Rowan (2 page)

“Where did you get this?” I hiss.

“Can you fix her?” Otter asks.

There’s a strained note to his voice, even though he’s doing everything in his power to conceal our conversation and act naturally. Whoever this woman is, she means a lot to him. That’s why I try to keep my voice neutral, because I know she’s going to die a painful death.

“Look, Otter,” I begin, realizing that there’s no way I’m going to keep the pity from my voice, “I’ll make a strong opiate for you to give to her. Lots of it. Enough to last her until—” and here I stop.

“I can sneak her into the city and get her to you. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”

He hasn’t heard me. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to hear me, either. “It’s not about money,” I say. “She’s got a wasting sickness, and it’s too far gone. The Salem Witch couldn’t fix this.”

“She’s carrying my baby.” The words choke out of him.

I look out the window at the people walking past. Vague expressions and easy strides show how smooth life is for them. None of them know that there’s a guy dissolving just inches away from them on the other side of the glass.

“I’m sorry,” I say. A long silence hangs between us. I can feel the heat coming off his back as he struggles not to cry, like his pain is radiating around him in a hot cloud. “How far along is she?”

“Four months,” he replies. His voice is thin and tinny. He’s calm again, having bit back the enormous helping of hurt he’s been served. He’s an Outlander. He’s probably had plenty of practice losing people he loves. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s about to lose two more. His woman probably won’t last another week—too soon to try to save the baby.

He stands up and leaves the café before I can ask him any more questions. We’ve already been talking for longer than we should, and we’ve been sloppy about it. The seating area is starting to get crowded and we may have already been overheard. Still, I wish he hadn’t left. Something isn’t right about that woman. Her sickness is so advanced I can’t see how she could have been well enough to get pregnant to begin with. Her disease has many causes, but the result is the same. Cells divide at an alarming rate, but they are dummy cells that do nothing for the body. All they do is reproduce and spread while the person wastes away. If it’s caught early enough it’s easy to cure, but if it isn’t, the end is horrible. What this poor woman had was beyond anything I’d seen in a living body. Her cells were so shot through, as if all of them had been riddled with tiny bullets. It’s hard to believe she isn’t dead already.

I’m still thinking about the doomed woman and baby when I lift my eyes and look out the window.

Lillian is looking right at me.

I jump up and hear a clatter as my chair and the table next to me tip over onto the floor.

She’s just staring at me—wild eyed, confused, and frightened.

I’m vaguely aware of the fact that I’m causing a scene as I race to the door, my arms paddling over shoulders and heads as I swim against the tide of people coming in for their morning tea. Mirabelle calls my name, but I’m already out on the street.

Lillian is running away from me, bounding along on her toes in her peculiar way. She runs like a deer, buoyant and graceful, and she’s surprisingly fast for someone so fragile. I chase her, even though it doesn’t make any sense. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a year and I can’t stop myself from following her.

This is crazy. She’s darting from street to street, zigzagging and backtracking like she has no idea which way to go. Where’s her guard? Her mechanics? And what the hell is she
wearing
?

The streets seem impossibly full of pedestrians all of a sudden, and I lose her. Clever thing—she must have ducked down somewhere. I’ve just passed a nearly deserted alley and I double back. I see a drainage grate up ahead. The refuse around it has been recently disturbed. I slow down to a walk, trying to gather myself. I need to think. Why is Lillian hiding in a filthy hole? And why do I care?

I take a deep breath and let it out, praying for strength. Why is this happening today? Waking with Lillian on my mind is an everyday occurrence, so why did the Great Spirit pick today to twist the knife?

“You know you can’t hide from me, Lillian,” I say. She doesn’t respond, so I reach into her hiding place and scoop her out with my hands. Her skin is clammy and cold. I can’t remember her skin ever being cold before.

I place her on her feet but I’m not sure she’s going to be able to stand on them for much longer. Her eyes can’t focus and her head is lolling on her neck. Her cold skin heats up in an instant, and now she’s burning.

“Who are you?” she asks.

I could strangle her. What game is she playing? “You know damn well it’s me.” Her green eyes are blank. “Rowan,” I say, in case she can’t see straight.

Is she drugged? Her pupils are dilated and I can feel her heartbeat skipping around unevenly. “What did you take, Lillian? Belladonna?”

Nothing. She doesn’t understand me. I’ve never seen her like this before. I should throw her back into that drainage ditch, but I can’t. She’s so weak and there’s something off about her. I run my hands over her face, scanning her body. My willstone throbs to be near her again; her dark river of power flows so close to my thirsty stone. I want to dive into her. I need to calm down and go slowly.

I ease into her and hit a giant wall. I’ve never tried to scan her with this new willstone and it feels awkward, like when you put a favorite shoe on the wrong foot. I’m not her mechanic or her claimed anymore, but I’ve scanned lots of people who are not my stone kin. This isn’t normal. Is she blocking me, or is she blocking herself? Her body is obviously reacting to something—erratic pulse, dilated pupils, hot and cold flashes—but I can’t find what it is. There are no toxins in her system. It almost feels like she’s rejecting the pollen in the air, but how can that be? Lillian’s known how to process pollen since she was a kid.

I need to see her willstone. I trace my fingers down her neck and search for the chain so as not to actually touch her stone. I don’t want to be too tempted. I hate that my fingers are shaking, but I haven’t held her stone since that last time we made love. Memories of her skin, her scent, and her sighs are coming thick and fast. Focus, jackass.

I can’t find a chain. I pass my hands down her sides, feeling the pockets of her strange cotton breeches. It’s not there. Her willstone isn’t on her. I feel queasy. No wonder she’s disoriented—I can’t believe she isn’t screaming in pain.

“Where’s your willstone?” I ask, pitching my voice low to keep it steady. How is she even conscious right now?

“Help me, Rowan? Please,” she says.

She’s never said “please” to me in her life. Whenever she wanted something from me she just took it. What is she trying to pull? It won’t work. Not this time. I’ve always followed wherever she’s led, and look what it cost me. I bet she swallowed her willstone to make herself seem like a victim. Then she runs to the same café I go to pretty much every morning, looking desperate and vulnerable. She’s depending on the fact that I’d do anything to protect her and comfort her. That I’ll fix whatever mess she’s gotten herself into like I always did before. Before she murdered my father.

I’m so angry all I see is a white blur. I stab my finger into the bundle of nerves at the base of her throat, knocking her out. Whatever it is she wanted to get from me by staging this whole chase-and-wounded-bird act, I’m not going to give it to her. I’m not the same person I was a year ago.

Lillian’s body goes limp and for a moment I consider letting her thump onto the pavement. Let her wake up with a couple of bruises. But at the last second I catch her and gather her up in my arms.

Oh shit. I’ve just rendered the Salem Witch unconscious. There’s bound to be a law against that. I glance up the alley. People hurry past on the busy main road, oblivious. So far this little encounter has gone undetected, but that stroke of good luck isn’t going to last much longer. Where is her guard?

I have to get her off the street, and there aren’t that many places I can take her. She ran in the opposite direction from my place, but Tristan’s is close. I’d have to take her out onto a crowded boulevard to get to him, but running into foot traffic can’t be helped now. It’s rush hour.

I try to tip her head toward me as I carry her so that at least her face is pressed close to my chest. Her bright hair is everywhere. It obscures some of her features, but it’s also like a beacon, drawing stares. As I hurry past, I see people look at me, recognize who I am, then glance down at the slight redhead in my arms and make the obvious connection.

Their confusion, coupled with the reverence they have for the Salem Witch, is what keeps anyone from stopping me. Still, I move fast, before someone gets it in their head to summon the guard.

Four blocks later, and I’m at Tristan’s building. I don’t have a free hand so I reach out to him in mindspeak.

Wake up.

Go away, Rowan. I’m busy.

Tell her you forgot about an appointment. This is important.

He tries to block me out, but Tristan doesn’t have a fraction of my talent. I don’t stop pestering him until he comes down. He pulls open the door with a blanket wrapped around his bare waist. When he sees me his expression pinwheels from angry to confused to terrified in a moment.

“You crazy son of a—” he says as I barrel past him with Lillian in my arms.

I carry her up to Tristan’s apartment and dump her on his couch. It’s easier to just show him what happened this morning rather than tell him, so I share the memory while he and I look down on Lillian’s inert body. Of course, the girl he brought home the night before picks that moment to come out of his bedroom.

“Where’d you go, baby?” she asks, rubbing her sleepy eyes. She’s wearing his shirt and nothing else.

I rip the blanket off Tristan and toss it over Lillian. That hair of hers. Its uncontainable—poking out from under the edge of the blanket and spilling off the side of the couch in a shining red curtain of curls. The girl sees it and looks up at me, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Tristan hurries the girl back to his bedroom, telling her that he’s sorry but she’s got to go. He promises her dinner and says something about how much fun he had and how much he likes her before I stop listening. A few minutes later the girl passes on her way to the door, still fastening the buttons on her dress. I give her a weak smile and she eyes me warily.

“Is she going to be a problem?” I ask Tristan once she’s gone.

“No idea,” Tristan responds, waving a frustrated hand in the air. “Can’t remember her name.” I roll my eyes, but Tristan’s not having any of my judgment today. “Hey, no one asked you to show up here with
her
like
that
!” He pulls the blanket off of Lillian with one quick tug, exposing her slack form. He draws his brow together, really seeing her for the first time. “What is she wearing?”

“I don’t know,” I say, staring down at her. “I’ve never seen anyone dress like that before. And what’s a nuke?” I add, reading the writing on her shirt. Tristan shrugs.

“So what do you want to do?” he asks.

“Get her out of the city.” I’m making this up as I go along. “We should bring her to Alaric.”

Tristan bites his lower lip, considering. “You know, we could end this whole thing right now,” he says quietly.

I picture myself placing my hands on the sides of Lillian’s head and giving it one quick twist. This isn’t something new for me. I’ve fantasized about snapping her neck a thousand times in the past year, but as I look down on her all I can see is the soft skin and fragile bones I used to tilt my face into when I held her. I remember breathing her in, and I can’t find the strength in my arms to actually do it.

“Do
you
want to—” I don’t know how to phrase this so I let my words trail off. Tristan looks horrified.

“No. I couldn’t do it,” he says, blanching.

“You suggested it.”

“I thought
you’d
want to.”

If I don’t kill her, she’ll keep hanging scientists and the Outlanders who harbor them. My people. “I’m not a murderer,” I say.

“I know that.” He looks at me, carefully weighing his words. “But if we bring her to Alaric, he’ll kill her anyway. He probably won’t be quick about it, either.”

“Then her death’s on him,” I say, rubbing a hand across my face. I hadn’t thought of that, but he’s right. Alaric will most likely kill her. I’m tired. It isn’t easy to carry a person around without fuel from a witch. I feel weak and heavy and I’m angry about it. “I don’t care what Alaric does to her. She
should
be punished. Are you going to help me bring her to him or not?”

“Of course,” Tristan replies, holding his hands out to calm me down. “Just take it easy, okay?”

I’m acting crazy. A part of me is aware of that fact, but the rest of me is too busy being crazy to care. I take a breath.

“How long do you think she’ll stay unconscious?” Tristan asks.

“I can keep her like this for hours,” I reply. “She’s weak right now. And there’s something off about her.” I put my hand on her belly and feel the low thrum of her pulse under my palm. My fingers want to curve around the crescent of her hip, and my thumb wants to nestle inside the hollow of her belly button. “I can’t find her willstone.”

Tristan frowns and leans over her. His willstone flares as he scans her himself. “She didn’t swallow it, Ro. There’s no willstone in her body.”

“It’s incredible that she can stand being separated from it. Maybe that explains that strange feeling I’m getting from her. It’s shock.”

Tristan nods, conceding the point, but still not convinced. “If it’s shock, she might die without any help from us.”

I don’t answer him. Tristan gets up and I hear him rattling around in the kitchen. He comes back with a needle and thread and starts sewing the blanket shut around Lillian to conceal her.

“Are you still on good terms with Esmeralda?” I ask.

Tristan has to take a second to think. “Yeah?” he says uncertainly.

“She’s watching the safe house over the tunnel this month,” I explain. “We could go there to get Lillian out of the city.”