The Girl at Midnight

by The Girl at Midnight (ARC) (epub)

  New York, she thought. The city that never cleans.

  Echo exited into one of the corridors branching out from the main concourse. She paced around the information booth at its center, weaving between gaggles of tourists taking pictures of the constellations on the ceiling and commuters awaiting their trains. Not a one of them knew there was an entire world beneath their feet, invisible to human eyes. Well, invisible to most human eyes. As in the warlock’s shop, one had to know what one was looking for. She’d give the warlock a handful of minutes to make an appearance. If he’d managed to follow her from the Arc, she wanted to make sure she didn’t lead him to her front door. Echo had no proof, but she was certain that warlocks made for terrible houseguests.

  Her stomach rumbled. A few bites of pork bun wasn’t going to cut it. She spared a thought for the hidden room in the New York Public Library that she called home and the half-eaten burrito she’d left sitting on her desk. Earlier that day, she’d swiped it from an unsuspecting college student as he napped, head pillowed on a battered copy of Les Misérables. There had been poetry to that minor act of thievery. It was the only reason she’d done it. She didn’t need to steal food to survive, as she had when she was a child, but some opportunities were too good to pass up.

  Echo rolled her neck, letting the tension that had built up in her muscles work its way down her arms and out her fingers. Inch by inch, she let herself relax, listening to the rumble of trains in and out of the station. It was as soothing as a lullaby. With a final glance around the concourse, she hefted her bag over her shoulder and headed toward the Vanderbilt Avenue exit. Home was a scant few blocks west of Grand Central, and there was a stolen burrito with her name on it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two kinds of people camped out in the New York Public Library so late at night. There were the scholars. Caffeine-addled college students. Obsessively meticulous PhD candidates. Ambitious academics angling for tenure. And then there were the people who had nowhere else to go. People who sought solace in the comforting musk of old books and the quiet sounds of other humans breathing, turning pages, and stretching in their creaky wooden chairs. People who wanted to know that they weren’t alone while being left alone. People like Echo.

  She moved through the library like a ghost, feet quieter than a whisper over its marble steps. It was late enough that no one bothered to raise their eyes from their books to take notice of a young woman, dressed in head-to-toe black, slinking around where she had no business. Echo had long ago established a route that led around staff members counting the minutes until they got off work. She didn’t need to worry about security cameras. America’s librarians fought valiantly to keep their readers’ privacy protected, and the library was a camera-free zone. It was one of the reasons why she’d chosen to make it her home a decade ago.

  She slipped through the library’s narrow stacks, breathing in the familiar smell of stale books. As she climbed the darkened stairwell leading to her room, the air thickened with magic. The wards that the Ala had helped Echo set up pushed back at her, but the resistance was weak. They were designed to recognize her. Had anyone else stumbled upon the staircase, they would have turned back, remembering that they’d left the stove on or were running late for a meeting, but the spell rebounded off her.

  At the top of the stairs was a door, as beige and plain as any other utility closet, but it too had magic all its own. Echo slipped her Swiss Army knife from her back pocket and flicked it open. She pressed the tip of the small knife into the pad of her pinkie and watched a bead of blood well up.

  “By my blood,” Echo whispered.

  She touched the drop of scarlet to the door, and the air crackled with electricity, raising the fine hairs at the back of her neck. A quiet click sounded, and the door unlocked. Just as she did every time she entered the cramped room, overflowing with treasures she’d liberated over the years, she kicked the door shut behind her and said, to no one in particular, “Honey, I’m home.”

  The silence that answered was a welcome change from the shrill symphony of Taipei and the cacophonous crowds of New York at rush hour. Echo slung her bag onto the floor beside the writing desk she’d salvaged from the library’s recycling pile and collapsed on her chair. She flicked on the fairy lights strung around the room, casting the cozy space in a warm glow.

  Before her lay the burrito she’d been dreaming about, surrounded by the odds and ends that decorated every available surface of her room. There were tiny jade elephants from Phuket. Geodes from amethyst mines in South Korea. An original Fabergé egg, encrusted with rubies and trimmed with gold. Surrounding it all were stacks of books, crammed on every available surface, piled on top of each other in teetering towers. Some Echo had read a dozen times, others not at all. Their presence itself was a comfort. She hoarded them just as eagerly as she hoarded her other treasures. Her seven-year-old self had decided that stealing books was morally bankrupt, but since the books hadn’t actually left the library—they’d merely been relocated—it wasn’t technically stealing. Echo looked around at her sea of tomes, and a single word came to mind: Tsundoku.

  It was the Japanese word for letting books pile up without reading them all. Words were another thing Echo hoarded. She’d started that collection long before she’d ever come to the library, back when she lived in a house she’d rather not remember, with a family she’d be happier forgetting. Back then, the only books she’d had belonged to a set of outdated encyclopedias. She’d had few possessions to call her own, but she’d always had her words. And now, she had a trove full of stolen treasures, some more edible than others.

  She raised the burrito to her lips, poised to take a bite, when the sound of fluttering feathers interrupted her. Only one person had the ability to bypass her wards without raising a single alarm, and she never bothered to knock. Echo sighed. Rude.

  “You know, I’ve heard that in some cultures,” Echo began, “people knock. But then, that could just be idle gossip.”

  She swiveled in her chair, burrito in hand. The Ala sat on the corner of Echo’s bed, black feathers ruffling gently as if caught on a breeze. But there was no breeze. There was only the Ala and the slight charge to the air that accompanied her power.

  “Don’t be moody,” the Ala said, smoothing her arm feathers down. “It makes you sound positively adolescent.”

  Echo took an exaggerated bite of the burrito and spoke around a mouthful of rice and beans. “Truth in advertising.” The Ala frowned. Echo swallowed. “I am adolescent.” If Echo had abysmal table manners, the Ala had only herself to blame.

  “Only when it suits you,” the Ala said.

  Chewing with her mouth open was a perfectly reasonable response as far as Echo was concerned.

  “Anyway,” the Ala sighed, surveying the shelves overflowing with shiny knickknacks of every variety, “I’m glad you’ve returned, my little magpie. Steal anything nice today?”

  Echo pushed her backpack toward the Ala with a toe. “As a matter of fact, I did. Happy birthday.”

  The Ala tutted, but the sound was more pleased than disappointed. “I don’t understand your obsession with birthdays. I’m far too old to remember mine.”

  “I know, and that’s why I assigned one to you,” Echo said. “Now open it. My bacon was almost burned by a warlock getting that thing.”

  “Just one?” The Ala’s words were tinged with laughter. She slipped the music box from the backpack, handling it with more care than it looked like it deserved. “I wouldn’t think a single warlock would be a problem for such a talented thief. You did, after all, boast of your ability to—what did you call it—‘B and E’ with the best of them.”

  Echo scowled, though the effect was mitigated by the shredded cheese dangling from her lower lip. “Throw that back in my face, why don’t you?”

  “If I didn’t, how would you ever learn the folly of your arrogance?” A gentle smile softened the Ala’s chiding. “The young always think they’re invincible, right until the mom
ent they learn otherwise. Usually, the hard way.”

  Echo’s only response was a half shrug. The Ala cast a glance about the room, and Echo wondered what it looked like to someone besides herself. Books piled precariously high on every surface. Pilfered jewels worth enough to pay for college twice over. A riot of crinkled candy bar wrappers. It was a mess, but it was her mess. From the wrinkle forming between the Ala’s brows, Echo didn’t think she appreciated the significance of that.

  “Why do you stay here, Echo? You can come to the Nest and live with us. I know a fair few Avicelings that wouldn’t mind having you near.”

  “I need my space,” was all Echo said.

  What she didn’t say was that she needed space away from the Avicen. Her own smooth skin, bare of the colorful feathers that decorated their limbs, was enough to signal that she didn’t belong. She didn’t need their sidelong stares to remind her that she was among them but not of them. And stare they did. As if her presence disrupted the natural order of things. They may have gotten used to Echo over the years, but that didn’t mean they had to like her.

  The library was her home. Books didn’t give her dirty looks or whisper snide comments under their breath. Books didn’t judge. Books had been her only friends before the Ala had found her, alone and hungry, and whisked her away to the Avicen Nest. These books were her family, her teachers, her companions. They had remained loyal to her, and so, she would remain loyal to them.

  The Ala’s weary sigh was as familiar a sound to Echo as the beating of her own heart. “Fine. Have it your way.” She looked down at the music box in her hands. “This is lovely.”

  Echo shrugged, but she couldn’t fight the pleased grin that found its way to her face. “It was the best I could do, given the circumstances.”

  The Ala cranked the knob at the base of the music box a few times before lifting the lid. The little bird spun in place as the tinny melody wafted into the air.

  “The magpie’s lullaby,” Echo said. “That’s why I picked it.” She lazily waved her fingers in the air as though she were conducting a very tiny orchestra. “One for sorrow, two for mirth.”

  The Ala smiled fondly. “Three for a funeral and four for a birth.”

  “Five for silver, six for gold,” Echo sang. They finished the last line together. “And seven for a secret not to be told.”

  Just as the last note rang out, a compartment slid open near the base of the box. It had blended so seamlessly with the lacquered wood that Echo hadn’t even noticed it. The Ala removed a folded piece of paper from the compartment. “What’s that?” Echo asked.

  The Ala unfolded it with careful fingers. She cocked her head to the side, gaze still locked on the paper. “What made you choose this music box?” she asked. Her voice was low and cautious, as if the words were chosen with the utmost care.

  “I thought it was pretty,” Echo said. “And it played our lullaby.” She leaned forward to peer at the paper, but her view was blocked by the Ala’s hands. “What is that?”

  The Ala rose to her feet, folding the paper once more, movements quick and precise. She tucked it into one of the pockets hidden in the folds of her gown. “Come. We can discuss it at the Nest.”

  “Can it wait?” Echo asked, waving the burrito at the Ala. Little bits of rice and cheese plopped onto her lap. “I’m about to go to town on this burrito.”

  The Ala’s arched eyebrow was all the answer Echo needed.

  “Fine,” she mumbled, placing the burrito back in its foil. It looked so sad, alone and half-eaten. It was downright mournful. She stood, brushing off her jeans. “But this had better be worth it.”

  “Oh, it will be,” the Ala said, sprinkling a handful of shadow dust into the air around them. The inky black tendrils of the in-between snaked around her legs, and Echo’s stomach gave a preemptive lurch. Traveling through the in-between was never fun, but without the anchoring solidity of a doorway, it was a wretched experience. The Ala held out a hand to Echo. “Remind me, child, have I ever told you the story of the firebird?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Even through the thick stone walls of Wyvern’s Keep, Caius could hear the sounds of the ocean pounding against the rocks below. A wicked Scottish wind beat at the outer walls, and the sea roared with it, crashing against the fortress’s foundations with unrelenting fury. He envied the waters their passion, their rage, their unmitigated frenzy in the face of such an immovable object. He closed his eyes and imagined for a moment that he could feel the spray of the ocean on his face, that he could steal from it even the smallest fraction of its strength. But Caius was not the ocean, and the obstacles he faced were as sturdy as any stone edifice.

  “Your loyalty is commendable,” he said, turning to face the two prisoners behind him. “Truly.”

  A pair of Avicen scouts knelt on the floor of the keep’s dungeon, wrists shackled behind their backs with heavy iron manacles. Their plumage may have once been richly colored, but their feathers were now matted with a thick layer of filth and blood. The one on the left, feathers speckled like those of a tawny owl, swayed on his knees as he struggled to stay upright. The Avicen next to him reminded Caius of a falcon, small and sleek, with sharp yellow eyes. That one refused to tremble. He was a rock, steady and still. Thinking of them in terms of the birds they looked like was simpler than asking their names. If Caius saw them as animals, then it would make it easier to do what he knew he must. The falcon spat at his feet, flecks of blood mingled with saliva spattering Caius’s boots.

  “We won’t tell you anything.” The falcon remained defiant, even in the face of the Dragon Prince himself. Commendable indeed.

  Caius nodded to the two guards standing behind the Avicen. They were Firedrakes, the most fearsome regiment in the Drakharin army. A pair was overkill for two half-starved prisoners, but sometimes a point needed to be made. The Firedrakes seized the owl by his arms while the falcon looked on in horror.

  “You won’t,” Caius said, “but he will.”

  Half-mad pleas for mercy fell from the owl’s cracked lips as the Firedrakes hauled him to his feet. Their golden armor glinted in the low light of the dungeon’s torches, and the dragons emblazoned on their breastplates danced in the flames. The owl’s babbling continued as he was dragged before Caius. It was a shame the roar of the sea wasn’t loud enough to drown it out.

  Caius laid a hand on the owl’s cheek, careful not to press into the bruises there. The owl shuddered at his touch and went silent.

  “Tell me what I want to know.” Caius’s voice was low and soft, as if he were coaxing a frightened animal out of its hiding place. “And I promise I will be merciful.”

  The falcon fought to scrabble to his feet, but one of the Firedrakes kicked the back of his knee, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap of feathers and rage.

  “Dragons don’t know the first thing about mercy,” the falcon hissed, eyes aflame with barely checked fury. The Firedrake pressed his heel into the falcon’s throat, silencing him.

  Caius ignored him, steady gaze never leaving the owl. “Why were you in Japan? The Drakharin hold that land and have for nearly a century. What business did you have there?”

  The owl licked his cracked lips, eyes flicking from Caius to his comrade on the ground.

  That won’t do, Caius thought. He tightened his grip just enough to bring the Avicen’s attention back to him.

  “Despite what you may have heard,” Caius said, “I am a man of my word. Speak now, and I will show you and your friend the mercy you deserve.”

  The owl swallowed, blinking rapidly. His too-wide pupils dilated and retracted with alarming speed. When he spoke, his words were so quiet Caius had to lean in to hear them.

  “The general sent us.”

  Caius ground his teeth so hard, his jaw clicked. “The general. Altair.”

  The owl nodded, head bobbing in short, quick jerks, so like the bird he resembled.

  Caius stroked the owl’s cheek with his thumb. A fine tremor worked i
ts way up from the Avicen prisoner’s feet to the ruffled feathers at his temples. “And what did Altair ask of you?”

  “Traitor,” the falcon spat at his companion. The Firedrake ground his boot down again, and the Avicen’s next words were nothing more than a pained gurgle. The owl’s trembling evolved into a full-body shake, the feathers on his arms quivering. He tried to look back at his comrade, but Caius held his head in place.

  “Go on.”

  The owl licked his lips again, worrying the bottom one with his teeth. “The general … he sent us to Kyoto. To a teahouse. There was an old woman living there, but she didn’t know anything about what Altair is looking for.”

  Caius’s hand stilled, resting on the curve of the owl’s neck. He stroked the skin above the owl’s fluttering pulse with his thumb. “And what is that?”

  “The firebird.”

  Caius had to fight to keep his face as blank and placid as the mask he wore at court. So long had he waited to hear another speak that word.

  “And did you find anything else besides an elderly human woman?”

  “No,” the owl said, shaking his head in little birdlike twitches. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” Caius repeated. Of course it was nothing. It was always nothing.

  Releasing the owl from his hold, Caius stepped back. He resisted the urge to wipe his palm on his thigh.

  “Thank you. Your cooperation will be rewarded.” Caius nodded to the Firedrakes once more. They pulled the owl back and yanked the falcon to his feet.

  “Kill them.”

  The owl’s eyes flashed with the first bit of fire Caius had seen in him. “You promised us mercy.”

  “This is mercy,” Caius said, already turning away. “Your deaths will be quick.”

  As the two Avicen were dragged deeper into the belly of the dungeon, Caius let his eyes fall shut. He could still see the owl’s strange, wide eyes as clearly as he had seconds before, but the image disintegrated as his audience broke her silence at last.