by Kami Garcia
She listened. The silence unnerved her. Then it irritated her, and she took her hand off the door.
“I know you’re following me.” Her words echoed against the glass in front of her, though they were meant for the owner of the footsteps behind her. “I have Mace.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” The low voice belonged to a man, but there was nothing menacing about his tone. It almost sounded as if he was amused.
Unfortunately, Lila Jane wasn’t. “Did you think I was too stupid to notice you were following me?”
“I don’t think you’re stupid.” Now he really did sound as if he was trying not to laugh. “I think you might be the smartest person I’ve ever had the pleasure of not meeting.” His words had become warm and low, almost conspiratorial. “Yet.”
Lila Jane slowly turned around.
The boy—or man, depending on your definition—in front of her was tall and lanky, with dark hair and even darker eyes. His oxford shirt was finely stitched, and his pants looked unusually well cut beneath the dark overcoat flapping open at his sides. She tried to piece the resulting picture together, but it wasn’t a familiar one. Lila Jane had never seen a boy like him at Duke, or anywhere else.
He doesn’t look like a murderer. But you never know.
Either way, he was still rude to follow her through the entire library without saying a word until now.
Rude, or very strange.
Lila Jane frowned. “I’m Lila. So now you’ve met me. Can you leave me alone?”
He tilted his head, watching her. His eyes were even darker than his hair, but his skin was pale, almost translucent. “If your name is Lila, why does your friend from the library call you Janie?”
The longer Lila Jane stared at him, the more she realized he looked like someone who never left the library. Had she seen him there?
“You mean Marian? She calls me all sorts of things,” she explained as if they were friends. “My middle name is Jane. Lila Jane.”
Why do I feel like I have to explain myself to him? she thought, her cheeks flushing.
“Like Jane Eyre. It suits you.”
For some reason she wanted to tell him that Jane Eyre was her mother’s favorite novel, and Jane her favorite literary heroine. Instead she asked him a question. “And you are?”
His mouth turned up at the corners. “Charmed.”
Lila Jane crossed her arms. “And rude. And you could be a murderer, for all I know.”
“A murderer? Is that what you thought?” The hint of a smile faded, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Actually, I want to help you.” She must have looked as confused as she felt, because he added, “With the Licentia in Lux Lucis.”
Lila Jane froze. He was referring to her parchment—the mystery that had consumed her for the past week. “What about it?”
“It’s not a poem. It’s a—it’s a kind of spell.”
“A spell? You’re serious?” She stared at him. He looked serious, but she couldn’t be sure.
He shrugged. “You took Fliegelman’s Text and Context seminar, didn’t you? I was in it, too. Back row.”
“I never saw you there.” She smiled. “But, you know. Front row.”
He looked at the ground. “I know. And I’m sort of an expert at not being seen, with tonight’s rare exception.”
“Go on.”
“Remember the week Fliegelman lectured on performative language? Incantations, spells, speaking in tongues?”
“Yes. Your basic “Madwomen in the Attic” syllabus week. I remember.”
“That’s when I figured it out. I’m not saying the Lux Lucis works as a magic spell—”
She laughed. “Of course not. That would be ridiculous.”
His eyes stayed locked on hers, steady through the dim light. “Yes. Of course. Ridiculous.” Then he smiled. “What I am saying is that’s the reason it was conceived.”
She frowned. “The Lux? A spell? How do you know that?”
“Because I think I’ve found the rest of the… well, I guess you’d call it a spell book.” He said the words as if they felt as strange to say as they were to hear.
A spell book?
As in magic spells?
Like the Salem witch trials magic? Like hypnosis and psychics and superstition?
It would make sense—and align with the rest of her research on the origin of American belief systems. In fact, it might be the perfect conclusion to her term paper.
Part of her wanted to run to the apartment and forget this entire conversation. But she couldn’t. The thing that burned inside her—the power that had demanded she leave behind the stifling smallness of her life and move to the big city of Durham—the same force that compelled her to return to the rare books library day after day—it had taken hold again.
Lila Jane knew better than anyone that once the questions took root in her mind, there was no power on Earth that could stop her from finding the answers.
She exhaled, a ripple of excitement expanding through her chest. “And this book? You still have it?” She found herself closing the distance between them. It was more than just the pull of a strangely exotic-looking college boy with a slow Southern drawl; she was on the hunt now, and it wasn’t for a date. It was for meaning—and not just the kind that could be found by translating a few Latin words.
Freedom in Light? It’s not just a prayer. It means something bigger than that. It has to—I can feel it.
“You mean the spell book, if that’s what you want to call it? Of course. Right here in my bag.” He nodded—perhaps a bit smugly, she thought.
It felt like a dare, and she took it. Though, deep down, Lila Jane Evers knew she was the one daring herself.
“Well then.” She tossed her head defiantly.
“Well what?” He looked amused.
“Well then, what are you waiting for, Mr. I-Carry-Around-Nineteenth-Century-Texts-in-My-Bag? Let’s go take a look.”
He paused for a long moment, as if he hadn’t been expecting her response. “Are you sure, Jane? I’m sorry… I mean, Lila Jane?”
“You can call me Jane. My grandfather does.” She shrugged. “So does my best friend.” She didn’t feel like Lila Jane; she felt like Jane, the heroine in a story yet to be written. Lila Jane lived in small towns and did small things. Jane went off with strange classmates in the night to study mysterious parchments—even spells, if that was what they were.
“And I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life,” she added.
It was the truth.
As sure as Lila Jane had been that someone was following her, now she was equally sure about the rightness of the boy in front of her.
Of him, and what he could show her.
Suddenly, she wanted to know everything he knew—about the Lux and about anything else he might have seen from his seat in the back of the class.
He drew a pale bare hand out of his jacket pocket. “I’m Macon. Macon Ravenwood.”
She took his hand. It was freezing cold, colder than the night around them, which made no sense, considering it had been in his pocket. “What a grand old Southern name you have, Macon.”
He didn’t smile. “You have no idea. But there’s an all-night coffee shop a few blocks from here, if you have a craving for… research. We could call a cab.”
“Let’s walk. It’s not that cold, and I’ve never been afraid of the dark.”
He raised an eyebrow.
When she finally pulled her tingling hand away from his, she slid it back into her giant pocket with all the other things that couldn’t be explained, and followed Macon into the darkness of Chapel Drive.
Twenty minutes later, in a vinyl booth at the back of a nameless diner, Lila Jane Evers and Macon Ravenwood argued about history and syntax and Latin and Greek, over an old book and nearly as ancient coffee.
They didn’t notice the time until the sun came up again—but by then, even the least perceptive busboy could tell it was
too late for both of them.
Lila Jane Evers and Macon Ravenwood were in love.
III. Brotherly Love
Just after dawn, Macon made his way to the Outer Door behind the Perkins Library, which led into the Caster Tunnels—the magical labyrinth of passageways that ran below the Mortal world. He quickly double-checked the surrounding area, but as usual, there was no one. Mortals rarely wandered around behind the library at this hour and even when they did, they never paid attention to what was happening around them.
Except Lila Jane Evers, he thought with a smile. She was easily the smartest and most perceptive Mortal girl he’d ever met. And the most beautiful.
Finally speaking to her, after watching her from the back of the lecture hall more times than he could count, had thrown him off-balance. Jane was no ordinary girl.
But she’s still a Mortal, which makes her off-limits.
Macon slipped through the Doorwell and stepped down into the shadows until his foot found the invisible stair below, as he knew it would. He needed the peace and quiet of his study in the Tunnels to think, and to continue his research. It was the reason he chose to walk instead of Traveling. Materializing whenever and wherever he wanted to go was one of the few perks of being an Incubus—at least if you were born into the Ravenwood line of Blood Incubuses. Maybe one day it would become less disturbing, but Macon found that difficult to imagine.
How long can I avoid it? How much time did he have until the Transition, when his powers and his thirst would be at their strongest?
Months? Weeks?
As he navigated through the damp stone that encased every inch of this particular Tunnel like a tomb, Macon let his mind drift back to Jane. He smiled at the thought of her navy peacoat, which was clearly meant for a man, and the way she seemed indifferent to her own beauty. Intelligence was a different matter.
She actually cares about ideas and opinions. About what people think and why they think it—unlike everyone else in my life.
Macon was still smiling when he opened the door to his study, until he noticed an unexpected—and uninvited—visitor.
“Look who finally decided to show up.” His brother Hunting lounged in Macon’s favorite armchair, with his black boots propped up on Macon’s claw-foot desk. Hunting picked up one of the books from the stack on the desk. “The Incubus and Succubus: Tracing the Roots of Bloodlust?” He tossed the rare book on the floor. “I can’t believe you read this crap. No wonder you’re depressed all the time.”
Macon crossed the room and shoved Hunting’s boots off his desk. “I don’t remember inviting you over or asking for your book recommendations—assuming you’ve learned to read by now.”
Hunting pointed a finger at his brother and winked, his pupil-less black eyes reflecting Macon’s image back at him. “Nice one. You can insult me later. I need a favor.”
Macon wasn’t interested in doing the sorts of favors that appealed to Hunting. “What is it this time? Grand larceny? Armed robbery? Am I getting warm?”
“Nothing quite that fun. Sorry to disappoint you.” Hunting rose and walked over to the mirror above Macon’s sink and admired his long canines. He had already Transitioned, becoming the newest addition to the Ravenwood family of Blood Incubuses. “I need a wingman. Found myself a pretty little Kappa Kappa Gamma debutante. Young and stupid, just the way I like ’em.”
Rage pulsed through Macon’s veins. “How many Mortal women have you bled dry since you Transitioned, Hunting? You tore your own girlfriend apart, for God’s sake.” It was an image burned in Macon’s memory—the sight of what was left of his brother’s Mortal girlfriend, a girl Hunting had loved as much as he was capable of loving anyone. Now Hunting was the equivalent of a supernatural serial killer, stalking Mortal girls with no mercy.
Hunting yawned. “Does that mean you aren’t coming?”
“Get out.” Macon pointed at the door. “I’m ashamed to share your blood.”
“But you do, whether you like it or not.” Hunting’s eyes narrowed. “And Silas is tired of waiting for you to come around.” They rarely referred to Silas as their father, maybe because he never acted like one.
Hunting glanced at the door and laughed. “Only a pathetic excuse for an Incubus would think I’d use the door.”
“I don’t care how you go, as long as you leave.”
“It’s funny,” Hunting said, looking his brother in the eye. “After all of Silas’ lectures about how I shouldn’t date a Mortal girl, you fall for one.”
Macon froze.
How does he know about Jane already?
Before Macon had a chance to ask him, Hunting dematerialized—disappearing into thin air, as if he’d never been there at all.
Macon dropped into his empty armchair, where his brother had been sitting only a moment ago. His head ached—along with his heart.
I’ll give it one week. Just to see what could’ve been—who I could’ve been. A glimpse of the life I’ll never know.
That’s not too much to ask, is it?
Macon already knew the answer, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it.
IV. Confessions
“Wake up. It’s almost noon. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you all week.” Marian walked into Lila’s room before she was fully awake. Marian was brushing her teeth, still wearing her silk kimono.
“Maybe I met someone,” Lila said, her head still under the pillow. “And my whole life has changed in the last six days”—her words were muffled—“and you were too busy working and going to class to notice.”
“Maybe you met someone?” Marian almost choked on her toothbrush. “You?”
Lila sat up on her futon. “He’s just helping me with a project. A prayer book or spell book or something. It’s not clear yet.”
“You mean, like, Salem stuff? Witch trials?” A strange expression passed over Marian’s face. “For your ABS paper?”
“Exactly. He solved the translation problem I’ve been stuck on for a week. He’s an intellectual genius, and different from anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life.”
“Intellectual genius? Hello? I’m right here.” Marian pretended to pout. “Okay, fine. What project, which hypothetical someone, and when can I administer the appropriate best friend interrogation?”
Lila smiled. “The Lux. And you’ll meet him. Today, in fact. For lunch. Plenty of time to give your approval before our first kiss, which sadly has yet to happen.” She flopped back on the futon with a groan.
Marian held up her toothbrush, laughing. “So if you aren’t kissing, what are the two of you doing? Just going over old documents together?”
Lila covered her eyes, embarrassed. “Sometimes our shoulders touch.”
“What time is lunch? I have a shift at two.”
“Crap.” Lila sat up again, checking her mother-of-pearl watch. “Crap. Crap. Crap. I said we’d meet him in twenty minutes.” She was out of bed in a flash, which meant something she wasn’t ready to admit.
This was serious.
Lila Jane saw Macon across the crowded tables at Q Shack, which was crawling with Duke students. She and Marian were already at a table, and she elbowed her best friend, who had her back to the door. “He’s here. Don’t be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Marian said, giving her a strange look. “But if you want to talk about who’s nervous—”
“It’s just that he’s so—him. And you’re so you. And I want you both to like each other so much.”
Marian smiled, grabbing Lila Jane by the arm. “Relax. If you like him, I’m going to like him.”
“Promise?” Lila Jane reached around Marian’s neck and squeezed her in a best-friends-forever sort of way.
“Promise,” Marian said. “With the small caveat that if you choke me to death, I won’t get to meet him at all.”
Lila Jane smiled and relaxed just as Macon made it to the table. “There you are,” he said, taking off his coat. “Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find the place. I’m afra
id I don’t actually get out all that—”
Marian looked up at Macon towering over them, and he abruptly stopped talking and taking off his coat.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him, then turned to Lila Jane without waiting for his answer. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
“No.” He took a step back. “Of course not.”
“Wait—you know each other?” Lila Jane pushed back her chair, scraping the floor. She shook her head. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
“Yes, please do,” Marian said, her eyes fixed on Macon.
“I can explain,” Macon said. “It’s nothing. Harmless. A flirtation.”
“A what?” Lila Jane looked like he’d slapped her. “What are you saying?”
Marian shook her head. “No, Macon—what are you thinking?” She stood up, grabbing Lila Jane by the arm. “Listen to me. You have to stay away from him. Macon Ravenwood is the kind of trouble you know nothing about.”
“Clearly,” Lila Jane said, yanking her arm away. “But it seems like you know all about him. You two had a thing, didn’t you? And now it’s awkward, and I’m in the middle of all of it?” She grabbed her bag. “Don’t let a harmless flirtation like me get in the way.”
“Jane,” Macon began. “Please.”
“It’s not what you think,” Marian said.
But Lila Jane Evers was out the door before either of them could tell her anything worse than what she already thought she knew.
Marian finally found Lila Jane, on the top floor, in the most remote stacks at Perkins, surrounded by a pile of ancient, open books. She had a finger in one book to hold her place, a glove in a second, and a sock in another.
This was her safe space.
Marian sat on the floor next to her best friend and leaned against the wall of books behind them. “Memoirs? What is it with you and memoirs?”
Lila Jane shrugged, closing the book in her lap. “It must be daunting to work out your own story. Lord knows, I never have. And this week wasn’t a step in the right direction.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Mare.”
