by Shana Abe
Worms, and the music. That never stopped.
The air inside the house blurred thick and gritty; it smelled like a bakery. Like wheat, she realized, or rye. It clogged her nose and clung to her damp skin in particles, revealed her in a thin layer of dust: her stomach. Her breasts. Her arms and thighs. Zoe rubbed at it as she moved, breathing past her teeth, managing to roll most of it from her body into little balls that littered the floor at her feet.
The scent of dragon blood pulled her ahead. Thumps and shudders, one so strong the very walls trembled. She heard no voices, no shouts. There was a battle taking place but it was silent except for the creaking of the house. The floor bouncing with an impact that sent shivers through the soles of her feet. Pottery breaking.
And then, finally, a woman's scream, high, then low, then gone.
She ran on her toes. The place was small and miserable, more narrow than even the maison, and reeked of fear. She passed doors open to empty rooms, no life inside, not even spiders or mice; she ran all the way to the doorway framing the kitchen—pausing only long enough to note the blotch of dragon blood she'd scented before, swiped down a wall—and there before her was more flour drifting in the air, across pots and pans and kettles and the dead man upon the floor by the entrance, and another man with a pistol aimed at the lanky young prince of the Zaharen, who moved with a twisting, deceptive grace, dodging the aim of the gun through the dust.
A woman stooped over the man on the floor. She was clutching at his shoulders, her mouth still open and her eyes streaming cloudy pale tears, when Zoe walked in.
She stepped past the human woman and over the body of the sanf. She walked straight toward the one with the gun, lifting a hand before her—she could see it as if it were not her own, the floured contour of Zoe's invisible hand, the floured flutter of Zoe's invisible fingers to draw the attention of the Other. Hayden's ring of blue and gold, still lustrous enough to shine.
And it worked. The man's gaze flitted to her, and in that instant the prince had him, pushed him off his feet with a hard whap against the stone hearth. The gun flew from his grip and hit the floor. It discharged. Zoe couldn't help it: She cringed and shielded her eyes. When she could hear again, the woman was still screaming, and the man by the hearth was covered in a great splash of blood.
"Be quiet," commanded Sandu in a velvet dark voice. "Be still." The woman cut short with a sobbing sort of hiccup, then a whimper. She collapsed over the man before her and buried her head in her arms.
"Where is Hayden?" Zoe asked above the ringing in her ears.
The prince had knelt, skimming his hands over the crimson-wet body of the sanf inimicus before him, and to his credit, he didn't waste time asking stupid questions about why or how Zoe could be there. He merely raised an arm and pointed toward the far corner of the kitchen, still searching the body.
Hayden leaned against the counter amid a great spill of flour and broken crockery, staring at her, coated with powder. His legs seemed to buckle, and he crumpled in a slow, queer way down to the floor, never taking his eyes from her face.
"No. Oh, no."
She was there in time to prevent his head from striking the stone. She settled him against her lap, not even noticing the small, neat hole in his upper chest until the wet heat of his blood slipped along her folded legs. The bullet must have traveled all the way through him.
"You're alive," she said. She willed herself seen. "Hayden. You're alive."
"Hullo." His lashes drifted closed, then open again. He squinted at her, and the flour around his eyes caked into lines. "Where are your clothes?"
"He needs to Turn," said the Zaharen, who had crossed to them.
"Yes." She touched a hand to his cheek. "Turn to smoke. You'll be fine then. We can fix you back at the maison."
"No." He moistened his lips. "Got to ... find the other dragon. He's here. Somewhere."
"His Grace and I will do it. You Turn."
"Not yet."
"You should listen to me now, my friend."
Sandu squatted before them, regarded Hayden gravely, his face streaked with sweat and flour. "I'll find thedrakon; I smell him too. I'll take care of the female and the men. But if you don't Turn now, you'll bleed to death, and what good will you be to any of us then?"
Hayden rolled his eyes back to Zoe's. "Turn," she urged. "Please."
He went to smoke, a sudden silky lightness. He twirled up before them both and hovered, not leaving.
He wouldn't go, she knew that. Not until she and the prince did too.
Sandu rose to tuck his hair behind one ear, regarded the woman shivering on the floor. She was dressed as a servant, in a plain tan gown and stained apron, her cap with short starched ruffles. A cook, Zoe would guess. There was something more about her, though. Something odd. Perfumey, even through the choking odor of gunpowder and fear.
"She's one of mine," said the prince, matter-of-fact. His hands were at his hips; he spoke to Zoe and Hayden without looking at either. "Feel it? She's of dragon blood. Extremely thin, hardly a thimbleful. That means she's Zaharen."
Zoe stood with blood dripping down her knees as the boy went to the woman, drew her up with both hands.
The cook gasped something in a patois Zoe didn't understand. She clutched at the prince's forearms with frantic fingers and finally spewed words of pure Parisian French. "Monster. Beast. Devil!"
"Tell me where the other one is," said Sandu, Persuasion again drenching his words. "The one like us. Tell me now."
The woman pressed her lips together and shook her head, then let out a howling sob as the prince pried her hands from his arms.
"You know who I am. You must obey. Tell me now."
"I won't. I can't. They'll kill me, they'll kill my son, just like they did with that driver—"
"Wait," said Zoe, and sent out the cloak in a slow, easy puff around the panicked woman.
She saw darkness. She saw rough wooden steps steeply descending. She saw a place with limestone all around, and a wine rack. No windows. An empty bottle rolled against mortar, a glint of olive green against a stone wall. The harsh, disagreeable aroma of mushrooms and mold.
"It's a cellar," Zoe said. "She's trying to hide something in a cellar."
The cook let out a moan. Once again, Sandu didn't ask useless questions. He only did a quick survey of the kitchen, the walls, the scarlet-and-white-dotted floor. He flipped back the sole circle of rug in the center of the chamber. There was only stone beneath it.
"There's no access here to a cellar."
"There must be somewhere."
Hayden writhed down before them, twisted into corners, around the open doors of the larder, out again to the fireplace, the pantry. And then his voice came from inside it.
"Here," he called.
"Turn back to smoke," ordered the prince, but he was already wrenching open the pantry doors. Flour shook in a small powdery storm from his hair.
The pantry seemed to contain neither a means to a cellar nor Hayden. Zoe saw shelves of bundled herbs, rounded cheeses sealed in wax. That was all.
"Back here," Hayden said, still unseen. He sounded muffled. "There's a keyhole behind the dill. It's a false back."
She remembered the key from the wallet, the key that would open only a certain warded lock.
"Turn back,"complained the prince. "I've got to smash it. You're in the way."
Perhaps the wood here was thinner than the front door. Sandu shattered it with one kick, and this time the cook tore at her hair beneath her cap before collapsing into sobs again.
"Who else will come here?" Sandu asked her, brushing a sliver of wood from his shoulder. "How many other sanf inimicus dwell in this house?"
"None. None, I swear. These two are the only—" She broke into that patois again, shaking her head, then switched back to French. "No more."
The prince sent the Zaharen woman a crystal-hard look. "You will remain here. You will not move until I give you leave."
"Nu,"she cried. "No
ble One,nu, nu... "
"But you will."
Zoe Turned invisible—it seemed somewhat more modest than not, even with the flour still covering her—and followed the prince into the cave behind the pantry, stepping gingerly around the sharp particles of wood.
There was no light but what filtered from behind them. Halfway down the stairs Sandu paused, shook his head. Mumbled something in Romanian.
"What is it?" Her voice came out a whisper; she was trying not to inhale too deeply. The mold stink grew stronger and stronger.
"That buzzing. It's maddening, like bees in my head."
"What?"
But he was descending once more, quick as a cat; she followed the line of his bare back, paler than the darkness swallowing them.
Hayden was a cloud at her side, brushing cool against her shoulder.
The prince made an inarticulate sound of discovery. She hurried, missed the last step of the stairs but recovered. Hayden flowed ahead, reaching Sandu before her, becoming man by the prince and the darker thing he knelt by on the floor.
"I need a light," said Sandu, lifting his head. "Never mind. Let's just get him out of here."
The thing was long, covered with a blanket. Hayden pulled it off, and therewas a monster beneath.
It seemed immobilized. Hands raised to its chest, fingers clawing at the air—but instead of fingers they were talons of long, twisting gold. Clothing rent, legs askew. There were manacles around the wrists, manacles that gave off an oddly pale blue shimmer, even down here. The face was frozen into rictus; a wide, blistering red scar cut along one cheek, all the way down into its neck. More gold threaded the filthy dark hair matted to the floor. The monster had clearly died in great pain; it was dreadful to look upon, anguished and petrified and very nearly unrecognizable.
"Rhys," she said, but this time her voice completely failed her. She wet her lips and tried again, an explosion of sound.
"Rhys."
And bent down to grasp those whetted claws.
Hayden swayed a little beside her; his hand gripped her shoulder. "My God, she's right. It's Rhys Langford."
"Lady Amalia's brother?" asked the Zaharen. He was holding both hands to his head. "Yes."
"He's not dead," Zoe muttered. She had moved her palms to his chest, felt the faint electric thrill of drakon still pooled in him, no heartbeat. "He's not dead, yet he's not breathing. I don't understand."
Sandu had begun to stagger back. "The manacles. Don't you hear it?"
"No." She glanced up, from Sandu's face to Hayden's, and they were both looking sick. "What's wrong?"
"Break them," said the boy, right before he listed sideways. He hit the floor with that particular, youthful elasticity, in bends, only barely managing to catch himself with one arm before collapsing all the way. His voice went hoarse. "Quickly, please."
Hayden simply fell over. Just like that, fell over, a great relaxed shape flat on the floor in the dark, still bleeding, and she looked back at the pale blue-studded metal cuffs—were those diamonds? why didn't they sing?—took the nearest one in her hands and pulled it apart.
It hurt. The iron was colder than ice, far colder than anything of earth should be. It dug into the flesh of her fingers and cut and screamed as she pulled, and finally tore along its joint. She dropped it at once, then picked it up and tossed it away from all four of them. Went to the other manacle and pulled and pulled again.
When it was finished she was bleeding, tiny nicks and cuts from the raw metal, the diamond shards digging into her skin. She threw that one away as well, wrapped her hands around Rhys's wrist and rubbed hard.
"Wake up. Everyone, wake up." She took up his other cold wrist, twisting around at the same time, trying to see if Hayden moved. "Zut alors! Merde! Wake up!"
Rhys's arm jerked free of her grasp. She drew back, startled, but both the taloned hands had risen toward her. She felt claws whisper through her hair, the zing of gold curving around the back of her neck. He pulled her down to him, lifted his head, and mashed his lips to hers.
It was icy. Not the winter ice of his shadow touch, and nothing at all like the sweet, warm kisses she was used to from Hayden—not even passionate ones she'd gotten when Rhys had disguised himself as Hayden. This kiss was icy like the cellar, icy and prolonged and tasting of desperation. Deliverance. She needed to breathe and she could not; his tongue invaded her, his claws kept her imprisoned, and even still she could not bring herself to hurt him to break free.
It was Rhys who dropped his head back to the limestone, panting raggedly, muttering in a broken, wretched voice, "It's you, it's you, Holy Mother of God, I can't believe it's you, but it is, a miracle, it's you ."
"Zoe?"
Hayden was sitting up, staring at her. She wiped her hand across her lips, shook her head, unable to explain. And then the human was upon them.
In the long, unpleasant days that followed, after she'd replayed the moment over and over and over in her mind, she realized that he was the man she'd seen the cook sobbing over in the kitchen—not dead, only asleep or pretending. He must have been creeping down the stairs when both Hayden and the prince had fallen unconscious. He must have discovered the iron manacle she'd thrown as Rhys began his kiss.
The Other was able to steal up upon them all, even fetid with the smells of city and blood and man, and by the time she saw him there at the foot of the stairs, it was too late.
Hayden saw the sanf as well. He went instantly to smoke, a rush of vapor aimed like a blade straight at the human, but the man clutched the manacle in both hands and barked in French, "Disperse! Do not re-form!"
She watched, baffled, her heart pumping, waiting for Hayden to Turn back, become dragon, leap and kill the Other—
But he didn't. He remained smoke. He reached the man and curled apart harmlessly against him, drifted up to the ceiling, and vanished.
Vanished.
She stared wildly at the sanf. "What did you do? What did you do? "
The man pointed at her. "You! Lie down! Stop breathing!"
She reached him in three steps, raised a hand.
"All of you," screeched the sanf backing up rapidly, "all of you stop—"
The connection of her fist to his cheek shattered the bone; she felt it, felt the man's skull break apart, his neck snapping to the side. He tumbled to the floor and did not move.
She was there anyway, dragging him up by his lapels, shaking him so hard his head lolled against his shoulders and his wig fell off. "What did you do? Tell me what you did!"
A shadow came forward: Sandu, not Rhys. He took the manacle from the stair step at the dead man's feet.
"It was this," he said quietly. He held it pinched between his thumb and finger as if it burned. "Just this."
She glared at him, still clutching the sanf. In the cellar darkness beyond them something new stirred. It was Rhys moving along the floor, his claws making small scritch, scritch noises across the stone.
"It's a kind of poison," explained the boy. "Poison in the form of a fragmented diamond, embedded in this metal. Do you know the story of Draumr, Noble Zoe?"
"No." She released the body of the sanf inimicus, clutched at her stomach before bending double, then dropping to her knees. She was visible again; she was sick and empty. "You're the only Gifted dragon I've ever heard of able to resist it." "It's only chips!"
"It is the remains of the most dangerous stone in our history. I can't even imagine how they got it. I'm sorry." He bent down before her, placed the manacle carefully at her knees. "When Draumr calls to a drakon, even in this form, we comply. Hayden James won't be coming back."
Chapter Twenty
Rhys was a problem. Despite the danger of discovery, they had to wait until dusk to escape from the house of the sanf inimicus. Fortunately, it was less than an hour's wait; the rain still fell in drumming dark sheets, and that helped as well.
The prince had dug up clothing in a bureau in one of the upstairs chambers, ordinary, innocuous clothing, and n
ow he was a workman in wool and cleated shoes and a brown felt hat, and Zoe was dressed in the cook's spare uniform, which ended at her ankles and hung from her frame in massive folds.
There was nothing else of use in the house. No papers, no wallets upon the men. There was the cook to contain and Rhys to spirit away and—despite what the woman claimed—no means of discovering who else came here, what other faces the sanf inimicus might hide behind. They could not split up and they could not loiter. They had to leave.
Yet they also could not put fresh clothing upon the body of Rhys Langford. The rags he wore were pungent and held together by threads, yet his limbs were frozen—he could barely hobble— and the golden claws punctured all material. Dragon attributes, their scales and fangs and talons, were forged far stronger than even steel. By the time Sandu was able to hail a carriage for them, Zoe had given up attempting to hide anything but the claws. She wrapped him in a blanket from head to foot and sat stoically beside him in the coach, staring at the red-eyed cook across from her who was drakon and not, their knees bumping with every joggle, all four of them sodden. Silent. The only noises came from the joints of the carriage and the thundering storm—and the horses, which balked and neighed all the way back to the maison.
And the manacles, she supposed, although to her they were still quiet as a dead calm lake; even the iron had ceased to whimper. They lay wrapped in a sheet, tied in a fat bundle on the squabs beside her. Every now and then she noted Sandu's troubled gaze resting upon it from beneath the brim of his hat.
Rhys leaned heavily against her. At one sharp turn he nearly fell into her lap, wheezing as he tried to get upright again without using his hands. He struggled at first but at the next bend gave it up entirely, sagging. Zoe accepted his weight, pulled the soaked blanket tighter around him when it began to slide off. A solitary bright talon caught against her apron, tore a jagged rip through the middle before he shifted his arm.
The maison had not a single candle lit. They entered it without light, through the back, and the diamonds and jasper sang arias of jubilation at their presence.