Tempting Fate (The Immortal Descendants Book 2) Read online

My voice cracked with unspilled tears. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m the reason you were attacked tonight. I’m going to London. I’ll find the book, and you’ll be safe.”

  “You can’t leave me behind.”

  “I have to.”

  His eyes locked with mine one final time, and then he left.

  Schooled

  I woke early, before dawn. The joint in my shoulder throbbed, and I debated leaving the sling off just to punish myself with the pain. But I needed my shoulder to heal quickly, and there was no room for self-pity when I was so busy pretending not to care. I dragged my very sore, incredibly whipped carcass out of bed and awkwardly slung my arm. I wished I hadn’t been so proud about letting Archer help me. I wished a lot of things.

  Ava cracked open an eyelid when she saw me. “Sorry about your shoulder.”

  “Did Adam tell you?”

  “Hmm mm. Saw it. Not soon enough to warn you though.”

  “I’m okay.” I rifled through my dresser drawers and pulled out an Ugly Kid hoodie I got off a cute, skinny guy in Venice Beach who wanted to trade for one I’d painted with my tag. I pulled it on carefully over a clean tank. I still usually dressed like a tagger – t-shirts, skinny jeans and boots – but my association with Archer’s wardrobe had given me access to cashmere sweaters that frequently took up lodging in my own closet. He was generous like that. I had to be careful what I admired because things had a way of just showing up in my room.

  I winced, not just at the pain in my shoulder.

  “You’re not okay.”

  I looked sharply at Ava and tried to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest. It was a survival technique I’d learned the first time my mom moved us when I was a kid.

  “I will be.” Ava watched me yank on clean jeans and slip my feet into combat boots. I left them untied; laces were too much to ask of any friend.

  I made my voice as casual as possible, as if I’d just remembered to mention it. “Archer left.”

  I looked up to find her still watching me silently. Even first thing in the morning Adam’s twin took the blond surfer looks of her brother and refined them into an ethereal fairy, with smooth, silvery hair and pale, milk and honey coloring. “I’m going back to sleep for an hour. After you get your coffee, go find Miss Simpson in the library.”

  I guessed we were done. “See you in class later.”

  She caught my eye as she climbed back under the fluffy white duvet. “He didn’t leave you, by the way. He just left.”

  I tried to pretend I hadn’t heard her as I shut the door firmly. I waited until I was out of earshot before I muttered, “Same thing.”

  With a steaming mug of coffee in hand and a stern warning from the school cook, Mrs. Taylor, to get some sleep before the bags under my eyes turned into suitcases, I made my way through the dim corridors to the library. It was one of the few places at St. Brigid’s where I could shut off the noise in my brain and just become one with the books. The rows of shelves stood like sentinels in the pre-dawn gray light invading through tall, mullioned windows. An electric light drew me to the private office at the back of the library, and I smiled a little in anticipation of an early morning talk with the headmistress of St. Brigid’s School, Miss Simpson.

  She already had her tea poured and was sitting in an armchair with an open folder on her lap. Miss Simpson always looked very prim and proper, yet she gave off a vibe of warmth and gentle strength that made me wish she’d been my grandmother instead of Millicent Elian. Not that Millicent actually was my ancestor at all, more like a much-removed cousin or something, but that didn’t stop her from trying to hand out edicts like Halloween candy.

  “Good morning, Saira. How is your shoulder feeling?” I must have looked surprised. “I’ve had a note from Mr. Shaw. He explained everything, so unless you have something to add, we don’t need to revisit your adventures of yesterday.”

  As proper English ladies went, Miss Simpson had a very down-to-earth way of keeping it real. I flexed my shoulder experimentally and winced. “It’ll take a couple of days to heal, I think, but I’m fine. The main thing I’m concerned about is Boris.”

  Her eyebrows went up in a question, and I quickly clarified. “The Were. Ms. Rothchild brought two of them here, and I thought the surviving one had gone back to Romania. Considering they came to hunt for Archer, it makes me nervous that one’s still hanging around.”

  “I agree it’s of concern, though Mr. Devereux’s departure from St. Brigid’s alleviates some of the immediate risk to his well-being. I’ll be speaking to Ms. Rothchild about it this morning.”

  She knew Archer was gone, but wasn’t asking about my feelings. That was seriously good intuition.

  “If you talk to Rothchild about the Were, how do you keep her kids out of it?”

  Miss Simpson looked at me levelly. “I have no intention of keeping Ms. Rothchild’s children out of it.”

  A million different responses skipped through my mind, but in the end I settled on a simple fact that I rarely gave anyone credit for: she knew what she was doing. I took a sip of my coffee. “Is there anything you need from me?”

  She studied me over the rim of her teacup. “I imagine you won’t be teaching your running class until your shoulder heals properly?”

  “I wasn’t planning to run until I can do it without too much pain, but I’d still like to work with the guys on some skills.”

  “Can those skills be taught in the building?”

  I thought about the jumping and climbing I usually used trees and walls for. “Can we use the kitchen garden walls?”

  “If you confine your work to daylight hours, you may use the grounds and whatever deserted areas of the school you need, so long as you repair anything you break.” I smiled at that. Most people would say ‘don’t break anything.’ Miss Simpson took a sip of tea. “At least until we’ve determined the whereabouts of … Boris.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I considered telling her where I’d be taking the guys, like out windows and to the roof, but figured it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

  “Now, your mother needs a teaching assistant for her fourth period history class. Would you be interested in the position? It’s worth an extra history credit.”

  “Sure. I have fourth period free right now anyway. But why didn’t she ask me herself?”

  “She was concerned it might be awkward for you to work for her.”

  I scoffed. “I’m her daughter. I’m used to doing whatever she tells me.”

  Miss Simpson’s smile was amused. “As I understand it, that hasn’t been the case in a long time.”

  She had me there, and she read my silence perfectly.

  “I think you’ll enjoy your mother’s teaching style, and who knows? If you pay attention, you may even learn something useful.”

  I didn’t see Adam until just before fourth period when I was on my way to my mom’s big history class. He was walking with some of his guys, but sent them on ahead so he could talk to me.

  “How are you?” I’m not sure I would have believed the look of concern in his eyes if the almost-but-not-quite kiss hadn’t happened the night before. And he was the only one who actually asked about the whole me, not just the part that was injured.

  “Mad more than anything else.”

  “I’m sorry.” There was more than ‘that sucks’ in that ‘sorry.’ It was like he was felt responsible for my getting nabbed, and I could feel my spine stiffen like a pissed-off cat.

  “Don’t.” It came out harsher than I intended, and Adam flinched. “Don’t do the must-protect-the-girl caveman thing. I can’t stand it. It’s not your fault I got jumped. I’m the one always talking about ‘listen to your gut, know what’s around you, use all your senses.’ I’m teaching the class on it, damn it! And I’m the one who got complacent and stopped looking over my shoulder.” I ignored the protest that was forming on his face and put the final nail in it. “Being friends with you guys has made me soft. I st
opped watching my own back, and that can’t happen.”

  His voice sounded hurt, and I hated the guilt that gnawed at me. “Other people can watch your back too, you know.”

  “I can’t count on that though. I have to be able to do it myself.”

  Adam looked at me a long time, and I could see shutters dropping over the hurt on his face and wiping it blank. “Right. You never know when you might need to escape a Victorian nuthouse or something.”

  “Or something.” I whipped out my driest delivery and then stuck out my tongue at him as I turned to head into my mom’s classroom. Adam’s bark of laughter followed me in and made me grin. We’re good, I thought. Good enough, anyway.

  My mom was already at her desk, but only about half the seats were taken yet. She looked happy to see me, and I realized she must have heard about my run in with the Were from Mr. Shaw. “Hi, Mom. Sorry I didn’t come by this morning.”

  “Bob said you’ll heal well. How do you feel?”

  It was so weird to hear my mom talking about the Bear. He was such a huge presence, his first name just didn’t seem big enough.

  “It hurt, but Mr. Shaw’s a good doctor.”

  “I stopped by your room last night.”

  Crap. Of course she did. I had never spent a whole night out of my room and was usually in bed by midnight. I told myself it was because I didn’t want anyone looking for me and finding him, but I knew that wasn’t the only reason.

  “I fell asleep in Archer’s room. He’s gone to London, by the way, so I was alone.”

  Her gaze lingered on me a long moment, and she might have been about to say something else, but the bell rang. So she stood and addressed her class instead. “Okay, guys. As you can see, we have a new teacher’s assistant. For those of you who don’t know Saira, she’s in sixth form, and she lived in America until this year, so her English history’s a little more of the ‘we kicked you and your tea-taxing butts out’ variety than ours.” The class was full of fourth and fifth formers, and I only recognized a couple of kids from the halls.

  “So, the British monarchy in the sixteenth century. We’ve discussed Henry VIII and his six wives, and we left off last week with the rocky reign of his oldest daughter, Queen Mary I. Within a year of Mary Tudor’s ascension to the throne, she had her cousin, Lady Jane Grey’s head forcibly removed, and the persecution of Protestants was in full swing. She also had advisors who wanted her sister, Lady Elizabeth, the Protestant daughter of Henry and Anne Boleyn, tried for treason and taken out of the picture entirely.”

  An alarm bell went clanging in my head. The queen’s sister. The Lady Elizabeth. In an age of swords and wearing a dress that would win a Renaissance Fair fashion show. Could the young Seer woman in Archer’s vision have been Elizabeth Tudor, future queen of England?

  History

  My mother’s lecture had suddenly become very, very interesting.

  “So, those are some of the background players. Now let’s look at the star of today’s class. Lady Elizabeth Tudor was twenty-one years old in 1554. Technically, she was a princess, but there were issues of legitimacy so no one called her that. The Wyatt Rebellion, led by Sir Thomas Wyatt, had just failed, but it had put Elizabeth directly in the gun sights of her sister. Wyatt named Lady Elizabeth in his confession, and advisors convinced Queen Mary she needed to try her sister for treason. Step number one? Put her in the Tower.”

  Seriously? The Tower of London in 1554? Could that be where Wilder held Ringo to get Elizabeth to talk? Notwithstanding the temporal issues of Ringo being from 1888, the rest of the details kind of fit. If Wilder could time-travel. And if Ringo somehow did too. There were so many ifs it made my head hurt, but something about the whole idea went ‘thunk’ in my brain.

  And then there was the fact I had grown up fascinated by old castles, prisons and fortresses, and the Tower of London was top on the list of places I wanted to explore. But it’s a major tourist attraction, so un-accompanied, self-guided tours were somewhat frowned upon. Call me crazy, but it never occurred to me to explore it in a different time … like the 16th century.

  My mom had continued her lecture. “The thing about being a prisoner was that ‘accidents’ happened to them all the time. And Elizabeth’s biggest fear was that some quiet, deadly accident would make life much easier for everyone who had conspired to put her there in the first place.”

  “Lady Elizabeth was fiercely intelligent. She’d been educated by private tutors as if she’d been a boy, which, at that time, was saying a lot for her education. She spoke several languages fluently, and had been literally fighting a political game for her life since her mother was beheaded when she was three years old.”

  “Because divorce was too messy?” A kid in the back gave the perfect dry delivery that had the class laughing. My mom continued gamely.

  “Lady Elizabeth was pulled in for questioning by the queen’s council more than once, but despite being young and terrified, she maintained her innocence of anything to do with Wyatt’s Rebellion. In fact, the council was hoping to break her by having Wyatt denounce her before his execution, but that backfired. Wyatt apparently refused to speak against Elizabeth, and in fact, he fell to his knees and declared her innocent of everything.”

  “So was she released after that?” One of the girls at the front of the class was practically leaning across her desk in anticipation of the story. Mom smiled at her and continued.

  “Actually, I think Wyatt’s declaration fueled something a little desperate in one of the queen’s bishops, Bishop Gardiner. There’s a story that an order for Elizabeth’s immediate execution was drawn up and sent to the Tower. Sir John Brydges was the Lieutenant of the Tower, in charge of executions.” My mom paused for dramatic effect, but believe me, I was already hanging on her every word.

  “So the order for execution went to him, and he was told to make it happen immediately with no fanfare and no warning. Sir John, though a staunch Catholic with no love for Elizabeth or the Protestant supporters who championed her, apparently had much more common sense than the queen’s bishop hoped. When he saw that the order for execution wasn’t signed by Queen Mary herself, he realized that if there was any backlash at all about Elizabeth’s execution, it was going to fall squarely on his shoulders. It’s unclear exactly what happened, but diary entries from Sir John’s wife have shown historians how very close the Lady Elizabeth came to losing her life that night in the Tower.”

  Mom handed me a stack of papers to pass out to the class. “So, here are the written accounts we have from that time. Look through them, do your own research, and then write down what you think happened the night England almost lost its greatest queen.”

  When class let out I stayed behind to help her straighten up.

  “That was really good stuff, Mom.”

  “It is good, isn’t it? I loved hearing about the Tudors when I was young. They all had very big personalities, and at least Henry and Elizabeth had intelligence to match.”

  “When was Elizabeth in the Tower?”

  “She was there from March 18th, 1554 until May of that same year.”

  Okay, so at least I had concrete dates to check out. But that year sounded familiar for something else, I just couldn’t remember what. I tucked the knowledge away to discuss with Archer, whenever I finally saw him again, then kissed my mom on the cheek and packed up my school bag. “Do you need anything else before those papers get turned in?”

  “Just you. My door’s open anytime you want to talk about things … with you, friends, your relationship with Archer.”

  I knew that she wanted to be there for me. I just wasn’t ready to admit out loud that I didn’t know if I still had a relationship to talk about.

  I spent a couple evenings alone in the Clocker Tower, avoiding my friends, sketching tags and stencils, and trying very hard not to draw Archer’s face. I missed him. I almost went down to his cellar to visit him a couple of times before it slammed home in my brain that he was gone. I even pick
ed up the phone to call Bishop Cleary, the current bishop at King’s College. The genealogy had been in his archives until Seth Walters stole it, and Bishop Cleary was as interested in getting it out of Monger hands as we were. He was also someone both Archer and I considered a friend. But I hung up before I finished dialing the phone. Pride is a ridiculous thing.

  A couple of weeks after the whole Jack the Ripper/Bedlam cellar incident, I went back to Bedlam. I didn’t tell anyone I was going, and I traveled through the painting in the Clocker Tower. The collapse had been shored up, the wing sealed off, and the cellar seemed completely devoid of everything I remembered. I found a discarded chess game, and in a weird fit of nostalgia, I set the board up on a makeshift table near the tunnel door. The set was missing some pieces, so I scavenged some broken bits of plaster to be the white pawns, and used a modern one pound coin as a black bishop. I knew I was taking a risk leaving that coin behind, but I couldn’t think of anything else that would mark my presence more than something from the future. Before I left the cellar I moved a white pawn two spaces forward.

  I’d gone back twice more since then, and both times black pieces had been moved. I wasn’t sure who I was playing chess with, but I knew who I hoped it was.

  On my third night of self-imposed solitude I couldn’t stand my own mental whininess anymore. I pocketed a Maglite and the little knife that the Elian Manor housekeeper, Sanda, had given me, and clenched my teeth against the nausea that came with Clocking. As I began tracing the spirals in the Clocker Tower painting, I set the image of the Bedlam basement firmly in my mind. My mom couldn’t focus her travel unless she wore the clock necklace that had been in our family for generations, but my skill seemed to be stronger than hers, even though I was only half Clocker. The other half of my blood came from my Shifter father, and that mix was a very sore subject for most of the Immortal Descendant world.

  I didn’t know what they were so afraid of. All I could figure was that they – the Council of the Immortal Descendants and anyone else who decided the rules – were afraid. Afraid that a mix of skills would make something they couldn’t predict.