The Fandom(84)

‘This is embarrassing,’ Ugly Snarl says.

Howard laughs. ‘It’s hilarious, darling. Let’s see if we can’t make her cry.’

I slowly turn, angry with my tears for betraying me, angry with myself for taking so much longer than Saskia, and above everything, angry at the bastards who humiliate me. But the champagne has nearly gone, so I just grit my teeth and continue to rotate.

A man with muscular hands leans towards me. ‘Are you hiding a wooden leg under there?’ He reaches for my thigh.

A gasp escapes my mouth and I shake him off.

Howard chuckles. ‘No handling the meat without a bid. You know the rules.’ He moves to set his empty glass down, but his hand slips and he ends up smashing it into the table.

Muscular Hands slouches back in his chair. ‘There are no rules, that’s the bloody point . . .’ His voice trails away and his eyes roll back in their sockets.

‘Albert? Are you OK?’ Howard asks, but his voice wavers. He grabs the back of a chair, grinding it across the floor.

One of the guards attempts to raise his weapon. It barely reaches his thigh before he sags into the wall. I survey the room – every single one of my tormentors has wilted, their tongues slopping from their mouths.

I ram my zip up. ‘Bunch of perverts.’

The door opens. I expect to see Thorn’s face, but instead I see the guard from the front door. Of course, he didn’t drink any of the poisoned champagne. I could kick myself for making what could literally be a fatal error.

‘What the hell?’ He aims his gun at me for the second time that night.

‘Please, I don’t know . . .’ I flatten my body against the wall, wishing I could somehow sink into the bricks, become the plaster.

Never dropping his aim, he picks up a nearby glass and sniffs it. He looks at me, his jutting cheekbones highlighted by the overhead lamp. ‘You sneaky little bitch.’

I want to slam my hand against the light switch, signalling to Saskia, but I freeze. He smiles in slow motion and aims straight at my chest. I hear the sound of cracking bone. He crumples to the floor, his finger depressing the trigger. Plasterboard sprays my face as the bullet lodges an inch or so from my head.

Thorn steps through the doorway, bat raised for another swipe. ‘You OK?’

I nod.

He surveys the room and smiles. ‘That’s my girl.’

I feel an unexpected surge of pride, but it quickly fades at the staccato beat of gunfire and the sound of wood shattering. The rebels arrive, carrying weapons and rope, shouting instructions.

Thorn races across the room to the door which leads upstairs, the rebels close behind.

‘The ones upstairs aren’t drugged,’ I shout after him.

He laughs. ‘I love a moving target.’

They disappear as quickly as they arrived. This is my chance to turn around. To just run and run into the night, never looking back. The need to feel safe pulls against the need to help the Imps. I feel like a Russian doll. Layers of different Violets reducing in size, each one constructed from a different set of memories and emotions. Violet the girl, blowing bubbles in the family garden. Violet the teenager, mooning over Russell Jones. Violet as Rose, desperate to go home. Violet the Imp, repressed, assaulted and full of rage. I’m not sure who I am any more.

As if to remind me, someone shouts my name. ‘Violet!’

I turn to see Ash. He holds a small pistol a little awkwardly, but the smile lodged on his face is as big as ever. He rushes towards me and we embrace. The warmth of his neck against my cheek, the smell of his hair – woodsmoke and hay – makes my earlier humiliation evaporate.

‘Nate?’ I ask.

‘He’s fine, Saskia and Matthew are watching him. Come on, let’s get you out of here.’

But something deep-rooted propels me forwards. That angry Russian doll which still feels the pressure of those Gem eyes all over her. ‘Wait. There’s this girl I have to help.’

‘You can’t be serious? We can wait outside where it’s safe.’

Baba’s question echoes in my head again: If you were stuck here, here in our world, how would you live your life? What kind of an Imp would you become?

I take Ash’s hands in my own and gaze into his beautiful eyes. ‘I have to do this,’ I say.





He looks at me, the blue of his eyes blissfully cool after what feels like a lifetime of blinking into magenta lights, then he sighs and lifts the pistol. ‘I’ve never shot one before.’

‘Hopefully you won’t have to.’

We cross the display room and steal up the stairs – backs pressed into the wall. Upstairs is a warren of corridors. We pass several entrances, each revealing its own tale; rebels rounding up Gems, squaddies bound and gagged, young Imps looking dishevelled. Door after door, tale after tale . . . no girl with red hair.

We creep up a second, smaller flight of stairs. Sweat dribbles down my neck and beads between my breasts, and the beat of the drums exactly mirrors my pulse, making me feel invaded, like the house has somehow wormed its way into my arteries. A long corridor sweeps away from us, cast in the light of a dying, apricot bulb. We must be in the roof, the ceilings sloped and low. I suddenly feel thankful for the continual thump of the drums, sure our steps fall heavily against the boards as our desperation climbs.

I notice that these doors remain closed and undisturbed.