Page 10 of House of Marionne

Something swoops overhead, and the world darkens. But above, I only glimpse shadow, like clouds that have moved on but left their shade behind. I blink. It’s gone. The dimness of the evening thickens. Wind grazes my skin, rustling the trees, and the slants of shade draw nearer, stretching across the pavement, reaching for me.

“Who’s there?” I force down the lump in my throat and feel for the flap of my bag, eyeing Mom’s dagger hilt with images of the Dragun after me still on the back of my eyelids.

Suddenly, darkness from above nose-dives toward me, and panic flares in my chest. My fingers graze the hilt of my dagger just before a force pummels into my back, knocking me forward, ripping away my breath. My knees slam the ground, prickling with pain. I reach again for my bag. The zipper sticks, but I jiggle it open, and a thick fog as black as night surrounds me. I steady myself for the blow, trying to see which direction it’s coming from, but there is nothing, no one, only shadows.

The fog lifts, and my side throbs with the sting of a fresh wound. I hold the spot where it aches as the world tips sideways. The trees sway, watching in judgment, like the iron gates that wouldn’t let me in. I scan for some indication of where the shadow went, where it will come from next, but only see tricks of light. Splotches of black on the ground that blur and shift.

“Please, stop!” My ribs quake with pain, as if they’re being snapped out of place. I peer harder, grow colder, pins pushing behind my eyes trying to translate the darkness.

I blink, and the world glitches white. That’s when I see him.

An outline of his feet, shaped by only air. He lunges toward me, but I’m ready. I grab his ankle, hold as tight as I can, and tug. He trips, but somehow catches himself before falling. The shadow he was blows away like sand.

What’s left behind is a guy about my age dressed much like the gate guard with a glare that is a dagger of its own.

I gulp. Another one. A gleaming mask covers the top half of this Dragun’s face as well. But it’s much more ornate than the others I’ve seen, intricately carved along its edges where it fades into his skin. His dark coat and loose-fitted top are lined with red embroidery, much finer than any of the other Draguns wore. But the cinch at his neck where I expect to see a silver coin is only fabric.

“The gate guard already cleared—” But before I can finish, he’s on his feet, nostrils flaring, before disappearing into a cloud of black.

“I—” I start, but I’m engulfed in a dark fog as cold as death. A fog of . . . him. Sharp pain pricks me all over like slashes with a fine blade. I blink, but everything is black. And red. I wail in pain. My toushana roars in me, a blanket of ice wrapping around my bones so insistent it burns. I bite down, trying to focus, and force my eyes open, looking for an outline. Some sign of where the Dragun’s striking from. The fog shifts, rippling around his shape. I swing out my arm, as cold as a frozen log, slamming it into the back of his knees. He stumbles but recovers swiftly as the shadows lift, and he reappears.

His green eyes narrow.

I pull myself up and snatch the dagger, thrusting its tip straight at his face, Mom’s warnings about Grandmom and this world haunting me.

“Touch me again and I’ll slice you in half.” The world frays at the edges, red rivers running between my fingers, down my arms.

My threat doesn’t garner a response, but his gaze fixates on the blade. Warmth soaks my side and whatever he did to me makes it feel like something is ripping apart my insides. But I hold my dagger arm higher, firm. He won’t touch me again. Tiny cuts stripe my arms, hands. Blood, there’s so much blood. The mask on his face vanishes.

“Where’d you steal that?”

“It’s mine.”

He shakes his head with disbelief. “Who are you?”

I blow out a shaky breath. Words I’ve been forbidden to say my entire life rise like bile in my throat. “Marionne. Quell Janae Marionne.”

FOUR

He holds out his hand and I consider my blade but tuck it away. My legs, scratched and worn out from the scuffle, feel like lugging lead. I stagger and he steadies me with a rough shake before wrapping his arm tightly around my back, pulling me to him. I stiffen against his hard chest as he leads me through the gate, wincing as his closeness presses against my wounds. A sprawling house not unlike a castle gazes down at us, lit up like a star in the distance, a blanket of rolling green between us and it. Like a manor in a world all its own.

“Hold on to me,” he says, pulling me along faster. But the pain radiating all over my body sharpens and I can hardly keep up. He latches my hand on his arm and my heart thuds in my ears. His grip on me is somehow both gentle and tight. Closer to him the fabric at his throat is easier to see. What I thought was bare fabric is a stitched image of a hooked claw, a replica of the one the gate guard had on the coin at his neck. However, his is sewn in black thread. A talon . . . Not a cracked column. I try to exhale but can’t because nothing about his hold on me says I’m safe.

“I’ve done nothing wrong. Where exactly are you taking me?!”

His grip on me tightens, his jaw working. “Do not let go of me.” It isn’t a request.

The world spins around us, and in moments, we’re at the foot of the estate where pointed arch columns line the front. Along its stone triangular pediment, the name Marionne is etched. My insides slosh. My name. Beneath it is some sort of symbol, a fleur-de-lis and talon wrapped in words in a language I can’t read. I catch a glimpse of myself in the window, and despite my bloodied clothes, I tie up my hair and dust off my freckled cheeks, but my hands sting, chafed from the pavement.

He pushes open the doors, tugging me along inside. The ceiling towers above, a masterpiece of gold leafed rosettes and crown molding like in the fancy castles I’ve read about in history books. Arches appear to be ripped right into it, reminiscent of an old, haunted church. He leads me through the entryway, past a maze of portrait-lined paneled walls, to a grand foyer where a giant sphere hovers midair like a black moon. Tiny speckles shine like constellations inscribed all over its glassy surface. Beneath them, darkness swirls violently.

“What is tha—” I reach to graze my fingers along its low-lying belly as we pass, but my hand goes right through it as if it’s no more than an illusion. I rub my eyes, warming all over with awe.

He pulls me along, and I fidget in his grasp. “I can walk just fine on my own.”

He holds me tighter. Music croons between a pair of towering carved doors as we pass. I crane for a glimpse inside. Bright lights illuminate an audience arced around a stage, some wearing masks, others with gold or silver tiaras on their heads. On the stage, a girl dressed quite fancily raises a dagger high above herself. I gasp.

“Eyes ahead!” My captor snatches me along before I can see more.

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