His jaw shakes with the effort of holding himself back. “You picked me, remember? If you didn’t think I could do it, maybe you should have chosen someone else.”
A crease mars her brow, but she ignores his frustration and points to another drawing. “What’s this?”
“Your power source.”
She levels an unarmed glare at him, thrusting the paper in his direction. It floats to the floor. “We have a power source,” she says, biting each word.
Warwick stands. He can’t take her towering over him any longer. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t put as much trust in an unreliable jar of tears that holds no promise of a definite outcome. It’s best if the machine runs on a canteen power source with the alterations I made, just like—”
“We aren’t using any other power source,” she snaps, cutting him off. She pauses, toying with her head like a bird on its perch. “Did you design the chamber I requested?”
“I—”
“Don’t answer that,” she says. His throat tightens, and wet, smacking sounds come from his mouth as he tries to speak without a voicebox. Miss Hawkes clacks closer to him, placing a fingernail beneath his chin to direct his attention to her.
She stands several inches shorter, even in her heels. “We need powerful magic for this device, Warwick. Build it with the tears chamber.”
His head begins to swell like a balloon being tied off, and then she opens her hand in his direction. His airways open once more. He gasps for breath and bends, bracing his hands on his knees.
He hacks a few times, his throat dry, but he asks the question anyway. “If this is as important as you say it is, why power it with something so unreliable and hard to find? There has never been any way to monitor the outcome a jar of tears will bring to its drinker, let alone to prove its ability to power machinery.”
Miss Hawkes’s mouth twists. “Tears give the drinker what that person wants more than anything else. Considering how this machine of ours isn’t alive, I’m certain it doesn’t want anything. Therefore, it will work according to the calibrations we give it.”
“That’s possibly the most intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Warwick says, instantly wishing he could take it back.
Her eyes flash. “Is the machine ready or not?”
“The sketch is done to scale, Miss Hawkes, and manufacturing should only take a day or so. You have these dubious tears?”
“I will by the time your manufacturing is done.”
Despite her explanation, he still can’t figure it out. If this machine is so important, why base it on something so unpredictable?
“If you don’t mind my saying so, how do you know they’ll work? You’re basing a fair amount of your strategy on this, but what if the tears run out? What if they don’t power the machine like you want?”
She elevates her head. “We’ll be doing test runs as soon as I return, so you’ll need to have the prototype ready by then. You’ll have one day, Warwick.”
The flint grows, catching on the spark in his chest. Anger boils inside him, snaking along his outer edges and stirring everywhere it touches. He dips his hands in his pockets so she can’t see his fists tremble.
The sensation is still hard to manage, but he’s doing better at restraining it.
“We can’t test it using this infamous jar you claim is so powerful,” he says. “It may run out before it’s time to actually use it.”
“I have others that were found. The same time we got you, actually.”
Found. He scoffs. “Stolen, is more like it.”
Her heels clack toward him. “I could have your tongue cut out for the way you speak to me, you know.”
Warwick sniffs. He likes having a tongue, thank you very much. But she’s not capable of anything so harsh. Then again, considering the purple shade of her hand, maybe she is. She’s connected to people who wouldn’t think twice to carry out her order. He can’t decide which would be worse; having her or someone else do it.
Her face softens. “But I like that you speak your mind. Your mind is what I’m after, after all.”
“These extraction plans,” Warwick goes on, choosing his words carefully. “You mean to target everyone within a certain vicinity, but you realize you can’t take magic from someone who doesn’t physically own it.”
Gwynn props herself against the desk and flips through some papers there. “You may be right. But if there’s one thing I learned from my not-so best friend, it’s that ‘can’t’ is no longer a valid boundary.”
“I don’t understand you,” says Warwick, setting down his pencil. “At some points you speak as though you hate this Ambry Csille and want nothing more than to slit her throat and watch her bleed. Yet other times you have this longing towards her, like you actually miss her.”
Gwynn's nostrils flare. She storms away from the desk, knocking several of his drafting tools to the floor. Her hands alight and fill with a fury of purple sparks. He can’t move. His limbs freeze despite the fight in him, despite the way he kicks against the cement suddenly in his joints.
Miss Hawkes places a hand on either of his wrists, slamming his rolling chair into the wall. Fingers sizzling, she pinches Warwick’s cheeks until his lips pucker open like a dying fish.
“I changed my mind,” she says, holding him with more strength than he thought possible. Then again, it doesn’t take much strength to hold a motionless victim. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk for a while.”
And she shoves the purple flame into his mouth.
A cross between suspicion and utter dislike centers on my brother’s face as Ren meets Talon and me at the back door. A blush climbs in my cheeks.
“Ambry,” Ren says, eyes swapping between Talon and me. His brow lifts. “Where have you guys been?”
“Training,” says Talon, striding past Ren and making his way into the house.
Ren blocks me from following Talon in. “Training?” The disbelief in his tone is clear as glass.
“What?” I hate the accusation in his eyes, while at the same time I half wish that whatever he thinks Talon and I were doing out there was true.
“Training to do what, exactly?”
I pat him on the cheek in a patronizing kind of way. “Don’t you worry, big brother.” I push past him, but he claws my elbow, forcing my attention back.
“Be careful,” Ren warns.
“It’s not what you think.” I make sure my manner is as placating as possible and walk into the house.
Heat swarms over me, making me realize how cold I was outside. It’s not like I’m about to tell him what we really were discussing out there. Talon’s past, his craving for vengeance and all the reasons we can’t be together? Sure, Ren, you’ve got lots to worry about.
The back door leads into a laundry area, which branches into a kitchen where distinct sounds of cooking can be heard. Ayso flips something on the stove, and the Straylarks sit at the dining table, Jomeini staring at her hands.
Jomeini. I haven’t talked to her—not really. I’m not sure how to do it without being totally obvious, though after confessing to the group what I can do, I’m not sure there’s any more need to be discreet. She’s cleaned up since we got here. Her black hair is no longer matted down to her head, but thick and curling, pulled up halfway so pretty tendrils dangle around her face.
“Nice to see you again, Ambry,” says Solomus. Jomeini lifts her head when raised voices travel from the hallway.
“I was angry. I never should have left you shackled like that. But that doesn’t mean you get to disappear for hours with her…”
Guilt wriggles in, but I push it way down. I don’t blame Shasa for being upset. If only she knew how hard we were both trying to stay apart for her sake. Ugh, how could I ever have thought I could just be his friend? This is never going to work.
“You have a nice time?” Ayso asks, handing me a plate of food. Her mouth kinks, implying she’s guessing exactly how nice of a time Talon and I had alone in the woods together
. If she only knew.
Jomeini stares at a small flame dancing in her palm. Talon seemed so astonished when I made fire in that house after he kissed me. But mine didn’t look like her fire, with beads of silver streaking through the flames like stardust. He asked if I was a wizard, the only creature known to make fire. I’m not sure how mine came.
“That’s really beautiful,” I tell her, taking the seat beside Solomus.
Jomeini extinguishes the flame, her hands shaking. She fans them out on the table as though she needs the added support. She’s fidgety—she jerks without meaning to, then glances over her shoulder as though fearing someone is there.
I reach across Solomus’s book and touch her hand.
“He’s gone,” I tell her. “You’re safe here with us.”
Her eyes glaze for a moment. I can only imagine what she’s been through for the past three years. Solomus pats her on the shoulder and then when Jomeini doesn’t respond, he slides the book from beneath my arm, tilting it upward to continue reading.
“Nowhere is safe.” Jomeini casts a shifty glance at her grandfather. Disappointment settles in when he doesn’t return the glance. “But thank you.”
“What’s so fascinating in there?” I ask the wizard. Solomus blinks, surprised to find our attention on him. He opens his mouth when a loud slam hits from down the hall.
Ayso turns away from the oven, and starts passing out plates of bacon, eggs, and grits to the others in the living room. Glasses slipping down her nose, she wrinkles her nose to keep them from sliding off and gives me that twisted smile. “You sure know how to make people fight, don’t you?”
“Seems to be a gift I have,” I say with a sigh. Poor Talon. “This looks amazing, by the way.”
“Don’t yeh worry there too much,” says Zeke, taking a mouthful. His eyepatch is disconcerting. “Something tells me that girl will bicker about pretty much anything she don’t sit right with.”
“To answer your question, Miss Csille,” says the wizard, who hasn’t seemed to notice the plate sitting in front of him. “This book is quite fascinating. Craven is—was—a student of history and a collector of rare objects.”
“A collector of people too, it would seem,” says Ayso, resting her arms on the back of a chair. She gives Jomeini what I assume is meant to be a kind wink, but panic flares in the girl’s soft brown eyes and she ducks her head down.
Zeke pats a hand at the table across from her. “Don’t you worry none. We’ll keep any more of them dirty beggars a buck shot away from you, sweet cake.” The older man, gaps in his teeth, beams at her.
Jomeini’s lashes flutter. Her eyes never leave Zeke’s, and slowly, like melting ice cubes, her paranoia melts into a small smile.
“I suppose I am a bit jumpy,” she says.
“S’all right,” says Zeke. “You jump all you like, you got plenty a people around to keep you from falling.”
Solomus watches her with a dejected, guilty expression that makes me wonder what happened. How was she taken in the first place? Considering how on-edge the girl is, that’s not a question I’ll be asking any time soon.
“This is a rare book on the history of Itharia,” Solomus goes on, resting a hand on his granddaughter’s. She squeezes his fingers. “I’d wager the history taught to you by Arcaians wasn’t always accurate. In any case, I doubt any of their books go back as far as this one does.”
“How far?” I ask, instantly curious. Ayso pushes her glasses up onto her nose and leans forward. I remember the book she was devouring during breakfast the first day I met her. Looks like I’m not the only one.
“Back before the blood plague, an event happened called the Separation. This holds a record of the First creation. But it takes some deciphering. It’s been a while since I’ve read in the Ithillian language.”
“It’s written in Ithillian?” I’ve heard Talon speak a word here and there.
“It is.”
“And what have you deciphered?”
“What do you know of the First creation, Miss Csille?”
“Not much,” I admit. “Some kind of battle was fought that separated the races?”
Silence shrouds the room. Ayso rests an elbow on the back of Zeke’s chair, and the three onlookers offer Solomus their full attention.
Solomus rubs the bridge of his nose. “Yes, there was a battle. Long ago. The borders we know of now didn’t exist. Only one race spread across the land.”
“The Ithillians,” I say.
“Disputes over government spread. Half of the people wanted to be ruled by kings. The other half wanted more of a democracy, for the voice of the people to be the law. Civil war broke out as a result.
“Long story short, the fighting drove them to the shores of what is now Angel’s Basin in Feihria. The fighting grew so violent that a few broke away and hid in the mountains while they watched their people die off, one by one.”
“That’s horrible,” I say. I’d heard of the legendary battle before, but never like this.
“This small band of people agreed they couldn’t let their race go extinct. And they wanted to do something to prevent a similar battle from ever taking place again.”
“Why, though?” I ask. “Why were they killing each other off? Wouldn’t they stop?”
“Ithillians were strong; they held each race’s powers all in one. But because of this they were literally obliterating one another. The angels intervened at Angel’s Basin, separating willing Ithillians into who you refer to as the Firsts.”
“Lot of good they’ve done us,” says Zeke.
Solomus ignores him and twines his knuckles together. “A group was left and they paired off according to their families. Some, according to what power they considered the most beneficial.
“One family claimed the power to heal, create fire and restore life. One got power to manipulate the electrical stream that runs through all living things. Another got the power of influence through song. One claimed the power of subjugation. Only one man among them wanted no abilities at all. He and his wife parted for what we now know of as Arcaia.”
A flutter makes its way up my spine. “Is it true, sir?” I ask.
Solomus grins. “The birth of the Firsts.”
I stare at him across the table, wondering what else that book of his expounds on. Is that why he’s studying it, to understand Nattie and her people? He’s been so attentive to it, but it has to hold more than the story of a creation.
Another door slams and footsteps pound, growing closer and closer. Shasa storms into the kitchen. Her hair feathers down around her shoulders like black silk. She’s wearing fresh clothes as well, along with a look so savage I set the plate down and hold out my hands.
“Hey,” she says, heading straight for me.
I rise. I’m not about to let her catch me without my footing. “I know you’re upset. Can we have this conversation in private?”
I feel the others’ eyes on me like a blemish.
Shasa pushes her lips out. “No, we’re going to have this conversation right here.”
I keep my hands up. “Look, I’m sorry Talon kidnapped me to get the tears. That things happened neither he nor I anticipated.”
Shasa coughs. “You think you know so much. You know nothing.” She points in my face at the last word.
It’s not my fault! I want to shout to the sky. I didn’t know about Shasa when I fell for him. I’m not sure it would have made a difference, but I’d like to think it would have. It’s not my fault he’s struggling with his troubled past. Shasa is pissed, and honestly, I don’t blame her. I’m a roadblock in the future she was expecting to have.
Emptiness builds, and my throat clogs like I’ve just swallowed sawdust. I take a deep breath. Shasa and Talon aside, I’ve got to get the tears back. Then I can figure out the deal with this spell and go home.
“Can we lay our differences aside for now? Then when we get the tears, and once I’ve stopped Tyrus and gotten my best friend back, you can cha
llenge me to a duel or something.”
Ayso snickers at this. Her fork clinks as Shasa pelts a glare her direction before returning it to me.
“You’ll lose.”
“Excuse me?”
“The duel. You’ll lose.”
Zeke lets out a low whistle. Fury floods into my chest, and I tremble with the effort of holding myself back. “I took you on once. I’m fairly certain I could do it again.”
Confrontation and challenge buds in her blue eyes. “You only got away because Talon intervened. He won’t this time.”
Magic merges into place, seeping out like blood from a fresh wound. I throttle it down.
Instead of the heated argument I anticipate, or even the fist I’m hoping she’ll swing at me, her eyes harden.
I’m far too aware of our audience. All eyes are pegged to us, just waiting for a show. Zeke fingers a blade, ready to intercede.
Shasa notices them too. Her mouth widens into a mirthless, knowing smile. I don’t like the look of that smile.
“Does Talon spark your lips with his magic when he kisses you? No? You should ask him to sometime—it will rock your—”
“Forget this.”
I push past her. It’s all I can do to simply walk, to keep the energy chained. I want to slap her, to act out in some way, but something tells me that’s exactly what she was waiting for. I haven’t been training lately. I don’t really know if I can match her in a fight. Plus, she just got her magic back— I just saved her! I’ve never bested Talon in a fight, and I’m sure she’s right about that. I would lose.
Much as I try to ignore it, her question plagues me like a catchy, annoying rhythm that pits just the right place into your brain and refuses to leave. I hate that he’s kissed her. I hate that he’s choosing her. Moments ago I thought I’d be okay just being his friend. But the thought of his hands on her waist, his breath touching her skin before his lips find hers, the emptiness that builds higher and higher, creating my own personal cavern in my chest, it all makes me ill.
Back in the kitchen, Zeke says, “She saved your life, you know,” and Shasa snaps, “Then I’ll make her live to regret it.”
Such a Daring Endeavor Page 17
