House of Sand and Secrets (Books of Oreyn #2)(46)

He wakes, groans. “Will – you – stop?”

“Back in the land of the living, are we?”

He tries to push himself up, and I need to help him sit. I do it without saying anything, trying to be as much a piece of the furniture as I can. House men will always remember when you have taken their pride.

“It was that, or stay down and listen to you chatter,” he says. “Death might have been better.”

“Here.” I pour water into his empty glass. “Drink this.”

He stares but doesn’t take it. “Trying to poison me now?”

“Why would I bother when you’re doing a perfectly good job of that on your own? Drink the Gris-damned water.” I shove the glass at his face.

He takes the glass and manages to spill half of the water down his shirt. The tremors have set in. The fever is starting.

I try stay light and unworried, but this, this is the part where people die. “Did you see what you wanted to?” I pour some water for myself, and it’s a balm to my parched throat. It helps to wash away the taste of ash.

He shakes his head. “Random nonsense.”

“So, completely worth it then?”

“Keep quiet,” he says from between chattering teeth.

A knock sounds at the door. Tea. I leave Harun shivering on the floor.

“How is he?” Isidro’s eyes are wide and dark with fear. The blisters on his cheek have spread. A fine rash goes all the way down to his jaw, down his neck. What does scriv-poisoning do to a vampire’s insides? And that on top of the secondary pain from this bond. “Awake.” I take the tea things from Jannik.

“What happens now?” Isidro asks.

I look past him, towards Jannik. “Now we wait.” Dear Gris, why would Harun do this – does he truly not know how far this bond between them goes, what it is capable of? Or does he simply not care if Isidro has to die? Perhaps he thinks it a suitable revenge for infidelity.

Jannik nods in understanding, and carefully pulls Isidro back from the frame so I can close the door.

I manage to get a few sips of lady’s gown into Harun before the fever takes complete hold. While he shivers and sweats and screams, I stoke the fire and pace the room. I read books in the darkness, unable to see the words. It gives me something to do. When he starts having fits I leave the room. Ultimately, I’ve always been a coward. He will die or he won’t. That’s what I keep telling myself.

Jannik and Isidro are nowhere to be seen. I walk up the stairs, past the room with its broken armonica, until I reach the door that was locked the last time. The door they stood behind and laughed, while Jannik let Isidro guess all my secrets. And in which of these rooms did they come together? They were lovers, I’m sure of that much at least. Perhaps the echoes of what they did are trapped in the walls. I press my hand against one, as if the house will tell me all it has seen. Nothing, of course.

I try the handle and it slides slowly downward. The hinges are well-oiled and the door swings open towards me, revealing a long passage.

Doorways spill the last red sunlight onto the satiny wood floor. The planks are polished gold. The vampires wouldn’t be up here. The last few doors are shut, the passage dimmer. Perhaps there, then.

The floorboards barely whisper beneath my soft tread. I try the closed door on my right first. It too is unlocked and opens easily. The room is dark, long curtains pulled shut against the late sun. Even so I can make out the shape on the long low couch under the window. Jannik. It’s too easy to pick him out in the darkness. I shouldn’t know him this well, shouldn’t know the sound of his breathing, the rhythm of his heartbeat.

I sink into plush carpet and the wool deadens the sound of my footsteps. I sneak up to Jannik and sit down beside him. He’s fast asleep. For some reason I feel like this is the only time I’m allowed to look at him. If he’s awake and I stare for a fraction too long, he chooses one of the three masks he uses around me: the white-eyed blank nothing, the mocking smile with its barest hint of fang, or the small hurt frown. That’s all I ever get.

And here he is unmasked, asleep. There’s an innocence that makes us drop our guard, the face of sleep. Perhaps even Mallen Gris himself looked guileless when he let himself dream.

A chink between the curtains allows a single faint beam to work its way through the heavy air. The light slants across Jannik’s pale cheek. His dark hair plays counterpoint to the cream and crimson. He flicks open one eye. Indigo; like a starless night, like the deepest seas. “How long have you been watching?”

“I wasn’t – I just got here.” I swallow. I’m supposed to be standing vigil over dying Harun, not watching Jannik like a voyeur. “Where’s Isidro?”

Jannik sits up and rubs at his eyes. “He was here.”

We both look around. The room is dusty with books and maps; even the small day bed half-hidden between some angled book cases has a mess of papers at the one end. But there’s definitely no Isidro.

“He was asleep. I gave him the tea, brought him here.” Jannik stands.

This room, then. My throat closes.

Jannik runs a hand through his hair and frowns. “He’s probably gone to see if you would let him near Harun yet.” But we both know this isn’t true.

“I would have seen him,” I whisper. We turn as one to the door. “You find him,” I say, “and I’ll go back to Harun.” But I stand there, rooted. Those children, those dead children that Harun saw in my future, were they dark-haired, were they pale and blue-eyed and strange? Is that why they died? I should ask him. If he lives.