Shana Abe - The Deepest Night

“The dogs,” said the soldier stubbornly.

“Ah, yes. Well, the dogs can interrogate them after the major, I suppose. We like to keep a sense of order around here.”

The crowd broke into laughter.

“This way,” said the policeman to Armand.

Lora was staring into the distance, pale and frowning. She gave a slight, nearly imperceptible shake of her head.

She couldn’t Turn yet. Mandy wasn’t even certain he could. He felt jittery and oddly unfocused. When he thought about smoke, the sensation of dissolving, all that came back to him were the words don’t leave her.

As if he ever would.

One of the onlookers gave him a sharp thump on the back.

They followed the policeman.

The police headquarters seemed nearly deserted. He wondered over that, until he realized most of the force was probably outside searching for mechanical dragon parts. The officer led them to an office with a frosted glass door, waved at them to sit, then took his own seat behind a desk.

He removed his hat, placing it gently upon a corner of the desk. Light from the open balcony doors behind him gleamed off the oil in his hair.

“Your names, please?”

“Karl Abt. This is my wife, Gitta. We’re visiting from Bonn.”

The man smiled at Eleanore. It seemed warm and friendly enough, but something about it struck a chill down Armand’s spine. Something both curdling and familiar.

I know you, he thought, unsettled.

“Your occupation?”

“Bookseller.”

“Bonn is a fair city. Why did you decide to visit us here?”

“We’re on our way to Königsberg. We have family there.”

There was a notepad and pencil in front of him, but the man wasn’t taking notes. He was watching Lora, watching her as a cat would watch a moth trapped against a windowpane.

Like he wanted to creep closer. Lick his lips.

“Your hotel?”

“The Crown Prince.” He’d glimpsed it on the walk here.

“Ah! Then you’ve met my friend Magnus. He works there.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t had an opportunity to mingle with the staff,” Armand said stiffly.

The policeman had eyes the color of gunmetal. Hunting eyes, focused and rapt.

“Mrs. Abt, forgive my poor manners. You seem winded, my dear. Would you enjoy a glass of water?”

Right on cue, Lora looked at Mandy. He returned her gaze, allowed himself a trace of a self-satisfied smile, and answered for her.

“My wife is with child. You know how it goes, she’s always needing this or that. Water would be welcome.”

“Vogler,” said the policeman, not even raising his voice.

“Yes, sir?” Another man appeared at the doorway, standing at attention.

“Escort Mr. Abt to the facilities. Let him fetch a glass of water for his wife.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shit.

Armand remained in the chair, unable to move.

“It’s not far,” said the police officer to him. “Go on.”

He’d left the pistol with the knapsack, because his coat wasn’t long enough to conceal it. There was only the knife in his boot. He’d been trained to fence and shoot and even box, and he did all those things well, but right now, as his mind sped up and time slowed down, all he could think about was how long it was going to take him to free the knife.

He looked at Eleanore. She sat frozen, too, her face a mask, her hair coming loose from its braid to fan along her forearm, satiny sand and gold draped to her waist. He saw her then as he knew the policeman would: slight and milky pale, the full lips of a grown woman and the vulnerable, clouded eyes of a girl who wasn’t quite certain of where she was or what was going on around her.

And worse, much worse: the drákon beauty gleaming just beneath her skin, provocative and incandescent.

don’t leave her.

It was then that he realized whom this man was. Whom he reminded Armand of.

Soder had been a fellow student from school, an older boy remarkably welcoming to the younger pupils coming in. He’d had a narrow face and an affected drawl. The same hunting eyes. He was known for hosting clandestine parties in his room late at night, offering sweetmeats and wine to his special chosen few. Armand had been one of those special boys once, uncertain of his place, eager to fit in.

It was only after he’d pulled his father’s rank and given Soder a nosebleed besides that he’d been allowed to escape that room.

“Never mind about the water. We’ve no desire to be a bother to you, sir, especially on a busy day like this. I’ve promised my wife a fine breakfast as soon as we return to the hotel. And so, if we’re finished here … ?”

“No,” answered the officer, almost apologetic. “We are not. Vogler, escort Mr. Abt from my office. Confine him to a cell if necessary.”

“Yes, sir!”

The man at the door took a step toward them.

Mandy locked eyes with the officer behind the desk, and the sky beyond the balcony was stippled with clouds, and the walls were shadowed umber, and the air smelled of papers and anticipation and lust and Armand knew, as surely as he knew anything, that the officer had realized that a line had been crossed, that scales had been tipped, and was going to come to his feet exactly as Mandy did. And the knife was going to end up in that broad, flat belly before the other bloke, the one behind them still, could get another step in. Because he wasn’t going to leave her and he wasn’t going to surrender and he wasn’t going to do anything but fight like hell to get Eleanore out of here.

His fingers grazed the edge of his boot. The officer’s lips drew back over his teeth.

“No,” said Eleanore suddenly. In English.

Everyone paused, looking at her.

“Don’t do it,” she said to Armand.

“What is this?” began the officer. “Your wife—”

“I’m feeling better now,” Lora said. “You?”

Armand smiled at her, then at the policeman. “After you,” he replied, also in English, and she Turned to smoke, then he did, and both men were left staring openmouthed at the two chairs littered with empty clothing.

Eleanore curled out to the sky. Armand waited until the officer had circled the desk, had knocked over Lora’s chair in frustration and screamed instructions at the other man, who’d dashed from the chamber.

Then Mandy Turned in front of him.

He said in German, “You’d found your daredevil pilots, after all,” and walloped the bastard across the jaw before Turning back into smoke.

It felt even more satisfying than it had with Soder.

It felt, in fact, damned fine.

We watched the people swarming about from the safety of a bell tower topping a church, one I sincerely hoped no one used. We knelt side by side beneath the cavernous yawn of the bell and peered over the edge of the cupola, which offered an excellent prospect of not only the chaos in the streets below but also the door to the warehouse.

The one holding the last of our things.

And the men walking in and out of it.

“Go away, go away,” I chanted under my breath. “Go away, go away.”

“It’ll be fine,” Armand whispered, but, like me, he didn’t take his eyes off the comings and goings by the door. “The place was a mess to begin with. Piles of junk everywhere. They won’t find the knapsack.”

“What if they smell the smoke from the maps?”

“They’re only humans, Eleanore. They might discover the ashes, but they won’t know what was burned there, or when. They won’t smell the smoke.”

“Are you positive?”

“No,” he said, and I silently resumed my chant.

In daylight the town was sprawling and pretty, nestled up against a giant’s backbone of green craggy hills. I wondered where we were, if we’d reached East Prussia yet. I couldn’t tell. But for the soldiers everywhere, we might have been in any idyllic, secluded part of Europe, isolated from the war’s grisly tendrils.

A breeze wound by, warm enough but still brushing goose bumps over most of my body. Despite my aching head, despite everything that had happened in the past few hours, it had not escaped me that I was fully unclothed, in close proximity to an equally unclothed Lord Armand.

This was the third time we’d been in this fix, and it seemed to me it was getting worse and worse. My reaction to it, I mean.

I’d always thought him handsome. Not in the besotted, drippy way that Belgian girl had—or any of the girls from Iverson, frankly—but purely as an acceptance of fact. Armand was handsome because he was. Armand was wealthy because he was. Armand was drákon because he was.

So, handsome hardly mattered. Far more interesting to me, far more intriguing, was the part of himself he kept veiled. The secret animal part that seemed a tantalizing near-reflection of … well, of me. I couldn’t help but wonder what this marble-skinned, keen-eyed boy was going to look like as a dragon.

I wanted so, so badly to live long enough to see that.

Is there a more powerful tool of seduction for the lonely than that of common ground?

I kept imagining what Mrs. Westcliffe would say if she could see us now.

Proper young ladies do not go into hiding with unclad men, no matter the circumstances.

Ladies do not think about what it would be like to move a mere inch over, so that bare skin may touch.

Ladies do not envisage wildly indecent things, such as kissing or embracing or rolling about beneath a bronze bell.

I concentrated vehemently upon the people below.