by Rachel Caine
"Not his keeper," he said. "I think he just went out the front. Why?"
She turned and ran down the steps. Stumbled and nearly fell, and Jess saw blood on the back of her head, matted in her hair. He resisted the urge to run after her. He followed at a deliberate walk, testing himself. Slowing his pulse. Stilling his thoughts.
The guests had cleared the courtyard. Brightwell guards had shown them all politely out, and as Jess, no, Brendan, I'm Brendan, came out the castle entrance, the drawbridge chains clattered, and the only exit from this place shut with a loud, final boom.
Callum Brightwell gave him a narrow look. "Where is he?"
"Upstairs, in the chapel," Jess said. He kept his face turned away, so the lack of a scar that distinguished him easily from his brother couldn't be spotted. "Did the other one come out?"
"The Welsh girl? Yes." Callum nodded off to the side, and when Jess turned that way, he saw that Glain was down on her face, with three guards kneeling on her as they chained her at the neck, wrists, and ankles. She was unconscious again. He remembered the blood in her hair and hoped desperately that they hadn't hit her too hard.
"My advice? Send her off with Anit," Jess said. He kept it light, almost casual. "From what Jess let slip, she might have some money to her name, and besides, we'll be dealing with the Welsh king soon enough. Bad form to be slaughtering his subjects when we don't need to."
His father grunted but didn't give any sign whether he'd take that advice or not. Jess couldn't force it, not without making things worse.
"Santiago, Wolfe, Seif, Santi, and Hault are together," Callum said. "Santiago bribed Grainger to bring them a bottle of my best. When he goes in with it, Grainger will pull Santiago and Seif off with him. Taking them will be easy enough, I think. It's the other three who concern me. We need Wolfe and Hault alive and undamaged. You're certain you can manage that on your own?"
"Yes," Jess said. "I think so. They trust me well enough."
"Pity you couldn't pretend to be your brother. We'd have had them all, quick as lightning."
Jess forced a laugh and moved off, because if he hadn't, he would have dragged his father's gun from his belt and damned himself to hell for murder. He kept moving, past where Glain had fallen, and into the lights outside the carriage house. It came to him with sudden, violent conviction. Dario's going to crack. He's going to forget where to hit me, and this will all come apart. If Grainger gets sight of me without a scar . . .
Jess paused and picked up a stray, sharp piece of stone from a pile beside the entrance, and without thinking about it, sliced it in exactly the spot where he knew his brother's scar would be. Blood jetted out, and the pain blinded him; he fought for a breath, then two, then three, and then found a handkerchief in his brother's pocket and clamped it to the wound. No disguising it, of course. But that was the plan.
He dropped the stone and walked into the workshop. No sign of Thomas in here; Jess wondered where he'd gone and realized his father hadn't spoken of him. They'd drawn him off, somehow. That was probably wise. Taking Thomas in close quarters would be dangerous, if not impossible.
He tried not to think about that, and sailed in as if he were Brendan, as if he hadn't a care in the world except for the bloody wound in his head.
Khalila leaped to her feet in an instant and rushed to him. "Brendan! What happened?"
"Nothing," he said, and pushed past her. "Family squabble. I'm fine." Rudeness was the only defense against her right now, when he wanted so badly to look at her, apologize, beg for her forgiveness. Dario was coming now, and he gave Jess a horrified look, and then it turned to relief.
"Let me guess," he said, shifting back to the Dario Jess had always known and loathed. "You pushed your brother once too often? He's got a bite, that one."
"Tell me about it," Jess said. "He gave me the scar in the first place--did you know that? Trust him to hit me in the same spot again. Grainger's coming with your wine. Any moment now. Relax, you won't die of thirst."
Dario understood that perfectly, and he drew Khalila away with him, out of Jess's path. When she started to follow, Dario held her hand. "No, wait, flower. I need to tell you something." Jess almost, almost hesitated. If Dario lost his nerve now . . . but then he heard Dario continue, in a fierce, fast whisper, "I love you. I've always loved you. I will always love you. And I am entirely the wrong man for you, I know this. But I have to ask: will you do me the honor of marrying me? If you don't wish that, Khalila, tell me, and I will leave you--"
Silence.
Jess risked a glance back and saw she was kissing him. Dario broke the kiss with a gasp and put his arms around her.
Khalila said, in a voice that was full of heartbreaking happiness, "I do wish it. And don't you dare leave me, Dario Santiago."
Dario held her close and stared at Jess with a terrible joy in his eyes. I had to, it said. I had to know.
And maybe he was right to do it. They might never have another chance to be happy.
Jess was five steps from Morgan, Wolfe, and Santi. Then three steps. And then he stopped and managed to wink his good eye at Morgan. "Nothing fatal," he assured her. "Not that you'd care, I suppose."
She said nothing, but she stepped forward and pulled his arm down, and the handkerchief away from the open wound. Before he could take a breath, she'd drawn her fingers across it, and he felt the hot twinge of her power washing over him. Saw gold and black stars, and then blinked them away. When he reached up to touch the spot, he found it closed. Healed shut.
"It'll leave a scar," she said, "but then, you already had one anyway. Where's Jess?"
Her voice was steady, and her eyes bright on his. Don't look at me like that. Like I'm still Jess. But she wasn't, he realized. She was just afraid, and he saw her gaze shift behind him.
"Ah, the wine," Dario said, too loudly, and let go of Khalila as he turned to face Grainger, who held up the bottle. Jess dropped the bloody handkerchief to the floor, and at the last moment, he looked to the corner, where Frauke lay.
She was entirely still. No sign of life at all.
Morgan had been tasked to turn the automaton off, and she'd remembered, thank God, because in the next instant, it all became suddenly, crashingly real.
All the pieces moved, and adrenaline slowed to a precise, clockwork crawl. Jess stepped forward, one hand diving into his pocket. He came out with a Translation tag, one of three his father had procured for Brendan. He heard the first indrawn breath behind him, as the wine bottle hit the flagstones and shattered, as Grainger grabbed Dario from behind.
Two more guards rushed in. He heard the commotion, didn't bother to look, because he was staring at Wolfe now. The older man was looking past him, at Dario and Khalila, starting to react to their danger.
He didn't realize his own. Not yet.
And then Wolfe's gaze skimmed across him, and those dark eyes widened, and Jess saw the exact instant when he knew what was going to happen. Wolfe was quick and strong, and Jess knew that he had to be faster, stronger, and entirely ruthless.
He threw himself forward and slammed the Scholar back against the wall. He smelled something burning, thought it was the smoke of Philadelphia, but it was the stench of a burn mark on the wall, and Wolfe's head was against that crack, and he was bracing himself to push forward. His hands were coming up to punch, and he was already twisting and trying to pull free.
Jess took the blow that Wolfe landed on the side of his head. It staggered him, but he didn't let it stop his motion. His right arm slammed hard against Wolfe's throat and pinned him in place.
His left clipped the Translation tag to Wolfe's collar, and in that last instant, as their eyes locked, Jess saw the hell of despair in the man's eyes, and something else. Resignation. Acceptance of an end of things. I'm sorry, Jess wanted to say, but Brendan wouldn't.
Brendan wouldn't be sorry for any of it.
Santi was coming for him, he felt it like the heat before a fire, and he knew he was out of time. Only two seconds had
really passed since he'd lunged, but that was all the grace period he was going to get.
Jess tapped the Translation tag and felt the wash of energy rush out of him and into the tag, and Wolfe opened his mouth and let out a scream of despair and pain as the alchemical energy contained in the clip ripped through him and tore him out of the world, and into it somewhere half a world away.
Off to Alexandria.
There was another scream, one right next to him, loud enough to deafen him, but it wasn't pain. It was rage, pure, unbridled rage, and Jess ducked and twisted out of the way just as Santi grabbed for him.
Wolfe was gone. He was gone. And Santi was going to rip his head off.
He dodged and rolled over the trestle table, and as he did he saw a whirling kaleidoscope of violence: Dario, down on the floor and screaming Spanish curses while his chains were clapped on. Khalila Seif armed with an iron bar that she'd pulled from next to the furnace, weaving and dodging the guards who were closing in on her. She lunged and stabbed one through the heart, but the iron bar caught in the man's ribs, and as he fell, she was disarmed.
She screamed something in Arabic and lunged at them anyway, a beautiful, defiant, graceful whirl of silk and power.
There was nowhere for her to run, but she wouldn't give up, and he loved her fiercely for that.
Jess rolled off the table, landed on his feet, grabbed Morgan by the throat. He backed into the corner and used her as a shield against Santi--a different Santi than he'd ever seen, a wild tiger that checked his spring at only the last second when he realized that he'd have to go through Morgan to reach his enemy.
"In bocca al lupo," he whispered against Morgan's ear, and pressed his lips there, just for an instant. Then he slipped the second tag onto the collar of her dress and activated it, too. She didn't have a chance to reply to him, if she'd intended to. Kill the wolf, Morgan. Kill it for me.
As her body dissolved in a tormented whirl, Jess braced himself and kicked out, hard. He caught the captain with both feet in the chest and sent him flying back, into the arms of two guards, and before Santi could break free they slammed him down on the table, and the chains were going on.
Jess stood there breathing hard, gagging on the knowledge of what he'd done. Khalila was still free. She'd killed two men now, but as he watched, he saw one slip behind her and pin her, and then it was over; she was finished, too. Dario was begging her to stop, stop fighting. He was nearly in tears.
Where's Thomas? He wanted to throw up, suddenly, to weep, to scream, but he couldn't allow himself to do any of that.
Because his father was walking into the room, taking a quick and efficient count of the damage and the gain.
His gaze stopped on Jess--no, on Brendan. Took in the blood on his face, but Jess knew he wouldn't mention it.
He didn't. He said, "Are they away?"
"Gone," Jess said. He kept the answer short, because he was afraid of what he'd say otherwise. "And where's Thomas?"
That was the moment when the wall behind him, the cracked wall, suddenly and catastrophically collapsed, and Jess fell backward into a pair of enormous, grasping hands that closed around his throat and dragged him painfully over the rubble.
Thomas. Oh God, it was Thomas.
His friend was bloodied, but he wasn't down. There were four guards around him, but he was tossing them around like children, and his whole focus was on the Brightwell son he held.
Whom he yanked into the air and held there, dangling and choking.
Jess remembered Willinger Beck in Philadelphia, and the way Thomas had dismissed his violence toward the man. If I hadn't played the German berserker . . . But Thomas wasn't playing this time. There was nothing but rage burning in those huge blue eyes. Red veins had spread around the irises, and Jess knew that the only thing keeping him alive, the only thing, was that Thomas could see the other three behind him in chains. Dario. Khalila. Santi.
Thomas's lips drew back from his teeth. Jess had never realized how big they were, those teeth. How straight and white and utterly terrifying, with the inhuman fury burning above them.
"Let them go!" Thomas roared. His mild German friend hardly ever shouted, and he'd never unleashed this particular volume before, not that Jess had ever heard. "Or this one's dead!"
"Back away!" Jess heard his father shouting, but it was harder to hear now; between Thomas's enormous bellow, and the fast, loud beating in his eyes, nothing quite seemed right. He was fighting, he could feel that; his hands scrabbled at Thomas's fingers, trying to pry them away.
It wasn't going to work. Thomas was going to kill him, and they were going to kill Thomas, because Callum would lose a valuable hostage rather than his younger son. Besides, Thomas had already built his press. Drawn his plans. In Callum Brightwell's calculus, Thomas's value had already fallen below Brendan's.
There was only one chance, and Jess was just barely clear minded enough to realize it. He stopped fighting, dropped his right hand to his pocket, and fumbled inside. Found the tag.
He clipped it to his coat and slapped at it in the same motion. Couldn't tell at first if it worked, because the only sensations left to him were the black, panicked struggling of his lungs, and the cold, because it was getting so cold . . .
He didn't think he screamed, but if he did, it wouldn't have mattered. He caught one last glimpse of Thomas's fury shattering, and Thomas's hands opened to let him drop.
As the wolf took him midfall, Jess saw his friend's lips move. Saw the recognition slip into Thomas's face like a strike of lightning.
Jess?
And then he was gone, into the rushing darkness, where he would have to kill the wolf to survive.
EPHEMERA
A contingency-of-death letter filed with the Scholar's Archives, from Scholar Christopher Wolfe to High Garda Captain Niccolo Santi. Interdicted to the Black Archives. Not delivered.
Nic,
If you're reading this, my ghost is speaking to you. Ink and paper, and a memory, because I'm gone. I hope I died well. I hope I died for something, as I lived for it. But even if I didn't, if accident took me, or illness, or a thousand meaningless happenstances, then it doesn't matter anymore.
The only thing that matters now is that you loved me. You never should have, you know; I was, and remain as I write this, an unlovable man, full of flaws and cracks and terrible habits. From the moment I saw you, I felt drunk on possibilities, but I knew I would never deserve you. And I never have, through all of it. But still, you remained.
I know you will be angry. I know you will want to drive out your grief with action. Don't. For my sake, don't throw yourself into battles, or pick fights with giants, or whatever mad thing comes into your head. Live. Because when next we meet in your Christian heaven or my pagan afterlife, or some shadowy, hidden corner where those two may touch, I want to hear that you lived a long and happy life after me. That you did as you liked, and loved as you liked, and left the world shattered and empty in your wake.
Because that is the Niccolo Santi I know, and if a ghost can speak of love, then know I adore you still. You are my beloved, and I will be waiting, and you must not take offense when people speak of me harshly, as I surely deserve. We never cared for their opinions, and we shouldn't now.
And if, with the help of the gods, you find I'm not dead, I will expect a proper good welcome, a bottle of wine, and to find the heaven I spoke of in your arms, because after being away from you, I will never want to be parted again.
Wolfe
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Jess came back in the world, he was on his back on a cool stone floor, and all he knew for a second or two was that he was going to be horribly, violently ill. He rolled on his side, but the spasms passed, and when he opened his eyes, he saw a blurry smear of color and light, heard shouts and voices. Saw running feet go past him, and then there was a hand holding him flat and a gun in his face.
The man kneeling over him wasn't familiar, but the uniform was: High Garda. Jess took i
n a slow breath and felt the familiar air of Alexandria fill up the empty ruins inside him.
Home.
"Who are you?" the soldier snarled. Jess coughed. Tried to get his breath. Tasted blood and that rotten smoke, and thought, Who am I?
But he knew who he had to be.
"Brendan Brightwell," he managed to croak. "I'm the one with gifts for the Archivist Magister; you know I'm coming. Get off me, you bloody fool; I'm expected!" His throat hurt like he'd gargled broken glass, and his head throbbed where Wolfe's fist had connected. He felt cuts and scrapes down his back, where Thomas had pulled him through the broken wall.
All in all, it was a miracle he was still breathing. But he'd have to resist the urge to collapse and enjoy it, because he'd hardly even begun this dangerous night.
The soldier looked up and over to someone else. "Who have you got there?"
"Sir, this is the rebel Scholar! Christopher Wolfe!"
"This one's the missing Obscurist," said another, farther away.
"Alive?"
"Both alive, sir."
Jess tried to swallow the wave of relief. He waited. His heart was pounding itself to bits against his ribs, and he wanted desperately to wage a fight he knew he would lose, but he did nothing. Seconds ticked by, and then the High Garda straddling him stepped off to the side and said, "Get up, you. Slowly."
Jess kept his hands raised and struggled to his knees, then--as instructed--slowly to his feet. "I'm here to make a deal," he croaked. "I've brought you two of the traitors in good faith. Shoot me, and you can explain to the Archivist how you lost ten thousand original books."
He finally risked a look at the others. Wolfe was flat on his stomach, and a High Garda woman knelt on him as she put his hands behind his back in restraints. Morgan looked barely conscious. He kept his face still, body loose, as he watched her being flipped over and cuffed, too.
Wolfe had raised his head at a painful angle to look at him. "You fool," he said. "What do you think you're doing? Your own brother's going to slaughter you. If Santi doesn't get you first!"
"I don't think my fate's your problem, Scholar," Jess said, in a croaking approximation of Brendan's careless, chilly tones. "Seems to me you've got bigger things to worry about. Like prison bars."
