A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire #2)(23)

Yes. When we’d first entered, I’d been too stunned to notice. But hanging all around us were the cruelest-looking weapons imaginable.

There was the scythe, hooked beside a glass case that contained a horned skull. Curved swords, their blades fashioned like corkscrews, were also displayed on the walls. Daggers with three prongs sat upon a table. We discovered three of those “flutes,” a hand-sized lantern that gave off a soft, eerily persistent glow, and a whistle carved from some kind of twisted bone on a velvet cushion under a glass case.

Magnus took one of the warped-looking swords off the wall. He tried swinging it, but the twisting shape of the blade, plus his injury, hampered his movement.

The blades were all formed from that same dusky orange-gold material, exactly like Strangewayes’s dagger.

Blackwood had started collecting all the weapons he could lay his hands on, the scythe, the spears, the daggers. Maria picked up the lantern, though she didn’t try opening it. I used Porridge to break the glass case and snatched up the whistle.

“We ought to leave.” Maria frowned. “There’s something alive about this house.” She looked back at the door with the carved devils.

I walked back to the front door to peer out at the garden. The sunshine was still bright here, and the breeze crisp with salt from the ocean. Despite the wonders of this house, already I was desperate to leave. Maria was right. Something was off about this place.

“Henrietta,” Maria called. “Come and look at this.”

I joined her by an expanse of wall.

“What do you think these are?” She pointed.

Hundreds of names had been carved into the wall. Some were etched in large, looping letters, some crammed close together. A familiar name caught my eye: Darius LaGrande. He’d been an eighteenth-century magician, a Frenchman who’d escaped the Revolution and come to England to research alchemy.

“These are all magicians,” I said. Gingerly, I traced my fingertips along LaGrande’s name.

“This house is a place of pilgrimage, then?” Maria asked.

“It looks like it. Perhaps this was a way of paying honor to the father of their craft.” I looked over the names until another one caught my eye. Sparks shot off my hand involuntarily.

“Careful now!” Maria brushed at her trousers.

“Sorry,” I murmured, knitting my fingers together. I drew closer to make absolutely certain I was right.

William Howel. The handwriting was even and neat, and carved for all the world to see. A flush of goose bumps spread over my body. My father had been here. Touching the letters, I imagined him standing in this very spot. I pictured him taking a knife and cutting his name into this wall. When had he come here?

“Howel? Turn around,” Blackwood said. He sounded calm, but the stiffness of his voice couldn’t be denied.

A shadowy figure waited in the open doorway. For one heart-stopping moment I was afraid it was a Familiar or, God forbid, R’hlem himself.

Then I noticed the leafy branches protruding from the thing’s head. It was not terribly tall—only coming up to Blackwood’s chest—but the fierce, glistening black eyes made me decide not to misjudge its strength. Its skin had a greenish tint, the same color as bog water. Tree bark was strapped in plates over its chest and legs like armor. The smell of damp earth and peat moss permeated the air, strong enough to make me gag. The creature raised its weapon, a sharpened stick, over its head.

Not any creature—a faerie. Clearly, this was from one of the lower orders of the dark court. The lowlier a faerie’s blood, the less human it appeared.

“Cain’s subjects. You trespass,” it declared in a gurgling voice. Cain? Of course: the biblical figure who killed his brother, Abel. Faeries did not have a high opinion of man.

“Hail, fellow. Well met.” Blackwood sketched a low bow, his body graceful as a dancer’s. “Goodfellow, does your fair queen sit under the hill?”

“Hail, fellow. Well met.” The faerie returned the bow, though its movements were stiff. Its joints creaked, like wood swollen with water. “My queen abides. You are trespassing on her land.”

“Trespassing?” I couldn’t stop myself. “This isn’t Faerie.”

“Howel.” Blackwood’s voice tightened with warning. The faerie grumbled. Brackish water dripped from it to pool on the floor.

“My queen takes lands given over to the forest. Lands given over to the rot,” it said, its gurgling voice growing sharper. “Did you not notice the glamour upon the place? You must pay the penalty, Cain’s subjects.” The beetle-colored eyes glimmered. “Death.”

Oh, damn everything.

“Goodfellow.” Blackwood bowed deeply again. “I request a parley with Queen Mab.”

“My queen dines under the hill tonight,” the Goodfellow said. “Be careful, for her appetite is great.” Blackwood breathed in sharply; I got the feeling that was not good. If only once, just once, we could meet some kind, cheerful creature that wanted to hug us.

“We request to see her at table,” Blackwood replied.

“You will follow me,” the Goodfellow said, and walked out the front door. Magnus, Maria, and I all exchanged looks, ranging from bewilderment to a sort of mute terror.

“Have we any choice in the matter?” Maria asked.

“Have you ever been hunted through Faerie woods by a baying pack of hounds and goblins?” Blackwood muttered. “The choice is parley or execution.” Blackwood stepped over the house’s threshold, his pack in one hand, several of the weapons tied to his back or around his waist. I checked my own collection—the bone whistle, Strangewayes’s dagger, the glowing lantern—and went after him. “Listen. This is important,” Blackwood said when we were all outside. “If they offer you food or drink, say no. If they offer to dance, say no. If they offer anything, be polite when you refuse, but do not say thank you. They’ll take that as a sign that you’ve accepted.”