It was clear he was used to having his way with girls, and in a dozen ways he let her know that he was interested in her. She’d feel the pressure of his eyes, and turn around to find him gazing at her as one might a complicated, layered painting. The intensity of his attention was seductive.
Sometimes he’d pull his chair around so they could share his book. He’d sit about an inch away, always maintaining that tiny distance, as if he knew exactly where she was at all times.
As he bent his head over Faulk, she’d find herself staring at the curve of his jaw with its pale bristle of beard, the jagged scar that narrowly missed his right eye, his muscular forearms corded with veins.
She noticed everything—the way he yawned and stretched, arching his back like a cat, belatedly covering his mouth with his hand. The many colors in his hair—pale butter and cream, reddish gold and platinum. How he often repeated a question, as if to buy time to conjure up the answer. The way he always sat facing the door, perhaps a leftover from Ragmarket, and groped for his knife when startled. How he constantly slid his hand into his shirt, releasing power into his amulet.
He wasn’t proud or arrogant, but there was a self-confidence about him that said he knew what he wanted and he was going to get it, and you’d better not get in his way. It had probably served him well as streetlord of the Raggers.
How could she be noticing Han Alister when she was still brokenhearted over Amon Byrne? Did the destruction of one dream leave a vacuum that required filling with another?
Is a broken heart more vulnerable? she wondered. Am I fickle or self-destructive?
I am not going through this again.
But she’d come to look forward to their twice-weekly meetings more than she cared to admit.
Often they continued beyond the agreed-upon two hours. Raisa had tried to enforce the deadline at first, but gave up. Han Alister could always charm her into staying longer.
This evening, when she arrived, sandwiches and cider were set out on the table. Along with a beautifully enameled and jeweled music box.
“This is lovely,” she said, opening the lid and examining the intricate mechanism with her trader eye. It was clanwork, probably an antique. She looked up at him, puzzled. “What’s it for?”
“It’s for you,” he said, gesturing awkwardly. “A gift.”
“I can’t accept this,” she said, feeling the blood rush to her face. She tried to give it back to him, but he put his hands behind him, so she set it down on the table.
“I brought it for selfish reasons,” he said. “I want you to teach me to dance.”
Raisa looked up at him, startled. “What? Why?”
“There’s always the chance I’ll be invited to a party,” he said. “I want to be ready just in case.” The blue eyes were wide and innocent.
“There are so many other topics we haven’t covered yet,” Raisa protested. “Officers of the court, appropriate dress for social situations, protocols of the hunt, correspondence guidelines —”
“I hear lots of business is done at parties,” Han said, sticking out his chin. “I know some clan dances, but I need to know how to dance city-style.”
“What kind of dances do you want to learn?” Raisa asked, rolling her eyes.
“The kind where you hold your partner,” he said, winding up the music box. “What’s that one called?”
We call that trouble, Raisa thought as the music began.
It was a northern song, “Flower of the Mountains.” A rush of homesickness overwhelmed her. “Oh!” she said. “I love that song. Where did you get this?”
“There’s a music store on the Mystwerk side, close to the Temple School,” Han said. He stood in front of her, holding out his hands, waist high.
Raisa pulled her hands back. “First, let me show you the footwork. This one’s called High Country Step.” She demonstrated. “Now you try.” She watched as he attempted it. “That’s almost it, but it’s step-step-back-step-slide.” He tried again. “And then forward.”
After a few more practice steps, Raisa held out her own hands. “Let’s try it together now. Follow me.” She placed his right hand on her left hip, keeping hold of his left hand with her right. The magic in his hands was well controlled, subtle, and potent. It went to her head like Bruinswallow wine.
“Now, step-step-back, good, good, forward —” They practiced over and over, recranking the music box when needed, snatching gulps of cider and bites of sandwich in between.
It’s a good thing I like this song, Raisa thought.
When Han had mastered the High Country Step, they moved on to Square Round, If My True Love Would Just Be True, and Rose Among the Thorns. The last one was complicated, and even though Han seemed to be a natural dancer, they repeatedly got their feet tangled up.
“Wait! Wait!” Raisa said, when they seemed in danger of toppling over. “Stop, stop, stop!”
They ended up holding on to each other to keep from toppling, flushed and laughing, panting from the exertion.
“I think I need more practice,” Han said, shaking his head.
“Nobody ever gets that one right,” Raisa replied. “Never mind. I think you’re ready for dancing.”
“Good,” he said, grinning. “Now ask me to the Cadets’ Ball.”
“Cadets’ Ball! Who told you about the — ?” Raisa said, baffled, and then it came to her. “Talia told you! I know it was her.” She shook her head. “I’m not going.”
“Please, Rebecca,” he coaxed. “There’s more to a dance than dancing. It would give me a chance to practice everything—table manners, blueblood talk, the whole lot. And it’s not just that. I want to go with you.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Unless you’re already walking out with someone.”
Raisa thought about lying, but knew Talia would have spilled the truth already. “No.” She shook her head, avoiding his eyes. “I’m not walking out with anyone.”
Don’t you dare, she thought. Don’t you dare tell me you’ll make me forget Amon Byrne.
But he didn’t. Instead, he put his fingers under her chin and lifted her head so she was looking up at him. “Lucky me,” he murmured, and kissed her. Slowly and thoroughly, like someone who knew what he was doing.
Raisa had loved kissing Amon Byrne, but it seemed they’d never had an uninterrupted kiss.
With Micah, every kiss had been a skirmish in their ongoing war. Exciting but brutal.
Reid Demonai was talented enough, and certainly experienced —
But she’d never been kissed like this.
And, like a fool, she kissed him back. Kissed him in a way that would leave no doubt how she felt about him. Kissed him because she knew that chances were slim she’d have very many kisses like that in her lifetime.
Which is a sad thing when you’re only sixteen.
He backed up until he came up against the chair, and he sat, pulling her onto his lap. And there were more kisses—hungry kisses that seemed to have been stacking up during the weeks they’d been meeting. She gave in to them completely, winding her fingers into his pale hair, pulling his head down for more.
There was wizardry in his kisses, but it was subtle, like the after notes of something rich and intoxicating on its own.
She ended up with her arms wrapped around him, shivering, her cheek pressed against his chest, breathing hard, not wanting to let go. But knowing she had to.
“We can’t do this,” Raisa whispered, almost to herself. “It’s just going to make matters worse.”
Han stroked her hair, shifting his body under her. “Why? What are you afraid of? Thieves or wizards?”
“Both,” she said.
“Is it because I’m not a blueblood?” He asked this matter-of-factly, as if he really wanted to know.
“That’s the least of it,” Raisa said, taking a shuddering breath. “This is just going to lead to heartbreak, and I refuse to have my heart broken again.” She looked up at him. “I thought I could play at love. I thought I had
the right, same as — as any courtier or a — a streetlord.”
He shook his head. “Rebecca, listen, I—”
“But I’ve found out I’m not made that way,” she interrupted. “I can’t play this game if my heart’s not in it. That’s me personally. I’m not judging anyone else.”
“I see,” he said. He tightened his arms around her, brushing his fingers along her collarbone, setting her nerves tingling. “What’s your heart saying now?”
She wanted to be honest with him, even though she’d probably pay for it. “I’m in trouble,” she whispered.
Han didn’t say anything for a long time. “I can’t guarantee I won’t hurt you,” he said finally, “because there’s a lot I can’t control. What I can tell you is that hurting you is the last thing I want to do.”
“You won’t be able to help it,” Raisa said, swiping at her eyes. “And it’s not just a matter of you hurting me. I will hurt you too, even if I don’t mean to. I’m not the girl you think I am. And you will remember this conversation, and wish that you’d listened to me.” She burrowed her hands into his. “How can you want this if you know from the beginning that it will end badly?” Tell him the truth, said a voice in her head. But she just couldn’t. She didn’t dare.
He searched her face with his eyes, as if trying to surface the story behind the words. Then he kissed her eyelids and the tip of her nose, and once again, her lips. With each kiss, her resistance dwindled.
“I live in the present,” Han said, “because the future is always chancy. When it comes to being with you, I’m willing to take the risk. Are you?”
“Now I’ll feel like a coward if I don’t.” Raisa leaned back against him. Looked up at his face and traced the scar above his eye with her forefinger. “How did you get this?” she asked.
“Took a risk,” he said, his blue eyes fixed on her face.
“Was it worth it?”
He thought about it. “Yes.”
“All right,” Raisa said, giving in. “Let’s take a risk. But we’ll go slow.”
His arms tightened around her again. She felt the thud of his heart against her back. “I don’t want to go slow,” he whispered in her ear. “Like I said, I live for the present. Every time I try to set something aside for the future, it gets taken away.”
“I know,” Raisa said. “But we will take it slow, just the same.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
WHEN DREAMS
TURN TO
NIGHTMARES
Han opened his eyes and found himself staring at the ceiling in his library hideout room.
He was on the hardwood floor, and knew immediately from the stiffness in his joints that he’d been lying there for hours. He rubbed his hand over his face. It was stubbly. How long had he been there? As usual, it seemed there were great chunks of time he couldn’t account for.
Massaging his temples, he tried to remember what had happened in his session with Crow. Crow had shown him how to bring other wizards with him to Aediion. He’d demonstrated the technique and made him memorize the charm.
Han sat up, waited for his head to stop spinning, then levered himself to his feet. Something crinkled under his coat. Sliding his hand inside, he found several pages folded together. Carefully, he unfolded them. Yellowed and fragile, they looked like pages torn from one of the ancient books on the floors above.
One was a map, the ink faded and water-spotted. A wavery title arched over the drawing. “Gray Lady.” He sat back on his heels. Gray Lady was the mountain at the edge of the Vale where the Wizard Council House was located, along with homes of the most prominent wizards in the Vale. He scanned the drawing. On the map, the mountain appeared to be honeycombed by tunnels, with several entrances marked prominently.
A note was scrawled on the back, in his own handwriting. Keep hidden; keep safe.—H. Alister.
It was totally unfamiliar. Where had it come from? What did it mean?
Was Aediion bleeding over into real life?
He sorted through the other pages. They were charms, written in a language so archaic he could scarcely make them out. At the bottom, initialed with a series of large elaborate letters, was HRMAW. And an insignia—the serpent, staff, and crown he’d seen before.
HRMAW?
Crossing to the window, Han looked out. The lamplighters were kindling the lanterns that hung from the academy buildings. Which meant he’d missed dinner. He felt weak, starving, and completely depleted of power.
But that didn’t make any sense. He’d met with Crow after dinner. The lamps would have been lit a long time ago. Was the amulet so packed with evil power that it was making him sick?
Swearing, he gathered up his books and papers, cramming them into his carry bag, putting the ancient pages in on top. He skipped the longer route across the rooftops, and took a chance with the back staircase to the main floor of the library. The proficient at the main desk looked up, blinking, from his textbook. “The library’s closed, Alister. I thought everybody had already gone.”
“Sorry,” Han said. “I fell asleep.” He paused by the desk. “What day is it?”
The proficient grinned. “You need to quit working so much. It’s Sunday.”
Sunday. He’d met with Crow Saturday evening. So he’d lost an entire day. And gained a map of Gray Lady. And some charms.
And suddenly it came to him—what was going on. He’d been a fool for sure.
Han sped past the proficient and shouldered open the large double doors.
Crossing the Mystwerk quad, he loped up the steps of Hampton Hall two at a time, hoping Dancer was there. But the entire dormitory seemed deserted. Was everyone at dinner?
Stopping in front of his door, Han bent and retrieved the matchstick that had fallen from the latch. Someone had opened the door to his room since he’d last been there.
Han slid his hand inside his cloak and rested it on the hilt of the knife he still carried everywhere. His drained amulet would do him little good now. Gently easing the door open, Han scanned the room. Nothing out of place. No one there.
Slipping inside, he shut the door, latched it, and took a closer look around. At first, everything seemed undisturbed. Then he noticed that some objects had been shifted. The papers spread over his desk were slightly off from where they had been. He pulled open the drawer in his wardrobe. The lentils he’d carefully arranged on the lip of the slide had been dumped into the drawer. The bit of powder he’d puffed onto the latch of his trunk was smeared.
Over the last few weeks, Han had left off placing his magical barriers so he could save all his power for his sessions with Crow. He’d set up his little gambits two days before, after he’d returned to his room and found a window open that should have been closed.
He rubbed his chin. Would Micah chance it, after what had happened to his cousins? Not unless he’d found some kind of counter-charm or talisman.
It was possible Dancer had come in looking for something.
Someone banged on his door, nearly stopping his heart. “Hunts Alone!” Dancer called through the door.
Han swung it open to find Dancer in the doorway, dressed in his formal Mystwerk robes. “Where have you been?” he said. “It was the Dean’s Dinner tonight. Abelard wasn’t happy when you didn’t show. She said to remind you to come to her office next Wednesday at seven, or else. She said you would know what it was about.”
That would be the “class” on Aediion.
Han swore and dropped onto his bed, putting his face in his hands, feeling besieged.
Dancer put his hand on Han’s shoulder. “Are you all right? Are you sick?”
Han shook his head. “My problem is I don’t know where I’ve been all day.” He explained what had happened.
Dancer shook his head, an “I told you so” expression on his face. “I think you’re a fool if you go back there. I don’t care if Crow’s taught you how to turn dung into gold, it’s not worth losing your mind. I don’t trust him. I think he’s up to something.
”
“I have to go back to Aediion next Wednesday, remember? Abelard insists I teach her protégés how to do it, or I’ll be expelled.”
Dancer raked back his hair. “I’m glad I’m just a copperhead, beneath notice.”
“Crow doesn’t think they can do it with the amulets they have. He showed me how to bring them along.” Han sat in glum silence for a long moment. “Do you want to hear my theory?”
Dancer sat down in Han’s desk chair, resting his hands on the arms. “Please.”
“A couple of times Crow has kind of slid into my head to demonstrate a charm or technique. I don’t know how else to describe it.”
“Slid into your head?” Dancer raised his eyebrows. “He possessed you?”
It sounded even worse, hearing it spoken aloud.
Han nodded, staring down at his hands. “Now I think he’s doing it just as I close the portal and cross back. I think he crosses with me. Then he takes over.” He looked up at Dancer. “One time I found myself on the eighth floor of Bayar Library, with no idea how I got there. Tonight, I had documents stuffed inside my shirt that I’d never seen.”
“What kind of documents?”
“Old papers and maps. From the library, apparently.” Han pulled the strange documents from his carry bag and spread them out on the bed.
Dancer looked them over and shook his head. “Don’t go back,” he said. “There’s your solution.”
“I’m going back,” Han said. “I won’t let Crow keep me out of Aediion. It an’t—isn’t his turf. But I need to find a way to keep him out of my head.”
“What you need is a talisman,” Dancer said, stretching out his legs. He wore leggings and clan boots under his wizard robes. “One that protects against mind magic.”
Han recalled what Mordra had said—that the clans had developed talismans against possession, making it less useful as a tactic.
“You know where I can get one?” Han said, feeling somewhat more hopeful.
Dancer shook his head. “Back home, maybe. Here, I’d have to research and then make it. I’ll talk to Firesmith.”
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