Chapter 14
The wind slipped through the door behind the boy. It stayed close, loath to let him out of its sight. He’d taken his time, wandering through back alleys and shadowed places. The boy was looking for something, although he didn’t tell the wind what. Or who.
But finally, the boy had swayed on his feet, nearly too fatigued to stand, and so the wind had shoved him until he finally admitted he was human.
Humans needed food. Water. Sleep.
So the boy had come to the safe house. It was a forgettable yellow-brick townhouse sandwiched between other forgettable yellow-brick townhouses on a nondescript street of utter insignificance in the middle of an insignificant neighborhood.
The only unique thing about the street was that people rarely walked down it, and if they did, they forgot everything about it quickly after.
It wasn’t illusion; it was just . . . forgettable.
It was in Brooklyn, which the boy didn’t mind, because he liked long subway rides, and also, his favorite pizza place in the entire city was near the subway stop. He’d eaten a slice, folded in half and dripping with melted cheese, before stopping at the dry cleaner’s.
The wind shoved past the boy, blowing through the safe house’s entry. It crinkled the dry cleaning’s plastic covering, pushing the dead, chemical scent across the room.
The boy quietly closed the wooden front door and turned the dead bolt.
The safe house was small. It wasn’t expansive like the wood castle in the north.
It wasn’t stately like the marble mansion on Fifth Avenue.
The safe house was tiny, like a small child hidden under a cardboard box, with their arms wrapped around their knees and their head tucked in tight. The safe house barely dared to breathe.
The boy let out a long sigh and held out the dry cleaning. “I’m back,” he said quietly. “I picked up your dress at the cleaner’s.”
The wind swirled around the woman’s ankles. They were cold, even though she wore stockings beneath her linen dress. It fluttered the edges of the fabric and drifted over the airy, absent feel of her.
The man’s wife had always reminded the wind of a flute.
She was a hollow tube that air rushed through.
An empty sort of being. But she wasn’t always hollow.
Sometimes, she’d wake up and play beautiful notes that made people weep.
Conjurers claimed the woman had lost her mind when the boy destroyed his mirror, but the wind knew she’d always been reedlike and empty. She’d only become more so over time.
The wind played with the hem of her dress and inspected the room.
There was only enough space for a small divan, one bookshelf, a television, a tiny round table with three chairs, and a wall with two kitchen cabinets, a sink, a two-burner stove, a dishwasher, and a small square refrigerator.
The divan had a rumpled blanket on it, as if the woman had taken an afternoon nap.
The television flickered noiselessly. In the back, there were two closet-size bedrooms and a bath.
She’d been here since the closing ceremony. The man had sent her here before it began. She hadn’t left, and the man had stayed with her. It was clean but untidy. Books were stacked on the floor, and a bag of groceries had yet to be put away.
“Jacob.” The woman smiled softly, her eyes focusing on a patch of sunlight hitting the boy’s shoulder. “I made potato soup.”
“It smells good.”
The woman turned—it was only two steps back to the kitchen cupboard—and pulled down three bowls. She set them on the little round table. She took three spoons from a drawer.
“Your father asked for it.”
The boy hung the blue dress in the closet by the front door. Then he moved slowly through the room, rubbing a hand down his face.
The wind swirled on the curl of fragrance rising from the soup pot.
Potato. Butter. Bacon. Chive. This was the man’s favorite meal.
His mother had made it for him when he was a boy, and he asked for it whenever he needed comfort.
The wind blew at a bubble that boiled in the creamy soup and popped it.
The woman dragged a ladle through the liquid and dropped a spoonful into a bowl. “He’ll be home soon.”
“Mom,” the boy said, and when she paused mid-scoop, he continued. “Dad isn’t coming home.”
Her gaze flew to his. The wind blew over her, tapping at her hollow-reed feel.
Her face turned marble-white and marble-cold.
The boy nodded. “The Smiths killed him.”
The wind flew over the boy’s cheeks, waiting for the drop of seawater to fall from his eyes, but his cheeks remained as dry as the Sahara. It was only his pulse that fell like a thundering, mournful rainstorm.
“Wolfgang?” she asked, a line between her brows. “But Wolf is dead.”
“No,” the boy said. “His sons.”
“But . . .” She stared at the pot in her hand. “But what about his dinner? I made . . . I cooked . . . There are three bowls. Three.”
The wind scraped over the empty ceramic bowl set out for the man.
Slowly, the boy pulled the pot from his mother’s hands. He took the ladle from her shaking grasp.
“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “You and I can eat. I’ll put the extra bowl away.”
The woman frowned, her hands trembling. “Jacob?”
The boy paused. He’d been slowly scooping soup into the second bowl. “Yes?”
The wind slid over the paper napkin folded next to the man’s bowl. It fluttered and sighed.
“Leave the bowl out,” she said. “For now.”
The boy nodded.
They sat and ate the man’s favorite meal. Neither spoke. The woman didn’t speak often, and the boy never minded silence. The only sound was the slow, metallic slide of spoon against ceramic and the click of water glasses being set down on the wooden table.
If the woman noticed the boy’s ragged, ravaged appearance, she didn’t say anything.
When they finished eating, he reached over and placed his hand over the woman’s. She stared down at the table.
“I have shortbread, but I don’t know where it is,” she said, her voice watery and absent.
“Dad said it was in the dishwasher,” the boy murmured. “Do you want some?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
The boy stood and opened the dishwasher. There was an unopened box of shortbread on the top rack, next to a dirty teacup and a bowl.
His back was to the woman, his face bent.
He stared at the shortbread for a moment, and the calm, stoic expression he’d worn cracked.
His shoulders slumped, and his mouth trembled.
The wind caressed his cheek, and the boy squeezed his eyes tight, pressing his lips together.
His shoulders shook, and his breath quaked.
Was he holding his tears in for the man, or for his mother?
The wind didn’t know.
“And tea,” the woman said. “Would you like tea?”
At her words, the boy opened his eyes and cleared his throat. The storm that had rushed through him was gone. It had blown through and left no sign of its passing. He was a placid lake once again. He turned back to his mother, the box of shortbread in his hands.
“Tea. Right. I can do that.”
The wind swirled around the kitchen as the boy set the shortbread on a plate and heated a kettle of water. These were familiar scents. The bitter, grassy scent of tea leaves. The sweet butter of shortbread. And then the delightful shriek of steam spitting from a kettle.
The wind gurgled against the boiling water as it poured over the tiny curls of dried leaves. It let out a sigh and then rose with the steam.
The boy wrapped his hands around his teacup. He sat with his mother, drinking tea and eating shortbread.
“I think you should go north,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. Stay until . . . until.” He frowned. “Until the wind comes and tells you it’s safe to come back.”
The wind huffed, but only a little, because it wouldn’t mind racing to the north.
“Hmm. It will be autumn soon.” The woman dipped a bit of shortbread into her tea and then set it uneaten on her saucer. “Will you kill the Smiths?”
The boy smiled. That was agreement enough. His mother would be safe. “Do you want me to?”
She blinked. “Phil loved Wolf.”
“I know.”
They went back to drinking their tea. The wind slid over the boy’s cheek. His beard was coarse and thick. He’d never had a beard before. The wind blew at it. The boy scratched his cheek, then his eyes caught on the flickering television.
“What is that?”
The woman blinked at the screen. She stared for a moment, her gaze unfocused.
The boy watched the television with a hawklike intensity. The wind tapped the hard screen, bouncing against the flat surface.
It was the trickster.
Not the trickster of right now, but the trickster of the past, when he’d kneeled at his sister’s funeral and wept over her coffin.
The screen was filled with his starkly lined face and the tear that trailed down his smooth skin.
“Celia and Ragnor’s funeral,” the woman finally said. She pointed to the trickster. “They replay clips constantly. They love him now. The whole world loves him.”
The boy’s cheeks burned. They swept with a red fire that was as hot as the steam that billowed off the tea. The wind rode over the hard clenching of his jaw and the dark, sea-deep violence in his eyes.
The wind gave a startled shriek.
Perhaps the boy hadn’t escaped the madness of the sirens. He didn’t feel like the boy anymore. Where was the calm? The core of kindness?
He leaned forward in his chair, staring at the screen, pressing his fingers into the tabletop until the tips turned white.
“Luvic Bard,” the boy said, his voice a low, chilling scrape.
The wind shivered.
“He killed Celia.”
The wind moaned, remembering the bitter scented bullets and the woman’s lifeless body. It curled around the boy’s shoulders. He needed rest. He needed sleep. He didn’t need to chase after conjurers.
The boy’s lips turned up into a smile, but it didn’t comfort the wind. It wasn’t a happy smile; it was a flint-hard, striking smile.
The boy stared at the trickster’s image—the television trickster, who accepted a white rose from a little girl.
“Find him,” the boy whispered. “Wind? Find Luvic Bard. When you do, tell me where he is. He and I have something to discuss.”
The wind moaned. But the boy shook his head.
“Go.”
No. The wind wouldn’t do it. The wind was its own being. Not to be controlled, or ordered, or—
“Please?” The boy’s voice broke as he turned away from the screen. “Wind? Please?”
The wind huffed.
What was the wind to do when the boy was polite?
“Celia?” the woman asked, staring not at the boy but through him. “Celia Bard? Did you love her, Jacob?”
The boy gave his mother a startled glance. Then, turning back to the screen, he said slowly, “I don’t know. I only would’ve liked to find out.”
The wind sighed.
The boy, as smart as he was, was stupid sometimes too.
It would go. It would search. It would do what the boy asked.
It would find Luvic Bard, and then it would tell the boy where to find him.