Bound (18 page)

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Authors: Erica O'Rourke

BOOK: Bound
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Luc started forward, but Dominic held him back, a silent argument passing between them.
Sabine broke off, eyebrows raised in a wordless question—was it safe to continue?
The warmth of the magic was already receding, the glow cupped in my hands fading. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong—the magic felt contented and easy, leaving me loose limbed. Pascal looked fascinated, not worried. I nodded, and she resumed chanting.
This time I kept my eyes open, trusting in myself and the magic to speak correctly. As I did, the glow resumed, my entire body shining, the light in my cupped hands forming a sphere.
No one spoke. No one even breathed, as if I were a particularly unreliable candle they might extinguish in the slightest wind. I fell silent as the invocation ended, and the shimmer gradually diminished—not entirely, but enough so that I no longer resembled something phosphorescent. I clasped my hands together and tried to look harmless.
It was time for the candidates to come forward and declare themselves, but the crowd was frozen in place. I wondered if they were afraid of me. I looked at Luc for a cue, but he shrugged, brow furrowed in concern.
Traditionally, Niobe told me, the mages would declare first. After a long silence, Sabine stepped forward, signed her name to the parchment, and looked out over the crowd.
“Sabine Levaret,” she called, making it sound like a challenge. Her voice carried to the edge of the crowd and rolled back in again. Her gesture seemed to release the tension of the crowd, because the other mages followed in turn, signing their name, stating it to the crowd, and stepping aside.
Slowly, Arcs began to make their way forward and declare. The scroll of parchment continued to unroll, seemingly endless. There was no age limit—some of the Arcs who approached looked my age and some were easily as old as Orla, moving stiffly up the stairs. And judging from the accents I heard, they had come from all over the world.
Finally, the line of candidates slowed to a trickle, then stopped. The mages waited for a long moment, and raised their hands in unison, preparing to suspend the ceremony.
Thunder rolled across the sky. Instinctively, I looked up, expecting another late-afternoon shower.
Instead, Anton strolled forward, cloak slung back over his shoulders, as if he couldn’t be bothered to wear it properly. The crowd parted before him like a biblical sea. Hands stuffed in his pockets, nodding genially at people, he seemed unconcerned at the alarm his presence set off.
Luc was at my side instantly, and Anton stopped to study us. “Very sweet,” he said. “Useless, of course.”
“Touch her and you’re a dead man,” said Luc.
“How’s that?” Anton said. “You’re a guest of the House. You have no powers here. You’re as helpless as she is.”
Inside me, the magic began to panic, and I sought some way to calm it. The cloth-wrapped dagger pressed against my leg, tantalizingly close. “I’m not helpless.”
“Nor are we,” said Dominic, and he stormed toward us. “You’re a criminal. You’ve broken our laws, and we are within our rights to deal with you as we see fit.”
“Not here,” said Sabine. Her voice was mild, but her eyes snapped. “Within the boundaries of this House, our people are sovereign. You may not take arms against him.”
Anton smiled. “Always nice to hear the voice of reason.”
I bent and slid the dagger from my boot, shaking the cloth away from the blade under the cover of my robe. The magic fear increased as my pulse hammered in my throat.
“This isn’t reason,” Sabine said, mouth thinning with dislike. “This is tradition.”
“A rose by any other name,” said Anton. “Since we’ve established that you can’t do anything, I’ll be taking that pen now.”
I tightened my grip on the dagger. “Why would you want to be on the Quartoren? You want to destroy them.”
“And wouldn’t it be more fun to see them taken apart from the inside?” he whispered to me.
Anton likes to do his damage up close,
Niobe had said. It wasn’t just that he wanted to destroy the Arcs. He wanted to watch them suffer as he did so.
Lightly, he jogged up the steps, then signed his name with a flourish.
“Anton Renard,” he called, dropping the pen onto the table with a clatter and strolling back toward me.
I stood fast. “They won’t choose you. They know what you are, and they won’t choose you.”
He leaned in, and it took everything I had not to shrink away. Instead, I drew out the dagger, my hand steady, and pointed it at his throat.
With a smile for the crowd, he stepped in even closer, until the tip was pressing into his skin, about to draw blood.
I wanted to bury the blade deep inside him, but it was too much—too deliberate and too public and too visceral. I couldn’t. And Anton had known it all along.
“What I am is the most powerful Arc here. Who else would they choose?” He started to walk away, turning his back on me to underscore how weak and harmless I was.
As the crowd gaped, he traced a door in the air, blue flames that danced mockingly. Terror turned to fury, and I whirled toward the Quartoren. “Does he really have a shot?”
They exchanged worried looks, not answering me. Luc’s hand tightened on mine.
“Anton!”
He glanced back over his shoulder carelessly, as if whatever I had to say wasn’t worth his attention. But my mom had taught me, early on, that actions spoke louder than words.
I raced up the steps and snatched the pen from the table, scrawling my name on the paper.
“Maura Fitzgerald,” I said, whirling to face the crowd, still holding the dagger.
He scoffed, but there were fissures in the mask of his disdain, rage seeping through. “You’re joking.”
“I’m a member of this House,” I said. “The magic recognized me. And that means I can declare myself for the Quartoren.”
Dominic crossed his arms with a satisfied air, but Anton snorted. “You’re a child. And you’re Flat.”
“No,” I said, absolute, unshakable conviction ringing in my voice. “I’m the Vessel.”
C
HAPTER
22
S
ometimes, inspiration strikes and the result is genius. Sometimes, the result is failure. And sometimes, the result is a pain in the ass.
In one of the Water Arcs’ sitting rooms, Orla was shouting, thumping her cane for emphasis and fluttering her hands in outrage while Dominic tried to soothe her. Meanwhile, Pascal and the mages were deep in discussion, no doubt trying to understand why I’d lit up like a glowworm during the ceremony. Luc sat next to me on the old-fashioned divan, toying with the ends of my hair, deliberately brushing against me every time he reached for the glass of sweet tea on the table in front of us, stretching a casual arm around my shoulders when he settled back. He looked smug. Surprised, but pleasantly so. And at the same time, he looked very, very irritated every time one of the Water Arcs approached—whether they were offering a fresh glass of tea or a greeting, he drummed his fingers and stared, a burning, impatient gaze that had them hurrying away again. As soon as they did, he’d turn back to me, amused.
“Never was one to say I told you so ...” he began.
“Then don’t.”
“But I did.”
I sat forward, ankles crossed, feeling the strain of the evening in every muscle of my back. “What, exactly, did you tell me? Because I don’t remember this ever coming up in conversation.”
“You’re meant for this. For big things. First time I’ve seen you take part in your destiny without fighting it. Suits you.”
I batted his hand away. My only thought had been to show Anton—and myself—that I wasn’t scared. It wasn’t until I’d signed my name and felt the lines of water magic rising up to acknowledge me that I realized the enormity of what I’d done. “What you saw was poor impulse control.”
“Never had a quarrel with your impulses,” he said. “They usually line up pretty nicely with mine. Either way, you gotta be feelin’ pretty good now. Putting Anton on notice. Getting hold of the magic.”
“That was a fluke. I still can’t use it.” I stared at my palms. Other than the scar the Darklings had given me, they looked normal. Boring. Any residual magical glow had vanished. And I had no idea how to get through the next stage of the ceremony.
“Practice,” he said, with a confidence I didn’t share. “We’ll work at it. You’ll be able to use it soon.”
“Not soon enough.” But inside me, I shrank from the idea of using magic, even to stop the Seraphim. It would mean I was an Arc, not a Flat. Another irrevocable step into their world, and away from mine.
My world. The one I’d vanished from in a fit of hurt and self-pity. I had no idea if Colin would cover for me, much less stay on as my bodyguard. Chicago had nearly three million people. He could work for Billy and avoid me forever. And it would be forever, because I wouldn’t break my promise and endanger him and Tess. Even if he never spoke to me again, I couldn’t leave Chicago.
I was about to tell Luc I needed to return home when Pascal and Sabine approached. Dominic spotted the movement and joined us, Orla behind him, wearing her irritation like a second cloak.
“Was it always your intention to declare?” Sabine asked without preamble. She looked troubled, no doubt at the notion that a Flat was in the running to lead her people.
“No! It was an impulse. I don’t even know why I did it.”
“Perhaps the magic encouraged you,” Pascal said, studying me keenly.
Luc’s fingers tightened on my shoulder. A warning, as if I needed one.
“The magic didn’t make me do anything. I was rattled, okay? The whole glow-in-the-dark routine threw me. And Anton showing up didn’t exactly calm me down. He wants me dead, and none of you could help.”
“Naturally, your solution was to further antagonize him,” Orla said. “Do you know what’s going to happen as word gets out? Vessel or not, people won’t care for the notion of a Flat on the Quartoren.”
“They won’t pick me.” I was almost certain.
“You put on quite a display,” said Dominic. “If you can wield that much power, you might be surprised what people will overlook.”
“I can’t wield anything,” I said, uncomfortably aware of the dagger tucked back in my boot again. “Once they realize that, they’ll choose someone else.”
I just had to make sure the someone wasn’t Anton.
“She’s okay, right?” Luc asked Pascal. “It’s not like before.”
Before, when the magic had nearly killed me. I knew it was no longer a danger, but I let Pascal answer, wary of tipping my hand.
“We believe that what happened today was an outward manifestation of your bond with the source. With so many people casting a spell simultaneously, the magic’s reaction was visible in you.”
“But I didn’t do any magic. I just said the words.”
“True. The actual castings came from the rest of us. But the magic reacted to your words nevertheless.” He seemed to stop himself from saying anything else, but I understood. I’d only channeled everyone else’s spell, not cast one of my own.
Dominic slapped his hands together. “What’s done is done. Best thing now is to move forward with the ceremony.”
“Best for us to go,” Luc said quickly, and I knew he was anxious to get me out before anyone guessed the truth.
“Maura,” Pascal said, blocking my way. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell us about the magic? It could make a difference at the second ceremony. It could be the key to defeating Anton.”
That was something I hadn’t considered. If I could use the magic, somehow tell it what to do, it would solve everything—the Seraphim, the Succession, my place with the Arcs. Maybe communicating with the source was too big a riddle to solve on my own. Maybe I needed help.
Luc sensed my indecision and gripped my hand so hard I felt the bones shift. A game changer, he’d said. A weapon. His warning was more true than ever.
“I really can’t,” I said.
C
HAPTER
23
A
s soon as we crossed the gate, leaving the House behind, Luc took me Between to his apartment.
“I need to go home,” I said.
“Parents might have something to say about your coat,” he said, catching hold of the embroidered edge of my cloak and pulling me in.
I struggled a bit, but he simply wrapped his arms around me. “Hush. I’m not trying anything. You worried me, that’s all. Trust me, Mouse. You’ll know the difference.”
He rested his cheek atop my head, and the stiffness leached from my body. “Pascal knows something’s going on,” I said.
“Of course he does. Man knows the magic better than anyone except you, I’m guessing.”
“I only know that it’s alive, Luc. I don’t know what to do with it.” It was a relief to say the words out loud, one less secret between us, bridging the distance between our worlds.
“We’ll work on it together. But in the meantime, you can’t tell the Quartoren. If they think you can control the magic, they’ll want to use you as a weapon. Don’t trust them, okay? Not a one of them.”
“What about you?”
He tipped my face up to his—close enough to kiss, but he’d promised not to—and his eyes were somber, moss green. “If you have to ask, it doesn’t matter what I say.”
Which was either a really clever evasion or his way of letting me set the tone between us. I did trust him. Mostly. About the magic, anyway.
His hands framed my face, traced down my neck, and alarm must have shown in my face, because he smiled, lazy and dangerous. Before I could say anything, he touched the clasp at my throat and it split apart. The cloak tumbled off my shoulders and pooled at my feet.
“What are you doing?”
He tilted his head toward the couch, where my coat and scarf were draped over the corner.
“Right,” I said, feeling foolish. Time to go. I slipped my coat on and Luc reached past me for the scarf, draping it around my neck, his fingers deft and sure, slowing as he pulled the fringed ends through the loop. “What’s wrong?”
“Thinkin’ about how much more enjoyable this process is in reverse.” His eyes brightened with mischief, and I smacked his shoulder.
“Not endearing,” I said. But in a way, it was. Obvious and clumsy, an attempt to cheer me up—to distract me from the oncoming storm. It didn’t work, but I appreciated the thought. “There’s going to be hell to pay when I get home.”
“You could stay,” he offered. This time, there was no teasing note in his voice. Just that melting drawl like bittersweet chocolate, and my heart stuttered. He took my hand in his, rubbed a thumb over my scar. “Maybe it’s time to walk away, Mouse.”
I pulled my hand away, ignored the minor twang of unhappiness from the magic. “Not yet.”
Which was not the same as “no.” But he was kind enough not to mention it.

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