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The statue sitting on the throne wore the Warlock’s cat-fur coat, but it also showed Guismond as a warrior King. The helmet, which encircled his face, was shaped like the mouth of a wolf. Beneath the coat Jacob saw knee-length chain mail, as well as the white tunic with the red sword. Jacob had so often looked at the silver ringlet that surrounded the sword and never thought anything of it. Guismond sat with his legs apart, like a man who’d conquered a world. After he’d arrived here from another.
At the bottom of the steps stood a stool, and on it, on a golden cushion, lay a crossbow.
Jacob blew out the candle.
The tiles beneath his feet formed a round mosaic with Guismond’s crest. The stool with the crossbow stood right on top of the crowned wolf’s head.
Jacob was just a few steps from the stool when the moth took its final bite.
He dropped to his knees. He saw, heard, felt nothing, only pain. It seared the final letter from his memory like acid. The Dark Fairy had her name back. Then the moth rose from his skin. It peeled its furry body from his flesh as from a bloody cocoon and began to flap its wings. Jacob heard his scream echo through the throne room, and he flailed in agony on Guismond’s crest as the moth fluttered off, back to its mistress, taking her name – and his life – with it. All she left behind was the imprint on his raw flesh, and Jacob lay there and waited for his heart to stop. It stumbled and raced, clinging to the last bit of life left in his body.
Get up, Jacob! But he didn’t know how. He just wanted the pain to end, this hunt to be over, and Fox to be with him.
Get up, Jacob. For her.
He felt the cold of the tiles through his clothes and on his pain-numbed skin.
Get up.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
EXTINGUISHED
The voices were terrible. They quarrelled. Screamed. Cried. They were waiting behind every door, and as Fox drifted from room to room, from hall to hall, she found gold and silver, haphazardly piled loot from plundered cities, chests filled with precious clothes, golden plates on empty tables (which briefly brought back the memories of the Bluebeard’s dining room), beds under blood-red canopies, jewel-encrusted furniture. The light of her candle peeled them out of the darkness like unreal images – and the opulence just whispered of Guismond’s madness. The entire palace was a ghost. All the voices, the sinister hunger permeating it . . . the dead life that didn’t want to die.
The trembling flame lit a writing room. Books. Maps. A globe. The hide of a black lion spread out on the floor. The patterns on the carpet that hung on the wall announced that it could fly.
The candle died.
Fox felt her heart beat faster.
He’d found it.
Jacob had found the crossbow.
She shifted shape. The vixen would get to him much faster.
Jacob would live.
All was well.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
THE TRAP
On your feet, Jacob. The pain began to subside, but his heart was sputtering as though every beat could be the last.
Never mind, Jacob. Just a few steps.
Take the crossbow. Fox will be here soon.
He actually managed to get up.
What if she didn’t find him in time? Do you want to shoot that bolt into your own chest, Jacob? The thought was almost funny.
From this close, the figure on the throne looked so lifelike, as though Guismond had created it from flesh and blood. The dead eyes stared right through Jacob as he stepped towards the stool. Heavens. His feet were stumbling as badly as his heart.
‘You’re really not making death easy on yourself.’ The Bastard stepped out of the shadows, as quietly as he had in the tomb.
