Authors: Erica O'Rourke
Tangled (3 page)
C
HAPTER
4
HAPTER
4
F
athers were an area I had almost no experience with. None good, anyway. Luc’s father was a member of the Quartoren, the council that governed Arc society, and the Patriarch of his House, in charge of all Arcs that drew on the fire-based ley lines. And I was magically, permanently bound to his son.
athers were an area I had almost no experience with. None good, anyway. Luc’s father was a member of the Quartoren, the council that governed Arc society, and the Patriarch of his House, in charge of all Arcs that drew on the fire-based ley lines. And I was magically, permanently bound to his son.
“I’m Mo,” I said, forcing myself to say the words. “I’m the Vessel.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said, cutting his eyes toward the shack. “Dominic DeFoudre. Been waiting on you for a while, Maura Fitzgerald. Didn’t expect this was how we’d meet.”
A hot, keening wind kicked up, making my hair lash around my face. The moss hanging from the trees twisted and swayed. “Constance!” I turned toward the house. Even at this distance, the magic stung my skin, but I forced myself to ignore it.
“Dominic,” said the woman. Luc’s mom? Luc had a mom? He’d never mentioned her before. She withdrew her fingers from his arm and made a delicate shooing motion. “Go on, now. This will be nice for you two.”
Nice? Father–son golf outings were nice. Saving Constance from an onslaught of raw magic didn’t qualify in my book. Even Dominic’s expression was more grimace than smile, but he bowed to both of us. “Ladies.”
He ambled toward the shack, one hand clamping down on his hat in the increasingly violent wind. If I’d had any doubts that he was really Luc’s dad, they were erased in that instant. The man walked cheerfully into disaster, like there was no place he’d rather be, like braving the raw magic was something he did every day, after his café au lait but before the crossword puzzle. No wonder Luc was always so easy in his skin.
“I’m sure your friend will be fine. Some of us take the transition harder than others,” Luc’s mother said when he’d gone inside. Her voice was soft, but it carried through the din. “I’m Marguerite,” she added. “I’d been hoping to meet you, but perhaps not quite like this. Shall we sit?”
There were no chairs, but she held her hand up, palm out, and the weedy, dusty grass transformed to something resembling the grounds at Wrigley Field. Magic terrified me, but even I had to admit there were times it came in handy.
“After you,” she said.
My legs were trembling, and I sank down gratefully into the lush grass. Marguerite followed, arranging her skirt with a delicate grace. “You’re unwell.”
I tugged at my shirt again, feeling grubby. “It was the magic, at school ... I got caught in it.”
Her eyes, a faded green, not half as vibrant as her son’s, closed briefly. “No. It’s more.”
“I’m fine,” I said. I’d felt lousy all morning, but it seemed wimpy to complain about it now. Marguerite gave me a reproving smile, like she could hear the lie in my voice. “It’s more important to help Constance now. She doesn’t have anyone else.”
“She has you.”
“I’m not her sister.” She must know Evangeline was dead, and with Verity gone, there was no one to explain the Arcs to Constance. I was useless. Despite the Torrent, and the magic that had run through my veins like blood, I had no powers of my own. I knew more about quantum physics than I did magic.
“Luc spoke about her often.” She rested a sympathetic hand on my sleeve. “It’s hard to fathom how she could be gone, isn’t it?”
Something in her gentle question prompted my honesty. “I miss her. Still. All the time.”
“And why wouldn’t you? That kind of loss, so abrupt ... There’s no timetable for grief, Mo.”
The words were an unexpected comfort. “That’s not what most people say.”
“Most people haven’t experienced that kind of sadness.” A shadow crossed her face. “I hope it’s not my son telling you such tales. He should know better.”
“Luc gets it, I think. He misses her, too.” I remembered the bleakness on his face when he’d told me Verity was dead, the tender way he’d laid a bouquet of delphiniums at her grave. In a way, her loss united us.
“Yes.” Delicately, she touched the corner of her eye. “He wears his grief differently than most. He holds it so close, I’m not sure he even knows what it does to him.”
I tugged at a blade of grass, surprised at the tremor in her voice. It seemed odd that she would be so affected by talking about Verity when they’d never met. Across the clearing, Constance cried out, and a few shingles tore off the roof of the shack, landing nearby. Marguerite pressed her hand against my arm when I started to stand.
“Luc called his father here for a reason. I wouldn’t always suggest leaving things to those two men,” she added with a mischievous smile, reminiscent of Luc’s, “but I promise, she couldn’t be in more capable hands.”
I studied the shack, how it seemed to sway in concert with the surges of power. “They’ll help her? Luc is really as good as he says?”
“Better,” Marguerite said, so promptly I had to believe her. “More than he thinks, in fact. I wouldn’t want him to get a big head, so it’s best not to bring it up. You understand.”
I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, and she joined me for a second, then sobered, not quite meeting my eyes. “He’s destined for such great things, and he doesn’t realize the half of it. Fate doesn’t make mistakes, you know. It wouldn’t call someone who wasn’t capable.”
“Fate.” No wonder Luc was always going on about it, if Marguerite believed, too.
“It sounds so pompous when I put it that way, doesn’t it? It’s a hazard, of being married to a Patriarch, I suppose. Everything’s always so somber and grand. I imagine Luc’ll be different when it’s his turn, but it’ll all depend.”
“On what?”
Before she could answer, a window exploded, the sound startling. Marguerite tipped her head to one side, listening, but didn’t turn to look. Instead, she kept her face pointed to a spot just above my shoulder.
“You’re ... blind?” Oh, God. Could I be more rude? To Luc’s mom? I should have noticed how she tracked the sound of my voice instead of my movements, the way Dominic had guided her across the yard.
She shrugged lightly. “As I said, some people take the transition harder than others.”
“I’m sorry. Luc never said.” He’d never told me anything about his family.
“When would he have had time?”
Valid point, but my insides curdled with embarrassment. How had I not noticed? And how had I never asked Luc about his family? He knew plenty about mine. Why had he stayed so quiet? Somehow I doubted his silence could be chalked up to absentmindedness.
“Don’t pity me too much. I have other gifts.” She paused. “It’s quieter now. Do you feel it?”
The air seemed to be losing its charge, the wind cooling to a pleasant breeze. The crackling, ripping sounds from inside the shack gradually subsided.
I struggled to my feet. “Can I go in?”
Marguerite closed her eyes. “It should be safe. May I take your arm?”
Mortification flooded me. I’d been ready to dash off and leave Luc’s mom sitting on the ground in the middle of the bayou. Way to make a first impression. I helped her up, and she rested her hand on my arm.
As we approached the shack, I looked back to see the verdant patch of green fade away. Nice trick. Marguerite would be a definite hit in my neighborhood.
Luc opened the door, one arm braced against the top of the door frame, and I nearly stumbled on the uneven ground. I’d forgotten how searingly gorgeous he was, his body all lean muscle and a face that looked like it had been carved from amber. The magic only sharpened the effect. The line around my wrist throbbed, and I stepped toward him without thinking. He grinned at me, a little more worn than usual but just as arrogant.
“Maman,”
he said, never taking his gaze off mine, his eyes flashing with amusement and challenge and heat. “Thanks for taking care of Mouse. What do you think of my girl?”
he said, never taking his gaze off mine, his eyes flashing with amusement and challenge and heat. “Thanks for taking care of Mouse. What do you think of my girl?”
Before I could remind him that I was absolutely not his girl, Marguerite stepped ahead of me, no hesitation, and rapped Luc on the shoulder with a loose fist.
“I think you need your head examined if you believe that’s a proper introduction.”
He laughed and hugged her, then turned toward me again. “Mouse, this is my
maman,
Marguerite DeFoudre.
Maman,
Maura Fitzgerald, but people call her Mo.”
maman,
Marguerite DeFoudre.
Maman,
Maura Fitzgerald, but people call her Mo.”
“You don’t,” she pointed out.
“I’m special.”
She smacked him again, fondly. “You’re
something,
son.”
something,
son.”
“Constance,” I said. “I want to see her.”
“ ’Course you do.” With a sweeping motion, he gestured me into the shack, past his father, to the rickety cot.
Constance lay on the bed, ghostly white, her hair sticking damply to her face. But her breathing was even, and the bleeding had stopped. “She’s okay?”
“Right as rain,” Luc said. “Or air. Guessin’ air, anyway.” Relief washed over me, and Luc’s fingertips grazed my hand like butterfly wings.
“Come outside, please.” Without waiting for a response, Dominic stepped through the open doorway, his footsteps making the entire cabin shudder.
I glanced back at Constance, frowning, and Marguerite touched my arm. “I’ll sit with her.”
“Thank you,” I said, and Luc pulled a chair over to the side of the bed, then guided Marguerite to it. She eased into the seat with a grace I’d never possess in a hundred years, and reached for Constance’s hand.
I smoothed back Constance’s hair and adjusted the thin blanket over her. Luc stood unmoving at the broken window.
“Patience has never been your father’s strong suit,” Marguerite said.
For a moment longer, he was motionless. Then he turned, holding out his hand. “Ready, Mouse?”
I hesitated, then slipped my fingers inside his and followed him onto the porch.
Near the spot where Marguerite and I had waited, Dominic was deep in conversation with two other people—an old woman leaning on a cane and an aging hippie with a receding hairline. None of them looked happy. A few feet beyond the group, three separate doors were cut into the air, each outlined with a different colored flame. The space inside was filled with endless black, icy air leaching out and flowing across the stubby grass.
“Who are they?”
“The Quartoren,” he said with a grimace.
“That’s a bad thing, isn’t it?” I couldn’t imagine why they would take an interest in Constance.
“Ain’t good.” But before I could ask more, Luc tugged me across the clearing.
C
HAPTER
5
HAPTER
5
L
uc’s fingers tightened on mine as we approached the Quartoren. With my free hand, I brushed at the sweaty tendrils of hair clinging to my face. Dominic waited until we’d stopped, and Luc dipped his head, murmuring a greeting to the strangers.
uc’s fingers tightened on mine as we approached the Quartoren. With my free hand, I brushed at the sweaty tendrils of hair clinging to my face. Dominic waited until we’d stopped, and Luc dipped his head, murmuring a greeting to the strangers.
“Pascal, Orla,” said Dominic, nodding to the man and woman. “I’d like to present Maura Fitzgerald. The Vessel. Pascal and Orla are the Heads of Earth and Air, respectively.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, the words sounding more like a question than a statement.
Pascal studied me, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, his lips moving silently. Orla gave a short, unfriendly nod and turned back to Dominic. “You’re certain?”
“Of course I am. The girl belongs to your House. See for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”
Orla glanced over at the shack and pursed her lips, her orangy-red lipstick feathering into the wrinkles around her mouth. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Good. We should be getting this under way. You’ll come with us,” Dominic said, nodding at me.
Luc’s hand urged me behind him with the very faintest pressure, but I stood my ground.
“Come with you? Where? For what?” I eyed the flickering doorway to Between. “I can’t leave Constance.”
“The girl is fine,” said Orla. “Marguerite’s with her.”
“We need to return to New Orleans,” Pascal said. “We’ve work to do.”
“No offense, but the only place I’m going is back to Chicago. Constance needs a doctor, and I’m supposed to be in third period right now.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option. Something’s wrong with the magic,” said Dominic. “It’s not typical for an Arc’s powers to come through this way. But we’re seeing it more and more, with children much younger than the girl lyin’ on that bed.”
“Her name is Constance Grey.” I gave the words a faint edge. “She’s Verity’s little sister.”
“We know exactly who she is,” snapped Orla.
“Point is, when you remade the lines, something changed. The magic is stronger. More wild, like it’s lashing out. It’s putting our people in danger.” Dominic looked at me, clearly troubled.
“You think it’s my fault?”
“Easy,” Luc murmured. He’d been strangely silent, and now he was taking their side? I pulled my hand from his.
“Fault’s a strong word,” Dominic hedged. “We think you can fix whatever’s gone wrong.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong. I fixed the lines, like you wanted. That was the prophecy, right? Remake the lines, stop the Torrent, save the world. And I did.” There had been a moment, caught up in the pandemonium of the Torrent, that I’d understood everything. I’d grasped the true nature of the magic, saw the underpinnings of the world. Once Luc had pulled me out, the knowledge had burned away like fog on a sunny morning. But one fact remained clear. “The lines were balanced. They were whole. Everything should be okay.”
Pascal spoke. “The issue resides within the magic itself, not the lines. You’re the only person we know of who has encountered raw magic and lived. It follows that you’d be the only one who could fix it.”
Logical, sure. But there was no guarantee that I’d survive a second go-round.
“It’s endangering everyone,” Dominic added. “Spells and workings are turnin’ destructive without warning. Children younger than Constance are getting their powers. You know what would have happened if Luc hadn’t pulled you two out? That school would have fallen down around your ears. Darklings would have come. They’re getting stronger, you know. Every time the raw magic overflows, the Darklings are on it like a hound after a fox.”
I shuddered before I could stop myself. Darklings. The assassins who had killed Verity. Nightmare creatures, impossibly fast and strong, willing to devour anyone who stood between them and a feast of raw magic. I flashed back to the memory of a curving, bone white talon gleaming with blood, reaching for me.
“You caused this,” Orla said. “Now you need to fix it. And we are wasting time by arguing.”
Fear bloomed inside me, turning my skin slick, and I fought to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I have school. And work. I have ... a life. You can’t expect me to abandon it.”
All three of the Quartoren stared at me. It was obvious that was exactly what they expected. I looked at Luc, waiting for him to tell his father it wouldn’t work, that I couldn’t help, that they had the wrong girl. Again. But he kept his eyes fixed on the patchy grass at our feet.
“We need your assistance,” Pascal said eventually. “Without you, it’s unlikely we can find a solution.”
“Your solution sounds a lot like you’re throwing me under the bus. And I’m sorry if there are problems now, but I didn’t cause them. I fixed the magic. Now I need to fix my own life.”
Orla scoffed. “You’re so fond of your Flat life? You’d place it above the needs of our entire people? Then take the girl back with you.” She raised her chin and addressed the others. “She is descended from Flats and a traitor, and my House wants no part of her.”
“Let’s not say things we don’t mean,” Dominic cut in.
“I mean every word,” Orla said. “The House of Rafale will not claim the girl. I’ll have no business with the Flat, no matter that she is the Vessel. We’ll find another way.”
She turned on her heel and stalked a short distance away, cane thumping into the ground. She was surprisingly fast for an old woman. Dominic jerked his head at Pascal, who gave me a long, searching look before following her. A moment later, there was a crack like a gunshot, and the pair of them went Between.
Dominic frowned at me. “She’s wrong, you know. There is no other way. Pascal’s looked at it from every angle—it’s what he does. We need your help, and we don’t exactly have an overabundance of time.”
“You’ve waited a month,” Luc said, speaking up at last. “Wouldn’t hurt to give her a little breathing room.”
Dominic inclined his head.
“The Darklings were coming? To St. Brigid’s?” I wasn’t ready for the magic to infringe on my world. Whatever problems I had in my real life were nothing compared to the trouble Darklings would bring.
“It’s why I brought you here,” Luc said. “The magic was centered on Constance, not the school. Pulled her out, there was nothing left to interest the Darklings. And here, there’s no people, no major lines for miles around. Not as much magic for them to feed on.”
“Good plan,” I said, surprised to find my legs were shaking. “Great plan, actually.”
He shrugged, but the smile playing across his lips told me he was pleased.
When we entered the cabin, Marguerite was humming softly as Constance slept. Her color was improved, her breathing regular. Orla had insinuated that was temporary. How long did Constance have?
Dominic helped Marguerite to her feet, the gesture unexpectedly sweet. “We’ll be going now.”
“We’ve only just met Mo,” she protested. “Surely it won’t hurt to stay a bit longer.”
“Orla’s feathers are ruffled. Best we go and soothe them,” he said, slanting a look toward Luc that seemed to be both warning and reproach. “We’ll talk. Soon.”
Luc’s hand reached for mine again, but I’d moved away to hover over Constance.
Marguerite gifted me with a smile. “It was so nice to finally meet you. Luc ...” He bent down, and she brushed a kiss over his cheek. “Behave yourself.”
I would have sworn he blushed. Dominic doffed his hat and drew Marguerite outside. In a moment, we heard the lightning-strike sound of their trip Between. Luc dropped into one of the rickety chairs, the cocky veneer he’d worn in front of the Quartoren falling away. My nerves prickled, the way they always seemed to when we were alone.
“Your parents seem ...” I searched for a word that would fit both Marguerite and Dominic. Chalk and cheese, my uncle would say. “They seem nice.”
He rolled his head from side to side, working out the kinks. “
Maman
is. My dad’s more like you.”
Maman
is. My dad’s more like you.”
“Not nice?” From anyone else, it would have been an insult. From Luc, it was almost a compliment.
“He’s got a big role to play. Not much room left over for nice.”
Right. I was never just Mo, to Luc. I was always the Vessel, the one he was fated to be with. But I wasn’t sure I believed in fate. And I wanted a guy who wanted me, not the prophecy I’d taken on.
I wanted to snap at him, but he looked so worn-out, features drawn, eyes shadowed. Dealing with raw magic was dangerous, exhausting work, and he’d done it solely because I’d asked. My frustration leached away. “Thanks for helping us.”
His closed his eyes, exhaled slowly. “I helped you. She just happened to be in the room.”
On the cot, Constance stirred. “We should probably go home. People are going to notice we’re missing.”
“Let her rest for a bit. You should, too.”
I skirted the shards of glass scattered across the floor and sat down in the other chair. He waved a hand lazily, mouthing the words to a spell, and the pieces flew back into place, the cracks glowing red before melting together, creating a fresh pane before my eyes. It must be nice to fix things so easily. A talent like that, you wouldn’t even care what you had broken.
“Been a month,” he said. “How you been?”
“Good, I guess. Considering.”
He nodded, and I figured he probably felt the same way. “Cujo still hangin’ around?”
“Colin is still around, yes.” It was the most comfortable explanation I could give, especially to Luc.
“That’s a shame. No cause for it,” he said. “Seraphim come after you, won’t be anything he can do.”
“He’s not there to protect me from Arcs.” If he were, you can bet he’d put Luc at the top of the “people to avoid” list. “Do you really think the Seraphim are still a problem? We stopped them.”
“They turned a member of the Quartoren. They killed the Vessel.” His mouth crooked. “Tried to, anyway. Not the mark of a group who gives up easily. If I had to guess, they’re regrouping, figuring out their next move.”
“You think they’ll come after me.” Something shadowed and slithery stirred inside me.
“Seems like a possibility.” He eyed me. “You don’t sound too worried.”
I watched the moss-draped branches sway in the breeze, keeping my face blank. Luc would not be in favor of me going up against the Seraphim again. “Should I be?”
He seemed to consider the question. “Not yet. Maybe not at all. We’re keeping an eye on it.”
“Okay. I’ll worry when you tell me to.”
“Speakin’ of bad guys, how’s your uncle? Still playing errand boy for the Mob?”
“I don’t ask.” It was better not to. My family’s relationship with organized crime had sent my father to federal prison, which made me less inclined to ask about things better kept secret. I wasn’t lying to myself, exactly. There was no changing the truth of my family. I simply stayed as far away from it as possible. Except for Colin, of course. He was the exception—the very hot, very intimidating exception—to the rule.
Constance whimpered once and fell quiet. I started to get up and check on her, but Luc clamped a hand over my wrist. “She’s fine, Mouse. For now, anyway. What were you thinking, running in after her?”
“I was thinking I should help Verity’s sister.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Nearly forgot. Anything Vee would have done ...”
“You didn’t complain when I took her place in the prophecy,” I said. “That’s what she would have done, too.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Too tired to go ’round with you on this. You took over as the Vessel. Nobody forced you. But now that you are, I’d appreciate if you’d stop divin’ headfirst into raw magic like it’s a damn swimming hole.”
“I was trying to help.”
“Getting yourself killed won’t help anyone. Specially not Constance Grey.” He glared at me. “And you’re still bleedin’.”
I touched my upper lip gingerly. My finger came away a deep, shiny red.
“You want me to ...”
I wiped the blood away with the back of my hand. “It’ll stop soon.”
He frowned. “C’mon, Mouse. Let me kiss and make it all better.”
I shivered despite the heat. “No, thanks.”
“Because of Cujo?” He scraped at the peeling paint of the floorboards, carefully not looking at me.
“Is it so hard to believe I don’t want to kiss you?”
He considered for a moment before turning his burning gaze back on me. “Yeah. Let me heal you. No kissin’ involved.”
The droplets were falling faster now, and I leaned forward, pinching the bridge of my nose. My head throbbed, and pain won out over pride. “Fine.”
I expected a smirk, but his expression was more relieved than victorious. Gently, he cupped my face in his hands. My eyes drifted shut as he whispered, silvery words that dissolved before I could register them, and the pain in my head dissolved with them. When I opened my eyes, his fingertips still curved along my jaw, his mouth inches from mine.
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