***
The shed is cold. Long lengths of branches stand together side by side, bark and all to make the square shape like most of the houses in King’s City. The cracks are filled in with straw and mud.
It's a warm day. What little sun reaches them is an equal mix of unbearable and pleasant. Even with the dense trees towering over the witch's house like giants, the shed should not be cold. The bark glints, its rough surface shrouded in frost.
A crunch echoes through the stillness, making them both jump. Bonnie glances down to see the grass beneath her feet is frozen solid.
Her heart beats wildly in her chest, like it wants to burst free and run away. The lost ones were here. How recently, she can't tell. For all she knows they could still be here now, watching them.
"Claudia said they were afraid of the light," Neven says, his voice shaking. He stands at her side, looking down at the frozen grass.
Her stomach falls to her knees as she stares at the frosted door. Part of her already knows what she's going to find even before her hand grips the freezing rope handle, wrenching it open. Wood parts from wood with a crack. "It's dark inside."
Dark doesn't describe it. The front of the shed holds a normal gloom, what you'd expect from a shed under the shadow of trees. On the left stands a wooden rack filled with jars, boxes, and sacks; all labelled with what food they contain. On the right is a bookcase, jammed full of books for every age from toddler to adult. Most of the older books seem to be encyclopaedias about different things, from plants to magical creatures.
Half way down the rack, and just beyond the bookcase the shed vanishes. In its place is a wall of black. The black curtain.
"It looks like - I thought I saw something like it in the woods when the lost ones were chasing us." Neven glances back over his shoulder, like he expects to see the lost ones appear. "Do you think she's in there?"
"The spell said so." Bonnie hesitates in the doorway. The witch could be back any minute. They need to grab Alice and be as far away as possible when she does, but anything could be beyond that darkness. "It'll part for us if we get close. Torches might help if we do meet lost ones."
Neven narrows his eyes. "If I leave to get a torch, how can I be sure you won't go in there without me?"
A noise erupts out of the darkness, halting whatever poor argument she might've come up with. It's wet and laced with pain. A child. It's the sound of a child crying.
Bonnie meets Neven's eyes, then they walk as one into the darkness. It moves aside for them, as the black curtain did the previous night, but it seems different. It ripples like something alive, and the taste isn't the same. Last night the air had tasted crisp and cold, like after a fresh snowfall. This air still tastes cold, but it also tastes of the minutes before a storm when your hair stands on end and your whole body tingles.
She glances back over her shoulder to see that the curtain had closed behind them. It's only an illusion, she tells herself. The door is still right there. A shiver not caused by the cold travels down her spine anyway.
"Bonnie," Neven says sharply.
Bonnie turns, her sword held ready. His use of her real name sets her nerves blaring danger. What she sees is not what she expects.
Alice lies on the dirt floor of the shed, face pale, eye closed. Five of the witch's thick woollen blankets are wrapped around her, but her lips are tinted blue. A boy no older than eight leans over her, his little hands on her shoulders. He wears the cotton clothes of a fairly paid merchant's child. Pink shorts and bleached white shirt show his parent's wealth compared the rougher materials of peasants, but a lack of silks and velvets single him out as not one of the high born.
"I tried to help," he says, turning to them. He has an honest face with wide features and skin so dark that his many freckles give him a dappled appearance. His eyes are almost as dark as the ink black of his shorn hair. "She said she was cold. I just wanted to warm her up. Now she won’t wake.”
Bonnie has never been good with children, not even when she was one. The boy’s face screws up, on the verge of tears again. Something inside her quails at the sight. Give her a monster she can battle with her sword. She’ll take that any day over watching a child cry.
Neven crouches down beside the pair, putting a hand on Alice’s forehead. The girl doesn’t stir. He sits back on his heels. “What exactly did you do to her?”
“Neven we don’t have time for this,” Bonnie says, starting forward. The black curtain is all around them, writhing like something in pain. Hers and Neven’s breaths come out in ragged wisps of white. A few white tendrils even pass through Alice’s blue lips. “The lost ones are close, and the witch could come back any time. Help me lift her. We need to go.”
“I just gave her a hug,” the boy says, his voice shaking. “Mama said she was mine now, and I just wanted to give her a hug.”
Bonnie’s footsteps still. Her heart seems to still too, quivering in her chest. She tries to swallow, but her mouth is suddenly too dry. White mist comes from her lips, from Neven’s, from Alice’s, but not the boy’s. Because he’s not breathing.
“Neven, he’s-”
“I know,” Neven says. His voice trembles, but he stands stiffly, putting his hands under Alice’s arms and pulling her up with him. She’s his size, so he stumbles under her weight. As the blanket puddles into her lap, Bonnie sees the princess’s hands are tied behind her back. “Help me with her legs.”
“What are you doing?” The boy gets to his feet, hands closing into fists at his sides. His voice rises, becoming petulant. “You can’t take her. Mama said she’s mine forever and always. She’s going to be my friend.”
Bonnie slides the sword back into the scabbard on her back. The moment it’s gone from her grip she misses it. It’s not like it could do anything against lost ones. From what she’s seen only magic and light have an effect on them, but without it she still feels more vulnerable. Moving quickly, she grabs Alice’s feet and heaves her off the ground. Her legs are tied together with the same thin rope as her hands.
“Stay back and we won’t hurt you,” Bonnie says, walking backward toward the darkness and the door. Neven follows, neck and face turning red with the strain of his cargo. It’s an empty threat. They don’t have anything to use to hurt the boy, whereas he can knock them out with a long enough touch. Death by hug. It’s not exactly a knight’s way of going out.
The boy stays where he is, watching them sullenly. Around them the black curtain seems to crackle, its surface moving like the clouds of a storm. All the hairs on her body stand on end. The tingling energy increases, almost to the point of being painful.
“Faster Neven,” she whispers, trying not to look phased.
Neven mutters to himself, but increases his speed, teeth gritted and face purple under the weight. She’s finding it difficult herself. She’s shorter than Neven and the princess, but it’s not just that. It’s the black curtain, and the tingling cold around them. It’s like it’s sucking at them, drawing all the energy and warmth from their muscles.
The black curtain waits until they’re inches away, then retreats reluctantly. It keeps a steady presence around them, closer than before. Tendrils reach out toward Alice, long fingers made of black smoke. They caress the air above her.
“Stop that!” Bonnie snaps, sending her best glare toward the darkness behind Neven where the boy had stood moments before. “Leave her alone.”
The fingers withdraw with something that sounds eerily like a child’s sigh. They fade into the curtain, and the black wall around them seems to open up a little. The air in her throat feels less like swallowing a lightning storm, and more like how a regular shed should smell. The cold doesn’t go away. That stays along with the curtain, both taking on a solid presence, watching, waiting.
Neven freezes without warning, staring wide eyed at something behind her, like a rabbit caught in a trap. In her hurry, Bonnie’s feet carry on a step or two before the message reaches them to stop. Alice’s
legs almost slip out of her hands, and the princess’s head lolls against Neven’s chest.
In a moment she’s spun around, dropped to a crouch to lower Alice’s legs to the ground, and slid a hand out of sight to the knife hanging on her belt. Yet she knows it will be little use.
The door is open, inviting sunlight streaming through and chasing the black away. In the doorway stands Claudia, her one eye glaring and the remains of her staff held high. Magic. Bonnie’s beginning to despise its whole existence.
Still, the wielder of magic is flesh and blood. Her fingers tighten around the knife’s hilt. She’s never killed anyone before. The closest she’s come are chickens back at the farm, and even that turned her stomach the first few times. She thinks she can handle it though. Men have to be prepared to kill. Knights have to be prepared to kill. Her father could do it, and so could Ness she bets. So if she needs to, she’ll do it too.
The witch’s toothless mouth closes tight, making her cheeks hollow and her lips liquidy. Bonnie waits, expecting a fight, or at least some big speech about why she has a dead boy - her son? - in a shed with a stolen princess. That’s what would happen in one of Jack’s puppet shows. The villain would explain their plan, and then after waiting for some reason Bonnie never understood, the hero would start a last epic battle, and win of course.
So when the witch slams the door shut it comes as a surprise. She fumbles for the knife, so clumsy she would’ve cut herself if it were sharper. The throw is as sure and quick as the ones she and her father practised on the side of their shed years ago. But it lands a second too late. It quivers in the closed door as the sound of a bar slotting into place comes from the other side.
“No!” Bonnie shouts, running at the door. Her shoulder hits it so hard her teeth click together. The rough bark scrapes at her, even through her shirt. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She should’ve thrown the knife when she had the chance.
“Bonnie,” Neven says sharply. “She’s casting a spell.”
Bonnie backs up, sets her shoulders. She hears the chanting, but tries to ignore it. The shed's only wood. The door will be the weakest area. She could slash her way through, but that might take too long. Shaking her head, she charges again, leaping at the last moment to slam her whole body weight into the door. If she’s lucky the hinge will break and they might be able to manoeuvre the door over the bar. If she’s really lucky the bar will break and in a second they’ll be out of here.
Her side hits the door hard enough to make her whole body sing with pain. Then something hits her back.
A giant’s punch sends her flying back across the shed, narrowly missing the shelves to her right. A glimpse of swirling darkness. A sharp pain exploding outward from her head and back. Voices. Then nothing.
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