by Jayla Kane
I could forgive him for being crazy yesterday. I still wasn’t ready to forgive him for treating me so badly, though; then, or before.
Jake was watching me this entire time, and I sighed, snapping to attention. “Okay. How much of that did you hear?”
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “I know you haven’t forgiven me.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head at him. “I can’t. I don’t feel that in my heart.”
“But… Is there a part of you that might want to?” I’d never heard his voice sound like that—almost plaintive, as if he were afraid if he said the words out loud, it would make them untrue. I bit my lip, and he heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry. You’re totally right. I am pressuring you.”
“You are,” I said. “I get it, though—I remember what it was like, to want to be forgiven. Believe me.”
“Yeah, but you never actually needed my forgiveness,” he said softly. His eyes flickered over my face, his gaze tender, riddled with pain. “We just didn’t know it.”
“What about lying to you?” I stared at him. “What about… About leaving you here, with them?”
Jake shrugged; his expression blanked out, and he stared out of the window again but didn’t step away from me. When he crossed his arms over his chest I saw the movement of his muscles and fought off the urge to touch him. “I could stay pissed about that until I understood what you’d been through. My little jog down your memory lane definitely cleared all that up for me.”
“So you don’t have any anger about what I did?” I frowned, not believing him, but he shrugged again. “Nothing?”
“I do and I don’t,” he said. We were still standing very close; the sun was going to set in an hour, the room full of fresh, sultry air, the smell of leaves and a distant fire drifting by. And he was beautiful. So beautiful. Even now, as I felt a glimmer of the rage he must be tamping down ripple through his mind like a primordial beast beneath black ocean waves. “I have a lot of anger, Raven. More than before, if anything. But I don’t think any of it is still directed at you.”
“You don’t think,” I said, and he cocked his head and smiled mischievously at me.
“Well, gorgeous, you’re not up for sainthood any time soon,” he said, raising his eyebrow. “You slapped me in the face yesterday, if you’ll recall. And you keep talking about Percy—”
“Jesus, Jake—”
He spread his arms open and tilted his head, immediately making me groan. It didn’t help that the late afternoon light gilded his skin, that he looked even more impossibly handsome right now than he had just a moment before. Even with that damned impish expression on his stupid perfect face. “I’m just saying. There’s some grey area there.”
“You are absolute shit at groveling, do you know that?”
“Is that what I’m supposed to be doing?”
“If you ever want to—” I stopped abruptly, shocked at the words that were about to leave my mouth, and the smile slid off of his face as he stared at me.
“If I ever want to what.” Not a question. I felt his mind reaching for me, searching for the words I’d amputated, and in response I shut him out—something slid into place, a defensive structure I conjured automatically as I scrambled to keep him from seeing my thoughts. He swayed on his feet, bracing himself. “What the hell was that?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and took a deep breath, making myself concentrate. I’d kept him out, locked him out with a… A wall. A barrier, a blockade. My mind was a fortress, right now; I could feel it, protecting me. “Yes!” I pumped my fist in the air and grinned at him. “Finally! I can finally do something on purpose!” I was pretty damn sure I could do this again with minimal effort—I’d just needed something to provoke me into learning. I was so giddy I found myself bouncing on my feet, grinning up at him with wild abandon…
And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say the sweet smile he beamed down at me was full of the love we used to share. Pride and tenderness and understanding, all combined on the face of a fallen archangel. I fell still, my breath stolen, and it slowly faded away as we gazed into each other’s eyes.
“The library,” I breathed, knowing my shield was still keeping my thoughts safe. Jake shrugged, giving me a bit of distance as he moved past me to open the door. It took me a minute to follow, my heart racing inside.
I did love him. As I always had. Maybe I hadn’t forgiven him yet, but I couldn’t imagine I’d be able to stop myself if he looked at me like that again.
But I didn’t want to forgive him, I realized, and that was a serious problem. Because the words I’d almost said—if you ever want to sleep with me again—were true. Jake had wronged me. And his epiphany was great and all, but… A little groveling would go a long way.
“Rae?” I turned towards him, and the sunlight dappling his face brought out each of the beautiful colors in it, the copper of his skin, the touch of gold in his eyes. I took a deep breath and strode across the carpet, wondering if he was right.
Maybe this wasn’t magic at all. Maybe a book wouldn’t save us.
And maybe… Deep down… A part of me didn’t want to be saved anyway.
Chapter Ten
Jake
As we started walking down the hallway towards the library, I realized there was no way Raven could read my mind right now. She was locked behind that wall of hers—I felt it, a sheet of ice, the movement behind the crystalline blockade muted and dim compared to the occasional bursts of sound and feeling and sight that sometimes interrupted my own thoughts.
And that was a damn good thing at the moment, because she wanted no part of what I was thinking.
It was true—absolutely true. If she wanted to get out of this magic trap and go live a normal life, a life free of me and Ashwood and everything that had happened to her here, I would do everything in my power to make that happen. I’d already made a list of other places to look for information, including Leo and the Vault. And my shitty aunt and sociopathic uncle. I would do whatever it took, if that’s what she wanted.
But that’s not what I wanted.
I felt it, when I was holding her—how deeply embedded we were in one another’s minds. Souls. Whatever, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m not a romantic. But I was in love with someone, and had been for almost my entire life, and letting Raven go… I would do it, if that’s what she wanted.
But that’s not what I wanted at all. I wanted power—I’m not a good guy, not now, not ever. I don’t have any interest in hurting people unless they hurt someone I love; I’m not above making sure someone I don’t respect doesn’t have an opportunity to hurt anyone else, though, and I’m very fucking good at nursing a grudge. Sometimes I just like to fight, preferably with a piece of shit who deserves what I can dish out. Not that I’m a white knight—I’m not. I’ve never been, not even before all this shit happened. I like being in control. I like making my decisions and doing what I want to do and if you get in the way of that, good luck. Hopefully, you’ll duck before the blow comes.
Magic was pure, unadulterated power.
Power to make sure Hunter got a good life, that his sister got a good life. Power to make sure Morgan made it out of this family alive. Power to make sure anyone that even thought about hurting Raven would die choking on their own blood. Power to make sure the Ashwood Society didn’t fuck up anybody else’s life, to crush them, to destroy whoever dared taint the bed where I’d lain next to the woman I loved. I’m not a good guy, and they’d given me fucking super-powers.
I wanted to use this, to protect her, to protect the people I loved, to never be vulnerable again. I knew I could.
I would give it all up, if it would set her free, but if we couldn’t find a way… I wouldn’t be much of a superhero, probably.
But I’d make one hell of a supervillain.
It’s all in the perspective, right?
That’s what I was thinking, the thoughts roiling on the surface of my mind. The ones I let bump aroun
d up top were daydreams of being able to guarantee an easier life for the people I cared about, and fragments of the cruel delight I would extract from crushing my enemies.
Beneath were more thoughts she wouldn’t approve of.
I think. I wasn’t sure, any more.
Because I loved her so much—so much it physically hurt when she was sad, when she cried in front of me and wanted a different life, but still waved me away because she couldn’t bear my touch unless I begged. I had to beg to comfort her. I would give her a new life, of course I would. And if I couldn’t… Maybe, if I just hung on long enough—maybe if I learned to fucking grovel… Maybe she would let me hold her like that again.
I couldn’t ignore it, after that. Years and years and years of animosity and misguided aggression had melted as soon as I saw how much pain she’d endured, how she’d tried so hard—harder than I’d even realized—to make things right. Things she hadn’t even done wrong. The other night I felt it disappear, the last vestiges of my anger, my self-righteous bitterness towards her; next went my reserve. I had to make sure she didn’t sleep in the office, I had to make sure she was safe. And now the barrier distance and time had given me from my feelings about her was crumbling too, and I was almost right back where I was, five years ago: hopelessly in love.
Stupid. So fucking dumb. And yet, here I was.
Raven was my best friend growing up, and together we learned how to cross the street, how to hold your breath underwater, how to send a letter, and how to kiss. My fourteen year old mind and body were hungry for more, of course, but I didn’t want to rush her—and hell, I hadn’t needed to, honestly. I thought we had our whole lives to learn how to touch one another, to be together. It never occurred to me that she would want anyone else, not seriously, and I thought high school was going to be… Anyway.
My life was in tatters.
Raven was my soul, and she could barely let me touch her even when her heart was breaking in half. She wanted to leave me behind—leave everything behind—and I didn’t blame her and for damn sure wouldn’t be the thing that held her back from any chance at happiness.
So I was angry, but not at her—not at the girl that reminded me, in the space of two hours spent sitting on the floor, what love actually felt like. That it was a real thing, not a ghost, not something else that had died in a car crash or abandoned me outright. Love was that thing chewing through my skin from the inside out when Raven smiled at me, it was the stir in my bones that told me I would die for her, it was the way I knew I was still alive. Periodically insane, full of uncontrollable powers I had no idea how to use, thirsty for revenge… And still in love. Hopelessly, completely in love.
It was a dull roar in the basement of my mind. I pushed it under the other thoughts—the ones I believed she’d recognize as more… Me. Jacob Warfield is an asshole. Of course I wanted to fuck some shit up.
But Jacob Warfield was not a goddamn romantic. Never had been, not even as a smitten fourteen year old boy.
So those feelings could live down there in the dark; she didn’t need to deal with them, with what they implied. She had more than earned her right to freedom. And I needed to accept that even if she allowed me to comfort her—and believe me, I had some fucking ideas about how to do that—she wouldn’t want to stay, given even half a chance at a normal life.
I’d ruined normal. And that was that.
Raven was pretty far ahead of me in the hallway now; the thick carpet runner that covered the wooden floors the entire length of the second story dulled our footsteps. The house wasn’t a maze, and getting around inside of it would be easy even you had never been here before; there was one long sitting room in the center of the front row of rooms, facing towards the long drive, and all the rest were bedrooms. There was a library opposite from my corner suite, facing the town, whereas I faced the Orchard, more so, and there was a big, connected master suite on the back of the second story that faced the Orchard and the garden. The first story was mostly unused rooms now, offices, the formal dining room, the parlor, blah blah blah, all stuff you needed, I guess, when there were a lot of people living here who gave a damn about decorum. The servants’ quarters—a term that always creeped me out, even though we only had two and they may or may not even use them, I had no idea and no one to ask—were on the basement floor with the kitchen. Mina and Lucas’s disgusting addition was connected to the same side as the library, facing town; it had an indoor pool, or so Morgan told me. Once, ages ago, there’d been a solarium on the first floor, and my mother told me that you could get onto the roof, too, but not how. Militia had used it to survey the surrounding countryside when staying on the grounds during just about every war that had taken place on American soil.
I should be proud, maybe, of my house—my legacy. But Lucas and Mina didn’t take care of it, and although it wasn’t exactly falling into decay it certainly didn’t look loved. It looked managed, and that, I was sure, must be thanks to Sarah. She must have a cleaning staff, too, and although they had to have been in the room I had used my entire life I’d never met anyone. Still, the shelves weren’t too dusty, no faded footprints in the carpet, clean sheets of high quality. As I padded softly after Raven—who always loved the library, even when we were little—I realized most of this must run on magic. How could you explain it otherwise? The whole house should be a decrepit mess. Sarah couldn’t possibly clean it all, and I’d never even heard a damn vacuum. Not once.
And if this house was clean and usable because of magic… There had to be other spells and enchantments or whatever-the-fuck on it. It had never had a fire—tons of old houses had burned down, or at least part of them. It had never been sacked during a war, or raided by angry townspeople, or even harangued by interested history buffs wanting to place it on some arcane register. It was weirdly invisible in the annuls of history.
The Warfields made money a million different ways, through a million different corporations and hedge funds and foundations, all of it invested and reinvested and basically out of sight, if you didn’t count my collection of platinum cards. Why had they never lived anywhere else? Never bought a townhouse, or a condo, or some monstrosity on the edge of a golf course in Florida?
Because we were fucking witches, I thought, watching as Raven turned and gave me another precious smile before ducking behind the heavy library door. There must be a reason.
And also, I realized, this place really was safer for her than the Institute, the office, my dorm… Even her own house, it seemed. There must be some kind of shield around it—probably several, if it had lasted for three hundred fucking years. That was crazy to think about; almost as crazy was the fact I never had. I hated my remaining family so much I actively avoided thinking about the fact that we shared a last name, let alone a gigantic mansion from another century… Except poor Morgan. I didn’t hate him. But the rest?
Fuck ‘em.
“Hey Rae,” I called, picking up speed, “wait up.” Suddenly it became much more important for me to be wherever she was; even if there was magic guarding this house—and there had to be, probably a ton of it—I couldn’t control it. I didn’t know what it might do at any given moment. But I knew what I could do, at least a little bit, and Raven was my top priority. Her safety. Her happiness.
I wasn’t good at groveling; she was right.
But as good as I was at holding a grudge, I was even better with loyalty. With devotion, if someone could use such a sweet word to describe the often twisted form mine took. And I’d always been devoted to Raven—for worse, more than better, in the last five years. The pendulum had just swung the other way. Hard. I caught the door just before it shut and went into the room with her, letting it close behind me with a gentle click. Lucas and Mina probably couldn’t hear anything over the blare of their television, if I remembered their habits rightly, but I didn’t want to make too much noise if it would prolong the inevitable. Dinner tonight would be fun, I thought, rolling my eyes, and Raven turned around and looked at me,
her eyebrows high.
She made such a picture, I thought, unable to keep myself from contrasting the image with so many from my memory—Raven had always been a bookworm. She started reading when she was four; the books she tugged out and spread on the floor, carefully tracking the words as she said them out loud so I could follow the story, were all still there, lined up on the bottom shelves. She was a beautiful little girl, a miniature Snow White. And now here she was, back again and all grown up, a bolt of perfect moonlight in feminine form. The library loomed around us, every wall papered with books, ancient and relatively new; my father was a reader, too, and his preferred subjects—ancient Egypt, battle histories, and crime fiction—still filled the shelves. Many of those books came from Raven’s mom’s shop. She looked right, somehow, standing in the big room, only one wall devoted entirely to windows, the beams of late afternoon light making the wooden tables glow warmly, bringing out the sheen in the old velvet couches. It was a lovely room, actually, although I’d never thought of it that way; it took Raven to make me notice.
“It is a lovely room,” she said softly, and in here her voice didn’t carry; echoes could fill the hallways, but the library—like my bedroom—had thick walls, lush carpet, and a slightly domed ceiling that bounced the sound down at odd angles. I heard her voice clearly, right next to my ear. “It’s… It’s nice, actually, to be in here again.”
“You can hear me?” I bit my lip, wondering how much of my monologue she’d heard, but she just shrugged.
“I dropped the shield when we came in here—just practicing,” she said, turning to look up at the shelves. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“It’s alright,” I said, forcing my thoughts from earlier down deeper. “It’s a good idea to practice. I think I’ll throw a party when you start reading someone else’s mind.”
