Nightweaver #1

Chapter Ten

Will and I glance at each other, my own puzzlement mirrored in his gaze. At the base of the fountain, a pocketknife remains, wet with blood. It’s the pocketknife from the knapsack Will gave me—the knapsack I left to sink in the mud. An animal didn’t take it, after all.

“A Gore didn’t leave this message,” Will says, lifting the pocketknife to inspect it. “Gores know only two things: Kill and eat. A Gore killed Mr. and Mrs. Hackney, but this ”—he cuts his eyes to the bloody message—“was the work of someone else.” He turns to me. “It would seem you’ve a remarkable talent for making enemies.”

“How do we know she isn’t in on it?” Henry snarls, his eyes like daggers.

“I told you,” Will shoots back, his voice dark and deep. “She was with me.”

“And why is that?” Henry tilts his head. “Have you forgotten the law? Or do you think it doesn’t apply to you?”

“And what of you, little brother?” Will gestures at Dorothy, faint in Henry’s arms. “Do you bow to the king’s law?”

Henry bites his bottom lip, his nostrils flaring. He looks as if he’d like to set both Will and me on fire.

“What law?” I whisper, burning under the heat of both my family’s and the Castors’ relentless stares.

The corner of Will’s mouth pulls into a frown. “Nightweavers and humans are… forbidden.”

I stagger away from him, my cheeks hot. “But we’re not—”

“No.” Will fixes a glare on Henry. “We’re not. Aster followed me to Hildegarde’s Folly earlier this evening. She was curious after what happened with Dearest. I informed her it was imprudent for us to be alone without a chaperone. I was escorting her back to the house when we heard the Gore,” he says, his voice somewhere between a growl and a whisper. “That’s all.”

“Then why—?” Henry starts, as if he’s about to question Will further, but Lord Bludgrave clears his throat.

Lord Bludgrave takes a watch on a long, golden chain from his breast pocket and flicks it open, scrutinizing its face. His gaze slides up toward Will, and he cocks a brow. “We’ll discuss this another time. Tomorrow’s a busy day. I’ve received word that my brother-in-law, the admiral, will be arriving in little over a month. He’s to spend the summer at Bludgrave, and we’re obliged to have him. There’s much to do to prepare, and with Mr. and Mrs. Hackney—” He breaks off, sighs.

“No need to fret, my lord,” Mother says smoothly, her countenance like that of a political advisor, not a housekeeper. “Lewis will act in Mr. Hackney’s stead.”

Lord Bludgrave dips his head. “Thank you. I don’t know what we would have done had my son not brought you into our home.”

Henry scoffs. “Mr. and Mrs. Hackney would still be alive had he not brought them into our home.” He glowers at me, but I hold his stare, steady and unblinking. I know what he’s thinking, because I’m thinking it, too: One look and I’m dead.

“Enough,” Lady Isabelle barks. She turns to Henry, her face drawn with exhaustion. “Take Dorothy to her room. Do whatever Margaret tells you.”

Henry purses his lips sourly, but he doesn’t argue—not where Dorothy is concerned. Carrying her, he follows Margaret into the house. I start after them, not wanting to leave Margaret alone with him, but I’ve taken only a few steps before I stop short as Jack shoulders through the door behind Henry.

“The staff need not know details of what we’ve seen here tonight, only rumors,” Lord Bludgrave says, directing a pointed look at Gylda and Hugh, whom he dismisses with the subtle dip of his head. He bids Mother and Father good night before following Lady Isabelle into the house, and a moment later, Lewis scurries after him.

Mother motions for me to come near, and without hesitation, I allow her to draw me close, knowing the gesture is not for comfort, but to serve as a means of passing along a message without Will’s suspicion.

“Be vigilant,” she whispers into my hair. “Kindness is the great deceiver.”

Don’t trust anyone , she means, and I hear her loud and clear: even Will . I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He’s still examining the knife that was used to carve words into the disembodied heads—two humans in the Castors’ employ, impaled on a Nightweaver’s blade.

A phantom pain seizes my left shoulder, and my muscles tense. After everything that’s happened—the battle that led to our capture, the train ride to Ink Haven—the damage must finally be catching up with me. Still, I can’t let the ache of a couple of bruises distract me now.

I can’t forget why we’re here, and I can’t forgive. But some small part of me, against my better judgment, wishes I could. Because despite what I was taught, despite what I know to be true, I find myself wanting to trust Will. And though my mother’s command is the only true law by which I’m bound, I feel I’ve already broken it.

Mother pulls away, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and takes Father by the arm once more. Father smiles at me, but the expression doesn’t reach his tired eyes, which convey a message all their own. We are not safe here. Not like we hoped.

He touches my cheek, a gesture meant to offer comfort—and confidence. “This isn’t your fault,” he says, and at his words, the tension in my left shoulder eases. If Father is on my side, then so are the others.

I want to apologize for how I acted earlier this evening and tell him I don’t blame him for signing the King’s Marque, but by the time I find my voice, the double doors have closed behind them. Charlie and I are left together on the steps, watching as Gylda and Hugh make the long trek down the driveway.

At sea, Charlie oversaw the disposal of bodies after a skirmish. He took special pains to scrub blood and excrement from the deck until the stains were nonexistent, and if it were one of our own adopted crew who fell, he made the arrangements for burial. It makes sense that he would be the one to deal with this mess. Kindhearted Charlie—my careful, considerate brother—the same boy who cried for a week when he accidentally broke Mother’s favorite music box—is the only one with the stomach for decapitated heads and a fountain of blood.

“Do you need me to—” I start, but Charlie shakes his head. I already knew what his answer would be; he has always preferred to work alone. But I almost hoped he’d ask me to stay. For some reason, I’d rather be with Charlie, cleaning up blood, than go back to my room, alone with my thoughts.

If only Owen were here, I wouldn’t have to be alone. He would help me get to the bottom of this—the missing knapsack, the bloody pocketknife, the message. Beheading is the sincerest form of flattery , he’d tease. Maybe you have a secret admirer.

Charlie rolls up his sleeves. “Do you mind?” he asks Will, reaching for Mr. Hackney’s head with his long arms. His tone implies he won’t wait for permission.

“Actually,” Will says, never taking his eyes off the knife, “I’d prefer you leave them be for now.”

Charlie grunts. The look he gives Will betrays the assumptions I made about his happiness here. After all, Charlie took a bullet in the shoulder from a Nightweaver, and it doesn’t seem like he’s forgotten—or forgiven—just yet.

“Aster,” Will calls, setting the knife down and peering into the fountain. “Come take a look.”

Charlie sticks an arm out, barring me from coming any closer. “Why do you have to involve her in this?”

“It says, ‘Hello Aster ,’” Will mutters drily. “I’d consider her involved.”

I lower Charlie’s arm, look up at his face—softer than Mother’s but just as determined. He hasn’t yet mastered his temper as well as her, and it’s beginning to show.

“Trust me,” I say, knowing what weight that simple phrase carries among my siblings and me. In battle, those two words could be the difference between life or death, and the covenant they represent must be absolute.

Charlie nods, and though there are no cannons blasting, no banners waving, I feel as though we stand side by side on the front lines of an inevitable war. “Always,” he says, his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll just be over here when you’re done.” He casts Will one last warning look and heads for the steps.

“Charming family,” Will says once Charlie is out of earshot.

“Pirates.” I shrug. “It comes with the territory.”

He smirks. Then, remembering the reason he called for me, his face falls, and he narrows his eyes at the basin. “I have a hunch.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

His lips quirk, the faintest hint of a smile. “There.” He jerks his chin at the goblet. “Do you see that?”

I squint, and in the flickering light, I catch a glint of gold. It’s too far away, out of reach. I climb onto the rim of the fountain, but before I can stick my foot in the bloody water, Will seizes my wrist.

“You’ll soil your clothes,” he says, but something like fear flashes in his eyes, betraying his intentions.

“Fine,” I say, wriggling free from his grasp. “You go.”

He glances down at the basin, and I expect to see that same fear—disgust, even. But the look he gives the crimson water is one that churns my stomach. His green eyes have darkened with hunger.

He looks away, back at the house, away from me and the fountain of blood. “I can’t.”

“Well, I can,” I say, and before he can grab hold of me again, I lower myself into the basin, first my foot, then my whole leg. I wade hip-deep in thick, warm water— water , I tell myself, not blood .

So much blood…

I reach out, taking hold of the leather band that hangs from the goblet. A collar, I realize, noting the small golden bell that dangles from its clasp. I turn slowly. I’ve started toward the rim of the fountain once more when something seizes my leg, dragging me under. I kick, but it’s no use. Whatever has me tightens its grip, claws digging into my flesh.

I can’t break free, so instead, I fight to slow my frenzied heart. I am no stranger to water; it is my aide, my ally. It gives me strength. It gives me an advantage. I can hold my breath for as long as I need to, but I have to remain calm.

He’s not coming to save you , a voice says, forcing its way into my mind, gritty like sand.

I don’t need to be saved. This is the closest I’ve been to water since I was taken from the sea. Fresh energy courses through my veins, awakening every cell. I bathe in the vitality it brings, giving me life anew. I want to stay here, beneath the surface. I want to drown.

Just as I begin to sink into the power that floods my body, I’m heaved free from the fountain. For a moment, I’m no longer fighting whatever pulled me under but whoever is pulling me free.

“Aster?” a voice warbles in my ears. “Aster, breathe!”

Owen? I gasp for air, choking on blood. No , I remember with a start. It can’t be Owen. My mind clears as someone sets me on my feet, smearing blood from my eyes with the hem of his shirt. Through a red film, Charlie’s blue eyes come into focus, full of panic. Behind him, Will’s face is pale.

As soon as I regain my balance, Charlie whirls to face him. He grabs Will by the shirt collar, shaking him. “You were going to let her drown!” he growls. “Why didn’t you do something?”

Will looks past Charlie, at me, his eyes darker than before. “The… blood…”

Charlie shoves Will to the ground. “A Nightweaver, afraid of blood? You expect me to believe that?”

Will clenches his jaw, grasping tufts of grass with his fists. He looks away from me, his brows knitted. “Not afraid,” he says through gritted teeth. He shuts his eyes tight and takes a few labored breaths. The rise and fall of his chest slows, and when he opens his eyes again, they are bleak with shame. “There is some truth to the legends you’ve heard.”

Will stands, smooths his clothes. He avoids looking at me, his gaze intent on the sprawling gardens in the distance. “When the war first began, some Nightweavers sought to gain the psychic abilities of Underlings,” he says quietly. “That kind of power… it changes us. The stories of Nightweavers bathing in human blood—drinking it like wine from the cup—aren’t just stories. Blood is the purest source of Manan , but human blood is the most potent.” He turns to me, his mouth set in a grim line. “But it drives Nightweavers to mindless bloodlust. We become no better than the Underlings—as ferocious as a Gore, and twice as deadly.”

I hear what he says, but it’s as if I’m listening from somewhere far away. I grasp at the hem of my dress, lifting it to inspect the wound left by the claws that had dug into my flesh. But the skin is unbroken. There are no puncture marks. Had there even been a hand?

“What did you find?” Will starts toward me, but Charlie throws his body between us, a towering shield.

I turn, searching the ground. There—the collar lies in the grass, covered in blood. I snatch it up, and without asking, I use the tail of Charlie’s shirt to clear the blood away. Carved into the leather on the inside of the band are four words.

DID YOU MISS ME?

I gulp, my eyes meeting Will’s.

“That’s Dearest’s collar,” he says, his eyes narrowed.

“So a Gore did kill Lady Annie’s pet,” Charlie murmurs.

“No.” Will takes the collar from me, scanning the words carved into the band. “Gores can’t write. Whoever left these messages is using a Gore to cover their tracks.” He starts for the fountain again, past Charlie and me, focused on Mr. Hackney’s and Mrs. Hackney’s heads.

I start to follow, but Charlie gasps, halting me midstep.

“Aster!” he breathes, his face slack. “Your eyes!”

Will turns on his heels. In a flash, he plunges a hand into the fountain, elbow-deep in blood. Before Charlie can react, Will grabs him by the arm.

“Take care of Mr. and Mrs. Hackney,” he says, his husky voice as gentle as a lullaby. “Forget what you’ve just seen.”

Charlie’s eyes glaze, and he starts toward the fountain, moving as though he were in a trance. As my brother lifts Mr. Hackney’s head from the sword, Will takes me by the arm, his grip gentle but commanding.

His eyes are no longer green, but gold. They glow with a soft, alluring light, drawing me in, soothing all fear. His hand grazes my cheek, and a familiar rush of calm sweeps through me at his touch. “Sleep,” he whispers.

I try to resist, but the world around me fades. The last thing I see is Will’s golden eyes as he takes me in his arms, sweeping me off my feet.

Don’t trust anyone , Mother’s warning echoes in my mind. Even Will. Especially Will.

I want to obey, to be a good daughter—a good crew member—and heed her command. But as I surrender to the gentle kiss of darkness, Will’s arms feel safer to me than the Lightbringer ever did, and I know it’s too late.