An Artificial Night
Page 74
“I’m not sure she’s human now, Luna. The Luidaeg said to tell you to send Katie to her. She may not be able to do anything, but she can try.”
“I don’t think that’s safe,” Luna said.
“I don’t know. I have to go.” I stood, wincing. The pain in my head was annoying but livable. I didn’t have much of a choice about that. “I can’t take the Children’s Road. You were willing to kill me, Luna. You owe me this.”
“Ah,” she said, softly. Yellow lines were beginning to streak through her eyes, obscuring the brown. “I should have known it would come to this. We harvest the things we plant in this life, however many years it takes their seeds to grow.” A bitter smile creased her lips. “You’d best survive, October Daye, daughter of Amandine, or my husband will never forgive me. I’ve never wished to be my mother.”
“Luna, what—”
“She’s put you on the Rose Road, and it’s up to me to send you on your way. But you won’t come back on that road. Your return will have a different path.” Her eyes were almost yellow now, and threads of pink were appearing in her hair. “I’m sorry I lied. I never wanted to. But I couldn’t let my father find me. This is the second time his Riders have come since I left his halls, and I didn’t stand for any of the children they claimed then. This harvest puts paid to all. She told you there was a time limit?”
I blinked, thrown by what seemed to be a sudden change of subjects. “Twenty-four hours. Get in and out before the candle dies, or don’t get out at all.”
“Exactly so.” She offered me her hand. “Come, my dear. There isn’t time to waste. Not now.” Every time my eyes left her she changed a little more, shifting more and more toward the woman she’d been when she took Acacia’s rose. “Maybe there never has been.” With that said, she took my hand in hers, and led me out of the Children’s Hall.
We walked through halls and gardens, bedrooms, kitchens, and libraries, until the rooms began to blur together. A hall of portraits; a hall filled with dusty furniture; a country garden; a library filled with books that whispered as we passed. We walked until my head was spinning, never stopping, never looking back. And then a familiar door was in front of us, made of unvarnished wood with a stained glass rose where the eyehole should have been. Luna looked at me, unfamiliar eyes filled with pain, and let go of my hand as she opened the door.
The Garden of Glass Roses was filled with light that slanted down from the windows and passed through the translucent roses to scatter into countless tiny rainbows that glittered on the cobblestone paths and gray stone walls. Luna walked ahead of me, trailing her fingers over the unyielding glass edges of the flowers as she passed and leaving traceries of blood behind. I followed slowly, resolutely refusing to listen to the things her blood was trying to tell me. It was too changed and too confused; it knew nothing of value anymore.
Luna stopped in the far corner of the garden, standing in front of a bush with flowers that were crimson shading into black. Their stems were heavy with thorns, so sharply barbed that they looked like weapons. “Roses are always cruel,” she said, almost wistfully. “That’s what makes them roses.” She reached into the bush, not wincing as the thorns gouged her skin.
“What are you talking about?”
Her expression was serene. “Beauty and cruelty, of course. It’s simple.” There was a thin snapping sound from inside the bush. She withdrew her hand, now holding a perfect black rosebud. “The Rose Roads are no kinder than the others, but people assume they must be, because they’re beautiful. Beauty lies.” She kissed the flower, almost casually, despite the way the petals sliced her lips. Blood began to flow freely.
And the rose began to open.
The petals unfurled slowly, slicing her lips and fingers until the air was fragrant with the scent of her blood. Luna smiled, offering me the rose. “Prick your finger on the thorns, and you’ll be on your way. Take the rose, bleed for it, and it will take you where you want to go.”
Still frowning, I held out my hand. She placed the rose on my palm, where it rested lightly, thorns not even scratching me. “What do I need to do?”
“Just bleed.”
“All right.” I curled my fingers around the rose, stopping when the pain told me that the thorns had found their mark. “Now what do I . . . do . . . Luna? What’s happening?” The world was suddenly hazy, like I was staring through a fog. The woman with the rose-colored hair stood in the middle of it all, bloody hands clasped to her breast.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, but it’s the only way. Go quickly . . .”
“Is drugging me a new hobby for you people?” I asked, and fell. Part of me was screaming; the Garden of Glass roses is mostly made of glass and stone and has very few soft places to land. That was only a small part—the rest of me was sinking in rose-scented darkness, falling farther and farther from escape. Luna was crying somewhere behind me in the dark. I wanted to shout at her, but there were no words. There was nothing but darkness and the smell of roses.
And then even that was gone.
TWENTY-SIX
KAREN SAT BENEATH THE WILLOWS, combing the hair of a Kitsune child. “Hello, Aunt Birdie,” she said, looking up. “You’re coming back for me.”
“I know where you are now,” I said, hearing the faint echo of my voice against the wind. I was dreaming. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Hoshibara,” Karen said. “She died here.”
“Why?” I looked at the girl, who offered me a small, shy smile.
“Blind Michael stole her, but she got away; she wouldn’t let him change her. She ran to the woods.” Karen pulled her hands away from Hoshibara’s hair, hiding them in her lap. “She died, but the night-haunts never got her body. Someone else did.” She pointed past me. “See?”
I turned. Hoshibara was there, lying under a willow tree. There was someone—a girl, barely more than a child herself, with yellow eyes and hair that fell to her waist in a riot of pink and red curls. She crept out of the trees with one hand over her mouth, staring at the Kitsune.
Hoshibara lifted her head, looking at the girl; looking at Luna. The movement was weak. There wasn’t much movement left in her. “I won’t go back,” she whispered.
“I don’t think that’s safe,” Luna said.
“I don’t know. I have to go.” I stood, wincing. The pain in my head was annoying but livable. I didn’t have much of a choice about that. “I can’t take the Children’s Road. You were willing to kill me, Luna. You owe me this.”
“Ah,” she said, softly. Yellow lines were beginning to streak through her eyes, obscuring the brown. “I should have known it would come to this. We harvest the things we plant in this life, however many years it takes their seeds to grow.” A bitter smile creased her lips. “You’d best survive, October Daye, daughter of Amandine, or my husband will never forgive me. I’ve never wished to be my mother.”
“Luna, what—”
“She’s put you on the Rose Road, and it’s up to me to send you on your way. But you won’t come back on that road. Your return will have a different path.” Her eyes were almost yellow now, and threads of pink were appearing in her hair. “I’m sorry I lied. I never wanted to. But I couldn’t let my father find me. This is the second time his Riders have come since I left his halls, and I didn’t stand for any of the children they claimed then. This harvest puts paid to all. She told you there was a time limit?”
I blinked, thrown by what seemed to be a sudden change of subjects. “Twenty-four hours. Get in and out before the candle dies, or don’t get out at all.”
“Exactly so.” She offered me her hand. “Come, my dear. There isn’t time to waste. Not now.” Every time my eyes left her she changed a little more, shifting more and more toward the woman she’d been when she took Acacia’s rose. “Maybe there never has been.” With that said, she took my hand in hers, and led me out of the Children’s Hall.
We walked through halls and gardens, bedrooms, kitchens, and libraries, until the rooms began to blur together. A hall of portraits; a hall filled with dusty furniture; a country garden; a library filled with books that whispered as we passed. We walked until my head was spinning, never stopping, never looking back. And then a familiar door was in front of us, made of unvarnished wood with a stained glass rose where the eyehole should have been. Luna looked at me, unfamiliar eyes filled with pain, and let go of my hand as she opened the door.
The Garden of Glass Roses was filled with light that slanted down from the windows and passed through the translucent roses to scatter into countless tiny rainbows that glittered on the cobblestone paths and gray stone walls. Luna walked ahead of me, trailing her fingers over the unyielding glass edges of the flowers as she passed and leaving traceries of blood behind. I followed slowly, resolutely refusing to listen to the things her blood was trying to tell me. It was too changed and too confused; it knew nothing of value anymore.
Luna stopped in the far corner of the garden, standing in front of a bush with flowers that were crimson shading into black. Their stems were heavy with thorns, so sharply barbed that they looked like weapons. “Roses are always cruel,” she said, almost wistfully. “That’s what makes them roses.” She reached into the bush, not wincing as the thorns gouged her skin.
“What are you talking about?”
Her expression was serene. “Beauty and cruelty, of course. It’s simple.” There was a thin snapping sound from inside the bush. She withdrew her hand, now holding a perfect black rosebud. “The Rose Roads are no kinder than the others, but people assume they must be, because they’re beautiful. Beauty lies.” She kissed the flower, almost casually, despite the way the petals sliced her lips. Blood began to flow freely.
And the rose began to open.
The petals unfurled slowly, slicing her lips and fingers until the air was fragrant with the scent of her blood. Luna smiled, offering me the rose. “Prick your finger on the thorns, and you’ll be on your way. Take the rose, bleed for it, and it will take you where you want to go.”
Still frowning, I held out my hand. She placed the rose on my palm, where it rested lightly, thorns not even scratching me. “What do I need to do?”
“Just bleed.”
“All right.” I curled my fingers around the rose, stopping when the pain told me that the thorns had found their mark. “Now what do I . . . do . . . Luna? What’s happening?” The world was suddenly hazy, like I was staring through a fog. The woman with the rose-colored hair stood in the middle of it all, bloody hands clasped to her breast.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, but it’s the only way. Go quickly . . .”
“Is drugging me a new hobby for you people?” I asked, and fell. Part of me was screaming; the Garden of Glass roses is mostly made of glass and stone and has very few soft places to land. That was only a small part—the rest of me was sinking in rose-scented darkness, falling farther and farther from escape. Luna was crying somewhere behind me in the dark. I wanted to shout at her, but there were no words. There was nothing but darkness and the smell of roses.
And then even that was gone.
TWENTY-SIX
KAREN SAT BENEATH THE WILLOWS, combing the hair of a Kitsune child. “Hello, Aunt Birdie,” she said, looking up. “You’re coming back for me.”
“I know where you are now,” I said, hearing the faint echo of my voice against the wind. I was dreaming. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Hoshibara,” Karen said. “She died here.”
“Why?” I looked at the girl, who offered me a small, shy smile.
“Blind Michael stole her, but she got away; she wouldn’t let him change her. She ran to the woods.” Karen pulled her hands away from Hoshibara’s hair, hiding them in her lap. “She died, but the night-haunts never got her body. Someone else did.” She pointed past me. “See?”
I turned. Hoshibara was there, lying under a willow tree. There was someone—a girl, barely more than a child herself, with yellow eyes and hair that fell to her waist in a riot of pink and red curls. She crept out of the trees with one hand over her mouth, staring at the Kitsune.
Hoshibara lifted her head, looking at the girl; looking at Luna. The movement was weak. There wasn’t much movement left in her. “I won’t go back,” she whispered.
