Larkstorm (16 page)

20

Time stands still as Beck’s words slide around in my brain, looking for a place to grab hold. They find a landing place and hurl their full weight at me.

“No
,
” I whisper. “I won’t…I—I couldn’t.” The taste of blood stings my tongue
—
my lip’s bleeding. I’ve been biting on it, trying to keep the screams inside. “Who told you that?”

Beck touches my lip with his finger and flicks away the blood. “Bethina, my parents, all these others.” He pulls apart the branches again, exposing the tent town on the other side. “They’ve done nothing but work on this for years. Trying to find a way to end the curse.”

“They’re lying,” I insist. “Why would anyone curse us?”

“I don’t know.” His face contorts and for a moment, I think he’s choking. Beck gasps. “I wish it weren’t true.”

“But you’re here. With me. What’s wrong with you?” It makes no sense, Beck wanting to be with me, knowing what he does.

“My whole life has been you. Always you. The first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night.”

He stops. Conflict eats away at his beautiful face.

“Until recently
—
until today
—
you’ve never shown any real interest in the binding, or for that matter, in me, beyond being my best friend.” He stares past me now. “No one expects you to actually care for me.”

Maz was right. Beck thinks I pushed him away, not out of a sense of responsibility, but because I didn’t want to be with him.

“You can sense my feelings
.
D
on’t you know the answer to that?”

The air around us is still
—
the breeze gone.

“It’s never been completely clear.” Beck pushes his shaking hands through his hair. “But you do, don’t you?”

Do I? My chest seizes. The burning feeling pulses deep in my heart and tries to force its way out. A soft hum fills my ears and makes it hard for me to think. I want to tell Beck how being away from him is unbearable. How all I could think about is getting back to him. I want to tell him that I need him like I need air.

But my body won’t let me. It’s like someone, or something, is interfering with my free will. So I say, “I’ve risked everything to find you
—
my career, my future. To be with you. Isn’t that enough?”

It’s not. Beck’s face falls and he wraps his arms around his torso like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“Okay, then. I guess maybe you should go change. Bethina put your clothes upstairs in the room
—
the one we’ve always shared.” He parts the branches and walks out onto the lawn
—
away from me and away from the house.

My brain screams at me to run after him, but I’m glued to this spot, unable to move. Beck’s figure grows smaller and smaller before finally disappearing into the trees along the far side of the grass. Once he’s out of sight, feeling returns to my limbs.

How is it he can feel every other thought coursing through my being, but not the most important one?

The sunlight is even brighter now and casts a harsh glow across the lawn. It must be near lunchtime.

With nothing else to do, I drag myself from the cool shade of the tree and toward the old-fashioned house.

Heads turn as I pass and a few people actually cross the lawn to avoid getting too close to me. No one says hello or smiles. I’m alone, a black hole surrounded by light, and no one, except for Beck and maybe Bethina, wants me here.

My heart yearns for Kyra. If she were with me, she’d find the whole thing amusing
—
laughing about how we need to learn to control our boys through magic. Or promising to unleash all sorts of terror on whoever treated us poorly. She’d probably have the entire place on high alert. Whatever she did, it definitely wouldn’t be boring.

But she’s not here, because she’s Dark and Beck’s enemy. Like I should be.

But why? Why do we have to hate each other?

My fingers trail along the wooden railing of the porch, feeling the prick of splinters as my skin catches. I close my eyes, my lungs heaving, and drop my chin to my chest.

How do you hate someone you’ve spent your whole life laughing with?

A breath, then another. Slowly, I feel the sadness ebb from my body and anger rushes to fill the holes it left behind.

Why didn’t anyone tell me? Were they hoping I’d wake up fixed one day?

My rage swells as I fling open the side door leading to the kitchen and march into the dining room. The chairs still litter the floor.

What am I going to do? If Beck’s parents see this, they’ll never forgive me. What if they make me leave? What if they force Beck and I apart?

Then again, maybe that’s not such a bad idea, considering how I’m
going to kill their son
if he’s around me.

A groan, like the sound of a tree settling in the soil, followed by a louder cracking noise. I swing my head toward the window to see if the weeping willow fell over. But then a sharp snap draws my attention back to the dining room.

The table lies in two pieces.

I stare at them, my brain whirling, trying to understand what happened. Like on the train, my hands vibrate.

Oh my God. I did this.

For a moment, I entertain the idea of trying to fix the damaged furniture, but it’s destroyed beyond repair. And if I don’t even know
how
I break the furniture, how the hell can I repair it?

I sprint up the squeaky stairs to the second floor. Our room is halfway down on the right, its door cracked slightly.

Once safe inside, I slam the door behind me and dodge the two large travel trunks lying in the middle of the floor, before collapsing on the bed.

Is this what magic is? Breaking things and causing weather anomalies? Scaring people and living life in the shadows? Killing?

Memories of Maz and I on the train flood my brain. We were talking and something he said upset me. My hands started to shake and then everything shattered. But it makes no sense. Why would I hurt myself? It’s the same with the storm, why would I do that?

I roll onto my stomach and kick my sandals to the floor. If my mother knows where I am, and she truly sent Annalise and Callum after me, how long before she has the State all over Summer Hill? What will happen if she publically accuses Beck’s parents of kidnapping me? It would be a great reason to expose them as Sensitives
—
especially if she hates them as Beck claims.

Which raises the question—why am I still here? The Channings know about the threat I pose to Beck, and Eamon clearly doesn’t like me. So why haven’t I been tossed right back into the snow?

With a sigh, I rub my face into my pillow. Our birthday. All my life, I’ve loved that day. But now it hangs over my head like a time bomb, tick tick ticking away the weeks until I
—
what? Kill Beck?

But it’s my life, so I must be able to control some aspect of it, right?

Except, Beck said the adults have been working on it for years and they still don’t have a solution. The seriousness of the situation crushes me
—
it’s completely unfair. I didn’t ask for any of this and I don’t want it. My fists strike the hard headboard until pain radiates along my arm.

And that’s when it hits me.

Something seems off.

I stare at the bed. It’s a normal bed with a blue and white bird-motif on the coverlet. Just a normal twin-sized bed, but there’s only one.

Only one.

This is just my room. Beck is sleeping elsewhere. A solid knot anchors in my stomach. Did he have his things moved? Or were they never here?

From below, Bethina’s rhythmic voice calls my name. “Lark? I need you to come down here.”

I don’t feel like seeing anyone. But habits are hard to break, and all my life, I’ve been obedient. “Coming!”

I kick the offending bed. It doesn’t make me feel any better. Showering can wait, but I need something clean to wear. I feel gross. Inside the trunk closest me, I find a white sundress with a purple sash and throw it on. A quick peek in the mirror to smooth my hair, and I’m ready.

The stairs moan under my weight like the sad soundtrack of my mood
—
each creak underscoring my increasingly sullen and confused state.

Bethina waits for me at the bottom. The normal light in her eye, vanquished. Like seeing me pains her.

“The Channings want to speak with you.”

I glance at the parlor room doors. From the other side, I hear hushed voices and the clinking of ice cubes. Bethina motions for me to follow her into the front room, and I do.

If the hallway is like a photo gallery, this place is like a mausoleum. The walls are covered in life-sized paintings of people I assume are long dead based on their fashions. It’s creepy, like they’re all staring down at me and disapprove of what they see.

“Sit down, Lark
,
” Mrs. Channing says, pointing to a weird square chair opposite of her.

I struggle to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy chair and am half-tempted to forgo the pile of rocks for the floor. What did they stuff these antique things with?

Bethina stands next to me, her hand on my shoulder. “Would anyone like a drink?”

“A Scotch, if you please,” Mr. Channing says. The rest of us ignore each other.

Bethina places her palms together and a serving tray appears on the coffee table. Like instantaneously. I blink and absorb the fact that I did, actually, just see my caregiver make something materialize out of thin air.

“I’ll let you talk.” Bethina hands Mr. Channing his Scotch before striding out of the room and pulling the French doors shut behind her.

The oversized chair dwarfs me. My feet dangle off the edge and my right sandal falls to the ground. I don’t retrieve it, instead I fold my hands in my lap and count how many times my legs swing back and forth.

For several long minutes, no one says anything. I feel a bit like a caged animal the way Mrs. Channing stares at me. She tilts her head, a gesture I now recognize, and closes her eyes as if concentrating.

My eyes roam around the room, past the antique furniture and paintings. There’s a fireplace
—
something the State frowns on because it pollutes the air
—
and several cases stuffed with old-fashioned paper books. A well-stocked bar sits off to my left. Curiously, in the spot where the wall screen has always been, is Mr. Channing’s old coin collection - perfectly organized and mounted to the wall.

“Where’s the wall screen?” I ask, breaking the silence.

Mrs. Channing opens her eyes and says, evenly, “They have all been removed. We think it’s best if, while you’re here, you focus on your studies. Besides, we don’t need wall screens to know what’s going on in the world. We can use magic for that.”

“How?”

Mrs. Channing gives me a cold smile. “That’s of no concern to you”

And that’s that. They’ve effectively cut me off from the outside world. No wristlet. No wall screen. Nothing.

“While you are here, you will abide by a few rules,” Mr. Channing says. “And in return, we’ll provide you with training, to help you learn to use your magic in an appropriate way.”

“So you’re letting me stay? Even though it’s dangerous for Beck to be around me?”

“You are an untrained Dark witch. It’s in our best interest to help you learn to control yourself,” Mrs. Channing replies.

Flutters of hope build in my chest. Maybe I
can
be fixed. Why else would the Channings insist on training me, if not to save their son?

“The rules are simple. First, you will not leave Summer Hill. We have strict security features in place, such as the dome, and letting you roam around on your own is simply too dangerous,” he says.

“Okay,” I mutter. It’s not like I have many options.

“You will also adhere to a strict schedule. You will have classes all day, with breaks for lunch and dinner. You will not miss these classes.”

Since I’ve never intentionally missed a class in my life, this shouldn’t be hard. Plus, if the only way I can save Beck is to learn how to use magic, I’ll gladly sign up for extra classes. “Absolutely.”

My eyes move to the picture directly behind Mrs. Channing. It’s a man and woman, obviously a couple from the way his arm encircles her waist and he gazes down at her. But it’s her eyes that catch my attention.

“Who are they?” I ask, pointing at the picture.

Mrs. Channing knits her brow together and turns her head. “Miles and Lucy
—
Patrick’s great-great-
grandparents
and Charles Channing’s
parents.”