10. The Quintessence
10
The Quintessence
Calliope
T he front door slams, shakes the walls and windows, and Calliope jumps, startled away from her reading. The lights dim briefly, then flicker back into full strength.
There are no heavy footsteps rushing up the stairs, just Rory standing in the doorway, framed against the floral wallpaper of the hallway, a newspaper clenched in his fist. His hair is disheveled as if he’s just come in from a gathering storm. She almost looks out the window, wondering if there is indeed a summer storm brewing.
“Are you a murderer?” he asks, voice pitched low.
The absurdity of the question takes a moment to sink in. She blinks. “What?”
He takes a step closer, just one, but she suddenly feels cornered. Trapped. It’s so familiar—the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness—that she scoots back in her chair, the book clutched in front of her chest like a shield. The chain rattles, the sound jarring compared to the warmth and coziness of the library. The rough metal has no place here, among plush rugs and dark, glossed wood.
Her body is braced for an impact, but there has been no harsh growl of a curse, no beer bottles thrown at her head. The walls haven’t been punched and, anyway, she’s not entirely certain the house would let him treat it as such.
Instead, Rory is quiet. She’s not sure if that makes it better or worse. She is conscious of his gimlet stare as he asks, his words slow and stilted, “Have you ever killed someone?”
“Would that make me less worthy of your help?” She grips the book tighter. “Because I think that’d be a bit hypocritical of you, Youngblood.”
Rory’s eyes darken and then trail down to the book, head tilted to the side to read the spine. “Don’t call me that.” The newspaper in his hand crinkles as he tightens his fist.
“Don’t accuse me of something I’ve never done,” she says dismissively, turning away from him. She waits, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He is still. Statuesque. He could be cold marble carved by the Greeks.
When he finally moves, he walks towards her, his heavy boots muffled by the rug. He tosses the newspaper down, and Kane squawks when it scatters near him, wings puffing up as he hops away. He takes refuge on the top of the nearest bookcase.
“I may have thought twice about turning you if I knew you were wanted by the police,” Rory says.
She leans forward to see the newspaper. Her face smiles back at her, her top left canine slightly chipped because she fell a few weeks before. Smacked her tooth right on the concrete curb. Not chipped anymore , she thinks, her tongue teasing the sharp point of her tooth. She grimaces. “Goodness, what an awful picture of me.”
She recognizes the picture, though. It’s cropped from a photo of her and her husband taken a month ago. It was the day after she received her much-coveted perm, which quickly became a regret. The curls look bushy and awkward, highlighting the roundness of her face in a way that she’s always hated.
What’s been cut out from the photo, however, is her husband standing next to her, arm wrapped possessively around her waist, a beer bottle and cigarette balanced in his free hand. She remembers the tightness of his grip, his dirty fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her side, snagging on the fabric of her dress. “Too soft. You need to lose some weight,” he would say, his breath smelling of cigarettes and the yeasty aftertaste of beer. Despite his poor habits, his teeth were white, his skin smooth and unblemished, his smile annoyingly charming. She hated his face, but she hated herself more for giving him so much control over her body and her magic.
“I didn’t know he was dead,” she says in a small voice. “Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“And?” She looks up, shaking a curl out of her eyes. “How did he die?”
“Didn’t say.” He sighs deeply and, once again, she finds the movement so curiously quaint. She wonders if it is a learned habit, because she hasn’t felt the need to breathe since she was Turned. “Just says it was suspicious and they’re looking into it.” She can feel his eyes on her. “You’re not wearing a ring.”
“That’s because I threw it at him when I left.”
He runs a hand roughly across his face, the light stubble dotting his jawline scratchy in the lull of the conversation. “And you’re sure you didn’t hurt him? Before you left? You didn’t…throw the ring at his head and…”
“Knock him unconscious with a cubic zirconia? Yes, I’m sure.” She attempts to put some sort of humor into her voice, but her body is still taut with tension. She did indeed throw the ring at him, but what she doesn’t mention is that he had been unconscious when she did so.
She worries, now, that she had misread the situation. Had already been dead? She tries to remember if he was breathing, but the room had been dark, lit only by moonlight.
Rory isn’t fooled. His eyes narrow at her and she has the strange sensation that he’s looking into her mind, that he can see her entire life story projected in her body language.
“Where did you get that scar?” His eyes flit down to the thick scar that encircles her upper arm.
She tightens her grip on the book. “It was an accident,” she says, the well-practiced words tumbling out of her before she realizes. Her voice is flat and unconvincing, and again, Rory can see right through her flimsy excuse. She’s not sure why she continues. “It’s the downside of marrying a warlock. Lots of…accidents.”
His jaw clenches again, fists tight, but she has the distinct feeling his anger is not aimed at her this time, but at her husband. And just as suddenly as Rory appeared in the doorway, interrupting her reading, his anger is gone, dispersed like ash on the wind. He sits heavily in the chair next to her. It takes some effort to release the tension in her shoulders, to bring her arms down, to rest her hands lightly on the table.
He runs a hand through his gray-streaked hair that curls around his ears and rests against the collar of his shirt. Calliope can’t help but think about how tired he looks. Sabine was right that his features are not typical of vampires, nor would they be considered classically attractive to mortals. But his presence is striking, formidable even, with his physique tending toward the more muscular side of brawn than a mere excess of weight. His nose is long and slightly hooked, a little crooked too. He’d clearly been punched a few times before Irina sunk her fangs into him. There’s even a small white scar on his cheek, cutting into the dark and silver stubble. She understands, in an abstract sense, that vampires can be made at any age but, regardless, Rory was clearly turned later in life than the few vampires she’s met, and the exhaustion that was etched under his eyes when he was human has stayed.
There’s a weight in his eyes too, so strong she wonders if that’s what the deep blue flecks around his irises actually are. Just little spots of fatigue, like how freckles on skin are from too much sun.
“How do you do that?” she asks.
He arches an eyebrow. “Do what?”
“Switch your emotions around so quickly. Like flicking a light switch. Is it a vampire thing?”
He seems mildly uncomfortable—she’s beginning to recognize the slight flicker of his eyelids as he looks down and away from her. She hasn’t yet decided if it means he’s lying. “No. It’s just…years of practice.”
“How many years?”
Her challenging tone is enough to get him to look back up, his eyes connecting with hers with a small shock. “A lot,” he says evenly.
His mouth twitches. A smirk? Or a grimace?
The truth of the expression remains unseen as Kane, sensing that no more newspapers will be tossed at him, leaves his perch from the top of the bookcase. “It takes a lot of courage to leave a relationship like that,” he says softly. He nips at the tips of her hair affectionately.
She shrugs him away and finds herself doing much the same as Rory, eyes downcast as a flush of vulnerability washes over her. She reaches for the Ether, though she doesn’t slide into it. The feeling of its comforting nothingness—its potential—at her back is enough to lift her eyes from the table.
Thankfully, Rory doesn’t let her wallow in her embarrassment or confusion or fear—she’s not entirely sure how she’s feeling right now. Unlike Rory and his tidy emotional organization, she seems to be roiling in all her feelings at once, never quite sure which one will face the front.
He nods toward the book. “There are a couple of histories about the Blood Wars. Which one is this?”
“Sabine,” answers Kane.
Rory scowls. “Sabine’s a terrible writer. Didn’t bother to check her sources.” He gives Kane a sideways look. “Why’d you let her pick that one?”
“I didn’t. The library chose it.” He cocks his head at Calliope. “The house seems to like her.”
“Yeah, why is that?” Rory asks, folding his arms across his broad chest. She wonders how strong he is—and how much of that strength is vampiric magic. His hands are large and could wrap easily around her neck.
This man is not my husband , she reminds herself. “ The house is magical?” she offers, thinking of the Ether. It makes sense to her that, if the Ether is accessible, then the magic in the house recognizes her as one of its own. Like calls to like , as her grandma used to say.
She brings her hands into her lap as she watches Rory consider this. He hasn’t made the same connection as she has. And why would he? She’s sure he agrees with Kane that vampirism is always the dominant form of magic.
But the manacles cut into the delicate skin on the inside of her wrists, reminding her of the time she fell out of the tree and found herself in the Ether. She had to wear a cast for a month and the sweaty, itchy feeling of the plaster is not dissimilar to how the manacles feel on her wrists now, though with the added sense of a deep, steady vibration from the magic carved into the metal. She slips a finger beneath one and presses against a small patch of irritated skin, absentmindedly calling up the Ether, as if reassuring herself of its presence.
“It wasn’t always,” says Rory after a few beats of silence. “It used to just be a house, but there was a coven who lived here for a few decades. It hasn’t been the same since.”
Kane squawks suddenly. “What is that behind you?”
She realizes she had been leaning further back into the Ether than she thought, and she sits up straight, leaning forward as if to physically distance herself from it. The Ether isn’t a physical thing of course, but the change in her body language is enough to ensure the coldness recedes from her fingers. “It’s why the house likes me,” she admits quietly. “I think so, anyway. How could you tell?” She aims the last part at Kane, her tone edged in accusation.
“I could feel the draft.” Kane hops closer and twists his head to the side, yellow eyes boring into her. “It’s the Quintessence, isn’t it?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve never heard it called that, if it’s the same thing.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Rory, eyebrows knitted together.
“There is a place that only witches can access.” Kane hops around to look at Rory, his talons clicking against the tabletop. “There are many names for it. I’ve always heard it referred to as the Quintessence, though I’ve never been honored with an invitation. It’s a refuge for those in need.”
Rory leans back, eyeing her almost suspiciously. The urge to slip away into the darkness rises in her again, but she stays in the present moment, feeling Rory’s consideration trail over her body like a shard of ice being dragged along her skin. “She’s not a witch.”
“I can still go there, though. It’s a place only for witches. Made by—made by the First Witch.” She leans forward, bringing her arms up onto the table. The chain scrapes across the wood. “If the house answers to magic, then maybe I still have some? Why can’t I still be a witch?”
His scowl deepens. “Smile.”
“Excuse me?”
He sighs again, gesturing impatiently. “Your teeth. Show me your teeth. They’re sharp, right?”
She purses her lips before smiling artlessly. “Yes,” she says between gritted teeth.
He squints. “And your heartbeat? Breathing?”
She rolls her eyes, slumping back impetuously. “Gone. All gone.”
“And your fever?”
She lifts a shoulder. “It’s fine. I feel fine.”
He raises an eyebrow and holds up a hand in a silent request. She nods tightly and he brings his hand down to her forehead.
“You’re burning up.” His voice rumbles through his chest, and she imagines the words vibrating through his palm and into her head. This close, she can smell a remnant of cigarette smoke on his fingertips, but it’s a different brand than the ones her husband preferred. Sweet and spicy, like a cup of ginger tea. The moment only lasts a few seconds. His hand falls away as he turns to Kane. “What’s wrong with her?”
“ Nothing is wrong with me,” she says, chin raised.
Kane clicks his beak. “Perhaps she needs to feed to complete the transition?”
Rory’s nostrils flare as he looks at between Kane and Calliope. He settles on Kane. “You didn’t make her drink when she woke up? ”
The bird hops backwards until he reaches the edge of the table. He takes flight, just a few pushes of his wings. He perches on Calliope’s shoulder, taking refuge behind the frizzy curtain of her hair. His nails bite into her skin, but she doesn’t blame Kane; there’s a current of anger in Rory’s face that she would hide from too, if it was aimed at her. “She said she was okay.”
Rory opens his mouth and then snaps it shut twice before, eventually, he just shakes his head. He shoves away from the table. The sound of the chair legs scratching against the floor sets her teeth on edge. “Kitchen. Now.”
“Can I maybe change first?” She looks down at her white tank top, dirty and stiff with blood. “Dried blood isn’t really a good color on me.”
* * *
Rory looks entirely out of his depth and only the memory of his recently faded anger keeps her from laughing. Arms on his hips, he looks around the dusty assortment of items that have seemingly piled themselves in the spare room. Then again, she wouldn’t be surprised if the house is a bit of a hoarder. Based on where the hallway ends, she’s sure this room has been magically extended to accommodate all the objects and furniture stacked precariously along the walls.
He makes an indistinct grunting noise in the back of his throat. “I’m sure there’s a dress or something here, somewhere.”
She lifts the edge of a jewelry box with the tip of her finger, dust puffing out around her as she tips the top back all the way. The pearls inside look pristine, ethereal in the low light of the room, and she reaches out to grab them.
Kane, still on her shoulder, nips at her ear. “I wouldn’t do that. Can’t you smell it?”
Calliope frowns and bends forward. Kane adjusts his grip, talons snagging on the strap of her tank top. The smell of burned rubber lodges itself in the back of her throat, and she coughs, taking a step back with her hand pressed in front of her mouth. “Cursed?” she chokes out.
Kane nods. She snaps the lid shut quickly, then gives him a sidelong look. “You haven’t always been a bird, have you?”
Kane lets out a throaty caw.
“Don’t bother,” says Rory, rifling through a steamer trunk. The swaths of fabric draped over the edge look promising. “I’ve been trying to get him to admit that for years.”
“But you’ll tell me , right?” she asks, a small smirk hiding in the corner of her cheek. She strokes the soft plumage at the top of his head and his golden eyes close briefly in appreciation, before he lets out another squawk. “Fine. Keep your secrets for now, Cursed One, but I’ll needle it out of you soon enough.”
Another squawk and Kane’s nails pinch her shoulder as he tugs one of her wayward curls about himself, settling down into a feigned nap.
She makes her way over to Rory who is frowning at a scrap of lace. “What’s that?”
He inspects the white lace, yellowed with age. “I think it’s a bridal veil?”
“Or just a scrap,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “There’s got to be something I can wear up here.”
Kane seems to have found his words again. “You could try asking the house.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure. Hey, house, can I please have—”
A box stacked precariously on top of the chest of drawers to Calliope’s left topples over onto the floor. The sudden movement startles her, and she jumps, dislodging Kane from her shoulder as she grasps at Rory’s arm.
He frowns down at her, though she can’t tell if it’s annoyance that she’s clinging to him or concern because, once again, she is acutely aware of their temperature difference: his skin is cool as if he’s been standing by an open window on a crisp winter day, while she is warm, as if there is a fire simmering inside of her.
She redirects her attention to the box, as Kane flutters back into view and lands on Rory’s shoulder. A quick glance tells her that Kane’s suggestion has yielded the most promising results so far. The clothing is slightly out-of-date, the fabrics, patterns and collars reminding her of something her grandma would have worn when she was Calliope’s age now. Still, the garments are well-kept and smell freshly laundered even though they’ve surely been stored in this cardboard box for at least a few years.
Rory carries the box across the hall and drops it just inside the entrance to her room. “I’ll see you downstairs in two minutes.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” She holds her arms out, nodding toward the manacles.
Rory is already shaking his head. “No. They stay.”
She holds her arms out straighter. “How am I supposed to change while handcuffed? Look.” She angles one of the cuffs so that the light catches on the edges of the master sigil. “The magic is in the manacles. Can you at least just break the chain in the middle?”
Rory looks askance at Kane, who is perched on his shoulder. Kane’s nod is small, almost imperceptible. “Fine,” he says gruffly. He grasps the iron chain with both hands and with barely a grunt of effort, he pulls. The iron snaps in half like dry rotted wood. “One minute, now.”