The Myth Hunters (The Veil #1)

The Myth Hunters (The Veil #1) Page 31

“This is idiotic,” he whispered. “Both of you can be far less conspicuous than this. You don’t have to protect me right now. We’re going to get caught.”

“Oliver,” Frost cautioned.

“Get out of here. Kitsune, you too. Running is going to draw attention. Trust me. Just go.”

But he had not even finished speaking and already the winter man was gone, a swirl of snow and ice eddying away on the breeze that stirred the tall grass. Kitsune raised her hood and in a single fluid motion she transformed, shrinking down to disappear herself into the grass as a fox.

Oliver was alone, one hundred yards from the edge of the city, and the sun was beginning to rise.

Ignoring the watchtowers, he turned up the collar of his coat against the wind and bent against it, hurrying but not running— just a man out for a walk and regretting it. Not for a moment did he think any guard bearing witness to this would be convinced by it. There was no one else outside the city and no one on the road, so it was clear this sort of casual stroll outside of Perinthia was uncommon. The question was how emphatic the authorities had been about the search for this Intruder.

It would be better simply to not be seen at all than to rely on such a question, of course, so he kept his head down and he hurried and he prayed. His whole body tingled with the feeling of eyes burning into him, though that might only have been paranoia. His cheeks were flushed and his hands clammy where he’d shoved them into his pockets.

Despite the cold wind, he began to sweat. His throat felt constricted and his pulse raced. He ran out his tongue to wet his lips, staring at the ground, and it took him a moment to realize it when his boot heels first hit cobblestone instead of grassy sod. A surge of tentative hope sparked in him but he kept on for a count of twenty more steps before allowing himself to look up.

Oliver found himself on a street lined with well-kept row houses, mostly brown stone with granite steps and high, arched windows. There was an old European flair to the neighborhood that did not speak of any one country, though the roughness of the stone exteriors and the flower boxes outside many of the windows put him in mind of Holland. Their scent was so pleasant it stopped him in the middle of the street.

Lampposts lined either side, but they had burned out now.

The sun was rising, throwing a line of bright morning light on the left side of the street and casting the right side in shadow. Oliver longed for the light, but kept to the shadows.

From that street he could only see the tops of the watchtowers he had passed on the way in, and could not see the windows at all. He was tensed, alert for any shout or sign that he had been seen and was being pursued, but nothing came. When a door opened across the street he was startled, but took deep breaths and started walking again, alone on the streets of Perinthia, at least for the moment.

The woman who came out of the row house was old and stooped, dressed all in mourning black. Her nose was long and hooked and her eyes, when she glanced toward him, were tiny beads of white. Oliver shuddered to see them, and to be seen by her.

Her expression was less a smile than a sour twist that made Oliver swallow hard, throat dry. He was sure that she would speak to him, ask him what he was doing on her street— there were only homes here, so he had no reason to be here unless he was a resident or a thief— but she only eyed him curiously a moment and then tottered away northward, deeper into Perinthia.

Oliver slowed his pace so as not to catch up with her.

At the end of the street he found himself at an intersection not only of streets, but of styles. To the west was a narrow street, little more than an alley, between two pagoda-like buildings. Between them he saw a courtyard splashed with dawn’s light, where dozens of people knelt to face the rising sun. Some were women in pure white gowns with patterns in the fabric. Some— and this quickened his heart— wore the heavy garb of soldiers. Most of the people gathered there seemed to be Asian, but not all of them were. And there were those among them who were not people at all. At first he took the huge lizard with its strangely furred face and tiny wings to be some kind of statue, it was so still.

Then the sunlight reached it, and it moved, ever so slightly.

There were other things amongst them, too, stumpy little men whose mouths opened as though on hinges as they sang some kind of morning chant, and there were cats. A great many cats. He found himself staring despite the presence of those soldiers, and on second thought he had to wonder if they had any official capacity here or were somehow ceremonial for the little enclave he was spying upon.

The rattling approach of a carriage drew his attention. The driver up on the high seat was an ugly little man wearing a green felt fedora. A pair of midnight-black horses had been harnessed to a vehicle that seemed an antique to him. But then, everything here was of another age. He could see along streets to the north and east from here, and with the sun coming up, some of the taller structures were more readily visible to him. A clock tower chimed the hour, claiming it to be seven in the morning, but he was unsure how they kept time here, given the length of the days and nights. The city that spread out before him seemed a tapestry sewn from different regions and ages of history, a little Victorian Europe, a pocket of ancient Asia, and more than a little of America in the twenties and thirties.

Down the northern road, to his astonishment, he saw a Model-T Ford go by, engine banging and popping as its tires rolled across the cobblestones.

“Wow,” he whispered under his breath, smiling in spite of himself. All of the fear that had raced through him only minutes before drained from him, surrendering to the wonder of the place.

In the back of his mind he knew he had to find Kitsune and Frost, but he started along that northern road regardless. It was still early, but more people were stirring now. A trio of massive, shaggy-haired creatures whose gender was a mystery passed him, going the other direction. They were easily a dozen feet tall and the third one pulled a wagon as though it were a rickshaw. Upon it were barrels and wooden boxes full of various fruits and vegetables. There were winter pears and bananas, the reddest apples Oliver had ever seen, bunches of carrots and onions and buckets full of peppers.

Going to market, he thought.

As he continued down the road he saw other oddities. A goblin in a full-length jacket, a formal shirt, and no pants wandered dangerously across the road, singing in a drunken slur and doing his best to stagger out of the sunshine and into the shadows that the early-morning light provided. Beautiful, graceful, lithe creatures no higher than his knee and clad in clothes like Gypsies darted up and down the street, playing some sort of game with what appeared to be merely a piece of paper, save that the paper itself changed shape constantly, like some kind of remote-control origami masterpiece. A handsome man with massive antlers strode by, hooves clicking on the street, tiny little devilish-looking things swinging from the twisted rack upon his head. One of them made obscene gestures toward Oliver and the others all laughed a high little titter.

Yet most of the people he saw on the streets of Perinthia were human, and ordinary enough to look at. Their mode of dress varied wildly, as did their race, but none of them took any notice of their differences. They went about their business in so mundane a fashion that he was set at ease.

At the next intersection he stood back to watch the city come alive at morning. He had reached a main thoroughfare now and there were shops all along the street, as well as bars and restaurants. One building off to his right was enormous enough that it might have been a cathedral, but he saw that the door was set in to another, much larger entrance, at least thirty feet high, and he understood that this was either the home or business of giants. Larger by far than the ones he’d seen going to market.

“Apparently, no one finds you particularly out of place.”

A tiny sound emitted from his throat and Oliver twisted round, ready to defend himself. It was only Kitsune, standing beside him with the hood of her copper-furred cloak thrown back and the sun on her face. He had not even realized it, but he had given up trying to hide himself in the shadows.

Oliver glanced around to make sure they had not drawn attention. Then he rolled his eyes.

“Don’t do that to me. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

The sun gave a milky hue to her jade eyes. “I doubt that.”

“And what did you mean by—”

But then it dawned on him what she had meant. He had been wandering the south side of Perinthia for fifteen or twenty minutes and no one had taken any special interest in him or even looked at him very closely, save the crone in black who had been the first person he’d run across.

“So we’re all right.”

Kitsune frowned. “For the moment. It’s unlikely the citizens will know what you look like, but the police will. Wandering around wide-eyed as a child is not the best way to remain at liberty.”

Oliver nodded. “I can’t argue. So what now?”

“There’s nothing we can do until tonight. We need a place to be out of sight, particularly for Frost. He can’t remain incorporeal forever, and he also cannot be seen in the city. Word will get back to the Hunters.”

“I take it you have a place in mind?”

Her eyes twinkled. “I do.”

CHAPTER 14

Oliver clutched the heavy iron key in his hand as he climbed the stairs to the third floor of the Hotel Fleur de Lis. It was an old building in classic Parisian style, three stories of guest rooms around a central courtyard filled with fountains and flowers and benches where one might sit and read in enviable peace. The soft swish of Kitsune’s fur cloak followed him and she moved silently into place at his side when he paused at the top of the steps.

“This way,” she said, moving into the corridor, passing through splashes of sunlight from the exterior windows.

Some of the rooms faced the street, but Kitsune had asked for one that looked down upon the courtyard. Now, as he followed her to room 36, Oliver pondered just how fortunate he and Frost had been to encounter her in the woods that night. It seemed so long ago to him now. Could it really have been only days? Kitsune had reason to ally herself with them. As Borderkind, she was a target of the Myth Hunters, just like Frost. But she had proven invaluable, not only in a fight, but this very morning. Kitsune had chosen this hotel from previous experience and had been the only one among them to have any Euphrasian coin.

At the door to their room she stepped aside to make way for him. The weight of the key in his hand was reassuring and Oliver took pleasure in the familiarity of the moment. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting Kitsune precede him out of courtesy and habit. Shutting the door behind him, he slid the dead bolt and chain into place, and put the heavy key into his pocket.

A weary smile touched his lips as he took in the room. Curtains little more than chiffon wisps were tied back on either side of the three tall windows and the wood floor gleamed with diffuse golden sunshine. There was a kind of honeyed sheen to the entire chamber, a softness gifted upon the place by the indirect daylight. The head- and footboards on the bed were intricately carved, and there were several paintings of fairy glens and dragon hoards mixed with the afternoon-at-the-park and still-life-with-fruit sort of thing he’d always found in ordinary hotels.

So pleased was he with the room that Oliver had scarcely noticed Kitsune slipping through a sliding door that separated bedroom from bath. The squeak of a faucet and abrupt knocking of pipes and the sound of running water took him entirely by surprise. A nearly absurd happiness filled him as he turned.

“Running water?” he asked in disbelief, as though the sound might have been some cruel trick. He’d not even considered the possibility that there might be a real bath or shower in Perinthia, though he ought to have, considering some parts of the city were up to at least early twentieth-century standards.

“Why do you think I chose this hotel?” Kitsune called to him.

Oliver smiled and went toward her voice. He came in sight of the open door, and then his smile faded with an unconscious exhalation of breath.

Kitsune stood on one foot, the other raised behind her as she bent to test the temperature of the water. She was entirely nude, her long, lithe body finely sculpted. Her breasts were small, her nipples tiny brown berries, and her silken black hair spilled across her face while she let the water run over her fingers. Oliver found that he could not breathe. There was no sign of her clothes, nor of her copper fur cloak, though he presumed there must be some dressing area in the bathroom. He’d thought for so long that the fox in her, the transformation she underwent, was the part of her he found magical. But there was utter enchantment in the effect she had on him in that moment. He shook a little, just looking at her.

Satisfied that the water was warm enough, she stood up straight, catching sight of him out of the corner of her eye. Through the curtain of her hair she watched him a moment, making no attempt to shield herself from view. Her smile was a whisper of suggestion and amusement as she pushed her long hair back and gazed at him boldly.

“The soap is perfumed,” she said. “I have been dreaming about this place since yesterday.” As if there was nothing at all unusual about the moment.

She stepped into the bath and drew the curtain and he heard a kind of ticking from the pipes, to which the staccato spray of the shower replied. Oliver stood staring at the curtain, the image of Kitsune’s bronze form, every curve of her, etched into his mind.

It was several moments before he realized that there was another sound, a rougher noise, like gravel pelting glass. He turned to see water dripping down the right-most window, though the courtyard was still bathed in sunlight. The window rattled in its frame and tiny pellets of hail whipped against it in the wind.

Frost.

Oliver hurried over and opened the window, staggering back as a powerful gust of icy wind blasted inward. Snowflakes danced in the air and twisted in a dizzying whirlwind as the gust slid across the room to a corner out of sight of the windows.