| |
We take the knot of wood back to Grace’s cascade. Side by side, eyes closed, we listen to the rushing water. And we reach for magic.
But when I open my eyes, only Grace is silvered in a thin sheen of mist.
I hurl the useless bit of wood into the stream and watch it bob away on the water.
Then I wade in after the stupid thing, grumbling with every slippery step at myself, at tree-monsters and their wordless cursed gifts, at gross, messy, impossibly inconvenient nature in general. I’m drenched to the hips by the time I catch it again.
Grace is still where I left her at the side of the stream, though not, as far as I can tell, chatting with Cadence this time. I stretch out on the bank to dry in the sun, one hand on the damp bit of wood that fits itself so perfectly to the shape of my hand, and breathe through the panic.
What if I never get my magic back? What if it’s just not possible?
I’ll have my revenge against Refuge no matter what happens. The Mara’s hunger is unstoppable; eventually, it will devour even its servants. Maryam’s corrupt reign will fail. But Ange and her family, and all the others besides, will die too.
I’m supposed to save them. I’m the only one who can. It’s what I’m meant for. And yet, every time I try to fight for them, return to them, get the power to save them, I only seem to get further from my goal.
Ash is gone. Sent someplace I’ve never heard of and could never find, I’m sure, even if someone had bothered to tell me where he’s gone. Without him, I don’t know how to get back home, how to cross the barrier and return to my city, how to fight back against the Mara without being able to see and manipulate the threads, or against Refuge without the ability to stop the monsters.
I shiver, despite the sun overhead. But even in the midst of horror, I know there’s a warm bath and a soft bed waiting for me, and that’s perhaps what I’m most afraid of.
I didn’t return to the welcome Ash had promised—that homecoming was always meant for Cadence. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing here for me. Nothing to tempt me into comfortable complacency.
I palm the knot of wood and fit my fingers into its satin-grained twists and grooves. I could belong here, with Grace, and Susan—even Steph seems to be warming up to me. Well, perhaps not. But I could learn to grow things. Get better at weaving. Maybe even earn my way into training. Not in a week, but eventually.
I’d work my way up to going on missions, eventually. Probably. There’d be other cities to save. Ash would return, and I might eventually forgive him for leaving, for abandoning his promise, if it meant I could go with him. Even if I can’t get back to what I’ve been, to the kind of power that stops monsters in their tracks, I’m sure I could learn enough to help.
I could make a place for myself here.
I roll over and gag, hanging my head over the bank and spitting bile. The vision, all soft and content and comfortable, turns my stomach and sends me trembling with revulsion. I wipe my mouth, shove to my feet, and hurl the knotted bit of wood deep into the forest where I’ll never have to look at it again.
It bounces and crashes louder and longer than I expected.
Then it flies back out of the trees and bumps to a stop at my feet.
“Really, flame?” says the forest. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
I kick the possessed thing back the way it came and yank Grace to her feet, dragging her stumbling behind me before she’s had a chance to shake off her trance.
“Cole, no!” the forest calls behind me, and then curses.
“Who was that?” Grace pants, struggling to keep up. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
I tighten my grip. “The woods are haunted.”
We’re both wheezing by the time Nine Peaks’ wall comes into sight, but I don’t slow until we reach the gate. I snatch the key over my head and fumble it three times before it clicks into the lock.
Once inside, door safely slammed to and locked behind us, we both collapse.
Grace hangs her head between her knees, heaving. “What did you see out there?”
“I didn’t see anything. I heard a ghost. Not that tree-looking creature or monster or whatever. Someone I knew.”
“You’re sure?”
“I mean, he wasn’t actually dead the last time I saw him, but it couldn’t have been anyone else.”
She runs the back of her arm across her face, scrubbing away sweat. She’s flushed, bright eyes narrowed. “But you didn’t see anything. And you definitely weren’t dreamwalking?”
I shrug. “If I had been, would I have been able to yank you back like that?”
She thinks about it, sighs, and hauls herself up the wall to stand. “I need to report this. If you want to get another training session in with Steph, you’d better hurry and meet her. She’s about to get busy.”
I groan. “I thought that wasn’t until later?”
“It is later. You remember how to get there?”
I roll my eyes and stump away on leaden legs.
“Cole?” she calls after me. “You’re sure you didn’t see anything?”
I flap a hand at her and keep scuffing toward the unofficial sparring ring we’ve established in a quiet corner between long, windowless structures.
I’ve spent most of my life obsessing about death and believing I was haunted. You’d think I’d cope better with a real ghost, but . . . Ravel died? Dead—and haunting me. How did he—his ghost—even find me? How many more are on their way . . . ?
When I’ve reached our sparring ring, I take a running leap at Steph, hoping to gain the edge with a surprise attack and outrun my dread at the same time. She knocks me into the dirt.
“Nice try. You and Gracie spend all day coming up with that?” She stomps, kicking up dust where I’d been sprawled on my back only a moment before.
I skitter back, trying to put distance between us and find a less vulnerable position at the same time. “Spur of the moment inspiration.”
I snatch a long, flexible branch from the side of our sparring circle and fold my hand around it lightly, fingers outstretched and thumb curled in. It’s meant to mimic threads since my talents are—were—better oriented to manipulating them directly than using blades like Ash, or the hand-to-hand Steph excels at. We’ve already established I’m more likely to damage to myself than her when handling practice blades, and as I just demonstrated, my direct combat skills usually end with me eating dirt.
I snap the skinny branch in the younger girl’s direction. She twists aside. If I can keep it touching her for more than a five-count, I win. So far my record is half a second.
I flick my arm. The branch whips away and back so fast its end blurs.
She leans; watches it swish harmlessly through the air. “Keep those fingers spread. Rotate, not pinch.”
I snap the branch against the ground. It shudders out of my grip.
Cadence and Steph snicker, trading friendly insults. Steph circles, poking me with her own stick every so often to remind me to keep moving while I flail my branch and pretend it’s a handful of magical string.
If anything, I seem to be getting worse.
“You know this is all pointless if you can’t tap in.” She jabs me in the ribs.
I swat her away. My branch folds against hers and springs back, thwapping me in the face.
“Combat skills aren’t what get you into the program; they’re what keep us in,” she says. “You’ll have to show at least a little talent.”
“So why’re you teaching me?” I flick the branch back and forth with a humming swish to keep her at bay. “Why waste your time if I don’t have a chance.”
“Maybe I just like seeing you wallow in the dirt.” She pivots, drops, and lunges faster than I can redirect my branch’s force, sweeping my feet out from under me.
I land hard, gagging until I can coax air back into my lungs. Steph grins but she gives me a hand up all the same.
I attack. She rebuffs; I hit the dirt. She attacks; I try to block . . . and end up in the same place.
“You’d think she’d at least have learned to fall properly by now,” Cadence says.
“Hopeless,” agrees Steph.
But she waits for me to brush myself off. She’s practically bouncing in place, but she doesn’t move to attack until I’ve planted my feet and raised the increasingly limp branch.
Then we hear the crunch of footsteps approaching. She snatches my branch and throws it aside with her stick moments before the boy rounds the corner.
“There you are.” He drops out of a run without a sign of sweat. “Meet at the training grounds.”
He’s dressed like Steph, well muscled but baby-faced to the extent that I wonder if he’s closer to Grace’s age. He glances at the discarded bits of tree on the ground, apparently identifying them as practice weapons, and eyes me with interest. “She gonna be ready?”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Steph snaps.
The boy’s smirk doesn’t quite mask the flush that reddens his ears. He saunters off, but as soon as he rounds the corner, the footsteps kick back into a run.
I swipe sweat from my face and ask, with admirable nonchalance, “What’s going on?”
Steph shrugs. “We’re wanted. Could be a new mission, or an attack, or some other kind of emergency. Or auntie got bored and dreamed up a new training routine she can’t wait to inflict on us. Either way, looks like you’re off the hook for today.”
Grace must have raised the alarm. The trainees are getting called out to, what? Comb the woods for ghosts? Do their weapons even work on ghosts?
“Obviously,” Cadence says. “How else could you have fought off the Mara?”