Prince of Chaos
Amelia Wilde
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Connect with Amelia
Also by Amelia Wilde
1
Persephone
My mother’s cough rattles the house—the wood and the windowpanes and the floor beneath my feet. The stairs do nothing to conceal the sound. I feel it in the center of my own chest, even one floor removed. Am I getting whatever she has?
No. Probably not. It’s only cabin fever that makes my face look flushed in the shimmering reflection in the window above the kitchen sink. In mid afternoon, with the sun fighting its way through the clouds, I’m barely there. Pink cheeks. The line of my nose. White dress, always white. For a moment the fabric presses in tight against my skin, too tight, hemming me in the way the house does. The way she does. But I shake it off. What’s the alternative? I could go crazy with it, but I’d still be inside.
Here.
November has just turned into December, bringing a cold wind. I shift from foot to foot in front of the kitchen sink. Imagine walking. Imagine running. The wind has frozen the fog in the air. Streaks of sun catch the crystals hovering above the ground. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this trick of water and light. It’s not the first time I’ve thought of disappearing into it, and never coming back.
But then...what would I do?
Another cough, deep enough to splinter wood and rock.
She’s been like this for days. Red-faced and rageful at the cough. Grinding her teeth whenever she’s not coughing. And I think—I know—that what makes her most furious is that I saw her struggling to get out of bed.
It was when I brought her the last cup of tea. I took her wrist to help her back under the covers.
She’s burning up, even now.
Worry grips me in spite of myself, digging its fingers into the spaces between my ribs. What those women in that shop told me, with their cards and their prying eyes—it won’t come true.
Not today, anyway.
“Persephone.”
Our house is quiet enough, always, for me to hear her when she calls. Her voice has gone hoarse. I take the stairs two at a time, landing light on my feet, heart beating fast. Maybe, if she’s sick enough, we’ll go into the city to see a doctor. I’m not hoping for that, of course. I’m hoping she’ll be fine. I’m really, really hoping she’ll be better when I get up to her room. To prove it I cross my fingers tight and go quickly down the hall. I catch the doorframe with one hand and slow my momentum coming into the room so it looks like I’ve been walking with urgency and not recklessness all along.
“Mama—I was about to get more tea for you.”
Her eyes narrow, red-rimmed with exhaustion. My mother breathes slowly and carefully, like that could make it stop, but she clutches the blanket tightly on her other side where she thinks I can’t see.
“There’s no time for that. I need you to go out to the platform.”
She has my full attention. This room could be full of that same frozen fog, for all the hairs on the backs of my arms stand up.
“I’m sure I can’t get there before the train comes.” I make my gaze go soft, like I’m working out the timing in my head. I know exactly how long it takes to get from here to the fence, even in the snow. I know exactly how long it takes to get to the platform where the train stops. For a long time, I thought my mother controlled the train’s comings and goings, but the look in her eyes right now confirms that someone else has their hand on the switch.
“You’ll get there.” She doesn’t bother to conceal the threat underneath the words. With her free hand she motions toward the low dresser across from her bed. It’s an antique, with a vanity mirror and bail pulls on the drawers. I used to come in here when she was working and run my fingertip over the ridges in the brass of those pulls. “That has to be on the train.”
That is a small wooden crate. I’ve seen her carry enough of these to know that it’s light, and inside the wood is a styrofoam cooler. The small wooden slats are for the express purpose of hiding the styrofoam. It wouldn’t fit in with my mother’s brand, which is all-natural, everything sprung straight to the earth. I go over and lift it carefully from the dresser. My heart thrums, the beat fast, like the quick run of melting snow. “A last-minute wedding?”
Weddings make up most of her business. That’s what she says. But part of me thinks that if I were to turn the latch on the crate and cut through the tape that secures the styrofoam cooler, I wouldn’t find a wedding bouquet. The size of it—it’s slightly off. Not quite long enough for a bouquet. I’ve picked enough flowers to wonder.
“Patrick will be waiting for you at the fence.” Patrick. Old and wrinkled, skin battered by the sun and the winter wind. My silly flare of excitement wilts and dies. “Give him the...delivery. And come straight home.”
Usually my mother meets him—all her people—alone. Usually, I stay in the house, as far away from the fence as possible. But she’s sending me there. Today. Now.
I could go.
There would be time. Time to press the box into Patrick’s hands. If he left the fence open, I could wait by the edge of the trees.
Escape calls to me like the train’s whistle, far in the distance.
She flicks her gaze to the window, grips the blanket tighter. “Go.”
“You know, mama, if you needed me to, I could go into the city—”
“No.”
“I could get Doctor Lowery—”
“Get your coat.” This time, she barks so hard that it sends her into a fit of coughing. My mother throws her elbow over her face and bends forward with it. When it finally stops, her eyes shine with tears. But she doesn’t look like someone on the verge of crying. That would be even worse. She’s not the kind of woman who cries. “Get your boots. And get to the train before it gets here.” My mother sits up, and even under the covers, the sight of her drawing herself up so regally makes me take a step back. I bump into the dresser, rattling the knobs.
“I’ll be right back, Mama.”
“I’ll be waiting for tea.” In other words, don’t screw around by the fence. Don’t talk to the person who’s waiting. Whatever you do, don’t get on the train and flee to the city. “And you know what I told you about the mountain.”
“I shouldn’t look.”
She nods. “Looking attracts attention. And if you attract the attention of Luther Hades, he will kill you.”
“I won’t look.”
I run for the stairs, scramble down, and throw myself into the mudroom off the kitchen. My fingers fumble on the zipper of my winter coat. It’s a fur-lined thing that’s meant for somewhere in the Arctic, not here, but I’m desperate to get out of the house. To get to the train.
To leave?
Yes. Even that.
Away from my mother, who is clearly beside herself if she thinks that looking toward the mountain could cause any harm. She has a high fence. It’s miles away. Luther Hades will never know.
I step into insulated boots, yank the laces tight, and gather up the box. Then out into the bracing cold. I pull the door shut tight behind me and take a deep breath in. The sharp edge of the wind hurts compared to the stuffy warmth of the house.
I don’t hate it.
Every lungful of air makes me feel brighter. More adventurous. Less the person who lives in fear of her own mother at the age of eighteen and more the person who might step onto the train and never look back. The thought of it sends a delighted shiver down my spine, chase
d quickly after by a wash of anxiety that shoves the air back out of my chest. The heat from my breath hangs in the air. I can’t go.
But I could.
She’s watching.
I know she’s watching, up there in her bedroom, while I hustle across the snow in a quick cadence. The possibility of it spools out in front of me like a trail of breadcrumbs. One step up onto the train. My bare hand on the exposed metal of the door handle, a moment of glancing pain, and then it will carry me away.
To the library.
To the library in New York City. I could be standing outside that library in a matter of days, if everything went according to plan.
I snort a laugh into the bitter air. According to what plan? I fold the box under one arm and move faster. A stitch pulses in my side. I’m out of shape from being inside so much more during the winter. In order to flee, you have to be able to run. I test it out, a few steps here, a few steps there.
Not in these boots.
Not today.
And not with Patrick waiting at the fence.
A cloud covers the rest of the weak sunlight. Patrick is, above all else, loyal to my mother. He’ll have his eyes pinned to my back just like she does. He’ll spare himself a few glances other places, too.
The empty tree branches scrape against the sky in a creepy imitation of Patrick himself. I should be grateful that I got to come outside at all. That’s what I should focus on. Meeting that old man at the fence. And definitely not tucking myself into the last train car and leaving this place behind forever.
If I did it, what would happen to my mother?
An old memory, of that woman turning over a worn card in front of me, swims up in front of my vision. The words she said hadn’t matched with the expression on her face. But I don’t want to think about that now. My feet sink another inch into the snow, and I pull my boots out of its grasp one by one, keeping an eye on my feet.
The fence comes into view, the gate standing open, and Patrick, the old man with the stare, barely my height and dressed in a coat so patched over it’s a mockery of itself—
—isn’t there.
It’s someone else.
2
Persephone
My heart jumps up into my throat, the reaction so sudden and strong that I miss a step and stumble, catching myself at the last possible moment. My mother’s order propels me forward even while my brain struggles to keep up. It’s not Patrick. It’s not Patrick. It’s another man. My head is filled with the sound of a siren, blaring.
No—not a siren. The train whistle. It’s getting closer. Just like I’m getting closer. To a man. Another man. A young man. A beautiful man. Standing at the open gate.
He’s tall, much taller than Patrick, and even though it’s the middle of winter he looks sunkissed somehow. Maybe it’s the cold bringing color to his cheeks. A smile flashes across his lips and lifts something inside of me. His army green coat hangs over broad shoulders. What would it be like to run my hands over that cloth? I press one fingertip against the corner of the crate to try and get a grip on my pounding heart.
It doesn’t work.
The smile on his face widens and settles, reaching all the way to his eyes. Is there something else I see there? A flicker of assessment? I don’t know, because I’m too focused on the wild green color there. It reminds me of high summer and the whip of my hemline against my shins while I tear across the field, out of sight of my mother. A strange heat fills my lungs, like breathing in a dewy morning.
I want to stare at him forever, from just this distance. We’re ten feet apart, maybe fifteen. Any closer seems dangerous. Like I might get a shock just from the empty air around him. Only it doesn’t seem empty now. That glittering fog sparkles and shines, transforming the gray of the sky into something adjacent to magic.
“Hey.” His voice shakes the crystalline fog, shifting the light. “I won’t bite, you know.”
I’ve stopped completely. It occurs to me in a flash. Snow nips at my ankles. It’s deeper than I thought, and for a moment I can’t get myself to take another step.
But I have to. I don’t have any other choice. I have to deliver this box into his hands. The train whistle sounds again, a little closer this time. He doesn’t look away from me, but something changes in the way he stands.
“I was supposed to meet Patrick.” There—one step first, then another. Why are you here? Why are you here, meeting me? I hurry forward, close the gap between us, and thrust the crate at him.
He doesn’t take it at first. His eyes slip down to my ungloved hands gripping the sides of the crate, then flick back along the buttons of my coat and linger at the exposed hollow of my neck. Can he see how hard my heart is beating?
“My name’s Decker.” His green eyes meet mine again, and he reaches toward me with a confidence that makes me take a half-step back—not far enough to get out of his reach, but just far enough that the touch doesn’t happen yet. “Would it be better if you put the crate on the ground? That way I won’t have to get so close.” He lets out a low chuckle that has heat racing to my cheeks.
“I’m not afraid of you.” What is my face doing? Is this what they mean in books when they talk about batting eyelashes? It’s a completely involuntary movement on my part. I take a big, brave step forward and press the crate into his chest. He glances down at it but doesn’t take it, eyes dancing. He leans backward so I have to take another step toward him.
My boot hits the cleared earth on the other side of the fence and goosebumps rush down the back of my neck. Decker grabs the crate, laughing louder, the sound echoing off the trees. His voice curls into the wind and cuts straight through my jacket and my jacket and my dress until it meets skin.
“Uh oh,” he teases. “You’re on my side of the fence now.”
It’s such a pure, bracing exhilaration that it steals my breath. There is the platform. There are the tracks. And I’m one step past the fence that’s kept me hemmed in all my life, aside from one stint at a boarding school in the city. I’m caught neatly between Decker and everywhere else in the world. Questions tumble through my mind one after another. Why him and not Patrick? Whose side is he really on? Would he chase me if I ran?
The look in his eyes says yes. If I ran right now, sprinting through the snow and following the tracks to the city, he’d catch me in no time. And then he would have no choice but to throw one of his arms around my waist and press me against him, both of us breathing hard. The thought of it blows apart all of my other plans for the future, all the vague fantasies I allow myself while I’m lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling by the light of the moon. I’ve always pictured myself alone, when I get out of here.
And I still do.
I take a step back, carefully crossing to the other side of the fence. “I have to get back.”
Decker looks down at the crate in his hands. I don’t know what to do with mine anymore. They ache to touch the sides of his face. He’s tall, so I’d have to reach up to get to the lines of his jaw. He’s so lean and sharp, all of him muscled angles. I have a thousand questions. A million. A current of danger runs underneath all of them. If my mother knew, if she knew—
His eyes catch mine again, green like the summer leaves, shot through with sunlight. “You sure about that? Don’t you want proof?”
“Proof of what?”
HIs mouth quirks in a smile, and I can’t help but wonder, wildly, what it would be like to kiss him. To kiss any man. Which I absolutely cannot do. I can’t do that, and I can’t stand here by the fence for much longer. How sick is my mother, really? Too sick to follow me? Of course she is. I’m being paranoid. But the urge to look over my shoulder is so strong it makes my neck ache. There is no one behind me in the woods, least of all her.
“Don’t you want to wait for the train with me? Make sure everything gets where it needs to go?” The words sound filthy coming out of Decker’s mouth, a winking kind of filthy that makes me blush. I twist my hands into the pockets of my co
at and take them out again. “The way you were holding onto this thing, I can tell it’s precious cargo.”
“It’s an errand from my mother. Everything she sends is precious cargo.”
Decker arranges his face into a serious expression, though the light in his eyes gives him away. “Yeah, of course it is. Even you.”
The giggle that comes out of my mouth is so unrecognizable and embarrassing that I find myself turning away from it and from him. A flash of movement in the corner of my eye is the only hint that he’s stepped closer, but when I drag my eyes away from the snow, he’s right there, close enough that the heat of his breath cuts through the cold air and brushes my face.
I can hardly stand it, this intense vibration, like my heart has gone haywire and might burst with excitement at any second. The ground seems unstable under my feet. I have no idea what to say, or what to do—
The train barrels into sight in the nick of time, right as I’m about to do something truly wild, like dive into Decker’s arms and tell him to take me away, anywhere, anywhere. Instead I jump back, clear of the fence, and try not to let on that I mistook the train’s approach for my own stupid heart.
“Thank you.” I turn and go, moving fast, laying another set of tracks beside my own. Disappointment pricks at the corners of my eyes. If I was braver, I could have gone. I could be gone. But instead I made a fool of myself in front of the only man I’m likely to see for months. Maybe years. Maybe forever.
“Persephone.”
Decker’s voice cuts cleanly through the air, sinking into my back like an arrow, and I whip around before I can stop myself. The train rolls to a stop behind him, but he’s not at the fence—he’s halfway to me, coming at a run. He has to turn around—the train never stops for long, and this delivery is important—
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