Bleeding Out (18 page)

Modred exhales. “Of course.”

I turn back to Lucian. “No more sidebars. If Lorenzo’s harmless, why did he put a knife to my throat? A knife that I had to wrap in plastic and carry home in my purse, since the lab is going to want it.”

“I don’t know where he got that.”

“But you knew he was dangerous. You said we had to leave.”

“Yes. I know. I was paranoid. Lorenzo sort of collects spells. He has so many of them that sometimes he’s like a walking curiosity shop, and not the kind with the cute mechanical pineapples. Like the spell on the knife that made you nearly pass out.”

“I did not nearly pass out.”

“You dropped like a sack of potatoes.”

“That was a maneuver.”

“Uh-huh. The point is that his spells are unpredictable. They’re on permanent shuffle.”

“You know, earlier, you said that you barely saw him. Now you seem to know a lot about his spell schedule.”

“He has been texting me a little.”

“I fucking knew it.”

“Yeah. You knew it because you read one of them. You may have tried to mark it as unread, but all you did was flag the message.”

“Crap. It was dark.”

“Tess.”

“I saw it by accident.”

“You accidentally hit three buttons to read it?”

“I did it by instinct,” I say lamely. “And besides, your privacy is no longer the point. Lorenzo is a criminal, and he was bold enough to attack Modred.”

“It was more of a slap,” Modred clarifies.

“How many spells did he have?”

“I counted three that were active,” Lucian says. “Celerity, perplexity, and mass. He also had a passive counterspell that turned your dust back on you.”

Mia gives me a look. “You threw dust at him?”

“I threw it in his mouth.”

“Really, though? The rocks listen to you, and that’s all you could think of? Why not spray him with a water bottle?”

“That’s enough from the peanut gallery,” I say. “Go to your room. I need you to translate something.” I hand her
the poem. “It’s from the eleventh century. So far, all we’ve got is ‘pretty’ and ‘don’t touch.’”

“Tess,” Modred says, “I’m by far the oldest thing in this room, and I speak a dozen languages. What exactly is she going to do?”

“She’s going to use the Internet.”

Mia takes the poem. “Cool. I’ll let you know. Also, this seems like a good time to hit you up for money, since you probably wouldn’t be asking me to do this unless it was something important.”

I give her a twenty. “Please don’t spend this on books. Buy something nice for yourself.”

“Like hardcovers?”

She takes the money and vanishes upstairs. Parenting. It’s all about improvisation and deli counters.

“Can I—” Patrick begins.

“No. Being part of this conversation is its own reward. Lucian’s about to tell me what’s going on with his brother.”

“Can we agree to stop using the hostile third-person with my name?”

“Fine. Lorenzo’s been texting you, and you haven’t said anything. Nor have you ever, to this date, said anything about him actually existing. Which I think is more than a little shifty.”

“He only started talking to me a few weeks ago. Honestly, I could just never think of a way to explain that he’s kind of a ghost who lives in Trinovantum. You’ve been
there once, and it didn’t seem like the best time to ask you if you wanted to visit my brother who hates me.”

“He can’t possibly still hate you.”

“He’ll be a teenager forever. He can only leave once in a blue moon, wearing spells like a snowsuit.”

“He seems comfortable enough visiting this city to have already made a tidy profit. I think the time to defend him has passed. We need to find him in Trinovantum before his shit drugs kill someone else.”

“If you’re going to Trinovantum, I want to come,” Patrick says. “I think it would be super-educational.”

“A thousand times no.”

“Why do you have to crush my desire to learn?”

“Because it’s not the safest place to be right now. Trust me. If you want to learn about something, figure out how I’m supposed to submit our taxes this year. I can’t find a box for ‘vampire dependent.’”

Mia comes downstairs. “That was diverting,” she says. “Arabic, Gallico-Portuguese, and Old Castillian. I had so many windows open—it was awesome. Turns out, the poem was written by Yehuda Halevi. Here’s the translation.”

I read what she’s written down:

“Is it a love poem?” Modred asks.

“It could be a riddle,” I say. “Riddles were huge back then. Maybe it really means ‘helmet,’ or ‘rising loaf,’ or something.”

“It sounds dirty,” Patrick says. “Like,
Dude, you’re cute, but get your hand off my goods
.”

“This is why you’re failing your second-year English class,” Mia tells him. “You think everything’s a gay joke.”

“I’ve read Chaucer. Everything is a gay joke.”

“My little body is fragile,”
I say, rising. “Maybe it’s a musical instrument. Or something made of glass. Something easily broken.” I walk over to the hutch, and laugh softly when I see the Seneschal’s brass teapot. “I guess we might as well get one use out of you before you move to the evidence locker.”

“I cannot believe they’re asking for that back,” Mia says.

“Yeah. The CORE has reasons that reason cannot know.”

I throw two Lady Grey teabags into the pot and boil some water. I feel like Lucian’s already doing that thing where he thinks if he’s quiet enough, I’ll forget that he lied to me. When the water’s done, I pour it into the teapot, which howls and spits fireworks at me.

“Holy shit—”

I back away from the counter. The teapot is hopping mad and spilling water all over the place. It spins, faster and faster, until it becomes an arc of liquid brass. Then
it settles down into the form of a small brass man wearing a toga. His ears steam. He spits out tea leaves and gives me a dirty look.

“You could have killed me.”

“Oh—you’re a Lar,” I say.

“Of course. I’m the Seneschal’s Lar.”

“Two seconds ago, you were a teakettle.”

“Two seconds? Try two years. That’s how long I’ve been confined to your kitchen.”

“How did you go to the bathroom?” Mia asks.

He ignores this. “My master gave me instructions. And since he’s gone now, when I fulfill them, I’ll be free.”

“What were his instructions?”

“Two things. First of all, he says you must forgive your mother.”

That stings. “I’ll think about it. What else?”

“You must light a candle for him.”

“That seems like an oddly Buddhist response to murder. But if that’s his last wish, then I respect it.”

“Murder?” The Lar gives me a strange look. “You think my master was killed? No, child. He was a phoenix. He burned, because his life had come to an end. That was his choice.”

“But his cave looked like it was torn apart.”

“I’m sure that when he died, creatures from all over the park came to rifle through his precious things, to sell them or destroy them. I suppose I’m the only thing left that he considered valuable.”

“Well …” Mia says, a tad uncertainly. “If you want, you can still hang out in the hutch.”

“I don’t really have anywhere else to go.”

“We’re a bit like the Hotel California that way,” I say.

I get up and rummage through one of the kitchen drawers until I find a candle. I light it and let it burn in the sink. It’s a stray birthday candle, so it doesn’t stay lit for long, but we all watch it. When it goes out, I reach for the electric kettle, hoping that our eulogy was good enough.

The animals are gathered in the conclusus when
we arrive. The owls and nighthawks look down at the cats, while the frogs gossip. “Did you see her new pad? She’s living in a bad part of the garden.” The swans whisper, neck in neck, but I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying.

“What’s going on?” I ask Lucian.

“Parliament. It looks like an emergency session.”

“Haec vulnera pro libertate publica excepi,”
the horned owl begins. The nighthawks try to drown him out with hisses. “I shall speak. This is a time of great uncertainty. We need to take action.”

A cat approaches the foot of the owl’s tree. “What sort of action?”

“We must protect ourselves from hunters. And with all due respect, your people do not live here all the time, so you should not have a full vote.”

“We do as much work as your people do in half the time.”

“You do only what suits you.”

“Let the cat speak,” says one of the swans.

“Thank you,” the cat says. “At any rate, the owl is right. Food is going to be scarce, and we are vulnerable, even here.”

“Excuse me, your honors.” Lucian steps into the circle of animals. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Well, you are interrupting,” the owl says.

“Yes. I apologize. But can you tell us what’s happened?”

“The city is emptying out. Your people have moved on.”

“Where’s Lord Nightingale?”

“Fled. She was one of the first to go. She could not hold on to what was left of Trinovantum. The throne would not have her.”

Lucian’s eyes widen. “You’re saying—everyone’s gone?”

“Not everyone. A few have stayed behind. A brutal bunch, mostly, who hunt us and each other. And, of course, the ghosts haven’t left.

“He brought a human with him,” the owl says, noticing me for the first time. “This garden used to have standards.”

“Hey.” I step forward. “I’m barely human. Don’t hold that against me. And, if it makes a difference, I know a leopard who’s a lawyer.”

“Her presence makes no difference,” the cat says. “Let’s prioritize. I will lead a scouting mission to the city in order to assess the palace larders.”

“So, you’re going to have a snack, followed by a nap.” The owl shakes her tail feathers. “I get it. We all know how cats work.”

“If nobody wishes to accompany, then I shall lead myself.”

“We’re going that way,” Lucian says. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“Very well. I shall lead you there.”

The cat turns and heads in the direction of the city. We follow. At first I wonder what he’s going to do when we get to the water, but it’s now so shallow that we don’t have to summon a flower; there are rocks and exposed veins of black sand that we can walk on. The trees have lost their jewelry. Bright nets of glass are everywhere, like a shipwreck of Christmas ornaments.

“Where do the souls go when the glass breaks?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Lucian says. “Hopefully somewhere nicer than this. It doesn’t look anything like it did a few days ago.”

“That’s politics for you,” says the cat.

We make it to the city gates, which yawn, unguarded. The night market has vanished. The square is empty. I hear something in the distance, but I can’t identify it. We walk for a long time without encountering a single person.
I see a few shadows in doorways, but they’re too quick for me to make them out. Maybe one of them is Lorenzo.

We reach the well of nightmares. Lucian grabs a container of apple slices from his knapsack.

“Wait,” I say. “How’s this going to work?”

“You will have to carry me.” The cat looks me up and down. “I will endure it. Hopefully it won’t last long.”

We ride the nightmares. When we emerge at the entrance to the palace, I’m bleeding from multiple cuts. The cat drops to the ground, shakes himself, and begins composure-grooming.

“Are you okay?” Lucian asks.

“Let’s just not talk about it ever.”

We make our way through the empty palace. The armored spiders and the glowworms have all left. The stones aren’t talking. I stare at the empty throne, which would have nobody else. I wonder what happened to his armor. Someone probably took it, along with the cushions.

“I shall examine the larder,” the cat says. Before either of us can say anything, he’s gone.

I follow Lucian to Lord Nightingale’s chamber. It’s been pretty well looted. There are a few books left, a bare mattress, and a frayed tapestry still hanging on the wall. I look closer. It’s covered in dust, and the figures are indistinct. A line of text has been stitched into the corner.

“Can you read this?”

Lucian peers at the tapestry. “
Os alacrães son / ca
dentro no coraçón / senti deles a espinha
. That I recognize. It’s from a
cantiga
by Alfonso X that Theresa loved. The speaker fears change. He feels like there’s a nest of scorpions in his heart.”

I look at the tapestry again. I see a nightingale suiciding in the border. Her song is a cloud of golden thread. I look at the ravened edges of the tapestry. I’m afraid to touch it, although the desire is powerful.

“My little body is fragile,”
I say.

I touch the nightingale’s thorn. I feel its sting. A drop of my blood falls on the tapestry, and the threads come alive. The images change. I see five figures in a forest. There’s an Iblis, a tall shadow, a winged lion, someone with claws, and a queen. Vampires gather around the edges of the clearing, while humans hide in the trees. As I watch, a new panel emerges. The queen has a different crown. The shadow is gone. A tower builds itself before my eyes, puffing out its balconies and turrets, until it divides into two, then three, then becomes a fortress. A city rises up around it. Necromancers made of thread roll out the streets. At its edges, the conclusus appears in knots of green and gold. The animals take their positions. The flowers are moored and ready.

“It’s the creation of Trinovantum,” Lucian breathes. “Lord Nightingale made a pact with demons. That must be where this all came from.”

“There’s the Manticore,” I say. “And the Iblis who tried to kill me. And the one with claws. That’s Mr. Corvid. And the shadow. It’s—”

Before I can look closer, I hear a noise. Something flutters by me, and I go for my athame, but Lucian’s faster. I see his hand move, and hear the sound of it connecting with something. I hear a curse. Then Lorenzo is on the floor, rubbing his eye. The mask is gone, and now I can see the resemblance. I imagine this is what Lucian looked like when he was seventeen.