Her name was halfway down the list and she raised her hand halfway, meeting Mr. Weir’s tired gaze. He nodded pedantically, and continued down the list. Maeva turned her attention to her binder as someone stepped inside the room. Maeva glanced up, her breath catching. She stifled the scream in the back of her throat and scrunched down, using her hair as a sheet to hide her face.
“Mekelle Norton,” Mr. Weir began. “Nice of you to join us.”
“Um, Michael,” the boy from the forest said. Maeva peeked at him from her desk, noticing his awkward stance. He had his binder under his arm, and Maeva noticed the lines of his chest muscles defining his shirt. A warm feeling crept into her and she swallowed it, forcing herself to remember all the reasons he was not a hot boy.
Mr. Weir pushed his glasses onto his nose and pulled a look. “It says Mekelle on your transcript.”
The boy looked at the floor and adjusted the backpack on his shoulder. Maeva averted her eyes, not wanting to notice the shallow breathing or the fact he was trying to hide his accent.
“That’s the UK pronunciation,” he said softly. Maeva savored the cadence of his tone, the way syllables rolled off his tongue in perfect succession. He was nothing like the deranged boy in the hallway a week ago, his breath smelling like chalk, his body almost pressed against hers. He actually seemed shy.
“Okay, so what do you go by?” Mr. Weir scratched the pen along the paper.
“Michael,” the boy said. Mr. Weir jotted the note and waved a hand at the class, pen gripped between his fingers.
“Sit anywhere you like, Michael,” Mr. Weir said, correcting his pronunciation.
Maeva nervously shifted in her seat and grabbed her pen, twirling it between her fingers while Michael trailed down the row of desks next to her and at the last second swung into the seat beside her. She dropped the pen on her binder as Mr. Weir began the lesson. Maeva felt like someone had put their hands over her ears. She straightened her posture and hunched over her binder, letting the wall of hair separate her from him.
He fidgeted a lot. His boots squeaked minutely against linoleum, his binder slid onto the table, zipper grazed along teeth, papers flashed, a pencil eraser clunked against the tabletop. Maeva frowned, the rhythm of the pencil eraser uneven and choppy. She pressed her lips together and looked at the chalkboard tracing the pattern of the A in Aristotle on the board. Mr. Weir explained photography in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE. She tried to pay attention but it was impossible with the boy’s labored breath flushing in and out of his lungs. She noticed his left hand on his thigh, fingers splayed out, bracing himself. He jotted notes with his right hand, but the symbols scrawled on the page weren’t English.
Mr. Weir came up for air and the boy interrupted him, not bothering to raise his hand. “You’re wrong you know,” Michael said. Someone across the room snickered as a shade of crimson crept into Mr. Weir’s ears.
“Excuse me, Mr. Norton?” Mr. Weir had his hands on his hips, chalk digging into his brown leather belt.
“Mo Ti was the first to theorize pinhole cameras. Aristotle came after him, but he developed the theory with Euclid. And technically Joseph Nicephore Niepce was the first to take a permanent photograph.”
The classroom was dead silent. Mr. Weir’s mouth opened as the entire class turned to stare at Michael and by association, Maeva. She slunk further into her seat, trying to hide as Michael laced his hands behind his head and crossed his feet, seemingly proud of himself.
Mr. Weir blinked and regained his composure. “Memorizing Wikipedia before class isn’t going to get you extra marks.” He turned to the board. “And there’s no test on this,” he added, his voice low. He went back to talking in his usual drone tone and most of the class stopped staring. A few whispers worked their way through the crowd and Maeva dared a sidelong glance at Michael who was scribbling non-English symbols on his loose leaf.
“You can sit anywhere you know,” she said through clenched teeth, unable to take the accusatory tone out of her voice. She didn’t know what kind of game he was playing but she didn’t want him anywhere near her, not even if he was going to pull a one eighty and be a completely different person every time she saw him.
He glanced at her, a challenge in his blue eyes. “He said anywhere I like.”
“Exactly.”
“I like here.”
Maeva narrowed her eyes, heat rushing to the tips of her ears. The way he looked at her suggested he was actually telling the truth, but nothing about him made any sense. Why would anyone move all the way from the UK to Kenora? And why did he have a dagger? And why did he claim she didn’t remember? Why was he so hostile, confusing, and sexy? She bit back the words and shifted her weight. Her fingers grasped her own shoulder, scratching behind her neck. She twirled her fingers through her hair, grabbing a strand and winding it around her fingers, tying a knot with one hand, untying.
“Were you trying to hide that accent?” she asked after several minutes of silence.
“No,” he said, his accent thicker, authentic. He unhooked his feet and placed his heavy combat boots flat against the linoleum, a foot apart.
“Why are you here?” Maeva pressed, glancing at Mr. Weir who was scrawling Joseph Nicephore’s name on the board.
“Photography,” Michael answered.
Maeva huffed, frustration making her feel warm. “No, why are you in Kenora?”
“My uncle.”
“What?” Maeva thought about the old man in the diner. That must have been the uncle. She grimaced, looking at the clock. Class was almost over.
“Real Estate,” Michael amended, the pen hanging in suspended animation as he paused between symbols.
“That doesn’t explain anything,” Maeva hissed, her tone caustic. She was trying not to alert the other students to their heated private discussion. She felt eyes on the back of her neck and slid a fraction of an inch away from him, taking up twirling her hair and seemingly ignoring Michael.
“Resorts,” Michael whispered.
She turned her head and noticed him leaning in, so close she saw the deep blue flecks in his eyes and gulped, her eyes locked to his for a brief second before she realized how close their lips were and abruptly pulled away. She bit her lip, trying to regain herself. “Are you going to keep giving me one word answers?”
Michael smiled ruefully and Maeva was shocked. His cheekbones rose, a dimple formed on his right cheek near his lips, and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Yes.”
The bell rang and Maeva let out a breath, gathering up her binder and backpack as quickly as she could. She followed the steady stream of students into the hallway and glanced behind her, trying to prove her stalker theory, but Michael wasn’t there. She frowned and backtracked, hating herself for being so curious. Against the tide she pressed herself against a locker and glanced into the classroom. Michael slowly zipped his binder and fitted it into his backpack. A girl named Abby passed Maeva as Michael stood and wended around the tables. She gulped and pivoted, pushing her way through students so he wouldn’t catch her staring.
O O O
Krishani hated crowded hallways. He didn’t like lingering in classrooms either but he preferred them over throngs of students moving in ten different directions, fighting through each other to get to a class, a locker, or another person. He especially hated them because of the claustrophobia he felt when near other people. It was cacophonic, all the white matter, energy and body odor in the air. His senior school in Leeds had been impossible to navigate without bumping into people. The school resembled a castle, with carved stone statues adorning its turrets, and polished hardwood floors running the length of the halls. There were no lockers, just glass cases along the walls with various trophies, plaques, and picture frames showcasing the faculty, both current and deceased. They hung pictures of successful alumni in the halls and slapped little gold engravings detailing their accomplishments.
Three years ago Krishani was running his finger along the outskirts of one of t
hose small gold plaques when the bell rang and the hallways became a sea of limbs, heads, and uniforms. Someone bumped into him and he pricked himself on the corner of the gold plaque, blood gushing to the surface. He gulped, white spots dancing along his vision. He turned and tried to squeeze through students, running his shoulder along the thick glass case against the wall. He didn’t make it. Some kid shoved him forward and he fell on his face. Nobody noticed he was there and he tried to curl into himself and stave off the pain but it lanced through him. He lost focus on everything but his breathing, a seizure running its course. He blacked out before the hallways emptied and woke up in a hospital bed, IV attached to his hand. Elwen had been sitting in a brown leather chair with his head in his hands.
“Did it come back?” Krishani had asked. He always had symptoms, but the real question was always whether or not those symptoms led to further complications. He didn’t want another round of tests, disgusting food, and sympathetic nurses. He really hated people treating him like he was a helpless thing. It’s not like he would have spared them if they were dying.
“No, they said you’re fine,” Elwen responded.
Krishani shook himself out of the memory, walking past the cemetery. He stayed to the sidewalk and passed under the bridge, taking a left at the rotunda. His legs were shaky by the time he found Main Street. He passed the red bricked building with the pewter and gold sign out front reading “CITY HALL,” and the furniture store, a large window showing off a line of mattresses. Beside that was a weird boutique with bouquets of flowers and a black sandwich board sign out front, decorated with highlighters. He passed the blue mailbox and the handicapped parking meter and pulled his keys out of his shirt. He kept them on a plain black lanyard. He took the steps slowly, his mind wandering back to the girl. She was Kaliel but she wasn’t Kaliel. He realized he didn’t know her name. She didn’t answer when Mr. Weir continued through the list of names so he missed it. Regret washed through him, and part of him really wanted to know what she called herself. He hadn’t thought of asking, because when he first saw her it didn’t matter.
She would always be Kaliel to him.
He shoved his shoulder into the door after unlocking the sets of deadbolts. Elwen wasn’t there. Krishani crossed the floor and opened the fridge grabbing water. He contemplated sleeping away the afternoon but agitation snaked through him and he clomped down the hall in his boots and took the dagger off his bedside table. It was sheathed, and he fastened it to his belt in a swift move, buttoning the small leather clasp.
He clamored down the steps and emerged on Main Street, passing the bank, more boutiques, restaurants and an insurance place before he reached the water. He weaved through the streets until he was back in residential zones, passing a series of white houses characterized by peeling paint. His memory attacked him and he held back, forcing himself to focus on the cracked sidewalk, moss sprouting through the cement. He didn’t understand. She shied away from him, hid her face under her hair, and slumped in her seat. That wasn’t like the Kaliel he met at a waterfall almost ten thousand years ago. The thought made his chest clench, heavy feelings papering through him. He blinked, a flash of her ivory maiden’s gown behind his eyes. She used to be brave enough to swim with merfolk: innocent, curious, uninhibited. She wasn’t any of those things anymore. She was shy, timid, and nervous. He passed a few fast food restaurants and three motels before seeing the lumber yard and the Wal-Mart. The forest seemed to close in around the parking lot and Krishani headed across it, wanting to find a place that felt less like cannibalized society. Terra was never beautiful but it wasn’t covered in gaudy bright colors, steel, cement, and plastic. In the past hundred years he only occupied three human forms for longer than a few minutes and the vapid development of the land made his head whir with confusion. He wondered where all of this came from, when it seemed like only yesterday they were living in straw huts and cabins.
He followed the sidewalk until there wasn’t one and walked aimlessly down the gravel shoulder, cars passing him every few seconds. He glanced at the sky to check the time and estimated almost four. He crossed the street and passed a golf course. On the other side of the street was a thick steel railing, tall bushes, and triangular roofs of houses, a cove, and two docks stretching into the water, a blue motor boat floating beside one of them.
He was beginning to dislike Kenora with all of its lakes and marshes blending together. He wanted a good forest trail, something he could get lost in for a few hours before returning to the flat. He passed a large gray metal building, an obtuse triangular roof stretched across the top. He glanced behind him, nothing indicating what the building was for, only a few letters on the small square window on the door reading “Earl’s Garage.” He noticed a parking lot and a few boats in a harbor ahead. He crossed the street again, not caring if there was a trail or not, and crashed into the forest. A car rumbled by behind him and something made him turn and look. It was a gray Sundance, the driver behind the wheel a girl with long curly black hair. Krishani stopped at the top of a hill, and watched her from the cover of trees. She parked, went into Earl’s Garage. He couldn’t imagine why she might be there and so he waited, his hand on his dagger, until she emerged and disappeared in the harbor. Curiosity almost got the best of him but he turned, pushing ferns and skinny trunks out of the way as he made his way through the brush.
This part of the forest was unforgiving. Trees grew too close together and bushes darted up everywhere. He couldn’t catch a break until he found a skinny dirt path, marked by tire treads. He let out a breath and followed it until he was bored and forced himself down a steep hill. It was too much for a bike, the rider would flip over their handlebars if they tried it. Krishani slid most of the way down, his black t-shirt caught on a stray root and pulled up over his waning muscle. He was lean but not in the way girls found attractive. He forced his shirt over his pale skin and brushed the mud off his jeans as he glanced around and found himself in a clearing. The ground was a bed of browning nettles and pinecones. Above him, spruce trees blocked out the sun.
He sat, aligning his spine with the trunk of a spruce and uncapped the water, taking a long swig. After the hour and a half it had taken him to get there, water tasted fantastic. The trip hadn’t been solely to let off steam. He had frustration in every tense muscle from his shoulders down to his calves but it was worth it. He knew where Kaliel lived … or at least knew she had a boat of some kind. It was something he could bother her about at school.
He sighed and unsheathed the dagger, moving to his feet. He tested his balance and narrowed his eyes at a tree ten feet away. He held the dagger by the point of the blade and flung it at the tree. It stuck the bark hard. He didn’t want Darkesh to find her. He didn’t want them to turn her into their pawn. He retrieved the dagger and turned, aiming at another tree across from him. He closed his eyes, a flash of amethyst encrusted eyes interrupting his thoughts. He flung the dagger and hit the tree sideways, landing in a bed of nettles.
He wiped his eyes and stalked to the tree, grabbing the dagger and paused, his hand on the hilt. He didn’t throw it again, but anger flashed through him and he stuck the dagger hard into the tree. The way the knife slid through wood wasn’t the same as sliding through skin. Skin was soft and pliant, wood was tough, and with bone, the knife had to crack through, splitting marrow as it made its way through. Krishani knew eight hundred thousand ways to kill someone. He had experienced every form of torture, and endured countless deaths for the sake of the white matter he craved. He could have killed her when they were alone in the hallway. He could have killed her in the classroom. He could have killed her when she was all alone in the forest.
He blinked and moved the dagger up and down, loosening it from its grip on the tree. He dragged in a shaky breath and let out a defeated cry as he shucked the dagger blindly. He heard it stick somewhere, but instead of retrieving it he crouched, covering his face with his hands.
He could have killed her, but he didn’t.
***
Chapter 12
Diplomatic Immunity
Pux appeared from behind a tree, his face a mask of horror. He bent at the tree Krishani had punctured and scooped up a handful of brown nettles. They snapped in his fist and he poured them onto the forest floor like sand and stood, moving to the edge of the clearing where Krishani had fled. He touched the branches and flinched, pulling his hand back as a cycler flashed across the path, the spokes of their wheel at eye level. He stumbled back, startled by the sudden noise and nearness of humans. The cyclist was gone as quickly as they appeared but Pux wasn’t safe. He darted through trees in the canopied opening and found himself concealed, looking for part of the shore unpopulated by docks, boats, and humans.
He thought back to Krishani. The last time he saw the Ferryman was at Castle Tavesin, alerting the villagers of the unnatural storm. Pux wasn’t stupid; he knew what Krishani had become. Morgana wasn’t shy about her beasts. She brought them from every part of the lands to Avristar so the kinfolk could see with their own eyes the kinds of things that existed outside of their precious island. Things that would destroy them in an instant if they stepped out of line. She toyed with one of those Vultures like it was a kite, the ends of its self-contained storm gathered in her palm, the rest of it writhing like a giant shadow against the cloud filled sky, fighting to escape her grip so it could feast on the wispy white smoke rising out of the body of one of the Brothers of Amersil. At the time his duty was to protect the shores of Avristar from threat but Morgana used him as an example, showing Lord Istar if she wanted them dead, they would be dead.
Pux shook himself out of his daydream and fetched up against a rusted sheet of metal. He almost collided with it and his eyes widened as he recoiled from the thing, falling into the dried cracked mud. He surveyed the area; there were more rusted sheets, an entire yard full of broken down cars and spare parts. He blinked, trying to convince himself it wasn’t iron and looked for a way around the yard. He stepped lightly through the brush and found a way down to the shore. Big cement blocks scattered along a thin sandy shore, dead branches and twigs intermingled with sand. He spotted a small fishing boat out on the water and in the late afternoon sun he couldn’t risk using the whistle. He crouched behind one of the rocks, hoping nobody saw him and tried to regulate his breathing.
Mercy Page 11