Starling (34 page)

He turned on his heel and stalked past them, the wolf pack following like silent wraiths in his wake. Ghost—Etienne—hesitated a moment. His dark, fathomless gaze was fixed, not on Fennrys, but on Mason. His look chilled her to the marrow. Then he too drifted off into the night, following in the footsteps of the god of the dead.

Fennrys climbed shakily to his feet and held out a hand to help Mason stand. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I crashed into the middle of your normal life and have done nothing but make things hell for you. Apparently quite literally.”

“Don’t say that.” Mason was determined, for his sake—and, truthfully, for hers too—to not just put on a brave face, but to actually
be
brave. “I’m not going to let this …
thing
 … this impending doom, this cosmic conflict that’s nothing more than a
stupid
game of gods and monsters and mayhem, interfere with my life.” She took him by the hand and led him toward the steps that would lead back down to the park path. “You heard what Rafe said. I’m not going to run and I’m not going to hide. I’m going to live my life. And so are you.”

It isn’t every day that second chances like that come along, right?
she thought. And even an ancient god of the dead had just said Fennrys deserved it.

Walking beside her, his head down and his features drawn tight with anguish, Fennrys said in a ragged voice, “I don’t deserve—”

Mason turned suddenly and reached up to pull Fenn’s head violently down toward her. She stopped him with a kiss that tore the words from his mouth before he could say them.

Startled, Fennrys hesitated a moment. But Mason’s arms wound tightly around his neck, and he was suddenly kissing her back hungrily, lifting her off the ground and crushing her to him in a fierce embrace. Mason clung to him, her fingers gripping the back of his head.

“Don’t
ever
say that, Fennrys,” she said. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that you don’t deserve or you aren’t worthy. You do. You
are
.” Her forehead pressed against his, and they stayed locked in that embrace for a long moment until Mason said, with regret, “But you have to let me go now.”

Fennrys looked stricken for an instant, until Mason started to quiver with laughter.

“No,” she said, gasping. “I just meant put me down! I can’t breathe....”

“Oh! Sorry …” He immediately loosened his rib-breaking hold on her, putting her gently down on the ground. Stepping back, he brushed the hair from her face and smiled that awkward, beautiful smile of his. And, for the first time that night since the dogs had attacked them on the High Line—for the first time, really, since the attack at the school—Mason felt as if everything was going to turn out just fine.

“Now walk me the rest of the way home,” she said. “I have a major competition to win tomorrow. You’ve put a lot of time and effort into helping me prepare for this, and I don’t intend to let you down. Looming apocalypse or no looming apocalypse.”

Fennrys threw back his head and laughed. “That’s the spirit, sweetheart.”

“Yup.” Mason grinned up at him. “Screw Ragnarok. We’ve got more important things to do.”

M
ason reached up and tightened the elastic band on her thick ponytail. Her right shoulder made a cracking pop as she did so, and she groaned a bit and swung her arm in circles, testing her range of motion. She was fine, it seemed, in spite of everything she’d gone through over the last few days. Banged up but not broken. She reached down into her bag and pulled out her white padded jacket and the fine gray metal mesh lamé that went over top. Because she fought saber, the lamé covered her torso and arms. It was attached to a wire that registered hits from the electrified saber blade during bouts. As sore as she was from her recent encounters, Mason knew that any residual aches and pains would be left behind, forgotten, once she was connected to the electronic scorekeeper and facing off against her opponent, ready to compete. She half turned and reached for where she’d left her gauntlet and metal overglove on the bench beside her, but they weren’t there. She turned all the way around and saw Calum, leaning against the wall, holding the protective gear out to her.

“Hi,” he said.

The sound of his voice made Mason’s breath catch a bit in her throat. She looked up into his eyes, trying to read in them what he was thinking. The scars on the side of his face were healing cleanly. But they would never disappear entirely. The draugr had marked Cal for life.

“I wanted to come by and wish you luck,” he said, and smiled at her.

“Oh …”

Two weeks earlier, and Calum Aristarchos seeking her out like that would have meant the world to Mason. Now she wasn’t sure what to think. He wasn’t competing—his arm was still in a light sling—and she hadn’t really even been expecting him to show up that night. But there he was, with that same devastating smile he always had, only marred now by the way the scar tugged at the corner of his mouth. Mason tried her best to smile back.

Cal lowered his eyes for a moment and then looked back up at her from under the shock of sun-kissed bangs that fell in front of his forehead. She’d always wanted to reach up and brush them back from his face. For as long as she’d known him. She wanted to do it now.

“I’d really like to see you win tonight, Mase.”

“Thanks, Calum,” she said. “That means a lot to me, you know.”

“And I thought that maybe, after the competition, I could take you somewhere. You know … just the two of us.”

Mason felt the blood rushing to her face. “I …”

I can’t. Fenn is here
. She knew that Fennrys would be somewhere, waiting for her. Watching her compete. He’d promised that he’d be there for her, and they’d already planned on going somewhere together after.

“I can’t, Cal.”

Mason had to look away from the flash of hurt in his eyes. She dropped her own gaze and busied herself with shrugging out of the pullover kangaroo hoodie she’d been wearing over her athletic tank. When she glanced back at Cal, she saw that the look in his eyes had gone from hurt … to cold anger.

“Right,” he said. “I get it.” He was staring fixedly at the iron medallion that she wore around her neck. “I thought you were going to give that back,” he said, a tightness in his voice. “To
him
.”

Oh, god
, Mason thought.
Here we go again …

“I did,” she said.

“Really. And so that’s why you’re wearing it around your neck.”

She turned back to her gear, trying to get her temper under control. She didn’t have time for this. Not with tonight’s competition roaring down on her like a freight train. If she wasn’t about to let the prophesied end of the world distract her, she sure as hell wasn’t going to let Cal Aristarchos do it. She needed to have her wits about her, or she was going to blow another bout.

No. You aren’t. Just remember the work you did. With Fennrys
.

Mason took a deep breath and said calmly, “I returned it to Fennrys a couple of days ago. And then he gave it back to me for good luck tonight. Is that such a terrible thing?”

“It is if you’re seeing this guy often enough to start exchanging little love tokens.” Cal’s face twisted in an ugly, angry sneer that was exaggerated by his scars. “That is the
only
thing you’re doing with him, right?”

“Excuse me?” Mason gaped at him, eyes wide in astonishment. “What the hell do you even care, Calum? It’s not like you have some sort of claim on me. As a matter of fact, you’ve made it pretty freaking clear that you haven’t wanted anything to do with me lately. So what is
this
?”

“Mason—”

“If you really want to know what I’ve been doing with him,” she snapped, “I’ll tell you. I’ve been practicing. He’s been helping me, Cal. You know, the way you said you were going to? Before you got all pissy and decided that I wasn’t worth your time?”

“Wait—
you
weren’t worth
my
time?” Cal’s face flushed an angry scarlet. It made the claw marks stand out even more, and Mason winced and turned her gaze away. Cal noticed. “Yeah. Right. I think it’s probably the other way around.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mason sat on the bench and undid her street shoes, tugging angrily on the laces until one of them snapped.

“No. Of course not.” Cal scoffed. “Why would I? I’m not the hero. I’m just the guy with the scars on his face.”

“Oh, please, Cal—”

“No, Mason! I’ve
seen
it. I’ve seen the way you look at me. Or should I say—the way you
don’t
look at me.”

Mason stared at the running shoe in her hand as if her eyes could burn a hole through the sole of it. Cal had a point. She knew it—knew that every time she looked at him now, all she saw were the draugr’s claw marks—but it wasn’t that she saw Cal as ugly. Rather, the scars were more of a constant reminder of what had happened that night. The night that started all of the weirdness and terror and—if she was going to be completely honest with herself—occasional bouts of wonderfulness over the last few weeks.

“Look … Cal …” She gazed back up at him and forced herself to look at him—
really
look at him—and not look away. “I’m sorry you got hurt that night, but you have to stop taking it out on me. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Wasn’t it?” he said quietly.

So quietly she thought for a second she’d misheard him. But then she knew she hadn’t by the way he was looking at her. By the dull, blunt force of the accusation in his eyes.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she asked in a cold, dangerous voice. “It was
not
my fault. And you are
not
allowed to make me feel guilty about it. You’re not allowed to make me feel guilty about Fennrys, either. He’s not my boyfriend, Cal. And just because—”

“You hesitated.”

The words stopped her dead, the rant dying on her lips. Mason felt her throat close up. “What?” she said, her voice ragged. “I
what
?”

“That …
thing
 … had me in its claws,” Calum hissed savagely, “but you were right there, Mason. You had time. You had a sword. You just weren’t fast enough, and
I’m
the one who gets to suffer the consequences. You just couldn’t handle yourself in a fight.”

Mason couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “A
fight
? You make it sound like it was just some kind of schoolyard brawl! That thing—”

“Got the drop on you!”

Suddenly Calum threw her gauntlets down on the bench and pointed violently toward the gymnasium. Mason had almost forgotten she was about to compete.

“And that stuff out there tonight?” Calum snarled. “It’s just make-believe, but I’m betting you can’t even handle that. You hide behind that fencing mask and avoid the real world and pretend everything’s fine. Normal. You pretend that … that
guy
is normal. But he’s not. And it’s not. And you can’t avoid what’s happening, Mason.”

Mason stared at Cal. Suddenly he wasn’t just talking about the two of them anymore. He wasn’t talking about a fizzled school romance or hurt feelings or even the competition. “Just what do you think
is
happening, Cal?” she asked.

He opened his mouth and looked like he was about to answer her. But then he just shook his head.

“What?” she asked again.

A deep frown creased his brow behind his bangs. He stepped toward Mason and grabbed her by the arm. “All I can tell you is that something bad is coming down the pipe, Starling. Something really bad. And you better grow up pretty damned fast and realize your protected, privileged ‘daddy’s little girl’ status isn’t going to keep you safe for very much longer. And neither is your barbarian tough guy.”

“Shut up, Cal!” Mason tore her arm from his grip, suddenly terrified by the fevered intensity in his eyes. And by the things he was saying. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

Things were fine. She’d decided that last night—made up her mind that everything was going to be okay. Cal didn’t know what he was saying, and it
wasn’t
as if it was the end of the world. “Screw Ragnarok,” she’d told Fennrys. She had better things to do. But this didn’t feel better. This felt terrible.

“I thought you said you came here to see me win tonight,” she said, her voice breaking a little.

“I did,” Cal said. “I just don’t know if you can.”