No Escape by Z.J. Cannon

Author:Z.J. Cannon [Cannon, Z.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Z.J. Cannon
Published: 2021-12-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Most of the time, Tristra shared Engstrom’s bedroom. I had hoped that would give Engstrom the opportunity to steal the locket for me. But when I floated the possibility to him, he told me, with a twist to his lip, that after their argument yesterday she didn’t trust him not to rip it from her neck while she slept. She was sleeping alone tonight.

Not, Engstrom said, that she had needed to take that precaution—he would never risk stealing the locket again. He advised me not to try either. Not only because of what would happen if I did manage to take it and open it, but because of how Tristra would react if—when—she caught me. From the way he said it, I had a feeling his advice came from considerable experience.

I wished very much that I could take that advice.

Tristra and Engstrom shared the tower at the very top of the mansion, but Tristra had a more modest room on the second floor, looking out on the cliff. I had passed it before, but never gone inside. Now, when I tried the door, it was locked. Engstrom hadn’t been kidding about Tristra’s suspicions.

I cursed softly under my breath. I hadn’t counted on being thwarted this early on. Then I remembered I had a new ally now. “If you want to be free,” I murmured, resting my hand on the doorknob, “I need to get into this room.”

The doorknob clicked. The door swung silently open.

I expected Tristra’s room to be decorated in the manner of the Summer Court—whatever that might mean. Or maybe like the room she had rented in Rotterdam, or the house we had shared later in Brazil. Instead, it looked like she had decided to try out another human persona. That was the only explanation I could think of for the walls that were covered in band posters and scrawls of neon graffiti. Tristra lay sprawled across wrinkled sheets, her hair in a newly jagged and asymmetrical cut, wearing an oversized t-shirt that looked faded from too many washings.

The locket glinted at her neck.

I tiptoed into the room. Tristra didn’t stir.

A closer look at the posters told me they weren’t the ordinary pieces of human memorabilia they appeared to be. The one nearest the bed advertised a band called Hounds of Winter, with a stylized drawing above the name showing a too-familiar set of icy fangs. The others had logos that incorporated the jagged script I had seen in maps library. Tristra’s shirt came from a band apparently called Titania’s Nightmare, and showed a list of no doubt fictitious concert dates below a cartoon drawing of Tristra herself. I couldn’t suppress a smile.

But I wasn’t here to admire her, I reminded myself—not her clever decor, or the improbable way the messy haircut flattered her face. I was here to betray her, and thinking about her fondly would only make it that much harder.

I knelt beside the bed and reached out a hand. Slowly, slowly. Her nose twitched, and I flinched.

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