Incarnate (13 page)

My new shoes tapped on the cobblestones in a steady one-two. A three-four came from behind me, muffled with attempts at stealth, but with the whole city hushed and waiting for snow, every sound mattered.

Perhaps it was nothing, just someone else going home late, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I couldn’t see anything, not even a shadow. Darkness thickened, as complete as the should-be silence. If I turned my flashlight behind me, they’d know I was aware I wasn’t alone.

I almost did it, ready to yell for whoever to stop sneaking behind me, but then I remembered Li at the market, and dread crept inside me with the cold. Choosing the cowardly route, I walked faster, bringing my scarf over my face so the chill didn’t dry my throat.

The footsteps followed me all the way to Sam’s road, and by then my heart had raced ahead of me, taking my weakness with it. I spun and swung my flashlight beam across the street, but the thin glow met only a dusty veil of snowflakes and darkness. Brush hissed along the side of the road, but I was too slow to see if it was anything more than a deer.

No, I’d definitely heard footsteps. I stared toward where the pine needles still whispered in someone’s wake, but nothing happened. For a few minutes, I stood in the middle of the road, trying to decide if it would be worth going after my pursuer.

Visions of someone leaping out at me made me stay where I was. Going after someone unknown in the dark and cold and almost-snow — that wasn’t brave. That was exceedingly stupid.

After straining my ears a minute longer, stretching to hear
something
other than my own breath and heartbeat, I ran the rest of the way down the road as fast as I could, repeating to myself that facing anyone would have been stupid. Running away was smart.

Fleeing like a mouse with a cat on its heels was smart, but definitely not brave. I hated letting someone get to me like that.

When I finally reached the walk up to Sam’s house, I slowed to breathe. The last thing Sam needed now was to hear me stagger in, afraid of footsteps in the dark. Footsteps that hadn’t even done anything.

Straining all my senses for the unfamiliar, I crept up the snow-dusted walkway and into the house. The parlor was dark as I closed the door behind me, careful not to let it click too loudly. I turned off my flashlight and rested it on the table, closing my eyes to let them adjust before I moved farther into the room.

If anyone had been following me, they weren’t anymore. And I was safe with Sam — though maybe not right now.

He was sprawled on the sofa, book fallen from one hand while the other rested on his chest, which rose and fell with long, steady breaths. I didn’t fight my relief as I crossed the room and knelt beside him. When he tilted his face toward me and smiled, then mumbled, “I waited up for you,” I dared to think he’d be okay again.

“Come on,” I whispered, putting his book on the table so he didn’t trip. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He mm-hmmed and let me drag him to his feet. We stumbled upstairs and into his room, crowded with dark shapes. Wardrobe, shelves, harp, and bed. Books waited like traps across the floor, surprising, given how tidy he usually was. He must have been feeling more awful than I’d realized. I nudged them out of the way with my toe before guiding Sam to the near side of his bed.

He sat with a sleepy grunt and sway, and I steadied him with my hands on his shoulders. “Are you sure you want to sleep in your clothes?” Not that I knew where he kept his nightclothes.

“Yeah.” He dropped to his side and tugged blankets over his waist. “Thank you, Ana. Glad you’re home.” He squeezed my wrist and was asleep again without waiting for a response.

“Sleep well.” Before I lost my nerve, I leaned over, kissed his cheek, and breathed in his scent. Herbs, like what he’d given me the night he saved me from Rangedge Lake. “Tomorrow will be better. You’ll see.” I tiptoed through the gauntlet of books on his floor, glanced at his sleeping figure one more time, and sighed.

On the way to my bedroom, I paused by the stairs, on the balcony overlooking the parlor, and tiptoed to the front door. Sam didn’t usually, because everyone knew and trusted one another — sort of — but tonight, thinking about someone following me through the streets of Heart, I locked the door.

DANCE LESSONS WITH Stef. Chores. Even with last night’s footsteps haunting my dreams, our morning progressed as usual.

After a quick shower, I headed downstairs to the piano. Sam always gave me a few minutes of practice before joining me, and while I still made plenty of mistakes, he never said anything unless I did the same thing during our lesson proper.

He’d explained about rhythm and dynamics, showed me their markings on the sheet music, and helped me find the best way to reach keys with my smaller-than-average hands. When I made mistakes, I practiced that section until I could do it correctly ten times in a row; for whatever reason, this made him proud. I just wanted to be good.

I played through a short étude, trying to focus on the notes rather than the way Sam and I had danced this morning. But it was difficult.

Stef usually taught me, but sometimes she took a turn on the piano and made Sam get up and dance. He always obliged, but his posture was all reluctance: His shoulders curled forward, he didn’t meet my gaze, and he moved stiffly. Until about halfway through whatever piece Stef was making us practice. Then, he’d be
in
the dance as surely as anyone who’d known it for a thousand years. During the slow dances, like we’d practiced this morning, he held me as if I was the most precious thing in the world. As if I were someone else.

I blinked and tried to find where I was in the music. My hands had worked without me, but now that I was paying attention again, I couldn’t remember where I was. I glanced at the end — the coda — just as I played the last chord. Hopefully I hadn’t messed it up too badly. Just because he didn’t say anything didn’t mean he wasn’t listening to every note.

A prelude was next on the stack of music. It was one of his recent compositions, merely a hundred years old. It was also my favorite so far, because it had a quirky melody all the way through, even the serious parts. Like a private joke.

He should have been down by the time I reached the end of the prelude — I managed to hit a note I usually missed — but when I let my mitt-clad hands fall to my knees, he wasn’t there. It was a challenging prelude; my success with it should have lured him downstairs. I’d try one more thing, then go up to drag him to the piano bench.

Music was the only time he seemed normal. Forget what Sine had said about Sam sorting it out on his own. I wanted to help him, so if music was the only thing that made him happy now, I’d try something new.

There was music in my head, melodies that made me shiver into sleep. Not Sam’s, and not anyone else’s. Mine. I hadn’t told anyone about the music stirring inside of me, but it seemed right that Sam should be the first to know.

I’d only ever hummed the tune, and only when I was alone. And when no one was looking, I’d played a mute and invisible piano on my lap, or a table, or my desk in my room.

Here at the real piano, yellowed ivory keys firm beneath my fingertips, there was more pressure for it to sound as perfect as it did in my head.

Low notes came long and round, deep and mysterious. High notes sang like sylph. If I was honest, it was music of my fears. Shadows made of fire, drowning in a lake, and death without reincarnation. Giving those fears up to music — that helped.

“Please let it help Sam,” I whispered beneath an arpeggio. “Please let him like it.”

I played as carefully as I could, focused on each note and the way it resounded across the parlor. Hearing it outside my head made it real. Solid. Was this how Sam felt every time he wrote something new?

The last note fell. Still no Sam.

Maybe he hated it.

I slipped off my fingerless mittens and left them on the bench. Upstairs, the house was quiet. No water gurgling through pipes, no clothes swishing around as if he couldn’t find something he wanted to wear. And when I knocked on his door, no answer. Nor the second or third try. I let myself in.

Sam sat on the floor, staring blankly at the wall, not moving, hardly breathing. Sweat wormed down his face; it must have itched, but he didn’t brush it away.

I rushed inside, thumping my knee on the floor as I knelt in front of him. “Sam.”

Nothing.

“Sam!” I shook his shoulders, said his name again and again, but he seemed trapped somewhere else. Some
when
else, like when the sylph outside his graveyard had made a dragon head.

Dragons. That was
his
fear.

“Sam, it’s okay.” I cupped my palms over his cheeks, leaned close until the scent of him filled me. “Please. You’re safe.”

He blinked, and his eyes focused on me. Confusion for a moment, then recognition. “Ana,” he rasped. “What happened?”

As if I had any clue. “You were just staring when I came in.” I smoothed hair from his face and whispered, “I thought you were gone.”

He closed his eyes and leaned into my touch, and his expression betrayed emotions I had no names for. “Ana.” My name slipped out like he hadn’t meant to say it.

“You’re safe.” I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to draw out his fears and hide them far away, but it seemed impossible. “Please don’t go away again.”

Sam hugged me, too tight, shaking like he’d run a thousand leagues. When he loosened enough for me to breathe, I sat sideways on his legs. His heart thudded by my ear as I dragged my hand along the cords of muscle in his arm. Tensed, untensed.

We sat like that for a while, his face buried in my hair. I didn’t know how else to reassure him, so I continued petting his arm while the quiet lingered, and he seemed to be collecting his thoughts.

His heartbeat steadied. “I was remembering dragons and all the times—” He sounded like he’d swallowed glass. “I couldn’t stop remembering.”

I spoke softly so as not to shatter the moment of his confession. “All the times?”

“All the times dragons killed me.” The words came thick with dread and grief.

“How many?” I’d assumed it had been only once, which was stupid, and
only
once would have been enough to give me nightmares forever.

“Thirty.” He glanced toward the window, though I couldn’t see anything but trees and the tip of the city wall. “If you hadn’t saved me last week, it would have been thirty-one.”

Thirty dragon deaths. I believed him, but it was so impossible sounding. I just couldn’t grasp it. “I want to know what happened earlier, but I don’t want to ask.” I couldn’t bear to see him like that again.

He squeezed me. “Most people have triggers, things that send them spiraling into horrible memories. No one goes through any life unscathed. Smell is most subtle, but sound has always done it to me. Never quite like this, though. Sometimes I think you can—”

I could what? If sound was his trigger and I’d been playing the piano, this was my fault. I’d wanted to help him, but had done the exact opposite. “I’m so sorry.” Now I felt like the one who’d swallowed glass. I leaned away, tried to stand up, but his fingers tangled in my hair and he looked wretched.

“Don’t go.” His jaw clenched. “It wasn’t you.”

It didn’t happen all on its own. But when he put his arms around me, like that helped, I let him. This felt nice, the way we curled together. And strange, because I’d wanted to be this close to him — but not like this. Not because he needed someone, and I was handy.

Then he kissed the top of my head — I tensed all over again — and he acted like there was nothing unusual. This whole thing, it was too much. I wished he would just talk to me. I couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

“Sam.” His skin warmed beneath mine. “I can listen. I
want
to listen.”

He turned his hand over to hold mine, silent acknowledgment.

“Please. For both of us.”

“It was your music,” he said at last, and his words became a flood. “But not only that. The attack at the market, the way everyone reacted or didn’t. It’s been so long. Everything happened so quickly, and then your music made me feel like I was reliving all those times at once.

“My first memory is of singing. We’d come to what would be called Range, and everything was perfect. Pure. Hot springs, geysers, mud pits of every color. There were birds — every kind you can imagine — and I remember walking behind a group of people. I was trying to mimic the birds’ whistles.

“The dragons came from the north. They looked like giant flying snakes with short legs, and talons like eagles. Their wings were as wide as their bodies were long. They were beautiful, but we’d already fought our way through shadow creatures that burned, horse people who used human skin as clothing, and giant humanoids who destroyed everything they saw. We were cautious.”

Sylph. Centaurs. Trolls. I’d be cautious after that, too.

“Stef and I watched them coming. The way they moved through the sky was hypnotic, and we’d never seen something so large that could fly. But then one darted toward us, and I was the slowest to run away.” His voice snagged on memory. “There was green slime everywhere around me, and on me. Acid. It burned and itched, and then I saw bone.”

I shuddered. That was the first time a dragon had killed him.

“When I was reborn, it was in Heart. It seemed like the dragons had been guarding it from us, or trying to destroy it.” He still had that faraway expression, like he was seeing five thousand years past. “They attacked in the same way every time, one always straight for the temple as if to rip it from the ground. They were always unsuccessful, but it never stopped them.

“Fifteen more times in my early lives. Acid, teeth, or just getting knocked off a wall.” He sighed. “No one else had luck so terrible. I thought they were after me in particular.”

I twisted and touched his cheek, drawing patterns across his skin. It was dry now, sweat all evaporated.

“I’m
old
, Ana.” He said it like that would change anything. I already knew this was only one incarnation of the musician I’d always admired. He closed his fingers around my wrist, gently. “I’ve died so many times. It always hurts.”

I paused with my fingers resting on the tip of his chin. “Always?”

“Some worse than others. The easy ones are when you die of poison or illness. Sometimes you get to go from old age.”

The room turned into winter. “What does it feel like?”

“Dear Janan. You shouldn’t ask that.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t be willing to tell you.”

Someday I would die too. I might as well be prepared.

“It feels like being ripped out of yourself. Like being caught in giant talons or fire or jaws. It’s suffocating. And then there’s nothing for what seems like eons, but when you come back just as painfully, it’s only been years. Any time you’re killed — sylph, dragon, giant, anything violent — the pain lasts even after your soul is out. Something incorporeal shouldn’t be able to hurt so much.” He hesitated, and his voice turned gentle. “I’ve been burned by a sylph too. It never feels quite right again. Sometimes, even generations later, I can still feel the fire.”

I held my fists to my chest.

“That’s why everyone focuses on the present and future. The past is too painful when you remember how lives end. Often abruptly.” He shook his head. “In a dragon attack four generations ago, Stef had to save my hat for me to bury. It had been thrown aside, and was the only thing left.”

I couldn’t imagine living, or dying, like that. For millennia. And then I’d come along, always asking about things that had happened before me. I hadn’t meant my curiosity to cause so much pain.

Before I could find an apology good enough, he said, “I think last week wouldn’t have been so dramatic if I hadn’t already been killed by dragons not twenty years ago.”

That was before I’d been born, but it probably felt recent to him. “What happened?”

He stilled, arms loosening around me. “I went north because I was lonely. I felt empty, and I needed inspiration. Stef, who’d just reached her first quindec, told me not to go because I was too old, but I didn’t have a reason to wait. Ciana had died a few years prior.”

I nodded; Li had said Sam and Ciana had been close.

“After traveling for weeks,” he murmured, sounding far away now, “I came upon a white wall that must have gone up a mile…” He trailed off.

“Was it like Heart’s?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The wall. Did it have a pulse like the one around Heart?”

“I—” He looked as confused as the day I’d asked how he knew the doorless temple was empty. “Dragons came from all around. Before I could do anything, they’d killed me.”

“What about the wall?”

“What wall?” He inhaled deeply, shook back into himself, and kissed my temple. “You’re trying to distract me. Good job.”

My skin tingled where his mouth had touched. “But— Never mind.” Maybe the wall was a question for later. I could look it up in the library.

“I think we should see how much time is left for your lessons.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” I scrambled off his lap and onto my feet. As much as I’d liked being that close, it wasn’t fair that he could keep kissing my head when I wasn’t sure if that was something we were doing now. Library time, lunch, head kissing. Today was probably a trauma exception, but still.

He took my hands when I offered to help him up, but he didn’t let me hold any of his weight. “Music lessons would restore some much-needed normalcy, and I’d like to hear what you were playing.”

I shifted and shrugged. “I don’t want you to… you know.” My insides flip-flopped. It had been easier to play when he wasn’t there.

“I’ll be fine.” He brushed his knuckles across my cheek.

I ignored his touch and headed for the door, forcing my tone light. “Okay, then. But no laughing. I don’t have a million years of practice composing in my head.”

He scoffed. “I’m not
that
old.”

“And the piano wasn’t even invented yet. Yeah, I know. Sing another tune, Sam.” I strained a smile. He wanted normalcy? Fine.

He feigned shock as he followed me into the hall. There he reclaimed my hand and stopped, spinning me toward him as though we were dancing. “I just thought of a name for your waltz.”

I waited.

“If you like it, that is. We can always change it.” His voice shook, probably because it had been such an awful morning, but I imagined he wanted my approval. “‘Ana Incarnate.’”