“Call him,” Jester says, holding out her phone.
My hands shake as I tap out his number, wait for the connection, the ringing on the other end like torture. Too much like the night I called the monastery over and over, so that I can’t even stand the sound.
Please answer. Please answer.
It rings and rings. I hang up, dial again, fingers digging into my hair.
No answer.
I search out my own phone. Text him swiftly:
Where are you??
But for all I know, he doesn’t even have his phone on or with him. Or he’s disabled it in favor of a new one.
“Jester, can you find his phone?”
“I can . . . but I would need some help.” She chews her lip.
I dial Serge.
He answers on the second ring, alert as though he’s been awake for hours.
“Serge?”
I’ve schooled my voice. Even so, the minute I say it’s me, he says, “Audra? What’s wrong?”
“Luka’s missing.”
“What do you mean, ‘missing’?”
“We went to court here in Budapest last night to release the video. Luka stayed behind . . .”
“Where’s your bodyguard?”
“I sent him away,” I say with an inward curse.
“Audra! I sent him for your protection!”
“Not everyone wants a Scion-provided bodyguard around, Serge, commoner or not!”
“Yes, you’re right. I understand,” he says, as though talking to a crazy woman, which he is.
“It’s retaliation—I don’t know if Nikola survived, but he had to, or got a message to the Historian . . .”
“Audra, you’re not making sense.”
“I closed down Nikola’s court when I exposed the Historian’s hunters in the video!”
“Closed it down . . .”
“Yes! And I—” I can’t try to explain the entire night. “I stabbed Nikola.”
“You what?”
“He got away, and I’m afraid he came after Luka. Listen, I know this isn’t part of the deal . . . I can’t find the Historian with Luka missing. If he’s not all right.”
“It’s fine, Audra, I’ll help if I can.”
Jester holds out her hand.
I give up and hand her the phone. Turn away, fingers over my eyes as she begins a conversation about protocols and cell towers and some device she needs to access.
I wander out of the living room to stare at the bedroom that used to be mine. That was ours a lifetime before.
Rolan and Piotrek are in there, checking the closet space and under the bed, saying nothing’s been disturbed. The window is locked, shade down against the morning sun. The comforter isn’t even that rumpled where he lay down on it, fully dressed, as we said good-bye.
My gaze catches on something sticking out from beneath the edge of the pillow, that looks like it slipped off the smooth top of it when I jostled it earlier. I slide my hand beneath it, and come away with a fluorescent pen.
I shove up, heart drumming against my ribs so hard they ache, and hurry to the bathroom where the loose purple bulb still sits in the center socket of the light fixture. Lock the door. Overturn the trash can, step up onto it to close the high window’s slats against the morning light. Tighten the purple bulb and unscrew the two on either side. Lean over, flick on the light switch.
The walls come to manic life.
Scrawled on the bathroom mirror in Luka’s handwriting is a message:
SORRY.
39
* * *
There’s a smaller line beneath that horrible word:
GOING TO TRY TO FIND AN END TO THIS. WAIT FOR ME.
—L
I search around me, at the frantic scribbles of the nineteen-year-old Audra trying to make sense of her life. Having entered my story, it’s only right that he write here on the mirror beside the time line of our relationship, the last entry made by me just last night.
But this is his story, too. Not just here but scrawled on the west wall in a morbid progression of ambition and murder.
I search for a postscript—anything to say where he’s gone and for how long.
But there’s nothing else.
At first, I’m angry. That’s it? That’s all he leaves for me? His lover—his wife!—the mother of his child? “Sorry”?
He doesn’t answer his phone or return my text—sneaks off after I kissed him good-bye . . . as he lay there fully dressed on the bed.
I know that trick.
And what they say about karma is true.
Despite the fact that I probably had this coming, I know he hasn’t acted out of spite.
A knock on the door. “Audra?” It’s Claudia, the earlier rift between us mended by this latest crisis. “Are you okay?”
Do I tell her?
No. He wrote his message here, left the marker in the bed for me alone to find.
“Yeah. I mean no, I don’t feel good.”
“Need me to come in?”
“No. No, I’ll be out in a few. Thanks.”
I back up and sit down on the edge of the tub.
Luka left the message for only me. Then how did he expect me to explain his absence to everyone else when I can’t explain it to myself? Why leave a message, why not wait, tell me in person this morning?
Because he didn’t want me to stop him. Or try to go with him.
He was protecting me.
Wait for me.
It’s more than I ever said to him when I left.
He, at least, plans to come back.
I scan the three lines again. Too few words.
Sorry.
An apology. For what—leaving? It’s more than I gave him the time I abandoned him in Bratislava. But I never felt guilty any time I thought I was protecting him. Regretful, yes. Heartbroken—of course. But even though it ripped me apart, I never felt apologetic once. Why does he?
Going to try to find an end to this.
An end to what?
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. He can’t have thought he’d leave and just try to end four hundred years of killing on his own. How? What can he possibly do that hasn’t been done? That we haven’t tried already? He’s lost all ties, been declared a traitor.
A chill passes up along my spine. Would he offer to turn himself over?
No. He wouldn’t have told me to wait. Besides, Luka’s not Progeny. There are no secrets the Historian can glean from his brain other than any information he gives up willingly. He’s a loose end, not a prize. But the cache systematically being used to bring down the Scions is.
I unscrew the bulb, tighten the others, and unlock the door.
“Jester!” I say, striding from the bathroom.
She’s off the phone and staring out the window. Turns, chewing a fingernail. I’ve never seen her look pensive before.
“Is anything missing?” I say.
She blinks and begins to look around, to sort through her bag and take a quick survey. And it occurs to me just how much valuable information we left behind—in Luka’s care—when we left nearly six hours ago.
“Where’s Piotrek? Where are the others?” I say, noticing that we are alone.
“He’s gone searching in case Luka’s on foot. Claudia and Rolan heisted a car.”
She checks her satchel and lifts her hands with a shake of her head. “Nothing’s missing,” she says. “It’s all here. Why?”
“I just— I’m paranoid, I guess. What did Serge say?”
“He’s trying to locate Luka’s phone. As well as the one I couldn’t trace earlier—the one belonging to the Historian’s creepy lackey.” She’s somber as she says it, and I wonder what she’s not telling me.
“That’s good, right?”
“Maybe,” she says, brows drawn together.
I pick up my phone and text Luka again.
Please call me. I’m freaking out.
“Audra,” Jester says tentatively.
/>
“Yeah,” I say, pacing to the window.
“What’s really going on?”
“What do you mean?” I say, craning my head, willing Luka to appear. To come walking back with coffee, saying he couldn’t sleep.
“There’s something here I don’t know. And I am not one to ask, because it is not our way. ‘Better to die blindly than having seen too much,’ the old saying goes. Because when your memory can be harvested, not asking is the safer option. But there is something here that does not make sense. Ever since you took off from Munich even though Brother Daniel was already dead. The way you went to Serge—how you even knew to go to him . . .”
I chew the inside of my cheek. All this time I haven’t wanted to hurt her. And all this time she’s been operating on faith—in me. But if there is a true savior of the Progeny, I know it isn’t me.
It’s her.
And she deserves the truth.
I turn away from the window. “I knew because Tibor told me.”
She studies me with a frown.
“When?”
“In Munich.”
Her brows lift. “I see.”
“He gave me Serge’s name. Said there was a rift in the Scion ranks, and that he was at war with the Historian. Which he is. He hates her for killing his children after he told her he no longer wanted to supply the names of future hunters and Progeny victims.”
She walks several steps away.
“I see,” she says quietly, again.
But she doesn’t, and I hate it. Because right now, I wish I had a friend I could confide in. It’s the one luxury a Progeny can never quite afford, the unspoken rule that maintains enough walls between the progeny of Elizabeth Bathory to keep them isolated even when they’re together. And I realize looking at her right now that though I’ve always considered her closer to my age than Claudia, I don’t know how old she is.
I don’t even know her real name.
“Don’t get mad at me for asking this,” she says slowly.
“I won’t,” I say, already knowing what she’s going to ask.
“Is it possible that Luka’s gone to someone?”
Okay, I was wrong.
“What do you mean? Like . . . another woman?” I say with a short laugh.
“Like a Scion. Or even . . . one of the Historian’s lackeys.”
“No. Why would he?”
“I’m saying, is it possible that he’s betrayed you? Us,” she says, trying to soften the question. “Betrayed us.”
“What? No!” I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
She crosses the floor and lays her hands on my shoulders. “I know you don’t want to consider it. I’m just asking. Is it possible? A hunter will go to many lengths. Many extremes.”
“No. He would’ve killed me by now.”
“What if he doesn’t need to? He’s been such a part of your life that he knows everything! You have no idea what Serge could have convinced Luka of while you were unconscious. Something must have happened there or in the last few days—”
“Yes!” I say. “He wanted to leave. He hated it there. He hates that I took the extra risk of dropping in on Interpol’s deputy to the EU in Brussels and Senator Borghi in Italy. I was reckless, and he didn’t like it, but he wants this to be over as much as I do.”
Her gaze bores into mine. “Is it possible he went to warn Nikola or the Historian about our going to court?”
“No!”
“I know you want to believe he loves you—”
“He’s gone to try to end this.”
“You don’t know that! And it wouldn’t make sense even if it were true. There is no way to end this other than what we are already doing! And if it’s true that there is a rift within the Scions, then Luka’s leaving looks even worse.”
I close my eyes, attempt to tamp down panic. Because I don’t know what Luka is trying to do. But I also know I can’t find him without her help.
“Come here,” I say at last, gesturing her to follow.
I lead her to the bathroom.
“What are we doing?” she says.
I screw in the bulb, reverse the others, and close the door.
She sucks in a breath.
“I just found this,” I say, pointing at the mirror.
“But . . . why would he put this here? And what is all of this?”
“This is . . . more than you ever want to know. And if you don’t want to know it, then it’s time to turn the light off.”
But instead of moving toward the light switch, she scans the length of one wall and then the next, exclaiming under her breath. Cursing softly.
“There’s something else,” I say.
I pull my sweater off, turn my back toward the light fixture.
“I remember this tattoo,” she says, a light finger tracing down my spine. “You decoded it in Graz to get into your safety deposit box. Here—the logo of the vault that I located for you,” she says, tapping the bottom cipher.
“I didn’t decode it all. Not until I went to Košljun,” I say, looking over my shoulder into the mirror. “The top three numbers are the date I married Luka.”
She closes her eyes briefly, and I know she is braced for my sake. For Luka’s ultimate betrayal of me.
“The next three . . . are the date our daughter was born.”
Her eyes fly open and she stares at me in the purple light.
I pull my sweater back on. Point to the wall beside the mirror.
“Eva,” she reads with soft wonder.
I nod and unscrew the bulb. The room goes black. I tighten the other bulbs to life, and all the writing—my old life, my daughter, and Luka’s message—is gone.
Jester’s face is ashen.
“Brother Daniel was the last person who knew where she was,” I say, feeling my diaphragm tighten. “I told Serge if I delivered the Historian I needed him to use his surveillance network to find someone. Last night I begged Nikola to tell me how to find the Historian. But he wouldn’t help me unless I turned over my new court to his protection and let them believe they were safe in Budapest. I couldn’t do that.”
“I’m . . . I’m speechless,” she says. “You poor thing. I’m so sorry. So very sorry,” she says, wrapping her arms around me.
I accept her embrace, but I’m numb.
“Oh my God,” Jester says and steps back. “You’re not the only Firstborn!” she whispers, eyes wide.
“No.”
“Mon Dieu!” she says, walking from the bathroom, hand to her head.
“But your baby—is half hunter . . .”
I give a small nod, and then go to take her hands. “Jester . . .” I say urgently. But there are no words adequate to say how much I am entrusting to her.
She squeezes my fingers.
“I will never betray your secret,” she says. “We never say among the Utod ‘your secret is safe with me.’ But, I assure you . . . it will be.”
In a normal world, they are pretty words shared between friends. In ours, they are a far graver promise.
I let her go, but she’s staring at me.
“No one has ever trusted me so much with their life.”
“No one has ever protected mine more. Other than Luka,” I say. “This is why he wants to end it. I just don’t know where he’s gone.”
“And so,” she says. “We have to ask ourselves now: What does he know that we do not?”
40
* * *
It is by now nearly 6:00 A.M. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve tried to call Luka. Have cursed myself and repented over and over for the time I left him in Bratislava.
Serge calls back to say that they are working on it, but he has no news.
I close myself in the bedroom, haunted by Jester’s question.
What happened in France?
Luka hadn’t slept for nearly two days. Was quiet, off and on since I woke up, anxious to leave.
I press my fingers to my brow, searching the room at t
he château by memory. Reviewing the times and hours he was gone. One, to buy phones, text Jester, buy chocolate . . .
Again, as I got my makeup done. Where had he gone?
He didn’t trust his privacy in Serge’s house. Wouldn’t have said anything even if he could have . . .
Something else is bothering me: an itch at the back of my brain ever since I sat down in front of the GenameBase monitor.
Twelve original Scions of the Dispossessed. Twelve families, branched out into tiny and ever-multiplying capillaries like roots. Roots, sunk into the soil of commerce, politics, the military, the nobility. Rarely intermarrying between the twelve families in four hundred years—choosing to marry into power, when they could, instead.
Three known Historians: surnames Errickson, Bertalan, Alexandrescu. Errickson was first, a descendant of one of the original twelve surnamed Samsa.
Bertalan was second, two generations later, from the original family of the same name.
Alexandrescu, from the original family of Tolvaj.
The twelve strands dangle before my eyes, twisting like DNA in a hologram.
Samsa. Bertalan. Tolvaj. They are listed in a separate genealogy of the twelve original Scions Serge directed his administrator to show me—in that same order, with two and then three names between them.
My mental gaze skips down the hand-drawn Scion map I discovered in Vienna, to the progression of Historians. The row of circles, most of them empty. Two circles between the Historians descended from families Samsa and Bertalan. Three between Bertalan and Tolvaj.
The same number of names between them at the top of the GenameBase file.
They’re going in order. Taking turns in the office. The new Historian appointed in the next family by the acting leader of the last, in prescribed order.
I flash back to the spheres of progression on the Scion map. Four empty circles after the last known Historian.
Back to the GenameBase listing. Shift over four names. Family name Me’sza’ros.
The lineage of the current Historian.
“They’re going in order!” I say aloud and get to my feet.
I tug open the door, go into the living room, where Jester is gazing at her laptop screen.
She’s already begun to pack up her things. Despite the fact that it hasn’t been twenty-four hours, we both know the risks of staying here after last night. But there are other considerations now: namely, that Serge knows she was here.