by Hays, Casey
He’s quiet, his breaths keeping an even rhythm. I lift my head to see if he heard me. A sly smile steals onto his lips.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “It’s kind of a nasty habit. It makes life easy, though. And entertaining.”
“Kane.” I thump my fist against his chest. “How many times have you compelled Jonas?”
He pretends to think. I smack his chest again.
“You need to stop. Gema told me how it works. It’s not right.”
“I know,” he sighs.
“Kane.”
“Okay. I’ll stop. For you.” He kisses the top of my head.
“Promise?”
“Yes,” he nods. I’m not sure I believe him, but I let it go for now.
“Can I ask you one more thing?” I ball my fist up where it lays against him.
“Why not?” he drawls.
“How did you do it at the club? How’d you keep people away from our table?”
He readjusts, slinking down a little to see into my eyes. “I compelled the area.”
“Yeah?” I’m intrigued. “How did you do that?”
“I made it seem like someone was sitting at the table.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. But I sit up slightly, a little amazed. “It takes a little more effort, but it’s possible.”
“Really? So when people looked at the table, they saw someone sitting there?”
“I don’t think so.” He rolls to his back. “It’s more like a feeling. They feel a presence, I guess. Or a void. Something. I can’t compel myself to find out, so you know, it’s an educated guess.”
“Huh.” My head falls back against his arm. “That’s interesting.”
“Yep. It’s how I’ve kept your bugs away all these years too.”
This hits me like a love struck arrow straight through my chest. You know that saying the way to a man’s heart…? Well, here’s the way to mine. Keep the creepy, little six and eight-legged creatures away, and you’re in.
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just runs his fingers through my hair again. I close my eyes, sink into his breathing, match it with my own, and Frankie flits across my mind. If only she knew what kind of night I’m having; she’d eat it up. A sadness soars through me at the thought. I’ve stumbled into Frankie’s dream, and I can’t even tell her about it. It’s so unfair.
Kane’s arm tightens around me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You feel negative all of a sudden.”
Right. I forgot about that little skill of his.
“I was just thinking about Frankie and our project.”
“Ah. How’s that coming along?”
“She’s hot on your trail,” I reply. I’m only half-joking.
“Uh-oh.”
“So… how many Firebloods are there?”
“I don’t know.” I feel his shrug. “Several thousand by now, I guess. Maybe more. We’re all over the world.” He drops his head back against the cushion and sighs. “My dad is Irish, obviously. That’s where the Vatra u Krvi originated. My dad’s family settled in Carson City in the seventies during a huge Irish immigration to Nevada.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “I think that’s when some of my dad’s family came over. He didn’t get here until his last year of high school.” I pause. “Frankie has this old Irish journal. Dated 1971.”
“That journal’s a fake,” Kane says. Surprised, I lift up to look at him. He smiles. “I found it in the tent. I hate to disappoint Frankie, but a Fireblood wrote it, filled it with all sorts of nonsense to throw people off our trail.”
“No way. Like what?”
“For one, we aren’t nine feet tall.”
I laugh. “Okay. I’ll buy that.”
“We also don’t hunt on warm nights. We aren’t primitive creatures. We’re human, with some extra chemicals.”
“Thank goodness for that.” I run my hand down his arm. “I was afraid we were going to find a monster.”
“Nope. Just me.”
I laugh again. He squeezes me close. He wears khaki shorts, and our skin sticks together where our legs cross. I don’t mind it. I play with the middle button on his shirt. This might be as good a time as any to tell him about the crate. So… here goes.
“We found that journal in a crate in Frankie’s basement.” I unbutton his shirt, rebutton it. “It has some other interesting things inside.”
“Yeah?
“Mm-hmm. So I don’t know. Maybe it’s something. But maybe it’s nothing but a box full of fakes.”
“What’s in it?”
I flip to my stomach and prop up on my elbows, my body leaning into his with the curve of the swing. I can see his eyes, simmering with tiny, orange flames. His fingers run the length of my arm, up and down—a slight tickling.
“Lots of things. A feather. A research paper that explains camouflaging and inner-compelling.”
He stills. “A research paper about inner-compelling?”
I nod, and his eyes travel over my face, as if he’s searching to see if I’m telling the truth.
“What does it say?”
“It says that’s how you camouflage. That this is how you make your wings invisible.” I shrug. “Stuff like that.” After a second, I glance at him. “Is it true?”
He lifts his brows. “Well, yeah. That’s how we hide our wings, among other things.” He thinks, his eyes searching the stars. “Her dad has all that stuff?”
I nod. “Frankie found it in his office, but he didn’t want to talk about it when she asked him. That’s where she got her idea for this project. Lots of information about Amir Ademov.” He looks at me in such a way that I wish I could read his mind. “Do you think it’s authentic? That the feather and other things we found could really belong to a Fireblood?”
“Probably,” he replies, a little unnerved. I totally get it. “What else is in it?”
“A necklace… with a ruby.” My fingers immediately grapple with my ring. “And there was a letter written in some strange language.”
“No kidding?” Kane squints at me. “You didn’t recognize it?”
“Not a word.”
He chuckles.
“What?” I tap his side with my fist. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Does that language mean something to you?”
“Nope.” He plants his gleaming eyes on me. They crinkle in the corners with a humorous glint that irritates me.
“Oh. You’re gonna be tight-lipped now?” I reach up and tousle his hair until he laughs, gripping my wrist. “Well, how about this? Frankie also caught someone talking on her audio recording at Spooner Lake. In a strange language. Do you still wanna laugh?”
Immediately, Kane tenses. I mean, his body goes completely rigid. His hold tightens on my wrist just enough to make me want to pull away. The atmosphere shifts, literally cooling.
“Did you hear it?” His voice is soft, but his eyes? They are full of terror, and it scares me.
“Well, I heard something. I can’t really listen to it. It hurts my head.”
“Where’s the audio?”
“Frankie has it.” I swallow. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Before he has time to even think about whether or not to answer me, something clicks inside my own head. For a minute, I struggle with the thought that bounces around in my brain looking for a place to land, and I can’t believe I hadn’t already pieced it together. Kane flared the night of our camping trip, so…
I veer away, honing in on him. “It’s you on that recording, isn’t it?”
He sits, pushing me up with him, and the momentum kicks the swing into motion. “You have to get that audio from her.”
I stare at him, shocked. “It isn’t mine to take.”
“But can you get it?” His hands grip my shoulders.
“I—” My mouth goes dry.
This is my dilemma. See, I have no qualms with stopping Frankie from finding out the tru
th about Kane. I’ll push her in every other direction—away from Kane and toward another Fireblood if I have to. At this point, it’s a no-brainer; I promised Gema, and I’ll keep my promise. But I never considered what I might have to do in the process, and I don’t like it. Frankie’s not about to simply hand over the audio, which means I’ll have to take it. I’ll have to pretend I have no idea what happened to it when she can’t find it. Stealing and lying. Not really my style.
I don’t want to betray one friend in order to save another. Because then, I have to decide who is more important.
I study Kane. He begs me to say something, his eyes intense with swirling bits of fire and desperation. I don’t know what to do, so I push away from him and come to my feet.
“Jude—”
“Wait.” I hold up both hands to shut him up. “I need a minute.”
He leans forward, the swing tipping until his feet meet the ground, and he sits, hands clasped. His white quarter-sleeve button up is open at the top, and his hair is flattened on one side. He drops his head forward, runs his fingers through it, and looks at me. Hands on hips, I turn away, staring out across the yard.
“I don’t like you putting me in this position,” I say. The swing creaks as Kane stands, and I tense when I feel him come up behind me.
“I know.”
He doesn’t touch me, but I can sense the heat of his skin. I can smell him, and this sends me cascading into a state of confusion. I want to do what he asks. And why? Because he asks. Because he does matter to me more than all my other friends. Because even though he can’t compel me, his stupid scent can.
“That’s you on the audio?” I ask again, my back to him.
Silence.
“Kane?”
“Yes. It’s me.”
I turn, but I keep a few inches between us.
“You speak that language?”
He says nothing, but his eyes answer for him with a quick flicker. I nod, and look away.
“I can’t hear it.” I refocus on him. “Why? Why do I only hear screeches I can’t bear to listen to?”
“I don’t know.” His shoulders lift and fall once in defeat. “You—you’re kind of a mystery to me.”
His desperation is raw, beating with the rhythm of his heart.
“Why do you need it? I mean, Frankie can’t interpret it. She’s tried. I think you’re safe.”
“She can’t, but someone else might be able to.”
Suspicion grabs my full attention, and I squint at him. “What did you say that you don’t want anyone to hear?”
“Jude, please.” His voice rises with frustration. He turns a wide circle, runs both hands through his hair, and stops in front of me. “Don’t play these games. My parents don’t need to ever know about that audio. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
I drop my hands to my sides. “What do you mean you’re in trouble? I thought everything was over.”
“Here, yes. But not with the Fireblood Contingent.”
The hairs on my arms perk up, and I shiver despite the dry outdoor heat. “What’s the Fireblood Contingent?”
He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “It’s our governing regiment. I go before the disciplinary board next week.”
“What?”
He tries to smile, but his dimples fall flat. “An unauthorized flare doesn’t go unnoticed.”
I can’t speak. I just hold still as another fraction of the Firebloods’ life opens up to me like the big doors of a dark castle full of golden treasure. Except you have to kill a dragon to reach it. Kane catches my hands in his and tugs me a little closer.
“Do you understand now?” he whispers. “That audio can’t exist. If it falls into the hands of the Contingent...” His voice trails.
“What? What will happen to you?”
“You don’t want to know.”
The fear in his voice freezes my blood. It just stops running through my veins and chills me to the bone. In the next second, I step into him, tucking myself into his chest until he folds me up in his arms. A desperate ache rips through my heart, and that’s all it takes to convince me that I have no choice. I have to do it.
“I’ll get it,” I whisper.
His sigh of relief physically rattles my freezing bones. I just want to cry.
Twenty-one
It’s Friday.
Mom has been in Portland for almost a week. I’ll throw that in just to reestablish my temporary orphan status. Okay… that was mean, and I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Mom needs this. I’ll keep my mouth shut about it.
I went to the art store this morning and bought supplies to begin building our display, and I told Frankie to come over for lunch. Of course since then, Guilt has become my best friend, along with his buddies: Scheming and Sabotaging. I feel like throwing up.
A small part of me wishes I could rewind all the way back to last Friday. Because last Friday was before last Saturday, and last Saturday was the day I changed my life with one accidental kiss that opened the door to Kane’s world.
In hindsight, I understand it was inevitable. Eventually I would have entered his world even without that kiss because it was also inevitable that I was going to fall in love with him. He would never have been able to keep such a big secret from me.
Still, things were predictable last Friday. Mom was drowning in perpetual depression. Firebloods didn’t exist. Gema’s painting was nothing more than a fabrication straight from her artist’s imagination, and there was no such thing as a Fireblood Contingent. Oh, and one last thing: I was not plotting to steal a thumb drive in order to keep my Vatra u Krvi boyfriend from having to face a firing squad. I know. It sounds hilariously unreal when I vocalize it. But you have to agree, things were much simpler.
To make matters worse, rehab hasn’t let Mom call since Tuesday, and all of my calls go straight to her voice mail. After one final attempt, I send her a text full of emoji symbols in place of words and toss my phone onto the coffee table. I doubt she’ll get it. They probably confiscated her phone now that she’s in the thirty day program.
I’ve spent mountains of time alone in this house since Dad died, but this time around, it’s different. Usually, Mom is only ten minutes away at the hospital. She comes home most mornings dressed in her scrubs and white standard-issued shoes that make zero noise when she walks. With her working night shifts, we might not talk for days… although sometimes, this has nothing to do with her work schedule. Still, I can slip into her room and find her sleeping under a pile of blankets in the middle of her bed. It’s comforting.
Obviously, Mom and I have drifted apart some over the years. It doesn’t mean I don’t need her. I can still talk to her on her good days, and even though I complain more than I probably should, the good days are coming around more often. Admitting herself into rehab is a huge step forward. I have to give her credit.
I honestly miss her.
Sulking over Mom’s absence gets me to thinking about Dad, and believe it or not, I end up in the den staring at the piano.
It stares back—a huge crouching animal.
I chew on my thumbnail as a fresh fear envelops me. The tarp still lies on the floor in a heap where I left it. I lift the lid quickly and step back, like I think the black and white keys might bite me or something. They don’t. They just wait for me, alive with memories of Daddy. They whisper with heartache inside the notes we created together. Nostalgic. Longing for me to give them a voice again. I clutch a fist to my stomach.
This was my happy place once, and I was angry for a long time when it disappeared. Angry at my dad for leaving. At Mom for climbing inside a hole and living like a dead woman. Her struggle made me bitter, and I wanted her to stop grieving. I wanted to blame her for my own sadness too. I thought, if she could just pull it together, we could be happy again. She could make that happen for both of us. As my mom, it was her job.
I understand better now, especially when I think about how much Kane means to me. Mom lost her only tr
ue love; it isn’t fair for me to deprive her of her grief no matter how long it takes. And she’s working on it—not just lip service but real concrete steps this time. I can’t blame her for my anger or sadness or loneliness. I never could. It’s always been on me.
I’ve taken tiny steps toward sewing up my own heart, and I’ll challenge the first person to dispute it. On the outside, I look fine. Perfect to some. In fact, most people have forgotten that I lost my dad. That’s how fine I seem. Baby steps, right?
Right. I can lie to the world all I want, but in reality, Kane was right to call me out the other night at the club. It’s been nearly five years, and if you look closely enough, you’ll see I’ve left some ragged stitches trailing on the edges.
I hesitate before I open the bookcase with a shaky hand. A stack of music sheets sits on the top shelf. I stare at them for an entire minute before I reach in and pull out the top few.
I was nine when Dad and I wrote this piece together. I smile as I read the title again. “Sonata Gallagher.” After all this time, it’s still so familiar. It’s not a hard piece, nothing like one of Beethoven’s. It’s simple. But when I was nine, it was a masterpiece.
I lower myself onto the bench, clenching the music in my hands.
This is the true test—the one obstacle that stands in the way of contending with my unfinished grief. For a while now, I’ve been thinking that if I can get through this—if I can play this one song—my crazy life might just fall into some manageable place.
I spread the music across the stand and position my fingers before my panic can talk me into fleeing the room again. The intensity of it overwhelms me for a moment, and I pull back and drop my shaky fists into my lap. My eyes scan the first sheet, following the notes. The song revives inside my head.
I’m so afraid. Afraid of what I’ll feel. My throat closes up.
You can do this, Jude.
I can do this.
Inside a shiver, I poise my shoulders and strum out the first few notes. That’s the hardest part—getting started. But I reach the second measure, then the third, the fourth, and a dying coal in the very pit of my heart begins to glow.
It’s been a while since we had the piano tuned; it doesn’t matter. The tune enraptures me, and I’m gone—swept up and carried away by its simplistic beauty. My daddy’s scent, his strong arms holding me, his bluer than blue eyes, the sounds in his voice—all of it comes pouring over me like a waterfall of memory.
