Red (5 page)

Kia glanced up, frowning at the sky. When there was nothing for her to see, she hurried back through the gate and toward the castle. I reclaimed my knife and wiped it clean on a leaf. Then I continued into the forest, wondering what the hell Abby had been thinking, inviting Kia to live here.

I searched for other marsh birds, since they tended to travel in pairs, but there was nothing but the wind and the smell of smoke.

And the standing stone.

It wore a dress of moss now, the tiny gray and green spots filling the engraved letters spelling out
Summer Kirihara
. I hadn’t been here in a while. At first I came every day, then once a week, once a month, and now I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been here. Probably in July with the other Cabal kids to pay our respects. In the early spring the whole field was carpeted with lily of the valley and purple periwinkle flowers.

It was nearly four years now. I couldn’t remember the exact sound of her shy laugh, or the wicked gleam in her eye when she knocked my crossbow bolt out of the air with her own.

But I still remembered the feeling of her blood on my hands. We’d found it smeared on the grass and the birch trees. We’d never found her body, just her torn clothes and some of her hair in a summer grove somehow thick with frost.

Not enough to mourn.

Just enough to know she was lost.

Chapter Five

Kia

I woke up early, as usual, at least an hour before my alarm clock. The light was different here. It didn’t fall in bright harsh squares across my bedroom floor. Instead, it sneaked in like smoke, slowly and softly. The sky went pink, then orange, burning through the horizon as if it were paper. At home I would have heard delivery trucks and the creaking of the apartment building’s old water pipes. I called Dad, just to be obnoxious. He’d sent me away to live with a woman I barely knew. He didn’t deserve to sleep in.

“It’s barely six thirty in the morning,” he grumbled into the phone. “Are you dead?”

“No.” I couldn’t help but smile. I knew he was sprawled on the couch, rubbing his unshaven face. “You fell asleep on the couch again.” He mumbled something incoherent through a yawn. “Love you, too, Dad.”

“Are you all right, kiddo?” I could hear him sitting up, trying to sound awake. “How’s the house?”

“Big.”

“Just give it a chance.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

He snorted. “Your tone, daughter of mine, is hardly inscrutable.”

“Yeah, okay,” I muttered. “Go back to sleep, Dad.”

“Love you, Kia. Get out of your own way.” He’d been telling me that for months now. It was his parental catchall phrase, which loosely translated meant: don’t be a smartass and don’t antagonize people. Also, don’t set them on fire.

And he didn’t even know the full extent of it. He thought he had a budding arsonist for a daughter and that I’d just been playing with matches.

Sighing, I hung up and headed to the kitchen, grateful for the servant staircase for once. I didn’t have to get dressed, I could pop down in my T-shirt and skull pajama bottoms with a sweater for warmth.

Sara was already at the long counter, her hair in a braid wound around her head like a crown. “Coffee’s on.” She nodded to a coffeemaker on the end of one counter. “I like it plain, none of that fancy espresso and foamed milk.”

She poured muffin batter into pans lined with gold-edged paper cups. I was glad she hadn’t suggested I drink hot chocolate instead; adults usually accused me of being over-caffeinated. “Even the muffin papers have gold on them?” I asked.

Sara nearly smiled. “Mr. Blackwood wants the best. Why do you think he hired me?” She wiped flour off her cheek with the cuff of her sleeve. “These won’t be ready for a half hour. You can test the first batch.”

“That’s a job I will happily do.” I took a sip of coffee. It was strong enough to buzz in my veins before I’d even finished swallowing.

“Those girlfriends of Ethan’s are afraid of muffins and bread.” She shook her head, disgusted. “It’s not right.”

“I’ll eat their share,” I promised. The dawn light was pink and gold at the windows.

Sara followed my glance. “I could do with some fresh apples from the orchard for the apple cake. There are boots by the door. Later, you can drop it off at Brontë’s Café after school. As my delivery girl, you might want to run over less nails. Just a tip. Because the next busted tire is coming out of your pay.”

The boots were too big for me, but they kept the worst of the dew off. It crackled underfoot, clinging to leaves and stones like lace. I pulled my sweater tighter and crossed a lawn roughly the size of a football field. It was bordered by the cut-down stalks of harvested corn and the remains of a vegetable garden. There was only a pumpkin patch left, trailing green vines and massive leaves I could have used as an umbrella. A loon called from the lake.

The orchard was small, but the trees looked old and well cared for. There were apples rotting on the ground, making honeybees and wasps buzz drunkenly around my ankles. I picked my way carefully through them, trying to find a low branch that wasn’t already bare. I wasn’t about to climb the rickety ladder leaning against a wooden farm fence covered in moss and lichen. I filled my pockets with red apples until my sweater stretched to my knees.

It was still strange to wander around in the half light without worrying about who might be hiding in an alley. Dad was paranoid about me walking around the city after dark, convinced I’d be a magnet for every junkie and psycho out there. He’d instilled a healthy wariness of shadows into me, not to mention several self-defense and kickboxing classes. But I’d assumed there would be nothing to worry about beyond a serious lack of Manic Panic hair dye at the village drugstore. Clearly, I was wrong.

There was something else going on under the rural castle estate life. There were too many quick silencing glances, too many rules, too many strange artifacts and weapons hung like decoration. I didn’t know what questions to ask yet, only that they were there waiting to be asked.

I wandered farther into the forest. Pine trees towered over me, and needles were soft and red under my boots. It looked like something out of a painting.

Until I came up against a barbed-wire fence winding between the trunks. It was fairly industrial, like the stuff they used in the city when they were serious about keeping people out.

Something howled mournfully. It was a cross between an animal in pain and someone singing. The hairs on my arms lifted instinctively. Both Abby and Ethan had mentioned wolves. I wondered if that was what the fence was for. The howl shivered through the trees again, followed by a loud rustling. The back of my neck prickled painfully. “Nope,” I said, spinning on my heel, intent on getting the hell out of the woods. I wasn’t going to stand around waiting to be eaten by wolves. I broke into a run because I didn’t know if I was hearing my own startled breathing or something else. A growl. A twig snapping.

My hands burned, and I thought I smelled smoke, but there was no spark, no warning flame. Just another shadow in the woods.

I couldn’t see his face right away—the light struck him in such a way that he was a silhouette, a gleam of eyes and teeth. Habit had me reaching for my house keys to use as a weapon, but there were only apples in my pocket. Dad would be annoyed I wasn’t prepared. But I wasn’t on a city street…and I realized, as the shadows shifted, that there was nothing to worry about, because it was only Ethan anyway. I tried to stop gasping as if I was afraid. I wasn’t afraid. I had fire. Of course, not when I actually needed it.

Ethan was wearing nothing but mud-streaked jeans. I had to remind myself that it didn’t matter if I was walking around in flannel pajama bottoms tucked into black rubber boots that were way too big for me. I wasn’t interested in impressing Ethan Blackwood—he was entirely too impressed with himself already.

His chest was bare and there were leaves in his perfect hair, now mussed. He had remarkably lean, distracting muscles, and he had to know it, being shirtless in this weather.

I was catching him on a walk of shame. I wondered if Justine was sneaking off as well. I hoped she tripped and fell in bear shit. Ethan was hardly dangerous; he just had wickedly bad taste in girls.

And the day I couldn’t take a rich boy sauntering about would be the day I started wearing designer sweaters and khaki pants—i.e., never.

Except this wasn’t the Ethan who knew a soupspoon from a dessertspoon, or even the Ethan who drove girls home in his convertible. This Ethan had mud on his boots, scratches on his arms, and blood on his hands. I took a step closer. A twig broke under my foot.

Ethan’s head snapped up, like a lion scenting a wounded gazelle. He rose slowly, all predator and leashed violence. His hair was so pretty and blond in the sunlight, so incongruous against the way his fists clenched and his eyes narrowed. I froze. Not just because he looked wrong, guilty. But because between us lay the bleeding, broken-open body of a dead rabbit, slender bones gleaming.

Before he could move, before I could ask the thousands of questions swarming inside my head like wasps, a hand clamped over my shoulder.

I shrieked and spun, swinging my branch. I caught the security guard in the shoulder and he stumbled, cursing. But he didn’t let go of me. The momentum had me falling against him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“You shouldn’t grab girls,” I shot back, kicking him in the shin.

His hand slid off my shoulder, and he grunted in pain. The rising sun glinted off the handle of the gun in the holster at his belt. “I’m going to have to ask you to return to the house, Miss Alcott,” he insisted grimly, stepping between Ethan and me.

Only Ethan wasn’t there anymore. There was nothing but ferns and ashes and a small dead rabbit.

Chapter Six

Kia

I was probably making a big deal over nothing. I couldn’t seem to help myself, though. I finally found a question to ask, even if it sounded ridiculous. Fences and dead rabbits and security cameras weren’t exactly a smoking gun.

I logged onto a search engine and looked up wolves. Apparently, they didn’t generally attack humans, and if they did, they definitely did a better job than whatever had scratched at Ethan. Maybe he’d tried to save the rabbit or had come across it on his skulk home. Or maybe he got bitch-slapped by a badger.

I took a moment to enjoy that mental image.

Then I typed in Ethan’s name out of morbid curiosity. I found his Facebook page right away, but I didn’t send him a friend request, and I didn’t find anything else. I tried another search engine. Surely he’d gone through some poetry-writing phase I could torture him with. The internet connection flickered and went out before I could find any useful ammunition. I logged on again. There was a message from my dad and nothing else. Nothing from Riley, not that I’d expected any different. She must have blocked my address, because I never even got angry “leave me alone, you freak” messages. I’d spent weeks trying to get her to listen to me after the accident. I’d never meant for her to get burned. It happened so fast that I didn’t even know it was my fault at first. And then I was so confused, and so guilty, that I couldn’t properly explain myself. Not to anyone.

…

When I got back to the castle after school, Abby was out back chopping wood. Her gray hair was in a ponytail and her face was shiny with sweat, but she still looked too young to be anyone’s grandmother. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “How was school?”

“You kinda kick ass, Abby,” I said. “The headmaster actually let me off the hook.”

“Fair’s fair.” She shrugged and went back to chopping the wood. Splinters flew off in all directions.

“Why do we need firewood?” I asked. “Please tell me there’s central heating.”

“Yes, of course there is. But the fireplaces help. And the outbuildings mostly have woodstoves, like the bedrooms.”

I shook my head. “This place is weird.”

“You have no idea,” Tobias murmured, coming up behind me. “I can do that,” he offered, taking the ax from Abby. “I know you’re busy today.”

“Oh, Toby, you know Mr. Blackwood doesn’t expect you to earn your keep. You’re family.”

“I like it.” He swung the ax without another word. There was a book in the back pocket of his jeans.

Abby watched him for a moment before turning to me. “I hope you’re feeling inspired.”

“To do what?”

“To help out,” she said. “It’s crazy here today, and I need someone to fix the sink in Ethan’s suite.”

I stared at her in horror. “No way.” I did not want to be in Ethan’s bedroom, doing chores while he smirked and I thought about dead rabbits.

“I know you know how, Kia,” she returned, unfazed. “Your father’s a plumber. There’s a toolbox in the furnace room.”

“I don’t know if you hate me or if I hate you,” I muttered.

“As long as the sink’s fixed,” she called after me.

I took my time crossing the kitchen, because it smelled like baking bread. I went down to the basement first to turn off the water like my dad had taught me, then reluctantly went up to Ethan’s room with the toolbox. I passed Ethan’s aunt Simone in the hall, and her nurse smiled at me. Simone had drool at the corner of her mouth. She stared at me so hard I squirmed uncomfortably.

I knocked softly on Ethan’s door. If I was really lucky, maybe he’d stayed in town after school. I could sneak in, fix the stupid tap, and sneak out again.

I was not lucky.

Piano music drifted toward me, then stopped mid-note. “Come in.”

Still muttering to myself, I pushed the door open.

Ethan’s sitting room was the size of Dad’s apartment. There was a massive television, video game system, and stereo against one wall, leather couches, bookshelves, a desk, and a mini galley kitchen with a fridge. And a piano. Ethan’s long fingers rested on the keys, the light catching his silver ring. It didn’t quite fit with my image of him with blood on his hands.

I held up the toolbox, since I was staring at him. “Abby wants me to take a look at your sink.”

“That’s the one that’s leaking.” He motioned to the sink by the fridge.

At least I wouldn’t have to rummage through his bathroom. I nodded because I didn’t know what to say, then opened the cupboard to take a look at the pipes underneath, wishing I’d stopped to change out of my school uniform. Contorting under a sink in a short kilt wasn’t easy.

Water dripped from the faucet with a steady
tap-tap-tap
, which Ethan imitated on the piano, but the cupboard underneath was dry. I turned off the water to the pipes and then crawled out and went through the toolbox for a wrench and some washers. At least it wasn’t a cartridge faucet—I hated those.

“I didn’t know you had so many talents,” Ethan said.

“Yeah, plumbing is my secret superpower,” I joked, then paused, hiding a wince. I shouldn’t mention secret powers. What was wrong with me? I went back to unfastening the handle. Ethan’s fingers moved along the black and white keys. “I can’t play music, though,” I said. “You’re really good.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “My father made me take lessons when I was a kid.”

“My dad made me learn how to install sinks and unclog drains,” I said. The superintendent of our building was useless and we had to do all of our own repairs. I unscrewed the packing nut and pulled out the valve stem to get to the washer. I wiggled it out. “There’s your problem.” This would be an easy fix. Thank God, I could go back to my part of the house.

“I’m impressed,” he said, noting the many different parts of the faucet spread out on the countertop. “Looks complicated.”

“Nah, this is easy,” I said, sorting through the new washers to find one that fit. At least Abby was organized enough to have a wide selection. I couldn’t exactly pop across the street to the hardware store. “But this is the worst wrench I’ve ever worked with. Abby should be embarrassed.”

Ethan played a sweeping, dramatic piece that filled the room. I’d never heard someone play the piano in person before. It was surprisingly nice to do something simple like fix a sink to beautiful music. There was nothing on fire, no one sneering at me.

I reassembled the faucet, glancing at Ethan again while he was distracted. His pale hair flopped into his face. It was endearing, and it made him look less like a guy whose car could pay for my entire university education and more like someone I could be friends with. I secured the screw in the handle and then turned the tap to test it. As water trickled out, the music turned ominous, like something from a horror movie. I grinned at him over my shoulder and turned off the water. Not a drop fell from the faucet. The music turned joyful, like a celebration in a summer field for girls in long dresses.

I chuckled at it, and he grinned back at me, the piano music fading. “I like your laugh.” He stood up from the piano bench and walked toward me, so close I could smell the faint spice of his cologne, something sharp and clean. There was a small, unexpected tingle in my belly. He turned at the last moment when I might have eased out of his way, or planted myself more firmly in it if I’d been a different girl. He opened the fridge. “Want a drink?” His tone was casual and polite, but his dark eyes were mysterious.

I had to swallow before I answered. For some reason, my throat felt dry, as if I’d lost something precious. “Sure.”

He tossed me a can of ginger ale, opening one for himself. I watched the muscles in his throat move when he tilted his head back to drink.

I was watching his neck muscles. Pathetic.

I took a hasty sip, choked briefly, and then went to put away my tools so he wouldn’t see the way my eyes were watering. I was never like this around guys, even guys I actually liked. Maybe all this fresh country air was bad for my brain.

“Thanks for fixing the faucet,” he said softly.

“It seems only fair. You did give me a lift home the other day.”

“Yes, wouldn’t want to owe me a favor.” Something shuttered in his expression. It was faint and I might have missed it altogether if I wasn’t so oddly aware of him. When he looked at me again, he had that slightly amused smile. The one I was starting to hate. It didn’t fit right on his face; it was too glossy and fake. I’d seen the real smile, if only briefly, in the car. On the other side of the window behind him, the autumn air touched everything with gold-glittering fingers and smoke. I could taste it in the back of my throat. But my fingertips weren’t burning, and my palms and eyelids felt normal.

I could continue to wonder about what had happened to him and make a mystery where there was none, or I could ask him directly. “What happened to your arm?”

He turned his head toward me, still braced on the railing. I could see the flecks of amber in his brown irises. “What do you mean?”

“I saw you in the forest, with the rabbit. There was blood on your hands.”

He leaned against the piano, looking rueful. “I was hoping I could save it.”

“And did you?”

“No, you can’t save the small animals from the big ones.” He shrugged, but I could tell it bothered him.

I searched for something else to say, something that didn’t sound like I’d accused him of murdering a bunny rabbit. There was a stack of sheet music on top of the piano, next to a small framed photo of a girl. She had long black hair and black eyes and she was beautiful. Not just pretty or cute, she was ridiculously perfect, down to her dainty sandals. I’d never worn anything dainty in my entire life.

She wore a white dress, blue crystal earrings, and a silver locket. “Is this your girlfriend?” I asked. She looked a little young, maybe fifteen. And there was no way she’d be a match for Justine.

Ethan’s shoulders tensed. “That’s Summer.” He yanked the frame from my hands so abruptly I nearly got a splinter.

“Sorry.” I snatched my hands back, half expecting the photo to be on fire. It wasn’t.

“It’s fine,” he said, tossing it facedown into a basket of magazines on the other side of the piano. “No big deal.”

I was probably too mature to start chanting, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” Well, too old, anyway. “I didn’t mean to pry,” I said, reaching for the toolbox. “I should—”

“Go,” he finished for me. I couldn’t read his expression. “You should go.”

He closed the door in my face.