Untamed (House of Night, Book 4): A House of Night Novel

by P. C. Cast

  “Oh, please. You aren’t what I’d call swishy and fluttery.”

  “Well, I’m not, but Jack is.”

  We laughed. I was considering arguing with him about the whole Zoey-has-to-have-an-escort issue when the crow started cawing. Actually, now that I was wide awake and listening, the cawing seemed more like weird croaking, but it wasn’t any less annoying.

  No, maybe annoying wasn’t the right word for the sound. Creepy. Creepy was exactly the right word for the sound.

  “You hear that, don’t you?” I said.

  “The raven? Yeah.”

  “Raven? I thought it was a crow.”

  “No, I don’t think so. If I remember correctly, crows caw, but a raven’s cry is more like the croaking of toads.” Damien paused, and the bird croaked a few more times. It sounded closer, and its ugly voice caused goose bumps to rise on my arms. “Yep, that’s definitely a raven.”

  “I don’t like it. And why is it being so noisy? It’s winter—it couldn’t be mating, could it? Plus, it’s night. Shouldn’t it be asleep?” I peered out into the darkness as I spoke, but didn’t see any of the stupid noisy birds, which wasn’t so unusual. I mean, they’re black and it is night. But that one raven seemed to fill the sky around me, and something about its abrasive call made my skin shiver.

  “I really don’t know very much about their habits.” Damien paused, looked carefully at me. “Why is it bothering you so much?”

  “I heard wings flapping before, when whatever it was came at me. And it just feels creepy. Don’t you feel it?”

  “I don’t.”

  I sighed and thought he was going to tell me that maybe I needed to get a handle on my stress and my imagination, but he surprised me by saying, “But you’re more intuitive than I am. So if you say the bird feels wrong, I believe you.”

  “You do?” We were at the steps of the stable, and I stopped and turned to him.

  His smile was full of familiar warmth. “Of course I do. I believe in you, Zoey.”

  “Still?” I said.

  “Still,” he said firmly. “And I’ve got your back.”

  And just like that, the raven stopped croaking and the shivery creepiness I’d been feeling seemed to drift away with it.

  I had to clear my throat and blink hard before I could manage to say, “Thanks, Damien.”

  Then Nala’s grumpy old woman cat voice “mee-uf-owed” at me as my fat little orange cat padded out of the darkness to twine herself around Damien’s legs.

  “Hey there, little girl,” he said, giving her a scratch under her chin. “Looks like she’s here to take over the watch Zoey duty.”

  “Yep, I think you’ve definitely been relieved,” I said.

  “If you need me when you want to come back, just give me a call. I really don’t mind,” he said as he hugged me tight.

  “Thanks,” I said again.

  “No problem, Z.” He smiled at me once more and then, humming “Seasons of Love” from Rent, he disappeared back down the sidewalk.

  I was still smiling when I opened the side door that led to the hallway that divided the field house and the stables. Mixed with the sweet hay and horse smell that was already wafting from the stable on my right, and the relief of knowing my friends really weren’t pissed at me anymore, I could already feel myself beginning to relax. Stress—jeesh! I really needed to do some yoga or whatnot (probably more whatnot than yoga). If I kept up this tension, I’d more than likely develop an ulcer. Or worse, wrinkles.

  I was just turning to my right and had my hand on the stable door when I heard a weird thwap! followed by a muffled thud. The noises were coming from my left. I glanced to the side and saw that the door to the field house was open. Another thwap! thud pricked at my curiosity, and as per typical for me, instead of showing some sense and going on into the stable as I’d meant to, I walked into the field house.

  Okay, the field house is basically an inside football field that’s not a football field but just the field part with a track around it. Inside it kids play soccer and do track stuff. (I’m really not into either, but I do know how the place works in theory.) It’s covered so that fledglings don’t have to deal with the whole sun issue, and lit along the walls by gaslights that don’t bug our eyes. Tonight most of those were unlit, so it was the next thwap! sound and not my eyesight that drew my attention to the other side of the field.

  Stark was standing there with his back to me, bow in hand, facing one of those round bull’s-eye targets that have the different colors for different target areas. The red center of this particular target had been hit with a weirdly fat arrow. I squinted, but couldn’t see it very well in the dim light, and the target really was way away from where Stark was standing, which meant it was way, way away from where I was standing.

  Nala gave a little low growl, and I noticed that the blond pile of stuff beside Stark was Duchess all sprawled out, apparently asleep at his feet.

  “So much for her being a watchdog,” I whispered to Nala.

  Stark dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, like he was wiping sweat off his face and rolled his shoulders, loosening them. Even from this distance, he looked confident and strong. He seemed so much more intense than the other guys at the House of Night. Hell, he was more intense than human teenagers in general, and I couldn’t help but find that intriguing. I was standing there, trying to figure out a hot-guy scale comparison for him, when he grabbed another arrow from the quiver by his feet, turned sideways, lifted the bow, and in one blurringly fast motion, released a breath and thwap! let loose another arrow, which sailed like a bullet directly to the bull’s-eye of the distant target. Thud!

  With a surprised little gasp, I realized why the arrow in the center of the target looked so weirdly big. It wasn’t just one arrow. It was a bunch of arrows that had hit one right over the top of each other. Every single arrow he’d shot had gone to the same center spot on the target. Utterly shocked, my eyes went back to Stark, who was still in his archer’s stance. And I realized what hot-guy scale he should be on: the Bad Boy Hot Scale.

  Ah, oh. Like I needed to think a bad boy was intriguing? Hell, I didn’t need to think any kind of boy was intriguing right now. I’d sworn off guys. Totally. I was just starting to turn around so I could tiptoe out when his voice stopped me.

  “I know you’re there,” Stark said without looking at me.

  As if that had been her cue, Duchess got to her feet, yawned, and padded happily over to me, tail wagging while she gave me a doggie “hi” woof. Nala arched her back, but didn’t spit or hiss, and she actually allowed the Lab to sniff her a little before the cat sneezed squarely in her face.

  “Hi,” I said to both of them while I ruffled Duchess’s ears.

  Stark turned to me. He was wearing his cocky almost-smile. I was beginning to understand that expression was probably his norm. I did notice he looked paler than he had at dinner. Being the new kid was hard, and it tended to wear on you—even if you were a hot bad boy.

  “I was just going to the stables and I heard something in here. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  He shrugged and started to say something, and then had to stop and clear his throat, like he hadn’t talked for a long time. He gave a hoarse little half cough and finally said, “No problem. Actually I’m glad you’re here. Saves me from having to find you.”

  “Oh, do you need something for Duchess?”

  “Nah, she’s fine. I brought a bunch of her stuff with me. Actually I wanted to talk to you.”

  No. I was absolutely not insanely curious or flattered by his saying he wanted to talk to me. Very calmly and with total nonchalance, I said, “So, what do you want?”

  Instead of answering, he asked me a question. “Do those special Marks of yours mean that you really have an affinity for all five of the elements?”

  “Yeah,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. I really hated to be questioned about my gifts by new kids. They tended to either hero-worship me or treat
me like I was a bomb that might explode all over them at any instant. Either way it was majorly uncomfortable and definitely not flattering or intriguing.

  “There was a priestess at my old House of Night in Chicago who had an affinity for fire. She could actually make things burn. Can you use the five elements like that?”

  “I can’t make water burn or anything bizarre like that.” I avoided answering him directly.

  He frowned and shook his head, wiping his hand across his brow again. I tried not to notice that he was kinda sexily sweating. “I’m not asking if you can twist the elements. I just need to know if you’re powerful enough to control them.”

  That jerked my attention from his cuteness. “Okay, look. I know you’re new, but that’s really not your business.”

  “Which means you must be pretty powerful.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Again, not your business. If you need me for something that is your business, like asking me about dog supplies, come find me. Other than that, I’m out of here.”

  “Wait.” He took a step toward me. “It sounds like I’m being a smart-ass, but I have a good reason for asking you about this.”

  He’d lost his sarcastic semi-smile, and the look he was giving me wasn’t an obsessive let’s-see-how-weird-Zoey-really-is expression. He looked like a cute, pale new kid who seriously needed to know something.

  “Fine. Yes. I’m pretty powerful.”

  “And you can really control the elements. Like if something bad happened, you could get them to protect you or the people you care about?”

  “Okay, that’s it,” I said. “Are you threatening me and my friends?”

  “Oh, shit no!” he said quickly, holding up one of his hands, palm out, like he was surrendering. Of course, it was hard not to notice that in his other hand, he still held the bow he’d been thunking arrows straight into the bull’s-eye with. He saw my eyes glance at the bow and slowly he bent to set it on the ground at his feet. “I’m not threatening anyone. I’m just bad at explaining. Here’s the deal—I want you to know about my gift.”

  He said the word gift so uncomfortably that I raised my brows and repeated it. “Gift?”

  “That’s what it’s called, or at least that’s what other people call it. It’s why I’m so good with that.” He jerked his chin toward the bow lying at his feet.

  I didn’t say anything, but raised my brows at him as I waited (impatiently) for him to continue.

  “My gift is I can’t miss,” he finally said.

  “You can’t miss? So what? Why would that have anything to do with me or my affinity with the elements?”

  He shook his head again. “You don’t get it. I always hit my target, but that doesn’t mean my target is always what I aim at.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Stark.”

  “I know, I know. I told you I’m no good at this.” He ran his hand backwards through his hair, which made it puff up like a duck’s tail. “The best way I can say this is to give you an example. Have you ever heard of the vampyre William Chidsey?”

  I shook my head. “Nope, but that shouldn’t shock you. I’ve only been Marked for a few months. I’m not exactly up on vampyre politics.”

  “Will wasn’t into politics. He was into archery. For almost two hundred years, he was the undisputed archery champion of all the vampyres.”

  “Which means of all the world, because vamps are the best archers there are,” I said.

  “Yeah.” he nodded. “Anyway, Will kicked everyone’s ass for almost two centuries. At least up until six months ago he did.”

  I thought for a second. “Six months ago would make it summer. That’s when they have the vamp version of the Olympics, right?”

  “Yeah, they call them the Summer Games.”

  “Okay, so this Will guy is majorly good with a bow. Seems you are, too. Do you know him pretty well?”

  “Knew. He’s dead. But yeah. I knew him pretty well.” Stark paused and then added. “He was my mentor and my best friend.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said awkwardly.

  “So am I. I’m the one who killed him.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Did you just say you killed him?” I was sure I’d heard him wrong.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. I did it because of my gift.” Stark’s voice sounded cool, like what he’d said was no big deal, but his eyes said something else. The pain in them was so obvious that I had to look away. As if that pain was just as obvious to Duchess, the Lab trotted from me to her master and sat at his side, leaning heavily against him, staring up at him adoringly, and whining softly. Automatically, Stark reached down and stroked her soft head as he talked. “It happened during the Summer Games. It was right before the finals. Will and I were way in the lead, so it was for sure that the gold and silver medals were going to go to us.” He didn’t look as me while he talked. Instead he stared down at his bow, and his hand kept stroking Duchess’s head. Weirdly enough, Nala crept quietly up to him and began rubbing herself against his leg (the one Duchess wasn’t leaning on) while she purred like a lawn mower. Stark just kept talking. “We were warming up in the practice lanes. They were these long, thin areas sectioned off by white linen dividers. Will was standing to my right. I remember drawing my bow and being more focused than I’d ever been in my life. I really wanted to win.” He paused again, and shook his head. His mouth twisted in self-mockery. “That was what mattered most to me. The gold medal. So I drew the bow and thought, No matter what, I want to hit the mark and beat Will. I shot the arrow, seeing the bull’s-eye with my eyes, but really imagining beating Will in my mind.” Stark dropped his head, and he sighed deep as a storm wind. “The arrow flew straight to the target in my mind. It hit Will in his heart and killed him instantly.”

  I felt my head shake back and forth. “But how could that happen? Was he by the target?”

  “He was nowhere near it. He was standing not more than ten paces from me to my right. We were separated only by the white linen tarp. I was facing forward when I aimed and shot, but that didn’t matter. The arrow went through his chest.” He grimaced with the pain the memory still caused him. “It was so fast, everything went blurry. Then I saw his blood spatter the white linen that separated us, and he was dead.”

  “But Stark, maybe it wasn’t you. Maybe it was some kind of weird magical fluke.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, or at least that’s what I hoped. So I tested my gift.”

  My stomach clenched. “Did you kill someone else?”

  “No! I tested it on things that weren’t alive. Like there was a freight train that used to go by the school every day about the same time. You know, one of those old-time-looking ones, with the big black engine and the red caboose. They still come through Chicago a lot. I printed off a picture of the caboose and put it on a target on the school grounds. I thought about hitting the caboose and shot.”

  “And?” I prompted when he didn’t say anything.

  “The arrow disappeared. Only temporarily, though. I found it again the next day when I waited by the track. It was sticking in the side of the real caboose.”

  “Holy crap!” I said.

  “Now you see.” He walked over to me so that we were standing very close. His eyes captured mine with that unique intensity of his. “That’s why I had to tell you about me, and that’s why I needed to know if you were strong enough to protect the people you care about.”

  My stomach, already clenching, flipped over. “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing!” he shouted, causing Duchess to whine again and Nala to pause in her purr/rub and stare up at him. He cleared his throat and made an obvious effort to pull himself together. “I don’t mean to do anything. But I didn’t mean to kill Will, and I did.”

  “You didn’t know about your powers then, and you do now.”

  “I suspected,” he said softly.

  “Oh,” was all I could think to say.

  “Yeah,” he said, pres
sing his lips tightly together before he continued. “Yeah, I knew there was something weird about my gift. I should have listened to my gut. I should have been more careful. But I didn’t and I wasn’t, and Will is dead. So I want you to know the real deal about me in case I mess up again.”

  “Hang on! If I understand what you’re saying, then only you can know what you’re really aiming at ’cause it’s happening inside your head.”

  He snorted sarcastically. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but that’s not how it works. One time I thought it was perfectly safe for me to do a little practice shooting. I went to the park that was next to our House of Night. No one was around to distract me; I made sure of that. I found a big old oak and set up a bull’s-eye in front of what I decided was the center of the tree.”

  He was looking at me like he expected a response, so I nodded. “You mean like the middle of the trunk?”

  “Exactly! That’s what I thought I was aiming at—something that was the center of the tree. But do you know what the center of a tree is sometimes called?”

  “No, I really don’t know too much about trees,” I said lamely.

  “Neither did I. I looked it up afterwards. The ancient vampyres, the ones with earth affinities, called the center of the tree its heart. They believed that sometimes animals, or even people, could represent the heart of a particular tree. So I shot, thinking about hitting the center or heart of the tree.” He didn’t say any more; he just stared down at his bow.

  “Who did you kill?” I asked softly. Without actually thinking about it, I lifted my hand and rested it on his shoulder. I’m not even sure now why I touched him. Maybe it was because he looked like he needed the touch of another person. And maybe it was because, despite his admission and the danger he represented, I was still drawn to him.

  He covered my hand with his, and his shoulders drooped. “An owl,” he said brokenly. “The arrow just burst out of its chest. It was perched on one of the top inside branches of the oak. It screamed all the way to the ground.”