Chapter 21
The wind fluttered across the dried blood flaking off the trickster’s jaw. Blood was a funny thing. Not all beings bled, and not all beings had blood. But those that did . . .
You could learn secrets from blood.
That was what the rocklike one did. It sipped blood like it was Furtig, swirling the liquid around its shark-toothed mouth, tasting the sedimentary layers: iron, copper, chalk.
Blood could taste like steam venting in bright, iron-red bubbles from the volcanic hot springs of S?o Miguel.
It could taste like the bitter-cold gurgle of icy streams cutting through the rose-hued copper of the Keweenaw Peninsula.
It could even taste like the white chalk cliffs jutting from Britain’s protruding southern chin.
Ward. Bard. Smith. Clark. To the rocklike one, their blood was the minerals of the earth. He could excavate their ancestral history with one mouthful. But the wind? It tasted secrets in blood.
Sometimes, blood cried out for vengeance, especially when it cooled on frozen ground. Often, it burned, sizzling like fire with lusty, greedy need. Rarely, it poured out blessings and benedictions.
What secrets were in the trickster’s blood?
The wind flaked the red-brown bits from the divot beneath the trickster’s nose.
His blood tasted like the howl of a jackaltooth.
It was a frightening rattle that shook red blood cells into a frenzy.
The wind sniffed. Sneezed. There was a subtle sulfur taint that reminded the wind of the narrow-slit vents that shot poisonous steam from earth’s hell-like magma chambers.
And finally, there was the faint overlying smell of spring violet honey, peppery and sweet.
Hmm.
The wind cataloged the scents, tucking them away in memory sheaths to pull out and flip through later. Sometimes, knowledge couldn’t be used right away, but that didn’t mean it was worthless. It only meant it had to be saved for later.
The wind tickled the trickster’s nose, trying to make him sneeze. It was bored. The dinner had lasted for so long it was certain the moon had already passed from one corner of the sky to the other.
It had wanted to leave with the boy. After all, it had found the trickster for him, and after so much blowing and blustering, it wanted a night to itself.
It imagined the little knoll in the park with the hollowed-out white pine, where it could rub along the soft fur of that family of deer mice.
Perhaps they’d had pups and it could roll in their squeaks.
The boy had once had a velvet bear he’d rubbed between his baby fingers.
He’d rubbed it so much the velvet had worn away until it was only soft satin down.
The wind had thought the bear was soothing to a boy who couldn’t yet speak and was frightened to be alone.
The old stuffed bear was gone, but a deer mouse felt almost the same.
But as the boy had stalked out of Hell Gate, and the wind had bounced happily from one gurgling scream to the next, he’d whispered, “No, Wind. Stay here. Stay close to Luvic.”
The wind had shoved and blustered. It did not want to stay in Hell Gate. It wanted a night full of pine scents and tiny, velvet-soft mice with quickly beating hearts.
“I know you’re tired,” the boy had murmured, steadying himself against the wind’s buffeting.
The wind had shrieked. It was not!
“Well, not tired. Of course you’re not tired. You’re tireless.”
Exactly.
“I only meant . . .” He’d rubbed his hand through his messy hair, leaving a strand to stick straight up. The wind had huffed and smoothed it down. “Well, don’t you want to know Luvic’s secret?”
The wind had perked up. What secret? The trickster had many, many secrets, and the wind knew almost all of them.
“You don’t know this one,” the boy had said, and the wind had flicked his ear, because he sounded smug, which was not an appealing trait.
Still, the boy had smiled and strolled out of Hell Gate, and the wind had stayed behind.
It wished it hadn’t. There was nothing new to learn. No secrets to collect.
For a moment there, it had been exciting. After the boy had left and the wind flew back to the dining room, the solemn one had crouched over the trickster and held out his hand.
“You weeping on the floor was one of the best moments of my life,” the solemn one had murmured, leaning close. He’d gripped the trickster’s arm and pulled him halfway upright. “I especially liked the part where you screamed like a gutted growling.”
The trickster had shook his head, and the wind had ridden on his spraying droplets of blood.
He’d grinned, red staining his teeth. “Hello, Knife. Are we playing again? It’s funny.
I thought you wouldn’t want to after I set your kitchen on fire.
You seem like the sort who takes things personally.
But now look at us. Allies. Foe-friends. Playing.”
The wind had tripped over the solemn one’s vicious grip.
The trickster had twisted his hand, and suddenly, the solemn one was standing rigid. He was as still as the breathing statue men who painted themselves silver and posed for money in Times Square. The wind had hummed over his hammering, livid pulse.
The trickster had carefully pulled his arm free, adjusting his sleeve.
He’d smiled at the solemn man. His lips had quirked up, soaked with red.
He’d leaned in and murmured, “So we’re playing.
All right. Listen closely. Some people play by the rules.
Others realize they can twist the rules. But me? I make the rules.”
The trickster had stood then, shoving the solemn man. As the solemn one fell, the trickster had twisted his hand, releasing him from his stone-statue hold. The man had crashed to the floor as the trickster strode away.
And that was the most interesting thing that had happened in the candelabra-lit dining room.
What else had there been?
Creamy pea and mint soup, with tiny pea shoots that had floated on top in glossy globules of cream.
The cruel one’s sister discreetly conjuring black widow spiders, biting centipedes, and scorpions to crawl on the girl.
She’d snickered with delight when the girl unraveled them before they could sting her.
That fun had only lasted long enough for the girl to lean close and whisper, “You can’t conjure if you don’t have hands. ”
After that, the cruel one’s sister had kept her attention focused on the trickster, glaring at his amused, bloodstained smile. Whenever he caught her looking, he’d raise an eyebrow and curl his lips higher.
Once, he’d lifted his wineglass and murmured softly to the cruel one’s sister, “To our blissful future.”
What else?
Salty cinnamon and brown sugar ham, with the perfect amount of spiky, sweet clove.
Sweet potatoes whipped into snowbank-high mounds, topped with a glass-like caramelized sugar br?lée.
A red bordeaux from Queen Victoria’s reign, so old it made the wind wildly dizzy as it swirled around the glass in a tilt-a-whirl fashion, until finally, it had hiccupped and shot out of the glass like a cloud of ash forcefully ejected by an angry chimney sweep.
But oh, other than that, they’d only spoken of conjurer things.
The wind had decided long ago that everyone wanted to rule the world. The conjurers were only a little more open about it.
It checked on the innocent one. He chewed slowly and tried very hard to swallow all his food. His tendons vibrated with the tension of holding in his fear at being so close to so many conjurers. The wind patted his cheek, but he didn’t notice.
The cruel one was enjoying the dinner now he saw a way to defeat the solange-eyed one.
“Will the Ward be a problem for us?” the cruel one asked.
“No,” the Clark answered. “We all know the Wards keep to themselves. He may not align with us, but he would never align with a Smith. In the end, if a choice must be made, he will choose to avenge his father. The Smiths made a mistake killing Philoneas.”
“I suppose,” the cruel one said, running his long pointer finger over the steak knife next to his plate, a dark gleam in his eyes as he stared at the girl. He often stared at her.
Could he remember the Ward’s game when he was married to the girl? Or had the solange-eyed one taken the memory from him? The wind didn’t know. Still, the twisted taste of the cruel one made the wind shiver.
After a time, the muted light, the warm scent of roasted vegetables and baked ham, and the clink of silverware against china lulled the wind. It turned in a circle, swayed and hummed, and then settled quietly on the trickster’s shoulder. It wasn’t tired . . . It was only . . . it was only . . .
* * *
“It was only torture,” the man said, sweat dripping down the moon-pale line of his haggard face.
Ah. The wind had fallen into a memory dream. A wind-dream. A recollection of secrets long buried. It didn’t dream often. What was a dream to the wind? Yet here it was, lulled to sleep, seeing the man once again. Then the wind forgot it was remembering and settled into the past.
“It was only torture . . .”
The wind trembled as it tiptoed along the ravaged rope of the man’s voice. What had happened to the sweet, melodious note that always soothed and rocked the wind to sleep? It hadn’t heard the man’s gentle, stream-in-a-meadow voice for . . . it didn’t know. A long time.
“It is torture, but it is not only torture,” the man’s father said, and the wind shivered at the cold leaking through the dark, watching stone place.
The wind hated this place. It didn’t visit often. It was skyless. Formless. It was always night, but there were never stars.
The man crouched, his arms wrapped around his knees, his head bent.