Counting Shadows (Duplicity) (2 page)

“Now listen to me,” I whisper in his ear. “You’re going to give me that envelope. Then you’re going to leave here. And you’re going to forget all about me and never breathe a word of this to anyone. Right?”

Derrin doesn’t respond to my question, so I increase the pressure on his hand just a little. “
Right?
”

He lets out a low growl, the sound muffled by his gritted teeth.

“What did you say?”

“Right. You’re right. I’ll never breathe a word. I swear.”

“The envelope,” I snap. “Hand it over.”

His free hand fumbles in his pocket, but it’s not the one he put the envelop in. I curse and shove my elbow into his back, forcing him to his knees. Derrin throws out his hand to steady himself, and I release my grasp on him. Before he can recover, I snatch the envelope from his coat pocket.

I wag it in his face as Derrin stumbles back, clutching at his bruised hand. He reaches in his pocket again and pulls out a rusty dagger. I just scoff.

“You try something like that again, and you’ll lose your arm,” I say. “Got it? I won’t just break it, I’ll slice it clean off.”

He glares at me, teeth gritted in pain. “You don’t even have a sword, little witch,” he spits. “You couldn’t actually cut my arm off…” The way he trails off sounds more like a question.

I reach into my sash and pull out my own dagger. The weapon is short, with a wide blade and a slim handle that fits my hand perfectly. It’s my thirteenth birthday present from Jackal, and the only constant companion I have left.

“But I don’t need a sword.” I twirl the dagger between my fingers and smile.

Derrin swallows hard, and I’m not sure if it’s the weapon or my smile scaring him. He clenches his fist, but then shakes his head, discarding whatever vengeful thoughts were forming.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” he murmurs. “But I didn’t actually believe you’ve been trained to fight.”

I almost laugh. All the years Jackal spent training me, all the secretive lesson and lectures, and it’s still a surprise that I can fight. Are people really that stupid? Or are they just oblivious?

I put a single finger to my lips. “Oh, but I haven’t been trained. Right?”

Derrin quickly nods in agreement to the lie. I turn my back on him, satisfied that I’d scared him into silence. Or maybe it’s the rumors that scare him, the ones that say I’m a deadly magic-user. It doesn’t matter much, as long as he’ll keep quiet.

I make it barely two steps before he calls out to me.

“Wait!”

I glance over my shoulder. “What is it?”

He straightens his shoulders, gathering what remains of his pride. “Answer one question for me. Just one. And then I’ll swear that I’ll never speak of this again.”

“You already swore that.”

“Just
one
.”

I sigh and wave my hand at him. “Fine. What’s your question?”

He clears his throat and stares right at me. “You’ve had me running all over the city tracking this one man for months. You’ve paid me hundreds and risked sneaking from your safe home—” He points to the looming castle walls in the distance, lit by dozens of torches. “—to come and gather information from me. I want to know. Why are you so desperate to find this man?”

I try to smile, but judging by Derrin’s grimace, it’s more of a snarl. I turn and walk away, my answer only loud enough for my own ears: “Because I’m going to kill him.”

The dagger is heavy in my sleeve. I keep the weapon tucked safely against my forearm, my eyes scanning the castle corridor for danger, my shoulders sore from staying so tense.

Shadows paint ghostly patterns on the floor, reflecting the flickering light of the torches lining the wall. I think back to the hummingbird phoenix I saw in the alley, to its fiery wings and strange eyes and foreign magic. It’s been hardly an hour since I left that alley, but it already feels like an eternity has passed. The royal castle and all its grandeur is so different from the Water District, almost like stepping from one world to another.

As I approach my chambers, Jolik stands in front of the doors, frowning down at me. I have a quick flashback to ten months ago, when Jolik frowned at Ashe as he read the arrest orders. A shudder runs through me, but I expel it with a deep breath.

“Miss Princess,” Jolik greets me.

I don’t like how he calls me that, but I let him get away with it. It’s never smart to argue with a Vampire.

When I don’t respond immediately, his scowl deepens, and some inner part of me screams that I should run the opposite way. But I don’t—my fight-or-flight instinct died out a long time ago, replaced by the instinct to fight or die trying.

“You were out late tonight,” Jolik says, his rumbling voice echoing through the corridor.

His words are sharp, and I unconsciously glance at the sword at his side, my instincts prickling with a warning to be careful. Jolik is a member of the Iris Guard, an elite group of Vampire mercenaries who protect royalty. Centuries ago, an ancient spell back-fired on the Vampires, forcing them to live a life of servitude until the day they die. But the Vampires have kept their ancient warrior roots, and most of them spend their lives as protectors. Jolik is no exception, and while his dark skin and tall stature make him stand out from the regular human guards, it’s his explosive temper that really sets him apart.

He glances at the bulge in my sleeve and raises an eyebrow. His exasperated expression tells me that he suspects it’s a dagger, but he’s not going to call me out on it. He knows Jackal—the former leader of the Iris Guard—would strangle him if he ratted me out.

“I took a long walk,” I say, and try to brush past him.

He steps in my way. “This is the second time you’ve taken a ‘long walk’ this month. I don’t like you sneaking around like this.”

“I’m not sneaking.”

“Oh, really? Then why didn’t I see you leave?”

“Maybe you weren’t watching me close enough.”

He leans forward, letting me get a good look at the frustration in his red eyes. His irises are the only pale feature on him, and I absently wonder if he’s been eating enough. Usually, they’re an eerie blood-red color.

“Cut the bull, Miss Princess. I watch you like a hawk, and you know it.” He shakes his head. “You’ve been sneaking out, and I want to know why.”

I shove past him. This time he lets me, probably knowing it will attract other guards if I put up a fuss. “Jolik, you’re not Jackal. Stop trying to act like him.”

His voice gentles just a touch. “I’m not trying to act like a mentor to you. I just want you safe. You know Jackal assigned me to protect you when he left. Do you really think I can ignore his last order?”

I sigh, knowing I’m trapped. “No. You couldn’t.”

“Then tell me where you were tonight.”

“Out.”

“And how you got out?”

For a moment, I’m tempted to tell him about my hidden passage. I’d discovered it in one of my visions years ago; it’s a dusty, winding tunnel that leads from my library to the base of the castle. The passage is great for getting out, but I prefer to come back using main routes. That way, there’s less chance of people discovering the passage. But, instead of telling him, I shake my head and snap, “None of your business.”

Jolik throws his hands up in exasperation. It’s a little odd watching him do that, a mountain of a man getting so frustrated by tiny, little me. “Just… Get inside, okay? I don’t want you wandering around any more tonight.”

I nod, not wanting to fight him. Jolik is one of the few people who can get away with treating me like I’m not royalty, and as much as Father hates him for it, I find it kind of relieving. Except for situations like this, when I know that if I argue, I’ll get a verbal butt-kicking.

He pushes open my chamber doors for me, shoving it a little harder than he needs to. As I’m about to step inside, he mutters, “Sometimes I wonder if what they say about you is true.”

He’s not referring to the rumors that I’m trained to fight. No, he’s talking about the more vicious rumors, the ones that say I’m a witch and should have been put to death along with my Ashe. Those whispered lies should probably sting, especially since they mostly revolve around my Guardian, but I can’t bring myself to feel anything but biting contempt.

Because I’ll never regret taking Ashe as my Guardian. Ever.

“You’ve been listening to too many rumors, Jolik,” I say. “I’m not a magic-user.”

Jolik merely shrugs. But as he stares at me, I can almost feel his disbelief as his harsh gaze wanders over me for the millionth time. I’ll admit I look a bit witchy. Black stick-straight hair, ivory skin, and pale blue eyes. In a land where people are supposed to have brown-tanned skin, curly brown hair, and brown eyes, I’m what Father calls “exotic”. Or what others like to call “freakish”.

And the visions don’t help. Ever since I was three, I’ve seen visions of the past. Historical events, places, people—I see them all. At first, I was proclaimed to be a Sage, and the people celebrated me. But, as I got older, it became obvious that I only saw the past, not the future. I was deemed to be a worthless magic-user.

And a dangerous enemy.

Jolik finally steps to the side, granting me access to my chambers. “Lord Farren is inside.”

I nod and walk inside my chambers. I fight against the guilty twist that strikes my gut the moment I see the small entryway. The entrance looks just like it has for ten months: no furniture, no rugs, nothing. Just stone walls and flooring, and a hallway leading toward the other rooms in my chambers. When Ashe was taken away, he left spatters of blood in this room from his injury. Father insisted everything stained had to be thrown out, but I refuse to replace anything.

“Faye?”

It’s Farren’s rich voice, his deep timbre resounding through the room. He always sounds like he’s giving a momentous speech, even when he’s just calling my name from across the hallway.

“Coming,” I call back. My words echo, reminding me of how empty my chambers are, of how it used to be Ashe calling out to me instead of Farren. I nod to Jolik, letting him know he can leave. “Thank you, Jolik.”

He bows deeply and closes my door. I wait until his footsteps retreat, and then let the knife fall out of my sleeve. Catching it by its handle, I quickly tuck it into the sash of my dress.

I’ve always carried a knife—Jackal insists—but I’ve never felt like I
needed
it until now. Of course, Father feels the exact opposite, and has a bad habit of confiscating the weapons I don’t hide well enough.

“I thought Father took all your toys away.”

Farren sounds like he’s standing behind me. His voice drips with sarcasm, something I’ve learned not to acknowledge. It’s the lowest form of humor.

“And how was your day?” I ask, changing the subject away from my dagger.

“Boring. More pointless meetings with pointless people.” His footsteps echo off the stone floor—
one, two, three
—and my brother comes into view. Farren looks the epitome of royalty; straight shoulders, sharp jaw, and narrow eyes that demand respect. Which is a good thing, since he’ll soon inherit the throne.

As my older sibling by thirty minutes, Farren is the immediate heir to the Irradorian throne, and has been trained to be the ultimate ruler. The Grand Prince, the people call him. Soon to be the Grand King.

If only those people knew he wanted none of it.

“Although I must say,” Farren continues, breaking into my thoughts. His eyes trail over the engraved handle of my dagger. “The day just got all the more interesting.” His voice changes to a horrible falsetto that sounds nothing like me. “Why hello, Jolik. You’ll open the door for me? Why thank you, it is so very heavy, and carrying this knife up my sleeve makes it all the more difficult to open.”

I wag my weapon in Farren’s face. “It’s a dagger, not just a knife.”

Farren shrugs. “Same difference. My point is, I don’t know how you manage to go gallivanting around on this little murder mission, and no one notices. It’s insanity.”

I shrug. Farren sighs, taking it as the same answer I give him about most topics: I don’t want to discuss it. I’m not sure why he bothers to visit me anymore, when I hardly talk to him.

I walk to the sitting-room, one of the four rooms in my chambers I still use. The others contain too many vivid memories of Ashe—the bedroom where he slept, the library where he lost himself in books, the balcony where he sat every morning and let the sun warm him. The list goes on, and so do the locked doors.

“It’s not fair,” I told him once. “You don’t have any memories at all from before I found you. And I have so many extra memories. I wish I could give you some of mine.”

He smiled at me, that gentle, thoughtful expression I loved so much. “Maybe it’s a gift that I had my memories wiped.”

“How could that be a gift?”

“Because I don’t have any pain to remember.”

I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory. Years ago, I hadn’t understood him. But now I know.

I sit in a small chair with an intricate floral pattern and pick at a loose thread, trying to distract myself. The chair is one of the last things I have from my mom, and a constant reminder of death, of loss and pain. But Father makes me keep it, saying it’s “sentimental”.

Farren sits on the couch across from me, dwarfing the tiny thing with his tall frame. He stretches out and crosses his feet at the ankles, then raises an eyebrow at me. “So,” he says, his voice much too cheery. “How goes the murder mission?”

I swallow hard. Farren rarely asks about my plans to kill Ashe’s murderer, and as bile rises in my throat, I’m reminded why. It’s awkward to discuss murder plans with someone as moral as Farren. Really,
really
awkward…

“It’s the same as always,” I reply slowly, and keep picking at that thread. “I found a lead tonight, but it won’t go anywhere.”

“How do you know?”

I sigh, glancing toward the fireplace. A fire crackles in the hearth, and wisps of smoke disappear up the chimney. “My leads
never
go anywhere,” I mumble. “They get me close, but not close enough. He’s always gone when I get near.”