The Rouje Kith, page 51
Zoe nodded, and cringed internally.
“No shame in that,” Jack weighed in. “And if anyone has a problem with it, they’ll answer to me.”
Even more disconcerting was how he meant every word, his certainty burning in her own chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered once more, unable to stop. The two words would probably follow her into the grave, and straight down into hell, too.
Would Jack accompany her that far? To be honest, he already had.
“I know. But you don’t have to be.” Trevor sat there as if it were perfectly normal to just let your hand hang in midair, waiting for another’s. “It’s a good thing this Petterson fellow is already dealt with. Nothing he forced you to do matters, Zoe. You don’t believe it yet, but you will. In time.”
He didn’t force me. That was the most shameful truth of all. She’d wanted to work, to help him. And it had all ended up with a ravaged corpse on stained concrete. She couldn’t even feel bad about that—Royal would never slap another terrified woman, never take the lion’s share of a working girl’s money ever again.
She still couldn’t wrap her brain around the rest of it. Murdered people, medical research, a coast-to-coast network of hunters?
The fairytale was darker than she’d ever imagined. One of the originals, before the Grimm brothers got around to cleaning things up for their audience.
“I didn’t mean to…I thought…” God, she couldn’t even form complete sentences. She was a sorry excuse for a Kith, even if they seemed not to care at the moment.
“I know.” Trevor was patient, and completely calm. “All will be well, little dancer. Will you try to trust us? That’s all I ask.”
“Yes.” Her vision blurred once more, stupid useless tears. Zoe freed her fingers from the mug’s comforting warmth, and laid them hesitantly in her father’s palm. “Uh, yes, s-sir.”
“Good heavens, don’t sir me.” A hint of a smile touched Trevor’s mouth, and he squeezed her hand gently. “It makes me feel old, coming from you. A simple ‘yes, Dad’ will do.”
“Yes.” Her throat was dry. “Dad.”
“Good.” He nodded briskly, patted her knuckles with his free hand, and rose in a graceful, coordinated wave. “Dinner will be soon, I hope to see you both there. Amelia will need to stuff you like partridges; don’t disappoint her. I’ll be in my office, should you need me.” And with that, he left without a backward glance.
Which left her alone with Jack. Her twin took down half his own hot chocolate and winced at the burn, but it was over just as quickly as liquor’s transient bite. “I’m starving,” he said, and it was almost as if she’d never left.
Almost. And she couldn’t stop crying, slow tears and sniffles, even when her demi took her mug, set aside his own, and gathered her into his arms.
The snow continued to fall all through the night, and in the depths of cold darkness well after midnight she woke from a nightmare of a bleeding Royal shambling after her, a croaking gotta get it through your head rising from his ruined, shredded throat as gunfire echoed in concrete halls.
She lunged into consciousness with a stifled cry, and her twin’s skin was warm and comforting against hers.
“Shh,” Jack whispered into her hair, and the link blurred between them until she couldn’t tell whose fear was choking them both. It faded as he held her; some time later, both of them dropped back into the river of sleep without a murmur.
77
PINK ROSES
Three months later
* * *
It was a bright, beautiful day, the kind that explained why anyone had bothered to settle Nebraska in the first place. Fleecy clouds sailed through an achingly blue sky, the prairie was alive with birdsong where it wasn’t scarred by buildings or roads, and crops stretched skyward from rich earth, basking in bright yellow sunshine.
The rolling, overwatered green of the Haslip Lane Cemetery was studded with monuments, a windbreak of firs drawing a dark shaggy line along one side of the verdant expanse. The wind was full of the good scent of growing things and a tang of exhaust.
Even the dead could be lulled by the constant hum of traffic in the near distance.
Angelina Simmons, the small flat rectangular stone said, with the wrong birth year chiseled in. Of course Mama had often lied about her age, holding it to be a lady’s prerogative, and Bea probably hadn’t cared what was on the tombstone as long as the date was right on the paperwork so he could cash in the death benefits.
Zoe didn’t know where he was buried, and didn’t want to. She regarded her mother’s grave, her hair combed by a sweet soft breeze. Mama’s long-ago funeral had been a blur, Bea’s fingers digging cruelly into her shoulder whenever Zoe’s lip trembled—don’t you dare cry, girl—and what had come after still returned on some nights, bad dreams rising from the tiny locked box they lived during daylight.
But each time, Jack woke her up and held her close.
He stood at her shoulder, a lean tall young man with a shock of golden hair, scanning the horizon fiercely as if daring it to try some mischief. Occasionally he glanced at the remembrance chapel, a long low brick building with a white spire impersonating a church’s.
Everyone had gone to Righteous Savior for the service before and the potluck after the burial. She could remember every minute of that dreadful day, even Auntie Scarsdale on her way out the door, pinching Zoe’s cheek and sniffling a little before cautioning her granddaughter’s friend to be good.
Your mama is looking down from heaven, honey.
Well, Zo had her doubts. Especially considering what had happened after the last of the cleanup ladies had gone home, and it was just her and Bea.
Still, the grave was neat, well-maintained, and Zoe could afford to have flowers delivered. The bouquet she’d brought this time, tucked into a small plastic cone on a listing metal spike driven deep into willing earth, was baby’s breath and pink roses—Mama’s favorite, and they smelled just like rose soap in small metal tins.
Maybe Angelina’s ghost would be happy about that, even if her children were everything she’d feared.
Zoe’s hands twisted together, clenching hard on the edge of pain. The princess signet glittered, and Jack reached down to untangle her fingers, slide his through, and hold fast. He didn’t ask if she was ready to go—he could tell she wasn’t, and was perfectly happy to stand here for as long as it took.
It was strange to travel first-class, every possible obstacle smoothed over and handled before she was even aware of its existence. Doubly strange to have an entourage, since this was Louisa Fantome’s territory now and diplomatic etiquette had to be observed. Sondra Amerlane was kind of terrifying—butter wouldn’t melt in the lawyer’s mouth, but every once in a while she made a soft observation and Zo realized she’d been thinking eight steps ahead of everyone else, just like Jack.
Jolie and McKenna were back at the hotel, and Jo was still leading Mac a merry chase. They’d end up mated, Jack said, and that was nice to think about. Apparently Kith weddings were more like week-long parties.
There was an office building being constructed over the scraped-flat remains of Righteous Savior. Apparently Ms. Fantome—she was, by all accounts, definitely not a Miss or Mrs.—was Leroy McFisk’s mother, though he’d been taken away from her for some reason probably involving her dead brother George.
Now she ruled this part of the country, like Trevor ruled his. Zoe was content not to know any more. It was weird to think of Bea as someone with a mother of his own, but even the worst people imaginable had to have one.
It was enough that Zo didn’t have to meet the woman. Sondra and McKenna handled all that. And while there were still skin hunters lurking—there had been an attack in Seoul just last week—the Kith handled that danger as they always had, with swift, collective action.
Zoe tipped her face up to the sunlight, closed her eyes.
She could visit Jenny, she supposed, or take the silver Lexus sitting patiently on the cemetery-access road and drive through Hall City instead of walking or taking the bus. She could see Joplin High School again, the Piggly Wiggly she and Mama used to shop at, or the rundown building she and Mama had first lived in when they arrived all those years ago—assuming it hadn’t also been knocked down for something else.
“Anywhere you like,” Jack said softly.
She was getting used to him answering things she hadn’t said aloud, and vice versa. Bella was right, thinking inside your demi’s head was powerfully comforting, and Zo didn’t know how she’d ever lived without it.
Bell called every night after dinner for a video chat; she was bubbling over with plans for Zoe’s return. There were classes to attend—a degree was a distinct possibility, even if she had to get prerequisites out of the way—and more of Janine’s mood boards to look at, shopping to do and shaman lessons all waiting for her as well. Best of all, she could go back to dancing, and even when everything else was overwhelming the peace and order of ballet class never varied.
Her phone chimed, the notification sound for Dad’s texts. He was a little anxious over her being here, but as far as the regular authorities were concerned, the rich man in charge of Royal’s skin hunter friends had ties to organized crime and probably double-crossed someone he shouldn’t. The factory in Newark had burned to the ground, its attendant cell tower holding the only record that he’d been there at all because any body in the wreckage was near-unidentifiable.
Jack found that amusing, in his own particularly sardonic way. They hadn’t identified Royal’s body yet, either. Apparently the fire had been…intense.
Just like the one at Righteous Savior.
Daylight dimmed as a cloud wandered in front of the sun. Jack’s hand was steady and sure in hers, and Zoe exhaled shakily, opening her eyes. They smarted, but didn’t overflow.
Maybe she’d finally cried enough.
Goodbye, Mama.
She didn’t have to say anything. Jack knew she was done, and turned with her. They ambled back to the car, hand in hand, grass cut yesterday simmering under her black heels and sending up a faint good smell. The edge of her skirt fluttered as the breeze swirled around them, and there were voices in the air, if a shaman wanted to listen to them.
“I’ll call Mac,” Jack said, knowing she wanted to leave.
When you were Kith, you could do that—simply decide, and walk away. “Which means you want me to call Dad.” It was probably a sin to smile near Mama’s grave, but she couldn’t stop it any more than she could keep her demi out of her head anymore. The twinbond pulsed between them, soft undeniable strength.
“He’ll start asking about work if I call.” Jack dug for the car keys with his free hand, and a laugh bubbled up in Zoe’s throat. It pushed aside the sadness, and she squeezed her twin’s fingers.
“Work?” she said. ”God forbid.”
Jack’s laughter matched hers, and the cloud over the sun fled, deciding it had better things to do. Spring would turn into a hot summer soon enough, and the cemetery would drowse through it like every other season.
And Zoe Rouje, at long last, found out she couldn’t wait to be home.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A.C. Delauncey is a pseudonym.
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Did you love The Rouje Kith? Then you should read Moon's Knight by Lilith Saintcrow!
Drunk and disoriented after her best friend's funeral, Ginevra Bennet stumbles through a door in an ivy-covered wall...and finds herself in a dry wasteland under a dying crimson sun, the only possible shelter a giant stone castle.
If it's a hallucination, it's a deadly one; the Keep is full of beauty, luxury, courtly manners--and monsters. The inhabitants rejoice in her arrival, dress her in white, and call her a queen. Greenery returns to their gardens, and the prince of the realm, with his silver-ringed eyes, seems very interested in Gin indeed. It should be the answer to every lonely young woman's dreams.
But nothing in Gin's life has ever been what it's seemed. Not her best friend, not her upbringing, and most especially not her nightmares. Drowning, violent death, a stone roof, and the hallucinatory prince have filled her nights, and Gin hopes she's going mad--because the alternative is just too scary to contemplate.
Caught in a web of manners, intrigue, and betrayal, Gin has to depend on her sorely tested wits and uncertain sanity. There are Gates at the edge of the wasteland, and if she can escape the castle and its beautiful, terrifying inhabitants, she might just find a few answers and be able to get home.
Assuming, of course, home is where she really wants to be...
Read more at Lilith Saintcrow’s site.
A.C. Delauncey, The Rouje Kith
