“You’re not in the Otherworld any more.”
“I know that, I just… it’s habit, is all.”
“Did any Otherworlders ever see you shift?”
“Plenty. But the only one who knew it weren’t a magic trick was Mr Blume.”
“No one else?”
He knew the answer. She could tell from the way he looked at her like he’d believe anything she told him.
“And how d’you think them Otherworlders would react if they did see it?” she challenged. “They don’t know ’bout magic through the portal but they know ’bout God and the devil. Anyone knew the things I could do, they’d think I was possessed by something from hell. They’d think my magic came from the devil.”
“There’s no such thing as the devil,” he said.
“Oh yeah? You can tell that to—”
She stopped herself too late. The liquid quality of Eliot’s eyes turned to ice.
“Who?” The word rushed out like a breath. Was he truly angry for her? And did it mean anything, when he was angry about everything else?
“It don’t matter. Point is, p’raps I had good reason to learn not to use my magic.” Ilsa shifted to look out the window. The chaos of the attack still hadn’t been righted. Someone had sent for more wolves to reinforce security, and they were receiving orders on the lawn. A body lay near the wall. Someone had covered it with a sheet, but the blood was seeping through.
Helpless to stop it, Ilsa snorted out a laugh. Eliot eyed her with a new kind of concern.
“Least no one wanted to run me out of London in the Otherworld. And your damned Principles mean I can’t use my magic for nothing a mile east of here, or they’ll kill me.” She shook her head. “Captain Fowler told me this weren’t the bad side of the portal. He said there’s worse horrors where I’m from.”
Eliot’s scowl returned in full force, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and hard as marble. “Cadell Fowler lives and breathes for blood. Carving up his enemies is his idea of bliss.”
Ilsa shook her head. “He said there’d be peace one day. Everyone’s just got to decide they want it.”
“Do you believe that? That it could be so simple?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He tilted his head, studied her mournfully and waited.
“I don’t know. I can’t get my head ’round nothing ’bout this damned city.”
“Then allow me to explain.”
He stood, offering a hand to pull Ilsa to her feet before steering her in the direction of her bedchamber.
“London is nothing but a battleground disguised as a city. The Callicans founded it to assert their dominance and when the empire fell, domination was for the taking. This city is designed to court hatred, Ilsa. It’s in its bones. We’ll fight and we’ll die, and then our children will fight over our bones, and so on.”
“Trying to protect yourself ain’t the same as having hate for those what threaten it. That ain’t what Camden’s doing.”
“Fight for long enough and you’ll stop seeing the difference.”
“Then why do it at all?” said Ilsa, throwing her arms wide. “Why not leave?”
They had reached her bedroom door. Eliot opened it but didn’t go inside. There was an intensity in the way he regarded her that was nothing like the fierce malice he so often wore. It was determined and passionate.
“Because there are ordinary people in this city who are just trying to live. Who keep their heads down and don’t attract attention; who follow the rules to the letter to buy themselves as much peace and safety as they can scrape together; who are trying to be happy. You said it yourself – they have lives here. And it’s not the choice I would make, but they’re entitled to it. So as long as there is a single Changeling living in London – an ordinary Changeling; a chimney sweep or a schoolmaster or a laundry woman – then the Zoo will protect their right to be here. I will protect that right. If we stop fighting, we condemn them all.”
Occasionally, a person had a different kind of tell. Lying made people feel vulnerable, but the truth – when that truth really, truly mattered to them – did the same. It was hard to disguise, just like a lie.
For a moment, Ilsa didn’t care what Eliot’s concern for her meant, or what his secrets were. There was good in him, she could see it, and it was noble and self-sacrificing. He hated this city – this battleground – and he was here anyway. Without second-guessing herself, she took Eliot’s face in her hands – inhaling the scent of fresh linens and rain – stood on tiptoes, and lightly pressed her lips to a fresh bruise blossoming on his jaw. He stiffened, but he didn’t stop her. When she didn’t immediately pull away, his hand drifted tentatively to her waist.
Ilsa hadn’t meant to linger; hadn’t planned to crave more of this. But she couldn’t take her hands off him, so she let them drift down his neck, across his shoulders to his chest. He drew in a sharp breath.
“Ilsa…” There was no mistaking the reproach in his voice, the warning, even as his hand tightened on her waist and his breath hitched. And he was right. The part of her she still controlled didn’t want to kiss Eliot this way. If she fell into him now, when all her other thoughts were of prisons and chains and people who wished her harm, she might want to get lost.
Maybe that wasn’t Eliot’s concern. Maybe he was thinking of a pocket watch with another girl’s name on it.
She let her hands fall. She put some distance between their lips.
“Your people are lucky to have you, Eliot,” she whispered against his shoulder.
Then she stepped through her bedroom door and closed it behind her, with Eliot staring dazedly after her.
18
