and hungry. All this for a mortal man and woman. Bran thought he should probably feel privileged.

  “Go back to your Court, Prince. You saw the gun. I’m not afraid to use it.”

  “Maybe so.” Auran smiled a perfect white smile. “There is something you should be afraid of though, and that is letting that girl stay in your house. I think you know why too. Everybody talks. I dare say they all know more about your condition than even you.”

  Bran fought to keep his face impassive. “Don’t play games with me. I’ve lived here too long, I’ve lost my sense of fun.”

  “I’m not playing, Bran. I’m deadly serious.”

  “As am I. The girl is safer in here with me than she is with you. Do you honestly think threatening her, kidnapping her, cornering her with a wolf is going to persuade her to trust you?”

  Auran looked pitying. “I only want to help. I understand you feel protective. One of your own, right? Probably been a while since you felt a mortal woman’s warmth up against you, is it not?” His dark grey eyes were mocking.

  Bran slammed his hand against the glass. “You aren’t convincing me to trust you.”

  “That is a shame. I was hoping your friend Wrath would put in a good word for me, Bran. Maybe he found it hard to talk after the beating.” He looked back at his knights as he said this, and they laughed. Bran even heard the wolf make some sort of guttural grunt.

  He pulled the long red-velvet curtain over the door violently, almost ripping it off the rail. The Prince called him back, but he ignored, walking up the stairs to the counter.

  He also tried to ignore the voice in his head telling him to find some way to get Evie out of his house as soon as possible, but he could not sacrifice her to that vain prick just to keep his own hands clean.

  These thoughts seeped right out of his head as soon as he opened the door into his home and smoke billowed out to choke him.

  “Evie!” He dashed down the hallway and through the living room. The kitchen was barely visible, but Evie was sitting on the floor, propped up against the cupboard beneath the sink.

  The basket of faerie apples that Old Korinda had left him earlier was now half empty. Evie’s lips were moist and swollen. Her eyes were like two glowing gems in the swirling smoke.

  He looked at the stove. Something was burning in the grill, and the frying pan was black, hissing and spitting as grey smoke rolled off it into the air. He switched everything off, and opened the windows. Then knelt down and grasped Evie’s shoulders firmly. “What did you do that for? Those are very potent.”

  She giggled, and pointed at the table. He was only half surprised to see the little grey goblin that had been pestering him since he moved in. It sat on the edge, swinging its spindly legs and grinning widely. Its teeth were sharp chips of granite, and it ground them together as it smiled.

  “Greedy girl.” It laughed wildly, reaching a long clawed hand to the basket and throwing another apple at Evie. She reached out for it immediately, but Bran snatched from the air.

  She pouted at him, glaring up from under her ebony fringe. He didn’t allow himself to think about how sweet she looked, how much like Alison, and the girls who had followed her.

  It was an unbearable thought.

  He threw the apple back at the goblin, and it squealed, dodging and disappearing in mid-leap. Bran cursed, wondering if the thing was on its own or if he would soon find out he was infested.

  “Bran.” Evie spoke up, her voice intense and commanding. “Aren’t you going to tell me why you are here? Here among all this?”

  He looked at her. She was watching him with her large hazel eyes, bright with the faerie fruit. Her pupils were like those of a cat in the dark. He felt drawn to them, but he didn’t answer her. It wasn’t time for a pity party, and he didn’t know how long he had before his housemates arrived. He slid his arms under her and lifted her up off the ground. He was sure if she stood up she would think she could fly.

  The fruit was good in small doses. It made the mind alert and gave a mortal the chance to see the world around them as it was. Necessary if one had to survive among creatures aware of every molecule of existence, keener than the smartest of hunting animals, crueller than the winter frost killing all the life in the world, and not nearly half as apathetic.

  Faeries knew what they were doing. They relished every minute of it.

  But too much of anything was never a good thing, and Evie had taken far too much.

  * * *

  Evie wanted more. She let her head hang back as Bran carried her from the kitchen and gazed at the apples still left in the basket. Her tongue was parched; she could feel the prickly heat spreading to her lips. She touched them. They were still covered in the juice, and yet they felt desert dry.

  Then the apples were out of sight.

  Bran carried her up two flights of stairs and into a small dark room. He laid her down on a soft king-size bed that took up most of the space. No one had ever carried her to bed, least of all a handsome boy.

  She didn’t think she’d ever been this close to one.

  “I’m not sleepy,” she said, and it suddenly seemed a good idea to put her arms round his neck as he set her down, so that he couldn’t pull away.

  He tried to pry her off but she held tight, laughing playfully. She felt strong and invincible. She also felt she was infinitely more pretty than she had ever been.

  Maybe one kiss. She looked into his brandy brown eyes. Even in the darkness she could see the flecks of wine red in his irises. They weaved through the brown like red threads through a tapestry.

  “When you come down from this, you are going to feel awful. You should try to sleep, you won’t notice it then.” He managed to dislodge himself from her grip as he spoke.

  Her emotions were more acute. When he broke away she felt like she had been lanced through the chest. In the back of her mind, some vague piece of sanity remained, and felt embarrassed at her thoughts, wished to curl up and die when she smiled up at Bran and whispered, “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”

  He rubbed his palm against his forehead, and sighed. For a fleeting moment she thought that he was tempted. He bit his lip and shook his head. “That fruit really is dangerous.”

  He walked to the door, and she sat up in the bed. Her head felt light, like it would float off her shoulders at any second but still she was aware of every floorboard that creaked under his step as he left her, of the breeze that came from his movement and the way it streamed down through the room. She could almost see it, white and cold and graceful.

  “I can see the wind,” she murmured, laughing gently.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her, and rolled his eyes. Then he went out into the hall and closed the door behind him. She heard him jangling keys. Then locking her door.

  She sprang from the bed like a jack-in-the-box, almost flying to the door. “Hey! What are you doing? Why are you locking me in?”

  She banged her fists on the door repeatedly, but he didn’t answer. She only heard his footsteps ascending a flight of stairs.

  She tried not to panic, pacing up and down the space beside the bed. The small piece of sanity was growing inside her, so that she was herself again, but with extreme sensitivity to everything around her.

  She pulled the dark gold curtains back from her window. It was barred. Outside she could see all the lights of Camden Town, orange and yellow glowing in the black night. Up above the stars were faint lights twinkling gently. She could hear cars and traffic. Horns blaring. She thought she could even smell th
e oil and petrol in the air. Smoke and grit travelling into her system with every breath.

  It made her feel nauseous, and she lay on the bed, taking shallow gasps, reluctant to inhale more dirt. Eventually she slipped into an uneasy sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Someone was sticking pins into her eyes. That was how it felt when Evie woke. She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and tried to soothe the sharp pain but it didn’t work. In her mind, all she could see was the basket of apples. They had done this to her, and they were the only thing that could take it away.

  She rolled off the bed, and stood on her feet. Her body felt like it had been pounded all over with a meat-pulveriser. Every muscle ached, pain pulsing through her like a second heartbeat. She groaned, but the sound seemed to catch fire in her throat and escape like a crackling flame out of her mouth.

  The room around her was different. The bed which she was sure had been against the blank wall was now under the window. The window was no longer barred, and the glass was dirty, layered with old, thick dust. She climbed across the bed, and wiped it so she could look outside.

  She wasn’t in Camden anymore.

  She was in a graveyard. From below a chipped stone angel gazed up at her. Its white stone eyes were wide, and terrified. Beyond the graveyard the world was a stretch of fields lit by the full moon, the pale, bloated monarch of the sky. Without the city lights she glowed as bright as the sun, drowning everything below her in gleaming mist.

  Evie climbed back off the bed, and went to the bedroom door. It was at the opposite end of the room from when she had fallen asleep. Something cold jabbed into the sole of her foot, and she hopped back with a gasp. A brass key gleamed on the floor, a small sheet of paper folded beneath it.

  She reached down and picked them up. Unfolding the paper, she could see that something was written on it. She stepped back into the pool of moonlight leaking though the window and read it.

  Dear Evie,

  This is the key to your room. I implore you not to open it until morning. If I come to you before then, do not let me in. Do not let anything in, and do not let yourself out.

  With faith,

  Bran.

  Just as she finished, she heard soft footsteps, bare feet padding towards her door in the hallway, the rustle of material trailing along behind, brushing against the door as whoever was out there came to a stop. Evie clutched the key tight in her hand, not caring when the sharp metal sliced her skin.

  “Evie?” It was a woman’s voice. A very familiar voice, because it was her own.

  She held her breath. Her heart beat its way up her chest and into her throat. It wouldn’t go back down no matter how many times she swallowed.

  “Evie.” The voice was singsong now. Evie closed her eyes and willed it to go away. What would she see if she opened the door? Herself?

  “Evie, it’s Alison. Let me in. I want to see how good I look. How good I look, alive,” she giggled.

  It was like a shard of ice had slid under Evie’s ribcage. Warm tears trickle down her cheeks. She had never cried from fear before.

  From the crack under the door, thick dark liquid leaked in and formed a pool. She smelled something like rusted pennies and knew what it had to be.

  More tears soaked her face. Alison. That’s what Bran had called her. And Alison was dead.

  If I come to you before then, do not let me in.

  Had he killed this woman?

  She heard more rustling as the woman padded away from the door, moving on down the hallway. Soon it was silent again. Evie relaxed a little, loosening her grip on the key. Her palm stung, and she looked down to see it was stained with blood. She glanced back at the door, but the liquid under it was no longer there.

  She walked forward, her legs trembling under her. Do not let yourself out. She dropped the letter and let it flutter to the floor. She was going to escape, and go home. Somehow. She would find Bran’s gun and blow the Prince of Unseelie to bits if she had to.

  She slid the key into the lock and turned it. The click resounded in the silence. And she stood still as a statue and listened for the return of the ghost. Nothing happened, so she pushed the handle down and pulled the door open a fraction. It creaked, and she held her breath until it was open wide enough for her to step out into the hallway.

  As the room had been, the hallway was a completely different place than when Bran had carried her to bed. Moonlight lit up dust and filth. Cobwebs formed a thick layer on the walls, and the floor beneath her was littered with yellowed newspapers and torn up books. Her nostrils filled with the sweet, sickening scent of decay.

  She walked as fast as she could, but when she turned into the next passageway, she was cast into near darkness. There were no more windows. She ran her hand along the wall as she walked, trying to ignore the old cobwebs crumbling under her touch, the tickle of spiders running over her fingers.

  She came against another door at the end of the corridor, and fumbled for the handle. Just as she grasped it, it slipped from her hand and the house changed around her, the walls melting down and reforming before her eyes. The strong sent of cooking spices and warm, sweet meat filled the air.

  Where the door had been there was now a sweeping staircase that ascended to the floor above. It was draped in red carpet, with spirals of golden ribbon tied at intervals along the banister.

  Strains of music floated towards her from somewhere in the distance. She climbed the stairs, hoping they would stay long enough for her to reach the top. They did, but as soon as she took a few more steps along the brightly lit hallway, the paint started to fade, and peel off the walls.

  The gorgeous smell of food got sweeter and sweeter until she could almost taste it rotting on her tongue turning to mould, then dust. All around her, new corridors and passageways formed, snaking out from the walls. The house was a labyrinth, changing itself, trying to get her lost inside it.

  There was a rustling sound behind her. She spun to face it, just in time to see the end of a ragged green gown disappear around the edge of the hallway and into another passageway. Alison.

  Evie didn’t follow, didn’t want to see. Instead she walked quickly to the end of the passageway. It was getting dustier and darker by the second, returning to the dank dismal place it had been when she had first come out. There was an open door at the end. She could see candlelight flickering inside, shadows creeping out into the hall.

  She slowed as she reached it, steeling herself before she stepped inside.

  It was like a small church. To the left there was a row of three dark-wood pews. At the top of the room was a stained glass window. Evie stared at it, recognising the scene. An angel falling from heaven. Lucifer’s palace, Pandemonium, jutted up, beautiful and angular from below. It was her own painting.

  The red gleam cast by the glass shone down, lighting up a coffin lying on a pedestal below the window. A glass coffin.

  There was somebody in it.

  Evie walked toward it, hoping to God she wouldn’t see herself lying there. Hoping the sweet smell of decay wasn’t her own rotting body. Maybe she was a ghost, no different from Alison, roaming the house in her ragged green gown.

  She stepped up to the pedestal and peered down. Bran. He lay peacefully, his raven hair spread out across the silk-white pillow. His eyes were closed, and there was no movement below his dusky eyelids. Was he dead?

  Impossible. Was he a vampire? She stepped back, knocking over a large metal candleholder. It crashed into the pews. In the coffin, she saw Bran’s eyelids flutter open.

  He rolled onto his side and sat up on one arm, his eyes still half-shut with sleep. “Who is there?”

  Evie edged back towards the door. His eyes widened, taking her in.

  He smiled. “Weren’t you supposed to wake me with a kiss?”

  He clambered out, his Victorian waistcoat tearing on the golden latch on the edge of the coffin. Evie’s breath caught in her throat, her legs quivering under her. She had to force he
r body to run, but he caught her by the hair, yanking her back.

  “Come now. It is late. We should sleep. There is time upon time in which to chase each other around the house like madmen.” He pulled her back against him, hauling her onto the pedestal. She struggled, and they toppled back into the coffin.

  “Don’t you want to sleep forever?” He kept his arm around her, and turned on his side so she slid down into the space between the side of the coffin and his body. He was freezing.

  She kicked him hard, banging her knee on the glass as she did. “Let me go, you freak!” She tried to sit up, but he pinned her down, and laid his head on her chest as if to go to sleep.

  She was frantic, wriggling wildly and arching her back, trying to flip him off. He was heavy and determined.

  “Shushh, my love. Rest and see how divine the sleep of death will be.”

  She screamed; she couldn’t find any words to express the sheer panic of his oppressive weight smothering her inside a coffin, but the shrill pitch of her scream only increased her fear. Tears leaked out of her eyes and soaked the pillow beneath her.

  He mumbled languid, soothing words. His weight became lax, even though she twisted and kicked beneath him. He was falling back to sleep. His body slid off her, and she hauled herself up, slithering out of the coffin and falling to the floor.

  She crawled on her hands and knees to the door. There was no time to climb to her feet. She needed out of the room. As she moved forward the door flickered, like an old reel of film. Then it disappeared, leaving blank wall in its place.

  The house was changing again. She looked back to see that the coffin was gone. Instead a long table was forming in its place, stretching and stretching as the room elongated into a grand banqueting hall. Just as she had seen in Bran’s medieval painting.

  At the very back of the hall she saw ceiling high, double doors appearing slowly as if someone was painting them into existence. Evie scrambled to her feet and sprinted towards them. As she ran alongside the table, she saw platters of food appearing, bottles of dark red wine, strips of meat, chicken wings and legs, roasted turkey and towering sponge cakes. The smell was delicious, but the nerves in her stomach churned, making her nauseous.