Curio (6 page)

She reached for the remaining books, her knuckles grazing the glass. Over her shoulder, she spied Granddad and Haimon staring at her.

“What is it?” Grey paused with the books lifted midway from cabinet to shelf. “Should I put these somewhere else?”

Granddad paced to her side, relieved her of the books, then took her hands in his. He turned them over, studying her palms like a fortune teller. Dust coated the fresh scabs from last night's fall into the pallets.

“What's the matter?” Grey searched his face.

Haimon appeared at her grandfather's elbow. “Olan?”

“She came home bleeding from a fall last night.” Granddad let her hands drop. “When I saw her touch the cabinet, I couldn't help but wonder. Maybe it's a sign.”

Haimon grimaced. “I thought you weren't ready to break your treaty with Adante.”

Grey eyed the two men. “What are you talking about? What treaty with Adante?”

Granddad's voice deepened. “Grey, you know our family is different—”

“That's treason, Olan.” Haimon tread closer. “Be careful what you tell her. For all we know, it's a one-way ticket for her as well.”

The scientist disguised as a shop assistant reached toward the unused curio cabinet, his scarred hand hovering over the glass. “Would you really risk it?” he murmured.

Grey peered at the still surface of the case. “Risk what?”

Granddad's fingers closed around her wrist. He raised her hand once again and cradled it in his own massive paw. The light in his eyes reminded her of sunlight on the mountain lakes.

“What is it? Tell me.”

He traced the scabbed-over lines in her palm, the brightness of his expression fading to a glazed look. He whispered something under his breath. Grey leaned in to hear.

“Love is magic in our veins. Love the hand of the punisher stays. Love heals what justice flays. Love defends and mercy reigns.”

The words sank deep into Grey, humming with energy. Warmth flowed from Granddad's fingertips where they touched her palm. Last night's foreign courage returned, coursing through her body, stiffening her limbs, gliding like invisible armor to infuse every inch of her skin.

“What does it mean?” Grey breathed.

Granddad's ice-blue eyes snapped into focus, but it was Haimon who spoke.

“Is it worth it? You could lose her too.”

“Not yet then. Not yet.” Granddad backed away and checked his pocket watch, a duplicate of Grey's with a silver fist for a cover. He looked up. “Time to head home. Whit should be back by now.”

It was everything Grey could do not to run to Whit's door the moment they rounded the corner onto the dirt-packed lane.

Granddad's voice anchored her. “We shouldn't risk more exposure with Adante so interested. Curfew's not far off, and you should be seen entering your own home.”

“What does Adante want with me?” Yesterday's defiance made her a target, but there was more to it than that.

“Haimon was right. We must be careful.” He stopped at the edge of their walkway and faced her. The shadow of Excelsior Peak leached the color from his hair and turned his skin to blue stone. “I promise I'll tell you everything if your mother and father allow.”

She nodded and dragged her feet to the front door. The light in the Bryacres' window swept her questions into corners. All that mattered was seeing Whit.

“Mother? Father?” Grey shivered in the dark entryway.

When neither answered her call, she moved to the parlor and pressed her cheek to the cold glass of the window,
scanning for activity next door. Within minutes, Father ducked out of the Bryacres' front door and strode over the adjoining lawns.

Grey met him at the door. One look at his drawn face and her eyes burned with tears.

“H-how bad?”

He frowned and led her to the settee. Grey perched on the edge. He dropped into the seat beside her and adjusted his position to study her face. “Tell me exactly what happened last night.”

Grey blurted the story, from the shortcut to the coywolves to the deputies, but left out the boldness that had tumbled through her like a rock slide.

Father's eyes narrowed. “That's it? You're sure?”

Granddad paced in the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes questioned her too, but a fever light burned in their depths.

Father's expression twisted into a grief she recognized from the worst of his mountain excursions. “Grey, Josephine needs an explanation. They punished Whit as though this were his fourth or fifth offense, not his first.”

A cracking sound split the quiet in the room. Granddad's fingers clenched around the wood trim of the archway. “Haven't I told you, Steinar?” He let go of the splintering timber and lunged to the center of the parlor. “Chemist greed will bleed this city dry.”

Father stood, but Grey didn't hear his words. Stinging numbness whipped around her heart. “Is Whit dying?”

Both men turned to her. Father shook his head. “He should recover.” Relief seared her lungs only to be replaced by icy dread.

“I have to go over there,” she choked out. “I need to see him.”

Father's face set in a cast of resistance but Granddad sprang toward the door. “I'll check for patrols. Wait for my go ahead.”

He disappeared into the twilight and Father stared after him, brows furrowed. Grey rubbed her eyes and lifted her chin. Her voice sounded foreign in her own ears, small but hard. “They did this because of me.”

He winced. “No, Grey. Your grandfather is right. The Council goes too far. Their greed has gone unchecked for too long.”

“But I defied them. I don't know why. Something happened inside me.” She pressed her clenched fist into her torso. “I told them Whit hadn't done anything wrong. I told them to take me instead.”

“Oh, Grey.” Her name creaked from behind Father's clenched teeth. He covered his forehead with his hand. “You have no idea what you did.”

A knock on the back door yanked her off the sofa. Father followed as she hurried through the kitchen and the mudroom to crack open the door to the backyard.

“All's clear,” Granddad whispered.

Grey looked over her shoulder. Her father stood in the kitchen, backlit, his expression lost in shadows. He gave a slight nod. She bolted into the night, still wearing her bright red coat with the full potion bottle in the pocket.

CHAPTER

5

T
hey stooped under the Bryacres' covered porch and Granddad knocked on the back door. The chill of the winter evening stung Grey's flushed cheeks, but beneath her clothes sweat glazed her skin.

When the door inched open, Granddad bowed to whisper, “It's us.”

He loped away into the night as Josephine opened the door just wide enough for Grey to slip through. Hands balled into fists, Grey followed Whit's mother into the familiar kitchen and on to the small parlor in the front of the house. Her own mother sat in a drab armchair, busy rolling strips of white cloth. She looked up, brows arched.

Grey lifted her palms. “I had to come.”

Josephine turned and Grey sucked in a breath. She was the same Mrs. Bryacre Grey had always known, and yet the face didn't belong to her neighbor. It was as though some feature was missing, and the shock of its absence overwhelmed.

Grey plunged her hand into her pocket and withdrew the bottle of potion. “I brought this for Whit.”

Mother shot up, sending bandages rolling down her scarlet skirt and across the floor. “What are you doing?”

“This is my choice to make.” Grey dropped the bottle into Josephine's hand. “Can I see him?”

Josephine curled her fingers around the potion as if she might squeeze the glass to grit. She nodded once.

Grey ignored her mother's protest and followed Josephine down the hall. After peeking into Whit's room, Josephine held the door open. “He's resting as best he can. I must speak to your mother before . . .”

Grey didn't hear the rest of the sentence. She stood at the threshold, breath snatched from her lungs.

Whit lay on his stomach, limbs draped over an iron-framed bed. His face was turned away from her, toward the wall. He was naked to the waist and strips of gauze clung to his back in rows from his shoulders to his belt. Crimson seeped in lines, too many to count, through the light bandages. Grey pressed her fist to her lips. The same gauze-covered, bleeding stripes marked Whit's upper arms as well.

Vomit surged up her throat, but she clamped her mouth shut and dragged in air through her nose. The pine scent of the healing ointment invaded her lungs and for a second her head spun, but the sharp odor at least overpowered the taste of bile on her tongue. She blew out a steadying breath. The shock lessened with each second she refused to look away.

“Whit?” Grey crossed the carpet and knelt at his side.

He startled, flinched, then moaned. His head moved, pressing into the mattress then shifting to face her. Sweat-soaked hair stuck to the blanched skin of his forehead and cheek. Against the white of his skin his eyes were the deep blue-gray of a shadowed ravine. The corner of his mouth not hidden by the swell of the mattress twitched into a half smile. “Grey.”

A beast snarled in Grey's gut. She flattened a palm over her stomach where her skin tightened and itched. The mark writhed along with this new creature—this new Grey. Morality codes and Chemist law slipped away and nothing remained but her, Whit, and the pain.

She pressed her chest into the side of the mattress, dropped her forehead onto the sheet next to his bloody upper arm, and let her tears fall.

The fabric under Grey's cheek was wet, but her eyes were puffy and dry. She slumped to the floor and grasped Whit's hand in hers. He made a noise—a high, choking gasp in the back of his throat—but his eyes didn't open.

Fraternization.

Indecent conduct.

The Chemists could all rot.

She'd see them flayed and helpless.

She'd see them withered like Josephine. Stunted like the old miners.

She'd see . . . A hazy ring outlined her vision, cinching inward. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the pounding in her head swallowed everything else, pushing her toward unconsciousness. A sound at the door jolted her back. Grey pulled her hand from Whit's and clasped her arms around her drawn-up knees as Mother and Josephine entered.

Josephine held the ration bottle close to her chest as though someone might snatch it at any second. She glanced at Grey then hurried to her son. “Is he awake?”

Mother scrutinized Grey like she was some hybrid vegetable from the greenhouses. No doubt she searched for signs of illness.

Grey's presence here was proof. She was fine—hungry, yes—but not moaning and shaking while yesterday's dinner spewed from her body. She
must
take after Father and Granddad.

“Damnation.” Josephine scrubbed at the sheet near Whit's face. A small purple stain bloomed on the bedclothes. “You need to take this, son,” she pleaded.