Chimes at Midnight
Page 89

“Milady, had I been given any other alternative, I would have taken it.”
I nodded. “Arden may be more forgiving because of that, if we get her brother back alive. So what, exactly, is down there that keeps people euphemistically ‘calm’?”
Looking more miserable by the second, the guard said, “Iron.”
The whole dungeon was dripping with iron. My skin crawled even standing here, and I was part human. I frowned. “That’s not a sufficient answer.”
“Lots of iron.”
He was standing as far away from the door as it was possible to be while still existing in the same stretch of hall. I frowned again before eyeing the door.
“How much iron are we talking here?”
He didn’t answer.
Oberon’s Law says purebloods aren’t allowed to kill each other. But that law is enforced by the purebloods, and they’ve had a long time to find loopholes. It says nothing about torture, for example, or about accidental death—say, from an overdose of iron. “How did you get him down there?”
“The Queen retains changelings on her staff for matters such as these.”
I didn’t bother correcting him on the former Queen’s status. Seeing her get her ass handed to her would be correction enough, and I had other things to worry about. “I don’t believe I’m doing this,” I muttered, and handed the hope chest to Tybalt. “Don’t let anyone touch this.”
He frowned. “October . . .”
“My father was human. I can do this.”
“Your father was human, but less than half your blood remembers that. Can you carry Nolan on your own?”
“We’re going to find out, because you’re not going down there.” I pointed to the door. “You were damn near dead before. I can handle that once in a night—I nearly die on you all the time, turnabout is fair play—but I can’t do it twice. I’m stronger than I look, I can get him into a fireman’s carry, and most importantly, I stand half a chance in hell of making it back alive.”
Tybalt shook his head. “Insufferable woman,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss me, ignoring the blood smeared around my mouth. I kissed him back, but only for a few seconds; just long enough to show that I meant it, not long enough that it turned into wasting time.
“Wish me luck,” I said, pulling away.
“If there is one thing I have never known you to need, October, it’s luck,” he said.
“There’s a first time for everything.” I turned to the guard. “Open the door.”
“I don’t think you understand—”
“Look. Tonight, I have changed the balance of my own blood, brought my boyfriend back from the brink of death, and helped a mermaid kick all your asses,” I snapped. “And that’s just since I got here. You want to see me annoyed? Then go ahead, explain how dangerous this is. But if you want the nice, incredibly irritated woman to stop making you the target of her anger, you will open. That. Door.”
“Yes, milady,” he said, and moved to unlock the door. Tybalt snickered. I didn’t dignify that reaction by looking at him.
Besides, if I had, I’d probably have started snickering, too, and that would have undermined the aura of badass that I was trying to project.
A wash of cold air smelling of iron and rotten straw rushed out as the guard pulled the door open. It made the air in the dungeon hallway seem fresh by comparison. I choked, trying to wave the smell away, and turned to see what the way down would look like. Then I stopped, blinking.
“What in the name of Oberon’s ass is that?” I demanded.
“The stairs, milady,” said the guard. Now that the door was open, he was back on the other side of the hall. I couldn’t blame him. I wanted to join him, really, but that option wasn’t available at the moment. “There is only one cell, at the bottom.”
At least I wasn’t going to be descending into the dark again. The stairs on the other side of the door were white marble that matched the main receiving hall, with a polished copper banister. They curved gently down into a stairwell that would have been dim before I used the hope chest, but now seemed reasonably well-lit. If not for the rancid, iron-soaked air rising from the bottom of the stairs, I would have thought it was just another hall.
“I’ve always wanted to try this,” I said, to no one in particular.
“Milady?”
I think Tybalt realized what I was about to do as I started running for the door. I heard him groan. Then my foot was hitting the top step, and I no longer had the attention to spare. I grabbed the banister, and slung my leg over the smooth copper path. I looked back as I started to slide. The last thing I saw as I accelerated down the stairs was the guard, staring at me in bewilderment, and Tybalt, shaking his head in obvious amusement. Then I turned, and focused on what was ahead of me.
Riding a banister down an unknown number of steps is more nerve-racking than I’d ever guessed it would be. I clung onto it with both hands, using the friction from my fingers to slow myself as much as I could. It wasn’t much. Gravity had me now, and gravity wanted me to pay for my sins.
Whatever they were, I hoped I’d be done paying for them soon. The sliding uncontrollably down into an iron-filled dungeon was unique enough to be interesting, but I’d be carrying Nolan back up every one of those stairs. Plus, I had no brakes. I was just going to have to wait for the moment when something stopped me.
“I hope it’s a wall,” I muttered. The wind generated by my slide whipped my words away, and I slid on in silence. I was just starting to think I’d made a serious mistake when the banister came to an end. For a few dazzling seconds, I wasn’t falling anymore—I was flying.
And then I slammed into the floor, cracking my head against it, and the world went away, replaced by a field of dazzling white agony. I groaned, struggling to sit up. My palms pressed flat against the floor, and a sizzling sound hit my ears a second before the pain raced up my arms. I scrambled to my feet, finally fully registering the hellish scene around me.
The room was made entirely of iron.
The stairs were marble, as was a narrow path wending from the bottom step to the room’s single door. Everything else, the walls, the floor, even the chandelier hanging above me, was made of iron. I dove for the path.
“What in name of the root and the branch?” I whimpered, taking only a trickle of comfort in the profanity. This much iron wasn’t cruelty; it was a passive assassination attempt. No pureblood could have survived the fall I’d just taken, even if they healed with my preternatural speed. The iron would have damaged them too much, and they’d never have made it back to the path. As it was, my head was throbbing, and my cheek felt like it was starting to blister. The iron in this room was thick enough that I wasn’t healing.