by Mary Taranta
“How can I possibly trust you after this?”
“Because Cadence likes me,” he says, smirk thinning before disappearing. “We became friends on the ride out of Brindaigel. She’s a good girl, Faris.”
And Alistair is just the type of boy Cadence would attach herself to: handsome and well read, and with the kind of power she’s too innocent to fear. A poor replacement for Thaelan and yet, I can’t discount his cleverness or his desire to survive.
Because I recognize the shaking hands, the faltering confidence. He doesn’t want to go back to Brindaigel any more than I do. Only this time, Bryn chose me and he’s the one with something to lose.
Standing, I lean over him, palms braced to the table on either side of his shoulders. “Don’t ever threaten me or my sister again,” I say softly, savoring the way he shifts beneath my tone. “You help me and I’ll help you, or I will leave you behind to rot in that dungeon. Do you understand?”
His arrogance dissipates, exposing the raw desperation underneath. Even so, Alistair cocks his head and forces a smile that frays at the edges. “Is that a promise?”
A man clears his throat and I pull back with a blast of guilt and adrenaline. Chadwick stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised with unspoken judgment of the scene he’s interrupted. “His majesty wishes to speak with you,” he says to me.
Alistair raises an eyebrow, confidence restored as he takes another drag of his cigarette, but I feel flustered, smoothing my bodice as I hurry for the door.
“I want a room with a window,” Alistair calls as I turn into the hall.
I don’t look back.
Chadwick leads me outside, across the courtyard and down a set of stairs into a stone cellar full of enormous barrel casks and old brewery equipment. A long table stretches the length of the room and North sits on top of it, feet dangling, hands loose between his knees. He glances up when I enter, eyes sliding down to the dress I wear before they return to my face. Wordlessly, he shoves himself to his feet.
Chadwick bows his departure and leaves.
I hover in the arched doorway as North rubs a hand through his hair. “I’ve sent for a spellcaster to help us with your mother’s spell,” he says. “She’ll be able to put protective wards on you as well, to keep the infection at bay.”
“Thank you.”
“If it starts to hurt,” he says, “if you start to feel like it’s spreading . . .”
“I’ll tell her,” I say.
He nods, looking away, fingers splayed across the edge of the table. “You saw your sister.”
“Only for a moment,” I say, with a surge of anger. “Not nearly long enough. Your men seemed to think I was a threat.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t disagree.
I am a threat, at least to him.
North rubs his mouth. “I have a choice,” he says, and begins to pace a short line along the length of the table. “I can eradicate the plague and save Avinea.”
“At what cost?”
“An alliance,” he says bitterly. “I marry Miss Dossel and recognize Brindaigel as a sovereign nation in the heart of my own. Borders are to be drawn, Perrote’s to be given the executive power of a king, a seat on my council, and all the legal rights granted therein. And when our bloodlines are joined, it will start a new lineage of magic.” He sighs. “One with roots in both families, inheritable by either. We both become legitimized and my children will be raised as experts in the art of assassinating family members who stand in the way of their crowns.”
The room sways around me. “And the alternative?”
“I need magic,” North says helplessly as he returns toward me, his boots scuffling across the stone. “Withholding it is an act of war, but Perrote won’t fight here. Which means a battle in the mountains, in unfamiliar territory, with no army and no money against a man with magic, an amplifier, and a fortress built to withstand attack. Meanwhile,” he continues darkly, turning around again, “Baedan now has my blood and a plan to kill Merlock. A war with Brindaigel would guarantee she finds him before I do.” Sighing, he pounds the table in frustration before leaning against it, both hands laid flat. “What am I fighting Perrote for if Avinea is to fall anyway?”
The silence squeezes against the walls and the rafters overhead.
“They want an immediate wedding,” North says at last. “Perrote will withhold all magic until it’s legal and sent to every country with an arm in the Havascent Sea to be recognized.” Shoving away from the table, North stalks forward, stopping just out of reach. “Tell me what to do.”
“Can you remove this spell?” I demonstrate my wrist.
His expression is answer enough. Of course he can’t. Bryn will continue to use me to safeguard her own life and to hurt him in any way she can, even after she has a crown and a kingdom and a child to teach all the ways she knows how to hurt.
“Perrote has agreed to grant your sister’s freedom as a wedding present,” he says. “But until then . . .” His eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry.”
I reach for the table, desperate for balance. There’s a long time between now and an immediate wedding, with Bryn and her father holding Cadence in their hands.
North edges closer, gently lifting my chin. “Faris.”
I shake my head, pulling away from him. “You’ll marry Bryn,” I say. “You’ll get the magic you need, the weapon you want, and you’ll share a corner of Avinea with another king. You don’t need me to tell you that. And when you’re strong enough, you’ll attack and take back what’s yours.”
“I don’t—”
I cut him off, pressing my hand to his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the soft shiver of the spell beneath it, and then, even deeper, the rhythm of his heart. “This is what will save Avinea,” I say. “You will. Heal this heart however you can and then guard it with everything you have because she will know whenever it bleeds. She will know the ways to make that poison spread through you until you can’t fight it back. She will hurt you in every way possible and I . . . I can’t be one of those possibilities.”
“I can’t marry her,” he says softly.
“You have to,” I say. “It would be selfish to sacrifice the whole to save the few.”
He ducks his head. “Don’t say that.”
“You don’t have to love her,” I say. “You just have to marry her.” My voice breaks and I wait before continuing. “The skill is in cheating.”
North reaches for me but I step back. “The young man who rode in with Perrote,” I say.
“Pembrough.”
“Yes. Ask him to stay.”
North’s expression hardens. “Is that your request?”
“Make it yours,” I say. “He’s worth your time and whatever expense he’ll claim he needs.”
“Then it’s done.”
“Thank you.” I turn to go, but North intercepts me, curling his little finger through mine. Despite myself, I rest my hand against his chest again, drawn back to his heartbeat. He’s dressed in black, as always, and I love that, that Northerly peculiarity of his. And I love this, his breath warm on my cheek and the way he looks at me as if I’m someone worth risking a kingdom for.
“Faris,” he says. “I need you.”
But I hate this, the truth and how it always hurts.
“You saved my life,” I say, “and I can never repay you for that, or for honoring your promises to me and my sister. And I will do whatever I can to help Prince Corbin find his father and save Avinea. And as my king,” I continue, my voice wavering, “you owe me nothing for that loyalty. But as my friend—as North—I ask you to remember that not all hearts are protected by magic.”
Dropping my hands, I force myself to back away, to put space between us. “You don’t need me,” I say. “Maybe you want me, but there’s a difference, North, and it’s the difference between winning a war for Avinea or losing a battle we fight alone. Because we cannot fight it together. Not while Bryn has any power over either of us.”
“North—”
“This is not a choice I make in haste,” he says tightly. “I know the risks, I know the consequences. But I see now how imbalanced I’ve been, like shadow without light, or faith without hope.” Closing his eyes, he whispers against my lips, “Having a heart is not a weakness, Faris. It can only make me stronger. The spell will hold until we find my father, and then . . .”
And then. It is tantalizing in its possibilities.
But I’ve heard this argument before, the night Thaelan died, when I didn’t insist on one more day—one more day that would have saved his life.
I don’t resist as North kisses me again, but when I hear the echo of his heart joining mine, I know I must, before the damage is irreparable. I have to be my own iron now. No curses, no wishes, no spells to make it easier.
I wish—
No. I break away from his lips, from the hunger in my blood awakening to the power in his. Avinea needs its king more than I need to feel his skin against mine. I am not the seedling he needs to save this kingdom and I cannot allow this feeling to grow. Don’t be selfish, I tell myself, don’t be cruel.
Don’t be human.
I force myself to meet his eyes. “But I don’t need you,” I say, and it’s almost a relief.
I’m stronger than I thought.
I walk out of the cellar, refusing to look back. I can’t, because I am human, and I’m weak, and I want him, every last inch of him, and if I look back now, I’ll never let go.
By the time I reach the courtyard, I’m running, crashing onto a stone bench half hidden behind a curtain of flowers. North’s kisses have drawn out lines of poison beneath my skin and I rub at them, hating them, hating myself because even now the temptation to return overwhelms me. I can’t do this, I think; I want more, even if it kills me—even if it kills Avinea.
But slowly, the threads of desire unwind and the infection doesn’t spread any further, proving that I can do this.
I have no choice.
The sun rises overhead, painting the pale stones of the monastery in shades of gold and shadowed reds. A deeper red catches my eye, made of satin, not of sunlight. Bryn stands on the open second-story promenade, her hands extended across the balustrade. Her eyes meet mine as she arches an eyebrow, a coy, knowing smile carved across her face, as if she overheard every word in the cellar.
I stare up at her, still rubbing my arm. North once told me the difference between being infected and turning hellborne was as simple as a choice, a decision whether you saved your soul through sacrifice, or you let it turn sour with selfishness and greed. The infection might be in me but the poison is all inside her. And Avinea will never be safe until every last line of poison is eradicated.
Bryn shifts, breaking into a smile as two of her father’s men approach, a third figure huddled in between them. Blond hair, blue eyes, and a wariness that never existed before.
Cadence.
Fury ignites in my veins as Bryn greets my sister and pulls her close, ducking down to whisper something in her ear. Cadence flinches at her proximity, and I fight the animal instinct that rises up, demanding blood. Bryn can have me, but my sister is mine.
Standing, I turn my back on Bryn’s smirk and head into the monastery in search of Captain Chadwick. Avinea is still out there, I tell myself, and I promised Cadence I would find it. My palms are not on the floor yet, and I am far from defeated.
This fight is just beginning.
Acknowledgments
This journey began four years ago, with Quinlan Lee and the phone call that changed my life. Your unwavering enthusiasm always kept me steady, even when it hurt. I’m so grateful for the brief time we worked together. Josh Adams, thank you for stepping in and taking the helm—and for being an unruffled calm in my constant tempest of worries. Calling myself a member of the Adams Literary family still feels surreal.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a debut author in possession of a manuscript must be in want of an editor. Annie Nybo, you are magic. Faris grew fiercer under your guidance; Avinea more deadly. You knew what questions to ask and what pop culture references to make, and I’m indebted to you for making such a scary-strange process into an absolute dream.
Thank you to Sonia Chaghatzbanian for a beautiful cover that made me cry, and to the entire team at Margaret K. McElderry Books for their work behind the scenes. Faris might not know where home is, but I have never doubted that it was here with you.
I’m fortunate that my family has never asked if, but only ever when, this day would come. Y’all are too many to name, but I love each one of you. Mom and Dad, while it might not say Bowman on the cover, you know it’s in my blood.
Catherine Nieto, Alex Taranta, and Nicole Taranta had to deal with me daily while on deadline, and to them I say: I’m sorry. But also, I’m so grateful you were there to celebrate every milestone.
Audrey Rawlings has handled hundreds of my e-mails, ranging from the panicked to the pleased, with all the patience of a saint. If you’re ever magically enslaved by a tyrant king, big sis, you bet your ass I’m coming to save you.
I owe a debt to my critique partner, J. K. Smejkal, who loved Pem before anyone else, and who made this book better, period. And thank you to the ladies of Kick-Butt Kidlit, and to the friends I’ve made through The Swanky ’17s. It’s a comfort to know you’re not the first, the last, or even the only one to stress out every step of the way.
Finally, this story would be incomplete without its love interest. Eugene Mathew Taranta the II, I adore you. Thank you for all those evening walks, long talks, and color-coded lists written on your marker board. I would be imbalanced without you.
About the Author
MARY TARANTA grew up playacting her favorite stories and writing some of her own in the woods behind her family’s farmhouse. Originally from Ohio, she moved to central Florida at the age of fifteen, where she still remains with her husband, two cats, and library cards in two counties.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Mary Taranta
Jacket photo-illustration by Sonia Chaghatzbanian
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Interior design by Irene Metaxatos
Jacket design by Sonia Chaghatzbanian
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Taranta, Mary, author.
Title: Shimmer and burn / Mary Taranta.
Description: First edition. | New York : Margaret K. McElderry Books, [2017] | Summary: “To save her sister’s life, Faris is tasked with smuggling magic into a plague-ridden neighboring kingdom”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016031758 | ISBN 9781481471992 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781481472012 (eBook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Sisters—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Smuggling—Fiction. | Plague—Fiction. | Social classes—Fiction. | Fantasy.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.T383 Shi 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016031758