by Cat Hellisen
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.” I manage a twitchy almost-smile. “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t that serious.” These are the things I need to tell myself. It means nothing that he was my first—someone had to be. “And I really didn’t know him as well as I’d hoped.”
“You’ll meet someone else,” Jannik says. “Someone who’ll treat you better.”
I want to laugh hysterically at the bat’s inane platitudes. “Oh, and just who exactly? I’ve destroyed my life. I can never go back home. I’ll probably end up living in Stilt City married to a drunken river-Hob and producing half-breeds like maggots.”
“Charming.” He shifts so that he can lean back against the wall. He’s sitting kitty-corner to me now, and he’s not looking directly at me. It means I can study him. In profile, he’s awkward, his nose too long and straight for his face. But other than that, he’s handsome enough. If he wasn’t a bat, he’d be plain. It’s the coal-dark hair and the pallor of his skin that make him so striking. So interesting to look at.
I used to think he was ugly.
He turns, and our eyes meet. The unearthly indigo is the color of the sky as the first stars rise, and my heart stutters for an instant. This is not the sea green and coppice brown of Hobs and Lammers. It is something wild and strange and subtle. For that one lost heartbeat, I see Jannik as he is.
“What about you?” I say. “What’s going to happen to you?”
Jannik laughs. “I’ve no idea, but I’m quite certain that it’s not what I want.”
“What’s that then?”
“The usual. Meet a nice girl, fall in love, have two children, keep the books balanced, perhaps publish some small collections of verse.”
“That’s horrifically dull,” I say, when in fact I am oddly entranced by this marriage of poetry and mathematics and the contradictions it implies. “Why two?”
“It’s neat. Orderly.”
“I always wanted six.”
That makes him turn to face me. “Are you insane? Why would anyone want six children? It’s like a bloody litter of dragon-dogs.”
His expression—part genuine shock and part curiosity—surprises a laugh out of me. “Because I grew up practically an only child, and I always wished for more brothers and sisters to play with. I thought it would have been wonderful. We could have had all these adventures…” I smile, remembering my childhood, playing games with the imaginary family I created for myself. Poor Ilven, constantly having to remember all the names of my vast, nonexistent clan of playmates.
“It’s really not all that wonderful. I’m the youngest of four, and I don’t think I’ve ever exchanged more than a sentence or two at a time with either of my brothers. And my sister barely speaks to us. Just because you are family doesn’t guarantee you’ll be friends.”
I don’t want to talk about family.
The room is very still, and the smell of the leaves outside the window, clean and green, mingles with the distant ocean musk. This far up, I can’t smell the rot. I close my eyes. Like this, with everything calm and quiet, I can feel Jannik’s magic filling the space around me. It is insubstantial as mist, and just when I think I have a lock on it, it thins and disappears. “You’re magic,” I say softly into the dark, finally acknowledging why he fascinates me.
I can hear him shifting, feel the way the air is displaced, and a fresh wash of the strange power laps against my skin.
“In a manner of speaking,” he says.
My eyes flick open. The room is layered in grays and blues. Across from me Jannik is staring narrowly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” When he doesn’t answer I press on. “It’s illegal. Only the high-Lammers are allowed magic, the sharif could have you killed—”
“We can do nothing with it,” he says. “Do you kill the unicorns because they are magical? The sphynxes? No.” He shakes his head, a very controlled movement, barely there at all. “We’re just animals, after all.”
“You’re telling me that you have all this magic inside you, and you can’t access it?” It sounds eerily like the high-Lammers. “There must be a way to tap it—scriv, perhaps?”
“No.” He leans back, away from me, forcing a physical distance between us. “There are a handful of feyn—women in our family line—who can use magic, but as for the rest of us…” Jannik’s staring at me again, a careful look. “Think of us as carriers of a disease.”
“So that’s why the women are more important,” I say. “You’re just—”
“Breeding stock.” He grins, flashing his sharp teeth. “I come from a powerful line, but even that’s not enough. There are too many wray for it to matter.”
“So you’ll just end up”—I wave my hands in the air, skimming for some kind way to put it—“as some kind of glorified servant?”
“Essentially.” His grin hasn’t slipped. “Mother will keep me in reserve.”
“Alone.”
He nods.
I feel awful. I wonder which is worse, being condemned to a marriage you don’t want or being forced into solitude in case your bloodline is ever needed.
“In MallenIve, most of the wray are indentured whores,” Jannik says. “So I shouldn’t complain.”
“There are free vampires there,” I argue. “There’s even a marriage between one and House Guyin. It can’t be as bad as people say.”
He stares at me unblinking.
“So run away.” I feel like I’ve made up my mind on his behalf. I grab at his wrist and hold fast despite the sharp prickle of magic. “Do something—”
“And what then?” He pulls his arm free and with a quick twist catches my own. His thumb is against the blue vein on the inside of my wrist, pressing down on my pulse. I feel sudden warmth, my skin throbbing in time with my speeding heartbeat. “What am I supposed to do out there?” He nods at the window, at Pelimburg slumbering. “I’d be even more alone. You know nothing about us, your people are scared of us.”
“I’m not scared.”
His grip tightens on my wrist, and I force myself to not pull away. “Yes, you are,” Jannik says, and he lets go. “You still think I’m going to bleed you dry.” His head is lowered now, he’s refusing to look at me. “And I wouldn’t do that. When we hunt, we feed off nillies. Feeding from people is different, it’s not really about food.”
“So explain it to me.”
“No.”
Impossible damn bat. I shiver and hug my knees. I think I’ve overexerted myself tonight and that’s good because maybe I can sleep and not think about Dash, not think about Anja, who was crying against him. I can forget about his hatred for my family. I’ve decided it’s all lies, that everything that came out of his mouth was meant to wound. He does everything with a reason, and he made me trust him just so he could break me harder.
He’s worse than my brother.
Jannik’s voice intrudes, disrupting my thoughts. “What if I told you that there is a bond in blood, that it’s more than a Lammer’s paper marriage, that it’s about magic and death?”
I sigh. “I’d say you were being overly dramatic and that you should take up a permanent table at the Crake.”
“If I feed too long from one person, after a while I start to know where he is. Then I know what he’s feeling—”
“I’m tired.”
“And then what he’s thinking.”
“Jannik, I don’t want to hear this.” I rub my knuckles into my eyes. Maybe if I don’t look at Jannik, I can pretend that what he’s saying has no relevance.
“Go to sleep,” he says after a while. “I’ll take the floor again.”
“You don’t have to.” My eyes are still shut tight so I can’t see his expression, but the air in the room feels different, almost expectant. “It’s a big bed. We can both sleep in it and barely know the other one is there.”
“All right,” he says carefully. “If you’re certain.”
I’m really tired now, so I grunt noncommittally and crawl under the
duvet. After a few minutes the weight on the end of the bed shifts and I can feel Jannik leave. He must have gone to sleep on the floor.
Then the covers lift and I realize that he’s changed out of his clothes and taken up my generous offer of allowing him to sleep in his own bed. He’s far from me, careful that we do not touch.
“Good night,” he whispers, and I manage to pull myself out of my half sleep enough to murmur something back. Then the night closes in on me, blanking out my memories.
17
MY ARM IS CURLED loosely around a warm body, my face against his neck. His hair is tickling my nose.
At first I think I have woken up in Dash’s room—that last night never happened—and then magic flutters against my cheeks. I lie perfectly still, feeling the insect tickle as the glamour tracks across my skin. It’s nervous. Uncertain. My breath is held; I did not think magic was sentient.
There is an ache in my chest, so sharp and hard, so tight and cold.
The patter stops, and I let my breath out in a soft whoosh. The bat magic isn’t alive any more than scriv-fueled Lammer magic is. They are so very different in feel though, and I put it down to bats’ magic being organic, part of them, the way a uni’s is. It’s addictive though, this brush of the other. Why don’t I feel disgusted lying next to a bat, its magic crawling over me? I should feel filthy, should want to scrub the touch of it from my skin. Instead, I brush my fingers along Jannik’s shoulder and feel the faint pulse of the magic through the cotton of his nightshirt. The thrill that shudders through me is not from his magic but from something warmer, something more real and now. I keep my fingers resting against his back, not wanting to break this illicit contact. The longer I stay like that, the harder it is for me to pull away. I study the curve of his ear, the line of his cheek. A lock of dark hair is tucked behind his ear, the black tip like an ink brush drawing shadows across the white of the pillowcase.
This is wrong.
I swallow and draw my hand back. Clutch it between my breasts and wait for the rhythm of my heart to return to normal.
Careful not to wake him, I roll away. The sheets here are cold, chilling my skin and dragging me to the present.
Last night comes back to me: the look on Dash’s face when I saw him, the feel of the rain beating against my skin like tiny silver-cold hammers. I bite my lip. Stop it, Felicita. Don’t think about it.
“You’re awake?” Jannik says, his voice muffled by the pillow. He doesn’t turn to face me.
I wonder how long he has been lying there, listening to me breathe, feeling my fingertips against the sweep of his shoulder blade.
Through the window the sun is bright, and the birdsong coming from the branches of the stately oaks planted along the avenues is loud. I’ll be late for my shift at the Crake. If I even still have a job there. And I don’t care. I stretch my arms above my head and point my toes, feeling tired muscles crack and ease.
“I’m … here,” I answer. And I am. I’m me again. I’m the daughter of a Great House, and I will not be brought down by the infidelity of Hobs. I’m going to find a way to go back home with my honor intact. Leave Dash and his flunkies for good.
Then I think of my mother dealing with the inevitable mockery, her already brittle relationship with me shattering. My brother’s scorn and disgust. They’ll know I lived with the Hobs, they’ll assume I bedded down with them. Nothing I can say will make that better. Perhaps I could run to MallenIve, and from there begin a correspondence. We have apartments, holdings. I could oversee our assets there … and who would be stupid enough to marry me? In MallenIve there’s a chance that they would at least do business with a woman, unlike in Pelimburg. But I am not one for figures and accounts. I have never had a head for business. Oh, I could make deals and be the face of our House, but how would I know to choose one offer over another? Or when to hold out for a more fair transaction? I need a business partner, and I can think of no one I trust.
So I will face this day like any other. With a sigh, I roll over and scoot off the edge of the bed. Jannik is looking at me, only one eye visible. I give him a slightly embarrassed wave and tiptoe through to the bathroom.
My clothes, despite the fact that I wrung them out and hung them over the bath to drip-dry, are still damp. Jannik’s nightshirt is so warm and comfortable that I have to fight myself to take it off and get dressed in the cold layers.
Everything feels too tight against my skin, and I’m horribly uncomfortable. I hope my clothes will dry as I walk to work—the sun is out and the storm has swept past Pelimburg.
When I get back to his room, Jannik has dressed in a plain black suit; the only hint of color is in his dark olive necktie. He looks pale and sickly, and I wonder if part of the disgust we feel for the bats comes from the way they remind us of illness and death. Well, that and the fact that they feed on blood.
Unbidden, the nightmare memory of Anja at the bat party rises again. I wonder if Dash knows that just a few nights ago she was stretched out naked under a bat and probably begged him to bed her afterward. Of course, I suppose he’s done much the same. Let them comfort each other, then. I swallow down my revulsion and shiver.
“You’re leaving already?” Jannik says.
I nod. “I’m late. Even if I run I won’t make it there on time.”
“Oh. I assumed you’d be riding with me.” He stumbles over the words and a faint frown puckers his brow.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I have to go to our buildings by the docks. New stock of rockrose and sandalwood is coming in from MallenIve today, and I need to check the quality and see if we should place more orders.” He cocks his head slightly. “It wouldn’t be that much trouble to take you to the Crake.”
It would certainly help, and it’s not like I haven’t ridden in a carriage with him before. Or, I muse, shared his bed. I flush at the memory of magic caressing me, wrapping me up in a shroud of windle-silk. It’s better that I concentrate on his magic than remember watching him sleep and thinking him strange and beautiful.
We walk through a house just rising, and servants bow or curtsey as Jannik passes. They ignore me in my drab work clothes. I pull my mostly dry shawl tighter around my shoulders and dip my head so that I don’t have to look into their eyes and see the thoughts there.
Lammer-whore.
I am not this thing. I raise my head sharply, and with my chin jutted out I walk alongside Jannik, willing these Gris-damned bats to say something, anything. The anger waits inside me, cold and ready. Even I know it’s just a façade. I’m so scared now that I have nowhere left to go. My armor is frost thin and just as useful.
Nothing happens, no one breaks my meager defenses.
Instead, Jannik takes my arm and we walk down the steps to the waiting carriage.
* * *
THE COACH RATTLES and jolts across the bridge. By now I’m strangely calm inside, as if last night happened to some other person. Both of us sit in comfortable silence, and I watch the buildings flicker past us and let the rocking carriage soothe away my thoughts until I am empty. The faint reflection of my face is laid out on the glass, like a ghost over the city. I look wan, tired.
“I—I’d like to see you again, if that’s possible,” Jannik says.
The words break into my cocoon, pull it apart. I stare at him in confusion. He is frowning slightly, not really looking up at me. He pulls a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and twists it around his fingers. “There’s a new tearoom that’s opened on Fletcher Street. I—p-perhaps,” he stutters. Then he lets the last words free in a rush, “Perhaps you could join me there tonight? Or tomorrow or…”
I have no idea how to answer. What could I possibly have said that would make him think there could ever be something between us? After all, there is no precedent in Pelimburg for a relationship between a vampire and a high-Lammer. While I’m wondering what to say to him to let him down as gently as I can without making some kind of fuss, all expression slides from his face. He l
eans back and looks past me, through me, and the white eyelids flick down and cover his pupils.
“I apologize,” he says. “You need time to get over your previous relationship.”
It’s a convenient out for both of us. I nod and look away from him, stare instead at my hands, curled up in a tight ball on my lap.
I want to say something to him, to tell him that it’s all right, but my words are dead. “It’s not about you being a—” I begin, but he saves me the trouble of my little fabrication by cutting me off.
“I understand.” His voice is brittle. The magic around him is thickening, twisting in on itself. It’s almost as if I can see it turning the air dark. My breath catches and he must hear the soft gasp, for the magic stills, goes quiet.
What does it taste like, this magic of his. Would it be scriven-sharp and sweet or would it run like blood across my tongue. I push the thought back. What am I thinking? To grind up his bones into dust like desperate high-Lammers do with uni-horn when they can’t get scriv?
The carriage jerks to a halt and I look up. The Crake is already open, the tables set up on the wide gray sidewalk.
But nothing is normal.
Dash is standing there, arms folded, waiting. Behind him are the other Whelk Streeters, looking defiant and angry.
They’re far from alone. A crowd is slowly gathering, people spilling in from the alleyways and side streets. The snatches of ever-present skip-rope songs are gone, their message relayed, their role played.
“What’s going on?”
Jannik shakes his head. “I’ve no more idea than you.”
The vampire coachman opens the door. I’m supposed to get out. Forcing my feet to step forward, I allow the coachman to take my hand and help me down from the shining black carriage. Dash is already striding forward, but he stops in confusion when he sees me.
“Tell the bat to go play with his numbers down in the Old Town warehouses. He has no place here with us,” he says. He sounds angry, but under that is a constricting fear, so dense that it is palpable.