A better argument for backup I’d be unlikely to find.
But instead I just stood there and watched them tear Tongue to pieces.
Later, I collected what little of the corpse I could find, drew blood from both unicorns, and the lab tested it all for known diseases, but found nothing. Still, there might be illnesses, pests, and parasites somehow specific to unicorns. Who knew how many other species the creatures had brought with them in their Reemergence? From what Phil had told me of her research, every animal had the potential of being its own mini-ecosystem. Saving a flagship species, be it the polar bear or the Brazilian tree monkey or the killer unicorn, introduced the possibility of saving a dozen far less adorable but no less worthy species that depended on the other for survival.
Including parasites. The potential was mind-boggling, since whatever had ailed Tongue was resistant to the unicorns’ natural self-healing properties. That had to be one hell of a disease. Perhaps it even had something to do with Cory’s illness, as her doctors had suggested. Maybe the reason they couldn’t identify it was because it was a virus that started with unicorns. I wondered if Phil would take that into account in her proposals to various conservation groups. If it turned out that the unicorns had brought superbugs back with them from wherever they’d disappeared to, it was doubtful society would want anything more than to eradicate them and their possible pandemics from the planet for good this time.
More disturbingly, the possibility of a unicorn-specific disease led to all kinds of speculations on who, exactly, was susceptible. Perhaps Cory was right and it was a disease that vectored only to hunters.
Isabeau confirmed these fears. “Remember cowpox and the milkmaid, which led to a vaccine for smallpox?” she asked me. “It first required the maid to grow sick with cowpox. She got it from the cow.” We asked Cory to send more tissue samples to the Gordian labs to test against Tongue’s.
I also convinced Isabeau to dose the einhorns’ feed with antibiotics, lest whatever had killed Tongue spread to the rest of the unicorn population. Officially, sixteen unicorns remained in the enclosure. Sixteen … and Angel.
Whether it was a simmering malaise, a side effect of the antibiotics, or the coming winter, the unicorns seemed to settle down. More often than not, I found them sleeping in dens they’d carved out at the roots of the trees. I wished again that one of the ancient hunters had done some sort of behavioral study on the animals. Did einhorns hibernate like bears? How long would it take for Angel to mature into an adult? When would Phil and her environmentalist allies be able to get a study like this off the ground?
Though it never got quite cold enough to snow, the nights neared freezing, and I finally gave up my vigil over the baby unicorn. More and more of the protesters vanished from their campsite, probably similarly disillusioned by the gloomy winter weather. Even René seemed to have given up—at least, I never spoke to him again.
And Brandt remained nowhere to be seen. I’d never bothered getting his cell phone number, and after Isabeau’s warnings, I couldn’t bring myself to ask her for it. But I hadn’t spoken to him since the night we’d spent in Limoges, and as his absence stretched longer and Isabeau continued to leave him out of all conversations, I began to worry that she’d sent him away for good.
In contrast to the silent woods, the château itself bustled with activity. Isabeau explained that, for all her life, her mother had thrown a massive soirée on the solstice, and it was a tradition that Isabeau had retained over the years, rolling the Gordian holiday party into the event and turning the night into one of the finest galas in the region.
I’d never been to anything that could be construed as a gala. Birthday parties, yes. I’d even attended Uncle John’s office Christmas party one year, for which he rented out the entire back room of a nice Italian restaurant back home. But watching the preparation for Isabeau’s solstice party was witnessing event planning on an entirely new level. The château crawled with maids, florists, lighting designers, caterers, sommeliers, decorators, and all manner of staff.
I’d retreated from the hubbub and was studying in my room when Isabeau knocked on the door. She entered carrying a large, glossy black box tied with a white silk ribbon.
“It’s utter madness out there. You’re wise to avoid all this, Astrid.” She placed the box on my bed. “How are you doing today? You’re looking so much better this past week or so.”
Amazing what a few full nights of sleep in my own bed could do. “I’m fine. What’s the box for?”
Isabeau smiled broadly. “An early Christmas present from me to you. It’s a dress for the gala.”
I laid down my pencil. “I thought it was just for grown-ups.”
She laughed. “‘Grown-ups’? That makes me feel old! Astrid, you are not a child, and I don’t think of you that way. Don’t take Brandt’s silly words to heart. Besides, it is a party for all my employees, and you are one of those as well.” She patted the lid of the box. “Don’t you want to try on your new party dress?”
I shot out of my seat. The box lid was emblazoned with an unfamiliar French name, but I knew no one but the most famous designers, anyway. I untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Within, swathed in layers of silver tissue paper, lay a pile of shimmering silk the color of mist in the moonlight. I lifted the dress from the wrappings. The material flowed like cool water over my hands. Sleeveless, with a wide boat neck, the dress fell in slim, draping lines to the floor. The bodice was simple and plain, with a dropped waist accented by clusters of crystals that looked like dewdrops. More crystals were scattered near the neckline, and shimmering organza scarves in the same blue-gray flowed from each shoulder.
It was, quite easily, the most beautiful item of clothing I’d ever held in my hands.
“Not exactly a camouflage habit, eh, Astrid?” Isabeau asked.
Dropping the dress to the bed, I threw my arms around her. “Thank you! It’s stunning!”
Isabeau hugged me back, laying her dark head on my shoulder. “I’m happy you like it. Now, let’s see if it fits.”
I realized the problem as soon as I got into the bathroom. Though the front of the dress possessed a neckline that would reveal only my collarbones, the back fell in a low, thickly-draped swoop three-quarters of the way to the waistline. It was gorgeous—on some other girl.
I cracked the door. “It’s backless.”
“Très chic, no?” Isabeau’s expression faltered. “Oh. Your scar.”
My scar. I stared down in disappointment at the dress in my hands. There was no way around it. The draping, not to mention the shoulder scarves, would prevent me from wearing any sort of shawl or cardigan over the dress.
“Chère,” came Isabeau’s voice from the other side of the door, “will you not even try it on for me?”
But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to put this magnificent gown on, knowing that I’d never be able to wear it. I didn’t want a taste of what it would have felt like to be some other, very pretty girl.
“Please, Astrid? For me?”
I stared at my reflection in the mirror and bit my lip. Even just holding the dress up, I knew the color was perfect for me. It made my light hair look luminous and pearlescent and highlighted my eyes. I draped the dress over the edge of the bath, then reached for my braid and undid the elastic holding the end in place. I shook my hair loose, fluffed it up until it fell in braided kinks to my waist, and pulled my shirt off.
A storm broke on the evening of the party. The wind whipped around the walls of the château, whining like some sort of injured wild thing. The moon was completely obscured by the dark clouds—that is, if there was any moon. The weather did not deter any of the guests, however. The château was packed with people, music, noise, and scents: of food and wine, of flowers and burning candle wax, of people’s perfume and the human odors the perfumes attempted to mask.
I could not sense fire and flood. I could not feel the unicorns. I stood by a long window near the landing outside the ballroom, l
ooking out over the backyard and the einhorn enclosure. The last time I’d seen Angel had been early this morning, before Isabeau had taken me to the salon to get ready for the party. I’d had a pedicure and manicure—the manicurist despaired over my short, ragged nails—then a massage followed by a facial that left my skin feeling tingly and tight. They’d tinted my eyelashes and styled my hair, grumbling again when I insisted that I didn’t want an elaborate updo. To pull off Isabeau’s beautiful dress, my hair had to remain long and loose. Period.
It was far too late to check on the baby. I was dressed in my gown and a pair of silver, high-heeled sandals, and a freezing rain was battering the grounds. I hoped everything was all right in the enclosure. Try as I might, I couldn’t sense the einhorns.
At least here, on the stairway landing, things were dim and quiet, with the bulk of the brightness, crush, and noise of the party in the next room. Isabeau had introduced me to many people this evening, but their names and faces had blurred together, and I’d quickly tired of their exclamations of delight and surprise at meeting a real, live “chasseur de licornes.” I hated the way their eyes lingered on the scars on my arms and hands, on the calluses that even the most intense manicure could not completely erase. I folded my arms behind my back, draping my scars beneath the fall of the organza scarves.
I was alone again now, away from conversations that moved too fast in French and the whispers and glances that I knew were about me, about magic, about all the rumors they’d heard regarding hunters. My mother would probably be completely in her element. I just wanted to escape to my room … or to the woods.
“You look like a goddess,” said a familiar voice at my back. I turned and there was Brandt, wearing a tuxedo like he was born in it and holding out a glass of champagne. “But I suppose that was the point.”
I lifted my chin and felt the ends of my hair brush against the base of my spine, the edges of the scar. I hadn’t expected to see him tonight, hadn’t even considered what Brandt would think of me in this dress.
Hadn’t considered Giovanni, either. This dress was for me. I was a goddess.
“When did you get back?” I took the flute, and he clinked his glass against mine.
He smiled. “This afternoon, while you were out getting pretty. Surprise!” He leaned in. “Miss me?”
And regretted every moment I did. But no way I’d admit it. “You’ve been gone for like a month. What have you been up to?”
Brandt sipped his champagne. “That, mon petit chou, is a secret.”
I clucked my tongue. “My French is getting better, you know. I’m not a cabbage.”
“No, you’re a goddess, like I said. Like Diana. I take it Isabeau picked that out for you?”
I smoothed my hand over the silk at my hip, painfully aware that Brandt noticed every single curve in the material. “Yes.”
He nodded. “Figures. Have to dress up our pets in the appropriate costumes, don’t we? After all, not too many folks can boast a unicorn hunter in their entourage.”
I sipped my champagne instead of replying. It wasn’t a costume. It was me—the one I never got to be, all wrapped up in habits or hunting clothes. Isabeau had seen it, and here I stood. More beautiful than I’d ever been in my life.
At least Brandt recognized that. I wasn’t that girl he’d made out with on an old tartan blanket back home. I wasn’t the girl he’d felt free to dump after she’d saved his life. I was something more. Something incredible.
“I really wish you’d stop talking that way about Isabeau,” I said. “She’s been nothing but wonderful to both of us. Who is it that paid for your monthlong vacation to wherever it was?”
“The good people at Gordian Pharmaceuticals.” He raised his glass to them. “And believe me, if Isabeau could get me off that payroll, she would.”
“I don’t see why you’re still on it, to be honest,” I said. “I mean, a few vials of your blood, what more can they possibly need you for?”
“Why would you want to get rid of me?” He put on an adorable frown.
“What’s the difference?” I said, as lightly as possible. “You’re never here.”
“A-ha! So you did miss me.”
“I—” I looked away, gripping the stem of my champagne flute. I took another drink, a long one, to make up for my silence. “It’s okay,” he said. “I missed you, too. I always miss you, Astrid.”
I turned around and caught my breath at the longing in his bright blue eyes. He was standing so close to me. But there was nowhere to go with the windowsill right at my back.
His voice lost some of its intensity. “And look at us now, all dressed up. This is like that prom we never did go to.”
“Did you go to prom?” I asked, my mouth dry. “After I left?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I don’t even remember who it was with.”
“Liar.” He remembered. And he probably slept with her, too. I had to keep that in mind. That was Brandt.
Except, that was also the old Brandt. The one who hadn’t seen his life flash before his eyes after being gored by a unicorn. The one who hadn’t run away to France to be part of a science experiment that might change the world. The one who hadn’t gotten a dose of the Remedy, who hadn’t the slightest idea what it felt like to have magic coursing through his veins.
I’d changed so much this year. Was it so difficult to believe that Brandt had changed as well?
He shook his head a single time. “I swear. I can’t remember any other girl but you.”
I rolled my eyes and turned away again to look out into the night. “Now I know you’re lying.”
There was a soft clink behind me and then I felt his hand on the nape of my neck, drawing my hair off my back. “I swear to you I’m not.”
A second later, his fingers, cooled by the champagne glass, began tracing the whorls of the scar on my back.
I flinched, but didn’t move away as the lines of the scar ignited beneath his touch. His fingertips buzzed against my skin. I shouldn’t let him do this. “Brandt—”
“I’m in love with you, Astrid,” he whispered in my ear. “Don’t you get that?”
I turned to face him, which was probably a mistake, because he didn’t back up a single inch, and I was left leaning against the freezing window, pressed between the winter storm and Brandt, who was burning hotter every moment. “No. You can’t be.”
“I am,” he insisted, his words trapping me more firmly than his touch could. “I went away, thinking I could stop it, but it didn’t work. I went away, thinking that maybe it was the idea of you—your strength, your magic, the fact that you saved my life. The fact that you, Astrid, are the girl that got away because I was too much of an idiot to realize what I had. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. I love you, Astrid.”
“Stop saying that,” I managed to choke out. “I have a boyfriend.”
“A boyfriend on the other side of the ocean. I couldn’t bear to put an ocean between us. I came back because I couldn’t even bear to put a few measly city-states between us. I need you, Astrid.”
The winter glass sizzled against my scar, and Brandt drew impossibly closer, until the silk of my dress rasped against his body.
“Please,” I begged. “Stop talking like that. It’s confusing.”
“It’s the truth,” he argued. “How can that confuse you? Would you rather I lied to you, said things I didn’t feel? That would be confusing.” He rested his head on my bare shoulder for a moment, breathing as hard as I was, then leaned over to my ear, his words coming in a rush of warm breath. “If you didn’t want me, too, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
That was my cue to move. But I didn’t. A storm raged within me, hot and cold swirling together, stealing my breath and all my more rational thoughts. Brandt melted against me, his weight pushing me hard against the glass, his left thigh sliding between my silk-encased legs. I gasped.
“Now who’s confusing?” Brandt said, and kissed me.
My lips didn’t part,
my hands remained clenched at my sides, but I didn’t push him away. I didn’t move my head to the side. I let him kiss me. I let him moan into my mouth, to punctuate each press of his lips with a murmured promise, with a whispered oath.
“You are so beautiful …” He drew the champagne glass from my fingers and set it on the window ledge. “So powerful …” His hands trailed up my sides and wove themselves in my hair. “So amazing …”
And then, somehow, he was standing between my legs, trapping me in a tangle of silken skirt. Somehow my hands had made it around his shoulders, clinging as if I was drowning in my dress and the tidal wave of Brandt. Somehow, my lips were parted, and his tongue was in my mouth, and I didn’t mind at all. I knew this, I remembered this, and this time, I wasn’t thinking about what it all meant. Brandt smelled like home, he tasted like my old life, and his kisses set my nerves ringing with a chord I knew well. It was unicorn magic and somehow—somehow—he was able to connect to it.
“Oh, wow,” he murmured. “Can you feel it?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Can’t I please, please, please just touch you? Can’t I be with you? Oh God, Astrid, please, don’t turn me away… .” He kissed me again, and I felt it in every cell of my body. “I’d do anything … I’d do anything to be with you … to feel for even a moment what you feel all the time—”
And then he was ripped away from me. I slid against the window, breathless, and stared. Brandt’s eyes were wild; his arms reached for me in vain. But Isabeau Jaeger, a vision in black velvet, her face darker than the storm outside, held on to him by the collar of his jacket.
“Enough,” she said.
18
WHEREIN ASTRID TAKES A STAND
Ascendant Page 23