Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
EMBER
Peculiar, the Goddess’s sense of humor. You see, the knife that destroys everything is, ironically, Her artifact of creation.
— Charley Starvos, Echelon to the
School of Creation Magic
After my aunts left, I opened yesterday’s paper, interested to read exactly what Farrah Prolix had written about me.
Then I saw the picture of us, Leland’s soft lips around the calzone’s pastry crust, his eyes intense and pointed at me for some reason.
Heat rushed to my chest. I had to put the paper down.
I lay down on the floor — for once, not because of the phantom flu — but because I needed to cool down. In a cold, hard place where I did everything in my power not to think of him.
It had been twenty-three hours since I last saw him. Twenty-three hours of chugging moonale and incessantly checking my transmitter, yet no news of Trist had come. That was a chilling thought.
I got up and went to the porch in search of a new paper, but the steps were clear.
I walked down to the yard and checked the flowerbeds and the creek, but there was nothing there.
All day, Leland had been at Odessa Hall.
Surely, if they’d found Trist, he wouldn’t still be there. He’d said not to worry, but . . .
What was going on in Everden? Their best labor and delivery Healer was missing. According to my aunt, only Allwitches and Dark Witches were strong enough to survive pregnancy. Contraceptives were banned. I hadn’t seen a single child in Hartik’s Hollow today. Not one.
I wondered if mugroot was one of the ten thousand things Leland carried in his backpack. If he used it for contraception or if he preferred the pull-out method like Gray did.
I stopped in my tracks.
Why was I thinking about that?
I didn’t even go back inside to shut the front door. I took off running, this time away from town.
I climbed the steep hills, running until my lungs gave out, until I felt the rough cobblestones grinding down my heels, and an endless stream of sweat poured down my back.
Only when my back was too sore to go on did I stop, doubling over.
I was in pain. I couldn’t catch my breath.
But I felt better. I felt like I could go five minutes without my blood pining for Leland’s magic.
When I returned to Helen’s, the newspaper was on the porch. And I was on the cover.
Truth-Teller confirms Trist Yidley was last seen at the half witch’s residence.
The half witch, who openly worships at the Allwitch temple, is now the leading suspect in the Council’s investigation.
The Truth-Teller has been assigned to monitor her, but until the Council’s investigation is complete, witches are warned to keep their distance. Stay vigilant!
I dropped the paper and walked back inside through the open front door — and slid.
My arms shot out for balance, and I grasped for the back of the couch, a lump rising in my throat I could hardly breathe around.
The letterbox, my one means to communicate with Dad, was in shards on the hardwood floor.
* * *
Dad had finally gotten around to replying to my letter about — of all things — calzones, but what he’d said, I’ll never know.
The piece of notebook paper he’d written on was as ripped-up as the letterbox was.
Copper slices were strewn everywhere like broken bits of glass.
Some pieces were as thick and jagged as shivs, while others were as small as beads and scattered as far as the kitchen.
The more I looked at the mess, the more my stomach churned like I was going to be sick. How had this happened? Did I bump the letterbox without realizing it? Was it because I’d left the door open, letting in the wind?
With heavy limbs, and shivering as sweat dried on my skin, I swept the pieces into a pile by the window.
I couldn’t go through with sweeping them into the dustpan.
I fell into an empty state, slumped on the floor by the window, not quite processing that the only way I knew how to write home was gone.
I stayed there, picking microscopic beads out of cracks in the floorboards and quietly adding them to the mounting pile of shards.
I did that until he knocked.
I knew Leland’s knock — three light taps with one knuckle — so I dragged myself to the door, if only to hear what he’d learned about Trist being gone.
Outside, Leland was as close as he could get without crossing wards, practically shoving the newspaper in my face, his fingers tense and pressing into my picture. “This is you staying out of trouble?” he demanded. “At the Allwitch temple?”
In a white button-down and tan dress pants, he appeared to have come directly from the palace, carrying the same black backpack he’d had in the human realm. At my frown, he casually tossed aside the paper.
“I thought I was,” I said tiredly. Earlier in the day, I might’ve bothered to explain why I went to the temple. Now I just held on to the door, deflated. I needed a bath, quiet, to change out of my running clothes and try to go to bed. “It was a mistake. I screwed up.”
“The Echelons think you’re trying to undermine them.
They think you’re stirring up the Allwitches for war.
” He wasn’t yelling, but he was irritable.
It was clear he didn’t consider I might’ve had a good reason for what I did.
That I went to the temple because I was trying to figure out what Jaxan wanted. And that was irritating.
“Did you tell them I was?” I asked, my voice rising. “When you told them I was the last witch to see Trist? When you implied I helped her disappear?”
“I can’t lie,” he lied. “I told you that.”
My brows knitted. I’d had enough of him saying this.
“There were witnesses,” he explained. “When I got Trist from the infirmary that morning, people saw. She was sending messages on her transmitter the whole way over, possibly about where she was going. It would’ve gotten out no matter what I said.
And it would have been bad. I need the Echelons to trust me. If they don’t, I can’t help you.”
“Don’t, then. I never asked you to.”
“I’m aware,” he replied, an almost snap, but he’d bridled it.
His thin grip on restraining himself had my guilt returning again. It wasn’t like he had a choice. This was his job, sealed by the Dark Deal he’d made with Jaxan.
“Will you just go?” I said. “You clearly hate me. You hate being here. So if you don’t have news about Trist, please just go.” I didn’t want to shut the door in his face. But I was done.
“You think I hate you?” he asked.
“Dislike. Whatever. It’s fine. Goodbye, Leland.”
He caught the door in his hand to stop me from shutting it. With his muscles tense beneath his thin shirt, I knew I wouldn’t win. I would’ve walked away, satisfied he couldn’t come in through the wards, but he raised his voice, not done speaking.
“It’s not fine,” he said. “I don’t hate you. And it’s not fine that you think that.”
“You told me you did,” I reminded him. “ ‘I had no idea — at the age of five — how much I would hate babysitting you.’ ” The words weren’t exactly right but close enough.
“Hate babysitting you,” he replied. “And you want to know why?”
“Not really.”
“You won’t take my hand when I offer it.
You moved in with no clothes — no food — and didn’t say anything.
It’s a constant game of figuring out what’s wrong and how to fix it before you tell me to leave you alone.
” His knuckles faded from white to pink as he relaxed his grip on the door.
“I am tired, Ember. I know what I’m doing is invasive, but I don’t get a choice in it.
That is why I hate being here. And yeah, the story in the paper today pissed me off.
That’s because I want you here, and you’re not being careful.
What I really hate? You looking at me like you’re afraid of me, but that’s me. That’s not on you.”
I was tired. Needed food. But the way he was looking at me made the dull ache I’d felt since finding the broken letterbox sharpen to a sting.
I’d misjudged him. I thought — because Leland could be cold and direct and combative on a switch — I’d thought he was in control of it, that it was all posturing.
Only, standing before me, he looked as down as I was, standing in a place he didn’t want to be, stuck with a girl who made him feel like she wanted nothing to do with him.
And all that did was make his job harder, worse.
Stars twinkled in the dark-violet sky, but since I didn’t feel like looking at them, I sighed down at my shoes.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and had to swallow around the ache in my throat to continue.
“It’s not you. I’m not good at asking for help from anyone.
It just . . . it makes me feel like I’m bringing people down.
I know this is your job. It was never you I had a problem with.
Not really. Not once I got over you stabbing me. ”
“You don’t bring me down.” Leland sighed, releasing his grip on the door to slip his hands in his pockets.
I couldn’t stop myself from studying his handsome features, his straight nose, his mouth soft and yielding even when it was sad.
“I’m down because of Jaxan and the Echelons. They’re not going to be nice to you. Things are only going to get harder. And if you don’t let me help — ”
“Leland?” It had been a long day. If he wanted to help, fine. I was willing to let him. “Will you Refresh my things again?”
Leland winced. “I ran out of spells. Can’t cast until tomorrow.”
“Sure,” I said, again irritated by his lying. When a light witch hit their spell count, the body forced them to rest by inducing a sleep-state called depletion. But Leland still had energy to cast more spells. I knew he did.
“Here — ” He slid off his backpack and leaned down to search it until he found a white T-shirt. “Take this. Leave what you want Refreshed on the porch tonight. I’ll come by in the morning.”
I took the shirt from him but had to hold it down at my knees to stop myself from inhaling it. Still going through his bag, he systematically parted things out of his way, searching, searching. I wanted to drown in a bath of his pine scent.
“Do you always carry this?” I asked, meaning the T-shirt.
“Yes.” Still searching.
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeated, eyes suddenly dangerous. “In case I sweat through mine. In case I need to tie off a wound. To give to you. To use as a gag. In case I’m out of zip ties and need to restrain someone — ”
Something warm and intense flared through me, my blood sending unwelcome images to my brain of Leland participating in a very different kind of bondage. “Leland. Please stop.”
He tossed gray sweatpants at me.
“Is this one spelled?” I asked, balling up his sweatpants to hold down by my knees with his T-shirt, pretending to be more interested in his backpack. There was no way it fit an entire change of clothes and a thousand syringes. He was large. Lean but large — they were large sweatpants.
“Yup.” He closed the bag with a sharp, clean zip.
My shoulders tensed when I realized he was leaving. “Wait,” I said. Inside, there was a trail of dishes I hadn’t bothered to pick up, and that was going to be unfortunate. But he was a Creator who could repair things, and if he could fix it . . .
Leland glanced sidelong at me. “Yes?”
“There’s something else I need help with. Will you look at the letterbox? I think I broke it.”
“Magical artifacts are gifts from the Goddess,” Leland said. “They can’t be broken.”
“Does that mean” — I tilted my head, trying to understand him. Hated how I didn’t ask for help. Not exactly jumping to provide it — “no?”