A Feather of Stone #3 (10 page)

“I thought—I had the thought that I needed to do a nulling spell,” she whispered, her voice sounding broken.

Richard blinked as his brain tried to translate her words. Nulling spell. Oh, so she wouldn’t get pregnant. Fat chance.

“Good thinking,” he got out, reaching for her, but she pulled back, her eyes huge and sober.

“Then I thought—you’re with the Treize. You can’t have children anyway. But—what are we doing?”

What did she
think
they were doing? He stared up at her, breathing hard, and then it hit him: what the hell were they
doing
?

“We don’t even like each other,” Clio said, sounding horrified. She scrambled away from him, one hand at her mouth.

It was like someone had thrown ice water on him. In one
second
the heat and the wanting and the fierce longing to join with her fled, leaving him cold and appalled.

“No, we don’t,” he said hoarsely. He swallowed. But he’d wanted her so bad. . . .

Sitting up, Richard pushed his hair off his face with both hands, not looking at her. His hair was damp with sweat; his skin felt on fire. With anyone else, he would have spun a string of lies, said anything that would get him where he wanted to go. But the words wouldn’t come now—he couldn’t do that to her. He got off the bed and leaned against the dresser, a thousand thoughts crashing into his brain. They’d been one zipper tug away from having sex.

“You’ve never slept with someone you didn’t like?” he asked, feeling appalled at what had almost happened.

She moved to sit on the edge of the bed and scooped up her white shirt from the floor. Pulling it on, she lifted her hair out of the collar. Her hair looked like she’d been caught in a tornado.

“No, I have,” she said, so quietly he could hardly hear her. “It . . . wasn’t anything. It was like . . . eating or taking a bath. Neutral, not bad. But this . . . is way different.”

“Yes.” No argument there.

“I don’t know why. It’s too . . .” She shrugged, unable to explain.

“Yeah. But we—really don’t like each other,” he said, sanity returning like harsh sunlight. “We’re just . . . on fire for each other.” It was horrible to admit it out loud, but he dared her to deny it.

Frowning, looking unhappy and still flushed, she reached for her strappy sandals and put them on. He tried not to look at her legs, her face, her collar-bone, where he’d kissed her so hard she might have a bruise. She seemed completely unlike the arrogant, totally self-assured Clio he’d met, the one he knew could chew up guys and spit them out. Five minutes ago he’d thought he had to have her or die. Now it was like they were both already dead.

Clio stood up, pushing her hair off her shoulders. She reached down for her purse. Richard couldn’t go near her.

She hadn’t looked at him for several minutes. Now she left without a word, walking down the hall, shutting the front door behind her. All without meeting his eyes.

Despair was nothing new to Richard—it was more of a constant companion. But this gut-turning misery, this twisted yearning, the desire and the horror all mixed up—that was new.

Now that she was gone, Richard lay down on his bed. In a minute he would get up and drink about a half a bottle of scotch. That would be good. Shut his mind down, shut his body down.

The front door opened again and closed. Richard’s heart flared—had she come back? If she’d come back, he would take her. No matter what, he would hold her and kiss her and lose himself in her and forget everything but the deep pleasure of not thinking for a while.

“Hey.” Luc stood in his doorway. Richard felt like his life had become a surreal movie.

“Hey,” he managed, his mind reeling.

“You okay?” Luc frowned at him.

“Yep.”

Sighing, Luc leaned against the doorway. “Marcel’s here. In town.”

Richard’s stomach clenched tighter, if that was possible. Perfect. His day was now complete.

“And Claire. She’s at Jules’s.”

“Good.” Richard liked Claire.

“You wanna get something to eat?”

Richard thought about it. “Yeah. Give me a minute to grab a shower.” A really cold one.

True Love

It was getting darker earlier every day, Sophie thought, hurrying down the street. She’d left her car several blocks away, seizing the first free parking space she’d been able to find. Now she walked quickly away from the river, away from the more touristy parts of the French Quarter, toward the quieter, residential blocks.

Even here in the city, surrounded by lights and noise, one could still notice the changing of the seasons. Sophie thought longingly of the several years she and Manon had spent in northern Virginia. For an almost perfect, storybook balance of seasons, Virginia was the place to go—even better than Paris. Three months of real winter, including actual snow. Three months of glorious spring, the kind of spring that had first inspired the goddess’s festivals: a giddy, heady rebirth of life in all forms, painting the earth in a wash of fresh, bright colors. Three months of actual hot summer, hot enough to go swimming in rivers and lakes, hot enough to bask in the sun, feeling languid and soft. Then autumn, the first tingly breezes leaving one’s cheeks chilled; the fiery, painted leaves as trees shut down for winter. Apples, leaves crunching underfoot, Récolte and Monvoile celebrations. Each season brought its own particular joys, its own painful beauty. The rhythm and cycle of seasons and time, the yearly death and rebirth that was the basis for the
bonne magie
.

Now she was back in New Orleans, and though the days were growing shorter week by week, still—it was hardly a real autumn.

Sophie crossed a street, easily walking between two cars that were inching toward Canal Street.

New Orleans basically had nine months of summer, then three months of ugly weather. Very few trees lost their leaves, and the ones that did didn’t turn gorgeous colors first. Just brown. Then an ugly, wet, usually chilly but sometimes depressingly warm and muggy winter. Then a spring that lasted about a week. Then summer again.

Some of it was beautiful. There was a certain attractive lassitude that came over one after months and months of unrelenting heat. As if keeping up emotional and behavioral standards were too much effort after so many hot months. It broke you through to another place, a place where you acted differently, thought differently, went further and dared more.

Sophie smiled slightly. She’d written a dissertation on this topic in 1983. It was still fascinating to her. She’d shown that to Ouida, hadn’t she? Ouida would probably enjoy it.

Looking up, Sophie saw the big pink house, the address that she remembered. There was a crushed-oyster-shell driveway on the right side, and she walked down it. Jules could afford any place he wanted—they all could. After two hundred years, even the most imprudent of investments paid off. All of them were well-off, never needed to work again. Experience had shown most of them that lack of purpose led to madness. They needed occupations, jobs, interests, responsibilities to keep sane.

She wished Richard would admit that, get his life together. And Luc.

Her lips pressed together for a moment, then she shook her head. This was it, the first apartment. She rang the bell, feeling Jules within. He answered the door and smiled when he saw her.

“
Salut
, Jule” she said, leaving the
s
off his name.

“Come in,
petite
,” he said, holding the door open.

Inside it was dim—the windows faced east, and the sun was setting. The furniture was mismatched, but everything was severely tidy and well cared for.

“Something to drink? Sherry?”

“Oh yes, please. Lovely.” Sophie sat on one of the couches, feeling herself relax for the first time in days. Axelle probably hadn’t talked to Jules—she seemed to think Jules’s loyalty to Daedalus would overrule his judgment. Sophie wasn’t sure of that.

Jules came back with two small, delicate glasses of sherry. Sophie inhaled its scent, warm, a bit woody, rich. She took a sip and let it trickle down her throat.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said, loving the honest warmth of his eyes. “Have you been thinking about what—”

The slamming of the back screen door interrupted her. Sophie’s eyes widened as Claire came through the back bedroom and the kitchen to the front room. Daedalus’s summoning spell had worked. Of course. And Claire was staying with Jules. This was awkward.

“Well, hello, Sophie,” said Claire. She was wearing Hawaiian-print capris and a red spaghetti-strap top. Plastic flip-flops with big red flowers over the toes seemed to glow against the floor’s dark, scarred wood.

“Hello, Claire,” Sophie said politely. Her mission would have to wait till another time. Claire’s green eyes were sharp, taking in Sophie from head to foot.

Sophie waited, wishing she had never come, though of course she’d have had to see Claire sometime. Claire was one of them, just like Sophie. One of the Treize. She and Claire hadn’t gotten along since Sophie was eight and Claire was nine. Even then they had been the antithesis of each other, and almost two hundred and fifty years had done nothing to change that.

“Why, you haven’t aged a day,” Claire said, smirking. She sat down in a rocking chair across from the sofa.

Unfortunately, neither have you,
Sophie thought, giving a tiny smile at Claire’s tired joke.

“Whatcha got there? Sherry? How about a little
coupe
for me, eh, Jules?”

Getting up, Jules went to the tiny galley kitchen.

Sophie took a sip, trying to finish her drink quickly so she could leave.

“I hear you’re still with Manon.”

Sophie looked up. “Yes,” she said warily.

Claire leaned back in the rocking chair, looking at the ceiling. She gathered her wild magenta hair in both hands, twisting it into a ponytail. “Well, good for you,” she said.

Sophie waited, but Claire didn’t sound sarcastic.

“I guess it’s true love,” Claire went on. “If I ever found true love, I’d stay with it too.” She glanced at Jules, but he wasn’t looking at her. He poured some burgundy liquid into a small glass and brought it to her.

“Thanks, babe,” said Claire. She turned back to Sophie. “Manon got a tough ride. Her and Richard—their situations suck. But it’s good, you with Manon. You seem good together.”

Sophie nodded, wondering how sincere Claire was being. This was the most personal they had ever gotten, except for an ugly fight back in 1931.

“I’m going to see Richard later, I think.” Claire took a big sip, emptying almost half her glass. “Him and Luc. I guess they’re batching it, more or less, over on Ursulines.”

“Yes.” Sophie finished her drink with relief and stood up. “Thank you, Jules—I’ll call you later. Nice to see you again, Claire. I’m sure we’ll all be getting together again soon—whether we want to or not.”

Claire laughed, sounding bitter. “What do you think of Daedalus’s scheme, Sophie?”

It was a direct question, one that many members of the Treize had skirted but not voiced.

Shrugging, Sophie edged toward the door. “I need to think about it some more,” she said. “I don’t know how much he’s worked out, and I need to know more about what’s going to happen.”

Jules nodded at her—they could talk about it later.

“Thanks.” Sophie opened the door. The sun had just set, and there was a magickal sensation in the air, the everyday magick of day turning into night. She headed out into it, retracing her steps back to her car. That visit had been a complete bust.

Then she realized, if Claire were here, Marcel probably was too. Sophie grimaced at the thought of Marcel. She didn’t want to see him. It would be lovely if she never had to see him again.

No Room for Her

Divination was one of Daedalus’s least-favorite disciplines. It was imprecise at best, positively misleading at worst. And not a fun way to spend a Saturday morning, either, in his opinion. He’d wanted Jules to help him with this spell, but Jules hadn’t answered his phone this morning. Of course, with Claire staying with him, they might have been out, or perhaps Claire had unplugged the phone.

Daedalus’s lip curled with disdain. If he could possibly have done without Claire, he would have, in a heartbeat. He had no idea what Melita had seen in her, what purpose she had served. In the centuries since, she’d proved to be as useless and weak as she’d seemed in their village. Now he was shackled to her for all time and was even in the nauseating position of being dependent on her, needing her, for his rite.

Yet another thing Melita had to answer for. Admittedly, one of the smaller issues.

Now Daedalus made a circle on the wooden floor. Axelle was out—perhaps she had joined Claire and some of the other dissolutes Daedalus was saddled with. Richard, Luc. . . . He was fond of Richard but had no illusions about him. Of all of the Treize, Richard was probably the least moral, the least mindful of the subtle differences between right and wrong. Luc cared but was compelled to choose wrongly again and again, then was tortured about it. Axelle was easily swayed, easily led, content to do whatever served her best, as long as it wasn’t too inconvenient.

Working calmly and efficiently, Daedalus set up the rest of the spell. It was one he had performed countless times over the decades, always without result. But now—now things might be different. He felt it. He felt that there were signs all around him, telling him that now was the time.

Daedalus’s element was air. He set up five thin sticks of incense in a wooden holder and lit them. Their coiling streams of smoke twined together, weaving a rope of scent. Daedalus began chanting softly, letting himself drift into concentration. This was the hardest part: the releasing of self to merge with and access the world of magick. Daedalus hated the feeling of vulnerability, of letting down his walls. True, it was only moments before that vulnerability was replaced by a surge of power—still, it had never gotten easier.