Starling

by Lesley Livingston

  Instead she looped the strings of the shopping bag over her shoulder and said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  The fleeting look of stark vulnerability—and gratitude—that crossed his face in the second before he was able to compose himself back to his guarded repose was all she needed to tell her she’d said the right thing.

  “Come on,” Mason said, and turned to head north up the street. “I know where we can go.”

  Mason led Fennrys north up Claremont Avenue and turned left on West 122nd Street. She thought about taking him up the stone steps into Sakura Park to sit on one of the benches there but decided that it was too secluded a place to be alone with him. He might have seemed harmless, but she had seen him in a fight, and the new clothes didn’t exactly disguise his muscled frame.

  They crossed Riverside Drive and walked in silence until they came to a wide, paved open space, ringed around with trees. In the center was a stoutly impressive square stone building, complete with pillars and a tall cupola. In front of the monumental structure were wide stone steps bracketed by two huge, fearsome-looking eagle statues, wings spread wide, hooked beaks gaping.

  “General Grant’s Tomb,” Mason said. “He’s in there. Him and his wife, Julia.” She hugged her elbows and gazed at the tall double doors. “Sealed away in these two huge caskets, like sarcophagi. Like they were royalty or gods or something.”

  Fennrys shrugged as they walked toward the monument. “I suppose there are worse ways to end up,” he said.

  Mason turned and gave Fennrys a long, unblinking stare. “I can’t think of a single one.”

  Fenn looked down at her.

  “I have spatial boundary issues,” she said drily.

  “Ah.”

  She led him over to the wide concrete ramp that supported one of the eagles and sat down, leaning back on the statue base and looking up at the wings that swept over her as if providing shelter from a storm. The place was almost deserted when they got there, with the exception of a couple of thuggish-looking guys in feature-obscuring hoodies lurking around the far side of the terrace. And they took one look at the Fennrys Wolf and made themselves scarce. Mason smiled to herself. With Fennrys at her side, she felt absolutely safe that night. He watched the lurking guys leave and muttered something under his breath that sounded like “hobgoblins,” but Mason just let that slide. She settled herself more comfortably against the sharp angles of the marble and got right down to the heart of the matter.

  “Tell me,” she said softly. “What do you remember?”

  He shook his head slowly from side to side. “I know which way is east and which is west. I know how to climb stairs and cross the street. I’m pretty sure I could make a wicked Florentine omelet if I was hungry and had eggs and spinach handy. I knew what to do to help your friend who got hurt … even though I’m not really sure what that was.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know my name.”

  “It’s hard to forget.”

  His mouth bent in a fleeting grin. And then his expression hardened. “And I know how to fight. That’s all.”

  “That can’t be everything. I mean … you remember everything that’s happened since we met, right?

  He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Well?” she prompted him. “Anything super interesting, or did you just wander aimlessly around the city for three days?”

  She watched keenly as his expression clouded over.

  “No. Nothing.”

  He was lying. Or maybe he didn’t trust her enough to tell her yet.

  “It was a beautiful old tree,” he said, trying to lighten his tone. And change the subject. “The one that took out your dad’s window. I feel kind of bad about that.”

  “It’s a pretty old school. It probably had termites. It wasn’t your fault.” She avoided mentioning again the things whose fault it had been. Even though Fennrys had been the one to put a name to the creatures, she believed him when he said he didn’t know anything else about what they were or where they’d come from.

  “How long has that place been there?” Fennrys asked.

  “Gosforth? Almost as long as New York has been around. I mean, it didn’t always look like that, with all the impressive, imposing Old World architecture and all. It probably started out as a wood-frame schoolhouse. But the Gosforth founding families have made sure over the years that the academy’s facilities maintained a certain … standard.” She sighed. “I find it kind of obnoxious, if you want the truth. All that conspicuous affluence on constant display.”

  “You don’t like your school?”

  “It’s okay. It’s got good programs.”

  “Good friends?”

  Mason shrugged. “I do fine on my own.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  Mason could hear the aching loneliness in his assertion. She wondered if he’d heard it in hers. In the distance, the sound of traffic on Riverside Drive was a soothing hum. There were no sirens to be heard in the distance, which was rare. The sky overhead was a deep black, broken only intermittently by long thin streamers of clouds, shredded by an earlier wind, that glowed sepia orange with reflected city light. It was peaceful. It was beautiful. Mason had to stop herself from leaning into Fennrys’s warmth and wishing he would wrap an arm around her shoulders.

  “I should go,” she said. “It’s getting late and I’ve got practice first thing in the morning.”

  “Practice?”

  “Fencing.”

  “Right. I almost forgot—you’re pretty handy with a blade.”

  She shrugged and pushed a silky black ribbon of hair that had escaped her ponytail back off her face. “I’m good. I need to be better. I’m trying to make the national team.”

  “Will you?”

  “If I don’t get distracted. If my practice partner doesn’t go completely AWOL on me. Both of those things are looking pretty unlikely right now.”

  “Who’s your partner?”

  She turned her head and looked at Fenn for a moment. “His name’s Calum Aristarchos. He’s the guy you … saved. Fixed. That night.”

  It was weird how everything could seem perfectly normal between the two of them. Like they were just two regular young people talking to each other about regular stuff, until anything to do with that night filtered down into the conversation.

  A small crease ticked between Fenn’s dark blond eyebrows. “Ah,” he said. “Right. Nice-looking kid.”

  “Kid.” Mason snorted. “You’re probably the same age, you know. Or close to it.” And yet she knew what he meant. They didn’t seem like they were the same age. Fennrys seemed so much more … worldly. Like he’d seen things and done things that Mason couldn’t even imagine. Even if he had no idea now what those things were.

  “How is he?” Fennrys asked.

  “Avoiding me.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” He didn’t really sound sorry. Mason glanced up at him, but Fenn’s expression was once more a carefully composed, unreadable blank. She wished he wouldn’t do that.

  “You’ll be okay without him,” Fennrys said. “I saw you fight.”

  “You saw me flail around in a state of panicky idiocy.” She shook her head. “I got really, really lucky with one blind thrust.”

  “It wasn’t just luck. Under all that flailey panic? Trust me. You’re good.”

  “That’s what I used to think.” Mason suddenly found herself unexpectedly almost on the verge of tears. “I used to think nothing would distract me in a fight. Nothing could break my focus. Now all I see when I fight is those … things. Coming at me. And it’s like I’m paralyzed and I don’t know how to even hold my blade anymore, let alone use it. I mean, I lost a bout to Kristen freaking Denholm, and she barely knows which end of a saber is which. If I lose next week, I lose my shot at making the team. I lose everything.”

  Fenn shifted slightly so that he was looking at her and a stray breeze wafted the scent of him toward her. She could smell the leather of his jacket and the warm s
cent of his skin. She closed her eyes and remembered vividly, as if it was happening right in front of her that very moment, how he had looked when he’d fought to save her life. The pure, savage grace of him. The way the muscles had moved under the skin of his arms and shoulders. The fierce, focused intensity of his glacial gaze. Everyone else that had been there seemed content to forget that night. Mason didn’t want to. Mostly because of the way the Fennrys Wolf had fought. For her.

  You’re being stupid. He was not fighting specifically for you. And how do you know that those things weren’t there because they were after him in the first place? This guy is dangerous. You hardly know him. You should go. Now, Mason.

  “Right. So. Um … practice. I should …” She grabbed the shopping bag and started to slide her legs around so she could stand, but Fenn took hold of her arm.

  She glanced down at his fingers and then up at his face.

  He let go of her. “Can I see you again?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. And then her head intervened. “I’m seriously not sure if that’s a good idea.”

  “I need to see you again, Mason,” he said in a low, urgent voice.

  “Why?”

  Fennrys took a slow breath, as if to steady himself, or give himself time to think. “Well … for one thing, I need to get my medallion back.”

  Oh.

  “So talk to Calum,” Mason said as she stood and hitched the straps of the shopping bag up on her shoulder.

  “Mason.” His voice was quiet in the night. Almost a whisper. “Please.”

  “I … oh …,” she muttered. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.” He almost smiled. It made him look younger. Almost his age.

  Mason had to look away before that smile made her want to stay there all night.

  “How will I be able to contact you?” she asked.

  “I’ll come to you,” he said. “I have very high-tech methods of communication. Just don’t bump your head on the sill next time a pebble hits your window.” He stood beside her. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

  XV

  The bandage was smaller. It no longer looked like the side of his head was wrapped in a big white mitten. And it left both eyes completely unobstructed, so Mason got slammed with the full effect of Cal’s glittering green-eyed gaze when he heard her call his name in the quad and turned around. For a fraction of a moment, she found herself comparing it to Fenn’s winter-storm-blue stare. But just for a fraction of a moment.

  She could still see the edges of the draugr’s claw marks beneath the bandage, and she tried desperately not to let her own eyes drift in that direction.

  She smiled her brightest possible smile and said, “Hi, Cal …”

  “Starling.”

  Starling. He used to call her Mase. She felt the smile falter on her face.

  “What d’you want?” Calum asked in the way he might ask one of the math geeks looking to borrow a protractor.

  She almost turned and walked away right then. But then she remembered why she was there. It wasn’t for her. “Mason … please.” The way Fennrys had pleaded with her—the way he’d said her name—made her hold her ground and stay standing in front of the boy who, only a few days earlier, had made her heart beat faster when they’d sparred but now just made her want to run and hide.

  “Well … I was still wondering if you’d help me work on my defense strategies,” she said, struggling to be casual. “Toby thinks I’m kind of plateauing, and you always seem to know how to get me through that stuff.”

  He frowned down at her and Mason looked away, but kept on talking.

  “And I know that you’re not a hundred percent yet, but I thought that maybe we could help each other,” she said. “You could run me through drills, and I could help you if there was any—I don’t know—stretching or anything you had to do. I mean, they probably gave you some rehab exercises for your arm and stuff, right? And … you know …”

  She looked up to see that he was still there. Still looking at her.

  “I miss you, Calum,” she said. She meant it.

  The line of his mouth softened suddenly, and a tiny bit of the spark that was usually there whenever he looked at her seemed to reignite. For a moment.

  And then Mason said, “And, hey. If you still have that medallion thing … the one Fenn gave you? You could bring it to practice, and then I could give it back to him if you wanted.”

  The spark in Calum’s gaze flickered and died as the planes of his face went hard and sharp.

  His nostrils flared and he said, “‘Fenn’? Psycho Viking is now ‘Fenn’ to you? And—what? He’s back? Sniffing around Gosforth like some kind of dog? Or is it just you he’s sniffing around?”

  “What? No! He came by to return Rory’s stuff.”

  “Came by from where? When?”

  “Last night—”

  “Last night. Of course he did. Who is this guy, Mason? Do you even know? Do you care? Or are you just a raging hormone for his hot blond bod?”

  “Stop it, Cal!” Mason almost shouted, her temper flaring. “What the hell’s the matter with you? You wanna know who he is? He’s the guy who saved your life—that’s who he is. I think you’d be a little grateful.”

  “Yeah? Well, it looks to me like I don’t have to be,” Calum said, reaching up and under the collar of his shirt to grasp the medallion. He pulled it off with a sharp tug that snapped the braided leather thong that held it around his neck. “Looks like Fenn is getting everything he needs already from you.”

  He threw the medallion to the ground at Mason’s feet and stalked off. She stood there, shaking with hurt and rage. And disbelief.

  The door opened, and Heather Palmerston stood blinking at Mason in confusion. Understandable—she didn’t have any of Mason’s borrowed notes to return. That wasn’t why Mason had sought her out. Heather tilted her head, waiting.

  Mason cleared her throat and said, “Hi.”

  “Hey.”

  “Can I talk to you?”

  Heather cast a glance up and down the obviously empty hallway and reluctantly stepped back and let Mason into her room. Like Mason’s, it was long and narrow, with a high arched window at the opposite end and a single bed and bookshelf. Unlike Mason’s, it was crammed with stuff. The bed was unmade and the armchair and the desk chair—and the desk and several of the shelves and a good portion of the floor space—were buried under piles of clothes and books and random stuff.

  She threw herself onto the bed. “Have a seat. If you can find the furniture.”

  Mason picked her way through the room as if avoiding booby traps. She made it over to the window without incident and perched on the sill, crossing her arms and shifting uncomfortably as Heather stared at her, waiting for her to say something. Mason thought for a moment and then decided to just come right to the point. Heather seemed to appreciate directness.

  “Why did you and Cal break up?” she asked.

  Heather opened her mouth, and she blinked at Mason. It was obvious that question wasn’t what she’d been expecting from Mason. To her credit, she closed her mouth and shrugged. “I dunno,” she said. “We just did. It was time, I guess. Plus his mother’s an overbearing psycho bitch.”

  “Really? Why do you say that?”

  “Just the way she acted around me. Probably couldn’t stand Cal dating someone who was prettier than he was.” She rolled her gaze over Mason. “So, y’know, you should be okay there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m kidding. Well, not really. I mean …” She shrugged again.

  Mason shook her head and smiled wanly. The way Heather said it, there really wasn’t an excess of ego involved. And she had to agree—Heather was, essentially, flawless. Much prettier than she was. She was all gold and honey and warm sugary blush tones. Mason’s look was like ice—black hair and winter-white skin. Someone had once told her she looked like a magpie. Mason had laughed and said a starling could kick a magpie’s feathered as
s out of the sky. Starlings were fighters. Except now, where Cal was concerned, Mason felt like she was punching air.

  Heather looked at her in the silence and sighed. “You’re prettier than Calum, Mason. Okay?”

  “Everyone’s prettier than Calum now,” Mason said quietly. “At least, that’s what he seems to think.”

  “Yeah …” Heather frowned. “I went to see him at his house on Long Island yesterday. He’s going back there every day after classes instead of staying in the dorm. He’s not really dealing so well.”

  “Are you? I mean … about that night.”

  Heather turned a flat stare on Mason and said nothing.

  “Yeah.” Mason nodded. “Me neither.”

  “Look. I’m just trying not to think about it, okay?” Heather ran a hand through her hair, which looked like it could use a good brushing. There were circles under her eyes. She was still gorgeous. “Maybe you should do the same.”

  Mason was quiet for a moment. Then she just came out and asked the question that had driven her to Heather’s door. “Why does Cal hate me, Heather?”

  “Oh, boy.” She shook her head. “Are you really that thick?”

  “Uh. I guess so. What am I missing?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Heather rolled her eyes. “Just the fact that Calum doesn’t hate you. Calum is horribly in love with you. And if you want the really real truth … that’s why we broke up.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Mason felt her jaw drift open. She knew that Cal liked her—before the storm, at least—because he wouldn’t have asked her out if he hadn’t. He wasn’t the kind of guy who dated girls to make an ex jealous or any of that kind of juvenile crap. So, yeah. She knew he’d liked her. But “liked” was several thousand miles away from “horribly in love.” And Mason couldn’t believe that she was the reason he’d broken up with a girl like Heather Palmerston. “C’mon, Heather, you’re joking, right?”