Ascendant

by Diana Peterfreund

  “You can study your chemistry. I would show you the work we do.”

  I swallowed. I’d heard these sorts of promises before, from my mother, from Marten. And I’d still ended up without any education, trapped in an ancient monastery, polishing weapons all day long.

  Isabeau took in my skepticism. “We could draw up a contract if you like. I would guarantee the things I am promising you. Support of Gordian, tutors, tuition for laboratory classes at the university, your working hours …”

  All of this sounded way too good to be true. A fair bet, it probably was. I shook my head. “I’m on assignment already. I’m supposed to escort Cory back to England. We’re going to watch over each other and I’m going to be with her tutors, so that solves the whole issue of my education you seem so concerned about.”

  “How excellent,” Isabeau said, her tone one of false cheer. “The Bartolis must have quite a chemistry lab in Neil’s bachelor apartment in London.”

  I’d give Isabeau Jaeger this: her aim was as true as any hunter’s.

  “Would you not rather have this than your bodyguard job in England? Cannot another hunter protect the Bartoli girl?”

  “Can’t another hunter protect your little lab rats?” I asked. How many times had I begged for any info from Marten, only to be promised answers and lied to? There was no way Isabeau could be telling me the truth.

  “Yes,” she said. “But I want a Llewelyn.”

  I rolled my eyes. This again! First her husband tries to render Phil and me ineligible because we’re Llewelyns, and now Isabeau was aiming at a new way to get a Llewelyn hunter out of the hunting game. As if it really made any kind of difference. Judging from Grace’s skills, they should be concentrating their efforts on her family: Bo.

  “Forget it,” I said, and turned to leave. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, lady. All this obsession with Llewelyns is useless. I’m not some kind of great hunter, I’m not anything special, and I don’t care to play these kind of games.”

  Isabeau said nothing as I walked back down the long aisle, thoughts churning. Part of me longed to stay here, where there was science being done, where I was free to wear what I liked, to learn where I wished. All I had to do was watch over a few einhorns already in a vast cage.

  And yet—it was Gordian Pharmaceuticals. I couldn’t forget that. Their lies were as common as the pervasive ones about how special I was supposed to be because of my last name. The whole thing was a lie—lie upon lie upon lie.

  “Take the chamomile with you, Astrid,” Isabeau called from across the greenhouse. “It will keep you calm when you leave here. It will drown out the cry of the unicorn magic.”

  I spun to face her. “Yeah?” I shouted back. “Is that what the last hunter here told you?”

  “No,” she said. “I learned it from my mother. She was a Llewelyn.”

  9

  WHEREIN ASTRID MAKES A CALL

  Cory picked up on the first ring. “Did you find him? What did he say? Oh, I wish I could have seen the look on his face when they nabbed him!”

  “Chill,” I said into the phone. “It wasn’t Seth.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It wasn’t Seth. Your PI has been following the wrong blond American teenager.”

  “But the Gordian credit card—”

  “Belongs to Brandt Ellison.”

  “Your ex-boyfriend?” Cory asked, incredulous.

  “It gets worse.” I filled her in on Brandt’s current situation, Isabeau Jaeger, and the offer she’d just made me.

  Silence reigned on the other end of the phone. I tapped my fingers against the windowsill. I was alone in a small study on the ground floor of the Gordian château, as far as I could get from the einhorn enclosure in the back. A small cup of chamomile tea sat cooling on the sideboard, its scent wafting throughout the room, curtailing all trace of unicorn.

  I wondered if the trick would work in the Cloisters, or was the place too woven through with bones and magic for even the strongest tea to make a dent?

  “Cory?” I said at last.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Do you trust her?”

  “Yes,” said Cory. “But don’t mind me. I trusted her husband as well, remember? In fact, I recall not liking her very much, since she seemed so disinterested in hunters in general.”

  “Seems she’s changed her mind about that.”

  “Just as I’ve changed my mind about Gordian.”

  Me, too, but what was Gordian? If it was the policies of the person in charge—if that person was Isabeau—maybe things would be different this time. And if Isabeau was as disinterested in hunters as Cory said, that boded well that she really wanted nothing more from the Order than to hire one hunter to guard her precious lab rat einhorns.

  Maybe everything was what she claimed. She didn’t want to sponsor or control us the way Marten had—she just wanted a simple cash arrangement, to pay me for services rendered.

  “What should I do?” I asked Cory.

  “Get on a plane to London,” she replied. “As planned. I could be getting attacked by unicorns as we speak.”

  “But she wanted me especially,” I said.

  “Well, so do I.”?

  “Really?”

  There was a pause. “Come on, Astrid, you’re my best friend.”

  This time, I didn’t say it out loud. Really?

  “I know that you and Phil … have this special bond and all. I’m not hurt. But yes. You are.”

  I’d had one other best friend in my life: Kaitlyn, back home. She’d dumped me as quickly as Brandt after the return of the unicorns had branded me a freak. I hadn’t even spoken to her since I’d come to Rome. And it stung, sure, but I also had Phil, who I’d always loved far more than any of my regular friends.

  I wondered if what Kaitlyn did to me hurt as much as knowing the person you considered your best friend didn’t like you as much as you liked her. I wondered if knowing that felt anything like it did when I realized that no matter what Phil and I had shared in the past, I was outside the loop when it came to her feelings for Neil.

  “Thank you,” I said. “That’s really sweet.”

  “Sweet?” Cory snorted. “That’s what you say to blokes you’re blowing off.”

  “Well, it is sweet,” I said.

  “And you are blowing me off.” Cory sounded impatient. “Are you coming to protect me or not? Remember, I’ve been through the lab rat scenario with Gordian and so has Valerija. It always ends badly.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Still, I should call Neil and Phil and tell them about this offer.”

  “Have you figured out a way to explain to Phil that you’re in France, or shall you leave Neil to face that music alone? Oh, and please leave me out of the story, if at all possible.”

  Good point. How was I going to relate the news to the Cloisters without revealing the truth? Phil would know there was something the three of us were keeping from her.

  “Maybe it would be better if I were the one to stay,” I said slowly. “After all, besides you, I’m the hunter who most understands the danger Gordian poses.”

  “Valerija,” Cory pointed out.

  “Phil and Neil would never trust Valerija on her own,” I said.

  “She’s not like that anymore,” Cory said. “She’s actually changed a lot. You just don’t notice because we all play with knives now.”

  “Good point.”

  Cory sighed. “What does this job at Gordian have that England doesn’t?”

  Funny. Isabeau had just asked me the same question, in reverse.

  “Is it Brandt?”

  I almost laughed. “Brandt? Please. I’ll tell you what I told him: I have a boyfriend.”

  “Ooh, why did you have to tell him anything? Did he make a pass at you?”

  “It’s stupid. He just thinks he’s a player. And, um, he was kind of turned on when I killed a unicorn for him.”

  “He’s a sick bastard if that does it
for him.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “So if it’s not Brandt,” Cory wheedled, “why would you even consider this? Just come to England.”

  I knew why, but I hesitated to admit it.

  It was this strange herd of unicorns, whose thoughts were like nothing I knew. It was the potential of the Remedy that lay in Brandt’s blood, that was hidden in the lab on this property. It was Isabeau herself, who’d awakened in me all the hope I’d once held for Marten.

  And even more hope than that. My mother. She was a Llewelyn.

  There was a beep on the line. “Oh no,” said Cory. “That’ll be Neil. What should I tell him?”

  “Tell him to call me so we can work out a plan.”

  “So he can kill the messenger? Think not. You’re on your own, there. Must go.” She hung up.

  I plopped into a sleek, silk-upholstered armchair, feeling even more confused than before. On one hand, I had made a commitment to Cory that I’d stay with her in England. On the other, I could be in London for two or three weeks—just long enough for Gordian to hire a different hunter—then Cory might recover and we’d both return to the Cloisters for good. Then what?

  Of course, this could all be a moot internal argument anyway. There was a good chance that the moment Neil and Phil discovered where I was, they’d swoop in and scoop me up. They’d been more hurt by Marten Jaeger’s betrayal than anyone else.

  There was a soft knock on the door and Isabeau Jaeger entered. “Pardon my interruption, Astrid, but it’s getting rather late. I was wondering if you’ve arranged for accommodations in the village or back in Limoges.”

  My eyes widened. Right. A hotel room. The kind of thing you never thought of when the only places you’ve ever lived were your mother’s apartment and the nunnery where she’d dumped you. Even on a hunting assignment, I’d always had a tree stand of my very own. “I’ll be all right.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “I’m fine.” I still had some cash. If Limoges was a university town, there’d be a student hostel somewhere around where I could crash.

  “Because you are welcome to stay the night here if you wish,” Isabeau said. “Here?” I said.

  “I live here,” Isabeau replied. “As does Brandt, and a few of the scientists.”

  Then why was Brandt checked into a hotel in Limoges?

  Isabeau went on. “It would give me a chance to speak to you more about my plans for our hunter—whoever she might be—as well as talk a bit more about our family connection.”

  “That’s really not necessary—”

  “Nonsense. We are, after all, related. How could I turn away a member of my own family?”

  I checked out the window, surprised to see the sky darkening. How had the afternoon slipped away from me?

  “All my clothes are at the airport,” I said.

  “I’m sure I can find something for you to sleep in,” Isabeau replied.

  I clutched the cell phone in my hands like a lifeline. “Why …”

  “Yes, chère?”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I whispered.

  Again with the musical laugh. “You are perhaps more used to potential employers abusing you? That strikes me as counterproductive.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “No, I mean … after what happened to Marten. I was there, you know. I was there when—I couldn’t stop it, I swear. If only I could have …”

  Could have what? If I could have run my sword through Bucephalus, who’d saved my life several times over? If I could have killed that unicorn before he’d murdered Marten, would I have? I wished I could give an unqualified yes, but the truth was I didn’t know.

  Isabeau’s cool hand brushed my cheek. “Don’t cry, Astrid. It is very terrible to see a man’s death. Any man. Even you, who live with life and death every day, cannot watch it impassively. Even a doctor, who makes a life’s work on the subject, is helpless in the face of death. There are some deaths we cannot prevent, though we would give our own lives to try and though we will curse our impotence for the rest of our days.”

  Tears spilled over my eyelids, and I bowed my head even farther into my chest. “Thank you,” I said, though what I wanted was to press into her hand. I wanted Isabeau to hug me, the way Phil or my mother would hug me. She was smaller than me, but somehow I knew I’d feel safe in her arms.

  “Come. Stay the night here, and have dinner with me.”

  “And Brandt?”

  “Brandt will not be dining with us.” Isabeau pursed her lips. “His earlier behavior was unacceptable.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mind,” I said. “He didn’t know I had a boyfriend.”

  “Pardon?”

  “When he …” I tried to back away from the topic, but Isabeau’s gaze had me nailed. “Tried to kiss me, earlier.”

  “He did.” Her expression was unreadable. “That was not what I referred to. Rather, I meant his behavior toward the einhorn. One does not tease a pitiful animal.” She tilted her head as she regarded me. “Or a dutiful unicorn hunter.”

  “Please don’t say anything to him!” This was so embarrassing.

  Isabeau shook her head in exasperation. “Of course not, Astrid. I am not one of your nuns here. So will you stay?”

  “For the night,” I hedged.

  “A start,” said Isabeau. She clapped her hands. I heard a scuffle in the hall, then Gog and Magog’s large white forms filled the doorway, gazing adoringly up at their mistress. For a moment, they reminded me of Bonegrinder, until I realized I couldn’t sense their thoughts.

  Dinner was pleasant; we ate chicken and vegetables and salads with goat cheese. Isabeau sat at the head of the table, and her dogs curled around the back of her chair, not begging, but not leaving her side, either. She chatted about local festivals and the neighborhood cuisine, which seemed to feature more than its fair share of chestnuts. Autumn was a beautiful season in the area, and being so far inland meant a respite from a lot of the tourists who flooded the coast.

  “Of course, you’re familiar with tourists, living right around the corner from the Colosseum,” Isabeau said.

  “Grateful to them,” I said. “My Italian is still pretty poor, but lots of tourists mean lots of people who know some English and work in the area.”

  “I think it’s important to take advantage of your travels, Astrid. When you decide to stay here, I will engage tutors for your French studies, as I have for Brandt. He’s improved immensely, you know.”

  It was like that all through the meal. When. Not if. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

  “I speak five languages,” Isabeau continued. “And my husband put me to shame with seven.”

  “Marten knew seven languages?” I asked.

  “And English was his worst.” Isabeau chuckled, then stared into her wineglass. “Dessert, I think.”

  Dessert was pastries and tea. “My mother was English,” Isabeau explained, “and I’m afraid I picked up the habit from her.”

  “English and a Llewelyn,” I said.

  “Not by name, but yes, that was her family.” Isabeau placed a pastry on her dish. “I believe it was an offshoot of your own mother’s. Mine knew her heritage, of course, but had far more important issues to deal with than old family legends. She came to France a teenager and a nurse and worked for the Red Cross—and the Resistance—during the occupation. My father was a physician, and after the war, they married and settled here.”

  “Since unicorns were not around during your mother’s lifetime, how did she know anything about herbal therapy for hunters?”

  “She was very interested in studying alternative medicine, which was only starting to come back into fashion. Her family history included many records from medically minded unicorn hunters. There was information about the Remedy, but also on wound treatment, mental health, menstrual relief.”

  “Medically minded Llewelyns?” I asked. Cory wouldn’t believe that. To her, all the hunters in our family were killing machin
es.

  “Oui!” Isabeau smiled. “You are part of a very long tradition. My mother loved the idea of ‘old family recipes’ and wrote many books on herbal remedies based on her family’s store of knowledge. Would you like to see them? We have some in the library.”

  I nodded, though French medical tomes were probably way beyond my understanding. I put down my untouched cup of chamomile tea and followed Isabeau from the dining room. The library turned out to be a small sitting room beyond Isabeau’s office decorated in the same ice blue and cream. The walls were covered in shelves crammed with books of all shapes and sizes. Some were new paperbacks with brightly colored spines; others were old, with cracked leather or canvas bindings embossed with faded gold lettering. There seemed to be some method to the shelving, however, because Isabeau beelined right for several large volumes on a lower shelf. They were aged hardcovers, probably from the 1970s to judge from the dark green and gold color scheme as well as the picture on the cover, which featured a pretty woman standing in an herb garden. She wore bell-bottoms and had backcombed blond hair, but her face was identical to Isabeau’s. Her name was listed as Claudia L. Landry.

  “The L is for Llewelyn,” Isabeau said. “Which was most certainly not my mother’s middle name nor her maiden one.” She shook her head and ran her hand lovingly over the portrait before handing the book to me. “A silly affectation, perhaps, but she was very proud of her heritage.”

  “I know what that can be like,” I replied. I flipped idly through the book, which seemed to be some sort of encyclopedia of herbal lore, shot through with illustrations of various plants and flowers. “Did your mother wish she’d been a unicorn hunter?”

  “My mother never even imagined it,” she said. “Unicorns were long gone in her time. She did like the idea of a chain of educated, powerful women, however. She loved that her ancestors were working in medicine in a time when many women weren’t even literate.” She lifted her head. “We are both from a long line of very powerful daughters, Astrid.”

  I wasn’t. My mother’s side was descended from Clothilde’s brother, and a long line of males—hence the fact we were actually named Llewelyn. And from my father’s side, well, there was my father at the very least. Still, I knew the drill. “Believe me, I hear that often enough. The way the people at the Cloisters talk, we’re practically superheroes.”