Выбрать главу

Why me? “Right. Any other tips?”

Her sarcasm whistled right over his head. “Yes. Look at me and not at your plate. If you have to look at your plate, glance at it occasionally.”

Rose put down her fork. “Lord Submarine . . .”

“Camarine.”

“Whatever.”

“You can call me Declan.” He said it as if granting her knighthood. The nerve.

“Declan, then. How did you spend your day?”

He frowned.

“It’s a simple question: How did you spend your day? What did you do prior to the fight and pancake making?”

“I rested from my journey,” he said with a sudden regal air.

“You took a nap.”

“Possibly.”

“I spent my day scrubbing, vacuuming, and dusting ten offices in the Broken. I got there at seven thirty in the morning and left at six. My back hurts, I can still smell bleach on my fingers, and my feet feel as flat as these pancakes. Tomorrow, I have to go back to work, and I want to eat my food in peace and quiet. I have good table manners. They may not be good enough for you, but they’re definitely good enough for the Edge, and they are the height of social graces for this house. So please keep your critique to yourself.”

The look on his face was worth having him under her roof. As if he had gotten slapped.

She smiled at him. “Oh, and thank you for the pancakes. They are delicious.”

SIX

ROSE awoke early. She had slept badly, in short bursts, waking up every hour or so to check on the kids. Twice she thought she heard something outside, and she went out onto the porch to investigate. She found nothing. Just the night, which, so mundane a day before, suddenly seemed sinister and full of danger.

When she did fall asleep, she dreamt of monsters, children screaming, and sliding out of control on wet mud that seemed never to end. By five, she gave up on sleeping and dragged herself upright to make coffee.

She passed by her father’s bedroom. The door was closed. Last night she had given “Declan” a brief tour of the house, starting with the bathroom. He seemed to have matters well in hand. Rose wasn’t surprised. The existence of the Broken wasn’t exactly public knowledge in the Weird, but some nobility were aware of it, just like a few select Broken residents were aware of the existence of the Weird. He was probably high enough on the social ladder to be privy to secret information.

Tour finished, Rose gave Declan a spare toothbrush—his doubloon had paid for it and more—and a fresh towel, and made up Dad’s bed with clean sheets and blankets. The kids told him good night, and he disappeared behind the door. She hadn’t seen him in her midnight wanderings. Whatever phantom noises had troubled her failed to bother him.

Rose briefly considered knocking on the door but decided against it. She didn’t have to leave, not yet, and she could use a calm moment with a cup of coffee before the kids rose.

She opened the windows to let fresh air in, boiled coffee in a small metal ewer her father called an ibrik, allowing the coffee to foam up twice before permanently taking it off the heat, poured herself a cup with a little bit of milk, and sat down at the table, fully intending to savor the drink. In front of her, wide windows offered the view of the lawn running into shrubs bordering the grass. Beyond them she saw the path curling into misty gloom between the trees. In the pre-dawn light, the leaves and the grass were dark and wet with dew. A chill filtered through the screen on the window. On mornings like this, she was grateful for a roof over her head and coffee. Rose brought the cup to her lips, blew gently, and touched the rim. Still too hot.

The creatures disturbed her. She’d never sensed anything so . . . so alien. All magic had a natural connection, even the vilest kind, but the beasts were disconnected from everything. They weren’t undead; they weren’t conjured, animated, or transmuted. To do any of those things, one had to start with a natural element: rock, metal, living tissue, and that base left an imprint on the final creation. The beasts’ magic had no ties to anything.

As much as it pained her to admit, she was deeply grateful that Declan happened to come along to save Jack. That, far more than the doubloon, had earned him a stay in her house. Her memory served up Declan, bursting with power, his eyes iced over with radiant white . . . He was something else. She’d thought of him several times last night, during her relay of catnaps and paranoid wakefulness. She still wanted to touch his face just to reassure herself that he was indeed flesh and bone.

Rose dragged her mind back to the problem of the boys. Without her truck, she had no way of getting the kids safely to and from the bus stop. Letting them walk by themselves was out of the question, not with those creatures around. She had to be at work by seven thirty and would likely stay there until five, if she was lucky, or six. The kids were released at three thirty in the afternoon, and the bus dropped them off at three forty-five. They couldn’t walk up to the house by themselves, not with those beasts around, and she didn’t feel comfortable making them wait that long by the main road. Grandma was likely still at Adele’s. The old woman lived deep in the Wood, and whenever Grandma visited her, she usually lingered overnight.

The boys couldn’t wait for two hours by the bus stop. The Broken had its predators as well. They would have to skip a day.

A movement on the path made her stretch her neck to get a better look. Declan emerged from the shadowy trail, running. She jerked upright, expecting pursuit. He ran to the lawn, leaned forward for a moment, shaking his head, and began to circle the house slowly in that telltale jogger way, walking off the burn in his lungs. Rose dropped back into her chair. Her pulse hammered. Prickly needles of adrenaline rush nipped at her arms. Damn him.

He probably didn’t know the meaning of running from his attacker, arrogant ass that he was. Chew slowly, indeed.

She understood why he was the way he was. She’d read the Encyclopedia of the Weird and other books she bartered from the caravans. The nobles of the Weird enjoyed unmatched power. They ruled over their domains as individuals and over their countries as assemblies under the watch of a constitutional monarch. They were painstakingly bred, educated from birth, and brought up with the sense of belonging to the elite. Like purebred show dogs groomed for obedience training competitions. Their lives had strict rules. It was not really his fault for trying to impose them on everyone—he simply didn’t know of any other way to be. But just because she understood where he was coming from didn’t make him welcome.

Declan completed his circle and stopped right in front of the porch. He wore dark pants, a shirt with ripped-off sleeves that left his arms exposed, and light boots. Nice arms . . .

The way he had summoned an image of that beast yesterday; now that was impressive. She wanted so badly to learn how he did it, she’d almost asked. Almost. He’d laugh in her face. He already thought she was an ignorant, rude mongrel. No need to give him more ammunition.

The huge sword was still on his back. He shrugged it off and pulled off his shirt. Rose paused with the cup halfway to her lips.

His golden hair, damp with sweat, spilled down his back. Tall, big boned, layered with carved muscle, he was made with strength in mind, but the massive width of his shoulders and chest tapered to a flat stomach and narrow waist. His hips were lean, his legs long and powerful. Despite all his bulk, there was a honed sleekness about him—he was strong, supple, and quick, a man who spent all his life sharpening his body into a weapon. That’s what they did, the nobles of the Weird. Their ultimate purpose was to lead armies into battle.