Ascendant

by Diana Peterfreund

  “There you are!” he cried.

  “Shush!” I reached the gate. “What are you doing here? You’re going to wake everyone up. You’re lucky we finally got a cage Bonegrinder can’t chew through.” Yet.

  “I tried to call.” His shirt was wet. He wore no jacket and carried no umbrella to protect him from the rain. It looked very sexy on him. I shuddered to think what it looked like on me. Water was already soaking through my tank top and cotton pajama pants.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “You’re supposed to be on a plane.”

  “I couldn’t leave it like this,” he said as I opened the gate. “Astrid, we’re not breaking up.”

  I almost slammed the gate shut again. “Says who?” He could not hit me with that before dawn. A killer unicorn I could handle. But not Giovanni on my doorstep, wet through and begging for … for what, exactly? I remained on the threshold of the Cloisters, my hand on the gate. “Are you staying here?” That stopped him short. “No, I—”

  “Then we can’t. We talked about this.” We’d laid out several very well-reasoned and dispassionate arguments as to why longdistance relationships never worked and were far more hurtful in the long run to the people who tried to have them. The fact that Giovanni could go off free and clear and I was staying in my nunnery didn’t help.

  “We can talk until our lungs give out,” he said, “and it doesn’t make a difference.” He laid his fist against his chest. The water had rendered his white shirt translucent and sticky, and the darkness of his skin shone through. “I can’t talk myself out of the way I feel. Don’t you know that by now? Don’t you know how hard I tried, all summer long?”

  I hugged my arms tight around myself and buried my chin in my chest. “Stop.”

  “I couldn’t give you up when there were rules and family and deadly mythical monsters standing between us, Astrid. What kind of person would I be if I let something as stupid as an ocean succeed?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “And not even a big ocean, like the Pacific,” he added. “The Atlantic? It’s a puddle.”

  I flatly refused to smile. The rain pattered down all around us. The cracks in the cobblestones filled with water, washing away the dust of two thousand years. How many people had died on this street? How many lovers had stood here, just like us, and said their final farewells? Giovanni was a fool to think it couldn’t happen to us, too. “Astrid,” he said. “Please.”

  I couldn’t. Losing him now was hard enough. Later, I’d only care more; it would only hurt more. I was already teetering at the edge. How could I risk it? “I’m afraid,” I whispered in a breath softer than the rain.

  But he heard it, nonetheless. “You?” he said, and I heard the smile in his voice, and when I lifted my face into the rain, I could see the smile in his eyes. “But you’re the bravest person I know. I’m not giving you up, Astrid the Warrior. I can’t.”

  And I knew at that moment that I couldn’t, either. Even if it would be easier. Even if it would be the rational, practical, non-magical thing to do. The old Astrid could have been so dispassionate. But if I wanted to hang on to any shred of her, I had to believe in this—even if it made no sense.

  “We’ll make it work,” Giovanni promised. “We’ll e-mail, we’ll call, we’ll write. I’ll see you at Christmas. I’ll come here for spring break.”

  “And what will I do?” I asked. The rain poured down around us, but his skin was hot against mine as we flowed into each other’s arms.

  “You,” he said softly into my damp hair, “will make me a promise. Survive.”

  A week after Giovanni’s departure, we were repairing our weaponry in the shade of the Cloisters courtyard and trying to avoid the worst heat of the day. Bonegrinder, chained to the wall, lay panting on her side with her little pink tongue thrust between her fangs and watched us with sleepy blue eyes.

  After discovering last month that arrowheads and knives made with unicorn horn worked better against the creatures than alloy blades, we’d turned away from our more modern equipment to the weapons from the walls of the chapter house. But, unicorn magic or no, they were still a century and a half old.

  In our last big battle with the kirin, we’d broken four standard bows, a sword, two crossbows, and countless arrows. We’d lost even more in the month since, and Grace, who possessed a natural affinity for weaponry, had taken it upon herself to learn to make new weapons and repair the slim store that remained. Though Cory had offered to lend her the records we had of the ancient hunters’ weapon-making techniques, Grace had brushed her off and turned to the Internet. Though so far she’d had little success at creating new arrowheads, the repaired ancient tips on new fiberglass shafts were both sturdier and more accurate than our old warped arrows.

  I was polishing the claymore that had once belonged to Clothilde Llewelyn. Like the alicorn knife I believed was made from her first kill trophy, I preferred to use this weapon at close range. As I ran a soft cloth over the blade, I wondered why we had Clothilde’s knife and sword but not her bow. Had it, perhaps, been broken or lost in the fight that had supposedly claimed her life?

  Rosamund sat a few feet away, repairing an arrow tip and singing snatches of what she called “weaving songs”: short, repetitive songs designed to help groups work in unison. Ursula and Ilesha leaned against a double alicorn-spiral column, their heads bent close together as they giggled. Zelda and Dorcas had long since abandoned their weapons to pore over fashion magazines, and Valerija sat in a corner, earbuds in place, and concentrated on sharpening one of her many knives. Melissende and Grace were working on a new method of knapping arrowheads off a smooth kirin horn, and Cory was making her way across the bright courtyard, her arms filled with ancient books.

  Bonegrinder lifted her head and growled. All the hunters, including Cory, stopped and stared at the little zhi, who was baring her teeth in Cory’s direction.

  “Hey!” I swatted Bonegrinder on the nose. “No growl. Bad girl.”

  Cory shook her head and continued over to our side. “What’s going on?” She knelt and set down the books, and Bonegrinder sniffed at her and thwapped her tail against the paving stones. “What is happening to me?”

  “Do you have something to tell us?” Melissende asked, wagging her eyebrows at Cory. “Hiding a little boyfriend somewhere?”

  Cory blushed as most of the other girls tittered.

  “Of course not!” she snapped. “I know the rules—” She cast me a guilty glance. “I am not dating anyone, no.”

  This only made them laugh harder. Valerija looked up from her knives, shook her head in disdain, and returned to her work.

  “The rules?” I asked Cory wryly.

  “You know I don’t approve of you dating Giovanni,” she said. “We’re hunters. We’re supposed to be celibate.”

  “I am celibate.” My hands tightened on the hilt of my sword. “You can date someone without having sex with him.”

  “Yes.” Melissende smirked. “It’s especially easy when he lives on a different continent.”

  More giggling. I ignored them and returned to my work. The day after Giovanni’s revelation, I’d visited Marymount International School to see about registering for classes and was told succinctly, but not rudely, that they’d begun accepting applications for this term last January—before anyone knew anything about unicorns at all—and that it was far too late to consider me now. But if I brought my parents in, maybe they would work something out for the spring semester.

  I got a similar response at three other schools, then gave up. Perhaps Cory and Neil could find room in the budget for a tutor. Maybe Phil would suggest we both go back to the U.S. to start a North American Cloisters.

  And maybe Bonegrinder would decide to give up ham hocks for broccolini.

  Finished with the blade, I took out a leather cleaner and started working on the wrapping over the hilt. It had aged poorly, cracking in several places, and there was only so much leather oil could do to improve its con
dition. I wondered when we’d get a real weapons expert into the Cloisters to—if not repair our entire stockpile—at least give us some tips on how to keep things in good shape.

  As careful as I was with cleaning, the leather was unraveling. I tugged on a frayed end and bits came off in my fingers, revealing tarnished metal underneath.

  “Oops,” I said, and held up the leather pieces.

  Grace shrugged. “Probably time to replace, anyway. I’ll look for some swordmaking hints about leather hilt wrapping.” She tossed me a rag and a pot of polish. “Good opportunity to clean underneath, though.”

  I unraveled the rest of the hilt and began working the crud out of the nooks and crannies of the metal. As the silver began to brighten beneath my fingers, I saw a pattern emerging on the hilt, one of curves and right angles. Roman block letter script. I scrubbed harder.

  Bonegrinder began to growl again, and this time, when we looked up, we saw that Neil and Phil had entered the courtyard with a black-robed priest.

  Neil cleared his throat. “Ladies, this is Father Guillermo, and he’s here from the Vatican.”

  I tried to catch Phil’s eye, but she was smiling cheerfully at all the girls and wouldn’t focus on me.

  Which, in my experience, was a bad sign. It meant she was in “donna mode” and would be pretending, for a little while at least, that being her cousin afforded me no special privileges. It was an attitude she adopted under two circumstances: when one of the other girls had complained about the cliques and whenever what was about to happen would upset me very much.

  Now I looked to Cory, whose gaze was boring similar holes in Neil’s direction. Like Phil, his face stayed placid, his attention directed toward the group as a whole. In her corner, Bone-grinder tested the security of the chain binding her to the wall until Zelda issued a sharp command and she slumped down. The zhi knew she was no match for a courtyard full of hunters.

  “Buon giorno,” said Father Guillermo, and bad as my own Italian remained, I detected something awkward in his syllables as well. “It makes me so happy to be welcomed into this beautiful convent, to see so many young women devoted to doing the work of God.”

  Cory put down her book.

  “As you all probably know, the Order of the Lioness in these Cloisters has long been a vital and treasured part of the Church. We were so sorry to see it die out in the nineteenth century and are thrilled to witness this revival now.”

  Ilesha folded her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, watching Father Guillermo curiously.

  “And of course,” he went on, “we have been watching this rebirth with much interest. The renovation of the Cloisters has given us much joy. The recruitment of Sister Lucia from her own convent to be your cook, the tacit approval of the monks who live next door …” He folded his hands in front of his robe and smiled at us. “We feel that until now, we have been supportive and yet unnecessarily distant.”

  Cory grumbled under her breath, “Fantastic. They wait until the heavy lifting is done then choose to stick in their oar.”

  “We wish to offer you whatever help we can,” Father Guillermo continued, “though we are aware that this incarnation of the Order of the Lioness—well, it’s not a religious order at all.”

  I looked at the other girls. He could say that again! In searching for eligible hunters, Neil already had enough of an uphill climb without requiring that they be Catholic as well. In fact, I was pretty sure only Rosamund, Melissende, Ursula, and Dorcas had any claim to Catholicism, and of those, only Rosamund was devout enough to attend mass.

  “Had we been consulted,” the priest said, his smile somewhat faded, “we would have encouraged you not to utilize the trappings and name of a Church organization. But,” he said with a sigh, “we were not.”

  Cory’s hands balled into fists.

  “However, we are very happy to offer our assistance, even in these unusual circumstances. I suppose”—and here he placed his hand on his large stomach and gave a little chuckle—”that you could call it the opposite of a faith-based initiative. For you are a secular organization receiving Church funds.”

  Phil’s composed smile was now frayed at the edges.

  “I will be the liaison between your group and the Church, and I look forward to assisting you and seeing you work these miracles firsthand.”

  “That sounds like a pretty dangerous idea,” said Grace, cleaning under her fingernails with an alicorn arrowhead. She shot him a crafty smile, then pricked her fingertip with the point. A single drop of cherry red blood welled and plopped to the cobblestones before the wound knit together.

  Bonegrinder, who’d been lying on the floor pouting that she wasn’t allowed to eat the priest, raised her head and sniffed at the scent of blood in the air. Father Guillermo took a few steps back.

  “Besides,” said Melissende, “we aren’t miracle workers.”

  “Nonsense,” said Father Guillermo. “Your skills in battle, your gift of healing—what are they but miracles from God?”

  “Sorcery?” Melissende suggested with a shrug. Rosamund scowled at her. “What is your word for pagan magic?”

  Phil’s smile had completely withered and thunderheads were brewing in Neil’s expression. Ursula tossed a polishing rag in her sister’s direction to shut her up, but Melissende was on a roll.

  “Our hunter gifts were bestowed on the line of Alexander the Great by the ancient goddess Diana,” she said. “Certainly you know that.”

  Father Guillermo didn’t miss a beat. “Certainly I know what the old pagan myths say. They are very pretty stories, to be sure, and they were all the ancients had, since Christ had not yet been born. No, my dear, trust me: your gifts are miracles of God. The powers you wield, the Order of the Lioness, are like the Pantheon—an ancient pagan artifact that has long since been refocused to give glory to the one true God. I will pray that you glorify Him and that He keeps you safe on your next mission.” He made a sign in Melissende’s direction.

  The real miracle, if you ask me, is that Father Guillermo shut her up.

  He nodded as if the matter was settled. “Now I want to take a few moments to discuss a few policy adjustments we’ll be instituting in the coming days.” He took in our shocked faces. “Don’t worry, my dears. This is nothing drastic. We’re not requiring you to take holy orders. There are simply a few things we at the Church think will better reflect our core values.”

  I shook a few fold wrinkles out of the material and turned around to face Phil. “Well? How do I look?”

  My cousin bit her lip to keep her grin contained. “I think it’s … cute.”

  “Cute?” I snapped, and my headscarf slipped down over my forehead. “I’m wearing a camouflage habit.”

  “But a cute one,” Phil pointed out.

  All up and down the dorm hallway, I could hear the other hunters groaning as they tried on our new hunting uniforms. The outfit consisted of thick, polyester, camouflage-patterned split skirts that fell all the way to our ankles, a long camo headscarf, and matching long-sleeved, high-necked jackets.

  Cory stomped into the room, the hem of her skirts dragging several inches in her wake. “I’m melting,” she whined. “Literally and figuratively.” She gathered up some of the extra material. “Who did they make these things for, Amazons?”

  Valerija followed her, wearing the split skirt and a grubby, V-neck white undershirt.

  “Amazons are pagan,” I reminded Cory, and scratched at my neck, where the stiff material of my jacket irritated my skin.

  Phil folded her feet up beneath her on my bed. “Certain religious sisterhoods are required to wear particular clothes at all times—even during day-to-day activities. These uniforms have been adapted from those nuns’ hunting outfits.”

  “But I thought we didn’t have to become nuns,” I said.

  “And you aren’t,” Phil replied. “But the Church would prefer that we aren’t gallivanting around Rome in tank tops and shorts, that’s all. Think of it lik
e going to Catholic school: you don’t have to be Catholic but you still have to wear the uniform.”

  Cory groaned and fell back on her bed, dislodging her headscarf.

  “I like it,” said Valerija, doing a few practice squat-thrusts on the shag carpet between Cory’s bed and mine. She stroked her recently healed jaw and hiked up the waistband of her skirts. “It is roomy.”

  Zelda appeared in the doorway. “They aren’t so bad. Not high fashion, but sturdy. I’ve torn holes in the knees of most of my trousers. These will hold up better.”

  “You should see what I have to wear,” Phil said. “I don’t even get a split skirt.”

  “Is yours camo, too?” I tried running in place. The split skirts were much heavier than the microfiber cargo pants my mom had packed with me to come to Rome. Still, in the thrall of hunter magic, sprinting after my prey, would I even notice them flapping against my thighs?

  Phil brushed her bangs off her face. “Why would I need camo? I’m not a hunter.”

  “Why would we need camo?” I asked her. “We’re not hiding from unicorns when we hunt them. We can’t.” The monsters had the same magnetic sense of our position as we did of theirs. This was why untrained unicorn hunters were a danger to themselves and others. For some reason, unicorns were attracted to hunters—we drew them in like sirens drew hapless sailors.

  Oops, there I went with the pagan references again.

  Cory sat up abruptly, her headscarf askew and her corkscrew curls sticking out from her head like wacky antennae. “I’m going to talk to Neil. There has to be another option.”

  But the conversation proved fruitless. “I’m sorry, Cory,” Neil said to her later, when it was just the four of us. “But the Vatican has been quite explicit about their expectations for our behavior if we want their financial support. The habits are just the beginning.”

  “What?” I said. “What else is coming?”

  Phil sucked air in through her teeth. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing that Giovanni went back to New York.”

  “No boys?” I asked. “So we’re back to that, then.” And I’d be back to sneaking Giovanni around when he came to visit over Christmas.