The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

“Put them away,” he scoffs. “It would be an insult to be stabbed by them.”

“Then do not court that fate,” I growl softly, rummaging a bit more, past Bogdana’s note and the motel matchbook. I couldn’t fit much in the pockets of my dress, and it is not as though I had much in the first place. But then my fingers close on the silver fox with the peridot eyes.

I take it out and hold it on my palm, reluctant to show it to him.

“What’s this?” he asks.

I open my hand. “One of only three. A game piece of the Gentry.” I am proud of my answer, which is both true and yet missing the most important detail. I am learning how to speak like them.

“You didn’t steal it?” he asks, perhaps thinking of how disheveled I was when he first met me.

“It’s mine,” I tell him. “No one would dispute that.”

He plucks it up between two fingers. “Very well. Now it shall be mine, I suppose, since you have nothing finer. And in return I will lead the guards on a merry chase.”

I clench my hand to force myself not to snatch the little fox back. He sees the gesture and smiles. I can tell he likes the trinket better now that he knows I didn’t want to give it to him.

“On my signal,” he says. “Hide!”

“Wait,” I caution, but he is already moving.

The hall is lit with orbs that glow a sickly green, giving the stone walls a mossy cast. The orbs are spaced far enough apart that it is possible for me to push myself into a bend of the corridor and be concealed by darkness, so long as no one looks too closely.

I hold my breath. I hear the pelting of hoofbeats, then a great and foolish whooping accompanied by shouts.

“That’s my sword!” the rose-haired knight yells, and then I see Jack of the Lakes streak by, running hell-for-leather in his horse form, laughing and gripping a bright silver sword in his teeth.

The knight comes into view. “When I catch you, I am going to turn you inside out, like a toad!” she shouts as she gives chase. The bauchan follows at her heels, his blade drawn.

When they are far enough, I slip out of the dark.

I head swiftly to the copper-banded door to the prisons. The rocks around the door are studded with crystals that gleam bright against the dull gray stone.

I turn the latch and walk inside. All the rooms are like chambers of a cave, with massive stalagmites and stalactites functioning as bars. It appears not unlike looking at rows and rows of mouths with rows and rows of awful teeth.

Figures move in some of the cells, shifting to blink at me from the gloom within.

A clawed hand darts out, grabbing for my arm. I jump out of its reach, jerking the cloth of my dress from its grip. I step on, shuddering.

Most of the chambers are empty, but in one I see a merrow. The floor of his cell is wet, but not enough for him to be comfortable. His scales have grown dull and dry. He watches me with eyes that are pale all the way through, the pupils barely discernible from the irises or scleras.

There is a scuffing sound from the other side, and I see a girl tossing a piece of rock into the air and catching it. For a moment, I think I am looking at a glamour, but a moment later I realize that she’s actually human.

She looks as though she might be around my age, with hair the color of straw. There’s a bruise on her cheek. “Can I have some water? Will you tell me how much longer I have to be here?” Her voice trembles.

I follow her gaze to the wooden tub in the corner of the room, a copper ladle hanging off one side, its body streaked with verdigris. She pushes a ceramic bowl toward the bars and looks up at me plaintively.

“Is a man with a single wing for an arm here?” I ask.

The human comes eagerly to her feet. “You’re not one of the guards.”

I dip the ladle into the tub and haul up some water, then pour it into her bowl. Across the way, the merrow makes a low moan. I dip the ladle again and splash him.

“The winged guy?” the human whispers. “He’s down there.” She points toward the end of the corridor. “See? I can be helpful. Let me out, and I could be of service to you.”

It is tragic that she has only me to beseech. Does she not see my predator’s teeth? How afraid must she already be for me to seem like a possible ally?

I splash the merrow again. With a sigh, he sinks down to the floor, gills flexing.

I need to see Hyacinthe, but looking at the girl, I cannot stop myself from thinking of Bex, my unsister. Imagining her in a place like this, with no one to help her and no way out.

“How did you come to be here?” I ask, knowing that more information is only going to make it harder to walk away.

“My boyfriend,” she says. “He was taken. I met a creature, and he told me I could win Dario back if I threatened to dig down into their—” She stops, possibly at the remembrance that I am one of them.

I nod, though, and that seems enough to get her speaking again. “I got a shovel and came out to the haunted hill, where everyone says weird things happen.”

While she talks, I evaluate the stalagmites and stalactites of her prison. Perhaps one could be cracked if someone very strong swung something very heavy at it, but since these prisons must have been constructed to hold even ogres, there’s no way I would be able to do it.

“Then I was grabbed. And these things said they were going to bring me before their queen, and she would punish me. They started naming what they thought she might order done. All their suggestions were like something out of the Saw movies.” She gives a weird giggle, one that tells me she’s fighting off hysteria. “You’ve got no idea what I’m talking about, right?”