‘Knowing it doesn’t change anything, does it?’
She struggled free.
‘Together,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t that the plan? Don’t ever lie to me again. I’m sick of it.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE FIRST BITE
Some things need to be sought in the filth. Sinister things, found by following the scent of poverty to the dark streets beyond the gaslights and the stuccoed houses, to back yards stinking of refuse and bad food. Jacob asked for directions from a man sitting on his front steps and squeezing silver dust from a captured Elf. Elven dust. A dangerous path to escape the world.
There was nothing ominous about the windows of the shop the man sent them to. It was way past midnight, but what Jacob was after was best purchased under the cover of night anyway. In Albion, trade in magical objects and substances was strictly regulated. Still, nearly anything that was available on the mainland could also be found here, if only one looked in the right places.
The screams of a Hob sounded through the door when Jacob knocked against the frosted glass. The Albian variant of the Heinzel had carrot hair and much longer legs than its Austrian kin. The woman who opened the door was trying hard to look like a Witch, but she had the round black pupils of a human, and the herbal perfume she’d sprinkled deep into her bosom didn’t smell anything like Alma’s forest scent. The Hob was sitting in a cage above the door. Hobs were good guards as long they were fed regularly, and their mood was barely worse in a cage than when they were free. The creature’s red eyes clung to Fox as she stepped into the shop. The Hob could smell the shape-shifter.
The fake Witch locked the door while she appraised Jacob’s clothes. The cut and fabric seemed to whisper ‘money’ to her, and she gave him a smile as fake as her perfume. The shop reeked of dried moor lilies, which wasn’t a good sign. They were often passed off as Fairy lilies, and the fungus-sponges that hung from the ceiling were sold as an aphrodisiac, even though the only effect they had was lifelong hallucinations. But among the items on the shelves, Jacob did spot a few things that had real magical properties.
‘And what can Goldilocks do for you two darlin’s?’ Her hoarse voice gave her away as a lentil-chewer. The Cinderella addiction . . . for a few hours of princess dreams. Goldilocks gave Fox a sleazy smile. ‘Need something to fan the old flames? Or is there someone in your way?’
Jacob would have loved nothing more than to give her an infusion of her own deadliest potion. Her locks were indeed golden – the kind of sticky gold that fake Witches liked to concoct to colour their hair and lips.
‘I need a blood shard.’ Jacob dropped two thalers on the grimy counter. His handkerchief was becoming quite unreliable at producing them. It was so thin in places that he would soon have to start looking for a new one.
Goldilocks rubbed the coins between her fingers. ‘There’s five years’ hard labour for selling blood shards.’
Jacob put another coin in her hand.
She dropped the money into her apron pocket and disappeared behind a threadbare curtain. Fox’s eyes followed her. Her face was pale.
‘They don’t always work,’ she said without looking at Jacob. Her voice sounded as rough as the lentil-chewer’s.
‘I know.’
‘You’ll lose blood for weeks.’
Her look was so desperate, he wanted to take her into his arms and kiss away the fear on her face. What are you doing, Jacob? Was the garbage on the shelves fogging his senses? All the love potions and cheap amulets, the finger bones that were supposed to bestow lust and love? Or was this another effect of his fear of death?
Goldilocks returned with a paper bag. The glass shard Jacob took out of it was colourless and a little bigger than the bottom of a bottle.
‘How do I know it’s real?’
Fox took the shard from him and ran her fingers over the glass. Then she looked at the fake Witch. ‘If he’s harmed in anyway, I will find you,’ she said. ‘No matter where you hide.’
Goldilocks sneered. ‘It’s a blood shard, honey. Of course it’ll harm him.’ She took a vial from her apron and put it in Jacob’s hand. ‘Rub this on the wound. It’ll slow the bleeding.’
The Hob stared through the doorway before his mistress shut and locked it behind them. A rat scampered down the dark alley, and in the distance Jacob and Fox could hear the wheels of a cab rattling over the cobblestones.
Jacob stepped into the nearest doorway and pushed up his sleeve. Blood shards. He’d never used one himself, but Chanute acquired one once, when they’d been hunting for the wand of a Warlock. To use the blood shard, one had to picture the item one was looking for as exactly as possible and then cut the shard deep into the flesh until the object appeared in the glass, hopefully also showing its location. Blood shards only revealed objects that had been touched by dark magic, but the Witch Slayer’s head definitely had enough of that.
‘Did you ever find the wand?’ Fox turned away in disgust as Jacob pressed the shard against his skin.
‘Yes.’ What he didn’t tell her was that Chanute had nearly bled out. It was the worst kind of magic.
Just as he was just about to cut into his skin, a pain pierced his chest, unlike any Jacob had felt before. Something was digging its teeth into his heart. The shard dropped from his hand, and the scream that crossed his lips was so loud that a window opened on the other side of the street.
‘Jacob?’ Fox grabbed him by the shoulders.
He wanted to say something, anything reassuring, but all he could utter was a wheeze, and he could only manage to stay on his feet because Fox held him up. His old self wanted to hide himself from her, too proud to be seen in such a vulnerable state, so helpless. But the pain just wouldn’t go away.
Breathe, Jacob. Breathe. It’ll pass.
The Dark Fairy’s name had six letters, but he could recall only five of them.
He leant against the door and pressed his hand to his chest, certain that he’d see his own blood seep through his fingers. The pain subsided, but the memory of it still quickened his breath.
‘It’s not going to be pleasant.’ The understatement of the year, Alma.
Fox picked up the shard. It was broken, but there was no blood on it. Fox stared in disbelief at the clean glass. Then she pulled Jacob’s hand off his chest. The moth above his heart had a spot on its left wing now. It was shaped like a tiny skull.
‘The Fairy is claiming her name back.’ He could barely speak. He could still feel the scream in his throat.
Pull yourself together, Jacob. Oh, his damned pride. He held out his hand, even though it was trembling. ‘Give me the shard.’ Fox dropped it into her pocket and pulled his sleeve over his bare arm.
‘No,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think you have enough strength to take it off me.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE HAND IN THE SOUTH
The Waterman turned out to tax Nerron’s nerves the least. Eaumbre – when his name crossed his scaly lips, you felt as though you had the mud of his pond in your ears. Even Louis was bearable, though he was constantly asking about their next meal or riding after every peasant girl. But Lelou! The Bug was talking all the time, at least whenever he wasn’t scribbling in his notebook. Every castle above the winter-bare vineyards, every collapsed church, every town name on a weathered signpost – each triggered a flood of commentary. Names, dates, royal gossip. His chatter was like the hum of a bumblebee in Nerron’s ear.
