“In a house with barely a chip of paint left, why the curtains?” she asked. “Is there something special about that room, I wonder?”
“Do you believe they’re holding Susan there?”
“I don’t know. The second floor is more secure, but an open window is not. It’s worth investigating.”
He shook his head. “The house is full of dry rot. Climbing in or out of there would be risky.”
She turned to meet his deep brown eyes. “And waltzing through a house full of fae criminals is not? Look at the advantages. If we go in an open window, we don’t need to pick the lock.”
One corner of his mouth curled up. “I’m more likely to carry the day when I’m not falling from twenty feet up. Even the brickwork around this place looks like it would crumble under my weight.”
“I’m lighter. I could do it.”
He frowned, but in a considering way. He’d never underestimated her abilities. “I’m sure you could, but even if those fae aren’t like Lightborn, they’re dangerous.”
And I should be sitting in the airport by now. But this time, the thought had less power over her. Her fear had faded because she was there for a good reason and Lancelot was a solid, steadying presence beside her.
Nim was wishing for binoculars when she saw something move behind the lace curtains. It was impossible to see what it was, just a streak of moving color. Her acute senses had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with her fae blood, and binding her powers hadn’t dulled them. Still, they had limitations.
She strained to catch the movement again, afraid her mind was supplying images she wanted to see instead of what was truly there. Then a feminine voice splintered the afternoon heat—a muffled cry of protest, barely audible even to fae ears.
Nim wheeled to Lancelot. “I’m going in.”
He grabbed her arm. “Wait. The other knights will be here any minute. There’s no need to risk yourself.”
“You have no idea what losing your soul is like,” she said, her voice a bare whisper. Tension thundered in her ears, but the image of the girl in the yellow dress blazed through her anxiety. “She’s just a young human. A minute is far too long.”
Nim pulled away from him and ran to the side of the house, keeping low. She reached the foot of the wall, looking up to see the curtain billow out against a cerulean sky. To her left was a drainpipe, but it was covered in rust. To her right was the chimney, the mortar crumbling from between the bricks. She dug her fingers into the chimney and began to climb, the soft soles of her sneakers gripping the bricks with ease.
She moved in near silence, her agility and strength greater than a human’s even without her powers. It didn’t take long to scale the first dozen feet. A quick glance over her shoulder told her Lancelot was guarding her ascent, his long knife in one hand and a gun in the other. The sight of him made her climb faster, eager to finish the job and get them all out of danger. She’d reached the sill when she heard the slam of a door and a sudden movement on the grass below. The urge to look down was like a blade against her spine, but she dared not waste the time. If someone saw her clinging to the bricks, they would shoot.
She drew level with the window and reached out for the sill. A stick propped up the sash, so she was careful not to disturb it as she steadied herself to look inside. However, when she put weight on her outstretched arm, her hand came away with a fistful of dust and splinters. The frame was crumbling with age and neglect. Lancelot had been right about the risk of climbing.
She scaled another few feet and this time hooked a foot through the window, using an awkward lunge to crawl through the opening. She knocked the prop holding up the sash and the frame dropped on her shoulders with a vicious thump. With the wind knocked from her lungs, Nim slithered onto the grimy floor.
The room was empty of fae, but neither were there prisoners conveniently awaiting rescue. She cursed softly, but was distracted by sounds of fighting rising from the yard outside. As she jumped to her feet, she glanced outside to see men running, some with swords, others with guns. When she recognized Gawain, she knew reinforcements had arrived. She pulled back from the window, keeping out of sight.
Now it was up to Nim to do her part. She took a second, slower look around, wrinkling her nose at the smell of ancient filth. There was no furniture except for an old mattress on the floor, a blanket rumpled at its foot. Nim stepped forward and pressed a hand to the mattress. The room was warm, but this was damp with sweat. Someone had been there, and recently. A pair of bright yellow shoes—the same shade as Susan’s dress—were carelessly tossed in a corner.
Nim started to rise from her crouch when she felt something beneath the blanket. She pulled back the cloth to see a chain of dull silver ending in a broad cuff. That answered why it had been safe to leave a window open.
Was this where the fae kept their humans until it was time to feed? Was the cry she had heard Susan, as the girl was unchained and taken away for another session of unthinkable torture?
The image that formed in Nim’s mind obliterated everything else. She drew her gun and glided toward the door, wincing when a floorboard creaked. She reached for the brass handle, turning it slowly. It was unlocked. She listened, leaning toward the crack as she opened it an inch. There were plenty of sounds, but they were all coming from outside. She let the door drift open, willing the hinges not to creak.
When she reached the corridor outside, it was empty but for stairs leading to the rooms above and below. Where had they taken Susan? It had to have been just minutes ago. Nim listened to the sounds around her. There was fighting downstairs, spilling in from the yard. Not the first place she’d take a prisoner. She glanced up, but the condition of the ceiling said there’d been considerable water damage on the third floor, perhaps from a leaking roof. She’d try her luck in the immediate area first.
Six doors faced onto the hardwood hallway, including the room Nim had just left. A few stood open and one was missing altogether. Most of the rooms were little more than stinking burrows, telling the tale of how far these fae had sunk in their addiction.
The fourth room she peered into was different. The window had been boarded up, but a single candle threw a pool of light over the space. Some attempt had been made to furnish it with a sagging sofa and a moth-eaten rug. Unfortunately, what it had acquired in fabric it had gained in the stink of mildew. Nim stifled a sneeze.
One of the shadows moved. A male fae rose, holding Susan to his chest. Nim couldn’t tell if he meant to protect her or use her as a shield, but when she looked into his eyes all became clear. His expression was filled with fury—and that was only possible if he’d drunk from her soul.
“Who the stars are you?” he rasped. He was shaking, a telltale sign of the damage addicts suffered. Next on the list was incurable madness.
Nim kept the gun to her side, unwilling to risk shooting Susan. The violinist looked barely conscious, as if she would collapse if her attacker released the arm he clutched around her waist. The fae himself looked barely able to stand, overcome by the emotions swirling inside him.
Nim kept her voice soft and calm, but she knew better than to beg him for Susan’s life. If the fae had still possessed a better nature, he wouldn’t be there in the first place. “I’m here to save you.”
“Oh?” he scoffed.
“From dishonor,” she said in the same even, implacable voice. “You blacken our people’s name.”
“Does it matter?” His lip curled. “They call this house haunted. What are we fae but ghosts?”
His barb struck home, echoing Nim’s darkest thoughts. But she took a step forward, knowing every inch closer to her target improved her aim. “Even so, remaining true