The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [16]
31–10–13
The ink bled into my skin, like a scar.
Cal was waiting for me outside the library. “Knew you’d be here,” he said. “You always hole up in that worm factory when you’re sour.”
“It’s not a worm factory, it’s a library,” I sighed. “And what business of yours, exactly, is my mood? Worried I’m going to lose my marbles before my birthday and embarrass you in front of Marcos and his pals?” I ducked around Cal and started for the dormitories. Conrad, and the words in the smoke, dominated my thoughts.
Cal stopped me with a hand. “All right. What’s wrong? This spitfire act isn’t like you.”
“Can I trust you?” I questioned Cal. I wanted to trust him. He was the only one I could trust.
He blinked and ran a hand through his hair. A bit fell into his eyes.
“Of course, Aoife. Is it something with your mother? She acting up?” His thin eyebrows drew together and his face tried to form a frown. Cal couldn’t look dour to save his life, but at least he was trying.
“Not my mother,” I said, walking. “Conrad.” The words whispered to me. I felt as if I’d crack open if I didn’t give them voice.
“Conrad?” Cal’s eyes widened. “You can’t just leave me hanging with that, Aoife. Can’t just drop your crazy brother’s name …” He paused, and swallowed. “Sorry.”
“Like I haven’t heard worse.” I showed him the writing on my skin. Cal frowned.
“I don’t get it.”
“Conrad sent that to me,” I said. “In a letter. He needs my help.”
I didn’t expect Cal to grab me by the wrist, sliding his big bony palm to cover the writing on mine. “Are you trying to get sent to the madhouse, Aoife? Is what everyone’s saying true?”
My wrist burned under his grasp, flesh heating, while my face matched it at his words. Out of all students in the Academy, I’d hoped Cal wouldn’t buy into the rumor. I squirmed, but Cal didn’t let go. “What are they saying this time?”
Cal’s jaw worked. “That the Grayson line has bad blood. From the first infected on down. They say that you all go mad sometime around sixteen … that you’re dangerous.”
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I shut them, so the tears wouldn’t betray me by falling. “Cal, I thought you were my friend.”
“I am,” he said. “I’m your only friend right now, Aoife. I don’t believe any of it, but you know what they say. You know what Conrad did.”
My throat went tight. I remembered the point of the knife warmed to the temperature of skin, Conrad’s tears wetting my hair as he held me close. “I don’t want to, Aoife, but they whisper and watch and they lap up the blood. I don’t want to listen, but they won’t stop, until there’s blood on the stone.…”
“Conrad didn’t mean to hurt me,” I told Cal. “Dammit, Cal, you know that.” I pulled away then. If Cal thought that I carried the necrovirus in me, then I’d never be more than a thing to be pitied in his eyes.
My school scarf covered up the crooked scar most days, unless it was getting near the end of the year, when the wet breath of summer on my skin made wool unbearable.
“He went mad on his birthday, Aoife, and he tried to cut your throat. Your birthday is coming and now you’re talking about helping him. Like it or not, that sounds mad.”
“Conrad was your friend too,” I whispered. My only friends: Conrad and Cal. Cal and Conrad. I had thought nothing could change that.
Cal grimaced. “Yeah, and when he snapped, how stupid do you think I felt for believing he’d fight off the madness? This—this gibberish he’s feeding you—is just a delusion. Same as the fairies and demons that your mother sees.”
I didn’t think, I just lashed out and slapped Cal across the cheek with my free hand. He recoiled, hissing in pain. “I’m sorry,” I said instantly, though my blood still pounded through my ears and I didn’t feel sorry. At all.
“Dammit, Aoife, you really clocked me.” He wiggled his jaw.
“Conrad isn’t like my mother,” I insisted. Conrad had never showed any signs of madness. He never told me his dreams. My brother had to be different. Because if he wasn’t, then there was no hope for me. “He needs my help,” I told Cal,