The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(39)
“Some do.” I lifted my eyes; the tracks led through the catacombs to a thick oak door. Who was wandering about in the abandoned castle? Was it the same person who had tended the light glowing in the tower window last night? As Blake tried the handle, I passed the torch into my left hand, slipping my right into the pocket that held the gun.
“Locked,” he muttered. “And this time, the hardware has been well oiled.”
The firelight gleamed on the intricate brass of the keyhole. It was made in the same design as the one on the sea gates: a pair of mermaids, their hands and tails touching. But there was no way now to see what the lock protected. Tracing the footprints backward across the room, I found a stairwell leading up. “Should we follow them?”
“I don’t see another route. Is that daylight up there?”
At the top of the stairs, we came to a kitchen. Overhead, dingy gray light filtered through narrow windows, illuminating the huge work table that dominated the center of the room. There, a dozen bakers might knead dough or roll pastry for a feast. But instead of the smell of butter and yeast, there was only the scent of damp stone and mildewed plaster. Leaves stirred in the corners. Between a cold oven and an empty trough, a broken door opened onto a dying garden, the old herb beds and pathways a tangle of rotting weeds.
The dust was thinner here, blown about by the breeze through the doorway; I lost the trail of footprints. Had they come in from outside?
“Miss Song?”
I turned. Blake was kneeling by an arched doorway at the opposite end of the kitchen. He held up his fingers—they were red with blood.
I gasped, rushing to his side. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” He stood, wiping his hand on the stone wall. “But someone is, rather seriously.” At his feet, a black pool congealed, wider than his handspan, and marred by a footprint. Blake’s boots were still clean—not his, then.
My heart pounded and my stomach turned. “Maybe . . . maybe an animal?” I whispered, but the thoughts swirled in my head—a witch, a monster, a man in the pit. I looked longingly toward the door that opened into the sunlit garden, but no—if someone was hurt, they might need help. In the gallery ahead, I could see the footprints fading into the shadows. Scarlet spattered the flagstones, shining in the light from the narrow windows lining the hall. Some of the leaded panes had broken. Glass shards glittered on the floor like diamonds, and some, red rubies. They rolled like gravel beneath my boots. I wrinkled my nose. “Do you smell something? Like . . . rotting meat.”
“Maybe it is an animal.”
“Maybe.”
The gallery opened into a grand room—grand in size, though not in appointment. The smell was stronger here, though the light was very dim—the windows high, the panes clouded with years of filth. It was a dining hall with a long oak table, lined with chairs and piled with droppings. Above, birds nested in iron chandeliers, murmuring over our intrusion. The ceiling would have been beautiful under the grime, painted with faded angels—no. Mermaids. They swam in a murky gloom, their bellies as white as fish.
Then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye—a pair of legs behind the table. One foot jerked under the edge of a tattered silk robe. I grabbed Blake’s arm and pointed, suddenly terrified. But the foot moved again and the motion was unnatural, and there came a liquid ripping sound, like damp sails tearing. I swallowed, raising the torch as I stepped closer. Was the madman the victor, or a victim?
Something crunched beneath my boot—the remains of a gull’s broken wing. Small bones littered the flagstones, telling a dire fortune. In the shadows behind a broken chair, something pale gleamed: a cracked femur. My blood raced through my veins as I crept around the table, sweeping my torch in a circle.
On the floor, the madman lay, his dead eyes open and staring at the dirty ceiling. His belly was a red ruin. Above it, two green eyes glowed, and jagged teeth gleamed wetly as the wolf’s lip curled back in a snarl.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The beast was monstrous, a knotted mass of fur and muscle behind those yellow teeth, and larger than any wolf should be. Suddenly I was very aware of the other tales in Souvestre’s little book of fables—mermaids, morgens, man-eating wolves—and the words of the madman: a monster slavers in the castle.
The animal stalked closer stiffy, first one step, then another; still I held my ground. I had never seen a wolf before, but I’d done a lot of reading. “Wolves fear fire,” I said to Blake, my voice trembling. Then I thrust the torch boldly toward the creature. “Shoo!”
The low growl intensified as the wolf crouched.
The gun. I fumbled in my pocket; fabric ripped as I tore the derringer free. I leveled the barrel only moments before the wolf sprang, but as I squeezed the trigger, the gun jerked upward and the bullet went wide.
Overhead, the birds took wing in a flurry of feathers; before me, the creature was a blur of black fur and bright teeth. I had one more bullet, but my clumsy finger slipped on the catch. I threw the torch, and the animal twisted, landing on splayed paws the size of my hands. The wolf growled again, and I tried to level the shaking gun. But Blake dropped his own torch and grabbed the weapon from me. As the wolf leaped, he fired—and the beast went limp in midair, rolling toward us, blood trickling from the empty left eye.
I stared at Blake, breathing hard, my ears ringing with the sound of the gunshot. Then I glanced at the madman’s body; my stomach roiled and I looked away quickly, breathing shallowly through my mouth.