edges. There was a time when this much pain would have been unimaginable; I would have been dead long before it could hit me.
“At least I’ll take you with me,” hissed Samson, and raised his other hand at an angle that would allow him to bring it down across my throat.
Maybe I could have survived that. Maybe. If I’d been running at full power, and hadn’t already used up most of my body’s resources healing from my earlier injuries. As it was, when that hand came down, I was going to die. I knew it, and so did Samson. I closed my eyes. Better that than watching the blow descend.
It never came. Samson made a choking noise, his fingers going limp as they released their hold on whatever vital part of my insides they’d been clenching. I opened my eyes to see Etienne behind him, with the iron cuffs that had been used to bind Tybalt’s ankles hooked around Samson’s throat. The skin of Etienne’s hands was visibly blistering. That was nothing compared to what was happening to Samson, who was trying to turn red and go pale at the same time. He settled for splitting the middle and going limp. He wasn’t breathing anymore. Etienne still gave the cuffs one last twist before he dropped them, a disgusted expression on his face.
“Are you—?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I wheezed, shoving my knife back into my belt without bothering to clean it before I clapped my hand over the hole in my stomach. I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to hold my insides in place or keep Etienne from seeing the extent of the damage. Maybe a little bit of both. One thing was for sure: I was never going to get into a hand-to-hand fight with a Cait Sidhe again if I had any choice in the matter. I like my internal organs to stay internal. “Get Quentin loose. Tybalt is taking care of Chelsea.”
Etienne nodded and disappeared, leaving the scent of smoke and limes behind him. I shakily straightened, looking down at Samson’s body for a moment before I started stumbling forward, toward where Quentin was tied down. Ahead, through the black spots clouding my vision, I could see Etienne appear next to my squire and start dealing with the knots.
The Folletti weren’t screaming anymore. I had time for that to register, barely, when the first of them struck Etienne from behind. He shouted and disappeared, leaving the Folletti to stumble forward. Quentin ducked as best he could while tied to a chair, missing a sweep of the Folletti’s sword, and kicked out at the same time. His feet impacted with the Folletti’s ankle, sending him stumbling and sending Quentin’s chair over backward. I forced myself to walk faster, every muscle in my body protesting the movement. I could feel the twisted things inside me trying to untangle themselves and my skin trying to knit back together at the same time. It was too much. All of it was too much.
The Folletti got his balance back and raised his sword, the tip aimed at Quentin’s chest. I had no more running left in me. It was all I could do to stay upright, still stumbling forward, knowing that I would never get there in time. On my best day, I couldn’t have made it there in time. There are races in Faerie who can bend space, sling fire, and freeze their enemies with a glance. All I could do was refuse to fall down and die. And it wasn’t enough.
Quentin didn’t make a sound. He didn’t even move. He just stared up at the Folletti standing over him, his hands balled into fists and still held down by the ropes that bound him.
I was so distracted with the effort of staying upright and moving that I barely heard the gunshot. The Folletti who was standing over Quentin stiffened, his sword dropping from his hands before he pitched forward, landing on Quentin with a thud. There was a second gunshot. I whipped around—too fast, way, way too fast, according to the still-gaping wound in my abdomen—to see Officer Thornton standing at the edge of the clearing, his service weapon held at arm’s length. One of the temporarily blinded Folletti must have dropped it. If Officer Thornton had been hiding in the brush, he would have seen his chance when the gun hit the ground.
As to how he wasn’t blinded, I guess there are some advantages to having less sensitive eyesight.
“All you…you…whatever you people are, drop your weapons!” he shouted. “Drop them
Riordan scowled. “Where the fuck are my guards?” she shouted. With a sound like the wind, screaming, the Folletti finally descended on the officer.
I was injured, and he was the one with the gun. Much as I wanted to worry about him, I couldn’t afford to. I turned back toward Quentin, forcing myself to keep going, and finally dropped to my knees next to his chair. Pulling the bloody knife from my belt, I began sawing through the twists of braided bracken that held him.
“Toby!” Quentin’s eyes went wide, fixing on my middle. “You’re hurt!”
“Understatement of the week,” I said, still sawing. “I’ll be fine. Can I borrow your shirt? I need something to bind the wound so I can use both my hands.” The blackness had receded to the edges of my vision. I honestly didn’t know whether that was a good sign or not.
“What happened?”
“Samson. Again. What is it about Cait Sidhe and disemboweling me? Do they need more hobbies?” The last of the bracken holding Quentin in place snapped. I leaned back, only wincing a little as the motion pulled on the skin of my stomach. I was out of resources. This was taking too long to heal.
Quentin rolled out of the chair and scrambled to his feet before pulling his shirt off and offering it to me. That gave me an excellent view of his injuries, which weren’t as severe as Tybalt’s or Etienne’s, being confined to massive bruising of his abdomen, throat, and arms. It was still enough to make bile rise in my throat, barely outpacing the rising tide of rage.
I took the shirt and wound it around my stomach, tying it as firmly as I could with the blood soaking through the fabric. “Help me up,” I said, once I was sure the knot would hold. Quentin reached down and took my arm, pulling me to my feet. “Come on.”
Officer Thornton was keeping the Folletti occupied on the other side of the clearing. I hadn’t been counting gunshots, but the odds were good they hadn’t either; most of them probably had no idea how many bullets were in a standard sidearm. The latest of Riordan’s wagons had rolled clear of the portal, its drivers looking with confusion and awe at the landscape…
And on the other side of the portal I could see Tybalt creeping up behind Chelsea, moving slowly, so as to remain as much a part of the scenery as possible. She seemed oblivious to his approach. That was good. That meant he might actually be able to get hold of her. All he had to do was grab her, get her through the portal, and not stop to think about what that was going to mean for the rest of us.
No Chelsea, no portal to Annwn. No portal to Annwn, no way we were getting out of here. “I hope he can forgive me,” I murmured. At least we had farming supplies. We really could take over one of those castles, as I’d been joking with Raj about.
We probably wouldn’t paint it pink, though.
Quentin followed my gaze. His eyes widened as he realized what my plan had to be. Then he nodded and offered me his arm. “You look like you’re going to fall over.”
“That’s because I am,” I said, taking his arm and leaning on it heavily, grateful for the support. Then I paused, frowning. “Wait. Where’s Etienne? He didn’t reappear after the Folletti—”
“Behind you!” shouted Etienne.
We whipped around to see one of Riordan’s empty wagons bearing down on us with Etienne on the driver’s seat. He rode past us and pulled the horses to a stop. “Get in!”
Quentin scrambled to obey, crawling up into the back of the wagon before turning to pull me up after him. I helped as much as I could, finally collapsing onto the rough wood. He put a hand on my shoulder, steadying me. Then he turned and bolted for the front of the wagon, joining Etienne on the driver’s seat.
I heard, rather than saw, what came next.
“Take the reins!” shouted Etienne. The smell of cedar smoke and limes drifted back to where I was lying, and the wagon started moving again, rattling across the uneven ground with bone-shaking jerks and bounces. I was in enough pain that I didn’t care as much as I might have. I just lay there, watching the sky pass overhead, and wondered what was going to happen.
More gunshots in the distance; more screaming from the Folletti. And then a hand grabbed hold of the foot of the wagon, and Duchess Treasa Riordan yanked herself up into view. Her face was distorted by rage, and there were bits of broom in her red-black hair. She grabbed for me, snarling, “All you had to do was stay out of the way, you stupid little half-blood bitch! I was giving you people what you always wanted! I was getting out of your precious territory!”
