by Liz de Jager
I make myself a cup of coffee and stir granules for Dante’s Lemsip into the hot water, watching them dissolve. There’s a loud thunk from Dante’s room and a muttered curse followed by another thunk again.
I grab his mug and hurry to the room but knock before I open the door, keeping my eyes on the floor. ‘Okay for me to come in?’ Translation: Are you naked?
‘Yes, can you help me, please?’
I push into the room to be met by Dante struggling to get up off the floor. He’s dressed in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and has a long-sleeved T-shirt gripped in his hand.
‘What happened?’ I put the mug down and walk over to help him.
‘I walked into the bloody wall,’ he mutters, taking his hand away from his face. A bright red line marks his eyebrow and cheek. ‘Misjudged the width of the door.’
‘And so what? You decided to walk through the wall instead?’
‘Something like that.’
My hand makes contact with the smooth skin across the contours of his abs and my pulse climbs as I steady him with my other hand as he sways crazily.
‘You often pretend to pass out when you’ve got a girl in your room?’ I ask him, grasping desperately for something to say because really, I am not comfortable being this close to half-naked Dante. He feels as if he’s on fire but it’s a dry burning fire, with no slick sweatiness to his skin at all. His elaborate tribal tattoo with its wicked edges and weird whorls runs from mid bicep to the curve of his shoulder and then onto his shoulder blade. The intricate pattern draws my gaze and, without realizing it, I run a tentative finger across one of the coils, following its contour, before dropping my hand as if I’ve been stung. The tattoo felt weird under my touch, as if it had moved; I suppress a shiver of my own.
‘You’re funny,’ he says, shuddering under my touch as I pull him to the side and flip the duvet back. ‘My skin is so sensitive, it feels like your hands are on fire.’
‘Uhm, no.’ I gulp. ‘They’re not, I promise. Sit down. Give me your shirt.’ I take it out of his grip and, making sure I’ve got it the right way round, I pull it over his head. ‘There, put your arms through.’ I hover over him and watch him struggle but don’t offer to help further, suppressing the memory of how the tattoo felt under my touch. When he eventually drops his arms with a heavy sigh I hand him the mug of Lemsip. ‘Here, drink this. Try to keep it down.’
The mug rattles against his teeth and he spills some but he manages to drink most of it, while pulling a face and moaning pathetically.
‘That stuff is disgusting. I’d rather be sick.’
‘Stop being a baby, and drink it.’ I push the proffered mug back. ‘Drink it all.’
‘So bossy,’ he mutters under his breath, taking giant gulps of the stuff before handing me the mug. ‘Done.’
‘Now lie down. Get some rest.’ I push him back against the pillow and drag the duvet over him. ‘Sleep.’
I’m halfway to the door when he calls my name and I turn back to look at him. He looks utterly feeble wrapped in his duvet, and I can see him shaking beneath it.
‘I know it’s unfair, but can you stay?’
I hesitate for a few seconds but then remember the files in the back of his car with my name and those of my family and nod. ‘I’ll stay till this evening. Your fever should break soon.’
The smile he gives me is sweet. ‘Thanks, Kit. I promise to look after you when you get whatever this is.’
‘Yeah, not likely,’ I tell him, pulling the door shut, but his voice stops me.
‘No, don’t close the door. It makes me feel closed in. I can’t breathe.’
‘I’ll catch the monsters in your closet,’ I tell him, only partly joking. His dry chuckle follows me out of the room as I make my way back to the kitchen.
I pull out my notebook and the files that I have with me and start writing, listing the information gathered so far and trying to link things. I work distractedly for about an hour before getting up to check on Dante. He’s asleep on his side but his bedding’s all twisted around him. I resist the urge to walk in and readjust the duvet so that it covers him better.
Instead I grab the keys on the entrance hall table and run out to his car. The bound files are where I left them this morning and I carry them back into the flat, locking the door behind me.
Dante’s still sleeping, making moaning noises under his breath, twitching uneasily in the grip of whatever dream’s got hold of him.
I get the camera out of my bag and hastily take photos of my parents’ files, doing my best not to pay attention to them. I don’t want to get caught looking through them by anyone and I don’t know when Dante’s housemates are due back.
I thank my lucky stars that Kyle put a 4Gb memory card in the camera and make sure I take pictures of every single page. It takes about twenty minutes to do both files and I shuffle them back into order, bind them up with their piece of ribbon and take them back out to the car. I replace them in the boot and half-cover them with other bits of debris that I found there.
Back in the house I check on Dante again. This time his duvet’s been kicked off completely and he’s curled into a tight ball in the middle of the bed, shivering. I lift the duvet off the floor and pull it over him. He makes a strange sound in the back of his throat that almost sounds like a soft growl.
Without thinking, I reach out and brush back the dark curls that cling damply to his forehead and I let my hand rest there for a second or two, registering that he feels hotter than before. My skin tingles where it touches him and I pull back, wondering exactly what’s wrong with him and why it came on so quickly and unexpectedly.
My thoughts circle my darkest memory, which, try as I might, keeps surfacing.
It was after my nan had been killed and Jamie had taken me to avenge her death on the Unseelie knight and his redcap cronies. My magic, something I’d not known was part of me, rose to the surface that awful night while I ripped the Unseelie knight and his creatures apart, as the hill outside our village tumbled down on top of them. I remember relishing the wild power as it ran rampant through me, the wind whipping up a storm above us, uprooting trees and damaging homes and cars. But mostly I remember the sound of the knight screaming as he died at my feet.
Afterwards, Jamie carried me away. I was too weak to stand and delirious with a fever that did not abate for almost a week. When I came to, I’d become the only Blackhart in several generations who could wield actual magic. It’s been a riot ever since.
With all of this too fresh in my mind I tiptoe out of Dante’s room and ring my uncle Jamie’s number. As he answers I pull out a chair at the dining-room table and sit down.
‘Kit, what’s up, kiddo? Having fun?’
‘Not so much, Jamie. Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure. Just give me a second.’ Something metallic screeches and there’s a loud bang, followed by another one. ‘I was just fiddling around with the Jeep. What’s going on?’
‘Do you remember when I got so sick, when my magic, uh, you know?’ How do I put this? When my magic manifested? When I went psychotic and killed that Sidhe warrior and all his drunken goblin pals?
‘When you came into your powers, yes,’ Jamie says with a smile in his voice. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘How long was I sick for? What were my symptoms?’
‘You ran a high fever for a couple of days. Not even Mrs Evans could get it to go down. The local doctor wanted to send you to hospital but, before we could, the fever broke. You were really sick, throwing up this clear bile. Pretty gross, actually.’
‘Oh great, thanks.’ Always good to know you handled yourself really well during a debilitating illness.
‘Why do you ask? Kit . . . ?’
‘It’s just, how do you check if someone is a Fae, Jamie? If you’re not sure in the first place?’
‘I did it to you. Checking, I mean.’ He sounds very serious. ‘We weren’t sure what was going on with you. Your nan never let any of us near
you. So when we returned from the hospital so I could take out that Unseelie knight, and you ripped those redcaps apart all by yourself with your magic . . . Well . . .’ He laughs a rueful laugh. ‘I was scared senseless. I thought we’d somehow screwed up. That you were a full-blooded Fae who’d been kidnapped by Mirabelle. But afterwards, while you were so sick, Letitia showed us the journals our many times great aunt Helena had written. We couldn’t believe you had magic, but I still had to check . . . It was up to me, as the one who brought you to the Manor.’
My pulse thunders at his words. ‘Jamie? What did you do?’
‘I cut your left arm above your elbow with an iron blade to see if you had any kind of reaction to the iron.’
My mouth opens but no sound comes out. I turn my arm and look at the thin scar there.
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘I’m sorry, Kit. It had to be done. We had to make sure you weren’t one of them.’
‘What if I had been, Jamie? What then?’
‘I don’t know. Andrew would have had to make the call. We would probably have sent you to the Otherwhere. Have someone look after you.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes.’ His voice is low and I like to think he sounds ashamed. ‘The integrity of the Blackharts as a family and organization can’t be called into doubt, Kit. Not ever, not when we’re all walking such a very fine line between both worlds.’
I stare at my notes and feel suddenly very lost and alone.
‘If you have something on you that’s iron, Kit, all you have to do is use iron. It doesn’t have to break the skin. It will react immediately. You won’t miss it. They’ll act as if they’ve just been burned. You’ll know you’re dealing with a Fae. Possibly a changeling.’
‘Changeling? What the hell, Jamie?’ My own voice has dropped and is a low whisper.
‘Kit, you’re not listening to me.’
‘I am. But a changeling, Jamie? I mean, that’s not even permitted, it’s been illegal for the past one hundred years! And if he is a changeling, it’s not his fault if his parents decided to dump him in the Frontier.’
‘I know, Kit. But the Frontier is not a good place for them – not if they have any kind of magical ability and it’s wild. You don’t know what this person is or what he’s capable of. He won’t even know what he is if he’s unaware of his heritage.’
I close my eyes and think furiously. He’s not prying about who I’m talking about either and I’m more than grateful to him for it. Neither is he asking further prying questions, trusting me to figure this out and it’s flattering to see he thinks I’ve got a handle on whatever minor crisis it is that I’m facing. I take a deep breath before I speak again.
‘What if he doesn’t react to the iron?’ I ask Jamie. ‘What then? What, if like me, he has magical abilities? What then?’
‘Then you take him home, and you call Marc for backup. If this person has real magic then we deal with it and we help him if we can. He might not even make it through alive.’
Fear clutches at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He could die, Kit. If the magic burns through him and he can’t get a grip on it, he could die.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
The iron nail I have tucked in a side pocket of my messenger bag isn’t very big because it doesn’t have to be. It’s maybe as long as my little finger. I dig it out and walk into Dante’s room, holding it flush against my arm and carrying a glass of water in the other. It’s ridiculous. I feel as if I’m pretending to be van Helsing trying to slay Dracula with a splinter.
‘Kit?’ Dante opens heavy eyes and peers at me. ‘How did you get here?’ He rolls his head and looks around. ‘Why am I in bed?’
‘You’re not doing well,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t you remember getting sick earlier today?’ When he nods after a few moments, looking confused, I sigh in relief. ‘Can you sit up a bit and drink some water?’
He hefts himself up on one arm but it buckles beneath him and he falls back against the pillow, breathing as if he’s just run a mile.
‘I feel terrible,’ he tells me. His eyes are huge and feverish and there’s a flush along his cheeks that makes it look as if he got a bit of sun. ‘I can’t stop shaking.’
I sit down on the edge of the bed. ‘Let me help you.’ I grab his arm and pull him forward, towards me, tucking my arm around his waist and steadying him. The iron nail slides along my palm and I press the point up against his skin beneath his shirt. At the touch of the iron he lets out a yelp of pain and grabs hold of my hand and forces it into view.
‘What is that? What have you done?’
We both look down at the offending iron nail lying in the palm of my hand. Dante’s gaze is confused and worried as he stares back at me.
‘What did you do?’ There’s pain in his eyes, genuine pain but also an expression that makes me feel like I’ve somehow broken his trust. ‘Kit? What is that?’
‘It’s iron,’ I tell him. My voice sounds wrong even to me. ‘You’re allergic to iron, because you’re not human.’
He twists so he can look at his back but grunts when he can’t see anything. ‘It’s still burning. Bloody hell, it hurts.’
Guilt plucks at me and I kneel next to him on the bed, to get a good look at the mark I left on his skin. It’s not big but it is bright red, resembling the sort of welt you’d get from touching a pan straight from the oven.
He’s shivering but giving off so much heat as I touch his skin that the contact is uncomfortable. I still have the water in my hand and I dip my fingers into the glass and drip water onto the red welt. His breath hisses out but he relaxes marginally before he starts shivering again.
We sit like this for a few seconds, me leaning against him, Dante just shivering and trying to make sense of what I said. When he speaks, his voice is low and raw. ‘What does it mean?’
‘I think you’re a changeling, Dante.’ I’m surprised that my voice almost sounds normal and I sit back, moving away from him a little. He was throwing off a lot of heat. There’s a hum in the room that I can’t place and I’m reminded of Thorn’s magic, how I could feel it thrumming whenever he used it near me.
‘That doesn’t—’ Dante falls back against his pillow. ‘I don’t understand. How can that be true?’ He blinks up at me with fever-bright eyes. ‘Kit, I don’t think that’s right. It can’t be true. Can it? I don’t understand this.’ He rubs a shaking hand over his face. ‘My head is pounding. I think I’m dying.’
‘You are not dying.’ The catch in my voice belies the flippant tone I was going for. ‘Look, you’re going through something. I think being exposed to my magic has somehow brought your own magic out, maybe broken whatever glamour you had cast over you.’ I stand. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to tell my family. We need to decide what we’re going to do with you.’
‘No, Kit . . .’ He rolls towards me and grabs my hand, pulling me down towards him so I collapse on my knees next to the bed. ‘Please, no. Just stay here, with me. I don’t understand what’s going on. Let me get through this, then we can talk to your family.’
‘I must go,’ I whisper, my mind shrinking from the weight of near betrayal. ‘I have to tell them.’
‘Stay,’ he pleads, his voice ragged and not just a tiny bit afraid. ‘I can’t do this alone.’
I look at him and all I can hear is Jamie’s warning voice and my uncle Andrew telling me to keep a level logical mind. But the boy I see before me doesn’t look devious or a danger to me or anyone else. Instead I see someone who is scared and confused and, so help me, I know exactly how he feels.
I sit up with a start and groan as all my aches and pains make themselves known. The blow to my ribs from this morning has me hitching my breath in pain and I press my hand beneath my shirt. Yes, it still hurts. I lean forward a bit and the soreness eases slightly. I’m in the process of getting up from the floor where I’d fallen asleep, sitting upright against the bed, when there’s movement behind me. I turn to loo
k at Dante, who seems to be fighting demons in his fever dreams. He’s moving restlessly beneath the duvet and I can still feel the heat emanating from him, even from where I am on the floor.
A thought wanders into my head and I only have to think it and my magic surfaces. I hold my hand out just above his skin and watch for the answering ebb and flow of his aura. It doesn’t take me long to see it. The scarlet lines of energy coursing through him are struck with gold flecks and highlights of a rich vibrant green. My hand remains steady as I watch and see my own magic, a far more muted and controlled red, sink into his energies. I’m carried away briefly by the wild elation that thunders through him. I feel it beckoning me onwards, luring me towards something I’m not sure I want to discover.
Reluctantly, I pull my magic back and stand up, stretching my aching back. The alarm clock on the little side table reads 6 p.m. I need to check in with Kyle and get home.
I wonder if any of Dante’s housemates have come home, but from the silence in the house I suspect not. Carefully, so as not to wake him, I walk out of the room and check on the other two rooms down the hallway.
Both rooms are empty, looking like barracks with bare beds, bedding neatly folded at the bottom. I check the wardrobes and there are no clothes or personal items at all. Neither of the two en suites holds any personal toiletries, apart from clean towels and unopened toothpaste and toothbrushes.
I wander back into the kitchen and make myself some coffee, toying with my phone. Why did he lie and say there were other young agents living here? Maybe there have been others here and they are out on assignment. No, I decide. Those rooms feel as if they’ve been empty for a long time, not just a few days. This makes me wonder about the SDI. Is he even part of them? But then there are the files in the car, his badge, the business cards. So no, the SDI connection must be real . . .
I call Kyle but there’s no answer. I leave a message for him to call me.
