Autumn Rose

  Every time she haunted my dreams I became more convinced of the girl’s identity: she was Violet Lee.

  I was angry, but I felt her anger, too. I took two steps forward, and then my knees buckled from beneath me and I collapsed to the ground, feeling something warm and sticky run down the inside of my thighs. I registered my body slowing down before everything went black.

  Behind my closed eyelids was the cutout of a billowing cloak, silhouetted against the blotched peach of sunlight shining through translucent skin. It appeared to move away, becoming smaller until it eventually faded. As it did, the sound of the clock ticking became louder, accompanied by the sound of water running into a basin. The noise grew louder as the light brightened, until it became so unbearable that I woke, sitting bolt-upright in bed.

  I never went in to school that day. A migraine started five minutes after I woke, and the aura was so bad I tripped down the last few stairs on the way to collect my pills. I slept until lunch.

  Even after a cold shower I felt like the bright light of my dream was still burning my skin, and only put on a pair of boxer panties and a camisole. The afternoon passed slowly, and I did none of the schoolwork I told myself I would do. I could do nothing but curl up on my bed and analyze the dream and all its counterparts. They were too real not to.

  At about four I heard the sound of a car pulling up outside, and the opening and closing of the gate. My heart jumped into my mouth. My parents had mentioned they might be home earlier than usual, and I should only have been back from school a few minutes. I dived for my closet, pulling out and scrunching up a fresh school shirt just as the doorbell rang—the chain was across the door and I would have to let them in. I chucked the shirt onto the pile of dirty laundry outside their bedroom and shrugged my threadbare, ever-shortening silk dressing gown on to make it look like I was just getting changed. I had been using it since I was twelve, and the belt had long since gone missing, so I left it open. When I was halfway down the stairs, the doorbell rang again.

  “I’m coming,” I said in annoyance, more to myself than to them. It had become altogether too easy to forget about my parents these past weeks.

  I turned the lock, unfastened the chain, and opened the door, hoping they would let me escape quickly. Instead I became rooted to the spot.

  He recoiled a step in shock. In the time it took me to process what was happening, he had the opportunity to take a good look at me, though his eyes were clearly trying to avert themselves as he blushed wildly. I felt my cheeks burn and gripped the edge of the door until my knuckles whitened.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded, finally realizing that I should try to cover myself up. Yet even when I pulled the two sides of the gown together, it made little difference—it wasn’t long enough to cover my tiny shorts, and too small to reach across my middle, and I was very conscious that I wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “I brought your homework. From Sylaeia, obviously.”

  He kept a tight hold on the papers, though I reached out to take them. I let my hand drop, knowing my gown had once again fallen open.

  “Can I come in?” he asked, peering behind me.

  “No.”

  He shrugged. “All right. I’ll just stand here then.”

  My gaze turned upward as if to ask for strength. “Fine,” I breathed, opening the door wider. “I’m just going to go and . . .” I waved my hand across my middle and then gestured upstairs, bolting away.

  “What you were wearing was fine,” he shouted after me.

  I summoned the calm to not slam the door as my eyes bulged in mortification. Taking a few seconds to lean against the door, forcing deep breaths, I began to seriously consider just not going back downstairs.

  A prince of Athenea was in my kitchen, in my tiny little house, and I had just greeted him in what wasn’t much more than underwear.

  In the mirror I could see that my cheeks were flushed to the point of seeming burned, and it looked like my skin was about to break out from a potent overdose of stress. The idea of covering it up with foundation was hurriedly pushed aside. I didn’t want him to think I was trying, like the girls at school. I didn’t want him to think anything. I wanted him out of my house.

  I threw on a pair of jeans, bra, and a thin jumper. My hair had reverted to its natural tight waves and ringlet curls, and straightening it with magic would definitely be trying too hard.

  I could just climb out of the window and down the tree. It wouldn’t be hard and the kitchen was around the back; he wouldn’t see me. Or I could fly.

  I entertained other possibilities as I knelt on the window seat. I could see his Mercedes parked just to the left of where our front garden ended—even in a relatively well-off neighborhood, it looked out of place.

  I knew I couldn’t really escape. I would have to face him at school, and there was no way I could explain away my disappearance. So, taking a few calming deep breaths, I headed back down the stairs and into the hallway. When I entered the kitchen, he was sitting on one of the bar stools at the island, his eyes sliding across the contents of the room.

  “It’s quite small, isn’t it?” he commented.

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” I mocked as I squeezed between his chair and the wall to get to the fridge.

  “It’s just not your real home, Manderley mansion.”

  Retrieving a carton of orange juice out of the fridge, I poured him a glass. I went to give it to him, but then pulled my hand back. “I’m only getting you a drink because you’re a prince and my grandmother would turn over in her grave if I didn’t. I still don’t like you for not telling me about my grandmother’s death.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and beckoned for the glass. “Ah, but by having to tell me over and over that you don’t like me are you trying to convince yourself?” He shrugged. “I won’t force you to like me.”

  The exchange came to a close, and I felt no urge to continue it. I was hoping the silence might hasten his departure, though his taking the drink suggested otherwise.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked suddenly.

  I jerked up to face him. “What?”

  The corners of his lips upturned. “I said how are you feeling? You were not in school, so I can only assume you were ill.”

  I felt myself tinge pink at the ears and fluffed up my hair to cover them. Taking the carton and putting it back in the fridge, I tried to sound as casual as possible. “Oh, I had a migraine. It’s gone now.”

  “A migraine? What triggered it?” His voice was more intense, and even from behind the fridge door I could tell he was no longer smiling. I shifted some plates around on the shelves.

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Why?”

  My eyes widened in exasperation. “None of your business,” I snapped.

  He had near-enough invited himself into my house, outstayed his welcome, and now he was quizzing me.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard, I’m-your-prince way. Why didn’t you get much sleep?”

  I slammed the fridge door harder than necessary. “Bad dream.”

  “What was it about?”

  That was going too far, and I didn’t answer. Instead I rinsed out my mug and put it in the dishwasher.

  “Was it about your grandmother?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, Autumn.”

  I chewed the tip of my tongue, still refusing to turn. “I saw a woman being assaulted.”

  I heard him swear quietly in Sagean. I had shared her anger in the dream, and now I shared her shame, forcing myself to turn to face him.

  “Have you had dreams like it before?”

  “Once or twice.” I blinked back tears.

  Something unspoken passed between us and I didn’t need to break past his mental defenses to know what he was thinking: the same thing I was. It was an uncomfortable thought and I pushed it very deep down.

  I think he must have seen the my eyes veil over, because he looked away. “I’
m sorry, I should not—”

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  His eyes roamed the kitchen as it became awkwardly silent. Once or twice they passed over me. I looked away after the second time and went back to the sink, where I cleared away the glasses that were resting on the draining board.

  I wish he would leave. Why won’t he leave?

  As I turned, he was reaching across the counter to pick up our copy of the Times. Across its front cover was a picture of a girl clad in a red-and-black blazer, stark against the blotched gray background, her back artificially straight, shoulders at a slight angle—a school photo. She smiled up at us from below her headline.

  VARNLEY CONFIRM HOSTAGE SITUATION BUT STILL DENY BLOODBATH RESPONSIBILITY.

  Above her was a cameo of the second dimension’s Trafalgar Square, six weeks on from the night it had been demolished. The pink tinge of the paving had been the first thing I had noticed when the paper had dropped onto the mat the morning before.

  I was glad to move on to a subject that did not directly pertain to me, but the vampires and their bloodbath wasn’t much better. That was a dream I would really rather forget.

  “It seems pointless for their council to make an official announcement so late. Violet Lee has been in the press for weeks.”

  The prince frowned as he scanned the first few lines of the accompanying article. “Varnley delayed it because the British government in their dimension are hand-in-hand with the British and Canadian governments here. They were worried that any media hype would pressure our human governments into helping with negotiations.”

  “But I thought governments here have a no-interference policy in the second dimension? Because the humans there don’t know about dark beings?”

  “Yes, but that could change. Vamperic secrecy suits the Varns and all their nobles and councilors quite nicely. They do not want to risk that policy for a human girl.”

  “Why do they not just . . . kill her?”

  The prince’s head jolted up and he examined me for a moment. My heart pounded. Eventually, he seemed satisfied and spoke again. “The Terra. Killing a hostage is enough to bring them before an interdimensional court. But it is worse than that.”

  “Worse?”

  His voice dropped in pitch and became very intense again. “Do you know who her father is?”

  I strained my memory back to when I had read the article the day before. It had been very sparse on details, as had the six-o’clock news—there wasn’t much beyond a repeated statement that she was alive and well. That the media was under heavy censorship was obvious. But I did vaguely remember a mention of her family.

  “A politician?”

  “Defense secretary for the British government in the second dimension, and he is on the interdimensional council, too, so he is one of the very few humans that know of our existence in the only dimension where humans are ignorant. He’s very right-wing. If he had his way, his policy against the vampires would be aggressive, not defensive. It’s only the prime minister that keeps him in check. He is on our watch list as well, because he is in league with the Pierre clan of slayers, and probably the Extermino, too . . . and with both attacking more and more, we have to be wary of humans like him.”

  I started to reply but he cut me off.

  “You never heard that last part, by the way.”

  I got the gist of what he was saying and nodded. “But what has that got to do with his daughter?”

  “Because if she gets hurt, he has the excuse to become aggressive.”

  “Why not just let her go?”

  “And risk her and her family revealing the existence of vampires?”

  “Then what are they supposed to do?”

  “Wait until she turns of her own free will.”

  The back-and-forth came to an abrupt end as I reeled in shock. In all the stories I had heard about the Varns’ rash actions, it had never once crossed my mind that the response to it all would be to do nothing.

  “Seriously?” I managed in a hoarse whisper.

  He nodded and got up, washing and filling his glass with water.

  “Politics gets you to talk,” he suddenly said as he returned. “I’ll remember that.”

  I blushed to my roots and tried to stutter a reply, but he interrupted again.

  “No, I understand why you are curious. The kidnapping of Violet Lee could change the very fabric of our society if it ends in a war. Human–dark being relations will never be the same. We should all be interested.”

  I nodded frantically. His conversation was not unbearable, yet he always drew it back to me, and I did not like to turn inward. The mirrors he forced upon me caught reflections of things I had buried deep.

  “Listen,” he began, and I detected the same tone of embarrassment as when I had answered the door. “We were wondering—that is, my aunt, uncle, cousin, and I—if perhaps you and your parents, one weekend, would maybe like to come and stay up on Dartmoor? They really want to meet you—I mean, meet you properly, now that you are older.”

  This was why he had come to my house. It had nothing to do with the homework. “I don’t think that would be possible,” I replied, hardly able to keep the dislike out of my voice. I let him in, I give him a chance, and then he’s forcing his company on me!

  He looked at me as though my scars had turned bright green. “What do you mean?”

  “My parents have stressful jobs. They like to have the weekend to recuperate.”

  “They can recuperate at our place.”

  “It’s not possible,” I snapped. I went over to the sink, intending to busy myself again, but instead just stood there staring out of the window. Reflected in the glass were his eyes, so very bright and blue, as though to prove the purity of his lineage.

  Blue bloods. Royalty. Why are they entitled to know what had happened to my grandmother when I’m not? And how can he look me in the eyes, or talk of my parents, when he knows what he does?

  And why, at the same time, was I admiring them?

  “Just you then.”

  “No!”

  “Look, you’re England’s primary family; the top nobility. It’s your duty to welcome us.”

  He had me stumped there. It was a duty I had totally neglected since I had come here, but to snub royalty was a step too far, and both of us knew it. Yet it wouldn’t stop me from trying. I turned back to him and folded the open paper, hiding Violet Lee’s face.

  “I work on weekends.”

  “Skip it. You don’t have to work.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid. My aunt and uncle are really nice.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Then—”

  The sound of the front door opening and shutting cut him off. He looked at me, alarmed; I caught his expression and then looked at the clock. They were early. There wasn’t enough time to do anything, and they were in the doorway before I could give anyone any warning.

  My mother came in first, her mouth falling agape, followed by my father, who took the smallest step back as he put two and two together. My mother’s shrewd mind wasn’t far behind.

  The prince slid off his stool and stuck out his hand. “Sir.” He looked quite positively terrified, and his manner had become abruptly formal. My father did not shake his hand. Nor did he bow. The younger man gradually let his arm fall back to his side, eyeing my mother’s scathing expression. “I was just dropping Autumn’s homework off.” He half turned toward the papers on the counter.

  “You skipped school again?” my mother asked, completely ignoring the prince and looking at me. I must have looked guilty. “Autumn, this is getting ridiculous!” I did not want to know what she would think if she knew how many times I had really skipped school. “Do you not care about your education anymore? Because that is how it looks—”

  “Marie.”

  I stared at my father in shock. In the whole time I had spent living with my parents, I had never once heard him in
terrupt my mother. She was the dominant character. But she was human. She had no idea what she was doing. My father might have been born human, too, but he had been brought up a Sage. And that upbringing was causing him to flush with embarrassment, just like me, in a rare moment of affinity.

  “I should be going,” the prince said, heading toward the kitchen door as though he couldn’t get out fast enough. He turned at the threshold. “Have a think about that invitation, Autumn.” His eyes flicked briefly toward my parents. “Sir. Ma’am.”

  My mother waited until the door had shut to round on me. “What invitation?”

  “He has invited us to stay with him one weekend.”

  My father looked horrified.

  My mother was more vocal. “Not happening. I won’t suffer their contempt. It’s enough to find one of them in my kitchen.”

  I thought that a little harsh. He had been perfectly civil. “I already made your excuses.”

  My father looked relieved and went to put the kettle on, opening the paper and flicking right over the front cover. “I think you should still go though, Autumn.”

  “Vinny!” my mother gasped. “How can you say that after the way they treated you?”

  “That wasn’t just the Athenea, Marie.” He looked at me quite intently. I felt examined, and stared at the tile flooring. “This could be a good opportunity for her.”

  “But she can’t miss work, and that’s not to mention the schooling she should be catching up on.”

  He didn’t say anything for a few moments. “No, this is more important,” he declared quietly, and I wondered if he was dismissing my mother or his own thoughts.

  “Vincent! But what about—”

  “Stop it. Just stop it.” With that, he poured the water from the kettle into a mug and disappeared down the hallway. I blinked a few times, wondering what had gotten into him. I had never seen him like this, and he had never taken my side against her.

  My mother didn’t look at me as I left the kitchen. Climbing the stairs and entering my bedroom, I wondered what my father had ever seen in her. It was a question that, as I grew older, preoccupied me more and more, as I had noticed that all the other children’s parents were not like mine.