The Deepest Night

by Shana Abe

  “Everything will fall to pieces,” I said, biting off each word. “If the Turn comes to you now, while we’re on this journey, it will all fall to pieces.”

  “You needn’t worry about me, Eleanore. I can handle myself.”

  My voice began to rise. “I think we should wait until it happens. I think you’re very near to that edge, and it’s a bloody dangerous thing and we should wait.”

  He pushed back his chair and held out his hand. “Come with me.”

  “No. The food just—”

  “To the window, Lora. That’s all.”

  So I let him lead me across the pub, both of us angling through the crowded tables until we were next to the panes. He bent his head to mine.

  “Look,” he said in my ear, and I didn’t even have to ask where.

  The storm had broken apart. The clouds were swept into tufts, into somersaults, and the twilight sky beyond them glowed a pure, unmistakable amethyst.

  And there, right there in the middle of the clearest patch of heaven, was a golden green star. The brightest star I’d ever seen.

  Brighter than life, brighter than death. Brighter than comets or forgotten hopes or any of my futile dreams.

  “He says we must go tonight,” Armand murmured, so near our shoulders touched and the heat of his face warmed mine. “I hear him as clear as I hear you, Lora. Clear as ever. He says it must be tonight.”

  “Have you—” I had to fight against the knot in my throat. “Have you always heard him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You blighter.” I lowered my gaze and stared at the girl in the glass: white as a sheet, rain-bedraggled hair, a face etched with betrayal, hurt, betrayal.

  The boy in the glass beside her answered the question I hadn’t asked. “I don’t know why it’s me who hears and not you. It should be you. Obviously, you. But this is how it is. And Jesse says tonight.”

  He hesitated, then turned his head so his lips grazed my cheek, a kiss and not, because it was warm and soft and over before it began, and he was walking back to our table without me.

  I threw a last look up at the star (green! gold! green! gold!), then went back as well.

  I sat down, my hands on my thighs. Armand regarded me through half-lidded eyes and didn’t speak another word.

  “Keep eating,” I said, reaching for the nearest platter.

  This is what I knew about the first Turn of a drákon:

  It was meant to hurt.

  Not a little pain, either. A great, great deal.

  Nearly everything Armand and I had discovered about our species had come from a series of letters authored by one of his ancestresses, letters that his mother had hidden before her death and that he had recently found.

  In them, a woman named Rue had warned her great-great-granddaughter about the alarming facts of her impending first Turn. How it would feel as if the flesh was being flayed from her bones, her body ripped asunder, pure torture. How the agony would consume her, unbearable, and of how she wouldn’t be able to even scream because by then she’d be smoke or she’d be nothing at all.

  If you didn’t manage to control the pain and rule the Turn, you’d simply float away as vapor. Dispersed. Forever.

  The pain of my first Turn had come to me more slyly than Rue had implied, but that didn’t mean it would be the same for Armand.

  Reckless, audacious Armand.

  But he was young and male and strong. I told myself that over and over the next few days.

  He was strong.

  I hoped it would be enough. Because despite whatever the ghost of Reginald’s wife might have said, I didn’t believe for a moment I was going to be able to rescue both of her sons.

  We registered at Bournemouth’s Sea Vista Inn as Mr. and Mrs. Pendragon, an alias so ludicrous I rolled my eyes when Armand announced us to the innkeeper. But it was too late, he’d said it, so I’d smiled and turned my eye roll into a flitting of my lashes because the innkeeper was beaming at me and congratulating us on our recent nuptials, and promising us a suite that surely would inspire our honeymoon to grand matrimonial heights.

  Or something like that. I wasn’t really listening. I’d perked up when he’d mentioned sending along some champagne, until I realized I wasn’t going to be able to drink any since I’d be flying most of the night.

  The “suite” was boxy and charmless but did boast a balcony with a fine view of the beach and breaking surf. We waited until the champagne arrived—fat strawberries, too—and then Armand was pressing a wad of notes into the innkeeper’s hand and spinning a short, slippery tale about how not to expect to see much of us (wink!) and we’d not require maid service or anyone’s attention for days to come, thank you very much.

  I swear to God, money makes everything so much easier. When you can toss it around as easily as false compliments or blown kisses, the world becomes a wide-open place.

  I sighed as the door quickly closed.

  “That was embarrassing.”

  “It’s fine. We’re married.” Armand began to pull at his tie. “Anyway, if you think it’s bad now, just wait until the next time he sees us.”

  I flopped into a chair. “Lovely.”

  “Let’s have a drink.”

  “I can’t. I need my head clear.”

  “One drink. One toast. That’s all.” He worked at the cork. “If someone does pop in while we’re gone, the glasses should be used and the bottle tapped. And the bed, needless to say—”

  I cut him off. “Right.”

  He poured the champagne, brought me a flute, and pulled me back to my feet.

  “To Mrs. Pendragon, light of my life.”

  “That’s enough. If we’re going to do this, give a real toast.”

  “To Eleanore,” he said, instantly serious. “Light of my life.”

  Would there ever come a time when I’d be able to hold his eyes when he looked at me like that? When his gaze burned with that deep blue fire, with that intensity that seemed to strip me to the core?

  I didn’t know. It wasn’t tonight.

  I stared at the bubbles marching in lines up the sides of my glass. “To success,” I said, and tipped the rim of my flute to his.

  He didn’t echo me. I suppose he’d already given the salute he’d meant most.

  The Sea Vista Inn apparently had any number of romantic couples staying on. They lingered upon the beach until long after midnight, promenading and holding hands, ladies giggling, men stealing kisses. There was a boardwalk leading to a pier lined with glassed candles, a gently glowing path of them stretching out over the sea.

  But eventually the couples were fewer and fewer, until there were none, and the candles all guttered out. Then it was just Armand and me and the deep purple night.

  And that star. Star-of-Jesse, burning above us.

  We waited until we were well and truly alone. Anyone stumbling across us now would hardly mistake us for newlyweds out for an amorous stroll. I was in a thin calico dress, no coat despite the brisk breeze, while Armand wore a leather driving duster, gloves, goggles, and sturdy boots. There was a compass in his pocket, a knife in one of the boots, and a pistol in a holster around his waist. He had a knapsack, too, because we’d thought it be the easiest way to transport anything else.

  It was heavy. Anything else included my spare clothing, his, tinned food, water, a blanket, aspirin, iodine, bandages (expertly rolled), cotton wool, bullets, and the maps.

  We took a final look around to ensure we were alone, then faced each other.

  I wanted to say something but couldn’t think what. We’d already gone over our plans so thoroughly they were seared into my brain.

  Off we go seemed woefully inadequate. So did Don’t forget to hold on.

  Perhaps it was the same for him. He only li
fted a hand to my face, an unhurried stroke of his fingers along my cheek, and smiled.

  I went to smoke. He knelt down, retrieved my dress and chemise and stockings and shoes, and pushed them into the knapsack.

  rise up, urged the stars (and I still could not pick out Jesse from among them). rise up, beloved beast!

  And then there I was, a dragon in the sand, gleaming and actual for anyone to see. Armand climbed up quickly; he knew as well as I that we were most vulnerable like this, fixed to the earth. I felt him nestle into position. The weight of the knapsack was a new adjustment for us both, but there wasn’t time to fret about it.

  His legs clenched my sides and his hands grabbed my mane. I gave a nod and took us up.

  We’d decided to hug the coast as far as we could until Dover, when the span of the Channel shrank as much as it ever would and the risk of me drowning would be significantly lessened. It was the same route the zeppelins took, but there was no helping that. The moon was bright tonight, so the airships probably weren’t out. If they were, we’d just have to avoid them.

  I’d been cold as a girl on the ground. In the air, though, I felt fine. The wind was my ally, its chill diluted now that I had scales. But I was glad that Armand had thought to wear gloves and a coat. It’s what the pilots wore, and after all, we were flying nearly as high as they did.

  I glanced back at him. He was slanted over my neck, an extraordinary aviator indeed with the glass goggles over his eyes and his hair whipped into spikes. He released my mane long enough to give me a thumbs-up. Moonlight feathered his edges in silver; all the rest of him was purple, like the sky.

  We were probably visible from the coast. I could see the rough line of the shore, the occasional inviting lights of villages or towns, but I hoped we were far enough out that anyone getting a glimpse of us would think we were a very large bird. Or an illusion.

  We weren’t really liable to be anything else.

  Moon above, England to the left, a deceptively velvety-looking sea below. Jesse, like Armand, somewhere behind my shoulders. My wings found their rhythm and kept it.

  And time passed.

  The stars changed places. The moon set.

  Armand and I soared alone through the center of the universe, no aeroplanes, no zeppelins, no birds or seals or boats or fish. Just us.

  It seemed a very quiet sort of war.

  I felt the sun wanting to rise right as we neared the end of our passage over the sea. It was a peculiar sensation, a building, bulging pressure against the eastern horizon, like a giant on the other side of the world pressing his fist against the thin glazing of night. I’d never felt anything like it in my human shape—but then, I’d never kept my dragon shape as long as this before, so who knew what other strange drákon skills I was about to discover. In any case, the sun wasn’t up yet; heaven and earth were still thick with dark. The only way I knew we were near land again was that the scent of salt water became mixed with that of seagulls once more, a great many seagulls, and also sheep. And the stink of coal. Which must have meant people.

  We had about another hour before the sky would begin to catch fire. Armand knew it too (to be fair, he had a watch). With his compass in hand he pointed the way we should go, and I veered north, following the invisible path he’d set for us.

  The sea gave way to bumpy, broccoli-topped forests, quilted patchworks of fields, and somewhere over the tip of France I had my moment of grace: Only a few weeks ago I’d been the outcast charity student seated on a stage before some of the most wealthy and powerful people of the kingdom, but now I, Eleanore Jones—a girl without a true home or a past or even a middle name—was on my way across enemy lines to save the life of a man I’d never met. Because I could.

  And that was power.

  I was proud of it. Pride was a sin; I’d been told that over and over again at Blisshaven, at Moor Gate, even during services at Iverson. Pride is a sin, Eleanore, especially in a woman. Women must be modest and meek. Only the meek shall thrive.

  I doubted meek would get me to Prussia. It was pride curled up warm inside me, ticklish and pleasing, and if that made me bad, so be it. I planned to thrive just fine without bloody meekness.

  We located a rickety, leaning barn in a pasture, exactly as Armand had predicted, and settled down tight with our blanket amid mounds of sweet-smelling hay. I fell asleep right as the giant had his way and the night cracked apart, letting in the morning sun.

  Everything had gone so smoothly.

  I should have known it wouldn’t last.

  Chapter 21

  I was asleep. It was quiet and dark. Then I was awake, and it was quiet and bright.

  But it was raining wood all around me. A plank struck me hard and silent on the arm; hay swirled everywhere in a straw storm, sticking to my hair, my eyelashes. Where there had been a roof overhead before—surely there had been one?—there was now only a gray cloudy sky.

  Armand was standing above me, impassioned, his lips moving, but he wasn’t making any sound. It was the most curious thing.

  He reached down, hauled me upright. He grabbed the knapsack and pulled me with him toward the open doors of the barn, which hitched back and forth and back and forth as though a brutal wind had them in its grip.

  I began to cough on the hay. Again, no sound.

  Breaking free from the walls of the barn, I realized that everything was bright because it was daylight still, and I was deaf because a bomb had just carved a crater only feet from our shelter. It was a sizeable crater, too, deep enough to prevent a man from climbing back up should he fall in. Singed rocks and dirt formed spokes around it, a black smoldering starburst.

  Armand had my hand still. We were running for the woods at the edge of the pasture when the next shell went off, farther away but still near enough to send us both to the ground.

  We scrambled back to our feet. The woods beckoned, hardly sufficient protection from falling bombs but surely better than the fallow, open land we sprinted through.

  We reached the first trees as the third bomb hit, and this time I was able to grab a trunk instead of falling down.

  The forest around us trembled. Birds screamed from far away, and suddenly I could hear again, and Armand was yelling, “Come on! Come on!” and dragging me deeper into the shadows.

  I don’t know how long we ran. Until I had a stitch in my side and I refused to keep going. I pulled free of him and bent over, puffing. The ground smelled of mulch, and my boots were covered in grass and dust, and I was so ruddy glad I’d had the sense to go to sleep fully clothed in Jesse’s old shirt and trousers.

  Ashes began to drift down around us, soft and serene as snowflakes.

  “This—” Armand was out of breath as well. “This should do.”

  Another bomb, not near. The birds screamed and screamed.

  I slithered down to the ground, legs out, and pressed my palms over my eyes to hide from the ash-laced light.

  “Where are we?” I asked from around my hands.

  I felt him sit beside me, the solid thud of the knapsack plopping down.

  “Belgium. Far past the front. I thought the fighting would have moved on by now. This area was secured months ago.”

  “Apparently not,” I said, as a new sound reached us: pop! pop! pop!

  Gunfire.

  I lowered my hands. Armand wasn’t actually sitting; he was coiled back on his heels in his black leather duster, ready to spring up in a second. He looked lean and sharp and feral, even with the hay in his hair.

  So pale. His gaze glittering.

  And his heart, his heart—

  “Steady on,” I warned him. “Stay calm, all right?”

  “I am entirely calm,” he said, and beneath the trees’ groaning and the gunshots and the screaming, he sounded it. “You?”

  �
��Of course.”

  “Your eyes are glowing.”

  “Merde.”

  I covered them again, rubbing hard. Everything smelled of ashes now. My mouth tasted of it, mixed in with dust and grit. I realized that the screaming I’d thought was birds had been going on for too long and was too high-pitched. It was people. Children, mostly. Women, too.

  “We’ve got to fly out of here,” I said shakily. “Right now.”

  “Too late, waif.”

  “No, it’s not! We’ll fly fast. We’ll be up and gone before they—”

  “Eleanore. We have company.”

  I dropped my hands a second time, and the pair of women standing before us screeched and skipped back.

  One turned and fled, vanished at once into the depths of the woods.

  The other went to her knees, gaping at me. She crossed herself and began to babble in French.

  “Your eyes,” explained Armand, in that same calm voice.

  “I can’t control it!”

  The woman began to creep toward me, her hands up in prayer. She was speaking so rapidly I had no hope of catching any of it. Her clothing was ragged and her eyes were bloodshot and her skin the exact color of the ashes floating between us. As soon as she was near enough she grabbed at my sleeves, my hands, and brought them up and buried her face in them.

  I felt it then, what she wanted. I felt it as sure as I felt her tears and her hot breath on my fingers and the deep, dire desperation that had given her the strength to approach a demon girl in the woods and beg for help.

  I felt her desperation, and it was the heaviest thing I’d ever known.

  “One of the men from the village killed a German soldier last night,” translated Armand, toneless. “He did it to stop the soldier from raping his daughter-in-law. But now the Germans are retaliating.”

  “They’ll shell everything,” I whispered. Her breath was so hot, fluttery hot and frantic. It felt like I’d trapped a sparrow in my hands.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She lifted her face. She was younger than I’d first thought. Probably a mother to one of those screaming children.