LITMIR.BIZ

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wall, even as those inside the train rushed out.

      As they watched, more creatures jumped from the upper level, some landing on their feet and running off down the tunnel, others falling roughly, only to be crushed by the next creature who jumped down. The less-brave partiers swarmed another ladder, and slipped down it in a hurry to get away from whatever pursued.

      “What is it?” Cerridwen whispered, aware, but only fleetingly, that their bodies were startlingly close together in this space, and that he had not let go of her.

      “It could be anything,” he whispered back, his breath stirring her hair. “Wraiths, maybe. Or Demons. But Demons are running from whatever it is…they would fight another Demon.”

      She shivered, from the fear and from the proximity of him.

      And then, the pleasant shivers faded. Shouts, in the Fae language, angry male shouts, drifted to her ears, and soldiers, wearing her mother’s seal, followed the crowd over the edge.

      If not for the confusion of the scene, they might have spotted her, but they pursued the Darklings down the tunnel, away from her hiding place.

      “Lightworlders!” Fenrick rasped vehemently in her ear. “What are those scum doing here?”

      She knew what they were doing. She could not let them find her.

      “Let’s get out of here,” she insisted, trying to move past him, down the tunnel blocked by the train. “Come on!”

      She’d expected him to mock her. “Are you afraid?” she’d thought he’d say. But he did not. He gripped her arm and pulled her, inching their way past the train car, to the open tunnel where they could run. And he pulled his knife, a wicked, curved thing, from under his shirt.

      They ran until they were out of breath, until her legs ached and her wings strained at their binding, as if arguing with her that flying would serve her better. She forced herself onward, until she could no longer stand it, and collapsed to her knees, her breath coming from her in loud, frightened sobs.

      Fenrick knelt at her side, and tossing his knife away, put his arms around her. “It’s all right. We’re safe,” he assured her between panting breaths. “It’s all right.”

      He kissed her hair, held her head to his chest, kept her close to him. All she had to do was catch her breath, and tilt her face up….

      When she did, he kissed her, hard and furious, as if he could expel all her fear and exertion of their flight by channeling it into himself. And she melted under his mouth, his tongue. Melted into him.

      She pushed her hands under his shirt, found the blue-black skin beneath warm under her fingers.

      “You’re shaking,” he said against her mouth, and he reached for the ties of her shirt.

      She caught his hands, her heart thumping hard. “Did you hear that?”

      “I didn’t hear anything.” He leaned to kiss her again, trying to shrug aside her hands, but she resisted him and climbed to her feet warily.

      Down the tunnel, where a shaft of light from another, intersecting route pierced the darkness, something moved. Cerridwen thought of Wraiths and the destruction they could wreak.

      “What are you afraid of?” Fenrick asked, an edge of impatience in his voice.

      It was not a Wraith. It bobbed as it moved, as though it were walking. The Wraiths glided above the ground…. At least, that was what she had heard.

      “I am not afraid of anything,” she stated boldly.

      He rose to his feet and pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it aside. “Then come here, if you aren’t afraid.”

      She looked away, for although she could not see his, he would be able to read her expression in the dark. And she spied his blade on the ground.

      She stooped to grab it and walked slowly down the tunnel, toward whatever the creature was that continued toward them.

      “Cerri, what are you doing? Come back,” Fenrick called.

      The creature in the shadows halted.

      “Cerridwen?”

      Her heart lurched in her chest at the familiar voice.

      “Cerridwen? The Royal Heir?” The creature stumbled closer, two spots of angry red light forming in the darkness, where his antennae would be. “Is that you?”

      He stumbled close enough to see her, and she looked over her shoulder for Fenrick. He was invisible in the darkness, or maybe he’d left her there. She hoped that he’d left. She did not wish for her game to be given away so soon, just as things were becoming interesting between them.

      Cedric gripped her by her arms and shook her, nearly knocking the knife from her hands. “What are you doing here?” he shouted, his hands crushing painfully. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this area is?”

      Now, she knew that Fenrick had gone. He would not have let someone lay his hands on her this way. She pushed Cedric back. “How dare you!”

      “I should do worse,” he threatened, coming a step closer, looming over her.

      She laughed, tried to make it sound as scathing and bitter as she had heard from Courtiers. “No, I mean how dare you follow me here, like my mother’s obedient dog! How dare you show yourself such disrespect!”

      “Your mother?” he asked, his expression suddenly confused.

      Something mean and vicious blossomed in Cerridwen’s chest. “Yes, my mother. She’s sent soldiers here to find me. Her soldiers, into the Darkworld. And you…you didn’t know?”

      “If I had, be assured I would not have let it happen.” He grabbed her arm again, and pulled her toward the crossing of the tunnels.

      “You didn’t know, and you didn’t know to come look for me,” she accused. It made more sense, now. Why he’d been so surprised to find her. Why he’d been in the tunnels with no guards. “You were here on your own business.”

      “Of a sort,” he admitted sourly. They reached the intersection and he started off in the wrong direction.

      She yanked him the right way, preferring to glare at him rather than argue, and tucked the knife into her belt. “And what business could you possibly have in the Darkworld, oh shining beacon of loyalty?”

      “My own,” he snapped. “This is not the right way.”

      “I was unaware that you were so knowledgeable about the Darkworld.” She pulled free from his grasp. “I will be sure to tell my mother about your expertise.”

      “Your mother already knows.” He followed her; she heard his boots splash through a puddle, and a curse. That made her smile.

      “You could tell your mother about how I found you.” He sounded no less angry, but it seemed as though he tried to mask his wrath. “Or I could tell her about how I found you.”

      “And you would be admitting to your own guilt,” she reminded him, turning a corner. He was not expecting the bend, and she heard a loud exclamation as he collided with the wall.

      “Which is why,” he seethed through his teeth, “I suggest we reach an agreement. I will tell her I found you on the Strip, and you will not contradict me. The consequences of that accidental meeting will be far less than the ones attached to the truth.”

      “She will still wonder why you left the Lightworld,” Cerridwen pointed out, feeling very satisfied to have the advantage.

      But the advantage disappeared as he muttered, “Your mother will be aware of my reasons.”

      It was cryptic. Cerridwen did not like cryptic responses. But ahead loomed the path to the Strip.

      “Do we have an agreement?” he asked her, no urgency in his voice, no pleading.

      She

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