The Art of Wishing (24 page)

Xavier laughed. “I swear, I will never understand why everyone thinks teenaged girls are so innocent. This one’s even worse than Simon. And that’s saying something.”

Simon held his palms up defensively. He looked scared out of his mind. “Whoa, man, what are you—”

“Mr. Lee,” Xavier interrupted smoothly, “please wish for this room to be secure.”

Simon frowned. “But you said the first two wishes could be whatever I wanted.”

“And now I’m saying something different,” said Xavier sweetly. “We have at least four open doors here. Make the wish.”

“But—”

All at once, the pressure disappeared from my neck, and I stumbled back, gasping.

A pair of sturdy arms caught me. Oliver. But before I could catch my breath long enough to ask him what the hell we were supposed to do now, I looked down and saw a familiar blade glinting against Simon’s clavicle. I barely caught a glimpse of Shen before he shimmered back into Xavier, holding the switchblade steady the whole time.

“How’d you,” sputtered Simon, backing away. His shins hit one of the seats in the front row, and his eyes widened. “Dude, okay, fine, whatever you want. Just put the knife down, okay?”

Xavier lowered the blade by an inch, if that, and Simon dug his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a small, dull coin. Xavier’s vessel. It was
right there
. Only Oliver’s hand on my arm kept me from lunging for it.

“I wish for this room to be—what’d you say?—to be secure.” Simon scrunched his face up as he looked at Xavier. “But why—”

“Hush,” said Xavier, and held up his hands.

Everything, from my heart right down to the dust motes dancing in the work lights, seemed to go still. I heard a door slam. Then another. Xavier nodded. “As it should be. Nobody leaves this theater until I do.”

“But you said—”

“I said
hush,
” snarled Xavier, pressing the switchblade to Simon’s throat again. Simon whimpered: a sound I’d never have expected to hear from him.

I felt Oliver move behind me, and within a split second he appeared behind Xavier, took him by the shoulders, and pulled. Xavier stumbled, but recovered quickly. Too quickly for Oliver. The blade flashed, and then embedded itself in Oliver’s shoulder, just below the bone. Oliver cried out—and Xavier took hold of the handle and shoved it deeper.

And all I could do was stand there.

I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. I just stood there, useless, on numb legs that were growing increasingly unsteady, and watched as Oliver squeezed his eyes shut. As blood began to stain his shirt. As Xavier pulled the blade out, and Oliver hunched over in silent pain. This time, it wasn’t an illusion.

Xavier rested a hand almost casually on the back of Oliver’s neck, and turned an amiable smile up toward me. “Now, Miss McKenna,” he said in a chillingly reasonable tone, “let’s chat, shall we?”

“Oliver,” I said hoarsely.

I still couldn’t move, but I was infinitely relieved when he raised his head and met my gaze. His eyes were clouded with pain, but he managed a smile. “I’m okay,” he said. “Shapeshifter, remember? I’m already good as new. See?”

But all I saw was the blood glistening on the front of his shirt, and the paleness of his face, and why wasn’t he moving? Why didn’t he just disappear, and why was his shirt still bloody? Had it really cost him that much to heal himself?

Without warning, Xavier brought the blade down again, slicing it across Oliver’s back. My hands flew to cover my mouth, and Oliver made a horrible, almost inhuman noise. He sank down to one knee. Xavier chuckled, watching. And then he turned his attention back toward me.

He took one step toward the stage. Two. Three. I still couldn’t make myself move.

And then came Simon’s voice, cutting through the fear and the smell of blood and Xavier’s horrible smile. “I wish for—uh, wait, um—okay, Shen, or whoever you are, I wish you couldn’t hurt anyone who’s on that stage!”

Xavier stopped dead in his tracks, his expression growing murderous. But he couldn’t undo the wish that Simon had just made, and he knew it. He lifted his hands again, and lowered them, and just like that, I was safe.

For now.

“Simon,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “You have one wish left, right? Wish for him to stop chasing us. Do it. Now.”

Simon was already edging toward the stage, but Xavier was at his throat again before he could get very far. “Mr. Lee,” he said, just loudly enough for me to hear. “If you move from this spot, or if you utter one more word without my permission, I will end you right here, right now.”

“Come on, Simon,” I pleaded. “Make the wish. Or throw me the coin, and I’ll do it.
Please
.”

The blade dug into his skin, and I saw him tense up. He looked from me to Xavier, and back again. Slowly, he shook his head, mouthing the word
sorry
.

But while Xavier had been busy threatening Simon, he’d failed to see Oliver beside him, screwing his face up in concentration, drawing in breath after deep breath, until finally he shut his eyes and disappeared. He reappeared beside me, stumbling but safe, and I caught him. Unable to support his weight, I lowered him to the floor, where he sat pale and panting, his head in his hands.

Dark red soaked both his hoodie and the T-shirt underneath. On his back, just below his neck, a large pool of it had seeped through both layers and trickled downward. I pressed my fingers tentatively against the bloody spot on his back, but the skin beneath felt whole, and he didn’t flinch. “You’re okay,” I whispered to him, kissing his cheek and his hair and his lips. “You’re gonna be fine.”

But exhaustion was written all over his face. How much magic had he used to heal himself from the injuries that Xavier had inflicted? And then the jump to the stage—even I could see the effort that had taken.

I brushed a lock of hair off his forehead, and he opened his eyes. They were surprisingly bright. “I’m not fine,” he said softly, like the admission pained him. “I can’t . . .”

“You can’t what?” I asked, touching a hand to his cheek.

“Everything,” he said, screwing his eyes shut again. “All of this. I can’t live like this anymore, Margo. I can’t.”

It had been painful to watch Oliver shrug off Xavier’s attempts on his life like they were no big deal—but that was nothing compared to seeing his calm façade crumble before my eyes. There was nothing I could say. I just hugged him tighter.

“You don’t have to, Ciarán,” said Xavier, just past the edge of the stage. His voice was gentler than I’d ever heard it. “I’m here to help you. You can be free of all this. Our magic is calling us home. Our true
magic, not these games of master-and-slave. You would never have to be bound to anyone again.”

“True magic,” echoed Oliver derisively, still leaning into me.

I narrowed my eyes at Xavier. “And what’s in it for you? Kill everyone else so you can be the last one standing?”

“No, that’s not it,” said Oliver, before Xavier could reply. “He doesn’t want to be the last. He wants to die, too. Don’t you, Niall.” They regarded each other keenly, but Xavier made no move to deny it.

“You used to love this life,” Oliver said wistfully. “You told me so, back when we first met. What happened to you, when you were gone all those years?”

Something shifted in Xavier’s face. “The First Battle of Manassas,” he said shortly. “Up here you’d call it Bull Run. A major victory for the South. That was my doing.”

“Your doing,” Oliver said faintly. “What do you mean?”

Xavier smiled mirthlessly. “Never been bound to a soldier, have you, Ciarán? Well, I was. First wish: to get out of that war alive. Second wish: a victory for his brothers-in-arms. He kept hold of my vessel through the entire battle. I couldn’t leave his side. Do you know how many times a genie can heal himself after being pierced with bullets?” He paused, looking from Oliver to me and back again. “As many as his master desires.”

Oliver tensed, and my hand moved to rest again on his bloodstained shirt.

“He took another three years to make his final wish,” Xavier continued, eyes fixed on Oliver. “When it was over, I tried to find you again, hoping you’d managed to stay clear of the war. And you had. But you were caught in the middle of a smaller war, a whole ocean away. I was there when your master made his third wish. I watched you kill that boy with your bare hands, on his orders. The look on your face . . .”

He shook his head. “Ciarán, after our magic was lost, I promised my maker that I would give help to those who needed it. Not just her. Everyone. And you needed my help.”

Oliver nodded slowly, his face drawn tight against the memory. “That was it, then. You made me, and then your maker told you to kill us all?”

“No,” said Xavier slowly. “I wished Dunya free almost three hundred years ago. Long before I met you.”

The words hung thickly in the air, and it was a moment before I realized their full implication. Oliver exhaled sharply, and I knew he understood, too. He heaved himself to his feet, and when he finally spoke, his tone was low and dangerous. “You mean you let me have a fourth wish
after
you began killing us? You made me into what I am, when you knew you’d turn around and kill me one day?”

“It wasn’t like that.” For the first time, I heard a note of panic in Xavier’s voice. “You were the first one created after we lost our magic. The only one. I thought it would be different for you, because you didn’t know what it was like before. But it wasn’t different at all. Living through the war, and then seeing you turn killer . . . those things just proved the truth of my maker’s words. There’s no hope left for any of us. We don’t belong here anymore. Not after what we lost.”

“Will you shut up about lost magic?” Even though he was still pale and unsteady, Oliver seethed with anger. “You knew. You knew
you would end up killing me.”

Xavier paused. Shrugged. “Believe what you will. I only wish you could see how wrong you are.”

“Why did you do it?” Oliver asked. All the menace had seeped out of his voice, leaving him sounding sixteen again. I stood up beside him and took hold of his hand. “Out of all the people you could have talked into making that fourth wish . . . why me?”

Without even hesitating, Xavier said, “Because you were good. Because you loved making people happy. And because of Maeve.” He said her name with a tenderness that surprised me. “But I was wrong to do it, and I’m sorry, and now I need to make it right. First for you—and then for me.”

He spread his hands expressively, making it impossible to miss his meaning. When he’d wished all the others free, he could force someone—probably Simon, probably at the point of a knife—to wish him free, too. It was like Oliver had said: He actually wanted to die.

And I want to help him do it,
I thought fiercely. They both looked sharply at me. Oliver opened his mouth as if to protest—but closed it again, and remained silent.

Xavier’s face grew hard. “Come now. You and your teenaged bodyguard can’t stay on that stage forever.”

I clenched my hands into fists. Every plan I’d come up with was dead in the water, and now we were being robbed of our one last day together. I didn’t know what to do, and I hated myself for it. But I still hated Xavier more.

I want you to let me wish him free,
I thought at Oliver.
I want you to be okay with it.

“But I,” he began, frightened and uncertain. He looked down at me, and out at Xavier, and couldn’t finish.

Xavier grinned. “What’ll it be, Ciarán? We all know you like taking orders, but this one’s up to you.” He paused, and turned slowly to look at Simon. “Or maybe it isn’t.”

Simon had been still as a statue ever since Xavier had threatened him, like maybe if he didn’t move, this would all turn out to be a bad dream. But now that Xavier’s focus was back on him, he looked like he was about to be sick.

Xavier took a single step toward him, and he held the coin up like a shield—like he’d been preparing for this moment. “I wish you couldn’t touch me!” he said.

Xavier held up his hands just long enough that I knew the wish had been granted—and when he was finished, he sauntered slowly toward Simon, still grinning, switchblade in hand.

“Funny thing about wishes,” he said. “You really have to be care-ful about how you phrase them. For example, I have a feeling that you and I have very different definitions of the word
touch
.”

I realized what he was about to do. So did Simon—I could see it on his face.

“Oliver,” I whispered.

“Do it, Margo,” came a hoarse voice from beside me. When I looked up, Oliver’s face was tight, and his eyes shone with sorrow. But he didn’t change his mind. “Wish him free. Now.”

Relief flooded me. I could actually end this. Just one quick moment, and it would finally be over.

“I wish,” I began—but the ring was still in my pocket. I found it quickly, but my fingers fumbled, thick with adrenaline and fear, and it took me a second too long to get a grip on it. Only a second. As I uttered the words “I wish” again, I heard a cry of pain. Dread coiled in my gut, and I stopped speaking. I was too late.

I looked up just in time to watch Simon double over, clutching his side. He’d made a break for the stage, where it was safe, but Xavier’s blade had caught him first. The coin flew out of his hand and rolled under the stage. I listened, helpless, as it clinked into a dusty wasteland of stored set-pieces and trapdoor machinery. Out of my reach. All because I’d fumbled the ring.

Behind me, Oliver made a choked noise. He dashed across the stage and leaped into the pit, reaching Simon just in time to support him as he crumpled to the ground.

His blade glistening with Simon’s blood, Xavier watched the scene dispassionately. Then he flicked his gaze up to me, his lips curving into a perfectly serene smile. “Aren’t you going to wish me free?” he asked, as easily as he might ask if it was raining. Then he held up a finger, like a brilliant idea had just occurred to him. “Or, I know! You could wish your little Simon safe, before that wound in his gut kills him. It won’t be long. A few minutes, if he’s lucky.”

Simon cried as Oliver held his head, and somewhere in my memory, my finger went
snap
all over again. “Make it stop,” he sobbed. I felt dizzy. “Oh god oh god oh god it hurts so much make it stop.”