Wicked
Page 98

Picking up speed as they turned onto St. Phillip Street, I feared I knew where Val was leading the prince. All I could hope was that I was wrong. Legs aching, I pushed, dodging streetwalkers and panhandlers. My lungs seized when I passed the Irish pub and saw Val's red shirt a second before it disappeared.
No. No.
I pushed harder than I ever had before, nearly out of breath when I reached the side entrance of Mama Lousy. Heart sinking, I yanked open the door and peered up the staircase.
The normally closed, secured door was open.
Dread settled like a cannonball in the pit of my stomach as I climbed the stairs. As I neared the top, the metallic scent was so strong that I could taste it in the back of my throat. Clearing the stairs, I stepped into the room and swallowed a hoarse cry.
Harris lay on his back, his eyes glassy and unfocused. The front of his shirt was torn and covered in red. A puddle of blood seeped out from under him, spreading across the beige carpet.
Anger and horror warred inside me as I stalked forward, toward the back of the room and the stairwell that led to the third floor, clenching the stake until my knuckles hurt. "Valerie!" I shouted.
A door to my right slammed shut, and I whirled. Val stood there, holding something the size and shape of a bowling ball in her arms. It was covered with a black cloth. I had no idea what she was carrying, and in that moment, I didn't even care.
"Why?" I asked, my voice cracking halfway through the one single word.
Tight curls bounced as she shook her head and edged toward the door. "I wish it hadn't been you that came after me."
Before I could respond, cold air danced along the nape of my neck. I spun around, my breath catching as I saw the prince standing before me. Two words pretty much summed up how I felt about that.
Oh shit.
I heard the door close behind me, and even though I knew Val had made her escape and she had left me with this—this thing, I didn't take my eyes off of him.
The prince cocked his head to the side, studying me intently like I was an odd bug under a microscope. "Your hair," he said. His voice was odd, an accent that reminded me of someone from England, but different, more lyrical. "It is the color of fire."
Uh.
"It's rather . . . abrasive," he added, almost as an afterthought.
I blinked, kind of stunned because there was a good chance that the prince of the Otherworld just insulted my hair color. Frankly, I couldn't believe I was even standing in front of the prince. "I'm not here to talk about my red hair."
He stared at me with icy eyes. "You're here to fight me then?"
"I'm here to end you."
A soft, musical laugh radiated from him. "You humor me, and I am feeling . . . kind." He spoke the last word like he was unfamiliar with it. "I shall let you live."
When he stepped to the side, I blocked him. His gaze flicked to the stake I held, and his lips curled into a slow, utterly creepy smile that did nothing to add warmth to his face. "A thorn birch stake from the Otherworld, I assume?"
"You betcha."
"You think just because you hold one of them that you can use it successfully against me? That is silly." He dipped his chin and long strands of black hair fell against his chest.  "And fatal."
My heart was thundering in spite of my words. "You talk a lot."
He drew back, surprise flashing across his features. "I do not wish to harm a female," he said in his weird accent. His cold gaze drifted over me. "I find that there are more pleasurable things to engage in with the fairer sex."
"Ew," I spat. "Gross."
He lifted a dark brow. "My kindness is rapidly diminishing."
There was a significant part of me that wanted to turn and run. This was the prince, and despite the situation I just put myself in, I wasn't stupid. Trained as I was, squaring off with the prince was tantamount to suicide, but my duty—what I'd been raised to do—was that I never ran from the fae. I had committed an act in the past that had gone beyond dereliction of duty, and I would not do that again.
I held my ground.
The prince sighed heavily then snapped forward, gripping my wrist. The contact made me gasp. His skin was cold. "I give you one last chance." He increased the pressure on my wrist, but I held on to the stake. "You will not like how this ends, my lovely little bird."
"I'm not your anything, buddy."
"Too bad." Then he pushed me with just a flick of the hand, but it was enough force to send me skidding across the carpet.
Apparently, his creepy Casanova speech wasn't all pageantry. I caught myself before I fell. He hadn't hurt me, and it seemed like he was giving me one last chance, but too much was at stake for me to turn and run. "What did you do to Valerie?"
"Who? The little girl who was just here?" He tipped his head back. "I did nothing. I think she is . . . perhaps intelligent? She knows we cannot be stopped."
"No." I shook my head as fury built inside me. "She would never willingly help your kind. She must've been compelled to do so."
"If that makes you feel better."
Holding on to the disbelieving anger, I launched forward and spun to my left. I swung with the stake, but the space where he'd stood was empty. I stumbled back. "What the . . .?"
"Too slow."
I spun around and found him standing there, a small smile on his face. I dropped, sweeping my leg out, but hit nothing but air again.