C
HAPTER
27
I
f I’d learned anything about Luc from our time together, it was that his silence was the exact opposite of golden. Silence meant red alert. Silence meant something was about to go wrong.
So when we came Between at the Assembly, I was already edgy. He’d said as little as possible since the moment I stepped out of the house—just held out his hand and pulled me through. As I found my feet and let the room settle around me, I understood.
The white anteroom was destroyed, the marble floor shattered, the massive chandelier overhead swinging from only one chain. The scent of beeswax was gone, replaced by something rancid and sour, and I clapped my hand over my nose and mouth to block the smell. The enormous iron doors had long, jagged tears in the metal; one was partly wrenched off the hinges, revealing further destruction within.
Luc put out a hand to support me, but I shook him off and moved into the Assembly itself. The rows of seats had been tossed around the room. The torches ripped out of the walls, that same horrible odor of death, fetid and close, filling the room.
Around me, various Arcs were moving things back into place, the air alive with magic, but I couldn’t escape the sorrow that seeped into my bones. I picked my way across the cracked and uneven floor to where the Quartoren stood directing Arcs in the cleanup effort. Orla’s pale, wrinkled skin was nearly translucent with fatigue. She leaned heavily on her cane—I’d always assumed she carried it for effect, but today it seemed like the only thing keeping her upright. Next to her, Pascal was covered in dust and blood. His glasses tilted to one side, but he didn’t seem to notice. And Dominic directed everything with such clipped, precise movements I knew it was masking a far deeper, more destructive fury. I’d seen Luc do the same, before—when he’d destroyed the Water Tower, when Anton had grabbed me at the Allée. It was the look of someone who was holding on to control by a thread so fine it was nearly invisible. Someone who was about to snap.
On the stage, Marguerite knelt next to the broken remains of the black table. The symbols inscribed in the wood no longer glowed with light—they were motionless, drained of life. The magic mourned, a swell of grief and rage and shock that almost cut off my air.
Dazed, I moved past the Quartoren to join Marguerite, whose cheeks were wet, her artfully coiled hair hanging limply around her face.
“Were you here when it happened?” I asked, sitting beside her.
“Mo!” She reached for my hand. “Should you be up and about?”
“I’m okay. The magic’s okay. So sad.” I reached out, touching the ebonized wood in a way I’d never been able to before. It was smooth and ordinary now, but I avoided the symbols out of habit.
“I was here at the start. Dominic sent me away once he realized what was happening.”
I squeezed her hand. “I’m glad. It must have been terrible.”
“I don’t know what we’ll do. The table’s gone. The Allée ... we’d only just finished rebuilding it. How do we come back from this, Mo? All the old ways, everything we’ve relied on. It’s all gone. What will he take from us next?”
The magic. But I didn’t say it. She knew as well as I did—better, even—what Anton’s next target would be.
“I didn’t foresee this,” she murmured, stroking the cracked table like she could fix it. “It’s unnatural. It’s as much a violation of who we are as Verity’s death.”
“Maybe that’s why you didn’t see it,” I said. “Because it wasn’t supposed to happen. Or maybe it’s like you told Luc, and you only see the end result, not the process.”
“Perhaps.” But she didn’t sound convinced. “How is he?”
I glanced over to where he was talking to Dominic, eyebrows lowered, expression fierce. You didn’t need to hear their conversation to know it wasn’t a happy one. “Worried. Mad.”
“You’ve told him.”
“About the magic? He guessed.”
“My clever boy.” She sighed. “Do you know what you’ll do?”
She wasn’t just talking about the Seraphim, or the magic, and I answered her in kind. “We’re figuring it out.”
“So many paths,” she said, fingers drifting over the broken wood. “But they’re closing. So little time left. And the cost. You won’t understand the price until it’s too late.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea of what it’s cost me,” I said sharply, thinking of Colin’s face this morning. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
Marguerite didn’t answer. When I looked more closely, her irises were pale and milky. Her words hadn’t been idle conversation, but prophecy.
I’d had enough foretelling to last me a lifetime. Now I wanted answers. “What’s the cost, Marguerite? Tell me the price. Tell me how to stop it.”
“It will not be stopped. Only changed. You cannot save them all.”
I froze. “Who? Who do I need to save?”
“You can’t,” she said, her hands fumbling for mine. “Not all of them. You must listen.”
“I
am
. Please,” I begged. “Tell me who it is. Tell me how to save them.”
“Listen. Then speak.” She slumped over as Luc bounded up the stairs toward me and we eased her to the ground. Her bones felt fragile, hollow like a bird’s.
“I don’t understand,” I said, panic mounting at my helplessness. “Marguerite. Please. I don’t understand.”
Luc took her hands in his, murmuring softly in French, only moving aside to let Dominic through. Marguerite stirred, opening her eyes. “I’m fine, you silly man. Just overset. It’s been a hard day.”
“I’ll take you home,” Dominic replied, sparing me a single questioning glance before taking her Between.
“What did she say?” demanded Orla.
I hesitated. If it had been Luc alone, I would have told him everything. But sharing with the Quartoren didn’t seem like the best idea. What if Marguerite’s words were the final clue, and Pascal realized the truth about the magic? What if one of them was the person she said I couldn’t save? She’d told me to speak, but I wasn’t ready to tell them.
“Nothing,” I said. “We were talking about the attack, and the Seraphim. She got really upset. That’s all.”
Clearly, they didn’t believe me. I gave them my blandest, most insincere smile, nothing else, and they finally drifted away to supervise the rebuilding, looking over their shoulders with obvious suspicion.
Luc sat down at the edge of the stage, his shoulders sagging.
“She’ll be okay,” I said, joining him. “It
was
a prophecy.”
“Figured as much. It’s a strange talent. Unpredictable.”
“What do you think triggered this one?” Last time, it had been a surge of magic that brought on her trance. But that wasn’t the case today.
“You, maybe? The attack? Touching the table?” He made a noise of frustration and studied the ruined Assembly. “Hell, I don’t know. Pascal’s the scientist, and you’re keepin’ him in the dark. You going to do the same to me?”
I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, pulling inward like a turtle in its shell. As if by holding my secrets close, I could forestall disaster. But I knew better, so I let go—my arms falling to my sides, my legs dangling over the edge of the stage. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the broken table, the jagged ends of the wood, the lifeless symbols, the language of the magic destroyed.
“She said I couldn’t save them all.”
“Who’s them?”
“I don’t know. She said a bunch of stuff, Luc. She was talking about paths closing, and how much my choices would cost. She said I can change things but not stop them. That I should listen, that I should speak.” I lifted a shoulder, my words thickening with frustration. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s one or the other, not both.”
“Listen to who?”
“Her, I guess.” I rested my head on his arm, not sure if I was seeking comfort or giving it.
He let out a laugh—reluctant, but still a laugh, so I counted it as a victory. “
Maman
needs to pick her audience better. You don’t listen to a thing anyone says. I’ll admit you’re turning out a bit on the mouthy side, though.”
I smacked him on the leg, and he laughed again, twining his hand with mine before turning serious. “Maybe she was warning you not to go after Anton.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t listen.”
Dominic reappeared in the anteroom and strode onto the stage, Orla and Pascal trailing him. Luc and I stood, hands still joined.
“She doesn’t remember a word,” Dominic said. “Said it wasn’t a prophecy, just exhaustion.”
“Unusual,” Pascal mused. “Do you believe her?”
“You suggesting my wife is lying?”
The air in the Assembly had been clearing gradually, the Darkling stench swept away by the fresh gusts of air Orla and her people had created. Now it filled with suspicion and threat, as choking as when I’d first walked in.
“I’m merely pointing out that the situation is wildly different from anything we’ve dealt with before,” Pascal replied after a long pause.
I could feel his gaze on me, probing, trying to find out the truth. I needed to divert his attention. “Why did you want to see me?”
“We need to discuss strategy,” Orla said. “You and Anton are in competition for the spot on the Quartoren. We need to figure out a way to ensure you’re the next Matriarch.”
“Me as Matriarch is a ridiculous idea, and everyone is going to have proof of that as soon as I try to cast a spell. Why would anyone even consider it?”
“The alternative is Anton.”
Not if I could help it. “There were nearly fifty names on that list. They could choose someone completely different.”
“Mouse,” said Luc. “Think about it. In your government, you elect the person you think will make you strong, right? Whatever the office, you want the person powerful enough to make things happen for you.”
“I live in Chicago,” I pointed out. “This is not really the place you want to hold up as a model of politics at its finest.”
“Arcs are no different,” Dominic said. “The Water Arcs want someone who will come on the Quartoren and keep them strong—they’ve been at a disadvantage since Evangeline died, and it’s clear things are changing. They want to make sure their next leader can make things happen. You’re the Vessel. You stopped the Torrent. Bound yourself to the magic. They know you’ve got power, whether it’s magic or not. As for Anton ... they’ve seen what he can do. Like it or not, you two are the front-runners.”
“What if Anton wasn’t in the race at all?”
Orla sighed deeply, as if the answer was painful. “Then they’d choose you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We need to get rid of Anton.”
“We?” asked Dominic, condescendingly. “You have a plan? By all means, let’s hear it.”
I planted my feet on the crumbling stage and crossed my arms. “I take out Anton.”
Beside me, Luc shook his head. Pascal looked doubtful, Orla repulsed—but Dominic looked intrigued, and he was the one I needed to convince. The others would fall in line.
“You know I’m right. He’ll come after me at the Succession, because it’s where you can’t guard me. And he thinks I’m weak, so he won’t be expecting any resistance.”
“It’s a sacrilege,” Orla said. “To defile a Succession ...”
“He’s done it plenty of times before,” I said. “I’m the best shot you have at stopping him.”
Pascal cleared his throat. “What if you fail? And he kills you?”
“He can’t kill me if he wants the Ascendency. He can put me in a coma, or Riven me until I have the IQ of a garden slug. But I’m not going to sit around and wait for it. At least this way, I’ve got a chance.”
“It’s fine for you to say you’re willing,” Dominic countered. “But in the moment, can you bring yourself to do it? You had an opportunity to slit the man’s throat and you couldn’t do it. Why would this time be different?”
“
I’m
different,” I said evenly. “It won’t be a problem this time.”
He inclined his head. A look passed between the three of them, an unspoken communication. Finally Dominic said, “Do it.”
“You can’t—” Luc began.
Dominic loomed over him. “I can do whatever I damn well please. You ain’t the Patriarch yet—I am, and that means my word is law. If this is what we need to do to stop the Seraphim, so be it.” And then, in a voice so low that only Luc and I heard it, he said, “Don’t be stupid. You need to be thinkin’ of what’s best for your people now. Remember where your loyalties lie.”
I’d known Dominic would have an angle—and that he’d try to use Luc. But it couldn’t change my plans for Anton. Dealing with the Quartoren would have to wait.
Around us, people worked to restore the room—mending what they could, sending the rest into the vast emptiness of Between—but no one had touched the table. It lay in pieces on the other side of the stage, and while Dominic stared Luc down, Orla and Pascal straining to hear what was said, I walked over to it and knelt, just as Marguerite had done.