She paused too long, trying to figure out how to answer it.
“So you mean you haven’t even considered coming back,” Amy said evenly.
“Not until it’s safe,” Chloe said, faltering.
“And when’s that?” Paul asked. His voice was beyond cool. “When this Order thing has been completely wiped out? When they’re all dead? How many of them are there? I mean, it sounds like a real gang war, from what you’re saying.”
She hadn’t thought about it.
She really hadn’t thought about any of it.
She thought about it now, though, sinking into her pillows. They kept saying— Sergei kept saying—she could go back “as soon as the danger had passed” and Chloe just accepted it, repeating it, making it the truth by repetition. What did she expect? That the Tenth Blade would just give up after a while? That they would grow bored with hunting the supposed killer of one of their Order? That there was some sort of statute of limitations on accidental death in the middle of a five-thousand-year blood feud?
Did she really believe that one day Sergei was going to come to her with an all-clear signal, hug her, let her go back home, and insist that she drop by once in a while? Now that she thought about it, no one ever acted like she was going to be leaving at any point. Alyec never said anything one way or the other. She had a job, for Christ’s sake.
“I don’t like the way this sounds, Chloe,” Amy said grimly. “I want to see you. Myself. If these people are so great, they shouldn’t mind letting you see your friends.”
“Amy, now is not a good time. …”
“I mean it! Promise you’ll meet us. Or I’ll call in the cavalry. I call the police. I’ll tell your mother.”
“All right, all right, I promise!” Chloe agreed.
“When?”
“I don’t know! I’ll call you again when I can, okay?” She looked at the battery meter. About a quarter left. She didn’t have a charger with her and for some reason, once again, she didn’t feel comfortable asking for one. Come to think about it, no one in the Pride knew about her phone except for Alyec—and now Igor and Valerie—so unless they told anyone, that was it. Why did that make her feel better somehow?”
“All right. Call me by Saturday or it’s the cavalry. I mean it.”
“All right! I’ll see you later.”
“’Bye!” Paul shouted.
Chloe flipped her phone closed and looked at it for a long time, sitting on the floor.
“Well, that’s … weird …,” Paul said, distractedly arranging Amy’s stuffed animals into extremely lewd positions.
“Stockholm syndrome,” Amy answered promptly, pleased with herself. “She has begun sympathizing with her own kidnappers. She’s beginning to really believe they are keeping her safe instead of just keeping her.”
Paul looked up at her and narrowed his eyes. “Amy? What are you planning?” he asked evenly.
“Nothing,” Amy said, crossing her arms. “Yet.”
But they both knew it wasn’t true.
Eleven
“Well, well, my own son wants to have dinner with me,” Whit said, folding the painfully white linen napkin into his lap. “What an extraordinary honor.”
Brian grimaced. Once again his father had managed to turn the tables so everything was to his advantage: Mr. Rezza had chosen the Ritz-Carlton’s restaurant for dinner, much to Brian’s dismay. It embodied everything that Brian did not want to get involved in during their discussion. Fussy place settings, crazy rich people, annoyingly perfect and subdued lighting, silent waiters, and worst of all, a dress code. Technically Brian wore the required “business attire,” but he saw that the maitre d’ was pissed at his Generation-Y interpretation: brown velvet pants, a leather suit-style jacket, and a Diesel shirt that he wore with a thrift store tie.
“Shall we start with a bottle of something? Maybe some Krug Grande Cuvée to celebrate the occasion?”
Brian had an almost overwhelming urge to point out that he wasn’t old enough to drink, but now was not the point in the conversation to start acting up.
“Whatever. You know I like reds.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Whit looked at his son with something approaching fondness. “I remember: cabernets. A strange thing for a California boy, but I don’t disapprove. I seem to remember they have some very nice native ones here. …” He took out a pair of reading glasses and buried his nose in the wine list.
Brian sighed. At least his father seemed a little nervous despite his posturing. It had been several months since they had really spent any time together outside the dusty walls of the Order’s chapter house. The older man looked more or less the same, maybe a little tanner, maybe his jowls were just a little bit tighter. He had said something about taking up squash or tennis. He was a large man, imposing, with an utterly patrician face and a nose that was large enough to make him look regal but sharp enough so that he looked like he was something other than a hundred percent Italian. Only his easy olive tan betrayed a Mediterranean origin.
His outfit was impeccable, a several-thousand-dollar Armani suit that fit so well with the shirt, the cuff links, the tie, and the shoes that except for the slight paunch, Brian’s dad could have been a model for some older men’s magazine. Whitney Rezza was a living embodiment of taste and wealth well spent.
“Dad,” Brian said, clearing his throat, “I think we should consider me leaving the Order.”
His father looked over the wine list at him.
“Don’t be absurd.”
Brian had thought long and hard, and the best thing he could do for Chloe now was to cut all ties with the organization that was bent on killing her. Whatever happened between the two of them, he would be free of the Tenth Blade, and Chloe would feel confident that she could trust him.
But that was only partially it: this was also an opportunity for Brian to figure out what to do with his life. Which he knew, regardless of anything else, did not involve the Order of the Tenth Blade. At best it was a silly society of archaic rituals and secrecy; at worst it was a group of people devoted to killing other people. Either way, it was not going to be his life’s work.
“I’m serious, Dad. I want a career, an education—I want a life.” He ran his hand through his own thick dark hair, angry at his own nervousness.
“All of those things are possible while you remain in the Order,” his father said, slowly setting the wine list down, “if that’s what you really wish.”
“I want to concentrate on ’those things.’ I don’t want to have to run out of a final because of some emergency meeting the way Dickless—uh, Dick did a couple of weeks ago.”
“Richard is an extremely devoted young man,” Whit said patronizingly. “He is an exemplar for the Order.”
Then why don’t you just adopt him and be done with it? His father’s feelings toward Dick used to drive Brian up the wall; now he wished his dad was grooming the college student for eventual leadership. God knew he himself didn’t want it.
Brian took a deep breath.
“Dad,” he said patiently, “most people choose to join the Order. Even Edna—”
“That’s Mrs. Hilshire to you, Brian.”
“Even fucking Mrs. Hilshire—“ He stopped when his father gave him a warning look. “Even she gave her kids the choice. Evelyn chose to join, and William and Maurice didn’t.”
“Well, I don’t have the luxury of three children and the chances that one may follow in his father’s footsteps. I only have you.”
“It’s not my fault you only have one kid,” Brian snapped, his temper slowly getting the better of him.
“Oh, is this where you’re about to blame me for the death of my own wife again?” his dad said, annoyingly lightly. “How if it hadn’t been for me, she would still be alive? How I might have had three kids, and you would get out of your current predicament? You’re right. Terribly selfish of me to let my own wife die. I didn’t realize how it would inconvenience you.”
Bri
an’s foot began to shake under the table. He forced himself to stop it, not wanting his dad to see how close he was to losing control.
“I’m not talking about that.” Though I should throw it in your goddamn face, you self-satisfied … “I’m talking about my right to choose my own life.”
“Sometimes we don’t have those choices, son. Look at Prince Charles,” Mr. Rezza said gravely. “Listen, I inherited this burden from your grandfather, just as he did from his father. Sometimes we just have to accept what we’re given and bear it manfully.”
Manfully? Brian almost cracked up. But it was interesting that his dad had phrased it that way. Was it possible that Whit Rezza had rebelled at some point? That his own father had shot him down? Brian’s grandfather seemed like a gentle enough old man, but Brian knew there was a sharp and possibly evil mind behind his friendly exterior.
“I understand that, Dad,” Brian said softly. “But these are different times. I have … individual rights, like the right to pursue my own path.”
He knew as soon as he said “individual rights” that he had made a mistake. The almost-caring look his father had given him disappeared, replaced with a stony glare.
“Nonsense,” he said with disgust. “Your generation has no sense of responsibility to a group, a calling higher than your own. You treat random friends like family and family like strangers. You want to dither your life away, pursuing one pleasure after another. That is not a path; that is a waste of life.”
And that was that. Brian had tried to sail the choppy waters of his father’s limited common sense—and failed. Mr. Rezza picked up the wine list again.
“Everybody in the Order has had their doubts at one time or another, Brian, even Edna. Even myself. It’s an inevitable phase in the path to becoming a fully integrated member. You’ll get over it.” He paused, his eyes scanning the wine list. “What about a merlot?”
Twelve
Still sitting on the floor long after she’d hung up on her friends, Chloe picked up her jeans that were wadded in a pile. There was a wear spot threatening to tear into a rip. It was already tissue thin. She ran her finger over it and the harder nubbles of the denim around it. These were vintage Lees she had saved for herself at Pateena’s.
“I expect to see you back on Wednesday—if not, don’t bother ever coming back.” Her boss’s words echoed in her memory.
Chloe sighed. Her job at the vintage store was just another thing her new screwy life had, well, screwed up. She had an overpowering urge to talk to Marisol, the owner and her friendly boss—if Marisol was still her boss, that is. The older woman always seemed to understand Chloe better than her mom ever did and sense her moods with an uncanny knack. Even if she couldn’t tell her all her secrets, Chloe had always unburdened some of her feelings. Now, of course, that would be impossible.
Hi, Marisol. Sorry I flaked and didn’t come to work after you gave me that last chance. I know I’m effectively fired, but there were good reasons. I can’t really tell you why, but can I just vent for a while?
The sadness of a relationship ended fought for space in her head alongside her anger at the thought of Lania—her work nemesis—running the cash register all the time now.
Chloe prepared herself for a nice introspective and lonely sulk on her bed, but she was too nervous. Too energetic. Like that night that seemed so long ago, when she’d run out of the house and gone out to the club.
But then again, cats and lions weren’t known for their mixed feelings or inaction. They just did things. She was upset, and she had to do something about it. Right then.
They wouldn’t miss her for a few hours, right?
Waltzing through the front door was out of the question. But a glance out the window revealed a ledge and all sorts of nooks and crannies in the brick and stonework that were perfect for someone with claws. Using both her arms and a little force, Chloe raised the window until there was an opening high enough for her to get through. Cool, moist air entered the room. There were the scents of pine and mud and something so clear and snapping that she could only think it was like the moon.
How could Sergei spend all of his time in the old house? True, it was gorgeous and huge, but as a Mai, how could he resist the call of the outdoors?
She looked around one last time. Was she betraying the people who had let her in? Maybe she could talk to them and they could arrange some sort of escort for her so she could visit her mom safely, or Paul and Amy, or even Brian. … But she had to see her mom. Now. It hit her with an overwhelming urgency.
Without another thought, she pitched herself through the window and crouched on the sill, just barely touching her fingers to the wood for balance. Her feet itched inside her sneakers. Though the Sauconys’ grip was great for running, Chloe suspected she would have an easier time climbing down with bare feet, her toes curling around the stones. She untied her sneakers and tossed them back into her room, under the bed. Her socks followed.
She wiggled her feet, now free, and was somehow unsurprised when claws extended out the tips of her toes, just like Kim’s. She extended her hand claws and leapt, unsure what she was going to do as she fell but confident she would figure out something and positive that she would land safely.
And she did.
Chloe didn’t even think about what she was doing as she shot down, as fast as she’d fallen off Coit Tower. She landed lightly on a lower gable. There was a quiet, high-pitched squeak of her foot claws against the stones. With only a moment’s pause to grin at what she had done, Chloe scurried from curtained window ledge to curtained window ledge, one story at a time, letting her feet dangle and then drop down.
When she hit the lawn at last on the back side of the house, the grass was cool and wet and almost silver. With her night vision, she could see her own footsteps on the turf: slightly darker impressions where the balls of her feet dissolved the individual spheres of dew, causing them to blend together and sink into the ground. It was such a beautiful and fascinating discovery that Chloe had to force herself to look away and continue on with her journey.
No wonder you always catch cats staring at nothing for hours. I bet they see a billion little things.
She ran with her body against the walls of the house, trying to get to the woods as fast as possible. She tried a couple of test leaps as if she had four legs, stretching her arms in front of her and pushing off with her legs. Sort of like the way Gollum did it in The Lord of the Rings movies. It worked, but not too gracefully, and didn’t seem to help her pick up speed. The Mai were one hundred percent upright walkers.
Which made her wonder about what Kim had said. Were they really a race created by ancient gods? Chloe still didn’t quite believe it, but what if it were true?
Then again, what if the Order of the Tenth Blade was right? What if they weren’t created by benevolent ancient gods, but by demons? What if they were demons of some sort?
But she had tried to help the Rogue after he tried to kill her. Chloe wasn’t evil. Was she?
She let go of her thoughts and refocused on her present. She ran, and yards of ground disappeared under her strides. She felt herself slip into the shadow of the pines. No one could see her if she didn’t want to be seen; she knew this. And if she had to, Chloe could easily live out of doors full time, in the trees, like a child’s fantasy of freedom.
Her cat imaginings fell short as she ran along the edge of the driveway and came to the road. It didn’t take more than a second to figure out how to scale the fence when the gatehouse guard had his back turned, but once she was on public streets again, she suddenly realized that even with her Mai speed, there was no way she could run all the way to her house, chat with her mom, tell her everything was okay, and get back in less than a few hours.
Feeling a little defeated, she took a bus over the Golden Gate, from the edge of Sausalito. She sat in the back, trying to keep herself from bouncing, only remembering to retract her claws at the last instant. No one took much notice of her bare feet; this
was San Francisco, and with the wild look in her eyes and her barely contained energy, she easily passed for either a strung-out junkie or a riot girl on the way to her next rally.
Chloe got off the bus when it crested around Golden Gate Park, preparing to run the rest of the way. She decided to take a somewhat circuitous route in case anyone was following but didn’t go too out of her way because time was short.
In the end, it didn’t matter.
She passed a surprisingly healthy looking street person—she would remember that later and curse herself for it. As Chloe gave him a wide berth, he turned to look at her. Their eyes locked, and she suddenly realized there was something far too sane and directed about him.
Just as she was about to move even farther away, he raised an ornate wooden club and smashed it down at her.
Chloe threw up her hands and claws to deflect it, but the club was moving so swiftly and the man who wielded it was so strong—and prepared—that she only managed to keep the tip from hitting her head.
It made a cracking noise as it hit her collarbone instead, but most of the impact was taken on the side of her neck.
Chloe fell down, pain and fear shooting through her at the same time. She tried to get to her feet, but the pain and feeling of wrongness in her neck kept her from moving properly.
Another person appeared over her.
He wasn’t another “homeless guy”: just a normal-enough man walking a tiny dog, distinguished only by his bright orange sweater.
“Help me!” Chloe cried, lifting her hand to him.
He reached for her, but then she saw that he held something black and ropy that Chloe couldn’t identify. As his sweater tugged up his arm, she saw the tattoo, the same one the Rogue had had: Sodalitas Gladii Decimi.
Chloe screamed. Her claws came out and she slashed at her captors wildly despite the overwhelming pain.