Read The Den of Shadows Quartet Online
Authors: Amelia Atwater-Rhodes
The Den of Shadows Quartet (10 page)
He turns around, and for a moment I look into golden eyes that are mirror reflections of my own. But then he looks past me, at the area where Aubrey and I fought. I see Alexander’s gaze linger on the blood that pooled on the ground when I cut open Aubrey’s shoulder.
“Why?” he finally asks, his voice soft. “There had to be some other way to deal with this.”
I look into Alexander’s eyes again and see the judgment there. It does not matter that I am his sister. He
does
think I am a monster.
I laugh, and Alexander flinches, because it is a bitter sound. “Would you rather I just let Aubrey get away with it?” I say. “I thought he killed you, you know. Did you want me to just
forget
that? Or did you think I could turn the other cheek and ignore murder?” Alexander looks away for a moment, pain filling his features as he hears my scornful use of words from the Bible, which he always held so dear when we were children.
“I thought you would hate me for what I had done,” he says.
“And just what have you done?”
He pauses, shaking his head, and then reluctantly
meets my gaze. “After Lynette was burnt, I would have done anything to protect her. I prayed that I would learn how to control my power, and …” He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “A woman heard me praying. A Triste. She taught me more than I ever wanted to know about the vampires and every other monster on this Earth. I listened because she also taught me how to use my gifts.”
From a curse to a gift
, I think.
Does he still consider himself damned?
“A few nights before Ather … changed you … I caught her trying to feed off Lynette. I stopped her, but …”
I can guess the rest of the story. Ather is too proud to let anyone take away her prey without seeking revenge. She changed me to hurt Alexander, because my faithful brother would be torn apart by his sister’s damnation.
Alexander pulls his gaze from mine, and this time it falls to Aubrey’s blood on my hands. “Rachel, how could you do that? I never thought I’d see you with blood on you, willing to kill another. You walk with them as if you are one of them.”
I could argue — after all, I did not kill Aubrey — but I do not.
I loved Alexander long ago, and I suppose I still do. But things have changed in three hundred years. At least, I have changed. Alexander does not understand.
He tried to protect me once. He tried to keep me away from the darkness and death, because he did not want Ather to change me into what I now am. He tried, but he did not succeed, and there is no way to undo the
damage that has been done since. I have been a monster too long, and as much as I care about him, I cannot change my nature now.
My golden brother still does not belong in this dark world. His sister is dead, long dead, and I cannot bring her back to protect him from all the pain I know seeing me has given him.
The only way I can protect him now is to make sure he never understands how easy killing can become.
“Alexander, listen closely. Rachel is dead,” I say, forcing my voice to be cold so that he will not argue. I speak quietly, driving my words to his brain. “I am one of them.”
I consider the words as I say them. It is true — I
am
one of them. But no one — not Aubrey, not Ather, not my father or brother — controls me now.
I could have killed Aubrey. I could have used my strength to be like him. But I remember my humanity.
I am one of them.
But I am also Rachel.
I am Risika.
IN MY VIEW
Dedicated to Jessica Guenther, who is a pillar of strength in rough times, an inspiration, and one of Aubrey’s greatest admirers
.
Thanks also to everyone who has helped me:
Sarah Lancaster, Sara Keleher, Andrea Brodeur, and Carolyn Barnes for their support and friendship, my sister Rachel for hours of work looking through poetry, Rick Ballard and Steve Wengrovitz for their help editing, and Natasha Rorrer and Nathan Plummer for listening patiently to all my complaints and offering their suggestions. To anyone I missed, thank you. I never could have done this without you
.
Alone
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone —
Then
— in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lighting of the sky
As it pass’d me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —
Edgar Allan Poe
T
HE NIGHT IS FULL OF MYSTERY
. Even when the moon is brightest, secrets hide everywhere. Then the sun rises and its rays cast so many shadows that the day creates more illusion than all the veiled truth of the night.
I have lived in this illusion for much of my life, but I have never belonged to it. Before my birth, I existed for too long in the realm between nothingness and life, and even now, the night still whispers to me. A strong cord binds me to the dark side of the world, and shields me from the light.
T
HE BLACK OBLIVION OF SLEEP
was shattered by the caterwauling of some singer on Jessica’s clock radio. She groaned and viciously beat the alarm clock into silence, then groped blindly for the light switch. The somber red glow of her Lava lamp provided just enough light to read the time.
Seven o’clock. The red numbers glowed sadistically and Jessica swore. Only two hours of sleep again. How she managed to remain in the conscious world at all was a mystery, but she dragged herself into the shower, where the cold water finished what the alarm clock had started.
Only one hundred and eighty days of school left
, Jessica thought as she prepared for the first day of her senior year of high school. There was barely enough time to get dressed before she had to pull her backpack onto her shoulders and dart down the street to catch the bus. Breakfast? A fleeting dream.
Ah, Ramsa High School. What a perfect little niche of Hell
,
she thought as the bus pulled up to the school.
In one year, you will be out of here forever
. That fact was the only thing that had convinced Jessica to get out of bed that morning: if she passed senior year, she would never need to succumb to the grasp of Ramsa High again.
She had lived in the town of Ramsa since she was twelve, and had long before realized that the other students would never accept her. Few were openly hostile, but no one could be described as warm and fuzzy, either.
As she neared the building, Jessica was acutely aware of how many students walked in groups of friends. She had known these people for five years, but that didn’t seem to matter as they moved past her without a word. She even saw two girls notice her, whisper to each other, then quickly retreat as if Jessica was somehow dangerous.
One senior, a boy Jessica had known since her very first day at Ramsa Junior High, crossed himself when he saw her. She was tempted to start chanting satanically in the hopes of scaring him. He had long before decided that she must be a witch, and she had no idea why. Occasionally, out of spite or simply boredom, she encouraged his belief.
The thought was amusing in a way The only witches she knew lived solely in the confines of the novels she’d been writing for the past few years. One of her witches could walk right in front of this idiot and he would never recognize her as what she was; Jessica’s witches tended to be rather human in their manner and appearance.
More humorous, though, was the fact that her old enemy was holding the book
Tiger, Tiger
by Ash Night.
Jessica wondered how he would react if he knew that she would soon be receiving royalties from his purchase.
Jessica had been struck by the idea for
Tiger, Tiger
several years before, when she and Anne had been visiting one of Anne’s old college friends in Concord, Massachusetts. She had spent nearly the entire weekend vacation locked in her room, and those hours of work had finally paid off.
In homeroom, Jessica sat in the back, alone as always. She waited in silent contemplation for attendance to be taken. The teacher was a young woman whom Jessica had not seen before; her name was written on the board and had received a few snickers from the students. Kate Katherine, high-school teacher, must have had sick parents. On the other hand, her name was probably easier for people to remember than Jessica Ashley Allodola.
“Jessica Allodola?” Mrs. Katherine said as if cued by Jessica’s thoughts.
“Here,” Jessica answered absently. The teacher checked off the name in her book and went on to the next person on the list.
The words of Jessica’s adoptive mother, Anne, echoed through her mind.
“Tomorrow is the first day of a new year, Jessie. Could you at least
try
not to get sent to the office? Just this once?”
“Don’t call me Jessie,” she had answered
.
“Just try, Jessica,” Anne had pleaded. “For me?”
“You aren’t my mother. Don’t tell me what to do
.”
“I’m the closest thing to a mother you have!” Anne had snarled, losing her patience
.
The remark had stung, and Jessica had stalked to her room
,
mumbling, “My
real
mother was smart enough to get rid of me early
.”
Snapping back to the present, she wondered bitterly if Anne considered it bad luck that Jessica was the child she had ended up adopting. Jessica wrenched herself from these thoughts as a pretty girl with chestnut hair tentatively entered the room.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” the girl said. “I’m new to the school, and I got a bit lost.” She introduced herself as Caryn Rashida. Mrs. Katherine nodded as she found Caryn’s name on her list.
Caryn looked around for an empty seat; one was conveniently located next to Jessica. But when she saw Jessica she hesitated, as if she might go sit somewhere else. Jessica wasn’t surprised. The residents of Ramsa all seemed to shy away from her almost unconsciously.
However, Caryn made up her mind and walked resolutely across the room. Extending a hand, she spoke. “Hi. I’m Caryn Rashida.” She stumbled a bit over her own last name. “Why are you sitting all alone here?”
Cause I want to,” Jessica answered coolly, leveling her emerald-green eyes at Caryn’s pale blue ones. Caryn held the gaze for a moment longer than most people could, but then looked away.
With disgust, Jessica had noted the girl’s unease and her decision to make an effort despite it. Jessica had no wish to be taken under Caryn’s wing like a homeless child. Dislike she understood; pity she could not stand.
“Wouldn’t you rather have some company?” Caryn asked, her tone more subdued but no less friendly.
Ignoring Caryn’s attempts at conversation, Jessica pulled out a pencil and started to draw.
“Well, then … I guess I’ll leave you alone,” Caryn said, voice muted. She moved to another table. Jessica continued drawing, ignoring Caryn and the teacher, who was droning on about locker assignments.
Mrs. Katherine asked Caryn to help distribute the locks, and when Caryn had finished, she lingered a moment at Jessica’s table. Jessica wondered grimly at the girl’s persistence.
“I’ve never been able to figure these out,” Caryn muttered as she fiddled with her lock. She spun the combination a dozen times without success. “Maybe it’s broken … You want to give it a try?”
Jessica plucked the lock from Caryn’s hands and had it open in a second. “Hope you don’t need to use the locker too much this year.”
“How do these things work?” Caryn laughed at herself cheerfully.
“Figure it out yourself,” Jessica answered as she shut the lock and tossed it back to Caryn.
“What did I do to you?” Caryn asked, finally deflated, and Jessica wouldn’t have been surprised to see her eyes start to tear. “Why do you have to be so nasty to me?”
“It’s who I am,” Jessica snapped, closing her notebook and putting it away. “Learn to live with it.”
She turned her back to Caryn as Mrs. Katherine led the class to their lockers. The girl didn’t try to talk to Jessica again for the rest of the day. No one else did either; besides the arrival of Caryn, nothing had changed.
“H
OW WAS YOUR FIRST DAY
of school?” Caryn’s mother asked as soon as the girl entered the kitchen.
Caryn’s mother, Hasana Rashida, was a slightly plump, attractive woman with hair of a rich brown, cropped in a serious yet flattering style. She was obviously tired from her day at the bookstore, of which she was the new manager, so Caryn decided not to bother her with details of the icy putdowns she had received that morning.