House of Marionne

The powder transports me to the middle of a patch of dead trees. I latch my hands together to stop them from shaking. A gust of cool wind grazes my skin, and the earthy scent couldn’t be more unfamiliar. There’s no sight of the city in the distance. No neighborhood of houses. Only dense thick woods and musty blackened trees.

The buzz of barely getting away unsteadies my steps as I wander through the grove for some sight of Grandmom’s house. The glow of evening has deepened by the time I spot a road that halts at a pair of iron gates. Attached to it is a stone guardhouse, where a line of cars waits to enter. The barrier towers there like hands raised in worship to the dusky sky, the words chateau soleil on its front. I swallow. Gates like that exist to keep people like me out.

I force my fidgeting fingers still and tap my dying phone to call a ride. It’s linked to an account that probably has a few bucks in it. The wait drums my pulse faster. Will this actually work?

The driver rolls up after not too long and considers me with smooshed brows.

“You want me to give you a ride through the gate?” He twists his lips.

“I can pay extra.” I flash him the money I have left from the store.

“Get in.”

I slide into the back seat. The car juts into motion as the guard gestures for us to pull forward. I have nowhere else to go. I need to get through this gate. My grip on my bag tightens and I give my key chain a squeeze. A second later, it glows in response. Hurry, Mom, please. Guilt hooks in my stomach.

We slowly roll forward to the guard, whose appearance is as approachable as his body language. His lips tilt down in a scowl as if they’re just permanently that way. The high collar of his shirt is bound by a circular metal emblazoned with a single hooked claw much like a dragon talon. He plucks it from his neck, turning it in his hands like a coin. A coin.

“Is he a Dragun, too?” I mutter too loudly. I study the image on the coin again. Not a cracked column . . .

The driver’s brow bows in confusion in the rearview as he eases to a stop. My window comes down, and I press back into my seat. I feel the gate guard’s stare like a knife between my ribs. But it doesn’t flicker with recognition. The talon. He isn’t affiliated with the Dragun after me. He doesn’t know my secret.

“Your name?” The Dragun’s lips purse with irritation.

“Quell.”

“One moment.” His words slither from his lips. Beyond the gates, sweeping willow trees arc over the street, cloaking the already graying evening into deeper shades of gloom. I squint for a glimpse of a rooftop or building. But the road twists out of sight.

“I’m not seeing a Quell,” the guard says. “Who are you visiting, exactly?”

“I’m here to visit Mrs. . . . Mrs. Marionne.”

“Mrs. Marionne?” His eyes narrow, and I swear it’s squeezing my throat.

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Another moment, please.”

I try to sit up taller. I don’t know Grandmom’s first name. She’s always been Grandmom Marionne. The guard returns and gestures to the gate. I exhale as it folds in on itself.

“Do you happen to have the house number?” I ask. “Like, which house is it?”

“It’s the only house.”

“Right, thanks.” The car lurches into motion. The road winds through a tunnel of trees. I tighten my grip on the handle of the dagger Mom gave me, firmly, desperate for some sense of assurance. Some sense of control.

“Where do you want me to let you out?” the driver asks.

There’s still no sign of a rooftop or anything besides brooding foliage and foreboding sky. “Just beyond these trees?”

Hair rises on my neck. I shouldn’t be here. Memories play in my head on repeat, from times Mom and I have been in even more dire straits. My toushana is quiet at the moment, and I try to settle better in my seat. We may not have much, but we have each other, Mom says all the time. And it’s always true. Until now. I peer out the window at the trees rustling, waving.

Are they saying welcome?

Or run?

As we exit the tree tunnel, the darkness lifts like someone pulled back a curtain. The ashen clouds have rolled on, and the evening’s sky is a regal shade of pink. I press the button on the door, and wind whips inside the car. I inhale deeper and the knot in my chest eases.

The road curves around a sweeping cobblestone courtyard dotted with sculpted shrubs and statues like the garden of a fancy castle. Wispy grass sprouts between wide pavers and a stone fountain, which gushes water a whole story in the air, its droplets glinting in the evening sun. I stare, taking in the majesty of it all, and my grip slacks on the dagger’s hilt. A steeply pitched roof is a speck in the distance buried in lush green and tall woods.

“It must be that way,” I say, craning for a better view. The street snakes to a cul-de-sac, and that’s when I see it: another iron gate with an M on its front. “There.” I point. It’s all so grand, like something I’d see on a postcard, a picture in my history books. Not a real place I could set foot into. Something twinges in my chest. Something warm, intoxicating, a little foreign. Something that feels like hope.

The car pulls up to the gate, and for several moments nothing happens. There’s no guard tower or speaker box. The dark gable roof beyond it is no more than a break in the trees.

“Lady, I have to get going. I’m not getting paid enough to sit here all day.”

This is it. It has to be. “Okay, thanks.” I tip him and he peels off.

The gates loom over me like an altar waiting for an offering. Wind howls, turning my arms to gooseflesh. Cold seeps into my fingers, then creeps up into my hands. I clench my fists, then reach for my rice pack. My fingers snag on the zipper, seizing up. The ache morphs into a frigid chill, my toushana stirring. I wish I knew what provoked it. What wakes it up some moments and keeps it lying silent others.

“Hello?” I set my bag on the ground. They must have cameras. “Anyone here?”

Nothing.

Something swoops overhead, and the world darkens. But above, I only glimpse shadow, like clouds that have moved on but left their shade behind. I blink. It’s gone. The dimness of the evening thickens. Wind grazes my skin, rustling the trees, and the slants of shade draw nearer, stretching across the pavement, reaching for me.

“Who’s there?” I force down the lump in my throat and feel for the flap of my bag, eyeing Mom’s dagger hilt with images of the Dragun after me still on the back of my eyelids.

Suddenly, darkness from above nose-dives toward me, and panic flares in my chest. My fingers graze the hilt of my dagger just before a force pummels into my back, knocking me forward, ripping away my breath. My knees slam the ground, prickling with pain. I reach again for my bag. The zipper sticks, but I jiggle it open, and a thick fog as black as night surrounds me. I steady myself for the blow, trying to see which direction it’s coming from, but there is nothing, no one, only shadows.

The fog lifts, and my side throbs with the sting of a fresh wound. I hold the spot where it aches as the world tips sideways. The trees sway, watching in judgment, like the iron gates that wouldn’t let me in. I scan for some indication of where the shadow went, where it will come from next, but only see tricks of light. Splotches of black on the ground that blur and shift.

“Please, stop!” My ribs quake with pain, as if they’re being snapped out of place. I peer harder, grow colder, pins pushing behind my eyes trying to translate the darkness.

I blink, and the world glitches white. That’s when I see him.

An outline of his feet, shaped by only air. He lunges toward me, but I’m ready. I grab his ankle, hold as tight as I can, and tug. He trips, but somehow catches himself before falling. The shadow he was blows away like sand.

What’s left behind is a guy about my age dressed much like the gate guard with a glare that is a dagger of its own.

I gulp. Another one. A gleaming mask covers the top half of this Dragun’s face as well. But it’s much more ornate than the others I’ve seen, intricately carved along its edges where it fades into his skin. His dark coat and loose-fitted top are lined with red embroidery, much finer than any of the other Draguns wore. But the cinch at his neck where I expect to see a silver coin is only fabric.

“The gate guard already cleared—” But before I can finish, he’s on his feet, nostrils flaring, before disappearing into a cloud of black.

“I—” I start, but I’m engulfed in a dark fog as cold as death. A fog of . . . him. Sharp pain pricks me all over like slashes with a fine blade. I blink, but everything is black. And red. I wail in pain. My toushana roars in me, a blanket of ice wrapping around my bones so insistent it burns. I bite down, trying to focus, and force my eyes open, looking for an outline. Some sign of where the Dragun’s striking from. The fog shifts, rippling around his shape. I swing out my arm, as cold as a frozen log, slamming it into the back of his knees. He stumbles but recovers swiftly as the shadows lift, and he reappears.

His green eyes narrow.

I pull myself up and snatch the dagger, thrusting its tip straight at his face, Mom’s warnings about Grandmom and this world haunting me.

“Touch me again and I’ll slice you in half.” The world frays at the edges, red rivers running between my fingers, down my arms.

My threat doesn’t garner a response, but his gaze fixates on the blade. Warmth soaks my side and whatever he did to me makes it feel like something is ripping apart my insides. But I hold my dagger arm higher, firm. He won’t touch me again. Tiny cuts stripe my arms, hands. Blood, there’s so much blood. The mask on his face vanishes.

“Where’d you steal that?”

“It’s mine.”

He shakes his head with disbelief. “Who are you?”

I blow out a shaky breath. Words I’ve been forbidden to say my entire life rise like bile in my throat. “Marionne. Quell Janae Marionne.”