Fearless (Mirrorworld) - By Cornelia Funke Page 0,82

into his blade; he drew bloody lines on Jacob’s skin, sketching his death before he’d fill it in with red. And the pitcher filled with white fear – more lifetime for the Bluebeard.

Fox had often watched Jacob fight, but never against such an adversary. It only dawned on her slowly that he was Troisclerq’s equal – and he wanted to kill the Bluebeard. Never before had Fox seen that desire so clearly on Jacob’s face.

The rapiers snagged on silky robes; they slashed through the golden chains and dead flesh. The two men were breathing heavily. Their wheezes and the silence of the dead . . . Fox knew both would stay with her until the end of her life. If she’d have a life. She tried to free herself so desperately, blood streaming down her arms, and she screamed when Troisclerq’s blade nearly pierced Jacob’s throat. So much fear. She closed her eyes, trying not to choke on it. But the next scream did not come from Jacob.

Troisclerq pressed his hand against his slashed knee. ‘That was dirty,’ Fox heard him gasp. ‘Where did you learn that?’

‘In another world,’ Jacob replied.

Troisclerq stabbed at his chest, but Jacob slashed his blade through the other knee, and as Troisclerq collapsed, Jacob rammed his blade so deep between the Bluebeard’s ribs that the thrust was only halted by the hilt of the sword. Troisclerq cowered on the floor, spitting his own blood on his chest. Jacob dropped to his knees and pulled the key from the Bluebeard’s pocket.

It is over, Fox.

Troisclerq reached out with his bloody hand and grabbed Jacob’s arm.

‘I’ll see you,’ he whispered.

His hand didn’t let go, but his eyes went as blank as his victims’. Jacob pried the fingers from his arm. Then he staggered to his feet and dropped the rapier. The blood on the blade was black.

His hand trembled as he unlocked the chains around Fox’s throat and arms with the Bluebeard’s key. Then he held the pitcher to her lips.

‘Drink!’ he whispered. ‘Forget about him. Drink as much as you can. It will be all right.’

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

TOO LATE

A Bluebeard’s house. Of course. At least now some of Louis’s ramblings had made sense. White as milk. Not clear enough? Nerron cursed his own thick-wittedness as he caught a glimpse of the withered hedgerows and the stag standing forlornly in front of the unlit house. He ran off before the bloodhounds could get him.

The Bluebeard was laid out in his red chamber, surrounded by nine women. They lay next to their murderer as though they were sleeping. Lelou threw up in the corridor. The Bug had a sensitive stomach when confronted with death. Even Eaumbre looked rather distraught at the row of beautiful corpses, but then he quickly went off in search of the Bluebeard’s treasure chamber. Watermen at least kept their girls alive – though some would probably prefer death over a life in a pond.

Black like a piece of night set in gold. You’re a fool, Nerron. Louis had told him everything he’d wanted to know. Wherever the heart had been hidden in this horrible place, Reckless had found it. Nerron would have bet the head and the hand on that. Just as he was certain the blood in the entrance hall was not that of his rival.

They found some thoroughly wiped tracks in the driveway, but making yourself invisible wasn’t easy when you were transporting an injured man. And it slowed you down.

They’d catch up with them soon enough.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

TWO CUPS

The house, which Fox had found in a dark pine forest barely two miles from Champlitte, smelled neither of cinnamon nor of molten sugar. There also were no gingerbreads on the walls – and you didn’t need a fur dress to scent the dark magic wafting around the house like a bad smell. Jacob would have preferred a Witch like Alma, but Donnersmarck was as good as dead, and child-eaters could heal even the most terrible wounds. It was just best not to ask what went into their potions.

The woman who opened the door was very beautiful and very young. Most Dark Witches showed themselves in that form even if they were hundreds of years old. Jacob and Fox put Donnersmarck on her kitchen table so she could inspect his wounds. The nails on her fingers were so long and sharp, they made Jacob grateful his friend was already unconscious. Donnersmarck was paying a high price for helping him, and Jacob was not just worried about