Traveler Page 2

  Quin was quiet for a time, thinking about this. That simple future sounded lovely when Shinobu offered it. He had set the athame on his chest, with his left hand over it, protectively. Quin put her own hand on it as well, feeling the cool stone and the warmth of his hand. Why couldn’t they go off somewhere and just live—live as ordinary people? Their life as Seekers would never be the life they’d expected as children; that future had been a lie. So why not become something else?

  But she knew the answer already.

  “The Young Dread gave this athame into my keeping—for a while at least,” she told him. “She wanted me to have it.”

  “That doesn’t mean we have to use it,” he responded gently.

  “I think maybe it does.”

  He regarded her for a long moment, then asked, “What is it you want to do, Quin?”

  Shinobu looked tired, but his eyes held that intensity that was particular to him. Quin understood that whatever she told him, he would give her his unwavering loyalty, just as he’d always done.

  She whispered, “I was raised to be a Seeker. A real Seeker. One who finds the hidden ways between, finds the proper path, and makes things right.”

  “Tyrants and evildoers beware…” Shinobu murmured. That had once been the motto of Seekers, and it had been a mantra for Quin and Shinobu when they were apprentices. “I wanted that to be true,” he said.

  Quin flipped to the final page of the journal, where Catherine had printed the three laws of Seekers:

  A Seeker is forbidden to take another family’s athame.

  A Seeker is forbidden to kill another Seeker save in self-defense.

  A Seeker is forbidden to harm humankind.

  They were laws her father hadn’t even bothered to teach her; she had learned them only later, from the Young Dread. Yet this was the original code of Seekers. Breaking them had been punishable by death.

  “We were true once,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the words. She thought of an afternoon by a fire, when the Young Dread—Maud—had spoken to her about history. “There have been many, many good Seekers. Now my father kills who he wants—does it for money. John thinks he’s fighting for his family’s honor, but he’s willing to be a killer like Briac.”

  “Yes,” Shinobu agreed.

  “So, when did Seekers become like Briac? And if there were more of us, where have they gone?”

  She flipped to the journal’s first pages. There the handwriting was ancient, so cramped and full of ink blots that Quin could make out very little—except for the word “Dread,” which occurred frequently. These early pages were apparently letters and notes written by others in the distant past, and then pasted into this book by Catherine.

  “The first half looks like it’s about the Dreads. Closer to the beginning of Seekers. And then there are Catherine’s own entries, searching for other Seeker houses, tracing where they might have gone.”

  “You think the journal will point you to when we went wrong,” he said, guessing her thoughts exactly.

  “I want to discover where these dishonorable Seekers began.”

  Shinobu slid a finger down the side of the stone dagger as though measuring it or perhaps contemplating all it stood for. Then he whispered, “So you can make things right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “If they can be made right.”

  She could feel Shinobu nod, his head moving against her own, but she sensed that his burst of energy was fading.

  “I want that too,” he told her.

  She closed the journal and laid it on his chest. His hand covered hers where it lay atop the book, his skin almost feverish. Their long conversation was straining him.

  “Do you remember where we first began?” he murmured close to her ear.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “It was in the meadow on the estate. You kissed me there when we were nine.”

  His eyes were half closed, but his face formed itself into a smile, and she felt his sleepy gaze upon her. “I didn’t think you remembered that.”

  “I thought kissing was disgusting then.”

  “And what do you think now?”

  She felt a smile pulling at her own lips. “I could give it another chance.”

  Shinobu slid his arm beneath her and pulled her to him. Quin’s lips met his, and she discovered that she’d been waiting two weeks for this. He turned his body to put his other arm around her, and as he did, he let out a pained cry.

  “Shinobu?”

  His arms fell limp, and his head rolled back onto the pillow. It took Quin a moment to understand that the reservoir of painkiller in his gut had released a dose when he’d twisted toward her. He lay next to her with his eyes closed, a smile on his lips, one of his arms still caught beneath her.

  She leaned her head against his and laughed softly. “I’m sorry.”

  It was late, and she’d been awake for a very long time. After tucking the journal and athame away, one in her jacket and the other at her waist, she pulled herself closer to him and let her own eyes drift closed.

  John was there, in Quin’s dream. He was so clear, standing across from her—it couldn’t really be a dream, could it? She could see every detail of his face and body, outlined in moonlight.

  It was cold. They were outside. His breath was clouding the air. And she felt the deep chill herself, sinking into every muscle. Yet somehow she was able to ignore the discomfort, keep the sensation of cold distant, as though it were of so little importance, she could pretend it weren’t there. John was disregarding the frigid air as well; he wore only a thin undershirt and shorts, and he wasn’t shivering.

  He stood a good distance away, yet Quin could discern a small wound near his shoulder, as if her eyes could see much farther in this dream than they did in normal life. Briac shot him on the airship, she remembered. And that’s where the bullet went in. She had a very similar wound of her own—one that John himself had given her, back when he’d attacked the Scottish estate and everyone on it.

  She wondered why she felt no hatred as she looked across at John. He’d attacked her, hurt her and those she loved so many times in order to get what he wanted. But in this dream—if it were a dream—she felt neither hatred nor love, merely tolerance.

  John began to run, and she was throwing objects at him, her arms moving with a speed almost too fast for her mind to follow. She felt her muscles respond to her own mental commands like lightning, throwing and throwing with a swiftness and force she’d never had in waking life—

  —

  “He lied to us,” a child’s voice said from somewhere nearby. “Our master’s not here.”

  “His athame’s here!” a different voice hissed close to Quin’s face. “Look! How can that be?”

  “Are you going to get it?”

  A smell like dead rodents filled Quin’s nose.

  Her eyes flew open. She was lying on the hospital bed next to Shinobu, and someone was there, leaning over her. Dirty hands were sliding toward the waistband of her trousers.

  Quin’s arms came up the moment she understood what was happening, and she knocked the intruder away. He staggered back, but quickly lunged for her again. Quin grabbed his shoulders and held him off as his hands ripped at her waist.

  “Give it back!” the attacker hissed, his closeness bringing the overpowering smell of dead animals to her nose again.

  He was after the athame. She’d tucked it out of view down her waistband as she fell asleep next to Shinobu, but the handle was visible, and the intruder was about to get hold of it.

  She pushed harder against his shoulders, keeping him at bay.

  “Stop!” he spat.

  He was strong. He changed tactics and reached for her throat instead.

  He was younger than she’d thought at first, maybe fifteen, with bright, cruel eyes, the color of coal, and matted hair that might have been dark brown but was so dirty it appeared gray. His fingers scrabbled around her neck as she struggled to thrust him off.

  Quin scanned
the room to take in the full setting of the attack. Someone else was there. A boy—younger than the first, maybe twelve years old—was dancing from foot to foot in the dim nighttime lights, waiting for his chance to help. He looked fair and freckled but just as dirty as his companion.

  The older boy leaned his weight against Quin’s arms, and his hands slid fully around her throat. He looked down at her with anger and elation, as though choking people were one of his favorite pastimes and he couldn’t wait to get started. His lips drew back, revealing filthy, black teeth.

  Quin slid sideways, trying not to knock into Shinobu, who was still drugged or asleep. Her feet came off the bed, twisted up, and made contact with the teenaged boy’s chest. She kicked him away so violently that he hit the IV stand and crashed with it to the floor. She sprang to her feet.

  “Shinobu!” Quin hissed. In one swift motion, she pulled her whipsword from its concealed spot beneath her shirt and cracked it out. She rotated her wrist to force her weapon into the shape of a long, broad sword, and the oily black material flowed into place and solidified.

  The younger boy, the freckled one, jumped at her, then away as she slashed her weapon at his face. Neither boy showed any surprise at the appearance of her whipsword.

  “What?” Shinobu mumbled, rubbing at the spot on his hand where his IV tube had been sharply tugged when the stand went down.

  The smaller boy pulled out a weapon, and Quin saw with shock, a moment too late, that he had his own whipsword. She raised her sword to block him but entirely missed the child’s attack. Somehow the boy’s sword slid right by her own. She reeled back, her arm cut just beneath the elbow.

  “Ha ha,” the boy said, tripping backward to get away as Quin came at him again. The older one lurched unsteadily to his feet.

  They had whipswords—were they Seekers? Quin had to guess not: Their fighting style was bold but very wild. And they were so dirty and disheveled. Yet what would she know, really, of other Seekers? Her father had hidden their very existence.

  Whoever these boys were, their skills were unexpectedly good. In a quick assessment, Quin decided they weren’t better than she was; she would best both of them eventually. But Shinobu lay unguarded on the hospital bed, where they could injure him if they took an interest. She had to end this fight quickly.

  “Help!” she called as she moved toward the door. “Help!”

  Shinobu was up on one elbow, blinking fiercely, trying to understand what was happening. Quin willed the boys not to notice him.

  Both attackers came for her as she neared the door. When they lunged simultaneously, she saw why their whipswords had slid by her before—the boys’ weapons were half the usual length. Even slender and fully extended, as they were now, their swords were no longer than Quin’s forearm, and the tips were not as sharp as they should have been. They were like whipswords that had been inelegantly cut in half.

  “So together you have one whipsword?” she asked, swinging wide and fast to block both of them. “Are they two halves of the same sword? Are you each half a person as well?” She was continuing to speak loudly, as though she were a fighter who liked to bait her opponents, when in truth she was trying to rouse Shinobu and also the hospital staff on the other side of the door, and to keep the boys’ eyes focused on her. “If you’re two halves of the same person, couldn’t at least one of you learn how to wash?” Their odor had filled the room.

  “Least we’re not a thieving girl,” the little one said, smiling nastily and displaying his own dirty teeth, which, like the older boy’s, appeared to have been smeared with soot. “Give us the athame our master should have!”

  The older boy slashed at her with vicious skill, but Quin’s larger weapon made quick work of his blows, and she sent him sprawling into his partner.

  She turned for the door.

  And found her father staring back at her.

  Briac Kincaid was hiding in the dark alcove at the room’s entrance, barricading the closed door, his own whipsword drawn. A handful of multicolored sparks danced around his head.

  Sparks.

  Before she could think any of this through, Briac had cracked out his sword and raised it.

  Quin wavered.

  And then the two boys were on her from behind. Her hesitation had cost her an important moment—

  Then a metal tray crashed into the older boy’s head, sending him staggering. Shinobu was there, his IV tube trailing off his left arm in a long tangle. He swung the tray a second time, cracking the older boy across the temple and sending him down. The smaller one struck back, and Shinobu used the tray as a shield as the half-sized whipsword clanged off it again and again. Quin could only guess at how much of the narcotic was being pumped into Shinobu’s blood with each impact.

  She saw her father’s sword swing toward her, and turned to parry the blow. Briac was still blocking the door. There were muffled yells from the other side—hospital staff trying to get in.

  “Stupid wife! Fiona!” he spat. “Give the athame back.”

  If it was strange to find her father here, it was stranger still to hear him address her that way.

  Shinobu smacked the younger boy directly across the face with the tray, felling him, but Shinobu himself collapsed as well.

  Quin made a quick decision. She leapt away from her father, who seemed glued to the door, and grabbed Shinobu by his shirt. Hauling him across the room, she positioned the bed between them and their attackers. The window was directly behind her.

  The two boys were struggling up onto their hands and knees, trying to get vertical for another attack, though they had obviously been knocked almost senseless.

  “Hold them off!” she said to Shinobu, who was attempting to stay upright. “Do your best.”

  Hospital staff pounded on the door, but Briac managed to keep it shut.

  Quin drew the athame from her waist.

  “Don’t you dare!” came a yell from the older boy at the sight of the athame. He’d made it up onto his knees, was shaking his head as though trying to clear it. “Don’t use his athame! You’re not allowed.”

  “I can’t keep standing,” Shinobu told her. He’d listed to one side.

  “Your implant is drugging you,” she breathed. “But adrenaline can overcome it. Think about fighting them!”

  The athame’s dials were different from what she was used to. She adjusted them as well as she could.

  Both boys had made it up onto their feet. Shinobu balanced himself upright, and, swaying, he kicked open the wheel locks at the foot of the bed. Then he rolled the bed directly into the boys.

  Quin flicked her whipsword, making it small and thick, turned, and smashed the window. It shattered, allowing cool night air to pour into the room.

  She pushed down on one side of the athame’s blade with her thumb, and a long, slender piece of stone came free of the blade with a gentle click. This was the athame’s lightning rod, its partner and necessary complement, the object that would bring the ancient dagger to life.

  She struck the lightning rod against the athame, and a deep, penetrating vibration filled the air. Furniture began to rattle. The pounding on the door stopped as the vibration spread beyond the bounds of the hospital room.

  “Stop!” yelled the younger boy, grabbing the bed to drag himself to his feet. “It’s not yours! You’re a thief!”

  Quin reached the trembling athame through the broken window and drew a wide circle in the air below the ledge. Where she traced that circle, the athame cut through the fabric of the world as easily as a fin cuts through ocean water. In its path, tendrils of dark and light were exposed, and these snaked away from each other to create a doorway, an anomaly, humming with energy. Through the doorway was blackness.

  “Climb up!”

  She pushed Shinobu at the open window, even as she kept her own eyes away from the view. The forty-story drop was making her dizzy.

  The door shook behind Briac, beneath renewed assaults from outside. Quin saw her father struggli
ng to keep it closed.

  Shinobu climbed up into the window frame with difficulty, Quin steadying him from below.

  “Have you got your balance?” she asked. She avoided thoughts of him plummeting all the way to the ground.

  “Yes, I’m all right,” he breathed. Then he tumbled forward and fell directly into the anomaly. Quin’s own stomach dropped as she watched him do it. Then she jumped up into the broken window. The London streets far below appeared to tilt and sway.

  I’m scared of heights, she realized. No, I’m terrified! It was a new fear, and entirely inconvenient at this moment.

  The older boy was reeling across the room toward her, his dark eyes furious.

  “I will put you in your place!” he cried.

  There was a loud bang, and both boys turned toward the hospital room door. Briac had at last been shoved aside, and uniformed guards were streaming into the room.

  Quin turned toward the night, briefly glimpsing the endless lights of London stretched out before and below her. Then the view was swimming, and her stomach was lurching. She was falling through the cold air, falling through the anomaly she had carved from here to There.

  The drugs were floating Shinobu away. He’d slid out the window and managed to fall into the right spot, his whole body making it through the anomaly. Now he was There, out of the well-lit darkness of the London night and surrounded by this other darkness, blacker and more barren.

  He was supposed to say the time chant, to keep himself focused.

  “Knowledge of self, knowledge of…” he began. What came next? “Quin?” he croaked.

  “I’m here,” she answered, grasping his shoulder. The feel of her hand helped a little. “Hold on to me,” she whispered. “I’m a little dizzy.”

  Shinobu was more than a little dizzy, but he followed Quin’s arms upward to her shoulders and held on to them. That position reminded him of their last moment atop the skyscraper in London, harnessed together, just before they’d jumped and parachuted onto Traveler. He’d left his friend Brian on the building’s roof. Shinobu imagined Brian standing alone, with the building swaying gently beneath his feet, wondering what in the world had happened to Shinobu after he’d jumped.