Page 62 of A Treachery of Swans

“Stop!”the Step-Queen shouts at the unseen monstrosity. “Stop—you must stop, I’m your—agh!”She is cut off by the horrid sound of claws meeting flesh. A spray of blood flies past the doorway. Something heavy thuds against the ground. There is a beat of utter, deafening silence.

Then comes the worst sound of all: the smacking of lips, the wet tearing of skin from bone. My blood freezes in my veins as I realize what I’m hearing.

The beast iseatingher.

If I’m going to get out, it has to be now, while it’s distracted. The thought is chilling, but I force myself to move, my hands scrabbling against the wall behind me as I haul myself up on shaking legs.

I peer around the corner, and the sight that greets me makes bile rise to my throat.

A few meters away, a hideous, unspeakable monstrosity is bent over the crimson-slathered remains of Anne de Malezieu. It looks part wolf, part boar, every part of it ill-shaped and wrong. Its skin is gray and leathery, cracked in places like ancient stone. Beneath its massive, bearlike paws, I see shreds of sapphire gown twisted around a ribbon of slick, dripping muscle.

I can’t see a second body—no glints of Aimé’s golden hair or scraps of flamboyant lace. Relief shoots through me.Please, Mothers,I pray silently.Let him have gotten away safely.

I keep my eyes on the creature and move slowly, silently, despite every inch of my body begging me to flee. I back up step by step, one hand desperately staunching my wound and the other reaching for Buttons, only to remember that I dropped the weapon earlier. Thankfully, the beast does not notice, too focused on nosing over the Step-Queen’s corpse.

I continue. Step by step. My pulse throbs in my skull—nausea stirs behind my breastbone. Something glints near my feet, and I look down to see Anne’s dagger. I stoop to pick it up, shove it into my belt, and keep moving. I’m almost at the end of the corridor now. This wing of the Château is isolated, but it connects to the entrance hall—if only I can make it there, there will surely be guards present that might be able to kill the beast…

Suddenly a drop of my blood slips through my fingers and plops on the floor. It’s quiet—quiet enough that the sound is almost,almostmuffled amid the sound of the monster’s smacking jaws. For a moment I dare to hope that my presence has gone unnoticed.

Then the beast’s nostrils flare.

Its head snaps up.

Our eyes meet, and my heart stops. The beast’s bullish jaws areslathered in gore, its eyes black pools of hatred. Boar-like tusks jut out behind wide, dribbling nostrils, and I nearly gag when I realize that one of the tusks still has a scrap of sapphire fabric caught on its tip.

“Merde,”I mutter.

The monster grunts. A rivulet of saliva slips from its jowls.

Then it charges.

I turn on my heel and run.

My wound screams in protest; my heart thuds so hard against my ribs, I nearly expect it to break through their cage. Behind me, I can hear the monster getting closer, theshhshhshhof its claws a desperate, vicious scrape. It snarls in frustration, and the sound is like a jagged knife dragged down my spine.

Cursing, I force my aching legs to move faster, blinking through my tears. Part of me is glad that my disguise is gone, that I am wearing trousers and flat-soled boots. Ahead of me, the double doors of the chapel appear, the twin tarasques upon them menacing with their glinting shells. Behind me, the monster utters a scraping roar, and I know it’s catching up. Panic cuts me to the quick: I’m not going to make it to the entrance hall.

There is one way I might be able to escape, but it’s a desperate fool’s hope. I turn on my heel toward the chapel doors, shove at their heavy weight until there’s a mere crack for me to slip through. The doors fall shut behind me. A moment later I hear the monster slam against them. They’re not going to hold it for long, I know.

I don’t stop running. The chapel’s pews are long, the exit on the opposite side beckoning. But if I go that way, the beast will see me, and it will catch me. I need to shake it before my stamina runs out. So instead, I bolt up the stairs that lead to the tribune. As I run, I hear the monster break through the doors, scenting the air with a rasping inhale. As I reach the top, it growls, and I hear the scrape ofits shoulders against stone as it crams itself into the narrow stairwell.

I pause to catch my breath, looking around the blindingly white room. The Mothers stare at me blankly, utterly unhelpful. The monster roars again—it’s getting closer.

In front of me is a stained-glass window, narrow and tall, one of many that line the walls. I’m one story up—if I could break through the thick panes, I could probably survive the jump.

But how?

I clutch the owl-face pendant and jolt in realization.

The pendant feelswrong.No longer can I feel the intricate humming of spell-threads within. Instead, the magic is… raw. Unraveled. Returned to its natural, molten form.

Whatever the Step-Queen did to me when she stabbed me, it destroyed my father’s spell. Years’ worth of stolen goddess-gold, of scavenged magic, gone.

My stomach sinks—Marie. What does this mean for Marie?

Behind me, there is an eager, blood-curdling snarl. The monster reaches the top of the stairs, drags itself through the narrow opening. Its head whips around, searching for me.

No time to think. I press myself into the shadows and tear the pendant from my neck, wincing at the quietsnap.I pull at the magic within, feeling it pool in my palm, wet and sticky. With that same hand—now dripping gold—I weave the spell I remember from Bartrand’s journal, one shimmering thread at a time:mirror, shards, break,and finallywindow.

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