Authors: Ruth Vincent
Elixir (31 page)
“Obadiah, if you stay here, the Queen will . . .” I couldn’t say it. “I can’t leave you here.”
“Dammit, Mab—let me do one thing right in my life before it’s over—just go!”
But I was frozen, holding Eva. I couldn’t leave him here to die. I stood there, anguished, looking back between Obadiah and Eva.
“Dammit, Mab. If you insist.”
And suddenly the rift grew wider. The Goblins recoiled, trying to get out of the way of the enlarging hole, afraid they themselves would get sucked into the human world. Even the Queen flinched. She was singing a spell of her own to counter Obadiah’s, and it was starting to work—but right now the hole was still growing.
It ripped through the floor of the cave, turning the rocks to gravel, sending the pebbles scattering.
Until the hole was under my feet.
I screamed as Eva and I plummeted. We were falling, plunged into blackness.
Above me, I saw the Queen closing the rift Obadiah had made. I got one shot of Obadiah’s triumphant expression before the Queen’s guards beat him to the ground, and then the rift closed—and then we were just falling, falling into darkness.
“O
badiah!” I screamed.
But the hole had shriveled up.
I stared down at a solid stretch of concrete, hyperventilating. It was indistinguishable from the rest of the road. I kicked it with my foot, but it was hard and solid. The Vale had closed. There was no going back.
Lights flashed in front of my eyes and sound jangled all around me. Someone shouted in my ear, “Get the fuck out of the street! You want to get hit?”
I was back in Times Square.
I was standing, carrying Eva, in the middle of the intersection. Taxicabs were swerving all around me, their drivers yelling and giving me the finger out their open windows. Snow was falling, and the lights were a blur of color in my tearing eyes.
I scrambled out of the street, dragging Eva along with me, trying to get out of the path of the cars. When we reached the median in the middle of Broadway, I slumped against one of the barriers, balancing Eva against me, crying.
The Queen was going to kill Obadiah. I had no doubt of it. He might be learning how to do fairy magic—but he wasn’t as powerful as the Fairy Queen. None of us were. My brain was whirling, panicked, trying to think of some solution, some way to get him out of this. But the rift between the worlds had closed. The Queen had shut it, and I didn’t know how to do the kind of magic that would open it back up again. I couldn’t think of another event in the near future that could be a Focus—New Year’s Eve was definitely over; all the confetti had been swept from the sidewalk. I wouldn’t have that chance again for another year. And by then Obadiah would be dead.
I let out a scream, kicking the ground as if I could somehow open it back up. But it was as solid as ever; the only difference was now my foot was throbbing. Hot tears of impotent rage burned down my cheeks. I felt so powerless—she was going to kill him, and there was nothing I could do to stop her.
Eva slumped against my shoulder. I held her close to me—protectively, like a child, slowly rocking her back and forth.
Was she going to be okay? How bad were her injuries? She kept muttering incoherently, like a person talking in her sleep. She needed to go to the hospital. But how was I going to take her there? There already was an “Eva Morales” in the hospital system—and no one would believe me that the body in room 817 wasn’t her. I didn’t know what to do about the two Evas.
I hugged her close to me, stroking her hair, wishing more than anything that I could do magic. Magic was the only way I knew how to fix this. But I had nothing. I’d used up all the Elixir in the little pocket flask Obadiah had given me. And Obadiah couldn’t help me now.
In my mind’s eye, I could see the look on his face—that expression of triumph, when he’d realized he could do magic on his own, without drinking Elixir. I would never forget that. But then I could hear him screaming as my mother closed the rift. What was she going to do to him? I was terrified to know. She blamed him for the destruction of Elixir. She would take out all her rage on him, I thought, dread filling my stomach.
Eva gave a muttering moan, and I looked down at her, grief-stricken. She needed my help. If I didn’t do something, I was going to lose Eva too. I had to get her to the hospital. I had to save the only person I could.
I rummaged around in my pocketbook, but my phone was gone. It must have tumbled out of my purse when I fell through Obadiah’s rift. There was no telling where it was now. I couldn’t call an ambulance. I was going to have to get a cab.
A freezing rain had begun to fall, making the streets shine slickly and the streetlights blur. Hoisting Eva up against my hip, I made my way to the corner, waiving my hands frantically at the yellow taxis that hurdled past. But none of them would stop.
I didn’t have a plan. I had no idea what I would do when we got to the hospital, what we would do about the two Evas. But I knew I had to get her medical attention. Her injury was serious, and if something happened to her now, I had only myself to blame.
Finally, a taxi stopped short in front of me. The driver rolled down his window. I could see him staring at Eva.
“Miss, is she okay?” he asked in a thick Arabic accent, pointing to Eva.
“I don’t know,” I said, so quietly I don’t think the cabbie could even hear me. “I hope so.”
The man helped me maneuver Eva into the cab. She murmured something as I buckled the seatbelt over her lap. I exhaled a deep sigh of relief, knowing at least she was still responsive.
“Where to, miss?” I heard the cabbie ask.
I froze. I didn’t know what to say.
To the hospital,
I was about to respond, but which hospital? Should I take her to the one in Brooklyn where her Fetch was, in hopes that I could switch them? Or should I just take her to the closet medical center, and deal with the consequences of the two Evas later?
The cabbie was peering at me through his rearview mirror, waiting for me to respond. Panic was clouding my thoughts, but I had to say something. I had to make a decision.
“Woodhull Medical Center in Brooklyn,” I heard myself say.
“Miss, that is not the closest hospital,” the driver responded.
“I know. But that’s the one that she’s at. Sorry . . . I mean, that’s the one she goes to.”
I slumped down against the vinyl seat as the driver sped through traffic, honking and weaving lanes wildly. I hoped we made it there in one piece. But his speeding was probably his way of being helpful, trying to get us to the hospital in time.
Freezing rain splashed against the windows, and I watched the little golden ornament in swirling Arabic script bob up and down on the driver’s rearview mirror as we drove. Eva tossed and turned on the seat, as if in fevered dreams.
I squeezed her hand every time she made a sound.
Please,
I prayed inwardly,
let her be okay.
My mind drifted back to Obadiah, wondering where he was right now, wondering what he was doing, wondering if he was still alive.
And then I saw it. Gliding in front of the driver’s rearview mirror, there it was, the old familiar sight—the little translucent squiggle—the floater in my eye!
“My mother!” I gasped. Then I cast an anxious glance at the cabbie, but he hadn’t even looked up. He probably just thought I was talking on my cell phone.
I had an idea. This was my way to get a message to the Queen. She’d honored my requests before. If I pleaded with her to keep Obadiah safe, would she listen to me?
I didn’t know. But I had to try. I had nothing to lose. I closed my eyes. “Listen, if you can hear me, please give this message to my mom,” I said awkwardly, addressing the floater. “I know if I’m seeing you it means she’s watching over me right now. Please hear me out. I realize we parted on bad terms—and I understand we’ve got a long way to go before we can ever have any semblance of a mother-daughter relationship,” I said, my voice cracking, “but please, tell her, as her daughter, I’m only asking one thing. I promise I’ll try to forgive her for everything she did. I promise I’ll accept her as my mother. As long as she promises me she won’t hurt him.”
I didn’t even say Obadiah’s name, because I knew the Queen would know who I meant.
“I won’t ask for anything else. I won’t even ask to ever see him again. Just—don’t kill him.
“And one more thing,” I added. “Maybe there’s nothing that can be done about the kids who are already asleep, but no more kids, okay? Don’t take any new kids. If she can honor these two promises”—I took a deep breath—“I’ll accept her throne.”
I waited. There was no answer. Of course there was no answer. What was I expecting?
And yet somehow I felt better—I felt like I’d been heard. The floater disappeared. Did that mean my mother’s messengers had gone back to her? Did it mean she would honor my request? There was no way to know.
The driver never looked back at me. The whole conversation could easily have sounded like a one-sided cell-phone call.
I stared out through the windshield, bone tired, too exhausted to move, too exhausted to think.
The redbrick monolith of the hospital loomed ahead in the distance. I turned my attention back to Eva. Her face looked peaceful in the corrugated light and shadow from the taxi window. I had no idea if what I had just done had worked or not, if Obadiah was any better off than before. Maybe I would never find out. My heart clenched at the thought. But right now I needed to focus on Eva. I might be worried sick about Obadiah—but in this moment, there was nothing I could do to help him. And I had to save the only life I could save.
O
badiah stared blankly at the cell wall in front of him. But all he could see was Mab’s face. The panic and desperation in her eyes as she called out for him, how she’d grasped frantically for his hand as the ground fell out from under her. The look in her eyes when she realized she couldn’t save him.
His chest clenched. She was safe now, and she’d be able to help her friend. But he’d never see her again. Somehow, that thought upset him more than the fact that at any moment the Queen would probably march in and drag him away to his death. If the Queen even let it end so quickly. She might try torturing him till he confessed where he’d hidden her Elixir, everyone he’d ever given it to. As if he could even remember. Or maybe she’d just leave him down in this cell to rot. Either way, he was going to die. And Mab was going to think his death was her fault. That hurt him more than anything.
There were sounds outside the cell door. Sounds of vulgar laughter and clinking cups. The Goblin guards were celebrating his capture. They were very pleased with themselves, though really, they shouldn’t be so proud. There were about fifty of them and one of him—it hadn’t been a fair fight, getting him subdued. And he’d knocked out about twenty, till the Queen zapped him with some powerful spell that was way beyond his fledgling magical powers.
They’d put him in a real dungeon under lock and key, because the imprisonment magic they used on the kids didn’t work on him. He’d tried to sing another spell—to bust free of this cell, to make another rift in the Vale. But somehow he couldn’t do it this time. Pain was making it hard to focus.
He had to admit—they actually had him now. He was at the Queen’s mercy. He hated feeling powerless more than anything—it made him feel like he was a boy again, scared and helpless. But all he could do was wait. In some ways, that was the worst kind of torture. He’d rather face some grudge-carrying Goblin with a club than just sit here—in limbo—wondering if they were going to kill him, and when, and how, and wishing he’d said a better goodbye to Mab.
Mab
. She must be worried sick for him. She knew her mother well enough to realize it wasn’t going to be good. He wished he could send her some kind of message, just to let her know that he was still alive—for the time being at least. But there was no way to communicate with the human world. A sick feeling mounted in his gut. He’d been in and out of so many scrapes over the years, but he worried that this truly might be the last one. This wasn’t a Hollywood movie. He wasn’t guaranteed to make it out alive because he was the good guy. Hell, given everything he’d done in his life, he might not even be the good guy. Thoughts of the rows and rows of children, in their sleep of death, kept coming back to his mind, haunting him. He’d thought he was helping them. But he’d made things so much worse. Sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor, staring out into the blackness, he couldn’t help but think over his life—and feel like it hadn’t amounted to much. How much good had he done, really? He’d given humans a taste of magic—and some of them hadn’t survived.
He put his head in his hands.
There were good times, though,
he tried to tell himself. But the words just seemed hollow now. He’d used to always joke about death with a gallows humor—but that was a lot harder to do when the gallows might actually be in his future.
You always get what you wish for,
Obadiah thought bitterly,
but sometimes the timing is off
. There were so many years where he’d wanted to die—when his strange semi-immortality had felt like an indefinite prison sentence and he’d have done most anything to be free of it. But now time felt so precious.
I can’t die,
he thought.
I’ve got so much left to do.
To die now felt somehow irresponsible.