“Looking for someone?” Maleficent asked, raising a single elegant brow.
He flushed. “I saw her leave with the count. She seemed upset. And I don’t trust Alain.”
“I will tell Aurora of your concern for her well-being when I find her,” Maleficent informed him, moving past.
“I’ll tell her myself,” he returned. “I know the castle better than you do. You’re not going to find her without me.”
“I have watched over her since she was a child,” Maleficent reminded him.
“You cursed her!” he snapped.
Maleficent lifted her hand, pointing a finger at him. Her nostrils flared. “And I am about to curse you!”
Prince Phillip took a deep breath. “Let me come with you,” he said quietly. “Please. The last time I saw her, I upset her, and I just want things to be right between us again.”
Maleficent softened. “Very well. Come. But only because I do not want to spend more time in pointless argument.” With those words, she began to climb the stairs, leaving Diaval to follow her, and Prince Phillip to trail behind.
I don’t trust Alain, he’d said. Maleficent didn’t, either, but now she was beginning to have more specific fears. What if the count intended to abduct Aurora?
At the top of the stairs was a single tiny white flower, the kind that had been braided into the girl’s hair. For a moment, Maleficent held it cupped in her palm.
“Count Alain’s rooms are nearby,” Phillip said. “The third door on the left. But I can’t think why she would come here with him.”
Maleficent thought of the spindle Aurora had once pricked her finger on. She thought of all the dangers that could not be anticipated.
She swept down the hall, Prince Phillip and Diaval on her heels.
At the door, she did not bother to check if it was locked but magicked it open in a swirl of golden sparkles. Inside the room were soldiers, ten of them at least, heavily armed. They rushed toward her.
But before she could react, an iron net fell over her from the ceiling. Pain raced through her, along with a terrible helplessness. She screamed in horror, but also with the memory of another iron net—one she knew had been destroyed.
Diaval was pulling on the net, attempting to lift it off her.
She tried to turn even as the iron scorched her skin. It glowed red where it touched her.
“Phillip, run!” Maleficent called to him. He had to get away. He had to find Aurora.
But more men-at-arms were coming up the stairs, blocking his way. She recognized one of them from the hunt. Count Alain’s man.
Phillip’s gaze met hers. She could see in his face that he knew just how much trouble they were in. He grabbed for a sword mounted on the wall. You’re a fool, she thought, but a brave fool.
Reaching her hand through the net, she caught hold of Diaval’s arm. There was only one thing she could think to do, and she hoped she had the magic for it. “Into a raven,” she said with a swirl of glittering gold from her fingers. “Watch over her. Warn her!”
A moment later, Diaval was gone and in his place was a black bird, his feathers gleaming. Maleficent felt queasy with exhaustion, but she’d managed it. She’d changed him. Diaval the raven cawed and flew from the landing, past soldiers who tried to grab or swung at him.
In horror, Maleficent watched as one of the blades caught the edge of his body and knocked him from the air.
Rough hands grabbed hold of his flapping wings.
A clang of metal brought her thoughts back to where she stood. Three soldiers were trading blows with Prince Phillip. Back and forth they sallied along the narrow hall. She tried to struggle free of the net with renewed fear.
But then someone clasped her from behind and brought a rag to her face. There was a horrible sweet scent on it, the same smell that had wafted off the drink Stefan gave her on the single worst night of her life. She felt lightheaded with panic. She threw her head back, knocking her horns against the soldier behind her. They both crashed to the floor.
She crawled away from him, dragging the net with her. More arms grabbed her from behind, pushing her to the ground. The heady smell of poison intensified, and along with it came a vast dizziness.
She felt herself slipping. She looked up at Phillip just in time to see a soldier’s blade pierce his side.
Chapter 21
For most of his life, Diaval had been a raven. He’d lived in a community of perhaps several hundred on the outskirts of the Moors, roosting in trees, hunting for food, and jousting in the air to show his daring.
He’d been a good thief. He had stolen fruit from the orchards of humans, earthworms from the beaks of his brothers and sisters, and carrion from wolves. He remembered the thrill of it.
And he remembered the terror of being turned into a man. A farmer had been about to kill him. The transformation had saved his life, but he no longer felt as though his life was his own. Not only did he owe an impossible-to-repay debt to the faerie standing before him with the curving horns and cold eyes, but his whole self was changed.
He hated being human, but once he was, he knew emotions he hadn’t known before—regret and contempt, jealousy and empathy. And he had words, which changed how he saw everything, including himself.
Then she turned him into a horse, which was distasteful, but he couldn’t forget the power of that body. That changed him, too. His mind had been simpler than that of a raven, more driven by instinct. And his instinct had been to protect his mistress.
Then she turned him into a dragon, which was powerful beyond all things. It woke an ancient hunger in him and a rage big enough to devour the world—and half the beings in it. Ever after, even when he was a raven again, he couldn’t forget that feeling. He felt bigger than his skin.
But what changed Diaval most of all was being by Maleficent’s side. He’d learned to care for her and Aurora, whom he’d adored since she was a fledgling floundering around outside her nest. Though he’d begun his service in awe, he now stayed by Maleficent’s side because there was nowhere else he would rather be.
He thought of all that as he felt a wagon lurch around him. He’d been thrown into a burlap sack, as though he were some game bird caught during a hunt.
His beak was sharp enough to wear through the cloth, so he started on that, rubbing it against the ground. It was slow work, but there was nothing else for it. He dared not move his wings to make sure they were unhurt, for fear one of the soldiers would see. He had to be patient.
Eventually, he wore a small tear in the fabric. Worming his beak through, he opened his mouth and tore the hole wider. Finally, he was able to get his head out. Then, with some ripping and wriggling, he was free. Diaval found himself in a covered cart with a back that was entirely open. Several soldiers sat on either side, their weapons pointed at two bodies on the floor. Bags were over both their heads, and Maleficent was wrapped in heavy chains.
He wanted to save her, but what could he do? If he tried to peck out their eyes, they would likely recapture him or kill him. And he couldn’t manage to blind more than two.
I expect you not to fail me.
Well, he didn’t intend to. He would go and find Aurora, and together they would save Maleficent.
With that in mind, he sprang up from the floor of the cart and hoped his wings weren’t damaged, hoped they could carry him into the air. And when they did, he gloried in the shouts of the soldiers below. They would see him again—and hopefully when they did, Maleficent would turn him into a dragon and they would know what it was like to run from his fire.