The doors opened, thank God, and our strange company walked in. The inside of the elevator looked extremely similar to the cells, only smaller and without a toilet. This time, it was the other faerie who reached for the screen. A list appeared, and it was short. Five numbers and a series of options in the event of an emergency. The Guardian selected the fourth level and stepped back, fixing his gaze on the wall ahead.
Moving with unexpected smoothness, the elevator climbed one level and stopped. A faint ding rippled through the stillness, and then doors opened again.
The faeries wasted no time forcing me forward, the mean-faced one giving me a sharp jab. A flare of temper made me feel hot. Good thing, too, since the fourth level was just as cold as the fifth. I crossed my arms and walked down another corridor, but it felt inaccurate to call it a hallway. These walls, I was surprised to see, were made of concrete. The doors were wooden, with dark grooves and black, rusted handles.
We hadn’t gone more than a few steps when the Guardians stopped at one of those doors. There were no locks or panels on it, but I could hear something on the other side. A strange humming. Anxiety rushed through me. Combined with the blood loss, it was too much, and my vision went slightly hazy as a Guardian opened the door. The hinges let out a throaty moan.
The faerie grabbed hold of me again, and we stepped into a room of chaos.
It hadn’t been humming I’d heard—it was a collection of so many sounds that they all blended together. We were in what looked like a gigantic, underground salon. The concrete space was lit up with spotlights, dangling fluorescents, and harsh lamps placed throughout the work stations. A cacophony of noise rose toward the vast ceiling. Hair dryers, voices, shouts, music. All around the room, standing in front of pillars as if they were part of them like strange and beautiful gargoyles, there were Guardians. Their swords were drawn, which was a message in itself.
With the rough guidance of my escorts, I made my way down the center aisle, taking in every detail that I could. Eavesdropping on any snatch of conversation that reached my ears. But no one said anything revealing—they mentioned makeup brands, hair styles, the weather. The stations were filled with other terrified-looking people, many of them wearing strange clothing. Some of the males wore nothing more than loincloths, with armor on their arms and legs that looked like it was made of leather. Figures in white worked on them, and they were the ones doing most of the talking.
Eventually we came upon a station that was empty. A single chair rested in the center, and it looked like one of those seats you sat in during a haircut. The Guardian shoved me into it and stepped back slowly, the hardness in his expression speaking volumes. No escape attempts would be tolerated. I clenched my fists and imagined what his whimpers would sound like.
“Okay, let’s see what we’re working with. Ouch, that arm doesn’t look too good.” A female wearing one of those white uniforms halted in front of me. She studied my face for a moment before looking down at an iPad. There was a silver nametag pinned to the right side of her chest. BEAUTY TECHNICIAN, the embossed letters read. In smaller text underneath this it said, WEREWOLF.
Strange that the tag should give a species instead of a name. Still feeling some dizziness, I tipped my head back and raised my eyebrows at her. In some ways, the werewolf reminded me of Cora. “Should I bother asking you what all this is for?” I said. Was I slurring my words?
“Everyone here has signed a non-disclosure agreement,” the technician said without raising her gaze. Her finger tapped the screen. “I think we’ll start with—”
A new voice sliced through the cold. “You’re not starting anything yet. I’ve been commanded to tend to this human immediately.”
Iris had arrived, tight-lipped and eyes flashing. The technician nodded quickly, failing to hide the brief widening of her eyes. She was afraid of this witch, I noted with a trickle of unease. Maybe I needed to tread more carefully around Iris… until I got the opportunity to kill her, at least. I hadn’t forgotten the catty smile that had curved the witch’s lips as she gazed down at my burned body. I look forward to watching you break.
She opened her supply bag, and I held onto the armrests of the salon chair as if I were dangling off a cliff. Handling me just as roughly as before, Iris proceeded to disinfect, stitch, and bandage the cuts on my arm. She didn’t inject any sort of numbing agent before using the needle on me. I gritted my teeth so I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of gasping.
I didn’t miss the fact that Iris didn’t use magic, which would’ve been faster and cleaner. Was the witch still running on empty, or was she doing it this way out of spite?
Spite, I decided as she tugged hard at the final suture. It was definitely spite.
But the pain didn’t end with Iris.
Once she was done and gone, my arm throbbing, the werewolf returned. She was followed by three other unsmiling technicians. They descended upon me like a horde of zombies, all dressed in white. I was forcefully stripped, washed, waxed, shaved, dressed, braided, and powdered. My two faerie escorts remained nearby, taking no interest in my transformation. One of them muttered something about a bet.
We spent hours in that sleek room. By the time the team was finished, whatever stamina I’d received from Gil had faded. Exhaustion made me feel heavier; even my eyelids seemed weighted. I didn’t fight as the technician fit an intricate mask over my face and arranged my hair around the strap. I did have enough frame of mind to think, Belanor is worried someone will recognize me.
There weren’t many who’d been able to see my true face while I was a Nightmare, but anyone who bothered to do an internet search would probably find it. So it was possible that someone in this palace made the connection if they spotted me.
For all his talk of claiming, the prince was making efforts to keep his Court unaware that Fortuna Sworn was in his basement. Maybe it was the reason he’d changed my room, or part of it, at least—my screams couldn’t have gone unnoticed.
Now I was being led down the corridor again, blindfolded but unbound. I knew that wherever we were going, Belanor’s next torture awaited. I wore a top made of leather, the straps secured across my nipples and slightly below them, leaving little else to the imagination. The skirt also didn’t cover anything. It was more of a thong, with a ragged wrap around my hips. Even my feet were bare. I’d worn bikinis in public before, but it had always been my choice. To have that choice taken, too, brought a bitter tang to my mouth. I fought the faerie guards dragging me, despite the futility of it, because I would never stop fighting. Not anymore.
We walked longer than I expected. The Guardians took so many turns that it seemed like a deliberate effort to confuse me. Changes in our surroundings happened gradually. The sounds we made stopped echoing, and were absorbed by the earth instead. It was as close and chilly as the tunnels at the Unseelie Court, but this place felt damper. I could hear dripping in the distance. The cold, smooth floor beneath my feet became even colder. There were dips and grooves in it—cobblestones, I realized.
Then my escorts were yanking me to a stop again. I could hear something now, a distant noise that I’d only heard once in my life when I’d gone to a concert with Damon.
A cheering crowd.
Was this going to be some kind of… public display? As my mind crept toward panic, the Guardians spoke to each other in Enochian. I’d learned enough to understand most of their exchange, and focusing on the words helped me stay in control.