He grunted but didn’t go down to the ground—although the cup of tea was ruined, broken into pieces on the floor. She felt her father’s strong grip on her shoulder and shoved him. She faced him chest-to-chest but had to lift her chin straight up to glare into his dark eyes. “What were you going to do back there, Daddy? Kill him? Stab him with your pocketknife?”
“Cyan—”
“You meant to hurt him!”
“Only to protect you,” Drake said.
“He’s not the man we thought he was,” Rue said, stepping up beside her husband. “He’s your enemy, Hypatia, who you’re destined to fight to the death.”
“Don’t call me that name, Mother! Now is not the time to piss me off.” She hated when her mother used her given name—that of the first witch in history to burn. Cyan’s fingertips glowed bright enough to fill the room with what resembled sunrise over the harbor. “And you.” She spun on her Aunt Sybil, who picked up a book from the busted shelf and held it in front of her face. “My true love. You’ve been painting my true love all these years, and he turns out to be the man I have to kill?”
“I didn’t say it would end happily ever after,” Sybil said. “But you do love him.”
Cyan threw her hands in the air, which inadvertently brought down little bits of ceiling. “Of course I love him. What’s not to love? He’s handsome and funny and kind and… perfect… except for the fact that he’s the dark witch destined to destroy the world!”
Max’s voice was not welcome. “Battle arrives swiftly. Light witches already amass in the streets of Charleston. You will kill him, Loach. It’s your destiny.”
“Fuck my destiny!” The only thing that kept her from breaking his skull was Drake’s hand on her wrist.
“Little girl,” her father whispered. He didn’t let go.
“I hope I die in the War,” she said.
Drake looked stricken. “Don’t you dare say that.”
“I’ve been closed off since birth, preparing to kill the Dorcha, and then planning to spend the rest of my life with my true love, and now, to win the War, I have to kill the man I’ve planned for, waited for.” She wrenched her hand away. “If my true love, my destiny, is dead, what’s the point? Would you wanna go on living without Mother?”
Drake closed his eyes. His chin fell forward against his chest. “My little girl is not going to die.”
“If I kill Liam, I won’t be your little girl anymore. I’ll be an empty shell.”
“You are fulfilling your duty,” Max said.
“Shut up,” Drake and Cyan said in concert.
“Burn the paintings, Sybil,” Cyan snapped.
“What?”
“You’re not deaf! Burn the paintings of Liam. Destroy them.” Cyan started walking.
“Where are you going?” Rue asked.
“Who cares?” she whispered as she stepped into the Charleston morning: cool, crisp, and annoyingly cheerful. She wanted to curse the bright blue sky and tear the swaying palm trees from pavement. Instead, she made her way up Meeting Street. She gave little thought to the people she passed, some of whom looked at her—stared at her. From the way they nodded, she knew they were light witches, possibly new arrivals from Savannah or New Orleans, possibly witches who’d been in her city all along, waiting.
Careless of their support, Cyan arrived at St. Agnes Cemetery and moved down the familiar path that led to Grandmother Plainacher’s grave. She stopped in front of the tombstone and howled. “I hate you!” She kicked at the carefully trimmed grass. “You did this! You!” She slammed her palm against the cold stone, which achieved nothing but pain. However, she found she liked the pain. She slammed her fist into the cold marble. She bled, but thanks to the black agate amulet, healed immediately—which only annoyed her more. “Why couldn’t I just have a normal life, huh? Tell me!”
The tombstone did not speak.
Cyan gasped for air. “Fine. Have it your way.” She tugged at the warm ache in her stomach, pictured Liam’s face, and shot gold light right at the stone with her grandmother’s name. It broke in three pieces with an enormous crash and tumbled to the ground with the weight of Stonehenge. “How’d that feel, you old crone?” Cyan screamed.
Luckily, there was no one around for her display.
As she was becoming accustomed, Cyan didn’t feel exhausted by this show of power. She felt invigorated like she wanted to do more magic, followed by a lengthy make out session with Liam—Liam, who she loved and would never have.
Who she’d probably end up killing.
If he didn’t kill her first.
She still remembered the way he’d looked in the foyer of his condo after he’d revealed himself as the Dorcha. She remembered the way his expression had crumbled, his cheeks streaked with tears. She sat down heavily in the dirt and covered her face. He was so alone—or maybe not. Maybe dark witches surrounded him now, taught him how to be bad. Cyan could have brushed off his show of emotion, the horrible dread on his face when he’d looked at her and realized she was not coming to his aid, if she hadn’t seen those same emotions when Zoe had died. Liam didn’t fake his heartbreak. It would seem his heart had now broken twice. If only she could heal it… but it was too late to go back. They were enemies, to the death. There was no fixing fate.
She looked at the crumbling pieces of her grandmother’s grave and, after making sure she was indeed still alone in the cemetery, invoked a pool of gold in her palm. She whispered quiet incantations and slowly, carefully, put the massive tombstone back together until the letters and dates matched. By the time she finished, she couldn’t even see where the stone had broken—which gave Cyan an idea, so she started searching the city for her mother. Strange that she knew how to do that now. She knew Sybil and Rue had a psychic connection—“sisters,” Sybil always said—but Cyan supposed “Loach” trumped that. She felt her mother’s energy at the homestead and took off running.
When she found her, Rue was sitting on the back porch steps. Set up halfway across the yard were a line of teacups, teakettles, and a range of other breakable items. Cyan’s mother waved her hand, and a teacup exploded high into the air in many, many pieces.
“What are you doing here?” she asked without looking at her daughter. A teakettle detonated like a landmine.
“Was Daddy really a dark witch when you met?”
Rue pointed her finger, and a ceramic statue of a cat died in a white blast. “Yes.”
Cyan shielded her eyes from the sun with a hand over her forehead so she could see her mother better. Rue had never looked so gaunt, her face drawn and eyes tired. “But you saved him, didn’t you?”
“Drake made a choice.”
“So Liam—”
“Something always bugged me about the Book of Shadows prophecy.” She mangled another teacup. “Wanna know what it is?”
Cyan waited.
“The two-colored eyes. That always indicated duality to me, like two sides of a coin. Heads or tails.”
“Good or evil.”
Rue propelled a crystal vase ten feet into the air and shook her head. “Liam. He’s funny. Makes a damn good eggplant Parm. But he’s not like your father, Cyan. The boy is destined to be bad.”
“What if there’s a loophole?”
“You know every syllable of that prophecy. Ever found a loophole?”
“You’re saying I can’t save him.”
“Maybe killing him is saving him.” She reduced a teakettle to dust. “The man you know—the man you know, as he is now—do you suppose he’d enjoy killing someone?”
“No.”
“And yet, he will kill people. It’s only a matter of time before the darkness overwhelms him, creeps up his spine and into his soul. Your Daddy says it feels like a cold blanket has been pulled over you, and the only way to get warm again is to do bad things. By killing Liam, maybe you can send him to his grave a good man.”
“And if I fail?”
Rue opened her palms and let loose a barrage of wh
ite light, burning up half the greenery in the backyard. “I imagine I’ll be dead already and won’t care much.”
“You’re not gonna die, Momma.”
“That’s what happens in War, girl. You better start believing it.”
They sat across from each other on the floor of the condo Liam once called theirs but now, he wasn’t sure who the woman with him was—this Zoe person. She looked the same as she had before the trolley accident. She dressed the same in pastel business casual, her silky brown hair in a high ponytail. Sitting Indian-style, she rested her hands on her knees and told him to hurt her.
“Hurt you?”
“Well. Try.” She smiled.
“I don’t…” Liam shook his head. He could see her clearly thanks to a spell that took five seconds. Zoe had healed his eyesight with the power of magic that flowed like a raging black cloud from her palm and over his face. He no longer needed contacts or glasses. When he looked in the mirror, he saw himself, clearly, with one blue eye and one green. When he asked Zoe why she’d healed him, she said it was time for him to appear as his true self to the world. He’d laughed at that. Who is my true self? Who am I? Now, he saw Zoe, sitting a few feet away, but didn’t understand her.
“Sruthán craiceann,” she whispered sweetly.
Liam’s forearms burned until his skin actually blistered. He shouted in pain, but instinct made his hands glow blue. In a voice he hardly recognized, he hissed, “Tachtadh.”
Zoe started choking.
Liam’s arms stopped burning, and the blistered skin disappeared like dirt washed from his hands. However, a moment later, Zoe, searching for air, waved her hand at Liam and shot a cloud of black into his chest. He fell onto his back, clutching his stomach. He felt like he’d been run over by a train—or maybe a trolley.
“Shit,” he groaned.
A smiling Zoe soon appeared above him as she crawled up the length of his body and straddled his waist. She rested her hands on his chest and licked her bottom lip. “Do you have any idea how gifted you are?” She leaned down and kissed him. He apparently didn’t respond with much fervor, because she soon bit his bottom lip until he tasted blood.
Liam shoved her back with one hand on her shoulder. “Zoe.”
She took hold of his wrists and, with strength akin to Cyan’s, shoved his arms back against the wood floor. She slid further down his waist and pressed her lower body against his. “I want you right now.” She licked a line up the side of his throat.
The way they were pressed together at the hips, she had to notice he was not in the mood. In fact, the feel of her on top of him, her tongue against his ear, made him sick. She wasn’t like this—the Zoe he’d loved. She wasn’t aggressive. She also wasn’t a dark witch. “No,” he said.
“No?” She stared down at him. “You’ve never told me no before.”
“This isn’t… I can’t do this right now.”
“Is it her?” Zoe didn’t let go of his wrists. If anything, her grip tightened.
“Her?”
“That blonde Loach bitch. She despises you.”
“It’s not her, Zoe,” he said, which might have been half true.
Zoe lowered her chin and rolled off his body. “I’m yours if you want me. Always.”
Liam sighed and sat up. He leaned forward and put his hands on Zoe’s cheeks. He wanted to kiss her, to feel the way she used to make him feel, but when she looked up at him with dark eyes, he noticed how old she looked. Since when did his Zoe have wrinkles? Since when did her eyes look so cruel? Disturbed, he quickly retreated to the privacy of the bathroom.
Once there, he splashed water on his face and looked at his mismatched eyes in the mirror. He checked his own profile, studied his own face. Did he look different, too, like Zoe? Would he soon begin to warp and whither, become something other? Rue told him he wouldn’t be himself for very much longer.
“What the hell does that mean?” he asked his reflection, which was when he noticed the priceless glass of wine he’d saved—the last glass of wine he thought Zoe would ever bring him from the night of the accident. It sat on a shelf behind him, but even from where he stood, staring at the reflection, he could see something wasn’t right.
He faced the orphaned wine glass. The wine had to taste of vinegar by then, but a smell wasn’t what caught his attention. Above the half-consumed glass of red wine, a black cloud hung. Now unafraid of magic, Liam pulled the glass from the shelf and set it on the sink, where he could study it under the bright bathroom lights. The wine sloshed as he set it down, and the cloud shifted slightly, danced.
“What the…”
He stared at the cloud and recognized it. The darkness matched Zoe’s magic—the way it poured from her like putrid steam. He thought back to their years together, all the wine. He thought of the night before when she’d poured him a glass, and it had tasted vile.
He backed away. “Oh, God.”
When he’d fallen ill after Zoe’s death, Rue said he’d been slipped a spell. Even though he’d been half-dead, he remembered they’d talked about him being in state of withdrawal. They’d blamed Max, the easy target, but what if they’d been wrong?
He pulled the bathroom door open with enough force to make Zoe jump, still seated on the living room floor. He towered above her. “How long have you been casting a spell on me?”
She remained on the floor, a look of pure innocence on her face. “What are you talking about, Liam?”
Then, he felt it: a slight tickle in his brain. He slammed the door to his mind as his fingers glowed blue. “You will not invade my thoughts today.”
She grinned. He’s so brilliant and beautiful.
He heard Zoe’s thoughts as though she’d spoken aloud.
“You’re learning so fast.” She used the coffee table to push to standing.
“Answer me,” he growled. “Tell me you haven’t been… What did you do to me, Zoe?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me the truth!” he screamed, and although she took a step back, the adoring devotion on her face never waned.
Zoe didn’t speak.
“You’ve been putting a potion in my wine.”
“I would never—”
He took a huge step forward and held her chin in his hand until she whimpered. “Was it a love potion, Zoe? Is that why I feel nothing for you anymore, because I haven’t been given my proper dosage?” He thought about Rue with her herbs and laughed. “Ironic that you can’t cook a damn thing, but you can mix up a potion in a jiff.”
“No. You really love me.”
“I don’t.” He laughed in her face. “I really don’t.” He let go and pushed her backwards until she almost fell over the table.
“Liam.” She shook her head. “I’m yours. I’ve waited centuries for you, my Dorcha. I’ve watched over you. I have kept you safe from people who would do you harm. You will not turn your back on me now.”
He put one hand on his hip and chewed his fingernail, considering.
“You need my help to win the War,” she said.
“Maybe I won’t fight. Maybe I’ll just kill myself right now.”
She laughed. “You think that blue eye will let you do something like that? The dark side of you would never let you die that way.”
“I’m not Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“That’s exactly what you are, and your whole life, that green eye has been running things. Sweet Liam, desperate for love. A people pleaser.” She shook her head. “The first time that blue light came flying from your fingertips, you began to embrace the dark side of you. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen your eyes burn blue with dark magic.”
He thought back to Layla: “I thought you had green eyes. I was wrong, though. They’re blue. Almost like they’re glowing.” That was right before he’d pictured her dead, until the headache and exploding bottles.
“The darkness will prevail,” Zoe said, “and you’ll need me.”
He latched onto her upper arms and squeezed
. “You’ve been working magic on me from the start. What else are you hiding?”
She visibly had trouble swallowing, her nose almost pressed against his. She shook her head and looked away, anywhere but into his eyes.
“Let’s see what’s in that head of yours.”
“Liam,” she whispered. “This isn’t about just you and me. This is about our people, our dark brothers and sisters. They need us.”
“Us?”
“You. They need you, but I will call them to your side. Please let me. I exist to serve you, only you.” She tried to push up onto her toes and kiss him, but Liam let go of her and stepped away.
“I’m going for a walk.”
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
“You are absolutely not.”
She reached for the cuff of his sleeve. “You could be attacked. Hurt even.”
He felt the strong buzzing of power in the base of his stomach that branched through his chest and down his arms like tingles of electricity. “Not anymore,” he said and knew it was true.
Desperately, Cyan dug through Sybil’s library. She’d always been good at research. She’d find an answer, somehow. She would find a way to save Liam. If there were a chance at duality, any chance in hell that she could sway him to the side of good—just like Rue had done for Drake—she would figure it out. Of course, she didn’t exactly know where to start. There were dusty tomes for miles, it seemed. She was familiar with most of them; she was the only member of the Burroughs-Plainacher clan who still used them. But she knew a potion wouldn’t work—too simple. Was this hex or curse territory? Maybe.
She swore as she returned a thick collection of gypsy spells back to the shelf and pulled out one about her people’s history. Maybe if she looked to the past she could find a situation in which an evil witch turned good? Maybe some ancient story would explain how she could do the same to the Dorcha? She sat in the creaky desk chair, put her combat boots up, shimmied further into her hand-me-down leather jacket, and flipped pages.
Magic Flame (Enchanted Book 3) Page 18
