“From you. From that hunger that flashed in your eyes the moment I suggested it. From the way you stalked forward, without even being aware you were doing it. A predator knows a predator when it sees one. You might not seek a bared throat, but you are ravenous nonetheless. Desperate for words, for understanding, for all the things I can give you,” he said, every sentence so silky, so perfectly poised in that molten metal voice. Then on the end, he reached into his pocket. He took out a little silver case and slid out a cigarette. Set his teeth around it, delicately, and lit it using a blue flame sparked from his fingertips.
The smoke smelled as strange and sweet as it had that night, in her room.
That night when he could have killed her very easily. But somehow hadn’t.
I don’t know what game you’re after, she thought.
But she knew the end of that sentence was:yet somehow, I want to play it.
It was there, even before he added the final note, to this warped symphony.
“All you have to do is let me,” he said around a coil of smoke.
And what else could she do, in the face of that?
The only possible answer was this:
“Then I suppose I will.”
Chapter Ten
She didn’t truly believe that he would keep his word. It felt much more like he intended to make her drop her guard, then do something he wouldn’t have any trouble disposing of. Like trap her somewhere for all eternity or thrall someone else into doing it for him. Really, it made no sense to go to the place he proposed they meet, in a letter she found in her drawer the next day. She cracked the actual wax seal and read it there, in script that now seemed disturbingly old-fashioned:six in the morning, in the abandoned east wing theater.
Like some sort of university version ofPhantom of the Opera.
He was probably going to drop a chandelier on her head.
But she knew why she went anyway. It was exactly like he’d said.
She was ravenous. And for all the things she could see behind her eyes, the moment she thought of him teaching her anything. That magic he had done, in the maze. The beauty and brilliance of it, in his hands. How it had bent to his will, with almost no effort expended at all. He was undisputedly an expert, a virtuoso, a genius. And not even a human one, either. He was made out of the place magic came from. It was in his body and his soul. His lessons, even reluctantly given and probably half-heartedly conceived, would be invaluable.
And not just to her.
To Anaya.
She couldsharewhatever he offered with her.
She simply couldn’t pass even a chance at that up.
Though she took precautions. She used the iron filings she’d mixed with Vaseline on her own throat, her wrists—anywhere she could think that might seem tempting to him. The iron fork she’d pinched from the dining room went in one pocket of her pinafore dress, the iron nail she’d found in the other.
Then finally, she did the riskiest thing.
She set up the letter. The one that would drop into the drawer that sent things, if she wasn’t back in time to stop it. Addressed to Professor Cobble, because Cobble seemed kind. He seemed understanding. The lecture before last, he had tapped his lectern, and told that horrible Henry Godwin to cease trying to bespell her notebook.
It was at least possible that he might listen to what she’d written, if she suddenly disappeared. That he might make sure Harker didn’t hurt anyone else—and in a way that didn’t unsettle her.He won’t have him beheaded, she found herself thinking, as she wrote the thing. Because try as she might, she couldn’t shake how horrible that idea seemed. It haunted her, somehow.
Though of course she didn’t let it show in her words to Harker. She didn’t tell him that she’d taken great care in her letter to Cobble. That she’d erred on the side of Harkerdoesn’t know what he’s doing. Instead she detailed her plan in great and gleeful detail.To my not quite mortal enemy, she began. Then ended it on:just in case you were planning on something other than what you claim this will be.
And was surprised when he wrote back almost immediately.
Oh, what a disappointment it would have been, little bookworm, if you had given me anything less. I do hope you intend to continue living up to my high expectations of your seething hatred and distrust of my every move.
Yours faithfully,
Yes, Immortal Is the Right Word to Use Now
Though her surprise was even greater when she got to the end, and a bubble of laughter rose up. She had to crush it down, hard. Smother it in its sleep. Now was not the time to find him amusing. It was the time to crumple that letter up into a tiny ball, and toss it, and then go to the east wing theater, with a face like stone.
