Guardian of the Dead (13 page)

I'd passed most of my classmates in the corridor, but one of them – Hannah something – was scowling at the notice, her own essay crumpling slightly in her hand. ‘I was up until four on this,' she said. It wasn't exactly to me, I thought, just a necessary burst of frustration. The skin under her eyes was dark and tight.

‘I turned down coffee with a hot guy,' I offered.

‘Oh, that sucks! And after all her crap about dedication and sacrifice. I bet students in Virginia never take sick days.'

‘Are you kidding? Students in Virginia attend classes when they have the
plague
.'

She grinned. ‘I heard that one senior in Virginia died in the first term, and his decomposing corpse still attended all the classes.'

‘And got top grades,' I said, nodding.

‘And got into Yale, Harvard, and nyu.'

‘Unlike slack Mansfielders, who have no Advanced Placement and no Ivy Leagues to aim for and no work ethic whatsoever.' She laughed and shook her essay. ‘Four am! I'm going to hand this in at the office. Want me to take yours?'

I handed it to her gratefully, and watched her leave with some surprise. Maybe I
could
make more friends.

A tall redheaded figure turned the corner, saw me, hesitated, and then spun on his heel. Too late. I could move when I wanted to.

I caught up with him just as he made it to the wide glass doors to the humanities building, closed against the winter chill. Outside, the skeletons of leaves danced over the bare concrete. There were no handy witnesses in case he tried anything. But I was not inclined to wait.

‘So what am I?' I asked as he reached for the handle.

He stopped, hair falling into his face.

‘It's a fair question,' I insisted. I'd flicked through his father's Bible instead of going to breakfast; underlined with red were passages about witches, enchanters, and those who communed with the spirits of the dead. It had confirmed my general theories, but was frustratingly short on specifics.

He withdrew his hand slowly. ‘It is. You're Ellie-Spencer.'

I opened my mouth, just as he added, ‘And your eyes are opening.'

‘What does that mean?'

He ignored that, looking morose. ‘It's my fault. I didn't mean to. Be careful.'

‘Your fault?' I wondered, through the rising thrill of both excitement and terror, and he jingled his bracelet at me. I remembered falling against him, and the strange, electric tingle down my spine as my hair had caught in his charms. Yes, and only after that had he come to fog my head.

Only after that, in fact, had he noticed me at all.

‘What are
you
? Do you know Reka?'

‘I can't tell you,' he said, and screwed up his nose. ‘Gribal–di's not sick,' he offered.

‘What? So?'

‘One of her old students was killed by the Eyeslasher,' he said. ‘She went to the funeral.'

‘What has that got to do with anything?'

‘I mean—' he started, and then began to cough, great tearing bursts of sound that left him leaning on the wall and fighting for breath. He recovered and stood straight, reaching for the door again. ‘I've got to go. Don't go out at night. It's dangerous.' He hesitated, shook his hair out of his eyes and looked straight at me. ‘Please?'

The effect of that level green gaze, both sincere and frightened for me, was enough that I abandoned my urge to kick him in the kneecap. But his secrecy was still
infuriating
. ‘You and I are going to have words,' I promised.

He shrugged, and went out. The wind rushed in to tug at my skirt and hair, and then vanished, leaving only my shivers behind.

Rehearsal was a
nightmare.

I had forgotten to bring the mask for the full props run, and Iris very nearly snapped at me before striding off to confiscate the short knives the fairies were poking at each other. Kevin and Reka spent all their time offstage together, whispering in the corners, and I spent most of mine spying on them and trying to pretend I wasn't. I didn't know if Reka was a witch, but I
did
know she was bad news. And whether by accident or by design, she kept me from taking Kevin away for a private conversation about Mark Nolan and hypnotism and possible witchery.

The first three acts were awful. The non-speaking fairies and Puck were supposed to do these intricate bits of physical theatre representing magic in the world, but though Blake was perfect, the others fumbled and pushed and got out of time with the haunting flute music and, at one point, nearly dropped Bottom on his papier-mâché donkey head. The rude mechanicals still didn't know what they were saying, and didn't care. Iris was so tightly wound she was nearly vibrating, and her notes at the break went from encouraging statements to something that was pretty close to pleading.

But the fights went off okay, and Demetrius and Lysander were gratifyingly well behaved.

When the notes were over, and everyone scattered to various tasks, Blake found me to remind me of our coffee date.

‘Sure,' I said absently, watching Reka stroke Kevin's arm, and then my brain caught up with my mouth. ‘I mean, I'm looking forward to it.'

‘I can guarantee she won't follow us there,' he said, nodding at Reka.

I laughed. ‘To coffee? Definitely not.'

Blake snorted. ‘Isn't that allergy stuff the most prima donna bullshit you ever heard?'

‘It's not real?'

‘Who ever heard of an allergy to hot food? To the
smell
of hot food? What does she do, eat raw fish and berries?'

‘She's pretty strange,' I ventured. ‘Has anything weird ever happened around her?'

‘Weird? How do you mean?'

‘Like . . . I don't know. Supernatural.' I was beginning to blush.

He looked at me in alarm. ‘You don't believe in that stuff, do you? Vampires and unicorns and fairies at the bottom of the garden?'

‘Of course not,' I backtracked. ‘I was trying to set up a bad joke about her being such a witch.'

Blake laughed. ‘Gotta say, if there was ever a candidate for getting a farmhouse dropped on her head – oh, here we go.'

Carrie was walking onto the stage, a paper packet of hot chips in her arms. ‘I think I got enough for everyone,' she announced, and began unfolding the layers of paper.

‘Don't open it!' Reka's voice sliced through the appreciative hum like a scalpel. She was holding her hand over her nose, recoiling up the auditorium stairs. Her nails were long and unfashionably pointy, and I thought, unkindly, of claws. ‘Get that crap out of here,' she ordered. ‘You
know
I'm allergic.'

‘I forgot,' Carrie said apologetically, and pointed toward the wings. ‘How about if we eat in the greenroom?'

Reka's lip curled. ‘You leave, but the
stench
remains. Iris! I'm going home.'

Iris leaned out of the lighting box. ‘We're going to run the second halve,' she said mildly.

‘Not with me,' she snapped. ‘I made it very clear what accommodations I required.
No cooked food
. If your cast can't respect that, I'm not certain I want to be a part of the production.'

Opening night was less than two weeks away, and there were no understudies. Two pink spots appeared high on Iris's cheeks.

‘That's not fair!' Carla said indignantly.

‘
This
isn't fair,' Kevin said, striding across the stage and snatching the greasy paper package from Carrie's unprotesting hands. She'd been shocked into stillness by Reka's fury, but she squeaked and jumped back as he took the food, eyes wide.

Kevin banged through the greenroom door. I was following him before I was entirely aware of it.

He was wrapping the chips in garbage bags, burying them in layer upon layer of bright-blue plastic.

‘What was that?' I demanded.

He tossed the package into the rubbish bin closest to the back door. ‘This crap makes Reka sick.'

‘Carrie said she was sorry. You scared the hell out of her!'

He wedged the back door open and started yanking the dressing-room windows open. They shrieked in protest, rust showering the sills. The temperature dropped as the fog outside began seeping in.

‘Kevin! It's freezing!'

‘It makes Reka sick,' he repeated. The expression he turned toward me wasn't entirely his own. His eyes glittered feverishly in the middle of a face usually so familiar that even his remarkable handsomeness was less noticeable. Now he looked beautiful and dangerous and nothing like the friend I knew.

The door swung open behind me and I jumped, half turning. I was keeping my feet hip-width apart, my arms up and braced over my ribcage. A defence stance. I hadn't known I was in it until I stepped smoothly to face what my body told me was a new threat.

Reka strode past me, her eyes trained on Kevin's face. Looking at her, he relaxed, that terrifying beauty transforming into slavish devotion. My stomach twisted.

Iris followed her, still protesting Reka's departure, but she lurched to a halt when she saw the two of them together. For a moment, I thought she was going to faint and stepped closer to offer support.

‘Will you take me home?' Reka asked softly, laying long white fingers on the inside of Kevin's wrist.

He smiled down at her. ‘Of course.'

They walked out together, both tall and beautiful, looking only at each other. Kevin didn't try to touch her, but he didn't shy away from her hands on him either.

The door swung shut behind them. Iris and I stared at each other.

‘He said he was asexual,' Iris whispered.

I swallowed hard at the anguish in her voice and looked away. ‘He is. I don't know what the hell he thinks he's doing.'

She managed a mirthless little laugh. ‘This will sound bitter. But something strange is going on.'

I thought about the way Reka had touched him, without any response in kind. ‘He's gone all protective. Knight-errant. Maybe it's some courtly love thing: no sex involved.'

‘But it's weird, right?' Iris said. Her face was tight and strained, as if some inner implosion was drawing her features together.

‘It is weird,' I admitted. ‘Hey, does Reka ever wear coloured contact lenses?'

She pursed her lips. ‘I don't think so. Why?'

Blake poked his head through the door. ‘Is she gone, boss?'

‘They both are,' Iris said.

‘Don't stress,' he said. ‘Someone has a tantrum in every show. Usually it doesn't happen until dress rehearsal.'

‘Something to look forward to,' Iris said, but she was smiling again.

‘I guess we have the rest of the night off?' he asked, and winked at me.

Iris pursed her lips. ‘I suppose so,' she said reluctantly, and went back to the stage.

‘So,' Blake said, leaning against the wall and grinning in a way that made my blood leap. ‘You need a ride home?'

I scowled at the door. ‘So it seems.'

‘My car and I are at your disposal. But before that: you, me, and the best coffee I can buy on a student loan?'

‘It's a date,' I said. ‘Well, not a
date
.'

‘A friendly date.'

I smiled. ‘That.'

We ended up in a small café in the central city. The place was decorated with hundreds of little kewpie dolls, all individually repainted. There was Pilot Kewpie and Pirate Kewpie and Prime Minister Kewpie, and a whole line of cancan-dancing kewpies, who watched us drink with cute and creepy smiles. Blake apologised for the coffee, but it tasted fine to me. When I said so, I got a ten-minute lecture on different beans and flavours, until he clapped his hands over his mouth and gave me an apologetic look.

‘Sorry,' he said, through his interlaced fingers. ‘Some things I'm passionate about, but there's no excuse for boring you. Tell me about yourself?'

I shrugged, feeling young and unworldly. ‘Not much to tell. I'm down here for a year while my parents are on holiday. Then it's back to Napier, and probably Waikato Uni.'
Also, I'm apparently some kind of potential witch
, I thought, but I wasn't going to float that after he'd reacted with such disdain to the mere idea of the supernatural.

‘Pity,' Blake said, and it took a second for my brain to catch up. He meant me leaving after this year.

‘But I might stay here and go to Canterbury University,' I said recklessly. ‘If I can get used to the South Island winters.'

‘You Pig Islanders are all the same,' he scoffed, taking a showy deep breath. ‘Taste that smoggy, muggy air! You can chew on it if you have to! It's invigorating.' His brown eyes sparkled at me, challenging and inviting.

‘Maybe if you're a South Island mutant,' I parried. ‘Breathing smoke instead of oxygen.'

He laughed. ‘Then you should definitely stay. Improve the stock.'

I felt my cheeks heating, and looked away in an attempt to cover. My eye fell on the café's clock (installed in the stomach of a giant kewpie) and I started. ‘I have to go.'