It was still difficult to believe her sister was gone. Catherine had loved Anna, who’d been only a year older, but they had never been close. They’d fought with each other more often than not, and when Catherine looked back over her childhood, it seemed filled with petty competition and cruelty. Anna had been prettier than Catherine, better at math and science than Catherine, better at languages than Catherine, and she’d made a point of reminding Catherine of this every day since they were small.
But even with all of Anna’s talents, she’d been jealous when Catherine grew to be the better fighter. Anna didn’t like her little sister beating her at anything. When Catherine, who had beauty in her own right (if slightly less than Anna’s), had started to attract interest from boys, Anna had made it clear Catherine would never be anything but a second choice. When Catherine had shown great love for Seeker lore, Anna had mocked her mercilessly for her endless questions. When she’d daydreamed about the good deeds she would do as a Seeker, Anna had ridiculed her for being naive. And when Catherine had returned home from France with their family’s athame, recovered after missing for a century, Anna had stopped speaking to her altogether.
Their last conversation had been forced upon them by their mother. Anna had called Catherine in Hong Kong a month before, at their mother’s insistence, to brag about how much she loved the boy her parents were forcing her to marry. Archibald Hart. A ridiculous name for what must be a ridiculous boy—he’d have to be if he’d agreed to an arranged marriage in this day. He wasn’t a Seeker, but his family was well known, and her parents considered that valuable.
Archie is so handsome. Perfect, really, Anna had said over the phone, in a gushing tone that sounded genuine but probably wasn’t. Tough, a real man, but intelligent. Each word had seemed chosen by its potential to make Catherine feel less, to make her feel unworthy. He’s head over heels about me, Cat. It’s kind of embarrassing. I’m sorry they haven’t found a match like that for you. Don’t fret, though—there’s someone out there for you somewhere.
As if Catherine had nothing better to do than sit around waiting to see what monstrous boy her parents would try to thrust upon her. She’d gone to Hong Kong to leave all of that behind.
But the joke was on Catherine, of course. Her parents had found someone just like Archie for her. Anna was gone, but the connection to Archie’s family was apparently as important as ever, and Catherine was on her way to meet her parents and Archibald Hart right now. They intended that she should marry him in Anna’s place. Archie’s family name and Catherine’s family athame—a perfect partnership.
Hopefully he’ll hate me, she thought, not for the first time. Please let him hate me.
The train had stopped, and new passengers were pouring on. She spotted Briac Kincaid as soon as the car began moving again. He hadn’t come through the glass doors from the platform with everyone else. He’d entered through the door at the end, from another car. And he was obviously looking for her. Had he followed her to the station where she boarded? Maybe she hadn’t been as alert as she thought.
Briac stopped when he saw Catherine’s eyes on him. He was seventeen now, as Catherine was, and he’d gotten taller since she’d last seen him. He was wearing jeans and a sweater, like any normal person on the Tube, but the clothes looked like a costume on him. She could see him only with a whipsword in his hand, his black cloak hanging from one shoulder, his eyes hard and cruel. Now, however, his eyes looked less cruel. There was something almost pleading in them.
He mouthed: Speak to me.
Automatically Catherine’s hands brushed over her back, feeling the whipsword hidden there. She flicked her right wrist lightly, and a small, sharp knife dropped into place in her palm.
Of course I’ll speak to you, she thought, running her thumb lightly along the blade.
She pushed her way through passengers in the aisle until she was right next to Briac. He reached for her arm, but she slipped away between the final few people in the car. Shoving through the door at the end of the carriage, she stepped into the noisy dark of the connecting platform between train cars. Just over the edge of the platform, the tunnel floor streaked by, illuminated in bursts of brightness by intermittent lighting fixtures.
As soon as Briac stepped out of the carriage behind her, Catherine yanked him away from the door, where he was visible to passengers inside, and pushed him against the metal hide of the train. The knife in her right hand was at his neck.
“Were you part of it?” she asked. “Did you help kill her?”
“Who—Anna? You think I killed your sister?”
Briac held his arms up in a gesture of surrender, letting her know that he wasn’t trying to fight.
Liar, Catherine thought. You’re always ready to fight.
“You hated us, Briac,” she said. “Were you part of it?”
She touched the skin of his neck with the knife so he was forced to press himself into the train.
“No, I wasn’t part of it, Catherine!”
“Was he part of it? The same one who attacked me?”
“Someone attacked you?” Briac looked honestly surprised by this revelation.
“On the same day as Anna. A Seeker…looking for something that belongs to me.”
She moved her hair aside to show him the yellowing bruise that was still visible on her jaw from the attack in Hong Kong, a fading pattern of rough fingers on her face.
“But you got away,” he said. His voice held relief and something else. Possibly admiration, though that didn’t seem likely. “You’re a good fighter, you—”
“I didn’t just get away. I killed him.”
“Well, that’s—that’s good.” Briac still looked shaken by the news that Catherine had been attacked. It surprised her to see the open worry in his eyes.
“No, it’s not good,” she snapped, “because I can’t beat his name out of him if he’s dead.” She was proud of herself for saying these words as though beating her attacker had been an option. The truth was, she’d barely gotten away from him. “Who was he? I thought he was you at first.”
“I don’t know,” he told her. He held his hands up as she pressed her knife against his throat again. “I truly don’t, Catherine.”
She studied him, then relaxed her knife hand slightly. If she had to guess, she’d guess he was telling the truth, he didn’t know who’d killed Anna.
Briac sensed her willingness to listen, and went on, “I don’t know how many Seekers there are left in the world, or which ones might be after you. Most of us have been hiding from each other for generations.”
“How do I find out who attacked us?”
“That’s not the important question—”
“Death isn’t important to you?” she asked, cutting him off. “I bet your assignments are full of it. You hardly know who you’ve killed anymore.”
She expected him to get angry now, to try to grab her knife, but he didn’t. He looked at the blade by his throat, then back up at her.
“It’s not the important question, because much bigger things are happening,” he told her, lowering his voice, as though someone might be listening out on the noisy platform between cars. “Things could be…good, if we’re on the right side of them, or very bad if we’re not.”
“Anna’s death could be ‘good’? Is that what you think? And what about Emile? My attacker made it sound like Emile could be dead too.”
“Really?” Briac asked, looking even more concerned.
“I don’t know for sure.”
Briac appeared to shake off his worry. “You have to forget about Emile, Catherine. And even forget about Anna.”
Catherine reversed the knife, pulled back her arm, then slammed the butt of the weapon into Briac’s gut. He doubled over.
She waited warily as he groaned and pulled himself upright against the side of the train. When he was standing again, he looked furious. But he didn’t lunge at her. He stayed statue-still as he took a breath in and out.
“A lot of us will be killed or disappear,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s been happening for a while. Seeker against Seeker. You know that, don’t you? We can be clever about it, or we can be two more victims.”
Catherine thought again of the fox cave beneath Mont Saint-Michel. Was it possible it and other caves held the secrets of these disappearances?
“Why don’t Seekers go to the Dreads for help?” she asked. “I know the Middle Dread looks the other way when crimes are committed, or blames one Seeker instead of another, but what about the Old Dread and the Young—”
“No one goes to them because the Old has been gone for ages and the Young does nothing apart from the Middle.”
“She’s in the Middle’s shadow, but she’s good—”
“Catherine, listen,” Briac interrupted, “there are things you don’t know.” His eyes slid away from her. “Partner with me, and I’ll explain what I’ve learned.” He said it as though he were offering her something of great value. “And you’ll explain everything you know. You have an athame now—”
“How do you know that?”
“Everyone knows! Partner with me, and there’s a chance we could…do really well for ourselves. And not end up like Anna did. Because you have your journal, and I can make use of it.”
“My journal?” For the first moment in this conversation, she was truly confused. “How do you know about my journal?”
“I saw you with it when we were apprentices, and I wasn’t the only one. You told other apprentices about the sort of things you were putting in the journal. You weren’t very careful about that, Catherine.” He shook his head slightly and said, “It’s a better weapon than any other Seeker has. The Middle doesn’t want anyone to know of things he’s done. If you partner with me, I’ll show you how to use it.”
She searched his face for some sign that he was being sincere. His hard eyes looked worried and serious, but all she could see in him was the vicious boy who’d tried to force himself on her in the woods. She would never trust him.
“I thought you were engaged to Fiona MacBain. Someone you can push around.”
Briac slapped the train behind him angrily.
“I’m not trying to get you to marry me. I’m asking you to be my partner.”
“You have Alistair for that.”
Briac rolled his eyes. “He’s a complete romantic. He wants to be a Seeker like the ones in the old stories.”
Catherine laughed and felt a surge of kinship for Alistair. “That’s what I want too. Didn’t you know?”
“That doesn’t exist anymore.”
“It doesn’t exist because of Seekers like you, Briac. Killers like you. When we have a better Dread than the Middle to watch over us—”
“You think someone will replace him? Are you mad?”
He slammed his hand into the train behind him again. He looked truly frightened now, and this was deeply disturbing, because Briac didn’t scare easily. In a quick motion, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard.
“Don’t say things like that, Catherine, do you hear me? You don’t want to bring the Middle Dread’s attention onto yourself. He’s already heard of your journal. You want to end up dead for real?”
“The Middle Dread will not kill me. Dreads don’t kill Seekers, unless we’ve broken the law. Even the Middle Dread. It’s Seekers who’ve been killing each other. It was a Seeker who attacked me, a Seeker who killed Anna. If we had a real Middle Dread who was fair and just—”
He shook her again. “Just stop! We can help each other and maybe have a chance. If not, someone will kill you, Catherine.”
“You always seemed the most likely Seeker to do that, Briac.”
“I think about killing you all the time,” he told her seriously. His fingers dug into her shoulders. “You’re maddening.”
Catherine swung her arms up through his and brought her elbows down, pinning his arms against his ribs. He struggled as she turned and stepped forward, pushing him to the edge of the platform. They gripped each other’s arms as his head swung mere inches from the tunnel wall.
She released him suddenly, and he scrabbled for the railing. Catherine didn’t wait to see if he regained his footing. She was already at the door to the next carriage.
“Stay away from me,” she said.
19 Years Earlier
Catherine had to straighten out her clothing in the washroom of the Tube station after her confrontation with Briac. She felt ridiculous in the boring blouse and skirt her mother had insisted she wear, but at least nothing had been torn or dirtied in the exchange. If she looked anything short of acceptable, she wouldn’t hear the end of it.
She left the station and met her parents at the street corner, and her mother maneuvered her into a small alley behind a row of stately mansions to pull Catherine’s hair back into a braid. The ugly yellow bruises were still visible on Catherine’s jaw, but her mother managed to pull out enough strands of hair to hang loosely over the blemishes. Then they walked to the Harts’ front door.
The braid was still so tight a half hour later that Catherine’s forehead ached from her eyebrows being lifted up her face, and she imagined she must look extremely surprised. This was confirmed with a glance at herself in the mirror above the fireplace once inside the opulent town house.
Since the train ride, her mind was on her journal, which was locked in a cabinet in her parents’ house. The first thing she’d do when she left this awkward meeting would be to find a more secure place to keep it.
“Do you like cars?” Archie asked. He was standing with her at the window while their parents poured tea in the seating area at the center of the room.
The room itself was large and grand, with a fireplace at either end and a high ceiling covered in a mural of the sky. The tall windows gave views of other grand London homes and the park that began at the end of the street. Yet despite its expensive and pedigreed bones, the house had an air of shabbiness. The Harts were not as well off as they’d once been. If they had been, Catherine guessed, there would be no need to marry their son off into a family as odd as the Renarts.
Catherine brought her eyes back to Archie. He was, unfortunately, as handsome as Anna had said. That hadn’t been an exaggeration, and Catherine found herself resenting Archie for this. He had reddish-brown hair, slightly too long, in Catherine’s opinion, but it framed a face with a fine mix of features, including brown eyes that nearly matched his hair, and lips that, irritatingly, kept drawing her attention. He wore dress trousers and a sweater that seemed tailored expressly to set off the muscles of his shoulders and arms. He was older than she was by a few years, but he was a child.
Arrogant, she thought, and vain. Perfect for Anna.
Immediately she regretted that thought. She didn’t want to feel contempt for her dead sister.
“Cars?” she repeated.
“I rebuild vintage cars and motorbikes,” he said. “I could show them to you sometime. I think you’d like them.”
“Why would you think that?” she asked, taking a sip of her tea. The drink was scalding and burned her entire mouth. It took an enormous effort to act as though nothing had happened.
“Well—they’re beautiful,” Archie said, his eyes lighting up on this topic. “Some of the cars from last century are works of art.”
“I’ve hardly been in a car for three years,” she told him. “There weren’t any on the estate.”
“So you’d appreciate them even more, don’t you think?” he asked, refusing to be discouraged.
“I took the Tube here,” she said, as though that put a definitive end to the subject.
She took another sip of tea. It had cooled off slightly, but since her mouth was already burned, it seemed just as hot. She wasn’t entirely successful at hiding her discomfort this time. Archie glanced at her tea and at the expression on her face but made no comment. His father had surely ordered him to make friends with her, just as her mother and father had ordered her to be pleasant to
him.
Then, with a sudden stab of dread, she worried he might have been looking at the bruises on her jaw. She shook her head inconspicuously, trying to get her hair to cover them up again.
“So you’ve never been to a proper school, then?” he asked. “Just the estate in Scotland I keep hearing about?”
“A proper school?” Catherine repeated, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “The estate is a proper school, actually. We did learn things there.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean—”
“We just had…a lot more athletics than a typical school.”
“Anna told me that,” he said. Then he seemed to regret mentioning Catherine’s dead sister. He looked trapped, but he recovered gamely. “What—what sort of sports do you do? I’m a bit of a sportsman myself—boxing.”
He mimed throwing a couple of punches, in an obvious bid to draw attention to his muscles. She turned her eyes away to watch her mother complimenting Archie’s father, Gavin, on the quality of his tea service.
“Fencing mostly,” she said in answer to Archie’s question. “And running. Some martial arts. Boxing is—well, it seems rather easy when there are so many rules, doesn’t it? In a real fight, your opponent would throw his elbow into your throat if it gave him an advantage.”
“Boxing—easy?” Archie asked, clearly irked, despite his efforts to put up with her. His teacup landed back in its saucer a little too vigorously. He forced his voice down. “Do you think it’s easy, taking a full punch in the face?”
“Isn’t the point to avoid getting punched?” she asked. “If you’re any good.”
“It doesn’t always work out that way, does it? Do you always avoid getting hit when you fence?”
“No, not always,” she admitted, in a tone calculated to let him know that she hardly ever took a hit. Of course this wasn’t true, but then the word “fence” was ridiculous when applied to the kind of fighting they did on the estate.
“Sometimes you have to take a punch in order to deliver another,” he told her. “Sometimes that’s strategy. And you have to be willing to be hit.”