Page 6 of House of Marionne

“I insist.”

Dread finger-walks down my spine. I’ve watched Nigel at school. He surrounds himself with admirers. Once, a freshman dropped her books in front of him and he just rolled his eyes and kicked them out of his way. This is . . . odd. I pay the cashier and grab my bags.

“Thank you.” I hurry to the door. But I can feel Nigel following me. He holds the door. I walk more quickly.

“I just want to talk to you.” His footsteps echo mine, and I pick up to a run. I glance back to see if he’s still there, and in the tinted floodlights of the parking lot, Nigel’s face shifts. His slick blond hair morphs into a short dark cut, his face twisting from the comely countenance of Nigel Hammond to someone else I’ve never seen before.

He grows a few inches, soft craters dent his sunken cheeks, and long hair shields the glossed mask on his face. Something broken burns in his dark eyes and it unsteadies my steps. He approaches, fists clenched, his clothes shifting, too, their illusion wearing off. He flips his coin once more, and it snaps to the cinch of his collar like a magnet. On it is a familiar image. A column cracked in half. My heart squeezes. The man who I had a run-in with at the Market wore the same symbol.

Fear pins me in place. Magic. I reach for my weapon.

“Quell, is it? I’ve had orders to find you for months. You’re quite hard to find, you know that?” He smirks and my insides quiver. His lips smile though his eyes do not. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

I brandish Mom’s dagger at him.

“Easy.”

My foot nudges a pile of bikes belonging to those still inside the store.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

I drop the groceries, snatch up a bike, and take off. I risk a glance backward. He is blowing air between his fingers, and more thunder rolls overhead. I swerve across the intersection where traffic has doubled at the promise of rain. My calves burn, pushing the pedals faster as I dash between rows of cars packed like sardines at a stoplight. Once I reach the motel parking lot, I dash up the stairs.

“Mom!” My fist connects with the door.

“Quell?”

It opens and I hurry inside, shove it closed, and lock it.

“Someone was at the store. And his face! Not the same guy from the Market. But another one. Another what did you call them?” I can’t breathe. “Dragun.”

“Slow down. Start over.” Mom peeps out the curtains.

“At the store, there was someone I thought I knew. But then his face changed.” I look for shock on Mom’s face, but there is none. “He had a coin at his throat,” I manage. “Like the guy from the Market.”

“What was on the coin?”

I close my eyes, and his face shifting slithers through my memory. Outside, thunder booms, rattling the windows of our tiny room. The Dragun is here. He has to be. I shudder, trying to focus on Mom’s question. “A column. A cracked column was on it.”

“Not a talon?”

“No.”

“Beaulah.”

She shakes her head, tsking.

“Mom—”

“Quiet! Let me think.” She peeps out the window again. “That traffic outside came out of nowhere. It’s stop and go, backed up all the way down the street. We couldn’t even get out of the parking lot if we wanted to.” She paces, the lines in her face deepening.

Knock. Knock.

“We have to get out of here.” I tug at her.

“No, you do.” She unshoulders her bag. “You go on. I’ll get them off your tail.”

“Mom, no! It’s both of us, always.” The rest of my words die on my tongue. She’s right . . . Usually she flits, I follow, that’s how it goes. But she has no reason to run.

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