Dazed, Roman let Bruce haul him up to his feet. Smoke drifted in through the shattered windows. Glass glittered like constellations on the floor.
“Get up and walk,” Bruce ordered, dragging Roman down the corridor, farther and farther away from the cries that were rising from the courtyard.
Roman coughed, light-headed.
“Iris,” he whispered, remembering the red slant of her mouth, the silver of her dress. The way she had stood in the middle of the crowd.
Roman struggled to pull free, glancing over his shoulder. The smoke and screams continued to intertwine. Gunshots rang out. His heart lodged in his throat.
“Iris!”
It was the last thing he said before the side of Bruce’s revolver came down hard on his temple. Roman saw stars glide across his vision. But Iris bloomed in his mind’s eye, her pale hand reaching for him.
He watched her dissolve into mist, just as everything went dark.
 |
When he woke, he found himself sprawled across the back seat of a vehicle. They were taking a hard turn, the tires screeching over the cobblestones.
Roman slid across the leather bench and vomited, all over himself and onto the floorboard of the motorcar.
The world felt as if it had turned inside out.
He gagged and heaved again, his vision blurring. Or perhaps it was only the streetlamps, which flashed as they sped by, their golden auras smudged through the window.
The car took another sharp curve. Roman scrambled for purchase. He could feel vomit smear across his shirt.
“We’re almost there,” said a gruff voice.
Bruce.
Roman squinted, his head throbbing. Something was tickling his face. When he reached out to touch his temple, his fingertips came away sticky with blood.
“Last turn,” Bruce said. “Try to hold your guts in this time.” The vehicle jerked.
Roman closed his eyes. He counted the seconds that ticked by, tasting acid in his mouth. But at last, the car came to a skidding halt.
He panted, still sprawled on the seat, until Bruce opened the door. “Get up. We need to move quickly,” he said.
“Where are we?” Roman rasped.
Bruce didn’t reply. He took hold of Roman and dragged him out of the car.
It was dark, the hour just after sunset, when only a vestige of pink light could be seen fading from the western horizon. But the moon was full, and the stars teemed in a clear night sky. Roman swiftly recognized where they were: Derby Road, on the footpath between estate numbers 1345 and 1347.
“What happened?” he asked when he saw the fence line come into view. “How are you involved in all of this?”
“You’ll have to get those answers from your father,” Bruce said, finding the oak tree and the broken fence, buried beneath the brambles. “Quickly, now.”
Roman hissed through his teeth, irritated by the lack of answers. By the fact that he wasn’t strong enough to break away from this man and return to the Promontory for Iris.
As he pushed through the brambles, feeling the thorns grasp his hair and his suit jacket, he asked, “Was the plan to kill everyone in the courtyard?”
“I told you to ask your father,” Bruce grunted from behind, pushing Roman to go faster, as if a spell would break at midnight, turning them into stone. “But because your wife was there, I’ll say this … no. Only him.”
Him as in Dacre.
Roman couldn’t hide how he shuddered. How his hands were freezing but his chest was burning. He felt caught up in a strange medley of relief and shock, indignation and hope, and he pulled a string of brambles from his hair when he emerged on the other side.
He paused, his breath ragged. Bruce must have sensed he needed a moment because the man finally didn’t urge him onward.
“A bomb alone won’t kill him,” Roman eventually said, remembering the message he still held in his coat pocket.
Bruce frowned. “What do you mean? It was directly beneath the stage.” Roman winced as he envisioned all that wood splintering in the blast,
flying through the crowd. Impaling innocent people. He swallowed hard and said, “It takes more than that to kill a god.”
“I pray you’re wrong. Because if you’re right…” Bruce didn’t finish the thought.
Not even Roman knew how to complete that sentence.
They hurried through the back half of the property, where even now it felt like a different world. One far removed from Oath and the war. But before the estate came into view, Bruce stopped in the shadow of a hawthorn.
“This is as far as I can go without the soldiers seeing me,” he said. “Go directly to your father.”
“Are you part of the Graveyard?”
Bruce didn’t reply to the blunt question. Roman took it as affirmation.
“Will you go back for her?” he asked next, unable to hide the way his voice shook. “Will you go back for my wife?”
“Don’t worry about Miss Winnow. She’s a smart girl.”
“Does that mean you’ll do as I ask? I—” Roman cut himself off, narrowing his eyes. “I never told you her last name was Winnow. How did
you know that?”
Again, Bruce was silent, but he held Roman’s stare with a clenched jaw.
Pieces began to fall into place. Roman stepped closer, using his height to loom over Bruce.
“You’ve seen her before. When?” “There’s no time for this.” “When?”
“Before she left for the front, a few weeks ago. Your father asked me to deliver a message to her. Now don’t lose your head. It’s not the time for—”
“What was the message?” Roman’s voice was cold and smooth. “It was money.”
“Money?”
“Enough for her to live comfortably if she annulled your marriage. Which by the looks of it she didn’t, so get out of my face and do what I told you to do, before all hell breaks loose.”
Roman’s hand curled into a fist.
But he had gained the answers he wanted. He turned and strode away.
|
His blood was still boiling when he approached the back doors of the mansion.
He noticed two things through his haze of anger: there was a massive stack of crates beneath the pavilion, brightly labeled with CAUTION, and Dacre’s soldiers were patrolling the backyard as if they were no longer afraid of being spotted by the neighbors. Roman walked directly through their line and realized he held more power than he had once believed. They yelled at him to halt, to lift his hands, and yet they did nothing when he refused to comply. He acted like they didn’t exist as he stepped through the back doors of his house.
His shoes clicked on the polished floors. He headed to his father’s study, drowning in his thoughts.
He hadn’t been able to reach Iris. He hadn’t been able to protect her when she needed him most—from his father or from Dacre. Roman had no
idea if she was alive, if she was wounded, if she was dead.
She’s not, he told himself, even as he ground his teeth. I would know if she was dead.
The door to his father’s study was cracked. Roman kicked it wide open, startling Mr. Kitt, who had been pacing with a cigar in hand.
“Shut the door,” his father said in an urgent tone. His blue eyes widened when he saw how disheveled Roman was. The vomit, the trickle of blood. The scrape of brambles. “What happened?”
Roman was silent as he stared at Mr. Kitt. He felt like he was indeed hewn from stone, worn down from years of guilt and fear and longings he could never pursue. And yet he was finished being ruled by such things. The past weeks had chipped and cracked him; he had crawled from that husk of a shell, cut away old strings, and now he held the stare until his father submitted, extinguishing the cigar on the desk.
“Why are there crates stacked beneath the pavilion?” Roman asked in a sharp tone. “Don’t tell me it’s more of that damn gas you had the chemist professor make.”
Mr. Kitt blinked, taken aback by Roman’s abruptness. But he recovered quickly, drawing closer to whisper, “No, in fact. But has it been taken care of?”
“What do you speak of, Father?”
Mr. Kitt glanced beyond Roman, to the door that still sat open. It was the first time that Roman had ever seen his father appear frightened.
Mr. Kitt lowered his voice even further, murmuring, “Is he dead?” Roman had suspected his father was playing both sides of the field—
with Dacre, and with the Graveyard. Of course he would, because he wanted to emerge on the winning side, no matter the outcome. But now Roman knew for certain.
Mr. Kitt was in too deep. He knew nothing of gods from below, nothing of life at the front or the claws of war and the wounds they inflicted. And the Graveyard, while passionate, appeared highly unorganized and disorderly. They had bungled an assassination attempt, and now the entire city would pay for it.
“I don’t know,” Roman replied.
“What do you mean you don’t know? Did the bomb go off or not?”
“It did, but your man dragged me away before I could see any further.”
Mr. Kitt began to pace again. But he looked confident, as if knowing the blast had happened meant he could move on to the next step.
“We should—”
He was interrupted by a cold draft. The walls shuddered. The chandelier above clinked. The hardwood groaned beneath a pair of heavy feet.
Roman knew that sound, that feeling. He watched his father freeze as he recognized it too. They listened, horror-struck, as the parlor door slammed.
“Get behind the desk,” Mr. Kitt whispered, grasping hold of his arm in a painful grip. “Hide there. Don’t come out until I tell you to.”
Roman yanked free, but his father’s terror was contagious. He could feel it tickle the back of his throat. “I can’t hide here. It’s too late for that.”
“Do as I tell you, son. I won’t lose you to this.” Mr. Kitt strode from the study, shutting the doors in his wake and leaving Roman behind in a smoky, oppressive room.
He breathed through his mouth, but he didn’t move. He stood in the center of the chamber, listening …
“My lord!” his father exclaimed. “What has happened?”
An uncomfortable pause. But when Dacre spoke at last, the house seemed to magnify his voice.
“I want all my officers and soldiers who remained behind to line up in the hall. Now.”
Roman could hear the sudden rush of bootsteps as Dacre’s order was heeded. One of those officers would be Lieutenant Shane, who held Roman’s confession like a grenade. Lieutenant Shane, who no doubt believed he’d been betrayed, since Dacre’s head was still fastened to his body.
Roman bared his teeth, heart thrashing. But he hurried to his father’s desk, stifling a cough as he struck a match. Quickly, he pulled the incriminating letter from his pocket, and he held it by the corner as it caught fire.
He watched the paper curl into smoke before he dropped the last of it on the rug, stamping out the hungry flames. His head continued to ache, but he
took the time to set the blackened match in the ashtray, lined up with all the others his father had used.
Only then did he leave the study and step out into the hall.
Breathe, slow and deep.
The soldiers and officers were in the corridor, lined up and standing at attention. Their focus was set firmly ahead, even as Dacre walked before them, his eyes scrutinizing each of their faces as he passed.
Roman stopped. He could only see Dacre’s back, but the god’s clothes were ripped and bloodied. His long blond hair was tangled.
“Someone here has betrayed me,” said Dacre. His voice was smooth, thick, like oil on water. “This is your chance to come forward and confess.”
No one moved or spoke.
Roman found Lieutenant Shane in the lineup. By all appearances, Shane was perfect. His face was well guarded, his uniform was pristine as if he took great pride in it. He didn’t quake in fear or take shallow breaths. He seemed completely in control, as if the idea of betrayal had never crossed his mind.
“You,” Dacre said, pointing to one of the privates. “Step forward and kneel.”
The soldier obeyed.
“Hold out your right arm.”
Again, the soldier did as Dacre commanded, although Roman could see the man’s hand was shaking.
“I will break your arm, unless you confess or give up the names of your comrades who have betrayed me,” Dacre said, taking hold of the soldier’s forearm.
“M-my lord commander,” the man stammered. “I truly don’t know. I’m wholly devoted to you.”
“I will give you one more chance to reply. Confess, or give me a name.” The soldier was silent, but urine dampened the front of his trousers.
Roman had seen enough. He was full of quiet fury, and he was tired of bending to a god who thrived on mortals’ fear and subservience. Who took delight in making wounds and then healing them halfway when it suited him.
Roman resumed his walk down the hall. But his hand drifted into his pocket; his finger traced the edge of Iris’s small book, which he had carried ever since she had left it in his room.
“Lord Commander?” he called.
Dacre’s head snapped up. His eyes gleamed as he took in Roman’s appearance, and Roman was suddenly thankful for the vomit and the blood on his clothes. The dirt and the wrinkles and the brambles. Simultaneously, he was shocked to see how unscathed Dacre was. The blood that marred his raiment was not his, as there was not a single scratch on his face or his hands.
“Roman,” Dacre said, releasing the private’s arm. “I thought you were dead.”
“No, sir.” Roman passed Shane. He could feel the cool gaze of the lieutenant, brief but chilling, as he came to a stop before Dacre.
“Why are you here?” the god asked. “How did you survive?”
“I was on the outer edges of the courtyard. When the blast happened … I didn’t know what to do, so I came home, knowing you would return here, sir.”
Dacre was silent, mulling over Roman’s reply.
In that strained moment of waiting to see how Dacre would respond, Roman realized that the other officers—Captain Landis included—and soldiers who had been with him in the Green Quarter must have died in the blast. It was their blood on the god’s face and clothes. And one of those men had been standing beside Iris.
Roman felt a prick of grief. His distress began to devour his bones, making him quiver from the weight. He almost bowed over. He almost melted to the floor.
Hold it together.
He repeated those words, a framework on which to hang his mind and his body, and bit the inside of his cheek. He laced his fingers behind his back. But there was a scream building in his chest, tearing through his lungs.
If she were dead, I would know.
“Hold out your right arm, Roman,” said Dacre.
If this was a test, then Roman couldn’t afford to fail it. And if it wasn’t, then Roman would know true breaking at the hands of a god.
He held out his arm without hesitation. But within, his mind was a dark, deep current. Spinning around and around. You will regret breaking my bones. You will regret ever taking Iris from my mind. You will release something from my marrow that you will wish you had never touched.
Dacre took hold of Roman’s arm. He drew him closer, until their breaths mingled.
“Do you know who betrayed me?” Dacre asked. “No, sir.”
Dacre’s grip tightened. Roman could feel his hand begin to tingle; he could see his father at the corner of his eye, stepping closer, grimacing in horror.
“No, I don’t have a name,” Roman said, stronger this time. “And I don’t think anyone here is a traitor.”
“Convince me of your reasoning.”
“We have been with you, lord. We have served you below as well as above. We know your true nature, your power, your magic. If one of us attempted to kill you, do you think we would be foolish enough to use a bomb?”
Dacre released Roman’s arm. But he raked his hand through his snarled hair, and it was so human-like that it almost made Roman laugh.
A god could be killed. But they would have to be smart about it the next time.
Emboldened by Dacre’s hesitation, Roman pressed on. “Sir, this is a very precarious time. Instead of doubting us, let us strategize on the next step.”
Dacre studied him again. He sighed as if bored. “Go and change your clothes. Meet me in the war room in ten minutes.” To his officers and soldiers, he said, “To your posts.”
Roman stood in the hallway, surrounded by a sudden stream of life. Soldiers returning to their patrols or to the dining room for a meal. To the library-turned-barracks. Whatever they had been doing before Dacre had returned and marred the night.
Shane brushed Roman’s shoulder.
A sign of comradery or a warning, Roman couldn’t tell, and he was too weary to attempt to parse it. He climbed the stairs and retreated to his room. Alone at last, he ripped off his jacket. He fell to his knees, clawing at his throat.
He gasped as if he had just broken the surface of the sea.
|
Nine minutes later, Roman returned to the parlor dressed in clean clothes. The blood and vomit had been washed away and his dark hair had been slicked back. His posture was straight, a bit rigid, but he had always been like that, hadn’t he?
By all outward appearances, he seemed normal. He looked fine.
Groomed and put together, even after narrowly escaping a bomb.
But within? He felt splintered.
Dacre was too preoccupied to notice. He stood in front of the parlor hearth, full of vitality, as if he had never felt the sting of an explosion. He too had changed and washed away all trace of mortal blood, the firelight illuminating his angular face. But for all his inward distance, he heard Roman enter the room. Without turning, he said, “There’s an important letter I need you to type for me.”
Roman took a seat before his typewriter, waiting to feel a rush of relief to be near it again. The Third Alouette. His connection to Iris. He felt empty as he studied the strike bars E and R.
But then he noticed something else, lying on the table. A bloodstained iron key, strung on a chain.
The key that had been around Captain Landis’s neck. “Tell me when you’re ready,” Dacre said.
Roman returned his attention to the task, feeding a sheet of paper into the typewriter. He couldn’t help but study the iron key again, only an arm’s length away. The power to unlock thresholds, just beyond his reach.
“I’m ready, sir,” he said.
And yet he was not prepared for the words that came from Dacre’s mouth. For the person this letter was addressed to. Roman listened but was
unable to type the name.
Dacre noticed the silence. He stopped speaking and glanced at him with a frown.
“Is something wrong, Roman?” “No, lord.”
“Then why aren’t you typing?”
“Sorry, sir.” Roman flexed his fingers, two of his knuckles popping. “Please continue.”
I would know if she were dead.
Dacre repeated himself, and this time Roman turned his words into ink, even as his eyes remained on that first line:
Dear Iris E. Winnow
