by Shana Abe
Chapter Eighteen
Suppose you were made a prisoner inside your own body. A mind without the ability to control physical limbs; a heart without the ability to beat. Suppose you were bound in painful cold iron—yes, painful, even for one of us—and your sole relief was the flight of your spirit, away, away from the miserable dark grave that actually encompassed you.
Toward warmth, say. Toward other spirits like you, or the living light of the one you loved.
Suppose people who knew how to do such a thing used their Voice to command that you remain frozen in your peculiar agony. That they used the chips and glistening dust of a magical diamond to ensure that you listened, that your body remained helpless, no matter how far your spirit roamed. And the closer your spirit returned to your actual, physical self—whatever remained of it—the thinner it became; the two separated measures of you cannot fluently share the same worldly space. Our natural state of being fights to reassert itself: Either you combine again with your body to dwell in the frosty isolation of your slow death, or you abandon it once more, you soar apart. Those are your only choices.
You’d, be better off keeping away, wouldn’t you?
No matter how strong your Gifts, no matter how much you willed it, you would not escape the diamond dust and the iron, and the wicked, wicked song they sang. Such was the nature of the malevolence of Draumr.
Draumr controls us. He who controls any fragment of Draumr controls us, in small ways or—with enough of the pieces—large.
True, as a species we’re varied in our strengths. For some drákon the shattered stone sings stronger and for others weaker; for many of us, even as shards, Draumr is unbearable to the touch. Others still may touch it without pain but fall yet under its spell.
For all our variations, it remains the one horrific, common flaw we cannot avoid.
That is … most of us. For every rule, there is an exception, you know.
That’s what Lord Rhys and Zoe Lane were about to discover, along with their illustrious companions.
Chapter Nineteen
He could not occupy Hayden’s body this time. He tried. He could not occupy any of their bodies. They couldn’t hear him, they didn’t see him, and when he tried to push his way into them, it was like they were made of stone. He gained nothing. They didn’t even slow. James and the boy had discovered a weakness to the house—Rhys hardly knew where, perhaps a chink in a pane of glass, a ball of tar melted loose from the roof, anything—and had Turned and rematerialized here, and they were slinking straight into a trap.
He wasn’t even sure how he himself had gotten in. He’d wanted it, wanted it urgently, and here he was.
He tried speaking to them, he tried shouting. The two drákon only edged forward, because to them, he simply was not there.
Rhys pounded the wall in front of them. He wanted to rip out the shabby wood, he wanted to rip down the ugly house, a prop, a set that looked and felt as false as cheap stage scenery at the Haymarket. He was sick of being unseen, he was bloody sick of being a poor remnant of himself. The rage and resentment bubbled inside him like red-hot lava, and a child would have been of better use, an infant would have done a better job of warning them—there were sanf inimicus around the corner and a dim-blooded dragon somewhere below, and now, when he most needed words and touch he had neither, and his kinsmen were about to be slaughtered.
He felt the lava beating in his head. He felt his vision waver; he did not want this, he’d never wanted this—let Hayden James live, let him live and go back to Zoe and keep her safe—
James took another step. He was throwing a significant look to the boy—who grinned back at him with his lips peeled over his teeth—when the woman darted out, gave a single hard shake of her bowl: A cloud of rye-colored dust choked the little hall.
They could not Turn. The powder shot through Rhys, sifted like silt through the air, and for a few precious seconds neither James nor Sandu could Turn; there was no way to see clear to anything but grit.
One of the men stepped out in front of the woman, lifting his pistol. His finger squeezed the trigger. A white flash, a new instant dark.
James grunted and slammed against the wall, and the boy behind him lunged forward.
Rhys moved to catch Hayden James as he sank to the floor, but his shadow hands only slid through him.
She shed her clothing as she ran. Hat, gloves, shoes. She darted past Others hunched under awnings, past snarling wet dogs. The colors in the sky drew her on and she’d never been so fleet in her life. A pair of fiddlers on a bridge hunkered together beneath their overlapping umbrellas; they played a duet of lively, quick-pattering notes, and Zoe ripped at the bodice to her gown as she passed them, let the lavender merino go floating out behind her to land in the brown frothy rush of the Seine.
The music ceased. Both men stood up and shouted after her: she didn’t slow.
The corset was easy. Chemise. The stockings—she did pause then, only long enough to yank them into tatters. If it hadn’t been raining so hard she would have been truly invisible, but even she could see the water striking her legs and torso, separating around the shape of a sprinting woman.
Sidewalks and streetlamps with yellow snakes’ tongues of flame. Shops and beggars and shiny painted doors. The cloak and the colors of Hayden led her into a maze of twisting back lanes; across the peaked roofs she could see the cloak now taking the tapered shape of a whirlwind, violent, swirling stars; it curved and bent like a funnel cloud fixed to the roof of one particular house.
Rhys was nowhere to be felt or seen.
She reached the front door to the dilapidated place marked by her Gift, kicked at it—once, twice, three times, until it split enough that she could tear at it with her hands. Wood splintered and metal shrieked and Zoe slapped the water off her skin and crawled inside the hole she’d made, faced the darkness of the unknown ahead.
He could not see. James and the Zaharen drákon were gone. Rhys was encased with utter night. He could not see, and he could not move; everything was bitter cold and ebony. One instant he’d been reaching for James, marking the blotch of blood left upon the wall behind him as James’s body slid to the floor—and then the next, he was here. Stuck. Powerless.
He had a sudden sharp memory of the dead sanf coachman leaning over him, the pale gray eyes, the sour smile, but when he tried to focus on it more clearly, it dissolved into dirt.
He tried to breathe, but his lungs were crushed beneath a mountain of iron and ice. He tried to fling himself to Zoe and even that didn’t work. He had descended into the earth. He was in the company of worms now.
Worms, and the music. That never stopped.
The air inside the house blurred thick and gritty; it smelled like a bakery. Like wheat, she realized, or rye. It clogged her nose and clung to her damp skin in particles, revealed her in a thin layer of dust: her stomach. Her breasts. Her arms and thighs. Zoe rubbed at it as she moved, breathing past her teeth, managing to roll most of it from her body into little balls that littered the floor at her feet.
The scent of dragon blood pulled her ahead. Thumps and shudders, one so strong the very walls trembled. She heard no voices, no shouts. There was a battle taking place but it was silent except for the creaking of the house. The floor bouncing with an impact that sent shivers through the soles of her feet. Pottery breaking.
And then, finally, a woman’s scream, high, then low, then gone.
She ran on her toes. The place was small and miserable, more narrow than even the maison, and reeked of fear. She passed doors open to empty rooms, no life inside, not even spiders or mice; she ran all the way to the doorway framing the kitchen—pausing only long enough to note the blotch of dragon blood she’d scented before, swiped down a wall—and there before her was more flour drifting in the air, across pots and pans and kettles and the dead man upon the floor by the entrance, and another man with a pistol aimed at the lanky young prince of the Zaharen, who moved with a twisting, deceptive grace, dodging
the aim of the gun through the dust.
A woman stooped over the man on the floor. She was clutching at his shoulders, her mouth still open and her eyes streaming cloudy pale tears, when Zoe walked in.
She stepped past the human woman and over the body of the sanf. She walked straight toward the one with the gun, lifting a hand before her—she could see it as if it were not her own, the floured contour of Zoe’s invisible hand, the floured flutter of Zoe’s invisible fingers to draw the attention of the Other. Hayden’s ring of blue and gold, still lustrous enough to shine.
And it worked. The man’s gaze flitted to her, and in that instant the prince had him, pushed him off his feet with a hard whap against the stone hearth. The gun flew from his grip and hit the floor. It discharged. Zoe couldn’t help it: She cringed and shielded her eyes. When she could hear again, the woman was still screaming, and the man by the hearth was covered in a great splash of blood.
“Be quiet,” commanded Sandu in a velvet dark voice. “Be still.” The woman cut short with a sobbing sort of hiccup, then a whimper. She collapsed over the man before her and buried her head in her arms.
“Where is Hayden?” Zoe asked above the ringing in her ears.
The prince had knelt, skimming his hands over the crimson-wet body of the sanf inimicus before him, and to his credit, he didn’t waste time asking stupid questions about why or how Zoe could be there. He merely raised an arm and pointed toward the far corner of the kitchen, still searching the body.
Hayden leaned against the counter amid a great spill of flour and broken crockery, staring at her, coated with powder. His legs seemed to buckle, and he crumpled in a slow, queer way down to the floor, never taking his eyes from her face.
“No. Oh, no.”
She was there in time to prevent his head from striking the stone. She settled him against her lap, not even noticing the small, neat hole in his upper chest until the wet heat of his blood slipped along her folded legs. The bullet must have traveled all the way through him.
“You’re alive,” she said. She willed herself seen. “Hayden. You’re alive.”
“Hullo.” His lashes drifted closed, then open again. He squinted at her, and the flour around his eyes caked into lines. “Where are your clothes?”
“He needs to Turn,” said the Zaharen, who had crossed to them.
“Yes.” She touched a hand to his cheek. “Turn to smoke. You’ll be fine then. We can fix you back at the maison.”
“No.” He moistened his lips. “Got to … find the other dragon. He’s here. Somewhere.”
“His Grace and I will do it. You Turn.”
“Not yet.”
“You should listen to me now, my friend.” Sandu squatted before them, regarded Hayden gravely, his face streaked with sweat and flour. “I’ll find the drákon; I smell him too. I’ll take care of the female and the men. But if you don’t Turn now, you’ll bleed to death, and what good will you be to any of us then?”
Hayden rolled his eyes back to Zoe’s. “Turn,” she urged. “Please.”
He went to smoke, a sudden silky lightness. He twirled up before them both and hovered, not leaving.
He wouldn’t go, she knew that. Not until she and the prince did too.
Sandu rose to tuck his hair behind one ear, regarded the woman shivering on the floor. She was dressed as a servant, in a plain tan gown and stained apron, her cap with short starched ruffles. A cook, Zoe would guess. There was something more about her, though. Something odd. Perfumey, even through the choking odor of gunpowder and fear.
“She’s one of mine,” said the prince, matter-of-fact. His hands were at his hips; he spoke to Zoe and Hayden without looking at either. “Feel it? She’s of dragon blood. Extremely thin, hardly a thimbleful. That means she’s Zaharen.”
Zoe stood with blood dripping down her knees as the boy went to the woman, drew her up with both hands.
The cook gasped something in a patois Zoe didn’t understand. She clutched at the prince’s forearms with frantic fingers and finally spewed words of pure Parisian French. “Monster. Beast. Devil!”
“Tell me where the other one is,” said Sandu, Persuasion again drenching his words. “The one like us. Tell me now.”
The woman pressed her lips together and shook her head, then let out a howling sob as the prince pried her hands from his arms.
“You know who I am. You must obey. Tell me now.”
“I won’t. I can’t. They’ll kill me, they’ll kill my son, just like they did with that driver—”
“Wait,” said Zoe, and sent out the cloak in a slow, easy puff around the panicked woman.
She saw darkness. She saw rough wooden steps steeply descending. She saw a place with limestone all around, and a wine rack. No windows. An empty bottle rolled against mortar, a glint of olive green against a stone wall. The harsh, disagreeable aroma of mushrooms and mold.
“It’s a cellar,” Zoe said. “She’s trying to hide something in a cellar.”
The cook let out a moan. Once again, Sandu didn’t ask useless questions. He only did a quick survey of the kitchen, the walls, the scarlet-and-white-dotted floor. He flipped back the sole circle of rug in the center of the chamber. There was only stone beneath it.
“There’s no access here to a cellar.”
“There must be somewhere.”
Hayden writhed down before them, twisted into corners, around the open doors of the larder, out again to the fireplace, the pantry. And then his voice came from inside it.
“Here,” he called.
“Turn back to smoke,” ordered the prince, but he was already wrenching open the pantry doors. Flour shook in a small powdery storm from his hair.
The pantry seemed to contain neither a means to a cellar nor Hayden. Zoe saw shelves of bundled herbs, rounded cheeses sealed in wax. That was all.
“Back here,” Hayden said, still unseen. He sounded muffled. “There’s a keyhole behind the dill. It’s a false back.”
She remembered the key from the wallet, the key that would open only a certain warded lock.
“Turn back,” complained the prince. “I’ve got to smash it. You’re in the way.”
Perhaps the wood here was thinner than the front door. Sandu shattered it with one kick, and this time the cook tore at her hair beneath her cap before collapsing into sobs again.
“Who else will come here?” Sandu asked her, brushing a sliver of wood from his shoulder. “How many other sanf inimicus dwell in this house?”
“None. None, I swear. These two are the only—” She broke into that patois again, shaking her head, then switched back to French. “No more.”
The prince sent the Zaharen woman a crystal-hard look. “You will remain here. You will not move until I give you leave.”
“Nu,” she cried. “Noble One, nu, nu …”
“But you will.”
Zoe Turned invisible—it seemed somewhat more modest than not, even with the flour still covering her—and followed the prince into the cave behind the pantry, stepping gingerly around the sharp particles of wood.
There was no light but what filtered from behind them. Halfway down the stairs Sandu paused, shook his head. Mumbled something in Romanian.
“What is it?” Her voice came out a whisper; she was trying not to inhale too deeply. The mold stink grew stronger and stronger.
“That buzzing. It’s maddening, like bees in my head.”
“What?”
But he was descending once more, quick as a cat; she followed the line of his bare back, paler than the darkness swallowing them.
Hayden was a cloud at her side, brushing cool against her shoulder.
The prince made an inarticulate sound of discovery. She hurried, missed the last step of the stairs but recovered. Hayden flowed ahead, reaching Sandu before her, becoming man by the prince and the darker thing he knelt by on the floor.
“I need a light,” said Sandu, lifting his head. “Never mind. Let’s just get him out of here.”
The thing was long, covered with a blanket. Hayden pulled it off, and there was a monster beneath.
It seemed immobilized. Hands raised to its chest, fingers clawing at the air—but instead of fingers they were talons of long, twisting gold. Clothing rent, legs askew. There were manacles around the wrists, manacles that gave off an oddly pale blue shimmer, even down here. The face was frozen into rictus; a wide, blistering red scar cut along one cheek, all the way down into its neck. More gold threaded the filthy dark hair matted to the floor. The monster had clearly died in great pain; it was dreadful to look upon, anguished and petrified and very nearly unrecognizable.
“Rhys,” she said, but this time her voice completely failed her. She wet her lips and tried again, an explosion of sound.
“Rhys.”
And bent down to grasp those whetted claws.
Hayden swayed a little beside her; his hand gripped her shoulder. “My God, she’s right. It’s Rhys Langford.”
“Lady Amalia’s brother?” asked the Zaharen. He was holding both hands to his head.
“Yes.”
“He’s not dead,” Zoe muttered. She had moved her palms to his chest, felt the faint electric thrill of drákon still pooled in him, no heartbeat. “He’s not dead, yet he’s not breathing. I don’t understand.”
Sandu had begun to stagger back. “The manacles. Don’t you hear it?”
“No.” She glanced up, from Sandu’s face to Hayden’s, and they were both looking sick. “What’s wrong?”
“Break them,” said the boy, right before he listed sideways. He hit the floor with that particular, youthful elasticity, in bends, only barely managing to catch himself with one arm before collapsing all the way. His voice went hoarse. “Quickly, please.”
Hayden simply fell over. Just like that, fell over, a great relaxed shape flat on the floor in the dark, still bleeding, and she looked back at the pale blue-studded metal cuffs—were those diamonds? why didn’t they sing?—took the nearest one in her hands and pulled it apart.
