Chimes at Midnight

“Where’s here?” I asked, frowning at the door. “This isn’t a normal cell.”


“No,” he said. “The Queen’s . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to call her. My former liege’s instructions were very clear. The prisoner was placed in seclusion, to prevent his plotting further insurrection.”

“Um, one, Dianda was a lot more likely to plot insurrection, since she was pissed off and also technically isn’t under the jurisdiction of any Queen of the Mists, and two, Nolan’s been elf-shot. He can’t plot anything, unless it’s a really epic snore.” I glared at the guard. He squirmed. I glare well. I glare even better when I’m covered in blood. “What’s down there that makes it worse than the cells up here?”

“That is where prisoners who must be kept . . . calm . . . are confined,” said the guard. “The room keeps them . . . calm.”

He looked so uncomfortable, and so unhappy, that I yielded, asking, “You weren’t happy about putting him down there, were you?”

“Milady, had I been given any other alternative, I would have taken it.”

I nodded. “Arden may be more forgiving because of that, if we get her brother back alive. So what, exactly, is down there that keeps people euphemistically ‘calm’?”

Looking more miserable by the second, the guard said, “Iron.”

The whole dungeon was dripping with iron. My skin crawled even standing here, and I was part human. I frowned. “That’s not a sufficient answer.”

“Lots of iron.”

He was standing as far away from the door as it was possible to be while still existing in the same stretch of hall. I frowned again before eyeing the door.

“How much iron are we talking here?”

He didn’t answer.

Oberon’s Law says purebloods aren’t allowed to kill each other. But that law is enforced by the purebloods, and they’ve had a long time to find loopholes. It says nothing about torture, for example, or about accidental death—say, from an overdose of iron. “How did you get him down there?”

“The Queen retains changelings on her staff for matters such as these.”

I didn’t bother correcting him on the former Queen’s status. Seeing her get her ass handed to her would be correction enough, and I had other things to worry about. “I don’t believe I’m doing this,” I muttered, and handed the hope chest to Tybalt. “Don’t let anyone touch this.”

He frowned. “October . . .”

“My father was human. I can do this.”

“Your father was human, but less than half your blood remembers that. Can you carry Nolan on your own?”

“We’re going to find out, because you’re not going down there.” I pointed to the door. “You were damn near dead before. I can handle that once in a night—I nearly die on you all the time, turnabout is fair play—but I can’t do it twice. I’m stronger than I look, I can get him into a fireman’s carry, and most importantly, I stand half a chance in hell of making it back alive.”

Tybalt shook his head. “Insufferable woman,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss me, ignoring the blood smeared around my mouth. I kissed him back, but only for a few seconds; just long enough to show that I meant it, not long enough that it turned into wasting time.

“Wish me luck,” I said, pulling away.

“If there is one thing I have never known you to need, October, it’s luck,” he said.

“There’s a first time for everything.” I turned to the guard. “Open the door.”

“I don’t think you understand—”

“Look. Tonight, I have changed the balance of my own blood, brought my boyfriend back from the brink of death, and helped a mermaid kick all your asses,” I snapped. “And that’s just since I got here. You want to see me annoyed? Then go ahead, explain how dangerous this is. But if you want the nice, incredibly irritated woman to stop making you the target of her anger, you will open. That. Door.”