The Torn Wing (14 page)

Chapter Twenty

“S
ince you both have faerie blood,” Larkin said, “you are able to travel through the gates on your own, but for now, since you don’t have the most basic knowledge—” she sounded annoyed— “I’ll take you.” Larkin gripped their wrists. “Speak only if you have too. Avoid the mirrors and no matter what, stay close to me.”

Rieker’s study shimmered out of view and Tiki found herself standing in a shadow-laden thicket.

“Welcome to the Night Garden—” Larkin spoke in a low voice— “the depraved creation of the UnSeelie world.” She held up a finger in warning. “Don’t touch anything, unless you want to feed the plants with your own blood.” A smirk lifted one corner of her mouth. “Or worse, become their next meal.”

Tiki shivered and stepped closer to Rieker.

Even the light of the moon seemed hesitant to enter the garden and cast only a watery glow upon the immense tangle of barbed vines and thorned bushes. Here and there, a few magnificent flowers bloomed, their exotic blossoms emitting an alluring luminescence through the dim light. Upon closer inspection, Tiki saw that the edges of their petals were saw-toothed and blood-stained.

Dread weighted Tiki’s footsteps. What were they doing in a place like this? The haunting sound of music floated through the night, like a piper leading the lost and weary home. “Where is that coming from?” she whispered.

“It’s the plants,” Larkin replied. “They’re nocturnal—they sing at night to call their prey.” She turned and started down a path lined with broken and uneven stones. “This way.”

Rieker, taller than both Tiki and Larkin, ducked as they walked beneath twisted trees that hunched and loomed above the walkway, their claw-handed branches outstretched as though to grab an unsuspecting passerby.

Larkin paused at a bend in the path and Tiki glanced up at a stone statue that stretched above their heads, casting them in a web of gloom. The carving was of a woman, her face twisted in agony, reaching for the heavens. One great wing stretched from the left side of her back, as if she meant to take flight, while the other lay broken on the ground beside her.

“Danu,” Larkin said, pointing to the statue. “The original goddess of Faerie—the mother of the
Tuatha De Danaan
. She was captured by a human who tore off her wing to keep her in the mortal world. The UnSeelies celebrate her as a reminder to hate all mortals.”

Tiki covered her mouth with her hand.

Rieker reached over and took her other hand in his. “Why are we here, Larkin?” he whispered harshly.

The faerie pointed a long finger. In the distance stood an immense building, great stone pillars lining the front. Darkness dripped from every corner as if a black veil had been thrown over the structure. “Because we’re going there—to the Palace of Mirrors.”

The palace was perched on the pinnacle of a rocky mountain, a sweeping panorama stretching in both directions. To the right, Tiki could see a band of brilliant light radiating across the sky. To the left—only darkness.

“When the Seelies hold court here at the Palace, the sun rarely sets and the gardens are lush and overrun with flowers.” Larkin pointed toward the glowing horizon. “When they’re not occupying the Palace, the Summer Court lives there—in the plain of Sunlight.” She swiveled and pointed the other direction. “That is the Plain of Starlight—” her lips twisted in distaste— “the never-ending darkness that the UnSeelie’s call home.”

She spread her hands. “We stand on Wydryn Tor. All around the Tor lies the Wychwood Forest—the unclaimed land between the Plains—and also the hunting ground for hags, goblins, kelpies, redcaps and every other sort of fey creature. Even witches and other unspeakables are found there upon occasion.” Larkin lowered her voice. “It is rumored that from this forest is where Donegal found his assassin.”

Rieker stiffened. “The one he’s using to get around the truce?”

“Yes.” Larkin’s tone was matter-of-fact. “The same one who murdered O’Riagáin. The assassin is neither mortal nor fey. He is one of the oldest creatures known—a
liche—
a creature of the night who sustains himself by consuming the flesh and blood of others. It is rumored that Donegal found this one in the forest, a stake of ash through his chest, but still alive.” Her lips curled with distaste. “The
liche
seems to like eating the hearts of his victims. Maybe he thinks that will replace having a stake driven through his own.”

Tiki sucked in her breath at the grisly image. Was the
liche
what had attacked Prince Leopold? Could such a creature be loose in London—hunting the royals or anyone else who protected the ring?

“All the more reason to be successful tonight,” Larkin finished. Though her glamour looked nothing like the real Larkin, her blue-green eyes glittered in the watery moonlight making her look half-mad. “Follow me and don’t speak.”

LARKIN CONTINUED DOWN the winding path of the garden. Vines writhed underfoot, like snakes, and Tiki stomped on several to stop them from wrapping around her ankles. More than once, the sound of footsteps scuttled through the underbrush and Tiki spotted glowing red eyes watching them from the depths of the tangled vines.

“Alms for the poor?” The words were scratchy, as though the voice had been worn out asking the same question.

Tiki jerked her head toward the sound. Just off the path, a wraith-thin body sat, wrapped in dirty rags.

“Scat!” Larkin hissed, shooing at the creature. “You risk your life begging this close to the palace.” The creature hunched its shoulders as if to protect itself from a blow. “You’ll have better luck at one of the villages in the wood.” She took a threatening step closer. “Go now.”

With a squeak of terror, the creature disappeared into the vines.

“What was that?’ Tiki whispered.

“Beggar.” Larkin marched forward. “Come along.”

The deformed trees moaned and sighed as they passed, as though blown by the wind, but there was no breeze. Instead, the night air seemed to hold its breath as if in anticipation. Tiki practically ran up the steps behind Larkin to the grand entrance—anything to escape the garden.

Though dark-suited guards stood at attention at the enormous entry doors, spears in their hands and swords dangling from their belts, they allowed passage with little more than a shifting of their black eyes.

Rieker walked close to Tiki as they followed Larkin down a vast corridor, as majestic as any passageway Tiki had ever seen in Buckingham Palace. But despite the grandeur, this palace was swathed in shadows that clung to corners like spider webs. Torches, mounted in golden brackets, lined the walls, but the tongues of their flames emitted dense smoke, scenting the air with the acrid smell of fire and the stench of decay.

The few people in the hallway stood in small clusters, their glances like sharp pokes as Larkin’s group passed. At the end of the corridor another set of grand doors were propped open. Music washed down the hall like a flowing river, rising and falling, swirling and dipping. The poignant sound of flutes met the eerie cry of bagpipes before being dashed away with fiddles and drums and a frenzy of other instruments. An unexpected craving filled Tiki, drawing her forward.

They passed through the doors into a great hall that stretched before her. Soaring black and gold fluted columns lined each side of the rectangular room, supporting an arched ceiling embellished with macabre paintings.

Tiki stared in horror at the painted facade above, dread coiling in her stomach. In one section, huge black dogs with pointed fangs, snarling snouts and red glowing eyes, chased what looked to be a terrified human male running through the forest. Winged creatures flew above the dogs—grotesque caricatures of birds, or fish, she wasn’t quite sure which—with spiked beaks, outstretched claws and misshapen bodies.

In another section a pond was painted with a long-haired cadaver, covered in green slime, pulling herself out of the water to capture a young boy who stood nearby with his back to her, unaware of the danger. Tiki’s gaze stopped on the image of a beautiful woman, her lips smeared with bright red lipstick. There was something unsettling about the pose, the way the woman was hunched over and slightly turned away. Tiki bit back a gasp as she realized the woman was holding a dead man in her arms, drinking the blood from his neck, as if bestowing a lover’s kiss.

“Don’t look.” Rieker slid an arm around Tiki’s shoulders.

Tiki hid her eyes against Rieker’s shoulder, trying to erase the images from her mind. “What is this place?” The music filled her ears and pulled at her even as she looked away. Lilting notes of a flute, the trill of a panpipe, and the strums of a fiddle teased each other in a flirtatious melody that floated around the hall until she fought the urge to twirl in time to the music. She clung to Rieker’s arm as if he were the anchor that could stop her from drowning in the madness.

“Welcome to the UnSeelie court,” Larkin whispered. “There’s a reason it’s known as the dark court. Not only do the UnSeelies rule during the dark months of the year, but Donegal likes to bring the comforts of home when he lives here. During winter, court is a reflection of life in the Plain of Starlight—dark, evil and deadly. Luckily, Donegal only allows a select class to attend court. You won’t find any Redcaps or Leanan-Sidhe from the Wychwood here.”

Tiki lifted her head and looked around cautiously. Carved red ribbons, the color of blood, arced and danced along the walls above alcoves that were decorated with intricate designs of gold and silver. Huge mirrors were tucked into every alcove, reflecting the shivering firelight of the torches over and over again.

The room was crowded with finely-dressed men and women— conversing, drinking, shifting and moving as if in an exquisitely choreographed dance. There was something discordant about the atmosphere, however, like an orchestra with the instruments out of tune. Tension hung in the air as heavily as a London fog.

“Who are these people?” Tiki asked.

“Many are from the Seelie court, those who had come early to celebrate Beltane and the changing of the courts,” Larkin said. “Now they are captives forced to publicly pledge their servitude to a new king. It pleases Donegal to humiliate people.”

Tiki surveyed the room. Some were dressed as regally as royalty, their gowns of silk, satin and velvet embellished with threads of gold and silver. Others were clearly courtiers, draped in gowns that revealed more than they hid, reflecting the wearer’s hope to improve their positions through flattery or whatever means necessary.

Larkin waved her slender hand to encompass the activity around them. “It’s here that the game of war is plotted, by those who have taken power—for now.” Her voice held a threat. “This is where the pawns are manipulated and the gambits begun.”

“How can you tell UnSeelie from Seelie?” Rieker’s eyes skated over the occupants of the room, evaluating what threat they could pose. He held tight to Tiki’s hand but his shoulders were back and he moved with a careless grace that reminded Tiki of a panther— coiled and dangerous.

“You can’t tell by just looking. Many are UnSeelie and all of the guards are Donegal’s men.” Larkin shot a warning glance at Rieker. “These men are hand-picked and look for an opportunity to protect their king. Don’t start anything you can’t finish.”

Rieker’s lips turned up in a half-smile. “Thanks for the warning.”

Larkin nodded. “Usually faeries like to insult and humiliate each other—it’s more entertaining to plot a revenge that might last several centuries than to outright murder someone. But Donegal’s plan seems to be to kill anyone who resists him. He’s surrounded himself with a blood-thirsty and relentless inner circle.”

She pointed to a great beast of man with flaming red hair. “That’s Bearach. His
tánaiste
. A vicious man. If he thinks a solider isn’t doing enough, or might be questioning his tactics—he doesn’t threaten the soldier—he threatens their family. People just disappear.”

Tiki eyed the hulk of a man, laughing and drinking from a giant flask. He reminded her of MacGregor, a mean drunk, a woman-beater, whose pockets she’d picked last winter just to prove to Rieker she could do it. Fiona’s mother had worked for MacGregor as a seamstress and though Fiona had never admitted it, Tiki suspected MacGregor had been the man who’d beaten Fi’s mother to death.

Tiki’s gaze went to the ceiling again to a painting she’d noticed earlier. A hulking red-headed giant held a spiked mallet in one hand, and wore a multitude of chains. Suspended from the chains around his waist, like some ghastly belt, were the severed heads of his victims.

She pointed a shaking finger skyward. “Is that him?”

Larkin glanced up and a smile flitted across her face. “No, that’s a Jack-in-Irons, but you’ve got a point—Bearach must have a few hanging from his family tree.”

“What does
tánaiste
mean?” Rieker asked.

“His second-in-command. Part of Donegal’s inner circle that includes Sullivan, Cruinn, Scáthach —all monsters with ferocious capabilities. The Winter King never travels without them.” Her blue-green eyes, the only part of her body that resembled the Larkin who Tiki knew, snapped with a fiery anger and she whispered a threat under her breath. “But they don’t know what’s coming for them.”