C
HAPTER
4
Y
ou knew things were bad when school looked like a welcome alternative to home. But by Monday morning, I’d fended off as many of my mom’s attempts at family togetherness as I possibly could. I’d walked in on my parents kissing so many times, my retinas would be scarred for life. When they weren’t making out, they were talking about my dad’s job—or rather, his lack of one. Nobody was interested in hiring an accountant who’d done time for embezzlement. Nobody except my uncle.
It was a relief to walk into St. Brigid’s, despite knowing I was the center of attention. My dad’s return had put the spotlight on my family once again, but I had plenty of practice ignoring the whispers and smirks. The trickiest part of the day to navigate, as always, was lunch. The social scene in the cafeteria was an ever-shifting landscape. It was smarter to map out the terrain before committing to one location. There were land mines and bogs and deserts of pariahs. I wasn’t looking to be an island, but I didn’t have much interest in the heavily trafficked areas, either. Safer to sit somewhere with a view of the action and an easy escape route.
I’d lost my taste for running away, but it never hurt to have options. And it was always better to know what was coming. Forewarned is forearmed, as my uncle always said.
So when I saw Jill McAllister making her way toward my table, her cronies snickering and gawking, I pushed away my limp Caesar salad and prepared for a showdown. The back of my neck buzzed slightly. Jill always put me on guard, and by now the magic was clued in, too. I ignored the now-familiar sensation and concentrated on the problem at hand. Jill, beautiful and pouty and spoiled rotten. She was wearing the same St. Brigid’s uniform as the rest of us—navy plaid skirt, white blouse, blue V-neck with the school crest embroidered on it—but the studs in her ears were real diamonds, not cubic zirconium, and her shoes probably cost more than I made in a month’s worth of tips.
At first, she didn’t sit down. She loomed over me—the expensive heels were also impossibly high—until I looked up, casually rubbing my nape.
“Did you want something, Jill?”
“You’re sitting by yourself.” She dropped into the chair next to mine with an uncharacteristic thump. I fought the urge to scoot away.
“I
was.
” And enjoying it.
“We never talk, Mo.” She leaned an elbow on the table, propped her chin in her hands. “Why is that?”
Because you’re a bitch
. “What would we talk about?”
“You
know,
” she said, glassy eyed. She shoved playfully at my arm. “Stuff. School. Boys. Like that cute guy.”
“Colin?” I asked absently. The buzzing sensation spread across my scalp. Jill didn’t usually provoke this kind of reaction. I scanned the room, looking for the source as she droned on.
There. Traces of magic, like glittering sunlight, swirled around Constance Grey, my best friend’s little sister, at a table with a bunch of freshmen. Verity’s death had transformed her, almost as much as me. Sweet, bright, the tiniest bit spoiled, Constance had tagged along after us since she could walk. Verity had pretended annoyance, but mostly she’d treated Constance with equal measures of exasperation and affection.
Then Vee died, and Constance was lost. I should have done more—stepped in right away, tried to help her. But I’d been so focused on finding out who killed Verity, I’d left Constance to flounder, and her grief had turned to blame. I’d accepted it, because I’d blamed myself, too.
When her powers as an Arc had come through, I’d made a deal with the Quartoren so she’d have someone to guide her. Penance, I guess. But Constance hadn’t seen it that way, especially once she’d discovered that her great-aunt, Evangeline, had been the one behind Verity’s death—and that I’d killed Evangeline in turn.
Over the past few months, as Constance had gained control over her own abilities, she’d slowly reemerged from her hard, angry shell and we’d formed a very cautious truce. I’d kept tabs on her from afar, and she’d kept most of her snark to herself. Because she was a freshman and I was a senior, the only time our paths crossed was when Niobe—Constance’s tutor, who posed as our guidance counselor—needed to speak to us.
It was good to see Constance interacting with her friends again. But now she watched us openly, barely paying attention to the other girls at her table. When she realized I’d spotted her, she looked away guiltily. Eavesdropping, probably, amplifying the sound with a spell. I started to frown at her, but my attention was drawn away by Jill, who was tapping her fingers impatiently.
“Not Colin. The other one,” Jill said, eyes boring into me.
“Other one what?”
“The other guy. Luc.”
My palms turned damp. “You know about Luc?”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Was he supposed to be a secret? We know all about Luc. You’re the real secret, Mo. Don’t you want to tell?”
I tried to shove away from her, but she swung both hands up, clapping them against my temples. The noise of the cafeteria faded, but the buzzing I’d felt before grew to a full-on shriek, reverberating in my head as the magic reacted to the attack.
This wasn’t Jill. She was a bitch, but she wasn’t an Arc. Someone was using her like a puppet. Her face was contorted and her pupils were blown, a thin line of blue ringing the black. Images flashed before me: Luc’s palm pressed against mine; the silhouette of a Darkling against the moon; Verity dying by the feeble glow of a street lamp, the tumbling nexus of energy that was raw magic. I tried to wrench free, but Jill—or whatever was controlling her—was too strong.
She dug through my thoughts, ferreting out information, leering at the memories she saw. The Seraphim, I thought dimly. I’d imagined a shadowy attack, not an assault in broad daylight. I tried to picture something empty—a blank screen, a placid lake, a dense fog—and begged the magic to quiet itself. The Seraphim knew I was bound to the source, that hurting me would deplete the magical energy that sustained the Arcs, but this wasn’t just a physical blow. It was a violation, the way they rifled through my most private thoughts while I stood trapped and helpless.
Not helpless. I reached for the plastic fork on my tray, but it was too far. My arms flailed, and her fingernails dug into my scalp. I kicked, connecting with her shins, and the pressure eased slightly. Not enough to break away, but enough to catch my breath. I hooked my feet around the legs of the chair and wrenched, causing us to both topple over.
The crash was earsplitting, and everyone stopped to watch as Jill scrambled up, lunging toward me. Would they kill me in full view of the school? The Arcs did everything in their power to conceal their existence from Flats. Why would the Seraphim risk something so public now? I circled the table, careful to stay out of reach.
“Do you really think you can run from us? From what is coming?” hissed the thing that wasn’t Jill. “You live yet because you’ve something valuable within. Once we split you open to get it, the Darklings can have the rest.”
I sought for the bond between me and Luc, trying to summon him. A quick glance showed Constance had disappeared, and I hoped she’d had the sense to go for help. The Seraphim had never invaded my mundane life before. This was a new tactic. And it was unacceptable.
Anger focused me, and the magic pounding through my veins gave me strength. I looked at the person before me, kept my voice low. “I beat you.
Twice
. No magic, and I still beat you. And that was when I didn’t know what I was doing.” I smiled, cold as the winter sky outside. “Imagine what I’m capable of now.”
She straightened, stuffed her hands in the pockets of her skirt. “All the better, Maura Fitzgerald. I’d hate to be bored.”
Anton. I had a sudden memory of him watching me at the Allée, where I’d bonded with the magic. Hands tucked in pockets, careless posture, sly tilt of the head. He was the one controlling Jill, I was sure of it.
From behind me, Niobe said, “Leave now. That body won’t sustain you.”
She placed one hand at my shoulder and gestured elegantly with the other one. The concealment rose up around us, the air wavering slightly. Meanwhile, I looked more closely at Jill. Beneath her fake tan, her skin was pale, her lips tinged with purple. Her breath came in uneven pants. Whatever spell they’d worked was killing her.
“I’ll use her up and take another one.”
“You can’t work a Rivening and defend yourself at the same time. And I would imagine the Quartoren will be sending forces to take care of you right about”—Niobe paused, tilting her head to the side, listening to something I couldn’t hear—“now.”
Jill jerked, her chin dropping to her chest, and looked at me again. Her eyes were back to their usual sapphire, and she dropped into the chair. “God, Mo,” she said. Her voice was weak, but the malice ringing through it was definitely her. “You’re so boring I can’t even stay awake when you talk.”
Niobe touched her shoulder and whispered a few quick words. Jill’s complexion transformed from sallow to sun-kissed. “The chair was unstable and you fell. Perhaps you should go see the nurse?”
Jill blinked at her. “My head hurts.”
Niobe beckoned to one of Jill’s friends, standing across the cafeteria, watching us uncertainly. “Go with her. She’s not herself.”
If Niobe had been a real guidance counselor, she would have walked Jill down to the nurse herself. But she’d made it perfectly clear that her position at St. Brigid’s was only a cover to keep an eye on Constance’s training. She’d also made it clear she was less than pleased with the assignment.
When Jill left, the buzz of the crowd subsided faster than I’d expected. “Did you do something to them?” I whispered.
“Let’s discuss this in my office,” she said pointedly, pitching her voice to be heard by the remaining gawkers.
Appetite gone, I dumped my lunch in the trash and gathered up my books. Niobe studied the room through narrowed eyes, watching for a second attack. I stayed close as we walked back to her office.
Constance was pacing back and forth outside Niobe’s office. “You’re okay! I went to get Niobe, but she was gone already.”
“Inside, please.” Niobe ushered us in, locking the door with a wave of her hand and a soft, foreign word. I could feel the lines shifting in response to the spell. If I let my eyes unfocus, I could see the casting as it traced through the air in twisting golden ribbons. But I still couldn’t use the magic, make it trail from my fingers the way Niobe and Constance could.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Niobe asked.
“I want a shower.” I wanted to scrub myself clean, erase the feeling of a stranger invading the memories I had locked deep within me. But the hatred I’d felt was too personal to be a stranger. “It was Anton, wasn’t it? I could tell.”
Constance made a startled noise, but Niobe merely nodded. “The Seraphim are going on the offensive, it would seem.”
“What did he do?” I rubbed at my temples. “And how does Jill fit into this? She’s Flat.”
“Anton worked a Rivening,” Niobe said, setting out cups of green tea. “Two, actually. The first was to direct Jill’s actions. Her dislike of you made it easier—it lowered her resistance to his instructions. The second was on you, but only to see, not control.”
Constance shuddered. “Rivening’s not allowed. You told me it was, like, one of the Ten Commandments.”
Niobe gave her a pitying look. “Does Anton Renard strike you as someone who cares about Arc laws? The Seraphim want to tear down our society and rebuild it according to their whims. Rivening’s the least of what he’ll stoop to. Which means you are in grave danger, Mo.”
What else was new? I’d been in danger since the day Verity died. But Niobe was right. Until now, the Seraphim had gone after me only when I got involved in Arc affairs—fulfilling the Torrent Prophecy, working with the Quartoren. Coming into my world was a dangerous shift in tactics.
“You told Anton that the Quartoren were coming for him.”
“Rivening is no small magic, especially when worked from a distance. I felt it a moment after he’d taken over Jill, and the Quartoren traced the spell back to his location.” She paused. “He can’t defend himself while working a spell of such magnitude.”
“They caught him?”
“I doubt it. We’d have heard.”
“What would they do to him?” Constance asked.
I was curious about that myself. The Seraphim had ordered Verity’s death, and Anton was their leader. Ultimately, he was responsible, and I wanted him to pay.
“You know what they say about killing serpents—cut off the head and the rest will die quickly enough. Anton is the head of this particular serpent.”
“They’d kill him?” Constance whispered.
“He killed the Vessel. He tried to start the Torrent. He’s been Rivening Flats with the regularity of a metronome. He’s violated neutral ground and advocated treason on more than one occasion. Did you think they would give him a slap on the wrist? This isn’t a student council election, it’s war.”
Constance flushed at Niobe’s condescending tone.
I thought back to the scene at Morgan’s. It must have been Anton after all. He’d sully himself with the Flat world if he had to, it seemed ... but how had he found me there? How had he tracked me when I couldn’t cast spells? “The Seraphim’s been quiet for months. Why come after me now?”