She began to crunch her way down the gravel, bowed by misery and the weight of her suitcase.
She always packs more books than clothes, Elliot thought.
Not until she passed the gate and closed it behind her did Analise turn back to shout through the wrought iron bars, “Goodbye, my friend! See you back at Seafall!”
“Count on it, my friend!” Elliot yelled back.
The taxi rolled away.
***
By the time he went inside, the music room was empty.
When he inquired of a passing maid (not his maid, not Nixie, but a wan woman with bleak eyes who looked like she should be starring in a tragic opera) where everyone was, she answered, “Mr. Mannering and the Countess have retired, sir. Mr. Mallister and Miss Mannering are down in the indoor swimming pool. Will you be joining them, sir? I could fetch you a fresh towel.”
“Oh, Gods, no!” The words came out more loudly than Elliot intended. This startled a smile from the pale maid, which she sucked back behind her lips. He continued, “That is, I didn’t bring my swim trunks. And if I’m to be painting all day tomorrow, I’d better, uh, retire myself.”
Elliot didn’t think he’d be retiring in quite the same manner as Harlan Hunt Mannering and Countess Lupe Valesca. Not that it was any of his business. But if Nixie showed up at his door and offered to peel him out of his smoking jacket using nothing but her knife-like nails, he would not say no. And he would pull the mobcap from her hair, and let those blue-black waves spill down and over him.
The new maid asked, “Do you know your way back, sir?”
Elliot laughed. “Any door will do?”
The words tripped on ahead of his mind, like his feet sometimes did when he wasn’t paying attention. The maid jerked back with a shocked gasp. “Don’t!” Her dove-gray eyes filled and spilled over with tears. “Don’t go, Mr. Howell. Shut your door tonight. Ignore the bells. Please, sir.”
Elliot stared until she ducked her head and gave a short, shuddery sigh. It was one of those times when asking what someone meant would yield nothing but an invisible brick wall. He was used to this from Gideon. There were many invisible walls in Breaker House, he thought.
“Are you all right?” he asked instead, gently.
To no avail. The maid gestured to the spiral staircase behind him. “Your room is the next floor up, sir. Follow the balcony railing around to the right. It’s the bedroom beside Countess Valesca’s, sir. There’s a portrait of a little boy holding a monkey right next to it.”
“I noticed that one,” Elliot replied, nodding. “It’s a Redding. Classic. ‘Lad and his Lady,’ it’s called. Not a print, I take it? Not,” he added quickly, “that I was thinking of taking it.”
This time, his attempt at wit won no answering smile from her. She did look up at him again however, her eyes wet and red-rimmed yet, as if she had been crying a very long time, or sleeping very little, or both.
“Once,” she said, “I was a rising star at Seafall Ballet Company. Once I was a guest at Breaker House, and danced in her midnight halls. Look at me now. Goodnight, Mr. Howell.”
She slipped away from him. Elliot continued upstairs.
He packed his paints into their box and collected his palette, but left his easel, along with the just barely begun canvas of “Desdemona and the Deep”—or what he privately thought of as “Eloise II: The Poor Relation.” He took off his jacket, and laid it tenderly upon his bed, changing into one of his work shirts. Loose, his hair had a tendency to fall into his eyes while he worked, plastered there by sweat and streaks of paint, so he tied it back in a worn scarf, and regarded himself in the mirror that hung over an ebony escritoire.
Elliot could wish the effect of scarf and smock more piratical. But though he was both tall and broad, his face was even more cherubic than those of the oaken angel babies decorating all four posters of the guest bed. He had round blue eyes, sandy lashes, a snub nose, ruddy cheeks that dimpled when he smiled, and a rueful red mouth that smiled even at rest. He would look like his dad when he got old: fat, benevolent, trustworthy.
Pulling down the corners of his mouth, Elliot crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at his reflection.
“I’m not old yet,” he whispered. “If I’m not careful, I may never be.”
Elliot Howell heard what he said, then dismissed it. The words meant nothing yet. By the time they did, it might be too late anyway.
His mother had told him when he was quite young not to ignore the True Voice (her phrase for it) when it spoke through him, but not to pay it much mind either. It was like those ideas you get before sleep, she said, that only live to see the light of day if they are bright enough, or if the dreams between aren’t too thick and dark. You could try to remember true words by writing them down, quick as you may, scrambling for pen and paper and stuffing the words away someplace safe to look at later. But in the morning, what had seemed so fantastic and lofty, so radical, so momentous, was, if legible, utter nonsense. Or worse, banal.
Sometimes, though.
Sometimes those just-before-sleep visions were the seedlings of Elliot’s most inspired pieces. “Writer at Work” was one of them.
And sometimes, if he didn’t think about it too hard, but also didn’t quite allow himself to forget it all the way, the words of the True Voice opened opportunities, diverted disaster, saved lives.
Elliot tucked his box of paints under his arm, and went over to his bedroom door, easing it open. At the far end of the dark hall, a maid was about to descend the main staircase. She held a hurricane lamp aloft. The glass globe bled its glow upon her face, throwing the strange markings upon it into stark relief.
Nixie.
Nixie, and her cap was off, and her hair was down. Not waves, he saw. Braids. A hundred, hundred, hundred blue-black braids snaking all the way down her back.
Forgetting to breathe, forgetting to step quietly, forgetting everything, Elliot slipped out of his room after her.
***
And then, the bells.
PART TWO: NYX
Queen Nyx led her quarry through the shifting borders of Dark Breakers. She smiled a little, thinking how mortal hunters generally pursued their prey, chased it down till its strength gave out, and it fell before them, exhausted.
It had always been otherwise with the Gentry. Theirs was to lure the prey to them. To entice. To seduce. A song from the waves. A light in the fog. A hind or horse or maiden fair so blinding white, with hooves or mane or hair of brightest gold, it were impossible to see it and not to follow. That was the glamour of the Gentry.
Yet, she reasoned, perhaps it was unfair to think of the boy as prey, exactly. Nyx did not mean him harm, but to honor him. He had done her a service, however small, and this while she wore her Day Breakers form besides, a physical body most mortals couldn’t perceive, and which, if they did, they tended to treat with the callous contempt of a superior species to an inferior.
But he was a painter, this boy. This Elliot Howell. He saw the world through keen eyes.
It had been a long time since she had parted the Veil to beckon a mortal boy through the walls of Breaker House. Her courtiers were less choosy. Also less careful. Many a time she had found a mortal wandering the quicksilver corridors of Dark Breakers, forgotten and forlorn, lost in what they thought a dreamland. They did not know that in Day Breakers, decades had already slipped by. That their families had not only never mourned them, but had never known they were lost, that the fact of their very existence had become the dream.
In these cases, Nyx was merciful. She offered a choice. A formal oath of fealty to the Breaker Queen, a place in her Twilight Court—duties, rank, wage, a chance for advancement. Or a swift death.
Most mortals chose the latter, when they finally understood they could never go home again. That home had forgotten them. That the Queen of Dark Breakers would only endure their continuing presence out of pity.
Sometimes she thought the sound of their necks snapping under her fi
ngers would never leave her ears. Nyx turned their bones into the bells they rang at midnight. She hoped the sound would warn mortals away from Gentry lures, and also remind her own people to have a care.
“Have a care,” she told herself. The flesh bumped up on her arms as she thought of Elliot Howell following her. He was like a moving beam of sunlight, pouring down the midnight halls to warm her back.
Nyx slipped into what was, in Day Breakers, the breakfast room. Here it might be anything.
“A banquet hall!” She hoisted her hurricane lamp high. The globe began to burn hotter. Golden light brightened to white, and brightened beyond that, to a cold, burning blue like starlight. A table rose from the swift-moving mercury uncertainty that was the floor. It spilled over with fruits and cheeses, breads, olives, bowls of wine and sherbet, platters of roasted vegetables, cakes, chocolates, creams. Nyx set her lamp down as a centerpiece, and looked around.
“A bower!” At her command, up there rose a mighty dais from the floor, silvery gray its posters, its mattress, its sheets and sham, bolsters, cushions, curtains, pillows. The furs heaped upon it were silver too, and fawn-colored, and tawny gold. The mattress was vast enough for a dozen painters, a dozen Breaker Queens, and all Gentry courtiers, Deep Lords, and goblin roués who might be invited to join their frolicking. The mattress moved lightly, like a boat rocked by waves. It shimmered like a mirage. Yet it would be firm enough for any purpose.
Nyx was not certain she wanted to share her bed tonight with any but Elliot Howell. However! It was always best to prepare for eventualities. She had not been Breaker Queen these centuries for shortsightedness.
“A studio,” Nyx added with a final flick of her fingers. “A platform. Isolated in floodlights. Whatever tools he will require. Serve his desires, spoken and unspoken. Tonight he is our guest.”
Nyx knew he had entered the room by the sound of his breathing. Mortals always labored to breathe here at first, for the air was different. Thinner, some said. Thicker, said others. Full of fire. Like breathing densest fog. Like trying to breathe through snow.
He was sweating too. Nyx could smell it. She flared her nostrils, breathing deeper. Excitement and panic. Turpentine. Charcoal. Soap. Hope. Sunlight.
“Elliot Howell.” Nyx turned so swiftly he did not have time to be startled. She clasped her arms about his waist. At first he went so still she thought perhaps she had stopped his heart by accident—something she had not done since she was quite young, and she would be so vexed with herself if in her excitement she murdered this boy ere she made him welcome—but then his arms moved to encircle her.
Elliot sighed when she settled against him. His body curved around hers, as though she were a flame on a freezing night. Mortals found her realm a cold place at first.
“Welcome to Dark Breakers.”
***
Minutes they stood like that, breathing together. Nyx wondered at herself, that she should have come to associate him so quickly with comfort and safety, or think his arms a refuge, when she meant only to shower him with pleasure.
And only for a night.
One night. That was all. To show her gratitude. And for what? For that ridiculous stunt with his sleeve in the wine, which he’d done unthinkingly, stammering all the while. He was clumsy too, and oafish, and looked like the world’s largest, hairiest dairymaid in that headscarf.
Why was he so dear, so suddenly, and why did he smell so good, and what was she doing falling into his heartbeat like that?
Nyx pulled away from his arms, giving his chest a little push while she was at it.
Solid. Sturdy. As if he had roots that went down deep. Like pushing the foundation of Breaker House, anchored in all three worlds.
Elliot Howell looked at her, uncertainly.
“Eat!” Nyx invited him, smiling in a way her mother had called, “Tricksy from the cradle.” She gestured to the banquet table. “I did not know what you liked, so I brought forth all I could think of. You are a child of enormous height, and broad of bearing, and must, I expect, eat heartily to keep up your strength.”
Elliot’s round blue eyes roved over the feast. His big hand moved to his stomach as if to ask it a question. Some inward answer given, he turned back to her, his expression grateful, if slightly wary. “Mistress, I ate my fill at dinner. I do not wish to refuse your hospitality, but. . .” Here he laughed, a deeply joyous sound, baritone as a bone bell and not a boy’s laugh at all. “Neither do I wish to embarrass myself before you.”
Nyx realized she was biting down on her knuckles. She had not bitten her knuckles since forever. Since Breaker House chose her for its own. Since she took her place amongst all the Queens and Kings of Valwode, the Veil Between Worlds. She placed both hands on her hips and stomped her foot.
Stomped her foot?
Nyx looked down at herself in amazement. Was she become a babe again, transformed by the mere presence of this overgrown infant? She had forgotten the effect mortals had upon the Gentry. No wonder she’d kept away from them so long. Heady stuff. Fast acting as cocaine.
“You insult me,” Nyx heard herself saying. She should put her knuckles back in her mouth, she realized. It would stop the flow of words.
No, better, let him stop her mouth…
Elliot blinked at her. “Lady, I d-do not mean…”
Nyx stepped closer, leaning forward. “Are you certain you do not refuse to eat out of cowardice? Do you fear that once having supped at my table, partaken of its Gentry viands, you will stay here forever, forgetting your true world and forsaking it for this dream?”
Flushing even more rosily than his ruddy skin was wont (adorable boy!), Elliot Howell put down the wooden box he carried at the edge of the table, snatched up a strawberry from a silver bowl and popped it into his mouth.
“I am not afraid,” he said.
“I cannot tell you how this thrills me.”
It did thrill her, though Nyx had injected her words with what withering sarcasm she could conjure. Her hand trembled as it slid up his chest. His heart knocked against her palm.
Nyx loved a mortal heartbeat. Did she? Why? Ah, yes. Now she remembered. The quickening pound of it. If she concentrated, if she closed her eyes and counted forward, she knew she would be able to foresee the exact number of heartbeats remaining to him. The precise day it would stop, when the hot red rivers of his blood would cool and darken, and his warm flesh turn to cold clay. And he, gray bones and dust. And he. . .
Nyx hated a mortal heartbeat. That awful clock. Now she remembered.
Elliot’s hands cupped her face, wiping her tears away.
Laughing shakily, she stepped back from him. “I haven’t been this young for a long time. It’s humbling. No wonder my courtiers behave badly when they take a mortal through. I could bounce off the walls of Dark Breakers after just a breath of you. We haven’t even. . .” She bit her lip.
Elliot blushed again, and looked down at his hands.
“They’re. . .s-sticky. Your tears. More so than. . .Well. Mine would be. For example.”
“Taste them,” Nyx whispered, and watched his mouth when he did. This time his eyes rolled back into his head. His knees buckled and his body bucked, and she caught him by the waist, holding him steady until the ecstasy passed. When Elliot opened his eyes again, the blue of them was bright, bright, September-dizzy-dying-summer bright.
“They’re sweet,” he gasped. “But spicy too. Like clover honey and… ch-chili pepper… and sea salt. And…”
Nyx told him, “Most who visit here and return forget what they have seen.” Her tears came faster now, scalding her cheeks as they fell. “To them we seem but a perilous and lovely dream. There is relief in their waking. A sense of escape, tinged with regret. But you will not forget us. Not now that you’ve tasted my tears. I’m sorry, Elliot Howell. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. . .”
He bent his head to kiss the tears from her face, his tongue flicking out gently to catch each molten drop. “I. Don’t. Want. To. Forge
t. Any of this. Not ever.”
Nyx grunted and took his hand, guiding it to the knot at the back of her apron. She hadn’t bothered changing out of her Day Breakers garb, thinking that if she, at least, remained unchanged for him when he moved through the worlds, he might not be so disoriented.
But enough with the clothes already.
He was deft with the knot, and with the buttons all down her back. And now his bare hands were bumping down her spine. And now she would stand on her tiptoes and pull that dairy maid’s scarf from his hair, which was so fair as to be flaxen, all feather-like and flyaway, and. . .sweet.
Horned Lords, he was so sweet. On all her senses. Sweet, and earnest too, may all the Spirits of Air and Darkness help her. What was it about earnestness Nyx had come to find so appealing? Well, no great mystery, she supposed; insincerity was the high fashion at court. The smoother the lie, the more gilded the tongue, the more admired the liar. Gentry were known for caprice.
But though she ruled over them, Nyx had long since ceased following their fashions. How tiresome it all was.
And oh, why think of them now, when Elliot Howell was tasting her again? And gasping at each lick, his fists clenching her shoulders then flexing loose as each shock wave brought on by her tears bolted through him.
She must return the favor soon or burst into flame. She must…
“What toy is this, Queen Nyx?” asked a voice behind her. Nyx slammed back down to the flats of her feet. She knew that voice. Hard to forget its sandpaper texture, the way it scraped the brain like a cat sharpening its claws on a hickory trunk. Susurra of the Night Hags.
Nyx turned, and turning, changed.
Gone was the half-unpeeled costume of domestic service. In its place a robe of scarlet rose petals, each velvety leaf overlapping like fish scales. It fell in a straight swoop from shoulder to floor, where it pooled around her feet in blood and shadow. Silver vines with silver thorns twined up her bare wrists and arms, encircled her throat, bound back her braids, looped over her face in a veil of barbed chains. A silver scepter appeared in her hand, spiked on one end like a morning star. The antler crown worn by all royalty of the Valwode burst from her skull, a raging tangle of tiers that reached higher than Elliot Howell.
The Breaker Queen Page 3
