“It’s never a good time.” He raises his voice again. “Mama, Jess has something to ask you. You don’t have to turn around, but try listen, okay?”
His mother doesn’t respond, but her singing dies down to a hoarse whisper. She’s still swaying in her chair, hugging herself, her dirty gray hair swinging from side to side. I look at Daniel, wait for his nod before I speak.
“Mrs. Rodriguez? I’m a friend of your son, and, um, we were speaking earlier…”
I glance at Daniel, not sure where to start. He shrugs.
“Um. I don’t know if you perhaps know my mother’s… friend… Ingrid Waymond?”
No response.
“Well, what happened is, Ingrid has been telling me about the different types of magic, and how there are these keeper clans who specialize in different types of magic…”
Daniel’s mom stops singing, her back suddenly rigid. Her hands, I see, are gripping the desk in front of her.
“So, the thing is…” I continue when Daniel gives me another slight nod, “I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me something about these keepers? Daniel says you used to tell him they were guardians, protectors of magic, and—”
I don’t get to finish my sentence because Daniel’s mother slams her hands on the table, giving us such a jolt that we both take a step backwards. “No! They are not protectors! That is a lie, lie, lie!” she hisses.
I give Daniel a panicky glance, unsure of what to do.
“Mama,” Daniel says gently, stepping closer again, “remember when you used to tell me about the Skykeepers guarding the magic of the sky, and the—”
“There is no magic of the sky! There never was! It’s a lie. A greedy lie. Sebastian was right! He was right!” She begins to sway again, back and forth, her voice now taking on a sing-song quality. “What magic, the sky? How can sky create magic? Sky is a place, an empty place. Such clever words they use. So clever. So greedy. That is what Sebastian saw. That is what I couldn’t see!”
She laughs joylessly, a low, bitter cackle.
“It is the sun that creates the magic. The sun. And the air, the oxygen, the air of this planet! That’s what he said, but I wouldn’t listen to him. What is sky? Sky is nothing—it is a place, a word, a greedy, greedy word, a word that confuses! Everything is sky. Even their greedy, dying world has sky. But this place…” Her voice lowers to a whisper, a kind of low mumble, and I lean forward, desperate not to miss a word. “This place has a sun! A young sun! A living, young sun, not giant yet, not like theirs, and it will live for millions and millions of years, creating its lifemagic.
“And keepers? No! They are not keepers! What do they keep except their greed, what do they guard except their own hunger? They are thieves—thieves! Greedy for the magic. Hungry is what they are. Hungry and greedy, as greedy as the magical children of this living world! Lifemagic is the best magic, the strongest. Everybody knows that.”
She hugs herself, tightly, then begins singing to herself in a soft low hum.
I wait for her to continue but she doesn’t. After a few moments, I turn to Daniel, rounding my eyes at him: What now?
He shrugs: No idea.
But I can’t just leave it there. She obviously knows something. How do I get her to explain things in a way I can understand?
“Um. Okay. Mrs. Rodriguez,” I begin again, searching for the right words, “I’m sure you’re right. We probably shouldn’t call them keepers or guardians. But could you tell me what they are? Ingrid said—”
“Ingrid!” She spits out the word, her voice filled with contempt. “Ingrid can do nothing. She is powerless! Her clan is destroyed—her monsters will help nobody now. It was a desperate hope anyway, a kind of dream. What will keep them here? Why would they stay? After all this, what treasure will be left?”
She pulls at her hair, shaking her head. Even with her back to me, I can sense her anger and frustration.
“It doesn’t matter anyway. They’re all dead now. The masters of the sky, they said, the masters of the sea, of earth, blood and fire! It was all lies and desperation. Desperation! Even Bella died. She died right here, in this town! And Sebastian thought she was so strong; he was so sure she would become the one the Seaprophets foretold. We were fools to put our hopes in that dream. Fools…”
It’s such a shock to hear my mom’s name from this woman’s lips that I gasp out loud. I can hear my heart thundering in my ears, and in the gloomy half-light of this strange place it’s as if the walls are closing in on me. I struggle for breath, feel myself begin to sweat. It’s all too much: the smells too strong, the space too narrow, the air too thick.
In the sudden quiet, Daniel gives me a questioning look, and I nod.
“Mama,” Daniel begins, his voice incredibly gentle, “we don’t really understand what you’re telling us. Could you perhaps slow down a bit? Help us understand?”
She doesn’t say anything, still doesn’t turn around. But she must have heard him because she shakes her head, just once, decisively. A clear “No.”
“Please, Mama.”
“It is useless.” Her voice is a hoarse whisper. “I cannot help. Everything inside is broken; it’s too sharp, too much, confused. I cannot talk, cannot think. They say I’m crazy now, a crazy old woman. Did you know?”
“No, Mama—”
“I let them in. That was my mistake. So sad. They got inside, inside, and they smashed it all. Everything jumbled now. Broken up into many pieces. Too many pieces. Too many, too sharp, always cutting, hurting me.”
Daniel’s eyes begin to glisten, and I know I can’t expect any more from him. I squeeze his hand quickly before addressing his mother’s back again.
“Mrs. Rodriguez, I know this must be difficult. But it’s very important to me. You see…” I fight to keep my voice low and reassuring. “Bella? The woman who died? She was my mother. And I want to ask her all these questions, but she’s gone. And I don’t understand anything, and I don’t know who to ask—”
The woman freezes, and then she makes a strange, disturbing sound, a high squeak or a squeal, a sound I associate with pigs being slaughtered. She starts visibly shivering, shaking from head to toe, and then, slowly, she moves her chair back. When she turns to look at us, she is so close to me in this narrow space that her hand brushes against mine.
The force of her energy hits me like a blast.
Oh dear God.
It’s a ragged, jagged, shattered rush of power that flares through me, stinging, hurting, pricking, like a million shards of broken glass. I try to cry out, to step away, but I’m caught too deep in the vortex of this damaged energy to move.
Fragments of pain and confusion and sadness. A white palace glittering in the snow. All the colors of sunlight. The sharp sting of betrayal. A boy tumbling from the skies. The howling sounds of animals dying. A memory of faraway mountains. The agony of loss. Shards of pure hatred. The smell of earth. A beloved face, ruined and bloody. Stars burning in forgotten galaxies. Sharp, icy oceans of pain. Endless mourning.
This, and then more—more, more, more—rushes through me until I’m drowning, sinking, completely overpowered by the raw, broken energy radiating from the woman touching my hand. It rolls over me, cold and stinging, full of sharp edges; it pushes against me, surges through my skin, enters my body like a rush of freezing water. I can’t breathe, can’t speak, I’m lost in the shards of a broken power that flares up inside me in a thousand tongues of frozen fire. I scream with the agony of it, a silent scream of pure, icy pain.
And yet…
It is still power.
The power is flawed, broken and cracked, but it is still power.
As it fills my body with its sharp, fractured splinters, I can feel its force feeding my own hidden source of strength, that secret well of power deep inside me. And although it hurts, I realize that I want it.
I want it.
I am hungry for it; I have always been hungry for it.
Starving.
I s
top fighting, accepting the pain that comes with these broken splinters of energy, freely giving myself over to the agony of it. And then, finally, I welcome it, sucking it deep inside me in greedy, excruciating gulps.
Why should one such as I be afraid of a little bit of pain?
Why should I reject such delicious power, simply because it’s broken?
These little needles of pain cannot harm me; I am far too strong.
I am immensely strong, and I am ravenous!
This is my birthright; this is what they owe me, all of them.
This is mine!
The rush is so painfully luscious that my whole body begins to burn in a mixture of agony and ecstasy. I feel invigorated, more alive than I have ever felt. And my mind, oh God, my mind is suddenly crystal clear, exhilarated, formidable. I suck harder, more, I draw it all in…
Ah!
This feels so good.
I feel myself stumbling, intoxicated by the sheer joy of consuming all this raw energy. And as I become stronger, I suck harder, deeper, until I feel the rush becoming less powerful as the vessel slowly empties.
I don’t stop.
I won’t stop! I suck harder and harder, I suck her dry until…
A long white silence.
Stars against a black night.
The smell of rain on the air.
*
“Jess! Jess!”
I am faintly aware of Daniel screaming my name, shaking me, but I only really come back to reality once he slaps my face, hard.
I have no idea where I am.
“Daniel?”
“Oh my God! Are you okay?”
I don’t know. I try to make sense of my surroundings, but I’m too confused and disorientated. “What…?”
I’m in a dark room, sprawled against a stack of musty old books. Daniel is leaning over me, his face frightened. I try to move but I can’t because I’m trapped by… magazines? I’m stuck in a very small place, surrounded…
It all comes back in a flood of confused thoughts and jumbled images.
“What happened?”
“I think you had some kind of fit.”
“A fit?”
“I don’t know—you froze up, and then you began shaking and your eyes rolled back in your head, and then you fell. Are you feeling okay? Can I help you sit up?”
“I’m okay. I think.”
He holds out his hand to me and I let him pull me into a sitting position. For a second, I’m overwhelmed by dizziness, and then I’m fine.
Better than fine.
I feel strong and clear and filled with an intense sense of wellbeing I’ve never experienced before. I smile, then laugh out loud, delighting in the feeling of strength and rightness.
It’s a fantastic feeling. Better than fantastic. Intoxicating.
“Dani?”
The voice comes from behind us. Daniel’s eyes widen in shock, his mouth gaping in surprise. At first I’m confused, but then I remember what he once told me: his mom hasn’t spoken his name in years.
“Mama?”
Daniel’s mother is frail and pretty and looks surprisingly young despite her gray hair. She has unusually light blue-green eyes, and she’s staring at Daniel as if she hasn’t seen him in years. “Estoy soñando?”
“No mami.”
“Por qué está tan oscuro? ¿Dónde estoy?”
She steps closer to him, reaches out and presses the palm of her hand against his cheek. She’s smiling, her face filled with wonder and a love that’s almost painful to witness. Daniel stands absolutely still, a hopeful, disbelieving, desperate look on his face.
“Is it really you, Dani?” she asks as her eyes slowly fill with tears.
He nods, unable to speak.
“Where have you been? You’re all grown up!”
“I’ve been here, Mama.” Daniel’s voice breaks as he begins to cry. “I’ve been here all the time.”
“I missed you so much, my sweet, sweet boy.”
“I missed you too, Mama.”
And then Daniel’s mother wraps both her arms around her son and holds on to him like someone who has waited her entire life for this moment, this embrace.
Chapter 16
Such dark Transformations, however it may seeme to be a continuate outcome, may yet be avoided if the Juvenile is diligently drilled into magick from earliest childhood. Conversely – If such training is left too late, a Juvenile may gain such power as is most violent, so that the ferocity of Bears, Wolves, Lynces, Tygers, Lyons, Elephaunts &. will be nothing in comparison.
Upon this good hope I therefore doth proceede: that no Keeper of the Black Clan shall forsake their duties, allowing a Juvenile to grow into the easy ways of a human childe. For once such freedoms doth take hold, no Spells, Charmes, Amulets, Ligatures, Philters or Incantations could ever undoe the damage, and the savagery to followe will surely only be halted by the sworde of a Slayer.
From A Full Treatise on the First Protocols (1658),
author unknown
This is what I remember of the rest of that day.
I know that Daniel phoned his father, who arrived home minutes later with screeching tires and a desperate, painful look of hope on his face. I remember the way Daniel’s mother kept touching her husband and son, as if she could not trust her eyes, and the way they tried to thank me, stammering and shaking. I remember that Daniel avoided my gaze and my touch, his eyes suddenly different. I remember that I tried to speak to them but that the words of this language felt strange and clumsy on my tongue.
I was lost in an ocean of power, and it took everything I had not to drown. To remember who I was.
To not let go.
I remember that I sat quietly to one side for a while, smiling at the little family, pleased to be there. I enjoyed the intensity of feeling all around me: the tangled, crackling energy of an uncertain new beginning.
I remember that at one point my focus slipped, just for a moment, and that I was pulled into the ocean of power crashing inside me by a current too strong to fight.
I remember that I gave in to that power without further struggle.
That I allowed myself to dissolve in its embrace.
*
After that I can only remember fragments and impressions, snatches of feeling and bursts of color, but whenever I try to recall any specific detail my memory is unfocused and weirdly out of sequence.
I remember the awe on Daniel’s mother’s face, and then the panic. I remember her pleading with me, on her knees, and that I allowed myself to be led out of her house so that she could lock the door against me. I remember that Gunn arrived pulsing with an unfamiliar, violent kind of energy; that there were whispers in the dark and loud screams coming from inside the house. I remember a fire and the sound of sirens, somewhere not too far away.
I cannot remember how all these events fit together, or in what order they occurred. I did not care, was hardly even aware of what had happened. I was lost in a haze of pleasure, floating on a euphoric high.
The feelings and fears of the humans barely even touched me.
I arrived back at Ingrid’s house at some stage, somehow, and I remember the way the house looked, different and wonderful, with bright lights blazing out of windows that had not been lit for years. My keeper, too, was ablaze with a thrilled, panicked kind of fury, beside herself with a mixture of excitement and fear. What have you done? she kept crying, but I could not answer, did not even understand the question.
The Seakeeper was more respectful: he fell to his knees the moment he saw me, overcome, offering his power to me like a martyr offering his body to the flames. But I did not accept his sacrifice. I stepped away from that temptation, instinctively fighting my ravenous nature. I could wait.
Starved and deprived as I was, I could wait.
There was no need to use him yet.
I was strong enough. Far stronger than they knew.
I could not stop smiling, drunk with the secret, delicious knowledge of m
y own immeasurable strength.
The house was filled, I remember, with an unfamiliar sense of chaos and urgency. There was the constant, frantic ringing of phones; the sounds of footsteps outside the front door; a loud, incessant knocking; raised voices; violence. Gunn, I remember, was bleeding at one stage and his blood seemed beautiful to me. Ingrid had a shotgun, and it was fired, more than once.
Could it be true that someone brandished a sword? Surely I wouldn’t have imagined such a bizarre detail, in spite of the state I was in. I remember not caring too much about the violence, to the point where I began to laugh when more fights broke out, ridiculously enough, here, in the home of my keeper. The aggression of these humans were too petty to hold my focus, nor did I care what happened to those strangers. I was not interested in who they were, or why they had trespassed onto my territory. They could not hurt me. They were nothing to me.
I was far more interested in the desire I saw burning in Gunn’s eyes whenever he glanced at me, the way he avoided my touch so desperately, the way it took three men to pull him away when I finally got tired of waiting and reached out to claim him.
He could do nothing to resist me; would have killed to be with me.
I let them pull him away, in the end, but not before I saw his overwhelming, clawing hunger finally shatter that tiresome control I have grown so weary of. I believe they locked him up too, because I heard his cries of rage and frustration long into the night, I think.
There were other people—armed guards and a man in a gray suit who kept talking to me, saying things, words that meant nothing to me. I laughed in his face, ignoring the disapproval in Ingrid’s worried eyes. I was not interested in old men; I was not interested in anything except the feeling of finally being free to be what I was.
Oh! The sheer, intoxicating rush of being alive!
I don’t remember anything else very clearly, except how marvelously high and thrilled and vibrant I felt. I loved having so much power, and the power loved having me. I was blooming, flourishing, drunk and expansive and untouchable in my joy.
The air itself was hazy and shimmering and melting with the pleasure of being breathed through my lungs.
Ordinary Girl (The Dark Dragon Chronicles Book 1) Page 16