Chapter Twenty-Nine Jordan
Twenty-Nine
Jordan
The minute I reach the doors of the cigar lounge, I smell dirt.
Dirt in the air. Dirt all over my clothes. Dirt on the framed portraits and on the rows of diadems and masks in glass cases. I steady myself against a wall, fending off curious gazes of guests entering the lounge as I clip my last cuff link in place.
There is no dirt in here. There is no dirt anywhere.
The last time I listened to my instincts—as the Dragunhead advised—and relied and trusted on what I knew, I left here as Ward four years ago, and I never regretted it. But I never made a stand. Even now, Beaulah doesn’t know what I think about her. Sometimes the truth feels safer as a secret. I blow out a long breath before checking my phone for messages, but there are none. The final warning horn for Trials blew ten minutes ago. My hands are slick when I grab the door handle. I exhale sharply once more before stepping inside.
Heads turn in my direction, a few at a time, until the entire room stands, applauding me. My gut twists. I am proud of all I’ve accomplished but embarrassed it had anything to do with this place. My thoughts drift to the raid two nights ago. Beaulah parts the crowd. She halts, taking all of me in, then opens her arms for me to come to her. My feet are leaden. And there is that dirt smell again. I approach her, one begrudging step at a time.
“You look well, dear nephew.” She holds up my arm to the crowd, and the applause roars louder. “ My nephew! The Dragunheart.”
My skin burns from all the stares. Beaulah bares a cheek for me to kiss. I oblige even though it sickens me. I’m just one of her prize show dogs and it sets my teeth on edge. She touches the heart pendant against my chest, tracing its engraving.
“It’s simply mesmerizing.”
I move my shoulder, taking the lavaliere away from her touch.
She startles. I’ve never upset her on purpose. I’ve never done anything but avoid her. The one time I did disobey her, I was thirteen, and she made me sleep in the hunting ground for three nights without contact with anyone.
“I was just admiring. I’d love to hold it in my hands. That’s only fitting, given I trained you, don’t you agree?” She strokes the virtue pins shining on my coat and I’m reminded of my conversation with my brother.
I glare at her, the truth hanging on my lips. Beaulah resolutely meets my stare and reaches for the red pendant again. I move away. Her mouth bows, but no creases reach her eyes. This gesture is about power. A game she’s used to winning.
“I just want to touch it, Jordan.”
I can’t risk angering her too much. I need to be here for Adola.
“It’s never supposed to be in anyone’s possession other than the Dragunheart. I hope you understand.”
“You’ve always been one for the rules.” She links her hands, radiating annoyance. “It is good to see you back home . Don’t stay gone so long.” She tidies my coat, and for Adola’s sake I don’t pull away. “You don’t want to forget who you are. Oh, and your room is occupied. We’ve found ourselves overrun with guests for Trials. Brisby can find you another one.”
“I can’t stay the night, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but we have the band here until midnight. And then there’s—” She sighs. “You’re busy, I know.” Her lips purse with pride. “You’re all grown up now. Shall we?” She offers her arm; I take it. “There are many here I’d like you to say hello to. And while I have you, I was thinking we should talk about reinstating you to the House’s family name. Jordan Richard Perl . There’s no reason your father’s punishment should still be yours.”
I slip my arm from hers. “I am going to try to find Adola and wish her luck.”
“Evening, Mother.” Charlie approaches with wide-open arms, and I almost don’t recognize him. His skin hangs from his bones, as if he’s aged a decade in days. His eyes have all but disappeared into their sockets. What the hell is wrong with him? I want to ask. But Charlie’s never wanted a brother in me: he wanted a son. He walks with a limp, falling into Beaulah’s hug. She helps steady him before dusting him off. He kisses her cheek.
“Jordan,” he says.
“Charlie.”
“I have updates on that list of places you had me check out. I’ll get it to you. Been busy. I’m sure you understand.” He turns back to Beaulah.
“Did you sleep well after dinner last night?” she asks, roping herself onto his arm. “And that tea I told you about should help—”
I leave them, moving through the crowd toward the glass windows that look out on the grounds below.
“It’s him,” someone whispers to their companion, pointing as I pass. Both are dark-haired, with the same round, wide noses—sisters, judging by their resemblance. The back of my neck heats at how my very presence here is an endorsement I’m loath to give. But Adola. My precocious little cousin, who is gifted at everything but the things our aunt wants her to be proficient in. She wears her mask well, carrying the burden of heir, but she won’t face Trials alone.
I check my watch, then my phone. A few more hours of this and I’m out of here.
I circle the room, minding my business as best I can, but the clinking of glasses, cheerful laughter, and overall revelry makes me want to claw at my skin. Dancing on graves and all that…I rush out onto the balcony, which is mostly empty of people. A few are immersed in conversation, tittering behind gloved hands, nibbling from plates of hors d’oeuvres. The fresh air hits me and my breath comes a bit easier. Below are three raised platforms where candidates are being prepared. My cousin’s long hair is roped into a braid and twisted into a bun behind her head. She’s wearing fitted pants and a long-sleeved top. I swallow a dry breath and grip the balcony railing.
“Adola!”
She gazes up at me, hand at her brow. I wave and reach out to her. She reaches up toward me. Music streams from the open doors at my back, the party fully in motion. A server offers me a glass of champagne, and it takes everything in me to push him away.
“I’ll be right here,” I shout down to her.
She nods.
A camera flashes.
“Have some class. You didn’t even ask,” I say as the cameraman sulks back inside.
“I require the balcony,” I say to no one in particular. And the smattering of guests retreat inside. Adola presses her palm to her heart and waves once more, before being escorted toward the luminous forest. My nails dig into stone railing.
When she disappears into darkness, I slip a hand into my coat and find the spot beneath my arm, where the flesh is raised and scarred from my lowest right rib, around my side, to my spine. Through my shirt I feel it, and remember. The air grows colder. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I hold on to the railing more tightly, biting down on my lip, but my mouth tastes like dirt. I inhale deeply, trying to fend off the memory that’s coming. But when a howl rips through the forest, my pulse thuds. I can see snapping jaws and sharp teeth as the memory, long buried, takes me.
I can see a moonlit clearing up ahead, with the oak tree, where my aunt wants me to retrieve the relic. Eyes gleam at me and low snarls rattle the forest. One wolfhound steps forward. With my heart in my throat I pull at my magic; a warm tingle tickles my belly. Then my jaw shifts. Sharp teeth tear through my gums, parting my lips, as my head morphs into a mirror of the monster before me.
To defeat the monster, you have to pretend to be the monster.
I step toward them; they bare their teeth. So I bare mine. I close my eyes and focus on the rustle of the leaves through the trees, picturing each crinkle as a note of sound I can grab. Magic burns deep down inside me and I tense all over, shoving together the two sensations: the noises I hear and the magic unfurling in me. I shudder as they collide. Suddenly the trees thunder with a chorus of menacing growls; my magic works to transform the sound.
One wolf retreats, then another, before each pair of glowing eyes disappears back into the forest. I collapse, shaking. I did it. I release the warm sensation, and my features bleed back to normal before I race to the oak clearing.
A chest of things is burrowed in a hole within the old oak. Inside are stacks of coins like the ones Draguns wear at their throats. But these are gold. There is also a velvet pouch of enhancer stones and a leather-bound book. I flip through its brittle pages carefully. Some of the handwritten words are confusing, but the name on the first page, I know. Dysiis.
The sun will rise soon. The book is the only thing that seems truly rare. I grab it and dart back toward home.
But the sound of wolves grows louder. I don’t look back until I run right past them, circling their prey. I glance their way and put my eyes on their meal. My heart stops.
Ollie, my Labrador retriever, cowers tethered to a tree, trembling. Surrounded.
His blue leather collar hangs from his neck, and the world blackens at its edges.
There are no perfect choices. Choose properly , my aunt said.
I need to keep going.
But Ollie.
Tears fill my eyes. I set the tome down carefully and pull at the warm feeling in my body until I have a wolf’s head again. I dart toward Ollie, pulling on the sound of the night, covering my footsteps in growls. I throw myself in front of him, and a dozen wolves stare back at me. Stalking me. Angry that I just interrupted their supper. I plant my feet firmly, choking on tears. They’ll have to kill me to have him. Ollie whimpers. A few wolves back away, but a large one steps forward. Fear like I’ve never felt buzzes through me.
He lunges through the air.
A sharp, cold bite sinks into my skin.
Just as a curious black substance I’ve never seen before streams through the air to my fingers.
“Mr. Wexton?”
I realize I’m on the ground, hugging my knees. The cameraman is back, staring at me. He snaps the camera in my face before I can get up. And I shoo him away. I lean against the balcony railing, eyeing the time, ignoring my racing pulse.
An hour has passed.
The other two participants have returned, bloody and fatigued, and are now limping up to the lounge for their pinning. My heart stutters in my chest, then pounds, and I’m overcome with the weight of a fear that’s foreign to me. I clutch my chest. The trace. Quell, nudging me. I pound my fist on the stone railing. There’s still no sign of Adola. I slip off my coat, then my tie. I’m not leaving her.
“Jordan, why are you concerned?” Beaulah asks, joining me on the balcony.
“Aren’t you?”
She turns the ring on her hand. “Your father stood in that cigar lounge, worrying about the same things, when you were down there . Adola’s a big girl. I let her wait, as long as she wanted, to be sure she was ready. She will be fine.”
I untuck my shirt.
“If she doesn’t come out soon, I’m going in there to get her.”
My aunt’s jaw tics, but she says nothing.