Chapter 12 – The Trip

The bench finally gave up.

It had held me for an hour. The cracked wood folded under my weight in a slow, polite collapse. Splinters skittered across the marble. The afternoon sun had moved three inches west.

I was still sitting in the same spot.

My pinky ring sat cool against my finger. The hole in the east wall let in a soft breeze. A bird had returned to the rubble. The bird was, possibly, a different bird. I could not tell.

I dragged myself up.

My legs filed a final complaint with management. My shoulder throbbed where the demon had clipped me. A dull purple bruise had bloomed under the skin like a slow flower. The ring caught the slanting light and threw a quiet little spark.

I limped to the door.

The hallway was empty. The dead Vandermeres in their paintings looked, somehow, less disappointed. The ancestor on the left almost looked impressed. Almost. The one on the right was still, very firmly, judging.

I made the long climb back to my room.

Each step felt like a personal favor. The runner carpet was the only kind thing in the building. A maid I did not know flattened against the wall as I passed. She did not bow. She just stared. I waved. She kept staring. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.

I pushed the bedroom door open.

The lavender smell hit me first. The big bed sat untouched. The teacup from this morning was gone. Someone had cleaned the tray off the floor. Someone had even pressed my spare shirt over the back of the chair. Lira, probably. I owed Lira a fruit basket—possibly an orchard.

I collapsed face-first onto the silk sheets.

My boots were still on. My hair stuck to my forehead. A small, embarrassing groan came out of me. I let it. There was nobody around to judge me except the ceiling beams, and the ceiling beams had seen worse.

The pinky ring made a soft, polite click against the silk.

There was a knock at the door.

Three sharp raps. Loud. Confident. Not Lira. Lira’s knocks had always sounded apologetic, like she were sorry to the wood for touching it.

I lifted my head one inch off the pillow.

“Boy.”

I let my head fall back into the pillow.

“Father.”

“Open the door.”

“I am dying.”

“Open the door.”

“Give me a moment.”

“Boy.”

“What.”

“The door.”

The door opened anyway.

The Duke stepped through. He had to duck. He always had to duck. His shoulders barely cleared the frame. He had, somehow, found time to change into a clean shirt. He looked irritatingly fresh. The scar across his eyebrow had a smear of something on it that might have been jam.

He took one look at me on the bed.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“Roll over.”

“No.”

“Roll over, boy.”

“My back is the only part of me that does not hurt.”

“That tracks.”

I rolled over.

The crystal chandelier still dangled like a small, expensive threat. I pressed my palm against the bruise on my shoulder. I winced. I hated that I winced. I winced anyway.

The Duke walked to the foot of the bed.

He folded his enormous arms. He studied me the way a guy studies a cake he had baked himself. Proud. Suspicious. Mildly hungry. The chandelier did not dare swing.

“Hannah told me everything.”

“Cool.”

“She said you lit your core.”

“It was small.”

“She said it was the size of a candle.”

“A small candle.”

“A candle is a candle.”

I almost smiled.

I caught it in time. I did not need him knowing he had landed a real one. The pinky ring on my hand pulsed once, quietly, as it knew.

He pulled the chair from the desk.

He spun it around. He sat on it backward. The chair groaned. The chair always groaned. He folded his arms across the back of it like a man at a tavern about to give bad advice.

“The demon ran.”

“Yes.”

“You hit it.”

“Twice.”

“With a wooden stick.”

“With my wooden stick.”

“My wooden stick. The estate buys those in bulk.”

“Father.”

“What?”

“Let me have this.”

He grinned.

It was a small grin this time. Not the bear grin. Not the salmon factory grin. A normal, dad-shaped grin. I had not seen one of those before. It looked weird on his face. Good weird.

“Boy.”

“Yes.”

“I am proud.”

The room went very quiet.

I did not know what to do with the sentence. Past Alex had probably never heard it. Present Alex had only borrowed the body. The words sat awkwardly on the silk sheets between us, like a third guest nobody had invited.

I cleared my throat.

“Hannah did most of it.”

“Hannah always does most of it.”

“Father.”

“Yes.”

“Are you saying you sent me out there knowing she would?”

“No.”

“Father.”

“I sent you out there knowing she might.”

“That is the same sentence.”

“Different verb.”

“That is the same verb.”

“Different intent.”

I dragged a hand down my face.

The pinky ring scraped my cheek. The lavender smell, somehow, got thicker. The Duke watched me with the calm expression of a man who had won a bet, had not yet collected, and was choosing his moment with great care.

“Boy.”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow you are going on a trip.”

I sat up.

Too fast. My shoulder screamed. A tiny black star bloomed in the corner of my vision. I steadied myself on the bedpost. The Duke did not move to help. The Duke watched the way a man watches a kitten learning to use stairs.

“A trip.”

“A small one.”

“Define small.”

“Two weeks.”

“That is not small.”

“In Vandermere terms, it is small.”

“Father.”

“Yes.”

“Where.”

“East.”

“East where the demon ran.”

“Yes.”

“Father.”

“Yes.”

“That is also not small.”

He grinned.

It was the wide, sharp, slightly unhinged grin from the foyer. The bear grin. The orc adoption grin. It belonged on a guy who had spent the morning rehearsing this exact conversation in his head and was, finally, getting to deliver it on schedule.

“Hannah goes with you.”

I exhaled.

A long, slow breath. The kind a guy lets out when the scary thing has, somehow, just gotten less scary. The candle under my sternum flickered once like it had heard her name.

“Hannah goes with me.”

“Yes.”

“The whole time.”

“Yes.”

“Including at night.”

“Boy.”

“What.”

“Ask that question again.”

“I—”

“Carefully.”

I closed my mouth.

The Duke’s grin sharpened. My ears went warm. The pinky ring on my hand chose, in this exact moment, to go a degree warmer for absolutely no reason. I told the ring to mind its business. The ring did not listen. The ring never listened.

“Father.”

“Yes.”

“I meant logistically.”

“Mhm.”

“For safety reasons.”

“Mhm.”

“Because of demons.”

“Mhm.”

“Stop saying mhm.”

“Mhm.”

He laughed.

It was the bear laugh this time. Full volume. The chandelier rattled. A book fell off the desk. The pigeon outside the window gave up on the entire estate and moved its family to a new city. The pinky ring almost rolled off my finger out of pure embarrassment.

He stood up.

The chair groaned in relief. He cracked his knuckles. He looked, briefly, ten years younger. The scar across his eyebrow caught the afternoon light and almost looked friendly.

“Boy.”

“Yes.”

“Pack light.”

“Pack light.”

“Two changes of clothes. Boots. A coat.”

“That is not a trip. That is a punishment.”

“Welcome to the Vandermere blood.”

“Is it too late to claim I was switched at birth?”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“Me.”

“Father.”

“Yes.”

“That is concerning.”

“Welcome to the Vandermere blood.”

He walked to the door.

He paused at the threshold. He looked back over his shoulder. The same dramatic pause Kael had done. The same pause Hannah had done. Apparently, every adult in this story had attended the same seminar, and I had missed the sign-up sheet by one full life.

“Boy.”

“Yes.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes.”

“You and Hannah.”

“Yes.”

“Come back alive.”

The door closed.

The room went quiet.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a long minute. The afternoon sun crawled another inch west. The bruise on my shoulder pulsed. Somewhere downstairs a clock chimed the hour. The lavender smell, finally, started to thin.

A small, polite knock at the door.

I knew it was Lira before I said the word. The knock was apologetic. The knock was three soft, careful taps. The knock was the sound of a girl who had spent three years trying not to be noticed and had given up halfway through this morning.

“Come in.”

The door opened.

Lira stood in the frame holding a folded leather travel bag. Her braid sat clean over one shoulder. Her grey eyes flicked to my shoulder. They flicked to the bruise. They flicked away. Her cheeks pinked.

“The Duke ordered a bag, young master.”

“Of course he did.”

“Two changes of clothes. Boots. A coat.”

“He briefed you.”

“He briefed everyone, young master.”

“On the way out.”

“On the way down the stairs.”

“Loudly.”

“Very loudly, young master.”

I almost laughed.

I caught it. I let her set the bag on the foot of the bed. She did not flinch when I sat up—tiny win. I would frame it. The gallery now had a whole wall.

“Lira.”

“Young master.”

“Thanks.”

She froze.

For half a second. Just half. The same way she had this morning. Then her shoulders settled. Her grey eyes lifted. She did not smile. She did not have to. The corner of her mouth twitched once, the way a window twitches before it opens.

“Sleep well, young master.”

She left.

The door closed behind her with a soft, kind click.

I lay back down.

I closed my eyes. The candle under my sternum was still there. Tiny. Steady. Mine. The pinky ring sat warm against my finger. The bruise on my shoulder ached in a slow, polite rhythm.

Two weeks east.

Alone with Hannah.

In the same forest where a demon had whispered my name.

I should have been scared.

I should have been making lists. Plans. Backup plans. Backup plans for the backup plans. I should have been tracing every chapter of the novel I remembered for any mention of an eastern trip and finding nothing.

I should have been afraid.

I was not.

The candle flickered. The pinky ring went a degree warmer. The afternoon light slid one more inch across the floor. Somewhere in my chest, a small, embarrassed thing started to grin.

I rolled onto my good shoulder.

I stared at the ceiling beams. Two weeks. A wolf. A forest. A demon’s old footprints. A bruise that still throbbed. A father who had, for the first time, said proud.

I closed my eyes.

The dream did not come back.

A different one started instead.