The Girl Who Fell (The Chess Raven Chronicles)

by Violet Grace

  Neither looks pleased. Jules passes Tom one of her knuckledusters and he slips it onto his hand. He tells me to call if I need him.

  My gut’s churning. I’ve never been able to relax in Marshall’s presence but this is different. I don’t know where I stand with him anymore. Seeds of doubt are starting to take root.

  I brush aside my misgivings, and follow Marshall into what looks to be his office. It’s about four times the size of the house I grew up in. The room is surrounded by solid bookshelves, full of neatly shelved books.

  A large desk sits just off the centre of the room. Its contents are a mix of old and new. Right next to the laptop – a model I’d kill to get my hands on – is a Montblanc fountain pen, a paperweight and a letter opener. I wonder if Marshall actually reads these books or uses this stationery, or if he just displays them the way other people might display art or flower arrangements.

  He motions for me to sit down in a leather-upholstered chair, the type that curves around your body like a glove. But I can’t relax. I can’t even pretend to.

  Marshall leans against the desk in front of me with his hands on his hips, his body tense. The warmth from before is gone and I feel like I’m in the principal’s office.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  ‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’ he says, eyebrows raised. ‘You need to tell me the truth, Chess. All of it. I can’t help you unless you do.’ He must know I’m about to deflect his question because he adds, ‘I’m not just your sponsor. I care about you.’

  Part of me does want to tell him everything. It would be a relief to spill my worries to an ordinary person. My life has veered far indeed from anything resembling normal when Marshall is the most ordinary person in it. But what he’s asking is impossible. The truth is not an option. I don’t even know if I can trust him.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say.

  ‘You need to help me help you. Your face is plastered all over the media. They’re saying you broke into a military installation and attacked government officials. And that you’re working for a domestic terrorist organisation.’

  I focus on the grandfather clock standing against the oak-panelled wall while I wait for his rant to end. I figure I’ll be able to ask my questions sooner if I don’t interrupt.

  ‘And that you’re a murderer. You’re not, are you?’

  I don’t know how to answer that question. Do pycts count? What about Larry?

  ‘Those other two – how well do you know them?’ he probes.

  ‘Well enough,’ is all I can say. The truth – that I’ve only just met Jules, and that Tom is a childhood friend that had been totally blanked from my memory – is unlikely to put Marshall’s mind at ease. It doesn’t even sound good to me.

  He walks over to the cabinet sitting underneath his portrait and pours himself a cup of black coffee from the steaming decanter. He offers me one but I decline. He downs his coffee, then pours himself another before settling into the leather chair opposite me. It strikes me how different we are. He wears the power that Gladys tells me I’m supposed to harness like his favourite suit. And he looks good in it.

  ‘I can clear your name, make all your troubles go away,’ Marshall says. ‘We can work together, help each other to get all the things we’ve both always wanted.’

  Now he has my attention. He’s offering a clean slate.

  I could have my life back, maybe even change my identity and forget about Damius and the Fae throne, put the Agency behind me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. I’ve been on my own for as long as I can remember; I’m so tired of being scared and desperate all the time. Is it so wrong to want someone to protect me, to care for me, to make all the pain stop?

  ‘When we first met, I saw something in you,’ Marshall says. He takes a sip of his coffee, holds it in his mouth and swallows it slowly, as if he’s savouring a memory as well as the taste. ‘Something special, something I’d been searching for, for a long, long time. Back then, I wondered if you even knew how remarkable you were.’

  He tilts his chin slightly and studies my response with unblinking eyes. He’s waiting, hoping I’ll say something. But I’m lost.

  ‘Now I am quite sure that you do know what you are, what you can unlock with the extraordinary power you possess.’

  I sit up straight in my chair, my blood running cold. He’s talking about unlocking the Luck of Edenhall. Tom was right. I can’t trust a Musgrave. Just like his ancestors, he’s trying to steal the unbridled Fae power in the Chalice. My stomach curdles as I think about his greed. Doesn’t he already have enough power? What on earth would he do with more? Nothing good. I’m certain of it.

  ‘Yet you continue to play your little games,’ Marshall goes on. ‘Holding out on Agent Eight. The Order. Even the old woman.’

  My mouth drops open. He takes a sip of his coffee but keeps his eyes on me. I can’t decide if I’m feeling like a prize or prey.

  ‘Over the years, people have called you difficult, petulant, even naive. But now I wonder if you had us all fooled, and instead you have been shrewd. Perhaps you have been waiting all this time for a better offer.’

  He leans forward in his chair and I swallow hard.

  ‘For my offer.’

  ‘This really is all about the Luck of Edenhall?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Hasn’t it always been about the Chalice? Why you sought out a connection with me by stealing the old woman’s meds?

  ‘That was a coincidence,’ I say, as my heart thumps against my ribs. ‘You can’t possibly think that —’

  He holds up his hand as if he’s trying to push my words back down my throat and then continues to talk over me. ‘It’s why you’ve been stringing me along with your adorable, yet obviously confected, cluelessness at our meetings. How many opportunities did I give you to raise the subject of the key? But you continue to toy with me.’

  He’s a totally different person from the one I’ve known these past months. His sureness with the world now comes across as naked arrogance. His words are controlling rather than confident. There’s a hardness and coldness that I’ve seen in flashes but always put down to my own issues.

  ‘For years I’ve been watching you. Waiting. And then you came to me. Do you expect me to believe that was a coincidence?’

  I take a breath and feel like I’ve just sucked in a mouth of sawdust.

  ‘That’s why you assigned me to data entry at the V&A? To keep an eye on me? To keep me close to the Luck of Edenhall?’ It’s not really a question. I know the answer. But a small part of me is still hoping that I’m wrong, that this is a misunderstanding.

  He simply nods.

  I stare at him. I never figured Marshall and I were going to be besties. But I thought he was on my side, that he cared enough about me to want to help. But he’s no different from all the other people in my life who just saw me as something to exploit.

  He flashes a winning smile but it’s too late for that. The controlled softening of his features unnerves me. I could always see through his charms, but the fact that he made an effort was somehow part of the charm. Now, it just seems manipulative, orchestrated to get me to do whatever he wants.

  ‘It’s time to deal, Princess Francesca of House Raven. Tell me what you want in exchange for the key.’

  My stomach clenches. He’s clearly known my real name longer than I have.

  ‘Marshall,’ I begin, trying to find the right combination of words. ‘You’ve got me —’

  ‘Wrong? No. No, I’m quite sure I haven’t.’

  ‘I would never —’

  ‘Name your price, Princess. Enough with the games.’

  ‘Marshall —’

  ‘Stop wasting my time.’

  ‘You can’t have it.’

  Silence.

  I suck in a steadying breath. ‘I will not give you the key.’

  ‘Yes, you will,’ he says, standing and invading my space. ‘Perhaps not today
’ – he leans forward and I press my body as far back into the chair as possible – ‘but you will.’ And then through perfectly white gritted teeth, he says, ‘I. Do. Not. Lose.’

  A deep rumbling envelops the house. It sounds like the earth is convulsing.

  Marshall steps back from me. I look up at the windows and stand, instinctively preparing myself for what’s coming. A chill slithers down the length of my back and the hairs on the back of my arms rise. The Art sparks to life in my veins. If it’s another attack of ravens, this time I’m ready.

  Or ready-ish. At least this time I know there’s more in this world than what I see in front of me.

  Marshall’s office windows rattle in their frames, and shockwaves reverberate through the room. The whole house is creaking and shaking. The air is shifting.

  But it’s not ravens.

  Thick cords of smoke stream from the air vents around the top of the ceiling and spew up from the carpet. The plumes twist around each other like snakes in a deadly dance.

  Suffocating smoke fills my lungs. I have to get out of here.

  I turn back to Marshall. But he’s gone.

  I suck in too much smoke and start coughing as I flee the office. Thick smoke fills the hallway but rather than filling the entire space, it converges, swirling in a single place.

  A head forms from the churning smoke. Green eyes I’ve seen before. Short auburn hair, and a maniacal smile.

  The smoke solidifies, revealing a man’s body clad in a studded jacket, a leather kilt and commando boots. A glistening, ruby-encrusted dagger is clasped in one of the man’s hands.

  ‘Ah, Francesca,’ he croons. ‘I do so love family reunions.’

  chapter 24

  Damius.

  I should run, but I can’t.

  I can’t tear my eyes from the being who’s materialised from the cloud of smoke billowing in front of me.

  He’s … he’s the spitting image of the paintings I’ve seen of my mother. The same eyes. The same cheekbones.

  His face transports me back to a place and time before words, before judgement, before guilt. I’m engulfed with a sadness and longing that is even stronger than my fear.

  My head is certain of the danger I’m in, but my heart is torn in two. He’s the only family I have, the only connection to my mother.

  Footsteps thunder down the hall behind me as spears of golden light shoot past my ears towards Damius.

  My uncle casually holds out his hands, flicking the light back as if it’s no more than a minor irritant.

  I hear Jules and Tom both calling at me to duck but I’ve lost my capacity to respond.

  I just stand there, staring at the only family I have. Frozen by the confusion of what I want, compared with what is.

  Damius’s return fire is so close it singes my hair.

  ‘Playtime is over, my dear niece,’ Damius hisses. ‘You may have destroyed some of my army, but I have watched you and learned. It will not happen again. It’s time for you to pick a side. I warn you, I can be very persuasive.’

  He throws a flame towards me, skimming my body and singeing the hairs on my forearms.

  I’m so terrified I don’t even scream. I just watch the aura of flames outline the contours of my body.

  Tom incants, firing off a spell that smothers the flames surrounding me, and Jules simultaneously unleashes another blazing volley from her knuckledusters.

  Damius bats Jules’s blasts away like they’re mosquitoes. He raises an arm, palm flattened, taking direct aim at me.

  I watch as the space around his open palm warps with radiating heat.

  ‘No!’ Tom roars as he lunges to push me out of the line of fire.

  Another volley from Jules.

  Damius flicks it away again, but it’s enough of distraction for Tom to drag me from the room. Marshall’s goons are in the hallway. Tom raises his free hand, but before he can do anything they turn and run. They might once have been professional soldiers, but they’ve seen and heard enough to know when they’re out their league.

  We run through the house, a blur of tasteful and very expensive furniture, paintings and sculptures. We’re moving so fast that I swear we’re going to smash into a wall, but Tom takes each turn with such certainty and sureness that we narrowly miss each time. Even in human form, he has the speed and dexterity of a unicorn.

  I hear Jules behind us, firing off blasts as she runs. Turning my head to look behind, I see Damius striding towards us.

  ‘Outside!’ Jules yells.

  We dash past the door to the cellar under the stairs and through the front door and back onto the footpath. Tom releases me as Jules begins carving a portal into the road.

  She leaps into it, pulling me down through the ground. Tom’s body slams into mine as we tumble down into blackness. Looking up, back towards the mouth of the hole, I see Damius standing over the portal. Right before it closes he slices his dagger through the air in front of his throat.

  I shiver at the violence in his eyes.

  The hastily carved portal is a bumpy ride. It’s like being sucked through a long, dark wind tunnel. I feel like I’m suffocating, as if I’m being buried deeper and deeper underground.

  We fall over each other through open air, a jumble of arms and legs.

  A hand, large and sturdy, tightly clasps my wrist.

  Tom.

  And then there’s golden light. The end of the tunnel.

  Jules slams onto the floor. Flat on her back, she lets out a groan as she reaches up towards us, cushioning our fall with a spell. There’s a gentle thud as if I’ve just collided with a giant balloon in the air.

  Jules looks winded. Blood smears her face, leaking from her nose and her ears. Her face scrunches with exertion as she lowers Tom and me onto a rug. A familiar rug.

  My bed chamber in Iridesca.

  Tom’s hand is still clamped around my wrist. He releases his grip and sits up against the side of my bed, breathing heavily. He touches the blood leaking from his ears and then uses Jules’s knuckledusters to clean it away with a spell.

  I’m shaking, adrenaline coursing through me. I roll up, supporting myself with one hand.

  Jules staggers to her feet. ‘You’ll be needing your rest, Your Highness,’ she says, between gasps of breath. ‘The castle will be stirring soon.’

  ‘Jules.’ I stand to go after her, but she simply bows and slips out the door.

  Tom reaches up and pulls me back. ‘Allow her to recover in private,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s a matter of honour for an officer of the Protectorate. Trust me.’

  I lie flat out on the rug, my breath still short, my heart still racing.

  Tom lies down next to me and props his head up on his hand. He’s so close his light breath caresses my cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Chess,’ he says after a time. ‘I know the risks you took for me.’

  I like the way he just said my name – as if it’s delicate and succulent, like a ripe mango you can’t help but sink your teeth into. I lick my lips and a butterfly takes flight in my stomach.

  ‘Don’t thank me. It’s the least I could do. I needed some way to make up for what I’ve done to your life … What I keep doing to it.’

  ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’ He says it with such conviction that I almost believe him.

  Lying next to him in the first light of day, I get a strange sensation. It’s warm and bright and energising, something I haven’t felt in a long time. Despite everything that has happened, and all that is about to come, in this one precious moment, I feel happy.

  ‘Take me to Transcendence.’

  Tom looks me straight in the eyes. ‘Now?’

  ‘Just like when we were kids. I want to leave my body and fly with you.’

  A mischievous smile spreads across his face, deepening his dimples. A flash of golden light bursts from his body. Shimmering particles merge together on the ceiling, forming a perfect, weightless image of Tom above me. His corporeal body lies still beside m
e.

  ‘Come on,’ he says from above me.

  ‘I don’t remember how.’

  Tom crosses his legs, hovering above me like a floating statue of Buddha.

  ‘There are a few ways to leave your body,’ he says. ‘Sometimes, when you’re in great physical or emotional pain, you can literally jump out of your skin. That’s probably what happened the first time you did it.’ He pauses for a moment, presumably to check my response. I suppose he’s worried that I’m going to rush into the bathroom and heave my guts out again.

  I reassure him that I’m okay.

  ‘It can also happen when you experience intense pleasure.’

  The words hang in the air between us until I look away, trying to disguise my embarrassment.

  ‘Is there a third option?

  ‘Meditation can work too. I’ll guide you through it.’

  Tom tells me to relax and take deep breaths. I close my eyes and feel myself sink deeper into the rug.

  He moves down so that he’s next to me, interlocking his little finger with mine. My eyes spring open. It feels more like a soothing stream of energy than physical touch.

  ‘Close your eyes again and focus on the rhythm of my voice.’ He tells me to visualise the energy centres in my body, starting with red at the base of my spine. I imagine a red swirling ball of energy filling me with light and power.

  Next is the orange energy of my sacrum, followed by yellow for my stomach, green for my heart and blue for my throat. When we get to violet, between my eyebrows, he tells me to imagine stopping the swirling ball of energy.

  ‘Your third eye is for intellect and thinking. That won’t help you transcend. You need to feel, not think, your way out of your body,’ he says.

  It takes a few goes but eventually I imagine that the swirling purple ball has transformed into a calm lake. We move on to the white energy centre at the top of my head.

  ‘This is your pathway for supreme light,’ he says. ‘Take a deep breath, and as you exhale, gently push your energy up and out of your white centre. I’ll be waiting for you.’

  I do as he says but nothing happens.

  ‘Try again,’ he says, his voice distant, as if he’s talking to me from behind a wall. ‘You’re more powerful than you know.’