“I don’t care what the group wants,” Conrad said to Dean. “We stop when I say we stop, and we need to get through these woods before nightfall. You don’t know the Mists, Dean, despite what you are. You’ve spent your entire life in the Iron Land. I’ve spent almost a year here. The Mists aren’t Thorn or Iron—they’re treacherous, and I don’t want to get caught in an ambush because my baby sister’s feet hurt, so why don’t you two toughen up and accept that I know what I’m talking about?”
Dean snarled under his breath. To look at him, you’d never know he was only half human, but he was, and his other, Erlkin half had a bad temper when it was crossed. Conrad was like me, human blood poisoned with a drop of Fae. More than poisoned—saturated. But at least we weren’t like our mother, struck mad simply by virtue of living in the Iron Land, as all full-blood Fae like her would eventually be. Conrad and I, with our human father, were hopefully all right as long as we steered clear of iron. More than that, though, Conrad thrived and never seemed bothered by much. With his charm and force of will, Conrad could say anything and make it so. It merely annoyed me, but it made Dean furious, and to head off the fight that had been brewing for days, as the fog got thicker, the ground wetter and the food scarcer, I dropped Dean’s hand and jogged to catch up with my brother.
“We’re all tired,” I told him. “If you keep up this pace we’re just going to stop following you. We can’t run from the Proctors and the Fae if we’re dead of exhaustion.” My brother listened to me very rarely; I hoped this would be one of those times.
Conrad’s jaw twitched, and my hopes fell. “It’s not your call, Aoife,” he snapped.
“You’re right,” I agreed, through gritted teeth to avoid outright angry shouting. “It wasn’t my call to leave Lovecraft looking for you, it wasn’t my call to run here when the Proctors came for us. But I followed you, Conrad. I’ve done what you said without complaining for almost a week, and now I’m telling you I’m tired. You can walk.” I stopped and plopped down on a mossy stump. “I’m not going another step.”
The old Aoife would never have dreamed of disagreeing with anyone, but this new Aoife had no such compunctions. Her feet hurt, and I was glad she’d spoken up. She didn’t even care that Conrad was puffing up his chest, getting ready to chastise her like the father we’d never had. We stared at each other while the throaty call of a crow echoed from a nearby thicket. I wasn’t going to be the one to look away. I’d been glad of Conrad’s protection in our care-homes and at the Academy, but since he’d left, I’d realized I didn’t need him. He needed to see it now too. He was my brother, and I loved him, but the closeness of our old relationship had blown away with the ash from the ruined Lovecraft Engine.
“Well?” I said at last. Dean, Cal and Bethina, who’d been a chambermaid in my father’s house before a few days ago, stopped and clustered around me. Conrad had elected himself group leader, but so far they’d stuck with me. Not that I knew where we were going, or where we were going to stay when it got dark again. These were ancient forests, night forests, and who knew what was lurking in the shadows? In Lovecraft, things like nightjars, shape-shifting blood drinkers and springheel jacks, terrifying long-toothed predators, ruled the night along with the ghouls. And those were just the creatures who’d managed to slip through from Thorn and other places. Here in the Mists, this native land of theirs so far from Iron, if they caught us we’d be so much lunch meat. I felt a small, traitorous prick of pride at that and tried not to show it on my face. I’d managed to get us as far as the Mists. I tried to believe I could see us through to wherever we ended up, but I wasn’t very convincing, even inside my own head. Conrad did know the Mists, and I had no idea how to even find my way out of this wood.
Conrad folded his arms. “Aoife, you’re being a child.”
“I left her there, Conrad,” I said quietly, voicing what had been bothering me since the morning dream. “I left her to whatever might happen.”
Conrad sighed, shifting his feet. “Listen, when we get somewhere safe we can talk about this. Right now, we’re exposed and we need to keep moving.” He started walking again, until my words distracted him and he tripped.
“She’s our mother.”
My brother turned back to me, and his face was colder than I’d ever seen it. “Nerissa hasn’t been a mother to me for ten years, Aoife. To you either. She left us to the mercy of people who’d just as soon burn us alive, or cut us open and study us. She didn’t even try to keep us from that when she knew she couldn’t take care of us. Some kind of mother to do that.”
“I said I wouldn’t leave her there,” I told him. I’d promised her. No matter what she’d done, I’d promised that I’d keep her safe because she couldn’t do it for herself. That was what you did, when you had a mother, and I hadn’t managed to do anything except put her in more danger. Guilt made my stomach roil. “This is my fault,” I said, “all of it, but most of all Nerissa, and I have to—”
“Dammit, Aoife!” Conrad bellowed. The crows took flight in a ripple of glossy black against the silver sky. “Going back to the Iron Land and risking your neck won’t change what happened! You’re going to have to accept that so we can all stay alive.”
I wished he’d just slapped me. The hole that opened in me at his words was a hundred times more painful than any blow would have been. Because I knew he was right. My guilt was like a chain around my ankle, attached to a weight the size of my mother. If I couldn’t put the thoughts out of my mind until we’d reached safety, I’d drag them with me. But I didn’t know how. I swiped at my eyes, telling myself my face was damp only with cool fog, not hot tears.
“All right, now,” Dean said. “I think we’ve established neither of you is giving up this ghost, so why don’t we agree to disagree?” He helped me off the stump and put his arm around me. “And Conrad—how about shutting your big trap and not making your sister cry before I knock your teeth in?”
Conrad blinked once. “What did you just say to me?”
“Hey!” I clapped my hands. Boys could be like unruly dogs. Where was a bucket of water when I needed one? “I’ll keep going,” I told Conrad quietly. “But I’m not going to forget about this. I am going to get her back.”
“I’m not saying forget it,” he said. “Just focus on staying safe until our father comes back and can help us settle things.”
He started walking again, his stiff-shouldered posture evidence that he was dismissing Dean and me—and the straggling Cal and Bethina—so I spoke my last thought to his back: “You know, Archie coming back and saving the day is about as likely as a snowball surviving the heart of the Engine.” It was harsh, but it was true. Conrad was the only one who refused to see that.
Second entry:
What can I say about my father? I knew him as only a story for the first fourteen years of my life, a figure both larger and smaller than any real father could hope to be.
I know that he stayed just long enough to watch Conrad take his first steps and see me born before he returned to the city of Arkham, to Graystone, his family home, and then had nothing more to do with us. Nerissa never mentioned it, but I knew they weren’t married, and that a family like the Graysons didn’t need bastards running around. It made me angry, made me feel small and worthless, like a trinket rather than somebody’s child. Usually I pretended I didn’t have a father at all.
I only saw him once: when the Proctors scooped me up and Grey Draven told me the truth about the necrovirus, that it was a lie and that he planned to use me to lure in the insurgents my father was running with. My father showed up and helped me get out of Ravenhouse, the bastion of the Proctors in Lovecraft, and run to Arkham, back to my brother and into the Mists.
We spoke maybe ten words to each other.
So you can see why I don’t have a lot of faith in Archibald Grayson showing up and saving the day, even though Conrad thinks he’ll solve everything. People relied on the Proctors to solve everything too—to keep them safe from the necrov
irus—and look what happened. The world is going to burn. Maybe not all at once, but what happened in Lovecraft is surely worldwide news by now, and who knows what’s already crossed over from the Thorn Land to make a picnic of the human race? I can’t even think about it without feeling like I want to cry, scream, or simply lie down, let the guilt eat me alive and give up.
I don’t know if our father is coming back. I don’t know if he’ll help us if he does.
I don’t know anything except that Conrad’s wrong about me, and about our mother when he says that she’s a lost cause, and that if I want to survive, I have to cast my lot with a father I barely know. If I can go back, if I can at least make sure she’s alive and see what condition the city is in from what I did—if it still exists at all—then I’ll know.
I’ll know exactly what I did and what the damage was, the number of deaths and exactly how many tons of guilt should press on me. I’ll know if there’s anything I can do to make it right, because the plain fact is, innocent people shouldn’t pay for my stupidity. That, nobody had to teach me. That’s just the truth.
And maybe if I know what happened, I can stop dreaming about it.
I’d stopped keeping track of how many miles we’d walked days ago, but not of the day. My birthday had come and gone, and so far, I still had my mind. But I wasn’t cured. Periodically I felt the scratches and whispers of the madness, and I waited for the iron poison to awaken it fully in my blood and plunge me down an endless hole of insanity.
The road disappeared for a time, and we relied on the dim sun to navigate until it came into view again. Well, Conrad did. The rest of us were so tired we mostly just trudged. Cal had barely spoken since we’d come through from Arkham to the Mists, and finally, when I looked back and saw him stumble, I dropped back to walk with him.
“How are you holding up?”
Cal grunted. He was a head taller than me, and I watched his knobby Adam’s apple bob up and down.
Of all of us, Cal was the least what he appeared to be. I should have been afraid of him—after all, the Proctors had filled my mind for years with warnings about the ghouls that lived in the old sewer tunnels below the streets and surged up to hunt when the moon was full.
But they’d also told me my mother was crazy and had to be locked away, and that a bloodborne virus was responsible for my abilities and my madness dreams, so there you were. Cal might have been a monster before he’d come to the Academy, a ghoul who’d hunted people like me, but he’d stuck by me when everything went wrong. Draven had sent him to spy on me, threatened to burn Cal’s family alive if he rebelled, and Cal had still helped me get out of Lovecraft. Cal was loyal. I trusted him a lot more than Conrad at that moment.
Which made me feel lousy, like I was betraying my own blood in favor of someone who wasn’t even human, but the fact remained that Cal had been there for me when Conrad hadn’t. And he didn’t have potential madness lurking in the dark corners of his mind, ready to spring forward and sink its teeth in the moment he got too close to the Iron Land. I loved Conrad, but I’d never forget that in his worst moment, he’d hurt me, and hadn’t hesitated to do it. I had a scar to ensure I’d never forget.
“Cal?” I said when he didn’t answer me.
“How do you think I’m holding up, Aoife?” he snapped, thin face growing a deep frown. “Being in this place isn’t going to get us into any less trouble, and it just might get us into more.”
Regardless of the shape he took, Cal had a nearly endless capacity for worrywarting. I was just glad he’d decided to keep his human shape for the time being, though that was a credit more to Bethina than to me. Cal was sweet on her, and she thought he was a regular boy. I just hoped she wouldn’t try to light him on fire when she figured out the truth. Bethina was bubbly and sometimes flighty, but she wasn’t stupid, and eventually all the strange bits of Cal’s personality would fall into place for her.
I’d decided at the outset that I’d cross that bridge when we came to it. Besides, how was I supposed to pull her aside and tell her the nice boy with the city manners was actually a flesh-eating beast? That was a conversation I couldn’t even fathom how to start. It would come up one way or another—Cal wasn’t always good at hiding his true nature. None of us were, I guessed. Dean snarled when he was angry, and I got blinding headaches when I was too close to iron. Conrad was the only one among us who could appear effortlessly human, and I was really starting to resent him for it. He’d been out of the Iron Land long enough that his madness had largely receded. I hoped it would be the same for me, but sooner or later, I’d have to go back, and if he went with me we’d both be in trouble.
“Fine,” I grumbled.
“If you say so,” Cal said, and I could tell I’d played on his last nerve. He could tell I was wishing I could just leave the lot of them, aside from Dean, in the woods and go home.
Not even that. I wished I could wind time backward until none of this had ever occurred. And if I could live that time over again, I would ignore what was happening to me, go on being a good student, a good girl, good little Aoife Grayson, who adored her brother because he was the strong one, the charming one who could do no wrong. He was a brother she could trust, implicitly. A brother who’d never hurt her.
But then I’d also be insane from the iron of Lovecraft, locked up with my mother, and who knew what would have happened to Conrad. I could never have that little girl’s imaginary version of my brother back, and I was just going to have to live with it. If I’d done it sooner, I might not have been so easily swayed by Tremaine, or so quick to dismiss my mother’s ramblings. If I’d been more willing to accept reality, my mother would be safe and alive, instead of alone in a city overrun with creatures of Thorn.
If she’d survived. I didn’t let myself think that my mother might be dead too often, because the very idea was a physical pang in my chest. Nerissa had managed to survive for seven years in the worst madhouses in Lovecraft. She couldn’t be dead. I kept repeating that, with all the dedication of a fanatic. My mother couldn’t be dead. She had to be waiting for me when I went back.
I became aware that Cal’s skinny shadow no longer loped next to me, and I turned back. Cal was frozen, quivering, his nostrils flared and his chest vibrating like a plucked string.
“Cal?” I said with soft alarm, motioning to the others to stop.
His lips drew back from teeth that razored out of human gums, leaving thin red trails of blood and spittle on his lips. They disappeared just as quickly, when Bethina turned toward him, but the wire-tight tension didn’t leave his skinny frame. “Someone else is here.”
Dean cut his eyes toward the brush and back to me. “Get off the road.”
“What’s going on?” Bethina called tremulously from behind Cal.
“Get off the road now!” Dean bellowed, and grabbed me by the arm, dragging me into the brush. I gasped in pain as thorns snagged my sweater, rending skin and finding blood beneath.
I saw Cal, Conrad and Bethina go into the ditch on the other side of the path as Dean pulled me down. Mud soaked into my stockings and through the holes in my boots, and freezing water numbed me.
“What—” I started, but Dean pressed his finger against my lips.
A second later, I felt something unfurl in my mind, like a flower opening under the light of the moon. It prickled across my forehead, over my scalp and down my spine, fingers of feeling scraping across my every nerve.
Please, I thought as panic pressed on my chest, slowing my breath to almost nothing, not here. Not now. I knew the sensation bubbling up from the recesses of my brain, knew it the same way I knew my own heartbeat. My blood was reacting to iron, iron that whoever Cal had scented carried, iron worked into an unseen machine. And with the machinery came something else: the power that my father, in his journal, had called a Weird. And on the heels of the Weird, because machines and iron were inexorably intertwined, the madness would bloom.
My Weird had been quiet since we’d been walking th
rough the Mists, but not now. Now it was pushing against the inside of my skull, threatening to crack it. I pressed a palm against my forehead and dug the heel in, willing myself to stay quiet as my thoughts went wild, clamoring for me to scream and let my Weird free. Behind them was something blacker, something that crawled and giggled as it picked at the scars on my psyche. Let me in, Aoife. Let me show you.…
I saw a sharp stone protruding from the embankment, and I ran my hand against it, dragging it down my palm. Blood dribbled down my wrist and the sharp, clear prick of pain pushed the whispers back. When all else failed, physical hurt would quiet the voices in my head. For now, anyway.
The Weird still pressed on my skull, and I pushed harder against the stone, focusing only on the pain.
On the road, the trees parted ahead of us and disgorged two tall, thin figures. They weren’t Fae—I could tell that much from their lack of silver eyes and pointed teeth—but they weren’t human, either. They moved too smoothly for that, like the fog all around us glided between the trees, and their forms were too slim and angular.
The Erlkin had found us. The people of the Mists, the other half of Dean’s bloodline, had found the intruders in their domain and were coming to exterminate us. At best. At worst, they were Erlkin working for Grey Draven, and we were about to be shackled and taken back to Lovecraft. I pressed my forehead down into the dirt. That couldn’t happen. It would be the end of even a faint hope that I could remain free and sane.
Dean squeezed my arm, each finger carving a groove that would leave purple marks behind. He was telling me to stay quiet. Stay still. Not to give us away.
I wasn’t the one, as it turned out, who screwed up—a splash came from the ditch on the other side of the path and I knew it could only be Cal.
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