The Sweetest Dark (26 page)

“He can't even look me in the face. Didn't you catch that? It's like if he looks at me, he sees only his dead son, not his live one. It fills him with hate.”

“I'm sure it's not—”

“He's getting in guns,” Armand said. “Crates and crates of guns. He's always been a collector. He and some of his blokes, they even formed a hunting club. But this is something different. This is … more. Today it was machine guns.”

I tipped my head. “What's that?”

“They're quite modern.” He scratched at his shoulder through his shirt and straightened some. “They use bullets on a belt that's fed into a drum. It's thoroughly—” He noticed my face. “They fire a lot of bullets very, very quickly. Quicker than anything else.”

I looked up and around the bedroom, the mismatched furniture, the weirdly firm light. “Why? What could you hunt with those? What could they have to do with anything?”

“I don't know,” he replied. “That's what's so unnerving.”

I rubbed a hand to my forehead, feeling an ache beginning to build behind my skull. “Armand.”

His eyes went to mine.

I had to say this carefully; I had no wish to add to his despair, but I couldn't let it go. “Do you think … do you suppose it's possible that your father might … mean to do you any harm?”

But I'd actually made him smile. A real one, too, even if it came acerbic and thin. “With a pair of Vickers? Not unless he means to mount them in the hallway and spray me with bullets when I'm not paying attention. Seems like rather a spot of work for him. Surely even an unwelcome heir is better than none.”

I returned his smile as I pulled away my hand. “I think we need to teach you how to Turn to smoke, just in case. It's a handy thing to be able to vanish in a hurry.”

His smile widened, but there was no humor left to it. “Handy.” He fell back against the blankets of the bed, his eyes gone shiny and hard. “If I could vanish into smoke, Eleanore, I'd leave this place and never return. That's a promise.”

“Just like Rue,” I said softly.

“Yes. Why not? Just like Rue.”

...

“I'm spending until dawn with you,” I said firmly. “Don't bother to argue.”

“God forbid,” said Jesse, solemn.

I pushed past him into the cottage. He'd been waiting up for me, I could tell. There was a book spread facedown upon the table, a pair of lamps lit beside it.

“I thought you said you were resting tonight.”

“Aye. I was. But then it occurred to me that the bed wasn't nearly so comfortable without you. So I got up and hoped.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and dug my toes into the soft nap of the rug. The cottage had been built within a protective circle of birches; even during the heat of day, it was never very warm.

“You hoped for me?” I asked, uncertain.

Jesse came close, put his arms around me, and buried his face in my hair. “As always. As ever.”

“And I came,” I whispered, closing my eyes, breathing him. The ache behind my forehead began to unbind.

“And you came,” he agreed.

And he summoned the magic that was all his own, beyond stars and starfire. A magic of mortal lips and hands, of bristly new whiskers scraping my chin, of melting kisses that made the whiskers unimportant.

Our bodies entwined, our hearts. Our lives.

I think that was the night a very quiet, very powerful part of me began to comprehend how it was going to be. I think the part of
me
that was magic, that had broken away from the practical earth to slip along Jesse's celestial family of stars, to allow them to bind me in their spell …

That part of me knew.

...

A lethargy had taken the castle and all the girls in it. Very few of the students had known Aubrey, but we all knew of his family and his station, and that was enough to wash the color from the cheeks of entire classes. We were given black satin ribbons to tie to as armbands along our sleeves. All the mirrors had been covered in strips of black crêpe, and a wreath of dried black roses hung on the headmistress's door like the single baleful eye of a rook. I wondered if we'd gone through the entire county's worth of dye.

The professors spoke in weighty voices no matter the topic. Lightheartedness was not permitted. Laughter was not permitted. Even our meals had gotten more salty, perhaps from the cooks' tears falling into the stew.

I had not known the dead son of the duke. But I knew that if it were me—when it became me—I wanted none of this to infect the lives of those I'd be leaving behind.

No salt and endless black. No dragging footsteps of sorrow. I found myself hoping that when I died, the people who loved me would celebrate what I'd had instead of weep for what I would not.

The liveliest people at Iverson weren't its residents. The duke had decided to store some of Tranquility's spare fixtures and furnishings here in the empty chambers; apparently he'd finally noticed that half his mansion was rotting unprotected beneath rain and sun. For the past few days a stream of village men had delivered crate after crate on their backs, like picnic ants carrying sugar cubes. A line into the castle. A line out. At least they smiled as they were leaving.

I was making my way to the tower stairs after supper, walking slowly because rushing was sure to earn me a scold. At the end of the main hall, Mrs. Westcliffe stood with one of the younger maids, their arms filled with unlit lamps.

“Here, of course,” she was saying. “And at every window along the wall. Then you may begin upstairs. Take these from me. Yes, take them, Beth, and get Gladys to help if you need. There must be one in each. Make certain there's enough oil to last the night.”

My slow steps slowed even more. Mrs. Westcliffe turned and spied me.

“Miss Jones. May I assist you with something?”

“No, ma'am. I was just going up to bed.”

“Well. Good night.”

“Good night. That's … that's an awful lot of light in the windows, isn't it, ma'am?”

The maid ducked her head and bobbed awkwardly at us both, then shuffled on. Mrs. Westcliffe watched her go. She was so distracted she didn't even reprimand me for using the word
awful,
which she considered uncouth.

“His Grace has requested that a lighted lamp be placed in every window of the castle for the next fortnight. In honor of his son.”

I knew it wasn't my place to question the mighty, and deeply bereaved, duke. But the words escaped me, anyway.

“Is that wise? Er, that is, in London we papered the windows. To hide the light.”

I had gained her full focus. Her chin lifted. “Miss Jones, as you have undoubtedly noticed, this is not London. We are not anywhere in the vicinity of London. The Duke of Idylling has made a very simple, very heartfelt request, and I will honor it. That is all you need know. Good night.”

She stalked down the hall, ebony skirts flaring.

“Good night,” I called, because I knew that, even with her chin like that, she would still be listening to make sure my manners were intact.

...

The duke's fortnight began. Every night, as soon as the sun sank past the horizon, Iverson glowed like a Christmas tree, merry lights dancing in each and every window.

Every window but one. I might live in their bubble now, but I hadn't always. I'd seen firsthand what a bomb could do to flesh and stone.

The nights ticked on. The moon got thinner and thinner.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Letter from Major Bernard C. R. Sumner, War Propaganda Bureau, London Headquarters

To: His Grace the Duke of Idylling

Re: Marquess of Sherborne

March 15, 1915

Reg,

You'll be pleased to know your concerns regarding the marquess have been noted and all matters I assume sorted to your satisfaction. Paperwork regarding Sherborne's transfer from the Royal Flying Corps to this office as a liaison officer have been signed and filed. He should be notified of his reassignment any day. Expect to see him around end of April. RFC isn't fond of releasing trained pilots. Took a bit of harrying to get them to agree! Will send you his itinerary as soon as all is arranged.

On a more personal note, can't tell you how happy we are to soon welcome a hero into our midst. Langley's been saying for months we could use a man here at HQ who's done some real fighting, been to the front, so to speak. The marquess's record of twelve confirmed air combat victories (and I believe another five unconfirmed behind enemy lines) has everyone's rapt attention.

Hope all is well. Margie sends her best. We'll pop by for a spot of hunting before long, I'm sure.

–Bernie

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Reginald?”

Armand poked his head past the doorway of the study, glancing about.

Empty. Lights left burning. Curtains left open to show the night. A crushed cigarette and a china cup in its saucer on the desk.

He walked to the desk, lifted the cup to his nose. Coffee.
Coffee.
Black, unadulterated, a few good inches of it still sloshing around the bottom, gone cold.

Mandy dropped into his father's chair behind the desk and thought about that. He hadn't seen Reginald sober in days. Actually, he hadn't seen Reginald sober
or
drunk in days. His Grace had been distinctly absent from manor life, and damned inconvenient it'd been, too, leaving his remaining son to deal with all the endless details of managing an estate he'd never been trained to inherit.

But nothing dislodged Reginald from his mourning. Armand had asked the chatelaine to keep an eye on him as discreetly as she could; he couldn't forget those Vickers, despite what he'd said to Eleanore. The chatelaine's reports to him had all been of the same flavor: Reg was locked in his room or locked in his study. He ate very little; he drank a great deal. He shifted from one chamber to the other, back and forth, but tonight he was in neither.

Mandy had already picked the lock on the duke's bedroom door to be sure.

Something had changed. Something felt
not right,
and if he was going to be completely honest with himself, that same
not right
had been hounding him all day.

His fingers drummed a tattoo atop the leather blotter.

He glanced down. There was a crack in the line of the desk's edge that meant the drawer hadn't been properly closed.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

That voice that lived within, that sly dragonish-thing, warned,
Don't do it. You won't like it; you can't change it. Don't look.

The bracket clock counted out,
seven, eight, nine
 …

No one would ever know how close Armand came to obeying that foreboding command, to just getting up and walking away and letting the world sort itself out as it would. He was seventeen years old and weary to the bone. If it were up to him, he'd abandon his entire family's legacy, his mother's lost magic, his father's insanity. What good had ever come of any of it?

But he had to look, didn't he? Drunk or sober, crazy or sane, Reg was all he had left. So he had to.

With a drowning sense of déjà vu, Armand Louis opened the drawer. He reached inside until his hand discovered papers.

He unfolded the top sheet, a letter. Official-looking, government letterhead.

You'll be pleased to know your concerns regarding the marquess have been noted and all matters I assume sorted to your satisfaction
… .

It took no time at all to understand the grisly enormity of what Reggie had done.

...

In the darkness of his bedroom, amid the mess of his sheets and all the golden songs he'd made and shaped just for her, Jesse Holms opened his eyes.

awaken! awake!
the stars were crying, piercing with urgency.
your time is now!

“Lora,” Jesse said, into the sightless dark.

...

I opened my eyes, startled. Was someone in the room with me?

I sat up, rose to my knees in the bed. No one else was here, no Jesse, no Sophia. Nothing but me moved, yet something wasn't right.

The tower was gripped in shadows, a flat tintype of a small round room frozen in time, forever on edge. If armoires and bureaus could respire, these were holding their breath. Even the sky beyond the window hung ominously still.

And purple. Amethyst. That rare, uncanny dark.

My nightgown had twisted into a tourniquet around my waist and thighs. I must have been tossing in my sleep. I plucked at it, walking on my knees to the end of the bed. My feet hit the floor and absorbed its unyielding cold.

Beloved,
rose Jesse's song, strong and clear at once, shattering the calm.
Armand is in danger. He needs you.

I didn't think. I just reacted. I opened the window and Turned to smoke and raced over the green and the water. Toward Tranquility.

The road to the plowed fields, farmhouses to the woods. Purple land, purple sky. I was a hazy streak sandwiched between them, more than halfway there before a new, heavy sensation settled over me, dragging me down to a crawl.

Armand wasn't inside Tranquility any longer.

I wasn't certain how I knew that, but it was so. None of his energy—his trail? his scent?—waited ahead of me. I felt the pull of him
behind
me. Back toward the coast.

Damn it.

I drew myself up into the stillness, condensing into a sphere above a rye field. A cloud of magpies exploded into flight from a thicket nearby, rushing frenzied wings carrying them away from me, inland.

The beast in me registered that. Hungered for pursuit. I quelled it.

Armand. Armand. The only other living being in the world with blood linked to mine.

I floated in place and tried to let my senses drift free, feeling for him, reaching. It would have been helpful to have Jesse sing me the way, but Jesse was silent.

The castle. Armand had gone there. He was in trouble and he had gone there, maybe even to find me.

I curled about, briefly assuming the shape of a fishhook—
don't think about the shark!
—and tore back the way I had come.

Iverson beckoned me home. Tiers of stone, arches and windows and towers and a hundred radiant eyes, all of them lit windows. Burning gold against amethyst, a target of such easy and immense proportions that it probably cast its glow all the way to France.

An automobile had been parked askew beneath a beech just past the island bridge, the grass behind it torn to shreds by the tyres. He must have driven here in a hurry but slammed to a stop there, far enough away that the engine wouldn't wake anyone. If that had worked, he'd have been able to creep inside the castle unnoticed. After all, Lord Armand knew his way around his former home, and the doors were never locked.

My mind put the pieces together. He didn't want to be seen or heard. He didn't want anyone else to know where he was. Was he hurt? Bleeding? Had the duke's sanity completely deserted him? Had he done something dire to his son?

Was he in pursuit?

Armand would expect to find me in my room. It would be the first place he'd look. I funneled back up to my window and poured inside, but the room was empty. No echoes of him. Nothing.

Jesse,
I thought, slightly panicked.
Jesse, where is he?

But, of course, Jesse couldn't hear me. I could only hear him.

I Turned, scrambled back into my nightgown, opened my door and paused, listening with dragon ears, tasting the air with a dragon tongue—or as close as I could get to either in my human shape. I detected limestone and cologne and furniture polish. The usual nighttime noises of a mass of sleeping girls; shifts and sighs, some snoring. The same from even farther away, perhaps the teachers' floors. The servants in their dungeon cells.

Then, from the far end of the castle, something very different: panting. A heartbeat so fast it sounded like nothing but an unbroken convulsion of muscle and blood, pumping louder and louder.

A teeny tiny metallic series of clinks echoed above that, but so dim compared to that heartbeat that I wasn't sure what it was or where it had come from.

Armand was in the eastern portion. I was in the west.

And Jesse, I realized, as his music lifted back to me in a full, imperative refrain. He was near Armand, as well.

There was no time to agonize over going to smoke or staying in this shape. If I met up with any firmly sealed windows or doors, I'd waste time Turning to open them. My feet flew down the stairs, the gown a white whip behind me. I might have made noise. Possibly not. I don't know that the soles of my feet had much contact with the floor.

In any case, I was in too much of a hurry to worry about it. If anyone did wake up, all they'd discover was an empty hallway.

Impressions flitted by me, the long corridors, sharp turns, unlit corners. I didn't recognize most of where I ran; I was just going. Going and going until suddenly I was in familiar surroundings again. I was at the base of the corkscrew stairwell that led to the roof of the castle.

Jesse and Armand were beyond them.

I grabbed the folds of the nightgown and sprinted up the stairs. The door at the top was closed but not bolted. I wrenched it open—now I was the panting one—stumbling out into a night that had shifted abruptly from stillness to chaos.

Everything after that happened rather quickly.

Wind howled, pushing me aside a step.

Jesse called, “Lora, no!”

Armand shouted, “No!”

And the duke fired his gun at me, the bullet tearing a path along the outside of my left arm.

I was tackled around the legs and slammed down hard against the limestone, pain a bright light cleaving through me. Jesse and I rolled together as another bullet ricocheted close by, close enough that chips of rock stung my hands and face. Then he and Armand were hauling me around the curve of the tower behind us. Another bullet exploded past our heads.

“You're hit.” Jesse was kneeling before me, protecting me from the shots. “Let me see.”

“Where?” Armand was beside him, grabbing at my arm.

“What …” My tongue felt too fat. I tasted copper and salt; I'd bitten it in the fall. The words I wanted were jumbled around inside my head, all mixed up. I spat out a mouthful of blood and tried again. “What's happening?”

“My father,” Armand said, clenched desolation and fury.

“He's got an arsenal over there.” Jesse was much cooler; he had his fingers at my face, tilting my head to the purple light. “We can't get near.”

“Right.” I knew what to do. I would just Turn to smoke. He couldn't shoot that. The world would stop slurring around me, and I would Turn.

“No, Lora, we—” Jesse began, but too late.

It seemed like a good idea. It really did.

I surged past both of them. Armand actually thrust out his hands, trying to grab me to hold me back, but I sieved through his fingers and left him clutching air. Even as smoke, I still felt woozy—strange, because I had no body any longer, so all the physical pain was gone—but I knew I didn't have much time. If either of them tried to follow me, they'd easily take a bullet. I wouldn't.

The duke never saw what was speeding toward him. He was crouched at the edge of the battlement with the merlons behind him, blockaded behind an improvised fort of crates. I could see his hair puffed with the wind. His eyes gleaming. He had his arms braced atop one of the boxes so his hands would be steady for the next shot.

He was so close to the end of the roof that I couldn't Turn behind him. So I did the only other thing that occurred to me.

I Turned back into a girl right above him.

We both went down hard this time, me on top and him too stunned to make more than a high, gargled sound in his throat. As soon as we hit the stone, I wrapped my arms around his head and held on tight, ready to fight him if he tried to roll, but His Grace wasn't moving. His body had gone completely slack.

Armand towed me up and Jesse hustled me away. I staggered against him, looking past his shoulder just in time to see my nightgown dance over the rim of the roof, a twirling, empty ballerina blowing away to the stars.

“That was stupid,” I said loudly.

“Too right it was.” None of Armand's fury had left him.

“No, I mean
you.
Both
of you. Following me like that. You could have been killed!”

“
We
were doing well enough until you—did that! Went to smoke like that.”

“He couldn't shoot smoke!”

“He could have shot the half-wit on
top
of him!”

“But he didn't!” I swallowed, a lump of something sick rising in my throat. “I didn't kill him, did I?”

Armand seemed to shrink a little. He looked back at the duke and shook his head. “No. I think you knocked him out. He's breathing.”

“Has anyone a coat?” I asked, and found myself crumpling down to the roof, a leisurely sort of collapse. Armand grabbed me by the arm again and I managed to remain seated instead of prone.

“Dragon-girl.” Jesse was stripping off his shirt. “Bravest girl. I keep telling you to eat more.”

“Jesse!”

He was bleeding. The entire lower half of his left leg was covered in blood, wet and glistening.

“Clean shot,” he said, his weight on his other leg as he bent to hand me the shirt. “Went all the way through. Might not even leave a scar.”

Why hadn't I noticed it before? Why hadn't I smelled the blood? It was everywhere. All over him. All over me. I clambered to my feet.

He stopped my desperate groping of his thigh by cupping my face in his hands. “Truly, Lora. It's fine. My fault. I should have spoken to him through the door before opening it.”

“I don't understand.” I clutched his shirt to my chest, dazed. “What happened to him? Why was he shooting at us at all?” I noticed then that many of the crates were opened, shredded paper frothing over the edges of the wood, tumbling about. “What is all this?”

“The Vickers,” said Armand. He lifted his hand and pointed at a pair of large, evil-looking guns set out past the crates. They'd been attached to legs of some sort, narrow muzzles, round drums, lots and lots of bullets. Just like he'd described before. “If he'd aimed those at us, we wouldn't be around to chat about it now.”

“But why?”

His voice began to climb. “Oh, well, it turns out he's to blame for Aubrey's death. He wasn't able to leave well enough alone, to leave Aubrey to his goddamned glory in the goddamned war. He had gotten him reassigned back to England, even though Aubrey'd never have wanted that. Never would have agreed to that, so they must have forced him. But he was coming home. When his plane was shot down in that dogfight, he was on his way home. Because of Reginald.”