Entice (18 page)

The change in Astley is almost imperceptible, but I can still feel it, because I am his queen, I guess. There’s a ripple of sorrow and hurt running through him. I reach out and take his hand in mine. It is strong, but there’s a tremble in it. Anger arches through me. If I didn’t need her help so badly, I’d yank Astley right out of here. But I do need her help.

“Please tell me how to get to Valhalla,” I begin again.

“First let me hear about you.” She arranges her tulle skirt prettily around her legs, smoothing it down. “It isn’t every day Astley comes home with a new queen. Did he tell you what happened to the first one?”

Astley stands up. “Enough.”

It’s like all the clocks on the wall have suddenly stopped, or maybe my heart has just stopped beating. I’m not sure.

“First one?” I manage to whisper.

Astley turns to stare at me. His face is horror stricken. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. His eyes look away, to the side, like facing me is too much.

“He killed that one,” she says matter-of-factly.

Something gray and simple settles into my lungs and kidneys, squeezing them into peas. I think it’s dread. I think that’s what it is, this feeling. Her words echo in my head as I stare up at Astley. He killed that one—not just that she died. He
killed
her?

Astley makes a choking noise. His hands reach up into the air like he wants to hit someone, something. All his emotions seem to swirl in the air around us, volatile, visible like the gold dust trail he leaves. He’s about to snap and I’m not exactly sure why, but I know I’m about to snap too.

“You’ve been lying to me?” I ask in a voice so quiet I can’t believe he hears it, but I can tell by how he’s flinching that he does hear it. “What else haven’t you told me, Astley?”

I’m not sure if I’m trembling from rage or sorrow or what, but I’m trembling.

His mouth opens. No words come out.

“Were you going to ever tell me?” I ask.

He stumbles backward. He looks so wounded. “It is not … It is not … I didn’t … I did … But I … Oh, Zara … I cannot stand you looking at me like that.”

His eyes clench shut and he whirls around, staggering out of the room.

“Astley!” I yell after him, leaping off the couch. A small and terribly strong hand grabs at my wrist.

“Do not go,” Isla says. “Let him be.”

“You’re a monster and a liar,” I say. “I don’t know what Astley did, but he would never kill anyone.”

She raises an eyebrow and keeps hold of my wrist. “You are truly innocent, Miss Zara White. You even smell innocent. No …” Her words trail off as she thinks. “You smell of innocence and
power
, unused power.”

“And you smell of roses and mean.” I rip my wrist away from her, desperate to find Astley and even more desperate to learn about Nick.

” ‘Roses and mean.’ ” She laughs and falls backward into her chair, clutching her stomach. “You talk like the innocent child that you are, Zara White. ‘Roses and mean.’ ”

She reminds me of a nasty girl I used to play with back in first grade. Her name was Stephanie and she’d repeat everything you said like it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. I knew the names of all the phobias before I knew the alphabet. They fascinated me, and sometimes I’d chant them under my breath at recess. Stephanie tormented me about that, called me Freaky Freak Zara, until I kidnapped her American Girl doll and threatened to throw it into a manhole.

Astley’s mother reminds me of that girl. She reminds me of all the bullies and evil people who hurt others around the world. I have had it with those bullies, so I do the best thing I can think of, which is leap toward the wall and rip a clock off the side table. She shrieks.

“Don’t hurt it!”

I stare at the device in my hands. Somehow I know that it’s worth more to her than her own son, and that just rips through me even if Astley is some sort of weird, murdering liar face. Aren’t parents supposed to love their children unconditionally? The clock is French cast with gilt angels on top of a white marble base. It stands about a foot wide and sixteen inches tall. Gilded bronze angels dance on the jug handles.

“That is by Nicolas M. Thorpe,” she pants out. Her hand is on her heart and she’s flopped back in her chair like some ancient Victorian woman in a Brontë novel.

“It could be by Michel-freaking-angelo,” I growl at her. “I could care less. It is a thing. It is a possession, and I am going to destroy it if you keep playing games with me.”

She sits up straight, all little-girl pretenses gone. She is predator and queen. “I could tear you apart.”

“I doubt it, and even if you could, I’ll destroy this first.” I raise it above my head, which feels a little bit melodramatic, but the pixies really seem to be into drama. Anyway, the position shows her that I’ll smash it to the ground in a second. It works too, because she cringes. I pause and then say calmly, like threatening pixie queens is an everyday thing for me, “Now tell me how to get to Valhalla.”

“Then you will hand me my clock?” She simpers and slinks forward another step.

I think about it. “Maybe.”

She purses her lips. Her fingers drum against the arms of the chair. The fingernails click against the old wood, once, twice, again. I bet she’d like to use those fingernails on me.

“To get to Valhalla you must find the BiForst Bridge.”

“Everyone knows that,” I say.

“Yes, but BiForst is not a thing. He is a being, part pixie. He is the bridge to the land. His body acts as a portal, for lack of a better word. There is a ceremony you must perform.” She slowly heads to a table.

“You better not be getting a weapon,” I say as I try to compute her knowledge. We already
have
BiForst. We already
have
the bridge. Hope starts swooshing up toward my heart.

She moves very slowly, like criminals on cop shows trying to prove they aren’t about to pull a weapon. “I am getting a book. It is an ancient book. It has details of the ceremony that must be performed. It is chapter twelve, actually.”

She pulls open a drawer and takes out a small red leather-bound book. She holds it toward me.

“Not yet,” I say. “Tell me how Astley killed her, killed his—”

I can’t say the word.

“His wife? His queen?” she finishes for me. “I do not think you are prepared to know that yet, new one. And why does it concern you? I thought you care only for your wolf.”

“I do …,” I sputter. “I really do, but Astley is my friend and I thought that—”

“What?” She takes a step closer. She slinks like a cat. “What, new queen? You thought that he was honest with you? That you knew him? Let me give you some advice: trust no one.”

I don’t say anything and she snorts out a short barklike guffaw. It is very unladylike and very unlike all the cooing, simpering noises she’s made so far tonight.

She slips another step closer. I wonder if she thinks I don’t notice her moving. She must be underestimating me. People are always underestimating me. It helps me out usually. Although right now I’m not exactly at my strongest. My wound sears like fire, pain spreading through me. It’s from holding up the clock, I think. It must be aggravating it somehow. I can feel tiny dots of sweat on my forehead. Great.

“You cannot hold that clock above your head forever.” A little smirk plays about her face.

“Of course I can.” I am such a total liar. “Now tell me about Astley’s queen, the one before me.”

She slinks ahead again, just a little closer to me. “Are you aware of the fact that just a moment ago you referred to my son as your friend? Zara, darling, pixies cannot be friends. We are not trustworthy. We do not look out for others’ best interests. It is all about us. That is why Astley killed his last queen, and that is why you will likely suffer the same fate. You should not be so wary of me, Zara. I am no more your enemy than he is.”

She nods and someone behind me grabs the clock out of my arms. I whirl around to see Bentley. His ghoulish face smiles as he hands the clock to Isla, who has pushed past me. She clutches the gaudy thing to her chest and coos to it. “Oh, my poor, poor baby. Were you scared? I would never let anything hurt you. Oh, no, of course I would not.”

“Madame,” Bentley interrupts. “What should I do with her?”

She flicks her wrist. “Her? Nothing. Let her go. She is no threat. She has what she wants.”

He takes me by the arm. I twist away and grab the red leather book. As he lurches after me I brush him off, heading out into the main hallway area myself. “I’m going, I’m going.”

He follows me out and hands me the umbrella. “King Astley left this.”

“Thank you.” I take the umbrella from him. “Are you a pixie too? You don’t smell like one.”

“Thank you, miss.” He seems to stand up straighter. “I am actually a ghoul. Thank you for noticing.”

“Ghoul, huh …” I try to size him up. “Are all pixies—are they all so moody?”

“The royals tend to be. Those who have turned either go insane quickly or remain steady emotionally. I don’t think your fate will be such as hers. She was born this way. Bad blood.” He opens the door for me. “Please give the king my regards. Good luck to you, mistress.”

Go insane quickly? Great. I step outside into the cold rain. “Good luck to you too.”

Behind him Isla calls out, “Bentley! I need cocoa.”

“Thank you.” He rolls his eyes. “As you can tell, for the past hundred years I have needed all the luck I can muster.”

Before he can go, I call out to him myself, doing the same thing that Isla did, only in a nicer way, I hope. “Bentley, do you know where Astley might have gone?”

He cocks his head slightly, appraising me, I think. He hesitates for the briefest of seconds, and then he must decide I am worthy or trustworthy or something, because he licks his lips just the slightest of bits and says, “When he was young and we were here and they would … argue … and his father did not intervene, he often ran. I would be sent to find him. Often he would be at the park.”

“The park?”

“Central Park.”

“Central Park is huge. Where in the park did he go?”

“
Bentley!
” Isla screeches from the other room.

Bentley jerks as if pulled by an invisible chain. He spirals away from me toward the sitting room where we left Isla.

“Please, Bentley, tell me where …,” I beg.

He pauses, and it’s almost as if there’s another chain yanking him toward me. His face clenches up. It’s like he is being torn between Isla’s wishes and mine.

“Are you okay?” I ask. I cross into the town house again and reach up to him. My fingers graze the fabric sleeve of his suit jacket just as he jerks backward again, backward and away from me.

“Go to Great Hill. There is a meadow, looking toward the Ravine. It will be glamoured, but it is there …” He stumbles back.

I want to stop him, to hold him with me and away from her, but he looks as if having us both need him simultaneously could tear him apart.

He whirls away and topples through the doorway to the room where Isla waits.

“Well, that took you far too long. Where is my cocoa?” she demands.

It isn’t until I am outside in the rain that I realize:

1. Bentley and Isla must be at least a hundred years old.

2. I have no idea what a ghoul is.

3. I have no idea why Astley flipped out like that and left me alone with his mother.

4. I actually have an idea, a clue—a real lead—on how to get to Nick.

I yank out my phone and send a text message to Betty, Devyn, Issie, and Cassidy: Have lead. Met ghoul. Astley missing.

I touch the book.
This
was totally worth the drama. I resist the urge to kiss it, because basically who knows where it’s been. I sniff at it while a couple staggers by, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, voices high and loud and slurring with booze. The woman keeps singing Adam Sandler’s “Chanukah Song” and laughing hysterically. Once they are past, I bring the book out again. It smells like musty basement and leather but also hope. This is how I will get Nick.

I tuck it carefully into the inside pocket of my jacket and smile up into the rain. I forget to put up the umbrella. I forget about wars and torture and pixies. For a moment I forget about everything except my Nick.

And this moment feels so incredibly good.

U.S. federal agents confirm that they have taken over the investigation into the missing Bedford juveniles.

—
NEWS
CHANNEL
8

I know that I should be thinking about Astley. I know that I should be worrying about how he allegedly killed some other queen, and how he just left me
alone
with his psycho mother, and how he seems to be in a pretty emotionally fragile state, to say the least. Okay, yeah, that’s an understatement.

I know all this and yet as I step off the curb and lift up my arm to hail one of those cute yellow cabs that are all over this city, it isn’t Astley that I am thinking about. It’s Nick. I am really one step closer to finding him, thanks to Astley.

A cab pulls up. The driver doesn’t even turn. “Where are you going, miss?”

His accent is so lovely. It isn’t Southern like mine. It isn’t old-school Maine, where all the
r
‘s turn into
yah
‘s. It’s from an Arabic-speaking country maybe. Closing my eyes for a second, I let homesickness take over. I miss Charleston and how simple life was there. It was warm. I didn’t know about pixies or weres. My stepdad was alive. There was actual ethnic diversity there. However, there was no Nick, no big good-smelling man with the most beautiful lips and hands in the entire universe.

“Miss?”

The taxi driver’s voice nudges me back into real time.

“Central Park. As close to Great Hill as you can get me,” I say.

My phone vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket as the cab driver zips down the street, turning fast and hard around a corner. I should probably put my seat belt on, but it’s got something slimy on it. I slide across the seat, check the other one, and click it on. Then I read my text message.

Betty has responded: I can’t believe you just left. Get back here soon and no hero crap. Stay safe.