The Art of Wishing (25 page)

Oliver moved him just enough to check his wounds, then looked up at me. “Margo,” he said. Then he mouthed the word
please,
so that only I could see it. He looked pointedly down at Simon, and I knew what he wanted me to do.

Two people to save. One wish left. This was all my fault. If I’d only been a second faster . . . but that ship had sailed. My throat felt tight and hot. I had to think. I had to choose. But how could I, when both choices were wrong?

Xavier watched me, oozing patience, just waiting for me to heal Simon and unbind Oliver. And Oliver watched me, waiting for the same thing. There was no way I could choose Oliver. If I let Simon die to save him, he’d never forgive me for it.

My fault
.

Holding the ring tightly, I forced the words out: “I wish for Simon to be healed. And safe.”

Chapter
TWENTY
-
FOUR

O
liver was ready. He pressed his hands to Simon’s wound, and in the blink of an eye, they both vanished. When they reappeared at my feet, safe within the protective boundary of the stage, Simon looked stunned. Oliver helped him to his feet, and he ran a hand over his side, gasping out a little sob when he found his body intact. Even his shirt was clean.

“Holy eff,” he breathed, looking at me in disbelief—like he couldn’t believe what I’d done. I didn’t blame him. I couldn’t believe it either.

Oliver reached out to touch my arm, but I shied away from him. I’d failed him. Why had I ever thought I could handle this? Any of this? Why hadn’t I given the ring back when I had the chance?

“The ring, Miss McKenna,” came Xavier’s voice from the pit. He held his hand out, palm up.

I stared at him, numb, uncomprehending. I’d just forfeited Oliver’s life. How could Xavier sound so patient about it? Utterly defeated, I turned back to Oliver. “I don’t have any wishes left,” I said, even though we both knew it already. “What do I do? I can’t just let him . . . I can’t. . . .”

As he folded me into his arms and held me close, I thought fiercely,
I want to save you
. But he didn’t reply, verbally or otherwise. He couldn’t hear my thoughts anymore. The realization made me want to cry.

Over his shoulder, I could see Xavier watching us, waiting calmly for me to make the next move—to follow the script that he’d written for me when he’d stabbed Simon.

Simon, who was right beside me, alive and whole.

He narrowed his eyes at me when he saw me looking at him. “You need another wish, right?” he asked uncertainly, and held out his hand. “I’ll do it for you. Just tell me what to wish for, and I’ll do it.”

My hold on Oliver grew slack as I stared at Simon’s outstretched palm.
Of course
. Simon could take Oliver’s ring and wish Xavier free, and this would all be over. Xavier would be gone, and I would be safe again, and I could still have Oliver.

“Do it,” said Oliver, realizing what Simon was talking about. “Give him my vessel.”

“Don’t you dare,” warned Xavier.

It would be so easy. So neat and clean and perfect.

Perfect, except that I’d used up all my wishes—which meant that Oliver would disappear soon, unless he found a new master. And then another new master, and another, and another, while I stayed safely within the comfortable, predictable bubble of a life that I’d always known. How long would it be before I grew tired of his erratic lifestyle, just like Maeve had before me? How long before I gave up on him, just like she had?

If I took the easy way out of this, could I still be the sort of person who was capable of loving someone like Oliver?

I wanted so badly to be that person. But I also wanted Simon to make that wish.

I clutched the ring harder. I did not give it to Simon.

Taking hold of Oliver’s hand, I silently wove the fingers of my left hand through those of his right. His eyes widened— but even as I held the ring up between us, he didn’t say anything. He just nodded.

“Oliver,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady, “I wish Xavier free.”

Xavier’s shoulders sagged, and his eyes closed. The wish was made, and he knew as well as I did that there was no taking it back. He moved back from the edge of the stage, and sank into one of the seats in the front row.

When he looked up again, I braced myself for the accusing stare that I was sure he’d level at me. But he looked only at Oliver. “Ciarán,” was all he said. There was depth to that word, and I couldn’t begin to guess at all the things that lay hidden inside it. But I wasn’t supposed to. The name wasn’t meant for me.

The ring began to grow hot between my fingers, and Oliver jumped down from of the stage and knelt smoothly in front of Xavier. Something shimmered, and Oliver’s shape changed. I recognized him immediately, and so did Xavier. Oliver was going to grant my fourth wish as Ciarán.

Xavier reached out and grasped Oliver’s forearm. His grip looked desperate and painful, but instead of flinching, Oliver just gave him a sad smile—a reminder that they’d been close once, a long time ago. The thought made me want to turn away, but I couldn’t. This was my doing, for better or for worse, and I needed to witness it.

“Do it,” said Xavier. His voice was shaking.

Slowly, Oliver reached out and placed one hand on Xavier’s chest, fingers splayed right over his heart.

At first it happened slowly: a deep, warm glow between Oliver and Xavier, so subtle that I almost mistook it for a quirk of the stage lights. But it grew, faster and faster, until the strange light encompassed Xavier’s whole body, roiling and churning and shining like beacons out of his fingertips.

Then a huge flame engulfed him, knocking Oliver backward. I stumbled backward, too, thinking in a moment of panic that the whole theater—the whole school—would burn down. But of course I shouldn’t have worried. This wasn’t an ordinary fire. It didn’t care about anything but Xavier.

Blurred by a sheen of flame, Xavier’s face twisted into a grimace—but just as quickly, he relaxed. He actually smiled, almost peacefully, as he locked eyes with Oliver again.

“I hope you find your magic,” said Oliver softly, from where he knelt on the floor.

Xavier threw his head back and let out a loud laugh, underscored by the crackling of the fire. “You don’t believe I will,” he said. “But you’ll see. One day you’ll follow me, and you’ll see.”

And all at once, the fire glowed white-hot, and he was gone.

The fire disappeared as quickly as it came, and the only thing left of Xavier was a little shimmer in the air. I watched, my throat tight, as it dissipated into nothing. Xavier was right. In a strange way, it was beautiful.

“What the eff was that?” said Simon as he ran over to join me. “Dude, that was
insane. . . .
”

Oliver and I looked at each other, the air between us heavy with what had just happened, and what was about to happen. In one smooth movement, he heaved himself onto the stage again.

“Just remember to breathe,” he said, looking calmly at me as he shimmered into Oliver again. “You’re fine.”

“Oliver,” I said, worried, and tried to move toward him. But I was stuck. My muscles had gone rigid, and I felt a weird, warm glow in my chest. It tingled, like Oliver’s magic. I could feel it spreading outward, into my limbs, into my head, touching each finger and toe, making my eyes and mouth shiver. “Oh god,” I whispered. What had I done? What would happen? Would there be fire for me, too?

The tingling grew stronger and stronger, growing into a pins-and-needles sensation that covered my whole body. Like part of me had fallen asleep, and was being shaken rudely awake. I was vaguely aware of Simon saying a lot of things, many of which were frantic repetitions of my name and the word
dude
. I was vaguely aware of Oliver, who wasn’t moving to help me. But eclipsing everything else was the light. It wasn’t fire, but it shone just as brightly, and it was growing, in and around me. Oppressive and gentle at the same time, it lifted me, filled me, and made me feel like I could fly.

Something tore. I felt the kind of fast, uncontrollable falling that you only get in the seconds just before you wake up. I felt myself crumple to the ground, felt the heavy weight of limbs and clothes and hair landing in a messy pile. And then—then I felt fine.

And I was still standing.

When I looked down, something shimmered at my feet—something shaped like a female body. Then the shape dissolved, leaving only a gleam of light that drifted upward and, somehow, inward. I felt light. I felt happy. I felt—

“Margo!” yelled Simon, my name tearing at his throat until I winced in sympathy. “Parish, what the goddamn hell did you do to her?”

“She’s fine,” said Oliver.

“Yeah, I’m right here,” I added, somewhat surprised and utterly confused.

But the words sounded hollow, even to my own ears, like an echo of an echo. Simon, looking frantically around the stage, didn’t seem to hear me. Or see me. He fixed his eyes on Oliver one last time, and shook his head. Sparing a moment to cross himself, he jumped down from the stage and ran up the aisle. Light burst into the auditorium as he threw the door open and fled into the hallway.

I made myself look down again. I was the same as I’d always been—and at the same time, I wasn’t. There was something insubstantial about what I was seeing, like my body was just as hollow as my voice. I was there, but I wasn’t . . .
there
. I had no weight. I couldn’t feel the stage beneath my feet. I couldn’t even feel the rhythm of my heartbeat in my chest.

I wasn’t there
.

Panic seized me, and I sucked in breath after shallow breath—but I couldn’t feel my lungs working, and I couldn’t feel the air. I touched my own arm. I could feel the contact, but my skin didn’t feel like skin
anymore. It felt like pure magic: shivering, shifting, and waiting impatiently to become something else. Something solid.

I wanted to cry, but I didn’t dare. I didn’t want to discover one more thing that I couldn’t feel.

But suddenly, a warm presence was in front of me, hugging me against his chest. He was Oliver again, and he felt totally, completely real. I pressed myself against him, infinitely grateful that he could actually feel me.

The embrace only lasted a moment, before he pulled away and held me at arm’s length. “My ring,” he said, calm and quiet.

Looking down, I realized that I was still clutching the ring in my hand. It felt oddly solid. “But if I give it back to you,” I said slowly, “won’t you disappear?”

He curved his lips into a sly smile. “If anyone else were here, then yes. To their eyes, I’d disappear. But not to yours. Not anymore.” He touched my cheek again, and a thrill rushed through me. “Trust me,” he said, holding out his hand.

And I did. I trusted him completely.

When I placed the ring in his palm, he drew in a deep, full breath, and let it out again, like a great weight had been lifted from him. As I watched, he seemed to blur around the edges, becoming as insubstantial as . . . well, me. But he was right: I could still see him.

With a smile that made his green eyes shine, he looked around us, above us, and below us, seeming to see right through the theater walls that held us in. Then he looked back at me. “Come with me,” he said, his voice teeming with secrets.

I took his hand, and we went.

Acknowledgments

F
irst and foremost, the biggest thank-you
ever
to my family, who have supported my writing ever since it took the form of stapled-together construction-paper “books” about the adventures of my cats. Dad, thank you for demanding to know what happens next. Megan, thank you for being patient while I ramble on and on about my characters as though they were real people. Mom, thank you for the ring, and for saying hello to Oliver every time you hang up the phone. (He says hi back!) I love you guys so much.

Another immense thank-you to Nina Lourie, the best friend and beta-reader in history. Thanks for not being afraid to tell me when my ideas are dumb, for giving me countless brilliant brainstorming sessions, and for rocking the Boat with me. And, of course, for knowing that there’s only one thing that X can ever stand for.

Thanks to Andrea Robinson, for helping me sort out countless plot holes, and for calming me down every time I’m sure I will never be calm again. To Meg Deans, for your incredibly nuanced character notes. To Amy Spalding, for constantly reminding me that the real stuff is just as important as the magic stuff. To Diana Fox, for your high standards of sexiness, and for the best blackmail experience ever. To Diana Rowland, for being convinced that Oliver was secretly evil and forcing me to think outside the box. To Blake Charlton, for dying of cute and for giving me my first title.

Thanks to Larry O’Keefe and Nell Benjamin, for helping me figure out how genies work, and for your constant inspiration and friendship. Special blame-thanks to Larry for that one Incredibly Frustrating Comment, which instantly turned this story from a stand-alone into a trilogy.

Thanks to my many wonderful friends for their feedback, criticism, and encouragement along the way—especially Tim Federle, Liz Kies, Chris Lough, Megan Messinger, Miriam Newman, Navah Wolfe, Ellen Wright, Jen Linnan, Soumeya Bendimerad, Courtney Miller-Callihan, and Rachael Dillon-Fried. If there’s anyone whose name belongs on this list but isn’t there, I apologize profusely, and I promise to buy you a cookie when next I see you.

Thanks to everyone who ever beta-read for me, and let me beta-read in return, back in the days of FAP, circa OotP. (I’m especially looking at you, Beth Comer!) You guys taught me so much about how collaborative writing can be, and I’m incredibly grateful for it.

My most peculiar thank-you goes to all the musical artists who unknowingly inspired me during this process, especially Coyote Grace, Great Big Sea, the Indigo Girls, Suzanne Vega, Butch Walker, and, of course, Neko Case. And a special thanks to Carbon Leaf, whose songs have book-ended this story from the moment I started writing it.

Thanks to everyone at Sanford J. Greenburger Associates—coworkers and clients alike—for cheering me on. Thank you, especially, to Matt Bialer, who constantly asks me whether or not he is the best boss ever. Yes, Matt. Yes, you are.

Finally, my infinite thanks to the two most amazing people in this entire business, for taking this story of mine and holy crap turning it into a
book
 . . . .

Brenda Bowen, agent extraordinaire! Thanks for your guidance, your badassery (yup, I said it), and for letting me bang my head against the wall of your office more times than I can count. Sometimes literally. You are the actual best.

Kathy Dawson, editor of editors! Thanks for your patience with me, for pushing this book further than I ever thought it could go (and then pushing even harder), and for helping me figure out who Margo was meant to be. Having you on my side makes me the luckiest author ever.