of kinship for Alistair. “That’s what I want too. Didn’t you know?”
“That doesn’t exist anymore.”
“It doesn’t exist because of Seekers like you, Briac. Killers like you. When we have a better Dread than the Middle to watch over us—”
“You think someone will replace him? Are you mad?”
He slammed his hand into the train behind him again. He looked truly frightened now, and this was deeply disturbing, because Briac didn’t scare easily. In a quick motion, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard.
“Don’t say things like that, Catherine, do you hear me? You don’t want to bring the Middle Dread’s attention onto yourself. He’s already heard of your journal. You want to end up dead for real?”
“The Middle Dread will not kill me. Dreads don’t kill Seekers, unless we’ve broken the law. Even the Middle Dread. It’s Seekers who’ve been killing each other. It was a Seeker who attacked me, a Seeker who killed Anna. If we had a real Middle Dread who was fair and just—”
He shook her again. “Just stop! We can help each other and maybe have a chance. If not, someone will kill you, Catherine.”
“You always seemed the most likely Seeker to do that, Briac.”
“I think about killing you all the time,” he told her seriously. His fingers dug into her shoulders. “You’re maddening.”
Catherine swung her arms up through his and brought her elbows down, pinning his arms against his ribs. He struggled as she turned and stepped forward, pushing him to the edge of the platform. They gripped each other’s arms as his head swung mere inches from the tunnel wall.
She released him suddenly, and he scrabbled for the railing. Catherine didn’t wait to see if he regained his footing. She was already at the door to the next carriage.
“Stay away from me,” she said.
19 Years Earlier
Catherine had to straighten out her clothing in the washroom of the Tube station after her confrontation with Briac. She felt ridiculous in the boring blouse and skirt her mother had insisted she wear, but at least nothing had been torn or dirtied in the exchange. If she looked anything short of acceptable, she wouldn’t hear the end of it.
She left the station and met her parents at the street corner, and her mother maneuvered her into a small alley behind a row of stately mansions to pull Catherine’s hair back into a braid. The ugly yellow bruises were still visible on Catherine’s jaw, but her mother managed to pull out enough strands of hair to hang loosely over the blemishes. Then they walked to the Harts’ front door.
The braid was still so tight a half hour later that Catherine’s forehead ached from her eyebrows being lifted up her face, and she imagined she must look extremely surprised. This was confirmed with a glance at herself in the mirror above the fireplace once inside the opulent town house.
Since the train ride, her mind was on her journal, which was locked in a cabinet in her parents’ house. The first thing she’d do when she left this awkward meeting would be to find a more secure place to keep it.
“Do you like cars?” Archie asked. He was standing with her at the window while their parents poured tea in the seating area at the center of the room.
The room itself was large and grand, with a fireplace at either end and a high ceiling covered in a mural of the sky. The tall windows gave views of other grand London homes and the park that began at the end of the street. Yet despite its expensive and pedigreed bones, the house had an air of shabbiness. The Harts were not as well off as they’d once been. If they had been, Catherine guessed, there would be no need to marry their son off into a family as odd as the Renarts.
Catherine brought her eyes back to Archie. He was, unfortunately, as handsome as Anna had said. That hadn’t been an exaggeration, and Catherine found herself resenting Archie for this. He had reddish-brown hair, slightly too long, in Catherine’s opinion, but it framed a face with a fine mix of features, including brown eyes that nearly matched his hair, and lips that, irritatingly, kept drawing her attention. He wore dress trousers and a sweater that seemed tailored expressly to set off the muscles of his shoulders and arms. He was older than she was by a few years, but he was a child.
Arrogant, she thought, and vain. Perfect for Anna.