The Queen's Choice

  We spent the next half hour with our heads hung almost to our chests, listening to footsteps in the hallway until finally one of those echoes turned toward our cell. I’d assumed Nicholas More had been exaggerating for effect when he’d ordered his comrades to inform Ivanova, because surely no one would dare to bother a member of the Governor’s family at this time of night. But it was Luka who strode through the door, and I recalled that he was responsible for law enforcement in the Territory—the Constabularies answered to him.

  Tonight he was wearing a puffed-sleeved white poet’s shirt under a scarlet tunic with gold buttons from top to bottom. Luka came highly recommended by people I trusted, but there could be absolutely no question as to his social class. Looking most exasperated, he gave the door a shove to close it.

  “I didn’t expect to see you two again so soon.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Shea mumbled.

  The Lieutenant Governor examined her tear-splotched face with interest, his brow furrowed. I could detect no sympathy in his manner, however. Perhaps because he felt she’d done this to herself.

  “Allow me to explain something. There are those fugitives I consider worth pursuing and those I do not. At the time we met, my dear, I had no investment in you. Unfortunately, now that I can no longer feign ignorance, that has changed. Understand, I prefer not to be in the business of enslaving children, but the Governor’s laws are unambiguous. If I’m going to be able to help you, you need to help me first.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Luka shook his head, then dropped to one knee in front of Shea. He pulled a key from his pocket, unfastening her handcuffs in what I presumed was a show of good faith. After tucking the key into one of his pockets, he gripped her chin, firmly but not unkindly, and forced her to meet his gaze.

  “Think carefully about what I’m about to offer. If you tell me where I can find your father, and the information proves reliable, I can justify making the charges against you disappear.”

  “No.”

  Coming to his feet, Luka crossed his arms, tapping the fingers of one hand on his tensed bicep.

  “I am handing you your life, Ms. More. You’d be issued legitimate papers, free of infractions. This is the only chance you’ll ever have to walk away from your father’s mistakes with clean hands. Once it goes on record that you’ve been uncooperative, no one in this system will be lenient with you.”

  Shea vehemently shook her head.

  Luka massaged his temples with forefinger and thumb, trying to think of a different way to persuade her. Then he straightened his posture, his manner brusque.

  “Fine, if that’s the way you want it. But whether you know it or not, you’ve already told me where to find Thatcher More, and I’ll be organizing the hunt tomorrow. A human and a Faerie traveling together is unusual enough, but that same Faerie injured in the Balsam Forest and nursed back to health, well, that’s not a coincidence. Your family must have found her, and that means they’re hiding in the east.”

  It was patent from Luka’s tone that he regretted the villainous role in which he had been cast. He had extended to Shea her best option, and she’d turned it down. Now she would be charged with not only tonight’s crimes, but her father’s, unless the search resulted in Thatcher’s arrest. Luka and I watched Shea for her reaction, and little by little her anger melted into fear, until sobs racked her form.

  He sighed and looked away, too practical for guilt but not for regret. I glowered at the chains that bound me—had the Governor’s son deigned to unlock my handcuffs, I could have embraced my friend.

  “Please,” Shea sniveled, rising and latching on to the front of Luka’s tunic with both hands like someone who was drowning. “Please, you don’t have to do this.”

  Luka placed his hands on Shea’s shoulders, and that was all the invitation she needed to throw herself into his arms. He stumbled back a step, surprise and discomfort written on his face, but ultimately returned her embrace, probably not knowing what else to do. I’d never seen Shea like this before—broken and begging—and it tore at my heart. I was at fault for this; I was the reason her family was traceable.

  “What...what will happen to my father if you arrest him?” Shea mumbled, face half-buried in Luka’s shirt.

  “He will have to pay his debt, in labor if not in money, according to the Governor’s laws.”

  Shea clung to him for several moments, then wiped away her tears.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you where to find him. I just can’t.” Disentangling herself from Luka’s embrace, she raised her chin in an expression of stubbornness that I knew well. “I can almost believe you care about me, yet you would take away my father without a second thought.”

  Luka plucked at his shirtsleeves, trying to control his agitation—Shea had clearly gotten under his skin—but his voice when he spoke was steady and resigned.

  “I have second thoughts, my dear, and third thoughts and fourth thoughts, because this sentence is not yours to serve. Your father is a coward for leaving a girl to suffer in his place, and you don’t repay a coward with martyrdom. I know Tairmor is your home. If you would only assist me, I could put you in good standing here, even provide you with a place to live in a nice neighborhood.”

  “I’ll never betray my family,” Shea reiterated, sinking down on the bench.

  Jaw clenched, Luka snapped the handcuffs around her wrists. Pivoting on his heel, he went to the door. But at the last moment, he turned again to face us.

  “I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to think about your situation, Shea. Perhaps a night in shackles without food or water will encourage you to come to your senses.”

  With that, Luka departed, to my dismay having said nothing about my arrest or what charges might be levied against me.

  In the aftermath of his visit, our breathing in the small room was disconcertingly loud, and Shea leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Then she lifted her head, a smirk on her face and an almost manic glint in her eyes. Had she snapped under the pressure? Or had she come up with a plan to fool Luka and get us released? I was about to speak when she held out her closed fist, slowly uncurling her fingers to reveal a key nestled in her palm.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I asked incredulously, my heart soaring.

  Shea nodded, pleased by my reaction. “I took it from Luka’s pocket when he was hugging me.”

  I rubbed my jaw, laughing louder than was probably wise, but unable to contain myself.

  “I can’t believe you snatched the key! How did you dare? And where did you learn to do that?”

  “We didn’t have much to lose, now did we? And I learned the gambit when I was a girl playing with my friends. We used to practice sleight of hand, magic tricks, cheating at cards, that sort of thing. When we got good enough, we would dare each other to pickpocket people in the market. It was stupid and dangerous, and after a couple of us got caught, we had to stop doing it. But...I never got caught.”

  “I’m impressed. I never knew you had such skills. But we still have a problem. The key will get us out of these handcuffs, but what about the door?”

  “It would be too noisy to try to break it down, so we’ll have to trick the guard in the front office into opening it. And then we’ll have to incapacitate him.”

  I nodded, willing to try whatever it took despite how daunting escape seemed. Shea unlocked our handcuffs, and I searched my brain for a plan of action, knowing we had few resources at our disposal. In the end, only one strategy seemed feasible.

  “I think one of us should pretend to be sick. The other can call for help. If the guard comes in, he’ll be distracted, and we can knock him out.”

  “It’s as good as any plan of mine,” Shea concurred. “Do you want to be the sick one or the rabble-rouser?”

  “I’ll act sick. You’re better at cau
sing trouble than I am.”

  Shea gave me a pained smile. “I assume you mean I’m the better actress.”

  “Of course.” I rolled my eyes, feeling beads of sweat forming at the back of my neck in anticipation. “Now let’s do this. And remember, you’ll have to move quickly once the guard comes to check on me.”

  I rubbed my wrists, gathered a wad of spit in my mouth, then refastened the handcuffs, taking the key from Shea so I could release myself when the time came. I lay down, my arms draped spastically over the bench, my head lolling back but not quite touching the floor. Looking at Shea, who had retaken her seat on the bench, her shackles unlocked but lying upon her wrists, I nodded.

  Pulling in a lungful of air, she unleashed a cry that would have reached the ears of the dead and buried. That wasn’t enough for her, however, and she began to shout, her voice high-pitched and panicky. Though I was witnessing a performance, I half believed she was in the grip of a demon.

  “Help! Somebody! Guard! Please, help me! My friend’s dying!”

  It wasn’t long until we heard the rattle of the lock, and I slipped into character, convulsing on the floor and releasing my store of saliva in a bubbling froth. Then our cell door was pushed open to frame a burly, middle-aged man, his bald pate wrinkled with concern and annoyance.

  “Damn it,” the guard swore, dropping to one knee beside me. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Shea replied in an emphatic whimper. “She’s having some kind of fit. Please help her.”

  The man made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl, his arms moving above me as he debated whether or not to pick me up. Seizing her chance, Shea sidled up behind him and leaped upon his back, locking her forearm and elbow around his neck while she pushed his head down with her other hand. I rolled out of the way, wiping my lips, as his fist slammed the floor to prevent a fall. But he was a strong man and lumbered to his feet.

  I watched in stunned immobility the scene unfold—the guard gasped, trying to speak, his face growing redder and redder while Shea doggedly clung to him, applying pressure to his throat. Grappling behind him, the man at last found a handhold in her hair. He yanked and wrenched, and she cried out, then he hurtled backward at the wall. With weight on his side, I was sure the impact would injure Shea, possibly badly. He had enough body mass and momentum to squash her like a bug.

  Jolted to my senses, I lunged at his knees to impede his progress. He grunted in surprise, Shea’s choke hold still preventing him from making real noise, and I rammed my shoulder into his hip, pulling up hard. Realizing what I was doing, Shea beat an escape, but her head smacked against the stone wall with dizzying force. The guard almost simultaneously crashed to the floor, the heavy thud of his body telling me the damage she had suffered was regardless far less than it could have been.

  Shea moaned and gingerly touched the back of her head, her eyelids widening and narrowing in a fight to focus, while the guard lay dazed, though still moving. Not waiting for our enemy to regain his voice and possibly his feet, I straddled him and pushed my forearm against his windpipe just hard enough to cut off his air. He flopped like a fish for a few seconds, then gave in to unconsciousness. I scrambled away from his body, frightened by my own actions. The guard was still alive, thank Nature, but he’d feel like a mountain had fallen on him when he woke.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, going to Shea’s side where she had slid to the floor.

  When she didn’t respond, I gently tipped her head forward to take a look at her wound. It wasn’t difficult to find—the hair around the injury was tinged red, sticky and matted. But experience with the occasional bang on the head had taught me that such wounds tended to be overdramatic, bleeding beyond the scope of actual damage. Already the blood was caking and coagulating. With no time to waste, I took Shea’s wrist and guided her to her feet.

  “Is he dead?” she whispered, pale and trembling.

  I shook my head. “No, this guy’s as strong as a bear. It won’t be long before he’s up and reporting our escape. He’ll barrel through that door like it’s made of parchment.”

  With that thought in my mind, I made certain Shea was steady, then scrambled to the side of the unconscious guard. He didn’t look good, which made me doubly regret what I was about to do.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, before kicking the man’s foot to position his lower leg. I set up my aim and squeezed my eyes shut, then stomped on his ankle. The bone crunched like an egg. I fought back the urge to gag, and when I looked to Shea, I could tell she was in the midst of the same struggle, her mouth slightly ajar, nostrils flared.

  “We need to get out of here,” I said unnecessarily, not wanting to think about what I had done.

  Shea went to the door and peeked through it into the hall beyond while I retrieved the ring of keys from the downed man’s belt.

  “All clear,” she whispered, motioning for me to join her. “Let’s go.”

  We slipped into the corridor, closing and locking the cell door behind us in the hope our flight would not be discovered for several hours. Turning sideways to provide ourselves with a line of sight both ahead and behind, we approached the office vestibule, relieved to find it was deserted, a miracle considering how recently Luka Ivanova had been there. This might have made me chary, except that this jail appeared to be little more than a drunk tank. I doubted it was ever well staffed, and especially not at this time of night.

  Spotting our packs and weapons abandoned in a corner, we snatched them up and moved to the front door. We opened it a crack, and seeing no one posted in front of the jailhouse, hustled into the darkness and down the street, not concerned about direction. We only wanted to put distance between us and any Constabularies who might be on duty in the area.

  Rounding a corner, I dared to let myself breathe normally, only to come to an abrupt halt. Without thought, I shoved Shea against the nearest building, out of the glare of the street lamps. Her skull connected with the stone, and I winced, having forgotten her questionable balance. She bit back a groan, raising one hand to her temple to support her head.

  Coming down the road was a cloaked man, his hood pulled up against the cold, hands jammed in his pockets. I eyed him closely as the wind disturbed the cloak enough to reveal the double-breasted red tailcoat hidden beneath. I cursed under my breath, feeling we had started the day with little luck and were ending it with even less.

  Pressing our backs against the building, Shea and I stood still, willing him to pass on by. He soon did, looking down at his boots, in all likelihood in a hurry due to the wretched weather. Still, something about his walk made me uneasy, and I watched him until he was out of sight.

  “That was close,” Shea murmured, hoisting her pack once more. I lifted mine, muscles tightening from our altercation with the guard, and Shea caught my grimace.

  “What’s the matter, Anya?”

  “Not sure. I probably pulled something in the fight with our little friend back at the jail.”

  Shea disregarded my attempt at humor, worry descending upon her face. “Is it your back? Is that the problem?”

  “Oh, not this again. I’m fine. You’ll be the one needing those painkillers the doc gave me. Your head’s going to swell up like a ripe mushroom.”

  Shea acknowledged this with a sardonic lift of her eyebrows, then spoke my thoughts aloud. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? We need to keep moving.”

  We hurried on, sticking to the shadows until we judged ourselves to be outside the zone of immediate pursuit. Huddling against a wall in a clean, covered alleyway between two high-end shops—quite a change from the neighborhood surrounding the Fae-mily Home—we went about determining how to get out of Tairmor.

  “When I was younger,” Shea confided, “my friends and I heard stories about tunnels underneath the city, caverns cut by the river over the years. It’s not too far-fetche
d a notion when it comes right down to it. Supposedly, you can make your way in and out of the city if you know how to access them.”

  “Please tell me you know how.”

  She screwed up her rounded face in a way that wasn’t particularly reassuring. “I’ve never been in them, but I have some idea. We need to get to the river first.”

  “Where are we now?”

  She curled down farther against the shop wall, and I knew even before she answered that she had no more clue than I did.

  “I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t ask. All I can say is we’re in a wealthy section of Tairmor.”

  I nodded, not particularly perturbed. “It’s all right. If we’re lost, we’re lost, and we’ll just keep wandering until we’re found again...though preferably not by the Governor’s men.”

  “That’s quite a fatalistic attitude you’ve adopted.”

  I laughed. “It’s about the only approach I haven’t tried today.”

  We gave ourselves a few more minutes to warm up out of the wind, then returned to the street, following the crash of water toward its source. I automatically attempted to unfurl my wings, and my back twinged—how easy it would have been to fly to the rooftops and chart a course. Still, humans functioned without wings. If they could do it, so could I.

  The rush of excitement generated by our escape gradually subsided to be replaced by aching tiredness. A foul mood set upon me, growing fouler still as Shea continually bumped into me, either not paying attention to her path or...unable to walk straight. I glanced at her, a new worry taking hold. How serious might her head injury be?

  “Are you all right, Shea?” I asked, trying to get a look at her eyes in the light of the gas lamps.