Chapter 31. Grayson
Grayson
To her credit, Eloise doesn’t scream when I throw her off the side of the five-story tower onto a tiny platform I spellworked out of glass. But she also abandons her usual PG language for the real deal.
“Finish your box spell, Eloise,” I tell her, my hand creating a wind spell to hold her steady. “Because I don’t know how long this platform will support your weight.”
She gives me a look like I better be joking, but behind that look is … trust? When was the last time someone trusted me?
She doesn’t whine or demand I bring her back; she just lifts her chin. She’s terrified to sneak out after curfew, but will dangle sixty-odd feet in the air and face it like a champ?
Despite her resolve, the spell doesn’t come smoothly, her magic responding to her growing need and fear. Her song reverberates within the gazebo and it’s nothing short of wild, her magic pulling from the wood of the tower, making it jump and sputter like popcorn in a cast-iron pan.
Her box doesn’t have roses this time, or thorns, or even a middle finger. It’s in the shape of a lion, and as she ties the finishing knot it settles onto the floor as though it curled up to sleep.
I reach out to her, taking her slender hand in mine and pulling her back onto the tower roof.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, something shimmers in the air.
We both turn, and her hand slips out of mine. But just as quickly, it’s gone.
“Did you see that?” she demands. “Was that the Key?”
“I don’t know what else it could have been,” I admit, a little stunned.
“You saw the air shimmer? Right? Because it did the same thing at the Academy before it appeared,” she says quickly.
“I definitely saw the shimmer,” I confirm, and the whole mood shifts.
Hope. It shifts to hope, and the scent of hers is heady.
“Grayson,” she says, enunciating my name excitedly in a way I could get used to. “Did we just almost call the Key?”
A grin spreads across my face and she grins right back. And before I can think not to, I pick her up and twirl her. Even more miraculous, she doesn’t pull a dagger on me—she laughs.
“Let’s do it again,” she says enthusiastically as I place her back on the ground. So, we do. She does the spell suspended on the glass platform until our magic wanes and it’s no longer safe, but the shimmer never reappears.
She paces across the gazebo, her hair blowing around her face in the warm night breeze. “Why can’t we replicate it? We’re doing the same spell in the same way and I’m definitely not comfortable on that platform.”
“Maybe it’s not just the spell,” I say. “Maybe there’s another factor we’re not thinking of.”
She stops to consider it. “The shimmer didn’t actually happen during the spell, which is interesting. It happened after, when I was standing safely back on the tower and—”
“And what?” I say when she doesn’t complete the thought.
All of a sudden, I scent her embarrassment. She hesitates.
“Claws,” I say. “If you have a theory, I need to hear it.”
She huffs. “Look, it’s ridiculous, all right? But when the air shimmered, we were—” She’s actively squirming now. “Holding hands.”
I can’t help it, I smile.
“Not funny,” she says, and even in the moonlight I can see her blush.
“I beg to differ.”
She glares at me. “Think about it. When we held hands the first time, the beams stopped shaking. The second time we were able to make the potion work. I’m not saying it makes sense. It doesn’t. But it’s definitely a pattern.”
I pause. Maybe she’s onto something. “Okay, then we do it again. Holding hands this time.”
“Yeah, yes. That makes sense,” she says, stumbling over the words.
It’s possible I smirk as I offer her my hand. But as she places her fingers in mine and steps back on the platform, it’s me who’s thrown. Because when she starts singing, I feel it, first vibrating along my arm and then in my chest.
I don’t cast my wind spell to steady her this time, I just hold her tightly.
I feel her passion for her spell and the details she pours into her box.
I feel her commitment and her longing, and my usual calm becomes decidedly uncalm.
The feeling of her magic travels through my pulse like a heartbeat.
And when I pull her back onto the tower as she finishes, it might be me who’s blushing.
We both search the air around us, waiting a beat. But nothing appears.
“Sorry,” she says, breaking our handhold and rubbing her forehead. “I really thought that might work.”
I clear my throat, and in what can only be the worst timing ever, my cell phone vibrates and I look at it.
“What?” she asks, following my eyeline to my boot.
“Nothing, just thinking,” I say.
Bzzz.
We make eye contact.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
Shit.
“Why do you do that?” she says, her hand moving to her hip. “Why do you lie?”
I’ve never been asked that question. Everyone in my world lies, and I’ve always considered myself skilled at it in a way I could depend on.
But before I can think of how to answer she adds, “And don’t say you’re not. You’ve been glancing at your boot all night. What do you have in there?”
I sigh, and no one is more surprised than me when I decide to go with the truth. “A cell phone,” I say, and she steps back from me.
“You have … a cell phone?” she says carefully and precisely.
“It’s not the kind you’re thinking.”
Her look turns sharp. “Is it the kind that makes calls?”
“I don’t use it for that. I use it to text my friends. It’s got a closed-circuit spell on it that keeps it from being transmitted outside the wards,” I say, and for a brief second her annoyance is replaced with hopefulness.
“Would it work for me to text my family?” she asks.
I shake my head. “The spell won’t stretch that far.”
“What about a call?” she asks fast as anything.
“Even I won’t make calls on it. I’m pretty sure my uncle monitors it.” I only make calls on my other cell phone and only outside the wards, not that I can say that.
“Great. So, you lied again,” she says, and looks away.
Something about her frustration gets me frustrated. “You want me to lie for you but not to you?”
Her eyes widen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You were okay with it when I lied to my uncle and you have no problem with me lying to Maggie so you don’t have to,” I say.
“That’s different and you know it,” she says, adamant.
“More or less different than you asking me to fake date you and then flirting with Adrien?” I say, and the moment the words leave my mouth I deeply regret them. I’m not jealous. I don’t get jealous.
“Flirting with—” She lets out a tight breath. “I think we’ve done more than enough for the night. I’m going back.”
To top it off, the stupid flower ring—aster flower to be exact, just like Adrien’s crap last name—catches the moonlight and twinkles.