This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Chelsea M. Campbell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Skyscape, New York
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ISBN-13: 9781477827987
ISBN-10: 1477827986
Book design by Cyanotype Book Architects
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014953210
For Apples. You know why.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
The scents of pine needles and damp, newly turned earth hang heavy in the air. Leora and I make our way past the graves of the dishonored as the warm glow from the oil lamp she carries sways back and forth, sending long shadows up the narrow path leading to the mausoleum. It’s pitch black out and well past curfew. No one is supposed to be here.
Especially not supposed to be creeping around all the fresh graves, all the deep, dark holes the Chasm-bound are buried in, where their bodies rot away in the cold, lifeless dirt. It’s not exactly a secret that wizards have been disappearing around town late at night and that the same number of new graves appear afterward, dug along the farthest edge of the graveyard, as far from the church as possible. The Church might have to take in all the dead, according to the law—no matter how wicked they were in life, or how unnatural their magic—but they don’t have to honor them.
The gravestones are flat and unmarked, but Leora’s eyes move to them anyway, as if she could see who lurked underneath if only she stared at them long enough. “Do you think . . .” She shakes her head and forces her gaze away from the stones. “No, he’s not one of them. I’m sure of it.”
But she’s not sure, not at all. “You hate wizards,” I remind her. Because she does. She hates them as much as I do. Well, almost. Enough to not care if some of them have gone missing.
“I know that, Az. I didn’t say I don’t hate him. And I shouldn’t be worrying about him, not today, but . . . He’s still my father.”
I watch the path in front of me, avoiding stepping on a loose rock, my footsteps silent. Today’s the anniversary of her mother’s death—hence our visit to the mausoleum—and she hasn’t seen her father in years. I’ve never seen my parents. Not that I know of. But even if I don’t know anything about having a family, I know Leora deserves better than the one she’s got. Or at least what’s left of it.
“He’s in the capital, in Newhaven, not here,” Leora whispers, still trying to reassure herself. A twig snaps under her foot, making her jump. “He’s at the High Guild’s headquarters. I mean, he would have written to me if he was coming. He knows where I am. He’s paying for me to be here. By the Fire, it’s not like he doesn’t know where to find me.”
“Maybe that’s the problem. A letter from a wizard at the High Guild? Sent here, to the church?” I roll my eyes. “That would go over well.” Though from what she’s told me about him, I’m not so sure he would have written either way.
She holds out her lamp, hesitating as she scopes out the next part of the path. She’s not used to lurking in the shadows and finding her way in the dark. Not like I am. “Do you think he could have tried to contact me, and . . . and one of the Fathers or the Mothers threw out his letter instead of giving it to me?”
“It’s possible.” But they don’t throw out his money when that shows up. Apparently a wizard’s coins are as good as anyone’s.
“No one’s disappearing in the capital. I mean, no wizards. Ordinary people are disappearing from their homes at night—I know that—and it’s not like I don’t know the High Guild is behind it. Everyone knows. So maybe it’s wrong for me to be worried about him when . . . when so many other people are in danger. But I am anyway.”
I take her hand, letting my thumb brush against her wrist. My skin tingles where we touch, and sparks zap up my spine and back down to my toes. Ever since the first day I met her, being around her has made my chest warm and achy. And I wonder if she feels the same, if the little glances she gives me when she thinks I’m not looking mean what I want them to mean. If every second we’re apart is as painful for her as it is for me.
I’ve lost count of how many times the words have been on my lips, of all the times I’ve been so sure I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from telling her the truth. Not about what I am, but about who I am when I’m with her.
But a chilly gust of wind rustles past us, unusually cold for late spring, filling my nose with the scent of fresh earth again, and a suffocating guilt crawls through my chest. Because Leora might not know who’s in these unmarked graves, or who put them there, but I do. I remember each and every one of their faces, how they twisted in agony as their life drained out of them.
And she’s right, everyone knows about the wizards from the High Guild who’ve been prowling around after the last bell, terrorizing people in their homes and taking what’s not theirs to take. The Monarchy sanctions their late-night visits, turning a blind eye to the cruelty they inflict on innocent people. Everyone might know about the wizards’ crimes, but no one has the means to fight back.
Well, almost no one.
For all the wizards’ power, they’re still only human. It’s so easy for them to lose track of one of their own in the dark, of a partner they thought was just behind them. They never notice one of their brethren slipping off into the night without a sound.
Except sometimes there’s a sound. Sometimes I’m not quick enough, and they get a chance to scream. It’s blood-curdling and beautiful—the only beautiful thing about them.
I shouldn’t feel that way. I shouldn’t like hurting them, even if they deserve it, and I know exactly what that makes me—not just a murderer, but a monster. And I don’t want to be either of those things, but it doesn’t change the fact that I need to be.
I suck in a breath and focus, trying to picture the faces of all the wizards I’ve killed. Of course, I don’t know what her father looks like, but I imagine a middle-aged man with her blue eyes and the same color hair—a deep, reddish brown—and maybe the same thin nose that gets wider at the end. I saw a charcoal drawing of her mother once, and her nose didn’t resemble Leora’s at all. So I picture Leora’s on this image I’m conjuring up of her maybe-father and search my memory for a match.
�
��I’m sure he wasn’t one of them,” I tell Leora, holding her arm steady as she climbs a couple of rock steps, slippery with mud. And I am. Pretty sure, anyway. Wouldn’t I know if I’d murdered the father of the girl I love? Wouldn’t I just know somehow?
She pauses once we’re both at the top, closing her eyes and leaning toward me a little, like she’s going to lean into me and let me hold her. Like she wants me to. And I feel warm all over and I move my arms just a little, just enough to invite her closer. But then she pulls away, and I’m left hollow and raw, wondering if I imagined the whole thing.
“You can’t know that. You can’t know if my father’s alive or dead.” She turns and stalks off toward the mausoleum.
She doesn’t know that I can know that. She doesn’t know that when I tell her I’m sure her father wasn’t murdered on the street, I’m not just saying it to make her feel better. I’m saying it because I’m 90 percent certain that I didn’t kill him.
Okay, 85 percent. But that’s still a pretty good chance that he’s alive.
“Leora, wait.” I hurry to catch up with her, the light from her lantern casting exaggerated shadows across the graveyard. Her footsteps crunch against fallen pine needles, reminding me that we’re not supposed to be here.
Father Moors might forgive her for trespassing, given that she’s visiting her mother’s ashes. But he won’t forgive me for escorting her here in the middle of the night. Even if there’s no way she could know that I had a hand in putting those wizards in their graves—two hands, actually, and a knife—he’d still say it was careless. But even if that was true, it wouldn’t have stopped me from coming with her tonight. The mausoleum might be open to visitors during the day, but Leora wanted to visit her mother in private. Me not going with her wouldn’t have stopped her, and there was no way I was letting her walk through the darkness alone.
“I shouldn’t even be thinking about him,” Leora says, setting the lantern down on the stone steps for a moment. “My mother died five years ago today, and he didn’t even come to her funeral. It shouldn’t matter to me whether he’s all right or not, because he left, and because he loved that damned thing more than he ever loved me.”
That “thing” was some kind of experiment her father was working on. A live experiment, something she calls an abomination. That’s all I know about it, but it’s enough to know what kind of wizard he is. The kind who wouldn’t want to meet me in a dark alley. “You know,” I tell her, “there’s one way to find out for sure. Since you’re so worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
“But if you were, you could always write to him. Even if he’s not writing to you.”
She breathes out slowly through her mouth, shaking her head. Then she puts her hand on the mausoleum door, which has a heavy lock to keep us out. But a locked door can’t stop Leora, not anymore.
A few months ago, the Fire—one of the two primal forces in the world—granted her the power to unlock even the most complex mechanisms.
The Fire gives everyone a gift, a magical ability, when it deems them ready. Whatever that means. Most people get theirs around fifteen or sixteen, like Leora did. Everyone except wizards, that is. Wizards have enough spells, and the Fire condemns their magic and the way they steal life from people to cast it. And if you decide to become a wizard later on, you lose whatever the Fire gave you. Forever.
Pretty much everyone I know at the church and the school has a gift from the Fire. Everyone over fourteen, anyway. I’m not sure how old I am—not exactly—but I’m old enough that it should have happened already. I’ll be the only one not honored at the upcoming ceremony at the church, the one acknowledging everyone who got their ability this past year and what an important rite of passage it is. It won’t just be the other acolytes from the church or the kids from the school, but anyone in Ashbury. They’ll all be moving on, the whole town celebrating how much the Fire favors them. Everyone except me.
Leora closes her eyes, concentrating for just a moment before I hear the lock click. She’s told me before it’s like solving a maze in her mind. She eases the door open, careful not to create too much of a breeze.
The mausoleum glows with light, a stark contrast to the forsaken graveyard. A fireplace takes up one wall. The flames flicker and snap as we enter, bringing a slight gust of wind with us. One of the Fathers will be around to attend to the fire after the next bell—or maybe they’ll send one of the first-year acolytes instead—to ensure that it always stays lit. The other three walls are lined with shelves of urns, made of amber-colored glass and filled with ashes. Tiny flames flicker from the votive candles that visitors have left to honor the dead.
Leora takes a new, unlit candle from a box on the floor and sets it in front of her mother’s urn. “Please protect her from the darkness,” she says, repeating the ritual prayer to the Fire, the force of light and warmth.
There’s a muffled sizzling sound. All the flames in the room ripple, and then a spark flares up on the candle she just set down, blazing to life as the Fire acknowledges her prayer and makes a silent promise to keep her mother’s soul safe within its light. To keep it safe from the chaos and violence of the Chasm.
Tears well up in Leora’s eyes as she watches the light dance across the amber urn, illuminating her mother’s ashes inside. “I miss you,” she whispers. “I miss you so much.”
My throat aches, and a bitter taste fills the back of my mouth as I look away. I hate the little tendril of jealousy that slithers through my chest, painful and complicated. I can’t remember my past, but sometimes I wonder why no one’s ever come looking for me.
An image flashes in my head of the day Father Moors found me three years ago. My first memory. I was standing over three bodies, all in blood-soaked blue robes. Wizards. The knife was in my hands, blood sizzling as it dripped down the blade. The stink of burning flesh hung in the air. My mind reeled from the heat of the obsidian as it raced through my veins, turning my whole body hot and feverish. And I was horrified. Horrified because I couldn’t remember what happened or how I got there or who those wizards were, only that they deserved it. And I was horrified because, even though some part of me knew I should feel sickened by what I’d done, I didn’t. I felt good.
I remember how a tickle of euphoria spread through my arms, my stomach, my feet. It crept up my throat and along my jaw until a smile curled my lips, and then I was laughing.
That’s how Father Moors found me. Giddy over what I’d done, but also terrified of it. The laughter only lasted for a few moments, and then I crumpled to the ground, letting go of the knife, my stomach heaving. But Father Moors reassured me that it was self-defense. He said he’d seen the whole thing and I was only protecting myself, that those wizards would have hurt me if I hadn’t done what I did.
He said the Church would protect me, that they could use someone with my obsidian skills, which he believes come from the Fire and are meant to be used. So he found me a place in the Church of the Sacred Flame, and, other than writing to the High Priest about me, he’s kept my secret. He knows where I go at night, though we don’t talk much about it. There’s not much to say, and talking can be overheard. The High Priest has sanctioned what I do for the Church, but his word isn’t law, and getting caught would still mean my life. Father Moors’s, too, if anyone knew he was involved.
But even if Father Moors took me in, that doesn’t change the fact that I was alone when he found me. I had to have come from somewhere, and yet, I don’t think anyone is out there missing me the way Leora’s missing her mother. And her father, even if she won’t admit it.
And if I were dead, would Leora bring a candle to my urn and cry over me, too?
I squeeze my eyes shut and don’t think about it, because even though I wear the red robes of the Church, I have a feeling I won’t end up in the mausoleum. The Fire has to approve these things, and it hasn’t granted me a power yet . . . And I’ve put too many bodies in the Fire-forsaken ground to think I don’t belong there myse
lf.
I picture Leora crying over a grave. Kneeling in the dirt, hurt and betrayed and wondering how her best friend had so much darkness in him without her ever knowing. How he could have been both the person she knew and the monster she didn’t, and how he could have kept so many secrets from her. I watch her now, whispering softly to her dead mother’s ashes, her voice warm and loving and tinged with a raw sort of sadness. The kind that rips you apart little by little if you let it.
I want to tell her I’m ripping apart, too. That I don’t know what I’ve lost, but I know how Father Moors found me, and that even if it really was self-defense, it shouldn’t have felt so satisfying. And it wasn’t self-defense all the other times since then. And I still liked it. Every minute of it.
But I can never tell her the truth, even if it’s eating away at every part of me every second that I’m with her. It hurts to be apart from her, to long so much for something I can never have, and it hurts to be with her, too, to see her smiling at the innocent boy she thinks I am.
I clench my jaw, trying to banish that line of thinking, but it doesn’t work and my fingers instinctively grasp the hilt of the obsidian blade at my waist. I swallow as my skin starts to burn, as the heat creeps through my hand and up my arm. Obsidian comes from volcanoes. From bright lava that pours out of a dark void in the ground. Part Fire, part Chasm, embodying the primal forces of both light and darkness, order and chaos, peace and violence. The Fathers might think my skill with obsidian means the Fire favors me, but I’ve got a different theory. A much darker one.
Sweat beads on my forehead and across my back. I feel like I’m standing only inches away from a roaring fire. The heat crawls over me, excruciating and euphoric at the same time. It hits my brain, making my thoughts swirl together, so that I don’t have to think about the fact that Leora doesn’t really know me. That she could never actually love me.
“Az,” Leora says, her voice quiet and strained as she turns to face me.
I make myself let go of the knife, hoping she didn’t see me getting my fix. My need for obsidian isn’t exactly a secret—one of the few things that isn’t—but she doesn’t know how deep it goes.
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