by Anne Zoelle
“Can it...be repaired?”
“Yes.” The tattoo slipped from underneath my skin and slithered back up his finger, disappearing beneath his sleeve. “I would recommend a healing coma. However, you would be out for a minimum of three days and the Department's healers would have a look.”
“No.”
He nodded, as if my response had been expected. “With this level of damage—internal damage, repeatedly battered—natural, slow healing is the best method. With therapy, you will be good as new.”
“How long?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks?”
He tapped the knuckles of his left hand. “As long as you don't overtax anything, yes.”
I stared at him. I couldn't wait two weeks for my magic to work itself back to normal.
That I could maybe now get into the Library of Alexandria without worry was an unwelcome and idiotic thought under the circumstances.
“Can I do anything to...speed that up?”
“There are always methods for speed. They are usually not in line with a healthy path.”
I'd made sacrifices before. I could cut a few corners.
“If you make those choices, your magic may never work quite right again,” he added idly.
I looked at him sharply. “Like overtaxing it now could make me not a specific type of mage anymore?”
“No, much of that is incumbent upon the way you view things and your mental processes. It might just never let you do something again with the ease with which you've become accustomed.”
There was going to be a balance here, a tightrope that I would have to walk. I didn't have to be at full strength to go after Olivia. I didn't have to use the full extent of my magic to do so either, if I focused on cleverness and cunning rather than brute strength and overwhelming magic.
“Things that are already drenched in my magic...could I, like, bathe in those?” Could I dump an entire tube of paint over my body and let it work its magic?
He looked amused. “You could. And while you are waiting for the paths of magic to reconnect between the “drenching” and your cores, you can enjoy excruciating pain while watching some very pretty world-ending fireworks.”
“So...that one goes in the “break only in case of emergency” category?”
His smile slipped. “There are many things that go in that category.” His gaze lifted slightly—to my crown, where everyone who knew Raphael's magic well always looked—then dropped to meet my eyes again.
I recoiled from him, immediately and sharply.
I'd had an “older man, awesome, safety crush” on Doctor Greyskull since he'd gotten my Ewok reference when I'd been recovering from Death #1. I'd never questioned my instinctive liking of the man and how my magic hummed alongside his when he was fixing me.
But now... Now that I was looking for it, and with the very large clue he'd just given me, I could see it. The same sorts of magical connections that Marsgrove and Raphael had, and that I was sure I'd find on Stevens, now that I knew where to look. Affectionate threads that were worn, frayed, and aged.
Another mage who had been friends with Raphael at school.
He sat back and held his hands down and away in a position meant to reassure me he wouldn't attack. His gaze was steady, honest, and infinitely accepting of my horrified reaction. “It is beyond time that you knew. Do you have questions?”
“You...you were friends?”
“Yes,” he said, voice steady. “Very good friends, at one time.”
Doctor Greyskull had been nothing but helpful to me, and the pained look he had given as he'd scanned my magic, told me he wanted to fix all that was broken within me. But...
“I can't trust you,” I whispered.
He smiled. It was a little sad. “It is best you trust yourself. Know that I will always help you here in Medical and on campus.”
“That is...awfully specific. And if we are off campus?”
“Something you don't need to worry about for a few years, no?”
“Sure,” I said strangely, off-footed. The world had tilted and I had to gain my feet again.
“I could reassure you of my positive intentions off campus as well, but... Well, maybe it is best for you to place your trust in your own generation. I, too, want to help old acquaintances...get better.” The skin between his brows pinched. “Perhaps at the expense of newer acquaintances. Such is the tangled web woven between friends and family.”
Of anything, him telling me not to trust him—and that he might help Raphael over helping me—made me relax more than any denial he could have given.
Trustworthy, no, but honest. Honest about his own loyalties.
He'd given me a wealth of information in very few statements. That his primary concern was his oath to the University—here, he'd put the students, any student, above Raphael. Off-campus...he might have a different order.
I nodded in acceptance. “Did you speak with him while he was here?”
Greyskull tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. I could see him rifling through internal data, trying to determine when Raphael had been on campus.
Greyskull hadn't been aware of Raphael posing as Emrys. Relief trickled through me.
Perhaps Raphael, too, knew that Doctor Greyskull would not help him hurt campus, or he'd thought that Greyskull might stop him completely.
I saw the grim realization show on Greyskull's face. “Ah. I believe I will need to speak with Phillip, yes?”
I nodded again, a short jerk of my head. Maybe if Marsgrove got raked over the coals by his friend, I could sneak in and nab Olivia's scarf.
Greyskull smiled tightly. “Not here, in his own skin, though?” He didn't wait for me to shake my head. “Not after fall term, he wouldn't be. He's always been quite adept at hiding. At protecting his location. Only once did he fail, and that was because he never saw the trap.” He shook his head. “I've never met anyone better at stealth, and I’ve met a lot of exceptional mages in my line of work, Miss Crown. If he wants someone dead, that person has to be equally exceptional at something pertinent to their own survival.”
“He didn't want to blow Excelsine,” I said, with a sudden, strange need to reassure him. “That was Godfrey. Godfrey said that Ra—that he didn't want campus destroyed.” It was better not to say Raphael's name aloud.
Godfrey's actual words had been, Verisetti may want to coddle whatever pets he has here, but I've wanted to obliterate this mountain for the longest time.
I fiercely examined Greyskull. I wondered if he qualified as a pet.
“No.” Greyskull's smile was tight. “He is very certain in what he wants to destroy. Places where happy memories still exist are generally off limits for his psychopathy.”
“He killed Godfrey.”
“Of course he did. I can put two and two together, now that you've given me the decryption key to today's events, Miss Crown.”
That it had been Raphael on campus at the end.
“It's been a very long day.” He pushed his chair back. “One that I will discuss with Phillip and...others.”
“Marsgrove hates him.” And Marsgrove hated me. “He won't help you aid him.”
I didn't want Dr. Greyskull to help Raphael.
“Phillip maintains a...less neutral position than I do. But there is a far different history between the two of them.” He packed up his materials. “Our actions define our positions, not our discussions. There is a reason, Miss Crown, that Phillip is rarely on campus, and that I always am. He is far more assured of his goals. I find that sometimes a coward’s way is a far more comforting path when friends and family are fighting to the death.” He smiled self-deprecatingly.
“But back to your treatment, Miss Crown,” he said. “Two weeks to return to full strength, but depending upon the connections you maintain and the care you take, you should be ready for normal classwork when classes restart.”
He gave me additional supplements that—but for this conversation—I might ha
ve tossed into the trash with the others. But I believed him. I believed that he would help me on campus. That he held strictly to the lines he had drawn in the sand. That he would do everything to keep me healthy and alive while I walked the mountain's paths as a student.
Off campus... Off campus might be a different story.
He smiled wearily, gaze holding mine for an extra beat before lifting to the top of my head. He exited and said something to the medics who were gesticulating wildly on the other side of the glass. The window went dark.
I took a deep breath and sat back, thinking of my options. Two weeks.
I stared at my hands. Magic wasn't shooting out of my fingertips, but I wasn't without resources.
I rifled through my bag, to the small portfolio that I had brought with me. Lifting it, I looked through the contents.
I had badgered Professor Stevens endlessly about working on paint alone. But she'd never given in. She'd made me work on all sorts of things. Made me imbue my magic into different mediums.
Like paper.
I slowly lifted one of the papers. I had pieced together every fiber of it with my magic. Magic that was awaiting activation.
As my fingers filed through my portfolio, I counted ten sheets like it. Ten sheets made from magic that I had created while thinking positive thoughts—my work with Dare and protection of Olivia had been going exceptionally well at the time of their creation. These sheets would help someone who needed an emotional recharge, and campus was swimming with people in need. The sheets only needed someone to activate the magic within.
I tapped them against my knee, then set them to the side.
Ten more of the sheets were swimming with thoughts of destruction—that had been a less-golden day. Ten more had resolute purpose sown into every fiber—anything one of them was used for would continue until it burned itself into a crisp. And there were dozens of other options in my stashes around campus—my room, Okai, the vault—all created under different constraints and emotions.
I had hundreds of things that I'd already created, and that were available to use. A mage didn't even have to be at half strength to be able to use powerful devices that were already filled with magic. Like the containers in the First Layer. They allowed mages who couldn't use their own magic to use the containers’ magic.
Like I'd said to Olivia back in the Library of Alexandria—normal mages could create exceptional things with time and focus. Just because I was hobbled and couldn't whip out a game-ending spell didn't mean that I was without power or use.
I pulled a blank pad of paper out—no magic in it—curious to see what my charcoal pencils would do without my usual extra mojo flowing through them. After all, I had made the pencils too. I made everything I used. Raphael had initiated that path with my Awakening paint. And I'd become Stevens' student to continue the path. She had made damn sure I had.
I focused on my lines, drafting out a trap that I would recreate with a piece of paper filled with deception later, depending on the outcome of my test. Or I could set it with ultramarine paint when I found the paint tube the vine had eaten. That would compensate for the horsepower that I didn't have.
I'd get this done. I'd get Olivia back. I'd keep everyone safe. And help heal campus. I'd deal with everything.
“You look like shit.”
Startled, I jagged the pencil line across my page and reached out a hand automatically. “You're awake.”
“So it would seem.” Constantine grimaced and touched his cheek, then his chest. The horrible, open gashes that had nearly split his body in half had healed fully half an hour ago while I'd been sitting with him, but Dr. Greyskull had said magical healing couldn't automatically take away the body's phantom memory and pain.
I touched his free wrist, letting the trickle of magic that I had recovered over the past hour flow into him, and put my pad on the edge of his bedside so that I could complete my drawing while still maintaining contact.
He cataloged his injuries, his healing wounds, and his vanishing scars.
“The doctor is competent, at least. Everything is in the right place.”
“He will be thrilled to hear it.” I shook my head and continued drawing.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Constantine touch his forehead, his expression doing something typically complicated. “But this.” He drew his thumb across the smooth, perfect skin beneath his hair—the paint I had laid there had long since disappeared, but obviously something remained for him to feel. “This is not the work of a doctor. What did you do to me, darling?”
I could feel a spike of anxiety beneath his amused tone. Dampening and prodding, like a system that was testing itself, troubleshooting lines of code or the angle of a charcoal sweep, one at a time.
I kept my eyes focused on my page.
“No answer? Even more interesting.”
I had done it reflexively—wiped the ultramarine paint across his brow—when I'd been overwhelmed, traumatized, and barely coherent.
“I'm not in prison,” he mused. In the background hum of the connection, I could feel him still testing and prodding at the magic of the paint. “And there are no brutish-looking guards at the door—the kind that make sure people stay where they are placed. I'm starting to question your judgment.”
I smiled and kept drawing without responding.
He moved his arms, as if stretching sore muscles. “My magic feels...penned in.”
I grimaced. “Campus is on lockdown. Magiaduct-only access for students. It's a good thing that the student medical facilities are underneath the dorms, or I wouldn't be lounging here.”
“Waiting for me to wake like a good Prince Charming.”
“Except that you are the witch.” I sketched another line.
“A far more clever creature.” He stretched again, sheet slipping to his waist as he pushed himself up. “Where is your knight in shining armor? Surely he doesn't know you sit here,” he said, tone as unpleasant as it always was when he spoke of Dare.
I chewed my pencil top and looked up. I was pissed at Dare, but... “He carried you here.”
A tight smile pulled Constantine's lips. “Can't lose his investment. As painful as it has been.”
I watched the emotions play over his face, lightning quick, and said nothing. We descended into silence and I knew he was accessing whatever mental communications he had, updating himself on what had happened while he was out.
“Why are you still on campus?” he asked in a far too casual manner.
After Olivia was taken, Constantine had saved campus from destruction by my hand. When I had thought Olivia was dead, I had completely lost my wits. It wasn't hard to guess I would be going after her.
“My magic is twisted like pumpkins placed too closely together in a patch, then left to rot,” I said. “And the item that has her location...is no longer in my possession.”
Constantine didn't say anything for a moment. He was, perhaps, the only person who didn't require an explanation. He had protected me from enemy fire while I placed the magic into the scarf.
“So, you will be leaving as soon as you recover the item and have enough magic to slip through the protections and patrols?”
“Yes.”
“I am going with you.”
“I know,” I said simply. He hadn't betrayed the entire Second Layer only to give up on his vengeance. “But there are conditions.”
“Saving your roommate comes before my revenge?”
“Yes.”
“Mmmm. I suppose you'll need that confirmation in blood?”
“No, just your word.”
He closed his eyes and leaned back. “Darling, it's like that lovely brain of yours learns nothing sometimes.”
“You'll keep your word,” I said, leaning back, propping my feet up on his bed, and returning to my work. “Feel free to be dramatic about it, though.”
The edge of his lip curled upward even as his eyes stayed closed. “Now I am your entertainment?”
> A piece of my anxiety unfurled a measure. This was normal. I needed normal. “I figure fair is fair.”
“I've never been a proponent of fairness.” But his face stayed relaxed. “What happened to you while I was dozing like the wrong fairytale creature?”
By the time I was finished with the retelling—leaving out the bit about Dare's vine—Constantine's mouth held a smile that was concerning. “Praetorian Kaine, hmmm.”
“Constantine...”
“I'm not even going to ask how you got past that test, darling, as I know you are leaving out those details, but as to the other—”
“I'll deal with the Department.”
“No one deals with the Department. Even Stuart Leandred steps softly around them.”
I tilted my head. “Your father seemed quite concerned about you.”
“Yes, as always,” he said dispassionately. But there was something weird about the way he said it.
And as if our words had somehow conjured the man, there was a knock at the door, and the windowpane cleared to show the person on the other side. The knob brightened with magic and turned.
Stuart Leandred, a handsome, distinguished man, looked wrecked as he entered.
“Constantine.” He walked into the room, but his movements were hesitant, as if he were uncertain of his reception. “I was alerted that you had wakened.”
“Stuart.” Constantine smiled thinly. “How good of you to come.”
Stuart Leandred didn't precisely wince, but there was a distinct hesitation under his political expression of cheer. I could see his magic trying to reach out to the healing wards in the room, stopping just short of connecting. Everything about the motion was desperate and uncertain.
I wasn't sure how he was able to be in the Magiaduct during lockdown. Special dispensation because of Constantine's condition, or because of Stuart's connections?
“Ren, darling. I'll see you later.” Constantine gently pushed my foot from his bed. “Don't get into too much trouble,” he said with a falsely casual tone.
I looked between them and quickly gathered my stuff.