by Shana Abe
She should walk away. She could. Only the marquess knew where she lived.
Rue pressed her cheek to the rough branch, closing her eyes.
I love you.
He'd been delirious. He hadn't known what he was saying.
But he had said it. And she had given her word to stay with him, because deep in her heart the girl named Clarissa loved him more, and always had.
The cracked windowpane to his bedroom had been boarded closed, crudely but most effectively. She misted up to the cupola. They hadn't discovered this way yet; she Turned inside the little space, quiet as she could manage, and very gently opened the trapdoor. The garret was unlit. She crept down it barefoot, not daring to Turn inside the house. They'd sense her at once.
The majority of the men seemed to be downstairs. She heard their voices, low murmurs, no agitation, not yet. They'd probably only been here a day or so; they had no suspicion yet that anything would be truly wrong. . . .
There was a guard at the next landing, half angled to the window to watch the storm. She held her breath and crept, slowly, slowly, behind his back. A line of portraits watched her inching progress, their painted eyes gleaming black and pewter in the dark.
He never looked around. She made it down to the next level of the house, and then the next, where the master chambers lay. It did not occur to her until she reached Kit's doorway that there might be someone among their company with skills enough to detect the diamond beneath the mattress. But when she entered the room she felt Herte's life like a caress. She hurried to the bed, less careful now, and pulled out the diamond.
Now what? She couldn't Turn, and she didn't want to chance going back up to the cupola. That guard wouldn't stare dreaming at the rain forever.
She crossed to another window. She opened the lock and pushed at the sash; it gave with a blast of chilled air. The bedroom door slammed closed.
Curse it. She shoved the window all the way open, leaned out, and glanced up at the clouds. The air drew hard around her. She looked over her shoulder at the man paused in the chamber doorway, his hand on the knob and his coat flapping wide.
It was the scribe. He stopped in place, staring at her. Rue stared back, then smiled, lifting a finger to her lips. She twisted around and hurled the diamond up to the sky as hard as she could, Turning instantly, smoke, dragon, managing to catch it in her teeth just as the stone reached the zenith of its arc. She flapped her wings and drove upward into the pelting rain, leaving the scribe staring up at her from the open sill, his spectacles flashing white with lightning.
She did not risk any foolishness with the storm this time. If there were people out in this mess they would not be looking up but down, minding their feet and the rivers of water that turned the city streets into floating sewage and slush. So she flew just under the clouds, ducking and weaving when the lightning threatened, panting around Herte, trying to see past the needle darts of rain that scored her body and her eyes.
The warehouse was a welcome relief. She landed awkwardly among the wet wood, placed the diamond on the floor, Turned, and stumbled to the closed iron door.
The lantern still burned dim inside the cell. The scent of rain mixed with clouds, with him, dark and distinctive.
She didn't know precisely what she had thought would occur. She didn't know what she should do. Christoff was still smoke at the ceiling—was he thinner now? was it her imagination?—so Rue lifted her hand to him as she had before, only this time the diamond was a small, cold fire on her open palm.
She stood there, dripping, as nothing happened.
A shiver took her. Her muscles clenched to control it; Herte jerked with her, a spray of colors sparking light into the corners. Water puddled at her feet.
“Please,” she whispered through her teeth. “Please.”
And the silky smoke that was Christoff began to gather, dropping to her palm, sliding into a corkscrew down her arm. He was very cool, long tendrils at her shoulder, and then he enveloped her body in a rush, a cloud that covered every part of her. Her shivers stopped. She closed her eyes and held perfectly still, afraid of moving. The diamond burned like ice against her skin.
She tilted her head back. She took a careful breath, released it. He smoldered over every inch of her skin, the softest caress, and she thought, Now you're inside me. One part, one moment of you, forever.
He fell from her body. He was gray mist that danced and changed and lifted in layers to become a dragon encircling her. She let her arm fall to rest against him, touching the diamond to his back. He shuddered, loosening; she climbed free of his coils, sliding feetfirst down his side, falling to her knees by his head. His eyes were slitted, following her, sinking closed as she stroked her hand along his neck.
“Be well,” Rue prayed. She placed the diamond against his heart. “Come back.”
Kit gusted a sigh that tipped over the lantern. She rescued it, setting it upright, and the flame licked amber across his face, vanishing into faint glimmers along the line of his body. It seemed—she hoped—he was breathing easier than before. She found the blanket she'd brought and cast it over him.
Rue rubbed her hands up and down her arms, watching him. In time, when the chill grew too keen to ignore, she dressed again in the navy poplin, wrapping the shawl about her shoulders and head like a country frau, huddling next to him to preserve the last of her heat. But he was still bitter cool; she fell asleep with her knees to her chest, dreaming of alpine snow.
He felt groggy, and cold. That was his first impression of life after years—aeons—away: the world was a hard arctic place, and he needed some defense against it. On top of that thought: a small something warm was pressed against him, something sweet and female and wonderful.
He opened his eyes. Everything was dark and running colors, maroon bricks and honey-buff granite, hoarfrost shadows and the girl curled at his side.
She wore blue. She slept with an arm under her head, and her hair was ripples of warmth, glossy chestnut over her face and shoulders. A white shawl lay rumpled against her chest.
His mind struggled with a name.
Mouse.
Rue.
Wife.
There was a lantern by her skirts. The light was guttering, nearly gone, but it showed him the shell pink of her lips, the dusky sweep of lashes that laid soft against her skin, the tender cup of her fingers beneath her chin.
She was the most completely beautiful creature he had ever seen.
He felt a weary peace, gazing upon her. He felt as if he could sleep now and never worry about his dreams.
The light upon her increased. It warmed and brightened until he could make out each hair, each gentle lash, and the subtle darkening along her cheekbone he had first taken for shadow. The skin there was marred with green and purple and blue. She was injured. She was bruised.
A sharp new shadow lanced across the floor. Kit tried to raise his head and found that he could not. Emotion began to pound through him—she was hurt, she needed him, and the shadow had crawled to her gown. He had to protect her—
There were men all about. They crept on stealthy feet and surrounded her, muttering words in low monotone voices, glancing at him, at her, and making gestures.
She began to wake. Her eyes opened; she blinked once. He found the strength to raise his head and open a wing, but they had already rushed at her. She was dragged from him with a soft pained cry, and they had jerked a hood over her head. He opened his mouth and very nearly managed to kill the nearest man, but the bastard danced out of range at the last moment, following the others that pulled her away from Kit, out of the shadow light and into a brightness that he could not bear to look at.
Wrath shook him. He tried to climb to his feet to follow, but that was useless as well. All he could do was rage and stew, his body a sudden new enemy that would not obey him, that would not follow her and destroy the men who stole her from him.
He tried anyway. He snarled and clambered to his feet, agony thumping through hi
s blood until the darkness towered over him in hideous silence and crashed down to roll him away.
She was smuggled out in a perfectly proper carriage, or so it had seemed. It had felt proper, with rattling shades and drafty windows and a left wheel that clunked and groaned at every rut in the road. But she never saw any of it, not the shades or the floorboards or the men pressed in around her. All Rue could see was black cotton. And all she could hear was the rain.
It thrashed about Far Perch, drumming hard against the windows of the room that held her, until the wind skipped directions and the low constant boom rumbled from the other end of the house. From her position on the chair they'd led her to, she picked out the heartbeats of at least six drákon around her. But no one spoke.
When they'd first shoved her into the carriage, she'd feared they meant to try for Darkfrith right then, despite the storm, but thank God they had more sense than that. Far Perch was closer, and certainly more convenient. No doubt the council felt they could keep an easy eye on her here, at least for the time being.
All she needed was to be left alone. Just one minute. She would strangle herself getting out of this hood if she had to, but she would do it. Somehow.
Her arms were bound again, this time with what felt like cords of steel. It was impossible to relax with her fists secured at her back and so she remained stiffly upright in the chair, listening for any sort of revealing detail that might help her. No need to guess who had betrayed her to the council; it had to be the scribe. And no need to guess who had ordered she be bound and hooded.
Parrish Grady had come to stand at the open doorway behind her. Odd how she'd not forgotten his scent, mothballs and hair powder and oversweet cologne.
He entered the room with a studied, heel-first pace, circling slowly around her chair, stopping in front of her without a word. She envisioned his face as he perused her, his eyes heavy-lidded, his narrow lips drawn up into a sneer.
At least she was dressed.
Rue lifted her head. “Mr. Grady. How grow your daisies, sir?”
There—despite her dry mouth she'd managed just the exactly right tone of offhand derision. She heard him expel his breath.
“You were granted an amount of freedom, Miss Hawthorne, unprecedented in the history of our tribe.” His voice was very quiet. “You were granted liberties not offered even to our Alphas, the right to roam, the right to hunt within the city, all for a very significant and specific purpose. And how did you choose to spend this time you were given?”
“Why, by making merry, of course. I especially enjoyed dancing the night away with the Bonnie Prince in the Tower. He's vowed to steal me off to Gretna Green, just after he takes the throne.”
Someone scuffed his feet. She heard the rustling of paper.
“And did you also enjoy revealing yourself to the world?” Grady's voice, still hushed, began to shake. “Did you enjoy flying about in full daylight, proving to all and sundry that dragons are real?”
Rue hesitated. “That wasn't me.”
“No? Allow me to edify you. Perhaps you'll relish a column from last Monday's Evening Standard: A monstrous Whyte Dragon, with fearsome Claws and Wings dipped in pure gold, has Stolen a Man and carried him off into the Sky, to the sincere Dismay of our good City. Five Men witnessed also that it breathed a Great Fyre upon the Holy Church of St. Augustine.”
“The Standard is a rag,” she said after a moment. “I hardly breathe fire.”
Once again the paper rustled, crisper than before. “The Evening Standard is merely one of seven newspapers to carry such a story.”
“Very well, then, it wasn't only me,” she revised with false calm. “I've far more sense than that. Your marquess began the whole mess; he flew off first. I was merely trying to save him. But here's a jolly idea: instead of approaching him like a reasonable soul, why don't you hood and bind him and see how well he appreciates it?”
Grady's voice took on a new shade of ire. “Do you imagine there is some humor to be found in this disaster, mistress? Do you imagine we will treat it as some girlish jest and let you by with a slap on the wrist?”
“I imagine,” replied Rue, “that when the Alpha discovers what you have done to me, there will be hell to pay, Mr. Grady.”
“The Marquess of Langford is indisposed, as you must well know. Perhaps permanently so. That is a rather nasty wound on his leg.”
For the first time, a beat of real fear thrummed through her. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“Done with him? Nothing. He appears to be fixed in a dragon state. Obviously we cannot move him. As long as he remains as he is, he is safest in the warehouse.”
Her mind raced. Did they know about the diamond? If she told them, would they take it from him? She tried to remember how she had last seen him in those seconds before they'd blinded her—she thought the stone had been beneath him—
“You, however, are to be removed to Darkfrith at first light. You have proven too great a liability to the tribe. You will retire to Chasen and await your marriage there. As much as many of us would no doubt prefer you be punished in a more befitting fashion, as a breeder you are too valuable to destroy.” He began to move toward the door. “Should the Marquess of Langford not survive, you will be wed to the next man in line to be Alpha.” Grady paused. “Whoever that may be.”
She had to modify her breathing. She had to control her pulse. They would be watching her body. They would be searching for any signs of weakness.
“Good night, Mistress Hawthorne,” said Grady softly. “Rest well.”
She did not sleep. She could hardly slouch, much less relax into slumber. She tried to scoot back in the chair enough so that her hands were hidden, so that the two men left in the room with her would not see how she was slowly twisting her wrists into bleeding rawness, straining to pull free of the cords.
Without her hands free she was unable to adjust her skirts. No matter how she moved they stretched the wrong way beneath her legs. It bent a crook into her spine she could not seem to straighten.
She was tired now, her body kinked and knotted, her mind reeling with worry. She let her head droop. The hood had grown damp with her breath; it smelled unpleasantly of fresh dye. She wondered if they had prepared it just for her.
Beneath the rain someone was speaking. She turned her head but couldn't make out the words; it was beyond the walls of the room. The men around her shifted. The door opened. A single footfall scraped the floor.
“The council has been convened into emergency session,” said a man.
“What, now?” The fellow to her right moved. “Again?”
“Aye. Grady sent me to summon you.”
“What of her?” asked the other guard.
“It will be quick. I'm to stay with her.”
“I don't—”
The voice hardened. “Emergency session. Something to do with Langford. You must go now.”
“All right.” And both the men walked past her, creaking down the hall. The door hinged closed.
“Whoever you are,” Rue announced quietly to the room, “that was a damned flimsy excuse. They'll be back soon.”
“I know it.”
Hands fumbled behind her neck; she bent her head again to help him free the ties. The hood loosened. He drew it up over her face, and Rue took her first clear breath in hours.
The young scribe knelt before her, his wig pushed back to show a line of blondish-brown hair, his brows wrinkled. His eyes were dark gray and fretful behind his lenses.
“I'm sorry!” he blurted. “I wouldn't have told! But there was someone else with me—he saw you as well—”
“It's fine.” She stood up and walked away from him, bending over, stretching her arms out behind her. “Open a window for me, please.”
He nodded, going to the nearest one. Rue crossed to stand beside him, watching his fingers work, the lock sliding free. Wind and wet air rushed at them like the breath of God; she never thought she'd be so glad to feel
the rain.
The scribe was gazing down at her. His spectacles began to steam. He jerked them off nervously, rubbing them on his sleeve.
“They won't forgive you this easily,” she said.
“No.”
Rue smiled at him. “Thank you.”
“I—well . . .” He actually began to blush.
Footsteps resounded through the house, far at first, pounding nearer. She spoke more quickly. “Listen. Go now to the warehouse, see what they've done with Langford. If he's sealed in the cell, let him out. Do you understand?”
“Aye.”
“And then vanish awhile. When it's safe to return here, you'll know.”
“Yes.” He swallowed. “I understand.”
“What's your name?”
“Nicholas. Nick.”
She leaned forward and brushed her lips to his cheek. “Good luck, Nick.”
She Turned, and a moment later so did he, each of them rising through the rainfall in opposite directions, he heading toward the docks, and she to the heart of the city.
She did not go home. She would not tempt fate that far. So instead she retreated to one of her sanctuaries, this one the pillared and gothic-laced belfry of a most active cathedral. The spire was one of the tallest in the city, the stone streaked with age. When she checked the trapdoor, the sole evidence of human life she could find was two flights below, where the tower bells rang by ropes that fell straight down for stories. Up here, in the open dark, the only footprints that ringed the balcony of pink alabaster and slate were from pigeons. It was tightly cramped and ethereally beautiful. She sat down next to a lead gargoyle and looked out at the city lights.
It would be dawn soon. The storm was slanting off to the north.
Hopefully Nick had completed his task. Hopefully Christoff was well enough to understand what had happened, what had yet to be done.
Rue wrapped a hand around the fluted column at her side, leaning out into the wind as far as she could manage with her other arm outstretched, letting raindrops bead her skin and slip cold through her open fingers.
