Chapter 6 #2
wove toward the cliffs overlooking the Hudson.
Emmy followed one of those paths now, remaining vigilant as she savored the stickiness of each step in the mud. Growing up,
she had rarely spent time in the woods. She’d almost never left lower Manhattan until the el had opened and Grace had begged
her to ride it uptown to people watch. Though Emmy hated the noisy train, she had always liked the old trees of Central Park,
the way their branches stretched unapologetically in every direction, taking up as much space as they pleased. But those sprawling
elms did not hold a candle to Mistfield’s wilderness. There was not another home in sight, no matter which direction she walked.
Such privacy was a blessing and a curse. Scream in the tenements, and a dozen neighbors ran to your aid. Scream here, and
not a soul would hear her, save the birds.
“The first ball’s in eighteen days, Vallillo.”
With a yelp, Emmy staggered back as Jack emerged from the thicket. “Were you spying on me?”
“Were you spying on me?” He carried his usual bottle of wine and wore his usual smirk. Even slightly disheveled, he was still alluring, with his
bright eyes and unyielding posture. Snobbish and handsome. Just Grace’s type.
“Shouldn’t you be helping the others?”
“Li told me to stay away.”
“Because you’re always drunk.”
“My father spent his life collecting wine he didn’t live to enjoy. I’m learning from his mistakes.” He held the bottle out
to her. When she refused, he took a generous swig. “The triumvirate is already interviewing new referrals. We need new faces
as soon as possible.”
A tendril of panic skittered down her neck. His far-fetched revenge scheme was likely the only thing holding him together—and
it was based on magic she did not possess.
“C’mon, Vallillo. Oliver conjure-bound me as well, but I broke free of it in two weeks.”
“Congratulations,” she muttered. He was probably exaggerating, but her competitive streak had not, apparently, withered away
with the rest of her.
His piercing gaze swept over her. “Can I try something?”
“No.”
“The chancellor suppressed your voice and movements when they arrested you. Your conjury failed you then, so maybe those memories
are keeping it locked away now.” He tossed his empty wine bottle into the brush. “I want to re-create that moment.”
His words hit like a punch. She would not be re-creating a damn thing about that night.
“My father used to do it with guards who’d been conjure-bound while sparring with a Stratton.” Seeing her skepticism, he added,
“My father served as commander for many years, and his father before him. I was supposed to be next.”
Emmy staggered back, absorbing the words. Commander Fontaine. That was why she’d recognized Jack’s surname. His father had been the third member of the triumvirate.
No wonder he knew the guards’ names. No wonder he was cocky enough to believe he could infiltrate the chancellor’s inner circles.
He was the inner circle.
“Can you trust me for a moment?” He stepped closer.
She stepped backward, farther down the path. “You just told me your father was in charge of the guards who made my life hell.”
He drew closer, hands raised. “I’m going to restrict your movements. Use the relic to fight back and free yourself.”
“Absolutely not.” She stepped back, two paces to match his.
With a long sigh, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You’d rather be blocked forever?”
No part of her wanted to experience that paralyzed, helpless feeling again, but—he’d gotten his magic back in two weeks. Unless,
of course, he was lying. “Fine. Make it quick.”
He wasted no time positioning himself behind her. “Ready?”
Every instinct she’d honed urged her not to leave her back exposed, but she nodded.
He wrapped his arms around her, pinning hers to her sides.
A laugh burst from her. Her movement was restricted, yes, but she’d expected something far more nefarious from someone who’d
trained to be commander of a magical militia. “And this worked on your father’s guards?”
“Sometimes.” His breath was warm on her neck, and she shivered, her laughter dying.
For two years, no one had touched her, yet Jack Fontaine’s knees were now pressed against the backs of her thighs, and his
chin brushed the top of her head. “That’s enough.”
“Then use your conjury to get rid of me.”
“How?” The more she wriggled, the tighter he held her to his chest. He smelled of wine and freshly struck matches, far too
pleasant. “This is inappropriate. Now let go.”
“You’re an escaped convict who is living, unsupervised, with three strapping young men. We’re far beyond the bounds of propriety
by now.”
She sighed, which was a mistake; the curve of her small chest pressed against his arms, and she blushed something awful. Squeezing
the relic, she searched for something to transform into a weapon, but it didn’t matter. That ethereal mist remained out of
reach. “It didn’t work.”
“What happened to the girl who bit the guard?” His low taunt warmed her ear, stealing her breath. “Why do you fold so easily
now?”
Her temper rose but she resisted its pull. “I’m not going to fight you.”
“Then I suppose we’ll stay like this all night.” His grip on her tightened. “It’s not like either of us sleeps, anyway.”
Her throat felt as if it were swelling shut, just as it had in Grimsbane, when she’d screamed and screamed. She tried to pull
the coolness of the brume toward her, tried to call to it like a rod attracting lightning, but it stayed out of reach. “I
mean it, Jack.” She hated the tremor in her voice. Even worse, his arms tightened again in response. He didn’t care.
She hardly knew him, and she’d let him trap her, just as she’d been trapped by guards who had been led by his father.
She tried to push him off her, but his grip was suffocating.
She could not move, could not breathe, could not do a damn thing as Chancellor Stratton lifted his revolver and aimed it at Papa’s forehead.
As Papa jerked backward.
She hadn’t been able to warn him. Had not been able to unleash a single wail, and that anguish boiled over inside her, scalding
her from the inside out, trapped.
As Papa fell to the floor, his head snapping against the marble.
His blood oozing over the tiles as the masked strangers watched, utterly impassive.
As Grace smiled.
A heavy presence jolted through Emmy. Pushing at the guard’s arms, she tried to free herself, but they remained stubbornly
in place. She tried to scratch at him, but her nails were brittle. She was brittle, not able to conjure even a lick of magic, to transform a weapon, like fingernails into solid iron, that ancient,
unyielding metal—
The restraints disappeared.
She blinked, power retreating as if sucked down some mythical drain.
In a daze, the woods came back into focus. The noisy caws of watchful crows. The warm breeze tickling her cheeks. Jack gripping
his bleeding arm, marred with parallel streaks of crimson.
Her hands shook as she raised them. Each fingernail ended in a glinting, bloodstained dagger.
“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, gaping at her weaponed fingers. “How is this possible?”
“Because my sister was a genius.”
“Yes, but—I’ve never transformed anything alive before.” The confession slipped from her lips before she could stop it.
“Don’t worry, Vallillo. I knew you were lying back in Grimsbane.” A slow grin spread over his face. “But I had a feeling your
gift had some overlap with your father’s, even if it’s imperceptible. With the help of a bone fragment from a bona fide amplifier, that
ability is magnified.”
“That’s an understatement.” Never before had Emmy felt a rush of power like that. She called to the brume again, and the ancient mist crashed over her in a torrent of magic. No sooner had she pictured her bony hands than they shifted, her fingers once again pale and ordinary.
This time, when she glimpsed Jack’s wicked smile, her lips curved in return.
“We need new faces as soon as possible,” Jack said as he strolled backward through Mistfield’s halls. “That way we can meet
with the triumvirate and hire staff before the ball.”
As if it were that simple. “It worked on fingers. Who knows if I can change faces?”
But even now, as she held Rose’s relic, that mystical heaviness lingered, and Emmy had to resist the urge to transform everything
in sight. With nothing but Papa’s guidance, she’d learned to transform tin to gold. Just what might she do with a relic?
“No more moping around Mistfield, practicing in safe little nooks.” Still walking backward, he turned the corner without missing
a beat. “You need real danger. Real stakes.”
Today was the first day she’d even ventured outside. And she still hadn’t slept a full night, not even with her door barricaded.
Danger was, perhaps, the last thing she needed.
When they reached her bedroom door, Jack leaned against the frame, practically thrumming with boyish excitement. “The Society
keeps records of every known charmed family. Given my flames, we’ll have to pose as distant Fontaines. Tomorrow, you can transform
my family tree so we’re already on it.”
Transforming ink on paper seemed simple enough, but nothing Jack asked was ever simple. “And where does the Society keep these
records?”
His eyes glittered. “In their headquarters, of course.”