Winterspell (31 page)

Nicholas rubbed her hands between his, blew on their entwined fingers to warm them. Smiled—too brightly, considering. “Chilly down here, isn't it?”

She shrugged and pulled away. “Maybe for coddled princes.”

The others laughed. Bo, exultant, flourished the map in front of them to show off the new route, and they went on.

Clara counted in her head: Five days now. One day, six hours at home.

Onward, forward, home.

* * *

Whenever they stopped to sleep during that cramped dark time in the tunnels, when most moments were the same as the last and Jurian and Bo's attempts at humor grated upon the last frayed inches of Clara's nerves—and, it would seem, Erik's as well, for he was always grousing—Nicholas would settle close to Clara. Sometimes, in the narrower stretches of the tunnel, he was so close that she could have stretched out her fingers and touched him.

She could have, but she didn't.

Instead she stared at the ceiling she couldn't see and thought of where her father might be, and what Felicity might be doing—if she was afraid for Clara, or furious with her for leaving with no explanation, or afraid for
herself
. What would Patricia Plum and Dr. Victor be doing to pass the time?

Six days here; one day, twelve hours at home. Seven days.
Eight
. Two days at home. She marked the passage of time with unraveling patience, awaiting each of Erik's announcements as though they were priceless gifts. So many long hours of this close darkness, of fitful bouts of sleep with Nicholas on one side and Bo on the other. Crawling through muck. Eating tough, dried meat and stale bread. Standing, when it was possible—a blessed change of posture that allowed them the chance to stretch aching muscles. Talking to one another in hushed tones, as if any sound louder than that would travel down the tunnel and fetch a waiting danger.

So many long hours of knocking into Nicholas, of their fingers scraping against each other in the dark, of the weight of his quiet gaze upon her, at once welcome and unsettling. She could not make up her mind about him, but her body, it seemed, had decided. It
wanted
those moments of accidental touch. It wanted more than that—intention, connection, to close the space between them.

She ignored such urges with no small effort.
Remember Godfather,
she reminded herself.
Remember what he told you.
And she did, her thoughts a mess of conflict.

Meanwhile, Nicholas contended with a constant barrage of
questions. What would happen next, and what was his strategy for reclaiming the throne? What would happen to them? To the kingdom? Did His Highness truly think he could save everyone?

“It would be dishonest to say I
know
the kingdom will be saved,” he said, slowly, once, when they had stopped to eat, “but I
believe
it will be.” And then, when he had met each of their gazes—hungry, skeptical, reverent—Clara had noticed their shoulders straightening, their faces softening. Even sour Erik, even solemn Igritt.

“I know the capital,” he had said, “and I know Wahlkraft. And I know Anise. Better than anyone left alive in Cane, I know her. For eighteen years I fought her.” He had given them a grim, resolute smile. “I'm confident we can fight her.”

Clara could have sworn his eyes flickered over to her at those words. The look chilled her. What did he expect of her? What would he demand?

She nibbled at her strip of dried meat and said nothing.

* * *

The third time Clara heard the voice, it was the afternoon of their fifth day in the tunnels, and her ninth in Cane. And this time, the voice said something different:

Soon.

She paused at the tunnel mouth; so did Nicholas, beside her. There was a dimly lit space ahead, less cramped than the tunnel had been. Hub 7, their halfway point.

“Did you hear that?” he said, frowning.

Exhausted, worn thin by anxiety and cold, Clara could have cried; she could have kissed him. Mostly, though, she was careful. “Hear what?”

Nicholas looked disturbed. A flicker of something crossed his face. He flinched, as if suddenly chilled. “Did you say something?”

“I said, ‘Hear what?' ”

“No, before that.”

She gestured vaguely, shrugging. “It was probably Bo.”

Lies, and more lies. Clara had done nothing but lie to him since seeing Godfather. Desperate to confide in him, a twinge of caution nevertheless held her back. She climbed out of the tunnel into Hub 7 and stumbled, for the stretching of her muscles brought with them a fresh surge of cold that nearly sent her doubling over.

Nicholas caught her by her arms, keeping her upright. “Careful, Lady.”

She smiled, screaming inside. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

It had become a joke since the conversation with Jurian and Herschel. A terrible, terrible joke. For Godfather had called her mother a Lady of the North, hadn't he? Lady Leska, powerful mage. Did Nicholas know?
Did he know?

The handful of refugees in Hub 7—common people, merchants, used-up doxies, children, escaped slaves—watched them enter the room, some curious, others frighteningly expressionless. Piles of crude machinery cobbled together from spare faery parts lined the space, along with racks of supplies and a dimly lit chromocast broadcasting a fuzzy image of advertisements and district notices. There were pallets on the floor, threadbare underthings hung to dry, people eating and sleeping. A mother and her children; a father and his father. Even here in Cane there were these common threads, these familiar scraps of humanity—families and pillows, cookware and laundry. Clara felt tears come to her eyes.

Nicholas paused beside her, let out a slow breath. “Is this how it feels,” he said, “to walk your New York streets? I know none of these people, and yet they are my friends, my children, and I've failed them.”

He turned to her, his dark eyes wounded; he seemed suddenly too old for such a young man. Clara's heart yearned for him. But she offered him no comfort.

“When I walk my New York streets,” she said, “I feel nothing but fear.”

Bo, ahead of them, was addressing the gathered people. “Friends,”
she said, with the bluster of someone three times her age, and three times as large, “I present to you a grand treat. Having fought his way back to us at last: His Royal Highness, Prince Nicholas Drachstelle.”

Silence followed her words. As fond of Bo as Clara had become, she nevertheless felt an urge to scream at the child. Blurting Nicholas's introduction in such a way had not been the plan. But perhaps Bo had not been able to help herself, at the sight of such misery. Perhaps she had thought it would lift the refugees' spirits. Erik, leaning against the far wall, shifted crossly; Jurian looked insulted.

“Oh, wake up,” Jurian said, not unkindly. “It's our prince, don't you see? Have none of you seen the old books? He has come to save us!”

The people examined Nicholas, and Clara, too. A few began to show signs of recognition, awestruck, elbowing their friends, but most looked simply confused.

“Oh?” An old man, bent, wheezing. “Him and what army?”

That earned a scattering of nervous laughter from the crowd.

A small child, hair a tangled nest, pointed at Clara. “Isn't that the girl the queen's after?”

Bo snapped at the child, “Don't you have any manners at all?”

Nicholas took a deep breath. It was, perhaps, not the reception he had been hoping for.

“Please,” he said, stepping forward, “allow me to tell you what has happened and share with you my story. And then I'd like it if I could hear yours.” He smiled, elegant and totally at ease, as though he were not in fact coated with grime and were instead holding court in far easier times. The crowd leaned closer, already enthralled. “Perhaps after we are better acquainted with one another, we'll be better prepared to talk of the future—”

Soon. SoonsoonsoonSOON!

Nicholas stopped, staggering. And Clara, her senses roaring from the voice's excitement, collapsed. The most violent chill yet seized her, shaking her there on the ground. She clutched her stomach, for it
would surely burst open any second now, but when she opened her mouth to scream, nothing came out.

“Clara?” Nicholas was on his knees, holding her, terrified. The refugees had risen to their feet; some of the children were crying. “What is it? Speak to me, please.”

Clara knew now why she had been so cold—much colder here than aboveground—and why she had been so on edge. It was her body trying, as any body would, to tell her something. Only, if Godfather was right, her body was becoming something different now. She had not understood the warning.

She had fancied several times over these past days that the tunnel walls had seemed as though they were crawling, as though they were alive.

And they
were
alive. They were coming now, bringing the voice—whoever's voice it was—careening along with them.

“They're coming,” she gasped, struggling to rise. “They've found us. We have to leave!”

Jurian looked bewildered. “We can't. If we go to the surface from here, we'll come out right in the middle of Rosche.”

Rosche. Clara tried to find the memorized map in her mind. Rosche, the district where the humans who'd hunted faeries had been sent. Where they were now hunted by faeries themselves.

Erik shoved his way forward, eyes sharp. “Speak, girl. Who's coming?”

But Clara did not have to say, for the next moment they spilled through the tunnel mouth into Hub 7—a wave of mechaniks, glittering black, turning the tunnel to a metal wasteland behind them.

E
rik moved first, shoving Igritt and Herschel behind him. The other refugees leapt to their feet, screaming, shouting, racing for the wide ladder attached to the wall. An escape hatch was built into the ceiling—Clara remembered that from Bo's map. Above the hatch the ladder continued up a shaft for fifty feet before opening aboveground through a second hatch. But how would they reach the surface in time? Already the mechaniks were cascading across the floor, nipping at people's heels, yanking them down into their mess of black-and-blue magic.

It was madness at the ladder—people clambered up it, tripping and falling back into the crush of others screaming for everyone to move faster. Erik found Nicholas and grabbed his arm, pulled him on. Clara was glad to see Bo slung safely over his shoulder.

“Can't have the prince getting eaten, can we?” Erik said angrily.

He pushed Nicholas up the ladder, and when Clara got caught in the tumult of people, her hand slipped from his, and they were separated. At once Nicholas turned to find her, his eyes wild. He called for her, and Clara was pushed back by a father shoving his children toward the wall, but then solid Igritt was grabbing her hand, helping her back to the ladder. Nicholas was leaning off it, reaching for her; he grabbed her hand, and she climbed up beside him. He gathered her
close, relieved, and Clara wished they could remain in that moment—no questions, no suspicions or rescue missions, only his hand on her face and her, smiling up at him. They climbed, the refugees pushing them on.

Once, Clara looked back. A mistake. Hub 7 churned with black, illuminated by occasional flashes of blue, broken by contorted human-shaped lumps reaching futilely for escape. The machinery exploded, the ceiling was beginning to fall, and while waiting for his turn, helping others climb, Jurian—wide-eyed, cheerful Jurian—was dragged into the black.

The climb past the first hatch seemed endless, and when they finally reached the top of the shaft, it took two people to shift the heavy wooden bar that fastened the second hatch. For a moment Clara feared the hatch would stick, trapping them forever in a graveyard of metal, but then they were out—tumbling aboveground, sobbing, assisting the wounded.

Nicholas helped Clara upright, and when Bo slammed into Clara's stomach—perhaps for the first time in her life at a loss for words—Clara held her there, whispering reassurances she did not feel.

Erik was there too, and Igritt and Herschel.

“Jurian's gone,” Herschel said, red-eyed, and Erik glared death at Clara, as if it were her fault. Maybe it was. No one else had heard that voice—except for Nicholas, those last two times, but the voice had never said his name. Only hers. Why?

Nicholas now stood at the edge of the hatch but made no move to close it. He was listening. Clara joined him, Bo in hand.

“What is it?” Clara asked.

He looked uneasy. “They're retreating.”

She crouched. Yes, she could hear them far below, their overlapping hisses and tiny metal clacks receding like a wave pulling back from the shore.

Then there was silence. Clara looked up at Nicholas. His face was
heavy with guilt. Maybe he thought, as she did, that this was because of them. Surely Anise couldn't have cared less about a band of inconsequential refugees—but a long-lost prince and a girl from Beyond?

A
half-breed
from Beyond
, came the terrible thought.

She rose to study the land around them, a desolate, rocky tundra dotted with snow and metal-crusted outcroppings, the tremendous steel struts of the railroads overhead. Not far from their hatch sat the charred ruins of a village.

It was quiet. There were no beasts, or people, or even winds.

Nicholas was solemn at her side. “Not many places to hide, are there?”

She had been thinking the same thing.

Overhead, a sudden dark movement—one tiny, solitary kambot.

“Bo,” Nicholas said evenly, “please tell me that you've let loose one of your kambots for some reason.”

But Bo, squinting at the horizon, said nothing. Others had noticed it too, and now began to run across the vast, frozen tundra toward the ruined village. It was some shelter at least.