Refuge (10 page)

“Oh, it’s you again.”

I started at the voice a few feet away. He
had moved so quietly that I never noticed him approach. He was
wearing similar dated clothing to what he’d worn during our last
encounter, but I saw that it was clean and pressed. His hair was
neater, and I couldn’t help but think he cleaned up well. My eyes
went to his face, and I was not surprised to find a scowl there.
Remembering what Tristan had said about Desmund’s bad mood being
due to his illness, I ignored his glower and gave him a polite
smile. “Hello.”

My friendly greeting seemed to throw him, and
he stared at me for a moment before his dark gaze fell on the book
in my hands. “You have odd taste in literature for one your
age.”

I lifted a shoulder. “I read a lot of
different books – whatever appeals to me.” He didn’t respond so I
asked, “What do you like to read?”

Desmund lifted his hand, and I saw he was
holding
Hamlet
, which we’d covered in English lit last
spring. It was too dark and violent for my taste, and I didn’t
think it was good reading material for a man who already seemed
slightly unhinged. I kept that observation to myself.

“You don’t like Shakespeare?” His tone was
chilly, and I wondered how I had offended him so easily.

“I have trouble understanding the English,” I
replied honestly. “I don’t like it when I have to stop and figure
out what every word means.”

He turned and walked across the room to a
tall cabinet built into the wall. Opening the door, he retrieved a
remote control and fiddled with it for a minute before soft strains
of classical violin music filled the room. It was not something I’d
normally listen to, but it wasn’t unpleasant either.

“You don’t like Vivaldi?”

“I’m not familiar with him.” I assumed
Vivaldi was the composer and not a type of music.

He made a scoffing sound. “Not surprising.
Young people today have horrid taste in music. What do you call it
. . . pop?”

“Just because I don’t know every piece of
classical music doesn’t mean I don’t like any of it.” I waved at
the bookshelves lining the walls. “I bet you haven’t read every
book that’s been published.”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh, and pray tell me,
which of the great composers do you prefer then?”

A week ago, I couldn’t have answered that
question. Before I came here, I listened mostly to classic rock,
but that was before I discovered the vast selection of classical
music in the common rooms. I’d sampled music from different
composers and discovered a few I liked. I still couldn’t tell Bach
from Brahms, but there was one that stood out for me.
“Tchaikovsky.”

“And what is your favorite
Tchaikovsky
piece?” he asked
scornfully as if he didn’t believe me. His attitude annoyed the
hell out of me. I obviously didn’t know as much about classical
music as he did – hell, he and Mozart could have been buddies for
all I knew – but he didn’t have to be such a snob about it.

I reminded myself that he was ill and
tempered my response. “I don’t know what it’s called; it’s some
kind of waltz. I listened to it a bunch of times in the common
room.”

At first I thought he was going to insult me
again, but instead he hit a few buttons on his remote and the waltz
began to play.

“That’s it!”

The beautiful sweeping melody filled the room
for almost a minute before he turned back to me with a bemused
expression. “
Serenade for Strings in C major
. It is one of my
favorites as well.”

“Oh no, we actually have something in common?
How dreadful.” My tone was teasing, but with him it was impossible
to know how he’d take it.

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Tragic
indeed,” he retorted, but some of the edge had left his voice.
“Well, since you are determined to make yourself at home here, I
suppose I should know your name.”

“Sara Grey.”

He gave a shaky but elegant bow. “Desmund
Ashworth, seventh Earl of Dorsey.”

“Aha! I knew you were some kind of English
lord.” He arched an eyebrow, and I said, “You’ve got aristocrat
written all over you.”

He seemed inordinately pleased by my remark,
and a smug smile tugged at his lips. For the first time since I’d
met him, the wildness left his eyes. “You have good taste in books
and music so there is some hope for you,” he stated as if he was
appraising my worth. “What else do you like?”

“I draw, but it’s nothing like the art on the
walls here. You probably wouldn’t like it.”

“Probably not,” he agreed, and I had the urge
to stick out my tongue at him. He could at least pretend to be
courteous. “Do you play chess by chance?”

“No. I can play checkers, though.” Roland’s
uncle Brendan had taught me to play checkers, and we used to have a
game whenever I stayed over at the farm. I’d even beaten Brendan a
few times, and that was no easy feat.

He scoffed. “Anyone can play draughts. It
requires a much more organized mind to master chess.”

Something told me that Desmund’s mind was
about as organized as my closet, but I wisely kept that thought to
myself. “It’s been a while since I played, but I think I could give
you a run for your money in checkers. Too bad we don’t have a
set.”

His eyes lit up, and he spun back to the
cabinet where he leaned down and pulled out a dark mahogany box. He
carried the box to my table and laid it in front of me, then opened
it to reveal a polished checkerboard. Inside the box was another
flat box that contained a set of ebony and boxwood checkers.
Desmund took the chair across from me and spilled the checkers out
onto the board. “Lady’s choice.”

I hesitated for a moment before laying aside
my book, even though his eagerness told me he was probably
extremely good at either game. I reached for the boxwood pieces and
started to line them up on my side of the board.

We were not long into the game before it was
evident that Desmund was in a totally different league from
Brendan, and I had to concentrate hard to keep up with his moves. I
earned a few scowls when I captured three of his pieces, small
victories compared to his dominating play. He didn’t gloat as much
as I thought he would when he won, but he wasn’t all graciousness
either.

“You have some potential, but it will
probably take us years to polish you up.”

“Gee thanks,” I replied. “Maybe after a few
hundred years, I’ll be as good as you.”

Desmund pursed his lips. “Doubtful, but you
will make a decent opponent.”

I shook my head at his cockiness. “How old
are you anyway?” The Mohiri didn’t have the same hang-ups about age
as humans so I saw nothing wrong in asking.

He paused as if he’d forgotten the answer. “I
was born in sixteen thirty-eight.”

Wow
. “I can’t imagine living that long. I only found
out a few months ago I was Mohiri.”

“Ah, you are
that
orphan. I knew there was something
different about you.”

“That’s me.” I couldn’t help but think that
it’s probably not good when someone as eccentric as Desmund thinks
you’re different. “I’m not exactly like the other trainees here;
they are all such good fighters. I don’t think I’d make a good
warrior – or know if I even want to be one.”

He gazed out the darkened window. “‘It is
better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation.’” When
he looked back at me, he wore a little smile. “Melville. Words to
live by.”

I smiled back. “I’ll try to remember
that.”

“So, shall we have a rematch?” He deftly
rolled one of the ebony pieces between his long fingers.

“Not tonight,” I said with real regret.
Desmund was a little unbalanced, but he was also intelligent and
interesting and I couldn’t help but like him. I began gathering
checkers to put them away. “It’s getting late and I have training
in the morning.”

“Another time then?” His question was casual,
but he was not able to hide the glimmer of hope in his eyes. It
struck me that he must be lonely up here, even though he drove
everyone away.

My smile widened. “Definitely. I need to
practice if I’m ever going to beat you.”

He let out a short laugh, the first since I’d
met him. “You have your work cut out for you.” He helped pick up
the pieces, placing his in the box and holding it out to me. I
reached over to drop mine in and my fingers brushed his hand.

Cold sickness assailed me. My heart
fluttered, and my skin felt like there were cold wet things
crawling over it. I shuddered and leaned back as sweat broke out on
my upper lip and blackness swam before my eyes. Taking a gulp of
air, I braced my hand on the edge of the table and fought off the
faintness threatening to swallow me.

“Are you unwell?” Desmund’s voice sounded
worried, and he reached for me.

“I’m fine!” I managed to stand before he
could touch me. If this horrible attack was from a brief touch, I
did not want to know what longer contact would do. He seemed
oblivious to the real reason for my distress, and I didn’t want to
alarm him. I gave him a shaky smile. “I probably shouldn’t have
skipped dinner.”

His brow furrowed. “I can have food brought
up for you if you wish.”

“Thanks, but I can grab a muffin from the
dining hall on my way.” He did not look convinced. “I’m okay,
really.”

He stood and followed me to the door. “You
still look pale. Are you quite certain you don’t want to sit and
rest a little?”

I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring
smile. “I’m starting to feel better already.” It was partially
true; my body was already recovering from the strange illness even
though I was still a bit shaken up. “I’ll see you again soon.”

I slipped out of the library and hurried
toward the stairs.
What the hell was that?
The Mohiri had no special
powers – unless they were some kind of half breed like me – but I’d
definitely sensed something off when I touched him. Was he
something more than a Mohiri, or could this have to do with his
illness? I needed to ask Tristan about it as soon as I saw him
again. If Desmund was dangerous, it wouldn’t be smart to spend time
alone with him. It didn’t make sense because Tristan had urged me
to get to know Desmund. I found myself hoping I was overreacting,
because Tristan had been right; I did like Desmund once I got to
know him.

“I HEAR THERE was some excitement in training
yesterday.” Tristan peered at me over his glass of red wine. It was
our first time talking since we met two days ago, and we were
having dinner in his apartment. I still wasn’t sure how I felt
about suddenly having a grandfather – especially Madeline’s father
– but I was trying to get past my reservations and give us a chance
to get to know each other.

I looked up from my salad, prepared to defend
my actions. I wasn’t surprised that Celine had complained about me.
She had made it clear from the first time she opened her mouth that
she did not like me. I still stood by my decision not to kill the
bazerats, even though they were demons. Being demons did not make
them inherently evil like vampires. The world is full of demons and
many of them are more of a nuisance than a real threat. I used to
live in a house infested with imps, and though they were sometimes
annoying, they had never shown any real malice.

Roland hadn’t agreed with me when I told him
about the bazerats last night. Werewolves have more of a
black-and-white view when it comes to demons, even if my friends
made an exception for me. Roland thought I should have killed the
bazerats, and it rankled me that he seemed to be siding with
Celine. We’d argued about it for at least thirty minutes before we
agreed to disagree for the sake of peace. He was actually more
interested in how I’d zapped the bazerats and knocked them out than
whether or not I’d killed them.

“Did you really throw a knife at Celine and
urge the other trainees to refuse to complete the task?”

My mouth fell open. “I did not throw a knife
at anyone. I tossed it on the ground. And all I said was that I
didn’t believe in senseless killing. Okay, I might have told
Terrence it was easier to kill something than catch it, but that’s
it, I swear.”

Tristan’s laugh took me by surprise. “Celine
always did have a flair for the dramatic. She is a skilled warrior
and a good trainer . . . most of the time.”

“I must have gotten her during one of her off
times.”

“Celine is . . . well, let’s just say she has
a better rapport with men than other women.” He set his glass down.
“I can speak to her if you’d like.”

“No, I can handle it on my own. She’s no
worse than some of the girls I knew in high school.”

His eyebrows rose. “High school sounds like a
rather perilous place.”

“You have no idea.” I went back to my salad,
feeling a little more at ease. Tristan was surprisingly easy to
talk to, and it almost felt like I was hanging out with a cousin
instead of a grandfather.

“How are your new pets doing? Sahir tells me
you named them.”

“Hugo and Woolf. They’re really smart and
already know some commands.” I was always happy to talk about the
hellhounds. “I just wish they didn’t have to stay locked up in that
cage all the time. They need fresh air and space to run
around.”

His brow furrowed. “I’m not sure that is a
good idea. We don’t know if we can trust them not to kill the first
person they see.”

“I go in the cage with them every day and
they are gentle with me.”

“They have imprinted on you and you are their
master now. They would never harm you.”

“They’ve stopped growling at Sahir when I’m
there.” I leaned forward earnestly. “I really believe they just
need to get used to being around people. I can’t bear to think of
them locked up for the rest of their lives.”