Steel for 5 (Mags & Nats Book 3)

by Stephanie Fazio

  “Even in regular school, you’d still have homework,” Livy pointed out.

  Of all of them, Livy was the only one who actually liked being homeschooled by their mom. Addy was on Stacy’s side and would have preferred a school with actual teachers and students besides her sisters, but any time she’d mentioned it, her mom gave Addy the we’re not having this conversation look. And then she’d assigned Addy more work.

  “When I get into college, will you at least buy me a cell phone?” Stacy asked their mom.

  “No,” their parents said at the same time.

  Stacy rolled her eyes. It was one of their parents’ cardinal rules: no cell phones. They said it took away from the atmosphere of living on a farm. It annoyed Stacy to no end, but Addy didn’t really care. Aside from Fred and Aunt Meredith, she didn’t talk to anyone outside her own house. Addy wouldn’t know what to do with a cell phone even if she had one. Stacy, though, wanted to upload her makeup tutorials on YouTube and was always complaining about not being able to update her Instagram.

  “How come Addy and Livy don’t have assignments?” Rosie asked, hefting an earth science textbook away from Baby Lucy, who had been nibbling on its corner.

  “Because we’re graduates,” Livy said, smiling at Addy. “We’re college-bound.”

  “That’s right,” Addy said, sharing none of her twin’s enthusiasm. “Cornell College of Agriculture, here we come.”

  CHAPTER 2

  TOL

  Tol leaned over the stone wall and looked at the water without really seeing it. He couldn’t tell if the rising mist was coming from the English Channel, or if his vision had gone so bleary it was playing tricks on him.

  His left shoulder hurt. It always hurt more when he was exhausted. He massaged the place where his living flesh met the prosthesis. The carbon-fiber arm, the most expensive one money could buy, chafed. The straps holding it in place dug into his chest.

  A cold breeze was coming in. The air smelled like rain, but the air in England always smelled like rain. He should go back into the manor where there was a fire burning in the study, but he was too tired to move.

  “No luck, I take it?”

  Tol knew the sound of his best mate’s voice without having to turn around. When Tol did turn to face him, Gerth was striding up the gravel path in a baggy suit and badly-knotted tie.

  “No luck, no leads, no sign of her,” Tol replied.

  Gerth and Tol shared the same bronze skin, black hair, and dark eyes characteristic of their people. All of the Chosen kept their hair long, with the men wearing theirs down to their shoulders and the women letting theirs grow down to their waists. Tol kept his just long enough that he could pull it back, but Gerth’s hair was long enough to braid. While Tol was just shy of two meters tall, uncharacteristically large among the Chosen, Gerth was half a meter shorter. When they stood near each other, Gerth had to tip his head back to look Tol in the eye.

  “I’m not crazy,” Tol said. “I felt her.”

  He just couldn’t find her.

  It was infuriating. He’d sense this crackle of energy and know it was her. He’d feel her in his mind. But when he searched for her, when he tried to find her, all he saw was blackness. As quickly as the feeling came, it disappeared again. Sometimes it was too fast for him to even process what had happened until the moment had already passed, and he was left with nothing but the sick feeling that he would be too late.

  His most recent trip was to France, where he’d stayed for five days chasing down a lead on the Fount. Tol hadn’t found her. He had nothing to show for the wasted time and Source except for a bad mood and aching shoulder.

  He’d been feeling the Fount more often since his eighteenth birthday, but maybe that was just his subconscious panicking about how little time he had left to find her. If only he could keep the connection inside him alive long enough to see more than just that empty black.

  “We’ll find her, Tol,” Gerth said, giving him a sympathetic look. “Gods know—”

  “The gods don’t know anything,” Tol said with a venom he hadn’t known he felt. “They’re dead.”

  “They’re not dead, they’ve just abandoned us.” Gerth leaned over the wall beside him. “After eighteen years, you’ve gotta wonder if it’s all—”

  “Useless?” Tol supplied. “A waste of time?”

  Gerth gave him a wry smile. “I’d hardly call the survival of our entire race a waste of time.”

  Shame heated Tol’s face. Gerth’s parents had died in the Crossing.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  “No worries, mate.” Gerth elbowed him. “Sometimes I think the Celestial is playing the greatest hoax in two worlds on us and just made up that rubbish about the Fount.”

  “Some hoax that’d be.” Tol dug the fingers of his real hand into the stone wall, feeling the grit bury into his skin.

  “People are getting restless.” Gerth played with the necklace he wore. The glass vial hanging on the metal chain looked almost the same as Tol’s, except it was smaller.

  Tol winced. “I know. My parents think there’s going to be a coup if we don’t find the Fount soon.”

  “We’ll find her,” Gerth said, his confident words belied by the way he twisted and untwisted his necklace.

  “The scholars think I should have been able to sense her by now.” Tol clenched his fist.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Gerth said. “Carrying the weight of a whole world on your shoulders isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy. You’re doing everything you can.”

  Tol wasn’t listening. He was staring at the glass vial on Gerth’s necklace. There was less liquid in it than there had been the last time they were together. It was barely half-full.

  “What in the two hells,” Tol said.

  Gerth followed the line of his gaze and waved a dismissive hand. “Some trouble with the Forsaken. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Not a big deal?” Tol’s voice was rising, but he was too angry to keep it down. Tol was grabbing for the necklace around his own throat, intending to pour some of the precious liquid Source from his vial into Gerth’s, but his prosthetic arm was clumsy and the glass vial’s stopper was very small. One would think that after eighteen years without his left arm, he’d be used to having a prosthesis.

  One would be wrong.

  “Tol, stop it,” Gerth said. “You need to save your Source.”

  His calm only made Tol angrier.

  “You don’t get to sacrifice yourself,” Tol said, still wrestling with the stopper of his vial. “Not for anyone, and especially not for me.”

  The Source gave them access to their abilities, among other things. They were defenseless without it.

  Gerth put a hand over Tol’s, prying it away from his necklace. “I won’t be a sacrifice, okay? We’re going to find her.”

  Tol turned away, unable to look his friend in the eye.

  “Tol. We’re going to find the Fount. The blood marriage will be done, and we’ll all be saved.”

  “And then we’ll return to Vitaquias and live happily ever after?” Tol asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Precisely.”

  Tol cracked a grin, his first in days. Just as quickly, though, reality came back. He lowered his head. “We only have ten more months, maybe less if she’s older than me.”

  “An older woman,” Gerth said, giving Tol a slow nod. “The Celestial must have known you’d need someone more mature.”

  Tol snorted.

  They both turned at the sound of footsteps crunching up the gravel path.

  “Prince Tolumus.” The title came out as a sneer, making it sound like an insult. Everything that came out of his cousin’s mouth sounded like an insult.

  “Erikir,” Tol said. He forced himself to stand up straight so he towered over his older cousin.

  Unlike Gerth’s too-big suit, Erikir was wearing trousers and a crisp button-down shirt that were tailored to his narrow frame. His hair was in a tig
ht braid that not even the stubborn English wind could coax out of place. His skin was lighter than Tol’s, giving him a sallow appearance. Or maybe it was just the perpetual grimace Erikir wore that made him look pinched and unwell. Not that any of their people were the pinnacle of health….

  “The king is sending more Chosen with you on the next search,” Erikir informed Tol. “They’re not happy with the progress that’s been made, or should I say, the lack of progress.”

  “Of course, they’re not happy,” Gerth snapped. “No one needs reminding that our entire race is on the brink of destruction.”

  “We lost another three in Moscow,” Erikir said, ignoring Gerth.

  Tol sucked in a breath. “Three?”

  Erikir nodded. “The Forsaken are getting bolder, and without more Source, we have less ability to defend ourselves.” His cousin gave another pointed look at Tol’s full necklace.

  Tol’s face burned. He knew what his cousin was implying. If Erikir, rather than Tol, had been the king’s son, then maybe their people wouldn’t be on the brink of despair. Tol knew there was nothing more he could do, but it didn’t keep the shame of his failures from making him want to disappear into the darkest hole he could find.

  “The king’s leading a party tomorrow to kill those Forsaken,” Erikir continued. “We can’t have another Jariath.”

  Tol suppressed a shudder. Jariath had gone missing a few months ago after tracking some Forsaken in South America. His body had been found weeks later in Rio de Janeiro. The Forsaken just left his corpse for the mortals to find, and his people had found out what happened on the evening news, of all places.

  Jariath’s body had been mutilated. Those barbarians had cut off every one of his fingers, and done worse, before finally killing him.

  Tol’s people were left wondering what Jariath had told their enemy before he died. There was no proof, of course, but Tol felt certain the Forsaken now knew the secret his people had been guarding for eighteen years. The Forsaken were master interrogators, and Tol didn’t think there was any way they had let Jariath die before telling them about the Fount, the power of her blood, and Tol’s role in all of it.

  Now, it wasn’t just about finding the Fount and convincing her to blood marry him. It was also about finding her before the Forsaken.

  Tol’s pulse faltered at the possibility of finally discovering where the Fount was, only to find her already in the barbarians’ grasp.

  Did they know her blood opened the portal? Would they be able to use it without Tol? He didn’t know, and he hoped to the gods he wouldn’t have to find out.

  “Who else is going to Moscow?” Gerth asked Erikir, pulling Tol away from his dark thoughts.

  Erikir rolled his eyes like he could hardly be bothered to answer, but when Tol glared at him, Erikir said, “The king and queen, the royal guard,” he gave Gerth a sour look, “and you, I suppose.”

  “The whole guard?” Tol asked.

  “Your parents aren’t taking any chances this time,” Erikir replied. “We can’t lose anyone else, and our Source is running out.”

  He didn’t need to say what came next. When the Source ran out, any of their people who were beyond the span of mortal years would die, and the rest of them would be completely vulnerable to the Forsaken.

  “What about the Fount?” Tol asked. “We can’t take all of us off the search.”

  “She won’t do us any good if the Forsaken kill us all before we find her,” Erikir sneered. “As prince of the Chosen, I’d expect you to know that.”

  “As the prince’s underling, I’d expect you to watch your mouth,” Gerth shot back.

  Erikir glared at Tol. “I really hope she’s got a hairy mole right here,” he tapped his chin, smirking at Tol’s involuntary shudder. “Or maybe, she’ll have three arms, and then together, you’ll make up a whole person.”

  Gerth already had the cork of his glass vial off.

  “Put it away, Gerth,” Tol commanded. “He’s not worth a drop.”

  Besides, it wasn’t like Gerth could even use the Source against one of their own. It was more instinct bred from habit after a lifetime of turning to Source as their only weapon.

  Gerth scowled, but at the look Tol gave him, he stoppered the vial. It had always been like this with them. The nature of Tol’s position didn’t give him the luxury of losing his temper, or using Source for anything that wasn’t killing Forsaken or finding the Fount. So Gerth had insisted on doing his fighting for him. Even when they were kids in mortal school, Gerth was the first one to throw a punch whenever someone made fun of Tol’s missing arm.

  Erikir wasn’t finished, though. “I wonder.” He cocked his head, like he was considering. “Do you think the blood marriage hurts as much as they say? I’ve heard it feels like your insides are being ripped apart.”

  Tol had to physically restrain Gerth from attacking Erikir.

  “Clear out of here,” Tol told Erikir, still holding out a hand to Gerth, warning him to stay put.

  When Erikir didn’t move, Tol took another step toward him. “As your prince, I command you to clear out.”

  “You know,” Erikir said, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying not to find her.”

  Before Tol could reply, Erikir turned, and with an audible huff, stomped back toward the manor. When he was gone, Tol slumped against the wall.

  “I really hate that prat,” Gerth muttered.

  “He’s not wrong,” Tol said, pressing a palm into his eyes. “Part of me doesn’t want to find her.”

  “Suicidal, much?” Gerth asked.

  “No.” Tol pounded his fist against the stone wall. “I just don’t want to be tied to a girl with a hairy mole for the rest of eternity.”

  Tol really didn’t care if she had a hairy mole or not. It was the rest of eternity part that was the real nightmare. That tight feeling he got whenever he thought about it threatened to crush his ribs. Don’t think about it, he ordered himself. Find her. Complete the blood marriage. Save your people.

  Gerth raised an eyebrow at him.

  Tol raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m whining, aren’t I?”

  “Like a little girl,” Gerth confirmed.

  After a pause, Gerth continued, “Look, no one wants to have the weight of their race’s survival on their shoulders. But if I have to put my life in someone else’s hands, I suppose I’m okay with it being you.”

  “You gush,” Tol said with a roll of his eyes.

  “In all seriousness, you’re a damn fine prince, and you’ll be a better king.”

  Tol felt those words like twin sacks of flour being lowered onto his shoulders. “…if I can find the Fount.”

  “When the time is right, you will feel the Fount’s presence and know where to find her.” Gerth used an ominous, flat voice to repeat the Celestial’s words from eighteen years ago.

  Neither one of them had been old enough to have heard her words firsthand or remember the destruction of their world. But the Celestial’s pronouncement, and her actions that followed, had consumed both of their lives since they were old enough to understand them.

  “Look,” Gerth said, “why don’t you stay at the manor for a couple of days?”

  “Yeah, right.” Tol rolled his eyes. “I’m going to let you all fight the Forsaken while I just kick back and relax.”

  “I’m serious,” Gerth persisted. “You can’t come with us and put yourself in that kind of danger, and there haven’t been any new leads on the Fount.”

  It was true he couldn’t go to Moscow. If the Forsaken killed him—and they would certainly try—it would mean the death of the rest of his people, too. But that didn’t mean he had to sit idle while his family and people went off to battle their centuries-long foes.

  “And you want me to what, laze around the manor? Get breakfast in bed? Play chess on the balcony?”

  “You suck at chess,” Gerth pointed out.

  “No, you’re just freakishly good,” To
l replied.

  “I am good, aren’t I?” Gerth widened his eyes, like he was just now discovering he was the best strategist among a people who were known for their ability to strategize.

  Tol scowled.

  Gerth’s expression turned serious. “How long has it been since you’ve been home for longer than it takes to repack your bag?”

  Tol thought about that. He couldn’t remember.

  “Exactly,” Gerth said, reading his expression. “If you keep running yourself ragged, you’ll be in no position to woo the Fount when we do find her.”

  Tol grimaced. For his own sanity, he tried not think about what would happen after he found her.

  “Even your Haze is weak,” Gerth persisted. “You’re looking as dull as Erikir.”

  “Ouch.” Tol gave his friend a wounded look.

  Gerth was referring to the slight gold shimmer that surrounded all of their people. It was a visual reminder of how much of the gods’ blessing was inside them. The stronger the Haze, the more powerful the immortal. Of all of them, even the king and queen, Tol’s Haze was brightest. Fortunately, Haze wasn’t visible to mortals.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Tol conceded.

  “Good lad.” Gerth thumped him on the back. “Take the next few days for yourself. Read a book or something. When we get back from Moscow, you can go back on the road.”

  “Read a book?” Tol raised an eyebrow.

  “Do whatever you want. Just stay away from Nira.” Gerth gave him a pointed stare. “She’s falling a bit too hard for you. Besides, she’s lost enough already. No need to add a broken heart to the list.”

  Gerth’s tone was teasing, but there was truth behind his words. Nira had lost everyone in her family during the Crossing except for her aunts, and they were faring badly in the mortal world.

  “Nira knows the deal,” Tol replied, trying to quiet the voice of guilt in his head. “She knows it can’t ever be more.”

  “She may know it, but that doesn’t mean she’s okay with it,” Gerth replied. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way she looks at you.”