He clicked his tongue. “So . . . no disputing how much of a sadist your father is then?”
Sagan didn’t answer. The silence dragged out, only this time it was a little heavier.
Nathan cleared his throat. “So, what’s the plan? After we find Violet, you go back to harvesting me?”
Sagan scoffed. “I need you alive, slith.”
When Sagan didn’t elaborate, Nathan said, “Don’t I get a hint why?” He made a show of tapping his chin. “Hmm . . . is it . . . you’ve found a client who’s willing to pay double for a home butchering?”
No response.
“No? Hmm . . . Ooh! I think I got it. Some bratty hunter’s kid wants to hit a real live Veniri with a stick instead of a piñata for his birthday?”
The leather creaked as Sagan adjusted his seat.
“Come on, kid—”
“Stop calling me ‘kid,’ slith,” growled Sagan.
“Sure,” replied Nathan, “only if you stop calling me ‘slith.’ And why do you hunters insist on calling us that, anyway? If it’s a reference to snakes, then you’re confusing us with the European Veniri. We don’t all look the same, you know.”
Sagan shot him a glare before veering the vehicle off the dirt road and dodging through the forest. Once they’d reached a thick clump of trees, he turned off the engine.
“Why are you stopping?”
Sagan switched off the headlights, plunging them into darkness. “We’re at least a half hour away from the mountain pass, and this is the safest place to stop.”
“Then I’ll drive.”
Sagan let out a derisive snort.
“Just give me a map and I’ll get us there.”
“Not likely.”
The interior light blinked on and off as Sagan opened his door, jumped out, and closed it behind him. Silence rang in Nathan’s ears. He wound down his window and leaned his arm on the opening. The nightlife of the woods chirped and twittered within the rustling wind.
The interior light switched back on as the driver’s door opened. Sagan held an indistinct bundle of black in his hands. “Here. Put these on.”
The bundle landed in Nathan’s lap. Without another word, Sagan shut the door, and darkness flooded the car once again.
An amused smile twitched a corner of Nathan’s mouth up as he unraveled a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. A few minutes later, he hopped out of the vehicle dressed in the all-black outfit. The clothes were a little tight, but they were better than nothing but boxer briefs.
He found Sagan lying down on one of the side-facing bench seats in the rear of the Defender.
“You may as well make yourself comfortable,” said Sagan. “We’ve got a few hours to kill before daylight.”
“I was serious when I said I could drive. We’re wasting time. Violet needs us.”
“The mountain range isn’t far away, and it’s too risky to drive it at night. We leave at first light.”
Nathan sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He climbed into the back, dodging the crates and bags, and lay down on the spare seat. The leather upholstery creaked under his weight.
He looked over at Sagan. The young hunter was twirling a dagger in his fingers. Moonbeams streamed through the windows and reflected off the glittering blade, sending rainbow specks dancing around the vehicle.
Nathan was about to close his eyes when Sagan began speaking.
“Do you . . . I mean, I’ve always wondered . . . can you tell who this belongs to?”
Nathan eyed the Diamantium blade, blinking a few times as he processed the question. He turned away and looked out the window on his side. “You spill your secrets, little hunter, and maybe I’ll spill mine.”
Venus, the brightest star, twinkled against the inky sky. He felt far from safe, but the planet’s celestial glow sparked a peacefulness that spread through his core. He was fortunate to even be looking up at the night sky again. He closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet, earthy air.
“This was hers, you know. Lyla’s,” continued Sagan, his voice soft. “All she wanted for her birthday was a pair of rollerblades. Not nail polish or hair accessories like every other girl her age. Just rollerblades. And you wanna know what my father got her? This dagger. She didn’t care that this was a sign of her family legacy or about the custom handle and emblems. She hated it. But my father hated it even more when I traded my old pair of rollerblades for it. She skated every single day until she was halfway through high school.”
He expertly flipped the blade through his fingers, increasing the speed of the disco ball effect around the vehicle. Then, without warning, he caught the dagger, and the flurry of light stilled.
Sagan sat up, and after a moment’s hesitation, he held the dagger out to Nathan, handle first. “You should have it.”
Nathan’s eyebrows shot up. Never in his life had anyone, Veniri or Erathi, presented him with a Diamantium fragment. “Keep your shard of Venus,” he said after a few heartbeats. “Keep it to remember your sister.”
“But . . . shouldn’t it be buried with your people?”
Nathan shook his head. “We don’t bury our dead.”
“So cremation then?”
“No, we don’t do that either.”
“Oh. What do you do?”
Nathan was about to reply with a smart-ass comment, but something in Sagan’s tone made him hold back. “Why do you want to know?”
Sagan didn’t answer.
Nathan cleared his throat, then started talking before he could stop himself. “We don’t do things the way you Erathi do. Instead of individual ceremonies, we hold one big ceremony during Venus’s inferior conjunction.” He paused, expecting Sagan to begin asking questions. When none came, he decided to explain anyway. “The inferior conjunction is when Venus’s orbit passes between Earth and the Sun. It happens every nineteen and a half months. Between those times, all of our deceased are stored in . . . I suppose you could call it a tomb of sorts, and they are overlooked by what would be equivalent to priests. Leading up to each inferior conjunction, the deceased are ground up into dust and taken to the ceremony chamber, where the center of the room contains a wind vortex that channels up and out of a hole in the ceiling. Family and friends gather around the vortex as the priests transfer the dust of their loved ones into the whirlwind.”
Moments of silence passed. He must be crazy, revealing such a sacred ritual to none other than a hunter. He doubted Sagan could do much damage with the knowledge, especially considering no hunter had ever successfully discovered a Veniri hive—at least, not in this country. Still, exposing that kind of information was pretty stupid. Maybe he’d been holding back his Veniri side for too long, and it was starting to burst out on impulse. If he was honest, it was nice to divulge something true about himself for a change.
Nathan sat up and swiveled to face Sagan, his movement making the leather creak again. “So, what’s your plan, kid? Why’d you help me escape?”
“Because I need you to help me rescue Violet.”
Nathan shook his head. “You can do that on your own. You didn’t need to drag my sorry ass along for your rescue mission. So, what do you need me for?”
Sagan dropped his gaze to the dagger in his hands. The moonlight cast half of his face into black shadow, but the expression on the illuminated half grew fierce. “I knew you’d help me find Violet, and . . . I need you to take me to your queen.” He spat out the last word as if it tasted bitter.
Nathan was dumbfounded. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking? Trust me, it’d be easier to get you face-to-face with the Queen of England. Forget it. Even if I could, I’d rather be a piñata.” He paused for a few seconds. “But for curiosity’s sake, why do you need me to take you to her?”
The atmosphere in the Defender turned heavy, almost sticky.
“I’m going to kill her.”
Nathan threw his head back and laughed, and Sagan’s expression turned furious. “I’m serious, slith. I am going to
kill her. And you’re going to help me.”
Nathan stared at the young hunter’s half-lit features. “Why me?” he finally asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, surely I’m not the only Veniri you’ve come across recently. You could have snatched any one of us from your father’s lair to help you with your suicidal idea of killing the Veniri queen. So, why me?”
Sagan shifted. “Because I was there,” he said in a low voice.
“You were where?” A slight pressure began to build in Nathan’s chest; he had a pretty good guess what Sagan was about to say.
“I was there, in the forest, the night Lyla was . . . when she was killed. When my sister went missing, I knew something bad had happened to her. And when I couldn’t find Violet either . . . By the time I had tracked them down, it was . . . I was too late.”
Nathan didn’t know how to respond.
“I arrived just as you found Violet, and I saw what you did.”
Nathan rubbed the back of his head and barely suppressed a groan.
“Don’t worry,” said Sagan. “I haven’t told anyone about it, especially not my father.”
Nathan narrowed his eyes. “Good.” He lay back down. He couldn’t process this right now. His thoughts were muddled, overlapped with the resurfaced fears and emotions of that night. He closed his eyes and placed his forearm over his face. “Wake me up when it’s time to leave.”
A few moments of silence passed. Nathan peeked out from under his arm.
Sagan still sat staring at the dagger in his hands.
Nathan took advantage of the darkness to chance a small flick of his tongue, and a wave of flavors engulfed his senses. Sagan’s need for vengeance was evident by the burning sensation of chili on Nathan’s palate, and it was fueled by his unwavering determination, which had the earthy flavor of dark, dark chocolate. But one flavor captured Nathan’s interest the most: the murderous taste of cinnamon. It was rich and black, as if charred on a raging fire.
17
Dancing Trees
Violet heaved her bag of books onto her shoulder and stood just inside the glass door of the library, watching the sway of the trees silhouetted against the streetlamps. They looked as if they were dancing, caught up in a melody only they could hear.
Music that only trees can hear? Violet giggled to herself, imagining trees with ears. Not dainty ones reserved for mythological dryads descended from goddesses of ear envy, but big dopey ones the size of dinner plates that stuck out on either side of their trunks.
Violet sighed. She must be beyond overtired if her mental images had stooped to the level of tree ears. She didn’t bother looking at her watch. It was late. Well, actually, it could be considered early. The last member of her study group had left a good half hour before she’d even thought about packing up and heading back to her dorm.
When she’d signed up for this course, she’d assumed she would be spending the majority of her time going on photographic adventures with the class, discussing lens and lighting preferences, color techniques, blah blah blah. But apart from that one shoot with Thane, her assignments had mostly been heavy in theory and research. Currently, the focus was on world events—past, present, and predicted—and the involvement of photographic journalists. This was their time to “learn from the masters” and take note of what worked and what didn’t.
So where did aspiring photographers start to “tread in the footsteps of those before them”? Out in the field at public events? Photographic art galleries? A third-world village? Syria? Nope, they started at the library. All the aforementioned were extracurricular and only expected from those with rich parents who wanted to give their darling child’s dream a little extra nurturing.
Another sigh escaped her. This internal whining was getting redundant; there was no point sulking over her neglected past. Plus, if she was honest, mentally cataloguing her woes was just a way to delay stepping outside into the cold and trekking all the way to the other side of campus to her dorm room.
She tightened her jacket and adjusted her scarf. For a moment, she was tempted to just curl up on one of the library couches, but all she really wanted was her own bed.
Pillows. Blankets. Comfy. Great, now she’d reached that sleep-deprived stage where her thoughts had been reduced to single words. Come on, Vi, stop procrastinating.
She swiped her student card to unlock the after-hours security door, then pushed out into the night, snuggling deeper into her scarf as the expected icy gale billowed around her. The rustling canopy of leaves reached a crescendo before dying down to a lull. A few leaf escapees twirled down in a graceful dance to join the rest of the leaf litter on the ground.
She rounded a corner and cut down a narrow path between two buildings, temporarily shielded from the cold breeze. For a few steps, all she heard was the padded sound of her sneakers hitting the pavement. Then came the scuff of a boot and the rattling click-clack of a kicked stone. The heavy boots’ rhythmic thudding continued to follow along the pavement behind her.
She sucked in a deep breath, trying to shut away the sudden torrent of anxiety. It’s all right, Vi. It’s just another student up late like you, making their way back to their dorm.
She took a premature turn. A few moments later, the same heavy boots did the same.
Her breaths came a little quicker. Don’t panic. It’s just a coincidence we’re going the same way. It’s late, and it’s dark. You’re freaking out over nothing.
She took another turn. Again the footsteps followed.
Violet started to shove her trepidation down with more voice-of-reason arguments—until she realized the buildings and gardens around her were unfamiliar. Everything looked different at night. Crap!
She picked up her pace, a shudder of adrenaline coursing through her veins. What was she doing? She was going to get even more lost. All she had to do was turn around and backtrack to familiar territory.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
No way. Backtracking meant coming face-to-face with whoever was following her. And she was being followed; she was sure of it. The voice of reason had been locked and barred away, freeing up extra room for panic. She pulled out her switchblade and clutched it to her chest.
Another turn was up ahead, about twenty steps away. She walked faster.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Ten steps to go.
Thud, thud, thud.
Was it her imagination, or had the person behind her adjusted their speed as well?
Thud-thud-thud.
Two steps. One.
Once around the corner, Violet took off at a sprint. Her bag bounced awkwardly, stabbing a corner of one of her books into her hip with each step, but she ignored the pain and kept running. She gripped her switchblade so tight an edge of the handle cut into her palm.
The thudding behind her turned the corner as well. It sounded farther away than before, but then it picked up speed.
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud.
Violet forced herself to run faster. She flew around another corner, nearly losing her balance from the sudden turn.
All the while, her mind chanted. Faster.
Another turn, and her breath hitched. She found herself in an open garden, a few evenly spaced ancient trees lining either side of the path. The next building ahead was about a hundred yards away.
The orchestral sound of the wind and leaves returned, drowning out the thudding boots behind her. Gone was her impression of trees dancing gracefully to their own night-song. They shook with wild force, branches waving in frightful warning of the threat behind her.
Panic squeezed her throat. Her lungs burned with the icy air she dragged in with each breath.
She darted off the path and behind one of the trees, her back against the trunk, and strained to hear the heavy boots. The wind had died down. Her heavy breathing was loud in her ears, and her hands flew to her mouth, the switchblade sandwiched between them. With all her might, she forced herself to silence her panting, even as
her heart bashed against her ribcage. Her eyes darted around as she analyzed every sound.
Rustle. Whoosh. Crick.
Thud . . . Thud . . .
The thudding stopped.
She held her breath. Lowering her hands from her mouth, she gripped the handle of the switchblade in both hands. Her thumb found the button and pressed.
Shnik.
Gravel ground, as if a boot was pivoting to change direction. She bit her lip, praying the direction was away from her.
Then she noticed a glowing light from between the cracks of her fingers. What the . . . ?
The light was coming from one of the black gemstones embedded in the switchblade’s handle. But it was no longer black. It was glowing a vibrant teal.
The thudding had stopped. The person must be taking precautions, silencing their steps. The slight scuff of a boot farther down the path was all that indicated the person was moving at all.
With each passing moment, the gemstone shone brighter. What kind of switchblade did Nathan give me? Violet hid the switchblade under the ends of her scarf, fearful the light was going to give her away.
A slow crunch of gravel came from behind the tree. Too close. Far too close.
Crack!
The sudden sound pierced through the night, followed by chatting voices. Students were spilling out from one of the nearby building’s wooden doors, which had smacked hard into the brick wall behind it. Relief washed over Violet like a tidal wave as she recognized the entrance to her dormitory building.
A fresh pulse of adrenaline flooded her body. She would have to leave the sanctuary of her hiding spot to run across the grass and reach her dorm.
On the count of three.
A slight scuff. Closer again. She hardly heard it over the chatter of more students swarming out into the night.
One—
A shrill, piercing series of beeps cut into her eardrums as a cellphone behind her rang. A masculine voice hissed a curse—not loudly enough for Violet to decipher who it was, but she wasn’t going to stick around to wait for more clues.
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