Page 29 of Royally Hacked Belle & Flame
ALIX
“Is that the house?”
Gwen looks up at me and nods. She’s bundled into the sleigh and looking much better now that she’s safe under a pile of blankets.
It didn’t take long for her to explain what happened and for us to retrace her steps back to the cottage. She hadn’t been outside for very long, judging by the short length of her candy trail, and the snow hadn’t yet completely covered the red sugary path. We easily found the cottage where, according to Gwen, the witch trapped them in her basement.
As soon as I get Daemon out of there and make sure he’s okay I’m never going to stop making fun of him for this. He’s the first person ever to have escaped the most dangerous prison in the world, but he got trapped in a root cellar by an old lady. It’s too perfect.
“Stay here,” I tell Gwen as I climb out of the sleigh. “We’ll be right back with your brother, I promise.”
“Be careful,” she says in a small voice. “The witch isin there.”
“I’m still not sure I believe she’s a witch,” Dessa mutters under her breath.
Aurelia brushes her hair back from her face and squares her shoulders. “Whatever’s in there, you two should let me handle it. Stay here with Gwen, I’ll go inside by myself.”
I squint at her. “Are you serious?”
“No offense, but you’re human, Alix, and you could get hurt. Dessa, you’re not much better off than she is outside the water. Whatever’s got the guys trapped in there, you should let me handle it.”
I size her up, frowning. I know better than to judge fae by human standards. Aurelia is tiny and innocent looking, but in reality she’s older than my nana and has absurdly powerful magic. Still, though, it’s hard to look at a girl who is barely five feet tall and willingly send her off to confront a monster alone.
“What if you need help?” I hedge.
She shrugs and flashes us a slightly manic grin. “Fox, Jett, Daemon, and Kastian are in there. They’ll help.”
“I feel like if they could help they wouldn’t be in there in the first place,” I grumble. “How about you deal with the witch and we’ll focus on finding and freeing the guys in case you do need backup?”
Aurelia rolls her eyes. “Fine, but at least stay behind me.”
“We’ll stay a few paces back,” Dessa says. “Now let’s go!”
We leave Gwen safely in the sleigh and creep up the path toward the tiny cottage. It looks like something out of—for lack of a better comparison—a fairytale. It’s not exactly giving “evil lair” but I guess, like Aurelia, looks can be deceiving.
Right before we reach the door, Aurelia holds out her hand in the universal gesture for “wait.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so focused. She darts up the front steps and onto the porch, then presses her ear to the door. After a moment, she takes a step back and drives one tiny foot into the center of the door. The door shudders, then flies open with a bang and a crash of splintering wood.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
Odessa grins widely. “I’ve got to learn to do that.”
Aurelia steps inside and we dart after her. The moment we enter the cottage I skid to a halt, my eyes going wide. My brain short-circuits, frantically recalculating.
We’re standing in a cozy, one-room cottage. On one side of the room, a fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across a flour-dusted wooden table. On the opposite side of the room, Mrs. Hilde—the baker from town—stands frozen, her spectacles slipping down her nose as she gapes at us.
In her right hand, a pastry bag drips white frosting onto her apron. In front of her, a five-tiered cake covered in delicate sugar roses teeters on the edge of the table. It looks like Mrs. Hilde bumped it with her elbow when we burst inside and, as I watch, the cake topples sideways, landing on the floor with a wet splat. Frosting splatters everywhere like arterial spray.
For a long, horrible second, I’m convinced we fucked up.
Maybe Gwen was wrong; maybe this is just a totally normal bakery emergency; maybe we just busted down the door and destroyed my second wedding cake for no reason.
I start to mouth an apology, but the words get stuck in my throat. “Mrs. Hilde? I—I’m so sorry about your door?—”
But Mrs. Hilde isn’t listening. Or maybe she can’t.
The old lady looks from us to the cake on the floor and horror dawns on her face before morphing quickly into rage.
Her lips turn bloodless and flatten into a thin line and she lets out an anguished wail. Then, faster than I can process, her pupils dilate until her eyes are entirely black. Her jaw drops, then keeps dropping, the hinge of it distending with a nauseating, wet pop. I hear her teeth grind against each other as they grow into nightmarish fangs. Her body grows and morphs, black hair sprouting on leathery skin.
