Starling

by Lesley Livingston

  Descendants of the founding families had been attending Gosforth for so many generations that there was a whole tangled mess of feuds and bad blood—and alliances and pacts—that no one could really sort out to any great degree. As far as most of the conflicts went, no one could even remember the origins or reasoning behind them. But it still sometimes made picking where to sit in the dining hall difficult to negotiate. Mason did her best to stay out of it all.

  “I don’t know the whole story,” Roth was saying. “All I know is that she and Mom were best friends when they were young.”

  “Daria Aristarchos and Mom? Our mom?” Mason’s jaw dropped. That was something she couldn’t fathom. Not from everything she knew about Calum’s mother. And everything she knew about her own, which admittedly wasn’t all that much. “You’re kidding. I thought Mom went to school somewhere else. Somewhere not Gosforth.”

  “She did. Mom wasn’t part of all this.” Roth smiled, rolling his eyes at the room and, Mason got the impression, the school at large. “She never had to deal with being a Gosling. With all of the impossible expectations and the ‘hallowed histories’ of a bunch of deluded, spoiled aristocrats who think they’re above everyone else and hold the fate of mankind in their greasy palms—”

  He broke off when he realized that Mason was staring at him. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him string that many words together in a sentence before.

  Roth chuckled and shook his head. “Mom was normal. That’s all, Mase. And that is why she was so much cooler than any of us have any hope of ever being.”

  “I wish I’d known her,” Mason said quietly, feeling the familiar ache of her mother’s absence. Yelena Starling had died in childbirth, and it was a hard thing for Mason to think about—without thinking about that fact that she was the reason her mother was gone.

  Roth pushed himself away from the desk and walked over to where Mason stood by the bed. “C’mon,” he said, holding out his hand for her bag.

  She zipped it shut and handed it over with a sigh. “Right. Home sweet home, here I come.”

  IX

  Fennrys crouched on his haunches, huddled under the Hell Gate Bridge trestle waiting for the dawn, or his sanity, to return. He needed one or the other, something that would shine a light on his darkness and banish the things that went bump—and thrash, and chase, and kill—in the night. He squinted into the east, where the horizon was finally brightening. He’d made it. At the very least, he seemed to have—hopefully permanently—ditched the marauding horse-men that had been hunting him.

  Centaurs.

  He must be in some kind of serious trouble.

  Or—and this was far more likely—clearly insane. As the rose-and-gold light of predawn crept toward his shadowed hiding place, Fennrys stood and peered around the corner. Nothing. The big homeless guy had disappeared, as if into the morning mist, and Fennrys was alone.

  He remembered that he had told the fight guy at the school—what was his name? Toby?—that they would be safe with the coming of the dawn. That the draugr would be gone with the morning light. He knew that to be true. He knew, in all probability, that it was true of the centaurs as well. He did not, however, know how he knew that.

  When the sun finally lifted above the horizon, he waited for at least a whole hour, just to be sure, before he left the safety of his hiding place and made his way back over the pedestrian bridge to Manhattan. Once there, he began to walk south.

  When he reached Ninety-Fifth Street, where the shoreline of the river bent east again, he turned right and headed deeper into the heart of the city. The wind off the water was starting to give him a chill down one side of his body. He shivered and shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. And felt something tucked away in one of them.

  Curious, Fennrys fished the object out of his pocket. It turned out to be a large wad of bills, and he stared at them for a long time. That, at least, solved that problem. He glanced to the east, where the sun had climbed well into the sky, and wondered if the clothing stores on Fifth Avenue were open yet.

  The saleslady in the upscale clothing store was delightful and helpful and never for an instant indicated that the Fennrys Wolf was dressed inappropriately when he walked through the doors of the shop … wearing sweatpants that were two sizes too small, a hoodie emblazoned with a private school crest, and a pair of combat boots that looked as though they’d been run over by a freight train.

  “I’d suggest the dark wash jeans in the slim fit,” she said, handing him another stack of pants to consider. He’d already had her put the socks and underwear on his bill and was in the dressing room trying on shirts and jeans. “They’ll go well with that tailored button-down. I’ve also got a few outerwear pieces I can bring you to try. There’s a soft canvas jacket in hunter green—”

  “Leather,” Fenn said. It was harder for teeth and claws—and swords—to get through leather. Not that he was going to tell the salesgirl that. “I’d like a leather jacket, please, if you have one.”

  “Of course,” she agreed. “I have a nice piece left over from last season that’s marked down.”

  “And boots.”

  “I already have a pair ready out here for you to try, sir.” When Fennrys finally emerged from the dressing room, the saleslady cast an approving eye over him. “You’ll be wearing the items, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I burn the ones you came in with?”

  He grinned at her. “Thank you, no. Just put them in a bag for me.” Fennrys had an idea. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the girl from the school. Her face, the memory of those deep blue eyes, was the only thing that had kept him focused instead of disappearing into a mental tailspin as he’d sat under the bridge, waiting for the morning. Fennrys didn’t know why, but he knew he needed to see her again. And returning the borrowed items was the only excuse he had. Fennrys paid for his new wardrobe and, as the saleslady handed him his shopping bags, asked, “Know any good hotels around here?”

  The escalator carried him up a chartreuse neon-lit corridor and out into the expansive, fantastical lobby of the River Hotel with its vaulting, vine-covered ceiling and sparkling chandelier. There was a long wooden check-in desk carved with the spreading branches and roots of a massive, twisty tree. It reminded Fennrys of something, but he couldn’t, in that moment, think what it was. Behind the desk, soaring windows looked out onto a terrace that was a secluded oasis in the middle of the city—a profusion of greenery scattered with teak chaises and banks of cushions for lounging. It was early for check-in, and the girl behind the counter was giving him an apologetic hard time about the fact that he would need a credit card as a damage deposit to secure the room. All Fennrys had was Rory’s wad of cash.

  He was about to abort the attempted check-in and walk away when he saw a tall, model-gorgeous woman in an elegant, figure-hugging suit signal to the girl he was speaking to.

  “Will you excuse me for one moment, sir?” the girl said, and slipped away to confer with the other woman.

  Fennrys sighed and figured that he was on the verge of being tossed out of the hotel. He pushed away from the desk and turned but paused when the girl hurried back to him with a sunny, slightly anxious smile pasted on her face.

  “If you can wait one moment, Mr. Wolf, I’ll just check to make sure your accommodations are fully ready for your stay. I’ve upgraded you to our penthouse suite, and the lounge will be pleased to offer you complimentary refreshments, once you’re settled.” She slid a key card across the polished surface of the desk toward him.

  Fennrys glanced back over to where he’d seen the woman in the suit standing, but she was no longer there. “The upgrade … is there an extra—”

  “No. The same price as the regular room. For you.” She paused as he looked at her, confused. “Everything is taken care of. Please enjoy your stay.”

  There’s got to be a mistake here, Fennrys thought. A nineteen-year-old nobody—literally—does not get this kind of treat
ment in a swank hotel.

  He slowly picked up his two shopping bags and nodded at the clerk. He wasn’t going to push his luck. He just took the room card and walked casually to the bank of elevators. The door to one of the cabs glided open, and Fennrys stepped inside.

  As the elevator began to rise, he pulled what was left of the money roll out of his pocket and fanned the bills with his thumb. He felt a twinge of guilt and wondered idly why a high school student would be wandering around with that kind of a stash. But then again, he’d seen enough of the school to know that it was populated by the abnormally rich. That made him feel a little less bad—that, and the fact that the kid had seemed like kind of a jerk anyway.

  Fennrys shoved the money back into his pocket. It had started out as a small fortune, but at New York prices it would dwindle rapidly. At the hotel’s regular rate, he could afford maybe a couple of nights. Time enough for him to figure out what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life. Maybe even time to remember what he’d already done.

  The water in the penthouse suite’s shower ran hot and for a long time. Fennrys stood there, palms pressed against the glass-tiled wall, letting the water drive the chill from his bones and muscles that seemed to have always been there—as if he’d spent a long time in a very cold place and it had become a part of him. He closed his eyes and tilted his face up toward the spray, his mind a strange, empty place. Memoryless. Almost.

  There were flashes. Images.

  Blinding light reflected off burnished, shimmering rooftops. Green fields. Clouds beneath him … then the light and the brilliant colors shattered, like someone taking a hammer to a rainbow, and he was plunged into suffocating darkness. That particular image carried the bonus feature of smell with it. Dank, earthen. Heavy and cloying, the odor of graves and of rain-wet ashes in long-dead fire pits. The smell of death. And, echoing in his head, the sound of a woman’s voice telling him to remember. Remember your promise, the voice said. Fennrys turned off the shower and reached for a towel. He had to see that girl from the school again.

  X

  The trip home to their estate in Westchester County was, as usual, via Gunnar’s private train. Her father didn’t like driving and hated sitting in traffic, but he was a mad rail-travel enthusiast—the result of having been raised from a long line of shipping magnates. Boats and trains were Gunnar’s great love, as they had been his father’s before him. It was, apparently, a familial thing, although Rory seemed to be the only one from Mason’s generation who had inherited the gene. Roth’s preferred mode of transportation was his Harley, and Mason was indifferent.

  She had a suspicion that her claustrophobia was the main reason her father used the train to take them home, even though he would never draw attention to the fact. In truth, she appreciated the gesture, but she still felt uneasy as their chauffeur dropped them off at the small outbuilding in the uptown Manhattan rail yard that had been converted to an elegantly appointed executive lounge where her father’s clients could wait in comfort for his private train to pick them up for business trips.

  When she was little, it had been fun riding around in a private train car decked out with antique Waterford crystal chandeliers and Italian leather banquettes and burled oak paneling. She’d actually felt like a princess in a fancy carriage. Now it just made her feel like the proverbial bird in a gilded cage.

  In the train car, it was deathly quiet except for the low strains of classical music: Puccini’s Turandot. Roth had left Mason back at the school and gone to get his Harley, saying he’d see her at the estate. Mason wished she had his kind of freedom. Her father sat in the front of the car, which had been partitioned off and turned into a high-tech mobile office, and that left Mason alone with Rory to share the ride. And he was lousy company, more so than usual, sprawling in one of the sleek swivel chairs and staring out the window at the passing scenery. And ignoring his sister as if she wasn’t even there.

  Mason didn’t push him. Even though she was dying to talk about what had happened in the gymnasium, she wasn’t dying to talk to Rory about it. Rory dealt with things in a weird way, and she figured that’s what he was doing now. Dealing. So she let him brood. She just wished he wasn’t such a shithead.

  She never used to think that about him. She used to adore him, like she still adored Roth. Like Roth, he had once been kind to her. Now he was just kind of an ass. He was popular and handsome, like Calum, but he was also callous, pompous, and way too full of himself.

  And Mason suspected that, deep down, he hated her.

  It all stemmed from that stupid game of hide-and-seek when she and Rory were kids … and from the fact that Mason had forgiven Rory for the utter stupidity that had put her in such danger. She’d even stood up for him against the wrath of their father; she remembered her six-year-old self asking Gunnar to please, please not be mad.

  It was only her pleading that kept Mason’s father from tearing the hide off her brother’s back. But he never played hide-and-seek with her again. In fact, Rory had never really talked to her much at all after that.

  Roth had once told her that the reason Rory had become so distant—so antagonistic, in fact—was that he couldn’t forgive himself for putting his baby sis in danger. Mason knew better. The problem was that Rory had never forgiven her. She had pleaded for clemency for her brother, and in doing so she had spared him a whipping and shamed him instead. At the time, Mason had been too young to realize that her brother would have much preferred the beating.

  Weakness didn’t go over well in the Starling clan.

  An hour later, they arrived at the Starling family estate, just outside the tiny township of Valhalla, New York. Gunnar’s private coach had dropped them off at the little rural station in town, and their driver had been waiting with the Rolls to take them the rest of the way through the gorgeous Westchester countryside, along winding roads and down a long private drive that led to the rambling gothic mansion situated between the shores of Lake Kensico and Lake Rye.

  When they pulled up in front of the house, Rory was the first out of the car. He threw open the door of the Rolls and stalked into the house, but Mason knew he wouldn’t be there long. In a few minutes, she would hear the engine of the vintage Aston Martin DB5 convertible Gunnar had given him for his seventeenth birthday roar to life, and he would take off down the road.

  Mason’s father watched Rory stomp into the house, with a tight, unreadable expression. Then he reached in a hand and helped Mason out of the car. He grabbed her bag out of the trunk and walked her up the front steps of the imposing, grandly gothic mansion. Once inside, Gunnar gave his daughter a gentle push toward the curving staircase. “I want you to go lie down.”

  “Dad, it’s not even the middle of the day yet.”

  “And you spent last night in a storage cellar. Don’t tell me you actually got any quality rest.”

  Well, no … not with the storm zombies and all …

  “Go on. Get some sleep, honey.” Gunnar kissed his daughter on the forehead and aimed a pointed glance at her. “Just sleep. No dreams. No nightmares. Okay?”

  Mason liked that idea. A lot. Her father rarely mentioned her bad nights—the ones where she would shake the house awake with screaming—but he knew all about them. Once she’d climbed the stairs and made her way down the long hall to her room at the very end of the north wing, she put her bag down and closed the door, turning the deadbolt and strangely reassured by the solid clack of the latch.

  First things first: she went directly to the tall window and opened it, letting the breeze spill in and breathing the cool air of the countryside. And then, after untold hours spent wearing it like a shirt of protective chain mail, Mason shrugged out of her fencing jacket, leaving it in a heap on the floor beside her bed. She kicked out of her shoes but didn’t bother changing out of her tank top and leggings before she flopped down face-first on top of her comforter, and she was sound asleep in moments. She didn’t even hear Rory’s car as it roared out of the garage and s
ped past, underneath her window.

  Rory’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel as he jammed his foot on the accelerator and blasted down a twisting road. When he reached a barely discernible side road, Rory turned and slowed down enough so that the rutted dirt surface wouldn’t take out the DB5’s undercarriage. The narrow lane, shadowed by a high green tunnel of overarching tree branches, came to an end at a little gravel clearing at the edge of Lake Rye, and Rory stomped on the brakes just in time to keep the car from rocketing into the water. The dust cloud from the car billowed past, out over the still surface of the lake. Rory watched it dissipate as he slowly forced his fingers to unclench the wheel and his breathing and heartbeat to regain a steady rhythm.

  The train trip had been agony. Having to sit there the whole time with his father ignoring him—as usual—and Mason staring at him and trying not to. Having to pretend he didn’t know anything more than she did about what had happened to them in the gym. He’d felt like he was going to burst open, and all of the precious secrets he’d accumulated over the years would come spilling out.

  Rory glanced in his rear- and side-view mirrors, just to make sure he was alone on the road, and turned off the car’s ignition. Then he unzipped his jacket and pulled out an old, thick leather-bound book he’d stopped at the house to collect and hidden under his clothing. The leather was dark with age, embossed with a knot-work scroll that was worn almost smooth. The pages within were yellowed, the ink faded in places.