The Girl at Midnight (3 page)

“Just one?” The Ala’s words were tinged with laughter. She slipped the music box from the backpack, handling it with more care than it looked like it deserved. “I wouldn’t think a single warlock would be a problem for such a talented thief. You did, after all, boast of your ability to—what did you call it—‘B and E’ with the best of them.”

Echo scowled, though the effect was mitigated by the shredded cheese dangling from her lower lip. “Throw that back in my face, why don’t you?”

“If I didn’t, how would you ever learn the folly of your arrogance?” A gentle smile softened the Ala’s chiding. “The young always think they’re invincible, right until the moment they learn otherwise. Usually, the hard way.”

Echo’s only response was a half shrug. The Ala cast a glance about the room, and Echo wondered what it looked like to someone besides herself. Books piled precariously high on every surface. Pilfered jewels worth enough to pay for college twice over. A riot of crinkled candy bar wrappers. It was a mess, but it was her mess. From the wrinkle forming between the Ala’s brows, Echo didn’t think she appreciated the significance of that.

“Why do you stay here, Echo? You can come to the Nest and live with us. I know a fair few Avicelings that wouldn’t mind having you near.”

“I need my space” was all Echo said.

What she didn’t say was that she needed space away from the Avicen. Her own smooth skin, bare of the colorful feathers that decorated their limbs, was enough to signal that she didn’t belong. She didn’t need their sidelong stares to remind her that she was among them but not of them. And stare they did. As if her presence disrupted the natural
order of things. They might have gotten used to Echo over the years, but that didn’t mean they had to like her.

The library was her home. Books didn’t give her dirty looks or whisper snide comments under their breath. Books didn’t judge. Books had been her only friends before the Ala had found her, alone and hungry, and whisked her away to the Avicen Nest. These books were her family, her teachers, her companions. They had remained loyal to her, so she would remain loyal to them.

The Ala’s weary sigh was as familiar a sound to Echo as the beating of her own heart. “Fine. Have it your way.” She looked down at the music box in her hands. “This is lovely.”

Echo shrugged, but she couldn’t fight the pleased grin that found its way to her face. “It was the best I could do, given the circumstances.”

The Ala cranked the knob at the base of the music box a few times before lifting the lid. The little bird spun in place as the tinny melody wafted into the air.

“The magpie’s lullaby,” Echo said. “That’s why I picked it.” She lazily waved her fingers in the air as though she were conducting a tiny orchestra.
“One for sorrow, two for mirth.”

The Ala smiled fondly.
“Three for a funeral and four for a birth.”

“Five for silver, six for gold,”
Echo sang. They finished the last line together.
“And seven for a secret not to be told.”

Just as the last note rang out, a compartment slid open near the base of the box. It had blended so seamlessly with the lacquered wood that Echo hadn’t even noticed it. The Ala removed a folded piece of paper from the compartment. “What’s that?” Echo asked.

The Ala unfolded it with careful fingers. She cocked her head to the side, gaze still locked on the paper. “What made you choose this music box?” she asked. Her voice was low and cautious, as if the words were chosen with the utmost care.

“I thought it was pretty,” Echo said. “And it played our lullaby.” She leaned forward to peer at the paper, but her view was blocked by the Ala’s hands. “What
is
that?”

The Ala rose to her feet, folding the paper once more, movements quick and precise. She tucked it into one of the pockets hidden in the folds of her gown. “Come. We can discuss it at the Nest.”

“Can it wait?” Echo asked, waving the burrito at the Ala. Little bits of rice and cheese plopped onto her lap. “I’m about to go to town on this burrito.”

The Ala’s arched eyebrow was all the answer Echo needed.

“Fine,” she mumbled, placing the burrito back in its foil. It looked so sad, alone and half eaten. It was downright mournful. She stood, brushing off her jeans and picking up her backpack. “But this had better be worth it.”

“Oh, it will be,” the Ala said, sprinkling a handful of shadow dust into the air around them. The inky black tendrils of the in-between snaked around her legs, and Echo’s stomach gave a preemptive lurch. Traveling through the in-between was never fun, but without the anchoring solidity of a doorway, it was a wretched experience. The Ala held out a hand to Echo. “Remind me, child, have I ever told you the story of the firebird?”

Even through the thick stone walls of Wyvern’s Keep, Caius could hear the sounds of the ocean pounding against the rocks below. A wicked Scottish wind beat at the outer walls, and the sea roared with it, crashing against the fortress’s foundations with unrelenting fury. He envied the waters their passion, their rage, their unmitigated frenzy in the face of such an immovable object. He closed his eyes and imagined for a moment that he could feel the spray of the ocean on his face, that he could steal from it even the smallest fraction of its strength. But Caius was not the ocean, and the obstacles he faced were as sturdy as any stone edifice.

“Your loyalty is commendable,” he said, turning to the two prisoners behind him. “Truly.”

A pair of Avicen scouts knelt on the floor of the keep’s dungeon, wrists shackled behind their backs with heavy iron manacles. Their plumage might have once been richly colored, but their feathers were now matted with a thick layer
of filth and blood. The one on the left, feathers speckled like those of a tawny owl, swayed on his knees as he struggled to stay upright. The Avicen next to him reminded Caius of a falcon, small and sleek, with sharp yellow eyes. That one refused to tremble. He was a rock, steady and still. Thinking of them in terms of the birds they looked like was simpler than asking their names. If Caius saw them as animals, then it would make it easier to do what he knew he must. The falcon spat at his feet, flecks of blood mingled with saliva spattering Caius’s boots.

“We won’t tell you anything.” The falcon remained defiant, even in the face of the Dragon Prince himself. Commendable indeed.

Caius nodded to the two guards standing behind the Avicen. They were Firedrakes, the most fearsome regiment in the Drakharin army. A pair was overkill for two half-starved prisoners, but sometimes a point needed to be made. The Firedrakes seized the owl by his arms while the falcon looked on in horror.

“You won’t,” Caius said, “but he will.”

Half-mad pleas for mercy fell from the owl’s cracked lips as the Firedrakes hauled him to his feet. Their golden armor glinted in the low light of the dungeon’s torches, and the dragons emblazoned on their breastplates danced in the flames. The owl’s babbling continued as he was dragged before Caius. It was a shame the roar of the sea wasn’t loud enough to drown it out.

Caius laid a hand on the owl’s cheek, careful not to press into the bruises there. The owl shuddered at his touch and went silent.

“Tell me what I want to know.” Caius’s voice was low and
soft, as if he were coaxing a frightened animal out of its hiding place. “And I promise I will be merciful.”

The falcon fought to scrabble to his feet, but one of the Firedrakes kicked the back of his knee, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap of feathers and rage.

“Dragons don’t know the first thing about mercy,” the falcon hissed, eyes aflame with barely checked fury. The Firedrake pressed his heel into the falcon’s throat, silencing him.

Caius ignored him, steady gaze never leaving the owl. “Why were you in Japan? The Drakharin hold that land, and have for nearly a century. What business did you have there?”

The owl licked his cracked lips, eyes flicking from Caius to his comrade on the ground.

That won’t do
, Caius thought. He tightened his grip just enough to bring the Avicen’s attention back to him.

“Despite what you may have heard,” Caius said, “I am a man of my word. Speak now, and I will show you and your friend the mercy you deserve.”

The owl swallowed, blinking rapidly. His too-wide pupils dilated and retracted with alarming speed. When he spoke, his words were so quiet Caius had to lean in to hear them.

“The general sent us.”

Caius ground his teeth so hard, his jaw clicked. “The general. Altair.”

The owl nodded, head bobbing in short, quick jerks, so like the bird he resembled.

Caius stroked the owl’s cheek with his thumb. A fine tremor worked its way up from the Avicen prisoner’s feet to the ruffled feathers at his temples. “And what did Altair ask of you?”

“Traitor,” the falcon spat at his companion. The Firedrake ground his boot down again, and the Avicen’s next words were nothing more than a pained gurgle. The owl’s trembling evolved into a full-body shake, the feathers on his arms quivering. He tried to look back at his comrade, but Caius held his head in place.

“Go on.”

The owl licked his lips again, worrying the bottom one with his teeth. “The general … he sent us to Kyoto. To a teahouse. There was an old woman living there, but she didn’t know anything about what Altair is looking for.”

Caius’s hand stilled, resting on the curve of the owl’s neck. He stroked the skin above the owl’s fluttering pulse with his thumb. “And what is that?”

“The firebird.”

Caius had to fight to keep his face as blank and placid as the mask he wore at court. So long had he waited to hear another speak that word.

“And did you find anything else besides an elderly human woman?”

“No,” the owl said, shaking his head in little birdlike twitches. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Caius repeated. Of course it was nothing. It was always nothing.

Releasing the owl from his hold, Caius stepped back. He resisted the urge to wipe his palm on his thigh.

“Thank you. Your cooperation will be rewarded.” Caius nodded to the Firedrakes once more. They pulled the owl back and yanked the falcon to his feet.

“Kill them.”

The owl’s eyes flashed with the first bit of fire Caius had seen in him. “You promised us mercy.”

“This is mercy,” Caius said, already turning away. “Your deaths will be quick.”

As the two Avicen were dragged deeper into the belly of the dungeon, Caius let his eyes fall shut. He could still see the owl’s strange, wide eyes as clearly as he had seconds before, but the image disintegrated as his audience broke her silence at last.

Clap. Clap. Clap
.

Caius turned to the sound. His sister, Tanith, stood before him, resplendent in her gilded armor, even with a layer of soot and rust-colored blood adorning it. A few locks of blond hair had fallen loose from her braid, framing her face with soft gold. Her crimson eyes gleamed with mirth. It had been her Firedrakes who had intercepted the two Avicen, and she’d paraded them, bloodied and broken, before Caius with a zeal that made his stomach turn. A bloody Tanith was a happy Tanith. A happy Tanith was the last thing Caius needed. It was the last thing anyone needed. Anywhere. Ever.

At least one of us enjoyed the show
, he thought.

“Well done, Brother. I was beginning to think you’d lost your touch.” Tanith stepped forward, armor clinking as she walked. The heavy scarlet cloak fastened around her shoulders dragged along the stone floor with an audible hiss. “But as amusing as that demonstration was, it was still a colossal waste of time. You can’t find the firebird because there’s nothing to find. It isn’t real, no matter what some crackpot Avicen general thinks.”

Caius dragged a hand through his dark hair. It had grown long in the past several weeks, and he wondered if his courtiers found him too scruffy for a prince. “All I need is more time.”

“You’ve wasted all the time you have,” Tanith countered, “chasing a mythical beast that doesn’t exist. A mythical beast that might not even be a beast at all, mind you. Time grows short, and your nobles grow weary.”

“I am their prince,” Caius said sharply. “For me, they will make time.”

“You’re only their prince so long as they want you to be. So long as you deserve that title.” Tanith shook her head, golden braid brushing against one of her epaulets. They were twins, but aside from their high cheekbones, dusted with a smattering of dragon scales, they had little in common. Caius had always been the quiet one, stoic and studious, while Tanith was fire and passion and rage. “You would do well to remember that.”

“Is that a threat?” Caius asked. He never quite knew with his sister.

“No. Merely a statement of truth.” She smiled, but it was dry and joyless. “Dragons aren’t known for their patience. This hunt for the firebird … it’s folly, Brother.”

Caius turned from Tanith and paced to the ornate fireplace that dominated the far wall of the dungeon. It was flanked by two stone dragons, mouths open wide so they would have looked like they were breathing fire had the flames not died down to embers hours ago. He could hear Tanith shifting behind him, impatient as ever. It was petty, but he made her wait a few moments before speaking.

“Are you questioning my judgment?” Caius asked, wiping
the mud off his hands with a scrap of cloth left on the mantel. The owl had been filthy.

Tanith snorted, indelicate as ever. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to. Or have you forgotten … oh, what was her name?”

Caius turned back to the stone dragons with their blank, emerald stares. He did not supply a name. Tanith had not forgotten it, and neither had he. The silence between them was heavy with the weight of all that remained unsaid.

“That was a long time ago,” Caius said softly. “Hardly worth remembering.” He wondered if Tanith would be able to detect the lie in his voice.

“Those who forget their history,” Tanith said, moving to his side so she could gaze at his face, “are doomed to repeat it.” She held her hand up, and a tongue of fire sprouted from her palm. She flicked her fingers toward the hearth, and the embers sprang back to life with a searing heat. “This firebird is going to be another mess of yours I’ll have to clean up.”