The Secrets of Roan Island

29. Ruby

29

Ruby

T he translation glasses are uncomfortable and tax my eyes, though the ones Noah gave me are some of the best I’ve ever used. Money, I decide. I’ve used glasses like them before. As a researcher, it comes with the territory, and while these fit more securely, the readout is small. I pull them off and pinch the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes as I ponder what I’ve read.

It seems the Mavarri were once prevalent. Advanced. They ruled a world not so different from our own before coming here through portals, which is apparently what this part of the mansion is. They call it the Gate House and it used to be that you could get into their old world from here. But all of the entrances were sealed off after their world was decimated by wars between their clans. The remaining families, one of which was the Roans, came here and established a tentative peace with clear rules to maintain it.

But when humans settled in the area, the alliances became more complicated. The remaining Mavarri clans fought over what to do about the humans. Humans fought back. The Roans were the only survivors, mainly because they locked themselves away on this island.

A sound from the lab draws my attention, and I look over my shoulder. Through the cracked door, I see Noah bent over a microscope. His strong hands turn a knob, the other manipulates the lens. There’s something alluring about seeing him this way, so focused and dedicated.

My gaze darts back to the open journal, and I straighten my back with stubborn annoyance at my wayward thoughts. I refuse to give Noah Roan my attention. He doesn’t deserve it after what he did.

Before I’ve got the translation goggles back on, the bell hidden in the bookshelf near the door rings. The gentle tinkle bursts out with a high, bright sound anytime the portrait door opens. It's a warning system Shemaiah set up when he learned I was still here. The main concern being Hammish.

I shoot up from the chair, slamming the journal shut and stacking the books.

“Ruby. Quick,” Noah says from the doorway, his face drawn with tension. “Go. Now!”

I gather up anything that looks like it might belong to me, which for the moment is only the shoes I kicked off hours ago. Then I rush through the lab past Noah, careful not to touch him, and into the morgue. While Noah has been true to his word—he hasn’t locked me up in the room again as a prisoner—I haven’t left the Gate House in days. I’ve barely left the library, except to sleep. Noah and his brothers put a bed in the parlor next to the library, close enough for me to hear the bell if it goes off. I suspect Noah sleeps outside my door since he looks like death warmed over each morning.

He follows me. “As soon as he’s gone,” he promises and pulls the door shut.

I swallow, hating the cold, callous sound of that mechanism dropping into place, wishing there was something I could do to protect myself against Hammish that didn’t involve hiding. I’ve been locked in here at least twice a day for the last week. It’s usually Jafeth or Shemaiah who triggers the bell—it has yet to be Hammish—but Noah suspects he’ll come down here eventually. So we follow the plan.

I press my ear against the metal, but all I hear is a mumbled exchange.

The lock clicks, then the door creaks open, revealing Noah.

“It’s Shemaiah,” he says. “It’s safe.”

I lift my eyebrows and glance at the cold storage lockers.

“Safer,” he amends.

Emerging from the room of horrors, as I’ve come to think of it, I smile at Shemaiah. “Good afternoon, Shemaiah.”

I hear Noah’s soft growl of irritation at the attention his brother receives, but I don’t bother looking at him. Let him be upset about it.

He deserves it. And it gives me an odd sort of thrill knowing he’s jealous of my attention.

“I brought some lunch,” Shemaiah says, producing a small basket of goods.“I think Mrs. Darning might suspect something.”

“Why?” Noah asks.

“Can’t exactly request lunch for the two of you, now can I? I’ve had to get creative with what, and how much, I ask for.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t brought food down herself,” Noah says.

Against my better judgment, I glance at him. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes dart to me before he frowns, looking down at the floor. Ignoring the longing I feel for a man who doesn’t deserve it, I take the basket from Shemaiah and walk back into the library.

“I’ve waylaid Mrs. Darning, for now,” Shemaiah says. “But if you don’t show up for dinner, you’re likely to get a visit from Father. Maybe best if you make an appearance.” He takes a seat at the table, leaning back with his typical relaxed posture. He always appears as if nothing fazes him, but over the past few days, I’ve started to suspect that’s just a facade he projects. All the brothers hide behind something. Shemaiah, his quiet calm. Jafeth, his humor. Noah, his research.

“Thank you, Shemaiah. You’ve been taking great care of us. However difficult it might be.” I lay the contents of the basket out on the table.

“We’re running out of time,” Noah says.

“Think Father cares?” Shemaiah’s eyebrows lift in question.

We all know the answer. I’ve come to learn Hammish humors Noah’s research but personally believes it’s a matter of quantity—try to transform enough people, and eventually it’ll work on someone.

“I’ll keep looking. You can go to dinner,” I say to Noah, taking the seat I’ve come to think of as my own and moving the books to make room for the food.

Noah pushes away from the door and stands at the other end of the table. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

I know he means unprotected.

“Might not have a choice,” Shemaiah says. “Either show up, or expect an unwanted visitor.”

Noah takes an apple, something that will allow him to eat and work simultaneously, then turns to leave.

“Sit,” I tell him.

He stops, turning back toward me. “I have to–”

“I know,” I interrupt. “So do I, but if you don’t eat, you’re going to drop. And what if it’s Hammish who shows up next time? How will you fare against him?”

“Food isn’t all I need.” Noah’s eyes burn into mine, and I can’t keep my body from tightening.

“If you think I’m going to let you feed from me, Noah Roan, think again.” The anger in my voice is feigned, and I think he knows it. The way I respond to him, the sway he still has on me, is infuriating. No matter how hard I try, I can’t purge myself of him. I can’t stop dreaming of what it felt like to have his teeth in me.

Shemaiah chuckles softly.

Noah grunts, grabs a sandwich, and marches back into his laboratory.

“You’re good for him,” Shemaiah says, then picks up one of the finger sandwiches.

“No, I’m not—We’re not—” I sputter, but when Shemaiah gives me a knowing look, I sigh and lean back in my chair. “Why do I have such horrible taste in men?”

“Noah’s a good man.” Shemaiah says it like a statement of fact, not like he’s just trying to defend his brother.

“Ha! Good men don’t kill helpless women.”

“A good Mavarri might.” He scratches his chin with a clawed finger, his gaze avoiding mine. “I’ve done it.” The corner of his lip dips in a subtle frown. “He’s trying his hardest, and he’s done more than any of us to stop all this.”

I can’t argue with that. I’ve seen Noah’s dedication over the past few days. I’ve also seen the way he looks at the women in the coolers when he needs to take more samples. His guilt and anguish is palpable. He doesn’t enjoy hurting people the way David did. Noah’s a scientist, not a killer.

“It’s not an excuse,” I say in response to Shemaiah and my own thoughts.

“I know.”

I look up and find him staring at the table as if he’s seeing through it. For a moment, his mask slips, and he looks as haunted as Noah.

We eat in silence for a while, and it’s not unpleasant. While Jafeth is entertaining, Shemaiah is the brother I’ve grown most comfortable around. He’s a calming presence in the midst of a chaotic and potentially lethal situation.

“Can I ask you something about my research?”

“Of course.” He wipes his hands on a napkin before leaning back.

“So, your great-great-grandmother was human, turned Mavarri, but how did her husband know it would work? How did any of the Mavarri know that the venom on Solstice would turn a human?”

Shemaiah gets up and saunters to the bookshelves. He returns a few moments later with a large book that looks older than the rest. The cover is carved wood, the pages worn thin. He sets it in front of me and opens to a page with intricate script lettering and painted images in the margins.

“This is our origin story.”

In typical Shemaiah fashion, not giving more information than needed, he leaves me to my research, with only a final warning to remind Noah to join them for dinner.

I put the translation glasses back on and start reading.

Silence settles over the room as I read about the Mavarri origin goddess—Mirrav—creating the fifteen clans, one of which was the Roan. She then tasked each of the fifteen to move through the cosmos to transform other intelligent creatures into Mavarri, which was done through venom.

I lean back, removing the glasses, my eyes fixating on the words that blur together as I process what I’ve read. It explains why they would even begin to try changing humans to Mavarri. Maybe even explains Hammish’s desperation to continue his race and lineage—if he thinks it’s the first and foremost mandate from his goddess, his actions make a lot more sense. It must have just been trial and error that made them figure out their venom was different during Summer and Winter Solstice. What I can’t figure out is whether the transformation used to always work and now always fails, or if what Hammish seems to believe is true, and it’s just a matter of finding the right person.

“I’m missing something,” I say, sitting forward to pick up a journal from Noah’s great-great-grandmother I was reading earlier.

I’m so engrossed in my task that I don’t hear Noah until he says my name.

The way he says it is a prayer, like he’s begging for something he doesn’t dare ask for.

I’ve been careful to keep distance between us, but Noah has been even more careful, as if afraid. He’s also been excessively accommodating, which I’ve found slightly annoying, if a touch nice. This is the first time he’s initiated conversation since he locked me in that cold, deathly room.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you,” he says, “but… would you stay in the morgue while I’m at dinner?”

“No. Absolutely not.” I hold his gaze. “We have the bell. I’ll be fine.”

He sighs and sits down in the chair next to me. “I thought you might say that.”

“You’re not going?”

He rubs his eyes as if they hurt as much as mine do from the strain of researching.

“You have to go, Noah. Solstice is in a few days. We can’t afford Hammish getting suspicious.”

“I can’t afford to waste time eating when I still haven’t found a solution.” His voice rises, but the anger there quickly dissipates. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take my frustration out on you.” He runs his hands through his already disheveled hair, then rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for all of it. That you’re stuck here, in danger. That I locked you up instead of trusting you to make your own choice. That I’m not smart enough to solve this and save these women.” He covers his face with his hands, shoulders curling in.

This is a completely different side of Noah than I’ve seen before. A vulnerable, broken side I doubt he’s shown to anyone else. We haven’t talked about him locking me up, about us, since it first happened. We’ve both been too absorbed in our tasks. We’ve tiptoed around one another, afraid to break, afraid to break each other.

But I can see it now. Noah’s already broken.

The death, the struggle, his inability to find the solution. All of it has torn him apart and refashioned him into the man bent over himself at a loss.

“Noah,” I say quietly, turning toward him. My knees graze his thigh.

His muscles tense, but he doesn’t look at me, his head still in his hands, his hair a riot around his fingers. He suddenly twists in his seat, taking my hands in his. A wild, unguarded look transforms his features. “I need to fix this.” He shakes his head, as if unwilling to voice his fears that it might be unfixable. His eyes shine with emotion.

I swallow down my own.

“Tell me what to do, ta’ari .” His warm breath flutters over my skin, awareness of our closeness brightening the dark spaces inside me. “Tell me how to win your forgiveness, to get you to look at me the way you did.” His hands wrap mine more tightly. “I can’t go on like this. I’ll do anything. Please, tell me.”

My heart squeezes and twists at the sight of this powerful man brought to his knees because of me. The pain in his voice echoes my own.

“I don’t know how to get past this,” I whisper. I don’t tell him how much I want to, how much I want to go back to how it was, how much this hurts me too.

His head drops to my lap, and I suck in a breath, remembering the last time his mouth was there. He misunderstands my quiet gasp and quickly jumps up and away from me.

“Forgive me,” he says one more time before disappearing into his laboratory.