The Winter Long
Page 88
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“You really think it’s going to be that easy?” demanded Evening. “You drank my blood, you stupid little mongrel. You’re mine.”
“Oh, is that all?” I turned to the Luidaeg. “How much of your blood have I consumed since we met?”
The corner of her mouth turned upward as far as her terrible teeth would allow. “At least a quart. You’re a thirsty little vampire when you want to be.”
“Uh-huh.” I turned back to Evening. “I am not a descendant of Titania. I am not yours by blood. I have tasted your blood once, and once only. I am not yours by mistake. And while Sylvester Torquill may be my liege, I am a hero of the realm, so named by Arden Windermere, the Queen in the Mists. Kingdom trumps Duchy. I am not yours by fealty. I refuse your claim on me.”
She blinked, looking briefly surprised. Then she rolled her eyes. “It’s not that easy, October. It never has been.”
“See, I think it is. You’ve been arguing about this with me for a long time now, and you’ve sort of blown your cover—you were dead, then you weren’t dead, then you were trying to take back Goldengreen, then you were holing up at Shadowed Hills—even if that didn’t show a major lack of planning on your part, it would tell me one thing loud and clear: you’re desperate. You can’t go back to being Evening Winterrose, harmless Countess. Not after coming back from the grave.” Anger suddenly bubbled in my chest, and I let it, making no effort to swallow back the words that spilled from my lips: “You died! You left me, you left me with no allies and no idea of what to do and . . . and . . . and now I find out it was your fault? You’re the one who sent Simon after me, who ruined my life?”
“You seem to have done fairly well for yourself,” said Evening, looking taken aback. “You have your friends, your house, your little squire—where is the boy, anyway? I can’t wait to introduce myself to him properly.”
“He’s where you can’t touch him, and it doesn’t matter if I’ve built myself something better, because you’re the reason that I had to,” I snapped. “I shouldn’t have been forced to do that. You were supposed to be my friend.”
“I never said I was your friend, October,” she said, all traces of bewilderment fading. “I said I was your ally. I was, at the time. I never harmed you directly.”
“Because you weren’t allowed,” snapped the Luidaeg. “Don’t pretend your limitations are some kind of altruistic gesture.”
“Why not? You do it all the time.” Evening looked past us to where Simon was holding Tybalt in wind-wrapped thrall. “They’re not going to listen to reason. Kill the animal, and come here.”
“Yes, milady,” said Simon. I whirled in time to see him slant a regretful glance in my direction, and then he waved his hands in the air, a simple, almost graceful gesture.
Tybalt screamed.
TWENTY-ONE
I HAD NEVER MOVED so fast before in my life; I may never move that fast again. Tybalt’s scream was still gathering strength as I launched myself across the room, drawing the knife from my belt and charging straight for Simon. Behind me, I heard Evening shouting; I heard the Luidaeg shouting even louder, until their words blurred together in a senseless mass of sounds and syllables. None of it mattered. The only things in the world with any meaning to them were the men in front of me, one red-haired and frowning, the other screaming in evident agony.
My knife wasn’t weighted for throwing, and even if it had been, I’d never thrown a knife before; I wouldn’t have known how to begin. So I settled for what I knew, flipping the blade around and slashing open my own palm as I ran. The wound flared pain up my arm. I ignored it—I’ve gotten surprisingly good at ignoring little things like that—and instead used the blood to call as much of my magic as I could summon from the marrow of my bones, calling and calling until the air around me was thick with the smell of cut grass and copper, burying all traces of roses and snow, smoke and oranges.
Tybalt was still screaming. I was still running. All of this had taken seconds, barely enough to register on a clock’s face. It had been enough to accomplish one thing, however: it had been enough to get me close enough to Tybalt that I could slam my still-bleeding hand flat against his chest, transferring all the momentum of my run into his body. He rocked backward, held up only by the ropes of wind that still bound him, and I rocked with him.
Simon cursed. I allowed myself a flickering instant of satisfaction. As I had hoped, when I hit Tybalt, the shock of the impact had transferred back to the man who cast the spell.
That man was going to have to deal with me in a minute. Right now, I needed to deal with Tybalt, whose screams were tapering off as he choked and gasped for air. I pressed my palm down harder against his chest, praying that the wound would stay open long enough to give me the blood that I needed, and closed my eyes. Please let this work, I thought. Please let me remember how . . .
Glowing orange-and-gray lines snapped into view on the inside of my eyelids, carefully and precisely twisted around each other in a net that a master craftsman would have been proud to call his own. They looked almost diseased to my mind’s eye, like they had been infected with something that might never come clean.
“Sorry,” I murmured, not opening my eyes, and slashed my knife along the worst of the lines.
The silver was coated in my blood, and my magic was sizzling in the air. When the blade hit the edges of Simon’s spell they withered, snapping and fraying with every pass. My headache—gone, but not forgotten—flared back to life, and I ignored it. I couldn’t be entirely sure that I wasn’t hitting Tybalt at least a little, but I hacked away at the center of the spell without allowing myself to hesitate. Better a few bandages than a single coffin.
Simon cursed again, and more of the lines sprang into view, slithering to fill the spaces left by the ones I had cut away. I responded by changing the directions of my cuts. Instead of slashing at the spell, I brought the knife down on the inside of my arm, opening the skin from wrist to elbow. The blood came fast and dangerously heavy then, but I ignored the implications of that as I dropped the knife, covered my hands in sticky warmth, and began shredding the spell by the fistful, ripping it away like there was no tomorrow.
When I yanked the threads from Tybalt’s throat he breathed in—a huge, whooping gasp of a sound—and the lines on his chest began to move as he panted. I took that as a good sign and ripped away chunks of spell even faster. The threads stung my fingers when they got through the insulating layer of blood. I didn’t care. I could handle a few small abrasions better than I could handle my boyfriend’s death.
“Oh, is that all?” I turned to the Luidaeg. “How much of your blood have I consumed since we met?”
The corner of her mouth turned upward as far as her terrible teeth would allow. “At least a quart. You’re a thirsty little vampire when you want to be.”
“Uh-huh.” I turned back to Evening. “I am not a descendant of Titania. I am not yours by blood. I have tasted your blood once, and once only. I am not yours by mistake. And while Sylvester Torquill may be my liege, I am a hero of the realm, so named by Arden Windermere, the Queen in the Mists. Kingdom trumps Duchy. I am not yours by fealty. I refuse your claim on me.”
She blinked, looking briefly surprised. Then she rolled her eyes. “It’s not that easy, October. It never has been.”
“See, I think it is. You’ve been arguing about this with me for a long time now, and you’ve sort of blown your cover—you were dead, then you weren’t dead, then you were trying to take back Goldengreen, then you were holing up at Shadowed Hills—even if that didn’t show a major lack of planning on your part, it would tell me one thing loud and clear: you’re desperate. You can’t go back to being Evening Winterrose, harmless Countess. Not after coming back from the grave.” Anger suddenly bubbled in my chest, and I let it, making no effort to swallow back the words that spilled from my lips: “You died! You left me, you left me with no allies and no idea of what to do and . . . and . . . and now I find out it was your fault? You’re the one who sent Simon after me, who ruined my life?”
“You seem to have done fairly well for yourself,” said Evening, looking taken aback. “You have your friends, your house, your little squire—where is the boy, anyway? I can’t wait to introduce myself to him properly.”
“He’s where you can’t touch him, and it doesn’t matter if I’ve built myself something better, because you’re the reason that I had to,” I snapped. “I shouldn’t have been forced to do that. You were supposed to be my friend.”
“I never said I was your friend, October,” she said, all traces of bewilderment fading. “I said I was your ally. I was, at the time. I never harmed you directly.”
“Because you weren’t allowed,” snapped the Luidaeg. “Don’t pretend your limitations are some kind of altruistic gesture.”
“Why not? You do it all the time.” Evening looked past us to where Simon was holding Tybalt in wind-wrapped thrall. “They’re not going to listen to reason. Kill the animal, and come here.”
“Yes, milady,” said Simon. I whirled in time to see him slant a regretful glance in my direction, and then he waved his hands in the air, a simple, almost graceful gesture.
Tybalt screamed.
TWENTY-ONE
I HAD NEVER MOVED so fast before in my life; I may never move that fast again. Tybalt’s scream was still gathering strength as I launched myself across the room, drawing the knife from my belt and charging straight for Simon. Behind me, I heard Evening shouting; I heard the Luidaeg shouting even louder, until their words blurred together in a senseless mass of sounds and syllables. None of it mattered. The only things in the world with any meaning to them were the men in front of me, one red-haired and frowning, the other screaming in evident agony.
My knife wasn’t weighted for throwing, and even if it had been, I’d never thrown a knife before; I wouldn’t have known how to begin. So I settled for what I knew, flipping the blade around and slashing open my own palm as I ran. The wound flared pain up my arm. I ignored it—I’ve gotten surprisingly good at ignoring little things like that—and instead used the blood to call as much of my magic as I could summon from the marrow of my bones, calling and calling until the air around me was thick with the smell of cut grass and copper, burying all traces of roses and snow, smoke and oranges.
Tybalt was still screaming. I was still running. All of this had taken seconds, barely enough to register on a clock’s face. It had been enough to accomplish one thing, however: it had been enough to get me close enough to Tybalt that I could slam my still-bleeding hand flat against his chest, transferring all the momentum of my run into his body. He rocked backward, held up only by the ropes of wind that still bound him, and I rocked with him.
Simon cursed. I allowed myself a flickering instant of satisfaction. As I had hoped, when I hit Tybalt, the shock of the impact had transferred back to the man who cast the spell.
That man was going to have to deal with me in a minute. Right now, I needed to deal with Tybalt, whose screams were tapering off as he choked and gasped for air. I pressed my palm down harder against his chest, praying that the wound would stay open long enough to give me the blood that I needed, and closed my eyes. Please let this work, I thought. Please let me remember how . . .
Glowing orange-and-gray lines snapped into view on the inside of my eyelids, carefully and precisely twisted around each other in a net that a master craftsman would have been proud to call his own. They looked almost diseased to my mind’s eye, like they had been infected with something that might never come clean.
“Sorry,” I murmured, not opening my eyes, and slashed my knife along the worst of the lines.
The silver was coated in my blood, and my magic was sizzling in the air. When the blade hit the edges of Simon’s spell they withered, snapping and fraying with every pass. My headache—gone, but not forgotten—flared back to life, and I ignored it. I couldn’t be entirely sure that I wasn’t hitting Tybalt at least a little, but I hacked away at the center of the spell without allowing myself to hesitate. Better a few bandages than a single coffin.
Simon cursed again, and more of the lines sprang into view, slithering to fill the spaces left by the ones I had cut away. I responded by changing the directions of my cuts. Instead of slashing at the spell, I brought the knife down on the inside of my arm, opening the skin from wrist to elbow. The blood came fast and dangerously heavy then, but I ignored the implications of that as I dropped the knife, covered my hands in sticky warmth, and began shredding the spell by the fistful, ripping it away like there was no tomorrow.
When I yanked the threads from Tybalt’s throat he breathed in—a huge, whooping gasp of a sound—and the lines on his chest began to move as he panted. I took that as a good sign and ripped away chunks of spell even faster. The threads stung my fingers when they got through the insulating layer of blood. I didn’t care. I could handle a few small abrasions better than I could handle my boyfriend’s death.
