Seventh Born

by Monica Sanz

  The impressions floated around him, but he didn’t say a word, a portrait of sophistication and poise.

  Sera stormed to his desk. Hot tears in her eyes, she cleared the surface in one swipe and slammed the case file down before him. “You will look at me!” Flames flared with a roar and engulfed the curtains. “You owe me that much. Look me in the eyes and tell me my life means something to you. That I wasn’t bait.”

  He gazed at the scattered impressions. Settling back, his eyes remained on the photographs before him and never lifted to hers or the flames that shaded them in amber. He rubbed at his lips, the debate to speak heavy on his brow. Ultimately, he looked to Filip’s portrait behind her, then met her stare and kept silent.

  A dizzying coolness rushed down her body and numbed all in its path—her mind, her heart, her lungs, her knees. The flames around them died with a hiss, leaving Barrington and Sera to ashes, smoke, and shadows.

  “That’s it, then,” she said, though unsure whether she’d made a sound. She nodded and straightened, anger no longer an emotion. There was nothing, just scattered dreams of a referral she would never get and a family she would never find.

  One moment she was before his desk, the next she stood at the center of the room as smoke filled the space between them.

  Barrington rose, and where he was supposed to have told her that her life meant something, he aimed his wand at her feet.

  She fell into darkness.

  17

  wishing tree

  Frozen rain tapped against the window, and though wrapped in her wool blanket, Sera shivered as if standing in the midst of the icy raindrops. For days nothing had warmed her. There was no relief from the heartache and disappointment, a vicious venom that mapped her veins.

  She gazed through the icy webs fracturing the surface of her window, to the line of trees shielded by a thick fog, and shook her head. She’d been afraid of the second sight for fear Noah would find her in the afterlife, to torture her in death as he’d done in life. But now he was out there, somewhere beyond the mist, a predator lying in wait.

  Barrington had known, and he hadn’t told her.

  A broken breath left her, forming a cloud of smoke before her mouth. Surely he had his reasons for keeping it a secret, but why bother asking for her trust?

  Be a little mad and trust me, Miss Dovetail.

  She shut her eyes tightly to suppress the tears threatening to fall as his low voice echoed in her thoughts and stirred her soul. But she wouldn’t cry for him. He didn’t deserve her tears.

  One tear broke through anyway and spilled onto her cheek. She sniffled and brushed it away.

  “Oh, damn you, Barrington. You should have told me,” she whispered, more tears falling now. “And I should have known…”

  Recalling the impressions and Isobel’s body, she shivered. The savageness spoke of Noah, of his little regard for human life. But she had seen him burn. How could he be living?

  She rubbed cold fingers along her temples, recalling that fateful day. It had been ages since she’d allowed herself to go there, to that place in her mind, but Sera closed her eyes and remembered.

  He’d taken his time with her that morning, drinking of her magic until shadowy pinwheels flashed before her eyes, a shifting constellation of black stars in the ceiling over his bed. Lounging back, he held her as he often did, curled up at his side as he trailed a finger along the drops of blood streaming from the cuts he’d inflicted on her skin. But she felt no pain here, in the hazy in-between of consciousness and darkness where her body ceased to exist.

  The bedroom door had slammed open then, and someone whisked to the bedside. Sera attempted to grasp their appearance, but it smeared into the darkness fringing her vision. She was tired, so very tired.

  Voices echoed then, harsh and agitated and far away. Noah shifted her aside and rushed to his feet, whirling his black cloak on in one stroke. What’s happening? Sera mused, but the thoughts were frail, and she couldn’t reach them. She closed her eyes and followed them into blackness.

  Sometime later, she opened her eyes to a strange warmth churning in her belly. Magic, she realized. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like; for some weeks now, Noah forbade she use it. People like her couldn’t use magic; it was a sin, he’d said. He warned her to tell him when she felt it brimming and sloshing within her, so that he could take it away, could help ease the burden of her evil. So that he could cleanse her. But now her magic simmered and pricked under her skin, and for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t so cold anymore.

  Gripping the black iron bedpost, she pressed her feet to the floor. Her legs were weak, and bones snapped and crackled, but holding onto the nightstand, she stood. Aided by the walls, she clambered to the window. With each second, magic spread within her, flickers of warmth and energy that sparked her limbs to life and flooded her mind with sensation—the grittiness of the black damask wallpaper beneath her fingertips, the cold wooden floors underfoot. The scent of brine and sulfur wafting in from outside, trailed by shrieks and vicious cries.

  A fierce voice in her head—her voice, and not Noah’s invading her mind—screamed for her to go. Panic burst through her; she could not stay here. There was more beyond this room and bed and Noah. Though she didn’t know what, the sensation of…of…life and reason spurred her to act. There was more, and she would find it.

  She stumbled to his wardrobe and pulled it open, grabbing a robe from within. She thrust it over her shoulders and paused, caught by her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Pale and gaunt, she hobbled toward the glass. Dark circles cradled her eyes, her cheeks sunken, her lips dry, cracked, blue. Trails of dried blood blotched her skin like spilled ink. He’d done this to her, all in the name of piety. If her magic was so evil, why did he take it? Why did it make her weaker and him stronger?

  A furious conviction fanned the fire within her. Whoever she was in the past, this girl staring back at her was not it. Pressure and heat gathered in her hands. She closed her fingers into tight fists, and the mirror snapped and splintered. The stress and heat in her hands eased but mounted again, aching for freedom.

  She clutched her hands tighter, and something within her roared, unrestricted. Waves of heat flowed out of her. Wild winds whipped around the room—curtains billowed in the breeze and doors rattled on the hinges. This was her magic, and if she’d managed to claim this small amount, maybe she could find the missing pieces of her past and claim her life back as well.

  The door crashed open. Noah rushed inside and toured his murderous stare along the windswept room. His lips curled to a snarl.

  “After all I’ve done for you, you defile yourself by using magic?” Confident, he raised a hand to her, the wild winds blowing his brown locks over his face. “Come, and ask for forgiveness.”

  Sera considered his hand and the things it was capable of. Her magic pulsed, and the windows behind him exploded. Noah flinched and ducked at the shards of glass raining around them.

  He growled and straightened, drawing his wand on Sera. “Come here, now!”

  Every cut, tear, and scream whirled in her mind, a hurricane of pain and death. A hurricane of him.

  The fibers of his wand illuminated red. “I will not tell you again.”

  He wouldn’t. Magic roiled within her, an uncontrollable force that clawed at her bones for release. It felt endless, infinite, and she didn’t see life beyond it. Still, she lifted a hand. There was no life with him, either.

  Her magic swelled and rolled up her body in a searing wave. A cloud of fire exploded out from her with a monstrous roar. Gusts of fire fanned outward and blanketed every surface in flames. Vicious fatigue swooped down on her, and she collapsed, falling into darkness surrounded by fire and Noah’s screams.

  Sera sighed at the memory. The Aetherium officers told her he was dead, that there had been no way he’d survived the fire or the building’s collapse after they’d rescued Sera. But that had been a lie, and she’d been a fool to believe it. Of cou
rse Noah survived. He was a demon, born in the fires of the Underworld. And now she was left to suffer him alone, without her dream of a referral to bolster her. No, her dream was dead.

  Sera glanced at the dark woods, and thoughts of other unfulfilled desires brushed through her mind.

  Perhaps we could not be so alone…together.

  A plan quickly formed in her mind. Though she could not salvage what was left of her dream, she could save what was left of Mary’s. She glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. If she hurried, she would make it on time.

  Sera padded across the room and dressed quickly. Gathering her cloak, she snuck out of the room. With a prayer on her lips, she made it to the library undetected. She pushed open the bookcase. The night was frigid. Barren trees clacked under a gust that disturbed the branches and rattled the windows. A half-moon offered little light, but she didn’t need to read anything tonight. Books would not solve her problem. In Mary’s words, only a Delacort would do.

  She blew out a frosted breath, thrust her hood over her head, and dashed inside. Ducked low, she pressed close to the nearest shelf and inched forward, hoping the patrol schedule hadn’t changed. She reached the end of the row and, for the first time in days, she smiled. Timothy leaned back against a shelf, an illuminated wand held over the open book in his hand.

  Finally, a stroke of luck. She peered around the shelf, then rushed past the long tables and across the library. She reached the row where Timothy was and frowned. He was gone.

  She huffed a sigh. “Wonderful.”

  A silver hue shone behind her. “Who goes there?”

  Sera lowered her hood and spun toward him.

  He stiffened, and his wand dimmed, the shadows around them encroaching. “What are you doing here, Miss Dovetail? You’re lucky it was me; you could have gotten caught.”

  “I know, but I came to see you.”

  He raked a hand through his mess of black curls. “I thought we had nothing to speak about. You’re happy alone, and if memory serves me right, there’s no hope and I should move on.” He shrugged. “What’s left to discuss?”

  His tone was cold and unfamiliar, but she couldn’t blame him. “Look, Timothy… I know you’re hurt, but there is no way we could ever go to the dance together, even if I wanted to. Mary has feelings for you, and she is my friend. I couldn’t do that to her.”

  He looked out to the library and shook his head. “A part of me wishes you had come to tell me you didn’t care for my company because you didn’t like me, or thought me hideous or arrogant—annoying even—yet you choose friendship over me.” His icy look was replaced by a small smile, one more of pain than joy. “Your nobility makes it hurt even more.”

  Her heart fluttered, but remembering Barrington and all that had happened, her shoulders lowered. If she couldn’t be happy, she would find happiness in the joys of another. “Then I hope you’ll find some comfort in my words, as I think there’s a solution that may not change much, but at least we could all find a bit of happiness, if just for one night.”

  His brow lowered in question.

  “I said I couldn’t go to the dance with you,” she clarified. “I didn’t say I couldn’t dance with you.”

  Timothy blinked. Her words seemed to register slowly in his mind, and then his brows rose. “Then you’ll go to the dance?”

  “Yes, I will—alone. You will escort Mary. Once there, we can share one dance. Under the guise of your father being chair of the seventhborn program, you dancing with me won’t be all too shocking.”

  “I don’t care what they think.”

  “I do. I must. So is it a deal, you will accompany Mary in exchange for one dance?”

  “Two.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “Please. Perhaps one for my pain and another as an early Christmas gift?” He smiled, and this time the old gleam found his eyes once more, the sadness that had plagued him for weeks dispelled.

  Sera sighed. “Fine. Two dances, then. But no more.”

  His smile widened. “Perfect. I intend to use every ounce of my charm to show you that I deserve one more.”

  “Then we’re in agreement?”

  “You have my word.”

  She nodded once. “And you have mine. Ask her today so she has time to write her mama, and no one is to know of our arrangement.” She unsheathed her wand.

  His blue eyes narrowed. “An oath? You have my word, Miss Dovetail. Trust me, I won’t tell.”

  The word hurt like a dagger to her heart, and she winced. “I trust no one, Mr. Delacort.”

  “You trust Mary enough to be here, to enter into an oath with me.”

  Sera held out her wand. “She has proven herself a true friend and has no reason to bring me harm.”

  “Neither do I,” he said, “and I hope that during the course of the dance I’ll be able to prove that to you.” He neared and touched the tip of his wand to hers.

  Their oath made, Sera cleared her throat and walked away quickly, praying and wondering whether she had done the right thing. Yet she glanced back at Timothy, and a smile touched her lips. If not happy for her own situation, at least she would be for her dearest friend.

  The next night, after Mary snuck in to share the good news and ramble on about gowns and hairstyles, dancing with Timothy, and finally appeasing her mama, Sera listened absently, her mind lost to thoughts of oaths made, trust broken, and promises of dancing.

  …

  Snow blanketed the grounds. The lands around the school resembled more a puffed cloud than a forest. Sera trailed a finger along the fogged glass, as though to follow the snowflakes in their journey across the estate, the same way her tears had trailed down her cheeks for the past week. Mary’s dream come true was supposed to have been a balm to her own hurt, but it hadn’t worked. She swallowed around the knot in her throat, her loneliness magnified.

  She glanced at her clock. There was no time for tears, not that she had any left. She slid on her gloves and hefted a sigh. Heaven help me survive this night. Men were capable of cruel things. She would remember this, and no dance or admiration on earth would sway her.

  She paced to her bed where the yellow gown Mary secured for her was spread. Sera glanced in the mirror and smoothed down the black gown she decided to wear instead, one of Mary’s hand-me-downs.

  Mary would be upset, surely. “Black is Death,” she had said. Sera sighed. Indeed, and ever since her fight with Barrington, she felt more like it.

  She’d hated him the first night, viciously so. The second night, however, once her anger had waned, she’d thought more reasonably. Not only had she not let him explain, but he was a professor, and clearly by the spells he used to defeat his own hellhound, he was powerful. If at least for the time they had worked together, she’d been safe. And if she was to be an inspector, was the job itself not the furthest thing from safe? Whatever the risk, she would do what was necessary to find her family.

  Which reminded her: Barrington’s reasons were the same as well. These thoughts plagued her on the third night, when she paced in aimless circles, thinking that he should have told her. His keeping it from her did not excuse him in any way…but he would go to the ends of the earth to avenge his father and brother. Would she not do the same?

  The fourth night, anger found her once more. He had betrayed her trust. How could they mend things—that is, if they could ever be mended—if they didn’t have trust? And if they could fix things, did he realize just how much he was asking of her? He said he would protect her, but in turn, was he not asking her to entrust him with her life? Could she give him this? Was this not the ultimate trust?

  Thoughts of this haunted her the next few nights and into the present moment where she bit her lip, still trying to make sense of things, a feat made worse since she had yet to see him. Was he remorseful? Was he ashamed? Did he simply not care?

  She thought she’d gathered her answer that morning when she returned to her room after lessons to find a delivery waiting outsid
e her door, a small box with a yellow rose within. Her heart had quickened and pulse raced, thinking it to be from Barrington. A note, however, revealed it was from Timothy requesting she wear it to the dance that night.

  Sera sighed, and plucking up the rose from her dresser, she adjusted it into her hair. No, Barrington was probably angry with her for setting his home on fire and had most likely replaced her already.

  The bells tolled the hour, and she shook her head. She would have time to think of it later. Powdering her nose one last time, she adjusted her gloves and made her way downstairs to the grand staircase. Mary arrived a moment later. They shared a furtive smile; they’d agreed to show up late so they would find each other at the end of the line, a mere coincidence to everyone but them.

  Any doubt she may have had over her deal with Timothy vanished the moment she looked at Mary. In a powder-blue dress with an open square neckline and V-shaped bodice, large bell skirt with ruffled lace trims, she was striking.

  Sera lined up behind her; only two girls remained ahead of them. “You look beautiful,” she whispered. “I’m sure Timothy will think so as well.”

  The first girl descended, her maroon dress dragging behind her as she vanished around the bend.

  Mary reached back and squeezed Sera’s hands. “Thank you, dearest.”

  The next girl rounded the corner.

  Mary stopped shy of the last turn and sucked in a deep breath, her fan rapping at her side. “I changed my mind. You go first. I’ve never been so nervous in my life.”

  “You’ll be fine. Hold on to the rail, and for all that is sacred and holy, please don’t fall.” Sera rounded the corner into the grand stairs and wished someone would have spoken these words to her. Timothy waited beside the stairs, a white rose in his hands.

  And looming over the line of waiting boys was Professor Barrington.

  Dressed in black, he towered over them like a shadow. But not even the shadows could hide the look of surprise when his eyes fell upon her. She regarded him, too, and all else ceased to exist. She’d called him the devil, but she conceded she’d been wrong. Standing there, he was more of an angel, fallen and hurting and so devastatingly beautiful. Even at a distance, the comfort of his presence swayed her, made her want to hit him and shake him and hold him all at once. And, damn it all, as angry and hurt as she’d felt and as cold and wrong as he’d been, she missed their work together and conversations—his infuriating cockiness and moments of tenderness. She missed him.