Chapter 7 Theo #2
‘Tobias is right. I have been unsettled.’ He traced the rim of his glass. She waited, as shrewd as ever, and he realized that if he didn’t give voice to his demons now they might devour him. ‘Not because the making failed. It’s because it worked, Paola.’
Of course it had worked.
It had worked, and Theo wished to all hell it hadn’t.
And, worse than that, he was too afraid to tell Sera.
To admit to the darkness that had taken root inside him, and to concede that Ransom had been right.
That Theo was rotten to the core, that he had twisted her blessing and somehow hurt her in the process.
Sera might love Ransom in spite of his shadows, but what would she make of the cloying hunger he sensed in his own magic?
The ugly grasping ambition.
The unmistakable thirst for power.
It was so… Versini.
He buried his head in his hands.
Paola said simply, ‘So you are a saint.’
He nodded.
‘That’s great.’ He said nothing. ‘That’s… not great?’
‘I don’t know what it is.’ He looked at her through his fingers. She was smiling. Waiting. Mama used to do the same thing whenever he got into mischief. Sit still and let the silence swell, until he got so awkward he had to fill it with the details of his own wrongdoings.
Maybe it was old habits, or the pressure building inside him, but he let the truth tumble freely from his lips.
‘I felt it when Sera made me. It was like a star exploding in my chest. This strange new presence that felt both new and ancient, knitting itself into my bones, pooling in the depths of my soul. It was magic. Old and powerful and pure as sunlight. I welcomed it. I reached for it.’
He had pulled and pulled and pulled on the thread between them until the light was in everything. His lungs. His blood. His heart.
‘And then I slept. I knew when I woke I would be different. I thought I would be happy.’
‘But then I saw him.’ His glass trembled. He took a swig for courage. ‘He came to me.’
‘Who?’ she whispered.
‘Hugo Versini.’
The Founder of the Order of Daggers. The man who, along with his younger brother Armand, had discovered the true power of the boneshade plant and had used the powdered root of it – Shade – to plunge Fantome into darkness.
For years, Hugo had acted as death’s right hand, sown terror everywhere he went, killed, killed and killed until the city knelt at his feet. He’d murdered his own sister. Hanged Armand, his own brother, from the Bridge of Tears, and threatened anyone who dared even mourn him with the same fate.
Hundreds of years ago, Hugo Versini had sold his soul for dark magic.
Paola frowned. ‘But Hugo is dead.’
‘His spirit came to me. I saw him during the making. He promised me power. Greatness. He said it was owed to me because of the blood in my veins. That all I had to do was wake up and claim it.’
The colour drained from Paola’s face.
In the low lighting, she looked as pale as her hair.
‘When I woke up, I ran from the catacombs,’ said Theo. ‘Away from the bones of all the people he’d murdered. I built a door inside me and slammed it shut, shoved down the magic begging to be free. I tried to pretend it wasn’t real. That it hadn’t worked. I don’t want power. I don’t want greatness.’
He said it again and again.
‘I want to be on the right side of this war, Paola. The right side of history. Our family has done enough to harm this kingdom.’
He was ranting now, his hands trembling.
She snatched his fingers, curling them in her own. ‘It was just a dream, Theo. A nightmare.’
‘I feel it, Paola. The darkness.’ He slammed their hands against his chest, to the handprint that glowed there. Sera’s gift. Her sacrifice. And he had twisted it. ‘It’s greed. Ambition.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with ambition, Theo.’
‘Look at what it did to Hugo and Armand.’
‘Armand repented. He founded the Cloaks to distance himself from murder.’
‘It was not Armand who came to me,’ said Theo.
He knew Hugo’s face as well as his own. After all, they shared an uncanny likeness.
Another uncomfortable truth.
‘Why don’t you open the door a crack?’ she suggested. ‘See what you’ve become. What you can do.’
‘I can’t.’ He shook his head.
‘It’s a gift.’
She didn’t get it. She couldn’t feel it. The fear. The want.
‘I won’t do it,’ he said, firmer now. ‘I won’t risk it.’
‘All right,’ she relented. ‘As you like.’
He drained his drink, feeling dangerously woozy already. ‘Don’t say a word.’
Her brows lifted. ‘What do you plan to do? Hide the fact you’re a saint from everyone?’
‘I’m going to do my job. Make a weapon capable of killing Andreas in one strike, and make sure he meets the end of it. And when it’s done…’
‘You’ll run away? Go into hiding?’ She snorted. ‘Come on, Theo. You’re no shrinking violet.’
‘Maybe I’ll go home to Halbracht.’
‘And that would be enough for you? Horse manure and barn dances.’
‘Maybe.’
Another snort.
He glared at her over the rim of his glass.
He would be good. Not great.
He didn’t want to be great.
Liar, hissed the old voice.
Here is your power.
Here is your chance.
Take it.
Take it!
‘I think you’re afraid, Theo. And that fear is clouding your judgement of who you truly are. Who you are meant to become,’ she said, softly. ‘Saints cannot hide from destiny. It’s their very duty to shape it.’
Easy for her to say. She didn’t share the same face as the most reviled man in the history of Valterre. Draining his drink, he waved at the barman, ordering two more.
When the next round was set down, Paola said, ‘You can’t drink away this problem.’
‘Well, at least let me try.’
A hum of disapproval. ‘If Lorena was still here, she’d tell you to drink a pitcher of water, go home to sleep and wake on the right side of your bed.’
But Theo’s mother was long dead, and the sadness in Paola’s eyes was a mirror of his own. His aunt was all he had left of her.
‘And what do you say?’
Leaning back on her stool, she considered her response. ‘I say we drink, dance a jig, and worry about it all tomorrow.’
Theo smiled, and reached for his glass.
‘To goodness,’ she said, clinking it against his.
‘To goodness.’
Not greatness.
Somewhere in the depths of his soul, that old voice laughed.