The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(59)

What if he’d already left her?

Panic was as good as a dagger when it struck the mind in one sharp blow. Yvette lifted her head and measured the flame of the torch with her eyes. Had it gone down? Was it nearly out? She would have cried at her miserable fate, but a weird twitch in her instinct told her she was no longer alone. There was no sound, no voice, and yet she was certain someone was there outside the pale glow of the torch.

“Hello?” No answer, but a faint scent of fish and cheese surfaced. And fur. “Monsieur Whiskers, is that you?”

The black cat stepped out of the shadows. Covered in dust, he sat two feet in front of her and licked his paws.

“But how did you find me?” It didn’t matter. Seeing the cat gave her hope, even if he was the last living thing she would ever see before the torch, and her life, went out.

The cat froze mid-lick, listening. Someone was coming. So, she hadn’t been abandoned yet to contribute her bones to the Maze of the Dead’s macabre decor. A scurry of footsteps approached. But unlike the hard boot sounds of the thug in the flat cap, these were quick and nimble, scuttling over the path in the dark that led straight to her. The cat arched his back, then casually walked toward Yvette, swishing his tail before sitting squarely in front of her. She was forced to lift her heavy head to see over the cat’s ears.

Tiny halos of light approached, like fireflies floating on an ocean of dark water. Behind the lights appeared a half dozen small people, two foot tall at most. Their heads were large for their bodies, their arms long for their torsos. One was dressed in greasy deerskins while the others wore workaday woolens covered in the same dust as the cat. The little goblin men, for she was sure that’s who they were, toted picks and shovels over their shoulders while their free hands held up the tiny lanterns casting the firefly-like lights. All wore baggy knitted caps that allowed their long, pointed ears to poke through. Their swarthy faces were incredulous at the sight of her, apparently unaccustomed to meeting young women bound in iron bands on an everyday basis.

“What is it?” asked one of the little men in wool.

Yvette lay back down, hoping the cat might obscure her face from view. But it was no use. The little men moved closer. She was going to be murdered by a gang of pickax-wielding goblins.

“It’s moving,” said another, lowering his shovel.

The cat mewed, and six grotesque heads tilted at once to look at him.

“I weren’t going to smash the frilly thing,” the goblin said in his defense. “I just want a closer look. Never saw one with all its skin still on. We only ever see their brittle insides down here.”

“They’re called bones, you numbskull.” The goblin in the deerskins gestured for the others to put down their pointy tools.

“What’s that band going around her for, Gustave?”

The goblin in deerskins, presumably their leader, scrunched up his bulbous nose. “I reckon that’s iron they put on her.” He took in a deep breath. “Has the smell of it, like blood. Seen it used before. Not gonna kill her type, but it’s got to smart some.”

“My type?” Yvette asked, too weakened by circumstances to be afraid of the little men and their curious looks any longer.

“No offense, mademoiselle, but you do have the look of the topsiders,” Gustave said. He held up his lantern and approached with his chest puffed out, as if to show he wasn’t afraid if she weren’t.

Topsiders?

“But what does—”

“Hush.” Gustave frowned as he inspected the iron ring fastened around Yvette’s body and the burn marks it had left on her arms. He glanced sidelong at the cat. “That’s a right dirty trick they done, all right.”

Monsieur Whiskers twitched an ear.

“Can you get it off?” Yvette pleaded. “With your little tools?”

The goblin scratched his chin. “How much you got on you?”

“Oh là là,” Yvette whimpered, barely able to keep her eyes open. “You want money at a time like this?”

“Wouldn’t be fair to work for nothing,” he said, and the others snickered behind him, confirming their terms.

Yvette closed her eyes, ready to die. If she couldn’t find mercy from a group of tunnel-dwelling goblins carrying everything they needed to help her, then there was no hope.

The cat sauntered in front of Yvette, swishing his tail. When he sat again on the other side of her head, there were three gold coins lying on the ground where he’d been. The goblin swiped them up, bit on one between his granite teeth, and nodded.

“Now that’s the stuff to get the blood pumping,” he said and showed her a pirate smile full of crooked teeth.

“So it was you all along.” The cat nudged up against Yvette’s neck. “Just what kind of cat are you, monsieur?” she asked as he half closed his eyes and purred into her ear. It was enough to calm her down and forget about the burning metal and her impending death, if only briefly.

Gustave motioned to a fellow goblin. The malformed manling in wool hefted a pick and hammer over his shoulder and ambled forward.

“If we hit her here and here, it might pop off,” Gustave said. “Mind, that’s witch magic binding it to her.”

The second goblin squinted as he ran a gnarled finger over the iron band, feeling for the soft spots. After touching the metal for himself, he nodded his approval, lowered his knit cap over his eyes, and hefted his hammer over his head. Yvette would have been more afraid of the strike, but seeing as the hammer wasn’t much bigger than a steak knife, she didn’t think it would do much damage. Still, she braced for the blow, squeezing her eyes shut with what felt like her last ounce of energy. The hammer connected, smashing one side of the band in a violent blue flash that pierced her eyelids.