The Conspiracy of Us (6 page)

A
young man opened the doors, his deep-set eyes dark and shadowed behind wire-rimmed glasses. His shoes clicked a staccato beat as he led us past the mannequins standing guard in the front window, across a black-and-white checkerboard floor, and into a foyer thick with the perfume of stargazer lilies and wealth.

“Where is everybody?” I whispered to Stellan. No one browsed the racks of buttery leather gloves, and not a single bored boyfriend read magazines on the white leather couches.

“Madame Dauphin prefers to shop alone,” Stellan said. “She has the store closed for her guests as well.”

I took a deep breath. Prada, in Paris, was closed. For me. To choose a ball gown. It was ridiculous. And extravagant. And . . . amazing. My father's family and the rest of the Circle were by far the most interesting thing that had ever happened to me.

A few minutes later, Stellan had left to do errands and I stood in an opulent dressing room, all snowy white with splashes of gold and magenta and a whole wall of mirrors. I held my arms out to the sides while a tall girl named Aimee, who had shockingly red hair, cinched a measuring tape around my hips. I remembered buying my purple prom dress off the sale rack at Macy's, and almost laughed out loud.

“Does Madame Dauphin come here a lot?” I asked, pretending to be capable of normal conversation.

Elisa, who was tiny with a dark pixie cut, nodded, and held swatches of colored fabrics up to my skin. “Every week.”

“Has she sent other guests in this weekend?” I asked.

Aimee unzipped my sundress and gestured for me to take it off.

“Yes. You are the last appointment of the day. And the only one under the age of fifty,” Elisa said, and Aimee swatted her with the tape measure. “It's true! The fashion sense of the other younger ladies must already meet Madame's approval. I don't mean to offend,” she said to me, “but you are not a regular guest at the family's events, am I right?”

I shook my head.

Aimee lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Tell us. Who are they? We could never ask Madame Dauphin. Are they only rich, or diplomats, or—?”

“Aimee!” said Elisa, and I pressed my mouth closed. Even if I knew their whole story, I had a feeling I shouldn't respond to that kind of question. It did make me wonder, though. If the Dauphins were in French politics, Aimee and Elisa would know it.

“What dresses are we trying on?” I said, and the questions were over.

Soon, they were slipping gowns on and off me like I was a doll. Gowns that were as much art as clothing. There was a red-feathered dress that was pretty, but shaped weirdly in the hips, and a stiff, architectural cobalt gown Aimee loved.

One dress was black and modern, and a white one with a full skirt was gorgeous but could have been a wedding dress. Elisa was partial to a gray shift, but the top was too sheer, and another dress was short and pink and looked too eighties.

All of them were amazing pieces, but it felt like I was just playing dress-up until Elisa lowered a burnished silver gown over my head.

The dress looked like a glittering stormy night. I pushed my hair off my shoulders to see its delicate, sheer straps, which blended into shimmering raw silk that crossed my chest, then hugged close to my hips. I turned to see the back, open to my waist in a deep V. A small train swished behind my feet.

All of a sudden, I felt like I should be going to a ball.

Elisa giggled, and I realized my mouth was hanging open.

“You like it?”

I nodded. I couldn't find any words.

“We'll keep it aside, then,” said Aimee.

They lifted the silver dress off me, and I fought the urge to touch it as Elisa hung it on the opposite wall. The next dress was flashier than what I'd usually choose—gold, covered in intricate beadwork and sequins—and I barely paid attention to it at first. I couldn't take my eyes off the silver dress. But when they slipped it over my head and the light hit me in the mirror, Elisa gasped out loud. I glowed.

The dress was nothing like the silver one. If that one had been storms, this was sunlight. It glowed against my dark hair, and hugged my body all the way down, from the plunging halter neckline to the flouncy mermaid hem. I ran my hands over my hips, and my reflection glittered.

Aimee had been prepping a pink dress with a lace bodice, but she put it back on the hanger. “The gold one. Or the silver. We do not need to try more, no?”

I glanced at myself in the mirror, then at the silver dress again. I shook my head.

Elisa led me to a three-way mirror, where a girl who hardly looked like me stared back in triplicate. They changed me into the silver dress and the girl in the mirror looked more serious, more elegant, then the gold again, and she was glamorous, striking. I pictured myself dancing in both dresses, because that's what you did at a ball, right? Dancing, laughing with the people I'd meet soon. Being introduced as part of the family.

Toska.
The word echoed in my head. A change. In who I was, in how I saw myself. Filling that ache that never quite left my chest.

I found myself hoping fiercely that my mom would let me stay for the ball, and even a little longer. Meet the Saxons, find out more about my father's family and the rest of the Circle. To feel like I belonged in this strange, fascinating world. To feel like I belonged anywhere, just for a second.

“You have to choose eventually.” Elisa smiled. In the mirror, the sequins shimmered.

The gold dress was perfect for my body type, Elisa said, and I had to admit it was dazzling. But there was something about the silver. It belonged on me. The silver felt right.

Aimee was grinning as big as I was. She unzipped the gold dress and left me to get out of it, following Elisa downstairs to wrap the silver one. I watched it go. I couldn't believe that, just like that, it was going to be mine.

I stood in front of the mirror for a few more minutes, watching the gold sequins twinkle. This was the only time I'd ever get to do anything like this. I wanted to make it last as long as I could.

I was about to step out of the gold dress when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. “Elisa?” I said. “Aimee?” There was no answer.

In case it was one of the men come to escort me downstairs, I zipped the dress up.

The girls were nowhere in sight, but the man who had let us in stood at the top of the staircase.

“Sorry, I'm not ready yet,” I said. I smiled at him, and he reached into his jacket pocket.

He pulled out something that, for a moment, didn't register. It was too discordant with the marble floors, the dresses, the Bach chiming from the speakers. He stepped toward me, and the overhead light glinted off the object.

Then I knew, but I still didn't understand.

It was a knife.

I
stood frozen, half in and half out of the dressing room. The man moved slow and steady toward me, the dagger—shorter than Stellan's, but thicker and more menacing—gleaming in his hand. My reflection glittered in his wire-rimmed glasses.

I stumbled back into the dressing room and slammed the door. I snapped the lock shut with shaking fingers, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears.

The store was almost empty, plus it was late afternoon—the perfect time for a robbery. I just hoped he wouldn't come after the gowns that were in here with me. There were only a few, and they couldn't be as valuable as the cash register, or the jewelry, or the merchandise out on the floor.

I held my breath.

The doorknob jiggled hard.

Silence.

Then a crash.

I jumped away. One more crash—a shoulder or a foot slamming into the door. The thin wood splintered down the middle.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

He wouldn't be going to that much trouble for these dresses. He must not want to leave any witnesses.

And I was trapped.

“Aimee! Elisa!” I forced out. My voice sounded tiny in the emptiness, and there was no answer. Besides the jagged rhythm of my own breath and the tinkle of the music, the shop was deathly silent. Oh God. He might have gotten to them already.

The whimper that came out of my mouth didn't even sound like me.

One more thud and the man's foot cracked through the center of the door.

I whipped around, frantic, the adrenaline shooting through me bringing the dressing room into focus. The gleaming mirror, the pink velvet armchair. The smattering of crimson feathers from the red dress that had fluttered to the carpet and fanned out like bloodstains. My own reflection, a small girl with dark hair falling over her shoulders in waves, whose wide, panic-stricken eyes didn't match her exquisite dress.

Someone was trying to kill me while I was wearing a ball gown. This didn't happen in real life. But I was pretty sure I wasn't dreaming, and this wasn't an action movie. The door cracked further, and bile rose in my throat.

If this was a movie, I would at least try to defend myself.

A tall vase of lilies sat on a table next to the armchair. I ducked behind the chair and grabbed it, the dreamy scent of the flowers surrounding me as I dumped them on the floor, drops of water splattering my bare feet. I held the vase like a baseball bat.

The man yanked away a cracked section of the door, making a hole large enough to reach through to the lock. The door swung open.

He didn't run at me, didn't yell, didn't glance down the stairs to see if anyone had heard my screams. The cold calculation in his eyes was more frightening than rage would have been. Like the eyes of a hunter. Whatever this was, it wasn't just a robbery.

The heavy vase trembled in my hands. “Get away from me!” I screamed.

He toppled the armchair with a casual swipe of his hand. I brought the vase down as hard as I could. It shattered against the side of his head, and I dodged.

I wasn't quite fast enough. His knife sliced into my shoulder. A scream ripped out of my throat, but I sprinted past him, finally hitting the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the opposite side of the room.

I clutched at my shoulder. Blood seeped between my fingers and dripped onto the white carpet. The crunch of the hunter's feet on the shards of vase forced me to tear my eyes away from it.

He was between me and the door. He wouldn't miss next time.

I ducked behind the metal garment rack of rejected dresses and pawed frantically through them for anything I could use to protect myself. I found nothing but vibrant silk and beading, so enchanting a few minutes ago, now mocking me with its uselessness.

The man was halfway across the room. As a last resort, I yanked at the garment rack itself to see if I could pull out a pole or anything to use as a weapon. But when I leaned on it, it moved. It was on wheels, and an idea popped into my head. It wasn't a very good idea, but it was the only one I had.

When he was just a few feet away, I gripped the end support and shoved the rack as hard as I could.

It smashed into him. The metal vibrated in my hands, and the whole rack toppled with a crash.

I darted toward the door as a flare of silver snaked out from the mound of brilliant fabric. I dodged the knife, and he missed.

Blood thundered through my veins, propelling me down the stairs. “Help! Aimee! Elisa!” I screamed. “Help!”

Now I wished my shopping trip hadn't been so private. Silent, faceless mannequins gazed up at me from the sales floor. Beyond them, though, was the foyer and the door that led out of the shop.

If I could get outside, I could get away.

That square of sunlight pushed my legs faster. Almost there.
Almost there!

A few steps from the bottom, my foot caught the gold dress's mermaid hem. I grabbed for the railing, but it was too late. My feet flew out from under me, and I launched through the air. I barely had time to throw up an arm before my head smashed into the ground.

Pain exploded in a thousand glass shards in my brain. I lay on the ground, crumpled, choking. Air wouldn't go into my lungs.
Run!
my mind screamed.
Run!
My body wouldn't listen.

I forced myself to my hands and knees, and the blood running down my arm streaked a perfect river of red between a black tile and the white one next to it. My vision went blurry at the edges.

“Help,” I sobbed to no one. “Please.” I clawed at the floor and forced myself not to pass out. If I passed out, I was dead.

The clang of heavy footsteps on the stairs turned the pain in my head to wild panic. I crawled to a couch and clung to it, dragging myself dizzily to my feet as the killer reached the bottom of the stairs.

The room spun like a carnival ride. He stood between me and the front door. I scanned the store frantically, and under a staircase in the back, another door glowed like a mirage.

I was afraid I'd collapse if I let go of the couch, but he started toward me from the bottom of the stairs.

I ran.

The back door was a million miles away.

There was a shout, and a display a few feet from me exploded, shards of glass slicing my skin. I screamed and dropped to the ground, scrambling under a table piled with scarves and out the other side. I hadn't even realized he had a gun. Another kick of adrenaline pumped through my aching body, and I pushed my legs faster.

I couldn't tell how close he was now. The only sound I could hear was my own desperate breath.

Then there were footsteps all around, right behind me, almost to me. More yelling.

He'd caught up. He had me.

I braced myself for one last frantic, futile dash, but strong arms grabbed me from behind.

“Let go!” I screamed. “Let
go
of me!” I lashed out against him, dug my nails into his skin, tried to rip his hands off me, but we were falling, on the ground, struggling. If I could grab the gun and point it away from us—but he wouldn't let go.

I was about to die.

No sense of calm came over me, no rush of memories flew through my head. Strangely, the only face that swam in front of my eyes, the voice I heard yelling my name, was Jack's.

I heard a grunt and drew one last breath, squeezing my eyes shut.

Nothing happened.

I was still alive.

“Avery!” My eyes flew open. I
had
heard my name. “Avery! Stop! You're safe!”

I quit struggling. The arms encircling me loosened enough for me to focus on his face.

It
was
Jack.

I hadn't been imagining it. How he'd gotten here I didn't know, but Jack was here, and I was alive.

My face was pressed into his chest. He cradled my head above the floor and held both my wrists in his other hand, trying to keep me from scratching his eyes out. I stared up into his face—flashing silver eyes, mussed dark hair—and for a second, I was back in my calculus class last Monday morning, pretending not to stare when he walked in the room.

“Jack—what?” I choked out. If Jack was holding me, where was the killer? Then I saw the gun in Jack's hand, and, even though I didn't think I'd heard another gunshot, I put together what had probably happened.

He pulled me to sitting and looked me over, taking in the cut on my shoulder.

“Stay here.” He let go of me and hurried away, his gun drawn.

He'd saved my life. A dizzying rush of relief washed over me and tears were running down my cheeks and I was gasping.
I was alive.

I pushed up onto my knees to see where Jack was going, to get him to come back. I didn't want to be alone.

I froze when I saw the head.

The head of the man who had tried to kill me, no longer attached to his body. His head was at my eye level, wire-rimmed glasses still perched on his nose, blood dripping from his severed neck.

I scrambled backward, but slipped and fell in a pool of dark blood, the killer's and my own.

I followed the arm holding the head up to the thin, angular face and shock of light brown hair of a boy about my age, who peered at it with a bland curiosity. He tossed the severed head across the floor like a bowling ball and grimaced at a bloodstain across his chest. “
Merde,
” he said. “This was my favorite shirt.”

I got slowly to my knees again, my gold dress soaked through with crimson. The boy stood above me, polishing blood off a huge knife.

He grinned at me, and I stared into his eyes. Purple eyes, just like mine. Then I vomited onto his boots.