Mine to Spell (Mine #2) (33 page)

Suddenly, his hand jerks up and a murky blue spell flashes toward me. I deflect, but I’m too late. As pain stings my shoulder, I know he’s not going to hold back. Which is exactly what I want, but blast, it hurts.

There’s not time to dwell on the pain. I flash the same spell back at him, aiming for his torso, but he deflects, and flings a maroon one back. I throw a silver wall spell in front of me, which his spell breaks against, hurling bits of maroon everywhere until they dispel.

As our spells cross, sometimes hitting a shield, falling short, or cringingly hitting their mark, I mentally keep track of the score. We stay fairly even at first, but I slowly stretch ahead of him. Is he letting me win? I pull my hand back, waiting to cast another spell so I can see what he’ll do. A dull yellow slams into my chest, sucking the air from me. I gasp for breath. Nope. Not holding back, and now we’re even again.

Another spell flies at me. I race to throw a shield up before it can reach me. After it crashes against my barrier, I quickly thrust two spells back at him. One aiming straight for him, the other a faint, pale lemon-colored spell which should cause a stomach ache that sneaks around the side.

He blocks the first, but the second crashes into him. I cringe as his face crumples with pain, and he groans. The judge calls time.

I want to sprint to Lukas, make certain he’s not seriously injured, but I refrain. Not that it stops me from subtly watching to make sure he’s not going to pass out at any moment. That was the longest two minutes of my life.

“Stephen’s daughter is the winner.”

“
Cynthia.” I glance at Lukas, who is trying to force a grin past a grimace of pain, but it only makes my chest twist more. Have I permanently injured him like what happened to Zade? Why did I agree to this? I don’t feel like a winner. I feel like father, using magic to hurt others.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Being able to move onto the next round tomorrow is good, but not as fantastic as it felt yesterday. It’s tainted by my actions, my becoming increasingly like a hexing warlock. Like father.  The thought haunts me as I continue to win duels using more hexes. I watch as the last duel of the day finishes, with Nathaniel as the winner.

Will I be paired against him? I can’t see the Grand Chancellor being happy about his son fighting against a mere woman, though I don’t know how much the Grand Chancellor has any control over it. I suppose even if he’s not in charge, they will still give him whatever he wants. He always gets what he wants.

My thoughts are interrupted when I realize that Nathaniel has left his duel and is headed my way. He must need something or someone that’s over this way instead of the adoring Chardonian crowd on the opposite side. I glance behind me, but there’s only Xyer. Maybe Nathaniel needs him for something? Or, more likely, he’s simply going in that direction.

Except when he gets close to me he stops. “You’re doing very well.”

Where is this coming from? Bethany and Serena have spoken with him a few times since he helped Serena at her ball, but why is he talking to me? Is his father trying to leverage him closer to us? I finally manage to say, “Thank you. You are as well.”

“We’ll see if tomorrow brings continued good fortune for us both. I hope it does. I'd be honored to duel against you,” he says before walking away.

I’m still contemplating the odd scenario and understanding the compliment he gave when Lukas strolls to me, arm protecting his stomach. Has he seen a healer?

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“
To join you at the healer’s tent?”

“
Already did that.” Great. I did give him a permanent injury. “They healed me up just fine, though it will be a while before it’s not as tender.”

There’s no hiding my relief. “What do I need to be ready for then?”

“Thought I’d accompany you home tonight. If that’s all right?”

It’s so much more than all right. “That would be outstanding.” A whole lot more outstanding if there weren’t other guards with us, and I didn't need to ride in the carriage.

The walk to the carriage and from the carriage to the house is silent but not awkwardly so. The house is dark and quiet when we enter. The girls must have found something peaceful to do, and mother is probably sleeping. The last part of pregnancy makes her sleep often.

I lead Lukas to the kitchen. He sits, and I open the pantry, a familiar ritual between the two of us by now. But while I’m hungry, nothing appeals to me. What does one eat after injuring a man she thinks she's fallen for?

The thought freezes my actions further. Fallen for? Before, men were always just a game, something to hide my true interest, but this is no game. No game at all.

Gripping a shelf with one hand to hide the shaking, I rummage around with the other, even though nothing is appealing. If I pretend hard enough, and long enough, something is bound to sound good. Maybe. Probably not.

After a minute, there’s a creak behind me.

“
Are you okay?” Lukas asks.

I spin around, finding he’s within touching distance. The pantry shrinks, like the walls and shelves are suddenly crowding in on me. On us. There’s not enough room for him and me and my guilt next to all this food.

He reaches out to me, his hand like a peace offering, but I just can’t. Not only are we supposed to be keeping things light between us until after this is all over, but I feel too much like father. A warlock that hexes others for sport. I step back, knocking into a shelf with a clang. His hand falls away.

We avoid looking at each other. Instead, I stare at the space that, a moment ago, felt so small and now which feels too big. Wide and impassable.

“Why don’t I whip us up a little something tonight?” he says. “My turn is long overdue anyway.”

He reaches toward me again, and I press harder against the shelf, expecting him to touch me. Except he doesn’t. His arm moves past me and to the side, grabbing a tin of sugar before exiting the pantry. My hands are shaking. Why am I disappointed if I was the one to step away? Why is it so hard to control my emotions tonight?

A few deep breaths later, I still haven’t managed to calm myself down. When he returns for more items, the pantry shrinks further with each of his movements. This time when he leaves, I scurry after, unwilling to let the pattern go on. I take his usual place at the table and watch as he continues bringing things out of the pantry. His slow but methodical movements helps ease some of my tension. By the time he has a bowl out and is dumping ingredients in, I’m fully in control of myself again.

“
I didn’t know you could cook,” I say.

Using the back of his hand to push his glasses up leaves a dusting of flour on his cheek. “There’s not a lot I know how to make, only my favorites.”

It’s hard to look away from that bit of flour on his dark skin. “And what are your favorites?”

His attention shifts to me a moment, just long enough for a small, but full of life smile before turning back to what he’s making. “I know you like hot chocolate. Have you ever tried it with a little spice?”

“I've only had a few spicy things. They were… different.”

“
In a good way or bad?”

“
Good, I suppose.” Where is he going with this? “Am I going to be inflicted with some sort of spicy concoction?”

“
Nah. You’ll like it, so no inflicting needed. But, if for some strange reason you don’t, I’ll have something to revive you if it does too much damage.”

Revive me? “That’s reassuring.”

He grins and continues mixing things together. It’s mesmerizing to watch. The way his hands move and work, as if he’s done this enough times that the movements have become perfected. Somehow, the quickly multiplying bits of flour on his face only add to the affect. Is this the same reason he likes to sit and watch me while I cook something up for him? I can see the appeal.

Long nights of practicing and early mornings of getting to the tournament are catching up with me. My eyelids blink heavily as I observe. When he focuses on the stove, I give in and rest my forehead on my palms, closing my eyes. The sound of him working creates an unpredictable rhythm. Metal clanging against metal. Scrapping. Sizzling. The smell of something yeasty and familiar but not familiar enough to place, mixed with a hint of chocolate. And spiciness. My mouth waters as I doze.

The clink of two items being set in front of me pulls me from my lull. I lift my head to find a mug of steaming hot chocolate and a plate of, well, I’m not sure exactly what. They’re golden brown, long and crinkly-looking with brown spotted sugar coating them.

“
This looks fantastic.”

“
Emma, the woman who is like my mother, calls it Spiced Delight. I call it Flamin'.”

“
That's reassuring.”

He chuckles as he takes the chair next to me, a second helping in front of him. He takes the long, stick-like bread and dunks it in the hot chocolate before taking a bite. Sort of like we do with biscuits, then. I follow suit. I sip the hot chocolate. It’s good. Warm and thick. More sweet than flaming. Fantastic. A burn tickles the back of my throat. A burn that’s growing. I cough.

“Take another bite of fry bread.”

I cough harder before managing to take another bite of the bread that helps ease some of the tickling. He wasn’t kidding about the spice.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to make you some chocolate without the spice?”

“
I’m fine. This is good,” I say. “Different. But good. Thank you.”

“
Glad you like it.”

The bit of flour dusting his dark skin is difficult not to touch. “You’ve got something, I’m just going to…” Leaning closer, I rub my fingers across his cheek, brushing the flour off with a tingle racing up my hand.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. My fingers stay, lightly touching his warm cheek, gaze suddenly focused on his lips. What am I doing? Not only should we not be doing this, but I hurt him.

I jerk back and take a swig of chocolate. The cinnamon from dunking the fry bread mixes with the sweet heat. It’s so much like him. I pour all my focus on it, enjoying the creation while the jumbled feelings inside me settle.

“So,” Lukas says. “Are we going to talk about what’s upsetting you?”

“
Nothing is upsetting me.”

He shakes his head. “It’s more than that. You always play with your jewelry when you’re upset.”

“Sometimes I just like playing with my necklace,” I scoff.

“
True, but you only rub your ring when you’re really distressed. You’ve been rubbing it all day. Something’s up.”

“
I do that?”

“
Only when you’re trying to keep something in. Or something more than usual, I should say.”

“
Oh.”

“
Is this because you defeated me in the tournament?”

I want to brush him off when suddenly I realize I’m rubbing my ring again. Why does he have to know me so well? “Now you’ve got me all flustered.”

He grabs my hand. “It’s me, Cyn. There’s no reason to be anyone but yourself.”

Does he really mean that? And if he does, can I really be me? I’m not even sure I know who I am, except that lately I feel more and more like blowing apart. I thought that doing this, getting my freedom, and casting spells in front of anyone was what I wanted, but it’s exhausting and terrifying and overwhelming. Everything is just so hard. And I’m making things with Lukas worse. He came all the way here for the tournament, and I just dueled him out of it.

He must sense something of my feelings, because he takes his hand away, but even with everything I’m feeling, I don’t want to be apart. I snatch it back in mine and hold it as if it’s the only thing keeping me from completely zapping apart as the words spill out.

“
I've become what I always feared. A hexing warlock who hurts others, just like my father.”

He grips my hand tighter. “Is that what you think?”

Unable to speak, I nod.

“
Your father hexed people not out of anger, but out of a desire to show Chardonians what they were capable of?”

“
Well, no. He was cruel for his own pleasure.” Too many memories plague me of pain, torment, and fear that he caused Serena and sometimes me or another sister. Of how I'm reaching inside myself and doing similar spells to others. “But I am hexing others.”

“
And how do you feel about it?”

“
Terrible. Like I shouldn't be hurting them. Like the guilt of it will kill me as much as any warlock could.”

His hand brushes against my cheek. “And that is what makes you different than him.”

It's true. Father always did it with the intent to cause pain and that's the last thing I want to do. Not the first time I've heard such words, but they settle deeper this time, perhaps because I've actually dueled now. Seen for myself how I feel and behave during the fighting. “I sill don't like it though.”