Gideon outstretched his hand expectantly, gloved fingers uncurling slowly.
An open palm had never felt so much like a loaded gun. Shaking, Balaskas retrieved an intricately designed key from his desk and surrendered it, not daring to look up. “Will that be all, Your Lordship?” When silence answered, he took a deep breath and lifted his gaze from his desktop, but the Archfey had already gone as imperceptibly as he had appeared.
Inexplicably still employed and, even more surprisingly, stillalive, Detective Inspector Balaskas sank into his chair with a deep exhalation.
The guards along the hallway straightened as the Archfey approached, some holding their breath until he had strode several paces beyond them.
No one dared speak to him, and he, to everyone’s relief, made no effort to alter that.
The key balanced between his fingertips in an idle fashion, bouncing lightly to a rhythm that kept time with the clipped echoing sound of his steps. As he approached the large, barred door at the end, his grip on the key tightened as if it were a stiletto about to be plunged into an attacker. He did not need to look at the guards on either side of him. He barely needed to speak the command for them to go before they scrambled away as quickly as their legs could carry them. He waited, listening, hearing those two guards collect the group behind him, and so on until the hallway had cleared itself of prying eyes. Only then did Gideon’s grim disposition shift to something far more trepidatious.
The door before him was capable of bringing up any prisoner in Blackthorn, should one hold the key, speak the name of the prisoner, and know the proper incantation. Like all magic, the chant came in many languages, both fey and mortal, but the words roughly translated always meant the same: Bless the wretched, the crimes they make, the world of weeping, and the tolls they take.
Gideon spoke it in its original melodic tongue, the language of the Aos Sí, which to mortal ears was more song than spoken. With each note, thekey in his hand began to hum and glow. He hesitated only a moment before inserting the key and turning it fully counterclockwise. “Avery Hemlock.” The key continued to turn of its own accord, getting further and further embedded in the door like a screw, and when the bow was flush with the lock and unable to burrow further, it dematerialized, having fulfilled its purpose.
There was the sound of something large shuffling behind the door, rooms reorganizing to accommodate the summons until the door raised to reveal a single cell composed of stone coated in black tourmaline. There was no light save for a simple lamp of Brigid’s Fire hanging from the center of the ceiling. It cast a warm dance of illumination along the black stone and the sole creature within. Lying on a low natural pedestal was a pale young woman dressed in a full suit of armor, her hands clasped at her abdomen and tied with a black ribbon.
Gideon’s brow furrowed, and he carefully removed the black leather glove from his left hand. Pale fingers splayed and reached forward, iridescent strings of magic lighting up briefly as he made contact before vanishing from sight again.
A strong ward: a rare extra precaution that would deal an incapacitating jolt of energy to any creature who tried to tear it down or pass through it. Balaskas hadn’t mentioned it. Then again, the incompetent probably hadn’t bothered to look at what sort of means of holding had been in place for her. For most, a wand of rowan might have been used to gather up and unravel the threads of magic. Removing wards could be tricky, and even a stick of the right wood could prove invaluable.
Gideon’s bare fingers gripped the weblike fabric of the spell; his wrist turned and he gave it a sharp tug. The ward pulled free, and he dropped it down to a pile on the ground as if it were no more than a curtain. He stepped over the fast-decaying remnants of the spell and approached the pedestal with a clinical disposition. He examined the binding carefully before taking one of the ribbon ends between his thumb and forefinger. As flesh met fabric, golden runes illuminatedalong the ribbon about her wrists and in a thin spiral around the armor, over and over again from head to toe. He gave the ribbon a firm and deliberate tug. “Wecken.”4
As the ribbon came undone and began to untwist from its captive, the armor itself unraveled as well. It freed her forearms, then her shoulders, her chest, and then past her knees, until the woman on the pedestal was merely dressed in simple cotton, the armor reduced to a pile of black ribbon at Gideon’s feet.
For a few minutes nothing more happened; long enough that the Archfey began to wonder if he’d somehow forgotten a step in the process.
Then the woman gasped for air as if trying not to drown, clawing her way to sitting straight up out of the nightmare she’d been pulled from. Her eyes darted around the cell quickly before they rose, met Gideon’s, and hardened. Her right hand pulled back over her chest, delivering a chop to the back of his knee.
Gideon crumpled to a crouch, catching himself on the low pedestal. He turned swiftly to grab the fleeing woman by the crook of her arm. This spun her back around, and his free hand caught the fist that immediately came careening toward his face. “Avery, it’s really me, you’re awake!”
“I know!” the woman snarled.
They struggled as he worked to stand again. She was not a short creature by any means, but the Archfey had nearly a foot of height he could use as leverage. Her fingers were poised like claws, reaching for his eyes as if to pluck them out. He gritted his teeth as he stood to his full height and pushed her away.
Avery stumbled back into the wall of her cell. She spat defiantly at the ground, her silver eyes ablaze with hate, but he could see the way her body reluctantly sagged back and leaned into the wall. Magic could prevent themuscles from atrophying during her sentence, but she no doubt was feeling the ache of centuries of disuse. She looked hollowed out and wild, dark circles beneath her eyes reminding him that it was a curse of sleep without rest. Her energy was fading, and he could almost see her clinging to the anger and the last remnants of adrenaline she could glean from it. “Five hundred years passed so soon?” Sarcasm fought with bitterness for dominance in her tone. “My, how the time hasflown.”
Gideon adjusted his suit where she’d rumpled it. “Just under two hundred.”
Her eyes betrayed her surprise momentarily, then narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”
“The council saw reason to wake you before the end of your sentence.” He chose his words carefully. Remaining vague. If he could pique her curiosity, he might be able to save her from her own damn pride.
“Getting off for good behavior? Or do I just snore too loudly for the other inmates?”
He sighed, disappointed. “I see prison has done nothing to curb your tongue.”
She raised her chin in defiance. “Two hundred years, it needs the exercise.”
“Then the rest of you should also welcome a walk,” Gideon clipped before he strode from the cell and down the hall.
She didn’t follow him, not at first, but he’d expected that. She would first debate if she could make a run, then dismiss the idea as quickly as it was conceived. Avery was often prone to petulance around him, but she was too smart to make such a grave error. Eventually, he heard what could only be described as a resentful stomp behind him, the cadence broken up by a slight limp in her left leg as she reacclimated to walking.
He listened to the rhythm of her steps. The limp improved, then seemed to act up again. Only this time it was different. It was consistent, like her walk had been set to a metronome. It was not the limp of someone whose leg had fallen asleep, it was the practiced step of someone living with an uncooperative limb. She was stalling, buying time to understand hersituation before he could explain it to her. “We’re on a bit of a tight schedule, I can’t abide dawdling.”
“I have two centuries’ worth of pins and needles impeding my movement,” Avery spat, but it did nothing to slow the Archfey’s pace. “Perhaps your secretary can rearrange something, so my legs might have a precious second to acclimate?”
“Perhaps you can give me the credit that I can tell the difference between genuine struggle and an affectation.”
