“Your sarcasm isn’t helping, Trifecta.” He took two steps to the side and thrust the axe into the wall. Just like the window, the blade clanged without causing a depression. Not even a blemish appeared in the plaster. He growled this time and spit out a litany of Faeli curse words.
“Is there a back door? Or a window in the basement?”
“No.”
My hands glided off my hips. “So, how are we supposed to get out?”
“Maybe we’re not.”
That sent a chill through me. Not even the prospect of running water and working electricity made our predicament comforting. I sucked in a breath and found it lacking in oxygen, although that was probably my imagination.
“Maybe we just can’t use a weapon made of wita. Maybe there’s a knife in the kitchen—”
“You even having wita is a fluke, prinsisa. A fortunate one, but still a fluke. Trust me, when our grandfathers designed this place, they didn’t take into account that Huntresses able to wield confiscated dust would be sojourning in their prison.”
“I’m still going to try.” I walked past Remo and out the door, then dashed down the stairs, skidding twice but catching myself on the handrail. I flicked on every light in the kitchen, then jostled open the drawers and flung open cupboards in search of knives or pans. I’d even have settled for a whisk at this point. I found nothing. Except for the bowl I’d filled earlier. Before emptying it out, I twisted the tap to make sure the pipes hadn’t dried. The spout hissed and ejected a single drop of water, then nothing.
Well . . . crap.
There was a bar in the restaurant, which meant there were glasses. I was about to head out to grab some when I spotted the pie in the middle of the island. I glared at the steam curling off the top, sweet stupid steam that shouldn’t be curling off the pastry anymore. Animated with a violent desire to dump it on the tiles and stomp all over it, I dragged the pan toward me, singeing my fingertips on the warmed metal—again.
“Are you really going to eat at a time like this?” The door flapped closed behind Remo.
I narrowed my eyes at him, and then zeroed in on the axe dangling from his fingers. My axe. I crossed the kitchen, grabbed it, then cleaved the taunting dessert in half, pan, filling, and all. The slimy peach slices slithered off the edge of my blade and dropped onto the floor like slugs.
“There isn’t a freaking knife in this entire kitchen.” My words came out calm as a gathering storm.
Remo stared between the mess and my rage-flushed face. “Well, you didn’t have to portion it out; I’m not much of a pie person.”
A chuckle fled out of me. A slightly crazed chuckle. “By the way, the pipes are dry, so that bowl contains all the water we have left.”
Remo’s eyes widened a notch.
I recalled my dust. The axe crumbled like chalk, then flickered like starlight, before turning liquid and flowing back into my palm.
He opened his mouth to speak just as something began to beep.
“Do you hear that?” I was hoping he didn’t.
He nodded, jaw flexing.
Beeping never heralded good things, although why was I still expecting anything good to happen in the Scourge? The pie and soapy bath had been flukes. As I shuffled toward the door, the globs of peach and smashed crust flickered as though made of dust, except they couldn’t be, since food made of wita was inedible. And then the divvied pan scraped across the island and welded back together.
“Remo,” I murmured as a new crust materialized, puffy and steaming. I swallowed saliva that felt as thick and slimy as the syrupy fruit. “To think I ate some earlier. What if it’s making pie babies inside my stomach?” I blanched and peered down at my stomach, half expecting to find it bloating outward. It was flat, but that didn’t mean the pie wasn’t preparing to do damage.
“How do you feel?”
I looked up to find Remo’s gaze locked on my abdomen. “Like my sweet tooth might end up killing me if whatever’s beeping doesn’t.” I didn’t eat quite as many chocolates as I used to, but if a box happened to find its way into my room, it never found its way out.
Remo’s tensed lips quirked up.
Nothing like humor to deflect tension. That was Iba’s mantra. How I missed him. Nothing bad ever touched me when he was around. My