Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (17 page)

“Can't understand it,” he murmured.

“Understand what?”

He turned shadowed eyes to her. “I
felt
it, I truly did, running through these woods, these mountains. Home.”

“I'm glad for you,” she said, and meant it, but could not stop the fractures spreading out from her heart.

“It isn't home,” he said.

“Not yet.”

He slowly shook his head. “I wonder, if ever.”

“These are your people, Nathan,” she said, taking hold of his wrist. “Whom you have been yearning for all this time, without knowing it. The missing part of yourself.” Though he had said that day he did not feel anything missing when he was with her.

He glanced down at her hand on him, then covered it with his own. His hand was warm and strong, but his flesh revealed him to be human and, in his own tough way, vulnerable.

“I
want
it to be like that, Astrid,” he said, frustration threading through his voice. “I want it to be, badly. But it isn't. I've been waiting all night to feel it, the peace, the belonging. But it hasn't come.”

“It will,” she said, trying to sound convincing, which was a challenge, as her heart broke for him. “You must give it time. You've only been with the Earth Spirits a few hours. It will take more than that to undo a lifetime of being an outsider.”

He looked up, catching her gaze with his own. “You think so?”

“I do.”

His expression shifted, turned hungry. “Wise Astrid,” he murmured, drawing her closer. His eyes moved to her lips, growing even more feral. “Beautiful Astrid. I want to taste you again.”

She wanted that as well, far too much. Lightning sped through her body, making her sensitive and needy. So she made herself pull away. “I'm exhausted. And you need to get back to the celebration.”

He planted his hands on his hips. “It won't work.”

“What?”

“I don't back down, Astrid. I don't give up.”

Damn him and his tenacity. “Have you considered that I might not want you anymore?”

His smile was slow, arrogant, and wicked, and it tormented her. “You do,” he said confidently. “As much as I want you.”

“
Good night,
Nathan,” she said and hurried back to the tepee as fast as she could. She did and she did not want him to go after her, and it was with a disheartening amount of regret that she reached her destination entirely alone.

 

Chill night air turned her lungs crystalline. She breathed in, taking in the frigid air, waking herself with each inhalation. After the close warmth of the tepee luring her back to sleep, she needed any form of impetus to move.

Overhead, the sky gleamed, each star a cut stone. And it was hers alone. Everyone was asleep. The celebration had carried on late into the night, but now, fatigued and happy, the revelers were all snug in their tepees.

Including Nathan.

He'd been sleeping when she had crept out of Iron Wolf's tepee, laden with one pack, her rifle, and her pistol. In the dim glow of the fire's embers, she studied Nathan's face, the planes of his cheekbones, the fullness of his mouth. It had taken far too much strength to keep from going to him, pressing her lips to his in a farewell. But, despite what he had said to her earlier that evening, his place was here.

It was for him she did this. She had to remind herself of that. She alone truly knew what the Heirs were capable of, and so the task of protecting the Earth Spirits fell to her. Would she see Nathan again? If she survived this mission.

As she edged toward the limits of the village, through the clusters of tents, she passed the humped forms of bears curled in slumber, and wolves nestling together. Some twitched slightly as she passed, but she had learned long ago how to walk silently, and she kept herself downwind so that her scent would not travel and alert anyone to her disappearance.

Iron Wolf would try and stop her. Nathan might as well.

Yet she'd had a revelation back in Iron Wolf's tent. Nathan sought a sense of belonging. He would find it here, with the Earth Spirits. She, too, had something to which she belonged.

She had been, and would always be, a Blade of the Rose. Astrid knew this now. Fleeing from this part of herself was as impossible as fleeing from her own pulse. It was not duty. It was her. She had her Compass. Even alone, she was a Blade. That's what her dream signified, weeks before this journey had begun.

Which meant she had to act.

She passed the outer reaches of the village, where the horses were kept. Two human warriors as well as a wolf and a hawk guarded the enclosure. Yet they were asleep, too. Strange. She briefly contemplated taking a horse. It would make her own journey faster, but she did not dare risk waking the guards. And her actions might be misconstrued as theft rather than borrowing. Horse thievery was a grave crime. On foot, then. She had done it before.

Astrid crossed a dry, narrow creek bed. Then a large silver-and-black shape darted in front of her and blocked her path. In its maw, the wolf carried several pieces of hide clothing and a pair of moccasins. It stared at her, anger in its topaz eyes.

“Nathan,” she whispered, torn between frustration and pleasure.

He changed forms, much more quickly than he had done before. That gave her some gratification, knowing that he was coming into the fullness of his ability, making it part of him.

He donned the breechcloth and shirt. “I didn't figure you for the sneaking-off sort,” he said, tugging on the moccasins. His words were hard, like chipped flint.

“Iron Wolf would not have allowed me to leave had I gone during the day.”

Arms folded across his chest, he stared at her, but it was too dark to see his expression. She felt rather than saw his anger, and had no way to answer it. So she let the silence draw out between them.

“You're going for the totems,” he said.

Strange how well he knew her, this man who had been unknown to her a week before. “The Sources must be found and protected. Even if Iron Wolf thinks the tribe is safe, I know the Heirs are coming. They will find the totems and use them.”

Quietly, but with steel in his voice, he said, “You're certain of this.”

She stepped closer to him, feeling the heat of his body. Her own voice had its strength, its confidence. “I've never been more certain. The tribe must be defended from the enslavement that will definitely come. This
has
to be done.”

Again, he fell silent. She could only wonder what he was thinking. Perhaps that she was a headstrong fool, meddling in affairs that did not concern her. But he could not think that. He, more than anyone, seemed to understand what drove her onward. Perhaps he would allow her to go. Though, she thought wryly, she never permitted a man to
allow
her to do anything.

“Wait here,” he finally said. He started to move past her, back toward the village.

Anger shot through her. “I won't let you wake Iron Wolf.”

“Wake him? He'll only try and stop us.”

“‘Us'?” she repeated with a spike of something that felt like elation.

He leaned closer, and his words were gruff. “If you think I'd let you face those son-of-a-bitch Heirs on your own, then I've made a damned poor impression on you.”

Astrid struggled to keep the exhilaration from her voice, just as she struggled to keep from feeling that emotion. But the battle was lost all too quickly. “So, where are you going?”

“To the tepee for my pack.”

“No need to go so far,” said a reedy voice close by.

Both Astrid and Nathan spun to find He Watches Stars standing just behind them. The tiny old man had Nathan's pack at his feet.

Astrid gaped. She had not heard the wizened man, and could not believe such an aged person could even lift, let alone carry, the heavy rucksack.

“Don't try to stop us, old sage,” Nathan cautioned. He shouldered the pack easily.

He Watches Stars chuckled, the sound like dry, rustling leaves. “Why would I do that? A grave threat to the Earth Spirits clouds the horizon.”

Though she was profoundly relieved, she felt compelled to note, “Iron Wolf does not think so.”

The old man waved a tiny, wrinkled hand. “Iron Wolf is a good chief, but he is too used to being pack leader. He cannot think anyone will challenge him. No one has. Except you,” he added, looking back and forth between Nathan and Astrid with a smile.

“You believe me, then, about the threat?” she asked.

“It is not you I believe, Hunter Shadow Woman,” said the old man. “I believe my dreams. And they have shown me what shall be, if the totems are not found and protected.” His voice chilled with visions. “Betrayal. Death. Slavery. At the hands of those you call the Heirs.”

Both Astrid and Nathan stiffened. Neither of them had mentioned the Heirs of Albion by name.

“Yes, children,” He Watches Stars said, grim, “the Heirs come. My visions have foretold it. And if you do not act to secure the totems, our tribe's future is nothing but misery.”

Hearing He Watches Stars' pronouncement, a sick dread plunged through Nathan, followed immediately by the need to fight. What the medicine man saw was a vision of what
might
be. Nothing was unchangeable.

“If there's anything you know about these totems,” he said to the old man, “tell us now.”

“There are legends of the three totems,” answered He Watches Stars. “So that in times of threat, or when one Earth Spirit grew too powerful, they could be found. Only a handful know these legends.”

“Including you, I hope,” said Astrid.

Nathan shot her a quick grin. She was as ready as he to set off on their hunt. Later, he'd give her holy hell for trying to sneak away without him. For now, he was eager to take up the quest with her at his side.

“Yes, me,” the old man said. He closed his eyes and spread his hands, and his voice chanted in a low and steady rhythm:

Incantation finished, He Watches Stars folded his hands and looked at Astrid and Nathan with eyes gleaming like his namesake stars. Nathan felt the chant resonating through his body, his heart and mind, as though he were a drum struck during a ritual.

“And that is all?” Astrid asked. “There is no more?”

“None, Hunter Shadow Woman,” the old man said. He turned a shrewd gaze to her. “Is it not enough?”

“I've found more with less,” she answered, a flat statement of fact that sent a jolt of pure desire shooting through Nathan. Her strength aroused him, and his beast, to madness.

He Watches Stars beckoned both Nathan and Astrid closer. When they approached, the medicine man placed a palm on each of their foreheads. A warm glow spread from the old man's hand and into Nathan. “Blessings of the Great Spirit on you. May you succeed in your quest—for the sake of your tribe. And the earth.”

The glow receded, and He Watches Stars stepped back. “Go now, children. My medicine can only subdue the tribe until sunrise.”

“What do you mean?” asked Astrid.

He Watches Stars chuckled. “Do you truly believe you could steal your way through a tribe of Earth Spirits and none would wake? Sister, you are a skilled hunter, but no one is
that
skilled.”

“You cast a spell,” Nathan said, startled. He still struggled for sea legs when it came to this world of magic.

“A small sleeping charm,” the old man said with a modest shrug. “Iron Wolf would not have permitted you to go, had he been awake. Though, I must own, my medicine has been strangely strong lately. I feel something has changed.”

Nathan noticed Astrid's small shiver of acknowledgment. She had felt the change, too.

“Will the Earth Spirits follow?” she asked.

He Watches Stars shook his head. “I will make Iron Wolf see reason. At the least, I will tell him that if you want to cast your lives away, it would be foolish to try and stop you.”

“Thank you,” Nathan said. “I think.”

“Must I say it again? Go now.”

Wordless, Nathan and Astrid set off, putting the medicine man and slumbering village behind them. They moved forward, into the darkness, and Nathan's heightened nocturnal senses guided them, so that their path was clear, even as the night and forest and mountains took them into shadow.

 

Catullus and Quinn stood in the doorway of Astrid Bramfield's cabin, their guide Jourdain outside with the horses. What they saw there made Catullus's heart sink.

“I don't know Mrs. Bramfield,” Quinn noted drily. “But I'm going to guess she doesn't usually keep a dead body in her home.”

“Not usually, no,” said Catullus.

There wasn't much of a body left. Scavenging animals had gotten to it, but enough remained so that Catullus could identify it was a man—at least knowing its gender was a relief—whose clothes had been stripped off. Catullus carefully stepped forward over the piles of books and overturned furniture. The body smelled awful. Everything that had been edible was gone, but enough remained to fill the small cabin with the stink of decay.

Reaching into his pocket, Catullus pulled out a pair of very thin leather gloves. He had them specially made in Italy, and they were remarkably useful for handling things without leaving smudges from his fingers. He pulled on the gloves, crouched down, and methodically examined the body.

“He was killed by an animal,” he said as Quinn came up to stand behind him.

“There's hardly anything there!”

“It's not so much the body, but what it left behind.” He looked at now-dry rust brown splatters on the floor and even on the walls. “Blood here. And the markings on what had been the throat. The killing blow.” Catullus pointed to deep scrapes across the remains. “Some kind of large cat or wolf tore the man's esophagus clean out.”

“Explains the blood everywhere.”

Catullus rose from his crouch, frowning at the stained floor and walls. God, he hoped the blood belonged only to the dead man, and none of it was Astrid's.

“Is he an Heir?” Quinn asked. “Sure hope so.”

“No way to tell. Whoever he is,
was,
Astrid didn't kill him. But,” he added, seeing smaller boot prints tracking blood back and forth over the floorboards, “she has been here, and she was alive after he died.” A staggering relief. But there were other tracks. The bare feet of a man. Other men's footprints marked the floor, but the blood hadn't been as wet when they came through the cabin, judging by the marks.
Hell.

“And then packed and left,” Quinn said, gesturing toward an open chest at the foot of the bed.

A new hope surged through Catullus. He went to the chest and gingerly picked through it, feeling as though he was violating Astrid's privacy. He found empty boxes that once held rifle shells and bullets for a revolver. A quick search of her cupboard produced only a few garments, including some chemises and drawers, which made Catullus particularly uncomfortable. But the thing he was searching for wasn't there. And for that, he was grateful.

“She took her Compass,” he said to Quinn.

The tall man straightened from his own examination of the cabin. “Thank God for that.” He took from his jacket pocket his Compass, just as Catullus did. Both men flipped the lids open to stare at the devices' faces.

Every Blade of the Rose had in their possession the same Compass, its original created generations ago by Catullus's own great-great-grandmother Portia. No Blade was ever without their Compass, and would not part with it upon pain of death. It was used to recognize each other, as Catullus and Quinn had identified each other in Boston. But its use was not only decorative or symbolic. Aside from being valuable as a directional tool, Great-Great-Grandmother Portia had built into it another means of guidance.

“Disable yours,” Catullus said.

“What do you mean?” Quinn frowned in puzzlement.

“A little family secret,” said Catullus, “so you don't track the wrong Compass. Here.” Catullus took Quinn's Compass and turned its outer rim. There was the sound of small metal disks sliding into place. He handed the Compass back to Quinn. “Shields the mechanism.”

The Bostonian whistled softly in admiration. “You Graves folks are dangerous.”

With a wry smile, Catullus twisted the dial on the face of his Compass, removing the front piece. He pulled out a miniscule pin located on the inner rim, releasing an internal device. The Compass needle spun for a moment, freed from true north, before finding and fixing on a spot to the west. Astrid. Or at least her Compass.

Great-Great-Grandmother Portia knew Blades would have to find each other. And so, in each Compass, she had provided the means by which they could do just that, a combination of metals that drew the needles of other Compasses. Every Compass could be used to track other Compasses within a range of fifty miles, the usefulness of which Catullus knew firsthand. It had saved his life, and the lives of others, countless times. He was damned glad that the family intellect ran through him.

“That's her, then?” asked Quinn.

Catullus replaced the front on his Compass. “She has her Compass with her.”

“Unless it's another Blade,” Quinn pointed out.

“I'd know.”

“Then we'd better go after her.” Quinn turned and left the cabin at once.

Catullus began to leave, but stood in the doorway for a moment, looking back at what had been Astrid's home for the past four years. It was difficult to picture her here. Obviously, she didn't usually have a body in her home, nor would she leave her books in chaotic tumbles, with her furniture up-ended and crockery everywhere.

But Astrid had forever been full of life. She was, as Michael once confided, life itself. An irrepressible energy, a force that no one could ever stop, and no one tried. Michael had been content to bask in her reflected glow, though he had his own quiet strength. Catullus always knew when she was at headquarters, even when he was in the quiet of his basement workshop. The whole building filled with her vibrancy. Blades, sequestered in their rooms, were drawn from their solitude by her energy. The parlor was never so full of people as when she was there, telling stories, acting out with a sheepish Michael their latest adventure. Laughter and exuberance. It felt much duller when she was away on a mission, as though all the lamps had been dimmed.

Yet here, in this homely little cabin, she had lived quietly, shut away not only from her family, the Blades, but also, Catullus realized, shut away from herself. The thought saddened and angered him.

“Hey, Graves,” shouted Quinn behind him. “You better come out here.”

Shutting away thoughts of Astrid's self-imposed exile, Catullus turned and went down the front steps. He found the guide Jourdain bent low to the ground, with Quinn standing concernedly nearby.

“These tracks,” Jourdain said. “They say that your friend set out with a companion. A little while later, a group of men came, and now they follow her, but take a different track. She must know a secret way out of this meadow.” The Métis stood and dusted his hands together.

“How far apart are they?” Catullus asked.

“Can't say. These tracks are far from fresh. But there are seven mounted men with pack animals following her.”

Catullus swore and his hand tightened on the leather sling of his shotgun. The Heirs were most definitely pursuing her.

“Those men, the ones Sergeant Williamson told you about,” Jourdain said. “I remember when they came through the post. They wanted me for a guide, but I didn't like them. Four Englishmen hired and left with three guides.”

“You didn't say anything before,” Quinn grumbled.

Jourdain shrugged. “Wasn't sure they were the same people. But it makes sense now.”

“Did any of them give their names?” Catullus demanded.

The Métis frowned in thought. “Halling was one.”

Catullus felt marginally better. Richard Halling, a baronet's son, was hardly a threat, though he could land a mean punch when finally cornered.

“Milbourne,” Jourdain added, and that made Catullus a bit nervous, considering that Sir John Milbourne could shoot the kernel out of an apricot with surgical precision. “There was also…Buckbridge…Bracebank?”

“Bracebridge?” Catullus filled in.

“That's the one.”

Catullus's lips thinned with concern. Lesley Bracebridge had been the protégé of the Heirs' most powerful mage. And now that Chernock was dead, killed in Greece, Bracebridge would be more than eager to prove himself as the Heirs' most formidable dark-magic user. Who knew what kind of magic Bracebridge would use against Astrid, what untapped Sources he sought, not only for the Heirs' demands, but his own.

“And the fourth?” Catullus asked.

Jourdain stared at his boots for a long while, sifting through his memory. There were any number of names that Catullus did not want to hear, but two in particular stood out. He prayed that Jourdain did not say—

“Staunton.” The guide smiled, proud to have recalled everyone's names, but his smile faded as soon as he saw Catullus's face.

Catullus immediately went to his horse and mounted. Without speaking, Quinn and Jourdain did the same. There wasn't time to waste on something as unimportant as words.

 

Astrid and Nathan didn't speak for hours. On foot, they needed to put distance between themselves and the Earth Spirits, and, even with He Watches Stars's medicine, did not want to risk any sharp-eared shape changer hearing them. So they moved onward by unspoken agreement, through forested slopes and past mountain-ringed lakes, as dawn blazed to life overhead.

The old medicine man must have kept his word to keep the Earth Spirits from pursuing. Astrid could not sense their magic nearby and, with each step she took away from their village, their presence dimmed.

They crossed a creek, and then another. He strode beside her and the rising sun glinted in the onyx of his eyes, revealing the hard sheen of anger within.

She knew he would be angry, should have counted on it, and every moment of silence thickened and strengthened his anger.

“You ran,” he said, breaking the silence. He didn't hide his fury.

Her shoulders stiffened. “It had to be done. Sources are at risk.”

“You weren't running toward the totems,” he countered. “You ran from me. Scared.” He clenched his jaw. “What I said about you to the tribe—it's true. True and you know it. You accept me as I am. When I am with you, I'm whole.”