CHAPTER 16
he wind shrieks in my ears and yanks at my hair. As I cling for dear life to the ladder, the train pistons chug beneath me.T I can’t stay like this, hanging off the train. If the Fey spot me, I’ll instantly be recognized as a spy. I glance down at the earth speeding beneath my feet. I need to force myself to climb up.
In the whipping wind, it’s hard to convince myself to let go. My muscles agree and are locked rigid. Finally, I force myself to unclench my left fist.
Almost instantly, I feel myself veering off to the right, buffeted by the wind and the train’s rattling pace.
I grasp at the next rung on the ladder, and then, with a quick upward shift, move my right hand as well. Fear cascades through me as I climb one rung at a time. From above, a burst of hot steam washes over me, taking my breath away.
At the bookshop, I often climbed the ladder to reach shelves all the way at the top. But the ladder wasn’t juddering in a windstorm like this, assailed by bursts of hot steam. And I didn’t have to worry about certain death if I fell.
Fear rakes at my chest.
Another rung. And another. At last, I reach the top of the carriage, clinging to the metal bars to steady myself. Beneath me, the train rattles over the tracks, churning fast. Desperately, I search for a way inside the carriage.
There’s nothing—the carriage’s roof is solidly shut—but then I notice a trapdoor.
Unfortunately, it’s on the next car over.
I grip the rungs on the roof tightly as the train races through a darkened village.
With a hammering heart, I crawl across the carriage roof, flattening myself on the smooth surface. Then, on my hands and knees, I shift forward, grabbing for any handholds I can find—metal braces and brackets on the roof to stop me from falling.
The train tracks turns before I can grip a bracket, an almost insignificant bend, but for me, gravity shifts, and I tumble to the side, hands scraping desperately for purchase. I start to slide off the left side of the train, and then my fingertips brush something solid, a bar jutting from the roof. Grunting, I pull myself to the center of the carriage again, and the train chugs on.
Gritting my teeth, I crawl a few feet more to the edge of the carriage.
My stomach swoops at the sight of the gap between the cars and the ground racing by beneath the train. The chasm yawns before me. Between the carriages, the rails flash by with impossible speed. There’s only one way across—I have to jump. And if I fall, I’ll be crushed to a pulp beneath the train. My pulse thunders.
Steam billows around me. I gasp, inhaling it, and the acrid taste fills my mouth. The steam drenches my clothes, mingling with my sweat.
When it clears up, I force myself to crouch at the edge, and then I shuffle back a few steps. Before I can second-guess the wisdom of my decision, I take a running leap.
Time seems to slow as I hurtle through the air, the wind rushing over me.
I’m certain I’ve made a terrible mistake, but I land with a jarring thump on the next carriage, my jaws snapping at the impact. The train whistle blows, the sound so loud that it rattles through my bones.
Reaching for one handhold at a time, I make my way to the trap door.
When I get to it, I yank the handle. The trapdoor is metal, and ridiculously heavy. Groaning, I heave it open a crack and peer inside. Not a passenger carriage, thank the gods. Just cargo. Moonlight streams onto piles of crates around the edges of the carriage.
I let out a huff of frustration. There’s no ladder. I’ll have to jump, but the carriage floor looks far away. I open the hatch further and hang my feet over the edge. I inch inside and let go, then plummet to the floor of the cargo car, pain shooting through my ankle and up my leg.
“Shit,” I hiss, stumbling to the side. I’ve twisted my ankle badly.
I roll onto my butt and grip my leg. If only Raphael were here to work his
healing magic. I can almost picture him cradling my ankle in his hands, stroking his fingertips over exactly where it hurts, the heat from his magic pulsing over my skin. But when I stop imagining it, the pain races back
through my leg.
My heart is a wild beast.
I let out a long, slow breath. I’m resting on the quiver and arrows, and they dig into my back. I’m dirty and wet, and I’ve torn my pants. My face burns and feels sticky, and when I wipe my forehead, my fingertips come out smeared maroon. Drying blood. I think I cut it when I was racing through the branches in the grove. Oh, and I bit my tongue.
I have the quiver, but I lost the bow on the way. Still, despite the injured ankle, this is overall a success. I’m alive, and on the way to Allevur.
Fuck. My elation dies when I realize that I’ve lost my bag, too—which had my forged papers in it. If anyone asks for them, I’m screwed. The disguise no longer makes any sense.
Once I get off in Allevur, my appearance will draw instant attention. I look around, searching for anything that might be a change of clothes, but all I see are crates nailed shut. On either side of the carriage, there’s a door—but there’s no way of knowing what’s beyond it.
Wrythe taught us that the train of Gobannos is a strange hybrid of human technology and Fey magic. Once inside, perceptions can become strange to those not used to magic. Carriages are glamoured or twisted into strange shapes as magic bends reality to its will.
It can be dangerous to venture into the unknown, especially now that I look more like a fugitive than an aristocratic Fey hunter.
I crouch down in the carriage and wait. Hopefully, I’ll go unnoticed in here until I get to Allevur.
I unshoulder the quiver and stuff it behind a crate. As the train chugs along, I lean back and shut my eyes, trying to ignore the pain in my ankle.
Have I made a terrible mistake? Rushing onto a Fey train because I heard a voice that might or might not predict the future?
It’s certainly possible.
When the mission ends—assuming I get home safely—I could be kicked out of the academy and on the next boat back to the U.S.
The instant pang of sadness catches me by surprise. My life before Camelot was a different sort of chaos, one that made me feel tired instead of exhilarated. One where I spent lots of time alone.
No Tana, no Serana, no Darius.
No Raphael.
Not that I care about him.
I drop my head into my hands, trying to focus on the next step. I’m still in mortal danger. I’ll deal with the fallout of my actions later.
The carriage door opens, and my head snaps up, pulse roaring.
A blond Fey steps inside, frowning. He’s wearing a black uniform and holds a short sword, but even I can see that he’s untrained, holding it as if he’s holding a club.
I stumble to my feet, standing unsteadily.
He cocks his head at me, and his bronze eyes gleam in the dark, lupine and eerie. “Who are you?”
In the dim light, I can see the suspicion etched on his face. I can only imagine how I look to him. Dirty, bleeding, clothes ripped. I look exactly like a fugitive.
My heart speeds up. He’ll take me into custody. In less than an hour, I’ll be locked in a Fey jail, being tortured for answers.
My mind flashes to something I learned in one of my spy classes.
Alleviating suspicion is a difficult task. But shifting it is much easier. You just need someone else to point a finger at. Unfortunately, there’s no one here but me.
“Someone attacked me!” I say in Fey. “I…I think he was a demi-Fey. A
stowaway.”
He tenses, peering behind me. “Where?”
“I think he’s hiding in the rear carriage.”
“Stay here,” he commands, and walks between the crates to a door behind me. He readies his sword, then opens it, stepping into the darkness of the last carriage. But from here, I can see it’s also empty of people, which isn’t ideal.
My breath shallows. I need to get out of here, now.
I run for the other door. Pushing through it, I burst into a passenger carriage. Fey dine at tables, sipping drinks and eating hors d’oeuvres. I’ve never seen so many Fey at once, and they’re all looking at me, champagne
flutes paused in midair.
My chances of blending in are now zero.
“There’s a criminal on the train!” I shout, pointing back at the door. “A demi-Fey murderer. He’s stabbed someone in the back carriage. Help barricade the door!”
Shouts echo off the carriage walls as I hobble across the carriage. With every step, pain screams from my twisted ankle up my calf.
When I glance behind me, I see two Fey men holding the door closed.
I take in the strange beauty of the place as I shuffle along. The Fey are draped in rich fabrics of burgundy and royal blue. In this carriage, vines grow over ornately carved wooden walls, and lights twinkle from the leaves. Music floats though the air.
But as I get closer to the end, a woman with a tiara and crimson hair points at me, shouting, “Stop her!”
No one is really listening to her. They’re all focusing on the other end of the train, where the alleged murderer is pounding maniacally against the
door.
Good. Chaos is my friend.
I limp along as quickly as my ankle allows me to. Just as I reach the carriage door, I look back. The barred door rattles, and the attendant shouts something from the other side. I slip through into the next carriage, slamming the door shut behind me. It’s another passenger car, full of Fey sitting among the luxury of gilt-frame portraits and ivy-covered walls.
I play the same trick, with less satisfying results this time. I scream that a killer is after me, and yell at them to bar the door. While I hobble across the aisle, a single Fey man with silver hair makes a half-hearted attempt to question me, but I pretend not to hear him.
I burst through the next door, agony shrieking up my leg.
I’m prepared for the extraordinary, but the sight in front of me still stops me dead for a few precious seconds. The carriage is decorated like a ballroom, and I’ve wandered into an actual masquerade ball. There are no tables or benches, and Fey dance in long gowns and animal masks. Lights twinkle on the mahogany walls, and a harp thrums, a pulsing, sensual beat that throbs in my belly. Tiny jewels hang suspended in the air, glittering with light that reflects off a marble floor. The space appears to be cavernous, the dimensions all wrong for a train.
I limp inside, and some of the dancers glance my way, but almost no one stops dancing. Despite the pain in my leg, I feel the strange need to dance as well, and the music and the magic of the masquerade ball takes over my
body.
This place is wildly disorienting.
Euphoria bubbles in my chest and slides through my veins, and I have to
force myself to remember that I need to get to the other side of the carriage. I pirouette through the dancers. Giggling, I snatch a cat mask off a woman’s face. She grins at me, her lips blood red. I don the mask and dance my way to the next door. My ankle throbs, but the pain is so dull now. I’m acting out the moves from my childhood, a few steps of the waltz, now an allemande, a chasse— I land badly on my bad ankle and lose my balance. I hiss in pain and stumble into the carriage door. Snapping out of my haze, look back at the ballroom. Two black-clad guards are searching for me among the dancers.
With my cat mask still on, I slip through the next door.
In the next carriage, violet smoke whirls around Fey in skimpy outfits.
They recline on cushions, their limbs entwined. Some are smoking long cigarettes, others are kissing and groping one another. The smoke is cloying and sweet, and I hold my breath, but not quickly enough. Dream smoke, it’s called, a Fey drug that has become very popular with the human elite for the past years. I glance at a man sucking on a woman’s nipple.
I find myself staring, the dream smoke relaxing my muscles. My head spins, and I try to keep my balance, licking my lips as heat slides through my body.
My eyes close, and I sway, imagining Raphael’s magic caressing me, that he’s right behind me, his athletic body pressed against mine. For a moment, my mind blazes with a vision of me lying on that cushion, of Raphael kissing
my naked skin— Absolutely not.
I clench my fists and force myself through the carriage as quickly as I can.
I reach the next door and fling it open. It’s dark in here, and I collapse on the floor, kicking it closed behind me.
I can’t breathe. The rush wreaked havoc with my asthma. I search for my inhaler, except I no longer have my bag.
Shit.
A sudden growl draws my attention. The carriage is full of caged animals: great wolves with gleaming eyes, foxes, a giant bell jar of fluttering butterflies. Ravens perch in cages.
One of the wolves growls again, his eyes intent on me. I quickly glance at the cage door, relieved to see it’s locked.
I’ve still got two agents after me, though. Perhaps the smoke has slowed
them, but for how long? I have to keep moving.
Forcing myself upright, I hobble between the animal cages. My breath whistles, and my chest feels heavy. The Fey chasing me don’t suffer the same affliction. I can go on for one more carriage, maybe two, and they’ll be upon me.
Pain lacerates my ankle, but I make it to the other door. I glance at a caged wolf to my right, one with gray fur. His lip curls back, baring enormous teeth.
“Hey, there,” I wheeze, leaning on my knees. “Hello.”
He growls, his ears flicking back. I don’t think I’m making a new friend here.
The lock seems simple. Obviously, there’s no reason for a complicated lock on a feral wolf’s cage because what sort of maniac would want to open it?
I recently learned in the academy that picking locks takes two tools: a bent lockpick and a strong metal prong for torc.
Gasping for breath, I remove the brooch from my corset and break the pin holding it. Then I yank the thin hairpin from my hair and stick it into the lock.
The wolf snarls at me, saliva dripping from his fangs. He snaps at my hand, and I quickly pull it back. I push the cat mask up on my head in case that placates him.
“Stop that,” I order. “I need to concentrate.”
His low growl sends a shiver up my spine.
I push the hairpin into the lock again and apply pressure as I start tinkering with the pin. I feel the slight click and twist the lock open. Behind me, the door opens, and a guard shouts something at me. I stand up and open the cage just a sliver. The wolf, recognizing the opportunity, lunges against the door of the pen as I yank the door open to the next carriage. I slide through, slamming it behind me.
I flatten myself against the door as something heavy—probably the wolf —smashes into it. Luckily, wolves aren’t good with door handles. Then, from the other side of the door, I hear a deep male scream. A little tendril of guilt twists in my chest. My pursuers just met my lupine acquaintance.
Pressed against the door, I survey the new carriage. This seems to be a luggage carriage, lined with shelves of suitcases.
My mind kicks into action, and I snag a dusty-rose valise from one of the
shelves. I pop it open and strip off my dirty, torn clothes. Panicked shouts echo from the other carriage. I pull on a long emerald dress with a plunging neckline and a slit up one side. I yank out a wide-brimmed hat and put it on.
With shaking hands, I quickly secure the knife holster around my thigh.
I shove my clothes in the suitcase and slam it shut.
I hurry across to the next door and fling it open. Another passenger carriage, one with mahogany tables and flickering candelabras, where the occupants are drinking bubbly pink cocktails from champagne flutes.
I stroll in, masking the pain that races up my ankle. Wearing a serene smile, I drop into an empty seat at one of the tables, angling my hat to cast a shadow on my face. A woman with wavy silver hair sits across from me, and
her eyes gleam with fiery shades.
“Good evening,” she says to me in Fey.
“Good evening,” I answer. “Do you know how long until we reach Allevur?”
“Not long.” She frowns. “You have a bit of an unfamiliar accent, young one.”
“I’m from Glenfark,” I explain, hoping that it’s faraway enough to explain the foreign accent. It’s a remote island in Brocéliande.
“Ah.” She nods in satisfaction. “I should go there when I return from Fey France. I’ve heard it is quite beautiful.”
“It’s glorious,” I say. “There’s nothing like the sandy white shores of Glenfark.”
The carriage door bursts open, and the large guard steps in.
There’s only one of them now, and he has a nasty scratch on his face.
This guard hasn’t seen my face because I was wearing the cat mask. He’s looking for a dirty woman with wet clothes.
“My son sailed to Glenfark once,” the lady says. “He was there for four days. He said that he liked the fruit.” She’s wearing a golden gown with sheer sleeves.
“Yes, Glenfarkian fruit is delicious.” I have no idea what fruit grows in Glenfark.
The attendant walks down the aisle, looking left and right. His eyes linger on me for just a second, then slide off. I do my best to look relaxed as possible.
He keeps going. As he gets further away, I start coughing.
“Are you all right, dear?” the woman asks.
“Yes,” I rasp. “It’s just the fumes of the train. They don’t agree with me.”
“Here.” She rummages in her small black clutch, finding a tiny metal box.
“Try one of those.”
I open the lid to reveal pastel-colored sweet confections. Fey candy can be overwhelming, but refusing a gift in the Fey world is culturally unthinkable.
“Thanks.” I cough and pop a pale blue sweet in my mouth.
Strong minty flavors erupt, curling into my throat and nose. I can practically feel my breath relaxing and my lungs opening up.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” She smiles at me. “Helps me on bad days.”
“It’s incredible,” I manage. This is a million times better than my inhaler.
Modern medicine has a lot to learn from the Fey.
The brakes screech, and the train slows.
A man’s voice floats through the carriage. “Allevur! We have arrived at Allevur!”
My gaze flicks to the large guard. He’s not paying attention to me, but he’s standing by the door where I need to disembark. Through the opening, I see a stone platform. Gas lamps cast a warm glow over a few people as they bustle off the train.
“Didn’t you want to get off on Allevur, young one?” the silver-haired woman asks.
“Yes.” I smile at her, my heart beating hard, my eyes still on the guard.
“Just catching my breath.”
I wait for a few seconds, then stand up and walk over to the train door. As I reach it, the guard turns to look at me, his eyes widening.
“You!” he shouts.
The train is starting to move again. I open the door and leap off, just as the train chugs away. Pain shoots up my leg. The guard is hanging out the door, staring at me, baring his canines.
