Imogen clicked on the flashlight of her cellular telephone.
“Too bright,” I whispered.
Her shoulders shrank and she covered the light with her hand, allowing only a soft glow to escape her grasp.
The humming continued, growing slightly louder as we crept down the dark corridor. I recognized the tune—“In The Hall of the Mountain King” by Edvard Greig.
Imogen began quietly humming along.“Hm-hm-hm hmm hm-hmm hmmm hm-hm…”
I shot her a death glare.
She withered in defense and mouthedsorry.
The only thing we had in our favor going into whatever horrors awaited us was the fact that Kurnbottom didn’t know we were coming. If we lost that edge, we’d have no advantage at all.
The passageway turned. We followed along with it, listening to the deep humming ahead of us as it grew louder and louder.
A gust of hot air blew against my left elbow. It was too humid and too pointed to be anything but an exhale.
Imogen froze. I stopped walking. Imogen’s eyes went wide. We shared a look and turned around slowly.
I slapped a hand over Imogen’s mouth just in time to catch her scream. It had to be enough, because we had a much more immediate problem on our hands than what Kurnbottom did or didn’t hear.
Standing before us was a towering, blood-red unicorn. It huffed another breath, and steam dissipated in the air around us. I could have sworn his coat had been black, not red. Was the change due to the closeness to the castle? Was it because of the illusion spell?
“Hello, again,” I whispered to the beast. I let Imogen go and reached my hand slowly into my purse.
The unicorn’s eyes were black as night, and whatever friendliness I’d sensed during our last interaction appeared to be gone. Perhaps when he was here, he did Kurnbottom’s bidding, and only at a distance was the unicorn in control of himself.
“Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dunnnn,”Kurnbottom bellowed, louder and faster than before. The sound bounced off the stone walls and echoed through the curving passageway.
I dug around in my purse for the carrot. In my magical bag, the one the library had stolen from me, everything had its place. In this purse, it was a messy free-for-all. I felt lipstick, a book, marbles, a ball of lint.
“He looks like he wants to eat your face,” Imogen whispered.
As if her warning was a cue, the unicorn lifted up on its hind legs, kicking its front hooves in the air.
“Run.” I pushed Imogen out of the way, past the unicorn, back toward the stairs. My purse dropped out of my hands. I dove to the side. The unicorn missed me with its hooves, but not its horn.
Sharp and hot, the unicorn stabbed my left shoulder, pinning me to the wall.
“I couldn’t tell her when we first met,” Fernando said. His speech was slow, like he had to figure out the words, but weirdly articulate. “I took perverse pleasure in concealing my truth—why I was faster, why I sensed clues she couldn’t. Her anger made her all the more appealing to me.”
Why was he talking like that? How was he talking like that?
I tried to focus on breathing, slow and steady. I tried to focus on my mission, and on the fact that I had survived far worse than this flesh wound.
Flashes filled my head—the pshachacha who’d stabbed me all those years ago, who’d broken my neck, and held me caught between life and death, in agony, for decades.
My fingers grew hot. Blackness flickered at the edge of my vision.
“It took losing her to see my folly,” Fernando said. “I want to do better. I want to be better, for Lily.”
Breathe. Hold onto control. You can do this.
I searched my surroundings for something, anything that could help. My bag was on the floor beside Fernando. He was sitting and reading a book—Silas’s field journal. Perhaps the words Silas had written inside were more personal than I’d thought.
“Fernando,” I said, “I need my bag.”