Caitlin Kittredge - The Mirrored Shard

“Look, Draven.” I sighed. “I don’t care about you. I just want to get Dean back. I’m not going to apologize for turning you over to Tremaine, because you would have done the same to me.”

Draven took a step toward me, and I darted back. “Don’t,” I said, my voice grinding like mismatched gears. Even skinny and broken, Draven still had the ability to scare me.

“I could leave you here, you know,” he said. His hand darted out and grabbed my wrist. “Knock you on the head and leave you for the crows.”

Rather than pull away, as every instinct in my body was screaming at me to do, I yanked Draven closer, matching the force of his grip. “And I could send you somewhere so awful, mud and crows would seem like paradise.”

After a moment Draven started laughing, a genuine laugh, tinged with hysteria. “Aoife, you and I are so much more alike than you realize.”

“The Deadlands,” I snarled, not rising to the bait. “Tell me.”

“It’s very simple,” he managed between peals of laughter. “I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out.”

“Figure what out!” I gave him a shake, trying to quell his laughter, but it didn’t work.

“To go to the Deadlands, you have to die,” Draven said. “Stone and sun, it’s so simple.”

I let go of him, shoving him back with disgust, and he sprawled in the mud, laughing so hard he disturbed a flight of birds from the nearby field. “Run on, Aoife!” he shouted. “Run away to die!”

I should have guessed he didn’t really know anything, that he’d be useless and only out for himself, but I just turned my back and walked away to the east, rather than act out my rage by sending him through another Gate.

It was more than Draven ever would have done for me.

There was a road next to the stone wall bordering the field we’d landed in, and I jumped the wall and followed it.

After a time, I came to a signpost and nearly wept in relief. The post announced NEW CANAAN, 5 MI. I was in Connecticut. I could sneak aboard a train or a steam jitney, lay low, and in less than twelve hours, I’d be home.

I managed to get on a jitney by pretending I was with a large family. The ride was uneventful. I’d expected the jitney to be crawling with Proctors, but not only were there no black-uniformed officers, even the notice from the Bureau of Proctors had been torn down, replaced with an ad for toothpaste.

I fell asleep soon after boarding, and didn’t wake until it was time to sneak off with the family at Springfield.

The village of Arkham lies tucked up against the mountains like a sleeping cat curled in a hidden place, bordered on all sides by granite hills and primeval forests. I was able to hitch a ride within a few miles, and now I walked.

I confess that I didn’t walk quickly. I didn’t know what I was going to find when I got to my father’s house. I hoped it would be empty, that my father and his fiancée, Valentina, would still be at her home on Cape Cod. Then I could figure out what I was going to do, and avail myself of Graystone’s library to find out more about the Deadlands.

I felt guilty for not wanting to see my father, but I couldn’t imagine facing him after what he was sure to see as me running off to live in Thorn with Nerissa. My father wasn’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type who offered sage advice and comforting pats on the hand. He was more of a drill sergeant.

Still, he was my father. I loved him, and I didn’t want him to be angry with me. I didn’t want him to look at me differently because I’d gone with my Fae blood rather than the human Grayson blood, even if I had had a choice.

Although, it was the human blood that gave me my Weird. My human blood that made me into something considered an abomination by those good people who populated the Iron Land. I couldn’t blame them entirely. The Proctors had lied to them for a long time, and people were afraid of what they didn’t understand. I got that. I just wished I didn’t have to live with the constant, twitchy fear that somebody would see under my skin, see the two kinds of blood in my veins. See that I wasn’t like them, would never be like them.

Graystone, the Grayson family estate, sat on the top of the mountain overlooking Arkham. I could have cut through the fields around the village and avoided people, but I decided instead to walk up the broad cobble road. I didn’t want to sneak into my own home like I was a thief.

Arkham Village was protected by gates, high iron gates like two skeletal hands, folded in prayer. They stood askew, and I watched a few scraps of newspaper flutter across the cobbles as I passed through.

Where was everyone?

A piece of yellow parchment blew up against my foot, and I picked it up, smoothing it out and reading the bold black type.

EVACUATION ZONE

CITIZENS OF ARKHAM ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO VACATE

AND MOVE TO THE NEAREST DESIGNATED SAFE ZONE.

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO STAY IN YOUR HOMES!

ARKHAM VALLEY HAS BEEN DECLARED UNSAFE.

I read the words twice, not understanding what had happened. Arkham was deserted—a few windows had been broken by vandals, but mostly it was silent. A white cat hopped up on a windowsill a few feet from me and meowed.

I scooped the cat up, and he immediately started purring and nestled against my chest. “Where is everyone?” I asked him.

“Gone.”

I shrieked and whirled toward the voice, clutching the cat to me. He hissed and squirmed. My heart thudded so violently it felt like a kick in the ribs.

An old woman stood a short distance from me, leaning heavily on a cane. Her pink skirt and shapeless gray sweater were streaked with dirt and some rust-colored substance that I sincerely hoped was gutter water and not blood.

“You scared me,” I said.

“All gone,” she cackled. “Guv’mint came and rounded them up.”

I looked back at the evacuation notice, and saw that the Bureau of Proctors symbol was missing. The woman made me jump again when she snatched the paper from my hand.

“Ain’t no Proctors round here no more,” she wheezed, stamping the paper under her bare foot. It was black, scabbed and caked with grime. Up close, she smelled sour as a room long shut, and my stomach flipped. She bothered me in a way I couldn’t quite define. The cat hissed again and his claws dug into my flesh.

“Who’s there?” I said, taking a step back. I scanned for escape routes from the corner of my eye, but the street was narrow and only the door of a house across the street, hanging off its hinges and creaking back and forth in the slight breeze, offered a possible exit.

“Me,” the old woman croaked. She pointed upward conspiratorially and leaned in. “Them.”

Overhead, I saw rows and rows of crows arrayed on rooflines. They were silent, not even ruffling a feather, and all stared toward the east, as if waiting for something.

That, a thousand times more than the old woman, caused a chill to race through me.

“They’re comin’,” the old woman hissed. “From the sky and from the sea. From the places you can only dream about, little girl. They’re comin’, the old things, the dark things, and the powers that be don’t like folk round here sayin’ so. Rounded ’em up, took ’em to a hospital.” She turned her head and spit, and I edged backward another step, toward the village gates. I’d seen enough mad people to know the dangerous ones, and this woman was about two clock ticks away from scratching my eyes out.

“Hospital!” she hissed. “Ain’t no hospital! They want to stop us dreamin’!”

I paused in my microscopic retreat. “What?” It couldn’t be—that had been just a dream, just something I’d hallucinated while attempting to get control of my Weird before I realized such a thing was impossible.