Chapter 81
It was cold in the Smith fortress when you were only a thin, breathless sliver of yourself.
It was a hard, gray place that smelled like sword edges and icy blue fire.
Voices were like the thrust of a blade, direct and to the point.
There were no soft conversations. No soft surfaces.
No soft smells. Only battle-hardened ones and sharp-edged blades.
It was always gray at the Smiths’, but the dark clouds congregating over the city had turned the gray a flinty black.
The boy meandered down the sidewalk, kicking a pebble and tripping on his untied shoelace. He caught himself, then he smiled and kneeled down to tie it in a double knot. As he tied, his blond hair fell over his eyes. He glanced through the curtain of it, his gaze moving swiftly over the fortress.
There were three Smiths on the roof. Two circling the structure. Another keeping watch from across the street.
The boy wrinkled his nose and then sniffed. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose and hid his smile. Then he ducked his head and stood.
He rambled on, looking lost in thought—maybe he was—and smiling softly to himself.
Above him, the leaves of a pin oak tree drooped like India ink dripping from a calligraphy pen. The leaves sagged heavily under the black cloud’s pressure and the absence of sun and wind. But even without the sun, the sidewalk was still hot enough to burn a dog’s unprotected paws.
When the city was this hot, all the smells that had been baked into the concrete rose like trash roasting in an oven. The boy wrinkled his nose again and then meandered toward the Smiths’ front door.
He paused on the stoop, tilting his head. The Smith across the street spoke into a device. The men on the roof tensed and aimed weapons at the boy. The Smiths circling the house quickened their pace.
The boy pretended not to notice.
Overhead, the clouds rumbled. The thunder sounded like two mountains slowly scraping their sides together.
“Hmm.”
He looked up at the clouds, his green eyes darkening.
Then he smoothed a hand over his messy hair, straightened his wrinkled shirt—it didn’t help—and huffed when he noticed his shoe had come untied again.
He lifted his hand and knocked three times on the door. Then he took a step back, shoved his hands into his pockets, and casually glanced up, studying the flat, cold front of the Smith fortress.
The door opened, and a Smith in full body armor stepped onto the stoop. “Yes?”
The boy held up a finger in the “wait just a second” gesture. The man’s eyes widened, and his face went white. He’d realized who was at the door. Apparently, none of the others had recognized exactly who the boy was.
When he looked back at the waiting man, the boy smiled.
“Did you know, the latch on your second-story window . . .just there . . .”—he pointed, and the man obligingly looked—“is broken? Someone could easily pop in or pop out of it.” The boy blinked at the man, waiting for his response.
When he didn’t give one, the boy raised his eyebrows. “Is Finn here?”
“You’re here to see the Smith?”
Behind the boy, a half-dozen Smiths had moved into attack position.
“Yup.”
“May I ask for what reason?”
The boy grinned. “Just to chat.”
The man at the door stared as if “chat” were a code word for “skin someone alive.”
“Would you please tell him I’m here?”
The doorman stared for a moment longer, then he stepped back into the fortress and shut the door.
The boy shrugged, shoved his hands into his pockets again, and ignored the Smiths discreetly positioning themselves around him.
Inside the fortress, the doorman sprinted down the stone hallway and reached the solange-eyed one as he rounded the corner. The doorman tripped to a halt. He’d only run half the length of the building, but his chest was heaving, and his face was red.
“The Ward,” he spat. He said the name as if it were a curse. “The Ward just knocked on the front door asking to chat.”
The solange-eyed one glanced at the man and then fell in beside him. His stride was smooth, like a great cat walking soundlessly on a branch, ready to pounce on an unsuspecting victim below. Ready to kill.
“Chat?” he asked in his rumbling, thundery voice.
He wore black body armor. Two swords were strapped to his back. His eyes were shadowed with purple bruises, and his skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. Sometimes, the solange-eyed one looked fatigued, but it was difficult to notice because of the hurricane of power that stormed inside him.
He crackled with energy. It heated the air around him and snapped at anyone who came close. The solange-eyed one didn’t seem to notice the effect he had on others.
Fight him or follow him—that was what he inspired.
The doorman’s red face paled, and he snapped, “Sir. The Ward strolled up to the front door and told me the latch on a second-story window was broken”—at this, the solange-eyed one’s eyebrows rose—“and then said, ‘Is Finn here?’ like you were friendly with him. Like he’d been invited over for afternoon tea. Said he wanted to chat.”
They’d reached the front door.
The solange-eyed one stared at the thick wood as if he could see through it.
“Where’s Darin?”
“Still in Jersey City.”
The solange-eyed one nodded. “Call everyone off.”
The doorman’s surprise was thick in the stone entry. Then, when the solange-eyed one looked at him, his solange-soaked eye sparking with blue lightning, the man remembered himself. “Yes, sir.”
He hurried down the hall, speaking into a device.
The solange-eyed one yanked open the door. He held a hand in front of him, two fingers pressed to his thumb.
The boy smiled. “Hello.”
The solange-eyed one’s mouth tilted up at the corner. He dropped the conjurer’s pose and held the door wide. “I was wondering if you’d come.” He looked up at the sky and then gestured to the interior of the fortress. “Come in.”
The boy lifted an eyebrow. He tapped the eye etched on the door, and it blinked at the soft knock. “You think I can step past your all-seeing eye?”
“I don’t think you’re evil,” the solange-eyed one said.
The boy proved him right by stepping past the eye and over the threshold.
The solange-eyed one took up nearly all the space in the entry.
He was large, and the violent energy rumbling in him echoed like thunder.
The boy had always been slight—not short, but not tall.
Next to any Smith, he was a reed that might be snapped in a hurricane.
But the boy had always known how to bend, and so he bent now.
Shadows danced in his forest eyes, and the memory of wind rustled the green-leaf color of them. His power was an eclipse, and he pulled the darkness around him.
The two men stared at each other.
The air warped under the pressure.
The stone was quiet. The gray was quiet. The sword-edged scent was quiet.
“You look like her,” the solange-eyed one finally said.
The boy’s fingers curled, the pointer and third finger barely connecting with his thumb. “Like who?”
The solange-eyed one smiled. “I don’t think anyone who didn’t love her would notice.
But I’ve seen a thousand different faces, and I’ve recognized her in each one.
It’s . . . I think it’s your spirit. You’re tied together, and I recognize you because I recognize her.
I didn’t see it during the games. But I see it now.
” He closed his hazel eye and stared at the boy through his solange gaze.
The boy stood very still, studying the solange-eyed one too.
Finally, the solange-eyed one opened his hazel eye and said with quiet sincerity, “I’m sorry about your father.”
The boy nodded. Neither his face nor his voice conveyed any depth of feeling. “Thank you. I’m sorry about yours too.”
The solange-eyed one let out a long breath. Then, coming to a decision, he held out his callused hand.
The boy stared at it. “What’s this?”
“A handshake.”
The boy laughed and then took the solange-eyed one’s hand.
“Would you like to have lunch?” the solange-eyed one asked. “I was just about to make something. We could eat. Talk. I’ve found you can learn all you need to know about a person by how they eat and what they like to eat. For instance, what’s your favorite food?”
The boy smiled. “Pizza.”
“Huh. That’s Darin’s favorite too.”
The boy’s smile faded. “What’s yours?”
“Steak. Raw.”
“You mean rare?”
The solange-eyed one grinned. “No.”
The boy laughed. “Funny. I can see why she likes you.”
There was a teasing light in the solange-eyed one’s eyes. “Thanks.” He smiled. “Come on. I’ll make you lunch. We’ll chat.”
* * *
The boy pushed his chair back from the kitchen table.
Outside, the storm clouds had turned the city a dirty, newsprint gray-black, but inside, the kitchen was brightly lit and filled with the scent of melted butter dolloped on roasted potatoes, tender steak, and oven-baked apples filled with raisins, walnuts, brown sugar, and cinnamon.
“How did you know?” the boy asked, fidgeting with the napkin in his lap.
“The wind told me.”
The boy made a sound of surprise. “You can hear the wind?”
The solange-eyed man shook his head. “No. It’s more . . . I can see it.” He tapped the skin underneath his navy and silver eye. “I can see all sorts of things. I don’t hear it with my ears—I hear it with my eyes. Does that make sense?”
“No,” the boy said, putting his elbows on the table and leaning his chin on his hands.
“I can see it now. It’s here. Not surprising. It’s almost always with you.”
The boy pressed his lips together, hiding a smile. “What does it look like? I always thought it was invisible.”