Authors: Erica O'Rourke
Bound (21 page)
“Great,” I mumbled. A generous Billy was more worrisome than an angry one, in a lot of ways.
“Do you think you could handle some soup?” she asked, fussing with the blankets.
The thought of food made my stomach tighten unpleasantly, but I glanced at the closet and wondered when Luc had eaten last. “I’ll try some.”
“I’ll get started right now.” She sounded relieved, which didn’t make sense until I realized that the flu was a problem she understood. Something she could treat. Letting her make me soup was as much for her as it was for me so I didn’t protest when she bent and kissed my forehead. The scent of pie crust—sugary and familiar—wafted over me, and for an instant I was homesick for a place I hadn’t left yet. Because I would leave, and soon. In some ways, I already had.
Luc emerged moments after my mom went downstairs. “You still feelin’ lousy?” He reached for my hand, our connection thrumming. “Magic seems stronger.”
“The blankets are for you. You’re staying, right?”
“You askin’ me to sleep over?” He flashed a grin, warming me more than the faded quilt.
“You’d stay even if I said no,” I pointed out.
“That I would. But it’s nice to be asked.” He sat at my desk, flipping through textbooks at random. “You’ll miss this place,” he said.
I glanced around the room—the gilt and white hand-me-down furniture, the papers and magazines piled on my desk like snowdrifts, the photo collage Verity had made for me junior year. “A little. Maybe. Dorm rooms are kind of notoriously small.”
He took a deep breath, held it, let it out. I didn’t know if he was gearing up to tell me how I was going to have to leave my old life behind or trying to keep from saying it, like he didn’t want to upset me, like I was too fragile to handle what he had to say.
Well, screw that. I’d been hurt, but I would recover. I wasn’t fragile. I didn’t need protection—from my future or my past—and I was tired of being treated like I did. I flipped back the covers and swung around to face him. “There has to be a plan to take down Anton.”
He leaned back, propping his feet on the desk. He looked dangerous and foreign in my childhood bedroom. Totally out of place and completely comfortable at the same time, and I couldn’t seem to look anywhere else. “We’re working on it. You heard Sabine—the Quartoren can’t move against him at the Succession, and that’s the only place we know he’ll show up.”
“Aren’t there Water Arcs loyal to the Quartoren? Send them after him.”
“We’ve got some in place. But he’s got plenty in his House loyal to the Seraphim. He wouldn’t have come to the Succession without people to watch his back. My guess is, he’s got enough people there to neutralize ours.”
“What about Sabine and the other mages?”
“I’d like to think they’re on our side, but they’ve got to look out for their people. If they believe Anton’s the strongest candidate, we can’t rely on them. We’ll figure something out, Mouse.”
“Why not me?”
“No.” The words had a stark finality, and my temper flared.
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“Don’t need to. You’re the one who’s not thinkin’. Too risky for you.”
“You want me to be safe.”
He squinted slightly, his words cautious. “’Course I do. We need to protect you. And the magic.”
“Better to keep me hidden somewhere,” I said, letting a dangerous note enter my voice, the thinnest of blades. “I should stay in my room and let you handle it.”
“You’re twistin’ this around. I’m not Cujo.”
No, but this conversation was too familiar. “If the shoe fits ...”
“The shoe most assuredly does not fit. Man clomps around in those work boots, hear him comin’ from a mile away. It’s not the same thing at all.”
“Looks pretty similar from where I’m sitting. Which is on the sidelines. Because neither of you will let me do anything, even though it’s my life.”
“You know what? I will agree with him on one thing: you have an alarmin’ tendency to risk your neck for other people without ever thinkin’ of the consequences to yourself.”
I shot out of bed. “How’s this for consequences? If we don’t stop the Seraphim, they’re going to keep coming after me and the magic. I’m good at math, Luc. I can calculate odds like you wouldn’t believe. And mine are not favorable.”
“Then let me protect you.”
“I want to protect myself. I want to fight. If I’m going to have a place with the Arcs, I want to define it, not have it dictated to me.”
“Nobody’s dictating anything. But if you die, so does the magic. And then it’s all for nothing.” He paused. “I don’t want to lose you.”
I wasn’t his to lose, but I didn’t point that out. “You said I’m fated to do big things. To save the magic. Stopping the Seraphim isn’t a big thing? Getting rid of Anton?”
“Don’t make your whole life about someone else’s death, Mouse.”
“Like you?” The words slipped out, harsher than I’d meant them to sound, and he looked away. “Everything you do is penance for Theo. Your life is a memorial. There’s nothing you do that’s just for you.”
“The hell there isn’t.”
“One. Name one thing you do that’s for yourself—not the Heir, not the prophecies—something strictly for Luc.”
“I’m not kissing you, am I?”
“You don’t want to kiss me?” That was a good thing, of course. Because I certainly didn’t want to kiss him, no matter how his eyes were sparking green and how firmly set the line of his mouth was, inviting and infuriating all at once. I didn’t want to kiss Luc and it was a relief to hear he felt the same.
He let out a bark of laughter. “I want to kiss you until you see stars. Till you’re so lost in us you can’t find a way back. And if this was about the prophecy, that’s exactly what I’d do. Lock you into this so you can’t ever get away. You’ve got magic flowing through your veins,” he said, catching my wrist and pressing his fingers to my pulse. “In your lungs and in your heart, showing you pictures in your brain. I’ve got you.”
His free hand slid through my hair, cupping my face, “Hell, yes, I want to kiss you.”
I swallowed, felt his breath feathering across my lips, the gentle touch of his forehead to mine, and my hands found his shoulders—not pulling him in, not pushing him away, just feeling the breadth and the strength of them, the softness of worn linen under my fingers and the heat of his skin beneath.
“I get it now,” he said. “You were afraid I didn’t want you for you. Only because of the prophecy. Because you’re the Vessel, and you wanted me to care about Mo.”
I didn’t answer, struck dumb at the realization that he knew me so well.
“I’m trying to act separate from the prophecy so you can’t question how I feel or what we are. And that means, if the Heir would kiss you, then I can’t.
“Besides,” he said, easing back. “I promised. And I know you’re a fan of keeping promises.”
There was a knock on the door. By the time it swung open, Luc was gone, though I could sense him nearby. My parents both entered, my mom bearing a tray of food, my dad laden with spare blankets and a healthy dose of suspicion.
“I think the fever’s caught up with you, sweetie. Back into bed.” I let her tuck me in again, settled back against the headboard while she placed the tray on my lap. “Soup, saltines, a little Sprite.”
“Thanks.”
My dad glanced around the room. “Were you on the phone?”
“Um ...” There was no phone in sight, which made sense, as I’d left it at school. No book bag. But I pointed at a collection of short stories atop my desk. “Spanish,” I said. “Translating out loud.”
He set the stack of pillows and blankets at the foot of the bed, circled slowly, taking in the room. “Spanish.”
“Sí.”
I took a small sip of soup, bit into a cracker, and gave my mom a thumbs-up.
I took a small sip of soup, bit into a cracker, and gave my mom a thumbs-up.
Her face cleared slightly, the worry lines around her mouth smoothing out. “I’ll finish our dinner,” she said, touching my dad’s shoulder.
“Be there in a minute,” he told her, then transferred his attention to me. “Billy wants you to come in tomorrow.”
I
knew
he hadn’t given up trying to recruit me and Luc. “Did he say why?”
knew
he hadn’t given up trying to recruit me and Luc. “Did he say why?”
“Delivery, I suppose. Tell him you’re sick.”
I scoffed. “That’s your solution? I can’t have the flu for the rest of the year.”
“You don’t have it now.”
I ate more soup and focused on the patchwork of my quilt.
“Mo,” my dad said, and the gravity of his tone forced my gaze to his. “Billy’s working a new angle. He thinks he’s got some way to finish Ekomov permanently, some sort of silver bullet. He’s getting cocky, and that’s exactly when things will start to go wrong.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” I said. Billy’s “silver bullet” was currently hiding in my closet. He wouldn’t help my uncle take down Christmas lights, much less the Russian Mob. Which was a relief, until I started to wonder again what lengths Billy would go to in an effort to convince me.
“I agree. But I don’t want you caught up in it.”
“Too late.”
The creases around his eyes seemed deeper, his shoulders more bowed. “I’m asking for your mother. If you want to punish me, can’t you find a way that won’t hurt her? Or you?”
“I don’t want to punish you,” I said, surprised to find it was the truth. “I can’t stop working for Billy if I want to keep Colin safe. Mom gets it. You should, too. Hell, it’s practically a Fitzgerald family tradition.”
“Tradition or no, it ends with me.”
“Not your call,” I said. “I can handle Billy.”
“Not from what I’ve seen.” Before I could argue, he held up a hand. “Ekomov wants to know who’s on Billy’s payroll. That’s what the list is.”
“I know. He’s going to use it like a test, to find out who is loyal and who isn’t.”
My dad nodded. “A list like that is dangerous. If he asks you to deliver it, stall him. At least until I figure out a plan. Please, Mo.”
I bit my lip. Those names were the proof I needed. All the people Billy had paid off? The bribes that let his operation run without interference from the city and the police? If I could get the list to Jenny, Colin and Tess would be free. They could leave. Colin and Tess and me, once upon a time, but that fairy tale was over.
“The only plan I’m interested in is one that helps the Donnellys. I’ll hold off if you promise to help them.”
“Even if Colin doesn’t come back?”
“Even if.” But I had to believe he would. I had to believe I could fix this, even though he’d pushed me away.
He squeezed my shoulder gently—and I didn’t pull away this time.
After he’d left, Luc reappeared. “Now I know where you get it,” he said.
“Get what?” I pushed the tray of food toward him.
“The martyr complex.” He took the bowl of soup and sat down at the far end of the bed.
“My mom isn’t a martyr.”
“Wasn’t talking about your mom. Your daddy’s tryin’ hard to take care of you. Considerin’ how ornery you get whenever I try to lend a hand, I have sympathy for the man.”
He applied himself to the soup, finishing everything on the tray quickly.
“You’re sure you want to stay?” I asked. “It’s okay if you go home.”
He shook his head. “Not inclined to leave you alone. Besides, who am I to pass up the opportunity to spend the night with a beautiful girl? Wouldn’t want word to get out I’d lost my touch.”
“No,” I said. “We can’t have that.”
A little while later, I took the tray downstairs, waving away my mom’s objections that I was too sick to exert myself. I didn’t feel 100 percent, but I was well enough to walk a flight of stairs. And it was infinitely preferable to having another heart-to-heart while Luc listened in.
When I got back, Luc had put together a makeshift bed on the floor. His linen shirt was tossed over the chair, and I wrenched my eyes away from the sight of his bare shoulders, caramel-colored skin over long, lean muscles.
“Please tell me you are wearing pants,” I said, skirting the mass of blankets.
“One way to find out for sure.”
“I guess it will remain a mystery, then,” I said, and slid under the covers.
He stretched out on his back, fingers laced behind his head, and turned to study me. “Tomorrow we go to see the Quartoren,” he said.
“Are you going to tell them about the magic?”
“No.”
I believed him. There had been no evasion in his answer, no room for shading the truth or hiding behind technicalities. The tension leached from my body, the magic relaxing its stranglehold on my nerves. “Thank you.”
He paused. “That’s twice.”
“Twice what?”
“Twice I’ve done somethin’ just for me. Not sure how it feels quite yet.” He rolled his shoulders, like he was trying to dislodge something. “ ’Night, Mouse. Sweet dreams.”
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