The Borderkind

She left the room, locking the door behind her. Her tread silent upon the stairs, she descended to the first floor. In the foyer, the smell of breakfast cooking was powerful and merely inhaling it filled her with renewed vigor.



But there was another scent there, one that she recognized.



Wayland Smith had said he would be there to see them off at dawn, but his scent lingered. He had already arrived. Kitsune sniffed again, nostrils flaring, to be certain she was not mistaken. No, he was here. Had passed by only moments before.



Breakfast was served in a small room at the front of the inn, almost diagonally opposite the tavern where they had met the previous evening. The tavern would be closed now, the stink of stale ale remaining no matter how many times the tables had been scrubbed. It would be dark, and empty.



Or it ought to have been. But this morning, the tavern was not entirely unoccupied.



This early in the morning, she saw only the innkeeper as she walked noiselessly toward the tavern. Soon the few other guests at the inn would begin to rise to make their way down for breakfast, at least if the aroma of food was any indication. It occurred to her that the innkeeper and his wife might be feeding themselves now so that they could attend to their handful of guests when they rose. That was sensible.



But even as such thoughts crossed her mind, she was following Wayland Smith’s scent and listening to the low drone of voices coming from the tavern. Kitsune narrowed her eyes and raised her hood, resisting the urge to transform. She did not need to be in the form of a fox to have a fox’s hearing. Even before she reached the open arched entrance to the tavern, she could make out the voices well enough, and knew to whom they belonged.



Wayland Smith and Frost.



At first this set her at ease. She had been growing more and more distrustful, and was suspicious of Smith to begin with. He had been there at Amelia’s the night they were betrayed, after all. But if he was with Frost, that was to be expected. They would be discussing the Borderkind, what message Smith ought to be conveying, and which of their kin Frost and his coterie might be likely to encounter on their way to Yucatazca.



But that was not the subject of their conversation.



“You’re taking a great risk with the Bascombes,” Smith said.



Kitsune froze, then slipped into the shadows just outside the entrance to the room. Frost and Smith both had keen senses, but nothing like a fox. They would not notice her as long as she did nothing foolish.



“It cannot be helped,” Frost replied. “Whoever is behind the Hunters—whether it be Ty’Lis or some unknown enemy—they must be destroyed. I do not wish Oliver and his sister ill, but the needs of the Borderkind take precedence.”



Wayland Smith laughed softly, bitterly. “When it comes to the Bascombes, how can you know what the Borderkind need?”



“I do not claim to. I only know that attacking our enemies directly will at least mean the deadliest creatures in the Two Kingdoms are too busy to chase them.”



Kitsune frowned. All of this was gibberish to her. It did not seem that they meant Oliver harm, but there were secrets here, most certainly.



“You hope,” Smith replied. “Why not just trumpet his presence, then? The Lost Ones would rush to his aid if they understood who he was. He and his sister.”



“Oh, yes, excellent plan,” Frost said. “At the moment, only a very few know who the Bascombes are, and what their presence could mean. If everyone knew, there would be far more who would try to kill them than protect them. Oliver is in enough danger as an Intruder, but he has a small chance of gaining a reprieve if he is clever. Why have every legend in the Two Kingdoms after his blood?



“No, there’s nothing more that can be done. I must see to my kin first. His fate is in his own hands. And Kitsune’s. Much as we could use her, I’m glad she is going with him. He stands a chance, with her.”



From within the tavern came the sound of a match being lit, and then the smell of Smith’s pipe, the tobacco rich and earthy. He spoke between puffs.



“You’ve really made a mess of this, haven’t you, Frost?” he said grimly.



There was a moment of pause. From within the tavern came the tinkling sound of ice crystals as Frost moved.



“You’d do well to watch your tone with me, sir.”



“Of course,” Wayland Smith replied.



The fear in his voice made Kitsune shiver.



“It was bad enough when I began to hear of Hunters preying upon Borderkind, murdering our cousins. I knew right away something had to be done, that some dark power saw us as a threat and wanted to eradicate us. But when I heard whispers that they had been sent after the Bascombes, I knew I had to protect them. Had I time, I would have brought others. It would have been so much simpler. But the Falconer surprised me. He was faster than I expected. I was wounded.”



Smith puffed on his pipe, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough from smoke. “You had no choice.”



“None. I was too weak to spirit them away. Oliver helped me get to a place where I could cross through the Veil. The only way to save him was to take him through with me.”



“Putting a death warrant on his head for trespassing?”



“It couldn’t be helped,” Frost said, his tone as crisp and cold as his skin. “Just as I had no choice but to leave Collette behind. I couldn’t take them both—”



“But you only needed one to survive. So you sacrificed the sister.”



“No,” Frost snapped. “I was…fairly sure that the Falconer would pursue us. He could have found the sister at any time in the mundane world. But with Oliver in our world, that was trickier. It was a risk, I admit. But even now, they haven’t killed Collette.”



“They’re keeping her as bait,” Smith said darkly.



“But she’s alive.”



Kitsune shuddered. Once again she had misjudged who she could and could not trust. How many secrets was Frost keeping from her? From Oliver? There was more to this, and she would have answers, but this concerned Oliver more than it did her and he ought to be with her when she confronted Frost.



In swift silence she raced into the foyer. As she went up the stairs she caught new scents. Chorti and Cheval Bayard were about to arrive, ready to ally themselves with Frost. That was fine with Kitsune. It was time that secrets were exposed and true loyalties revealed.



No matter the consequences.



CHAPTER 5



With the dawn light peering over the upper ridge of the plateau where they had camped the night before, Julianna sat with her legs pulled up beneath her and stared at the breathtaking beauty of sunrise. Halliwell lay on the ground fifteen feet away, arms akimbo, snoring lightly. From the ache in her own bones, she knew that he would be a wreck when he woke. Every hour of sleep he had managed to steal on the hard-packed earth of the plateau would be another knotted muscle, but she could not bring herself to wake him.



She was not sure what to make of Halliwell now.



When he had first been saddled with bringing her along in pursuit of Oliver, the man had been distant and arrogant. No more so than many men she had known, of course, but it had been tiresome. As they had traveled from the States to the U.K., things had warmed between them. Julianna had decided that she liked him. Curmudgeon that he was, Halliwell was an intelligent man and good at his job. She had also begun to believe that her newfound respect for him was reciprocated. And perhaps it had been.



But here, the rules had changed.



Halliwell wanted answers to the mysteries that his investigation had presented, but they needed to find Oliver for a different reason entirely now. If they had any hope of getting out of here, of waking from the nightmare of this impossible place, it lay in Oliver’s hands.



Whatever had happened to Oliver—and the surreality of their surroundings made it appear that there was no simple explanation for that—it was clear now to Julianna than he probably had not abandoned her without reason. If he had an explanation, she wanted to hear it.



She had loved him for so long that he was a part of her, under her skin and in her every breath. When she had thought that he had abandoned her at the altar, she had been crushed. But what she could never have explained to anyone was that what had shattered her heart was not the idea that he had decided not to marry her; it had been the thought that he did not trust her love for him enough to come and talk to her about it.



As horrifying as Max Bascombe’s murder—and Collette’s disappearance—had been, they had made her doubt the version of events that everyone she knew had been so quick to embrace; that Oliver had simply gotten cold feet and vanished. Julianna hated the fact that she had initially embraced this as truth.



She ought to have known better. Julianna was not a fool; she had sensed his hesitation, and she understood it. How could she not? No one in the world knew him the way she did. But if Oliver had changed his mind about getting married, he would never have let her find out at the altar.



They’d known each other most of their lives, but had only become friends during freshman year of high school, when they’d been partnered up in biology lab. Julianna had always thought Oliver was cute, but he was such a boy, and she didn’t have time for the foolishness of boys when she was younger. Older guys intrigued her then, because she had been such a serious girl, a brooding poetess, scribbling her heart’s every yearning and ache by candlelight in her bedroom. She had always been close to her father and their conversations around the dinner table had made her a thoughtful, opinionated child with a deep appreciation for a good debate.



Her poetry was private and full of all of the parts of her that her father would not have understood, never having been an adolescent girl. Her mother had tried to nurture her relationship with her daughter through “girls only” shopping trips and special dinners for just the two of them when Julianna’s father was out of town, but the bond between father and daughter had been different. They’d always been at ease in one another’s company.



When she and Oliver had become friends, that first year of high school, Julianna knew she had found the only other person in the world she had ever felt that way around. He understood how private her poetry was and never pressed her to read it, but whenever she allowed him to, he would look at her as though she’d given him some kind of gift. She had admired his closeness with his sister, who was off at college but came home to visit frequently.



Oliver had been one of the cutest boys in their class and friendly to everyone, but he and Julianna had become a clique all their own. But their friendship had not grown into anything more, which astonished everyone they knew. Instead, they advised each other on every crush and flirtation through the first two years of high school. She liked that Oliver never seemed to want the girls who wanted him. He preferred interesting to pretty, and focused on juniors and seniors, the same way Julianna herself did with the boys.



It was only much later that she came to wonder if they had both been concentrating on people who were beyond their reach in order to avoid falling in love with anyone else.



At the end of sophomore year, Oliver had appeared in his first play. He had always loved drama and music and Julianna had encouraged him to audition. His father had dismissed his interest in theater as an unnecessary distraction. Football would have been fine, but theater, somehow, did not fit Max Bascombe’s image of the young man he wanted his son to become.



Oliver might have auditioned to spite him, or because Julianna would not leave him alone about it, but once he was cast in the play—a production of 42nd Street—his motives became pure. He had simply loved the magic of the stage, the freedom of transforming into someone else.



Julianna understood. Her poetry provided her a similar freedom.



The show was performed half a dozen times. Collette came all the way home from Boston College to see her little brother on stage, but Oliver’s father never managed to attend.



After the last performance, Julianna had gone backstage and found Oliver standing in the wings by himself. He did not mention his father’s absence, but she saw the hurt in his eyes.



She’d held him then.



Nothing was the same after that night.



They spent their junior and senior years lost in each other, physically and emotionally, happy to make their classmates’ predictions come true. Somehow, rather than suffering from the intensity of their relationship, their grades actually improved. The future was important to both of them.



And it had almost ruined them.



The summer after their graduation from high school had been the saddest time of Julianna’s life. She and Oliver had stayed together, but their every kiss and touch had been bittersweet. They had agreed that they had to pursue their own paths, that they would be doing a disservice to themselves and each other if they did not reach for their dreams.



Oliver had gone to Yale, in Connecticut. Julianna had attended Stanford, all the way across the country, in California. Surrendering to logic, they had promised one another that if, when college was through, they were both single, they would be together again, but that there would be no promises in the meanwhile. It was only practical.



At Yale, Oliver had followed the pre-law curriculum and spent all four years in the Drama Club, fulfilling his father’s plan for him while still following his own heart. At Stanford, Julianna had fallen for a California guy two years older than she was. All of the anguish and drama of her poetry came alive in that relationship. He turned out to be shallow and callous, and forced her to wonder how she could be so wrong about someone.



The asshole went to Stanford Law. Julianna refused to follow him there. When she learned Oliver would be attending Yale Law School, she knew that she had to go as well. Older and wiser, she knew that the intimacy she’d shared with Oliver was a rare thing. To have such passion with someone, combined with an abiding trust, was so precious that only a fool would surrender it willingly.



They had a chance to make up for a terrible mistake they had made four years earlier. Julianna had never been much of a believer in destiny, but could not deny that it felt as though they had always been meant to be together.