Black Swan Rising (25 page)

I must have made a noise because Jay opened his eyes. For a moment he didn’t look surprised to see me standing there, but then his eyes widened and he dropped his guitar pick. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t want you to stop,” I said, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. “Um, is Becky—”

“She went back to Williamsburg with Fiona.”

“You know you don’t have to stay. They’ve caught the burglars.”

“I can go if you want me to.”

“No! I didn’t mean it that way, Jay. You’re always welcome to stay. You’re my best friend—” I didn’t have to have psychic abilities to see him wince at the word
friend.
“Jay—”

He interrupted me, which was a mercy because I didn’t have the slightest idea what to say to him next. “Um, actually, Garet, I have a favor to ask you.”

“Yes?” I asked, bracing myself for a profession of undying love.

“Uh, can I crash here a little longer? I mean, even after your dad comes back? I can sleep on the couch and I can keep an eye on him. Make him soup and stuff.”

“Of course, Jay, you can stay here as long as you want . . . but why—?”

I knew the answer before he said it. I saw the whole scene in his head, the fight with Becky and Fiona and the record producer after the show tonight. Becky calling Jay a hangover from the sixties, Fiona telling him to
grow up
. The condescending smile of the record producer as he told Jay, “Go home and mull it over, man. You’ll see the light in the morning.” The peal of laughter Jay heard coming from their table as he left the club.

“I think I’m leaving the band,” Jay said, strumming a chord on the guitar. “Who knew I’d be the Stuart Sutcliffe of the group, huh?”

I winced at the reference to the “Fifth Beatle,” who’d died of a brain hemorrhage shortly after leaving the group. “Oh, Jay,” I said, patting his arm, “it’s a bad time right now. People are . . . tense. Maybe you should give it some time.”

“Yeah, well. Time I’ve got plenty of.” He gave me a brave smile, made all the more heartrending by the words I could hear inside his head:
That’s all I’ve got.

I was exhausted when I got back to my studio, but I knew right away that I wasn’t going to be able to sleep. When I closed my eyes, I saw the limp, drained bodies of the light sylphs—or Jay’s face, similarly drained of happiness. I sat down at my worktable and idly considered casting some molds for medallions. I had orders that were overdue. But then I recalled what had happened the last time I handled a welding torch when I was overtired. So I leaned back in my chair and stared out the window, then leaned back farther and stared out the skylight. The plywood board Becky had nailed up had come loose. Fixing
it was something I could do. I couldn’t hurt myself too badly with a hammer, could I?

I scrambled up on top of the table and reached for the board, but my fingers barely scraped it. Somehow Becky—a good seven inches shorter than me—had got up here. She must have done what the burglars had—and what we’d done back in high school when we wanted to go up on the roof—climbed up the metal bookshelf. As I stepped on a shelf, I wondered if I was heavier than I’d been in high school and whether the shelf would hold my weight, but then it had held the burglars’ weight. Besides, I’d just flown over Manhattan. What did I have to be afraid of?

I found a hammer on the top shelf that Becky must have used and turned it around to use the claw to pull out the nails from the plywood board. They clinked, one by one, onto the metal table below me. When the board came loose, I lowered it onto the top shelf. A gust of cold air came pouring through the broken skylight. Above me I could see a clear sky studded with stars. Had they ever looked this bright over the city before—or was it my enhanced sight that made them look like a million diamonds against a velvet cloak?

All thought of fixing the skylight gone, I climbed up the rest of the shelves and pulled myself through the skylight and out onto the roof—thankfully Becky had cleared the broken glass away. I hadn’t been up here since those summer nights that Jay and I had listened to jazz records while drinking bourbon purloined from Roman’s liquor cabinet. I’d forgotten how good the view was and how liberating it felt to stand among the city buildings with their water towers and hidden rooftop gardens. The rooftop world of the city, like the underground world of
pipes and tunnels that lay beneath the city, had always struck me as a secret world. I’d had no idea how right I’d been! Fairies and goblins held court beneath the streets, and sprites and sylphs soared above them.

I stared at the stars until they seemed to be revolving in great balls of fire. When I squinted, the sky looked like van Gogh’s
Starry Night
and I remembered what Will Hughes had said about van Gogh falling in love with the colors of the night. Right now I could think of worse fates. I closed my eyes and spread my arms. I felt the wind running through my outspread fingers and through my hair. I could hear the wind’s song again and on it the millions of voices in the city. I was only listening for one voice, though. I had only heard it twice—would I be able to conjure it up now?

I found I had no problem hearing it in my head. I focused on
his
voice until it was louder than all the other voices on the wind, and then I said his name aloud, letting the wind take it.

I waited, feeling foolish . . . and foolhardy. Oberon had warned me against him. He had called him a creature of the dark . . . and he was right. But I could feel his pull on me like a dark tide stirring my blood, his silver gaze the moon that moves the oceans. In his car last night he had asked me if I felt as if I had no choice in my feelings for him, and I hadn’t known how to answer. I still didn’t. Was I calling him now because he had contaminated my blood with his and put me under his power? Was he luring me into the world of the dark where I’d become like him—a vampire? Shouldn’t I feel revulsion at that idea? Shouldn’t I be fleeing from him, not calling his name to the wind?

No matter, I told myself, it probably wouldn’t work anyway . . .

A current of air blowing through my hair turned warm . . . caressed my neck . . . and spoke.

“You called?”

I swirled around so quickly I lost my balance. His arm was on mine before I saw it move. “I didn’t know if that would work. You really heard me?”

“Clear as a bell. You must have met Ariel.”

“Yes. She took me flying. . . . Can
you
fly? Is that how you got here so fast?”

He smiled, his eyes flashing silver in the dark. “Not exactly. I can move
very
fast, though. In fact, in exceptional circumstances my parts—meaning my atoms—can move much faster than I can. But I don’t routinely engage in
that
sort of motion. In any event, I wasn’t far away.”

I noticed he was dressed in black jeans and a black trench coat. With his collar up he faded into the night. “Are you stalking me?” I asked, trying to sound reproving.

“Just keeping an eye on you. You seem to forget that Dee has already tried to murder you.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” I shuddered at the memory of the manticore and the stalker in the park. “But I think he’s been otherwise engaged.” I told him about the light sylphs. His eyes narrowed at my description of their drained and lifeless bodies. I couldn’t tell if the look was pity or confusion.

“I don’t understand why Dee would bother with such weak and helpless things,” he said. “They may not have been his real target.”

“You mean they were just collateral damage? Then who was Dee trying to kill?”

“Not who, but
what
. Where’s Oberon taking you tomorrow?”

“We’re meeting in midtown on Forty-seventh Street.”

“Ah, the Diamond District . . . that makes sense. Oberon’s taking things slow—”

“Slow? I jumped off the Empire State Building tonight!”

“Believe me, Ariel’s a pussycat compared to some of the other elementals you’ll meet. Oberon’s trying to build up your powers slowly so you’ll be prepared for the . . .
fiercer
guides. It’s what I would do if I could.”

“And why can’t you?” I said it before I knew that it was what I was thinking. “You gave me my first power—my enhanced sight. And that was from one tiny bite.”

“Is that how you remember it?” he asked, stroking my neck with the back of his hand. “As one tiny bite?”

I shivered from head to foot. “Not so tiny,” I said, leaning into his hand. “But it didn’t make me . . . like you.”

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, studying me . . . or preparing to bring his lips to my neck? “Is that what you want?” he asked. “To be like me?” He moved closer and the silver light in his eyes expanded. I could feel it filling the space between us, drawing me closer like static electricity. I felt each hair on my body standing up on end and my blood surging through my veins toward him.

“Would it be so bad?” I asked. The question seemed to come from someone else, but as soon as I asked it, I saw the logic in it. “I’d be stronger, wouldn’t I? Dee wouldn’t be able to hurt me.”

He pulled his head back abruptly, a tiny spark of red glowing at the center of each iris. “There are other ways to protect you.” His voice sounded strained. “Less costly ways.”

“Is it so awful, then, living forever?”

He sighed. I felt his breath on my throat, but it was cold now, not warm like before. “You’d have to watch everyone you know and love grow old and die before you.”

“I’ve already seen my mother die. I almost lost my father—and it’s just a matter of time before I do lose him.” I thought I saw him flinch at the coldness in my voice, but it might have been that he was holding himself so rigidly. He had both hands on my arms, but I felt that he wasn’t so much holding me as holding himself at bay. I could feel the tension in his body, like a bowstring drawn back.

“And what about your friends?” he asked. “Are you so ready to give them up?”

“They’re better off without me. I’m just putting them in danger as it is . . . but if you don’t want me—”

“Oh no, Garet. I want you very much. I believe I’ve been waiting for you for four hundred years. But an eternity is a long time to feel regret. I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

“This
is
what I want,” I was startled by the certainty in my voice.
Where had it come from?
Another voice in my head whispered,
Hold on,
but it was too faint to heed. I stepped forward another inch, closing the space between us. I felt the charge of electricity sizzle against my skin. The red glow filled his eyes entirely now. He smiled . . . and drew back his lips until I could see his fangs. I did feel afraid then, but I couldn’t have moved away if I’d wanted to—and I didn’t want to. At that moment I wanted him to drain me of every drop of human blood, of every human feeling of fear and pain. I wanted to be cold and invincible like him. In one part of my brain I was shocked by the feeling, but in another I felt like I’d always been headed toward this.

He bent his head to my neck and breathed against my throat. The skin there turned numb under his breath, but the rest of my body seemed to be on fire. I cried out as his teeth
broke my skin. He tightened his grip on my arms and pulled me hard against him. He seemed more urgent than the last time, sucking hard at the wound to draw the blood out, and I realized that was because he was being careful before not to take too much blood. He wasn’t being careful now. I could feel myself growing weaker. I leaned my head against his shoulder and looked up at the sky—at the swirling waves of color unfolding from the spinning stars. Now more than ever the sky looked like van Gogh’s
Starry Night
and I felt myself longing for the stars just as he had.

“Why should the spots of light in the firmament be less accessible to us than the black spots on the map of France?” van Gogh had written to his brother Theo a year before his death. “Just as we take the train to go to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to go to a star.”

Had that been where van Gogh thought he was going when he ended his life? Is that where I was going?

The stars blurred and swirled and changed colors . . . and, yes, they seemed to be coming closer. One—an orange fireball—seemed to be heading straight for us.

It exploded right over Will’s shoulder. He reared back so quickly his teeth ripped a small gash in my throat. The pain was instant and sharp in the unanesthetized part of my skin. The cold night air stung. He batted at the flaming ball, but it darted away, then dive-bombed down into his face. Will growled and pulled back his arm to swat it. Remembering how he’d torn the stone manticore limb from limb, I grabbed his arm and he snarled at me. I took a step back, one hand on my neck to stanch the flow of blood. Lol fluttered in the air between us, chattering like an angry squirrel. An angry squirrel on fire.

Will looked from me to the angry fire fey and then, with one last regretful look, took two long strides to the edge of the roof, and vanished. I watched him disappear, wondering what that look had meant. Was he sorry he had snarled at me? Or was he sorry he hadn’t finished me off?

I woke up the next morning to the sound of someone screaming. I was so startled that I was out my door and down the stairs—in the sweatpants and T-shirt I’d slept in—before I realized that the screaming wasn’t
out loud
. Someone was screaming very loudly inside her own head. The “sound” was coming from the gallery.