Circle of Ashes (Wish Quartet Book 2)

by Elise Kova

  “Two years ago, the family moved from our sleepy mountain town to Shizuoka for work.” When Jo looked up from their intertwined fingers to Takako’s eyes, she was unsurprised but heartbroken to find them shiny with unshed tears.

  “There’s no way they’ll be able to evacuate in time, especially not now, and that’s if they’re not—”

  This part, Takako couldn’t finish, but Jo didn’t need her to—didn’t want her to. Neither of them had seen the news since this morning. For all either of them knew, Takako’s family was already dead.

  There was nothing Jo could say, she realized. Nothing of value she could offer as comfort or solace or distraction. All she had was her presence, the promise of her nearness, to combat the crushing weight of suffocating solitude. For a moment, Jo allowed herself to think of what it would feel like if her own family was in the path of the volcano’s wrath. What would she be feeling? Would she want to be alone?

  The answer to the first question was too much to consider.

  The answer to the second was no.

  “Can I stay with you for a little while longer?” Jo asked, keeping her voice soft, letting every ounce of her own sorrow shine through. Takako didn’t hesitate, nodding her head and closing her eyes tight when the motion caused her tears to fall at last. As Takako gripped her hand, Jo witnessed the second of two seemingly immovable mountains tumble.

  “Please.”

  Chapter 7

  Restrictions

  TAKAKO WAS FINALLY still.

  Jo wouldn’t have called the sleep restful; perhaps it wasn’t even sleep at all, more like a forced stasis. Every now and again Takako’s brow furrowed and she twisted, no doubt haunted by any number of ghosts, before settling again. But it was a reprieve, at least.

  Takako hadn’t entirely bought into the idea of closing her eyes at first, calling it a “pointless waste of time.” But Jo’s argument that sometimes wasting time was the best thing to do won out, and the Japanese woman had laid down her head and let her consciousness escape her.

  It was the only escape they really had.

  Takako had separated her two futon and given Jo the better of the two blankets, even though Jo would’ve lied out on bare tatami to make Takako more comfortable. With one hand, she still clutched at Jo’s fingers. Throughout drinking their remaining tea in relative silence, and then talking about some stupid computer babble that Jo had practically invented for the sake of distracting her friend, the other woman had held onto Jo. Even as they’d fallen asleep, Takako held onto her between the futon as though she were a teddy bear—her comfort.

  Jo closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she saw a different person altogether.

  Yuusuke lay across from her, a memory painting over Jo’s vision fresh and clear. It was one of their first jobs, holed up in some shitty motel room, the only thing two high school students just striking out could afford. He’d been paranoid, afraid of failure, nervous of the career paths they’d chosen for themselves. She’d reassured him then, stayed with him in his bed until he finally slept. Not quite a lover, but certainly more than a friend. Something that was a bit better than both.

  Who had Yuusuke leaned on in her revised world? Who did he go to? Did he share that hotel room with someone else or no one at all?

  Jo closed her eyes again, but this time a different sight greeted her. It was a flash—a blink then gone. But Jo could’ve sworn she’d seen a woman, screeching as Jo was taken away from her. Jo fluttered her eyelashes several times, but couldn’t conjure back the sight, couldn’t even conjure a memory of it. It was as if it had never happened at all.

  Sufficiently too unnerved to rest as well, Jo carefully unraveled her fingers from Takako’s, watching for any signs of disturbance. There were none. She remembered the embarrassment Yuusuke had endured the morning after he’d shown “such weakness” (his words) and, just in case, she’d save Takako some face without her asking.

  Somehow, despite the invisible weights that had been chained to her shoulders, Jo managed to stand. Takako was undisturbed. Jo continued to watch for any signs otherwise, but her friend remained motionless up to the moment Jo closed the door behind her.

  Jo pressed her forehead against the wood, taking a deep and shuddering breath. Eventually, it would stop hurting; it had to. Technically, she knew no one in the volcano’s path of destruction. Technically, she knew no one in the world as it was. But there was something visceral about the pain. Something that, surely, every human felt at seeing another in such unavoidable agony. And it was a feeling only magnified by Takako’s turmoil.

  “How is she?” Like a godsend, Nico’s voice pulled her from the well of suffering she’d been dipping into.

  “How do you think?” Jo snapped despite herself, instantly regretting the tone. “I’m sorry, I’m just spent. I didn’t mean that.”

  “No, no, it was a foolish question.” Nico continued smiling on, even if it was a bit pitying, an underlying sadness beneath the soft expression. Nothing could discourage that man’s smile, it seemed. He was the only ray of joy in the universe at the moment when the whole world needed him, and only seven others knew of his existence. “Why don’t you come and sit with me for a bit? Take a break from all this. I just made some coffee.”

  “I can’t possibly take your coffee.” Her hands and feet didn’t have ears to hear what her mouth was saying, as they were already crossing over to take the cup Nico had in his hands.

  “Think nothing of it.” Nico opened the door to his room, and Jo entered without further resistance. It offered the same atmosphere that was part home, part nostalgia for a world, time, and lifestyle she’d never known.

  “Thank you.” Jo murmured. Her eyes suddenly fell on his easel. “I have an idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You should paint Takako something.”

  “Jo—”

  She bristled at the tone of his voice, not wanting to hear his objection. She didn’t care if his muse didn’t feel up to the task. Takako needed it desperately. “Something simple, just like you did for me. Something to remind her of home and family. . . Or, better yet, give her hope.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “What? Why?” Jo turned so quickly that she almost spilled her coffee. “Is this some rule passed down by Snow? Because if so, I swear that he’s gone too far and you need to ignore him.”

  “I can’t, Jo,” Nico repeated.

  It was like the glass of the framed photo she’d worked so hard to mentally create, the one that encompassed the happy smiling picture of Nico, of their whole team, fractured in that moment. “Why is no one else looking out for each other? How are you all okay to just stand by and be divided? And by what? Obligation? How do you never question—”

  “Jo.” Nico placed his hands on her shoulders. Even though Jo felt like her bones continued to vibrate under his palms, her mind was settled for the briefest of moments, long enough to actually hear what he’d been trying to say. “Even if I wanted to—which I do—I can’t.”

  “But. . . Why?”

  He led her over to one of his chairs, squeezing in next to her. It was a little smaller than a loveseat and the fit was tight. But instead of uncomfortable, it felt warm and safe. Jo pulled her feet up onto the cushion as he spoke, cradling her mug.

  It was then she noticed that the mug was indeed hers. The one she always used. The one Takako had gotten Samson to make for her.

  Nico had planned this.

  Jerk.

  “Has no one told you of restrictions, yet?”

  “Restrictions?” Jo repeated. “No. Oh, let me guess, this is another bit of magic nonsense that doesn’t actually make any sense but we have to abide by because. . . reasons?”

  Nico actually laughed and the sound of genuine amusement was a balm even better than coffee—and that said something, because very few things were ever better than coffee. “Something like that, yes.”

  “Great.”

  He nudged her with his
shoulder and Jo sighed softly, letting out her sarcasm before asking, “So, go on then. What are ‘restrictions’?”

  “Every magic has some sort of limitation on it. It varies from person to person, but everyone in the Society has something that restricts when and how they can use their magic.”

  Jo thought of Snow as Nico spoke. Could a power that great be restricted by anyone or anything? But she stayed silent on the matter. Snow had never outright said not to, but Jo couldn’t imagine speaking to anyone else of the special place he’d taken her to on the other side of the Door. What he’d shown her felt innately private. She wouldn’t violate that confidence, no matter how many other stupid rules he imposed on them.

  Nico continued, “For example, Wayne’s is obvious. The bet must be about money. A relatively generous restriction compared to mine.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “My power only works on a person once. To look at one of my paintings a second time would do nothing.”

  “What?”

  He chuckled at her shocked reaction. “The person must be lost in the canvas. They can’t over-analyze, or the magic won’t take its hold. So, once a person knows how my magic works, even subconsciously, it can no longer be effective on them.”

  “How is that remotely fair?”

  “Magic isn’t fair.” Truer words hadn’t been spoken that day.

  “So, what’s mine?” Jo couldn’t help but wonder when she’d stop learning things about her new life. It’d been almost six months, after all.

  “I don’t know. You have to discover that on your own.” Nico patted her knee and stood.

  “Wonderful.” Jo bitterly turned her attention to the wide window, signaling that she was done with the conversation. Perhaps, on a normal day, she’d have more patience for it. But today, there just wasn’t anything left in the tank to deal with the nuances of magic.

  Nico crossed over to his easel and the canvas that waited for him. Nothing more than a mass of color was stroked upon the negative space—an image of chaos that could only be called to order by the artist.

  “What’re you painting?” Jo asked. Her voice softened instantly with a change of topic.

  “Julia.”

  As soon as he said the name, Jo saw it: the silhouette of a person yet taking form. She saw the early highlights of a brow and nose. She saw the mass of brown that would ultimately become hair. If Nico hadn’t just told her that he couldn’t use his magic on her again, she would’ve assumed it to be something fantastical to suddenly see the structure of the piece.

  “Tell me about her?” Jo put her coffee mug on the floor and spread out on the sofa, though the stretch of cushions suddenly felt too big for one. She rested her head on the tall armrest, watching him as he set to work.

  “My Julia?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was my muse. The stars were born of her tears and the sun of her smiles. She was everything good in my world and far more than I ever deserved. We lived in Florence. . .”

  As Nico spoke, his words tickled something in the back of Jo’s mind—something she’d read in the recreation room months ago about a Julia around Nico’s time, the mistress of some pope. But the paragon of goodness and purity Nico was describing surely couldn’t be the same woman. There had to have been dozens of Julias in Florence back then. . .

  Nico continued to speak, and the words, alight with the flame of love kept alive after all this time, was a beacon that lured her mind toward an oasis of calm in the storm that bellowed just outside of the Society’s existence.

  Chapter 8

  Waiting Game

  JO WATCHED NICO paint until her eyes were bloodshot and he was rubbing stiffness from his fingers.

  She’d stolen a heavy blanket from his bed somewhere around the time the conversation was dying, and had bundled herself up in it. It wasn’t that the room was cold, but that she felt cold. Jo felt as if she’d been pitched out to the vacuum of space. The only tether she had to the world was the sound of Nico’s voice and, when that gave out, his brush.

  At about the four-hour mark, Jo wished she could sleep. But it refused to come to her. No matter how much her mind begged for the relief, her body refused. So she settled for unfocusing her eyes and pushing her mind into a void until Nico stepped away from the easel, stretching, indicating that he was finished (for now).

  “I should pick up a hobby.” It was the first time either of them had broken the silence in—Jo tapped her watch—three hours.

  “A hobby? Seems like a good idea. What would you do?” He swirled his brush in a jar of mud-colored water.

  “I don’t know, maybe you could teach me how to paint? It seems cathartic.” Jo stood, folded up Nico’s quilt, and walked over to set it on his bed. Not for the first time, Jo couldn’t help but admire the man’s room; the homey messiness and the warm colors mirrored the half-finished canvases splattered in paint and ink.

  “I’m afraid we wouldn’t have enough time for that.” He placed the first brush in a different jar, and started the process on the second.

  “Don’t we have eternity?”

  “I’m afraid,” he said again slowly, “we wouldn’t have enough time for that.”

  “Oh, ha ha, very funny.” Jo rolled her eyes, walking over to the canvas.

  It was further along now, the streaks of color more obviously swirling into the silhouette of a woman. A beautiful woman, young and smiling and caught in laughter. It was breathtaking, even without Nico’s magic Jo’s eyes were drawn to it and only it.

  In many ways, the Society was a shame. Niccolo de’Este would never receive the acclaim he so rightly warranted. His pieces would never win awards or hang in museums; he would never be compared to Pollock or Van Gogh or Murakami. Instead, he would only ever be appreciated by a sparse group of seven—most of whom had questionable taste. It was far, far less than someone of his talent deserved.

  Jo could already feel the tell-tale ache in her heart growing thicker, lecherous—the same ache that seemed to thrive on realizations directly linked to her new reality. No matter how accepting she was of it, there was no helping the occasional feelings of loss that cropped up even still. For all intents and purposes, Nico was only nineteen. He should be studying art on a full ride at some university somewhere (or whatever the Renaissance equivalent was). He should be selling pieces by the dozens at local art shows. He should be living, just like she should be living. But their lives had been taken, all in exchange for the realities of people who would never know of their involvement, their existence.

  Just like magic itself, it wasn’t fair. Jo sucked in a breath and thought with vehement sorrow that, even if they had all agreed to join the Society in their own ways for their own reasons, the prices they paid didn’t seem to balance out.

  “I tease,” Nico said, oblivious to the torrent of thoughts that consumed her steps over to him and the easel. “Of course I would love to teach you to paint.”

  His voice was light, the banter easy, serving as a reminder that there was nothing she could do. She wasn’t going to waste her time wallowing in righteous self-pity. “Fair” was hardly a driving factor in the whirring cogs and gears of the universe’s clock, wasn’t it? The members of the Society no more deserved their fates than the citizens of Japan deserved theirs, but that didn’t make any of it any less real.

  “Well, you may be right, a different hobby might suit me better.”

  “Then we shall find it together.” Nico gave his hands one more wipe on his apron, though the motion was hopeless. The garment had just as much pigment on it as had soaked into his skin. His expression shifted, and there was only a second before he spoke, but a second was long enough for Jo to fill with dread at what she knew he’d say next. “For now, however, I think we should return to the rest of them.”

  A flash of panic ran down Jo’s spine at the thought, the sudden realization brought her back to the reality that existed beyond the reprieve that had been Nico’s room with a fierce and s
obering shock. They’d been sitting for nearly six hours. Had the majority of the carnage already settled? Did the volcano, god forbid, erupt again while they’d selfishly escaped their unwritten duty of bearing witness to the world’s horrors?

  Surely someone was still in the common area watching the news. The onset of the desire to know exactly what had transpired over the last couple of hours was swift and almost visceral, as if she was now personally connected to the damage and lives lost. Whether it was Takako’s legitimate association, or her own vicarious attachment, she felt instantly guilty for not keeping up to date.

  “You’re right. I want to see what’s happened.”

  With that, Jo and Nico wordlessly made their way down the hall. Not unexpectedly, there wasn’t just one person sitting on the couch in front of the television, but three.

  Eslar leaned forward, elbows on his knees and chin resting on his laced fingers. He seemed to be almost unnaturally engrossed in the news (how he had the stamina completely eluded her), analyzing what appeared to be new footage with a frown. Jo wondered if he’d even left the couch once. Samson sat to his side, occasionally whispering things in one of the elf’s long ears. Wayne was an island at the far end of the couch, his grim expression warding off company. No one seemed to notice Jo and Nico’s arrival, and as she shifted her gaze from the men to the television, it wasn’t hard to understand why.

  Most of the broadcast seemed to circulate between reporters’ comments about the carnage—of which there was a near indescribable amount—and actual footage of it. Mt. Fuji seemed to have finally settled. According to the scientists (for whatever their assessments were still worth) there were no further eruptions expected in the foreseeable future. That didn’t stop the continual oozing of lava and thick blanket of ash that now seemed to cover the globe. It was hard to believe, even harder to hope, that Mt. Fuji would stay dormant for long, not when its eruption had been so unexpected and violent.