Fire and Bone

by Rachel A. Marks

  “Whoa. Really?”

  “It’ll take practice, though.”

  “How did I start a fire when I was sleeping? That’s the part I’m worried about.”

  “We’ll get to that.” His feet shift again and he begins to pace. “First you have to feel deeper, understand where the energy is coming from in a more practical way. So what you have to do is look inward. Peel your skin back and consider your muscles, your tendons, your bones.”

  I scrunch up my face.

  He ignores my reaction and continues. “But most importantly, you should think about the blood that feeds all of it. The life that weaves the energy through you, with your heartbeat.” After a pause, he asks impatiently, “Are you focusing?”

  “Yeah, yeah, totally.” But I’m not sure I know how. What do my insides really look like? “So, the muscles and stuff, that’s what I’m thinking of? Or the blood?”

  He grunts, and I squint to peek at him. He’s frowning at the floor and shaking his head. “Let’s simplify it. Just listen to your heartbeat, okay?”

  That I can do. I close my eyes again and go as still as possible.

  “Breathe in through your nose,” he says, “and listen.”

  I do what he says, breathing in and out slowly. A bird’s song rises into my consciousness, and I hear the distant rush of the waterfall outside, but I make myself block them out and hone in on my own body as I breathe. The feel of my pulse moves to the forefront. It beats slowly in my head, in my neck and my hands, a quiet vibration. “Okay, I’m good.”

  “Your energy, your power, travels through your blood. It feeds your cells, keeping you young. But when uncontrolled, it can seep from your skin unwittingly, having serious effects on the outer world around you. Like the fire in your cottage. Your power spilled out through your skin—maybe because of a nightmare. You understand?”

  I nod. That actually makes sense. “But the torque is supposed to stop that?”

  “And yet yours didn’t. So you’re going to have to focus and learn quickly if you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  No pressure.

  “You’re listening to your heart, right?” he asks, his voice coming closer.

  My pulse beats a little harder. I nod, keeping my eyes closed.

  “Now, think about last night,” he says, “when Kieran cornered you. Were you afraid?”

  I pause at the reminder of the moment, not sure I want to be honest, but there’s no point in playing it off. “Yeah.” I was terrified, and yet I did nothing to stop it.

  “What else did you feel?”

  “Confused,” I say quickly, and then I add more quietly, “Powerless.” My throat tightens, the vulnerability rushing back in.

  “Focus on your pulse and be in that moment again.”

  I don’t want to think about it, but my mind fills with the emotions and sensations. My heart gallops faster as I remember the strange pull I felt toward Kieran, the terror when I realized I wasn’t able to defend myself, the warmth of my blood smearing my neck and chest, the chill of the asphalt against my cheek before everything disappeared.

  A push of heat fills my chest in a sudden surge, rolling down my arms, along my abdomen and legs—

  “Okay, breathe,” Faelan says urgently. His voice sounds farther away. “Come back.”

  I open my eyes and see he’s across the room, staring at me. The heat in my body fades as quickly as it came, washing out like the tide. “What happened?”

  “Did you feel anything?”

  “Heat,” I say. “In my chest, then my arms and legs.”

  He steps closer again, walking over to look at the book, reading something quickly. Then he turns back to me. “Your power washed over you, and flames coated your skin. It’s called the cadence, the time between the pulse and the release.”

  “Excuse me?” I look down at my perfectly normal arms. That warmth was actual flames?

  “How much time passed between you feeling the energy spark and the moment it spread through you?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know . . . maybe two seconds?”

  His lips thin. Obviously, that’s bad.

  “It’s a start,” he says. “The more you feel the process, the more you’ll be able to control it. Can you try again?”

  “I guess.” I really just want to take a nap, but I need to figure this out.

  “We’ll take a quick break,” he says, his voice turning gentle. “Drink some water, and we’ll start over when you’re ready.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  SAGE

  As he reads over more of the squiggly lines, I drink my water and study his profile. He’s less tense, like he’s leaning into it all. I’m not sure if that should make me relax too, or put me more on guard.

  Once I’ve had enough of a pause, we move back to our spots, and he has me close my eyes and go over the events in the alley again. And again. He asks me to try to be more aware of my body, my pulse, when the emotions come. Each time we go through it, he asks me to tell him more of what I was feeling last night, more of what happened. I don’t tell him everything Kieran said, or how those silver eyes hypnotized me, but I try to be as honest as I can. Each time, the heat wave takes over later than the time before. The cadence, as he called it, stretches out several more seconds until, on the third try, he tells me to open my eyes, and I watch the last of the flames slide over my arms before sinking back into my skin.

  “Remember what your energy is, that it’s fire,” he says. “You need to become familiar with the element, inside and out.”

  The orange glow crawling over me is surreal. It’s impossible to truly process what I’m seeing.

  Fire. Coming from my own body.

  There’s the strangest mix of thrill and terror in my gut.

  After the fourth time, I’m totally exhausted. Faelan finally lets me take another break, pulling over a chair for me. As I drink more water and snack on some granola, he picks books out of the stacks on the desk and flips through them, then hands me a couple.

  “We can’t waste time,” he says, “so let’s go over some of the hierarchy before tonight. It’s going to be too overwhelming at the ceremony without it.”

  That doesn’t make me feel good. I’m already trying to pretend like it’s not all happening so I don’t have an anxiety attack. Faelan really needs to learn some social skills. I open the first book and see it’s in another language, like the big one.

  “Can’t I just wing it tonight? I need sleep.”

  “You’re fine,” he says, completely unsympathetic. He hands me a flat gray stone with a hole in the middle. “Now read.”

  I look at the stone in my palm. There are swirls etched on the surface. “Is this some sort of riddle?”

  He takes it from me and holds it up to his right eye. “Through the stone, read the book.”

  Oh. Wait . . . what?

  He hands it back to me, and I turn the rock in my fingers, then look through the dime-size hole down to the open book in my lap. The unrecognizable language shifts and becomes English. “Whoa, cool.”

  “It’s an adder stone—or a hagstone, depending on who you ask. It reveals hidden things. Eventually you won’t need it, but for now it’ll help.”

  I take it away from my face, and the script goes back to gibberish.

  “Read as much of that as you can,” he says. “It’ll go over the power structures and how they work in our world. Basic, but vital.”

  I start reading, popping a chunk of granola in my mouth every few minutes, and Faelan begins organizing the books on the desk. Eventually, he pulls up a chair beside mine and digs into one too. We read in silence for an hour or so before I start asking questions. He answers patiently but keeps directing me back to the text.

  After another half hour, I think I’ve figured out the hierarchy of this place a little better. Maybe.

  Apparently, there’s a high goddess named Danu who had a lot of children, five of whom became her favorites: enter the Penta. There are a bunch
of other deities in the pantheon, but none are as powerful as those five. And since the children born of Danu can’t have kids with other deities for reasons of power balance, as Faelan explained it, they created their lineages with the humans. And now there are demigods and demigoddesses. Like me. Like Marius and the raven guy, Kieran. And, apparently, Faelan. And even within the demis there are rankings: a firstborn is a king or queen while the subsequent siblings are princes or princesses.

  Faelan gets annoyed when I start laughing as I read.

  “So . . . am I seriously a princess?” I ask, trying not to fall out of my chair.

  “Yes,” he mutters. “Perhaps you could consider acting like it?”

  That just makes me giggle more.

  There’s also this group called the Cast who seem very shadowy. If I’m following it right, these beings were created to keep the demigods and demigoddesses in line. It began long, long ago, when the mother goddess, Danu, anointed and made seven humans immortal, choosing them for their mercy and wisdom to watch over her grandchildren and keep the Otherworld and its children hidden from humanity. These seven immortal humans are now known as the Cast. They stay in some sort of parallel universe, rarely crossing over to this side, usually sending envoys to speak their will. They sound a bit like untouchable government officials.

  At the very bottom of the pack are the aptly named underlings. These are beings that were created by the Penta. Some were once human but changed, like shades, while others were born as what they are, like selkies, pixies, and alfar. According to this book, wraiths are made from emotions. From the descriptions, they sound a lot like poltergeists. I know firsthand that they’re definitely terrifying.

  Then there are the children of a union between a demi and a human, like Aelia and her coven. They aren’t considered underlings—they’re in a sort of side category that some people call witches. I remember Aelia calling herself a druid, which the book says are the priests of the Otherworld.

  Hilarious. Aelia, a priest?

  After a few more minutes, the words on the page in front of me become vague and too confusing for my foggy brain.

  My eyes wander and land on Faelan.

  I know I should turn away, but I can’t seem to find the energy. He’s really nice to look at. It’s like being in the presence of a lovely painting or sculpture—you have to admire the artistry. So my gaze trails over the angles of his profile, across the strong curve of his shoulders as he leans over what he’s reading, before I become mesmerized by the way that strand of hair stays tucked behind his ear, refusing to fall.

  I want to scoot to the edge of my chair, get closer to him so that our shoulders will brush. But I stay where I am, baffled by my thoughts. I can’t tell if the urge to touch him is coming from my human side or the side of me that burns down houses.

  He looks up, like he senses me watching.

  I take the opportunity to ask a question that’s been rolling around in my mind since last night with Kieran. “Do I really have a sister?”

  He goes still.

  “Is that a bad question?” I ask.

  He shuts the book with a thwack and sets it aside. “I’m not sure this is the time for that. It’s a long story.”

  “It shouldn’t be a story, it should just be yes or no,” I say.

  “If only it were that simple.”

  That sounds daunting. Aelia made it sound like this sister was a horror. Kieran made it sound like she was amazing. I don’t trust either of them.

  “Her name was Lily?” I prod.

  His gaze skips to mine. “How did you know that?”

  “That dark prince,” I say.

  Faelan leans back in his chair with a sigh. “Of course Kieran would bring her up.” He shakes his head, annoyed. But then he says, “Her name was Líle Ó Braonáin. She was a force. She was . . . stunning,” and I think there’s affection in his voice.

  “Is she dead or something?”

  “She’s been imprisoned in the Pit for several hundred years.”

  Unease settles over me. “That sounds bad.”

  He nods. “It is. It’s similar to the legends of the biblical hell.”

  They sent my sister to goddess hell? How can that be a thing for someone so powerful? “What’d she do?”

  He rises to his feet, wandering over to one of the small trees lining the other side of the greenhouse. He runs a finger along one of the larger green leaves, turning it yellow, then orange, then amber. It breaks free and floats to the ground.

  I watch, confused for a second before I realize he’s feeding.

  “I never believed that she was fully to blame,” he says, “but her crime was severe. I’m not sure how to talk to you about it. So much of what happened never made sense.”

  “No secrets, Faelan,” I say. “I need to know everything that I can.”

  He touches another leaf, looking nervous. “Yeah. Agreed.”

  That’s not what I expected him to say. I thought he’d argue.

  He moves back to the table and pulls what looks like a scroll from behind a stack of books. “Just know that I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. But it’s not something I can speak to, not really. Not with clarity. It was the fourteenth century when she was accused of killing the king and was taken by the Cast. I was young at that time, only twelve years old. I hadn’t reached my majority and was still being kept out of the court for the most part—as Otherborn, we age the same as a human until we reach the eighteenth or nineteenth year, and then the usual entropy of aging slows to a crawl.”

  Again, the idea of being immortal hits me in the gut. I’m not going to die. And I’m eighteen, which means I’m going to stop aging now, basically. Completely nuts.

  He continues, unaware of my turmoil. “It was a fluke that my brother allowed me to be present at the queen’s feast that year. So what I know firsthand of your sister is from the limited awareness of a boy. And when I met her, she seemed very sad. I would never have thought her capable of murdering her Bonded. But they claim it’s what drove her to madness and caused her to poison the earth, creating the seed for the scourge of the Black Death.”

  My gut twists, realizing what he’s saying. She was a killer. A mass murderer. My God, didn’t the plague kill tens of millions of people?

  “The Cast allowed for only a single verified record of the queen,” he says. “There have been theories written, novels, even a collection of poetry, but most of what we know today is hearsay.” He pushes aside a couple of books and sets down the scroll he’s been holding. He unrolls it a little, glancing over the faded script. He rolls and unrolls it a couple more times, looking for a passage. “The Painted Annals aren’t ever the full story—nothing is, really—but they’re the only full written account I’ve found of her birth, with sporadic, pivotal tales that reach into the year she was arrested. Everything else is rumor and stories told over centuries by unreliable mouths. Not many alive today knew her personally, and she was a very private soul. I definitely think you should read all the accounts; I’ll give this first one to you so you can see for yourself, without my influence or anyone else’s.” He rolls up the scroll and hands it to me. “It’s set to open at the birth announcement.”

  I take it from him, not sure what to do with it. I’m pretty positive I won’t like what I find inside.

  “There’s more that we . . . that we need to talk about,” he adds, his tone getting tense.

  The scroll is heavy in my hands. Looking at it, I’m not sure I can take much more. “I hope you’re kidding.”

  “It’s about the Introduction tonight.”

  I shake my head, standing. “No. Enough’s enough.” I’ve definitely reached my limit.

  His voice lowers in warning. “It’s important.”

  “Yeah, well, so’s my sanity.” I tuck the scroll under my arm and snatch my bag of granola from the floor, heading for the door. “I’m done.”

  “Sage, you need to—” he starts, but he cuts off as I walk past. “Liste
n.” And he grabs at my arm, stopping my escape.

  I go still, staring at his fingers gripping my elbow. They’re pressing in, insistent. “What’re you doing?” Warmth slinks from his touch, spreading to my shoulder. “Let go.” My gaze moves up to his face.

  His features are tight before realization seems to flood him. He releases me, stepping back. Then he looks away. A few tense seconds tick by, and the memory of Kieran choking me returns full throttle, before Faelan adds again, “This is important.”

  I should just walk out, but he’s obviously nervous because of whatever he’s got to tell me. “Spit it out, then.”

  He hesitates for a second but finally says, “During the ceremony tonight, you’ll stand in front of the Houses for the Introduction and choose your protector.” He pauses, his feet shifting nervously. “You’re meant to pick me. And you’re to make it clear to everyone that you trust me, that this was your choice.”

  That seems like a rich demand at this point. “Is it really my choice?”

  His brow furrows. “Of course.”

  “I asked Marius at dinner if he could do the protecting thing. He didn’t act like that was okay.”

  That seems to knock him sideways a bit. “You asked Marius? Why?”

  Because Marius is safer, I want to tell him. He doesn’t make me all fluttery in my chest every time I look at him. But instead I say, “You didn’t seem very . . . relatable. And then last night that dark prince, Kieran, said he was throwing his hat in the ring too. It’s all completely confusing. I’ve got no idea what I’m supposed to do.” Before I can stop the honesty, I add in a whisper, “And I think I’m sorta scared of you.”

  He really doesn’t like that. He repeats tightly, “I scare you?” His fingers curl into a fist at his side. “I saved your life. Twice. Even though you nearly killed me. But Kieran did kill you—and somehow I’m the one who scares you?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “This whole thing is a mess. I never asked for any of it.”