by Tracy Deonn
I nod, ready to leave this place that feels more filled with death and loss than life.
Before I turn, my eyes drift up to the star above Nick’s. Beside it, someone has carved “Martin Thomas Davis” into the stone. Of course. Lord Davis went to Carolina years ago, when he was the Scion of Arthur and before Nick was born. Then, something else catches my eye.
“What happened here?” I point to the marble linked to Lord Davis’s star, representing his Kingsmage, an “Isaac Klaus Sorenson.”
William squints. “Not sure. Maybe the archivist got sloppy?”
I don’t follow right away, because what he said makes no sense. Every other line and stone and star has been meticulously carved, not a stroke out of place or an error in sight. But deep, angry slashes surround Isaac’s marble on every side, like an animal has clawed it. And yet the marble itself looks just like Sel’s: shiny, smooth, and perfectly round.
“Coming?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, and follow him upstairs.
16
I PANIC WHEN we get back to the infirmary because Nick is gone and his table is cleared. Tor is gone too.
“Where are my patients?” William thunders at Russ and Sarah. The two wide-eyed Squires shrink backward. I don’t blame them; the normally gentle-faced William looks murderous.
“They woke up! Nick went home,” Russ says at the same time that Sarah blurts, “Tor’s upstairs. She said she was hungry!”
My stomach drops. Nick just… left?
The raised voices elicit a low moan from Lord Davis, and William catches himself before he yells again. “And you let him?”
Russ recovers first. “He’s the—the king?”
“In this infirmary,” William hisses, advancing on him, “I am your king. Nick was not discharged! His head is still healing!”
“He left me?” I regret my question as soon as I say it out loud. It sounds so… pathetic. “I mean, just that he—not that I—” William’s raised brow and Russ’s confused expression don’t help me out at all. “I just thought I’d get to check on him first.”
Sarah takes pity. “We didn’t know where you and Will went. Nick called your phone a bunch, said it went to voicemail. I think he thought you went home after… everything that happened in the woods.”
I hear the words she doesn’t say: he thinks I gave up after everything that happened in the woods. Ran home scared.
“Nick probably needs some space to catch his breath.” Russ shrugs. “Think about it—he shows up to reclaim his title after years of being away, and boom! We’re two Awakened Scions away from Arthur. I’d be freaking out too.”
“Will?”
On the far table, Evan stirs. William is at his side in three steps, his fury gone and kind bedside manner in place. “Stay still, Ev. You took a claw to the head, my friend.” Evan follows orders, but he blinks bleary eyes open and scans the room. It only takes him a second to find me. He tenses on the bed.
“Hey, Bree.”
I give him an awkward wave. “Hey, Evan. And here I thought you were just a clueless frat boy.”
His weak laugh ends in a cough. “Don’t tell Char I got hurt, ’kay?”
Charlotte Simpson feels like a lifetime ago and a world away—a world that I have to return to tomorrow, like none of this happened. “I won’t.”
“Cool,” he mutters, and relaxes on the bed.
William snorts. “If you’re well enough to worry about your girlfriend, then you’re well enough to recover in your own bed. Let me check you over before you go upstairs.”
Someone tugs at my sleeve. It’s Sarah. “Can I drive you home?”
I blink, surprised by her offer. “Do you want to check on Tor first?”
She seems pleased that I asked. “My girl’s mad grouchy when she’s hungry, but she’s fine.”
As we leave, William kicks Russ out of the infirmary too. I hear him mutter something about no peace in this house, and some Welsh that sounds a lot like curses.
* * *
Sarah isn’t one of those people who has to fill a silent car with chatter. She turns the radio on, leaving me to spend the ride back to campus thinking about all I’d seen and done tonight. By the time she parks her car in one of the campus lots close to the dorms, all the thinking has given me a full-blown headache.
When we get out, I realize I’m still wearing the sweatshirt Russ gave me. I strip it off and offer it to her. “I think this is Russ’s?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ll get it to him.”
I fold the shirt and hand it to her, then take a look at our ride for the first time. It’s a Tesla. “Nice car.”
She shrugs. “Not mine. The Order has a bunch we can use.”
My eyes widen. “Wow. That’s—”
“Pretentious.”
I blink. “Are you allowed to say stuff like that?”
She rolls her eyes. “I mean, I wouldn’t say it in front of the Regents, but…”
When I turn toward my dorm, she surprises me again by falling in step beside me. I try to figure out how to ask my question without being rude. “Aren’t you a Vassal kid?”
“Aren’t I rich, you mean?” I purse my lips, but she just smiles and wraps her sweater tighter around her narrow shoulders. “My mom comes from money, but my dad doesn’t. She Paged at the Western Chapter in Virginia, but never Squired. That’s where they met.”
I turn this over a few times. My parents met after my mother graduated; Dad didn’t go to college. I’d never thought about whether she’d met someone at school, dated. I’d always imagined her in a lab, but what did I really know about her life here? “Did your mother want to Squire?”
“At first. My grandparents definitely wanted her to, but then my parents got together and she realized she wanted a family.” We turn down one of the walkways that Nick and I had taken two nights ago. “She’d never admit it, but I think she wanted the prestige, not the war.”
“And your dad knew about the Order?”
Sarah shakes her head. “Nah. Not until later. He’s a sworn and pledged Vassal—had to be before they could marry—but mostly what he knows is the dinner parties and the opera tickets and the formal galas. Not that he’s particularly well received at any of them.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s Venezuelan. But I pass, so people don’t realize I am too. Or they forget. They say racist crap around me sometimes.”
“Then what?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes I check ’em. Sometimes I don’t bother.”
“Ah,” I say, and neither one of us has to say anything else about that.
“Does he know how danger—” Sarah bumps my elbow so that I stop speaking. A pair of students—on the way to the twenty-four-hour library, by the looks of it—walk toward us on the path.
Right. This is what I signed up for. Following the Code of Secrecy means not talking about demon attacks within earshot of the general public.
Once they pass, she glances over her shoulder to watch them turn the corner. “Sorry. What were you asking? Does my dad know how dangerous all this is? He knows what we fight and why, but I don’t think it feels dangerous to him. He can’t See aether, and he’s never seen a demon. He knows we have a healer and he knows that my Line hasn’t been Called in decades, so he probably thinks I’m protected from the worst of it. Mom didn’t want me to Squire unless I got Selected by a high-ranked Scion, since they’re less likely to be Called. The Abatement, you know?”
“No, I don’t. What’s the Abatement?”
She curses low. “Fitz is an ass, but he’s right. Nick should have educated you. You deserve to know the risks.”
I stop. “Sar, what’s the Abatement?”
She releases a heavy breath. “When a Scion is Awakened, all the power from their knight transfers to them. The Spell of Eternity is… serious casting, you know? But we’re still human. The longer the Scions are Awake, the more it drains them. After they age out, most don’t make it past thirty-five.�
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I struggle to breathe, to speak. William didn’t say anything about that. I can’t imagine him dying that young. “It kills them?”
Sarah hurries to correct me. “Only if they’ve been Awakened. It’s… it’s why the Legendborn are revered. Holy warriors and everything.”
I think of Felicity. Six hours ago she thought she’d live till her eighties. But now… “Can’t the Scions just not fight? Let some other relative take the inheritance?”
She kicks a pebble as we walk. “Scions can’t opt out of their blood. And once Awakened, they feel this… this need. To fight. Directly from their knights. If Tor’s Called, she’ll feel it, and when we’re bonded, so will I. Once I take some of Tristan’s power through her, Abatement will come for me, too.”
My chest is so tight I can barely get the words out. “Why would you choose this?”
“I can’t answer for everyone, but service is how I was raised. And…” She shrugs, flushes. “I love her. I won’t let her fight alone.”
Before I can ask anything else about the bond of Scion and Squire, a shadow descends overhead. Sarah is in front of me in a blink, dropped into a fighter’s crouch—hips angled, knees bent, one fist on guard, the other ready to strike.
“Page Matthews.”
Sel takes three determined strides toward me before Sarah slides between us. Even though the Merlin is the superior opponent with a foot of height on her, the pint-size girl glares up at him poised for a fight. The steel in her eyes tells me she’d put up a good one.
“Back off, Sel. I’m taking Bree to her dorm.”
“Not before I question her.” It’s only when he moves that we notice something’s not right. He stumbles. Actually loses his footing.
I didn’t think that was even possible.
Sarah stares in disbelief too. “What the—”
“She’s not what she seems,” he says imperiously. He dashes around her, but he’s nowhere near as fast as he was earlier. When he comes to a stop, he towers over me—and brings a hot, oppressive cloud of smoke, charred cinnamon, and leather. The smell is so intense, I cover my nose in disgust and retreat.
“You’re blitzed, buddy. Move.” Sarah wriggles her arm between us and pushes him away from me. He bats at her hand—and misses. The economy of movement he’d always displayed is gone; every gesture imprecise, too big.
It’s the most surreal thing I’ve ever seen, and after a night like tonight, that’s saying a lot.
My question is muffled behind my fingers. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s aether-drunk,” she says, as if that explains everything. She pushes against him with her full weight, but Sel sort of drapes his body over her. She grunts in frustration. “Must have just come from bonding Felicity and Russ. The Warrior’s Oath is pretty hard-core, and on top of that, he Oathed y’all tonight too.”
Oh. Oh.
That strange, intoxicated look on his face after the Oath of Fealty. His bloodshot eyes now. The dark pink of his parted lips, the angry flush on his cheeks.
“I am not!” Sel declares loudly. It’d be funny if I didn’t know how lethal he was.
Sarah shoves him hard and Sel growls at her. Shockingly, she growls back. It’s a small, silly-sounding imitation of his low rumble, but it works. He blinks at her and gives a confused grimace that is, somehow, the extreme opposite of intimidating.
“You are,” she insists. “And I’m not leaving you alone with Bree when you’re like this. Let’s go.”
“Tonight shouldn’t have happened, Sar,” he mutters. His dark brows draw together as if he’s seeing it happen all over again. “Nothing like that… has ever happened before. When the Regents find out…”
Sarah’s tone turns soothing. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“That’s not what they’ll say,” Sel whispers, his hoarse voice almost lost to the wind. His eyes land on me and narrow accusingly.
“She’s Nick’s Page.” Sarah shakes his shoulder. “The King’s Wisdom, pal. Don’t even think of laying a hand—”
Sel scoffs. “He’s fucking dormant. No wisdom there. Head’s so far up his own ass, he wouldn’t notice Arthur’s Call if it bit him there!”
His eyes find Nick’s sigil on my chest and harden to golden flint. “If you harm him,” he murmurs, his voice cold, hollow, “I’ll kill you. Burn through you until your blood becomes dust.” Sel watches the fear flood my body, and his mouth curls into a vicious grin. “You know I will, don’t you? You know I can.”
Sarah turns, pressing her back against Sel’s chest to face me. “I’ve got him. Can you make it back on your own?”
My feet were already carrying me backward in the damp grass. Now I turn and sprint while Sel’s laughter follows me across the quad.
* * *
My hands are shaking so badly it takes three attempts to get the key in the door. Once it opens, I fall through and shove it closed.
As if a door could stop Selwyn.
I lean against the wood, chest heaving. Waiting. Waiting.
Just in case.
“Bree?”
I jump. Hand pressed to my heart, I seek Alice out in the dim light.
She fumbles for her bedside lamp. “Do you have any idea what time it—” Her voice cuts off abruptly when the lamp light floods the room. “What the fuck?”
Alice never curses.
I shield my eyes against the light. “Sorry I’m late.”
Alice leaps out of bed in her pajamas, snatching her glasses on the way. “What happened to you?”
I don’t even know what lie to make up right now. What the fuck, indeed.
“I—I—”
“Bree?” I stop stammering at the tremor in her voice. She’s right in front of me, her hands hovering inches from my shoulders, eyes roaming over my face, down my chest and legs. “Oh my God. You’re hurt.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
Her voice is frantic now, panic making it soar. “You look like you’ve been dragged! Through mud!” She claps a hand over her nose. “You smell like a swamp. There are holes in your shirt. You’re filthy. Your hair is… God, Matty. What the hell happened to you?”
17
MY MOUTH OPENS and closes like a fish. I want to lie to her, but where are the words? There just aren’t any. No words to explain what happened to me tonight. What I chose tonight.
Horror dawns over Alice’s face. “Did someone do this to you?”
I shake my head. No. No one did this to me. No one human, at least.
“You can tell me if something happened.” She grabs both of my hands, tears welling up behind her glasses. “I’ll believe you.”
Alice has known me for half my life. We are sleepovers and skinned knees and first crushes and always making sure our lockers are side by side.
Her tears break me.
The sob I’ve been holding back since the woods finally bursts out.
“I can call someone. The campus cops, the—”
“No!” I shout, mind flashing to Norris, the dean. “It—it isn’t like that. I promise.”
“Okay,” she says, her eyes darting back and forth as she processes. “If you—okay.”
Once I’m satisfied she won’t call on a Vassal without realizing, my head thunks against the wood.
Alice rubs my forearms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
As with William, I let her guide me outside our room to the communal hall bathroom, my shower caddy tucked under her arm. When we enter, a girl washing her hands at one of the sinks gives us a funny look.
Once we’re next to the row of empty showers, Alice tugs on the bottom of my shirt. “You’ll feel better after a shower. Do you need help?”
She’s speaking quietly and clearly, like you do when someone is so freaked out they can’t handle complex sentences and you’re trying to calm them down. I realize what she’s doing, but I let her do it anyway. It’s working.
“I got it,” I mumble, and lift my T-shirt over my shoulders
. She’s right about the rips. Three thin cuts cross the fabric where the uchel’s claws held me.
The door bangs open and closed, leaving us alone. Alice leans into one of the stall showers and turns the tap on. While she tests the water, I slip back to the other side to look at myself in the mirror.
No wonder she cursed.
I look wrecked.
My “cute bun” from earlier is long past cute. It’s mostly intact, but ruined with the uchel’s muck. Dark globs have plastered escaped curls to my forehead and the nape of my neck. Glossy eyes, puffy cheeks, bits of dirt on my nose. Most of the slime was on my shirt, but some of it’s caked on my arms and caught in my inner elbow. A long red bruise follows the line of my rib cage. I tug my bra down to hide it. Nick’s coin glints on my sternum. I take the necklace off and stuff it in my pocket.
“Water’s ready, shower stuff’s inside.” Alice comes around to stare at me in the mirror. Opens her mouth to ask another question, but thinks better of it, whatever it was. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
Once she’s gone, I undress as quickly as my rib will allow and step into the shower. The water pressure here is weak, but at least the stream’s hot. Uchel stench wafts around me in a noxious steam until vanilla body wash chases it away.
My brain tries to piece together the next steps of a shower—and comes up blank.
This used to happen at home. In the weeks after my mom died, I’d manage the first step of some mundane task—get naked and into the shower, open the fridge and set out the deli meat, dump a load of laundry into the washing machine—and the next step would elude me. Like an old mill, my mind would wheel around and around until it picked up the next directive.
Hair. My hair is dirty. Yes. I can handle that.
I hadn’t planned on even getting my hair wet for at least another week or so, but I can’t avoid washing my curls tonight. Not when they smell like sick and swamp. They’ll be clean and gorgeous tomorrow, but the unexpected added time makes me groan. That’s another hour and a half at least before I can really climb into bed, even if I skip deep conditioning and styling and throw everything up into a wet pineapple.