Текст книги "Heartless hunter"
Автор книги: Kristen Ciccarelli
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
FOURTEEN GIDEON
WHEN GIDEON FINALLY ARRIVED back in Old Town, with his father’s wine-soaked jacket in hand, he’d gone over his evening at Wintersea House several times in his mind.
Had he made a mistake, moving so fast? He’d noticed the way Rune trembled beneath his touch and had a feeling she deliberately dumped that wine on him.
He’d come on too strong.
Gideon sighed, going over tonight’s events one more time. Rune had certainly been a little awkward, if not downright odd. First, there was the weirdness with the wine. Then, her dismay over the telegram invitation. And last, her questions about his work while she tried to seduce him.
It wasn’t enough to accuse her of anything. For that, he’d need some concrete evidence. Casting scars, for example. If she had them, he needed to find them.
And if she isn’t the Moth?
If she wasn’t, why invite him to her bedroom? Why flirt so shamelessly?
Unless she was actually interested in him.
Not possible, thought Gideon.
He trudged up the lamplit streets of Old Town, mulling everything over. It was foggy tonight, and as he approached the street leading to his tenement, the soft sound of footsteps echoed behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder, but the fog was thick as smoke.
As the sudden smell of roses bloomed in the damp air, a chill skated over his skin.
She’s dead, he told himself. You’re imagining it.
Still, thinking of the body they’d found beneath the bridge three nights ago, he increased his pace.
The footsteps quickened in response.
Gideon’s stomach knotted. He reached for the pistol holstered at his hip, only to remember he’d left it at home tonight. The opulent halls of Wintersea House were no place for a gun.
You’re a Blood Guard captain. Footsteps in the fog do not scare you.
But it wasn’t the footsteps so much as the smell.
Her smell.
He was coming upon a footpath that led into the back alley behind his tenement. It was difficult to find if you didn’t live in this neighborhood and already know it was there. As the footsteps started closing the gap between them, Gideon arrived at the opening to the path. He sidestepped onto it and pushed his back against the wood fence.
If the pursuer knew about the path and followed him down it, at least he’d have the element of surprise.
The footsteps grew louder. Closer.
Gideon tensed, ready to defend himself, when the footsteps passed him by.
He remained where he was, holding his breath. The fence behind him sagged as he leaned against it. As the footsteps receded into the distance, the pounding of his heart soon drowned out the sound.
The smell of her was gone.
Had it ever really been there, or was it all in his head?
You’re an idiot. It’s probably a lamplighter heading home for the night.
Pushing away from the wall, Gideon remained on the footpath, taking it to the back of his tenement. The door there didn’t lead to his apartment directly, but through the abandoned space below: the old tailor shop that once belonged to his parents.
Gideon boarded it up years ago and rarely had a reason to enter it. Earlier tonight, however, he’d gone inside looking for fabric and sewing needles to stitch Rune’s flower.
The shop’s interior door opened onto the stairwell leading to the apartments above. Gideon entered the shop and was halfway to the door when something made him stop.
I don’t have a dress to wear, Rune had told him. My seamstress is booked until next month.
Gideon fumbled through the dark until he found the matches he’d left near the door earlier this evening. He lit a lamp and the flame’s orange glow illuminated the room: walls lined with bolts of fabric; a large worktable for measuring, cutting, and sewing; a back room for taking customer measurements; and a front counter with a dusty old register.
Gideon stalked toward the fabrics, where a dozen leather-bound notebooks lay stacked on a shelf.
He hadn’t touched these notebooks since his parents died. They were full of his father’s notes and his mother’s sketches, detailing her original designs.
Gideon lifted the only blank notebook from the shelf, grabbed a piece of charcoal from the jar next to it, and pulled a stool up to the worktable.
If his mother were designing a dress for Rune Winters, what kind of dress would it be?
He started sketching. The black charcoal burst across the white page as he thought of Rune on the love seat: her rose-gold hair flaming in the light of the lamps; her skin flushing as his fingers traced her; her pulse stumbling as he leaned in to kiss her.
Again, he scolded himself for intimidating her. But she was the one who’d invited him back to her room. She had summoned the wine.
She had made the first move.
Either way, he needed to keep up this charade. If she was the Moth and the one leaving corpses scattered across the city, the closer he got to her, the easier finding evidence of her crimes would be. And if she wasn’t, someone close to her likely was, and it would still be in his best interest to infiltrate her inner circles by courting her.
If she’d let him, that is.
Gideon’s plan was forming on the pages of his mother’s sketchbook.
He kept drawing until he’d ripped out more pages than what remained in the book. He kept drawing until the side of his hand and wrist were black with charcoal and his spine hurt from bending over so long.
It was dawn by the time he had a design he didn’t hate. One he could work with.
The question was: would she like it?
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FIFTEEN RUNE
RUNE’S RIDING BOOTS CRUNCHED the stone path cutting through the university’s campus, where she was meeting Verity and Alex. The blustery wind eddied the dirt into the air and swirled the hem of her riding cape.
The pink granite face of Summer Hall greeted Rune, its studded wooden doors shut tight. Hoisting her satchel higher on her shoulder, Rune pulled open both doors and stepped inside. Purple wallpaper greeted her, patterned with giant dahlias, and the green tiles clicked beneath her boots. There were four dormitories on the university’s campus. Summer Hall was known for its pastel colors and botanical patterns.
If the moment you walk in you’re accosted by flowers on all sides, you’ve found the right place, Verity told her the first time she ever gave Rune directions.
She smiled at the girl at the front desk, who waved her past, used to Rune’s frequent visits. The walls changed to blue irises, then yellow sunflowers as Rune turned down halls, making her way to Verity’s room.
She knocked on the small door, and when it swung in, Verity looked out, squinting. Her dark brown curls were flat on one side, and her spectacles were missing.
She looked like she’d just woken up.
“Sorry I’m early,” said Rune.
Verity blinked. “I completely forgot about our meeting.”
“Oh! Do you want to reschedule?”
Verity shook her head. “No, no. Come in. Just … step over the mess.”
Rune followed her friend into the tiny, closet-sized dorm room, shutting the door behind her. Clothes lay in heaps across the few feet of floor between the wall and the bed. Piles of books leaned against the walls and glass jars crammed the shelves. Some jars held living things within them—insects, small rodents—while others held dead things preserved in liquid.
Rune spotted Henry, the mimic spider, in the biggest jar. Already snacking on some winged thing he’d caught in his web.
Verity shoved the scattered clothes into one pile, making room for Rune on the floor.
“I’m sorry for last night,” she said, kicking aside a stocking.
“Oh? What for?” Shrugging off her satchel, Rune pulled out a spell book.
“When I saw Gideon in your bedroom, I overreacted.” Verity sat on her small bed, staring straight ahead at the white roses on her wallpaper. “I remembered the Blood Guard soldiers coming for my sisters, and I guess I panicked.”
Verity rarely spoke about her mother’s betrayal of her two eldest daughters—witches, both. All three de Wilde sisters had been extremely close.
With the heavy tome still in her arms, Rune sat down next to Verity and reached for her hand, which was ice-cold. Rune rubbed it between her warm ones. It was always so drafty in this room.
“What happened to your sisters was horrible,” said Rune. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”
Verity shook her head. “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you. You’re the closest thing I have to family now.”
Throwing her arm around Verity, Rune pulled her close, trying to comfort and warm her simultaneously, noticing how bony her shoulders were getting. Wasn’t Verity’s scholarship supposed to include meals along with boarding?
“You’re the closest thing I have to family, too,” said Rune, leaning her head against Verity’s. “You and Alex.”
Verity nodded to the spell book sitting on Rune’s lap. “Do you need help with a spell?”
Rune opened the book and turned to the spells she’d been practicing: Picklock and Deadbolt.
Across the page were two symbols, each one an inversion of the other.
“They’re Minora spells, so I should be able to cast them using the blood you gave me, right? But when I try, it’s like wading through sludge, and nothing happens.”
Verity took the book and pulled it onto her lap. “These are more complicated Minoras. You probably need fresher blood. Can you show me?”
Nodding, Rune reached into the inner pocket of her riding cape and pulled out a glass vial, half-full of blood.
Verity waited, pulling her legs onto the mattress and crossing them beneath her. While Verity was not a witch herself, her sisters had always let her sit in on their spell castings. Verity had gleaned far more from her sisters than Rune had ever gleaned from Nan. So when Rune had trouble with a spell, Verity was the person she came to.
After pushing up her sleeves, Rune rose from the bed and approached the door to Verity’s room. Verity was an expert at cleaning blood from any surface, so Rune didn’t hesitate. After locking it manually, she pulled the cork stopper out of the glass vial, dabbed her index finger in the blood, lifted her hand, and began drawing the symbol for Picklock on the wood of the door: three interconnected lines—two straight, one curved.
Casting spells was like playing a musical instrument, or cooking a delicious meal. The more you studied and practiced your craft, the more skilled you became. Or that’s how it was supposed to work under normal circumstances.
Because Rune used old blood, her spells were weaker than if she had a fresh source. Fresh blood, and a lot of it, was required for more powerful spells.
Making things more difficult was being restricted to the small amount of blood from each monthly bleeding, limiting the number of spells she could cast, as well as the type.
Mirages, for example, were illusions. They tampered with people’s perceptions. Mirages were Rune’s spells of choice because they were less complicated and required less blood.
Minoras, on the other hand, did things to change the material world—like locking and unlocking a door—and were more challenging. A Minora required the fresh blood of the witch casting it. Using Verity’s borrowed blood was a way to cheat, because blood from someone else always boosted the power of a spell. But it only worked so well, and only some of the time.
It was like trying to cook a mouthwatering feast when the only ingredients on hand were some withered root vegetables, stale bread, and smelly fish. You could cook the food, but it would be neither mouthwatering nor a feast.
Rune dabbed more blood onto the pad of her finger and continued drawing the symbol. As she dragged the mark across the door, the taste of salt bloomed in her mouth and a familiar roar echoed in her ears. Like the roar of the sea.
For Rune, casting spells always felt like swallowing the ocean. Like she was standing in the surf as the tide came in, only it was coming in faster and more forcefully than was natural, and it took all her strength to keep her feet planted and not get thrust over.
Rune shut her eyes as the magic swelled and her body trembled from the effort. The sea roared louder, its brackish taste stinging her throat.
She clenched her teeth and kept drawing, forcing more of the bloody symbol onto the door in front of her. Pain throbbed in her temples as that invisible wave started to crash. Rune felt its weight descending. She braced herself, trying to finish the mark as it came tumbling down on her. Her hand shook harder. She gripped her wrist, trying to steady it. There was only one line left to draw …
“Rune,” Verity said. Her voice sounded muffled. Far away.
I can do it. It’s almost done.
“Rune, stop. You going to—”
The next time the wave swelled, Rune lost her footing. The spell crashed down and her legs buckled. Rune collapsed beneath it, drowning in that thunderous roar.
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SIXTEEN RUNE
SOMEONE WAS SHAKING HER.
“Rune!”
Her head throbbed. In fact, her whole body throbbed, pain reverberating outward from one intense point at the back of her skull. Ughhhh.
“Alex … can you help me sit her up?”
Rune forced her eyes open. The room blurred and swayed above her. She saw a smudge of gold overhead, heard Alex murmur something to Verity, and closed her eyes again.
From the hard surface beneath her back, she knew she was on the floor.
“What happened?” she whispered.
Alex scooped her into his arms and set her on Verity’s bed.
“You fainted,” answered Verity.
It wasn’t the first time. It happened whenever she pushed herself too hard on a spell that was too difficult for her.
If Nan were still alive to guide her, maybe this would be easier. But Rune’s first bleeding came a few months after they’d purged her. She’d had to learn everything on her own, or with Verity’s help. And after two years of being a witch, Rune could still only cast a handful of spells.
As the pounding in her head subsided, she forced her eyes open. The room spun.
“You overexerted yourself,” said Verity. “It’s like when too much electric current flows through a wire. The wire can’t hold that much power and overheats, causing a fire or explosion.”
Rune frowned at her friend. “I don’t follow.”
“Your power—the amount of magic you’re capable of—is too much for your conductor, or the quality of blood you’re using. So the spell short-circuits.”
But Rune had no other blood to use.
Sighing, she waited for her vision to clear. Finally, Alex and Verity came into view, their brows furrowed as they stood over her. An uncorked vial lay on the floor, its contents spilling out in a glistening pool of bright red blood.
“No, no, no …” Rune scrambled toward it, but it was too late. Most of the blood had seeped into the cracks between the floorboards and was already drying.
Rune touched her index finger to the precious, sticky blood.
What a waste.
She only had one full vial left until her next cycle started.
Her hand fisted as she stared at the mess. “I wish I was better at this.”
“You could be.” Verity crouched down next to her. “This blood is old, Rune. No matter how much practicing you do or how perfect your marks are, some spells are going to be impossible or dangerous to cast without fresh blood. You might get away with a basic Minora spell and some Mirages, but if you want to cast more complex spells, you need fresh blood. Otherwise, this will keep happening.”
“To do that, I’d have to cut myself,” said Rune. Which would create casting scars, which she couldn’t risk.
When a witch drew blood by cutting her skin, the magic used to cast a spell discolored the scar, turning it silver. It was why casting scars were considered beautiful during the Reign of Witches. Many witches made their cuts with care, intentionally creating elaborate designs across their bodies. Some employed skilled artists to do the cutting for them. Popular places were down the arms and back, and along the shoulders, collarbones, and wrists. But these were also highly visible, so after the revolution, witches with scars in these places had been the first to be identified and purged.
Rune’s grandmother had kept her scars contained to her arms. If Rune closed her eyes, she could still see them. The delicate cuts began at the edge of Nan’s collarbone and flowed down to her wrists in silvery designs depicting nautical scenes: a ship in a storm, half-swallowed by waves; sea monsters swimming in the deep.
“You wouldn’t have to cut yourself,” said Verity.
“What do you mean?” asked Alex from behind them.
Verity glanced back at him. “My sisters used to say that a witch’s skill is a combination of study and practice. The more she learns and memorizes, and the more she consistently practices her spellmarks, the more she excels at her spells. But an equally vital component is the blood she has access to. An accomplished witch can master complex spells using her own fresh blood, or someone else’s. Rune can’t use her own, for obvious reasons, but she could use someone else’s—if they were willing to bear the scars.”
Nan had mentioned it to her once—that some witches used the blood of others to amplify their spells. This was necessary for immense magical workings, such as Majoras and Arcanas—the two highest categories of spellcraft. Majora spells required someone else’s blood given with permission; Arcana spells required someone else’s blood taken against their will.
Arcanas were the most powerful of all spells and had been outlawed for centuries. Not only were they considered wicked, they came with a considerable cost: if a witch took someone’s blood against their will, the spell using that blood would corrupt the witch. She would crave the power it gave her, and resort to more coercive bloodletting, often killing her sources.
“You’re saying Rune could, for example, use my blood to do magic?” asked Alex.
Verity nodded. “She’s capable of powerful spells. She’s simply working with a diminished resource. Basic spells like Mirages can be done using old blood, but the more powerful spells require the sacrifice of fresh blood.”
Alex glanced at Rune, his eyes sparking.
“No,” said Rune, seeing the thoughts in his head. “Absolutely not.”
“Why? If it would help you—”
“You would bear the scars.” If Rune were to take Alex’s blood, even with his permission, silver casting scars would appear where she’d cut him. It would put him at too great a risk.
Verity looked like she was about to say something, when the sound of voices in the hall made them all twist toward the door—which shone with a bloody spellmark.
“I need to clean this,” said Rune, realizing the danger she’d put her friend in. She started to rise. “Before someone sees …”
Verity put a hand on her shoulder, pressing lightly down. “Stay here and rest a minute. I’ll clean up.”
Verity left to fetch a bucket of soapy water and a mop, locking the door behind her. In the silence, Rune’s stomach growled. Magic always made her ravenous.
Alex lifted the spell book lying open on the bed. “ ‘Picklock and Deadbolt’?”
From the floor, Rune looked up to find him standing over her. The open spell book in his hands cloaked her in shadow.
“It’s my backup plan,” Rune explained. “In case we can’t find Seraphine before they transfer her. Picklock will open the more complicated locks of the palace prison.”
Or it would, if I could cast it.
Alex shut the book and frowned down at her.
“You’ve never been inside the palace prison,” he pointed out. “How would you know which locks need picking?”
“Noah Creed took me on a tour of Oakhaven Park once.” Oakhaven Park was the Creed family estate. “His mother is the prison warden. I saw a map on the wall of her study.”
“And the Creeds are throwing a masked ball tomorrow night,” murmured Alex, putting her plan together. “You’re going to steal the map.”
She shook her head. “Too suspicious. Stealing it would alert his mother, who would likely double the prison’s security and put the Blood Guard on high alert.”
Alex sat down beside her on the floor. Together, they took up all the space in Verity’s tiny room that wasn’t claimed by her bed and books. Handing the heavy tome back to Rune, he asked, “So what’s your plan?”
“If I can remember where his mother’s study is, I could trace the map.”
The look on Alex’s face suggested he didn’t think this plan was any better than stealing it outright, but if that’s what he thought, he kept it to himself. “I imagine it’s a large map. Where exactly are you going to hide this tracing while you dance and flirt all night?”
She smirked at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
To her surprise, his face flushed.
A prickling silence filled the space between them. They both glanced away.
“I’ll cover for you,” Alex said.
Before she could thank him, he qualified: “On one condition.”
Rune narrowed her eyes. “What condition?”
“Once Seraphine is safe, you promise to lie low for a while.”
Rune wrinkled her nose. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. Which is unfortunate, seeing as I know exactly where Warden Creed’s office is.”
“You do?” Rune’s eyes widened. “Wait. You’re blackmailing me!”
“And you are fainting from overexertion. You need a break, Rune.”
She hated the pitying look in his eyes and looked away, to the broken vial on the floor. So much wasted blood. Blood she might have used to break Seraphine out of her cell.
But Alex was right. She was wearing herself too thin.
It would be nice to rest.
There had been fewer and fewer purgings lately, mostly because of Rune—with Verity and Alex’s help—stealing witches from Blood Guard holdings and smuggling them off the island. But that wasn’t the only reason. Any witches who once hoped things would get better had realized by now things were getting worse. They’d fled—if they could—or were well hidden.
So maybe Rune could justify taking a day or two …
“A month.”
“What? No.”
“I’m going to Caelis for a month.”
“WHAT?” Caelis was the capital city of Umbria, a peaceful country on the Continent, directly across the Barrow Strait.
I need you here! she almost said. “Why go so far?” And for so long?
“I’ve been corresponding with the Conservatory’s dean about finishing my studies.”
A storm of emotions whirled through Rune. Anger, that he’d leave the fate of innocent witches in Blood Guard hands. Annoyance, that he had a life and desires apart from their mission.
But it isn’t his mission, Rune told herself. It’s mine.
Alex helped her to the point of endangering himself because he was a good person who believed that what the New Republic had done—what it was still doing—was wrong. But he wasn’t a witch. He would never know what it felt like to be hated and hunted. To watch people like you purged for the simple crime of being who they were.
This fight would never truly be his. And it was unfair to expect him to continually put himself at risk for her.
She was being selfish.
A too-familiar ache swelled beneath Rune’s rib cage as she glanced down at the spell book gripped to her chest, thinking of Nan. Remembering a time when she’d felt whole and seen and understood. A time when she hadn’t felt so utterly alone.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Nan is gone. You can’t undo the past. You can only go forward and make things better in the future. That’s what Nan would want you to do.
“If I go back to school, I’ll need somewhere to live,” said Alex, no longer looking at her, but staring toward the window. “There’s a house for sale near the harbor, close enough to the school. If it seems like a good fit, I’m going to buy it.”
Rune nodded, even though she didn’t like the sound of this one bit.
“If I buy it, I want you to come with me.”
“For an entire month?” She shook her head. There was no way. How many witches would die in that time? Even one was too many. “If you help me rescue Seraphine, I promise to go with you—but only for a week.”
“Two weeks,” he pressed, turning his attention to her and folding his arms over his chest, like that was his final offer.
Just then, someone rapped on the door.
They both froze.
“It’s me,” said Verity from the other side.
Rising to her feet, Rune shot Alex a look that said, We can talk about this later, and opened the door.
While Verity scrubbed the blood off her door and Alex mopped the floor, Rune picked up the pieces of her broken vial. Dropping the glass shards into a wastebasket, she glanced over at her childhood friend.
Alexander Sharpe was one of only two people in the world she could trust without a second thought. Imagining him in Caelis, so far away, filled her with a sadness so deep, she wanted to sink to the floor and cry.
What would she do without him?
WHEN RUNE RETURNED TO Wintersea House, a telegram was waiting for her.
Expecting it to be a reminder for the Creeds’ masked ball tomorrow night, she opened it intending to skim and set it aside when she noticed the sender had included their address: Old Town. It was an industrial part of the capital, full of tradespeople and day laborers and other working-class families.
None of her friends lived there.
Curious, she turned her full attention on the message.
MISS RUNE WINTERS
WINTERSEA HOUSE
I APOLOGIZE FOR MOVING SO QUICKLY LAST NIGHT. IF YOU’RE NOT PUT OFF BY ME YET, I MAY HAVE A SOLUTION TO YOUR PREDICAMENT REGARDING THE LUMINARIES DINNER.
GIDEON
A solution?
Verity’s warnings clanged through Rune as she remembered how close she’d come to letting Gideon kiss her. How much further would he have gone if she’d let him?
With past suitors, Rune had always drawn a line at kissing. She never, under any circumstances, went further than that. Having this rule made her feel like she was still in control. Like she couldn’t totally lose herself, no matter how desperate things got.
This is a second chance to find out where they’re holding Seraphine, she told herself, silently apologizing to Verity. I have to take it.
She dictated her response to Lizbeth, who took it to the telegraph office.
GIDEON SHARPE
113 PRUDENCE ST, OLD TOWN
I’M INTRIGUED. TELL ME MORE.
RUNE
P.S. IF ANYONE NEEDS TO APOLOGIZE FOR LAST NIGHT, IT’S THE PERSON WHO RUINED YOUR JACKET.
A reply arrived in the afternoon.
IT WILL BE EASIER TO SHOW YOU. ARE YOU FREE TOMORROW AT 10 A.M.? IF SO, MEET ME AT THIS ADDRESS.
GIDEON
P.S. I PROMISE TO GO SLOW THIS TIME.
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