Hidden Huntress
Page 12
“Of course not.” Marc kept a straight face. “This is all just speculation.”
“Indeed. Something to pass the time while I wait.”
“To die.”
“Or not.” I scratched the skin around one puncture in my arm – it had finally scabbed over, but the healing itched terribly. “What does he want from me?” I murmured to myself.
“Perhaps he wanted you to lead him to where your plans were hidden,” Marc said. “Maybe we’ve just given him what he wanted.” We both looked around, but we were alone, and Marc’s magic kept our conversation private.
“Perhaps,” I replied, but I was not convinced. There was no evidence he’d even gone looking for them. “If that’s the case, he lucked out, because I didn’t know where they were.”
Marc’s brow furrowed. “Then who hid them here?”
“Anaïs,” I said. “She hid them before she came to help me fight my father.” I swallowed hard, remembering the sight of my friend impaled on the sluag spear. “She gave up everything for me,” I said, closing my eyes. “She died for me.”
I jerked them open again at Marc’s sharp intake of breath. He stood rigid in front of me, unease on his face. “Tristan,” he said. “Anaïs isn’t dead.”
“That’s impossible.” But even as I said the words, hope rose in my heart. Anaïs, alive?
“And not only is she alive,” Marc continued, “she claims your father saved her life.”
Five
Cécile
I jerked upright, my heart racing and skin damp with sweat. Shadows swam and loomed in the darkness of my room, and my eyes leapt between them, searching for the source of my fear. The only time I’d felt anything close to this was when I’d fallen and broken my light in the labyrinth. This was worse. In those twisting tunnels, I’d known why I was afraid, but now the danger was insidious and unknown. My senses tried to reconcile the terror with a threat, eyes twitching around the room of their own accord, spine stiffening with each gust of wind or creak in the floorboards.
The sheer curtains surrounding the bed blew inward, brushing against my face. I flinched, batting them away with one hand while pulling up my blankets to ward away the chill from the open window.
Nightmare.
Taking deep measured breaths, I clambered out of bed, dragging my blankets with me. Slamming the window shut, I flipped the latch. With trembling fingers, I turned up the lamp, but while the light drove away the shadows, the panic scorching through my veins only worsened. Because it hadn’t been a nightmare. Everything that had happened was real, and with every blink of my eyelids, I saw the whip crack through the air, the blood splatter against the curse, the look in Tristan’s eyes as he turned away from me. And echoing in my head, ceaseless and unending, were his screams.
“Tristan.” His name came out as a gasp, and I dropped to my knees. My hands twisted like claws, nails clutching and snagging the fabric of my bedding, a scream threatening to rise in my throat. I clapped my hands over my ears and buried my face in my knees, trying to drown out the sound and failing because it came from inside my own head. The voice of reason shouted warning after warning at me, and I clenched my teeth and held my breath until my chest burned. What was done was done, and I would not improve either of our circumstances by panicking.
“Get up,” I snapped as though my body was some sort of separate entity that I could order about. “Move.” My knees cracked loudly as I straightened, my numb feet hardly feeling the floor beneath me as I paced shakily up and down the room. My mind raced, coming up with increasingly elaborate waking nightmares of what was happening to him now. Should I go? Should I take Fleur, gallop through the night, and try to sneak into Trollus? But even if I didn’t get caught, what help would I be?
“Stop it,” I said. “Quit thinking.” As if such a thing were possible.
Stumbling over to my desk, I snatched up a page of lyrics. Eyes jumping from line to line, I softly sang, my voice breathless and terrible. “Again!” I said, trying to mimic my mother’s voice. “That was dreadful.”
Starting again, I sang louder, pushing everything into my voice. It was raw and wild, but like a hammer to a blade, I used it to temper my emotion into something useful, something I could control.
The door swung open, and I broke off mid-note, my hands grasping for the bedposts to keep my balance. But before I could regain an ounce of composure, my mother strode in.
“Cécile!” she snarled, but I cut her off before she could start into me.
“Mama!” I flung myself against her, burying my face in the fur collar of her coat. She smelled like perfume, cigar smoke, and spilled wine, but I didn’t care.
“What’s happened?” she demanded. “Has someone hurt you?” Her strong arms pushed me back, face pale as she examined me. “Well?”
What to say? The truth was impossible – even if I could tell her, after the way I’d just acted, I’d sound like a raving lunatic. “I woke up afraid,” I mumbled, looking away for shame of how childish I sounded.
“A bad dream?” From the tone of her voice, my mother agreed with my assessment of my behavior.
Wiping tears away with the back of my hand, I nodded.
“Stars and heavens, you will be the death of me!” She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, and only then did I notice how disheveled she was. Her hair was loose of all its pins and the kohl rimming her eyes was smeared. “For a dream you wake the neighbors. Ahh!” she grimaced. “Not just the neighbors, half the dogs in the city were caterwauling along with you.”
“Indeed. Something to pass the time while I wait.”
“To die.”
“Or not.” I scratched the skin around one puncture in my arm – it had finally scabbed over, but the healing itched terribly. “What does he want from me?” I murmured to myself.
“Perhaps he wanted you to lead him to where your plans were hidden,” Marc said. “Maybe we’ve just given him what he wanted.” We both looked around, but we were alone, and Marc’s magic kept our conversation private.
“Perhaps,” I replied, but I was not convinced. There was no evidence he’d even gone looking for them. “If that’s the case, he lucked out, because I didn’t know where they were.”
Marc’s brow furrowed. “Then who hid them here?”
“Anaïs,” I said. “She hid them before she came to help me fight my father.” I swallowed hard, remembering the sight of my friend impaled on the sluag spear. “She gave up everything for me,” I said, closing my eyes. “She died for me.”
I jerked them open again at Marc’s sharp intake of breath. He stood rigid in front of me, unease on his face. “Tristan,” he said. “Anaïs isn’t dead.”
“That’s impossible.” But even as I said the words, hope rose in my heart. Anaïs, alive?
“And not only is she alive,” Marc continued, “she claims your father saved her life.”
Five
Cécile
I jerked upright, my heart racing and skin damp with sweat. Shadows swam and loomed in the darkness of my room, and my eyes leapt between them, searching for the source of my fear. The only time I’d felt anything close to this was when I’d fallen and broken my light in the labyrinth. This was worse. In those twisting tunnels, I’d known why I was afraid, but now the danger was insidious and unknown. My senses tried to reconcile the terror with a threat, eyes twitching around the room of their own accord, spine stiffening with each gust of wind or creak in the floorboards.
The sheer curtains surrounding the bed blew inward, brushing against my face. I flinched, batting them away with one hand while pulling up my blankets to ward away the chill from the open window.
Nightmare.
Taking deep measured breaths, I clambered out of bed, dragging my blankets with me. Slamming the window shut, I flipped the latch. With trembling fingers, I turned up the lamp, but while the light drove away the shadows, the panic scorching through my veins only worsened. Because it hadn’t been a nightmare. Everything that had happened was real, and with every blink of my eyelids, I saw the whip crack through the air, the blood splatter against the curse, the look in Tristan’s eyes as he turned away from me. And echoing in my head, ceaseless and unending, were his screams.
“Tristan.” His name came out as a gasp, and I dropped to my knees. My hands twisted like claws, nails clutching and snagging the fabric of my bedding, a scream threatening to rise in my throat. I clapped my hands over my ears and buried my face in my knees, trying to drown out the sound and failing because it came from inside my own head. The voice of reason shouted warning after warning at me, and I clenched my teeth and held my breath until my chest burned. What was done was done, and I would not improve either of our circumstances by panicking.
“Get up,” I snapped as though my body was some sort of separate entity that I could order about. “Move.” My knees cracked loudly as I straightened, my numb feet hardly feeling the floor beneath me as I paced shakily up and down the room. My mind raced, coming up with increasingly elaborate waking nightmares of what was happening to him now. Should I go? Should I take Fleur, gallop through the night, and try to sneak into Trollus? But even if I didn’t get caught, what help would I be?
“Stop it,” I said. “Quit thinking.” As if such a thing were possible.
Stumbling over to my desk, I snatched up a page of lyrics. Eyes jumping from line to line, I softly sang, my voice breathless and terrible. “Again!” I said, trying to mimic my mother’s voice. “That was dreadful.”
Starting again, I sang louder, pushing everything into my voice. It was raw and wild, but like a hammer to a blade, I used it to temper my emotion into something useful, something I could control.
The door swung open, and I broke off mid-note, my hands grasping for the bedposts to keep my balance. But before I could regain an ounce of composure, my mother strode in.
“Cécile!” she snarled, but I cut her off before she could start into me.
“Mama!” I flung myself against her, burying my face in the fur collar of her coat. She smelled like perfume, cigar smoke, and spilled wine, but I didn’t care.
“What’s happened?” she demanded. “Has someone hurt you?” Her strong arms pushed me back, face pale as she examined me. “Well?”
What to say? The truth was impossible – even if I could tell her, after the way I’d just acted, I’d sound like a raving lunatic. “I woke up afraid,” I mumbled, looking away for shame of how childish I sounded.
“A bad dream?” From the tone of her voice, my mother agreed with my assessment of my behavior.
Wiping tears away with the back of my hand, I nodded.
“Stars and heavens, you will be the death of me!” She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, and only then did I notice how disheveled she was. Her hair was loose of all its pins and the kohl rimming her eyes was smeared. “For a dream you wake the neighbors. Ahh!” she grimaced. “Not just the neighbors, half the dogs in the city were caterwauling along with you.”
