Larkstorm

by Dawn Rae Miller

  While we’d been talking, the roar of the battle ended and I hadn’t noticed. With my hand in Beck’s, we pick our way through the wreckage of the room. His mom will be livid when she sees what we’ve–-

  I freeze. The lawn is destroyed—the once tall, swaying grass is flattened and witches lie scattered, like forgotten toys, moaning in pain. Eamon, seemingly uninjured, darts around the battlefield, tending to the wounded.

  I narrow my eyes. If only something would fall from the sky and smash him.

  A fierce tug yanks me out of my thoughts and back to the scene before me.

  Beck.

  “You can’t think like that,” he says, leaning into me.

  I turn to face him, and catch a glimpse of the house over his shoulder. My hand flies to my mouth and tears well in my eyes. It’s in ruins—many of the windows are blown out; the roof is missing along the right side; the far end of the porch has collapsed.

  “Oh heya, Birdie. That’s nothing. We can fix that. Today, even. It’ll look like new.” Beck wraps his arm—his injured arm—around me. “Don’t cry, okay?”

  The nagging knowledge that Beck’s injuries, the injuries of the others, and the destruction of the house is all my fault weighs heavy on me. If I wasn’t here, my mother would not have attacked.

  “It’s destroyed,” I whisper and whip my head around, surveying more of the scene before me. A small tremble forms in my core and releases a wave of heat, which radiates along my nerves. If Bethina, or Eloise, or even little Bea are hurt, so help me, I’ll–

  “Well, yeah. That’s what Dark witches do, Lark, they destroy things.” Beck’s factual voice snaps me out of my internal monologue.

  “Like how I’m going to destroy you.”

  He tilts his head. His eyes are guarded, closed to me. “I don’t believe that.”

  Before I can argue, Beck’s head swivels to the left, as if he heard something. I follow the direction of his gaze but only see more injured witches and destruction.

  “Over there.” He points to a distant figure, nearly dwarfed by the tall grass. Eloise.

  She’s not moving. Her arms are wrapped around her knees, her head thrown back staring at the dome. My feet carry me to her side faster than I thought possible.

  When I realize Beck isn’t next to me, I glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s okay. I expect to see him limping along, but he’s surrounded by witches touching him. Hanging on him. The normally playful glint in his eyes has grown dark and serious.

  I kneel, legs shaking, next to Eloise.

  “It held,” she says, lifting her trembling hand toward the dome. I lean in to better hear her. “I made it hold.”

  Relieved she’s not injured, I pull her head to my chest. That one small act seems to uncork a tidal wave of emotions. Eloise’s tiny body convulses with sobs and she presses her face deeper into my body.

  “All they want is you.” Her words come in spurts. “They need you.”

  Hearing it said aloud numbs my mind. Hardens it. I belong to no one and they—Dark and Light—need to understand that.

  Fury builds in my chest, and I breathe deeply, trying to calm myself. I force myself to do what I know I should: help.

  Eloise lifts her tear-stained face. “Lark, I was terrified.”

  “Shhh. It’s okay.” She lays her head back against my chest. I glance over at Beck. I need his help to calm Eloise.

  I’ll be right there.

  My breath hitches in my throat. Surely he didn’t just talk to me in my head?

  Yeah, I did.

  Our matching olive eyes meet. As clear as day, he says, Don’t look so surprised.

  The whole experience lasts maybe three seconds and I’m not sure I trust my mind or if it’s wishful thinking.

  And yet, he immediately untangles himself from his admirers and heads toward us, wincing as he walks. I’m not sure what worries me more: Beck talking to me in my head, or him trying to help others with a large piece of glass stuck in his back.

  I turn my attention to Eloise. No matter how hard I try, the calming circles I draw for Eloise don’t work. Maybe I’m still too angry over Eamon’s attack to calm her properly?

  Beck understands. He bends next to us, gritting his teeth in pain. His hand replaces mine. After a minute, Eloise’s sobs slow and her shaking eases.

  She lifts her head again and looks into my eyes. “I don’t know what it is about you, Lark. I should be scared of you, but I’m not—you’re not frightening at all.” Her copper hair hangs around her face and matches the redness in her eyes. She squeezes my hand. “You’re worth fighting for.”

  I gape at her, trying to make sense of her rambling. All I can think about is that I’m sitting in a field surrounded by chaos and destruction and my first thought wasn’t to help people, but to hurt Eamon and seek revenge if anyone I cared about was injured.

  I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I should be offering my assistance. I should be trying to help.

  Except I’m Dark. A destroyer.

  And this is all my fault.

  25

  The physical repairs to Summer Hill take less than two days. At the end of the first, the roof is fixed and the windows replaced. By the following evening, not a thing is out of place. The tall grass sways in the breeze and the porch looks better than new.

  But the repairs to me? I’m not fixable.

  I’m Dark. Evil. A threat. Like Annalise and, of course, Mother.

  Dust swirls around me as I trek down the path to the lake. The Channings don’t give me time alone, so I’m stealing it. Skipping lunch. I need to get away and clear my mind.

  High above me, birds shriek warnings of my presence.

  Smart birds. Even they fear me.

  The glassy lake shimmers at the end of the trail, and I walk toward it until I’m standing on the beach. There’s no sound now—not even birds. No one is trying to find me.

  I linger under the trees and kick off my shoes. As my toes sink into the cool sand, I look for a place to sit.

  Next to me, at the top of a sandy embankment, there’s a rope swing tied to a tree.

  The thought of soaring out over the water and then letting go, at the precise moment, appeals to me. I scurry over the exposed tree roots and wrap both hands around the rope.

  One. Two. Three.

  Air rushes past me as I hurtle out over the lake. There’s no room for hesitation. Either I drop or I end up smacking back into the tree. When I feel like I’m at the furthest extension, I release the rope and plunge toward the water.

  It’s not at all warm like I’d expected. The coldness shocks me and for a moment I’m not sure which way is up. Then buoyancy kicks in and I’m floating toward the top.

  My lungs empty in a gasping rush when I break the surface.

  From the beach, I hear clapping. “Well done, Lark. Well done.”

  My feet tread water, keeping me up right, and I jerk my head back toward the beach. My favorite teacher stands on the shore, watching me. “Mr. Trevern! What are you doing here?”

  He stands in the glaring sun with his hand shielding his eyes. “Well, after the lot of you left, the State placed me on ‘administrative leave.’” His fingers create quotes around the phrase. “My services were no longer needed.”

  “You’re Sensitive, too?” Not that it surprises me, since everyone else in my life seems to be, but I still have to ask.

  “I prefer witch, Lark. But yes.”

  I use long, even strokes back to the beach. Water drips from my hair and clothes as I climb out. The warm air prevents post-swim chills. “So you came here? When did you arrive?”

  “Actually, I arrived shortly before you did.”

  “Oh right—because you know how to travel through space,” I say bitterly, defeat peppering my words. “Can’t say it’s something I’ve mastered yet.”

  “You’ll get there, don’t worry.”

  I resist a sarcastic comeback and instead ask, “How come you didn’t come say ‘
hi’ to me earlier?”

  “I didn’t want to intrude on your lessons.”

  Apparently he doesn’t know about the growing group of witches—including the sad-eyed boy—who watch my lessons everyday. Nothing can possibly be more distracting than people laughing and taunting while you’re trying to concentrate.

  I squeeze water from my hair and flop onto the sand. I’ll worry about getting it out of all my crevices later. “So, are you teaching me, too?”

  “No. I’m here in an advisory role.”

  I sit up. Beneath the sand coating me, my skin begins to turn pink. I’m already nearly dry.

  “You tutored Beck at school—in magic—didn’t you?” I don’t hide the jealousy in my voice. Mr. Trevern was my favorite teacher and he never thought to offer me his services.

  “I did.” Mr. Trevern tips his head toward the shade of the trees. “Let’s have a seat, shall we?”

  I follow him to the cooler air, thankful to be out of the scorching sun, and find a nice spot on the ground.

  “Who are you advising? Beck?” I dust the sand from my exposed skin. “Not me, I hope. I’m not exactly a star student here.”

  “You’re not happy.”

  I meet his eyes. “And you’re not scared of me.”

  He gives a half-smile and his brown eyes crinkle at the edges. “You’ve never given me any reason to be.”

  I wiggle my toes, observing their pinkness. From the corner of my eye, I catch him watching me.

  He smiles and points at my feet. “Your mom used to do that. You’re very much like her.”

  I whip my head around so I can stare directly at Mr. Trevern. “You know my mother?”

  Confusion wells up in me. Mr. Trevern is supposed to be a Light witch—that’s why he’s here—but if he’s friends with my mom, he must be Dark.

  He hesitates and his shoulders roll forward slightly. “She’s my sister.”

  My muscles tense. I leap to my feet, my mind moving two steps ahead, formulating a plan to warn everyone a Dark witch has broken through the dome. I leave my shoes behind as I run to the edge of the trees. The fallen pine needles sting my feet and pebbles cut my toes, but I can’t stop.

  I need to save everyone. I need to prove I’m good.

  “Lark wait, it’s not like that. Let me explain,” Mr. Trevern’s voice calls after me. “I’m not Dark. I promise.”

  I spin toward him. There’s at least a hundred feet between us, but I can see his face perfectly. I narrow my eyes and scan for any sign of Darkness. Not that I would know what to look for.

  Mr. Trevern raises his eyes to mine and I gasp. They’re the same olive green as mine. As Beck’s. How did I never notice it before? All that time we spent working side by side in the greenhouse. And I’m positive they were brown just a few minutes ago.

  I stand on the edge of the shade, torn between running and listening to him.

  “The last time someone explained something to me, I didn’t like what I heard,” I shout.

  Mr. Trevern stands on the beach, hands outstretched. “Stay, please. I want to talk, and I know you must have questions.”

  “Why is it everyone knows about my life except me?”

  “I can fix that, Lark. I can tell you what you want to know.” His eyes glint in a way that reminds me of Beck. Honest eyes. I take a step back toward the beach, toward Mr. Trevern.

  “Will you tell me about my mother?” I cross my arms and plant my feet wide.

  “What do you want to know?”

  A million questions poke at me. Each one begging for me to choose it. I search for the loudest ones.

  “Why is she Dark and you’re not? Why were you at my school? Why do you like her?” I fire questions at him.

  Mr. Trevern pushes his hand through his hair. “Okay, let’s see. First, she’s Dark and I’m not because our parents, like yours, interbound.”

  I stretch my neck and look off toward the water. “Bethina told me. How does that make you one of each?”

  He motions for me to come closer. Even though the sun beats down on me, I shake my head. Until I’m certain of his motives, I’ll take my chances with a sunburn.

  “It seems the darkness passes through the female side of our family. The men, if they exhibit powers at all, go light.”

  “So Callum’s light? Then why’s he with Annalise?”

  “Actually, Callum isn’t anything really. He’s just a very weak Light witch with limited powers. He may as well be human. Haven’t you noticed the way he defers to Annalise?”

  “I thought it was because she holds a higher office than he does.”

  Mr. Trevern shrugs. “No, that’s just the two of them. Some weird power thing they have.”

  “So he’s like her whipping boy?” I laugh at the thought. It’s funny in a weird, twisted way.

  Mr. Trevern grins and I feel myself relax slightly.

  “Interbinding isn’t normal though, right?”

  “That’s correct. Our parents—mine as well as yours—broke with tradition and refused their selected mates. It created quite a commotion.”

  “How did they even meet? My parents?”

  “Sebb was a young teacher at the school, and Malin…well, Malin is very good at getting what she wants. And she wanted Sebb.”

  “My father was a Singleton?” He had to be if he didn’t have a mate.

  Mr. Trevern shifts uncomfortable. “No. He had a mate, but she died.”

  “How?”

  “She drowned while leading a sailing expedition on the Bay,” he answers flatly.

  I raise my eyebrows. “And did my mother do that?”

  He shrugs and curls his lip. “Malin was present, but there was no evidence. It was ruled an accident.”

  I snort. “How convenient.”

  “Like I said, Malin gets what she wants.”

  I consider this. My father is dead, as are Miles and Charles, obviously. “How did he die? Did she suck all the light out of him?”

  Mr. Trevern blanches. “No. Like my father, Sebb was killed by ignorant, fearful witches who didn’t understand what they were doing.”

  I inch closer to him. Baby steps. My mind warns me to stay alert, but my heart tells me this is Mr. Trevern, my favorite teacher—and apparently my uncle. If he had wanted to hurt me, he could have done it a long time ago.

  He tilts his head toward me. I jump back.

  “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to sense my feelings.” I pace back and forth, back and forth—each rapid, erratic step in sync with my heart.

  “Actually, I can’t do that. I don’t have that power.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He laughs. “We’re not gods, Lark. We each have one thing we excel at and the rest we either do passably or can’t do at all.” His eyes twinkle and drift off into the distance. “Let me qualify that—all of us except you and Beck.”

  “Right, because I’m not good at anything.”

  His eyes twinkle. “Ah, but you’re wrong. You clearly hold elemental powers—the storm you caused is proof of that. As for the other areas, we don’t know yet.”

  The storm is old information, but… “The other areas?”

  He rattles off the list. “Movement, illusion, defensive and elemental. Along with all the subcategories.”

  Four main groups with subgroups. And the witch world believes I hold powers in more than one category. “Which do you suspect?”

  Mr. Trevern smiles at me. “Why don’t we do some deductions?” It’s as if we’re back in class. He’s the teacher and I’m the eager student wanting to please. “Have you noticed my eyes are no longer brown?” I nod and he says, “I’m an illusionist. I masked them to hide the true color from you.”

  My pacing evens to a steady tempo until I stop abruptly. My scalp sizzles along the part of my hair. The shade of the trees beckons me and I no longer resist. I slip into its coolness but stay a good twenty feet from Mr. Trevern.

  “And my mother? What’s her powe
r? Can she read minds? Affect the weather? Influence people by touch?”

  He stretches out on the ground and pauses as if collecting his thoughts. “It’s easier to list what she can’t do. Malin is very strong but she can’t do everything. She can’t read minds—no witch can; she can’t heal; she can’t sense weak auras; and she’s not particularly good at some areas of movement.”

  My feet ache. I give in and sit on the ground with my knees folded under me. “Do you still see her?”

  Mr. Trevern winces and stares at his hands. “No, I haven’t seen Malin since you were a baby. She doted on you endlessly. And after your father’s…” He seems to be searching for the right word. “Accident, she became even more protective of you.”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Trevern. I know my father’s dead.” There’s no twinge of sadness. My father died when I was just a few months old. I may only vaguely know my mother but I have no memory at all of my father.

  Mr. Trevern twists his hands together. “I have to apologize. I lied, I’m sorry.”

  I knew it. I should have listened to my first instinct and not trusted him. Of course he’s working for Mother. I jump to my feet, my pulse thundering in my ears.

  I’ll hurt him and then warn the others.

  I lift my foot to smash his face. Incapacitate him so I can run. As I start to slam my foot down, Mr. Trevern lifts his anguished eyes to mine. He doesn’t move to save himself, merely raises his finger as if asking for a minute. I stop. I can’t hurt this man in front of me—my favorite teacher. It’s wrong to hurt him.