“Lady Gremlaine, are you here?’ Tedros called again, inching forward. Lancelot drew his sword behind him.
Together, they turned the corner into a bedchamber that had been pulverized as ruthlessly as the downstairs rooms. The mattress had been flung off its frame, the white sheets sliced to ribbons, the pillows gutted of feathers.
A blue-green butterfly rustled feverishly against the window, trying to find a way out.
Tedros’ shoulders relaxed. He looked at Lancelot, hunching over the bed.
“What is it?” Tedros asked.
His knight held up a torn strip of white sheet.
A big splotch of blood had soaked it through.
Fresh blood.
“Lady Gremlaine?” Tedros hollered.
Lancelot checked closets; Tedros searched under the bed and behind furniture. But there were no other bloodstains or signs that his steward was in this house— Tedros’ boot caught on something sticky.
He looked down at a glob of black goo, beaten to a pulp.
A shadow came over him and he swiveled to see Lance looming over his shoulder.
“It’s one of those ‘scims,’ isn’t it? The things the Snake is made of,” Tedros asked. “It’s why all the villagers must be hiding. The Snake was here.”
“And from the looks of it, Lady Gremlaine had her way with the the scim he sent for her,” said Lancelot, before glancing back at the bed. “Though judging from that blood, it may have had its way with her first.”
“But her body isn’t here. That means she’s still alive, wherever she is.”
“Or lying in a ditch with her throat cut,” said Lancelot. He nudged at the dead scim with his boot. “Doubt this thing came alone. If the Snake wants to kill Lady Gremlaine, he’ll find her.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Tedros said, shaking his head. “If Lady Gremlaine is the Snake’s mother, why would he want to kill her?”
A sharp squeal came from the first floor, like a teakettle at full steam.
Lancelot pulled his sword, eyeing Tedros. “Stay here.”
The knight crept back down the stairs.
Blade at the ready, Tedros waited at the top of the twisting steps. He couldn’t see where the knight had gone.
“Lance?” he said.
No answer.
Tedros had a bad feeling in his gut . . . a feeling that told him to follow Lancelot. . . .
Gripping his sword harder, he started to descend—
Something wet dripped on his face.
Tedros smeared it off and looked at his hand.
Blood.
He craned up and saw more droplets of blood leaking from the edges of the hatch built into the ceiling.
“Lance?” he bellowed down the stairs.
Still nothing.
Tedros dragged the frayed mattress out of the bedroom and shoved it into the hall. Standing on its edge, he sheathed his sword and reached up for the hatch’s handle, but his fingers couldn’t catch it. He jumped a few times, but he still fell short. Finally, he took a running start, rebounded off the mattress, and grabbed hold of the hatch with both hands, yanking it open. He hung from the handle, kicking his legs midair as he muscled his hands onto the sides of the floor above him, pulling himself through— A heavy weight slammed him in the head.
Before he could scream, it slammed him again.
Gasping in shock, he felt cold hands seize him by the neck and drag the last of his body into the attic.
Tedros wished he’d blacked out, so he didn’t have to feel this kind of pain, as if his head had been cracked open like an egg and the yolk set on fire. Curled up on the floor, he ran his hand down the back of his hair, expecting a mass of blood or brains, but instead found a swollen lump at the ridge of his skull.
He pried open his eyes to watery slits and saw a blurred vision of Lady Gremlaine standing in an attic, her turban gone, her dark brown hair long and wild, her makeup spattered, and the shoulder of her lavender robes drenched in blood. There was terror in her eyes.
Something else too.
Madness, Tedros thought.
His gaze moved to her hand.
She was holding a hammer.
The flat side was coated with black, scaly goo.
“V-v-voices. I heard voices—” she stammered. “I didn’t know it was you. . . . You can’t be here—he’ll find you—”
“Who will?” Tedros said, struggling to his knees. His head was throbbing so hard he couldn’t think.
“His scims are l-l-looking for me. One already did this,” said Lady Gremlaine, touching her bloody shoulder. “I killed it and I hid, so they’d think I escaped. But now you’re here. . . . They’ll find me. . . . He’ll come back—”
“The Snake?” Tedros steadied against the only window for support, the glass so dirty and stained he couldn’t see out of it. “Why is the Snake looking for you?”
But Lady Gremlaine was haunted now, her gaze glassy and unfocused. “I read the papers. . . . I knew about the attacks . . . but I didn’t know it was all connected . . . not until he came for me. . . . I’d taken care of it. . . . It was in the past . . . buried and forgotten. . . .”
Tedros’ heart stopped, his eyes locked on her. “He’s your son, isn’t he? The Snake is my father’s son. Is that why Excalibur is trapped in the stone?”
Lady Gremlaine didn’t answer, looking everywhere but at him.
“Can he pull Excalibur!” Tedros demanded.
Tears spilled down his steward’s face. “I was so jealous . . . ,” she whispered. “That your mother would have his child and I wouldn’t . . . And then when I had my chance. . . .” She clutched her throat, choking out a sob. “I did something terrible. Before you were born. Something your father never knew. But I’d fixed it. . . . I’d made sure the boy would never be found. . . . He’d grow up never knowing who he was. . . . I told no one. How could he know! How could he find out! It’s impossible—” Her voice faltered and she folded into herself, dropping the hammer to the floor. “I told so many Lies to protect the Truth. . . .”
“CAN HE PULL EXCALIBUR!” Tedros yelled.
Lady Gremlaine looked up at him, her face ghost-white. She started to answer— The window shattered behind Tedros and he lunged to the ground as three scims crashed in and ripped through Lady Gremlaine’s chest. Tedros had no time to think or move to her dead body—the scims were already coming for him. He scrambled for the hatch on his knees, flinging it open and diving through just as the scims grazed his legs; he reached up and slammed the hatch shut, hearing the eels bash against the door, squealing violently, as Tedros free-fell onto the mattress below.
Down the stairs he fled, slipping on newspapers and lampshades and pillow stuffing, trying to stay on his feet as he surged towards the front door— “Lance! Where are you!”
I should have listened to him. . . . This was all a mistake. . . . They had to get to the horses, Tedros thought, bursting through the door. They had to ride to the Forest now— He stopped dead.
Lancelot stood in the front yard, surrounded by a hundred scims, swirling around him like a moving cage. His sword had been stripped from him, held over his head by the scims, out of his reach.
The knight’s face was pale, his lips trembling.