"Run!" I shout.
We bolt for the door, our shoes clacking across the broken mosaic floor. But it is not enough to drown out the hideous screeching, growls, and barks.
"Go, go!" I scream.
"Look!" Felicity shouts.
The darkness of the vestibule is moving. Whatever was above us has gotten to the door before us, trapping us here. The keening dies down to a low, guttural chant."Poppets, poppets, poppets . . ."
They step from the shadows, half a dozen or so of the most grotesque creatures I have ever seen. Dressed to the very last one in tattered, filthy white robes over ancient chain mail and sharp, steel-toed boots. Some have long, matted hair that trails over their shoulders. Others have shaved their heads bald, the cuts still fresh and bloody. One fearsome soul has but one long strip of hair in the center of his head, running from forehead to collar. His arms are ringed in bangles, and about his neck is a necklace made of finger bones. This one, the leader, steps forward.
"Hello, poppet." he says, smiling hideously.
He offers his hand. His fingernails have been painted black. There are deep black lines inked up his sine"Y arms, thorny stems weeping tears of pitch. They end above his elbow, where fat red flowers bloom in a band around his arm. Poppies.
Nell's words swim back to me: Beware the Poppy Warriors.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE SHADOWS MOVE. THERE ARE MORE OF THEM. Many more. Far above us, they perch on railings and rafters like a flock of gargoyles. One dangles a mace on its chain, swinging it back and forth like a pendulum. I am afraid to look at the man in front of me, but at last I do, into eyes that are rimmed by black kohl in a diamond shape. It is like looking into a living Harlequin mask.
My throat's gone dry. I can barely stutter out a greeting. "H-how do you do?"
"How do we do what, poppet?"
The others laugh at this, a sound that gives me chills.
He steps forward, closer. He's got a crude sword that he uses like a walking stick, his hand clenched about the handle. Every finger wears a ring.
"We're sorry to have intruded . . ." My mouth is too dry. No other words come.
"We're lost," Felicity croaks.
"Aren't we all, poppet? Aren't we all. My name is Azreal. I am a knight of the poppy, as are we all. Ah, but you haven't told us your names, fair ladies."
We say nothing.