by M. A. Grant
“What on earth is that noise?”
That noise would be the raucous gathering occurring in the shared living room beyond my closed bedroom door. The thin wood doesn’t eliminate the laughter or the scent of pizza that slips through the gap near the floor, but it’s better than no barrier between us.
“My roommates,” I tell her. I roll my head from side to side, wishing I could unkink my shoulders. Cheese and sauce and pepperoni. My stomach growls, but I’ll eat later. Talk now, catch Dean Tanaka after dinner as his secretary suggested, meet personal needs once business is finished.
“They should be quieter,” she says. The edges of the bowl frost, but the lack of ice means she’s merely irritated by their behavior.
“Mother, I share this apartment. After five years, it’s nothing new. Besides, if they’re loud, I know they aren’t listening in.”
She moves on, which is as close to acceptance for my reasoning as I’ll ever get. “How do you intend to approach your dean tonight?”
My phone dings with an incoming email; it’s one of my professors sending me the work I’ve missed. I type a reply and talk at the same time. “Inform him of the incident with Ripthorn. Ask him if he can offer protection to our students.”
“Ask?”
I ignore the flat disapproval in the word. “I’m not sure what Mathers’s official stance is toward the Courts after this summer. I don’t want to give our hand away until I can be sure we’ll receive support.”
“I suppose that’s wise.”
My stomach gurgles again. I press a hand against my abdomen, out of Mother’s sight, and close my eyes. Like somehow that will cancel out my sense of smell. A stupid trick, but from the darkness, I get a faint sense of control. “Has the news of what happened made it back to the sídhe?”
“No whispers have reached me. If you manage it quickly enough there, I doubt it will complicate matters outside campus.”
If I manage it quickly enough. Not when I manage it.
A sharp stab of pain behind my left eye. I press my thumb hard against the upper curve of my eye socket, wishing I could dig my thumb inside to reach the offending nerve.
The low rumble of the troll’s voice from the living room. Smith’s crow of delight at whatever the story was.
I wonder if he’s telling them about his adventures on the farm. They usually end with some plebeian anecdote Smith finds uproariously hilarious. He never seems to realize that everyone else is laughing because he’s a good storyteller, not because his stories make any sense to us. Idiot.
“Roark?”
I open my eyes and am confronted with the disconcerting image of Mother tilting her head to inspect me. “Would you prefer I contact the dean for you? You look peaked.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“That was quite a show of power last night,” she says, completely ignoring my assurance. “You must be exhausted.”
Of course she felt that. She’s the conduit of our Court’s power, and I didn’t exactly hold back with my glamour against that wraith.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” Lies, lies, and more lies. At least she can’t push against my fragile mask when there’s this much distance between us. “Shall I call you once I’ve finished speaking with Dean Tanaka?”
“I thought it was getting late there.”
“It is.”
“Send a raven instead. That would suffice. You may want to arrange a meeting with our people. Remind them that retaliation in any form will not be tolerated.”
“As you wish.”
“I refuse to give Oberon’s ilk reason to come after you. I will not lose another son to them.” Her voice dips with ominous warning. “Or anyone else.”
The hunger vanishes, replaced with a heavy nausea that’s grown all too familiar since the summer. The scar running across my left palm aches and I clench the hand to hide that clean, pale line from my sight. “Understood. Mother, may I cut this call short? It’s nearly time for my meeting.”
“Of course, darling. I’ll watch for your raven.”
A quick wave of my hand and the spell cuts short. Nothing but a bowl filled with ordinary water sits on my dresser. She didn’t have to explain what she meant. She continues to hold one impulsive decision over my head, continues to remind me of the only time I’ve challenged her. She’s never forgiven and she’ll never forget.
And no matter the cost, I’ll never regret what I did.
It’s petty, but I fling my glamour toward the scrying bowl, focusing my magick to cut with the same lethal edge her words held. If, not when. The hex collides with its target and the metal of the bowl gives a single tick when it flash-freezes.
Sudden silence from the living room.
A cautious call of “Lyne, you alright in there?”
Smith. Why couldn’t it be anyone else showing concern?
I don’t bother to answer through the door. It’s easier to exit my bedroom and head for the kitchen. Smith’s crew hovers anxiously between armchairs and a disgusting polyester monstrosity of a couch. Pizza boxes lie open on the coffee table. My stomach cramps in longing.
No. There are far more important things to do than waste my time with my roommates and their inevitable barrage of well-meaning questions.
Their magick rubs against mine in this small space, individual imprints growing stronger with their heightened concern. I’m used to that, to the sensation of other beings’ glamour or magick against my own; it’s part and parcel of our world. Normally, I don’t mind the unconscious intrusion, but tonight the individual markers of their presence irritate me. The sun-warmed wood of the satyr and sea spray of his half-Gorgon girlfriend. A steady earthen weight of the bridge troll. The flickering duality of the faerie who straddles Court lines. And the fiery burn of Smith’s ley line.
“Lyne?”
Speak of the devil.
Smith pushes himself over the back of the couch, the only one stupid enough to watch me as I stalk across the living room. “Everything okay?”
No, Smith, nothing is okay and it’s all your damn fault.
“We’re celebrating,” he continues, turning back to his friends and ignoring the way I glare at the back of his head. He lifts his beer. “To the future!”
To the future? Really?
Smith’s future is as bleak as mine. Constantly attacked by ancient creatures drawn to the raw power he can’t control. Treated with kid gloves by the university administration because he’s a freak of nature. Living on borrowed time despite everyone’s best efforts to keep him alive for a little while longer.
Something ugly curls tightly in my chest. Something that wants to bring ice and darkness and pain. I don’t listen to those baser urges; I’m a prince and I’ll behave like one.
They go dead silent when I stalk over to join them, all except Smith, who sits there laughing on the couch in a dirty, sweaty shirt and a pair of athletic shorts, beer bottle dangling from his fingers. A plate of pizza sits in his lap.
“So, you hungry?” he asks, a picture of control except for the flush rising high in his cheeks.
No one else risks eye contact.
He freezes when I step past the troll and move closer still. My leg brushes his knee and his magick flares from that simple touch. He always reacts like this. A match held close to a flame. Ready to explode at any second, just waiting for the right nudge.
He tilts his head back and I steal a moment to take in the details I couldn’t during our battle. The hint of stubble blurring the strong column of his throat. A new summer haircut. The sides are shorter than they were before, the top still a soft fall of blond that catches the harsh electric light. Dark blue eyes lift, flicking in tiny movements as he tries to read my expression.
His façade crumbles the instant I reach my hand toward him. A full flinch, a tightening of his body. Every reaction involuntary because he’s scared shitless of me. The second he realizes I’ve stolen his plate, the fear transforms into a comfortably familiar anger.
>
“Hey!” he calls after me. “You could have asked. We got extra on purpose.”
“I don’t want extra. I want yours. Consider it repayment.”
Confused muttering from his friends and a squeak of sofa springs. I swallow a smile. Smith’s feeling spry tonight if he thinks he can stand up to me.
“You could eat with us,” he says.
The novelty of the offer is enough to make me turn and reassess the situation.
“Why on earth would I want to do that?” I ask, confused.
We’ve managed to live together peacefully for years through carefully choreographed avoidance. Smith and the satyr only invite over their small circle of friends while I keep to myself. They don’t complain about my unusual hours and I keep the kitchen stocked and apartment clean. To avoid arguments, the satyr and I rarely speak to each other, and he doesn’t take sides when Smith and I have it out. Strangely enough, they are decent roommates, even if I could never acknowledge it. I don’t want to risk our balance now.
Apparently, I’m not alone in the sentiment, since the satyr scowls at the back of Smith’s head when he says, “It’s fine, Finny. We’ll leave some pizza in the fridge for him.”
Smith doesn’t back down. The buzz of his magick pushes and strains across the empty space toward me. He crosses his arms over his chest. Is he unconsciously trying to hold in that explosion of energy?
“It’s not fine. You should take a break from whatever it was that set you off a few minutes ago.” His gaze darts to the floor. “You’re always helping everyone else, but you never let us return the favor.”
The quiet, accurate observation steals the breath from my lungs.
“It’s the last year we’re all living together,” he continues. Finally, he meets my gaze. “Soon we’ll graduate and move on with our lives—”
“A bit presumptuous on your part, isn’t it? Especially after last night.” The words fly without thought.
Smith’s eyes widen.
“You think you can help me when you lack all control to help yourself?” I step closer, lower my volume. “Do you want to die, you idiot?” I ask.
He swallows, but doesn’t dare look behind him at his friends, who watch us curiously, unsure of the direction of our quiet conversation. “Everyone dies at some point.”
“Not like that. Not searching it out.”
It’s too far. His mouth drops open and I pull up a shield of glamour on instinct. But he doesn’t go off. Instead, he scrubs a hand over his face, his usually cheerful composure broken. “Holy crap, Lyne. Do you always have to be such a miserable bastard?”
“Yes.”
I kick my door shut behind me, probably with greater viciousness than necessary. As I feared, the pizza is delicious. There’s not much time to enjoy it, though. Tanaka shifted a great deal to fit me into his schedule tonight and I have no intention of being late. I make sure to wipe all traces of my hasty meal from my face before I steel myself to leave my bedroom.
This time, they ignore me. Normally that would please me, except there’s an obvious hole in the tapestry of their magick.
“Where’d he go?” I ask as I head toward the front door. I deliberately avoid looking at them when I ask, not wanting them to make more of it than they should.
The satyr’s magick flares, matching the acerbic bite of his words. “Couldn’t stand being in the same space after taking your shit. He went to study.”
The library. Smith always goes to the library to study.
“Your Highness,” the satyr calls.
I pause, hand on the doorknob, count to three to seem disinterested, and turn back. He doesn’t say anything, so I wait.
Eventually, he gains enough courage to finish his thought. “Are you going to act like this all year?”
“Act like what?”
The satyr’s lip twists. “Like a miserable bastard.”
The insult rolls off, which is fortunate. It stung enough when Smith threw it at me. I raise a brow at the satyr, but for the first time in years, he doesn’t back down. Maybe if he’d shown this much spine years ago, I could have learned to tolerate him.
He can’t quite manage to hold my gaze, but he tries. “Look, I get that your life kinda sucks after this summer, but go easy on Finny. It’s going to be a tough year for him.”
The unspoken reality lies between us with the heaviness of impending death. It’s not going to be a tough year for Smith; it’s going to be an impossible year. He can’t control the ley line, so he won’t be able to pass the classes he needs to graduate. Even if he does scrape by thanks to well-meaning professors, the best he can hope for is a job with one of the Pantheons that, at best, wants to keep an eye on him and his powers. He’ll never make anything of himself; he’ll be stuck in a lonely room doing menial tasks day after day until his magick burns through him or an ancient creature drawn to his power eats him. Worst-case scenario, he leaves Mathers, returns to a life in the human world, and is stuck there, with nothing but fading memories of this place. Of us.
Of me.
I could respond with bitterness. But I don’t want this apartment to become another potential battleground. If I threaten Smith again, if I hint that Smith could be in danger from me, the satyr and the rest of this small gaggle will stand up for him. Shooting for a diplomatic response and acceptable compromise is the least time-consuming option.
“I’ll remember that,” I drawl. “And hopefully this last year passes uneventfully for all of us.” On that vague promise and threat, I leave the apartment and head off to do my mother’s bidding.
Chapter Four
Phineas
It’s bad enough I fled the apartment because Roark was about to make me go off. Insult heaps on injury, though, when halfway to the library I realize I didn’t remember to grab anything. I was too overwhelmed and confused by his unexpected cruelty. It doesn’t matter if he’s got a rapier in hand or not... That tongue of his can cut me down just as effectively.
There’s no one in the library right now, so I don’t get any dirty looks when I swear and let my head thump back against the wall. It does little to make me feel better. The ley line’s recognized all the signs of adrenaline and pushes up into me, trying to bolster me for the battle ahead. It unfurls through my limbs to still their shaking, steadies my speeding pulse, and tickles at the edges of my senses. Its behavior would be perfect if I were facing down a rampaging monster. Too bad the ley line hasn’t distinguished true fighting from some of the finer points in my reaction to Roark.
Like the goose bumps that exploded over my skin when he stepped closer. How the strange twist behind my ribs tightened so much I couldn’t breathe when he refused to accept my excuse to his question as an answer. How I welcomed his challenge and hated it because it meant we could stand there and share the same space, the same air.
The confusing need I’ve grappled with for years dares me to examine it more closely. Instead, I make a tactical retreat, hurrying to the nearest bookshelf in the hopes of distracting myself from the thought of pale eyes and thin lips and capable hands. The random, ancient tome I pull from the shelf has enough weight to make me grunt when it comes free and knocks me in the chest, but when I return to my seat and try to flip through the pages, the only thing I can focus on is the ley line smoldering under my skin.
I have to calm down. I don’t want to set anything on fire, especially not somewhere as flammable as the library.
Breathe in against the magickal pressure welling up inside.
Sometimes, if I stop fighting, the ley line will relax. My academic advisor, Professor Liddel, and I have spent a long time working on relaxation techniques. Another breath. Calm. Acceptance.
Acceptance... Fine. Roark was right. Losing control of my power isn’t how I want this all to end. And as much as it hurt, he made a valid point. There’s no way I can help him or anyone unless I figure my own shit out.
* * *
The book lies open in my lap, but I can’t comprehend a
ny of the ancient calligraphy scrawled there. Something about the ley line devouring yet another host. Just like every other historical account.
Breathe out.
A lack of control. I suffer it. Every one of the ley line’s hosts died from it eventually.
The energy inside me coils tighter, feeding off the frantic pace of my thoughts. The edges of the book dig into my stomach when I tighten my grip on it and try to contain the magick I’m leaking.
Breathe in.
You have one last year here. There’s still time to master this. There’s still time to save the farm. To set your parents up for life before you go.
Right. There’s time. Yes. Breathe out. Calm. Acceptance.
Breathe in. Out.
The ley line eases back a tiny bit.
I crack my eyes, proud I’ve controlled myself. Too bad the edges of the book are on fire. I yelp and slam the book shut, patting the smoldering remnants with my hand and blowing to dissipate the scent of charred parchment.
Shit.
Before anyone can come check on me, I hurry back to the shelves and shove the tome in place, pretending I don’t notice the wisps of pale smoke still rising from it. It’s not like anyone’s going to be using it anytime soon. I’m the only person who ever comes to this section.
The study of ley lines is the magickal equivalent of studying black holes. Everyone has a theory on what they are and how they work and then you try to get close enough to study them in real life and you die, so the research stops.
Only a few random humans have ever managed to channel the ley lines’ energy and these hosts’ appearances throughout history aren’t consistent. Human bodies aren’t designed to act as conduits for that level of power. So the ley lines burn us out really fast, like light bulb filaments when the current’s too strong. We die, and no one can explain how to prevent it.
That thought makes the ley line quiet for a moment. Long enough for me to leave the library before the air shimmering around me from the invisible heat I’m putting off can make the building spontaneously combust.
