Larkstorm (19 page)

“And that would be…”

Eloise rolls onto her stomach. Her skirt barely covers her as she swings her legs back in forth in the air. “There’s a part of his lightness embedded in you. That’s how he can calm you so easily.”

Oh.” Warmth spreads through me. That sounds nice
—
I carry a piece of Beck around with me all the time. I like that. It doesn’t seem like a curse at all.

The happiness doesn’t last long, maybe three seconds, before the full meaning sinks in. “Oh! So that means…”

“You got it
—
he’s got a bit of your darkness wedged in him. Why do you think everyone’s panicked? If he can influence you, what can you do to him?”

My spine stiffens. “Nothing! I wouldn’t!”

“Maybe not now. But later. When will you be eighteen anyway?”

“October
seventh.”

“Then that’s the big day. So far, Beck seems to be the stronger of you. He’s masked you for a long time and he’s good at it. But you’re getting stronger. Bethina doesn’t think Beck’s permanently stuck in you, anyway. She thinks you’re going to rip it out or something when you mature. Honestly, no one knows. ”

She drops another white flower to the ground and a butterfly flits to it. Eloise gently lifts the butterfly and blows on it. It turns into a small, red apple. She tosses it to me and I catch it. I hope she isn’t expecting me to eat the used-to-be-a-butterfly.

“Eloise, what if I don’t tear it out? What will happen?” I set the apple next to my leg.

“That’s where we run into problems. The best I understand, it’s like Caitlyn and Charles, except you two aren’t twins.” She grabs the apple and takes a bite out of it, oblivious to the shocked look on my face.

“Twins?” I process the word, remembering what Bethina told me, and blanch. “They were siblings
—
Beck and I are
related
?”

Her eyes light up in surprise. “You mean you don’t know? What do they teach you at your fancy school?”

“Apparently not accurate history.” My mind’s spinning. “Are you sure they were twins? Brother and sister?” The story Bethina told me my first day at Summer Hill was missing an important part.

“Positive. I didn’t fail school, you know.” Eloise acts insulted. “You’re distantly related, five generations back or something. I’m not sure it even counts as being related.”

Caitlyn and Charles were brother and sister. The Dark and the Light. But they were best friends, so what happened? Why do the two sides of our family hate each other?

“Anyway,” Eloise continues. “The Gathering is convinced your magic will destroy Beck if you’re near him, even without the curse.”

I’m not sure why it matters
—
the Channings and Greenes are cursed to fight to the death. What’s a little shared magic?

I start to ask, but Eloise interrupts me. “If you’re permanently lodged inside him, you’ll either kill him or turn him Dark, too. You won’t even have to fight.” She shudders.

“You’ll destroy him just like Caitlyn did to Charles.”

23

I run across the lawn, my head down. There are no tears
—
only a fog of confusion. I’m not paying attention, but my feet find the porch stairs and the front door slams behind me.

If I don’t kill Beck because of the curse, then my stupid darkness will do it for me. No matter what I do. No matter how much magic I learn. I can’t fix this.

What kind of monster am I?

I scream, calling out Bethina and Mrs. Channing’s names. I need someone to explain this to me.

The hard surfaces of the entryway amplify my shouts and they echo around me.

Eloise is here. She paces back and forth, distraught, talking to me. “Lark, I thought you knew. I’m sorry.”

“You thought I knew? What? That I can’t be fixed?” I point to myself. “Why do you think I’m doing all this?” My hands sweep around my head, as if to scoop up the room. “Because learning how to control myself was supposed to keep Beck safe!”

Eloise cowers to the doorway but doesn’t leave me. My hands vibrate and I clench them into balls as I storm into the library hoping to find someone
—
Mr. and Mrs. Channing or Bethina
—
to explain everything to me. Not just bits and pieces, but the entire mess.

The room’s empty. “Damn it. Where are they?”

“Lark?” Eloise says gently.

“What?” I snap.

“Is there anything I can do for you? I want to help.” From the way she looks at me, I believe her.

My mind spins. “Who cursed us? Why?”

“Caitlyn.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. None of this makes sense. Caitlyn cursed her brother?

Eloise crosses the room and stops before a wall of books. She runs her hand down a row, plucks an oversized, leather-bound one from the shelf and says, “Why don’t we start here?”

She holds the book out so that it faces me and I read the title
The History of Witchcraft
:T
he Salem Witch Trials Through the Founding of the Five Great Societies
. I take it and place it on the desk. The outside feels brittle and delicate, and prone to disintegrating at any moment. In my life, I’ve never touched an antique book
—
most of my reading and research is done with my wristlet or regular book. I’m not exactly sure how to operate this relic.

“Charles Channing,” I say to the pile of paper. “I want to know how he died.”
 
 
 
 
 
 

Eloise raises her eyebrows and opens to the back. “This is the index. You look up terms here and it will tell you the page number. It doesn’t speak to you and you can’t speak to it.”

She places her finger on Charles’ name. Page 178. I pace next to the desk as Eloise flips the pages to the right one.

“Here,” she says.

I stop pacing and run my hand down the delicate paper.

Charles Channing
and his twin sister Caitlyn founded the Western society. While Caitlyn is generally credited as the first leader of the State, it was Charles who worked tirelessly behind the scenes to secure the Western Society’s borders and acted as Caitlyn’s most trusted advisor.

Charles died at age 31. His health failed rapidly during the last years of his life. What role, if any, his twin
sister Caitlyn played is unknown. But the circumstances of his death are eerily similar to those of Miles Channing, his father, who was bound to the last Dark witch of the Greene family, Lucy. Many suspect, over the course of their lives, Caitlyn and Charles drew repeatedly on each other’s powers, resulting in Caitlyn’s darkness slowly leaching all light from Charles and resulting in his death.

See
Caitlyn Greene
, page 236

Thirty-one. That would give me thirteen years to figure this out. More careful page turning until I get to Caitlyn’s page. I gloss over the beginning information until my eyes land on:

At Charles’s urging, Caitlyn assumed her mother’s maiden name, Greene, as a symbol of unity between the Light and Dark witches. This allowed the Channing twins to pass themselves off as close friends to the non-witch population rather than siblings
—
a necessity for both to be elected to the newly formed Society council without raising suspicion amongst humans as to why one family remained virtually unharmed by the Long Winter. Subsequently, all Caitlyn’s female descendants have retained the last name Greene, even after binding.

Huh. I’d never given it much thought before. I’d assumed we kept the name Greene so that people would know we were descended from a Founder.

I skim to the middle.

Witches, plagued by the genetic inability to produce more than two offspring, or mate successfully with humans, saw our numbers diminish after the Long Winter. To prevent our extinction, Caitlyn implemented the mating system which she presented to humans as a way to curb overpopulation and preserve limited natural resources. In actuality, Caitlyn’s purpose was to ensure the survival of the witch population by creating strong magic lines and limiting human breeding.

Witches can only produce two children? That’s why the State has child limits? I read the words again and my stomach drops as I begin to understand. If the endless parade of the State-identified Sensitives on the wall screen are merely humans, and they’re forbidden from reproducing, then the State
—
or rather, the Dark witches who control State
—
are actively decreasing the number of humans.

It’s a slow, generations-long genocide. And my mother oversees it. I gasp and throw my hand over my mouth. No wonder the Light witches hate her
—
she probably wants to do the same to them.

“What is it?” Eloise asks. She stands at my side reading along with me.

I shake my head. If she doesn’t know, I’m not going to say anything. I don’t need her to hate me too. “Nothing. It’s just surprising.”

I run my finger along the paper. Its dry surface scratches my skin. At the end of the section I read:

Shortly after Charles’s passing, Caitlyn, devastated, withdrew from society. Amid speculation put forward by the Channing branch of the family that she was responsible for her brother’s death, Caitlyn grew increasingly unstable. The result was her curse on the two sides of the Channing-Greene family
—
she wanted her accusers to suffer as she did.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
See
Channing Family
, page 54

Caitlyn cursed us? Fury builds in my chest. First she tries to save the witch population by keeping humans in check and then she curses her own family to kill each other? How could she be so selfish and shortsighted? Didn’t she care about ruining her descendants’ lives?

I flip back and study Charles’s picture, taken not too long after the founding of the State. He grins back at me, his eyes hinting at mischievousness. He was so full of life and yet, just a few years later, he was dead.

I rub my hand over my forehead. Maybe this is all a mistake
—
Beck and I aren’t twins, after all.

But Miles and Lucy, my great-great-whatever grandparents, weren’t either, and he still ended up dead.

A swell rolls under my feet and knocks me forward into the desk. I hear Eloise shriek, and then she’s down on the ground beside me.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

“Did you do that?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” And I don’t. I haven’t any idea of what I can do.

The walls vibrate and the sconce nearest us crashes to the floor along with pieces of plaster.

From outside, an ear-piercing wail blares through the air. It reminds me of the earthquake sirens at school.

“What is that?” I yell over the noise.

Eloise’s eyes widen. Confusion, then fear, and finally understanding moves across her face. She jumps to her feet. “Lark, c’mon. I need to get you somewhere safe.”

She pulls me out of the room and down the hallway. The air around us crawls along my arms.

“What’s happening?” I shout over the wail of the sirens.

“It’s the alarm. We’re under attack.” Eloise shoves me into the parlor. “This is the safest place I can think of.” She doesn’t sound confident and her eyes race across the room to the far window.

The paintings of Beck’s family have fallen off the wall and lie scattered about. Broken bottles and their spilt insides litter the area around the wet bar. But the scene is nothing compared to that on the lawn.

Panic and terror mix into a blur of confusion as Light witches spin in circles, like they’re unsure where to cast their spells. They never take their eyes off the dome
—
even when the air shudders and the ground pitches beneath them.

But it’s the vibrations of the spells and counter-spells that frighten me the most. They produce a roar unlike anything I’ve heard. It’s like a hundred trains raced through a tunnel, and the air forced out the other end of it was released into our sanctuary.

Eloise runs to the window, throws it open and sticks her head out. “There,” she yells at me. “That’s the weak spot I patched this morning. If they don’t notice it, we should be okay.” She turns to me. Uncertainty shadows her face as the dome dips and caves.

“Lark, listen to me.” Eloise paces in front of the window. “They wouldn’t sound the alarm if it wasn’t necessary. The Dark witches are trying to break through the dome.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Is it my Mother?”

Eloise shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know. But she can’t be happy about you being here.” She glances at the chaos outside. “I have to help them.
You
have to stay here, out of sight. Don’t move.”

I nod. “Go.”

Without a glance back, she runs for the door.

I assume her place at the window. Witches cover the lawn, each one shaking and quivering as their magic tries to hold the bowing dome.

I should be out there helping. The witches on the lawn are ready to fight. And if Eloise is right and Mother isn’t happy about me being here, then they’re attacking because of me. And what am I doing? Hiding in the house, unable to help. More of a problem than a solution.

I can’t fight. I can’t help. I’m useless.

The floor rocks like a boat at sea. My fingers reach for something, anything, to keep my balance.

Rough hands grab me and slam my back into the wall. The window shatters and sprays glass around me. I choke, unable to draw air into my lungs.

“Look what I found. A Dark witch on the loose.” Eamon’s face is inches from mine. His hot breath fans across my face. “I bet you want to be out there, helping them destroy us.” Two strong hands circle my wrists and yank them over my head, pinning me against the wall and his hipbone digs into my side as he presses against me.

I turn my head from him. If I could move my leg, I’d knee him in the groin.

Eamon’s lips graze my ear. “I don’t care what Bethina and Beck say,
Alouette
. You’re evil. Just like the rest of them.”

“Stop calling me that,” I order. My voice is strong and confident. I am not afraid of Eamon
—
or his threats. Not this time. “My name is Lark.”

His mouth is millimeters from mine and I can feel the movement of his lips as he sings:
Alouette, gentille Alouette. Alouette je te plumerai. Je te plumerai la tete
.

On the last word, he steps back and slams me into the wall again. My head whips forward and lands with a dull thud against the wall. Stars dance in my eyes.

“What do you think, little Lark? Shall I pluck your head? Or
le cou
?” His fingers trail down my neck and linger in the hollow, just above the pendant of my necklace. “Or perhaps
le dos
?” He wraps an arm around me and jams his hand against my back.

How dare he touch me? I’ve done nothing. Energy tingles along my arms, rushing toward my heart.

“Get your hands off me.” I cough. Pain shoots through my ribs and I wince.

“What? You gonna hurt me?” Eamon sneers. “You can’t. I’ve seen you in training.” His hands grip my shoulders harder. Sharp fingernails dig through my thin shirt
—
I’m sure he’s drawn blood.