The Deepest Night

by Shana Abe

  “Merci,” I grunted, not looking away from what I was doing.

  “Vous êtes une princesse dragon?” she whispered.

  A princess. Hardly.

  “No.” I met Armand’s gaze, finishing up. “Paysan.”

  I would have shot those stoning bastards for certain.

  “You’re not a peasant,” he protested, but it was weak. If I’d thought him pale before, it was ten times worse now. The red on his face stood out like war paint.

  “Nothing wrong with being from the gutter. At least we’re raised to know the odds.” And when to keep our bloomin’ mouths shut about monsters in our midst. I stood. “The odds are now well stacked against us, I’d say. So I’m the peasant who’s going to get us out of here.”

  We’d have to fly. Somehow he was going to have to hang on to me and we’d fly, because if the people here had been willing to stone him once, they’d do it again. Now that I listened carefully, I actually heard them. Footsteps not that far off, the forest floor crunching. Voices calling names—Bibiane! Yseult!—edged with frenzy.

  I gathered everything back into the knapsack as quickly as I could, then shrugged out of the shirt and stuffed that in, too.

  “Think you can still carry this?”

  “Yes.”

  He climbed to his feet, supported instantly by either Bibiane or Yseult. Whichever was the moony one.

  “Get ready,” I said to him, assessing the girls. They reminded me far too much of the paper skeleton boy from Moor Gate, but I hoped they were more resilient than they looked. “It’s one thing to imagine a dragon, and quite another to see one. They might come undone.”

  “Lora.” His fingers were tracing the bandage across his brow. “Give them something.”

  “Like what? Money? They can’t spend pounds out here.”

  “Food. Give them some tins.”

  I wanted to protest, then bit back the words. No matter what trouble swept these woods next, we were going to leave. These girls would be trapped here for a while to come. Maybe months. Maybe years.

  I stuck my hand into the knapsack and dug around until I found the tins. I grabbed a few without looking to see what they were and passed them to the whispery girl.

  “Bonne chance,” I said. Good luck.

  She clutched the tins to her chest, brown eyes alight. “Et vous.”

  I stepped back and Turned into a dragon, and to my absolute wonder, neither of them screamed or bolted or did anything but make O’s of their mouths and squint at me like they’d just accidentally looked straight into the sun.

  Then, together, they smiled.

  We were fortunate the day was so overcast. Otherwise, we would have been forced to escape in plain view of anyone on the ground.

  And, as I now knew, plenty of those anyones were armed.

  I ascended as fast as I could, my wings beating hard, so that by the time we reached the bottom of the clouds I was drawing the air past my teeth because it was so cold and I wanted it so badly.

  When you’re earthbound, clouds look fluffy and soft, like dreamspun pillows, but the truth is that they’re wet. And not soft so much as dense. Choking. I blinked away the drops that pearled my lashes and climbed higher, knowing it’d be harder for Armand to breathe the soupy mix of air and water than it was for me.

  Breaking free was like exploding into a new day. We went from a world of cool, murky gray to brilliant sunlight and blinding azure sky. I had to narrow my eyes against it.

  I had no inkling of which way to go. The sun was not quite directly above us—I thought it might be shortly before noon—but north, south, east, west … who knew? All I could really tell was up and down. Everything before me was either boundless firmament or white-crested clouds. There weren’t even any birds this high.

  Armand inched forward along my spine. From the corner of my eye I saw his hand lift, a finger pointing to our right. I didn’t know if he still had the compass or not, since he’d lost his coat somewhere in the forest. But it seemed as good a way to go as any.

  I tilted us to the right. Our shadow zoomed sharp below us, boy on dragon on clouds.

  I couldn’t keep him up here for long. In just his shirt and trousers Armand was going to get very chilled very quickly, and besides, I was worried he might pass out. We needed shelter and we needed it soon.

  Yet the cloud cover remained uniformly opaque. I wasn’t going to be able to see a good place to land. I’d have to use my other drákon senses as best I could to perceive it.

  We couldn’t come down near a town, obviously. Or a village, either. I hoped for more woods, a nice heavy stretch of them. Someplace with another barn, perhaps, or an abandoned farmhouse. Even a shepherd’s hut would do.

  I supposed I should try to sniff out some livestock. Sheep or cows.

  Stupid, stupid, you’re not that good, my mind scolded.

  But I had to be.

  I closed my eyes. Stupid! my brain reprimanded, unyielding, but I could tell I was flying straight, and again, there were no birds or anything. Nor were there any aeroplanes or zeppelins. They were loud—you could hear them from the ground, even—so I was positive I’d notice one up here before it was upon us. Closing my eyes helped me to concentrate on everything beyond sight: the touch of the wind against me, how it jostled me this way or that. The silence of this bright heaven, where the only two living creatures within miles made the only noise.

  The taste of sunshine and vapor.

  The scent of … nothing but clouds.

  Try harder.

  There was land below me. I knew that without doubt, so I concentrated on it. I knew how trees smelled, and how soil smelled. I recalled with acute precision the powdery black pungency of gunpowder, how it parched my tongue and burned my nostrils and clogged the back of my throat.

  We passed through a whiff of that, then more than a whiff. I sneezed and shook my head and angled beyond it.

  Trees, yes. Fields, very dry wheat or something like it. Woodsmoke suddenly, apples. Were we over an orchard? Orchards tended to be dense and mostly empty of people. That might be good—

  Horses. Unquestionably horses, or rather, the product of them. I was from the city; I tried to remember if horses went with orchards …

  And then, quite abruptly, Armand made the decision for both of us.

  His hands loosened. He fell backward. He slid down my side but by some miracle didn’t fall off. I realized my wing was holding him in place, but only barely, because he was sliding again—

  I twisted my head around and managed to grab him by the cuff of his trousers just in time. His eyes flashed open and he struggled to get upright, but the wind was so strong. Slowing down would mean we’d descend, but I didn’t have a choice.

  The cuff began to rip. The bandage blew off his head, a graceful, looping ribbon that danced down and down and became swallowed by the clouds.

  His hands slapped against my neck until he found my mane. His fingers dug in. I opened my jaws and he clambered up into place just as we plunged into the gray.

  It no longer mattered what lay below. I had to get us to land.

  Blind again, beads of water spangling my lashes again. My brain was now commanding, Hurry! Hurry! but I was so afraid of suddenly materializing in the open air. What if I was wrong and we were above a town? What if we were above the front? What if we were above just some farmer with a rifle and frayed nerves and a keen eye?

  Armand wilted once more, this time forward. Then the mist streaked away and all I could see were trees, rows and rows of them, bright rosy dots of apples. Birds erupting from the branches and leaves, flinging themselves every which way.

  I slowed as rapidly as I dared, trying to judge if I could fit between one of those rows, but Armand started to fall, so I just dropped.

  Like a stone
.

  I snatched him up by the leg with my head lifted high so he dangled there from my mouth. Talons scraping the earth, feet, body, tail. We slammed down and apples pelted the grass around us, a hard thumping rainfall.

  Somehow I managed not to roll. We skidded to a halt sideways but upright, my lungs scorched and my wings trembling. When I could, I lowered my head, placed him down as gently as possible. Then I Turned and collapsed beside him, done in.

  I’ll tell you this: The aroma of apples mixed with horse dung had never, ever smelled so sweet.

  Chapter 23

  “What an appalling trip,” complained a voice near my head. “Bone-rattling ride, rotten service. Next time I believe I’ll take the train.”

  I wanted to smile, but it seemed too much effort, so instead I only opened my eyes and gazed up at the ocean of clouds.

  They churned far away from us now, their own separate realm once more.

  “Eleanore, are you alive?”

  I cleared my throat. “Just. You?”

  “Aside from the fact that there’s a welt the size of a cricket ball on my forehead, and some rather impressive puncture wounds along my leg—”

  “What?” I sat up, reenergized. “Where? Show me!”

  I’d tried to bite down carefully, but I’d had to catch him, after all, and we’d been plummeting and I’d been mostly focused upon how much I didn’t want to die.

  “It’s fine,” Armand said. He was propped up on his elbows and smiling, that small ghastly smile, his face still painted red and white. “Hardly hurts at all. I say, do you think you might, er, put on some clothes before stripping me of mine?”

  “No,” I snapped, vexed. “Just be a ruddy gentleman and look away.”

  “I am the ruddiest damned gentleman you’ll ever meet,” he retorted, all wounded dignity. “You have no idea. You’re naked nearly all the time and I never—”

  I laughed. “Righto. Never. Will you be still? I need to examine your leg.”

  He gave up, falling back to the grass. “You’re the nurse.”

  I pushed up the tattered remnant of his cuff. The punctures weren’t insignificant; my dragon teeth were very sharp. But neither were they as deep as I’d feared they’d be. Some were more like scratches. If I had a chance to clean them and wrap them, they likely wouldn’t require stitches.

  I thought. I hoped. I’d gladly take on another round of soldiers before I’d shove a needle and thread through Armand’s flesh.

  I was categorically not, not, anyone’s nurse.

  “We need cover,” I announced, looking around. Trees everywhere, as far as the eye could see. No people. No horses. Only trunk after trunk ringed with manure and scraggly, uncropped grass. A misty, silvery haze wafting through, making a phantom wall of the distance.

  Furrows from my claws scored long lines through the dirt that led straight to us, ending at our feet.

  “Thought I saw a lake when we were coming down.” Armand was staring directly up at the sky. “Perhaps a house beside it.”

  “Really?”

  “It was quick. I might be wrong. The orchard ended and the area seemed more like a forest. I think it was in that direction.” He pointed to the left.

  “I’ll investigate. Hold on.”

  I Turned to smoke.

  Except I didn’t. Nothing happened.

  I released a breath, frowned. Tried again.

  Nothing.

  Armand’s gaze cut to mine, then swiftly away.

  “Are you going?”

  “I’m trying! It’s not … it’s not working for some reason. I’m so …”

  Exhausted. Hungry. Scared.

  I scowled up at the sky, my fists on my hips. I had to do this. We were in danger out here in the open, in daylight. So I had to.

  Come on. Smoke. Smoke …

  “Eleanore.”

  Smoke!

  “Lora.”

  “What?” I snarled.

  “We need to eat,” he said. “Both of us. Hand me the knapsack, will you?”

  I pressed a hand to my forehead, then flung it away. The knapsack had torn off him before we’d landed, but it hadn’t gone far, stuck in some lower branches of a tree nearby. I stomped off and jumped for it until I could grab it, then jerked at the straps.

  It broke free. Twigs and leaves bombarded me. A few more apples plunked to the ground.

  “No need to kill the tree,” Armand called.

  “Shut it,” I replied, but under my breath.

  He was right. I needed food and clothing and rest, but as I walked back to him I realized he probably needed all those things even more. Well, not clothing. But he looked as if he might go down under a good stiff breeze.

  I set the sack before him. My shirt was still on top, so I tugged it free. The buttons felt fat and unyielding; my fingers groped at them clumsily. By the time I’d managed the trousers and boots, Armand was sitting up, an array of tins before him. The knife in his hand stole the weak daylight, condensing it into a stab of silver along its blade.

  He speared a tin and sawed it open, then lifted it to his nose.

  “Minced peaches. There should be some hardtack, too.”

  I searched for the hardtack while he lifted each tin and examined the labels.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The caviar,” he said. “But it’s not here. It must have gone to the girls.”

  “Thank heavens,” I said feelingly, then paused. “You brought caviar on our rescue mission?”

  “It was in a tin.” He sounded defensive. “A perfectly logical choice.”

  “Too bad. It’s peaches for you instead.”

  I handed him one of the flat hardtack crackers. He dipped it in the open tin, then took a huge bite.

  “Delicious. Much better than caviar.”

  It was. So was the next tin of beef stew, and the next of poached salmon, and the next of lobster. We washed it all down with one of the flasks of water, sharing sips. I wanted to open another tin but was growing more and more uncomfortable sitting there so exposed, plus I knew we’d need to save something for later.

  I took up the empty tins and chucked them as far from us as I could. Then I gathered up handfuls of apples and stuffed them into the knapsack.

  The day was darkening. Wind began a long, slow whistle through the trees, a strange and melancholy sound.

  “I’m going to try to Turn again,” I told Armand. “Stay here.”

  “Not a problem.”

  I wiped my hands down my thighs. I lifted my face to the clouds and the wind took my hair in a wild dancing swirl and I thought, Smoke!

  I remained stubbornly, unmistakably, a girl.

  “I can smell the lake,” Armand said. “On the wind. It can’t be that far. We can walk it.”

  I sighed. “Can you? On that leg?”

  He rose to his feet. “Let’s find out.”

  It wasn’t a house, after all. It was a hunting lodge by the lake, a rustic and gloomy and conveniently unoccupied one. It took us nearly three hours to get there, Armand’s arm slung about my shoulders, both of us lurching along through the mist. I’d rewrapped his head with a bandage and done what I could for the bite marks, but truly what we needed was a place to bed down.

  The lodge was certainly that. It was two stories of stacked logs and glass, a fringe of moss clinging to the northern slope of its roof. We watched it for a while before venturing too close, but there were no lights glowing inside, no movement. No scent of people or meals cooking or anything but wood and water. I supposed it wasn’t hunting season yet.

  We stole forward, ducking from pine to pine, just in case. I dashed up to the nearest window and pressed my palms against its frame, but it didn’t budge.

&
nbsp; I’d scarcely discovered a good-sized rock to break the glass when Armand murmured my name.

  I looked over. He was standing at the front door, which had swung wide open.

  “Sometimes the simplest solution is the actual solution,” he said.

  I dropped my rock to the dirt and followed him in.

  It was far more elegant inside than I would have expected. The walls were still obviously rough-hewn logs, but the ceiling had been plastered, and the furniture was ornately carved and padded and polished. Green foggy light from the windows revealed a collection of crystal goblets glinting in a hutch. A medieval-looking shield hung above the hearth had been painted with heraldry, two peacocks and a knight’s grim, gray visor. A rusted sword hung above that, fixed with hooks into the stone.

  Glass eyes gleamed from every wall. There were mounted animal heads wherever I looked. Deer, boars, rams. Bears and birds.

  A single cobweb, delicate as elfin lace, stretched between the antlers of a buck.

  “Enchanting décor,” I whispered, because beneath my sarcasm, I couldn’t shake the chill of those dead, watching eyes.

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Armand had limped over to a bookcase, studying the titles.

  “That the person who owns this place is rather too fond of murdering innocent animals and chopping off their heads?”

  “That without these human masks we wear, it might easily be our heads on those plaques.”

  I shivered, enveloped in a sliver of that cool, greenish light.

  “Let’s find a bedroom,” I urged. “Someplace soft.”

  “Lora.” He ran a finger down the side of the case. “All of these books are in German. I think we’ve crossed the border.”

  German books in a German lodge, in a hushed German wood. It felt awfully real to me then, even more real than bullets or cannons. Odd, I know. But standing there in that room, in the home of someone who no doubt would happily see me dead or, at the very least, subjugated, it made me realize how very far from my own home I was now. How far we both were.

  And now, without my Turn, how vulnerable.

  A mouse poked its head out from a gap in the timbers, saw us, squeaked, and jerked back.