Chapter 14 #2
Behind me Deacon crouches down until his lips are at the shell of my ear. “You said you had a warlock willing to do the spell. Was that a lie, Vivienne?”
But I ignore him, and the way his chest-deep purr sends shivers up my neck. Instead, I wander through the cluttered, leafy space. “So those plants…A werewolf would only need to crush them up and ingest them?”
The groundskeeper studies me. Lifts an overgrown brow.
“It’s due next week,” I admit sheepishly. “And we haven’t figured out how a were is supposed to make these concoctions. Plants and herbs can be so complicated.”
Something soft crosses the groundskeeper’s face. “They may seem as such but are actually quite simple. A single sprig of white horehound”—the groundskeeper can’t contain his chuckle—“no pun intended, can make all the difference. Steamed in a pot of tea, or brewed into a stew…”
I spot a single lavender orchid, poised atop a bookshelf. It’s the only plant with no other pots cluttering its space. I lean against the shelf and give it a slight shove. “Fascinating. And here I thought the trick was coltsfoot…”
“Coltsfoot!” The groundkeeper laughs, just as the orchid teeters off the edge and topples toward the ground. But the shatter of terra-cotta never sounds. Sophia gasps, and I peer down to spy the groundskeeper’s prized orchid hovering over the wooden floor.
Behind me, I recognize Deacon’s impressed chuckle.
The groundskeeper’s eyes widen, as if he’s shocked by his own impulse. For a moment, none of us speak as he levitates the orchid back to its spot atop the bookcase.
“We aren’t here to turn you in,” I say quietly. A little guilty.
“The Citadel…” He shakes his head. “After Edgar, they’ll remove me from my post.”
“I know.” It’s why Fiona appointed Dawnmere—a fairy—to the head of Magical Studies.
“You’ve kept your powers from them all these years?” Sophia asks.
“There are circles in which warlocks are not looked upon with kindness. After what happened to me…People already treat me as though I am a monster.”
My heart twinges. “We know you’re nothing like Edgar. We’re here for your help. Please. My friend has gone missing, and we were hoping you could cast a spell to track him down.”
The groundskeeper’s eyes narrow in confusion and then understanding. “Your friend…is a deviant?”
I swallow hard. “He’s a good man.”
“There are no good deviants,” the groundskeeper warns me. “I know as well as any how they can deceive.”
“With all due respect,” Deacon says evenly, “you don’t know shit about dick.”
My fingertips find the bridge of my nose and pinch until I want to strangle him less. “What my friend here means to say, is that this specific deviant used to teach at this very school.”
The groundskeeper’s scarred lips tighten. “The retired combat instructor?”
“Ding ding ding,” Deacon hums. “We have a winner.”
“He didn’t retire. He’s been taken by some very bad people, and we are trying to save his life. You know as well as anyone what the Brood is capable of. How little the Elders are willing to help unless it suits their agenda…You know better than most that not everyone is what they seem.”
Peter swallows hard beside me. I know it’s a risk. This man could turn us all in. My heart thrums in my chest.
But those scars, this quiet, solitary life…It seems more like a way for the Citadel to buy this man’s silence after an injury on their own land than a kindness. Maybe he isn’t such a devout supporter of theirs, either.
After what feels like a lifetime, the groundskeeper asks, “How fresh is the blood?”
Relief spills into all of my limbs. “It’s his brother’s blood. Will that work?”
“It will not be exact,” he says, clearing space on the meager kitchen table. “Because the blood is not exact. But it will give you something to work from.”
He rifles through a kitchen cabinet that I notice is not filled with plates or mugs but rather yellowed paper scrolls and long, knobby wands.
After retrieving one such paper, he reaches for a handful of fragrant leaves from a vine coiling up a standing lamp.
Then he shuffles over to the dirt-encrusted wooden table.
The world map he unfurls is slightly outdated—from the 1960s, I’d guess.
He lays the leaves at four points—north, south, east, west—and then motions for the blood. “I’m ready.”
The four of us stare at Deacon, who stoops a bit to retrieve a shining butcher’s knife from the kitchen. He wields it like it’s as harmless as a comb. “Where do you want me?”
“A few drops here,” the groundskeeper says, pointing a scarred finger to the center of the map.
Deacon, apparently, does not know what a few drops means, and slices clean through his radial artery, sluicing blood onto the table. The scent of iron and clove fills my nose.
Peter makes a squeamish sound, and the groundskeeper’s eyes widen in grave concern. Only then does it dawn on me that he still believes Deacon to be human. The brother of a turned deviant, not a born one. A wound like that would require stitches if he was mortal.
I whip off my coat and use it to stanch the bleeding, grasping Deacon’s forearm in my hands. His skin is warmer than I expect, dusted with fine blond hairs. My fingers fight to recoil, but I only press the fabric more tightly to his wound.
Deacon looks down at me like I’ve wiped him down in spit. I make a face until he puts it together. I imagine he hasn’t pretended to be human in a long time. He takes my coat from me, holding it to his arm. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “Sharper than I expected.”
But the groundskeeper is already muttering his spell and sprinkling herbs.
The light from the small bulb that hangs over his kitchen table has begun to sputter.
I watch in awe as the river of blood from Deacon’s arm migrates across the table like a raindrop down a glass window.
Staining certain regions, leaving others bare.
The groundskeeper continues to hum, eyes wound shut, the wood floors creaking with his shifting feet.
The blood migrates north and then a notch south, as if lost and trying to find its way.
It moves past Astera, past the seas, until it absorbs fully into a region I have to blink at.
A spot I’ve never seen on any mortal map.
“Oh my,” the groundskeeper breathes.
“Is he alive?” Deacon asks. I’ve never heard his voice so sincere.
“Where is that?” I ask.
“Here,” the groundskeeper says. His stark brown eyes land on Deacon’s. “Your brother is here. At Harker.”
The cluttered walls warp and expand, shrinking and closing in on me.
I can’t even form a thought around my shock.
All this time, he’s been here. Right under our noses.
I should have known—why would he be anywhere else?
Harker is an excellent place to hide from Finn and the High Thane.
It’s what I’ve been doing all semester. I’ve been so stupid.
Peter’s hand touches my shoulder gently. I will myself not to cry.
“Where did Deacon go?” Sophia asks.
Sure enough, when I turn, Deacon’s gone, the door still swinging in his wake. “Shit.”
The wind howls and bitter snow whips at my face as I chase after him.
“Wait up!” I call.
He’s still holding my jacket on his arm, though I’m sure the wound is all but healed.
“Will you stop—”
“I told you already, did I not?” I stop short in front of him. The look on his face…“He doesn’t want to be found. Not by me, and not by you.”
I shudder in the frigid air without my coat. “He’s in hiding. Harker is the safest place for him too. If he could tell us he was here he would have.”
“You really will make any excuse for him you can. He’s here, on your campus, and has made no move to let you know.”
“He all but gave his life for me. I trust him, Deacon. That’s what a relationship is. Not that you would know.”
“Right.” He shakes his head. “I’m the naive one.”
I know what he’s implying. That Reid hasn’t just neglected to tell me he’s been mere feet away all this time, but that he’s forgotten about me. Fallen out of love with me.
“You think you can hurt me? You?” The thought is laughable, but nobody is smiling.
“My own mother doesn’t want me. My own family.
I’m not searching for Reid because he needs me or wants me or loves me.
I believe he still does, but even if he didn’t…
” The chilled wind bites at my skin, and I convulse against it.
My hands are numb. My lips taste colorless as I wet them.
“I want him. I need him. You don’t have to help me, but I’m never going to give up on your brother.
Even if one day he chooses to give up on me. ”
Deacon says nothing, nostrils flared, towering over me. I will my jaw to stop chattering.
But I know my words are true. I’m not giving up. I’ll search every inch of the school. I’ll find Reid, and together we’ll face Finn and the High Thane and anything else he’s running from.
Deacon’s pale eyes don’t leave my face as he hands my coat back to me, caked in his blood. I thread my arms through it until warmth swims back into my limbs, only to find it smells like him: clove and tobacco and cherries as black as his heart.
“My brother isn’t capable of the kind of love you speak of. He’s filled with too much hatred for his own kind. Too much misery. If you can’t see that, you’re a fool.”