Heartless(125)

“Isn’t she?”

It was Hatta arguing with him. Cath snarled, “Hatta!”

But he shrugged, his gaze scraping over the beast’s scaly dark skin, wide-veined wings. “Is the Mock Turtle no longer the Turtle? How can we know Lady Peter isn’t still inside the body of this beast?”

“She’s been eating people!” Cath screamed. “If she is still in there, she’s a murderer!”

“You turned her into this,” Peter said, swiveling his gaze back to her. “I destroyed those cursed pumpkins. She was getting better. But once she saw that cake she couldn’t stop eating it. And now she won’t change back. She’s my wife, and you did this to her!”

“She’s a monster!”

The Jabberwock reared back on her hind legs and sent a piercing scream into the sky. Her claws returned to the ground with a thump that rattled through Cath’s teeth.

It happened fast.

The venom in the Jabberwock’s eyes.

The way she reared her head back like a poisonous snake.

The way she opened her enormous mouth and Cath saw the light glinting off row after row of teeth.

The way she dove for Hatta.

The Sisters’ voices were there, in Cath’s head. Murderer, martyr …

Hatta stumbled back—

Pudding and pie, he was going to die.

A scream was ripped from Cath’s throat and she charged forward, swinging the sword as hard as her arms would allow it.

The blade made one fast, clean cut. Easy as slicing through a pat of butter.

The Jabberwock’s head disconnected from her slithering neck. Her body crashed onto the rows of abandoned pumpkins. Her head dropped and thumped and rolled toward Hatta’s feet, who leaped back with a cry. Dark blood splattered across the ground, like ink from a broken quill.

The world paused.

The fog swirled around them.

Peter’s face slackened.

Cath stared at the sword edged with blood, her heart thud-thumping inside her chest. Stunned. Horrified. Relieved.

She had slain the Jabberwock.

She raised her eyes and sought out Jest. Air began to creep back into her lungs.

She had slain the Jabberwock. She had done it. The monster was dead. Hearts was saved.

It was over.

They would take Mary Ann to safety and leave Peter to mourn his wife. In the morning, Cath and Jest and Hatta and Raven would be far, far away from here, and none—not a single one of the Sisters’ prophecies—had come true.

Jest watched her, bewildered and proud. His eyes began to refocus, though he was still weak from the fight.

In the stillness, Cath forced herself to look at Peter. His arms slumped. His face was twisted with anguish as he stared at the dead monster.

Cath’s heart filled with unexpected sympathy. There was devastation written on the plains of his face. Agony flooding his eyes. He was a breath away from collapsing into the dirt and weeping over the body of the beast he had loved.

But the moment passed and he stayed standing. His upper lip curled. His eyes sparked.

He looked at Catherine.

With disgust. With murder.

She gulped and adjusted her hold on the sword.

Peter adjusted his hold on the ax.

He moved toward her. One step. Two. His muscles undulating, his body strung with tension.

“Please,” Cath whispered. “This can end now. Just let us go.”

To her surprise, Peter did hesitate. His attention caught on something in the distance and Cath dared a glance over her shoulder.

Raven was there, stalking toward them. Mary Ann, too, but she was an afterthought to Raven’s ominous approach. The gleaming ax he held was like a mirror to Peter’s. His dark cloak whipped around his shoulders, the hood hung low over his brow. The White Queen’s executioner, Jest had said.

He looked like a threat, or a promise.

He looked like justice.

Cath turned back and Peter’s expression had changed again. Now there was fear and a shadow of indecision.

He looked once more at Catherine with a hatred so pure and transparent it sent a shock of terror through her. She could see his desperation. She sensed his resolve.

With a guttural scream, Peter turned and swung the ax.

It was over and done before Cath knew what was happening. In between the space of a gasp and a scream, there was the sound of blood splattering across the ground. Like ink from a broken quill.

Like a drawing made on stone.

Before she could make sense of it, Peter was running away. He had dropped the ax. He was gone, into the forest. There was the distant sound of flapping wings—Raven dissolving back into a bird and chasing after him. A flurry of black feathers. A cry of heartbreak and rage. Then, silence.

Cath held her breath.

She waited for the vision before her to turn into an illusion. One more magic trick. The impossible made right again.

Because this was not real. This couldn’t be. It was a nightmare she would soon wake from. It was a drawing done in ink, executed down to every horrific detail. It was …

Jest.

Mutilated. Severed. Dead.

She took one step forward and collapsed. The sword slipped from her fingers.

“Treacle,” she breathed. Medicinal treacle. Life-giving treacle. “Bring him treacle. Go! Hurry! Treacle will … Treacle will…”

“No, love,” came Hatta’s ragged reply. “Nothing can save him.”