Part 13 (1/2)

”No, you're wrong,” River said, seeming transfixed by the amulet.

The idea that my tarak-sin might be dark enough to seduce Diavola out of hiding revolted me as soon as I thought it-and I didn't know what to do. Everything I did was bad, with bad consequences. I was poison, as toxic as that stew downstairs, and I had to get out of here before I destroyed everything that River had worked for.

I'd never left my amulet-had always had it with me or nearby-and the thought of it staying in River's hands made me feel like shrieking. But I wasn't strong enough to deal with it-maybe River was. I hoped. If she wasn't- ”I've gotta go,” I said, and brushed past River. I opened the door and raced down the hallways even as River started to come after me again. I sped up, pounding down the stairs, and then shot through the front door into the night as if pursued by wraiths.

CHAPTER 16.

I ran.

I ran through the thicket where Reyn had kissed me just, like, last week. The cold air seared my lungs and made my eyes water. I'd hoped that running would warm me up, but I was already shaking with cold or emotion or fear.

Thin branches whipped against my face and arms. The snow crunched underfoot and deadened my footsteps. I had a sudden flashback to that awful dream I'd had about Incy, where I had warmed my hands on a fire made of my friends. I hit my shoulder hard against a tree and raced headlong out of the woods. I saw I was way at the back of the farm, in a pasture no one used. I ran along the fence for a long time, until each breath was like a shard of ice being shoved down my throat. Cold sweat froze on my brow; my lungs were working like bellows because I never run and was totally out of shape.

I staggered to a plodding walk, then finally stopped, unable to go on. I was horrified and panicked. I was outside alone at night. With humiliation I realized that a small part of me hoped that someone would track my footsteps and come find me-but then that would be worse because I would have to go back. Again. Have to face whatever awful stuff awaited me in Reality Land.

I started to cry.

Just a few weeks ago, I'd seen a tiny crack of sunny promise splitting through the dark tarmac of my soul. I'd been able to count the things I was doing right. I'd seen progress-I really had. What had happened? Everything felt ruined: my whole time at River's Edge, my relations.h.i.+ps with everybody, my magick, my learning.... I'd faced so much-my heritage, my past, my emptiness. I had faced it all, and for what? I was worse off now than when I'd come, because now I actually understood how bad off I was.

What was wrong with me?

I slumped onto the icy gra.s.s, which crumpled stiffly under me. Freezing to death was, sadly, not a possibility. I would get hypothermia and pa.s.s out, but I wouldn't die. I blinked tiredly, feeling my tears ice-cold against my lashes. Just like in London, I'd reached a point where I couldn't handle the pain.

I cried until my ribs ached and I felt like I might throw up. The gra.s.s scratched my face, which already stung from the branches in the woods, and my salty tears burned in the scratches.

I closed my eyes. Maybe I would wake up, find myself back in Tahiti, find this had all been a wretched dream. I had been Sea Caraway, in Tahiti. Incy had been Sky Benolto. I'd made stuff out of seash.e.l.ls, sold it at local shops. This had been back in the 1970s. After I'd been Hope Rinaldi, in the sixties. Before I became Nastasya Crowe, in the eighties.

My head ached. The cold made it throb more insistently.

I just wanted to be happy. When had I been happy?

I remembered laughing.

When had I laughed?

My head swam and I tried to remember laughing, tried to hear what my laugh had sounded like.

I heard the tinkle of crystal champagne gla.s.ses gently touching one another on a silver tray. One of the servers was moving through the crowd, penguin-y and proper in his tux. I reached out and snagged my sixth gla.s.s, feeling the golden bubbles tickle my nose.

”Dearest.” Incy smiled and raised his gla.s.s at me.

”Love.” I smiled back at him. James. His name was James. We'd been friends for about thirty years. Best friends for twenty-eight.

”Prentice! Darling!” Sarah Jane Burkhardt pushed through the crowd and we air-kissed. Sarah Jane was a savvy, sophisticated twenty-one of the daughters of our hosts. We'd met some months ago at a house party out on Long Island. She held her ivory cigarette holder out to the side so it wouldn't spill ash on my gold evening dress.

”How did you ever get away from Sir Richard?” I giggled, remembering how I'd gaily waved good-bye as Sarah Jane had been forced to listen to that blowhard's war stories. It was 1924. The Great War was long over, never to be repeated. America had had five years of no longer conserving food, no longer being urged to buy war bonds or send extra grain to England or France. It was a time of beautiful parties, beautiful people, once again. Sure, the ridiculous Prohibition had required people to be careful about slos.h.i.+ng liquor around, but there were so many workarounds that it was almost as if it didn't exist for some people. People like us.

”I p.a.w.ned him off on Dayton MacKenzie,” Sarah Jane said.

”She deserved it,” James/Incy said. ”Did you see what she wore to 21 last week?”

Sarah Jane and I both laughed meanly. Then Sarah Jane's eyes widened. ”Goodness gracious. Who is that lovely man?” She drew on her cigarette holder and blew the smoke out through her nose, which we'd been practicing all day.

I looked. An unusually handsome man was standing in the foyer. A huge palm in a marble planter partly obscured his head, but he was tall and blond and wearing a beautiful, beautiful linen suit.

”I don't know,” I said. ”I've never seen him before. James?”

”No,” said James. ”But he looks like someone we ought to get to know. Do you agree, ladies?”

”Yes indeedy-do,” said Sarah Jane, and James boldly led us over to meet the stranger.

The man turned, as if sensing us approaching, and I heard Sarah Jane's slightly indrawn breath. He was too pretty for me, with smooth skin, blue eyes, and long lashes that would have looked better on a girl, but clearly he was Sarah Jane's dream come true.

Sarah Jane held out her hand, palm down, at chest height. The stranger obligingly kissed it. She almost purred.

”Delighted,” the stranger murmured. ”I'm Andrew. Andrew Vancouver.”

”Sarah Jane Burkhardt. This is Prentice Goodson and James Angelo.”

I saw, when we met eyes: Andrew was immortal. He recognized us also-some instantaneous flicker of expression that no one else saw.

”Sarah?”

We turned to see a girl with Sarah Jane's features and coloring but more refined, prettier. Sarah Jane was attractive, elegantly dressed and skillfully made up. This girl was maybe sixteen, young and untouched, but she held the promise of becoming a truly beautiful woman eventually.

”Yes, Lala, what is it?” Sarah Jane's voice was kind.

”Is that champagne?”

Sarah Jane laughed and held out her gla.s.s. The girl named Lala smiled shyly and took a tentative sip while we all watched, amused. She swallowed and her large blue eyes became larger. ”It's like... drinking flowers.”

”What a pretty way to put it,” said Andrew. ”Miss Burkhardt, your guest is charming.”

Sarah Jane laughed. ”She's not a guest. This is my younger sister, Louisa. Louisa, say h.e.l.lo to Mr. Vancouver, Miss Goodson, and Mr. Angelo.”

Louisa shook Andrew's hand, then mine, then took James's and looked into his eyes.

And that was how Incy had met Lala Burkhardt, and put in motion that awful scandal with that poor girl. After her suicide attempt, I think she'd ended up in a sanatorium in Switzerland. The whole thing had been abominable. She must be dead by now.

And Andrew Vancouver? That was how we had met Boz. Boz was working on another heiress at that party, very successfully, at least for a while. But just short of his completely ruining her, her father caught on and kicked Boz to the curb.

After that the three of us hung out together: birds of a feather.

The twenties had been such a fun, glamorous time. Parties and summer homes and all the brand-new cars (horseless carriages!) just starting to hit the market. Women were at last done with corsets for good, thank G.o.d, and in some places we could vote. Incy and Boz and I had had such a great time. The thirties were less fun, after Black Friday; the forties were grim; the fifties kind of weird and high-pressure and artificial. Things in America wouldn't get fun again until the sixties.