Ballad (27 page)

James

When we emerged from the building, I saw that time had slid away from us again. The promise of dawn glowed faintly at the horizon over the parking lots, though the rest of the sky was still dark. The night of the dead only had a few more hours to go. My eyes turned immediately toward Seward, toward the bonfire that Nuala had stood in.

Her bonfire scarred the sky. I couldn’t see the base, but I could see the golden streaks from the top of it, reaching so high up into the air that they reflected on the clouds. And the fire was singing.

If just for a moment to belong

The golden light shooting above the roofs of the dorms was like neon, burning the pattern of its dancing into my eyes.

Beautiful cacophony, sugar upon lips,

dancing to exhaustion

Words flew into the air like sparks. I didn’t know if everyone could hear them, or just me. I didn’t understand what they meant; they were all tangled up in the music.

Tearing my body asunder

The music was a thousand tunes at once, all beautifully sad, transcendent, as golden as the streaks in the sky.

This is how I want everything

I dropped Dee’s hand. I heard our song—the song Nuala and I had written together in the movie theater. And then I heard her song. The one I’d played for her at the piano.

I’m so far from where I began

I fall, I fall

And I forget that I am

Everything that made Nuala herself was shooting up into the sky, a towering, gorgeous cacophony of
color and words and music. It was flying up, faster and faster, brighter and brighter, and I was running as fast as I could, leaving Dee by the first bonfire. I didn’t know what I was going to do. All I could think was that I had to get there in time to save something of what remained of her.

I pushed through students—just students after all, not faeries, nothing magical—and shoved past the fountain. I couldn’t see the sky above the bonfire now; it was blocked by the looming dorm. I ran around the edge of the dorm, my sides splitting, breath short, and stopped short.

I don’t know what I expected. Nuala. Or a body. Or something. Not … nothing.

The coals of the very center of the bonfire behind Seward still smoldered, but most of what had been flames before was dry gray ash. There was no sign of the massive golden explosion I’d seen from Brigid Hall.

Where Nuala had stood was just charred silt.

The wind picked up the topmost layer and whirled it into the air, throwing it into my face and drawing patterns in the grains.

There was nothing. There was absolutely nothing.

All I could see was her face when she saw me leaving. She must’ve thought I had chosen Dee over her. She must’ve—

I slowly sank down in the ash, onto my knees, watching the way it stuck to the legs of my jeans and feeling my toes sink into it behind me.

On the other side of the bonfire, wavy from the heat still rising from the smoldering coals, I saw Paul. He stood by the columns behind Seward, watching me. Dee joined him, her eyes on me, and they exchanged some words. Neither looked away from me.

I knew they were talking about me. I didn’t care. I knew they were watching me, but I didn’t care about that either.

I pressed my hands over my face.

I stayed there for a long time.

Then I heard footsteps, and someone crouched down in front of me.

“James,” Paul said. “Do you want to know what Cernunnos told me?”

I didn’t open my eyes; I just sighed.

“He told me that Nuala was going to have to burn in this fire.”

I took my hands away from my face. Morning light illuminated Paul’s features. “He told you that? Did he mention how I was going to screw it up?”

Paul smiled ruefully. “Yeah. He said you would leave, no matter how much you wanted to stay, that you’d make the choice that hurt. And then he told me that no matter what happened, when she walked into that fire, I had to stay here. And watch it. So I stood there on the patio and, dude, there was all kinds of crap going down, but I stayed there the whole time. And I watched her.”

I licked my dry lips; they tasted like ash. “And?”

“Beginning to end,” Paul said.

I stared at him. I had to force my words to sound even. “But there’s nothing.”

Paul looked at his feet. “He told me to dig.”

Dee said, “I’ll help.”

I hadn’t even realized she’d been standing there behind Paul. I looked at her eyes and nodded, because I couldn’t say anything.

We started to dig. We scraped away the topmost layer of white ash, which was dry and cold and dead, and burned our fingers on the still-hot coals buried deeper. We dug until Dee gave up because of the heat. And then we dug until Paul gave up too. And I kept digging into the still-hot core of the bonfire beneath all the ashes. My skin stung and blistered as I moved crumbling, smoking pieces of ash and wood aside.

I felt fingertips. And fingers, long and graceful, and then her hand was gripping my hand. Paul grabbed my arm, pulling me, and Dee pulled him, and together, we pulled her up.

And it was Nuala.

“Holy crap,” said Paul, and then turned around, because she was smeared with ash and naked.

She just looked at me. I didn’t want to say “Nuala,” because if she didn’t respond, then I’d know for sure she’d forgotten me. It was better to hang in this moment of not-knowing than to know for sure.

I tugged my sweatshirt over my head and offered it to her. “It’s cold,” I said.

“How heroic of you,” said Nuala, sarcastically. But she took it and pulled it on. On her, it came down to the middle of her thighs. I saw goose bumps on the rest of her legs.

I realized she was looking at Dee, who stood beside Paul, watching us. When Dee saw me look at her, she turned around and put her back to us like Paul had, as if for privacy.

Nuala whispered, “I thought you’d left me behind.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I rubbed my eye to fight the sudden urge to cry and felt stupid for it. I muttered, “I’ve got some damn ash in my eye.”

“Me too,” said Nuala, and we wrapped our arms around each other.

Behind us, I heard Dee’s voice—and then I heard Paul, hesitant, reply, “It’s a long road, but it’s the only one we’ve got, right?”

He was right.

James

W
elcome, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Ian Everett Johan Campbell, the third and the last. I hope I can hold your attention. I must tell you that what you see tonight is completely real. It might not be amazing, it might not be shocking, it might not be scandalizing, but I can tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt: it is real. For that—I am deeply sorry.

Brigid Hall was full. It was more than full. Each chair had a butt in it. Some laps had people sitting on them. There was a row of people by the back door, standing. The red door was open so that a few people could lean in and watch. It wasn’t too long to lean—it was only a half-hour play.

And this time, it felt more real than usual, because clouds had made the night come early. So the audience sat in pitch blackness. The stage was the only solid ground in the world, and we were the only people in it. Life out there was the metaphor, and we were the real ones.

I stood before the audience on the stage, Ian Everett Johan Campbell, and I made Eric/Francis vanish. The audience gasped. It was only a trick of the stage lights, but it was still amazing. After all, it was real. They all knew magic was real.

Paul played Nuala’s theme on the oboe as Wesley/Blakeley called me out.

“You have sold your soul,” Wesley said.

I smiled at him. “You’re guessing.”

“You’re the devil.”

“You flatter me,” I said.

“What man can do what you do? What man with his soul?” Wesley asked. “Make men disappear? Make flowers spring from a rock? Tears fall from a painting?”

I paced around Wesley. Sullivan had told me to do that, back when we had rehearsed with him as Blakeley—told me it made me look arrogant and restless, which Campbell was. Paul’s oboe paced and twisted as well, winding up toward the cue that invariably he always missed, the one Nuala had said was so important.

“You know the answer. You don’t want to say it,” I sneered. “It is too frightening. No one wants to know. It’s right in front of you all.”

Dee sat in her usual seat by the wall. I’d convinced her not to go back home—to give Thornking-Ash a real chance. She still had so far to go, but Paul and I were doing what we could for her. And how could I let her go home by herself, when I knew the faeries were still watching her?

“You mock me,” Wesley said. His eyes slid away from me, toward the audience, for just a moment. He wasn’t supposed to do that; he flicked them back to me. “What is it that can perform these deeds? What is it that is so obvious that it is in front of me? Who—”

Nuala signaled wildly for Paul to stop. Paul stopped on his cue so perfectly that I almost missed mine.

“Everyone,” I said, a little hurried.

Wesley made an irritated gesture with his hand. “And I thought you’d tell the truth. As if
you
have been burdened with the truth a single day of your life.”

“It is the truth, Blakeley! The most magical, sinister, deadly, fabulous creature alive is a—” I stopped. A movement at the edge of door in the very back of the hall had caught my eye. Just another person leaning in, trying to catch the play.

Only this person had massive black wings behind him, disappearing on either side of the door. And nobody else seemed to notice him, which was good, because he was mouthing my line at me—“
a human
”—and giving me a look like
you’re making an idiot of yourself
.

The audience was watching and waiting, and I was just standing there, staring at Sullivan with a half-smile on my face.

My arms were covered with goose bumps.

“I’ll see you again,” Sullivan said, and no one else seemed to hear. “I’m sorry for that. Be ready.”

Wesley prompted me. “ … is a
what
?”

“A human,” I said. “The most dangerous and wonderful creature alive is a human.”

Acknowledgments

There are many people without whom this book would be physically impossible:

1. Andrew Karre, my first editor, who is my Yoda. There are not enough languages to say “thank you” in.

2. Laura Rennert, my incredible agent, whose superpowers allow me to write professionally without getting an ulcer.

3. Brian Farrey, my second editor at Flux, who let dead characters stay dead and finally found a name for “The Stiefvater Gambit.”

4. My critique partners, Tessa Gratton, because she loved Sullivan so much I had to love him too, and Brenna Yovanoff, because she makes me do it right.

5. My friend Naish, for keeping large parts of my sanity intact.

6. Cassie, for keeping me from saying rude, incomprehensible things in Irish. Mostly.

7. A bunch of folks who helped me with the facts of life: Carrie Ryan, Steve Porter of Phillips Academy, and Maeghan Passafume of Interlochen Arts Academy.

8. My sister Kate, as ever, for being the first and last reader.

9. My parents, for tolerating me when I got kicked out of preschool, and for helping me get through deadlines.

10. Nannie, who stayed up until 2 am reading
Lament
and did so much for me.

11. My husband Ed: love you, babe.