The Fiery Heart (5 page)

We took our concrete haul back to Carlton College's campus and began the arduous task of transporting the blocks to a large quadrangle that our class had gotten permission to use. A few of our classmates were working as well, and they helped us carry the centerpiece, which made things a lot easier. Even if it wasn't up to scale with the movie's monolith, it was still a bitch to lift. That left us to bring in the small blocks, and our conversation quieted as we worked. We were both tired and glad to be nearly done for the afternoon. The actual painting would happen tomorrow. It was Rowena's specialty too, and we wanted to be ready and fresh to make the most of our strengths in this project. It was cool out, but the sky was clear, leaving nothing between the sun and me. That was why I'd consented to the early time, sparing me from the worst of the light. I'd be able to rescue Hopper from that witch soon and then go home in the hopes that Sydney could get away.

Once all the blocks were on the quad, Rowena grew obsessed with arranging them perfectly. I didn't care at this point and busied myself texting a message to Sydney on the Love Phone, letting her know that my art was a paltry thing compared to the brilliance of her beauty. She texted back:
This is me rolling my eyes.
To which I replied:
I love you too.

“We could do this,” said Rowena, setting three of the smaller blocks on top of one another. “Mini-monoliths.”

“Whatever you want.”

She decided against it and started to lift the top one. I'm not entirely sure what happened after that. I think it was just a subtle shift in her hand gone wrong. Whatever it was, the block slipped from her grasp and fell hard—slamming her hand between it and the brick-covered ground below.

Her scream rang through the diag, and I moved with a speed that would've impressed Eddie. I grabbed the block and lifted it, but as I did, I knew it was a little too late. A few tendrils of spirit told me she'd broken some bones in her hand. And in those split seconds of chaos, I acted. It was her right hand, and breaking it was going to put her out of commission with painting for the rest of the semester. She could do intricate, delicate things with watercolors that I could only dream of. No way could I endanger that. I sent a burst of spirit into her hand, drawing from my own life energy to mend the bones. Healing usually felt like a tingle to the recipient, and I could tell from the shock on her face that she had noticed.

“What did you do?” she gasped.

I fixed my eyes and sent out a burst of compulsion. “Nothing,” I said. “Except move the block. This is a pretty traumatic and confusing experience for you.”

Her eyes glazed over for a brief moment, and then she nodded. I let go of the magic, the sudden emptiness within me the only indication of just how much I'd pulled out for the healing and compulsion. With the tingling gone from her mind, Rowena cradled the afflicted hand as our classmates came running over.

“Holy shit,” said one of them. “Are you okay?”

Rowena winced. “I don't know. It doesn't feel . . . I mean, it aches . . . but nothing like when it first hit.”

“You need to see a doctor,” the same guy insisted. “It might be broken.”

Rowena flinched, and I could guess that the same fears I'd felt were running through her head. I knew there was no permanent damage but had to play along because it was the reasonable thing to do.

“Give me your keys,” I told her. “The campus clinic's open.”

Triage got us in quickly, since having a thirty-pound concrete block fall on you was pretty serious. But after an examination and X-rays, the doctor simply shrugged. “Everything's fine. Maybe it wasn't as heavy as you thought.”

“It was pretty heavy,” Rowena said, but relief filled her face. I even thought I caught a glimmer of tears in her eyes as she looked at me. “I guess you just got the block off fast enough.” There was no sign that she remembered that burst of healing.

“Because I'm manly and brave,” I said solemnly.

They discharged her, and as we were leaving, her girlfriend, Cassie, showed up. Rowena was pretty, but Cassie was a knockout. She flung her arms around Rowena, and I shook my head ruefully.

“How in the world did you pull that off?” I asked.

Rowena grinned at me over Cassie's shoulder. “I told you: My wit and charm are always on.”

We made arrangements to finish the project tomorrow, and I headed back to my apartment. I hadn't used such an intense amount of spirit in a long time, and the rush was heady. The world was full of life and light, and I practically floated on air when I walked inside. How could spirit be a bad thing when it made me feel like this? I felt glorious. I felt more alive than I had in days.

I picked a random record from one of the boxes. Pink Floyd. Nope, not in my current mood. I swapped it out for the Beatles and then threw myself into my self-portrait with a renewed vigor. Or rather, portraits. Because I couldn't stop. My mind was abuzz with ideas, and it was impossible to pick just one. Color flew fast and furious onto the canvas as I experimented with different concepts. One was an abstract of my aura, the way Sonya and Lissa always said it looked. Another was more accurate, as realistic as I could manage from a picture on my cell phone, save that I painted myself in reds and blues. On it went.

And bit by bit, the energy began to fade. My brush slowed down, and at last, I sank onto the couch, feeling drained and exhausted. I stared around at my handiwork, five different paintings, all drying. My stomach rumbled, and I tried to remember when I'd last eaten. A muffin with Rowena? I was getting as bad as Sydney. I put a pizza in the microwave, and as I watched it cook, my mind began to spin with thoughts of a different nature.

Sydney's birthday. How could I have forgotten it? Well, I hadn't forgotten it. I had the date burned into my mind, February 5. It was the logistics of getting her a gift that had eluded me. Turning toward the haphazard boxes of records, I stared at them with dismay, suddenly hating them for the dent they'd made in my monthly funds. Sydney had been right about how foolish the purchase was. What could I have bought for her instead? I imagined a dozen roses showing up at her dorm anonymously. Maybe two dozen. Or even three. Equally appealing was the thought of a diamond tennis bracelet on her slim wrist. Something subtle and classy, of course. She'd never go for anything too outlandish.

Thinking of diamonds made me remember Aunt Tatiana's cuff links. I ignored the microwave beeping that it was finished and trotted off to my bedroom. The cuff links were still sitting out, a dazzling array of red and white fire that glittered in the overhead light.
Sell these and you'd have allowance for life
, Sydney had joked. Not just allowance or my car payments. I could get her a present. Presents. The roses, the bracelet, a romantic dinner.

No. No dinner, nothing in public. The thought descended heavily on me as I contemplated our future together. Could we have one? What kind of relationship was this, grasping at these stolen moments? She was too reasonable to do this forever. Eventually she'd realize it was time to let it go. Let me go. I put the cuff links back in their box, knowing I could never sell them and that I was in the full throes of a spirit crash.

It happened with these bouts of magic. I'd barely been able to drag myself out of bed when I'd brought Jill back. The toll of wielding so much life was just too great, and the mind crashed from the high. Well, mine did. Lissa didn't have these dramatic ups and downs. Hers was more of a steady darkness that lingered with her for a few days, keeping her moody and melancholy until it lifted. Sonya had a mix of both effects.

My little brooding artist
, Aunt Tatiana used to say with a chuckle when I got in these moods.
What's gotten into your head today?
She'd speak fondly, like it was adorable. I could almost hear her voice now, almost see her standing there beside me. With a shaking breath, I closed my eyes and willed the image away. She wasn't here. Shadow-kissed people could actually see the dead. Crazy people only imagined them.

I ate my pizza standing at the counter, telling myself over and over that this mood would pass. I knew it would. It always did. But oh, how the waiting sucked.

When I finished, I returned to the living room and stared at the paintings. What had seemed wonderful and inspired now seemed shallow and stupid. They embarrassed me. I gathered them all up and tossed them into a corner on top of one another, not caring about the torn canvas or wet paint.

Then I hit the liquor cabinet.

I'd made good progress on a bottle of tequila, sprawled on my bed and listening to Pink Floyd, when the bedroom door opened a couple hours later. I smiled when I saw Sydney. I was adrift on the buzz of tequila, which had effectively muted spirit and taken the edge off that terrible, terrible low. That wasn't to say I was bright and peppy either, but I no longer wanted to crawl into a hole. I'd defeated spirit, and seeing Sydney's beautiful face lifted me up even more.

She smiled back and then, in one sharp glance, assessed the situation. The smile vanished. “Oh, Adrian” was all she said.

I held up the bottle. “It's Cinco de Mayo somewhere, Sage.”

Her eyes made a quick sweep of the room. “Is Hopper celebrating with you?”

“Hopper? Why would—” My mouth snapped shut for a few moments. “Oh. I, uh, kind of forgot about him.”

“I know. Maude sent a message by way of Ms. Terwilliger asking if someone was going to come for him.”

“Crap.” After everything that had happened with Rowena, my dragon fosterling had been the last thing on my mind. “I'm sorry, Sage. Totally slipped my mind. I'm sure he's fine, though. It's not like he's a real kid. And like I said, he's probably loving it.”

But her expression didn't change, except to grow graver. She walked over and took the tequila from me, then carried it to the window. Too late, I realized what she was doing. She opened the window and dumped the rest of the bottle outside. I sat up with a jolt.

“That's expensive stuff!”

She shut the window and turned to face me. That look drew me up short. It wasn't angry. It wasn't sad. It was . . . disappointed.

“You promised me, Adrian. A social drink isn't a problem. Self-medicating is.”

“How do you know it was self-medicating?” I asked, though I didn't contradict her.

“Because I know you, and I know the signs. Also, I sometimes check up on your bottles. You made a big dent in this one tonight—much more than a social drink.” I nearly pointed out that technically, she was the one who'd made a big dent in it.

“I couldn't help it,” I said, knowing how lame that sounded. It was as bad as Angeline's “it's not my fault” mantra. “Not after what happened.”

Sydney put the empty bottle on the dresser and then sat beside me on the bed. “Tell me.”

I explained about Rowena and her hand and how the rest of the day's events had unfolded. It was difficult staying on track with the story because I kept wanting to meander and make excuses. I left out the part about despairing over birthday gifts. When I finally finished, Sydney gently rested her hand on my cheek.

“Oh, Adrian,” she said again, and this time, her voice was sad.

I rested my hand over hers. “What was I supposed to do?” I whispered. “It was like Jill all over again. Well—not quite as bad. But there she was. She needed me, and I could help—then when she noticed, I had to make sure she forgot. What else was I supposed to do? Should I have let her break her hand?”

Sydney drew me into her arms and was silent for a long time. “I don't know. I mean, I know you couldn't
not
help. It's who you are. But I wish you hadn't. No . . . that's not right. I'm glad you did. Really. I just wish it wasn't so . . . complicated.” She shook her head. “I'm not explaining it correctly. I'm no good at this.”

“You hate that, don't you? Not knowing what to do.” I rested my head against her shoulder, catching the faint scent of her perfume. “And you hate me like this.”

“I love you,” she said. “But I worry about you. Have you ever thought about . . . I mean, didn't Lissa take antidepressants for a while? Didn't that help her?”

I lifted my head swiftly. “No. I can't do that. I can't cut myself off from the magic like that.”

“But she felt better, right?” Sydney pushed.

“She . . . yes. Kind of.” I had no problems with “liquid healing,” but pills made me squeamish. “She
did
feel better. She didn't get depressed. She didn't cut herself anymore. But she missed the magic, and so she stopped the pills. You don't know what it's like, that rush of spirit. Feeling like you're in tune with every living thing in the world.”

“I might understand it better than you think,” she said.

“It's more than that, though. She also stopped because she needed the magic back to help Rose. What if I needed it back? What if it was you who was hurt or dying?” I gripped Sydney's shoulders, needing her to understand my desperation and how much she meant to me. “What if you needed me, and I couldn't help you?”

She removed my hands and held them between hers, her face tranquil. “Then we deal. That's what most people do in the world. You take your chances. I'd rather have you stable and happy than risk your sanity on the slim chance a concrete block will fall on me.”

“Could you sit by if you had the ability to help someone?”

“No. Which is why I'm trying to help you.” But I could see the conflict in her, and I understood her anxiety.

“No pills,” I said firmly. “This won't happen again. I'll try harder. I'll be stronger. Have faith that I can do this on my own.”

Hesitating, she looked as though she might keep arguing the matter, but at last, she nodded in resignation. She drew me down to the bed and kissed me, even though I knew she didn't like the taste of tequila. The kiss managed to be both tender and intense, and it reinforced that connection between us, that burning sense I always had that she was made for me, and I was made for her. I showered her with kisses, wishing I could do a lot more than that. Surely if I could just drown myself in her, I'd never need alcohol or pills of any kind.