The Fell of Dark
Page 34
Brixia knew, or at least suspected, that she would die—and that another water elemental, strong enough to stop the Ascension, would be on hand to take her place.
“So … coffee?” Adriana tries again. “We don’t have to go to Sugar Mama’s.”
We all have mixed feelings now about our formerly favorite café. Gunnar doesn’t work there anymore, but I think about him every time I go in—and it makes me sad in a way I don’t totally understand yet. With a shrug, I say, “Sorry, I can’t. I have to go home and help my parents pack shit up.”
“Nooo, I don’t want to hear this!” Adriana claps her hands over her ears, pouting and stamping her feet for good measure. “I don’t want you to go anywhere. You can’t leave me!”
“I don’t want to leave you, either,” I say, matching her pout. The statement is factual, insofar as I wish I could take her with me. But beyond that? Get me the fuck out of here. “But we’re not moving anytime soon. We still have to find a new place, and my parents need to sell our house—which, you know, isn’t exactly easy in Fulton Heights.”
“Still.” Adriana wraps her arms around me, and we shuffle down the hallway like that. “The friend part of me is sad, even if the good friend part of me understands.”
“How are your parents doing?” Hope asks with a polite cough.
“They’re okay,” I reply, lying through my teeth. My mom and dad aren’t the same people they used to be. They barely sleep anymore, and when they do, they have night terrors so violent that they wake up screaming. Neither of them has been able to talk about what happened when they were in captivity, but I’m not sure I could handle knowing about it, anyway. Almost dying was easier than watching them suffer. “They’re just, you know, super ready to get out of Dodge. Hence all the early packing.”
“I get it.” Hope’s tone is soft. “Do you know where you’re moving to?”
“Nope. Right now, the only guidelines are A) no supernatural nexuses, and B) within our price range. Although you’d be surprised how much that narrows things down.”
“I’m going to miss you so much.” Adriana squeezes me a little tighter. “This shithole isn’t going to be the same without you.”
“Let’s hope not,” I quip.
As we pass the art room, I keep my eyes averted. I haven’t set foot in there since the night Gunnar and I confronted William, and even though the school district hired a sub to replace Mr. Strauss, I still prefer the library over finishing my independent study. The Corrupter is out of my body—I know that—but I can’t shake the paranoid fear that I’ll lapse into another trance if I try to draw something while I’m still living under the Nexus.
I also can’t bring myself to trust the new art teacher. She’s, like, eighty, and I have a hard time picturing her as a part-time ninja, but … I’m not taking chances. Lots of Persean Knights were killed in the Battle of Colgate Woods, but I’ve got no way of knowing what the survivors reported back to their organization. I don’t know if any of the prophecies gave a hard date for the Ascension, so I can’t be sure the Brotherhood is even aware that the danger is officially over now. No one has tried to kill me in at least two weeks, so they probably figured it out, but … still.
When we push through the side exit, the parking lot and its few remaining cars bathed in spring sunlight, I grimace theatrically. “Oh shit—my history book is still in my locker! I need to go back and get it.”
“Do you want us to wait for you?” Adriana asks, clearly hoping the answer is no.
“I got it covered.” I give them both hugs. “Go have coffee and do girlfriend stuff. I’ll text you guys whenever I get bored of packing boxes. So, like, constantly.”
We say goodbye, and I start back up the hallway—and when the door slams shut again and I’m sure they’re not watching, I stop. For a long while, I sit with the silence of Fulton Heights High, breathing in recycled air and looking at the floor where someone must have had to sweep up the remains of an incinerated vampire.
I don’t think I feel bad about what I did to William. He was a monster, literally and figuratively, and even if I hadn’t exactly killed him in self-defense, he had plenty of blood on his hands, and he’d been proud of his viciousness. The world is better, safer, without him in it … and yet. The way I think about vampires has shifted a lot in the past month, and taking a life—no matter what kind of life it was—isn’t easy to process.
When the light coming through the windows of the side exit turns amber with the setting sun, I finally leave the building. A breeze sweeps the parking lot, loamy and green—scented with new life—and I drink it in. When I hear the door click shut behind me, I count to five, and turn around.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Jude Marlowe leans on the wall beneath the overhang, safe from daylight in its slender shadow, with a little smirk I still can’t quite resist.
“It’s been a while,” I agree, appreciating the shape of him. It makes me think about all the things that happened that night in Chicago—and a few of the things that didn’t.
“And yet you’re almost acting as if you expected me to show up.”
“In a way, I think I’m always expecting you to show up.” It’s the truth, even if I’m avoiding a direct answer.
We watch each other for a companionable moment before he says, “I’m heading back to Europe tonight. The Syndicate needs my final report, and it’s going to be kind of a doozy. I guess I just wanted to see how you were doing. Before I go, I mean.”
“Aside from all the trauma, I’m great.” I get a laugh out of it, but then I turn serious. “Thank you. For saving my parents, I mean. I never got the chance to say that.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he points out. “I was magically compelled to do it, remember?”
“Okay, fair point. But you would have done it anyway.” I know this now, for sure.
“Perhaps.” He glances down, a little shy, and a delighted shiver tickles me. Now that I have nothing he needs, I feel the chemistry between us more than ever. It sucks that this is a goodbye.
“Do you know if the Brotherhood is still planning to kill me?” I blurt the question quickly, because I need to know, and he’s the only one I can ask.
“According to our sources, they’ve gone to ground,” Jude answers, not seeming to think it’s a strange thing to ask. “Given the circumstances surrounding the factory’s collapse, and the way vampire activity in Fulton Heights has plummeted since the confrontation in Colgate Woods, they’ve realized that the Ascension was thwarted. Plus, they left behind multiple bodies with forged identities, which the authorities are still trying to investigate. They’ll lie low for a while.”
“And the Order of the Northern Wolf was completely destroyed,” I note. “The Syndicate must be in a pretty good mood.”
Jude takes a moment, producing a cigarette and lighting it up, watching the smoke from his exhalation catch the sunlight. “Actually? Things are pretty … tense in the Carpathians just now. The Syndicate is about as close to dissolving as it’s ever been.” He meets my gaze with a wry smile. “It turns out one of the Syndics was … keeping a few crucial secrets from the rest of us.”
“Oh?” I do my best to look surprised, but I remember the disloyal enforcers in the clearing—and Viviane’s words ring in my ears: There’s not a chance in hell that Azazel never revealed himself to a vampire with Syndicate lineage at some point.
“It’s a long story.” Jude turns his gaze to the treetops, their branches studded with burgeoning leaves. “Let’s just say that someone with a lot of influence had good reason to believe the prophecies, but decided to withhold the information, because he was expecting to be held in the Corrupter’s favor after the Ascension.” He picks a fleck of tobacco from his bottom lip—and I try not to think too much about what that bottom lip feels like. “I was expected to bring you back to Transylvania … and if I failed, this particular Syndic had a plan to smuggle you out under my nose so he could reap glory in a changed world.�
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I reach up to adjust my glasses—forgetting that I still don’t wear them anymore—and move my hand to Gunnar’s necklace instead. “So I guess they’ve changed their official stance on the existence of the Corrupter, huh?”
“Oh no, not at all.” Jude lifts his brows. “Some of the Syndics are more committed than ever to insisting it’s all a myth—the last thing they want is to encourage future Rasputins.” Flicking ash off his cigarette, his expression clouding, he adds, “As for the rest of them … well, that’s part of why I need to go back. A lot of decisions have to be made.”
He falls silent, and the air between us hums with unsaid words. When I can’t take it anymore, I ask, “Have you heard anything about … the League of the Dark Star?”
Jude smiles sympathetically. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, the answer is: He’s already gone. I’m sorry. Gunnar Larsen has always been terrible at goodbyes.”
“Oh.” I’d kind of figured as much, but I’m still a little crestfallen anyway.
“If it makes you feel any better, he’ll be back.” Jude cuts me a look from beneath his long eyelashes, and I can see we feel the same. “A year from now—maybe less—he’ll start thinking about all the things he should have done but didn’t, and he’ll want to see if it’s not too late.” With a shrug, he looks away again. “Like I said, he’s terrible at goodbyes.”
“What about you?” I try not to make it sound flirtatious, even though it kind of is. “Will you be back?”
“There’s a chance.” He casts his cigarette to the ground and grinds it out. When he looks up again, something passes between us, a shared current, and he smiles. “I’ve got a feeling the three of us will never manage a proper goodbye.”
The air is practically vibrating, that current lifting the hair on my arms. It feels like something secret, something I’m not supposed to bring up, but I do anyway. “You feel it, too, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” he answers softly. “We fulfilled the oath, but the three of us will always be joined now—by blood, by magic. On some level, we’ll always feel it.” With a knowing look, he says, “Be good to yourself, August Pfeiffer. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” I reply, but only because I can’t think of anything else. The truth is, he and Gunnar will both be back in my life before long—but I can’t really explain how I’m sure of it without making things unnecessarily complicated. So I turn around and start walking for my bike … and the peculiar whispering sensation that bothers my skin vanishes in an instant as Jude slips away behind me.
It’s the strangest thing. The witches purged Azazel from my body, and I know he’s not coming back—at least, not in my lifetime—but a few days after the exorcism, I started to discover that he left behind some parting gifts. My undead radar has returned, almost as strong as before; and lately, I’ve begun to realize that I can still explore other people’s thoughts … and catch limited glimpses of their potential futures.
It’s an ability I try not to abuse, of course, because that would be wrong—but I will absolutely use it to save my ass on this algebra final.
Unlocking my bike, I start for home as the sun dips lower on the horizon, only a few hours left before the fell of dark.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Right out of the gate, my number one thank-you goes to the amazing Saundra Mitchell, editor of Out Now—an anthology of contemporary short stories celebrating queer voices in young adult fiction (which is, conveniently, out now!). When they contacted me about being a contributor, I jumped at the opportunity … and then struggled to come up with a premise. What I wanted to write was a tale of two social enemies forced to work through their lust/hate issues while hiding from a vampire invasion—and I was sort of shocked when Saundra gave my idea an enthusiastic green light.
I came to love that short story so much that I actually scrapped a manuscript I had already fully outlined and put together a frantic pitch for a different book entirely: “What about vampires, but gay?!” I am so lucky to work with Liz Szabla, who keeps helping me hone these concepts into books I’m proud to put my name on—and so grateful to Jean Feiwel for believing in me and my ideas enough to put her name on them as well.
My magnificent agent, Rosemary Stimola, sees that my dreams come true over and over again, and I am so grateful; and many thanks are due to Allison Remcheck and the rest of the Stimola Literary Studio team for unwavering support and all-around awesomeness!
The book in your hands was made possible only by a staggering amount of work. My (literal!) months and months of writing were only the beginning. From edits and revisions to design, execution, and promotion, I’ve been aided and abetted by an incredible team at Macmillan. Brittany Pearlman, Molly Ellis, Mandy Veloso, Kim Waymer, Mike Burroughs, and Ashley Woodfolk are all heroes and magicians; and I owe a debt of gratitude to Erin Stein, Allison Verost, and Jon Yaged, as well.
I am not without my enablers, of course, and I need to thank my own personal League of Dark Stars: Adam Sass, Kevin Savoie, Phil Stamper, Kosoko Jackson, and Ryan La Sala. And thanks, also, to my Syndicate of Glampires: Julian Winters, Alex London, Mark Oshiro, Adib Khorram, Lev AC Rosen, Shaun David Hutchinson, Sam J. Miller, Adam Silvera, Kristen Simmons, Tom Ryan, Kiersten White, Zoraida Córdova, PC & Kristin Cast, Tim Floreen, Dahlia Adler, Erick Smith, Zack Smedley, John Corey Whaley, and Cale Dietrich. And yet more thanks go to the Mystic Order of Friends I Cannot Believe I Still Have Yet to Meet in Person: Derek Milman, James Brandon, Shawn Sarles, Riley Sager, Greg Howard, and Abdi Nazemian. Every last one of you is an inspiration!!
Upon occasion, I’ve encouraged my friends and readers to contact their elected representatives. You might be surprised how effectively you can drive meaningful change by voicing your opinions for the officials who represent you at all levels of government. A big thank-you to Angele McQuaid, Anna Wetherholt, Jennzah Cresswell, Brendan Patrick, Kathryn Fox, and Erica Sirman for contacting their reps when I asked my Twitter followers to pick up their phones! And another thank-you to Anna Wetherholt, who has been tirelessly supportive—you remind me that what I do matters.
If you have not yet read the Engelsfors trilogy by Mats Strandberg and Sara Bergmark Elfgren, you absolutely should. It’s a brilliant series about a group of reluctant witches who have to stop a terrible evil, and the trilogy’s complex magic system was a massive inspiration for the one you find in this book. Thanks are also owed to the cast, crew, and writers of the greatest TV show of all time: Buffy the Vampire Slayer. If you’re as big a fan as I am, check out the Slayerfest98 podcast for an episode-by-episode deep dive! (And a shout-out to Ian Carlos Crawford, who is the inimitable host of said podcast, and the nastiest girl in Sunnydale history!)
Writing this book was a lot harder, and took a lot longer, than I initially anticipated. Through it all, my family and friends put up with my perpetual agonies and centrifugal panic attacks, and I am eternally grateful. Love you all!
Best for last, as always: Uldis, this year has been completely bananas, but we’re still here. Through thick and thin, from the Polar Vortex to the Potter Globus, we’re a team—and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Es tevi mīlu, Ulditi.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Caleb Roehrig’s debut YA thriller, Last Seen Leaving, was called one of the Best YA Novels of 2016 by Buzzfeed.com. Caleb lives with his husband in Los Angeles. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Cast of Characters
&nbs
p; Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Little White Picket Fences
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2020 by Caleb Roehrig
A Feiwel and Friends Book
An imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271
fiercereads.com
All rights reserved.
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