Hunter's Moon (23 page)

I came to with a groan. The back of my head throbbed, my tongue felt thick in my mouth, an unpleasantly musty smell filled my nostrils and my eyes hurt when I tried to focus in the semi-darkness. I had no idea where I was at first, only that the solitary light shone in from under an iron door. The floor was of beaten earth, and the walls of stone. I was probably in some kind of cellar. Or dungeon. I knew such a place did not exist in my childhood home – we must have been moved to someplace else.

I wasn't alone. As my eyes got used to the grey light, I saw Verakina, no longer in her wolf-shape, bareheaded and dressed in ragged clothes. She was crouched protectively over something – no, someone – and as she heard me move and she looked up, I saw the pain etched like the cuts of a knife in her face.

‘Is he …' I could not finish, the words scratching my throat.

She shook her head, but I could see from her face that though he was not dead – not yet – she did not hold much hope that he would survive.

‘Verakina,' I murmured, ‘I am so sorry …'

She shook her head again and looked away, but not before I saw a tear roll down her cheek.

‘I know you must blame me,' I said. I swallowed. ‘And you are right. It is my fault he is here. My fault you are here. My fault that everything he built – everything that you and the others have made – will be destroyed. They know where the haven is now …'

‘Hush,' she said. ‘Hush, child. It doesn't matter if they know. The others will be safe. They have gone from the old haven, and they have taken the new people with them. Our Prince arranged that, just as he arranged for me to rescue you from the glass coffin. And he gave himself up to the witch so she might be distracted from watching over you. It is not your fault. It was his choice, and mine. Freely made.' She looked up at me, her eyes shining with tears, and beckoned me to her side.

I could not help a gasp of distress when I saw him up close. They'd beaten him severely. There were gashes and bruises on his face and hands, and the scar I'd seen when I'd glimpsed him in the lift had been reopened with Belladonna's knife, so that it was crusted over with dried blood. His eyes were closed, the long dark lashes lying on his bruised cheeks, and his close-cropped black hair was sticky with dirt and sweat.

When I'd glimpsed his strong-featured face back when I had been searching for Dr Nord, I'd thought it hard and cruel. But now I saw only nobility and suffering.
The Prince was breathing, but only just. I could hardly see the rise and fall of his chest.

Verakina had tried to make him comfortable, with her headscarf balled up under his head, to make a pillow, and her shabby coat covering him. But it was clear that the hope that had flared in me when I'd felt his hand move against mine was just a brief burst of light. Now he had gone back into the darkness, and the pain of his most likely mortal injury knifed into me so that I thought I would scream with the horror of it.

But I did not scream. And I pushed the horror away. It was long past time for that.

‘Come, sit by his side, too,' said Verakina, gently, and I did as I was bid. ‘Take his right hand. I'll take his left.'

Verakina was far wiser than me. She did not try to offer false hope, or lose time in futile regret. She knew that all we could do now was give our Prince a few small comforts to ease his passing. Nothing else really mattered but the warm touch of loving friends.

So I sat next to him and took his right hand. Verakina took the other. His hand was cool. Very cool. Fighting back the panic and grief that threatened to rise into my belly, I held on gently but tightly, willing my own warmth into him, praying silently with all my might, begging for a miracle. But his hand stayed unmoving and grew no warmer than before.

Suddenly, there was a rattle of keys and a thumping, and the next moment, the iron door crashed open. Drago stood on the threshold. He was carrying a tray on which reposed a plate of sandwiches.

He looked at us, but did not speak. Placing the tray just inside the door, he turned to go. Perhaps it was the knowledge that we had nothing more to lose or perhaps it was the last ember of hope, but I found myself saying, ‘Supper for the condemned, is it?'

He looked at me and shrugged.

‘What is to be our fate?'

He shrugged again.

‘We deserve at least to know, Drago.' I could feel Verakina's surprised stillness even without looking at her.

‘You are to be tried,' he said at last. ‘Tomorrow morning.'

‘Tried? By who? For what?'

‘By the Duke himself.' He saw my expression. ‘You have all been charged with high treason, murder and black magic. The tailor would have been too, if he'd survived interrogation. Not that he gave any useful information.' Poor Master Kinberg, I thought, sadly. He'd paid a high price for his loyalty. ‘And because this is such an unusual and extreme case,' Drago went on, ‘there will be no jury. Only the Duke, acting as Grand Judge. The evidence is strong against you all.'

‘Ah,' I said. ‘Of course.' Of course Belladonna would know what lies to spin; she'd had practice enough for that. A pause. ‘And of course we know what the outcome will be.'

He said nothing, only turned to leave.

‘Drago,' I said. ‘Please – just one more thing. I have always wondered. You have done many terrible things in the service of your lady. Yet this one thing you did not do: you did not kill me in the forest, as she told you to do. Why?'

He looked at me, briefly, then lowered his eyes. He did not reply.

‘I'll answer, then,' I said. ‘You did not kill me in the forest because you were uneasy about what you'd been asked to do … And that is also why you are here, right now, bringing us supper. I can't believe your mistress would have asked you to do that.'

He shot me a quick glance.

‘You are uneasy about this too. About the trial.'

At first I thought he would not answer. Then he said, ‘Perhaps. But don't imagine my uneasiness is for your sake.'

‘I don't,' I said. ‘In the forest, it wasn't just pity that stayed your hand. It was also that you thought my death would serve nothing useful, and you had an instinct that it might, in fact, bring great danger. You are a hunter for a reason. You can sense when things aren't right. Belladonna knew that once, too, but the scent of blood has gone to her head. The arrogance of power. She is over-reaching herself and you know it. We both know she is on the edge of the precipice. One wrong move and she will fall off. And you with her.'

I saw him swallow.

‘You still have an instinct about me,' I went on, pressing my point home. ‘You tried to stop me going into my father's study because of that. And you feel – no, you know – that this trial is too great a risk.' I took a deep breath. ‘Indeed, you know that if it goes ahead, it will end in your death. And hers. But there is a way out of it. Go to the Villa Valverd hotel. Ask for a man called Dr Nord. Tell him to contact our mutual friends at once. He will know what you mean.'

Our eyes met. His expression was hard as stone. Unreadable.

‘You are quite mad,' he said. Then he turned and flung himself out of the door, slamming it shut behind him. The key rattled in the lock, and we heard his footsteps moving away before silence fell again.

‘Angels in heaven,' whispered Verakina, ‘what was that about?'

I shook my head. ‘I don't know. It just … It just came out.'

I felt numb, yet oddly calm. Verakina didn't say any more. She didn't have to. I could see the expression in her eyes. I had tried a desperate ploy and it hadn't worked. Of course it hadn't. Drago was not a slave, not bound like Lucian. His ties to Belladonna were those of true loyalty, and his hands were almost as bloodstained as hers. I'd been right about his unease. But I'd been wrong to think that he would act on it a second time.

‘That's a little tight.' It was a thread of sound, hardly even a whisper, and yet it made my pulse race, for it wasn't Verakina's voice …

I looked down at the Prince of Outlaws. His eyes were open. Hazel eyes with golden lights in them, still shadowed by pain but alive, most definitely alive.

Vaguely, I heard Verakina's gasp of delight, but could make not a sound myself. My eyes were riveted on his, my body tense as a bowstring, my heart thumping so hard it seemed as though it might jump out of my chest.

‘Bianca …'

He had spoken my name and still I couldn't speak. How could I let myself be taken by the sudden flood of
happiness that flowed through me, the sudden rebirth of hope?

The Prince struggled to sit up. Turning his glance away from me and towards Verakina, he whispered, ‘I am sorry, dear Verakina. I am so sorry I dragged you into this.'

‘Why?' said Verakina. Her voice was hoarse with a mix of tears and joy. ‘I was honoured to help. I only wish I could have been more –'

‘You are the bravest of the brave,' he said. ‘I know how the transformation frightens you, yet you never flinched from the task of turning when you didn't have to.' He saw my puzzlement. ‘Hunter's moonlight aids transformation, makes it almost impossible to stop – but a true werewolf can change any time they choose.'

‘Yes. And I will tell you the truth,' she said. ‘Listen. Please. I must say this. What use would I have been, in getting the others to safety? I know neither how to fight nor how to find hidden paths. I could only be useful to Bianca, and only in my wolf form. But I have learnt much from my recent experiences. I had been repressing my wolf-instinct for too long. Letting myself roam as a wolf had many benefits I had not considered. I learnt that I can pass as a dog and sneak unnoticed into places that no person – indeed, no wolf – can enter. But more importantly, I learnt that being afraid of what you are serves the purposes only of those who would turn you into a slave. For the first time in my life, I am not afraid – either of others or of myself. And that is down to you. To both of you.'

‘No,' I croaked, finding my voice at last. ‘I had nothing to do with it … And without me, you would not be
here – neither of you would be …' I choked and turned my head away so that they would not see my tears. ‘I have been such a fool, and because of it I have caused so much suffering …'

‘Bianca.' His voice was getting stronger. ‘Please, look at me. Tell me if you know me.
Really
know me.'

I knew him – he was the true Prince of Outlaws. What could he mean? Swallowing, I turned my head slowly and looked at him. And for the first time I saw something in those eyes, something in that expression that prompted a memory, of a time long ago, of a laughing young boy who looked … But it wasn't possible. It couldn't be. That boy was dead, he had died in the same house fire that had turned my beautiful friend Margy into a shadow of what she had once been … And
his
eyes had been brown – the Prince's were hazel, almost green … No, it could not be … And yet …

My breath was tight in my chest, my heart no longer pounding but instead seemingly clenched in an iron grip. I whispered, the words dragged out of me, ‘No, it can't be … It can't be … Oh, Rafiel! They said you were dead …'

‘And so I thought I was,' said the young man who had once been my dear childhood friend and confidant. ‘I know Tollie told you about the house fire. I did not know that Margy had escaped. I was told that all my family had been burned to death, and that I had been pulled out of the rubble, burned from the heat and sick from the smoke. I thought that I would die, too …'

I could hardly believe it. How could the Prince of Outlaws be the same man as my friend, my old playmate,
Rafiel? And how could he also be the creature I'd called the black wolf? I was certain that had been him … Those eyes …

‘You've changed,' I said, helplessly. ‘Your face – it has changed. So much …'

‘And even more, now,' he said, and all at once, an extraordinary smile lightened his poor bruised features. ‘I must look a hideous sight indeed.'

‘Stop it, Rafiel,' I murmured, a sweet lightness bubbling in me like champagne as I spoke his name. ‘You always did like teasing me, I remember.'

‘And I remember, too,' he said, quietly. Our eyes met again and I felt a little thrill ripple up my spine. To cover it, I said, ‘Margy … Where …?'

‘She will be all right,' he said, and smiled again. ‘Thanks to you.'

‘And the others?'

‘All safe. They are in the mountains now. Nobody will ever find them.' His gaze darkened. ‘All except for poor Master Kinberg.'

But I hardly heard, too taken up with the wonder of finding him again. ‘Rafiel, in all that time … That day I met you in the haven … Why didn't you tell me?'

He looked at me and said, softly, ‘It was night when I first saw you again, Bianca …'

Suddenly an image came into my mind, an image I'd half-forgotten. A night when I'd awoken to find a gentle, healing hand hovering over my wounded ankle. I'd thought it had been my father's ghost.

‘So that was you,' I breathed. ‘Why … Oh, why didn't you tell me?'

‘I was afraid,' he said, simply.

‘But what were you afraid of? I would … I would have been so glad to know it was you. So glad. I …' I bit my lip. ‘I missed you so much, Rafiel. You – and Margy. You were my friends. I was so young … I didn't understand why you'd had to go. If only … If only I had done something to stop Belladonna, to stop her from forcing you to leave. I could have done it somehow …'

‘How could you? What could you have done?' he said, gently. ‘You were a child. Just as Margy was. Me? I was fifteen. I was no longer really a child, and I knew your stepmother did not want us around you. We were not good enough to associate with a Dalmatin. And I knew that eventually you'd think so, too. That is the way of the world.'