Dreamseeker (30 page)

Easy,
I warned myself.
Your information has to check out before he'll pay you anything.
But it would check out. Maybe it was just the intoxication of the moment, but I no longer doubted my conclusions. Virilian's true passions had shaped that dream, and a Domitor would confirm its content.

Hordes of hungry sycophants were allowed back into the throne room as we took our leave. I walked out by Sebastian's side, as an equal. That was how the Guildmaster of the Fleshcrafters had treated me. A fellow information broker.

As we walked past the transformed Potters, I stared at a few of them. They smiled at me, pleased by the attention. One of them offered me a truffle as I walked by. I took it from him and bit into it. The creamy chocolate was delicious, but not nearly as sweet as the taste of victory.

Screw you, Morgana.

L
URAY

V
IRGINIA
P
RIME

I
SAAC

T
HE WORLD WAS BRIGHT.
So bright! Apparently two weeks in Shadowcrest had been enough to dull Isaac's memory of just how colorful the outside universe was. You could get drunk on this much color.

He stayed in the shadows for a while, watching locals go about their business from the entrance of a shuttered store, then finally steeled himself for the inevitable and stepped out into the street. The sheer intensity of the human energy surrounding him was dizzying. Had he felt this overwhelmed two years ago, when he'd left Shadowcrest the first time? Or was he just so exhausted from what he'd been through recently that everything seemed ten times as impactful?

The mark of shame that the Fleshcrafter had etched into his face was livid and unmistakable, a wine-colored streak that ran down the center of his forehead, too perfectly shaped to be natural. Such markings were rare, and Isaac had never seen one before, but apparently everyone in Luray knew what it meant. Crowds parted for him as if he was a plague carrier, and the few people who glanced his way avoided any eye contact. One little girl who clearly didn't
know what the mark meant stared at him in frank curiosity, until her mother noticed and jerked her away. As she dragged the girl hurriedly down the street, away from Isaac, he heard her explaining why she should never,
ever
talk to someone whom the Guilds had chosen to shun.

If the mark had a been smaller thing he might have tried to hide it beneath a hat—as far as he knew there was no rule against that—but the bottom of it extended down onto the bridge of his nose, and no hat, bandana, or bandage would cover that. Until the weather was cold enough for him to wear a ski mask, anyone who looked at him would instantly know that his Guild had cast him out and that all civilized folks were encouraged to reject him.

In the sea of color and sound that was Luray, he was a bleak island, lifeless and alone.

He walks through the Antonin home like a ghost, a throbbing ache where his heart should be. His father has given him an hour to collect his belongings, but what does he own that's worth packing? The mementos he collected during his walkabout period, that he'd stored in the Warrens, were all destroyed in the raid. Anything from before that time would reflect a life he is no longer part of, an identity he no longer has a right to. Better to let it all go.

He gathers together some pieces of clothing—the few he has that are not Guild issue—and packs them into a pillowcase. Then he wanders through the house without focus or direction, picking up useful things as he comes across them. He finds a few fetters in his father's office and takes them. Such things have street value, especially in the poorer districts, and he figures that his father owes him.

When he returns to his room, his mother is there.

How alive she looks! The flush of her cheeks is a painful reminder of how dead everyone else in this place is, how lifeless his world is. Is he supposed to respond to her presence or pretend she isn't here? The moment he was marked as an exile he became a non-entity to his
Guild, and all Shadows, minae and majae, are expected to shun him. His father has even sent the servants away so that he won't cross their path while he packs. Apparently a passing glance from a housemaid is more than an exile is worthy of. But now here his mother is, standing in front of him, and he suddenly discovers that he doesn't know how to ignore her. Sorrow wells up inside him, and he can see the same emotion reflected in her eyes. It shames him to inspire such passion in her, when she has spent her whole life trying to resist strong passions.

She gestures toward a canvas backpack lying on his bed. “I thought you might need this.”

He has a sudden urge to run to her, to hug her with all his might, to drink in her living warmth one last time and take fleeting comfort from it . . . but he can't. She's already compromised herself by coming here to his room, and whatever spirits are watching will surely report this scene to his father. He won't make things worse for her.

Slowly he walks over to the backpack and looks inside it. Fresh underwear. A hair brush. A black leather toiletries case. Items so mundane they make the moment seem surreal. He's leaving home forever, and this is what she thinks he needs most? “You'll make it,” she says quietly, as he fingers the items. He doesn't dare meet her eyes. “I know it doesn't seem that way now, Isaac, but you will.”

“Will you undergo Communion when I'm gone?” He can't imagine his mother transformed, her eyes black and empty, her skin corpse-cold. But she is an Antonin, raised from birth to seek that terrible half-death. It is inevitable.

She sighs. “I told your father when you were born that I would walk among the living for as long as you needed me.”

He feels tears coming to his eyes, and turns away so she won't see them. Technically there's no longer a need for him to hide his emotions—he's not pretending to be a Shadow any more—but the habit is deeply ingrained. “You shouldn't have come here,” he mutters.

“I know. But I couldn't let your father's rage be the last thing you saw. Your final memory of us.” He hears her come up behind him,
and for a moment they both stand still and silent, a stone tableau of misery. “Someday you will understand why this had to happen,” she whispers. Her hand touches his shoulder. It's a gentle touch, fleeting, that leaves trails of warmth on his skin even after her fingers are withdrawn. He can hear spirits murmuring in the shadows, probably commenting on the forbidden contact. Will they tell his father that she was here? That she touched him? Must she suffer the wrath of the Guild because she cared enough to say goodbye? “Be careful, my son.”

He doesn't trust his ability to speak without breaking down, and that would shame them both, so he says nothing.

A moment later she is gone.

It had been hours since his last meal—most of which wound up on the floor of the Guildmaster's audience chamber—and his stomach was starting to groan from hunger. Fingering the few bills in his pocket, he looked around for some place where he could purchase food with minimal human contact. There wasn't a grocery store within sight, but there was a food cart at the end of the street, so he headed toward that. As he got closer to it, the smells of sausage and cooked onions enveloped him, intensifying his hunger tenfold. Surely he would feel better when there was something in his stomach. And maybe then he'd have the energy to figure out what to do next.

He stopped a short distance from the cart and waited until all its customers dispersed before approaching.

The cart owner did not look up.

Isaac kept his eyes respectfully averted as he told the man what he wanted, hoping that would make the conversation less uncomfortable.

The cart owner did not respond.

A tremor of fear coursed through him. While it was customary for a Guild outcast to be shunned in social affairs, he hadn't expected the custom to extend to necessary, life-sustaining services. Was this man really going to refuse to sell him food? He asked once again, in a tone
that he hoped would appeal to the man's better nature, and when that didn't work he tried appealing to the man's greed instead, offering to pay three times the normal price for his wares. But nothing worked. As far as the vendor was concerned, Isaac didn't exist.

The ache of hunger in his stomach was growing stronger by the minute. He needed to find a source of food where the need for human interaction was minimal, so that his presence would be tolerated. A place where he could take what he wanted, put his money down, and leave. Like maybe a grocery store?

He had to search for several blocks to find one. When he did, he observed it from the outside for a few minutes, then entered. The people in the store instinctively moved away from him, and whatever aisle he entered soon became empty. He gathered up a few staples as quickly as he could—a loaf of bread, some inexpensive cheese, a piece of fruit—and then headed to the checkout counter. The people there turned their faces away from him, but they didn't leave. That, at least, was hopeful.

But when it came his turn to pay for his food he found that he was a ghost to everyone here as well. The cashier wouldn't acknowledge him. The customer behind him pushed Isaac's items out of the way and put hers in their place. And when he finally gave up and was about to put some money on the counter and walk out, the cashier swept his items into a container for restocking, out of reach. He stared at her for a moment, then walked out in silence.

Numbed by despair, aching with hunger, he began to walk aimlessly, not caring where his feet took him. The prosperous townhouses and shops of the plaza district gradually gave way to more humble dwellings, and then to run-down shanties. He tried to purchase food at several markets, but no one would take his money, and when he tried putting it down on the counter just walking out with his purchases a pair of store clerks blocked his way until he relented, leaving it all behind. Eventually he gave up trying.

After a while he realized that he had instinctively returned to the
territory he'd patrolled while living in the Warrens, where he'd scavenged for food to help feed the small underground community. A whisper of confidence came back to him, then. He knew this place. He knew how to survive here.

He chose a shop whose security he knew was lax, a small grocery with stands full of fruit lined up outside the front window. He waited until no one was looking in his direction, then walked past the store. Instinct took over, and he reached out with minimal motion to claim an orange, letting his hand fall casually back to his side so that the fruit was hidden from view. He knew from experience that if he just kept walking casually by, and acted as if nothing was out of place, people wouldn't notice the sleight-of-hand.

But someone did.

A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind, and he was whipped around to face a burly man with rage in his eyes. The orange went flying from Isaac's hand.

“You stay away from my wares,” the man growled. “You got that, boy? Stay away from this whole damn block! We don't need your kind of trouble around here.” He shoved Isaac into the street, hard enough that he stumbled and almost fell. As he righted himself, a carriage coming down the block suddenly veered in his direction, and he barely got back to the sidewalk in time.

My skills are just rusty,
he thought. But he knew in his heart that wasn't the reason he'd been caught. In the past he'd been part of a nameless, faceless crew of homeless waifs, whose petty thefts were an accepted part of life here. Now, with the Guild's mark of shame blazoned across his face, he was conspicuous. People saw him coming. They watched him out of the corner of their eye even while they pretended that he didn't exist. By becoming socially invisible, he had lost the ability to move unseen.

Exhausted, hungry, and thoroughly disheartened, he wandered into a narrow alley filled with trash, and crouched with his back to the wall, his head bowed. What was he supposed to do now? How was he going to survive? Should he start breaking into houses to steal food?
Or go into the woods to play hunter-gatherer? Anger welled up inside him, temporarily drowning out the hunger. How could his parents do this to him? Was there really no fate they could have offered him that was better than this, dying of starvation and neglect on the streets of Luray? All he'd done was break a few goddamn rules! Yes, they were important rules, but surely his father could have come up with a more suitable punishment than this.

I didn't kill anyone,
he thought bitterly.
I didn't destroy Guild property,
or
sell the Shadows' secrets to an enemy. I just hurt the family pride. That's all. Hurt the goddamned family pride!
He wanted to take his father by his undead shoulders and shake him and scream at him at the top of his lungs,
How could you do this to me?