“None of that matters.”
“It mattered to Cooper.” Arabella’s voice was quiet now, but hard. “So it matters to me, and it should damn well matter to you. He died so we could break this curse, and we are going to break it.”
“He did not die. He’s still back there. I know he is.”
I clung to that belief, no matter what she said. Everything I knew about the Wicks—going all the way back to Lily and Cayuga Lake—supported them being master illusionists. There was no reason this couldn’t have been another puzzle.
However real it looked and felt, whatever Harry saw, however impossible it was to break.
There’s still a chance. There’s still hope.
We rode on in tense silence, until our phones chimed at the exact same moment; in our rush to leave the Mount Phearson, we’d both brought our regular ones.
We hoped it would be Lydia, telling us that her father-in-law had whisked Phineas home. It wasn’t.
It was a text from Cillian Wick. First there was a picture of Cooper. He was indoors, on a table, mostly covered by a sheet. Otherwise he looked much the same as he had in the maze. The bullet hole was still there. His eyes still stared. Wick had not closed them.
Below the photo was a message:
Care to barter for his remains? That’s more courtesy than either of you showed me when you killed my sons.
Arabella gave it only a quick glance, made one feral sound, then turned her attention back to the road.
“This doesn’t prove anything, you know,” I said. “It’s not like the maze is the only place he can do illusions. Maybe that’s the basement. Think about it. It makes no sense to kill him. If Cillian got his hands on Cooper, he would use him to try to get me—us—to give up the seeds.”
But Arabella had long since run out of patience. “Even that fever can’t explain this much stupid. If Cillian wanted to use Cooper as leverage, don’t you think he would, oh I don’t know, use him as leverage? Make some demands?”
“Maybe that’s next.”
“Would you listen to yourself? Why would he try to convince us Cooper’s dead, then turn around and ask for ransom? What reason could he possibly have for that?”
I had no answer, so I gave none.
Although I never would have admitted it to her, that text shook me as nothing else had. It didn’t matter that I’d been resolving not to give up hope just minutes before. As the hours and the miles rolled past, as Arabella kept doggedly driving toward Boston instead of back to the Wick compound, as the ransom demands I was counting on failed to come, doubt began to seep through the cracks in my battered heart.
She was right; Wick had no reason to lie about this. He had no reason to kill Cooper either—not when he was more valuable as a hostage—but maybe there had been a mistake or a miscommunication. We’d all been shot at on that property before, after all. And by all accounts, Jeeves had a tendency to get carried away.
Could Cooper really be dead?
I didn’t want to believe it. Could not bring myself to believe it.
Then don’t. Don’t think about it at all. Don’t believe in anything.
Giving in to emptiness seemed a better idea than giving in to despair. And it was easy enough to do. I was numb with shock and exhaustion and pain, unfocused, fevered and drifting. It was a simple thing to let all of that take over. A simple thing to float away into a void.
I answered Arabella’s periodic questions about my health in indistinct monosyllables, if I answered her at all. She assumed I was pouting.
That had the added benefit of her not really noticing just how sick I was getting. By the time we parked in a garage near Beacon Hill that night, I was not at all certain I would make it the few blocks to Fenwick Street. Or that I cared either way.
But one thing shook me out of my lethargy: a determination not to let Arabella help me. Not out of misplaced anger or resentment. I was not blind to the fact that if this worked, she would have saved my life, despite my very best efforts to stop her from doing so. And she’d been through the same things I had that day.
I was just so tired of being weak and helpless. So tired of other people carrying me as a burden. And getting hurt for their trouble.
Maybe even getting killed.
My one concession was to allow her to take my elbow, as much for guidance as support. The fever had me so confused, I wasn’t sure I would remember the way.
Apart from that, I was going to finish this on my own two feet.
While Arabella led me through the narrow cobblestone streets, I struggled with all of my usual heart problems and breathing problems and pain. But my bruise, though as vivid as ever, was resolutely unmoving. I saw nothing unusual, even in the periphery, where my hallucinations (visions) always seemed to begin. It was as if the curse knew that some small part of me still hoped that this whole thing was a fever dream. And wanted to rob me of that hope, by making everything feel as real as possible.
“When we get there, you’ll have to be the one to take the bag in,” Arabella said. She was carrying it under her arm; I might have forgotten it otherwise. So much for not being helpless. I nodded, too strained to speak.
Finally we made it to Number Twelve, and I felt a brief pang of fear. I was bringing its mistress home at last—in ashes.
The house would surely be angry.
Let it be angry, then.
There was nothing else to be done. I accepted the bag Arabella thrust into my hands, and walked up the steps to the front door.
I felt it at once, the second I brought Serena’s ashes across the threshold. My whole body seemed to expand, like I’d spent the past few months being squeezed in a great fist that had at last decided to let go.
A wave of cold ran over me, unpleasant for a moment, then refreshing and lovely. I was sweating, but it wasn’t the sickly sweat that had become my unfortunate normal since Halloween. My fever was broken.
I straightened up—I hadn’t even realized how I’d been standing, every bit as stooped as the old hag who’d delivered the curse—and drew in a deep breath.
To this day I feel shame and guilt when I admit it, but in spite of everything—my shock over Cooper, my worry for Phineas, the doubt and grief that were trying to break through my dogged disbelief—that breath felt good. That breath felt wonderful.
The sheer weightlessness of being freed from so many physical burdens felt wonderful.
Living felt wonderful.
Serena’s curse had demanded only that I bring her home. And now I had. The curse was broken.
For one brief, tiny moment, I turned to Arabella and smiled.
Then Number Twelve understood what I had done.
Simply bringing Serena home, regardless of her state, may have been enough to satisfy her curse. But it most definitely was not enough for her house.
I specialized in place-magic, and I was a seasoned veteran of Number Twelve Fenwick Street. I’d used its strange and powerful energy to my advantage before. And I’d trembled before that same energy, afraid for my life. I understood that house as well as anyone living.
But none of that knowledge or experience had prepared me for that day. I’d never felt anything like it in a place before. Because that house had become more than a place. That house was sentient.
As soon as I felt its shudder of awareness, I dropped Serena’s ashes and turned around, pushing Arabella ahead of me.
Of course the front door slammed in our faces. Number Twelve had no intention of letting us go. It was owed. It meant to be paid.
I reached for it with my newly repaired mind.
Number Twelve. You know me.
I kept my promise. I risked everything—and lost so much—to keep it.
I brought her home the only way I could.
The house replied with a rush of hatred and rage so strong, it took my breath away. I almost thought I’d been cursed again.
Don’t.
For a moment all was still. I heard Arabella breathing behi
nd me. The house creaked, as old houses do. But I knew what it was doing. It was inhaling, like a great and terrible dragon.
Then the exhale came.
There was a cacophony of breaking and shattering and slamming. Arabella and I threw ourselves to the floor as glass, plaster, pictures, and furniture all flew and banged around the front hall.
A boom from somewhere above us rose above all the other noise, so loud I thought my ears would burst. I would later discover that this was the sound of an exploding furnace, but for the moment, I was blessedly unaware that a portion of the top floor had just blown up, and the whole place would shortly be consumed in flames.
I know. I know you wanted a return to your former glory.
But destroying yourself won’t bring that back.
There must be another way, another heir…
“Who gets the house?” I shouted above the din.
Arabella was hunched over, protecting her head as best she could while struggling with the door. “What?” She spared me one incredulous glance. “Help me!”
“Who inherits the house? Who can take Serena’s place?”
“Nobody! She was the last of her line!”
As if in response to this, a fireball the size of a chair came hurtling down the stairs. Arabella and I dove. Fire erupted inches from us, and we had to scramble to get out of its path. When I looked back again, a wall of flame barred the front door.
“Try the back!” Arabella dropped down on all fours as smoke began to fill the hall. “Come on!”
But I made no move to follow her. I knew the back door would be no different. Why would it?
Number Twelve…
Arabella was halfway down the hall when something—a cabinet door, I thought—hit her in the head with unnatural force. She flew sideways against the wall.
And I had the strangest, most out of place feeling, seeing her tossed like a rag doll. Not fear. Not even anger. I was offended.
How dare you?
Arabella hated this house. She’d already lost too much here. But she’d come back for me, and to fulfill a duty to Cooper.
And the house thought it could just flick her aside like some insignificant insect?
How dare you?
Driven by this peculiar indignation, I got to my feet and marshaled my will. I was done pleading with Number Twelve.
Nothing could hit Verity. The smoke could not choke her. She was inside a protective shield, impervious to the wrath of the house.
An antique occasional table rushed down the hall at me. I stood my ground. At the last second, it veered to one side and broke against the wall.
For months I’d been strengthening my magic, practicing unwritten story spells. And all the while, I’d been crippled by the curse, running on low power. But I wasn’t cursed anymore.
You think you’re pissed off, Number Twelve? You should see the day I just had.
You think you’re a force to be reckoned with?
So am I.
It was like running a race at sea level after training at high altitude. I’d never felt so much strength, so much power. So much vitality.
Nothing could hit Verity. The smoke could not choke her. She was inside a protective shield, impervious to the wrath of the house.
The smoke seemed to part as I walked down the hall to Arabella. All around me, fire crackled, debris whirled, but I remained unharmed.
Arabella groaned and sat up. One side of her face was bloody, but the gash above her ear was already closing.
“Come on. We need to stand.” I took her arm and pulled her to her feet.
Nothing could hit them. The smoke could not choke them. Arabella and Verity were inside a protective shield, impervious to the wrath of the house.
Number Twelve fought back with all of its considerable might. Strips of gold damask wallpaper, curled and burning, rained down on us. Long shards of glass aimed for our necks. Heavy objects—including a large safe, one of many that had once belonged to Dalton Blackwood—went for our heads.
Nothing could touch them.
Arabella raised one arm over her head to shield the one vulnerable part of her. She grabbed my elbow with her other hand, maybe to pull me closer so she could protect me, maybe to guide me to whatever exit she had in mind.
It didn’t matter. I didn’t need to be carried anymore.
After a moment, she realized that nothing was hitting us, that the ever-thickening smoke was strangely absent from a small space around our heads.
“How are you doing this?”
I gave her a small smile. “Magic.”
Arabella and Verity made it safely to the front door.
“Stay close to me.” I marched, but did not run, back toward the door. I could only win for as long as I stayed the strongest; it wouldn’t do to show fear or panic.
Nothing could touch them.
But the house wasn’t going to give up that easily. We hadn’t taken two steps before it changed its tactics. Nothing did touch us, because nothing tried. Everything, metal and wood and glass and flame, sped past us to beat us to the door. The staircase, encased in flames, blew apart. Its fragments flew along with everything else.
It all happened in a matter of seconds. By the time we reached the door, it was completely blocked with a wall of wreckage.
If Number Twelve couldn’t hurt us, it could at least impede us. Keep us trapped in its burning embrace until my strength and vitality ran out.
See what I mean? It wasn’t just a house anymore. It was thinking.
Which meant I needed to think faster. The windows were all broken, and there was another exit. But it would only block those, too.
So clear the blockage.
But how? I couldn’t move all of this with a wave of my hand; even in my magically charged state, I had no telekinetic powers.
But the house does.
Maybe the house had become something more, but at its core, it was still a place. Its power still came from the same source it always had: the energy of generations of witches who had lived here. Energy that could be harnessed.
I had always worked my place-magic with collaboration in mind, joining my power with that of the place, forming a bond and working our magic together.
But did it have to be that way? Did I always have to ask the place to lend me its power?
If my will was strong enough, couldn’t I just take it?
It was one of those moments where an idea comes to you nearly fully formed. All of those thoughts sped through my mind almost at once, and I knew what to do.
Once again I reached out for Number Twelve, and opened my mind to it in return. Once again I faced the full force of its vengeful, destructive energy. I connected to the dragon.
And then I climbed on its back.
It nearly bucked me off. The weight of that energy was almost more than I could bear, and I doubled over as if under physical pressure. Arabella grabbed me to keep me from falling into the ring of fire that surrounded us now.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“Nothing. We let Number Twelve do it for us.”
I don’t know how long I struggled with the house, while that ring of fire closed in. Time lost all meaning. Even flames lost all meaning. There was only its will and mine, and the question of whose would be stronger.
Finally, Number Twelve’s will bent. I had no idea how long my dominance would last, but then I didn’t need much time. It had built this wall of fire and rubble in a matter of seconds; it could take it down just as quickly.
I harnessed the house’s energy, then channeled it toward doing just that.
And it did it, although perhaps not in the manner I’d have preferred. With a deafening clamor, everything blocking the door blew apart at once. More plaster and drywall joined the rest, as the entire doorway exploded.
Nothing could touch them. Nothing could touch them. Nothing could touch them.
I had no compunction about running this time. The game was over, and it was time to go
home. I grabbed Arabella’s arm, and together we sprinted to the cold safety of Fenwick Street.
Which was in chaos. Everything had happened so fast, the total amount of time we’d been in that house couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, maybe half an hour at most. But already there were sirens and screaming neighbors and firemen getting out of trucks.
Nobody saw them. Nobody stopped them.
“Walk,” I said. “Don’t hesitate.”
Arabella fell into step beside me, and we started up the street.
Despite the fact they’d just come out of the burning building, nobody stopped them as they walked up Fenwick Street. Nobody even noticed them. No witnesses would mention them. They walked off into the night, unseen.
That story almost came true, but for one small detail: one person did notice us. She was standing on the sidewalk with all the other gawkers, a not-quite-old woman with frizzy gray hair. Our eyes met. Hers narrowed. Then she gave me the briefest of nods and looked away again.
It wouldn’t occur to me until hours later that she was Marissa Collins, the woman in the hag costume. I’d been told she had no memory of delivering Serena’s curse, but somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she must have recognized the woman whose future she had so altered.
“One second.” I stopped at the end of Fenwick Street and turned to look back at all the turmoil. Orange sky, billowing smoke, flashing lights. “This is how it all started.”
“What?” Arabella asked.
“It started with a fire. Cooper. Going back to Bristol.”
“I’m not following.”
“Kestrel Wick burned my apartment building down.” I shrugged. “It’s not important.” But it was, and that was why it came to mind now, recalling the image of the neighbor who died that night, along with his yappy little dog. “Just give me a second.”
Nobody was killed or seriously injured in the fire. The firemen at the scene would later remark that the inferno had been surprisingly well contained to the townhouse it started in. Damage to the surrounding area was less than they expected.
Witch Bound (Devilborn Book 3) Page 14