by Shana Abe
Zoe flung herself to her knees, pressing both palms to his chest. Alain Fortin stared up at her with wondering eyes.
“No, no.” She pushed more firmly against his wound, blood leaking through her fingers; it smelled of hot metal and salt. His heartbeat thudded in slow, hard clouts, uneven against his breastbone. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
One breath. Another.
He seemed about to speak, but instead took one last, rattling breath that squeezed away into silence.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and realized she’d said it in English. “Merci. Merci beaucoup.”
She sat back with her wet dripping hands, dazed. As soon as she did, a curious mirage seemed to take the coachman’s body, a blurred swirling darkness that rose from inside him to envelop his features, his face and clothing like he was sinking into a pool—but he wasn’t. The thing was rising out of him.
“You’re welcome,” said Rhys, pulling all the way free. “Damned good thing I pitched cricket at school.”
She only just managed not to scream. She scrambled backward in surprise instead, her skirts caught beneath her, palms scraping against the flagstones.
“Is the other one dead?” the ghost of Rhys continued, stepping free from the body as easily as if he stepped over the raised entrance to a room. When she didn’t respond he glanced down at her, brows lifted.
She could nearly see him—no reflection; there were no windows or glass nearby, only Rhys Langford standing there with all the depth and height and presence he’d always had in life, like a real person—perhaps one standing deep in the shade. The contours of his face, almost visible. The cut of his jaw. The gleam of his eyes.
He made a brisk motion with his hand.
“Zoe, quickly. You’ve got to check.”
She rolled to her feet. The sanf lay splayed across the courtyard still clutching the knife. The pistol had dropped a few feet away. Blood had sprayed everywhere, matting his hair, a sharp arc across his cheek. The scar across his eyebrow had blanched white. He looked very dead.
A loop of something red and orange and purple lay crushed beside his elbow. She realized it was the gay circlet she’d been given for the dance, the paper flowers soaking up blood.
She couldn’t take another step. She tried to and could not. It was so odd, like her feet had sunk roots all the way to the center of the earth. A strange cold shiver began crawling from her fingers to her arms to the column of her spine. To fight it she shook out her hands, hard, and heard the tiny spatter of Alain Fortin’s blood hit the stones.
Rhys took the step that she did not.
“I know him,” he said, his voice tight with excitement. “I know this man. I’ve seen him before.”
She forced herself to speak. “Where?”
He shook his head, his long hair curling with smoke, then crouched down to his heels, examining the body. “I don’t think he’s dead yet. You’ll have to finish it.”
Her voice came as a strangled whisper. “No.”
“You don’t have a choice. Hurry. Don’t worry, I’ll—I’ll tell you how.”
“No!”
He stood, green eyes flashing. “Goddamn it. This is exactly what I was talking about before. You cannot let him live. He knows what you look like, that you’re here in the city. He will hunt you. He will kill you, just as easily as he did that chap over there. These humans have no remorse. We’re nothing but animals to them. Do you understand?”
She was panting, knowing he was right, that she had to do it. Their eyes clashed; she gave a short, affirmative jerk of her head. From the ground came a harsh, wet sound; they both glanced back at the man. The sanf twitched once and was still.
“All right,” said the shadow, pushing back his hair. “Fine. Good. It’s done. Do you think you can search his pockets?”
Move. Do it.
She bent and ran her hands over the sanf’s coat, his breeches. She found the bulge of a wallet and a fob watch on a silver chain. A holster for the gun. That was all.
“Now go.” Rhys was speaking more quickly now, his words soft and rushed, though of course no one else would overhear. “The other way, not the way you came in. Get out of here before another couple wanders through. I doubt anyone’s drunk enough to misinterpret this.”
Zoe blinked and gestured to the coachman. “I have to—”
“No,” the shadow interrupted. “Half the dance hall saw you lead him back here. Believe me, your face is unforgettable. You need to get away now.
“Please,” he said, when she still only stood there, clutching the wallet in her hands. He sounded tired suddenly, nearly exhausted. “For God’s sake, Zoe. Just listen to me. Please.”
She did not look at the two dead men again. She picked up the crushed circlet, pitched it down the well, turned on her heel, and went.
She was sick only once on the way back to the palace, finding an alley and then a wall as she lost the contents of her stomach, a beggar lolling unconscious at the other end, the shadow standing silently beside her.
Chapter Ten
The Order of the Noble Sanf Inimicus has created a Practical Guide for the Detection and Observation of Drákon.
I’ve seen it myself. It’s a little bound book, scarcely more than a brochure, stitched at the spine and stamped in black letters over lurid red leather. The print is very tiny, because it is compiled and divided into no fewer than seven different languages.
Seven. There are so many of them, I must suppose. Or perhaps that’s only what they want us to believe.
French, Hungarian, German, Italian, Spanish, Romanian, and the King’s good English.
(Honestly, are there even any dragons in Spain? We are creatures of the alps and the ice-crystaled sky, not the salty, sultry earth.)
So that you should know their primary list, the manner in which they have dissected us and rendered us small enough for their minds to comprehend, I shall reproduce it here for you. Memorize their words, their canny ideas. You know they already have.
A Bodily Aspect of either Great Charisma or Marvelous Beauty.
Skin without Blemish, and Pale as Whey.
Speed of Movement, such as the Eye hardly may Follow.
A Voice that may Command you; you know not why.
Sleekness of Frame: Upon the Males, a hardness of Cheekbones. Upon the Females, an impression of Fragility.
An Unnatural Brightness of the Eyes, betimes a Glow.
Straight Teeth, strong ivory, none missing.
An Unnatural Physical Vigor, such as may Bend a Rod of thick Steel without Effort.
The Ability to Frighten all other Animals in any Form, no matter how Stout.
An Immense Fondness of Metals and Stones. They will nearly always wear Jewels.
The Ability to Transform into Smoke.
The Ability to Transform into a Dragon.
A Terrible fear of Blindness. The Monsters are near helpless without Sight.
Have you noticed yet the singular peculiarity in this catalog of our attributes? Certainly there are a few traits missing, but it may take you a brief moment to realize that every single item that is listed … is true.
That doesn’t seem very likely, does it? Legends of earlier times slap us with all manner of gross exaggerations: green blood, poisoned claws, hellfire shooting from our throats. Yet this little list from our most deadly enemies contains no exaggerations whatsoever. Only facts.
One might wonder how that came about. One might indeed be excused for suspecting the unthinkable. That perhaps the Sanf Inimicus had assistance in creating it.
From a drákon.
Chapter Eleven
She did not return to her apartment at the palace. She had no desire even to glimpse the mirror waiting for her there; if there were human souls caught in the blue along with the drákon, she didn’t know. She did not want to know.
But Tuileries was home now, as close to home as Zoe was going to get, and she was familiar with it enough to anticipate which of the corrid
ors was most deserted. Which chambers had not had human visitors in years. Which places were more redolent of cobwebs and memories than anything alive.
She sat on the floor of an empty ballroom. There were at least five ballrooms she had discovered so far, but this was the first one she’d come to, and so it was here that she sat.
Her back was pressed against an extravagant silk-papered wall. She faced the same paper across the empty chamber, burnished gold and turquoise peacocks prancing in columns, feathers outlined with mint green and purple trim. A tiled floor of black-and-amber marble, and enormous glassed windows all along two walls that framed the unquiet night beyond. Barring the ballroom of Chasen Manor, it was the biggest chamber she’d ever seen. It might have been made for the dancing of dragons instead of the humans who walked among them.
She was a small dim blotch amid all this glory. She sat with her knees to her chest and let herself feel small. It was better than thinking about … anything else.
Rhys was there too. An even dimmer blotch, seated cross-legged at her side.
How humiliating to realize that he had been right about her. That she wasn’t the fine, shining weapon of vengeance she had imagined she’d be.
She was someone who had gotten an innocent man—nearly innocent—killed. Who had clutched at the siltstone wall of an anonymous building and vomited from the stench of blood clinging to her fingers, and from the ricochet reaction of her own fears.
“Is it safe here?” shadow Rhys asked.
She lifted a shoulder in a shrug, disinclined to reply. She’d made it through the city and the gardens to the palace with him gliding ever beside her, had scrubbed herself as clean as she could in one of the fountains and found the ballroom and now she wished he’d just go away. She’d asked him twice, and both times he’d refused.
“It’s too open,” he noted, looking around. “There’s only one way in or out. And I can hear people snoring below.”
Zoe clutched at her knees. “It’s safe enough.”
He subsided. The moon had set already and so the ballroom was bathed in a murky, faded grandeur. The wires and chains that had once managed the chandeliers still hung from their bolts in the ceiling, clipped carelessly, uneven inky lines dangling straight down from the frescoes to halfway above the floor.
“You’re doing me no favors by staying here,” she said to her knees. “I’d like some time alone.”
“What makes you suppose I’m here to please you?”
She angled him a glance from beneath her lashes.
“You are not the sum of my existence,” he said casually. “Good gracious. You never used to be so vain.”
“It’s hardly vanity if—”
“Perhaps I’ve developed an interest in your stated objective of before.” He met her blank stare with a hint of smile. “Revenge,” he said.
“Revenge, yes.” She gave a hollow laugh and leaned her head against the wall. One of the pins in her hair dug into her scalp. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“No. It seldom is.”
“I never wanted … I never desired his death. That man, Fortin. I wanted justice. Information. I didn’t want him dead.”
Rhys said nothing.
She heard herself whisper, “Do you believe me?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe, love. What’s done is done. All that matters is what we do next.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head, and Rhys’s voice took on a brisker note.
“What I do believe is that our goals are essentially identical. Death or justice, however you like it, we both want to see the end of the sanf inimicus, although I imagine we might disagree a bit on how that comes about. And that reminds me. How, precisely, did you discover the identity of the coachman in the dance hall?”
She did not answer.
“Because there were five of them. I was able to count that many. And since I was there when you followed them from the yard to the hall, and I never once heard anyone say anything like, ‘Oy, you, the bloke who drove the rig of the dragon-man, care to go dancing tonight,’ I admit my curiosity is quite aflame.”
Zoe shrugged again, and the shadow leaned forward with his hands loosely clasped, his elbows to his knees. “You didn’t use Persuasion to get him to tell you, or to follow you outside, for that matter. So what was it?”
She met his eyes without turning her head. They were green, ghost green, against heavy black lashes. His lips lifted into that faint smile again.
“Oh, come. I’m dead anyway. Why keep secrets?”
“I have … another Gift. I suppose it’s a Gift. It’s tied in a way to why I see you, I think. I have the ability sometimes to … gather thoughts. Other people’s thoughts. It doesn’t always work, but tonight it did. It’s how I knew for certain he was the driver for Hayden. How I knew he was also in the employ of the sanf.”
“You read his mind,” said Rhys. He didn’t sound surprised or thrilled or even doubting. He sounded very, very thoughtful.
She pursed her lips and looked away. A long moment passed. The thrum of the city began to intrude upon their silence: the carriages and livestock and people along the Quai, and coffee and river water and baking bread from the early-morning cafés in St.-Honoré nearby.
“Well,” the ghost said at last. “You are one sweet delight after another, Zoe Lane. I don’t recall your demonstrating any of these Gifts back at home. Did they all descend in a great big lump a few months ago, or is it that you’re merely more cunning than that?”
Her fingers began a quick nervous tattoo against her knees; she stilled them by knotting them together.
“Does anyone at home know any of this?”
“My sister.”
“The council?”
“Of course not,” she flashed, then lowered her voice. “Don’t be an idiot. You were on the council, as I recall.”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you think I ever desired to be handed over to you on a wedding platter? A nice virginal sacrifice to your esteemed bloodline?”
“Zoe.” He stared at her, brows furrowed. “How long have you been Gifted?”
She tried a third shrug, as nonchalant as she could make it. “Years.”
His mouth dropped open. “Years?”
At last she’d managed to surprise him. She felt a small, mean glow of satisfaction at that.
It had been so long since she’d seen him in any way other than that of adversary. Handsome Lord Rhys, sensual Lord Rhys, who’d wooed her with such persistence as a boy and delivered her first, scorching real kiss. The notion of marriage to him—actual marriage, forced or not—brought an unwelcome heat to her face, even now.
He began to laugh. It was small at first, growing deeper and softer, gradually shaking his entire body until he lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose; finally he looked up at her from over his cupped fingers. “You truly don’t like me, do you?”
“You have made it remarkably easy.”
“I suppose so.” He swiped at his eyes. “You know I always …”
“What,” she said, sarcastic. She felt flushed now, embarrassed, and spoke swiftly to cover it. “You always admired me? Adored me from afar? Burned with unspoken passion in the depths of your black heart? That must have been quite a burden. No wonder you masked your pain with all those other girls.”
“I liked you,” he said simply. And smiled. “That’s all. I always liked you so much.”
Ah yes, there it was. His full smile, as bright and warm and open as the sun. That heartfelt, laughing allure of his that tempted her to wicked thoughts, that implied all manner of deliciously exciting secrets to share. It was the first thing about him that had attracted her as a girl. It was the last thing she recalled of him as a woman; over the years, that quick comely smile had never changed. And no matter how hard she resisted, it always made her feel the same: like she was special. Like he saved it only for her.
A donkey somewhere outside released a loud bray. It was answered by anot
her, even louder. She began to rub absently at the hairpin stinging her scalp.
Rhys lowered his gaze and gave a nod, as if she’d asked him a question, then straightened, brisk once more. “You’re going to have to go through that wallet. I’d do it myself, but …” He spread his palms.
She’d nearly forgotten; she’d stuck the wallet in her pocket. It made a heavy weight beneath her skirts.
“No time like the present,” he prompted, when she didn’t move.
She unbent her legs and fished it out, her fingers sticking to the leather, smeared with dried blood.
Zoe set her teeth against the smell and opened it up.
Money, a great deal of it, louis and livres and two deniers. A silver toothpick. A golden ring, a signet perhaps; the face had been twisted and mashed. A few folded sheets of rice paper. A small tarnished key.
Rhys reached for the papers. She noticed for the first time that he was dressed as if he was still living—real English clothing, a laced shirt with ruffled cuffs, an embroidered waistcoat of silver-gray with leaves of holly, brown breeches. Walking boots. All of them darkened as he was. Transparent but there. She’d seen him like this all along, from the very beginning, and had only now noticed. Even that wayward lock of hair still fell down his forehead, catching against his eyelashes.
“What’s this?” One shadow finger trailing smoke tapped the paper, or would have; the pieces didn’t rustle beneath his touch.
She lifted them, unfolded them, and narrowed her eyes at the minuscule print. They appeared to be pages torn from a book.
“It’s in a language I don’t recognize,” she said, scanning it. “It almost looks like gibberish, but …”
“Yes?”
“It changes right here. See? It segues from gibberish into French. ‘A guide for the detection and recognition of …’ ” Her gaze lifted to his. “ ‘… of the Drákon,’ ” she finished, sober.
They read it in silence. When she finished she let her hand fall to her lap, the pages loose between her fingers, staring out at the rows of strutting peacocks decorating the far wall.
“Would you say my cheekbones appear ‘hard’?” he asked, leaning over her, still reading. “I mean, sculpted, certainly. Angular, I would accept. But hard. It sounds so coarse.”