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The faery was silent for a long moment. Corny slammed the can into the side of the creature's head.
"Who told you to come here?”
Adair shrugged and Corny hit him again. Blood stained his mouth.
"Silarial," he gasped.
Corny nodded with satisfaction. He was breathing hard, but each breath came out like a laugh. "Why?”
"The pixie. I'm to take her to the Seelie Court. Many of my Lady's subjects are seeking her out.”
Corny sat down on Adair's stomach and fisted his hand in the golden hair. "Why?”
"Queen wants to talk. Just talk.”
A man with a fauxhawk opened the door, blanched, and then shut it with a slam. The faery twisted himself around, pushing upright.
"Tell me something else," Corny said. His clenched fingers shook. "Tell me how to protect—”
At that moment the bathroom door swung open again. This time it was Kaye. "Corny, they're—," she said, then seemed to focus on the scene in front of her. She blinked her eyes rapidly and coughed. “This is so not what I expected to see when I walked in here.”
"Silarial sent him," Corny said. "For you.”
"The bartender's calling the cops. We have to get out of here.”
"We can't let him go," Corny said.
"Corny, he's bleeding." Kaye coughed again. "What did you do? I feel like my lungs are on fire.”
Corny started to stand, to explain.
"I curse you." The faery rolled onto his side and spat a reddish gob of spittle onto Corny's cheek. It ran like a tear. "Let everything that your fingers touch wither.”
Corny staggered back, and as he did so, his hand brushed the wall. The paint under his fingers buckled and flaked. Stopping, he looked at his palm, the familiar lines and grooves and calluses seemed, suddenly, to form a new and horrible landscape.
"Come on!" Kaye grabbed him by the sleeve, steering him toward the door.
The metal of the knob tarnished at the stroke of his skin.
Chapter 5
Hell is oneself,
Hell is alone.
—T. S. Eliot
A faun with bloodstained claws sank into a low bow before Roiben's throne. They had come, each of his vassals, to boast of their usefulness, to tell him of their service to the crown, to win his favor and the promise of better tasks. Roiben looked out at the sea of them and had to fight down panic. He gripped the arms of his throne hard enough that the braided wood groaned.
"In your name," said the creature, "I have killed seven of my brethren and kept their hooves." He emptied out a sack with a clatter.
"Why?" Roiben asked before he thought better of it, his eye drawn to the jagged chopped bone of the ankles, the way the gore had dried black. The mortar that grooved the floor of the audience chamber was already discolored, but this gift freshened the ruddy stains.
The faun shrugged. Brambles snarled the fur of his legs. "It was a token that often pleased Lady Nicnevin. I sought only to ingratiate myself with you.”
Roiben closed his eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them again and took a deep breath, schooling himself to indifference. "Right. Excellent." He turned to the next creature.
A delicate fey boy with tar-black wings curtsied. "I am pleased to report," he said in a soft, shivery voice, "I have led nearly a dozen mortal children off of rooftops or to their deaths in marshes.”
