The Treasure Keeper

Chapter Eleven

She did not return to her apartment at the palace. She had no desire even to glimpse the mirror waiting for her there; if there were human souls caught in the blue along with the drakon, she didn't know. She did not want to know.

But Tuileries was home now, as close to home as Zoe was going to get, and she was familiar with it enough to anticipate which of the corridors was most deserted. Which chambers had not had human visitors in years. Which places were more redolent of cobwebs and memories than anything alive.

She sat on the floor of an empty ballroom. There were at least five ballrooms she had discovered so far, but this was the first one she'd come to, and so it was here that she sat.

Her back was pressed against an extravagant silk-papered wall. She faced the same paper across the empty chamber, burnished gold and turquoise peacocks prancing in columns, feathers outlined with mint green and purple trim. A tiled floor of black-and-amber marble, and enormous glassed windows all along two walls that framed the unquiet night beyond. Barring the ballroom of Chasen Manor, it was the biggest chamber she'd ever seen. It might have been made for the dancing of dragons instead of the humans who walked among them.

She was a small dim blotch amid all this glory. She sat with her knees to her chest and let herself feel small. It was better than thinking about... anything else.

Rhys was there too. An even dimmer blotch, seated cross-legged at her side.

How humiliating to realize that he had been right about her. That she wasn't the fine, shining weapon of vengeance she had imagined she'd be.

She was someone who had gotten an innocent man—nearly innocent—killed. Who had clutched at the siltstone wall of an anonymous building and vomited from the stench of blood clinging to her fingers, and from the ricochet reaction of her own fears.

"Is it safe here?" shadow Rhys asked.

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug, disinclined to reply. She'd made it through the city and the gardens to the palace with him gliding ever beside her, had scrubbed herself as clean as she could in one of the fountains and found the ballroom and now she wished he'd just go away. She'd asked him twice, and both times he'd refused.

"It's too open," he noted, looking around. "There's only one way in or out. And I can hear people snoring below."

Zoe clutched at her knees. "It's safe enough."

He subsided. The moon had set already and so the ballroom was bathed in a murky, faded grandeur. The wires and chains that had once managed the chandeliers still hung from their bolts in the ceiling, clipped carelessly, uneven inky lines dangling straight down from the frescoes to halfway above the floor.

"You're doing me no favors by staying here," she said to her knees. "I'd like some time alone."

"What makes you suppose I'm here to please you?" She angled him a glance from beneath her lashes.

"You are not the sum of my existence," he said casually.

"Good gracious. You never used to be so vain."

"It's hardly vanity if—"

"Perhaps I've developed an interest in your stated objective of before." He met her blank stare with a hint of smile. "Revenge," he said.

"Revenge, yes." She gave a hollow laugh and leaned her head against the wall. One of the pins in her hair dug into her scalp. "Isn't it lovely?"

"No. It seldom is."

"I never wanted . I never desired his death. That man, Fortin. I wanted justice. Information. I didn't want him dead."

Rhys said nothing.

She heard herself whisper, "Do you believe me?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe, love. What's done is done. All that matters is what we do next."

She closed her eyes and shook her head, and Rhys's voice took on a brisker note.

"What I do believe is that our goals are essentially identical. Death or justice, however you like it, we both want to see the end of the sanf inimicus, although I imagine we might disagree a bit on how that comes about. And that reminds me. How, precisely, did you discover the identity of the coachman in the dance hall?"

She did not answer.

"Because there were five of them. I was able to count that many. And since I was there when you followed them from the yard to the hall, and I never once heard anyone say anything like, 'Oy, you, the bloke who drove the rig of the dragon-man, care to go dancing tonight,' I admit my curiosity is quite aflame."

Zoe shrugged again, and the shadow leaned forward with his hands loosely clasped, his elbows to his knees. "You didn't use Persuasion to get him to tell you, or to follow you outside, for that matter. So what was it?"

She met his eyes without turning her head. They were green, ghost green, against heavy black lashes. His lips lifted into that faint smile again.

"Oh, come. I'm dead anyway. Why keep secrets?"

"I have ... another Gift. I suppose it's a Gift. It's tied in a way to why I see you, I think. I have the ability sometimes to ... gather thoughts. Other people's thoughts. It doesn't always work, but tonight it did. It's how I knew for certain he was the driver for Hayden. How I knew he was also in the employ of the sanf."

"You read his mind," said Rhys. He didn't sound surprised or thrilled or even doubting. He sounded very, very thoughtful.

She pursed her lips and looked away. A long moment passed. The thrum of the city began to intrude upon their silence: the carriages and livestock and people along the Quai, and coffee and river water and baking bread from the early-morning cafes in St.-Honore nearby.

"Well," the ghost said at last. "You are one sweet delight after another, Zoe Lane. I don't recall your demonstrating any of these Gifts back at home. Did they all descend in a great big lump a few months ago, or is it that you're merely more cunning than that?"

Her fingers began a quick nervous tattoo against her knees; she stilled them by knotting them together.

"Does anyone at home know any of this?"

"My sister."

"The council?"

"Of course not," she flashed, then lowered her voice. "Don't be an idiot. You were on the council, as I recall."

"Yes, but—"

"Do you think I ever desired to be handed over to you on a wedding platter? A nice virginal sacrifice to your esteemed bloodline?"

"Zoe." He stared at her, brows furrowed. "How long have you been Gifted?"

She tried a third shrug, as nonchalant as she could make it. "Years."

His mouth dropped open. "Years?"

At last she'd managed to surprise him. She felt a small, mean glow of satisfaction at that. It had been so long

since she'd seen him in any way other than that of adversary. Handsome Lord Rhys, sensual Lord Rhys, who'd wooed her with such persistence as a boy and delivered her first, scorching real kiss. The notion of marriage to him—actual marriage, forced or not— brought an unwelcome heat to her face, even now.

He began to laugh. It was small at first, growing deeper and softer, gradually shaking his entire body until he lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose; finally he looked up at her from over his cupped fingers. "You truly don't like me, do you?"

"You have made it remarkably easy."

"I suppose so." He swiped at his eyes. "You know I always ..."

"What," she said, sarcastic. She felt flushed now, embarrassed, and spoke swiftly to cover it. "You always admired me? Adored me from afar? Burned with unspoken passion in the depths of your black heart? That must have been quite a burden. No wonder you masked your pain with all those other girls."

"I liked you," he said simply. And smiled. "That's all. I always liked you so much."

Ah yes, there it was. His full smile, as bright and warm and open as the sun. That heartfelt, laughing allure of his that tempted her to wicked thoughts, that implied all manner of deliciously exciting secrets to share. It was the first thing about him that had attracted her as a girl. It was the last thing she recalled of him as a woman; over the years, that quick comely smile had never changed. And no matter how hard she resisted, it always made her feel the same: like she was special. Like he saved it only for her.

A donkey somewhere outside released a loud bray. It was answered by another, even louder. She began to rub absently at the hairpin stinging her scalp.

Rhys lowered his gaze and gave a nod, as if she'd asked him a question, then straightened, brisk once more. "You're going to have to go through that wallet. I'd do it myself, but ." He spread his palms.

She'd nearly forgotten; she'd stuck the wallet in her pocket. It made a heavy weight beneath her skirts.

"No time like the present," he prompted, when she didn't move.

She unbent her legs and fished it out, her fingers sticking to the leather, smeared with dried blood.

Zoe set her teeth against the smell and opened it up.

Money, a great deal of it, louis andlivres and two deniers. A silver toothpick. A golden ring, a signet perhaps; the face had been twisted and mashed. A few folded sheets of rice paper. A small tarnished key.

Rhys reached for the papers. She noticed for the first time that he was dressed as if he was still living—real English clothing, a laced shirt with ruffled cuffs, an embroidered waistcoat of silver-gray with leaves of holly, brown breeches. Walking boots. All of them darkened as he was. Transparent but there. She'd seen him like this all along, from the very beginning, and had only now noticed. Even that wayward lock of hair still fell down his forehead, catching against his eyelashes.

"What's this?" One shadow finger trailing smoke tapped the paper, or would have; the pieces didn't rustle beneath his touch.

She lifted them, unfolded them, and narrowed her eyes at the minuscule print. They appeared to be pages torn from a book.

"It's in a language I don't recognize," she said, scanning it. "It almost looks like gibberish, but

"Yes?"

"It changes right here. See? It segues from gibberish into French. 'A guide for the detection and recognition of ...' " Her gaze lifted to his. " '... of the Drakon,' "she finished, sober.

They read it in silence. When she finished she let her hand fall to her lap, the pages loose between her fingers, staring out at the rows of strutting peacocks decorating the far wall.

"Would you say my cheekbones appear 'hard'?" he asked, leaning over her, still reading. "I mean, sculpted, certainly. Angular, I would accept. But hard. It sounds so coarse."

"I don't think the situation calls for levity."

"I am in all seriousness, I assure you. My good confidence rides upon your answer."

"Your confidence has never needed any help from me," she snapped. "Don't you realize what this means?" She spread the papers across her skirts. "What this is?"

"It's a death list," he replied, very calm. "Of course I realize. And it's a ruddy good one too, I regret to say." He stroked his hand over hers, very brief contact; it felt like arctic fire, like needles of ice brushing her skin. "Zee. Have you taken a close look at that ring?"

She had not. But he had dropped any trace of humor; he spoke gently now, and he did not move or reach for her again. And so by his very stillness she realized what it was, the ring. Even as she picked it up carefully and turned the face to reflect the sullen night beyond the windows, she knew what she was going to see.

A dragon. It was there, frozen in the mangled gold with wings outstretched, the letter D stamped deep into the metal behind it. It was the official seal of the Shire of Darkfrith, and the unofficial insignia of the tribe itself. Every male drakon received one upon the completion of his first Turn. Even ghost Rhys had a ghost signet upon the smallest finger of his right hand.

All three emissaries had worn one when they'd left the shire. The Princess Maricara, along with her news of two drakon slain, had brought their rings back with her.

Here, then, was the third.

She turned it over, lifted it higher, but if there were initials engraved upon the inside, they had been obscured when the ring was damaged. But three Darkfrith signets missing from their owners still meant the same thing: All three owners were likely perished.

"I'm going to sleep now." Her voice sounded tiny, insignificant against the cavernous stretch of the open ballroom. She gathered the contents of the wallet and climbed to her feet.

"We don't know for certain—"

"No," she said. "Don't say it. Don't say anything. And don't follow me. I'm going to my room, and I'm—I'm going to sleep."

She realized she could hear her footsteps as she crossed the floor and modified her gait, so that by the time she reached the threshold to the antechamber beyond, she made no noise at all. It was only then that she turned, found the shadow standing with his hands at his sides in the middle of the chamber.

"I was lying before," she said quietly. "I did want the coachman dead. He betrayed Hayden, just for a handful of money. And in that instant, as soon I realized it, I wanted him dead."

Then she left.

* * *

He was back at his bleak little road. He found himself too fatigued to stand and so sat upon the curb with a fist propped to his cheek, contemplating the deserted sidewalk, the drooping yellow shrub across the street from him. The pile of leaves beneath it.

The constant music that haunted him had shifted into a slower, drowsier tune. Rhys realized it was a lullaby, one his mother used to sing, especially when his younger sisters were fussing. He could almost hear her humming the notes, that soft dusky contralto that had soothed him to sleep so many nights as a child.

No. It's not real. Rue is not here. None of this is real.

It was nighttime in this place as well, with no moon to lighten the shadows. That might be a good sign. It could mean he was still in Paris, like Zoe. Or it could just mean that because her world was night, so was his.

He'd tried to stay with her, despite her insistence that he not. She had no authority over him, after all, and a great deal of reckless abandon when it came to her own safety. So he'd tried. But it seemed his efforts with the dying coachman had sapped more of his strength than he'd imagined. As soon as Zee had left the ballroom, he'd watched the walls and gilded doors fade into this gray place.

At least there were no Others about to ignore him. Even the rat was missing.

That coachman. His mortal body, his mortal pain. Leaping into him had been the strangest sensation, like drowning, an instant iron weight submerging every particle of his being, a sliding descent without end and oh—that agony. The knife wound. The slit lung. He'd felt that a thousand times over.

Poor bastard. It was a hell of a way to die. Rhys knew that now for certain.

But for all the pain, it had been worth it. He'd managed to lift the man's arm and even to throw the knife—it had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, but he'd managed to throw. Now that he had time to mull it over, Rhys realized it was sheer blessed luck that it'd worked, any of it. Luck, and a desperation that had sent drakon strength through a human arm and granted drakon aim through fading vision.

As soon as it was done he'd found himself unable to attempt anything else; the iron weight sank him like a ship failing at sea. He'd crumpled as the man had crumpled, and perhaps the only thing that kept him bound to the body for the moments after that was the unexpected joy of seeing Zoe again with living eyes, flawed and human as they were.

Feeling her hands upon his chest.

From someplace to his left—west? north?—bells began to toll, shattering the night. He'd never noticed them before, cathedral bells by the sound of them, pure and piercing. Rhys counted the peals to three, which made sense . well, at least as much sense as anything else did.

Three in the morning: too late for honest folk to gad about, too early for the libertines to trickle back home. It was the perfect hour of the dead.

The black humor of it struck him, nearly made him laugh, but instead he lay on his back to stare up at the sky.

He drew a breath, closed his eyes, and summoned Zoe once more.

For an instant he was with her. She was in bed, in that great ugly bed in her chamber, curled on her side into a ball beneath her blankets. Her hair was a spill of pale shimmer over her pillow. She'd pulled the blankets up to her nose; her brow looked peaceful enough in her slumber. One hand poked out from the covers by her face. Rings of gold shone from every finger. A cabochon ruby gleamed like a ripe strawberry on her thumb.

He stood beside her. He turned a slow circle about the room, examining the walls, the windows, the curtains. The giant cracked mirror. The floating faces within it, gazing back at him.

They were masks atop vapor, every one of them the same, sallow and ghoulish with shadowed eyes and moving lips. He couldn't hear them; the lullaby was growing stronger and stronger and if they had speech that might have reached him, he could not hear them now. If one of them was Hayden James, Rhys could not tell.

One of the beings lifted an arm and pointed mutely at Zoe in the bed. He glanced back at her and had the dizzy confusion of seeing two images at once: one the Zoe he knew, with her ivory hair and brown crescent lashes and that single lax hand a glimmer against the sheets.

But the other was a dragon, the most delicate and exquisite dragon he'd ever seen, silver and gold and edged in pink, also sleeping peacefully beneath the covers.

A terrible weakness took his legs. He staggered and was back on the gray sidewalk of the gray street, flat against the ground. When he tried to stand he couldn't; the best he could do was crawl along to a smoother stretch of stone and collapse again, utterly spent.

His mother's voice sang the words to the lullaby, verses that seemed to sift down around him and settle like Stardust, straight from the heavens.

Sleep and dream, true heart, and cease to weep, Sleep and dream, true heart, all sweet relief...