Chapter Sixty-Seven
Syaoran's pulse raced in his ears, muffling all other sounds. His breathing ceased, as if his lungs had imploded, and after a few seconds without oxygen, his vision danced with grey dots.
The Other looked at him with cold, mismatched eyes. So this world was a setup, he thought, cursing himself for not realizing sooner, for not realizing Fei Wang Reed had a purpose in meddling with this world. So stupid. I should've known better.
Seishirou glanced at him, something like surprise flitting across his face. Syaoran's eyes flashed to his mentor, looking for some sign that they were still on the same side. Even if he had trained the Other in Clow, surely Seishirou wouldn't choose to abandon him now. Surely.
When he looked back, the Other was gone.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Seishirou said with a light laugh.
Syaoran stared at him, his mouth hanging open. Didn't he see? He must've seen. He's just as observant as I am, there's no way he couldn't have seen. So why is he acting like he didn't? Panic fluttered in his stomach, contorting it into odd formations. Perhaps Seishirou's loyalties were not as well defined as he claimed. Syaoran knew the older man ranked Fuuma's life above both of theirs, but until now, he hadn't considered the possibility that the Other was still important to him. Stupid. I'm so stupid. Of course Seishirou would place the Other above me, even if he is a monster.
"Little Wolf?" The man's voice shifted from amusement to concern. "Are you all right?"
"I . . ." Why would he ask that? He must realize how seeing the Other would affect me. Unless he really didn't see . . . But we were facing the same way. There's nothing much to look at in this park, except for the birds. He should have seen, and reacted, before I did.
Unless the Other wasn't really there. The thought chilled him, and he repressed a shudder. If it was all in my head, Seishirou wouldn't have seen him. But how could it be? I'm not sick or tired or starving. My sleeping pills haven't given me any hallucinations so far . . . Is it possible the Other's graduated beyond my dreams now? That he's starting to leak into my daytime thoughts? His heart hammered against his ribs, audible even among the soft breeze.
"What's wrong?" Seishirou demanded.
Syaoran looked down. If I am hallucinating . . . He'll think I'm crazy, or paranoid. He'll think I'm a danger to Fuuma-san. What if he leaves me here? I have no way to travel through dimensions on my own.
And then I'll be alone. "It's nothing," he whispered. "Just a little flashback from the fight, that's all."
His mentor looked at him for a long moment, measuring his sincerity. He still didn't look entirely convinced when he turned his attention back to the rolling hills. "We'll start with your usual magic and work from there," he decided, walking across the field. After a brief hesitation, Syaoran followed.
They worked well into the night, starting with the spells Syaoran knew, then adapting them to new situations. Seishirou presented him with scenarios such as multiple opponents, explosives under the ground, and nonhuman opponents. Despite the lack of actual enemies or equipment, Syaoran found his skills improving. When his mentor announced an end for the day, Syaoran's range had improved by a good ten meters, and his control was more precise. He could vary the amount of force in each attack with a measure of control he'd barely grasped before.
"Tomorrow, we'll work on sword techniques," Seishirou said. "If it's going to be your primary weapon, you'd best know how to use it."
"Right." Syaoran bowed deeply, a silent gesture of respect and gratitude. Seishirou tousled his hair.
"Don't be so polite. Courtesy adds years to your age."
It's not like I'm aging the same way I used to, anyway, he thought, looking at the ground.
"Smile, Syaoran. It's good for your health."
Don't disappoint him. Syaoran forced his lips into a brittle smile. His teacher returned the expression, his smile a model of joy and enthusiasm. "All right, Little Wolf. Let's go home."
Home, Syaoran thought longingly. But it wasn't the bedroom Miss Adele had given him, or the apartment in Avantine, that he yearned for. It was the little clay house surrounded by sand dunes—the house that sat in the shadow of Clow Castle, the house where Fujitaka-san had raised the Other as his own, the house Sakura had visited almost every day. That is my home. No matter where I go, that will be the one place I can always return to.
They walked back to Miss Adele's house in companionable silence. Syaoran was so absorbed in the yearning that accompanied his daydreams that he didn't recognize the scent that saturated the air until Seishirou thrust an arm out in front of him.
"What is it?" he asked, keeping his voice low as his eyes scanned the horizon for threats.
"Can you smell that?"
Syaoran inhaled through his nose. The air smelled like iron. "Is that—"
"Breathe through your mouth and follow me. Something's happened." Seishirou ran toward Miss Adele's house, claws sprouting from his fingertips. Stomach churning, Syaoran followed. The smell choked him, like a noose wrapping around his windpipe. Breathing grew difficult, and the metallic scent overpowered every other smell. Even the garden, overflowing with flowers and herbs for tea, couldn't abolish the macabre scent.
Seishirou opened the back door, almost ripping it off its hinges. He darted inside, letting the flimsy door hang open. A cloud of the metallic smell assaulted Syaoran's nostrils, so overpowering that it turned his stomach instead of making it feel hollow. As he darted into the house—into the battlefield—he almost vomited where he stood.
Four crimson walls stretched out around him. Behind the sea of red, the original colors showed through. It's like a toddler tried to repaint, Syaoran thought distantly, eyes locked on the spatter patterns. He saw a scarlet seahorse rise above the waves, a wolf show its glistening red teeth, a dragon lift its head and spit crimson fire into the air . . . The images danced on the wall, moving sinuously as he stared, taking on new forms.
Footsteps alerted him to Seishirou's movements. The dark-haired man had paused in the living room, taking in the sight just as he was now, then started up the stairs. Fuuma. He must be checking on Fuuma.
Syaoran took a clumsy step into the living room, almost slipping on a slick patch of red paint. No, not paint, that's blood . . . The next step came easier, and by the third, his stride had steadied somewhat. Without really thinking about it, he followed the largest patches of crimson. The edges of his vision seemed to shimmer slightly, as if he was trying to recall a dream.
Let it be a dream. Let me wake up in Infinity and walk out into the living room for breakfast. Please, let it all be a dream.
Somehow, the smell got stronger as he passed through the house. The bloodstains, brown where they'd sunk into the carpet and dried, led to the kitchen. Syaoran kept moving, wondering why there was no smell of baking bread or cookies or cake. Miss Adele always seemed to be baking something. I should be able to smell that over the blood, he thought distantly. But I can't.
Another step. His foot came down on a stuffed animal, which promptly started singing. He flinched at the cheerful sound, eyes flashing down to look at the toy that had produced it: a white teddy bear splattered with red. Suddenly, everything around him seemed to shift. The surreal quality vanished, and everything around him came into focus, too vivid. He coughed as the stench of iron hit him anew, and staggered into the kitchen, unable to look at the blood-spattered toys even a moment longer. He stared at the floor, watching it spin beneath him as he made his way into the kitchen.
Something was dripping onto the floor.
He heard the soft drip before he saw its source. For one wild moment, he thought it was the faucet, dripping because it hadn't been completely shut off. Reality intruded on the moment, wrapping its dark tendrils around Syaoran's lungs. Shivering, he lifted his face to look at the source of the dripping sound, and saw Miss Adele hanging by her wrists from a hook on the ceiling, rivers of blood pouring down from her throat.