He tucked the whipsword into his largest jacket pocket, then set about searching Briac’s cloak, methodically turning each pocket inside out. But all were empty. Had Briac lied to him? Shinobu was about to stuff the cloak back into the box, when a trailing edge of the garment hit the floor with a muted thump.
A small, hard object had been sewn inside a fold of wool at the edge of the cloak. Shinobu could feel it by sticking a finger through the stitching. He tore the seam open, and the object fell out into his hand. It was a finely shaped stone medallion. It fit easily into his palm. In fact it seemed meant to do so.
Shinobu held it up to look at it carefully. Even in the low light he recognized the carving on its face immediately—three interlocking ovals, a simple representation of an atom. It was the same design on the pommel of the athame tucked into his waistband. It was the symbol of the Dreads. The back of the medallion, at first glance, was flat and smooth, but as he tilted it, he saw dozens of faint scars in the stone.
According to Briac, he’d stolen this medallion from the Middle during the fight on Traveler. It was an object all Watchers would recognize as belonging to their master. And since their master was dead, the possessor of this medallion could become their master. That had been Briac’s plan, though he was far too crazy now to see it through.
Shinobu slipped the stone disk into a pocket and carefully buttoned the pocket shut.
The rat had awakened. It was turning itself in circles inside Shinobu’s coat, looking for the exit. I don’t want Quin to see it, he thought. She wouldn’t understand. She would already be upset by him leaving in the night. He didn’t want to upset her further with rats. He pulled the animal out by its tail and held it in front of his face, watching it twist and turn as it tried to bite him. Suddenly the idea of having a rat in his possession seemed odd. He threw the creature onto the floor and let it scurry off.
“That was strange,” he whispered aloud.
Shinobu drew out his athame and set the dials. He was going back to Quin to apologize and to make new plans. Now that he understood what the Middle had intended, he and Quin could take control.
19 Years Earlier
The courtyard adjacent to the large house was narrow and dimly lit by lanterns that cast a flickering glow like the dance of real flames. A tangle of flowering vines climbed one of the brick walls, providing plenty of places for someone to hide.
The motorbike was parked on the cobblestones in a shadowed corner of the yard, the rider’s helmet sitting proprietarily between the handlebars, waiting for its owner to return.
Catherine stood with her back against the brick wall, concealed in the shadows of the overgrown vines. She looked across the courtyard at the house, which rose four stories, tall and expensive and old. There was the window where she and Archie had stood together drinking tea. God, he’d annoyed her.
It was hard to say exactly why she was here now, and yet here she was. She’d dressed herself differently this time, in a leather jacket over close-fitting dark clothing, like a Seeker who had joined a motorcycle gang.
After a long while, Archie came out of the house. He looked irritated in the way Catherine guessed she must also look irritated after spending time with her parents. Archie had only his father, but Catherine guessed that Gavin Hart was as difficult as two or three parents.
The night was cold, but he was in shirtsleeves as he jogged down the steps from the side door. Only when he approached his bike did he pull on his jacket. It bothered Catherine immensely that she noticed a host of physical details about him without trying: the way his hair flopped down loosely after he ran his hands through it, the flex of his shoulders and arms as he slipped into his jacket.
For God’s sake, Catherine, she thought, pull yourself together.
Archie turned back to the house as he zipped up his jacket, and she used that moment to step from the shadows. She silently walked over and was leaning against the seat of his motorcycle when he turned around.
Archie jumped when he saw her, but he recovered quickly. His expression became unreadable as he studied her.
“You look different,” he said cautiously.
“My mother dressed me last time,” she told him.
“And who dressed you this time? Satan?”
“Is it bad?” she asked. “My friend Mariko isn’t here to help, and I don’t know anything about styles.”
“No, it’s not bad,” he said, in a tone of voice that told her she looked anything but bad. Then, in a friendly way, he asked, “Are you here to beat me up?”
“That would be too easy,” she responded immediately. The words flowed from her naturally, as though she were practiced at flirting, when in fact this was the first time she’d ever heard that particular tone in her own voice. “Not worth the trip.”
He laughed and Catherine was vexed by how much she enjoyed the sound of his laughter. He leaned against the other side of the bike seat so his shoulder was almost touching hers, though they were facing in opposite directions.
“You know, I’m actually a good fighter,” he said seriously. “I’m not as foolish as you think I am, Catherine Renart.”
“I know you’re not.” She did know it. She’d even known it the first time they met.
She was looking away from him, at the lanterns and their real-seeming flames. The question she wanted to ask was hard to bring to the surface. Archie sensed she was about to speak and stayed silent, waiting.
“Why did you look at me that way?” she asked at last.
“You mean the way I looked when you nearly knocked me out in front of my father?” He said it as though the moment had been frozen in his mind just as it had been frozen in hers.
Catherine nodded.
He said, “I was thinking, She handles herself better than any girl I’ve ever met. It’s too bad she despises me, because this is the luckiest I’ve felt in ages.”
Catherine had convinced herself she had no idea how he would answer her question, but when she heard his words, she realized she’d known all along. She’d seen those thoughts written clearly on his face when they’d met in his father’s grand living room. She looked down at the sleeves of her jacket, so like the sleeves of Archie’s jacket, now that she was paying attention. She’d found the jacket and put it on for him. That was the truth, if she were willing to admit it.
“I didn’t want to like you,” she whispered.
“I didn’t want to like you either,” he said quietly.
“You were meant for my sister,” she said. “You’re my parents’ choice.”
He let his shoulder brush against hers. “Yes. I hate that too.” They were quiet for a little while. Then he told her, “I want you to know that your sister didn’t care for me at all. Marrying me was only another duty she expected herself to carry out. And when she died…the idea that my father would replace her with another one just like her, as if my future life partners were all interchangeable—”
“I’m nothing like Anna,” Catherine said, the words coming out more sharply than she’d meant.
“I knew that as soon as we met.”
Somehow the inches between them were gone and his shoulder was pressing against hers, solid and reassuring. Archie was there, next to her, and he was listening. He was the sort of person who would listen, she thought. Even to the crazy theories that were chasing themselves around inside her head. Even though he was not a Seeker, and knew nothing of her life, he might even care, the way she cared, about finding the truth of things and making them better. When she forced herself to look at him, he turned his head and met her gaze.
“You’re not what I expected,” she whispered.
“A frivolous boxer who likes to play with old cars?”
She shook her head. Her gaze dropped to his hand on the motorcycle seat between them.
“And you’re not some strange girl my father is forcing me to marry,” he told her. He lifted his hand from the seat and very carefully pulled one of her hands from its position at
her waist. “You’re just Catherine.”
The way he said her name made her feel she’d never properly heard it before. His hand was warm on hers, and its pressure made her feel queasy in a strangely pleasant way.
“Why is he forcing you to marry me?” Catherine asked.
Archie thought for a minute before he spoke. “He’s…a bit strange, my father. He’s convinced that your family is how my family will recover itself. Financially, I guess, though I don’t know how—and I don’t care about that. He tells me I’m someone important in disguise. That the disguise has saved me, but now I need you.”
“What does that mean?”
Archie shrugged. “I have no idea. If I’m in disguise, it’s a terrible one. My family’s social activities are in the papers all the time.”
“Maybe that sort of fame is the disguise. It makes you less disposable,” Catherine said thoughtfully. “My parents seem to want that fame for me.” Though I doubt it will save me, if I can’t stop Seekers from killing each other, she thought.
“So your parents are as strange as mine,” he said.
“Oh, I think they’re much stranger.”
They both laughed. Then Catherine asked, “Is this a trick, Archie? Is this how you get me to trust you so I drop my guard?”
“Yes,” he whispered, pulling her closer, “because I definitely knew you’d be hiding out here waiting for me. I’ve been rehearsing this meeting all day.”
She smiled. She was the one who’d come to him, snuck in, waited for him.
“The way you’re dressed,” he said, “I should be asking if you’re trying to trap me.”
His face was near hers. He had the faintest growth of stubble on his jawline, but his lips looked soft and warm. Catherine knew what she wanted now, and it no longer mattered if it was what her parents wanted also. They had become irrelevant.
“Maybe I was trying to trap you,” she whispered. “I was worried you’d never want to see me again after the way I behaved last time.”
“You shouldn’t have worried.”
He leaned closer, and Catherine thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he glanced over at his house, his eyes traveling up all four stories of it. He pulled away.
“I don’t want to be here,” he said abruptly.
Without waiting for her response, he picked up his helmet and slid it onto Catherine’s head.
“Come on,” he told her, throwing a leg over the motorcycle seat. “I’ll take you somewhere else—away from my father and this house.”
A few moments later, she was perched on the back of his bike, holding him tightly as London streets flew by. As soon as they’d left the courtyard and the house had disappeared behind them, Archie felt different beneath her arms. He wasn’t Gavin Hart’s son, and she wasn’t her parents’ daughter. Not at this moment.
They began kissing each other in the dark stairwell leading up to his flat. After putting her arms around him on the motorcycle, it had seemed only natural to keep them around him when they got off.
“Have you done this before?” he whispered.
“Kissed someone? Once. It didn’t go well.”
“Good,” he whispered, half lifting her into his arms as they felt their way.
They tripped on their way up the stairs, fell against each other, and it was an excuse to kiss again. Why had she never suspected that kissing could be like this?
At the landing, Archie fumbled for his keys, still holding her. Then they were inside his flat. Catherine’s eyes took in a few rooms lit by the streetlamps outside. The furniture was fine, as though it had come from one of his family’s old houses, but the space was somehow spare and masculine, like Archie. She pulled off his jacket.
Catherine looked at him in the light that trickled in through the living room window. Somehow, through a miracle she didn’t understand, here was someone who made sense to her.
“You should know that there are many things wrong with me,” she whispered. “Anna died, and that sort of thing might run in my family.”
“Early death?” He was laughing, but he stopped when Catherine looked back at him seriously. “Impossible,” he whispered. “I know how to punch things, remember?”
Catherine allowed herself to smile then. “I think I can…be with you, Archie. In my life. Maybe you’ll even help me figure everything out.”
“I don’t know what you mean, but yes. Absolutely yes,” he whispered back. “I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with myself if you hated me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
She took one of his hands from her waist and tugged it, so he would follow her. She led him through the living room, finding her way in the unfamiliar space, until they had reached his bedroom. Her fingers laced through his, she pulled him inside and closed the door.
19 Years Earlier
“Archie, you’re not sleeping, are you?”
“Mmm?” Archie mumbled. A warm, lazy hand came up and covered her mouth. “Shhh,” he whispered.
Catherine bit his finger softly.
“Ow.” He shifted in the bed, tugging her closer.
Archie had pulled the curtains shut, but moonlight shone through the sheer material, coloring everything it touched in cool blues and greens, especially an old-fashioned secretary’s desk near the window. Carved on the side of that desk was an elegant stag, its antlers branching widely. From the bed, Catherine had been studying the design for ten minutes. Similar stags adorned nearly every piece of furniture in the room.
She threw the covers off, crossed the room, and opened the curtains.
“What is it?” Archie asked. He was awake now, watching her from the bed.
She pulled over a chair and stood upon it to more closely study the carving on an ancient armoire against the far wall.
“It’s a stag,” she told him. She was tracing the design with a finger. The deer on the armoire was simplified and more angular than the others in the room—and it happened to look identical to a stag drawn in one of the old letters safely pasted into her journal, which she now kept in a locked safe in her parents’ basement.
“Yeah,” Archie said, running a hand through his messy hair, which didn’t seem too long to Catherine anymore. “Some ancestor loved stags. They’re on everything in our houses—cupboards, footstools, chamber pots. I’m surprised you didn’t notice in my father’s house.”
“I was distracted by hating you.”
Archie smiled. “Our last name is Hart. A hart is a male deer. So stag, Hart, Hart, stag.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Like ‘Renart,’ my name, is a fox, and we have foxes on everything. Where is this armoire from?”
“Country house, I think? We have piles of old furniture. At this point most of our remaining wealth is in furniture,” he said, flopping back onto his pillow. “You look very pretty. Please come back to bed immediately.”
She cast him a flirtatious look but stayed where she was and pulled open the armoire’s doors, letting light from the streetlamps spill into its interior. Archie’s clothes were hanging inside.
“You have a funny look on your face,” he told her, sitting up more attentively, “like you’re about to rip my clothes out and throw them all over the floor.”
That was exactly what Catherine did. Twenty minutes later, Archie’s clothes were strewn everywhere, and together they’d pulled out the drawers in the bottom of the armoire. They discovered a false back behind one of the bottom drawers—a space Archie had never suspected was there—and Archie’s arm was now shoved deep inside, feeling around a hidden gap within.
“There’s—something in here,” he told her. “Something hard and sort of round.”
“Can you get hold of it?” Chances were she and Archie had discovered something completely useless—a tin of old coins or someone’s lucky horseshoe collection from hundreds of years ago. But Catherine felt unaccountably excited.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
There was a scraping sound as he brought his arm
back out. Clutched in his hand was a dusty helmet. Catherine inhaled sharply as she took hold of it. Though she’d never seen one in person, she recognized it immediately. It was a focal, the metal helmet Seekers had once used to train their minds.
“A motorcycle helmet?” Archie asked. “From a hundred years ago? It looks ancient.”
She wiped off the dust, revealing silver metal that flashed iridescent colors when light fell upon it. Unaccountably she thought of the Young Dread and imagined speaking to her about it. Perhaps she would one day. But she brought her mind back to Archie.
“It’s not a motorcycle helmet,” she told him.
“What is it, then?”
“It’s…”
She turned the helmet over in her hands. The interior was lined with canvas, which was torn and fraying in several places. Tucked beneath the canvas lining, visible through a small tear, was a slip of paper. Catherine slid it out carefully. She’d collected enough Seeker memorabilia from attics and basements and abandoned barns to guess what it would be, even before she saw the writing.
It was a letter, scrawled hastily, by the look of it:
Edward,
We’ve made an arrangement and hope it might be honored. What we’ve promised will not be pleasant, but the alternative is even less pleasant.
If lucky, we’ll be back with you soon. If unlucky…I shan’t finish that thought.
At least this helm remains with you. It is ours, it is yours. Keep it safe, Son. It might see you through a long walk, or a desperate fight.
Do not forget what you are.
Your Loving Parents
Archie read the letter over her shoulder, then took it from her hands and read it again. Catherine watched him, understanding more about him now than he did himself. He was from a Seeker family, probably on his mother’s side, since his father hadn’t appeared to have any knowledge of Seekers. Archie’s mother had been dead since he was a child, and Catherine guessed she had taught him nothing of his heritage, or perhaps she’d decided it was safer not to be a Seeker at all.
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