Tear You Apart (16 page)

“I know what you’re trying to say. He wants grandchildren. But I haven’t even kissed you yet. So could we please not talk about babies?”

Jasper flushed—even in the underworld gloom it was obvious. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Let’s just not get ahead of ourselves.” She took a deep breath. “Um. On that note. I’m going to go now. But I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Jasper reached into his jacket for an invitation. “Then I’ll look forward to it. The theme is
Winter
, by the way.”

“Can I have two? I want to bring my friend Jewel.”

“Of course. You can bring anyone you want. I should have offered sooner.” He gave her two invitations: black cards with silver script. “Although—when I said you could bring anyone, I meant anyone but the Huntsman.”

“Oh. I wouldn’t. He wouldn’t want to come here, anyway.”

Viv looked down, feeling awkward, and Jasper pulled her into his arms. It felt nice, but also poorly timed. The rush of
heat came with a rush of sadness. She was already starting to feel lost at the mention of Henley, knowing he could never be a part of her life here—that if she chose the underworld and Jasper, Henley would never be hers again. So she was startled when Jasper said, “Can I kiss you before you go?”

She’d never kissed—
really
kissed—anyone besides Henley. And she didn’t want to pretend.

“Not now,” she said. “Not tonight.”

“Oh … all right …”

She hugged him quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then she stepped into a waiting gondola and let the boatman ferry her across the lake.

When she finally reached the surface, a warm, misty rain was coming down and there was no one to meet her. The alley was empty, quiet except for the hiss of rain and the splash of cars speeding across wet pavement. Viv had fifty dollars tucked inside her bra. She took it out and stepped into the street to hail a cab.

The cab pulled up to her house a little after three in the morning. She hadn’t kissed Jasper, hadn’t done anything really—so she didn’t know why
guilt
was the first thing she felt when she tiptoed into her room, and found Henley sitting on her bed in the dark, Regina’s jeweled knife in his hand.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

VIV WALKED TOWARD THE BED, slipping off her shoes as she went, like she had all the time in the world to be murdered.

Moonlight poured through the open French doors, framing Henley in silhouette—broad shoulders, a body solid with muscle. The curtains fluttered like doves’ wings, and so did Viv’s heart.

She’d felt guilty at first, because she’d let him believe she wasn’t going to the underworld; but the longer he stayed silent, the less guilty she felt. Henley didn’t need a knife to kill her. He could do it with his bare hands. So what was this? Was he trying to scare her?

She steeled herself to be as cold and sharp as the knife.

“You’re going to make a mess if you do it here,” she said. “And if you think I’m going into the woods with you, I’m not. I’m tired. I’ve been dancing with my prince all night. But I guess you knew that.”

“Yeah, I bet you had a great time. Was he worth it?”

“More than worth it.”

“You really don’t give a shit, do you? You just go off and party. You don’t tell me anything. I have to find out—”

“I don’t have to tell you anything. I told you enough this morning. Clearly, that was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Henley dropped the knife. “Yeah, you’re full of those.”

She tensed, but didn’t back away as he came near her; and when his fingers closed around her wrist she could feel the emotion in his touch. He lifted her closed hand to his face as if it were a rose, his lips brushing her knuckles as he said:

“Do you have a death wish? Why didn’t you tell me there was another Huntsman?”

The question startled her.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Viv.” He sighed against her hand. “You need to tell me stuff like this. I can’t control him. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

The house was so quiet … Viv could hear their every breath, and the chorus of insects outside, the bellow of frogs, the slow creaking whir of the ceiling fan. Hot summer sweat glued their skin together. He bent his head to her hand like a prayer.

“I came here to see you. I didn’t know you were gone. And Regina invited the other Huntsman over. He talked to me like I was his apprentice.… He brought a rabbit and gutted it on the kitchen table. He said that next time, he’d bring a doe. He said it would be more like killing you.”

She put her hand over her heart instinctively, as if it were in her power to hold it there.

“You can’t stay here. He’ll always know where to find you if you do. I don’t know if your stepmom believes in me. If she doesn’t, and she orders him to kill you … I can’t save you. I won’t even know it’s happening.”

“Is that why you kept the knife? To save me?”

“I kept it because I need her to think I’m on board for this. That I”—he seemed to wrestle with the words—“want your heart … as much as she does.”

“Don’t you want it more?”

Henley didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. She was his life. They were each other’s, or had been.

Viv sank down on the bed next to the dagger and pressed her fingertip to the blade. It was sharp enough to cut with the lightest touch, and a bead of blood blossomed on her skin. Out of habit, she squeezed three ruby drops into her palm. The same three drops that had inspired Snow White curses for generations.

Red as blood, white as lies
.

“You can’t stay here,” Henley said.

“I’ll go to Jewel’s.”

“What’s Jewel going to do if the Huntsman kicks in her door and comes after you?”

“I don’t know. Are you planning on kicking her door down?”

“I’m serious. What’s she going to do for you? She can’t protect you. You need to be somewhere safe.”

“Like the underworld? My prince has a bedroom reserved for me.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a coffin reserved for him. The glass one downstairs.”

“No, that’s mine. Didn’t Regina tell you? I figured she would have covered that during one of your chats.”

“Get up. We’re leaving.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Do you think I have a special murder spot picked out? If I wanted to kill you, why wouldn’t I do it here? I’m not worried about traumatizing your stepmom. I don’t think that’s even possible.”

“My chipmunks would bite the shit out of you. You might not want to risk it.”

“Get. Up. Right now. Pack a bag if you want. If I have to carry you out, all you’re going to have is the dress you’re wearing.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, getting up to pack, not wanting to call his bluff.

“Somewhere the Huntsman won’t look for you. Somewhere he’ll regret looking if he does.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE BARKING STARTED as soon as they pulled up in front of the farmhouse—a rapid-fire assault that cracked into Viv’s skull like the start of a headache. Then one of Elliot’s monstrous dogs, its eyes as big as dinner plates, came charging into the dusty glow created by the truck’s headlights. It halted at a sharp whistle from Elliot, who was standing on the porch in jeans and a white tank top, holding his tinderbox as if he might strike the flint and make a wish any minute. His blond head was shaved and he had lines around his eyes. He was eighteen, but looked twenty-five. Murdering an old witch tended to carve the last bloom of youth off a person.

“I thought animals were supposed to like you,” Elliot said as Viv got out of Henley’s truck.

“Animals, yes,” she said. “Enormous demon dogs, no.”

“That’s not very nice.” Elliot leaned down to scratch the folds of skin at the back of the dog’s neck. Then he nodded to Henley—“Jack said you were coming”—and went into
the house, leaving the bug-eyed dog to stand guard.

The yard was pitted with holes, and here and there the knobby joint of a giant’s bone stuck out of the earth. Anytime Jack killed a giant, something had to be done with the remains, and it was easier to let Elliot’s dogs tear it apart and bury the bones than to dig a grave large enough to hold the corpse. Viv felt like she was walking through a cemetery with zombie limbs jutting up ready to grab her.

A boxy air-conditioning unit was wedged into the front window and over the churning noise she could hear a TV and loud voices.

“They’re not having a party, are they?”

“Jack didn’t say.”

Viv could barely deal with Jack Tran and Elliot; if she went inside and found herself surrounded by Red Riding Hoods and Bandit Girls doing body shots she would walk right back out. “I should just go to Jewel’s. I can’t actually stay here.”

“Tonight you can. It’s the safest place for you. The Huntsman’s not getting past those dogs—or Jack and Elliot.”

“Maybe we should look harder for some dwarves.
Seven
. Seven dwarves. Power in numbers.”

Henley sighed. “Come on.”

Inside, there were about a dozen more people than Viv had expected, but it wasn’t exactly a party.

Jack Tran was sprawled in an armchair like it was his throne, wearing shorts and a black shirt that showed the green vine tattoos twisting up his arms. Jack had that sinewy look common in guys who made a habit of climbing beanstalks, robbing giants, and then running like hell. Out of all the Giant Killers, he was the best. Lots of Giant Killers died; Jack Tran
hadn’t so much as broken an arm falling off a beanstalk. He’d stolen more treasure than any of them, but he never hung on to it. His golden-egg-laying hens had a habit of getting turned into fried chicken by vindictive ex-girlfriends. The money, he spent. He was a
live fast, die young
type, and he reigned over his ring of thieves like the Royals ruled Viv’s social circle.

Beth Teal, who’d gone to school with Viv before her Wild Swans curse forced her to drop out, was sitting cross-legged on the couch, knitting nettles into jackets while a mixed martial arts match played on TV. Beth’s phone rested on the coffee table in front of her; every once in a while she would pick it up and text something, since she wasn’t allowed to speak. Her curse required seven years of silence. If she said one word before the curse was broken, her brothers would die.

Beth’s hands, wrists, and forearms were covered with hives from the nettles, but she went on knitting like a little machine. She’d been doing it for a few years already, camping in the woods or sleeping on people’s couches, occasionally texting friends to ask for a ride to a graveyard to gather more nettles.

The Teal brothers, with their dirty feather-colored hair and gloomy expressions, drifted between the living room and the kitchen, beer bottles or shot glasses in their hands. During the day they were cursed to live as swans, but by night they were human. Viv had seen them at parties before: they would show up anywhere there was free booze, wearing the swim trunks Beth kept for them in her backpack. And then by day they would angrily chase people away from whatever pond they were floating on. If normal swans were ill-tempered, swans with hangovers were that much worse—but there was
nothing like an alcohol-induced blackout to make you forget you’d transform into a bird in a few hours.

The more guilt-ridden brothers hung behind Beth like an entourage, drinking and mumbling apologies, sorry that their sister’s every moment was spent knitting the jackets that would break their curse. The brothers who just wanted to forget were getting hammered in the kitchen, and two others were begging Jack to hook them up with a hot girl before daybreak.

“First off,” Jack said, slurping the last dregs of a lime-green slushie, “I don’t know any girls who like swans. Second, your sister’s over there knitting, not talking so you don’t die … and you can’t be celibate a few more years?”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” one brother whined.

“Beth doesn’t mind,” the other insisted.

The Teal brothers had names, but Viv didn’t remember them. She refused to memorize all of the names of siblings in any family that had more than six kids. There was far too much of that going on in Beau Rivage and there was only so much room in her brain.

She sat down on the arm of the couch, since a partially finished nettle jacket was spread across the cushions. Beth nodded
hello
. Henley went to discuss the arrangements with Jack. They spoke in low voices; she couldn’t hear what they were saying over the hum of the air conditioner, the loud TV, and the spontaneous vomiting noises in the kitchen.