Gradually, the noise faded. The images were blotted out to a white stillness, like the end of a blizzard, hushed and blindingly bright. I kept my eyes shut, but I could feel the traces of Constance and Niobe’s magic drifting across me. I was so cold their spells barely registered.
I don’t know how much time passed before the warmth returned, bringing a fresh tingling pain, like recovery from frostbite. The voices strengthened, became clear again, and a third one joined in. I tried to block them out, but one voice was too insistent, shoving past layers of cold and fear and dragging me back to consciousness.
“Mouse. It’s okay. Come on back to me. Come on.”
The relief I felt at Luc’s voice warmed me more than any spell. I bolted upright, sucking down air like I’d been drowning, wracked with gasping sobs. “Darklings!”
“I know. We took care of them. They’re gone.”
“Darklings? Here?” asked Constance.
“Not here. The Allée. The Assembly. Where the magic’s strongest.” He chafed his hands over my arms, trying to rub sensation back into them. “We beat them back.”
But there was sorrow in his voice, not triumph.
“How many?” Niobe asked, her voice somber.
“Twelve.”
“Twelve Darklings?” Constance sounded awed.
Luc shook his head. “Twelve Arcs lost. Quartoren guards.”
Constance didn’t say anything. None of us did, for a moment. Luc pulled me against his chest. I listened for his heartbeat, and tried to make mine match.
“They were going to kill it,” I mumbled. “I felt it dying. I was dying.”
He made a shushing noise, the one you use to soothe a fractious child. “It’s okay now.”
“No.” I shoved at him, terror returning in a flash. “I felt it. It was dying, Luc.”
He bent, his lips brushing my ear. “It ain’t alive, remember?”
I pulled back, and his eyes, bleary and ringed with exhaustion, met mine and held until I’d nodded understanding.
“What did she mean?” Constance asked, gesturing to me. “She’s dying?”
“She’s not dyin’. She’s shook up.” I could have answered for myself, but I felt too ragged and shivery. Luc’s skin was warm through the linen of his shirt, and I tried to soak it all up, letting their conversation wash over me as if I weren’t there.
“She was injured,” Niobe said softly. “I tried to heal her, but I couldn’t get a strong enough line to draw on.”
The second the magic was under attack, it had drawn back into itself, marshaling its energy, trying to hide. I’d done the same, trying to preserve as much of its spark—its life—as I could, balling up on the linoleum floor of the classroom, even as the energy drained out of both of us. An unthinking reflex, the same way the body shunted blood to the essential systems—the heart and lungs—during shock. Now we both needed time to recover.
“Neither could we,” Luc said. “It’s why there was such a high casualty rate. We had weapons but no magic to channel.”
“If the Seraphim had succeeded, they’d have had their Ascendency.”
There was grim satisfaction in Luc’s voice as he said, “But they didn’t. And now people see what they’re really about. Might turn the tide in our favor.”
I forced my eyelids open, surprised by how heavy they felt. The effort required to speak was more than I could muster. Luc was wrong. Anton didn’t need the support of the Arcs. He had Darklings. He had a cult—Evangeline hadn’t spoken of him like a politician she was planning to vote for, but rapturously, all blind allegiance and fervent adoration. I’d looked into his eyes, seen the unholy light in them. All he cared about was the Ascendency.
“What happens to Mo now?” Constance asked.
“I’ll take her home. Let her rest.”
“She can’t be left alone,” Niobe said. “Not in this state.”
“I can stay with her,” Constance offered.
“No need,” said Luc. “I’ll watch her.”
“You think I can’t be helpful?” She sounded insulted.
“You think I’d trust you to look after her? I wouldn’t let you take care of a hamster.”
“Luc. Enough.” I tugged at his sleeve, but kept my face pressed to his shirtfront. “She’s just a kid.”
Constance made a huffing noise.
“You’ve got things here?” he asked Niobe.
“I always do.” But the words sounded less acidic than usual, more troubled. I heard their footsteps cross the room, the door opening and closing behind them. “My place or yours?” Luc asked.
“Mine,” I croaked. I wanted my bed, and my quilt, and to get out of this uniform, and a chance to confer with the magic. No sleep, though. Sleep was too close to oblivion. Too close to death. “Will you stay with me?”
“Said so not five minutes ago. Don’t you remember?”
“Just making sure.”
He brushed my hair back from my face. “Be sure of me.”
“I am.” It was the truth, I realized with a jolt. His expression turned quietly pleased.
He stood, scooping me up without effort. A moment later, we were in my room. “Harder than usual,” he mused. “Magic’s still recoverin’. So are you.” He set me on the bed carefully.
“How long will it take?” I asked.
“To get back to one hundred percent? Not sure. You’ll be able to tell before me, more’n likely.” He glanced around. “Anyone home this time of day?”
“Everyone’s working.” I stood up, leg muscles quivering in protest. “Can you get me something to drink? Tea?” Deep inside, where the magic huddled, I was still cold. It was like a layer of permafrost. I needed some way to warm up from the inside out—and a few minutes alone.
“Long as you promise not to keel over.”
“Scout’s honor.” I held up three fingers.
He chuckled. “You as a Girl Scout. Figures. Shame you never showed up on my door selling cookies.”
“Tea,” I ordered, and shoved him toward the door.
Once I was alone, I changed into pajama pants and an old T-shirt, thick socks and a sweatshirt. Not glamorous, but comfortable and warmer than my uniform. A quick glance in the mirror showed my skin was pale—not creamy, or alabaster, or fine like marble, but the bluish white of skim milk. I thought about trying to brush my hair into submission, but it was clearly a losing battle.
Luc returned as I was crawling back into bed. “Tea,” he said, holding out a cup and saucer.
“Thanks.” I took them from him. “You used the good china.”
“Figured you could stand to be spoiled for once.”
“We never use the good china. It’s for special occasions.”
“You nearly died,” he said. “And then you didn’t. Special enough for me.”
Silly to be so touched by the gesture, but I was. The tea—hot and toothachingly sweet—eased the pain in my throat, sent warmth trickling through my body. The cold receded unevenly, like melting snow. When I’d finished, Luc touched the cup, and with a word it was full again.
“Better?” he asked when I’d drunk it all.
I twisted to set the cup on the nightstand and pulled my knees to my chest. “How did the Darklings breach the Assembly walls? Orla told me they couldn’t.”
“Didn’t need to. Anton held the damn door open, and they walked right in.”
I pictured the table, shattered beyond repair, and the cold crept back. Marguerite had told me once that the Arcs had three sacred places—the Binding Temple, the Allée, and the Assembly—where the magic ran true and strong. All three had been destroyed now. I pressed my face to my knees, feeling weak and helpless all over again.
“We’ll stop them,” he said. “I promise. Most important thing right now is that you’re okay.”
“That the magic is okay,” I corrected.
“One and the same.”
“Not the same. If it was, I could talk to it.”
“You can’t?”
“It’s getting better,” I hedged. “Sometimes it’s feelings. Sometimes pictures. Memories, even.”
“Like what?”
“During the attack, I saw the Allée. I saw the Assembly, too, and the Darklings. Some of it was real time, but some of it was a flashback—like in the Allée, when Anton grabbed me. And the Assembly, when I signed the covenant. And the Darklings ...”
I broke off, shaking again.
“Enough of that,” he said. “Tell me a nice one instead.”
I sifted through memories, images the magic had given me during the last few months. “There’s a weird one ...”
“Don’t think weird is going to help your mood any,” he replied. “Try for nice.”
“This is both.”
A flash of sunset over endless water, and damp sand cool underfoot. Waves roll in, foamy and white. I dig my toes into the sand, feeling it erode as the waves return to the sea. An instant later, it is night, and a fire crackles, throwing shifting shadows on the rocks encircling it, and the smoke forms twisting shapes against the indigo sky. The scent of toasting marshmallows and saltwater fills the air.
“I’ve never been to a beach like that.”
“I have,” Luc said slowly. “Long time ago.”
I considered the idea, felt it fit into place as neatly as a key in a lock. “It gave me your memory.”
“I’m bound to you. You’re bound to the magic. Maybe it overlaps.”
“Maybe.” I pulled back to study him. “Was it a happy memory?”
“Yeah.” He’d gone far away—back to that beach, I assumed—but his hand ran lightly over my shoulder, the motion as gentle and repetitive as the waves. “Happened when I was little. Before Theo died.
Maman
had a hankerin’ to go to the beach, so we did. She gets her way, more often than not,” he said with a fond smile. “So we spent the whole day playing at the water’s edge, chasing the tide, skipping rocks. Ate so many marshmallows I got sick.”
“You had me right up to the marshmallows,” I said.
“Not my finest hour,” he agreed. “But it was a good day. One of my best.”
“Freedom,” I said softly. “That’s what the magic showed me.”
His hand stilled. “Never thought of it that way. Mouse, if you two can communicate ... can you tell it what to do?”
“No. I’m getting better at interpreting what it wants. What it feels. But I’m not in charge. I can’t
do
anything.”
“You’ve done plenty. I am startin’ to wish your part was finished. That this could all play out while you and I sat on the sidelines with some popcorn and watched the show.”
“You don’t believe that’s going to happen.”
He smiled ruefully. “Someday, maybe. But right now, you’re both in danger. And sitting back won’t do the trick. The only thing that will is getting rid of Anton.”
“Killing him,” I said.
I’d killed Evangeline, but it had been an impulse. It hadn’t been a deliberate execution, the sentence for her crimes. It had been as instantaneous and destructive as a lightning strike, and the repercussions had rolled through my life like the resultant claps of thunder. I didn’t regret my decision, but I wasn’t proud, either.
Killing Anton would be premeditated. A preemptive strike. A necessary evil, in order to protect the greater good. All true.
All excuses.
It wouldn’t matter if it were planned or spur of the moment. I wanted Anton dead, and I no longer felt the need to make excuses about it. I wanted him dead, and by my hand. My thirst for revenge hadn’t been slaked with Evangeline’s blood. Maybe it wouldn’t ever be. But until he lay at my feet and begged to live, the same way I had begged Verity to hang on, I wasn’t going to stop.
“I can do that.” Now the cold inside me felt good. Right. “Not a problem.”
Before he could say more, the front door opened. “Mo?” my mother called. I heard her lock the door, hang her coat in the front closet
“Go!” I hissed, shoving Luc off the bed.
“I’m not leaving,” he said, folding his arms.
“Then hide. And take the teacup with you.”
“Your counselor called me. She said you had the flu?” Her voice carried up the stairs.
Luc stood, muttering to himself, and shimmered out of sight.
“Closet,” I whispered.
“She can’t see me.” Neither could I, but I could sense him.
“A guy in my bedroom? Trust me, she’ll spot you.”
The neat rows of school uniforms and church dresses shifted as he stepped inside, then fell still.
“This weather! No wonder you got sick.” Mom headed directly for me, laying a hand across my forehead. “You look peaked, but you don’t feel warm. Can I get you something?”
“Another pillow, maybe? And another blanket?”
Her brow furrowed. “You’re cold?”
“I think it’s the fever,” I said, trying to look pitiful. It was not a stretch.
“If you say so,” she said. “I called your uncle and told him you wouldn’t be in tonight. He said you can make it up as soon as you’re feeling better.”