Dad had said that Rhudda’s hubris might trip him up. As far as I could tell, it just made him annoying.
“I’m going to bed,” I said. “I’ve got a contest to win in the morning.”
“Oho!” shouted Rhudda, shaking my dad’s arm. “Did you hear that, Sir Evan? Mark it well, mark it well. I’ll want that line in your story of this damsel’s defeat.”
Laughter roared up and down the high table as I left the hall.
Back in my chamber, I lay in the four-poster bed, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. My body was tired—exhausted, really—but I couldn’t fall asleep in that Darklands half-light that never seemed to change. I closed my eyes. The moment I did, Butterfly tore its way out of my gut and flitted around my head like a mosquito. Its high-pitched mosquito whine fragmented into words and snatches of phrases.
All your fault.
You’re going to lose.
Your father will suffer again.
Your fault.
Disfigurement.
Death.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
I buried my head under the pillow to drown out the buzzing, but it was like Butterfly was inside my brain. The sound made me want to scream. I sat up, throwing the pillow across the room.
“Butterfly!”
The air around my head stilled into blessed silence.
Then an aggrieved voice piped up from the foot of the bed. “What?”
“You know what’s happening tomorrow, right?” Of course it did. An Eidolon has full access to its host’s thoughts.
“Yeah, an archery contest. So what?”
“You keep telling me I’m going to lose. What if I do?”
“That giant gets to drink your blood.”
“Right. He’ll drain so much blood from my body that I’ll die. I’ll become a shade in the Darklands, like everyone else here.”
“Die? Um, excuse me but did you say die? But…but what about me?”
“Exactly, Butterfly. What about you?”
“I can’t believe it. That is so like you. Getting into a situation without thinking about how it will affect anyone else. If you die, I’ll fade.”
“Yup. Right back into the demonic ether. You’ll lose consciousness, your personality—”
“My demonality.”
“Whatever. The point is, if I die, you die.”
“Well, then, don’t die.”
“If I don’t get some sleep, I won’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning.”
“We get snow.”
“What?”
“In Hell. Uffern, whatever you want to call it. It’s not all lakes of fire and crap like that. It gets cold there. At certain times of the year, a snowball would do just fine in Hell.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“I get the point. I’m not stupid, you know. If you weren’t so self-centered, you’d realize that.” Butterfly took to the air and landed on my stomach. “Okay. I’ll let you sleep tonight. But keep in mind that you’re forcing me to go without a meal. A poor, hungry demon who—”
“Suck it up, Butterfly. I can’t eat while I’m in the Darklands. You can fast for one night. You’re looking a little tubby, anyway.”
“Tubby,” Butterfly muttered. “Talk about adding insult to injury…Well, can you at least think about the werewolf for a minute or two? Let me have a little bedtime snack?”
“No.” I was not going to feel guilty about Kane. Even though I’d handled it badly, letting him go so he was free to mate with Simone was the right thing to do. My feelings at losing him were my own, a private grief, not a snack for an Eidolon. In my mind, in my heart, I built a wall around them. I’d face those feelings another day—if I managed to make it through tomorrow.
Butterfly grumbled some more, then sank back into me. I felt a couple of twinges in my intestines, and then the Eidolon quieted down.
Peace. Wonderful tranquility.
My aching, exhausted body relinquished its tension, and within a minute I slept.
* * *
IN SLEEP, I TRIED TO CALL MAB ON THE DREAM PHONE. I PICTURED her, as clearly as if she sat beside my bed. I brought up her colors. But the blue and silver rolled endlessly through my dreamscape. The mists didn’t part. My aunt didn’t step through.
I wasn’t surprised. For years after Dad’s death, I’d attempted to contact him in my dreams. He never answered. The boundary between the Ordinary and the Darklands didn’t let calls through. It kept the living and the dead separate, isolated from each other, each within their own realm.
Mab would be furious that I’d ignored her warning to stay out of the Darklands. Trapped in a hostile giant’s castle, I had to admit she was probably right. Still, I would have happily endured the sternest of lectures to hear her thoughts on how to get out of here, do what I needed to do, and get home.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
I rolled out of bed and staggered to the door. Some half-faced servant of Rhudda stood outside. He nodded to me, then turned and descended the stairs.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I didn’t know how long I’d slept—I still couldn’t get used to how time passed in the Darklands—but now that I was vertical I felt refreshed. Soreness lingered in my arms and back, but I got out of bed and did some stretches to loosen up.
As I stretched, got dressed in my tunic, and headed to the archery range, I actually felt good. Not a peep from Butterfly. Maybe the demon had snuck away during the night in search of a new host.
Spectators filled the amphitheater, packing the tiers of seats so tightly the shades practically sat on top of each other. More hubris. I’m sure Rhudda thought it would make a better story for a huge audience to witness my defeat.
But I wasn’t going to think in terms of defeat. My father and I were going to leave this castle together, whole and unharmed. I’d decided on a plan. As soon as I’d nocked my first arrow, I’d use it to shoot Rhudda through the eye. Shades could die, too, and an arrow shot from a longbow at close range should do the trick. Dad and I would escape in the confusion.
Except, I realized with a sinking heart, Rhudda had made escape impossible. He’d stationed his six crossbow archers around the amphitheater. There wasn’t a square inch of ground outside their range. If I shot Rhudda, two or three arrows would pierce my heart before his body hit the ground.
Damn. No wonder even Butterfly had abandoned me.
I was the first contestant on the field. I expected to find Dad there to assist me, but he was nowhere in sight. Another abandonment? I didn’t think my father would do that to me, but after assessing my dismal archery skills, he obviously figured his best chance was to suck up to Rhudda. I sighed, and picked up my bow.
There was a commotion near one of the entrances, and I saw why Dad hadn’t been waiting for me. Four of Rhudda’s mutilated servants pulled a wagon into the field. The top of the wagon was a cage of thick iron bars. Inside the cage stood my father.
Anger burned through my blood as they pulled the wagon in a circle around the perimeter of the field, displaying my father to the crowd. Dad gripped the bars but kept his gaze on the ground. Jeers and catcalls followed him. More than ever, I wanted to kill Rhudda. I wanted to put him in that cage and let his cloak of beards chew him down to the skeleton.
The servants stationed the wagon about twenty feet away from me. I waved to Dad, but he didn’t look up.
Trumpets blared, and Rhudda came onto the field. The crowd cheered. He stopped, raised both arms over his head, and turned in a slow circle, accepting their adulation. He bowed—once, twice, three times. Then he walked over to me, his hand extended.
I wanted to crush his fingers, force him to his knees, and then stomp on his head. But I accepted his hand and we shook. Up close, Rhudda didn’t look so hot. His bloodshot eyes were as red as a zombie’s, and his face drooped with tiredness.
Some functionary strode to the middle of the field and raised his hand. This guy had his entire face. When the crowd grew quiet, he read the contest’s rules: three arrows apiece, each shot assigned a score according to the ring it hit on the target. After we’d each taken three shots, the archer with the highest score would be the winner. A coin toss would determine who’d go first.
The coin chose me. I hefted my bow. A slight breeze blew against my arm—good. Yesterday my shots had tended to fly too far to the left. The breeze would help correct that.
I took my stance, darting a look toward my father. He was watching me now, and he gave me a thumbs-up. I chose an arrow and nocked it in the bow. Aim, draw, check—take a deep breath—and loose the bowstring.
The arrow rose in a perfect arc. The breeze pushed it a little. It hit the target, and I grabbed the spyglass to see how I’d done. The arrow jutted from the red ring, inches above the bull’s-eye.
“Eight!” declared the scorekeeper.
“That’s my girl!” Dad called.
Eight was good. Eight was way better than I’d started out yesterday. But ten was the top score. I’d have to do better.
Scanty applause stuttered around the amphitheater, then dwindled to silence. Rhudda picked up his bow and lifted it over his head. Spectators jumped to their feet, screaming themselves hoarse.
Gee, I wonder who they expected to win.
Rhudda made a big show of selecting an arrow. His quiver held four to my three. Of his arrows, three had black fletching. The feathers of the fourth arrow were bloodred.
Shit. The red one must be his magic arrow. Rhudda expected to win, but he was also prepared to cheat.
Uneasiness stirred in my gut. “Settle down, Butterfly,” I hissed. “I need to concentrate.” The feeling drained away.
The giant nocked his arrow. The crowd was silent, every person leaning forward. Rhudda aimed, adjusted his stance, and aimed again. What a ham. But when he lowered his bow and roared for a servant to mop his brow, I began to wonder. Rhudda really looked bad. Could shades get sick—or hungover? I glanced at Dad, who gripped the bars of his cage. His mouth was a thin, grim line as he watched the giant.
