Starling (7 page)

Until he turned toward her.

And she saw the parallel claw marks that ran from his hairline to his chin on the left side of his face. It
hadn’t
been a dream. But it had definitely been a nightmare.

“Toby,” Cal said again, and Mason saw that the left side of his mouth was twisted upward in pain. “What are we gonna tell people when they ask what the hell happened here?”

Mason couldn’t keep from wincing at the sight of the gashes on his face. Cal’s green eyes flicked over to her as she did so, and his gaze went ice cold under the gloss of pain. He turned his face away from her and looked back to where the fencing master stood in silent thought. The furrows on Toby’s brow were etched deeply, and his eyes moved back and forth over the ruined state of the Gosforth gymnasium. Finally he turned back to Cal, his expression carefully neutral as he looked at him. She wished she’d been able to do the same a moment earlier.

“What the hell are we going to say, Toby?” Calum asked again.

“It was the tree,” Toby said quietly. He gestured with one hand at the gashes on Cal’s face. “And the broken window glass.”

After a long moment, Cal nodded faintly. Standing on Mason’s other side, Heather shifted back and forth, the hint of a troubled frown shadowing her brow, but she kept quiet.

“Wait a minute,” Mason said. “What?”

“The tree falling, Mason.” Toby’s voice was flat. “The branches and the glass. That’s how Calum got hurt. That’s what we’re going to say.”

“I don’t get it. That’s not what happened.”

Beside her, Heather shifted some more but still said nothing. Rory, who’d finally dragged himself out of the storage room and stood listening, shrugged and said nothing. Toby set his jaw stubbornly, as if daring Mason to voice an objection. But it was Cal who really surprised her. He crossed his arms—at least, he tried to, but it was obviously painful—and glared defiantly at her.

Mason took a step backward. “Are we just going to ignore what happened here?” She looked back and forth between the faces of her fellow students. “Are we just going to lie and forget it ever happened?”

“What do
you
think we should do?” Rory scoffed. “Hold a press conference and tell the world we were attacked by … what? Storm zombies?” He gestured around to the wreck that was, quite obviously, lacking any proof of the attack. “
Disappearing
storm zombies? I mean, you’re obviously okay with being labeled a freak, sis—that’s situation normal for you—but me, not so much.”

“But it’s what happened! We should tell people—”

“What?” Calum’s voice was like a lash. The sound of it spun her back around to face him. “The truth? Is that what we’re gonna tell people? Jeezus, Mase,
look
at me. I don’t want that. This …
this
is bad enough as it is.”

He turned away, and Mason saw him wince again in pain. Or maybe shame. She wasn’t sure exactly what he had to be ashamed of. Calum Aristarchos had never struck her as the kind of guy who was overly concerned with his looks. But, then again, when you grew up looking the way he did, you probably didn’t have to be. And now …

Heather was staring at Cal, but he turned away from her too. She shook her head and muttered something to herself that Mason couldn’t quite hear.

“Heather?” Mason asked. “What about you?”

“I dunno, Starling.” She shrugged a bit helplessly. “I mean … how the hell would we explain those things? And that
guy
. Who is also inconveniently missing in action.”

“I don’t know how to explain any of it. But something happened here.” Mason pressed the other girl, sensing that Heather was almost as uncomfortable as she was with covering up the truth. “A
lot
of somethings, actually. Do you want us to lie too?”

“As opposed to telling the truth and having everyone think we’re either stupid, crazy, or pulling some jerk-ass stunt?” Heather shook her head. She was silent for a moment, and then she nodded her head once, decisively. “Yeah, Mason. I think I want us to lie.”

“I—”

Rory finally rounded on her. “Mouse,
shut
up for a second!”

Mason’s mouth snapped shut. She thought he was going to ridicule her again, but he surprised her by taking her—gently—by the shoulders and looking her in the eyes, his expression serious.

“Listen to what we’re saying,” he said quietly. “Listen to what
I’m
saying, for once. Imagine telling Dad what you think happened here.”

“I don’t think, I
know
. And so do you.”

“Okay. Still. Imagine telling him that story.” Rory stared at her, and she stared back. His eyes were shades of hazel that constantly shifted with his mood. At the moment they were a stormy gray-green. And they were worried. “What d’you think Gunnar would do? Hmm? Do you think he’d leave you here at Gosforth for another second? Me, sure. Dad doesn’t give a rat’s ass what I say or do. But if he thinks there’s something weird going on here or—God forbid—he thought
you
were in any kind of danger? Well, I can guarantee you Top Gunn’s little girl is gonna get yanked back to the estate for some good old-fashioned home schooling and a sundown curfew. Let’s see you compete in the Nationals if that happens, sis.”

“He wouldn’t.”

Toby made a rueful sound that wasn’t quite a dry laugh. “Yeah, he probably would, Mason.”

As much as she didn’t want to believe it, she knew they were probably right. Toby had known her father a long time. It was Gunnar Starling who’d gotten him the job at Gosforth—a job Mason had the feeling Toby wasn’t going to jeopardize with wild stories. Stories about things that they had absolutely no proof of. She gazed around bleakly at the damage to the gym.

“Okay,” Mason said in a near-whisper voice. “I won’t say anything.” Mason looked up through the hole in the roof. “I promise. But I’m also not going to just forget about what happened here. And I think—no, I
know
—that we’re all going to have to deal with it at some point.”

H
owls of laughter rang out, telling Fennrys that he’d been spotted again by the nightmares hunting him.

He’d done his best to lose them by dodging down alleys and cutting through apartment complexes and tenements at the southern edge of Harlem, running, hiding, heading east as he zigzagged from one block to another until he’d crossed Park Avenue and was only about three long blocks from the East River.

But every time he thought he’d eluded the centaurs, they would appear out of a drift of fog at the end of an alleyway and howl for his blood. Just like they were doing now. Fennrys swore and rolled out from behind his latest hiding spot—a thicket of tangled bushes in a vacant lot—as the horse-men rounded the corner of a building and reared in tandem, lashing out with metal-shod hooves. The pair accelerated into a gallop, and Fennrys knew, once they got up to speed, they would run him down.

They were close enough this time for him to hear one of them roar something about “worthy prey” and the “glory of the hunt.” In the instant before he turned and made a run for it, he saw one of them draw from a holster and, like a double-exposed image of cop and creature, Fennrys saw, not an NYPD standard-issue sidearm, but rather the image of one, wrapped around the real weapon like a tangible shadow—another mirage. He heard a sharp
twang
and dodged sharply to his right as a crossbow bolt sang past his head like a ferocious, deadly bird.

Fennrys knew perfectly well that a crossbow like that could fire a projectile that would punch through plate armor. He didn’t bother to question why he possessed that kind of knowledge—rather he just accepted it, took a sharp right, and pounded south, cutting through the grounds of a couple of blocks of housing complexes before turning east and then south again. A dark stairwell behind a Dumpster in a narrow lane gave him a chance to catch his breath.

After the silence had stretched out for a good few minutes, Fennrys crept slowly from his hiding place. He saw the FDR Drive running past in front of him—and a switchback ramp that led up to the narrow pedestrian bridge that spanned across to Wards Island. Fennrys glanced around, and it seemed as though he might have lost his pursuers. But if he hadn’t, the bridge looked as though it might actually be too narrow to accommodate the massive bulk of the creatures—the horse halves of them were like Clydesdales on steroids, almost more bull-like than equine. Fennrys took a chance and darted up the ramp, sprinting across the long, slender span of the bridge.

When he got to the island, he just kept running. He scaled the fence surrounding the tennis courts and ran across them at full speed, feeling terribly exposed in the predawn light. He was about halfway across the open expanse when arrows started slamming into the ground on either side of him. Fennrys flinched and threw his arms up over his head and cut sharply right, continuing to run in a zigzag pattern toward the trees at the north edge of the tennis courts.

Suddenly one of the crossbow bolts hit the center of Fennrys’s back, and the power of the shot punched him to his knees. He hit the ground and rolled, assuming for the moment he’d probably just been killed. But then, through the pain of the impact, he realized that the stout, deadly bolt had glanced off the broad blade of the sword on his back.

In his head, he heard a woman’s voice whisper, “Do not lose this sword. Do not let it far from your hand. It will be your companion and your comfort in days to come as only a good blade can be to the warrior. It will save your life, hopefully as many times as need be.”

How many times would that be?
Fenn thought a bit desperately as he rolled and scrambled to his feet, arms windmilling as he struggled to regain his balance and then plunged on.

From behind him and above, he heard a roar of outrage as the centaur realized he’d been denied his kill. They were shooting at him from the raised deck of the Triborough Bridge—far enough away that the power of that shot hadn’t been enough to shatter the sword blade and sever his spine. Fennrys was astounded that they’d been able to move that fast—the on-ramp to the Triborough was north of 120th Street. His decision to cross over using the footbridge had given him time, but probably not enough of it.

But then he heard one of them shout to the other. “Shoot him! He’s on Dead Ground—we cannot follow! Shoot him now or he is lost to us!”

Hope bloomed in Fennrys’s chest, and he jagged sharply left and crashed headlong through a cluster of whippy saplings that slapped at his face and arms. Then the shadows swallowed him up and he was safe from the monstrous archers, for the moment. Maybe, judging from what they’d said, they wouldn’t follow him down onto the ground of Wards Island itself. But he wasn’t going to take chances. They’d seen him head into the trees, but the trees weren’t thick enough to hide him for long if the horse-men did come looking for him. He headed east, following the shoreline of the island where it bordered the river. Ahead of him, looming like the sentry tower of a medieval castle, was the soaring concrete support pylon of another bridge—a massive, red-painted, iron-girdered arch that gracefully spanned the frothing white waters of the river like a huge bow. The shadows beneath the concrete tower were impenetrable and the vantage point unobstructed. Fennrys would be able to see anything coming from almost a mile in any direction while remaining unseen himself. Good enough.

The wet, heavy air wrapped itself around him like a cloak as he settled down to wait for morning. If this so-called Dead Ground could keep those things from following him, then he could just bide his time until sunrise. And a return to some kind of sanity or normalcy.

Or maybe not.

A flicker of movement in the gloom caught at the corner of Fennrys’s eye. He went stone still, held his breath as an enormous shadow loomed on the concrete bridge support in front of him. Fennrys dropped into a deep crouch, reached over his head to grasp the hilt of his sword, and spun around. The blade hissed as he drew and snapped it straight out in front of him. A large, shabby figure of a man froze instantly, the sharp point of the weapon hovering less than an inch from the center of his chest. Beneath the wide, chewed-up brim of an old leather hat, his eyes glinted in the darkness as he stared, unblinking, at Fennrys. One rag-wrapped fist held a length of lead pipe.

“Drop that,” Fennrys said quietly.

The man was big—huge even—but, as far as Fennrys could tell, human. He couldn’t even believe he was framing his thoughts in that way, but after the things he’d seen and done that night … of course, who knew? Maybe he’d been drugged. Possibly he was just—and Fennrys kept coming back to this possibility with a knot of fear in his throat—delusional.

“I said …
drop
that.” With barely a twitch of his arm muscle, he sent the point of the sword jabbing forward. Just enough to sting.