Prize of Night (A Novel of the Parallel Parks, Band 3) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Bailey Cunningham is the author of the Novels of the Parallel Parks, including Pile of Bones and Path of Smoke.

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SHELBY is MORGAN,
a sagittarius, expert with bow and arrow.

INGRID is FEL,
a miles—a sword-wielding gladiator.

CARL is BABIECA,
a trovador, skilled at music—and theft.

ANDREW is ALEO,
an oculus who sees spirits.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CONTENTS

There is a glossary of terms at the back of the book.

PRONUNCIATION

PART ONE

SAGITTARIUS

1

The Plains University campus was locked in snow. This wasn’t unusual, save for the fact that the snow was on the inside. Shelby made her way carefully along the ice-locked linoleum, trying to avoid the drifts that covered everything in silence. This wasn’t right. Winter couldn’t get through the doors. Weren’t there protocols and storm glass? In a province where the cold lasted for seven months, the one thing you could count on was the weight of doors, the barriers that people formed against the wind. How was this possible?

Shelby saw Ingrid walking calmly across a snowbank. She wore slippers.

Shelby blinked, and crystals flared against the white. Sparks that might have been eyes, bleached bones, or flashing LEDs.

She was willing to admit that this might be a dream.

Ingrid grabbed her hand. They’d been together for a few months, but touch was still a miraculous circuit. Plus, she always smelled like pomegranates.

“You’re late for registration,” Ingrid said.

“What? When did that start?” Shelby blinked once more. “And why is it snowing in the Innovation Centre?”

Ingrid sighed. “That’s been happening for centuries. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To get you the proper forms.”

Now they were in skates, dancing across the ice floes. Ingrid casually executed a triple Lutz jump. Now Shelby was certain that she was dreaming. They reached the main office, and the ice turned into hard-packed snow. Her skates were gone, and so was Ingrid.

“Tansi, dear.”

Shelby turned. Her grandmother was sitting behind the desk. Her hair was plaited in two silver braids, and she wore turquoise earrings. The phone began to ring.

“Nokohm?” Shelby looked at her uncertainly. “Are you going to answer that?”

“Answers are overrated.” Her grandmother looked at the phone. “This is my first day on the job, though. I could be going about it the wrong way.”

Shelby picked up the phone. She heard a voice. It was the cold of bleached roots and silt beds, a growl rising from Precambrian basalt. She hung up.

“You’d better register,” her grandmother said. “If you wait too long, there won’t be any uncolonized space left.”

“I know. Ingrid was—” She looked behind her, but Ingrid was gone. The only light came from her grandmother’s Tiffany lamp.

“She left, of course. She has far more important things than you.”

“That’s not true. I’m part of the collection. I’ve got my own shelf.”

Her grandmother approached the faculty mailboxes, holding a wet cloth. “You should go. I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

“Is that blood?”

The cloth had become a dagger.

“There’s blood on everything. Now go, or you’ll miss it.”

Shelby left the office. She punched the down button on the elevator. The cables groaned, reminding her of the dark voice. She’d recognized a word. She knew that she could remember, if it would only stop snowing. But the flakes continued to gather in her hair as the drifts swallowed her feet. She should have bought those boots at Cabela’s, the ones with the rivets. Her toes were starting to go numb.

The elevator doors opened. Her supervisor, Dr. Trish Marsden, emerged.

“I need your help—”

Trish grabbed her arm. Shelby felt winter in her blood. Claws brushed the surface of her skin, waiting to dig deeper. “You’re not going to pass. We can’t find anyone willing to examine your thesis. None of the usual sacrifices have worked.”

“But I’m nearly finished.”

“No.” Her eyes were yellow. “You haven’t even started.”

Shelby sat up, breathing hard. It took a moment for the room around her to resolve itself. She wasn’t in a blizzard. The sheets were familiar. Down the hallway, she could smell waffles.

A boy in dragon pajamas looked up at her, expectantly.

“Neil.” She rubbed her eyes. “Morning. What did you say?”

Ingrid’s five-year-old son held out a picture. “I have brought you whispering death.”

“What?” For a moment, she went pale. Then she saw the drawing. It was of a dragon, smaller than average, with several rows of teeth.

“Whispering death,” she said.

He climbed onto the bed. “Can I tell you something? They are like little saw blades, when they are born. Then they start to burrow.”

“That’s nice and unsettling.”

“Don’t worry. They are quite rare.”

“And you’ll protect me, right?”

He looked nervous. “Don’t you carry a shield?”

“I’ve already got a lot of textbooks. It won’t really fit.”

“Your bow fits.”

She stared at him. “What did you say?”

Shelby thought about Anfractus—the city beyond the city. She’d discovered it two years ago, while walking through Wascana Park in downtown Regina. She’d taken a wrong turn, and suddenly, she was standing naked in an ancient metropolis. No bow then, just burning feet. She’d earned the bow later, as a sagittarius patrolling the battlements. In Anfractus, Ingrid carried a sword. They were shadows of themselves, distinct, yet never wholly different. They rolled with living dice that unleashed dangerous possibilities, guided by the fickle turn of Fortuna’s wheel. Shelby could almost feel the bow in her hand, the name that came with it. Morgan.

Was it a character that she played, or was Morgan the real one?

More importantly: what did a five-year-old know about any of this?

But it was too late to ask. He was already heading toward the kitchen. She let him pull her down the hallway, bouncing. His small feet pounded against the hardwood floors.

“Mum! Shelby is awake and ready for burrowing class!”

“Waffles first,” she said. “Then . . . maybe some light burrowing.”

The kitchen was full of light and smells that brought her back to her own childhood. She expected to see Ingrid’s brother, Paul, in the thick of it, fingers slick with yolk, but it was Ingrid who stood at the sink. The blast radius around her was considerable and included a spray of eggshells, glass bowls, and an upturned bottle of vanilla extract. She smiled as she caught sight of them.

“I see the dragonrider woke you up.”

“I did it gently, Mum,” Neil said. “Like you asked.”

“That’s good, my sweet. Your waffles are at the small table.”

“Where’s your brother?” Shelby asked.

Paul didn’t know about Anfractus. When Ingrid returned home in the middle of the night, he assumed that she was studying for her comprehensive exams. They were all academics, tripping over themselves from lack of sleep, and the image worked to conceal their dangerous extracurriculars. They’d fought a homicidal satyr, rescued an...