I stop biting my lip. “No, I’m not. I’m not like her at all.”
He sighs. “Just try to see what’s really there, Zara. Then we’ll go inside, out of the cold.”
“Fine.”
I stare at the clearing and it shifts, shimmers almost. A snowflake lands on my eyelash. I close my eyes as it melts. Then I open them again.
“Crud,” I mutter.
I can hear the smile in his voice. “You can see it?”
“I don’t know how I missed it.”
“The glamour.”
The house isn’t a house. It’s a mansion—huge with large-paned windows on each of its three floors. It’s clapboard sided and painted a creamy yellow, like old houses on the Battery in Charleston. Its stately straight lines seem to soar up toward the sky. It’s not ostentatious, but it’s large, screaming of old money and tea in the parlor and croquet in the backyard.
I turn my head to tell him that but my mouth drops open and my tongue seems to bail on being an active participant in the conversation.
“You see me as I am.” He smiles.
His teeth are a little pointy.
But it’s not his teeth that get me. It’s the fact that his eyes are silver with black pupils. It’s the fact that his skin shines like blue ice. It’s the fact that he’s taller than I thought, wider.
“I don’t look like you,” I say finally.
“No. You look like your mother.”
“I have your hair. My mom always said you abandoned us but that’s not how it was, was it?”
“No, she abandoned me.” His face shifts into sadness. His eyes seem smaller. Then he looks back at me. “Let’s get you inside, out of the cold.”
I follow him because I don’t know what else I should do. I follow him because I want to keep Nick safe and I’m hoping that my plan is still the plan somehow, that somehow they’ll follow us here and find me and Jay. I follow him because I want to find out what kind of monster my father is. Yes, it’s true. My father.
The large mahogany front door opens for us. He leads me inside to the front hall. One step. Another. It smells of wine and beef and mushrooms. Bright light shines off the marble floors. People line up against the upholstered walls. Most of them wear normal people clothes, but some are in prom-dress-type stuff and tuxes. They bow, one after another, an entire room. There must be a hundred of them. But they aren’t people. They’re pixies without the glamour. Their teeth are pointed like sharks’ teeth. Their skin is tinted blue and their legs are long, longer than normal. My knees shake.
“Our court, the dark court,” the king announces. “Please rise.”
The pixies stand up straight. I do not know what to do. I give a little wave as all their eyes stare at me, silver pixie eyes.
“We’ll meet you in the back ballroom,” he says, steering me into a side door. I watch the pixies swarm away before he shuts the door.
“Are those all the pixies there are?” I ask.
“No. Just most of the pixies in this region. The ones that belong to me.”
“There’s more than one region?”
“Of course.”
“Right. Of course.” I walk to the window and stare out at the snow.
“I’ll leave you here to wait for your mother,” he says. “I have preparations to make. Feel free to roam around the house, Zara, but I’m afraid you can’t leave.”
“So I’m a prisoner.”
“A guest.”
“Guests can leave,” I say. I face him. “I want to see Jay Dahlberg.”
He flinches.
“I insist,” I say.
“He’s upstairs. Two flights. Third door to the right. It’s not pretty, Zara. But I can’t hide what I am. What I need.”
I take in the beautiful curtains, the leather couch, the plush-ness, the orchids everywhere. “None of this is pretty.”
Once he’s out the door I count to sixty and then I leave too. I walk up the white marble stairs with the dark red Afghani runner. One flight. Another. I pass pixies who glare at me, pixies who sniff the air. Their movements are too fluid for humans, their eyes too fierce. They look at me like prey. Some touch my arms, my hair, whispering, “Princess. Princess.” It’s all I can do not to tear out of here screaming. Instead, I just keep moving up and up till I’m on the third floor.
I count the doors to try to focus, to calm my heart, and then it’s the door, the door that Jay Dahlberg should be behind. It’s just a regular door, wooden, with a gold, shiny knob that’s engraved with rune-like writing. I wonder how many prisoners are captured behind such ordinary doors. Pulling in a big breath, I turn the knob and open the door.
Jay Dahlberg is on top of the sheets of a large bed, twisted on his side. His arms are full of bite marks and he’s only wearing boxers and a ripped-up T-shirt.
“Oh, Jay,” I whisper and shut the door.
He doesn’t stir as I step quietly across the plush carpet, another oriental, hand woven. Figures. He doesn’t move as I touch his arm, right above five slashing marks, where they must have taken his blood. His skin freezes against my fingertips. His skin pales beneath the fluorescent light. His back is carved with slashes and bruises.
“Jay?” I say, touching him a little more. “Jay?”
He moans. His eyelids flicker and open. His lips are cracked but still manage to move. “Hey, you’re the new . . .”
“Girl. Yeah, I’m the new girl,” I say for him. “I’m going to untie you and get you out of here.”
His eyes shock wide open. “You can’t. The pixies.”
“I know all about the pixies,” I say, working on the knots that bind his feet. “I do not give a rat’s ass about the pixies. I am getting you out of here.”
I start on the knots around his hands, but it’s hard with my splint on. I finally get them and ease my good arm around his waist. “Can you stand?”
“Sure,” he says, but he wobbles the moment his feet touch the ground. “Sorry.”
“You can lean on me. It’s okay, but there are a lot of stairs,” I say. “We’ll take it slow.”
We are almost to the door when he stops. “New girl . . .”
“Zara.”
It is an effort for him to speak. His body trembles away from my hands even though he needs me to hold him up. “He cut me. He licked my blood. And then they all do. It’s like . . . it’s like they’re sucking your soul away. He could . . . he could do that to you.”