by Tracy Deonn
Alice returns as I part my thick damp hair into sections.
“Okay in there?”
“Yeah. Just realized I need to wash my hair.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.”
Silence. She doesn’t leave. I’m okay with that, because I want her company. Not just anyone’s. Alice’s.
She must be thinking the same thing, because from the other side of the shower curtain I hear her say, “Okay if I chill in here? You seem pretty rattled.”
“I had the same idea.”
“Jinx, then.”
I rinse my hair out and start on conditioner, proud that I know the next step without having to think about it.
There’s another step I need to take tonight too.
“Hey, Alice?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry. About the Quarry. On some level, I knew you’d go if I wanted to go and I guess I just decided that was okay. I know the dean called your parents, and I can’t imagine what they said. I’m just… sorry for my part in it and sorry that I yelled at you and”—tears well up in my eyes, and my hands are too sudsy to wipe them, damnit—“said those things. That was unfair and wrong.”
Alice sighs. “I’m sorry too. It was my decision to go to the Quarry, not yours. I shouldn’t have jumped on you about your classes and about being here. I was just angry and worried.” A pause. “Which is what I am right now, by the way. Worried on the way to terrified.”
I dunk my head under the faucet. Pull water through my clumpy curls with shaking fingers. Section again, apply shampoo.
“You gonna tell me what happened tonight?”
I knew she’d ask, but the question still rocks me. I have to press both hands against the shower tile to stop the tremors. I’m clean, in the physical sense. But I still feel dirty.
“Bree?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images I’d tried to bury flash by too quickly: the sharp rise of Nick’s chest when William pushed aether into his body; Sel, in a dark, bitter rage, ripping the arms and legs off the dead uchel and throwing them into the woods; the way the hounds’ bodies just… dissolved after a while. The memories threaten to suffocate me, just like the ones from the night my mother died.
“I can’t.”
Another pause. The shampoo runs into my eyes. Stings.
“Trust me. Please?” I ask, so quietly I’m not sure she can hear it over the water. It gets harder to breathe. The hot tears of After-Bree burn behind my eyes.
“Fine.” She doesn’t sound angry, but she leaves without saying goodbye or good night.
The door clicks shut, and that something inside me breaks again. A rush of air leaves my lungs, like I’ve been holding my breath for hours and hours.
Then, my skin bursts into flames.
I slap my hands against the walls, the tile floor, but nothing stops the bloom of red climbing my fingers to my elbows. Bloodred fire ignites at the tips of my fingers and races to my elbows in a loud whoosh. Even under the water, the blaze grows brighter and wraps around my elbows like glowing vines.
The fire scalds my skin without burning, flickers over my nose like wild butterflies.
Spots in my vision bleed from tiny black dots into swirling obsidian pools. I fall to my knees, hand splayed across the tiles, heart pounding against my rib cage.
Mage flame.
That’s what this is.
It’s not silver-blue like Sel’s or the Legendborns’, or green like the hounds’, but it’s still mage flame.
Knowing what it is doesn’t explain why it’s here.
Why it’s the sickening, raw color of a fresh wound.
Why the flame feels like it’s coming from inside me.
The only beings I’ve seen leak flame from their bodies are demons. Sel already thinks I’m Shadowborn. If he sees me like this—
“Oh God,” I whimper.
There must be other explanations: It’s my body’s delayed reaction to the Oath. It’s Sel’s aether still lingering on my skin, turned sour from my resistance. It’s something the uchel put in me when he opened me up. Any could be true, or none. The bottom line is the same: If I can’t explain what’s happening, then I have to find a way to control it, because if I can’t control it…
You know I will, don’t you? Kill you. And you know I can.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Find my barrier. Shape it into every image I’ve ever used to contain After-Bree and her explosive, dangerous rage—and then some.
A wall made of brick. Made of steel. With bolts the size of my fist.
A blockade a mile high.
Tall enough to contain a giant, strong enough to hold back a god.
A bank vault with two-foot-thick bulletproof doors.
Unbreakable metals, uncrackable surfaces, unscalable heights.
I push all of me behind all of them.
No fissures, no seams, no way in or out.
I shove and heave and cry until I’m safe behind my wall.
And when I open my eyes, the flames are gone.
18
WHEN I WAKE up, my head is clear. I’m tired, but I feel like myself.
I slip my satin scarf off and tug on a few damp curls. Let the shiny strands wrap around my fingers, then pop back into place.
My arms look normal again. Familiar. Ordinary.
Except what happened last night was not ordinary.
I review Nick’s explanation in my head: Aether is an element in the air. Mage flame is the byproduct aether creates when it’s called into a solid state. Awakened Scions and Merlins can call aether for various uses. These things I’ve witnessed. But I’ve been so busy learning about the Order and what they can do that I haven’t really taken stock of what I can do.
Sight? Resisting mesmer? And as of last night, Oaths? The more I learn about Oaths and their role in the Order’s structure, the more I agree with Nick that I shouldn’t advertise that ability. But these are passive, quiet things. Easy to hide.
What happened last night was not a quiet thing. And if it happens again around the chapter, I don’t know if I’ll be able to hide it.
Rule Four. Never, ever let anyone see aether pouring out of my skin like burning blood.
My phone rings. I frown. It died at the Lodge and I don’t remember plugging it in last night.
“I charged your phone for you.” Alice is across the room, dressed and sitting at her desk. “Saw it was dead. Got you breakfast, too.” She points her chin at a paper bag on my desk.
As soon as I see it, it’s all I can smell. Biscuits. Still hot.
“You got me Bojangles?”
“Charlotte offered to pick it up.”
We stare at each other in uneasy silence.
“Gonna answer that?”
“Yes.” I reach for my phone and almost immediately wish she’d let it stay dead. “Hi, Dad.”
“Briana Irene. Explain yourself.”
I grab the Bojangles.
The thick scent wafting up from inside the paper makes my mouth water. Buttermilk biscuit–Jesus, take the wheel.
“I should have called you. I forgot. There’s just been a ton going on.”
It’s not just any biscuit. It’s a Bo-Berry Biscuit, thank you Lord. “Bless you,” I mouth to Alice. She smiles and sits down at my desk chair looking very pleased with herself.
“Oh, really? Like what?”
“Started hanging with some kids.”
“And how’s that going?”
Every question leads me right to my doom, I just know it.
“Fine.”
“Fine like getting sent to the dean’s office fine? Like ending up in the back of a squad car fine?”
“It was just a warning…”
Alice raises a brow. Disapproval from two directions. I angle my phone away and whisper, “Don’t you have a class to go to, or something?”
She smiles. “I’m free until ten.”
My father continues in my ear: “You say you’re gonna call me
back, but you don’t. Then I find out you were out late at some party?”
I sit back in alarm. “What party?”
Right. The fake party that Nick and/or Sel made up for my mesmer.
“Right, that party.” I’m resigned to getting in trouble for things I didn’t do because I have to hide the things I did. Wait, how did—
“Getting in late again last night?” That shocks me. The only way he’d know about that was if—
“Alice has been keeping me updated, and thank God for that. If I had to rely on you to tell me, who knows when I’d find out the truth.”
I’m too shocked to respond to my father. All I can do is stare at my friend.
“You told him?”
A cold spear of resentment drives through me from head to toe, but it fades some when she throws her hands up and screeches, “You scared me!” at the same time my dad admonishes me with, “Don’t get mad at Alice now! That’s a good friend you got there.”
Ganging up on me, the both of them. Now I know why she decided to sit through this call.
“What’s gotten into you, damnit? You doing drugs?”
“What? No, I’m not doing drugs.” I stare meaningfully at Alice, who has the grace to grimace.
My dad’s done leading me to the edge. He sounds done, period. “Then what is going on, kiddo? Talk to me.”
Alice must hear his request because her face goes expectant, just as I imagine his has. I sigh. This I can’t deal with, on top of everything else. There’s no way I’d tell either of them what I’m up to with the Order, not after last night. “I’m sorry. I’ve just… got a lot going on. I promise I’m okay.”
Except not really. Mage flame pouring out of your skin isn’t really okay in either of these two worlds I’m in.
“A lot like what?” My dad wasn’t letting me off the hook.
Think, Bree. “Dean McKinnon hooked me up with this peer mentor, perfect student kid. He’s supposed to check in with me all the time.”
My dad grunts. “The dean did say he was going to see to it you’d get on the right track with some sort of model student type.”
The best lies are a little close to the truth. “Nick’s dad went here, so he’s some sort of UNC royalty. He got me into one of those old invite-only student groups. Big house, rich kids. Like debutante, cotillion-type stuff, but for college students?”
Except instead of learning which fork to use, we’ll learn to fight demon hordes.
Across from me, Alice raises a brow. My dad grunts again, but he doesn’t pursue it. Instead, he shifts gears. “Bree, I’ve tried to give you space since Mom died, but I think that was a mistake. It’s time I step in.”
A ripple of anxiety runs down my spine. “Step in? Step in how?”
“You’re going to counseling. I’ve set it up with Campus Health. They got you in quick, since you’re a minor in the program.”
My heartbeat picks up. “I’m not going to therapy.”
I can tell by the surprise on Alice’s face that she didn’t know about the therapy part.
“Oh, you’re going.” His voice is as stern as I’ve ever heard it. “Or you’re coming home.” He lets that sit, then says, “Well? I’m waiting for an answer.”
I search for an excuse, but none comes up.
“Fine.”
“Twice a week.”
My hands squeeze into fists. “Twice a week.”
“Starting today.”
“Starting today?” I shout. “I have classes, Dad. Homework.”
He is unmoved. “Every Wednesday and every Friday, young lady. I sent Dr. Hartwood your class schedule. Get this: I was reading through the counselor profiles on the website and saw she got her undergrad degree right there at Carolina. Got her on the phone and asked about the timing and sure enough, she was there when your mom was.”
I grip my cell phone tighter. “This doctor knew Mom?” Alice straightens, interest plain on her face.
My father’s voice softens for the first time on the call. “Sure did, kiddo. Said they had a few classes together, believe it or not. Thought that was real nice, so that’s why I picked her. That and she’s a Black gal; not too many of us on that website.”
“Wow,” I murmur. My brain churns through the possibilities. Someone who knew my mother while she was here. Someone who may have a clue about how she got on the Order’s radar…
He takes my silence for worry. “If you don’t like her, we can switch—”
“No! I want to meet her,” I say, and flash Alice a thumbs-up. She relaxes more than a little bit and gets up to gather her school binders and books. “It’ll be good for me.”
* * *
I wait until Alice waves goodbye to go through the deluge of notifications from last night.
Four calls and a voicemail from Nick. Eleven texts, also from Nick. I start in on the Bo-Berry Biscuit and listen to the voicemail: he sounds slightly out of breath. “B. Tonight was—I guess I just wanted to check in. I’m glad you’re safe. I—I don’t know where to start. Call me. Please. Or text. Whichever.”
Not very specific, but maybe he was in the infirmary with listening ears nearby. The texts are more of the same.
He had tried to find me. He had been worried.
He’d called me “B.”
I suddenly feel sheepish, like reading his words and letting them wash over me like this is… embarrassing. Alice is gone, but I’m sitting on my bed feeling exposed. And warm. Good. Fuzzy. For no reason at all.
Maybe that’s why his last text, sent at 2:32 a.m., is so alarming: You need to forfeit. I’ve been away for too long and things are worse than I realized. I’ll find out what happened to your mother. I swear it.
After all I’ve seen, I’m tempted to take him up on his offer. But then again, if his people are at war, where will my mission fall on the priority list, really? My fingers fly over the screen: I’m not quitting
I watch him type. Stop. Start again. Stop. Then:
Thought you might say that.
I grin.
He texts again. The chapter’s hosting dinner at the Lodge tonight at 6. They want all Pages there. Come by an hour early. There’s a room where we can talk in private.
That “no reason at all” heat swims through my chest.
Yeah, no problem
Sure, we need a private place in the secret society’s semisecret house to talk about our supersecret infiltration and reconnaissance partnership.
Perfectly reasonable.
* * *
Patricia Hartwood texts me as soon as I arrive at my first class.
Hi, Bree! This is Dr. Hartwood. Your father arranged for us to meet regularly starting today. What do you think about meeting somewhere on campus? It’s a beautiful day!
That sounds good. Where?
How about the Arboretum at 2pm after your Plants of the Piedmont class? Seems appropriate, the Arboretum after botany!
Adult texting humor is the worst.
Okay! is all I can muster, but inside I can’t wait to meet her. What if she’s the key to helping me unravel the mystery of my mother?
* * *
Alice was right. Plants of the Piedmont really is a slacker class. The TA sat in the corner and played around on his phone while we “watched” the fifty-five-minute-long, super-dated educational video he insisted would help prepare us for next week’s test. Then he dismissed us early for no reason in particular, so I arrive at the Arboretum before our appointment time.
The Arboretum is much bigger than I’d realized. The herb garden sign says that it’s home to more than five hundred species and cultivars. My mother would have loved it. As I walk, I imagine a younger version of her coming here for visits between classes, taking secret clippings and tucking them away in her purse. I turn a corner and stop daydreaming.
A black granite table sits in the middle of a quiet grotto, and underneath it leaks a steady stream of mage flame.
It’s thinner than the thick ribbons that had coiled aro
und my arms in the shower and much, much lighter. Pale yellow instead of rich crimson.
The table sits in the middle of a circle of dark brown and black soil and mulch. Underneath, bronze figurines reach their hands high to the thick granite tabletop as if holding its weight up in the air. The figurines are staggered in rows that disappear under the slab, giving the impression that there are more bodies lifting the table than the eye could ever see. Steady wisps of aether stream between their arms and legs and waft over the damp earth like golden mist.
“They put the table here for folks who want to read, study, or rest. And yet I find it difficult to sit here and do anything else but get sad.”
The voice comes from a hidden corner of the grotto.
A stunning Black woman with graying locs sits on a stone bench, a late lunch spread out on the empty space beside her. A brightly patterned shawl with alternating burgundy and yellow tassels lining its edges drapes her shoulders. Her eyes are the color of warm, rich earth, and her oval face is a deep brown. She peers at me from behind a set of bright yellow horn-rimmed glasses. I can’t tell how old she is, of course, because Black women are magical like that. She could be forty or sixty, or some number in between.
“Are you—”
“Dr. Patricia Hartwood.” A wide smile spreads across her face. It makes me feel lighter, brighter. “You must be Bree.”
I study this woman as if examining her face, really leaning into that simple act, could somehow bring me closer to my mother. Like maybe there’s a new piece of her hidden in this woman’s eyes. A crumb of life still preserved in someone who knew her in a way I didn’t. I find I’m desperately, uncomfortably hungry for whatever she can give me.
She looks back calmly, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
My eyes find the table again. “Why does this make you sad?”
“Take a closer look.”
I walk between two of the stone seats until I’m less than a foot from the slab. When I crouch, mage flame billows into warm clouds around my ankles. The figurines aren’t identical, like I’d assumed from far away, but they have several things in common: natural kinky hair. Broad, strong noses. Full lips.