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“You can’t do this!” Cissa screams.
“Remember your place,cousin.” He spits the word like an insult. “I was chosen to lead the house, after you disgraced our blood by allying yourself with a sprite. Be glad you’re merely banished to the mortal world and permitted to continue this farce.”
She blanches. Little as I understand his words, I want to punch the asshole who dimmed the light in the always cheerful, beautiful woman I know.
“There are rules, Junis. Heading the house of winter doesn’t change that.”
“I’ve followed every single one. I came to the old world for a human girl, and one walked right to the doorstep, offering herself to me by all the laws of our kind.”
“Mortals don’tknownot to thank a fairy anymore. They don’t even believe we exist!” Cissa yells.
My eyes widen.
Mad. They’re all mad. That’s what I want to think, what I want to believe.
And yet, my mouth remains closed, and if this man takes another step, I don’t doubt I will follow, my body governed by ancient laws I know nothing about.
Cissa’s always seemed dainty and cute, but looking at her now, I don’t see the cheerful pixie I so like.
I see the rage of someone—something—more powerful than I can comprehend burning in her golden eyes. “It is not a valid contract in the eyes of the crown. Mark my words, takemyguest frommyhall, and you will regret this.”
Junis snorts, dismissive. “You call this a hall? It’s a little more than a pleasure house. You have no power here. You no longer have power anywhere.”
Then he descends to the basement, and my body doesn’t leave me any choice, though I try to fight every movement.
I walk down the stairs after him, feeling like I’m walking to my death.
Or something worse.
CHAPTER FIVE
IF YOU GET A CHANCE? RUN FROM THE FUCKING FAIRIES
Darina
I don't know what I imagined at the bottom of the dark, pit-like circular staircase. A strip club. A proper sex dungeon with torture devices in every corner.
Instead, when we finally reach the bottom of the seemingly endless, dark and narrow spiral staircase, we reach an open room, not unlike the club upstairs, but brighter, and far less crowded.
It's hard to say where exactly the light comes from. There's no window, and no lamps that I can see, but the couple of dozens candles on each table can't possibly be the only source.
The decor is rustic—cavernlike walls, poorly lit alcoves, a rough wooden table that could either have been carved by a hipster for effect now, or five hundred years ago.
Somehow, I’m guessing it’s the latter.
The entire place reeks of alcohol, faint dampness, and sex, like the worst kind of dive bars.
Underneath it all, there’s another scent, more primal, demanding; a faint rot tinged with iron. My nose itches when it catches it.
I know it’s the smell of death. Not blood, actual death. How I’m so certain, I can’t say. It’s not like I’ve sniffed all that many corpses in my life. I’ve never even seen one. But I know people died here. Many of them. Some, very recently.
Somehow, I can also tell we’re no longer in Night Hall; not really. We might have accessed this place while going down the basement, but it seems nothing like the trendy, luxurious club I’ve always been drawn to. This feels like a completely different place. I’d wager that if I could get to the door on the opposite wall, it wouldn’t lead to the fancy San Francisco neighborhood.
There are a dozen people here, most of whom are forming a circle around a booth, cheering, like they’re watching some sort of game. Betting on it.
I tune it all out, staring at what seems to be too easy an opportunity for escape.
Can I get to the door? I’m desperate to make a mad dash for it. My eyes stay glued to it, although logic can’t even explain how there can be a door at all, given how far down the stairs we are.
