Chapter Twenty-Four
NIC
I stay at the beach far longer than I should. Laurel scratches like dust in my eyes, checking on me, but thankfully she does not take over and force me home. As the hours pass, she dissipates from my vision, leaving me be once it’s clear I’m not going anywhere.
I walk up and down the shore, dress shoes and socks clenched tightly in my fists. My toes squelch into the sand. A salted breeze whips my hair back from my face.
I want to run. Want to disappear and never return to Laurel or the apartment that feels like a cage or the city that watches from every side. Want to dive into the water and swim until I reach the horizon.
But Laurel will find me, and if I show my hand, she’ll never let me loose again.
Still, I wrestle with it for hours. How to get rid of her, how to stop her, how to unravel her plans.
I cannot keep this up. Cannot acquiesce to something I disagree with so fundamentally. Cannot pretend any of this is okay.
But would it be wise to put my foot down? The feeling of her wrenching magic through me, making me wield it in a way I never have—never would—resonates in my bones. How much damage would she do if provoked?
There is no way out. Not that I can see, anyway.
Not yet.
I cannot give in. Not without trying. Not without pushing back, however much I can, even if it gets me nowhere.
So, as the sun dips orange toward the horizon, I take a deep breath, shove my feet into my sodden shoes, and trudge back to our apartment. I spend the following day preparing for Nocturne’s game.
Too soon, it’s time to go.
Laurel’s glittering black gown spills around her like molten mid-night.
Instead of the long sleeves she usually wears, she’s donned silver gloves that go nearly to her shoulders—enough to cover the shards of voratium on her wrists and the spiderweb of glowing veins up the rest of her arms. Her straight hair hangs loose around her shoulders beneath twin braids that drape from her brow, hook over her ears, and tie in the back, laced through with shimmering silver tinsel.
When she smiles, I see a younger version of her, and for a moment, I want to pretend I’m a younger version of me. One who hasn’t seen what she’s become.
“You all right?” she asks, tentative. Quiet. It’s almost like she’s . . . afraid. Of what, though?
“It was too far. What you did to Forsyth.” I have to be gentle but firm. Set a line without compromising the progress I’ve made.
“I did what you were too afraid to do,” she says defensively, like she knows deep down I’m right. Like younger Laurel still lives in her somewhere—good and kind in spite of her pride. “I was strong so you didn’t have to be.”
“There is strength in restraint,” I reply.
She bristles, defiance cutting through caution. “Where was your restraint back when I asked you not to go after the moonshard? Where was it when you built an entire business on indulgence and deceit?”
“You’re better than what took place yesterday.”
“I’m doing what I’ve been asked to do,” she retorts, hackles rising. “Or are you doubting that again?”
“The gods gave you a task”—I dance as deftly as I can between her version of truth and mine—“but did they require cruelty?”
“Don’t claim you are above cruelty,” she snaps, stalking past me out of our apartment. “Mind games and manipulation can be just as cruel as pain, even if they don’t leave visible marks. Sometimes justice is ugly.”
I follow her down the stairs and out into the evening Aethera bustle, measuring my words. How can I soften her without risking the fragile trust I’ve earned?
A taxi pulls up to the curb, and I open the door for her. She sniffs, sliding into the seat and giving me space to sit next to her.
“To the public square?” the cabby asks. “For the game?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
We ride in silence for several moments. The closer we get to downtown, the more clogged the streets become. Nocturne’s game has drawn quite the crowd.
But I keep my focus on Laurel. I glimpsed humanity in her defensiveness. Perhaps knowing where I stand—and caring how I feel— will keep her from going to such extremes. Perhaps I’ve pushed back enough for now.
So I turn to her and say, “Would you accept an apology?”
She sighs. “If you meant it.”
“You are strong,” I say, taking her hand and wishing it didn’t make my skin crawl when her fingers curl around mine. “There is much still to learn from you.”
I could tell her I’m sorry directly—since it is a lie, it would be easy for me to say—but she knows just as well as Lola that I cannot tell the truth, so I twist myself around that statement, hoping she gets my sentiment.
When the cab pulls up behind a line of vehicles a block away from the public square, however, the tight expression on Laurel’s face has loosened, and when I exit the vehicle and offer her my arm, she accepts it with a guarded smile.
Just like she wants to believe her power came from somewhere good, she wants to believe I’m on her side, and for now, that desperation is working in my favor.
But for how long?
We stride arm in arm into a throng of people dressed to the nines. Long, satiny gowns spill to the floor on every side. Tuxedos with tails. Diamonds and pearls and boutonnieres and gauzy shawls.
An ache settles low in my chest. A homesickness. It’s like I’m back in my casino.
People chatter excitedly, wondering what the game will be, if Nocturne will be involved directly, whether they’ll win. A few of them catch sight of me. Their eyes widen, and whispers ripple away from me like tides. Heads swivel to find me in the crowd.
I grin and wink, and people swoon. A swell of pride fills me. It shouldn’t, but it does.
Laurel squeezes my arm, smiling as people eye her up and down, murmuring behind their hands to each other.
The crowd surges into the public square, which has been transformed into a scintillating world of midnight.
With Laurel thoroughly distracted taking in the spectacle, I dip my hand into my pocket, palming the chip of voratium from earlier at Forsyth’s and opening myself up to my magic.
Secrets thrum around me, lies hover like musk on the air, but I find myself staring at the threads of light only I can see—traces of my magic—strung through the air. Complex, beautiful braids.
Lola has outdone herself.
The town hall’s marble pillars, once white and solid, shimmer a deep blue-black, snaking upward like jets of liquid.
Simple bulbs dangling overhead have transformed into floating black candles winking stars on their wicks.
The cobblestoned floor beneath our feet has liquified into darkness, eddying with every step, and curlicues of iridescent onyx smoke bear hors d’oeuvres and glittering drinks.
Musicians made of stardust play from a raised platform in the corner, and the fountain at the center of the square—usually a marble rendering of Odelia holding aloft the Odelion—has been transfigured into a sweeping ebony depiction of Noctassei, the goddess of darkness.
I can’t help myself. I smile.
Well done, little thief.
I release the magic, letting the threads dissolve from my vision just in case Laurel decides to dip in.
“Oh, look,” she whispers at my side. “Dancing.”
I follow her gaze to where couples twirl, feet scraping over the enchanted floor in time to a haunting melody.
“Would you care to join me?” I give her my most charming grin.
She hesitates, then nods, and I twirl her out among the couples on the floor. Her dress ripples around her, blending in flawlessly with Lola’s sparkling illusions. As we weave between the others, my left hand clasped in Laurel’s and my right hand drawing her close, I breathe in deeply.
And smell orange blossoms.
The scent is everywhere, as though the illusions themselves have been infused with it. Can everyone smell it? Or am I the only one who tastes the way Lola has transformed what once was mine into something entirely her own?
Laurel sinks against me, surrendering any remaining tension between us.
And then I see Lola. She’s watching from the edge of the crowd, hair dyed so dark it’s nearly black, more freckles etched onto her face, and wearing glasses whose frames must be infused with a voratium cosmetic illusion, turning the ice-blue of her eyes more hazel and widening their narrow shape.
Everything in my world tips toward her. My magic yearns forward like I’m being pulled into her orbit. I can scarcely breathe.
Our eyes meet, and pink blooms in those soft cheeks.
Gods, how I’d give anything to go to her now. To explain my rejection, the tournament, the pistol, the conversation at the church.
But Laurel tips her head against my shoulder, grounding me in the gravity of the situation. Reminding me what’s at stake. So, while Laurel is distracted, I slip my hand into my pocket for the voratium chip again, this time to send Lola an illusion. My whisper in her ear.
Your disguise is lovely, little thief. Almost as lovely as what you’ve done to the square.
She stiffens, and I smile at her as I twirl Laurel.
Her voice caresses my ear in return. Her own illusion, mimicking mine. Thank you.
You and your attempts at politeness. I hold her gaze as I grin. You’re getting better, but it’s still not entirely convincing.
What are you doing, Nic?
My smile falters, the bite in her tone grounding me back to reality.
You need to be careful, I tell her.
Elaborate, please.
Stay away from Laurel.
Her mouth curls. Afraid I’m too much for her?
I keep my expression grim so she knows I’m serious. She’s dangerous.
She juts out her chin. So am I.
Lola. Please.
Her eyes flash, as though the rawness in my tone has struck something deep inside her, and then my magic falters as my illusionary threads are jerked out of my hands.
Lola has severed them.
I’m so impressed I nearly miss Laurel pointing out someone’s costume nearby. I follow where she’s pointing so she thinks I’m giving her my full attention, chuckling in response, before twisting to catch another glimpse of Lola.
A man stands before her, offering his hand, and she’s smiling, putting her fingers in his.