Dark Star (12 page)

“Right—because you’re clearly the poster boy for cautious living. Or do you think I’ve forgotten how you just showed up out of nowhere and decided to play superhero?”

“I didn’t have any choice in the matter, and believe me: I don’t play.” I tried to turn away, but Leon took hold of my shoulders, fixing me where I stood. His voice was quiet, intent. “Did it never occur to you that there might be a reason we weren’t telling you things? That there was a reason we told you to stay away from the Drought and Deluge?”

“Well, maybe if you’d said, ‘Stay away from the Drought and Deluge, it’s overrun by demons,’ I’d have paid more attention!” I snapped.

“There are plenty of things out there that can hurt you, and most of them have nothing to do with demons.” Abruptly, he stepped back, releasing me, and let out a strangled sort of sigh. “I didn’t bring you out here to argue.”

“Why did you bring me out here, then?”

He didn’t answer. A crisp wind rose around us, tugging at my coat sleeves and ruffling his hair. Then, for the second time that night, Leon surprised me. He gave me a rueful smile and said, “I was trying to make you feel better.”

I gaped at him. He looked so sheepish, I couldn’t help it: I burst out laughing. “This is your idea of a pep talk?”

“I could’ve handled it differently,” he admitted. He tucked his hands into his pockets again, looked down, and kicked at the grass. A pebble bounced toward the picnic tables, followed by a clump of dirt. “But you need to understand—”

There was no way that sentence could end well. I grabbed his arm to get his attention. “You should probably stop talking.”

He frowned, but obeyed.

I turned toward the lake. The night was hushed, save for the gentle lap of water. City traffic was distant, a low hum at the edge of my hearing. Now and then a lone car rolled past us, headlights slicing through the darkness. Nothing moved—that I could see.

“I am scared,” I began. “Of course I’m scared. And maybe I did think it was a game. I thought you guys were just fighting crime or something. All this time, I thought you were out there making the Cities safe from—I don’t know. Muggers and murderers, I guess.”

His voice was gentle. “I know you did.”

I stared down at my feet. The grass beneath them was dead and brown. It wouldn’t be long before the first snowfall.

“I don’t know if I can handle this,” I said.

“You can handle it,” he said. He stepped close to me again, but I kept my eyes focused downward. “Most Kin kids grow up with this knowledge. It’s just the way of life. They adapt to it. So will you.”

I knew he meant it to be reassuring, but I didn’t feel reassured. I didn’t want to adapt. I kept looking at our feet: my old, scuffed softball tennies and the edge of his black shoes, smudged with dirt. “You’re saying I should just—get up every day and pretend I don’t know what’s out there?”

“No. But remember that we’re out there too.”

We. Guardians, he meant. Him, and Mom. And apparently Mr. Alvarez. And others—I supposed it meant others, as well. Other Guardians, out in the streets, watching, fighting, keeping the city safe.

I shifted my gaze upward, but I didn’t meet his eyes. I looked at his hands. I saw that scar that twisted down his left hand—a slender, jagged line, a cut that could have come from anything but served as a vivid reminder that Guardians were made of flesh, that they hurt and bruised and bled. I’d seen the wounds on my mother too many times to pretend nothing could harm her.

And Leon’s words came back to me. What my mother faced. Worse than I’d met, he’d told me.

Worse than I could imagine.

I was imagining now. Not imagining what I’d seen in the alley, or almost seen—that blur of eyes and rippling skin, that sense of something waiting. Not those dreams of Kelly and Tink, flashes of red and then darkness. Not a threat against myself. I was imagining my mother. Dead.

Leon must’ve seen it on my face.

“Lucy’s tough,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about her.”

“I always worry about her,” I said. “But now I’ll worry more.”

“You’ll adapt,” he repeated. “That comes with the territory. It’s part of being a Guardian’s kid.”

Something in his tone sparked within me. My eyes snapped to his face. It wasn’t a Knowing—only a guess. “Your parents were Guardians?” I asked. “That’s how they died?”

Leon’s gaze was steady on mine, his voice calm. “That was different. Not something you need to worry about.”

He didn’t speak of his parents often. He’d told me, once, that he didn’t really think of them; he’d been barely two years old when they died, and his memories were few. But now, for the first time since we’d met, I got a sense from him: a vague almost-Knowing— a flash, and then gone. An image of a small boy, waiting with huge hopeful eyes. An echo of laughter, abruptly ceasing. And then a tall man bending down, reaching for his hand.

“What happened to them?”

He frowned, and I thought for a moment he wouldn’t answer. Something else he didn’t want to tell me. Then his eyes flicked away and he said, “We call it a Harrowing.”

Harrowing. A charged word, like Kin. But different. It didn’t make me think of home, or safety, or spaces of rest. It was bitter, filled with anguish and anger.

“A war,” I said.

His voice was soft. “Your mother ended it.”

I didn’t speak. I waited, taking deep, steadying breaths. A bird trilled somewhere above us, long and mournful. The air here was cool, clean. Beneath the scent of pine and water, I caught the hint of sweetness, calm and soothing. But it didn’t soothe me.

A Harrowing, I thought. Leon’s parents had died because of it. My mother had fought a war before I was born.

And somehow he thought this would comfort me. I almost laughed again. “All of this was supposed to make me feel better?”

I gazed across the darkness at him. In the slice of moonlight, his blue eyes were black, his dark hair tipped with stars.

His hand grazed my arm, then fell to his side. “Audrey—”

“I’m not okay,” I said. “You can’t—you can’t just bring me out here and give me a talk and act all nice and expect me to be okay.”

“Of course you’re not. I’ve lived with this knowledge a long time, and I’m not okay with it. You don’t need to be. But you do need to keep going.”

He looked so stern and serious that, this time, I did laugh. “No offense, Leon, but you suck at this.”

His smile returned—a crooked, apologetic sort of smile that warmed his entire face and made me smile back. “Come on, then,” he said, jerking one of his shoulders toward his motorcycle. “We’re going home?”

“Not yet,” Leon said as I climbed up behind him on the bike. “This was only step one. There’s someone you need to meet.”

***

Once again, Leon didn’t tell me where we were headed. Our route skirted Minneapolis and brought us into St. Paul, past the lights and looming buildings of downtown, past lakes and drowsy neighborhoods. Leon parked at the end of a long driveway. I slid down, pulling off my helmet, and attempted to tame my tousled hair. The neighborhood was quiet. The soft yellow glow of streetlamps did little to brighten our surroundings, instead tossing stark shadows up and down the sidewalks. I looked forward, down the length of the drive. An iron gate barred the way. Beyond, I could see the tall, sprawling shape of a house.

My home was large, but this building was massive. It was dark and sharply angled, like something out of a horror film. I half expected lightning to shoot out of the sky around it, or to hear ominous background music cue up behind me.

“They’re not going to let us in there,” I said. Whoever owned this house, it seemed unlikely they would open their gates for a skinny college student and a girl in cow-print pajamas.

Unconcerned, Leon put a hand on my shoulder, dragging me to him. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Just … try not to be a smartass.” Then he pulled us through the air, into nothing.

I blinked. One moment we were outside, the driveway beneath us, the wind in my hair, and the next we stood in a well-lit room with floral wallpaper. Leon had teleported me before, but it wasn’t easy to grow accustomed to. Disoriented and off balance, I clutched at him.

“A little warning would’ve been nice,” I complained. “I really hate it when you—”

I broke off. We weren’t alone in the room.

“Well, Mr. Farkas. You do like to make an entrance.”

The woman who stood before me was tall and thin, dressed in a tidy peach-colored business suit. She was older, in her late sixties maybe, though she hadn’t quite gone to gray. Her long hair had a dark luster to it, thick and curling, and her eyes were a color somewhere between brown and gold. A string of pearls circled her neck. She smiled tightly as she watched us.

“This is the girl? You may leave her here.”

Before I could protest, Leon gave a short nod and vanished.

I looked down at my ratty old coat and faded pajamas, feeling out of place next to this elegant woman, in this clean room furnished with chairs of dark wood and antique tables. I didn’t recognize the paintings on the walls, but I assumed they were expensive.

The woman continued to watch me. I clasped my hands and stood straight.

She cleared her throat. “Your mother lied about your age. Ryan was right. I should have made an effort to meet you sooner.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I blurted out, “Who are you?”

A faint smile crossed her face. “I’m Esther St. Croix, leader of the Kin. And I’m your grandmother.”

Esther. Like my first name. I was too bewildered to think clearly. Gram’s face flashed before me: the wrinkles that mapped her face, the broad smile she always wore, sunlight upon her as she bent in the garden. “My grandmother is dead,” I answered.

“Angela Whitticomb is dead. I am your father’s mother. Have a seat.”

I did as she instructed, mostly because I felt awkward standing. I moved to the closest chair and sank into it, watching Esther St. Croix with narrowed eyes. She took the seat across from me, folding her hands in her lap.

My mother had never told me much about my father. He’d left, and she didn’t want to talk about him. When I first began asking questions, Gram had been the one to answer. Don’t go to your mother, she’d said. Come to me, I will tell you what I can. Eventually, I’d stopped asking. I didn’t know that I ever wanted to meet the man who had injured my mother so deeply that she still felt the wound.

I had never thought to ask about his family.

“Your mother never told you about me, I see,” Esther said, still watching me with those strange eyes. “We have that in common. Lucy always did want to have things her own way.”

I kept my silence.

“Your mother tells me you’re afraid.”

“I think I have a right to be,” I said.

She dismissed this with a shrug. “So you met a demon. It happens.”

My mind still withdrew from the word. I closed my eyes. “Things like that—they’re not supposed to exist. They’re just stories.”

“Like Morning Star is a story, a myth some reporter thought up. And the Kin too, no doubt?”

“I don’t even know what this Kin is.”

“I see. You thought you were special. You thought you had these abilities, these gifts, and no one else did.”

I didn’t answer. She was too close to the truth. Peripherally, I’d known there were other Guardians, but I had never met them. Until this week, I’d thought of them in simple, comic book terms. My mother was a superhero, and Leon was her sidekick.

“Well, you are special,” Esther continued. “You’re Kin. But you’re not the only one.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I said helplessly.

“Another issue I’ll be taking up with your mother,” Esther said. “Let’s do a reading, shall we?”

Without waiting for my response, she stood and moved across the room, pulling one of the tables toward us. She set it between our chairs, then opened a drawer and withdrew a deck of cards.

Nav cards.

I looked up, startled.

Esther’s lips curved in a smile. “You have Angela’s deck, I think, but there are others. Here. I’ll deal.”

I watched her shuffle, her long fingers moving deftly. I didn’t speak. I tried to focus. I was able to get a sense of Esther easily: an image of long halls, of curtains fluttering, the smell of cotton. I saw her as a younger woman, bending to lift a child into her arms. I saw her grim and stern, speaking to a young man whose face was turned away. She had called herself a leader, and I believed her.

She placed the first card on the table.

Card seventeen. The Archer.

“I don’t do readings often, but this is me,” she said, and placed it in the center. “This, I presume, is you.”

And sure enough, there was card fifty. Inverted Crescent

She placed the next two. The Child. The Untilled Earth.

“Your mother thought to protect you,” Esther said. “She didn’t want you to grow up Kin.”

I caught an image of my mother, fleeting and distant. She was young, her belly round, swelling against her hands.

Esther paused then, looking up at me, her fingers idling upon the cards. “Before we go any further, I want to be certain you understand something. What I am about to tell you is to be kept within the Kin. It’s not to be repeated. Not to your classmates, not to your boyfriend.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Very good. You’ll want to date other Kin. There are several eligible boys your age.”

“Uh, thanks, but I’ll pass on the whole arranged-marriage thing.” Esther favored me with a peevish frown. Belatedly, I remembered Leon telling me not to be a smartass. “Sorry,” I said.

Turning her eyes heavenward, she muttered something beneath her breath. Then she returned her attention to me. “Let’s continue.”

She dealt three more cards. The Garden. The Desert. The Triple Knot.

“This is the Kin,” Esther said. “This is what you need to know. Are you ready? I’m going to tell you.”

When I was little, there was one story Gram loved to tell more than all others: the story of the Old Race.

In the beginning, she said, before the time of words and wheels and flint to make fire, there was the Old Race. They didn’t live on earth as humans did, but inhabited the Beneath. They lived in the space between sun and shadow, the space between seconds and breaths, between thought and voice. They began with time and remembered the first burst of light in the vast swell of darkness. They were powerful, indestructible, without love or malice.