by Ally Carter
He doesn’t look at me. He just says, “I think maybe I should stay.”
I wonder what that would be like, having him always here to fight my battles. I would hate it. And I would love it. But that’s not how this story is supposed to go.
“You can’t stay, Jamie.”
“Yeah.” He spins on me. “Well, right now I can’t leave.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him, easing forward. “Don’t give up West Point because of me. Because I am okay.”
“Are you? Are you really, Gracie? Because my room is next door to yours, you know. When you wake up screaming in the middle of the night, I’m the one who hears you.”
I don’t talk about the nightmares. Not with Noah or Megan or Rosie. Not even with my psychiatrist, Dr. Rainier. It’s not that I can’t remember them once I wake up. It’s that they are always there, like a movie playing in the background of my mind. Sometimes, though … sometimes I can’t turn the volume down.
“They aren’t that bad,” I tell my brother. And the amazing thing is that it’s mostly true.
He reaches out for me again, but I wince involuntarily and Jamie stops. I am the wild thing he doesn’t want to frighten.
“I don’t blame you, Gracie. You know that, don’t you? I don’t blame you for what happened to Mom.” Jamie stalks toward me slowly. One heavy step and then another. They punctuate his words. “I. Don’t. Blame. You.”
His forgiveness is supposed to release me. I know I’m supposed to slump to the floor and cry. I should be able to get better now, but Jamie doesn’t know that my tears dried up ages ago.
So I just look at him.
“Then you’re the only one.”
He doesn’t follow me up the stairs. He doesn’t say another word. And I’m glad of it because I don’t know if I could take it, not his words and not his touch. I don’t want him to see me sway, unsteady on my feet as I walk down the hall.
I don’t want him to notice how hard it is for me to open my bedroom door or how I collapse against it once it’s closed.
But, most of all, I don’t want my brother to see the dark stains that have spread across my black tank top. When I pull off my cardigan, I wince. When I try to stretch my arms over my head and peel off my shirt, I scream. But the water is already running in the shower, pounding against the tile and filling the bathroom with steam. I am alone as I look at the too-thin girl who is reflected in the mirror. Her hair is tangled and her eyes are sad, and her right side is covered in blood.
I try to touch the slice that pierces my skin, but the pain is too much. I can’t pass out. Not now. I can’t ask for help.
But, most of all, Jamie can’t see this — know this. He already feels too guilty about Spence, and it’s not like anybody needs another reason to worry about me, so I won’t give them one. I’d rather die first.
I look at the bloodstained girl who is disappearing into the steam.
I’d rather die.
I sleep later than I should. It’s for the best, though. Easier to avoid Jamie that way. And Ms. Chancellor. But not Grandpa. I never have to worry about Grandpa.
Or so I think.
I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear voices in the foyer. There are a half dozen men and women being ushered into the formal living room on the other side of the black-and-white-checkered floor. It’s the room where Grandpa hosts his standing poker game, but no one in the foyer has come to play, I can tell.
They wear their best suits and their most serious expressions as Grandpa shakes their hands and welcomes them inside. But it’s the final man in the line who makes my breath catch.
Alexei’s father is taller than his son, broader. More stoic, which I never really thought was possible. For a moment, he and Grandpa stare at each other. Then, slowly, Grandpa extends his hand, and Alexei’s father takes it. It looks like something knights might have done five hundred years ago, right before they battled to the death.
There are no cameras in the foyer, no press. I have no idea how they got the Russians into the embassy without causing the mob outside to go wild. Maybe they crawled over the fence? Wouldn’t be the first time, I think. It’s a shame I wasn’t there to offer pointers.
“Grace?” Ms. Chancellor stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me. “Is everything okay, dear?” Her gaze is as sharp as a knife, and that makes my side hurt. I’m pretty sure I wince. “Grace, are you ill? You seem pale.”
“No. I’m just … I didn’t sleep well.”
“Yes, well —” Ms. Chancellor glances to the doors that are closing behind her. “I’m not surprised.”
“What are they doing here?”
“That’s not for you to worry about, dear. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”
I want to yell that Alexei’s not a killer. I want to storm into the room and tell everyone how he pulled me from the mob last night — that Alexei is a good guy. He saved me.
“We have to help him,” I tell Ms. Chancellor. “You know as well as I do that Alexei didn’t do this, so we have to do something.”
The people in that room with my grandfather are nothing compared to the women in the Society with Ms. Chancellor.
“If they can make a gunshot disappear they can fix this,” I tell her, but Ms. Chancellor gives me a slight shake of her head.
For the benefit of anyone who might be listening, she says, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
I know I’m supposed to shut up now, like our trip to the Society’s headquarters three days ago never happened — like I didn’t see what I saw or hear what I heard. I guess I’m supposed to act like it was just another illusion of my messed-up mind. But I know what happens when you start treating the truth like fiction, and fiction like the truth. I know how the lines blur, and I can’t let it happen again.
So I don’t shut up.
“What does the Society know?” I ask quietly, taking a step closer. “What aren’t you telling me? You’ve got to help him. You have to go in there and —”
“Eleanor?” My grandpa is standing at the door, calling to her. “We’re ready.”
Ready to do what? I want to yell, but do not say. It’s just another thing that no one will ever tell me.
So when Ms. Chancellor looks back at me and says, “Grace, whatever is wrong, dear, I hope you know that I’m here. That I’ll listen.” I just nod. I don’t even bother to lie anymore.
As I walk through the front doors, the sound of the protestors booms in my ears. They’re back, of course. If anything, they’re louder. They probably heard about the brawl last night. No doubt things are going to get worse before they get better.
Things can always get worse.
There are two marines on duty today, and neither of them says a word. I’m pretty sure they don’t notice the way my right arm hangs oddly, too gently at my side. If anyone questions why I work the gate with my left hand they don’t ask.
Protestors press against the barricades, and the sidewalk has disappeared into a narrow strip. People jostle and push, and every step is like a hot poker trying to stick between my ribs. When I touch my T-shirt, my fingers come away tinged with red.
I need help, of course. Even I know that much. The smart thing to do would be to turn around and go bang on the closed door until Ms. Chancellor opens it, to go to Jamie. Even Noah and Megan would help. But I know what will happen if I go to the hospital.
US Ambassador’s Granddaughter Stabbed in Brawl with Russian Suspect.
I might as well go ahead and start World War III right now.
So I tell myself, I’ll be okay. I’m fine. Really. He’ll be there, I practically chant.
He’s always there.
Then I see him, on the other side of the street, just far enough from the crowd to keep the whole thing in perspective. He sees me. In fact, he sees everything. And for the first time, I let myself double over. My steps falter.
I practically fall into the Scarred Man’s arms.
“I need your help.”
/> I sway. My vision blurs. I must have lost more blood than I realize because the Scarred Man’s grip is too tight. I’m fragile and vulnerable and all of the things I hate. He practically carries me down the street.
“Come on.”
The light in Dominic’s kitchen is too bright. He makes me sit on a stool in the middle of the fluorescent glare, and I can’t help but feel like I’m in an old-fashioned movie and he’s a cop or a spy trying to sweat the truth out of me. But, of course, Dominic barely says a word. So I use the light to study him.
There is not a scratch on him, save the obvious. It’s like there never was a fight, as if there was no mob. Last night? The guys on the street? They were boys, drunk and rowdy. Standing before me is an actual man. They never stood a chance.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t say for what. For getting into trouble, for bringing my problems to his door. For killing the love of his life. There’s so much to choose from that I don’t even try to be specific.
“Where are you hurt?” Concern seeps into his voice, but also annoyance.
I pull up my shirt. My dad is an Army Ranger and I spent half of my childhood in some kind of brace or cast. I know how to clean and bind a wound. But now blood is oozing through my makeshift bandages. The cut must be deeper than I thought. I must look as hideous as I feel.
“From last night?” Dominic rips the bandage away and I wince. He cocks an eyebrow, as if I’m being a baby.
When the Scarred Man drops to his knees and leans toward me, I tell him, “I got cut.”
“You did not get cut, Grace Olivia. You got stabbed.”
It’s the first time he has ever used my full name. My mother used to do that. It’s no doubt where he heard it, and that makes me sway again.
I blame it on the blood.
“You’re not going to tell me I should go to the hospital?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. It’s why I’m here. But still I hold my breath as the Scarred Man looks at me.
“You have seen enough of hospitals, I would expect.”
I don’t bother to agree. It would be redundant, and I’m coming to learn that Dominic is the kind of person who doesn’t waste anything. Not a movement; not a moment; not a breath.
I sit on my stool while he rummages through a cabinet filled with old bottles. He pulls on a pair of gloves and takes out a toolbox stuffed with the kinds of tools that have nothing to do with home improvement. I see scalpels and tweezers and bandages. There are pills in a half dozen colors and clear vials of thick liquids that carry no labels.
“Raise your shirt again,” he says, matter-of-fact. I do so, showing him the gash in my right side.
“It isn’t too deep.” He sticks a gloved finger into the wound, probing it, and I cry out in agony. “My apologies,” he says, but I don’t think he means it. The wound burns as he cleans it, but I stay silent. When he reaches for a needle and thread, I brace myself for what’s coming.
“Do you want something for the pain?”
“No,” I say.
Finally, he smiles as if maybe I’m starting to gain some of his respect.
The Scarred Man works in silence. There’s no lecture, no fatherly concern, as he sews me back together.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I ask, but silence is the answer. “I met the acting prime minister. Are you a part of her security team now?”
“The last man under my protection is currently in a coma.”
“It was a heart attack,” I say, the words a reflex now.
Dominic cuts his gaze up at me as if maybe I’ve forgotten he was there — that he of all people knows better. I wonder for a moment if Ms. Chancellor and her Society even tried to rewrite him. I wonder if they’d still be breathing if they had.
“Well, as far as everyone knows, it was a heart attack,” I try.
Dominic goes back to work. “Nevertheless, Grace Olivia, my services are not precisely in demand at the moment.”
“Oh,” I say, then add one more item to the list of things that are my fault. “But I guess you have lots of free time, then. You know, to take in the sights … Enjoy the festival … Follow me.”
Dominic keeps working, his stitches smooth and even. He’s better at this than Dad, but I can never tell him that.
“You were there last night,” I say dumbly.
“I was.”
“Why do I get the feeling you weren’t just in the neighborhood?” I ask, but he doesn’t look up. “Why were you there? Why are you always there?”
“I was following you.”
“Why?”
I should know better than to make demands of a man sticking a needle in and out of my skin, but I’ve never been known for my stellar decision-making. “If there’s something you want to ask me, just ask it. If there’s something you want to say, just —”
“Your friend …”
“His name is Alexei. And if you knew him —”
Finally, Dominic stops. Stares at me. “Oh, I know him.” He knots the thread and clips the end, then rubs some sweet-smelling cream over the place where I’ll no doubt have a scar. “You would do well to avoid him in the future.”
“He didn’t kill that cadet.”
“And yet someone is going to a great deal of trouble to make it look as if he did.”
“Why are you following me?” I don’t yell. It’s almost like a whisper.
Dominic stands. He pulls off his gloves. Slowly, he begins to wrap a bandage around my ribs, around and around and around, binding me tightly, holding me together.
“I could not save her.”
I see it in his eyes then: He’s going to save me.
For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like my guts are going to spill right out.
“There.” He pushes away. “How does that feel?”
I look at him. “Hurts.”
He nods as if he understands completely, then he turns and pulls a small glass bottle from one of the shelves. It’s little, with an old-fashioned stopper. It looks almost delicate, like something a fine lady might dab on her wrists. The liquid inside is thick and clear.
“Take this,” he says. “Mix a little with water. No more than a few drops, though. You’re small. Too much will knock you out.”
“Okay,” I say, standing and slipping the vial into my pocket. He offers me a bottle of water.
“Here. Now go.”
“But —”
“Go home, Grace Olivia. Today, you rest.”
“Okay,” I say again. There is no doubt I’ve been dismissed, so I start toward the door. I’m almost gone when Dominic calls to me.
“And, Grace …” I turn back. “Your friend … he should be careful.”
“He didn’t do it,” I say again.
Dominic just looks at me as if I should know better. “That is precisely why he should be careful.”
“Why? What are you talking about?” Worry stirs within me. “What do you know?”
But Dominic doesn’t care that I am desperate. It’s almost like he doesn’t notice that I’m scared. I watch him fade and drift away. I can see some old worry settle into the lines around his eyes. And I know he’s not talking about Alexei, not about Spence. He is thinking of my mother when he tells me, “Bad people do not like loose ends.”
A darkness descends. My blood turns cold. It’s like it’s someone else who is asking, “What does that mean?”
Dominic looks into my eyes. His voice is low, a warning. “It means your friend should be careful.”
The Scarred Man bound my wounds, but I’m still sore. And yet it is another ache that claws inside of me. Dominic’s words echo in my mind, and even though I know I told him I’d go straight home, I can’t take the chanting crowds or the closed doors. I can’t take much of anything anymore.
Bad people don’t like loose ends.
A prime minister with a bullet wound was a loose end, and that went away. The question I don’t want to ask is simple.
What about a dea
d cadet?
“Gracie!”
For a second, I’m sure I must be hearing things, but the word comes again.
“Gracie, wait.”
I tell myself that I’m wrong, that Alexei can’t be outside of Russia’s walls and chasing after me. But he is. I see him running up the hill, and a new kind of panic takes control.
“What are you doing out here? Are you crazy? You shouldn’t leave the embassy. Wait — how did you leave the embassy?”
We’re at the top of the hill, near the base of the cliffs and almost to Iran. I can see the mob and the blocked street below. I can actually hear the chanting, but Alexei only shrugs.
“You aren’t the only one who can climb the wall, you know.”
It’s hard to imagine Alexei climbing onto the ancient wall that circles the city, running along the top like a fugitive. Like me.
But Alexei is stepping closer, pulling me over to the cliffs, near the Iranian fence. It’s so calm here, almost like the night before didn’t happen. But even in the shadow of the fence I can see the black that rims Alexei’s eyes, the bruises on his jaw and the cuts that mar his skin.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say again.
Alexei shakes his head. “I had to come.”
“No. It’s not safe. We have to get you back before —”
“I came to say good-bye.”
It’s maybe the only thing he could have said that might stop me. My mind reels with all the things that he might mean. But there is one obvious answer: Alexei is returning to Moscow. Alexei is leaving. Again. And a part of me hopes he will stay away forever. Another part hopes he’ll take me with him.
“Oh. I see. Okay. I guess this time you’ll have to stay in Moscow for good.” I tell myself that it’s okay. Prudent. Totally for the best.
I’m in no way prepared for when Alexei says, “I will not go to Moscow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, in fact, the opposite is happening. I am renouncing my diplomatic status. I’m going to turn myself in.”
When I was twelve I followed Alexei and Jamie up the big wall that circles the city. I wanted to chase them and catch them and be just like them for a little while. And when I couldn’t listen to Jamie scold me for my foolishness any longer, I did something truly stupid: I jumped.
