Miss Awolowo held up a warning finger. “There is nothing in our laws to deny David Menlo’s legitimacy as acting Director. His age is irrelevant. The choice is Gabrielle’s and that choice is clear.”
Armand looked to David in appeal. “Surely you see the foolishness in this. Rowan is at war! Our losses in this attack are bad enough—we can’t compound them by naming a teenager Director. This has nothing to do with your capabilities, Mr. Menlo. It has everything to do with how this would be perceived by enemies and potential allies. Ndidi, you would be far more suitable as acting Director.”
Miss Awolowo shook her head. “This is Gabrielle’s choice and hers alone. You can voice your objections at a later date. The sole purpose of this gathering is to enact Gabrielle’s wishes and invest David with the rights and responsibilities of Director.”
The woman’s calm, absolute authority made a profound impression. With a bow, Armand apologized. Clearing his throat, David spoke up.
“You’re right,” he said, addressing Agent Black. “I shouldn’t be Director.” He turned to Miss Awolowo. “Is it possible to decline the appointment? I don’t think I’m the person for his job.”
“That is certainly your privilege,” she replied. “But I would like a word before you make any decisions. May I have that word?”
“Of course.”
The others filed out, even the moomenhovens who arranged Ms. Richter’s hair and coverlet before scurrying out. When the door closed, David placed a silence charm upon it—no sound would escape the cabin.
“How did this happen?” he exclaimed, gesturing in disbelief at Ms. Richter’s body. His grief was surging to the surface, commandeering any and all emotions. “I saw her on deck! She was unconscious, but nothing like … this!”
“Poison,” said Miss Awolowo. “She was wounded by one of those Workshop creatures while her attention was on the monsters attacking the ship. A stinger pierced her arm. The toxin worked swiftly. I don’t believe she suffered.”
David reeled. “It wasn’t a splinter,” he muttered.
“Come again?”
“I saw a splinter,” David explained. “Stuck in her arm. But it was a stinger. I … I just left it there.”
“You were busy saving this ship,” said Miss Awolowo pointedly. “You did exactly as Gabrielle would have wanted you to do. You are not responsible for her death.”
David said nothing. The assessment was kind, but he was not so certain he agreed. The reality, the weight of his predicament, came pressing down upon him. He struggled for breath, for the words to form and lead him out of this trap.
“Miss Awolowo, I can’t be Director.”
“Gabrielle disagrees.”
“She’s mistaken.”
“I disagree.”
David gave a helpless sort of laugh. “How can I be Director, Miss Awolowo? I was expelled from Rowan!”
She shrugged. “And deservedly so. You weren’t attending your classes and disobeyed a slew of orders. Never was there a more deserving candidate for expulsion. What of it?”
“I’m unqualified.”
The woman placed a hand on his shoulder. “David, no incoming Director is qualified when they assume the office. Each must grow into the role.”
As David considered this, a question nagged at him. “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That she intended to name me,” he said.
“She told me,” replied Miss Awolowo simply. “I’ve always been Gabrielle’s confidante, you know. She was younger than I, but she became my closest friend, even my mentor. She had you pegged as a future Director when you were a First Year.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. I even remember the day. It was when she realized you were stealing grimoires from the Archives. She debated whether to punish you and ultimately decided against it. Gabrielle had a keen sense of when to rein someone in and felt that you needed latitude to explore. ‘Mark my words,’ she’d say. ‘If that boy doesn’t blow himself up, he’ll be the best Director Rowan’s ever had.’ She adored you.”
David’s cheeks flushed hot with shame. “I used to think she was stupid,” he said quietly. “The year I was expelled—when Gràvenmuir was built. I disagreed with almost everything she did or said. I decided to fight the war alone, do everything alone. It was only last year that I finally started to understand how complicated her job really was. It’s not easy being Director.”
“No,” said Miss Awolowo. “It’s not. The demands are great, the problems challenging. You cannot please everyone and will fail if you try. But Gabrielle had a wonderful system for simplifying problems. Do you know what she’d do?”
“What?”
“She’d make herself a milkshake and walk through the orchards. And on that walk, she’d ask herself a simple question: ‘What would an Oklahoma girl do?’ ”
“I didn’t know she was from Oklahoma,” David murmured, studying Ms. Richter’s face. Even in death, it looked assured.
“Gabrielle was from a tiny town,” said Miss Awolowo. “Even smaller than my village in Nigeria. Her grandmother was Cherokee, but the rest of her people had been Sooners. She joked she’d always be a frontier gal—a lost little tumbleweed that blew all the way to Rowan. She never forgot her roots. Whenever Rowan’s problems threatened to overwhelm her, she took comfort from that question: What would an Oklahoma girl do? As Director, the problems she faced were more complex than those she’d faced as a child, but she tackled them the same way—with courage, integrity, and humor. That question kept her grounded amid all the noise and chaos. The milkshakes helped, too.”
David tried to smile. “I’ve never thought of myself as a leader,” he said. “What if I can’t be like her?”
Miss Awolowo tutted gently. “You mustn’t try to be. She was Gabrielle Richter. You are David Menlo. You’re different people. It’s only natural that you will lead in different ways.” The old recruiter gave him a shrewd look. “There are many kinds of leaders. Too often we confuse a forceful personality with leadership. This is a mistake. Those with different talents and styles can reach the same mountaintop; they just take different paths to get there.”
David gazed up at her, mindful that his heart was no longer fluttering like a caged and frantic bird. There was nothing magical about the effect she was having on him. The calm she induced was simply an extension of her poise and compassion.
“You make me feel better,” he muttered.
Miss Awolowo winked. “Why do you think Gabrielle kept me around all these years? There are times when every Director needs to vent their frustrations to someone who will simply listen and not judge them. I was that person for Gabrielle. I can be that person for you.”
David nodded, his insides twisting at a final confession. “There may be other reasons I shouldn’t be Director. Reasons having to do with … my heritage.”
Miss Awolowo raised her eyebrows. “David, you do not need to tell me anything you do not wish to. But it may comfort you to know that Gabrielle suspected what I believe is troubling you.”
“I’m not talking about my grandfather.”
“Neither am I,” replied Miss Awolowo. “Don’t forget that I recruited you, David. Your powers fairly screamed ‘Old Magic.’ As you can imagine, many people were interested in your background. Given your mother’s challenges, speculation centered on your father, but there is no mention of a Mr. Menlo.”
“No,” said David. “There wouldn’t be.”
“The only things we turned up were records of your heart transplants and the fact that your mother changed her name from Brahms to Menlo.”
“I did that,” said David. “When she was growing up, no one called her Emer. They just said ‘she’s Bram’s’ like she was branded cattle. Some clerk even recorded that as her official name. It was insulting. When I was seven, I broke about a dozen laws and changed it.”
“Why did you choose Menlo?”
David shrugged. “I liked Th
omas Edison. He was the ‘Wizard of Menlo Park’ and I thought that was pretty cool. I guess we’re lucky I didn’t choose ‘Spider-Man.’ ”
Miss Awolowo smiled. “How could you know what people called your mother when she was young?” she asked. “Emer was born hundreds of years ago. Did she tell you this herself?”
David nodded. “In her way.”
“What way is that?”
“My mother’s brain is damaged, but she never forgets anything. Sometimes she’ll recite things she’s heard, whole conversations verbatim. That’s how I learned what my father was.” David gazed imploringly at the woman. “I can’t be Director, Miss Awolowo. I can serve Rowan but I can’t lead it. My kind isn’t fit.”
Miss Awolowo frowned. “If I ever hear you say something like that again, I will become angry. ‘Not fit.’ What nonsense! If you really believe you’re destined for evil, why resist? Why make the choices that you have?”
David was numb. The fact that he was even having this conversation was mind-boggling. He’d never had this conversation—not even with his grandfather. Bram knew, of course, but they talked around it. Miss Awolowo beckoned at him.
“Say what you are,” she urged.
That word. David had read it, and researched it, but he’d never actually spoken it. He unlocked it from its prison and led it forth, allowing it to squeeze past his lips.
“A cambion,” he whispered.
Cambion. He’d actually said it! The truth was out in the world, even if it was confined to this cabin. David Menlo was a cambion, the offspring of human and demon. And now Miss Awolowo knew. She might have suspected, but now she knew. The fact that he couldn’t take it back was strangely liberating. David blinked, amazed by emotions he was experiencing.
Miss Awolowo shrugged. “So you’re a cambion. Am I supposed to recoil?”
“If you like.”
“I’ll pass,” she said. “With all due respect, however, I must take issue with your definition. A cambion is not what you are.”
“Then what am I?” asked David.
“You are your choices,” she replied. “And those choices say that David Menlo is kind, a good friend, a loving son, a wonderful mentor for Mina, a tireless worker, and Rowan’s savior many times over. He happens to be blond, a powerful sorcerer, and a cambion. But these are mere facts—they tell us nothing about David Menlo’s character or what he has chosen to be. Our choices in life define us far more than entries on a birth certificate. You are being asked to make a choice now. You must choose whether to accept Gabrielle’s faith and trust in you.”
“Lots of people won’t want me to be Director.”
“I’ve lived a long time,” Miss Awolowo sighed. “I have yet to see a leader who enjoyed universal approval. If those are conditions you require, David, you’ll be disappointed. Even worse, you might not take risks and become the leader you could be. You assume being a cambion is a handicap, but it bolstered Gabrielle’s belief that you were the person for the job.”
David almost choked. “She chose me because I was a cambion?”
“No,” said Miss Awolowo firmly. “She chose you for the qualities I’ve already mentioned. However, I think she thought it might help. The world we’re living in has changed. Even if we’re victorious, even if we topple Prusias, things will never go back to how they were. Those who have reawakened or entered this world are not leaving. If there’s to be lasting peace, humans, demons, and other beings must find ways to coexist. A cambion might be the bridge that’s needed.”
“How did Ms. Richter know I was a cambion?”
“She had suspected from your First Year, but her suspicions were confirmed the night we expelled you.”
David recalled that evening, the knock on his door and the brief interview with Ms. Richter and Miss Awolowo. He had been in the midst of his experiments, which were highly toxic to demons.
“Blood petals,” he muttered. “How did you know they were dangerous to me?”
“I didn’t,” said Miss Awolowo. “It was Gabrielle who noticed the strange red flowers, your gloves, and the sheen of ointment protecting your skin. And then, of course, there was your declining health. She palmed a petal when you weren’t looking. Her analysis revealed properties extremely toxic to demons but harmless to everything else. Blood petals don’t even make humans sneeze, but you appeared to be having a mild reaction. You’re not the first cambion who has tried to hide his nature, David. You were just the best at it.”
David was astonished. Everything Miss Awolowo said was true. He had saturated his skin with protective salves and slowly built up a tolerance, but experimenting with the petals had still taken a fearsome toll. This conversation was still difficult to process.
Ms. Richter knew I was a cambion and didn’t care! Miss Awolowo knows I’m a cambion and doesn’t care! He had spent his entire life hiding the fact. His ceaseless efforts to mask his aura had stunted his growth and even weakened his body to the point his heart had given out. In his mind, his extreme measures had been worth it. He was spared the stigma of being half demon, of being despised by both races. And while demons were stronger than humans in many ways, they had their own vulnerabilities. If others learned David was cambion, there was the possibility he could be summoned—even against his will if the party learned his truename.
While the price was high, his efforts had worked—not even demons could tell David was a cambion. Only Mina had known right away. And she hadn’t cared either!
David’s entire world was turning upside down. The idea that he might no longer have to hide this aspect of himself was simply staggering.
“Should I tell my friends?” he wondered aloud, thinking of Cynthia Gilley and Max. They were the two people closest to him. What would they think?
Miss Awolowo shrugged. “That is up to you. But I doubt it will bother the people who are dearest to you. They love you for who you are—not your family tree. Does your grandfather know?”
“He knows what my father was.”
“And does he accept you?”
David nodded. He walked over to Ms. Richter’s body and took her hand. She had given him the greatest gift he had ever known—the gift of acceptance. He looked deeply in the Director’s tranquil face. I’m going to make you proud.
Tucking Ms. Richter’s hand under the coverlet, David turned to Miss Awolowo.
“I’ll do it.”
Ndidi Awolowo didn’t need to be told twice. With a curt nod, she opened the door and called the others back in. Ten minutes later, David swore his oath and Rowan had a new Director.
Over the next few hours, the moomenhovens removed Ms. Richter’s body to continue the burial preparations while Mr. Vincenti and others took the lead on tallying and repairing damage from the attack. Meanwhile, Miss Awolowo gave David a crash course on being Director.
Cases of papers, files, reports, and official correspondence were piled before him. The amount of information was staggering: updates on Rowan’s crops, food stores, civil defense, academic reports, personnel, Sanctuary matters, official correspondence … The categories, much less their contents, seemed endless. Fortunately, Miss Awolowo was on hand to make sense of it all. While she gave a brief overview of these and other subjects, she assured him that administrators could tend to these affairs. However, there were matters that required the Director’s immediate attention.
These top-secret files were stored in an inlaid chest without a keyhole or clasp. It would yield only to the Director’s touch. Removing the documents, David scanned their contents while other areas of his brain organized the data, analyzed its implications, and constructed patterns. Not even Bram could match David’s capacity to absorb and analyze information. Even so, it was challenging to digest so many revelations and secrets in one sitting.
Some files revealed secret locations and passages at Rowan; others listed suspected traitors, detailed backchannel communications with prominent braymas … David learned that Ms. Richter had been corresponding with Quee
n Lilith, the ruler of Zenuvia, for over a year. A year! There were scrolls from the witch clans and communiqués from Dr. Rasmussen, former chief of the Frankfurt Workshop. David’s pale, colorless eyes flipped through a dossier concerning Elder vyes that left him speechless. Closing the folder, he rubbed his eyes and stared idly at his cup of lukewarm coffee.
“Jakob?” he called.
Jakob Quills, David’s research assistant, came bustling in with a steaming pot of coffee. The domovoi touched a bristly knuckle to his skullcap.
“I need you to organize this using our system,” said David wearily. “The documents are encrypted, but I’ve labeled corners. When’s the service?”
“Tomorrow morning, sir,” replied Jakob, setting down the pot. “Miss Awolowo’s preparing the eulogy. Rest of the fleet’s been informed.”
David nodded. “What are our losses?”
“Thirty-one ships, over eleven thousand souls, sir. We’ve sent boats to search for any survivors. Doesn’t look good.”
“Has Mina been told?”
“Miss Awolowo plans to inform her once she’s finished.”
“I’ll do it,” said David. “Would you get me her spypaper? Max’s, too, while you’re at it. The Red Branch dossier’s the one by that lantern. Just bring the whole thing.”
The proper files were found and set upon David’s desk, and the domovoi departed. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, David glanced out the windows. It was easy enough to mend broken glass, but this weather was another matter. The panes had nearly frosted over, allowing only a hint of the ruddy red sky beyond.
It’s only getting worse. We need to make landfall.
The hovering quill acted as David’s scribe. It dipped its nib in the glossy ink and set about the spypaper like a hummingbird.
Dear Mina,
We were attacked near the Straits. Richter is gone and I am now Director. Winter is settling early and I fear it will be very bad. Rowan must ration everything. If you see my grandfather, tell me immediately. He might not be well.
Sol Invictus,
David
The ink soaked into the parchment, transmitting the message to little Mina in Túr an Ghrian. He wondered how she was doing. By the time Rowan had set sail, her charge Ember had already grown to the size of a moderate python. How fast did dragons grow? He’d have Jakob track down whatever information the Archives had. Meanwhile, he needed to reach out to Max.
The Red Winter Page 16
