On the Edge te-1 Page 7

  The blueblood raised his hands, as if asking for her feedback.

  “You’ve made your point,” she admitted. “You didn’t bring them here. You’ve made much of your education, so I take it you know what they are. What are they, and what do they want?”

  He looked lost in thought for a moment. “I have no idea,” he said. “I’m calling them ‘hounds’ for now.”

  Great. Fantastic.

  “I know they wanted to kill Jack,” he said. “I don’t believe he was a particular target. They would’ve gone for anyone else in his place. Their magic is . . .”

  “Clingy,” she supplied.

  The blueblood nodded. “It seeks to assimilate. It’s dangerous.”

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

  “That’s why I’ll stay with you tonight,” he said.

  Rose blinked. “What?”

  “I didn’t come all this way to have my future bride consumed by some aberration. You’re ill equipped to deal with this threat. If your sensibilities won’t permit my presence in your house, then I’ll remain here.” He pointed to the porch.

  “No!”

  “Yes.” He turned his back to her, walked onto the porch, and sat on the steps.

  “I want you to leave.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not possible. See, I promised your brothers that I’ll keep them safe tonight, and I won’t go back on my word. It’s your right not to invite me inside, but I would appreciate a blanket. That would be simple human charity.”

  Rose felt like stomping, except she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he irritated her. “This is unnecessary,” she said. “We’re safe behind the wards.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Look, I appreciate your intentions, but I want you to leave. Now.”

  He ignored her.

  Rose glanced at the house and saw two little faces behind the window screens. Great. What to do now? Blueblood or no, he had saved Jack. He had sworn not to harm them, and flashing a man who was doing nothing to attack her went against her every instinct.

  He couldn’t really be trying to protect them. That would be . . . noble. She almost guffawed at the pun.

  Fatigue mugged her like a wet blanket thrown over her head. It had been a terrible day, and she had no energy to argue.

  “Fine. You’re welcome to the porch.”

  Rose went inside, pulling the door shut with a thud. The boys stared at her. “If he tries to come inside, shoot him,” she said and headed for the shower.

  SOMETIMES simple pleasures are best, and nothing compared with a shower after work. Having spent the entire day squirting cleaners and scrubbing office counters and walls, Rose now thoroughly scrubbed herself with Irish Spring and a fake sea sponge. It took her ten minutes to drown the day in shampoo and soap, and when she emerged, put on clean clothes, and brushed her wet hair, she felt almost human.

  While she was in the shower, her fury at the blueblood’s intrusion slowly melted into uncomfortable unease. The blueblood had saved Jack. He’d stayed with them because they were scared and even made them food, and then she’d treated him like dirt. She felt bad about it. This is stupid, Rose told herself. He was here to force her into marriage. All of this could be an act. She owed him no sympathy.

  The creatures that had attacked Jack terrified her to the very depths of her being. Rose wished she could speak to Grandma, but with the evening rolling into night, the trip would have to wait until the morning. And Grandma Éléonore, although she would use a phone in a pinch, refused to keep one at her house.

  In the kitchen, Jack brought her a pancake on a blue metal plate. “It’s good,” he told her. “He made them special. See, he put sugar on them.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

  Ten minutes later, she pieced together the whole story. The blueblood had cut the beasts to pieces in a feat of incredible martial prowess demonstrated by Georgie with much vigorous waving of his fork, brought Jack inside, promised them that nothing bad was going to get them while they were in his care, and then proceeded to make pancakes. If he somehow staged this whole thing, which was still a possibility, it was masterfully done. The boys were now convinced that he could move heaven and earth. In their eyes, in the space of an hour, the blueblood went from the “shoot on sight” villain to a glorious hero of unmatched manliness.

  “Did he eat?”

  The boys shook their heads.

  Great. Now she had a hungry “hero” on the porch without food or blanket. And her vague unease had blossomed into full-blown guilt. Completely crazy, she reflected as she pulled some sausage from the fridge and fried it. She should be shooting him in the head.

  Rose divided the sausage onto four plates. “Eat your dinner.”

  She put a fork and a knife onto one of the plates. Georgie jumped off his chair, poured iced tea into a plastic cup, and handed it to her. Rose rolled her eyes and took the food and the tea over to the porch.

  He sat in the same spot she had left him, staring at the sky colored with the first hint of sunset. The wind swiped stray hairs from his long blond mane. His huge sword lay next to him. Even at peace, he emanated menace.

  Throw the plate at him and run, she told herself.

  She set the plate next to him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Now he thanked you and you go back inside.

  Instead she leaned against the porch post. “Are you really going to spend the night on my porch?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can perfectly take care of us myself. It’s fixing to get dark. You should go back to wherever you’re staying.”

  “I’m sure my tent will greatly miss me,” he said.

  “A tent?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sleeping in a tent? Why? Are you out of money?”

  “On the contrary.” He reached into his jerkin and produced a small leather wallet secured by a strap. He undid the strap, dipped his hand inside, and produced a gold coin. The sunset rays glinted on the metal surface.

  A small fortune. She wondered how much it was worth. Would it feed them for two weeks? Three?

  “So what’s the problem?”

  His face wore a perplexed expression. “I tried to seek lodging, but unfortunately most of your neighbors suffer from a critical lack of trust. They see me coming and lock their doors and shutter their windows, and no amount of yelling and wallet waving can persuade them to listen to reason.”

  Rose pictured him standing at the boundary of the Ogletree house in that enormous fur cape, with a giant sword sticking over his shoulder, roaring at the top of his lungs and then being upset that nobody came out, and laughed.

  “I’m sure my predicament seems hilarious to you,” he said dryly. “You live in an insane place populated by mad people without a shred of courtesy.”

  “Have you tried the McCalls down south? They could use the money.”

  He turned up his nose, oozing aristocratic haughtiness like it was cheap cologne. “I won’t stay in a shack.”

  “Well, excuse me, Your Highness.” She laughed harder.

  “Some men in my situation would find your giggling offensive.”

  “I can’t help it. It must be nerves.” She shook with laughter. The fear that curled inside her in a small, cold chunk of ice melted. The blueblood wasn’t harmless—far from it—but once she had laughed at someone, it was hard to go back to full-out terror.

  “You could let me stay here. I would pay you, of course.” He dropped the coin into the wallet. It made a metallic clink, announcing there were many more just like it.

  “Oh, you’re good,” she said. “You want me to let you stay in our house?”

  “Why not? I already promised to protect you, so I’m bound to this property by my own word, at least for tonight. You might just as well make some money from my misfortune.”

  “You’re unbelievable.” Rose shook her head. Why in the wo
rld did he want to get into her house so much? A small part of her wondered if he really was worried about the kids, but a much bigger part of her shook its head in cynical disbelief. He was a blueblood. He didn’t give a damn about mongrel Edger boys.

  “I’m simply pragmatic. You probably have a spare bed in that house, which, I hope, is clean and soft, and therefore much preferable to the hard wooden floor of this porch.”

  She actually considered it. He could bust her door down with one shove of his shoulder. In fact, he could probably go through a wall, if he set his mind to it. In terms of their safety, having him on the porch or in the house made absolutely no difference. The money would be most welcome. She could buy beef instead of chicken for once. An extra set of uniforms for Georgie. Lunchables for the kids. They always wanted them, but at $3.98 a pop, they were a rare treat.

  “This would be a purely business arrangement, separate from our other agreement,” she warned.

  “Of course.”

  “I want you to swear that you won’t attempt to molest me.”

  He looked her over very slowly. “If I chose to molest you, it wouldn’t be an attempt. And you would be most enthusiastic about it.”

  Rose felt heat rise to her cheeks. “On second thought, I’m not sure that my house is big enough to contain you and your ego. Few places are. Promise or sleep outside.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I would prefer to hear the words.”

  He sighed. “I promise not to molest you, no matter how tempting.”

  “Or the children.”

  The smile vanished from his face. His eyebrows came together, and his eyes grew dark. “I’m a noble of the house Camarine. I don’t molest children. I won’t be insulted—”

  “I don’t care,” she interrupted. “You can beat your chest with your fist in righteous indignation, or you can swear and sleep inside. Your choice.”

  “You’re the most infuriating woman I have ever met. I swear not to molest the boys,” he ground out.

  Rose held out her hand, and he dropped a gold coin into her palm. A Weird doubloon. Even with the draconian fee Max Taylor charged for converting gold into dollars, the little coin was food for a month.

  “I don’t have change. Do you have something smaller?”

  “Keep it,” he growled.

  “Suit yourself.”

  She opened the door with a mock bow and a big smile. “Please, Your Highness.”

  “My Lord Camarine will do.”

  “Whatever.”

  She ushered him inside. The boys had polished off the food and were washing their plates.

  “Georgie, fetch his plate and drink from the porch, please. He will be staying in Dad’s bedroom tonight—he paid for it. You’re sleeping in my room on the floor.”

  The blueblood growled low in his throat.

  In thirty seconds Rose and the blueblood sat at the table across from each other. Rose tried the pancakes. They were predictably cold, but still delicious, and she was ravenous. “God, these are good.”

  “Slowly.”

  Rose raised her gaze from her plate.

  He sat very straight at the table, cutting the pancake with surgical precision.

  “Eat slowly,” the blueblood said. “Don’t cut your food with the fork. Cut it with the knife, and make the pieces small enough so you can answer a question without having to swallow first.”

  Why me? “Right. Any other tips?”

  Her sarcasm whistled right over his head. “Yes. Look at me and not at your plate. If you have to look at your plate, glance at it occasionally.”

  Rose put down her fork. “Lord Submarine . . .”

  “Camarine.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You can call me Declan.” He said it as if granting her knighthood. The nerve.

  “Declan, then. How did you spend your day?”

  He frowned.

  “It’s a simple question: How did you spend your day? What did you do prior to the fight and pancake making?”

  “I rested from my journey,” he said with a sudden regal air.

  “You took a nap.”

  “Possibly.”

  “I spent my day scrubbing, vacuuming, and dusting ten offices in the Broken. I got there at seven thirty in the morning and left at six. My back hurts, I can still smell bleach on my fingers, and my feet feel as flat as these pancakes. Tomorrow, I have to go back to work, and I want to eat my food in peace and quiet. I have good table manners. They may not be good enough for you, but they’re definitely good enough for the Edge, and they are the height of social graces for this house. So please keep your critique to yourself.”

  The look on his face was worth having him under her roof. As if he had gotten slapped.

  She smiled at him. “Oh, and thank you for the pancakes. They are delicious.”

  SIX

  ROSE awoke early. She had slept badly, in short bursts, waking up every hour or so to check on the kids. Twice she thought she heard something outside, and she went out onto the porch to investigate. She found nothing. Just the night, which, so mundane a day before, suddenly seemed sinister and full of danger.

  When she did fall asleep, she dreamt of monsters, children screaming, and sliding out of control on wet mud that seemed never to end. By five, she gave up on sleeping and dragged herself upright to make coffee.

  She passed by her father’s bedroom. The door was closed. Last night she had given “Declan” a brief tour of the house, starting with the bathroom. He seemed to have matters well in hand. Rose wasn’t surprised. The existence of the Broken wasn’t exactly public knowledge in the Weird, but some nobility were aware of it, just like a few select Broken residents were aware of the existence of the Weird. He was probably high enough on the social ladder to be privy to secret information.

  Tour finished, Rose gave Declan a spare toothbrush—his doubloon had paid for it and more—and a fresh towel, and made up Dad’s bed with clean sheets and blankets. The kids told him good night, and he disappeared behind the door. She hadn’t seen him in her midnight wanderings. Whatever phantom noises had troubled her failed to bother him.

  Rose briefly considered knocking on the door but decided against it. She didn’t have to leave, not yet, and she could use a calm moment with a cup of coffee before the kids rose.

  She opened the windows to let fresh air in, boiled coffee in a small metal ewer her father called an ibrik, allowing the coffee to foam up twice before permanently taking it off the heat, poured herself a cup with a little bit of milk, and sat down at the table, fully intending to savor the drink. In front of her, wide windows offered the view of the lawn running into shrubs bordering the grass. Beyond them she saw the path curling into misty gloom between the trees. In the pre-dawn light, the leaves and the grass were dark and wet with dew. A chill filtered through the screen on the window. On mornings like this, she was grateful for a roof over her head and coffee. Rose brought the cup to her lips, blew gently, and touched the rim. Still too hot.

  The creatures disturbed her. She’d never sensed anything so . . . so alien. All magic had a natural connection, even the vilest kind, but the beasts were disconnected from everything. They weren’t undead; they weren’t conjured, animated, or transmuted. To do any of those things, one had to start with a natural element: rock, metal, living tissue, and that base left an imprint on the final creation. The beasts’ magic had no ties to anything.

  As much as it pained her to admit, she was deeply grateful that Declan happened to come along to save Jack. That, far more than the doubloon, had earned him a stay in her house. Her memory served up Declan, bursting with power, his eyes iced over with radiant white . . . He was something else. She’d thought of him several times last night, during her relay of catnaps and paranoid wakefulness. She still wanted to touch his face just to reassure herself that he was indeed flesh and bone.

  Rose dragged her mind back to the problem of the boys. Without her truck, she had no way of getting the kids s
afely to and from the bus stop. Letting them walk by themselves was out of the question, not with those creatures around. She had to be at work by seven thirty and would likely stay there until five, if she was lucky, or six. The kids were released at three thirty in the afternoon, and the bus dropped them off at three forty-five. They couldn’t walk up to the house by themselves, not with those beasts around, and she didn’t feel comfortable making them wait that long by the main road. Grandma was likely still at Adele’s. The old woman lived deep in the Wood, and whenever Grandma visited her, she usually lingered overnight.

  The boys couldn’t wait for two hours by the bus stop. The Broken had its predators as well. They would have to skip a day.

  A movement on the path made her stretch her neck to get a better look. Declan emerged from the shadowy trail, running. She jerked upright, expecting pursuit. He ran to the lawn, leaned forward for a moment, shaking his head, and began to circle the house slowly in that telltale jogger way, walking off the burn in his lungs. Rose dropped back into her chair. Her pulse hammered. Prickly needles of adrenaline rush nipped at her arms. Damn him.

  He probably didn’t know the meaning of running from his attacker, arrogant ass that he was. Chew slowly, indeed.

  She understood why he was the way he was. She’d read the Encyclopedia of the Weird and other books she bartered from the caravans. The nobles of the Weird enjoyed unmatched power. They ruled over their domains as individuals and over their countries as assemblies under the watch of a constitutional monarch. They were painstakingly bred, educated from birth, and brought up with the sense of belonging to the elite. Like purebred show dogs groomed for obedience training competitions. Their lives had strict rules. It was not really his fault for trying to impose them on everyone—he simply didn’t know of any other way to be. But just because she understood where he was coming from didn’t make him welcome.

  Declan completed his circle and stopped right in front of the porch. He wore dark pants, a shirt with ripped-off sleeves that left his arms exposed, and light boots. Nice arms . . .