The decayed fabric had other ideas. It tore under my hands, and I fell, grabbing for a less tattered section of the cloth. This time I got it right. The tapestry stretched but didn’t tear, and I slammed against the wall hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs, nearly biting through my candle in the process. I hung there for a moment, breathing rapidly through my nose. When I was sure I wouldn’t fall, I started to descend.

The tapestry ended about three feet above the floor. I let go, landing hard but upright. I’d made it; I was in the hall, and the children weren’t, although I knew better than to count on that to last. I needed to keep moving.

There were a few makeshift toys scattered around the floor. Sticks, stones, and some bones I didn’t look at too closely; a teddy bear without a head and a doll’s head without a body; shards of wood and plastic. None of them looked as if they were used very often, save perhaps as weapons. I searched until my candle had grown shorter still and didn’t find anything but garbage. “Damn it, where is she?” I whispered. The darkness didn’t answer. Wherever she was, it wasn’t here, and it was time to get moving.

The tapestry I’d used to break my fall looked like it would hold me. Putting my candle back between my teeth, I grabbed hold and started climbing. It didn’t take as long as it did the first time; fear and failure were hurrying my steps. I hauled myself over the edge of the wall, pulling the tapestry with me and dangling it down the outside of the building. It was proof that I’d been there; that didn’t matter as much as not breaking my neck did.

The tapestry made an excellent ladder. I lowered myself down, dropping without a sound onto the water barrel. One down—the easy one—and one to go.

Of course, I’d left the hard part for last.

The night was getting colder. I crept from building to building, stopping outside the one other landmark I was sure of: the stable. The screams that surrounded it before were gone, replaced by nickers and whinnies. The children we hadn’t rescued weren’t children anymore. I shuddered as I slipped inside, hiding behind a bale of hay. No one was likely to look for me there. What kind of idiot hides in a prison? Damn it all, anyway. How many parents were crying for children they’d never see again? Those kids hadn’t done anything wrong—they were just human and in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had to end. I was going to save Karen, and then I was going to kill Blind Michael. Firstborn or not, he’d die for what he’d done.

The sounds of the horses faded into background noise, becoming almost normal, and a new sound began making itself heard beneath the stamp of hooves and the rustling of hay. A sound I didn’t want to hear. Sobbing.

I turned to look at the nearest stall. It was barred with brambles and wire like the others, but whatever was behind it hadn’t been changed. Not all the way; not yet. I crept closer, whispering, “Hello?”

There was a pause. Then a too familiar voice said, “Hhello.”

Oh, oak and ash. “Katie?”

“Yes?” She sounded distracted. I’d have been distracted too, if I’d been kidnapped by a madman intent on turning me into a horse.

“How did you get here?” I saved you, I thought, I know I saved you . . .

“Quentin said we needed to move. He took me outside and then . . .” There was no emotion in the words; it was like she was reading from a script. Something inside of her had broken. “They brought me here again.”

“I’ll get you out. Don’t worry.” I cursed myself for a liar even as I spoke. I failed to keep her safe once; what made me think I could do it now? And then there was Quentin. Where was he? When they came for Katie, had they taken him too?

At least the others were safe in Shadowed Hills; the Riders couldn’t enter Luna’s domain. But Mitch and Stacy’s kids, Tybalt’s kids—oh, oak and ash. “Katie, were you the only one?”

“They said I hadn’t been bargained for. What did they mean?” A note of hysteria was creeping into her voice. “You said I could go home! What’s happening to me?!”

Blind Michael had broken my spell. It dulled her pain, and he wanted her to hurt. “It’ll be okay. I promise.” I’d lied to her already. What was once more?

She didn’t answer. “Katie?” I glanced to my candle. At the rate it was shrinking I had six hours left; maybe less. Not enough time. “Katie, I’ll be back.” There was still no answer, and finally I stood and walked away. There was nothing else I could do.

Good luck always runs out. I shouldn’t have been surprised when rough hands grabbed me from behind as I left the stable, yanking me into the shadows. I struggled, trying to break free, and was rewarded with a sharp slap upside the head.

“Hush, mongrel,” hissed a voice. “We’re taking you to Him.”

My candle was burning an angry red, warning me, but it was too late; I was caught. They dragged me through the village, the mists rolling back before us, and into a broad clearing filled with Riders and misshapen children. The children laughed and shouted, dancing around a vast bonfire that painted the sky with lashes of crimson and gold. We kept going, past the shrieks and laughter, until we reached the open space in front of the fire. Then the Riders who held my shoulders released me, fading back into the crowd. I stumbled and looked up, already knowing what was there, already afraid to see it.

Blind Michael was seated on a throne made of ivory, amusement in his sightless face as he turned toward me. “So,” he said. “You’ve returned.”

“You cheated,” I snapped. One day I’ll learn when to hold my tongue. “You said I could free Mitch and Stacy’s kids. You didn’t tell me you had Karen.”

He leaned back. “So did you. You took children I’d not agreed to lose.”

“I never said I wouldn’t.”

“I never said I’d tell you what children I had, or that I wouldn’t take back the ones you didn’t bargain for. The children you won fairly are yours, the others are mine if I want them.” He smiled. I shuddered. There were things in that smile I never wanted to know the names for. “Of course, we could always make another bargain. I enjoyed our last one.”

“What do you want?” I asked. “You can’t keep me here. I have the Luidaeg’s blessing.”

“Oh, I know. My subjects were—enthusiastic—in bringing you. I apologize.” I somehow doubted anyone was going to be punished for their enthusiasm. “As long as you hold my sister’s candle, you may leave at any time. But.”