by Cate Tiernan
“What happened to the other eleven lines?” I asked.
“That brings us to the next important part of our story,” said Daedalus. He stood before the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. “You see—and this is the remarkable part—in addition to having incredibly strong magickal powers after that rite, in addition to never becoming ill and having injuries heal quickly, there was another unmistakable legacy granted to those who had drunk from the Source that night.”
“ They never . . . aged.” Richard’s voice was characteristically bitter.
My hands started to tremble, and I clasped them together tightly. No, no, oh no . . .
“What do you mean?” Clio asked tightly.
Richard looked at her. “ They never aged. Have you not figured this out yet, Clio? As smart as you are?” he asked mockingly.
Ouida smiled sadly. “A woman named Claire is the village outcast. Marcel is the innocent young man.”
I felt cold through and through, and the knuckles on my fingers were white. “Petra . . . she isn’t really our grandmother, is she?” I asked.
Ouida shook her head. “No, not your grandmother. She’s your ancestor, though. You see, Petra was Melita and Cerise’s mother. That night she saw one daughter die and her other revealed as a power-mad monster. She’s been helping the descendents of Cerise’s line ever since. Though Clio was the first child she actually raised herself.”
I looked over at Luc. “Don’t tell me,” I said, sounding as cool and smooth as a stone. “You’re the heartless rake.”
He made a gesture with his hand and looked away, looking tired and almost ill. Which I guessed was impossible—the ill part.
“Let me get this straight,” said Clio. “You are the original eleven. You’re saying you are immortal.”
Eight heads nodded with various levels of enthusiasm.
“I mean, so far, at least,” Richard said.
How could this possibly be true?
“Okay, fine,” said Clio briskly. “You guys are immortal, my grandmother isn’t my grandmother, I understand why my mom died. But why did you want to find me and Thais? Get us together?”
“Because you would complete the Treize,” said Daedalus. “As we said earlier.”
“And that’s important why?” Clio asked, her eyebrows raised.
“So we can re-create the rite, of course,” said Jules. “ Then you can be immortal too.”
Uh . . . okay. I found my voice. “Why do you care if we’re immortal?”
“He would get something out of it,” Luc said, his voice as dry as bone. “Everyone would. Doing the rite would conjure up a huge amount of power—power that could be twisted and shaped to do anything anyone wanted it to. For example, we seem to be incapable of having children. We could change that. Or we could increase even the power we already have. If we reopen the Source, we can save people we . . . love. Save their lives.”
Jules and Sophie shifted uneasily in their seats. Daedalus seemed coldly angry, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he watched Luc. Luc looked directly at me, and I found myself unable to tear my gaze away. “And some of us,” he went on quietly, “are tired of immortality. And we would like to die.”
Epilogue
The airplane intercom crackled. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing a bit of turbulence. At this time, please put your tray and seat in their upright and locked positions. Please make sure your seat belt is securely fastened. The captain has put on the ‘remain seated’ light, so do not move about the cabin until the light is turned off. Thank you.”
Petra turned off her small overhead light and sat with her hands in her lap. Flashes of lightning illuminated the dark night outside, and horizontal lashes of rain streaked across her window. The plane suddenly dropped several feet, and a woman gave a short cry of alarm. A baby started crying.
It began to feel like a roller-coaster ride, with sudden, jarring jumps and drops and general shuddering in between. Across the aisle, a woman started praying out loud.
Petra closed her eyes, cleared her mind of everything, and began to murmur a general calming spell under her breath. Into the airplane cabin she sent soothing tendrils of calm and serenity, easing fears, cooling raw nerves, blunting the sharp edges of fear and panic. She didn’t bother with a protection spell for the plane. She knew it would be all right.
Ten minutes later, the atmosphere inside the cabin had achieved a lulling sense of divine reassurance. The man next to Petra gave her a small smile when another bolt of lightning cracked outside.
“Nature’s fireworks,” he said.
“Yes,” Petra agreed. In fact, Petra was deeply afraid. Not for herself—that was pointless. Nor for the plane and its occupants, whom she knew to be safe. No, Petra was afraid of what might be happening below, 1500 miles away, back in New Orleans. Despite leaving Ouida in charge, Petra felt her base of power in danger of eroding.
The sooner she got back to New Orleans, the better. She had almost finished her mission: Thais would come to live with her, and Petra could keep an eye on both twins. Then she would try to formulate more of a plan, quickly. One that would take the twins away, keep them out of the Treize’s long reach. Right now, only one thing stood between the twins and certain danger, possibly even death. That one thing was Petra.
She hoped she was up for the task.