He waited long moments while the fountain played and the wind mourned through the battlements.
And then he went away.
Lucy sat with her hands in her lap, staring sightlessly at the sparkling water. She was the
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daughter of the children of the sea. Long ago, before she had loved him, before he loved her, Conn had stolen her from her human home so she would bear his children.
She put her head down among the roses and wept.
5
H e wa s o u t t h e r e s o m e w h e r e . S h e c o u l d feel him, just like this morning.
Lara skimmed along the tree-lined walk, her flat shoes crunching the pea gravel. She imagined Justin blundering in the dark, dazed and bleeding, hurt and resentful, a danger to himself . . . or to others.
She needed to find him. For his sake. For hers.
She had to tel somebody. Tel Simon.
Her stomach churned. The thought of facing the governors, of Zayin’s scorn and Simon’s disappointment, made her sick inside.
But she had no choice. A trickle of sweat rol ed down her spine.
The distinctive pitched roof line of the headmaster’s residence poked over the trees—six chimneys and a weathervane shaped like an eagle.
Simon Axton lived alone in the original Colonial 5 4
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farmhouse, set apart from the other school buildings behind the main hal . Lara had been invited inside exactly eight times. To the sunroom to take tea with her cohort on graduation day. To the book-lined library for cocktails with the schoolmasters and other proctors over the holidays.
Once or twice to bring Simon a file he’d left at the office.
Lara approached the front porch, her steps slowing, anticipation burning a hole in her gut. Too late, she realized she should have cal ed. But what would she say?
What could she say? She was supposed to be in her room.
Simon’s cool dismissal pounded in her head.
The thought of his displeasure dried her mouth. She stared up at the darkened windows, listening to the whisperings and rustlings and cracklings of the overgrown garden. A soft thump sounded from the back of the house, some smal , nocturnal animal hunting in the night.
Her heart thudded.
Straightening her shoulders, she marched toward the steps.
That noise again, like a prowling cat or a raccoon testing the garbage cans or . . .
She caught her breath. Or like an escaped patient, skulking in the bushes.
Goose bumps rose along her arms. She stood frozen, her mind racing, her breath whooshing in and out of her lungs.
He couldn’t be . . .
Maybe. Why not? How far could he get, with a skul fracture and the heth around his throat?
She thrust her hand into her skirt pocket, wrapping her fingers around the knife—his knife, Justin’s—and was instantly F o r g o t t e n s e a 55
electrified as if she’d grabbed a live plug. Her nerves sizzled.
Like a bug flying into a bug zapper.
She strained her senses.
There? Almost. Almost . . .
A whisper of warmth, male, animal, alive. A swirl of wild energy, around the corner, behind the house. Intangible.
Unmistakable.
Justin was here, somewhere nearby.
Clutching the knife like a divining rod, she plunged into the darkness at the side of the house, stepping over beds of hostas and lilies of the val ey, creeping under the black and staring windows. It was like her Seeking—was it only this morning?—or the game she’d played as a child. Warm.
Cold. Warmer. Hot.
