Illusions of Fate
Page 17
The nightmare man turns around, twisted smile falling into puzzled frown, and I swing the sugar bowl up, knocking it into the hand cupping his shadow-burning crystals. They fly free, landing on the unprotected skin of his face with sizzling hisses.
He screams and shoves me to the ground. The impact jars my destroyed hand and it is too much. I lean over and vomit onto the rug.
A stream of words I do not understand but instinctively recognize as foul and evil stream from his mouth, but then, to my surprise and disappointment, he laughs.
I wipe the corners of my lips and sit up against the edge of the couch, barely able to see him through the red haze of pain.
His face has angry holes eaten into it, opening onto dark patches. He takes out a pristine handkerchief and wipes one side and then the other. But rather than wiping the burns off, it’s as though he has wiped his old face back on. No evidence of my momentary victory remains.
He sniffs genteelly, tucking the handkerchief back into his suit pocket. “I like you. You have all the spirit and passion they’ve been careful to breed out of Alben women. To thank you for finally giving Lord Ackerly a weakness I could exploit, I will keep you for my own.”
My head lolls back on the couch, and I close my eyes, letting out a sharp breath in place of a laugh. “I would sooner die.”
“Never worry about that. You’ll want me. You’ll be perfectly at home. And only I can keep you safe from the coming war.” A finger touches my cheek, and I shudder. I concentrate on the pain in my hand since it is preferable to the sensation of his skin on mine. “You shouldn’t have gone to the gala, Jessa. Men like Lord Ackerly will bring you nothing but suffering. I’m so disappointed in you. Still, you’ve learned your lesson, and we will move on as soon as this is settled. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a guest to prepare for.”
The door closes, and I open my eyes to find the room once again without an exit. I angle my neck so I can see the wall. Though the light has dimmed, I can still see my two shadows. They’re slumped in defeat, but tiny dots of light have eaten through the extra shadow’s silhouette.
Could it really be Finn’s shadow, as the nightmare man seemed to believe?
This is not the same world I woke up in yesterday. I know none of the rules, and I have none of the power. All the things I’ve learned, all the ways I’ve tried to make a place for myself where I am not at the mercy of others, none of it matters in this new, bizarre reality.
A harsh caw draws up my head. Three of the horrid black birds are staring at me from the armchair. One of them hops forward, darting close and pecking my leg with its bone-hard beak, then flapping back with a chorus of croaking laughter.
Another moves to do the same, and I cringe, shielding my ruined hand and ducking my face into my shoulder.
There is a clatter of wings and a chorus of angry caws, but nothing touches me. I raise my head to see one of the birds—missing a single claw—bobbing in front of me, flapping its wings and viciously attacking the other two when they get too close. It draws blood and rips a pinion out of the wing of one of my would-be assailants. They flap away, cawing reproachfully, and disappear into the bookshelf.
I wipe my eyes and look at the remaining bird. “Well,” I say, “spirits’ mercies. I am sorry I didn’t leave better food for you outside my window.”
The bird turns so one yellow eye is fixed on mine.
I sniffle, swallowing back another wave of nausea. “I should have known you weren’t evil. You’re far handsomer than those other wretched birds.”
It ducks its head and tucks some stray feathers back into place along its wing. “Are you a boy?” I ask, and it bobs its head. “Sir Bird it is, officially. Now, Sir Bird, is there a door to this room?”
He hesitates, and then weaves his head back and forth in what I assume is an approximation of shaking it no.
I squeeze my eyes shut against a welling of tears. “I’m afraid that if I do not escape right now, I shall never leave this place.” I don’t know what the nightmare man has in store for me, but any kindness he thinks of is one I want no part of. My hand pains me to distraction, though, and I haven’t any hope of fighting my way free.
There’s a frantic scratching, and I open my eyes to see Sir Bird hopping the length of the table, twisting and twitching as though fighting some internal war. Finally, he shakes himself from beak to tail, caws, and flies to the iron grate over the fire.
I close my eyes again. Perhaps if I can sleep I can wake up somewhere safe, my hand intact, this nightmare over.
Sir Bird caws again, louder than ever, and I look at him, irritated. “What is it?”
He pecks at the iron grate, hops down behind it, and then flaps directly into the fire.
“No!” I gasp, standing and rushing forward. But Sir Bird hops back out of the fire, tapping impatiently on the grate with his beak. I gasp my surprise, and he hops through the fire and back once more.
“I—through there? But the fire!”
As if to prove a point, Sir Bird hops directly into the center of it and stares at me, his eyes reflecting the flames that do not touch him.
Well. It makes as much sense as anything else that has happened since last night. Grasping the heavy iron grate with my good hand, I drag it away. It makes a horrid screech against the floor, and Sir Bird caws a warning a moment too late. Books explode off the shelves, turning into birds in midair, the room a whirling mass of cries.
I duck my head, screaming, but Sir Bird flies out past me and into the melee, scratching and pecking and, in a process my eyes cannot comprehend, swallowing other birds. They converge on him, attacking, and though he fights more fiercely than any, he will be overwhelmed. There is an iron poker next to the fireplace and I grab it, flinging it wildly and batting the demon birds into the walls. They turn back into books on impact, falling to the floor with dusty thuds.
He screams and shoves me to the ground. The impact jars my destroyed hand and it is too much. I lean over and vomit onto the rug.
A stream of words I do not understand but instinctively recognize as foul and evil stream from his mouth, but then, to my surprise and disappointment, he laughs.
I wipe the corners of my lips and sit up against the edge of the couch, barely able to see him through the red haze of pain.
His face has angry holes eaten into it, opening onto dark patches. He takes out a pristine handkerchief and wipes one side and then the other. But rather than wiping the burns off, it’s as though he has wiped his old face back on. No evidence of my momentary victory remains.
He sniffs genteelly, tucking the handkerchief back into his suit pocket. “I like you. You have all the spirit and passion they’ve been careful to breed out of Alben women. To thank you for finally giving Lord Ackerly a weakness I could exploit, I will keep you for my own.”
My head lolls back on the couch, and I close my eyes, letting out a sharp breath in place of a laugh. “I would sooner die.”
“Never worry about that. You’ll want me. You’ll be perfectly at home. And only I can keep you safe from the coming war.” A finger touches my cheek, and I shudder. I concentrate on the pain in my hand since it is preferable to the sensation of his skin on mine. “You shouldn’t have gone to the gala, Jessa. Men like Lord Ackerly will bring you nothing but suffering. I’m so disappointed in you. Still, you’ve learned your lesson, and we will move on as soon as this is settled. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a guest to prepare for.”
The door closes, and I open my eyes to find the room once again without an exit. I angle my neck so I can see the wall. Though the light has dimmed, I can still see my two shadows. They’re slumped in defeat, but tiny dots of light have eaten through the extra shadow’s silhouette.
Could it really be Finn’s shadow, as the nightmare man seemed to believe?
This is not the same world I woke up in yesterday. I know none of the rules, and I have none of the power. All the things I’ve learned, all the ways I’ve tried to make a place for myself where I am not at the mercy of others, none of it matters in this new, bizarre reality.
A harsh caw draws up my head. Three of the horrid black birds are staring at me from the armchair. One of them hops forward, darting close and pecking my leg with its bone-hard beak, then flapping back with a chorus of croaking laughter.
Another moves to do the same, and I cringe, shielding my ruined hand and ducking my face into my shoulder.
There is a clatter of wings and a chorus of angry caws, but nothing touches me. I raise my head to see one of the birds—missing a single claw—bobbing in front of me, flapping its wings and viciously attacking the other two when they get too close. It draws blood and rips a pinion out of the wing of one of my would-be assailants. They flap away, cawing reproachfully, and disappear into the bookshelf.
I wipe my eyes and look at the remaining bird. “Well,” I say, “spirits’ mercies. I am sorry I didn’t leave better food for you outside my window.”
The bird turns so one yellow eye is fixed on mine.
I sniffle, swallowing back another wave of nausea. “I should have known you weren’t evil. You’re far handsomer than those other wretched birds.”
It ducks its head and tucks some stray feathers back into place along its wing. “Are you a boy?” I ask, and it bobs its head. “Sir Bird it is, officially. Now, Sir Bird, is there a door to this room?”
He hesitates, and then weaves his head back and forth in what I assume is an approximation of shaking it no.
I squeeze my eyes shut against a welling of tears. “I’m afraid that if I do not escape right now, I shall never leave this place.” I don’t know what the nightmare man has in store for me, but any kindness he thinks of is one I want no part of. My hand pains me to distraction, though, and I haven’t any hope of fighting my way free.
There’s a frantic scratching, and I open my eyes to see Sir Bird hopping the length of the table, twisting and twitching as though fighting some internal war. Finally, he shakes himself from beak to tail, caws, and flies to the iron grate over the fire.
I close my eyes again. Perhaps if I can sleep I can wake up somewhere safe, my hand intact, this nightmare over.
Sir Bird caws again, louder than ever, and I look at him, irritated. “What is it?”
He pecks at the iron grate, hops down behind it, and then flaps directly into the fire.
“No!” I gasp, standing and rushing forward. But Sir Bird hops back out of the fire, tapping impatiently on the grate with his beak. I gasp my surprise, and he hops through the fire and back once more.
“I—through there? But the fire!”
As if to prove a point, Sir Bird hops directly into the center of it and stares at me, his eyes reflecting the flames that do not touch him.
Well. It makes as much sense as anything else that has happened since last night. Grasping the heavy iron grate with my good hand, I drag it away. It makes a horrid screech against the floor, and Sir Bird caws a warning a moment too late. Books explode off the shelves, turning into birds in midair, the room a whirling mass of cries.
I duck my head, screaming, but Sir Bird flies out past me and into the melee, scratching and pecking and, in a process my eyes cannot comprehend, swallowing other birds. They converge on him, attacking, and though he fights more fiercely than any, he will be overwhelmed. There is an iron poker next to the fireplace and I grab it, flinging it wildly and batting the demon birds into the walls. They turn back into books on impact, falling to the floor with dusty thuds.
