by Tracy Deonn
“Because I walked with her too. When she went to school here. When was she enrolled?”
“She graduated maybe twenty-five years ago. Why?”
It feels like she’s just punched me in the gut. My mother was at Carolina twenty-five years ago, maybe living in a dorm not far from where Ruth was that night.
Then, I remember what Louisa showed me—Pearl’s baby that was cast away, the red-eyed man who was its father—and dread in my stomach grows until it chills me through. “I have to go.”
“Go where?” Patricia blinks. “What did you see?”
“They showed me those memories on purpose,” I murmur, scrambling to my feet. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”
“Bree! What happened?”
“I’m sorry!” I’m already pulling my phone out of my pocket as I run.
* * *
Nick doesn’t answer my call, but it doesn’t deter me. I have every intention of sprinting through campus and straight on to the Lodge, until I realize I have to stop somewhere first.
Because as urgent as my new missions are, I have to see it.
When I reach the statue, it’s like I’m looking at it for the first time.
Carr stands in full Civil War uniform with a long-barreled rifle grasped in both hands. The sculptor, whoever he was, made sure that Carr’s spine was straight, his shoulders back, and his chin up. A soldier proudly standing for a war that wasn’t won.
That venomous rage returns.
Heart pounding for too many reasons to count, I think back on the Wall of Ages and its Lines and the mixture of disconnection and frustration I’d felt staring at it. Then, from the monument’s place of honor at the top of Carolina’s campus, I look back on the school’s buildings and manicured lawns and brick walkways. I let my gaze draw lines here, too, from building to building, from tree to tree, from buried lives to beaten ones, from blood stolen to blood hidden. I map this terrain’s sins, the invisible and the many, and hold them close. Because even if the pain of those sins takes my breath away, that pain feels like belonging, and ignoring it after all I’ve just witnessed would be loss.
I stand at that statue and claim the bodies whose names the world wants to forget. I claim those bodies whose names I was taught to forget. And I claim the unsung bloodlines that soak the ground beneath my feet, because I know, I just know, that if they could, they would claim me.
I don’t know why I do it, really, but before I go, I turn around to face that statue, press both palms against it, and push. I imagine all of the hands that built Carolina and suffered on its grounds pushing through my palms too, and while the statue doesn’t budge, it feels like I’ve sent it a message.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but I feel stronger. Taller. Like I might have the roots to grow just what I need.
And then, with fire in my veins, I turn on my heel and run.
27
SARAH AND TOR are talking in the foyer when I come hurtling through the front door.
“Bree? Are you all right?” Sarah asks, taking in my disheveled appearance.
“Where’s Nick?”
Tor frowns. “Driving his dad to the airport.”
Damnit. I’d completely forgotten. Lord Davis is flying to the Northern Chapter to meet with the Regents. “When will he be back?”
“He’s meeting us at the Tap Rail tonight in an hour, newbie,” Tor says, crossing her arms. “Why?”
The bar. God, I’d forgotten that, too. Which means I can’t talk about the Gate and the mysterious figure until later. One crisis at a time, Matthews. If Nick and Lord Davis are both gone…
“I need William.”
Sarah’s brows shoot up. “Are you injured?”
“No.” I start for the hallway that leads to the elevator, but Tor steps into my path.
“Then why do you need him?”
I glare at her, too tired to play nice. Sarah steps in. “He’s downstairs in the infirmary.”
“Pages don’t go down there unless they’re told,” Tor protests. “Listen, Matthews, you can’t run around doing whatever you want—”
“Torrrrr,” Sarah groans. “Bree, go ahead.” The look Sarah gives Tor is the look you give someone who tries your very last nerve, even when you love them more than you can stand. It suddenly becomes clear who’s really calling the shots between the Scion and her Squire.
Down in the infirmary, I find William alone, sitting in a back corner behind a desk, typing on a silver laptop. He looks up when I enter, but the smile on his face disappears when he sees me. “Are you okay?” he asks, standing up, eyes already searching me for injury.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Well, no, I’m not fine.”
His face goes from relief to a wary curiosity. “What’s going on?”
A nameless red-eyed man rises up behind my eyes, followed by his amber-eyed son. “Sel isn’t human.”
William’s gray eyes widen a fraction. “Sel’s our Merlin and Kingsmage.”
“I don’t mean his titles, William!”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “What’s this about?”
I pace as I talk. “Lord Davis made it sound like Merlins are humans who are just naturally magical. But that’s not true for Sel, is it?” When I look up, I see the subtle flex of William’s fingers, the minute jump of the pulse in his neck. My jaw clenches; I know what secrets look like by now. “You know, don’t you?”
“Know what?” he says blithely, reaching for some paperwork.
“That Sel is Shadowborn.”
“Close the door,” William orders, his voice sterner than I’ve ever heard.
How many more secrets are there? “I—”
“Please.” His lips press into a line.
I follow my friend’s command because of the “please,” but I feel my trust in him bleeding away with every step I take back to his desk.
William runs a hand through his light hair and releases a long sigh. “I apologize for my tone. This is not information that Pages generally have access to. Hard to sell someone on the war against the evil demon hordes when you have one living under your roof.” He smiles stiffly. “Yes. Selwyn is, technically, Shadowborn.”
I knew the truth before I walked in the room, but to hear it from William, to have it confirmed… “He’s a demon. How could you—”
“He’s part demon.” William sits back in his chair with his hands folded on his lap.
“How can you trust him? How can anyone trust him to—”
He cuts me off. “All Merlins are part demon, Bree. They always have been.”
This is not the conversation I thought I was going to have with him. The memory walk is fresh. Behind my eyes, I can still see Pearl’s face contorted in fear of her own child. I can still see the midwife backing away from the infant as if it were cursed. He may look like a baby, but that is their disguise. They cannot be trusted because it is in their nature to lie. You know this, Pearl. Just like his father, he will turn on you one day.… This is not a child. It is a monster. “How can the Order use monsters? Nick’s life is in danger. All of these attacks—”
William sighs heavily. “There are protections in place—”
“Protections?” How can he be so calm about this? I sputter, “But if he’s half demon… half uchel—”
“Sel’s mother was a Merlin and his father is human. You’ve heard of incubi and succubi, yes?”
I blink, head spun by the turns in this conversation. “Sex demons?”
His mouth widens into a full, amused smile. “Did you just whisper the word ‘sex’?”
“No,” I retort, flushing around my collar. “I emphasized it.”
“Sure, we’ll say that,” he says, leaning over his desk to pull out a notebook. He grabs a pen and starts sketching a diagram, starting with two circles labeled MM and I.
I open my mouth, but he stops me again. “I need you to listen. Not talk.”
“Willia—”
“Listen, Pageling.” He points his pen at me. “Give
me five minutes.”
I take a deep breath. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” he says primly, and taps the first circle. “Way back in the sixth century, Merlin’s mother was a human woman who fell into bed with a powerful goruchel incubus. A little bump, a little grind, and you get a cambion. A child who is part human and part demon.” He draws a line between the two circles and a perpendicular line down to another circle, M. “Aether affinity in demon blood is dominant. Like, break your Punnett square dominant. Which means that all of Merlin’s descendants are cambions too. The people we have come to call Merlins can draw on and use aether almost as well as Merlin himself could, even with only a single drop of his demon blood—no Legendborn Awakening spell needed.”
I stare blankly. “All Merlins are part sex demon.”
He smirks. “Technically, yes, but at this level of genetic distance, their seductive traits are… passive.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Nothing that normal human genes couldn’t produce, eye color aside. Unnatural beauty, distinctive voice, et cetera. Passive, but still effective. One minute you’re taking bloodwork, the next you’re wondering if the infirmary bed will hold two people. Don’t believe me?” His eyes sparkle as he leans in close. “Just ask Tor.”
My stomach flips a bit at his teased revelation. Tor and Sel dated? Or, if not dated, they’d… I push it from my mind. “So, he’s not… evil?”
“Volatile, like I said, but not evil.” William scratches his chin in thought. “From both a medical and military perspective, Merlins are perfect warriors: hearts like long-distance runners, pumping a leisurely thirty beats per minute; core temps a toasty one hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit—hot enough to cook a human brain like chicken fried steak, but it means they burn away any human viruses or bugs. Enhanced metabolism, speed, strength, vision—”
“And hearing!” The door slams open behind us and Sel sweeps in, yellow eyes blazing.
William bolts out of his chair, hands up. “Sel, calm down!”
I back away as Sel bears down on me, the tips of his hair smoking. “Snooping about me now, are you? Looking for information you can use against me?”
Even though the details of Sel’s physiology are still echoing in my ears, after all I’ve experienced today, I can’t stand the idea of letting even Sel, with his superhuman physiology, make me cower. “This is getting real old, Kingsmage. You need new tricks.”
Before Sel can respond, William steps in between us in a way I’ve only ever seen Nick do. “You need to cool down. Bree wasn’t snooping. If you’re going to get angry at anyone, get angry at me for telling her.”
“Oh, I am,” Sel growls. His golden eyes rain hot sparks all over me.
“Throwing a temper tantrum, crossroads child?” I spit. Both of Sel’s dark brows fly up to his hairline, and red spots appear on his cheeks. Direct hit.
“Stop it! Both of you!” William orders. He presses his back against me, crowding me into the wall. “If you’re going to hurt Bree, you’ll have to go through me to do it, which your Oath of Service won’t allow. So instead of making a fool of yourself, just walk.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Shoo.”
Sel glances between the two of us a final time, then leaves the room in an angry blur. In the distance, another door slams, marking his exit.
“Oath of Service?” How many Oaths are there? And how many has Sel sworn?
William sighs, still facing the open door and hallway. “Sel’s primary Oath is to Nick. His second is to the Legendborn.” He turns around to wag a finger in my face. “But he’s right about one thing. You’re trouble, aren’t you?”
At this point, I can’t say I disagree.
* * *
It’s way too easy to convince the bouncer at Tap Rail that I am a twenty-one-year-old Black woman named Monica Staten. I blink down at the NC driver’s license in my hand, stunned.
“I can’t believe that worked,” I say.
Greer winks. “Got it off my roommate, Les. She got it off a girl who graduated last year. When Whitty came by my room earlier and said we were going out, I remembered you’re only sixteen. I figure Les uses it all the time, so it was worth a shot.”
“Yeah, but this is really bad,” I say, shaking my head. “It says right here that Monica Staten is like six inches shorter than I am! And she wears glasses.”
“What can I say?” They shrug. “White folks’ face-blindness for different races is a thing!”
The only thing Monica Staten and I have in common is our taste in fashion; I’d sent Alice a selfie of my red halter top and jeans, and she’d approved, so that’s what I’m wearing.
The chapter has commandeered the entire back wooden porch of Tap Rail, the streetcar turned biergarten on the far end of Franklin Street, Chapel Hill’s downtown drag. Two long wooden tables have been pushed together to seat all of us. Nick’s last text said he’d be here soon. William had other plans. Sel’s nowhere to be found.
I check my phone while I wait. Patricia’s called me eight times. I’d sent her a text on the way over saying that I needed to take care of something, and that I’d explain later. Her warnings echo in my mind—Bloodcrafters, curses come to life. I don’t doubt that there’s truth to what she said. Abatement is evidence enough. But right now I need to talk to Nick and tell him about the Gate.
At the bar inside, Greer chooses a local craft beer right away but changes their mind when Felicity points out that the bar makes a mean Cheerwine and bourbon. The surly bartender mixes a shot of bourbon with soda until it’s a deep red-purple and smells like spiked candy.
Felicity hands me a gin and tonic. “Tastes kinda like Sprite.”
I almost refuse, but then I think of the conversation I need to have with Nick and suddenly alcohol sounds like a good idea. I take a sip and cough at the burn. “Sprite’s a stretch,” I say hoarsely.
She shrugs. “I could take it off your hands. How ’bout a whiskey and Coke?”
I choke, mind spinning with thoughts of the occasional scent I pick up in Sel’s castings. “No! No whiskey.”
Felicity laughs and leans a hip against the bar. “So what are y’all wearing to the Selection Gala?”
I hold up a hand. “Say what now?”
“Oh no.” Felicity sets her drink down. “Did no one tell you? I’m so sorry. I guess I thought everyone knew…”
Greer grimaces. “Sorry.”
I purse my lips. “It’s fine.”
Felicity is quick to fill me in. “The gala is a big formal event at one of the campus clubs. Dinner, dancing, champagne everywhere. Every year, Vassal families come and schmooze with Page and Legendborn families to celebrate the end of the tournament. After dinner, the Scions who need Squires announce which Page they’ve chosen. But shopping for dresses is the best part! The Order of the Rose even sends professional hair stylists…”
Felicity’s voice fades away. I can’t wrap my head around a formal dinner party. Or formal wear. Or dancing. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but suddenly all I can think of is Nick, standing in front of everyone and announcing his chosen Squire who isn’t me.
Felicity’s voice returns. “I like an updo, but I think Bree should wear her hair loose. I mean, look at these curls!”
Someone—no, two someones—tug gently at my hair.
I yank my head away. “What the hell?” Both Greer and Felicity have their hands up, surprise clear on their faces. “Don’t touch my hair.”
Greer looks chagrined. Felicity stammers, “I—I was just telling Greer about the stylist that comes to the Lodge, and your hair—”
“Is different than yours?” I snap. “Is curly? Big? Sure, but that doesn’t mean you get to touch it whenever you want. I’m not a petting zoo.”
“Sorry, Bree,” Greer says, flushing.
Felicity blinks, almost starts speaking again, then stops herself. Nods. “Sorry. I didn’t realize…”
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath, nodding. “Well, now you do.”
* * *
Pete is just starting a story about his father hunting a demon on the Appalachian Trail when Nick and Sel walk out onto the porch. It looks like the Kingsmage is taking his job as Nick’s personal guard more seriously after Wednesday night’s attack. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen them arrive somewhere together, or even stand next to each other without fighting. Sel’s in dour black, as always, but Nick’s in a comfortable-looking X-Men tee and a pair of old jeans. After the day I’ve had, it takes everything in me not to run into his arms, but Russ jumps up instead, clapping Nick on the back and shoving a drink into his hand.
After a few hellos, Nick spots me and makes a beeline toward the end of the table. He drops down on my other side, laundry and cedar on max, and shoves a red-and-white checkered paper basket of bacon-cheddar tater tots in front of me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I try not to focus on the way Nick sits so close to me. Or how, after he settles, he doesn’t move his body away from mine. Or how warm his bicep and hip are through his clothing. But it’s difficult. Suddenly, my low halter-top back feels too low. My skin too exposed. I’d just spent the last twenty-four hours obsessing over every text, every emoji, but now I’m so attuned to him that his very closeness makes me want to run far, far away? What the hell, Matthews? Get it together.
Sel takes a spot across from us, tucked back under the overhang, and balances against the wall on the back legs of a chair. He seems plenty happy to keep his eyes on me and doesn’t look interested in budging. After our confrontation and the revelation about his heritage, half of me is screaming to look away, and the other half wants to keep an eye on him. The left side of his mouth curls upward in a smirk, like he knows what I’m thinking and finds it amusing.
