C
HAPTER
6
W
e came Between in Constance’s room, all cotton candy pink and lemon yellow. It didn’t suit her anymore. Like me, she’d changed—once when Verity died and again, now that the magic was claiming her. The only way I could help was to send Luc out of the room, ease her into an old, clean T-shirt, and tuck her in bed. My entire body ached from the morning’s events—even my bones felt bruised—and I carefully made my way out into the hall.
I hadn’t been in Verity’s home since her funeral. It was eerie, how nothing had moved but everything had changed. The door to Verity’s room was shut, and I touched the cut-glass doorknob as I passed. Normally, the Prairie-style house was light filled and warm, but today the shades were drawn, casting the hallway in chill shadows. It wasn’t right—Verity’s house had always been noisy and vibrant, just like her.
Midway down the stairs, Luc was studying family pictures of Verity, a half smile on his face. When I approached, trying hard not to look at them, he reached out and gave my hand a gentle squeeze.
We started down the stairs. “What do I tell her?” I asked.
“You’re always going on about the truth,” he said. “Try that.”
“Will she remember what happened?”
“Parts, more’n likely. Don’t get her riled.”
“Why?”
“She shouldn’t be able to use the lines without calling on them proper, but I wouldn’t like to see what happens if she gets pissed off.” He shook his head.
“She needs training.” I sank down onto the bottom step and he sprawled next to me, his thigh brushing against mine. “Maybe your dad could talk to Orla. Convince her to change her mind.”
“It’s not that simple. Not for Orla and the rest, anyway.”
Instinct made me go still. “Your dad’s a member of the Quartoren.”
“Not exactly news.”
“He’s got better things to do than bother with a girl who’s not from his House. I get why Orla was there, but why Pascal? It wasn’t because of me. They could have found me whenever they wanted. If this is happening to lots of kids, why was the Quartoren so interested in Constance?”
“Evangeline’s dead, which makes Constance the only living blood relation of a Matriarch. There was a possibility she’d turn out to be a Water Arc. If that had been the case, she’d have been next in line to lead their House.”
“But she’s Air. Not Water.”
“No,” he said, and there was something like sadness in his voice. “Now she’s just the descendent of a traitor. Quartoren’s got no reason to help her, or to let anyone else try.”
“If this happens again, and she doesn’t have training... .” I closed my eyes and saw Constance laid out on the bathroom floor again. “They have to help her. They
have
to.”
“They’re the Quartoren. They don’t have to do anything.” He ran a hand through his hair, the dark locks falling haphazardly around his face. He met my eyes. “But they will. For a price.”
And suddenly, my entire body felt leaden.
This
was the Luc I remembered. Everything was a deal, an exchange, a bargain struck.
“Me.”
“Orla’s not the type to change her mind. But I know these people.” I heard the desperation in his voice. “I’ve spent more’n half my life training to be one of them. They’d never admit it, but they need you, and that means you’ve got leverage.”
Leverage, at least, was a concept I was familiar with. “So I could offer a trade. My help in exchange for someone to take care of Constance.”
“It’s called a Covenant. A contract, enforced with magic. It ain’t something to take lightly.”
“You’re sure they’d agree?”
“Never entirely sure what the Quartoren’ll do, but it’s the best chance you have. Either of you.”
I glanced up the stairs, past the family pictures, trying not to see the resemblance between Verity and Constance.
“I need to think about it.”
“Quartoren won’t wait for long. I’ll talk to them.” He stood and helped me to my feet. “Drop you at your fancy school?”
The idea of going Between again made me shudder, but I didn’t want to look weak in front of Luc. “I need to call her mom. You go ahead.”
“How will you get back?” he asked. When I didn’t answer, he drummed his fingers on the banister. “Cujo.”
“He’ll cover for me.” If he wasn’t too angry. “You’ll tell me what they say?”
“ ’Course.” He took a step toward me, and I backed up. “Month’s a lot longer than I remembered. Missed you.”
I felt my skin heat under his gaze, too flustered to respond.
He smiled again.
“À bientôt,”
he said, and was gone.
While Constance slept, I called her mom at work, then took a deep breath—several, actually—and called Colin.
“Why aren’t you in school?” No hello, I noticed. Not a good sign.
“How did you know?”
“Your friend came out. The hyper one.”
I zipped the hoodie I’d borrowed from Constance. It would hide the bloodstains on my shirt, if you didn’t look too closely. “Lena.”
“She talks a lot.”
“Compared to you, mimes talk a lot.”
He humphed. “She dropped off your bag. Said you’d taken off, figured I might know where.”
Smart thinking on Lena’s part, to let Colin know something was going on without alerting the school. I owed her. Big. Again.
“I
don’t
know where.” His voice was tight, temper reined in. Probably not for long if I didn’t start explaining.
“I’m at Verity’s house. Her little sister ... got sick. I brought her home.” I knew he’d catch the hesitation in my response, but I couldn’t seem to say the words. Once I did, everything would change again, more obstacles between us when there were too many already. I couldn’t stop what was coming, but I wanted to slow it down, even if only for a moment.
He drew a breath, and I imagined him rubbing his forehead, bracing himself. “How?”
“How what?”
“How did you get home?” he asked, the words sharp edged. “Because I didn’t drive you. You didn’t take a bus. Your friend would have known if you’d gotten a ride with another student. Since your wallet’s here, you didn’t take a cab. So I have to wonder, how did you get Verity’s sister home from school on your own?”
I closed my eyes. “Can you pick me up? Please?”
A car door slammed, and I opened my eyes to see Verity’s mom hurrying up the steps. “I have to go.”
“You told me it was done,” he said, so softly I could barely make out the words.
I was about to apologize, but he’d already hung up the phone.
C
HAPTER
7
I
waited a few moments before following Mrs. Grey upstairs. “Mo said you got sick,” she was saying as Constance propped herself up on her elbows, face wan. “Do you think it was something you ate?”
Over her mom’s shoulder, Constance narrowed her eyes at me. Luc was right—she definitely remembered. “Mo said that? I guess she’d know.”
I tried to laugh it off. “I never trust those breakfast burritos from the caf. Feel better,” I added. “I’ll check on you soon.”
Mrs. Grey turned, and I waved her off. “I can let myself out.”
She shot me a look of gratitude, but Constance’s wasn’t nearly so benign.
Growing up, I’d spent as much time at Verity’s house as my own. I knew the way the third stair sighed when you stepped on it, the worn smoothness of the newel under my hand. I knew the path of the afternoon sun through the foyer. Now it highlighted the clutter on the hall table—unopened piles of mail threatening to tip over, a teacup left out so long that all the liquid had evaporated, leaving a rusty stain. I ran my finger over the edge of the table, and it came away furred with dust. Verity’s house had always been messier than mine, more chaotic, more alive. Mine had been neat but not nearly as warm.
This was a different kind of messy. It felt lonely, as if when Verity had died, the other occupants had drifted away as well. I’d tried to watch out for Constance at school, but she’d made it clear she didn’t want me around. At church, the Greys kept to themselves, rarely staying for coffee hour. My mom said Mrs. Grey had quit volunteering with the Altar Guild. They were struggling, even more so since Evangeline had supposedly headed back to New Orleans without a proper good-bye. Sometimes I wished I could tell them the truth, but it would only hurt them more.
Evangeline hadn’t been working alone. I thought about that sometimes, at two
AM
, after another nightmare, when the scratching of a squirrel on the roof or the sudden roar of a bad muffler reminded me of the Darklings. I would lie in my bed and think about the Seraphim, all the victims of their crusade, and the justice I had meted out seemed insufficient. But I always tamped down on the hunger, afraid it could be more dangerous than the magic I’d touched.
Stepping outside, I hugged myself against the brisk November wind. The sky was still vividly blue, but winter was coming. The richly colored leaves would turn muddy and damp, the sun a pale glow in a steely sky. I’d always known what the next day, week, month would bring. Since Verity had died and I’d met Luc, I’d been fighting off vertigo, the awful cartwheeling sensation that nothing would go the way I’d planned, ever again.
With a rumbling sound, Colin’s truck pulled up to the curb, under a large scarlet maple still clinging to most of its leaves. The ancient red Ford was liberally spotted with rust. The most valuable thing in it was the gleaming steel toolbox, bolted to the bed and secured with a padlock the size of my fist. Typical Colin. Keep the outside as anonymous as possible, keep your head down. Hide the important stuff away, like a treasure.
I wondered if that was how he saw me.
In the dappled shade, it was hard to see his features, but it didn’t matter. I knew the expression he’d be wearing, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
I climbed inside, taking in the smell of fresh coffee and sawdust and soap, paying close attention to fastening my seat belt and tucking my skirt around my knees. He watched, taking in my disastrous hair and the bloodstains on my collar. It wasn’t how I wanted him to look at me, cataloguing the damage done. Lately, what I wanted hadn’t concerned Colin overmuch.
“I can still make my last couple of classes,” I said. “But I need to change clothes first.”
He pulled away, mouth grim and eyes flinty, taking side streets to my house. I lifted my hands, about to speak, and fell silent again. We stayed like that, anticipation roiling my stomach, the entire ride home.
He killed the ignition and we sat in the driveway, neither of us making a move to get out of the truck.
I pressed the heel of one hand hard into the scar slashed against my opposite palm, trying to keep from shaking.
“So,” he said finally, tone caustic. “How was your day?”
My spine bowed under the weight of his anger, dark and palpable.
Then I straightened. I hadn’t done anything so terribly wrong. Colin, more than anyone, should understand trying to help someone who was in danger. It was his job, as he liked to remind me, practically his whole reason for being. Just because the danger facing Constance was magic, not mundane, didn’t mean I could ignore it.
“Constance’s powers came through at school. They were out of control.”
“So you stepped in.”
“Should I have let her die? My best friend’s sister?”
Slowly, he eased down the metal tab of my zipper, revealing the ruined blouse underneath. I watched, immobile.
“That’s a lot of blood,” he said.
I closed my hand over his. “I’m fine.”
He turned his hand palm-up, lacing our fingers together. It felt solid and safe. “Where did you go?”
“With Luc.” Colin knew enough of Luc’s powers to know that we could have gone anywhere on the globe. “He sent me out of the room until it was over.”
Instead of shutting down again, like I expected, the tension in his jaw eased a little. “So he’s not a complete dumb-ass.”
“Today, anyway.”
He nodded and leaned back. “Verity’s sister is all right?”
“She’s ... resting. She’ll need help learning to use her powers.”
“That’s not your job, is it?”
“Nope. No experience.”
“Good.” He touched our joined hands to his lips. “They’ll leave you alone now?”
The words caught in my throat. “Not exactly.”
His expression hardened. “You’re a mess,” he said, reaching for the door. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I followed him into the house, waiting while he deactivated the alarm. “Colin ...”
“You might as well burn that shirt,” he said, filling two glasses with water from the tap and handing one to me.
I looked down. “You think?”
He drained half the glass. “Your mom might get suspicious, come laundry day.”
I took a sip, suddenly aware of how dry my mouth was. “My mom’s capacity for willful ignorance is impressive. You should know that by now.”
“Good point.”
He stood outside my room while I changed into a fresh uniform—a perfect gentleman, if perfect gentlemen worked for the Mob and carried a gun or two.
“So,” he called through the closed door, a strange note in his voice, “Luc’s dragging you back in.”
“He’s not dragging me,” I said, peeling off my disgusting top and crumpling it up. It was cowardly, but talking to him like this, when I couldn’t see the worry and frustration on his face, was easier. “Something is wrong with the magic. The Quartoren think it has to do with what I did. They think I changed things somehow.”
“So? You saved their asses. They should be thanking you, not blaming you.”
I pulled on a fresh shirt, trying to find the right words, ones that would explain without setting off too many alarms. “They’re not blaming me, exactly. But they need to figure it out. Constance shouldn’t have been in danger today.”
“Not your problem.”
“What if it is? What if I damaged the magic somehow, and that’s why Constance got hurt? I can’t walk away from that.”
“You’ve got plenty on your plate right now,” he said, exasperation in his voice. “The magic will have to wait.”
I fastened the itchy plaid skirt and opened the door. “Better?”
He gave me a slow, appraising look, and I curled my toes into the carpet. Suddenly, I was very aware that Colin was, for only the second time ever, standing in the doorway of my bedroom. “Better,” he agreed.
“You could come in, you know.”
He leaned against the doorway, mouth quirking up on one side.
“I am in.”
“Not really.” I could feel the blush rising along my neck, up to my cheeks, but I pressed on. “You’re ...” I wobbled my hand. “Teetering. On the edge.”
“And you think I should, what? Jump?” His eyes, obsidian dark, held mine.
“Would it be so awful?”
“No,” he said after a long, considering moment. “Dangerous, though.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yeah, I get that.” His voice was easy, but there was nothing relaxed in the way he was looking at me. “There’s too much at stake.”
“This is about Billy?” The ache inside me was dull and painful, like a stone pressing on my chest. Nothing else made sense. My uncle had something on him. Some secret, some information. Leverage, to keep Colin loyal. He’d strayed a bit—
hands in my hair, mouth on my neck, my fingers tracing the scars crisscrossing his back—
but in the end, Billy still had something on him. I couldn’t compete.
Colin switched his gaze to the carpet. “I told you. Your uncle’s been good to me.”
“How?”
“I’m not having this discussion.”
“Why not? Why do you get to know everything about me—things I don’t want to tell you, private things, embarrassing things—and I get to know nothing about you. Why is that?”
“There’s a difference between knowing someone and knowing about them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lots of people know about you.” He pushed off the wall. His steps into the room were slow and measured, punctuating his words. “Your dad’s in prison. Your uncle’s a mobster. You’re a straight-A student at a school your mom can’t afford. You’re leaving for New York as soon as you can. Your best friend was murdered a few months ago and nobody knows why. You’re a very nice, quiet girl, but since the summer, you haven’t been quite right.” He cocked his head, so close I could touch him if I was brave enough. “You keep blowing off your bodyguard.”
“That’s not ...”
“You? No, it isn’t. Not even close. Those people, they don’t know how angry you are at your family. They have no clue how far you’ve gone to avenge Verity or what it’s done to you.”
I stared out the window as he kept going.
“They don’t know how you take your coffee, or that you always fall asleep halfway through your Spanish homework, or the way you look when magic is burning through you. They don’t know,” he said, fitting his hand around my hip and drawing me in, “how good you smell, like rain and apples.”
His fingers brushed along my side, and I looked up into his face as he leaned over me. “I know you, Mo. And you know me. My past, who I was before ... you don’t need that. Not really.”
But I did. How else could I break Billy’s hold on Colin?
He kissed me, his mouth light and sweet. But I was tired of sweet. It had been a hell of a day, and it wasn’t even half over, so I kissed him back, mouth open, pouring out all the frustration and want that had been building up in me since the Torrent.
He made a noise in the back of his throat like a growl, said my name through the kiss, and I thought for one crashingly awful moment he was going to pull away, berate me for pushing when he’d just told me not to.
And then his hand cupped the back of my head, the other one splaying wide against my back, and we stumbled toward the bed.
“We’re not doing this,” he murmured, his mouth drifting over my cheekbone, warm against my ear. The back of my knees hit the edge of the mattress and I fell onto the bed, pulling him with me.
“Sure.” The weight of him was so lovely, and I wrapped one leg around his hip, as if that could stop his escape. He tasted like almonds, clean and warm. Finally, I thought. He’d wasted so much time being noble when this was obviously what was supposed to happen.
I slid a hand under his shirt, the muscles of his back like granite, the scars barely perceptible, one of those awful parts of his life he refused to share. He froze in the middle of brushing kisses along my temple, his fingers coaxing open the buttons of my shirt.
“We’re not doing this,” he repeated, voice ragged, eyes focused on the line of my bra.
“Not to argue, but ...”
He propped himself up on one elbow. “Jesus,” he said under his breath. “You’re so freaking beautiful.” His finger traced along the curve where lace met skin, and I closed my eyes at the sensation, losing my breath. He had the nicest hands, rough from his woodworking projects but still gentle.
And then he pulled back, leaving me cold and lonely on the narrow bed. “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t say something like that and then stop.”
He kissed me again, and I arched up, wanting something I couldn’t quite name but knew I needed. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth turned down, he rolled away.
“I’m not going to be that guy,” he said.
“What guy?” I tried to wriggle closer, but he put out a hand to stop me.