Three Kinds of Damned

by May Dawson

  Stelly jumps forward to hug me ande steps on the hem of the gown that’s slid around my hips. A ripping sound fills the air just before she wraps her arms around me. The gown yanks away down my hips. But she crushes me against her chest anyway, her cheek pressed against mine.

  For a second, I’m the same limp-armed Tera Donovan who never hugs anyone.

  Then I wrap my arms around her waist and squeeze her back. “Do not make me start naming your body parts in retaliation, Stelly.”

  “You think you can scare me with a nickname?” She pulls back slightly, her expression skeptical, and cocks an eyebrow at me. “My name is fucking Stelly. Do your worst.”

  The fitter bends between us, grabbing the ripped bodice of the dress. “I think this is—”

  “Not going to hold up to the kind of party I like to attend!” Stelly says. “It’s fine. I’ll take it since I wrecked it, and another like it, if you have one. Go on and try the red dress too, Tera.”

  I’m about to protest when someone throws an arm full of dresses over the top of the dressing room door, enough to blot out the light coming in and make the little room suddenly dark. A casual navy dress and a little black dress both fall to the floor, forming puddles of material.

  “Try these too,” Cax calls from the other side. “I thought they’d look good on you.”

  Cax sounds completely normal, and I breathe again. They keep pretending like there’s nothing wrong when I act weird. But that can’t last. Sooner or later, they’re going to realize broken girls don’t fix that easy.

  “You have to admit, my brother has style,” Stelly says. “Not much else, but the boy has style. So, let’s try some clothes on, terrific—”

  She stops herself, but there’s a devilish smile across her lips. I step out of the ruined shreds of the green dress and say, “Throw me the black one first.”

  Stelly grins, clapping her hands together, and then retrieves the dress from the ground. She shakes it out and holds it out to me. The intimacy makes me flash back to old friendships, the kind I had before so much of Avalon was destroyed, and I was destroyed with it.

  My heart aches at the thought that this can’t last.

  But maybe this time could be different. Maybe this time, I should trust.

  4

  That night, Baptina pauses in the hallway as three valets carry a series of boxes and bags toward the room I share with Stelly. “Has Stelly been on a spree?”

  “Yes,” I say, which is true enough even though these things aren’t Stelly’s. When I turn the corner into my room, I glance back to see Baptina’s eyes following me curiously.

  Stelly looks up from my bed, which is covered in clothes, and hands me a big pink paper bag. “I’m glad you’re here to make yourself useful. Fold something, would you?”

  I stare at the pile of clothes on my bed. There must be a dozen pairs of jeans, fifty tops, a pile of sweaters. There are warm wool peacoats in two different lengths and a variety of colors: camel, black, gray, red and white. There are tissue-wrapped cashmere gloves and scarves and matching hats, some of them with fluffy pom-poms on top. Should the Dark Lord’s daughter wear a hat with a pom-pom?

  Stelly begins to open shoe boxes and set shoes on the shelves in my closet.

  “Do you think maybe you went overboard?”

  She waves her hand at me. “I am so tired of seeing you wear the same damn clothes over and over. And I’m only responsible for a quarter of this—the rest is Cax. You know that boy likes clothes.”

  “Cax did this?” I pick up a little black dress from the bedspread At first glance, it looks conservative with its long sleeves and wide boatneck collar, but the sides of the dress are lace all the way down. I’m pretty sure there’s visible side-boob, and suddenly, it’s a lot easier for me to imagine Cax shopping for me.

  “I’m not saying my brother has a crush on you,” she says, glancing slyly at me over her shoulder.

  “How many winter coats does a girl need?” I run my hand over the wool, which is rich and warm under my hand. Last winter, I stuck my feet into plastic bags before I put them in my leaky boots because they I couldn’t afford another pair.

  “Look in my closet,” Stelly says lightly.

  “I’m not you, though.” I sit on the edge of the bed, not wanting to sit on any of the clothes, and reluctantly begin to fold. My stomach is tight. “You have wealthy parents who adore you.”

  She abandons my closet, picking her way through the bags and boxes on the floor, to swing the door to our room closed. When she crosses her arms, she leans against the dark wood door. “You have wealthy friends who adore you.”

  “I can never pay you back,” I say.

  “And I’d be pissed if you tried.” She pulls a face at me; her blond hair is pulled up in a messy bun on top of her head, and the bun bobs at me dramatically. “I wanted to do this for you. So did Cax. And besides that, you don’t look the part you’re supposed to play with those thrift store clothes So be a good actress and accept the wardrobe.”

  I shake my head because there’s nothing else to say, but I feel awful about the excess. Nothing is ever as simple as Stelly and Cax want it to be. People may try to give a gift, but even with good intentions, it’s hard to unravel the strings every box comes wrapped in.

  “What’s really wrong?” Her tone is light, and she doesn’t look at me; she takes the top off a wide box, revealing a pair of tall brown-and-brass riding boots.

  I’d feel so put-together wearing those boots, with dark jeans, and the thick cream-colored wool sweater with brown buttons and leather trim across the shoulder that I just unpacked. I can imagine myself in those boots, with my backpack thrown over my shoulder and my wand in hand, walking to class surrounded by my small pack of new friends. I’d look confident on the outside, and it would seep through to the inside. I wouldn’t give a shit what anyone else thought when they looked at me with that mix of jealousy and fear and curiosity.

  As if footwear can change who you are. I want those boots so badly I’m embarrassed, and I twist away so my back is to her as I unpack. This bag is full of cute tank tops and thin tees in a rainbow of colors.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Nothing, you just don’t want to owe me.” She sounds exasperated. “Nothing, except you don’t trust me to give you a gift.”

  She’s right, so there’s nothing for me to say. Too late, I say, “Thank you.”

  “I’m just being a patriotic citizen of Avalon.” Her voice is flat. “Try these on in the next few days and make sure you like them. I can send them back for something else. But Cax liked them for you, so I think we got them in the saddle brown and the camel and—yep, there’s the black, too, over here.”

  “I’m sure I’ll like them.” I scoop an armful of neatly folded cashmere and cotton sweaters to carry them to my dresser. “I like it all a lot.”

  That’s the truest thing I’ve said today. If it weren’t for the ache in my stomach, the restless tension that this excess gives me, I’d be playing dress-up right now. I haven’t fit in very well around here, with my clothes so obviously from dirtside. Now I really will be able to play the part.

  But I don’t want to play the part of Donovan’s daughter. I want to play the part of the student who fits in here, of Stelly’s best friend and Cax’s crush.

  Will it always feel like I’m just acting a role? Could I actually be Stelly’s friend and Cax’s crush, and not second-guess myself the whole way through?

  “Then why are you making this so difficult?” she asks, with a lightness in her voice that doesn’t take away one bit from how much she means it.

  “I’m just a difficult person, I guess,” I say back, just as lightly.

  For a minute, the two of us unpack. All is quiet except for the snap of shirts being folded and the rustle of clothes being slipped onto hangers. I swallow, wanting to say something to her that will let her know that I really am grateful. I sound like the same old Tera Donovan who can’t take a gift and do
esn’t trust a soul.

  The words are so hard for me to say that my lips part twice before I finally blurt out, “But I am wildly appreciative, Stelly. And not just for the clothes.”

  “I’m wildly appreciative for someone to dress up,” she says.

  “I had fun today.” It was overwhelming, trying on clothes that Cax and Stelly threw at me, but it was sweet too. I’d enjoyed going out for dinner after, chatting with Airren, Cax, and Stelly, drinking a few glasses of sweet wine and having endless small plates of the traditional Avalon seafood that I haven’t eaten in ages. They’d headed to that restaurant without any discussion, and Airren told the host we had a reservation. Somehow, it seems they’d known how much I missed lobster chowder and lemon-seared cod and raw oysters, foods that were staples at our family table.

  It was a thoughtful restaurant choice, and I shouldn’t feel as awkward as I do about asking who showed me that kindness. But I do.

  There’s a knock on the door. Stelly is closest, so she picks her way between the boxes and bags littering the floor. Beyond her, a familiar, broad-shouldered frame fills the doorway. There’s only one person in my life that massive, sexy, and unsmiling all at one time.

  Mycroft.

  “I’m running downstairs to get us tea,” Stelly calls over her shoulder.

  “I don’t like tea,” I call back, which sounds ungrateful, and isn’t even true. I don’t want her to abandon me right now. Stelly might embarrass me in front of the guys—I think of all the potential nicknames for my breasts that she hasn’t used yet, and I’m suddenly okay with her departure—but I don’t know what to do with the sudden sweep of restless energy whenever I’m near Mycroft.

  I pick up another t-shirt to fold, although I’m all thumbs now, and I shake it twice trying to get the sleeves to fold in neatly before I throw it back onto the pile.

  Mycroft closes the door behind him. He eyes all the boxes, then the pile of clothes still on the bed.

  “What?” I ask, carrying an arm full of dresses to the closet. This morning, my closet was barren. There were literally two things hanging on the bar—my navy blue interview dress, which never landed me a real job, and my sweatshirt—and my extra pair of sneakers looked forlorn and lonely on the wooden shelves. Now it looks like Nordstrom exploded into my closet.

  “Hello to you too, Tera.”

  “Oh, don’t say hello like you’re judging me for not saying hello.” I drop one of the dresses as I try to hang multiple hangers at once, and when I bend to rescue the dress, I drop two more. Could I be any clumsier then he’s around? I hug the rest of the dresses to my chest as I stick my head out of the closet. “Not when you’re already judging me for my clothes.”

  He pulls the chair out from my desk and sits, bracing his bicep on the seat back. He lets what I’ve just said linger while I keep putting hangers on the bar. It’s only when I step out of the closet that he asks, “Do you feel like I should judge you?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  He shrugs one shoulder. I’m not worth the effort of shrugging two shoulders, apparently. I wonder what he would say if I told him that I missed him today?

  I’m not brave enough to find out.

  Plus, right now I’m having a tough time remembering why I missed him.

  “Stelly can do some serious damage to a store.” I begin picking up bags from the debris scattered around our room.

  “Stelly can do some serious damage to anything.” He leans over and grabs up a handful of bags too, stuffing them into one another.

  I hesitate. Earlier, I couldn’t tell if she was teasing me in a friendly way or a mean way. Sometimes it seems like everyone speaks a language I’m supposed to know, but forgot. I’m not sure if I’m more afraid that Stelly is going to hurt me or that I’m going to hurt her.

  And I’m terrified about the same thing when it comes to the guys, including this man in front of me who’s built like a tank and who seems like he should be able to take any damage I can dish out. But I don’t think that’s true. I think a Donovan can wreak a whole lot of damage.

  My father’s already taken things from Mycroft. Padrick Donovan has broken and twisted and changed him with grief, and I can’t be responsible for one more loss. If I were Mycroft, I wouldn’t want me anywhere in his life.

  But I can’t say anything about that, either, so I take the bags from him. When our fingers brush, Mycroft’s shoulders stiffen.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, by my pillow, as far as Mycroft as I can get without hiding in my closet again. “Serious damage, huh?”

  Mycroft’s gold-flecked brown eyes meet mine. “The Romans are reckless. They think life is supposed to be fun.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I think expecting life to be fun is a good way to get yourself hurt.” Mycroft sets my egg in its small wooden crate on my desk.

  I nod. I don’t think he’s wrong.

  “I’m done babysitting,” he says.

  I’m not sure if he means the egg or not. “Okay. It’s only a priceless dragon’s egg…”

  He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Now that I’ve been a total killjoy. I did come with something fun.”

  “I’m already listening to your advice,” I say lightly. “I didn’t expect anything fun.”

  “You don’t expect anything fun because it’s me, and that annoys me.”

  I don’t know what to make of that, but thankfully he pulls a box out of his jacket and holds it out to me.

  It’s a cardboard arrowhead box. I glance up at him. Mycroft shoots a bow—which is hard for me to imagine—but is he going to invite me out to go shooting with them?

  “It’s all I had,” he says impatiently. “Sorry. Open it.”

  I pull the box top open. Inside is a necklace. It’s dainty and silver, and at the bottom hangs a sphere of pave diamonds. It’s small and cool to the touch, but the heft of it is satisfying.

  “It’s an egg.” His gaze is intent on my face. “For the girl who found something rare and set everyone talking.”

  “Thank you.” I release the clasp and slip the chain around my neck. I try to close the latch, but Mycroft rises from his seat.

  When his big hand falls on my shoulder, I let him turn me around. At least my face is to the window, not to him, when I smile. There’s something about the bossy, familiar way he touches me that warms my chest.

  Cool metal runs through my fingers as he takes the necklace from my hand. I pull my hair up in a loose bun on top of my head. He slips the necklace around my neck and latches it, then hesitates. One finger tentatively brushes over the back of my neck, low on the right. The touch makes my back arch, desire sparking, before then I realize his fingertips rest on my scar.

  “Hold her down. Get her down.”

  I breathed in the smell of my own burning flesh as they branded me. I’d thought magic was dead Earthside, but the wand pressed against my naked skin convinced me magic was only gone for me. I tried to scream, but no one came. Maybe it was because no one cared, or maybe because I could barely draw a breath as I was pinned heavily against the cold concrete sidewalk.

  His thumb caresses the mark. “You know, this can be covered.”

  “Old wounds can’t be healed. Even I know that. But thank you.” My voice comes out low and dull. “It’s a kind thought.”

  “I can find out who did this.” He runs his thumb across the name, and heat is threaded through his low voice. “I can run down who was connected to this name.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I step away, letting my hair fall between us, covering the old scar. I’d almost forgotten about it. Except here, I wear a name that someone might know. The people who marked me were kids, not much older than me; maybe one of them is a classmate now. I wouldn’t recognize their faces if they stood next to me in the cafeteria; all I remember of that day is a blur of fear and pain, dark mouths and angry eyes. “Thank you for the egg.”

  Mycroft knits his arms across his chest. There
’s anger in the set of his jaw. “Tera. I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t understand what?” I push my hair back behind my ears, making sure to cover the back of my neck and shoulders, and smile brightly at him. Can’t he understand why I want to leave the past behind instead of fighting it? I want to believe that if I stay here long enough, the memories will fade and my magic will bloom again.

  He shakes his head and looks away from me, looking out the open windows. Cool fall air drifts in, carrying the crisp scent of the leaves and of wood smoke; through the windows, red and golden trees wave under the light of the moon.

  He has something he wants to say to me, but he can’t. I know all about that.

  “It’s been a long day,” I say. “So I guess I should go to bed.”

  “You’re sure you’re okay sleeping alone?”

  “I have Stelly.”

  He grunts. Apparently, he doesn’t consider Stelly much of a bodyguard.

  “Do you think I’m in some kind of danger?” I ask.

  “Any particular danger? At the moment? No.”

  “You sure know how to wish a girl a good night.”

  “I don’t like you sleeping where I can’t watch over you,” he admits. “Someone’s hurt you before, Tera. I—” He breaks off.

  “And now they don’t even have to travel for it.” When I rest my hand on my shoulder, my fingers slip beneath the neck of my shirt to find the raised wound. Emel Wist. Someone’s brother or father, someone’s son. Someone who was loved enough for a teenager to come through the portal, hoping that enough charge would hold in their wand to brand the name into my skin. The night they did this to me, I’d twisted to see the words in the mirror; the name was written in fine script, thin and delicate red threads against the bright pink of my damaged skin.

  I hadn’t looked at it since.

  “Grieving day was supposed to give our country a chance to heal,” he says, frowning. “But they keep coming after you.”

  “Maybe for the sake of Avalon, I should’ve stayed Earthside,” I say.