Bound (35 page)

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Authors: Erica O'Rourke

BOOK: Bound
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C
HAPTER
44
T
here were so many lights and so many horrible noises—wailing and shrieking—and the sensation of hurtling through space, and I hurt so much I didn’t want to breathe. I didn’t open my eyes, but saw the ocean, the line of damp sand, the endless waves cresting against the horizon. Ancient hills shrouded in mist, weathered and lovely. A field of wildflowers, blossoms nodding and stirring in the breeze, azure sky dotted with clouds stretching overhead. Peaceful sights. Calming sights. A sending from the magic, the only kind of healing it could provide.
When I finally opened my eyes, it was to the last thing I wanted to see.
Hospital. Emergency room. I’d done this before and was not looking forward to a repeat.
“Hey,” Luc said, standing in the curtained doorway. “You’re awake.”
His face was haggard, haunted. “No,” I said, turning my head to keep from seeing what was written there.
“I tried,” he said softly. “It was too late.”
I closed my eyes, felt the tears spilling over.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice broke. “I’m so sorry. I tried—”
“I know.”
Can’t fix dead,
he’d told me ages ago.
He didn’t say anything else for a long time, but I felt the gentle stroke of his hand over my hair, wordless consolation.
“My mom?”
“
Maman
’s there. Took care of your uncle’s guys, called her to keep your mom company while I came back to you.” He paused. “They had so many people watching the bar I couldn’t get through—not even with a concealment. I should have gone Between. Should have chanced it.”
“Billy would have freaked. Started shooting anyway. It’s not your fault.”
If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine—I was the one who’d egged Billy on, flaunted the fact I’d switched out the drives. If I hadn’t pushed him. If my dad hadn’t admitted he was working for FBI. If Colin hadn’t surprised us. If Luc had stayed. So many ifs, and none of them made a difference. None of them changed the truth. My father was dead, and only now did I realize who he truly was.
You won’t understand until it’s too late. I’d thought Marguerite was talking about the magic, or taking my place with the Quartoren. But it had been this moment all along. Not even my Flat life could escape her predictions. I couldn’t separate the two anymore.
“Does my mom know?”
“Cujo told her. Police were mighty interested in him, but he managed to sneak off.” He tried to smile but failed. “Might have had a little help. He figured it might come easier if she heard it from him instead of the police.”
“She needs me.” I struggled to sit up, and he slipped an arm around my waist.
“Let me heal your arm,” he said. “Please.”
“It’s fine.”
“They patched you up, but it’s going to hurt like hell for the next couple weeks. I couldn’t ...” He stopped, searching for the words. “You’ll hurt plenty no matter what, but this I can fix. I need to.”
I nodded and he pulled the hospital gown to the side, baring my shoulder and the thick gauze pad taped over it. Gently, he peeled the bandage away and his fingers hovered over the wound.
I kept my eyes shut. I’d seen enough blood today.
When he spoke, it was as if the magic had been waiting for him, drawing the words in eagerly, rising up to meet him. The warmth spread along my back and down my arm, and I could feel our connection respond, his love and concern a tangible presence.
He touched his lips to the top of my shoulder and drew the thin blue gown back up.
“My clothes?”
“Not in any condition to be worn again,” he said. “Niobe brought you some things.”
St. Brigid’s sweats and a T-shirt, and he glanced away, giving me privacy as I dressed.
“Home,” I said softly, and he nodded, helping me to my feet.
I slipped my arms around his neck, still unsteady, and breathed in the scent of him, spice and smoke and saltwater.
Safe now,
I told myself, and that’s when I cried.
He didn’t say anything, just held on while I sobbed and sobbed, because my dad was never coming back and neither was Verity, and I hated fate more than I ever had before, because I didn’t know how to go on and I didn’t believe it could tell me a path.
Inside me, the magic hummed a steady reassurance, a comfort, a promise that whatever was ahead of me, I wouldn’t be alone. Luc’s heartbeat told me the same thing.
After a long time, there were no more tears. I drew back, wiping at my cheeks, and he cradled my face in his hands, brushing away the dampness, pressing kisses against my swollen lids, and my breathing slowed.
“Ready?”
I shook my head. No. Never.
“Then I’ll stay close,” he promised.
C
HAPTER
45
T
here was no way to gauge the mood inside my house, to prepare for what I was walking into. The shades were drawn, a thin yellow line edging the windows, and the house was quiet. I trudged up the front steps, Luc at my side, the doorknob turning easily under my hand.
Inside, my mom sat on the edge of the couch, brittle as old glass. Marguerite sat next to her, her delicate hands encasing my mom’s work-reddened ones. Colin sat in the chair opposite, elbows on knees, miserable.
“Mo!”
“Mom,” I said. “I ...”
She stood, and Colin jumped to his feet, ready to catch her if she seemed unsteady. I shot him a look of gratitude.
“Your father? He’s really gone?” she said, her voice tremulous with disbelief.
I pressed my lips together and nodded, throat too clogged to speak.
“Billy?”
I didn’t know if she was asking whether Billy was dead, or if he’d been the one responsible. The answer was the same. I didn’t need to say the words. She looked at my face, and she knew the truth.
She gave a cry—a soft, warbling sound that cut right through me—and sank back to the couch. I lurched forward. Strange, how I thought my tears would have run dry by now. I should have known better.
“Mo, sit with your mother,” said Marguerite. “Boys, help me make tea.”
I sat, and took my mother’s hand, and tried to be as strong for her as my dad had been for me.
“What are we going to do?” she asked as we huddled together, clutching me like I was the only thing she had left in the world. Maybe I was. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know.” That wasn’t true. I did know. But saying it out loud seemed cruel.
You lived. That’s what you did. When you loved someone and they died and the world stopped spinning on its axis and gravity failed and everything tasted like ashes and rage, you lived. Not always well, or happily. Sometimes it was just forcing yourself to take one more breath, or one more step. Sometimes you wished you didn’t. But in the end, you lived. Because they couldn’t. And you owed it to them.
You lived.
C
HAPTER
46
“I
have to leave,” said Colin. We stood on the porch. He’d hugged my mom, said good-bye to Marguerite, nodded at Luc. The light from the kitchen barely illuminated his face, and I switched on the lamp. I wanted to see him clearly. I wanted him to see me.
“Your dad called me, right after you and Luc had left. He explained everything then. I swear, Mo, I didn’t know about the FBI before then, or I would have told you. I’d figured he was trying to find a way to get you out of the deal, that’s all. Trading himself for you.”
“He did,” I said softly.
He touched my cheek, tentative. “He was right. You did good.”
I rubbed at my eyes, gritty from too many tears. “You’re the one who came back. You didn’t need to.”
“How many times have I told you—I want you to be safe. And happy.” He glanced over my shoulder, into the house. “You could come with us, if you wanted. We can start over somewhere else. Be happy.”
I tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come. “You told me once that you always wanted a quiet life. Do you remember?”
He nodded.
“You deserve that,” I said. “I want that for you. So much.”
“But not for you, right?” He closed his eyes briefly, pain evident on his face, and something twisted inside me, the tears starting fresh. “I thought you might say that.”
“I want you to have a really good life, okay?”
He kissed me gently, his lips solid and real against mine. “I will try. Just ... promise me something, Mo.”
“Name it.”
“You have a really amazing one. Do all the things you never believed you could. Do even more.” He laughed a little. “And give Luc all the hell you can. Which is a lot. I should know.”
“Done,” I said.
He nodded and let himself out. I stood at the top of the steps, hugging myself against the cold, and watched him leave. He looked back once, and I lifted a hand in farewell, knowing it would be the last time I saw him.
Then he was gone.
I turned off the light and sat on the ancient couch in the dark, and listened to the sound of the snow melting off the eaves, and prayed—to God, or the magic, or fate, or anyone else that was listening—that he’d be safe, and happy, and not hate me.
After a little while, Luc came out and sat down on the other end of the couch.
“He ask you to go with him?”
“Yes.”
He picked at the arm of the couch, breaking off a cracked piece of wicker and setting it aflame like a tiny candle. “You want to go?”
“I’m here,” I said, watching the flame throw shadows over his face. “What do you think?”
He jerked a shoulder. “I think your mama needs you right now. But down the road ...”
I concentrated, pushed enough magic into our connection to make it visible, and lifted my hand, the silver filament glowing between us. “I choose you,” I said. “You. And me. For keeps.”
Later, after the police had come with solemn faces and practiced sympathy, after Father Armando had come to pray and bear witness, after my mom had made her way upstairs alone, refusing help, I lay on the couch, my head on Luc’s lap, his fingers twined with mine.
“You should rest,” Marguerite said. “You’ve been so strong, but your mother will need you even more tomorrow. When all of this sinks in.”
“I think she knew,” I said. “All along, she knew it wouldn’t last.”
“She was making all those plans,” Luc said. “Expandin’ the restaurant. Talkin’ about the future. Why would she do that if she thought it wouldn’t happen?”
“Maybe because she was afraid it wouldn’t? Like she thought, if she could just make it perfect, it would stick. I don’t know what she’ll do about the restaurant now.” I didn’t know if she would cling more tightly to it, the anchor that had held her steady for the last twelve years, or if it would be too much, a reminder of everything that had gone wrong, dragging her under the surface of her grief.
“Time enough to decide,” said Marguerite, her hands folded in front of her. “For now, you need sleep.”
“Close your eyes, Mouse, I’ll stay as long as you need.”
My eyes drifted shut, and Luc tugged the afghan over my shoulders. Too painful to think of my father, to watch the images that played in my mind, so I tuned into the magic instead, let it direct my thoughts, let my mind wander out along the lines, looking for something that might soothe the raw edges of my grief.
Instead, I saw the Assembly, the Quartoren seated in their ornamental chairs, a new table before them like a blank slate. They were complete, ready to start a new era for the Arcs. Stable magic, the Torrent Prophecy averted, the Seraphim defeated. . . they were frozen as if in a tableau, Dominic still the leader, Sabine poised and watchful next to him. Orla, fussy and demanding to be heard, and Pascal, distracted as usual.
At the edge of the stage was the shattered table, the pieces piled haphazardly, exactly as we’d left them after Marguerite’s prophecy. Sadness swept over me again, yet another sign of all we’d lost. But the magic didn’t respond in kind. Instead, it quickened my blood, overlaid the sorrow with yearning.
I shifted, uncomfortable with the sensation, trying to will it away, but the magic only grew more insistent. I opened my eyes, hoping to dispel the images.
“Shhh ...” Luc stroked my hair, but I struggled to sit up. “What’s wrong?”
“The magic. It wants something.” Affirmation bloomed like a flower inside me.
“Wants you to nap, more’n likely.”
“No. Can we go to the Assembly?”
“You feel the need to stare down the Quartoren one more time?”
“The magic’s not done talking. It’s the table, Luc. I have to fix the table.”
“It’s been broken for days. Another one won’t hurt.”
“Please,” I said. “Take me to the Assembly. I need to see it for myself.”
“Maman?”
“I’ll stay with Mo’s mother,” she said. “Good luck, Mo.”
The Assembly was almost completely restored, the ruined table the only reminder of the Darklings’ attack.
“Son,” said Dominic as we approached. “Maura. Something we can help you with?” The cautious sympathy in his voice made it clear he knew about my dad.
“No,” I said, letting go of Luc’s hand to kneel next to the pile of ebony wood.
“We’re about to induct Sabine,” he said. “You’re more than welcome to watch, but we’d like to get down to it.”
I didn’t reply. Instead, I studied the symbols, trying to understand the interplay between them and the magic. One by one, the Quartoren left their seats and crossed the stage, Pascal first, peering at me through his glasses.
“Mouse?” Luc asked. “What are you doing?”
I could feel the Quartoren exchanging glances, deciding whether or not to humor me. “I can fix it,” I said. “The magic wants me to. It’s what your mom said: Listen and speak.”
His arms came around me. “You don’t have to fix everything. Sometimes we can’t, okay? Sometimes we just have to let it go. There are things even magic can’t do. You know that.”
I rested my forehead on his chest. Gone was gone. He was right. There was no way to repair this table.
But I could make a new one.
A new table. A new Quartoren. A new age, as Marguerite had predicted.
“Do you trust me?” I kept my voice low, my head still tucked under his chin.
“Of course.”
“I know what the magic wants me to do, but I need your help.”
His eyes met mine, oddly calm, absolutely sure. “I’m all yours.”
I stood and walked to the table where the Quartoren had been sitting. It was a single, solid expanse of ebonized wood, smooth and even. I felt a tingling along my spine, exactly where Luc had placed his hand.
“That’s for the Quartoren,” blustered Dominic. “I’ll be the first to admit you have more leeway than most, but some things aren’t meant for you.”
“This is,” I said. “Be quiet, Dominic.
I’m talking.
”
I closed my eyes, and the graceful, twisting lines of a glyph sprang up, as clear and pristine in my mind as if it were real. Without looking, I drew a copy on the tabletop with clean, purposeful strokes, waiting for the magic to recognize it.
Luc started, and I opened my eyes to see light breaking through where I’d traced, tiny pinpricks where my finger had touched, fine as dust motes. I leaned down and blew gently, and flecks of wood scattered. More scratch than carving, but the mark was indelible.
“Again,” Luc whispered, as if he was afraid he’d break my concentration. He didn’t need to worry. I retraced the markings, opening myself fully to the lines crisscrossing the room, my hand shaking with the influx of power. Luc’s talent bolstered my own, and the words began to take shape.
At first, the magic felt diffuse, blurred at the edges, like a silhouette held too far from the light. But I stretched myself, listening to what it said with my entire body, the power growing sharper, coming into focus, and the wood was transformed at my touch. With each pass, more flaked away, the carving more pronounced, the light shining more brightly.
Still, the design was static. Beautiful, luminescent with power, but it wouldn’t move. It didn’t have the same vitality as the old table. The magic urged me to draw more shapes, and I began to work around the table, creating whatever glyphs the magic gave me. Symbols from every House, every element. Some resembled spells I’d learned for the Succession, and some were completely new.
I could sense the Quartoren edging closer, heard the confusion in their voices, but tuned them out. All I wanted to hear was the magic. Anything else was a distraction, would alter the symbols I was carving into the table. My arms trembled with the effort, my breathing coming in fits and starts. Luc buoyed me, enabling me to continue the painstaking work.
Time passed, and I moved around the table, my confidence increasing with each completed glyph, all the way down the massive table legs, light streaming out, illuminating the farthest corners of the Assembly. When I’d carved the last symbol, my mind went quiet and blank, and I sagged back against Luc, exhausted. But the magic wasn’t done. The symbols were inert, unmoving. They needed something else.
They needed my voice.
I chose the ones that were most familiar—symbols I’d learned from Niobe—and began to recite them. Despite my halting, cumbersome speech, they grew brighter. The more I spoke, the more easily the words came, ones I’d never heard before flowing as easily as rosary prayers, and I realized—the magic was giving the language of the Arcs to me. I understood them perfectly now, the same absolute comprehension I’d felt during the Torrent, and when I’d bound myself to the magic.
But this time, there was no chance of getting lost, because the magic was inside me, centered deep within, simultaneously infinite and contained. I didn’t need to lose myself in the magic to succeed; I simply needed to join it. It was my voice the magic had needed to coax the symbols to life, clear and perfect and vibrant. My words—the exact translation of the magic’s needs—took root and began to grow. As I spoke, I pulled power from the lines and poured it into the symbols. Gradually, they came alive, magic pulsing like a heartbeat in each, giving them a specific hue. Ruby for fire, sapphire for water, emerald for earth, gold for air.
And something else.
Something new.
Something the magic and I had created together.
Some of the symbols—the most complicated shapes of all, the ones the Quartoren stared at in fascination—glittered diamond-bright and began to shift and slide over the tabletop, picking up speed, the effect rippling out to the other glyphs until we were all bathed in a whirl of colors, the signs streaming over the tabletop too quickly to distinguish.
Alive. That’s what they were now—some portion of the magic’s life force captured within the table, and some portion of mine as well. There was a place for me at the table now, I understood. The magic and its language were imprinted on my soul as deeply as they were in that table. This moment, this task—this had been what I was meant to do all along.

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