Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
LANZ
I overslept. Again.
Oversleeping at Camlann House is all relative—given when we’re supposed to report to the salle for warmups—but the fact that I can see some pale, pinkish sunlight gleaming into the frost on my windowpane means it’s definitely later than it should be.
I curse softly, pull my blankets over my head and briefly wish I could stay here, or at least go crawl in with Cal.
I don’t…feel great. Haven’t been lately. At first I thought it was just a side effect of my sucky sabre performance in the tournament, but it’s more than that. It’s lingering, this feeling. Something physical, like it’s sapping the strength out of me.
Regardless, I do what I do best: ignore it.
After ten more seconds, I force myself out of bed, throw on a Caliburn Fencing T-shirt and sweats, and head out. It’s quiet upstairs—well, because everyone is already working out, I think—but I still can’t resist trying Cal’s doorknob as I pass.
Locked.
My chest twinges.
Whatever. I’ll…deal with that later. Procrastination is definitely emotionally healthy. I rub my eyes as I pound down the main staircase, and then I whip around to the stairs to the salle…
…which is empty.
Dark. Lights are off, nobody’s home.
What the hell?
“Hello?” I call, kind of stupidly. I flick on the switch by the locker room door, the big fluorescents blazing to life and illuminating our steadfast little racks and rows of equipment.
Confirmed—no one here but the practice dummy.
I scratch the back of my head, too half-asleep to process anything. Cal’s with Gwenna, I guess, but Kingston and Kai…
My heart sinks. Did something happen? Did they—
Did she—
Panicking, I cast around the room, from the blades to the targets to the masks creepily staring back at me to the cross over the door.
The cross.
Shit. Shit. Of course.
It’s Ash Wednesday.
I completely forgot.
In seven seconds flat I’m back upstairs and getting dressed, throwing on actual pants and a sweater and hopping around looking for my other shoe.
Then I’m halfway down the hall when I remember it’s Lent now, so I skid to a stop and scramble back for my scapular, which I grab from my desk and stuff hurriedly down my sweater and T-shirt as I jump down the stairs.
Catholicism’s a lot like fencing, in that way: there’s so much gear. Can’t fight without swords. Can’t talk to God without a talismanic necklace thing hanging down your chest and shoulderblades.
I sprint for the chapel. Campus is a sheet of ice, gleaming with gold and pink as the steeple bells bong out seven times.
I don’t even have a coat on, like a dumbass, and the wind bites my cheeks and hands and makes my eyes water.
Hard to believe that in just 40 days it’s supposed to be all springtimey for Easter.
Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me—seasonal affective something or other. Too much white, not enough green.
Chapel. Finally. I pant a little, slowing to a brisk stride as I find a pew. It’s pretty empty—Kingston, of course, who’s probably been up since four, and Kai, looking as sleep-deprived as I feel, but also a handful of other students, plus some professors and staff. And Luther, of course.
“Jesus Christ,” Kai mutters as I slide in next to him.
“Overslept,” I explain, catching my breath.
Kingston glares at us. I elect to shut the fuck up for the rest of the service.
It’s quick, at least, no homily or anything, just some prayers, the ashes, communion. When it’s my turn, I kneel before Father Denis and watch him grind his thumb into the container of ashes.
I’ve done this a thousand times—well, not a thousand, but all the Ash Wednesdays I’ve lived through since confirmation, whatever that maths out to—and if I’m being honest, it’s never meant anything, really. Never felt like anything.
This is different.
Pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.
You are dust, and to dust you shall return.
The words hit me like a shockwave through my bones. My throat constricts—no, burns, deep under my sternum.
Near my heart.
No. It can’t be.
I know what the Dell’Acqua curse is said to do.
I’ve always known: a love that burns the body from within, a heart splitting like a vessel under pressure, a slow decay from the inside out.
It always sounded terrifying, like something out of the old version of a fairy tale that doesn’t make it to the Disney movie.
Love shall claim him once, then again
Death shall come with a heart split in twain
But it sounded…distant. Unreal. Theoretical.
This is just…pain.
And it’s here.
Communion is happening. I chew, swallow, tasting metal and ash that does nothing to cool the fire spreading in my chest. By the time we’re dismissed, my hands are shaking.
“The final’s set,” Kingston says, his words steaming against the cold. “They’ve confirmed St. Ignaty will host. We’ll need to discuss strategy. Logistics.”
“Do I get to go?” Kai says, kicking at a gray chunk of snow. “Or are you leaving me behind for being a bad boy?”
“You’re coming,” Kingston informs him. “But we’ll use your shift with Gwenna to…” He glances at me. “Lanz. If we meet this afternoon—”
“Sure, sure.” I swallow. “Yep. All good.”
“Speaking of shifts,” Kai says on a yawn. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Pretty Boy?”
Shit. I shiver—still wishing I’d grabbed my coat—and look at the steeple clock. It’s almost 8.
Sweat prickles over my forehead despite the chill, like the ashes themselves are burning me. If this is what I think it is…then being close to Gwenna is only going to make it worse.
But what can I do?
I swore an oath.
I made a promise.
I took a vow.
“Right,” I say out loud. “Uh, see you guys.”
I hunch my shoulders and break for the path to Cornubia Hall.
Duty wins.
Duty will kill me.
Cal’s in the hallway. He barely acknowledges me—or tries to barely acknowledge me, I guess, because when he glances at me, he stops.
“You look…” His eyes are wide.
“I’m fine,” I insist. Then I wish I hadn’t. Maybe if I tell him I’m in pain, he’ll feel bad for me. Take care of me. Put a cool compress on my head or something. The image is nice—an alternate universe glimpse of the two of us.
But that’s impossible.
“Happy Ash Wednesday,” I add. “Just 40 days to go.”
Stupid joke. Cal’s concern doesn’t fade. He just nods.
“Take it easy, okay?”
“Sure,” I mumble as he retreats. I’m scratching the back of my neck, debating whether I should knock and see if Gwenna’s still getting ready or just awkwardly linger in the hall when the door opens.
It’s her.
A hot, cracking feeling hits me in the chest. And then evaporates, leaving just a cold sweat in its wake.
Fuck. This is going to be hell.
Gwenna frowns, peering at me. She’s dressed for the day: coat, school bag, a thermal coffee mug with WITCH, PLEASE written on it in glitter that I assume she swiped from Morgan.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “What’s on your—”
“Fine.” I rub my forehead—but not too hard, so as not to mess up the cross. “It’s ashes. Ash Wednesday.”
She nods. “Ah. Right.”
“I…didn’t sleep great,” I say. Not a lie. “Anyway. You ready?”
She nods, but the frown doesn’t go away.
We walk in silence to her first class, and I nod wordlessly as she heads in, settling on my usual bench in the hallway to…
do nothing, more or less. Keep an eye out for Russians, or whatever, but otherwise nothing besides watch the occasional study group or professor pass through the hallway.
I’m a mess. Honestly, they could send a tiny Soviet ballerina to get her right now and I’d barely be able to fight back. I don’t even have my dagger on me, for starters. And I feel like I’m burning up.
Fifty minutes later, when the class gets out, I’m not doing better.
And Gwenna can tell.
“Hey.” She greets me, verbally, which she doesn’t usually. Frowning again, she bends over and peers into my eyes. “Are you…”
I swallow thickly and swipe a hand through the air. “All good.” I get to my feet, and the firecracker feeling snaps inside my ribcage again. I almost wince, but I catch myself. All that training with the Consistory finally coming in handy: don’t flinch. Don’t react. “So,” I manage. “Art History?”
Gwenna bites her lip like she’s thinking. “I’m going to skip.”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to skip class,” she explains.
“Huh?” I say again. “But you can’t—”
“I can get the slide notes.” She shrugs. “I don’t think I’m going to die from missing one lecture about metallurgy.” She shifts her bag on her shoulder, looking up and down the hallway. “Why don’t we…”
Next thing I know, we’re sitting in Holy Grounds. Gwenna has her books laid out on the table, a large cup of coffee next to it, but she isn’t touching either.
“Are you sure I can’t get you something?” she says. “A…juice? Banana?”
I shake my head, avoiding her gaze. It gets worse when we make eye contact, I’ve discovered. If she looks into my eyes for more than a half second or so, another surge of pain.
“I’m supposed to be fasting,” I mumble, trying to dab at my temple without looking too obvious. “Until dinner.”
Gwenna frowns. “I’ve never heard of fasting for Ash Wednesday.”
“It’s a…special thing,” I say. “Same as this.” I dig under the neck of my sweater and pull out the front piece of the scapular. Gwenna tips her head slightly, and there’s this little flare in her eyes—curiosity, intrigue.
Ow.
She glances at me—please, don’t, not in the eyes—and reaches her hand halfway between us. “Can I?”
I nod, and she takes the pendant in her palm to study it, which not incidentally draws me closer across the table. Towards her.
She smells good. She smells good. Crisp, but sweet. Like aranciata.
Aranciata’s my favorite.
“Huh,” she says, gaze intent on the pendant as she tilts it with her fingertips to read the inscription. “Si Deus Pro Nobis…”
If God is for us, who can be against us?
“It’s a reminder,” I say, looking just over her shoulder so I don’t have to look at her face and acknowledge that she has me, effectively, on a leash.
Crack. The pain is so bad this time it takes my breath away. I clench my jaw as it ripples away, and Gwenna must notice, because she drops the scapular.
“Lanz,” she says, direct and matter-of-fact. “Are you okay?”
“M’fine.” I stuff the scapular down the front of my sweater again. “I’m just…like I said. Fasting. Um, except for the communion wine, I guess.” I try to smile, but it’s not a very good joke. Or a good smile.
“You look…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.
Instead, she leans over and puts her hand on my forehead.
Her gentle, cool hand on my forehead.
The relief is immediate. My eyes close of their own accord, my shoulders drop, and the crackling heat in my chest goes instantly, beautifully, ice cold.
I breathe out.
Perfect.
For two seconds.
Because then she releases me, and I want to cry out.
No. Come back. Don’t not touch me. Please.
I force my eyes open, although my eyelids now feel heavy as lead. I see Gwenna across from me, a vaguely puzzled expression on her face.
“You don’t feel hot,” she’s saying. “But you look…feverish. You should probably…”
I’m drunk. Or I feel like I’m drunk, anyway: all swimmy and loose and better.
When she touches me, I feel better.
When she touches me, I feel better.
My eyes blink shut again. Of course. Of course that’s how it works. Stupid fucking curse. Stupid, stupid fucking…
“Lanz?”
Her tone is mildly annoyed. I blink, refocus. Good. There she is. Still there.
I breathe out.
“Thank you,” I say. My lips feel loose. Better hold on to the table just in case.
Gwenna’s pretty green eyes are very wide.
“You’re so pretty,” I add.
They go even wider.
“What?” Her voice is low, hushed.
Oh. She didn’t hear me? Okay. “I said, you’re so—”
Gwenna darts a hand out and grabs my wrist. “You can’t say things like that, Lanz,” she hisses. “Come on.”
I love the way her touch feels. It’s so good, like a drug, like the opposite of that ripping-in-half chest pain and then some.
But she’s right. She’s right.
“You’re right,” I say out loud. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m just saying because…”
The slow-motion numbing effect of her touch is making my head spin. My thoughts are like little distant flashes of light, trying to find each other in the dark.
“…because Callahan likes you.”
Where the hell did that come from? I wonder, vaguely.
“He likes you likes you,” I clarify. “I know he does.”
Gwenna’s face is blank. Maybe she didn’t hear me? Maybe I should give her more detail.
“He’s a virgin, you know,” I lower my voice.
“Lanz—”
“I mean, with girls. He’s the only one who is. Of all of us.”
“I really think you need to not be telling me this, Lanz.”
“No, right, but…”
I do, though, I think.
Because I love him. I love Cal even though I shouldn’t.
And I love her. I love her even though it will literally kill me. I love her because I am helpless.
You are dust. And to dust you shall return.