Always reminding.
I pull my hand away.
“There’s hints of Black Dog too.” He removes his hand as well, wiping it on the wool of his peacoat. “Where exactly were you when you felt the prisoner’s aura?”
“In the carriage. We were just pulling under Admirality Arch over there.” I point to the grand building and its trio of arches. “Shall we go look?”
“Hold on.” Kieran frowns and reaches for the wood again. “There’s something . . .”
“What?”
“The Black Dog . . .” His frown grows. “Something about its aura is off.”
I bite back my questions, watch as his hand moves over the wood. He shuts his eyes, lids fluttering in concentration. Reading all the things I can’t.
Anabelle presses close, smashing hard into my shoulder to avoid another quick-walking detective. “Is it really safe to be standing here? I’ve had about twelve close calls already.”
She’s right. Even in the short time we’ve been standing by the carriage the crowd of mortals has grown. It’s only a matter of time before one of them jostles into one of us.
“Kieran.” I grab the edge of his coat. “Let’s go to the Admirality Arch.”
“Just a moment.” His eyes are still closed. His hand is now fully gripped around the rim of the wheel. “Some of the prisoner’s magic is here. Very faint. Buried in the Black Dog’s aura.”
I think of my own encounter with the Black Dog—how, instead of tearing my flesh from bone, it retreated into Westminster’s Underground. How Blæc’s breath hissed as it vanished into the shadows: Can’t . . . not yet . . . won’t let me eat . . .
Not a miracle.
A curse.
Blæc didn’t spare me out of mercy or restraint. He was being starved. So he could wreak havoc in Trafalgar Square on the day of the coronation. Draw all defense and attentions away from the carriage. Create the perfect window for the masked men to come . . .
“We find the dog, we find the trail,” Kieran says.
“Last I heard it was in Queen Titania’s custody.”
“With the Frithemaeg? That should be easy enough.”
I can’t hide my doubt; it’s all over my face. “Titania isn’t well. And she’s not exactly supportive of this investigation.”
“You’re at odds?” Kieran steps away from the wheel.
At odds. What a civil way to describe how the Faery queen withdrew her help when we needed her most. Abandoned or betrayed feels far more fitting.
“I’ll send a message asking about the dog.” I look back over to the Admirality Arch: three gaps which open up to the Mall, lead the way to Buckingham. I can even see a few of the plane trees beyond. Leaves brown and shriveled. Dying without color.
“We should go over there.” I point to the arches. “Where I felt—”
All of a sudden I feel like those trees, shedding and peeling off dead layers. Kieran’s eyes shine bright with horror as he watches his veiling spell unravel. The power which was not mine slips away—gone again.
All three of us are stripped bare. Exposed for every eye and camera lens in Trafalgar Square to see. The scene around us freezes, detectives stunned and us caught like deer in a car’s headlamps.
Then the moment shatters. I grab the hem of Anabelle’s sweatshirt, tug her with me as I lunge from the ruined carriage. The princess doesn’t hesitate. Neither do the investigators. Cups of coffee splatter on the ground. Stun guns—blue and bright fragments of lightning—jag into the corner of my vision.
We run. Dodging streetlamps and parked police vans. Sprinting around statues and fountains. My feet jar against asphalt and stone, over those horrible chalk outlines of the souls Blæc took. Anabelle runs beside me, keeping perfect pace. Kieran is nowhere in sight. I don’t have time to stop and look for him. If these men catch me, so much more time will be wasted. Time Richard can’t afford.
But all ways out of Trafalgar Square are blocked. Choked with metal barriers and eavesdropping reporters. We’re like rats in a trap, running in circles, trying to find a way out.
There’s none.
Someone claws my shoulder, jerking me back so hard my cap tumbles off. Another detective grabs Anabelle. The princess twists in his arms—movement made of fury and panic. I feel her strength swelling. Magic ready to spill over at any second.
“Don’t, Belle! You promised!” I spit the words at her. “We’ll find another way!”
For a moment I fear the princess won’t be able to stop the surge. But Anabelle manages to push it down. She screams instead, jousting a sharp elbow into her captor’s stomach. He doubles over, releases her onto the stones. I dig my feet into the asphalt, pull hard against the fingers looped into my jumper. There’s a fraying of yarn and I’m free.
Then I see Kieran. He’s looming over the street, perched next to a statue of Charles the First. Looking very much the way he did when I first saw him: fierce and dead, fire and slate. Something to be feared. He glowers over our pursuers. His arm stretches out and through the thick of his peacoat I see the glow of his scar. Blazing.
His magic thunders through the square, lances through the ground like silver lightning. The asphalt which was so sure and solid under our feet becomes quicksand, tugging first at toes. Then ankles. Trapping those standing on it like flies in a pool of tar. Some of the detectives are knee-deep in the softened street.
The Ad-hene is the only one who does not sink. Kieran walks toward us with firm steps and tugs Anabelle up from the viscous street-gunk. He offers his arm out to me, the one where the scar’s light still throbs through his clothing. A slight singeing smell drifts from the sleeve’s wool: magic burning through.
I stare at his outstretched hand another moment. It’s steady, strong, unflinching. Just like the magic warping the asphalt at my feet, it lures me in: deeper and deeper.
Kieran doesn’t wait for me to reach. He grabs my arm and I feel the heat of his mark—searing against my skin. All it takes is one pull and I’m free. Back on solid ground.
Fourteen
“This is a terrible idea,” Anabelle whispers as we walk into the pub. The hood of her sweatshirt is tugged halfway down her face, so I have to guide her around the dimly lit tables.
I’ve already commandeered Kieran’s cap. His scarf too. I take in the early evening crowd, mostly paunchy, middle-aged men leaning over pints, watching reruns of a football match. The man closest to the end of the bar gives us a side glance as we walk in. The rest stay glued to the screen.
The princess is right. This isn’t the best of ideas, but our need to get off London’s streets has escalated to crucial levels. Just like my hunger. It’s been over a day since I’ve had anything more than the expired, crumbling granola bar I foraged from the Jaguar’s glove box.
“We need to eat and regroup,” I tell her. “If someone recognizes us, Kieran can wipe their memory.”
“Right. Because his spell worked so well last time.” Anabelle flops into a booth. “That was a Grade A, bloody circus of a disaster. I think every news venue in Britain caught that on tape.”
Most of the pub’s screens are switched to the football match, but the closest one is all news. In the brief time we’ve been sitting here Richard’s image has flashed twice. The first photograph shows him in his polo gear, arm slung around Edmund, one of his Eton buddies. The second is from the red carpet at the Winfreds’ gala. It has to be, because I can see the embroidered sleeve of my dress.
My face is cut out completely.
Kieran shrugs off his peacoat and moves into the booth next to Anabelle. “I underestimated the power of this city. I’m sorry, I didn’t feel the spell slipping until it was too late.”
I look at the coat still draped over his arm, burn marks wormed into its sleeve. The ring of ruined fabric hugs his thermal shirt too, in the exact pattern of his scar—the one Titania was so certain meant betrayal.
The Ad-hene can’t be trusted.
Was Titania right? I think of ho
w solid and sure Kieran’s magic felt in the square. How little the sickness of the machines seemed to affect him, despite his age. Was it possible Kieran let the veiling spell fall? That he meant for us to be exposed?
Kieran’s slate-gray eyes catch mine. “I won’t be able to hide all of us again. Perhaps just one. If the situation is dire.”
“At least we found something.” Anabelle picks up a menu. Lets it fall back down to the table without so much as a glance. “Queen Titania will send us the dog and we can find out who spelled it.”
A woman comes up to the table, takes our order. Anabelle slouches far into her end of the booth, and I can’t help but tug down my cap. But the waitress has eyes only for Kieran. She doesn’t even seem to notice the burn on his sleeve.
I can’t help but look at the screen. The reporter’s voice buzzes through the speakers. Eternally loud.
“What was supposed to be a national celebration turned tragic yesterday when King Richard’s coronation carriage was attacked by a spirit known as a Black Dog.”
The screen flashes to shots of that morning. Eight plumed horses pulling the Gold State Coach through a sea of cheers and flags. Richard peering out the window. Then, a sudden jerk of the camera, to the huge hulk of shadow which barrels through the crowd. The Black Dog.
I wait for the camera to pan back to the carriage. To show the masked men and my fight, but the scene stays glued to Blæc. The swirling chaos of people and Fae around it.
A distraction. That’s all the Black Dog was. A savage, deadly distraction. I wonder if any of the hundreds of cameras managed to capture Richard’s kidnapping.
It’s like the stage magicians from the Victorian age. The ones veiled in smoke and capes, who yanked rabbits from top hats in the name of magic. Who used beautiful women and shining lights to lure the audience’s attention from the truth. The simplicities of hidden compartments and trapdoors. The art of sleight of hand.
So what were the mechanics of this trick? How did all those men and Richard simply disappear under so many watchful eyes and lenses? In such a space as Trafalgar Square?
Another piece of the puzzle. Missing.
“The monster left a wake of bodies and missing persons. The most notable being King Richard himself. Rumors are circulating that Princess Anabelle has gone missing as well. Like King Richard, she was last seen in the company of Emrys Léoflic. The alleged former Fae has also dropped off the radar.”
A portrait of Anabelle seated at a grand piano flashes across the screen. Another picture fades in over it: me leaping off Lord Winfred’s yacht. Braced for battle with the Kelpie.
“Many are speculating that Emrys’s involvement in the royals’ disappearance is more than just coincidence. Meryl Munson uncovers more in an exclusive interview with one of King Richard’s closest friends.”
The screen flashes over to Edmund. He’s suited in his polo gear, smiling at the pretty brunette reporter beside him. “I never did like Emrys. Richard never was the same after she started showing up. Almost like he was possessed, like he’d been put under some sort of sick love spell.”
“Do you think this is the case?” Meryl Munson leans in close.
“Definitely.” Edmund nods. “The Richard I knew was never into gingers.”
I sigh at the steaming plate of food the waitress shoved in front of me. Anabelle mumbles something about first-rate arses and stabs her fork into her jacket potato. Kieran stares doubtfully at the fish and chips he ordered for show.
“Ever had chips before?” The princess nods at the basket. Its newspaper lining is nearly translucent with grease spots.
“I don’t eat.”
“They’re best with vinegar on them.” Anabelle grabs a bottle from the condiments stand, douses the greasy pile. Once the chips are thoroughly soaked, she shoves the basket closer to the Ad-hene. “Try it.”
To my surprise Kieran fishes out one of the larger pieces, gripping it between his fingers like a cigarette. His nose wrinkles as he shoves it between his lips.
“Delicious, right?” The princess grabs a couple of chips for herself.
The Ad-hene’s eyes turn to slits, his cheeks puff out like an angry fish’s. He nods anyway.
I can’t help but smile at the squeeze of distaste on his face. Anabelle doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy shoving past Kieran, out of the booth. Excusing herself for the water closet.
As soon as the princess is out of sight the Ad-hene grabs a napkin and spits out the chip. His handsome face is still crinkled as he downs half a glass of water, trying his best to drown out the taste.
“You didn’t have to try it,” I tell him.
“It’s a small thing.” Kieran shrugs, looks over his shoulder to where Anabelle’s hooded silhouette coasts past the bar. “If I hadn’t tried it, I would not have known how terrible it was.”
I snatch a chip of my own. Salt and vinegar swim like cold fire across my tongue, through my nose. “Some things are an acquired taste.”
“Like mortality?” The Ad-hene pushes the entire basket across the table. Scar-silver glints through the elaborate burn of his shirt. Some of it has already changed, shifting to the color of flesh with the pattern of the Labyrinth’s tunnels.
Kieran glances down at the singe-mark. “You don’t trust me.”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to. It’s in your eyes.” His eyes meet mine—so steely, so beautiful—and for a moment I believe the mortals’ stories about the Ad-hene. Too evil for heaven. Too pure for hell. Forever in limbo, suspended on the earth. “You don’t trust me, but you need me.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Let’s say the Ad-hene are tricking you. Let’s say we did free the prisoner. Why would they send me to help you? What would I have to gain from you finding your king?”
I bite my lip, stare at the basket of soaking chips.
The Ad-hene pulls his arms off the table. “Stories of you traveled through the Labyrinth. How gifted you were in the art of your magic. You and I both know you could follow this trail yourself. If you truly did not trust me.”
“My magic is gone.” I say this with force. As much for myself as for Kieran.
“Is it? Beyond recall?”
I think of the day Herne’s gloved hand grasped mine. How my powers twisted out, leaving me grounded. I think of the night when I stood on Windsor Castle’s green and watched mortals and Frithemaeg dancing together. Laughing, happy. How I turned to Herne and asked without words. Bared the weakness of my soul under the Wild Hunt moon.
Not beyond recall. Not completely.
I could return to Windsor and accept Herne the Hunter’s offer. I could have power again: singing through me like a hurricane, some fearsome force of nature. The want I felt at the first touch of Kieran’s veiling spell returns. Swells through my insides with fearsome strength.
No more weakness. No more being pinned down like an insect while my heart is torn away.
But the cost . . .
As if on cue, another clip of Richard flashes on the screen. It’s from the same night as the red carpet. I know because this time I’m still in the frame. His eyes are on me: smiling, full of light. Our arms are hooked together as we walk to the boat. I’m smiling too.
Another emptiness rears inside, the pain of him gone. It’s a wonder I can sit here at this table. Swallow vinegar and chips, talk like a normal person.
“I can’t.” Take my magic back. Give Richard up. Go back to living the way I was before.
“I saw the look on your face in Trafalgar Square. You want it,” Kieran presses. He’s speaking in that sly voice of his—sowing words and ideas into the folds of my brain. To seed and sprout and grow. “You were never meant to live this way.”
“There are some things I want more. I made my choice,” I say again. “Some love is worth death.”
“Is it worth him dying?” Kieran nods at the television, where Richard is still guiding me to the yacht ramp. The word
s TAINTED LOVE: KING RICHARD’S FATAL MISTAKE? scroll across the bottom of the screen.
I want to tell him his question is ridiculous. Pointless.
But it’s not. And we both know it.
Anabelle returns, pushing Kieran to the far end of the booth. Worry is all across her pretty face. She nods at the screen. “We might want to eat quick.”
The television blares, extra loud: “This just in. There’s been a fresh attack in Trafalgar Square. Emrys Léoflic and an unidentified male were sighted, just before a brutal spell was unleashed on authorities. Princess Anabelle was also seen with them, apparently as a hostage.”
A shaky camera shot shows my hair, streaming so very red behind me like a banner as I drag Anabelle across the square.
My hand drifts up to my new cap. A dead giveaway.
I steal a glance over to the bar. The football match is gone, the bartender’s remote flicking all the screens to the news report. The man who gave us that first side glance is looking over his shoulder. His pint is half-empty and his cheeks are ruddy, but his eyes stay keen. Straight on me.
“A hostage?” Anabelle straightens, the worry on her face twists into indignation. “That’s ridiculous!”
How did the truth get so warped? So out of focus?
The man at the end of the bar stands, drains the rest of the beer from his glass. His eyes don’t leave our table.
I might not know where I’m going, but I know it’s time to leave.
Fifteen
I half expect to wait out the night huddled in an alleyway. But Anabelle walks us straight to a house in Chelsea, asks Kieran to magic the locks open, and punches the correct string of glowing numbers into the security system pad.
“What is this place?” I gape when she flips the crystal chandelier on. We’re standing in the foyer of a grand house. With polished hardwood floors, marble busts, and gold-framed oil paintings, this place could almost be Buckingham Palace itself.
“My friend Bridget lives here.” The princess walks around the room, loosing all the voluminous curtains from their ties. “Her family’s in Thailand on a rather lengthy holiday. I used to come here and hide out after nasty fights with Mum.”