Chapter 25
Over the next week, the only thing more consistent than my inability to sleep and connect with Leeran was Cillian’s persistence in getting me to talk to him.
First, it was an “accidental run-in” in the halls.
Then, a mini-lecture in Art History—with Celine’s help, no doubt—where his attention constantly fell on me.
Even in Fhírinne, he’d found me, but at least there I felt empowered enough to tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine, collect my things, and head to my room, not before snagging myself a new journal, though.
I got through a few entries that first night, all of which painted an entirely different tone than my previous journals.
In this life, I seemed … happy. I had a mama I adored, a best friend who’d appeared at least once each entry, and a home I referred to as my sanctuary on more than one occasion.
I was safe, content, and loved, which was more than I could say for any other life I’d recalled, including the present. At least before I’d met Roxie anyway.
Come Friday morning—after another dreamless night—I decided I’d attempt to use my magic to will myself to sleep. I would see Leeran again and ask him about our time together in Italy when I’d been Fiorenza. Hold him and soak him in. But before any of that were possible, I’d have to survive the day.
After my normal morning routine, I clomped down to meet Rox in the dining room.
The space was a bit more crowded than normal, daylight saving time having clearly thrown the early crowd off their game.
One look at the line, and my stomach sank.
By the time I made it through, there’d be hardly any time left to eat. Great.
“Fey,” Roxie’s voice rang across the room as she motioned for me to join her at the table.
I shimmied through the student hoard and plopped down next to Rox—Sam and Josh more smitten than usual, and entirely uninterested in either of us—to find a full plate in my spot. Sugary sweetness tangled in my nose, my mouth salivating on contact. French toast. Hell yeah!
“Snagged you some hash browns too.” Roxie winked.
“You’re the best.” I leaned against Roxie’s shoulder and whispered between French toast-stuffed cheeks, “What’s with them?”
“Six-month anniversary. Sappy, right?”
I couldn’t help but envy them. The way they looked at each other, the obvious comfort in each kiss: It made my stomach sour.
I’d never have that with Leeran again, at least not in the way I wanted.
Death had claimed him, while fate seemed hell-bent on keeping me in the woken world, far from the one who held my heart.
Funny how things changed. I’d spent so long fighting sleep, who knew one day I’d end up craving it. “Sappy … but also kind of cute?”
Rox shrugged. “Eh, I guess.”
“Wow, I see someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“Considering God or whoever the hell runs this damned simulation we call life deemed Saint Peter’s a one-lesbian-only space? Kind of hard not to be a bit jaded.”
I rubbed the back of her hand. “Your perfect person is out there, and I can’t wait to meet them. And hey, there’s still ample time for a dashing bisexual to profess their secret, undying love to you!”
“Yeah, yeah. Eat your toast, woman,” she teased. “So, have you thought any more about your Halloween plans?”
“Eh, I don’t know. I’ll probably just stay in and read.” I shoveled a forkful of hash browns in my mouth.
“Okay, Grandma. Don’t get me wrong, I love your dedication to this broody, introverted image you’re putting out there, but this is Halloween we’re talking about! The Halloween crawl is like a rite of passage at Saint Peter’s, everybody goes all out. And this year, I’m hosting.”
“I’m sorry, crawl? What does that even mean?”
She rolled her eyes. “Everybody who wants to partake in the festivities picks a theme and decorates their dorm. Some people do drinks, and some do scary movie marathons on projectors. It’s hella fun! Then, you just crawl from place to place and enjoy!”
“Wait, so we don’t actually crawl? Welp, I’m out then. Can’t be associated with false advertisement,” I teased.
“Oh my God, you are impossible,” she moaned.
“Seeing as I know you won’t be opening your dorm for anybody aside from maybe a stray black cat in preparation for your inevitable cat lady future, you can help me with mine.
I’m thinking Days of Old,” she said, fanning her hands out in front of her. “What do you think?”
“Days of Old, as in …?”
“You know, like important time periods. The Roaring Twenties, the Renaissance, the seventies. Fun, right?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. How fitting that she’d chosen a theme like that, considering the person sitting next to her lived through many of those times.
In hindsight, I realized how little of my life had actually been a coincidence.
Sure, it felt that way some days, but now I knew there was more.
Much more. Somehow, my pasts found a way to reemerge, pulling through to mirror the present with a little spiritual wink.
Such a strange, comforting thought. I’d always believed I’d been alone, but turns out my past selves had always been trying to reach out.
It just took Saint Peter’s and Fhírinne to give them the chance.
I turned to Rox, nibbling on my last piece of toast. “All right, I’m in. But don’t say I never gave you anything!”
“Eee,” she squealed and wrapped me in a tight hug. “We’re going to have so much fun! Just you wait!”
As always, Celine started class with an obscure title written across the whiteboard.
Each stroke of her chalk piece scratched against my bones.
But whatever she aimed to throw at me today, I could take it.
I wasn’t that timid wallflower anymore; I was the woman who killed damn monsters.
What was an hour-long class in comparison?
Nothing. I’d sit. I’d pretend to listen. I’d leave. Simple enough.
Celine tapped the board. Blessed. “Would anybody care to define the term for me?”
The room sat silent.
“Nobody? I take it nobody completed the week’s reading assignment then?
” Miss Celine rubbed the flesh between her red brows before turning back to the board and scribbled in perfect penmanship, reading aloud as she went, “Blessed: an adjective meaning made holy; consecrated. Baroque and Rococo styles emerged in the art community during the sixteenth century, reflecting the beauty they perceived in holiness. While I feel I already know the answer to my next question, can anyone offer me an example of a blessed object?”
A broad-shouldered guy to her right raised his hand, eyes bloodshot. “Uh … the Bible?”
The room snickered as one. But Celine tapped her toe.
“Can anyone offer me a different example? Maybe one less obvious?”
Crickets again.
“Lovely,” she groaned. “If you’d done your assignment as requested, you would know the act of blessing an object is typically performed by an experienced leader in many faiths. Of course, some believe blessed objects are not limited to those of a religious background as I myself believe.”
Again, she scrawled across the board and stepped back.
“Some examples of blessed objects and practices include, but are not limited to rosaries, holy water, and the act of baptism. While often used in rites, rituals, and traditions, it is not always so. But I think it is fair to deduce their purpose is spiritual in essence.”
Essence. A still, small voice inside confirmed Celine’s sharp tone was intentional.
As always. I shivered, the pop of Chaos’s heart in my hand flooding back to me, though his essence was without a doubt Baneful.
My feet skittered on the hardwood floor as I repositioned myself in my seat. Stick it out.
“A blessing,” Celine said, “is most commonly used to purify and draw one closer to the creator. If we look closely, we can see that a variety, if not all religions, have their own ways of encouraging a holy path, inspiring unique images associated with each. But why?” She looked my way, circled her desk, and sat on its edge.
“Simply put? Protection—the ability to walk the path where darkness has no ability to intervene. The path to enlightenment, as Buddhists might say. The terms holy and evil are much like oil and water; they were never intended to mix. Catholics use holy water to deter demons. Pagans and those practicing witchcraft burn herbs to cleanse negative energies. Crosses and pentagrams are also great examples of how these beliefs are portrayed through visuals. Sacred symbols we all seem to know with a simple glance. This list goes on, but the answer remains the same.”
She turned to me, my toes curling in my shoes.
“A blessed object can and will get a creature of darkness to talk. To show you its true colors, its intent. Especially those who might seek to trick a mortal soul, bringing it down to its lowest level to be devoured by the darkness alongside it. Easy prey for mindful beasts.”
My veins turned to ice. That last part was so clearly aimed at me …
she hadn’t opened her mouth to say it, yet I heard it.
Crystal-fucking-clear! I fought the urge to flee but knew if I did, I would only confirm she’d shaken me.
But under the weight of her heavy stare, it was doubtful she couldn’t tell already.
How could I not be? In those few words she’d all but called me out.
Chaos, the Ancient Lores, the darkness …
but it made no sense! Why wouldn’t she just tell me these things?
Why go about it in this way, sneakily and indirectly?
Just as I thought I might crumble, her eyes lifted from me and drifted to the projector at the room’s edge.
Still, my heart raced. Still, the warmth in my face grew.
Before I could will it into submission, the light beneath my skin began to rile, bubbling up like molten rock ready to spew.
My flesh crackled and was that … steam rising up?
Oh God, what is this feeling? The guy in the desk across from me sniffed the air, his eyes narrowing on my desk that was now a melted puddle beneath my palms.
Shit!
Flames crept beneath my fingers and it clicked a second too late: This wasn’t my light magic, but something far rawer.
Something devouring and adamant. There was no kindness or sweet nature to it.
I pulled my hands into my lap, anxiously patting the hem of my sweatshirt to try and douse the flames, but the ashen smell of smoke hit the air, and the class began to stir.
One by one they turned. A gasp rang out, followed by whispers and pointed fingers.
The chair in the desk next to me skidded back, Paul Tucker jumping up. “What the fuck?”
“No, it’s nothing! I’m fine, I swear, I—” Under the weight of my embarrassment, the flames began to rip up my arms, laying claim to my hands and wrists. In, out. In, out. In—shit, why wasn’t it working?
“Somebody get a damn bucket of water or a fire extinguisher or something!” Paul yelled.
The room began to spin as I leapt from my seat and beat against my sweatshirt that had caught from my failed attempts.
Heat licked at my flesh. Celine was at my side in an instant, one hand wrapped around my shoulder while the other twiddled with her talisman.
The flames atop my skin died on content.
“Come with me,” she said, calm and controlled.
We tore out the door, and I realized in the quick escape, the classroom had stilled. The students no longer gasped. Didn’t gawk. Even Paul was back in his seat as if nothing happened. She’d worked her magic to lure them into unknowing peace and distraction.
“What the hell was that?” I asked, once safe in the halls.
Celine wrapped a hand around my cheek, the calm she carried with her absorbing what remained of my panic. She patted, prodded, and looked me over, never muttering a word.
I tore my arm from her touch. “What. Was. That?”
A hefty sigh, and she pushed her hair from her face. “That was Elemental magic.”
“Elemental?”
I bit my lip. Like … like Cillian’s? How?
Celine’s brow pinched as she weighed the situation.
She couldn’t be trusted, and yet there I was begging her again to be honest. To come out with the truth, be it her own version or not.
Where else could I go? Who else could I turn to in this world?
My hands shook; I was at her mercy. “Please, Celine. Tell me what’s happening to me. ”
Finally, her shoulders relaxed. “Wait here.”
I watched her disappear into the classroom, the halls around me growing too quiet for comfort.
My eyes fell down my body to find my sweatshirt entirely untouched, no fiery holes or frayed edges despite the flames that’d nipped at them moments before.
I patted my stomach. No pain. Whatever Celine had done, it hadn’t just stopped the flames, it …
it’d healed me! My heart did a somersault inside my chest. She could heal?
And why had she used those abilities to heal me in the first place if she was so clearly uninterested in helping me gain control over my mind and magic?
God, nothing made sense anymore. The Shroud, the stone, Cillian and Celine—the only thing I knew without a doubt was that Leeran had warned me about my abilities.
But he wasn’t here, and if I didn’t ask for help right then and there, I knew I’d fall apart.
I’d shatter into so many pieces it’d make Humpty Dumpty look put together.
“Let’s go,” Celine said, flooding out the door and linking her arm through mine.
“What is going on—”
“Not here.”