Chapter 2 - The wrong girl

The first thing I noticed was the silence. It wasn't a normal silence, this was a deep and profound stillness, like the hush of a forest under fresh snow. The second thing I noticed was the light. It was soft and golden, filtering through tall and arched windows and pooling on the floor in warm rectangles.

When I moved my hand, my fingers sank into a mattress that seemed to have no bottom. I stared at the canopy above me, a cascade of deep blue silk embroidered with silver stars. The fabric shimmered, almost as if it were alive.

I'm dead, I thought. This is it. Rusk finally did it. The beatings, the poison and the strange smoke. I'm dead, and this is some kind of afterlife for people who were murdered by horrible old women.

The thought was oddly peaceful. It was the least I deserved after a lifetime of suffering. After being tossed from orphanage to orphanage from the early age of three and finally settling in Madam Rusk’s orphanage at nine years old. I’ve had my fair share of suffering. I was never adopted because of my nasty attitude, but I only put up that front because if they adopted me then Rooney would be left all alone.

Rooney! I thought of her again this time. I hoped she was fine wherever she was. And I hoped she had escaped. I wish I could find a way to know she was fine. Then I sat up, and the welts on my back screamed in protest, and I decided that if this was death, it was a very convincing imitation of life. Why did my injuries follow me to the afterlife? Or was this hell? Was the devil taunting me? Apart from stealing, I didn’t really commit any serious crimes.

The room was enormous. A marble fireplace dominated one wall, the fire inside crackling and dancing as if it had been tended to only moments ago. Silver lamps stood on polished side tables, their light steady and warm. A writing desk sat near the window, stocked with paper and ink. There was a wardrobe, a washstand with a porcelain basin, and a decorative mirror in an ornate silver frame. Everything was rich and elegant.

I slid out of bed, my bare feet sinking into a thick, plush rug. Whoever owned this place was either royalty or incredibly good at theft. I crossed to the window, expecting to see the orphanage courtyard or the familiar grimy streets of Graves city beyond it.

Instead, I saw a forest.

It stretched endlessly, a sea of dark, ancient trees beneath a sky that was certainly not my sky. The moon was wrong. It was too large, too silver, and it hung in the sky like a watchful eye. The constellations were strange, unfamiliar patterns that made my stomach clench with a fear I refused to name.

Not dead, I told myself firmly. Just very, very far from home.

I tried the door first. It was locked. Of course it was locked. I tried the windows next, running my hands along the frames, searching for a latch, a weakness of anything. The glass was cold and unyielding, and there was no hinge I could find. I tried the fireplace, but it was clearly a fireplace and not a secret passage, no matter how much I wished otherwise.

Then I spotted the mirror.

It was beautiful, really, with its silver filigree and polished surface. But the reflection it showed was wrong. I was standing in front of it, with my dirty rag of a nightdress and my greasy hair filled with knots, but the room behind me in the glass was not the room I was in. The bed was different, the walls were a different colour, and the view through the window showed a landscape I didn't recognise. A portal. An actual, honest-to-the-gods portal.

I don't know what possessed me. Desperation, probably. I climbed onto the washstand and reached for the mirror's surface, intending to crawl through it the way I'd once crawled through a broken fence to escape a guard. The moment my fingers touched the glass, it flared with light and threw me backward.

I landed hard on my arse, the wind knocked out of me. The mirror shimmered innocently, as if it hadn't just rejected me like a bad suitor.

"Fine," I muttered, rubbing my tailbone. "Be that way."

I climbed to my feet and began to explore the room more thoroughly. Whoever owned this place was going to have a very expensive problem. I had been kidnapped, drugged, and imprisoned in a room that looked like it belonged to a queen. There was going to be a reckoning, and I intended to make it as costly as possible.

I found a silver letter opener on the writing desk. It was heavy and sharp. I hid it beneath my sleeve, the cool metal pressing against my wrist.

Then, I waited for my captor.

I didn't have to wait long.

The door opened, and I tensed, expecting a guard, maybe a brute with thick arms and dull eyes. Instead, a man walked in.

He was tall. Very tall. Broad-shouldered, with the kind of effortless grace that suggested he'd never once bumped into a piece of furniture in his life. His hair was black, falling in waves to his shoulders, and his eyes were amber, like liquid gold. Small, curved horns rose from his temples, dark and polished, and when he opened his mouth, I caught the glint of pointed fangs.

He was dressed in black and his clothing embroidered with silver thread that caught the light.

I stared at him. He stared back, his expression unreadable.

"Good evening," he said, his voice low and smooth. "I trust you slept well."

I found my voice. It came out sharper than I intended, which was exactly how I intended it. "Are you wearing costume horns?"

He blinked. For a moment, just a moment, his composure cracked. He looked genuinely taken aback, as if no one had ever asked him that question before. Then his expression smoothed, and he inclined his head slightly.

"I am Azriel Bloodstone," he said, "prince of the Nocturne Pack."

I considered this. "That doesn't answer my question."

His lips twitched. It might have been a smile, but with a face like that, it was hard to tell. "They are not costume horns."

"Right," I said slowly. "So you're a demon? With real horns. And fangs."

"I am ‘Lycan,'" he said, "but yes, I have horns and fangs."

I crossed my arms, the letter opener pressing against my wrist. "And I'm here because...?"

"You have been brought to my kingdom," he said, "because you are required for something."

I waited for him to elaborate. He didn't. "Does this thing involve sending me home? Because I have to go home as soon as possible.”

"No."

"Is this a ransom situation? Because I should warn you, no one is going to pay to get me back. I'm an orphan. I'm practically a nobody. You've kidnapped the wrong girl."

"You have not been kidnapped," he said, a note of irritation creeping into his voice.

"So you bought me," I said flatly. "I saw the ledger. I know what Matron Rusk was doing. So let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is."

Something flickered in his amber eyes, it looked like surprise. "You are correct," he said. "You were purchased."

"Great." I uncrossed my arms. "Then you won't mind if I leave then, since I'm not being kidnapped."

"I would mind a great deal, since I already bought you."

I threw the letter opener at him.

I didn't think about it. I just threw, aiming for that infuriatingly perfect face. The opener spun through the air, silver flashing in the firelight. And Azriel caught it. Without looking. His hand closed around the handle as if he'd known exactly where it would be.

He examined the blade, then looked at me. "This was unnecessary."

"You bought me," I said. "I think a letter opener to the face is extremely necessary."

Azriel set the opener down on the writing desk. "I need your help to break a curse," he said.