Adrian

by Heather Grothaus

  They held each other’s gazes for a pair of heartbeats, and then Adrian began to have that familiar sensation of his chest constricting, his breathing becoming labored. He felt trapped in the turret room with this woman. This beautiful, enigmatic queen who was afraid of him and at the same time manipulating his mind and emotions so that he could not tell reality from fantasy.

  “I want to search alone,” he said, fighting to control his words and hide the wheeze from her.

  “You have my leave to go where you would anywhere within the castle,” was all she said, although her eyes were sad now.

  And again Adrian was surprised at her.

  He only nodded sharply and then turned on his heel to exit the turret room without bothering to take the candle. It didn’t matter. Once he was afoot on the long spiral stairs, he fairly flew down them, his breath clawing at his chest for freedom, the dank air between the stones pressing coldly at his nostrils, seeking an entrance that was not to be had.

  He stumbled onto level flooring and kept going, turning left and right, heedless to the maps of the place that were tucked into his satchel, until he found himself in the long narrow hall once more. He strode through an aisle between the tables, his hand shooting out to steady himself once before plunging into the darkness of the doorway through which Malcolm had escaped earlier.

  He found himself in a tiny vestibule lit by twin torches to either side of a tall wooden door, and Adrian knew at once it was the door he’d seen at his approach through the woods. He wrenched at the handle and swung the door wide.

  Adrian stepped into the darkness outside the castle.

  Chapter 12

  Adrian stumbled through the archway, and after the heavy wooden door bounced off the interior stone wall, it began to swing closed slowly behind him while he stooped in the dooryard, his hands braced on his knees. His breath tore into and out of him, his chest like a bellows. His satchel hung down from around his neck, swinging like a lazy pendulum with every gasp. The air was thick and cold and sweet, rich with the smell of the sea and damp rocks nestled in soil. After several moments the fragrance had revived him so that he could stand aright and survey his surroundings.

  At the level of the castle foundation, he could only see the cusp of the cliff and the fall of the wood rushing over, the gloom belying the hours until sunset. Still the mist prevailed, softening the edges of the tree line even further and deepening the sparkling shadows. But when he turned to face Wyldonna Castle, the light of the fog seemed to be reflected in the stones—no longer glowing blue—and his vision improved so that he could make out the shape and detail of the structure quite well. Adrian went to one knee and retrieved the plans of the castle from his satchel.

  He began to walk deosil around the palace, moving off toward the wood from which he’d first emerged with Maisie Lindsey and to the left of the main door that was now closed to him. Adrian didn’t care. At the moment the last thing he wanted to think of was the woman who was somewhere within those walls. She confused him, smothered him with her myths, her illusions. The castle was only stones and mortar—things he knew well, things he could touch and study and understand.

  The more he studied Maisie Lindsey, the less he knew.

  He looked from the plans up along the walls, noting that there were several holes on the western wall of the castle—the opposite side on which his own chamber was located—that did not correspond to the drawing in his hand. A chill raced up his spine, and the sudden fright of it caused him to stop in his tracks.

  Unaccounted windows . . .

  Adrian shook his head to clear it of the ridiculous sensation that he was forgetting something important. He hadn’t been here long enough to forget anything. He looked back to the plans.

  Yes—here. He ran his finger along the parallel lines of a long corridor that appeared to extend between the southwest and western tower. Then he looked up at the wall again. Four openings, so small they might be nothing more than symmetrical pockmarks in the mortar, save that they were evenly spaced. Large weep holes? He flipped through the sheaves again, locating the floors above and below the corridor, and then looked back up at the windows. A gallery, perhaps?

  No, the marks were too high on the wall to belong to the corridor. The openings should be somewhere within the royal wing of the castle.

  Adrian dropped again to one knee and riffled through his bag, seeking the tightly wrapped parcel of his inkpot and quill. It took him several moments to undo the numerous layers of soft waterproof skins around the corked bottle, but then he set the open pot atop one corner of the parchment unrolled on the stiff grass and edged his knee onto the other side while he brought out a blade to refine his quill. He dipped the tip into the dark liquid and began to sketch on the drawing.

  On the corridor of the plan, he made markings to indicate the windows, and then above and below the space; his lines superimposed on the drawing, he quickly added the features of the exterior wall between the towers. He gave his additions several moments to dry, checking and rechecking his sketches, before carefully rerolling the parchment and returning it and his tools to his bag.

  It was as good a start as any. Now he would be able to compare the exterior and interior of that space, as soon as he found his way to the corridor between the towers. He stood and looked up at the wall again. It was the side of the castle where the queen’s chambers lay, and he thought briefly of the set of steps that had brought them to the corridor leading to her room the night before. It had to have been the western tower, although Adrian was sure that was one Maisie had claimed led nowhere. It certainly had led to the corridor of the royal wing, but he couldn’t recall that the steps had continued on past the entrance hidden behind the tapestry.

  He looked all the way up to the top of the tower. A turret similar to the one he’d just escaped loomed in the mist. Adrian then searched the shadows for the side entrance through which he and Maisie had entered the castle. But the wall where it should be was conspicuously blank.

  He frowned, one more of crossness than confusion. He’d have to walk around to the front of the castle now, and he wasn’t at all sure how to get back around to the western wing. The vestibule had led only to the east and to the hall.

  Adrian turned to his right to begin the trek when a rustling in the underbrush behind him caused him to halt. He looked through the dark stripes of the trees but could see nothing except the continuous fog.

  Probably a bird.

  He began walking again only to stop almost instantly when the rustling sounded once more, this time more insistent and closer, louder.

  That is no bird.

  He turned fully toward the wood and for a moment wished he’d thought to grab one of the torches in the vestibule. He peered into the darkness, his eyes straining.

  “Who’s there?” he called out. He took a step closer to the fringe of wood.

  The rustling was now a crunching, interspersed with the snapping of twigs—like the sound of hunting dogs rolling on a scent.

  Or a much larger animal boldly shuffling through the underbrush toward him.

  Adrian heard a breathy snort, and then the rumblings of a low growl. It grew louder but deeper, like bubbles escaping a victim trapped far below the surface of the water. He began backing slowly away from the wood, his eyes never leaving the dark shadows, but the growls seemed to advance toward him even as the rustling stopped.

  And then darkness launched itself from darkness with a scream, and a large, long mass streaked into the castle dooryard toward Adrian. He stumbled and fell to his backside as the shadow landed and stilled—a shadow with two shining yellow eyes—and then he scrambled backward and gathered his feet beneath him once more. He hesitated against turning and running, exposing his back for the kill, but he did take a cautious step away.

  The shadow took up its hair-raising growl once more and closed the short distance Adrian had created with one slow, graceful step. Adrian paused.

  The shadow halted. It was long and
low, like a big cat, but its color was unfathomable in the gloom. Its head was wide and squat and the pointed shadows near the sides of its head gave the indication of ears folded back. A long waving tail swept the grass behind the thing’s haunches like a thick rope. Another yawning scream showed gleaming fangs in the mist and the sight of them brought a sick hollow to Adrian’s stomach.

  They would eat you . . .

  Adrian didn’t know what manner of beast he faced, but he decided in that moment that it wasn’t absolutely necessary for him to know the details to understand that the creature meant to pounce—and soon. He didn’t dare glance behind him to gauge the proximity of the castle door. He wished he had some sort of weapon in hand. Even his quill could have been rammed into an eye.

  An identical shriek called from the black wood, answering the scream of the beast in the dooryard. Perhaps in the next moment there would be two of them. Adrian instantly conjured the dark image of himself being ripped to shreds between the pair, his body like an old rag amongst hounds.

  He thought he was nearly at the southwest corner. If he turned and sprinted as hard as he could, he might make it as far as the door. He knew he didn’t have much chance, but it was better than standing there, waiting to be devoured.

  The beast must have sensed him tensing to move for it crouched lower, the burbling growl erupting from it like hot lava.

  Adrian slid his left foot backward.

  The beast slunk toward him with its right paw.

  Right foot . . .

  Left paw . . .

  Placing his weight on the foot behind him, Adrian turned and erupted into a run. The castle door appeared tiny, so far away it might as well have been the gates of London. He had gone perhaps five strides when he heard the soft thuds of pads on the grass, like the earth whispering, and then he was struck on his shoulder blades with what seemed like two hot anvils and pitched forward onto his satchel, the breath going out of him.

  The paws slid off to either side of his body and Adrian twisted on the ground, dragging his bag up to guard his face even as the beast swiped at him, its long claws ripping through the soft leather and shredding the contents within. He felt the thing’s hot breath as it lunged forward and its jaws clamped down on the satchel. He noted faintly the sound of crunching glass and crinkling paper.

  Apparently the beast did not have a taste for the satchel, for it reared up slightly on its haunches, a scream of frustration ripping through Adrian’s eardrums. Another swipe of paw completely severed the strap around Adrian’s neck, and the tips of sharp claws caught the gusset of his shirt, ripping it open cleanly and exposing the whole of his chest and abdomen to the mist and the castle stones and the beast towering over him that would soon end his life.

  But then the creature suddenly twisted and squealed as if stuck with a hot poker, falling backward over its own haunches and fighting awkwardly to get its legs beneath its muscled bulk. It scrabbled away at least two lengths from Adrian’s prone body and crouched there hissing, its ropelike tail snaking between its rear legs and curving up to its chest.

  Adrian raised up on his elbows and then scrambled to his own feet, the remnants of his satchel falling away and his shirt hanging from him by only its sleeves and one shoulder. The animal crouched lower and hissed again before taking a sidling step away from him.

  He looked over his shoulder. There was nothing, no one, behind him. No giant Reid to come to his rescue; the castle door remained closed. His eyes flew back to the animal hugging the ground ten paces from him.

  Adrian’s mind clicked and whirred. He took a single step toward the beast. It cringed and whined at his movement.

  He steeled himself against the logic that was screaming at him to dash to the castle and bolt himself inside. Then he held his arms out from his sides and marched toward the animal with a roar of his own.

  The beast gave a sharp yelp and sprang from its crouch, but away from Adrian. It ate up the ground in the dooryard with its long, graceful lopes and dove into the black wood, directly over a pair of identical yellow eyes. In a flash, those eyes vanished too, to the fading sounds of a swift retreat through the underbrush.

  Adrian stopped in the sudden stillness of the yard, feeling a blast of power come over him as his heart hammered his hot blood through his veins. The hush of the waves beyond the cliff were echoed in his own breaths, and he felt as if he were expanding, growing. Perhaps it was the elation of escaping death, perhaps it was part of his ego that would have him believe there was something powerful about his person that had frightened the beasts away. Whatever it was, he closed his eyes, felt it fully, reveled in it while the salty cool air of Wyldonna rushed into him.

  “You’re a bleedin’ idiot.”

  Adrian’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the man’s voice, and his searching eyes caught a small red glow grow and then dim along the side of a shadowed tree.

  “Malcolm?” he asked, squinting toward the gloom.

  “Aye, lad.” Then the shadow pushed itself away from the tree that it had been leaning against—one leg propped, smoking a long, thin pipe no less—and revealed itself to indeed be the displaced king of Wyldonna. One hand was tucked up in his armpit, the pipe held masterfully intertwined in the fingers of his other hand. “’Tis I.”

  Adrian’s brows lowered. “Were you watching me the whole time?”

  “I was,” the bearded man continued around puffs from the stem. His next words were accompanied past his lips with white smoke. “I’d marked you for dead, certain as the sea meets the shore. Would have inconvenienced Maisie more than a mite when her champion was eaten in her own dooryard, nae even a full day after coming to her rescue.”

  “You were just going to stand there while I was mauled by those . . . those . . .” Adrian’s words failed him.

  “You were warned,” Malcolm cut in, but his tone was neither condescending nor smug. In fact, he seemed rather surprised. “There was naught I could have done to save you, be certain. I’ve nae more power here now than you.”

  Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “The queen says there are more loyal to you than she. That they hid you, are even now helping you plan a war.”

  “Does she now? The queens says . . .” Malcolm shrugged, and Adrian noticed that the man’s eyes were studying Song’s marks, now laid bare by the beast’s swiping claws. He puffed at his pipe again and then suddenly gestured over his shoulder with the stem as he turned toward the wood. “Come on, then.”

  Adrian looked over his shoulder at the castle. It could have been deserted for all the movement he saw. “You want me to go with you?”

  “You’re eager to ken what I’m about, are you nae?” Malcolm paused inside the fringe of trees.

  “I am,” he answered. “But what about . . . those beasts? Are there more of their kind where we’re going?”

  “Oh, aye.” Malcolm chuckled. “And some even stranger still, to your virgin eyes. But if afternhangers flee you, you have little to fear from the rest of our folk.”

  Adrian’s eyebrows rose. Those beasts had been the afternhangers—the Cat Sìth—Maisie had warned him about?

  Malcolm looked at Adrian’s torso again and waved his pipe stem toward him. “Although there’s nae much to it any longer, I’d remove the rest of your blouse, were I you.” Then he turned into the wood again and disappeared into the darkness.

  Adrian glanced over his shoulder at the castle once more as he slid the remnants of his shirt from his arms and let it fall to the grass near his destroyed satchel. He wouldn’t be gone long.

  Well, he hoped he wouldn’t be gone long, following a man who, only moments before, had been content to witness Adrian’s bloody death, and who possibly carried a hunger for revenge against the woman in the castle whom Adrian had come here to help. He was only going into a strange, perpetually dark forest. Full of afternhangers and God knew what else.

  He couldn’t help but chuckle at this last thought. Wouldn’t God be surprised at the strangeness afoot on Wyldonna, if
he existed?

  Adrian had to trot a bit to catch up to Malcolm’s trail.

  He wanted to know for himself...

  Maisie ate the midday meal alone, begging off even kind Reid’s offer of company. She felt like a fool, an idiot, for trying to reach Adrian Hailsworth. Why not just let him search, let him be, leave him to his own stubborn closed-mindedness?

  Because of the way his skin felt beneath your hands, a voice whispered in her mind. The way he looks at you, talks to you, like you have a mind inside your head and are not simply the king’s sister. The way he argues with you, pushes you for answers, like you are not the queen.

  Because he is the Painted Man . . .

  She shook her head and looked down at her wooden bowl, where she had done little but push the bits of fish around with her knife tip. He had had enough time to himself now, and Maisie wanted to see what he had found.

  She was certainly not seeking him because she longed for the sound of his voice in her ears once more.

  She wiped the blade on the small cloth beneath her place and returned it to its sheath before standing from the table and leaving her deserted hall for the west wing. Adrian had likely started there, as far from the eastern tower—and her—as he could think to get.

  She roamed the corridors and stairwells for over an hour, only passing one pair of servant girls along the northern walkway. They were a full head shorter than Maisie, although grown women by Wyldonna’s measure, and she couldn’t help but glance enviously at their delicate, pointed ears and the feminine slant to their eyes as they bobbed their heads to the queen. They belonged. Their tribe was healthy and vibrant and would inhabit Wyldonna for generations to come.

  Maisie told herself she was only imagining the whispered twitters that trailed behind them in the corridor, but her face heated all the same.

  She began walking faster, her brows drawing closer together with each empty chamber, each deserted corridor. Perhaps they were merely missing each other. She entered the stairs of the southwest tower and began to climb, pushing the door of the turret open and glancing inside.