It was my father. My father had saved my life. I felt a flutter in my chest. He hadn’t left me in the end, hadn’t believed I shouldn’t have had anything to do with my birthright. He’d helped me as much as he could.
And I’d betrayed him. I’d betrayed every one of the Graysons, Conrad, even Nerissa. Draven had the witch’s alphabet. Tremaine had his queens, his open gateway, his place ruling the Thorn Land, which was no longer dying, but was awake and hungry after hibernation.
All I had left was my Weird, but I was not bowed. I had Dean, and Cal. I had my wits, and I still had my mind.
I could stay away from the cities. I could find a way to stave off the iron madness, and I could get the witch’s alphabet back.
I would find my father and the truth.
As the first sliver of hope in a very long time slid back into view, every light in Graystone went out.
Bethina screamed, and her tea mug shattered on the library hearth.
“Stay calm!” Dean shouted. “Find Aoife.”
“She’s there,” said Cal, his eyes like lanterns in the full dark. “By the window.”
Outside, a blue flash lit the garden for just a moment, a streak of heat lightning in the coldest part of the year.
My shoulder twinged and my Weird rubbed against new magic in the room. In the blue, witchly light I saw three figures: two short and one tall, two crook-backed and elfin-faced and one with shaggy black hair, a tattered tweed blazer and a face that mimicked my own.
My heart twitched, stopping my breath for just a moment before I flew to the tallest figure and threw my arms around him. “Conrad!”
“Hey, little sister,” he whispered. “I’m home.”
I pressed my face into him, memorizing his warmth and his scent, the bony rib cage I thought I’d never embrace again. “I thought you were dead. He told me you were dead.” Even after Tremaine had admitted he’d lied, I’d thought I’d never see Conrad again.
“I know,” Conrad said. “I know you did, and I’m sorry.”
“How did you … where have you …” My questions tumbled over one another, tangled and fell.
“All I can say at this moment is that we have to leave,” Conrad told me. “The Winter Folk are coming for all four of you—their scouts are in the garden.”
Another flash of lightning, another glimpse of the creatures skittering through the shadows. They were taller than nightjars now. Paler. With more teeth. Folk.
“Where can we possibly go?” I asked Conrad.
“There’s one place where they can never find us,” Conrad said. “The Land of Mists.”
“No,” Dean said instantly. “That’s bad business.”
“You don’t get a choice, Erlkin.” One of the two figures hunched behind Conrad spoke. It was little more than a shadow, its silver teeth the only solid thing. Bethina’s shadow-people who’d come for Conrad. “The Wytch King commands it. You and the daughter and the ghoul and the mortal. To the Mists, now.”
“Aoife, please,” Conrad said. “I know I don’t deserve your trust after what happened but I’ve changed. I’ve healed. The madness doesn’t follow us into the Mists, and once you’re away from the cities and the worst of the iron. We can stay sane if we stay out of the Iron Land.”
Cal lifted his head, flaring his nostrils. “I smell silver and hawthorn trees. Cold blue blood.”
“That’s Tremaine and his Winter men,” Conrad said. “We’re out of time.” He snapped his fingers at the Erlkin behind him. “We have to go back to the Mists. Now.”
In the reflection on the window glass, a black shape grew and gathered, until our reflected images became a bottomless door, a swirling vortex in the flat of the windowpane.
“Come with me,” Conrad said. “I promise, everything will be explained.”
“In Lovecraft,” I said. “In Ravenhouse. I saw our father.”
“Impossible,” Conrad said. “Archibald’s been missing for months.”
“I saw him,” I insisted. “He got me out of there.”
“Aoife,” Dean said as glass shattered and gears shrieked in the bowels of the house. The traps whirred to life against an overwhelming attack. “We should go with him, much as I hate to say it.”
I looked from Conrad to Dean, to Cal and Bethina, who clutched his sleeve.
“All right,” I told Conrad. “But only for now. You better believe you’re going to explain this to me when we’re safe.”
“Say it,” Conrad said. “Or the gate doesn’t work. Say that you trust me.” He held out his hand, but I grabbed Dean’s instead.
“I trust you, Conrad.” I still did, in spite of everything. My brother was still my brother, and when he’d asked for my help those weeks ago he hadn’t lied to me.
Conrad turned his eyes on Dean. “And how about you, halfkin?”
Dean’s lip pulled back to show his teeth. “Only because I don’t got a choice, friend.”
“Anywhere has to be better than here right now,” Cal agreed. “C’mon, Bethina.”
“You have nothing to fear,” Conrad said. “Not from me. Fear the events you’ve set in motion, and the ripples from this world to the worlds beyond.” He held out his hand to the doorway. “Aoife. You first.”
I shook my head, still holding on to Dean. “We go together.”
“Together,” Dean agreed. “Or not at all.”
“Fine!” Conrad snapped. “Whatever you like, just
He sounded more like my brother then, and a little of my trepidation vanished.
Dean and I stepped into the Mists as one, and blackness gripped me. Not the sick vertigo of Tremaine’s
I was falling toward a place made of smoke and shadow, a darkness I had only seen in nightmares, but Dean was with me and Cal, Bethina and Conrad were behind.
I fell into the Mists, passing worlds beyond number as I did, while above me, the stars turned out of time, in a vast and darkening sky.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a novel is oftentimes a solitary and maddening pursuit, and I’d like to thank everyone who’s aided or influenced me individually, but that would run on for pages, so I’ll try my best here: My mother, Pamela Kittredge, who gave me a love of books and who never minded that I only wanted to read the scary stuff. My amazing literary agent, Rachel Vater, who took the Iron Codex from an odd idea to full-blown, contracted series of novels. Krista Marino, my endlessly patient editor, and the entire team of copy editors, publicists, marketing staff and designers at Random House for their unending support of Aoife and her story. The book would never have been finished without the encouragement of my fellow authors and friends: Mark Henry, Richelle Mead, Kat Richardson and Tiffany Trent. Special thanks belong to Cherie Priest, Sara McDonald and Stacia Kane for the literal hours they endured of my assuring them the book would never be finished and that I was going to be forced to go join a shady circus to make ends meet, because I was just no good at this writing thing. They kept telling me I could finish, and I did. And I’m not cut out for circus life, anyway. Any number of fabulous fellow writers influenced this story with their work, but I owe particular thanks to Mike Mignola, Holly Black, Ed Brubaker, Warren Ellis and Joe Hill. Joe, I’m sorry I inadvertently stole the name of your city. Feel free to steal it back. Finally, I want to thank everyone who introduced me to the finer and funner aspects of the steampunk community in Seattle and beyond—it’s a brave new world, and I’m thrilled to be part of it, goggles, dirigibles and all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
