BreadCrumb Trail (The Yellow Hoods, #2): Steampunk meets Fairy Tale (10 page)

Saul continued, “We thought you’d like it. You can stay here if you like.”

“I bet she’s going to complain it has no walls,” said Hans.

“And no roof,” said Gretel, giggling.

Hans laughed. “Some people are so picky.” The trio went on with their banter.

Mounira looked at the ground, shaking with rage at having been tricked. Her body was numb, except for the pain from the stump. The pain reminded her that she wasn’t asleep, that she wasn’t going to awaken shortly from the nightmare, that this was real.

Then it dawned on Mounira that she was likely going to die in the middle of this snowy, red forest, and her rage collapsed into fear. Her lip started to tremble, and tears rolled down. “
Why
are you doing this?” she said, her voice breaking. “Show yourselves! Look in my eyes and tell me!”

At the edge of the clearing, three red-hooded figures stepped into view. They wore matching red cloaks.

The red figure on the left leaned against a tree. “We thought we should have some fun. We tracked you for a while, and thought you’d be fun. I have to say, you have been, Lefty,” said Hans.

The figure on the right turned around. “I’m getting cold. I think it’s time we go,” said Saul, bored.

“Just before we go,” said Gretel, the middle figure and shorter than the other two, “let me leave her a
present
.”

“Breadcrumbs?” asked Saul.

“Oh, better than that. She’d freeze to death before she could follow,” said Gretel.

“What are you doing, now?” asked Hans, curious.

Gretel held her hands apart so Mounira could see. “Here is some flint and steel. Seen them before? I don’t know if you southerners have such things, so let me explain. You just need to hold the flint—this part here—in
one
hand, and then strike down with the steel part—this piece here—in
another
hand… like this.” Gretel made sparks appear. “Make sure the sparks land on some
dry
leaves. Then,
voilà
, you have a nice warm fire.”

“Oh, that’s vicious, Gretel! She only has one arm!” said Hans, bursting into laughter. “And dry leaves? Ha!”

Gretel chuckled. “I’m going to leave these here for you.” Gretel dropped the flint and steel in the snow. “Come on, boys. Mother’s probably wondering where we are.”

Saul looked at Mounira, nearly frozen. She was just a kid, while they were twenty years old. They’d never led someone into the forest to die before. At first, he’d thought maybe Hans was right, that it would be fun. But looking at Hans and Gretel’s faces, and looking at Mounira, he felt strange inside—unsettled.

A moment later, the trio had vanished.

Mounira screamed as she ran to where Gretel had dropped the items, falling twice. She couldn’t feel her feet to balance herself properly. She frantically hunted for the flint and steel with her numb hand. Her tears nearly froze her eyelashes shut.

“I’m stronger than you imagine,” she said to herself, borrowing a phrase from her mother’s favorite book. “I am a
titan
. I will take the fear you have given me and make it the sword from which I will have victory.” Her teeth chattered furiously.

She felt around in the snow with her ever-more-numb hand. Despair crept in. “Where is it?!” she yelled. Snow blew around as she frantically searched.

“Mama, help—
please
. Don’t let me die here,” she said. Then, her hand hit something solid.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Grooming the Hound

The corridor was silent as the Hound stopped to look at a particular painting he hadn’t noticed before. He looked at the oil lamps; he’d never seen them all lit before. Studying the painting, he quickly recognized one of the three men as a younger Simon St. Malo, perhaps age twenty. A shorter, dark-bearded man, likely in his thirties, stood with his back to Simon. An older, clean-shaven man stood behind them, slightly elevated, arms behind his back. There was both a sense of camaraderie, and tension among the figures.

The Hound looked for a nameplate at the bottom of the frame but was surprised there wasn’t one. He glanced at the other paintings in the corridor, all of which had nameplates. Just as he was about to leave, a glint of gold from the top of the painting caught his eye.

After checking that no one was coming, the Hound carefully lifted the painting off and leaned it against the wall. He read the top nameplate and then wondered aloud, “Why are you called
Faces of the new Fare
? What’s a
Fare
?” He studied the painting for another minute, but found no better clue.

After carefully placing the painting back on the wall, he continued his walk to the gold-trimmed double doors that sealed off Simon St. Malo’s study. The Hound’s boots picked up the same rhythm he’d had since the first time he’d walked down this corridor, months before.

Standing at the huge doors, his stomach tightened, as it always did. He knocked on the door. An old, bald, sickly-looking man opened it. Cleeves was wearing his usual dark green and brown outfit with frills, which seemed more and more out of place compared to how those around Simon had been dressing recently.

“Greetings, Cleeves,” said the Hound. He’d never had a conversation with the old man, but always did his best to show him respect. He still had no idea how the man might fit into the grand scheme of things.

Cleeves looked him up and down, as he always did. It was remarkable to Cleeves how different the Hound looked and behaved now, compared with his unsightly first appearance. He liked the Hound better than he had LeLoup, but he kept that opinion to himself.

“Would you care for tea and biscuits today, Mister Hound?” asked Cleeves drily.

“Yes, thank you, I would appreciate that,” replied the Hound.

Cleeves gave a look that showed he didn’t care for the over-the-top manners. He moved out of the way to let the Hound enter. “Mister—”, he started to announce.

“I am aware he’s here, Cleeves, thank you,” snapped Simon, shaking his head. He was halfway up a ladder attached to one of the many thirty-foot-high floor-to-ceiling bookcases. “Do you think me deaf? Really, Cleeves, sometimes I wonder why I keep you.”

“Tea, sir?” asked Cleeves to Simon, ignoring the attack.

“Of course, tea. What a silly question. Have I ever said no?” asked Simon. He returned to hunting for a particular book. “Come in, Hound. Don’t leave the door open like that. You might let a stray animal or commoner in here if you aren’t careful.”

The Hound stepped in and tried to imagine how a commoner could get through the guards and checkpoints that led up to the study’s entrance, let alone the mini-castle that surrounded. Simon’s patron was as paranoid about security as Simon was.

Looking at the ceiling, the Hound noticed skylights had been added, and the enormous chandelier removed.

“You noticed the natural light,” said Simon, climbing down the ladder with two books under his left arm. He wore a beige shirt and maroon pants, which the Hound was surprised to see. Simon’s salt-and-pepper hair was short and brushed, and he remained as clean-shaven as ever.

Simon offered a half-smile. “If you’re wondering about the modern clothing and my lack of scholarly robes, you can thank Richelle Pieman and her minions. They believe—and they aren’t wrong—that we need to project a more modern presence on all fronts. After seeing everyone else adopt it, I decided to give it a try.”

The Hound, unsure what to say, offered, “It looks… comfortable.”

Simon looked down at his pants and black boots. For a moment, Simon sounded like a regular, down-to-earth guy. “Remarkably, it is. Lighter too. I hated pantaloons, which is why, as much as possible, I wore the robes. These are, honestly, an improvement. I don’t like agreeing with Richelle, but on this front, I think she’s right.” Realizing he had said something that might make him seem weak, Simon corrected himself sharply, “I know she’s right. It’s obvious, and once I was brought into the discussion, I whole-heartedly agreed. However, I think everyone can agree that fashion is not on the same level of importance as my work.”

The Hound nodded, not because he agreed, but because he feared the consequences of not doing so. St. Malo had been good to him since the beginning, but he’d heard stories about what happened to people who got on St. Malo’s bad side—supposedly an easy thing to do.

“Come,” said Simon, walking through a labyrinth of recently rearranged eight-foot-high bookcases that divided up the otherwise enormous room. The Hound was sure St. Malo enjoyed being one of the few who knew the way through.

A moment later, they emerged to a newly set-up area. There were two dark wooden worktables covered with neatly stacked papers and brass tubes. Nearby stood a pair of comfortable chairs with crimson and blue cushions, and side tables. The fireplace was about twenty feet back, near an ornate door the Hound hadn’t noticed before.

Simon turned up one of the freestanding oil lamps near the seating area and motioned for the Hound to sit. As soon as they were seated, Cleeves arrived with the teacart, poured the tea, and then disappeared again.

Tea in hand, Simon looked at the Hound, and waited. The Hound was familiar with Simon’s deliberately awkward pauses, which he used to create tension. It no longer bothered the Hound as much.

“How are you, Hound?” asked Simon, seeming genuine.

The Hound was taken aback. This was the first time Simon hadn’t addressed him as “dog” or else hurled some other similar insult to remind him of his place in Simon’s hierarchy.

“I’m… well,” replied a suspicious Hound, picking up his own cup of tea.

Simon took a slow sip of tea, cradling his cup. “I’m glad. Your recent successes have not gone unnoticed. Someone of importance wants to speak with you. You should feel honored.”

“Thank you. If I may ask, who is it?”

Simon’s grin was both sinister and joyful. “Have you ever heard of Lord Marcus Pieman? Perhaps you’ve heard of the society known as the Fare?” Simon’s grin widened.

The Hound thought back to the painting. When he’d read the golden nameplate, he hadn’t recognized it, but now that Simon said it, he knew the name. There were stories and rumors about a group called the Fare, a group who had nearly taken control of every kingdom this side of the eastern mountains long ago. “The new Fare painting,” said the Hound.

Simon nodded. “Let me guess—you have heard of it as the enemy of the Tub, as something that faded away a long, long time ago. All of which is true, save the faded away part. Lord Marcus Pieman rebuilt it. That painting you saw was commissioned shortly after I joined.”

“Why does the leader of the Fare want to talk to me?” asked the Hound nervously.

Simon put his cup gently down on the saucer sitting on the side table. He then leaned forward. “There is
one
thing you must understand,” he whispered, sharply and crisply, “whatever Marcus is going to talk to you about, you work for
me
, now and always. You are an extension of
me
. What you do, what you hear—all of it needs to get back to
me
, regardless of what you are told. Understand?”

The Hound looked at his patron and nodded briefly.

Simon smiled and leaned back. “Then, by all means, have the chat with Marcus. I’m sure he’ll be talking to you about fitting into our little secret society. Oh, and in case it isn’t obvious, mention it to
anyone
—”

The Hound politely waved off Simon’s concern.

“Good.” Just as Simon reached for his cup of tea, he stopped himself. “Oh—I have something to show you! Come,” said Simon joyfully. His ability to shift moods quickly was dizzying.

Simon led the Hound to the ornate door by the fireplace. The door was twelve feet high and its mesmerizing carvings made it seem like it was a door within a door within a door. It opened to a bright room that had a large desk at the far end, a seating area by yet another fireplace, and a single workbench. Something was on the workbench.

Simon walked over to the workbench and picked up two oversized, metallic, gear-covered gloves. The gloves were directly connected to two control boxes with dials, which in turn were connected to a large, strange-looking rectangular metal box. The metal box was smooth at the edges and sealed.

“What is all of this?” asked the Hound.

“
These
,” said Simon proudly, “are my
shock-gloves
—superior in every way to that toy you first brought. I took apart the shocking stick, and I’ll confess it was well made—for a toy. But it inspired me, and I came up with these.

“You wear the gloves, attach the control boxes to your forearms, and wear the battery unit on your back. It’s heavy, but the power is immense. My initial experiments were exceptionally positive. I will admit the battery is based on one of Marcus’ designs. I am an electromechanical genius, while Lord Pieman understands chemistry like few others.”

“I don’t see any cranks,” said the Hound, looking the invention over with fascination.

“They don’t have any,” said Simon, almost insulted. “One cannot crank enough to produce the necessary power. That’s why I built a wagon, to allow for one to charge these anywhere. Unlike the sticks, which can only be used once per charge,
these
allow more uses, depending on how high you set the dials, right here on the control boxes.” Simon pointed out the dials.

The Hound picked up and examined one of the strange metal gloves. He was amazed. “You made
these
, from that stick? Wow.” The gloves looked intimidating, and he liked that—a lot. “These are thick,” he remarked.

Simon grinned. “Ah, yes. I wanted to ensure they wouldn’t electrocute the wearer, if used in bad weather. And—”

“Electro…?”

“
Electrocute
means to shock,” Simon snapped, annoyed at having been interrupted. “I don’t want the wearer of the gloves to get shocked if a little water gets on them.” Simon resisted his urge to kick the Hound out and not waste any more time with him.

“Oh, that’s smart,” said the Hound, apologetically.