Completely irrationally, my chest felt heavy and light for different reasons, for different people, at the same time.
Paisley stepped up beside me.
“All clear?” I asked her.
She huffed, indicating that I was an idiot for asking what should have been obvious, since she was coming back to the house.
Aiden continued crossing toward the barn, his amplified magic gathering around him in a nimbus of power. I followed the shoveled path around to the back of the house.
“Found you,” Opal whispered. “Emma.”
“Yes.” I glanced down at her, catching sight of brown flecks within the blue of her eyes. “You found me.”
She closed her eyes. I carried her into the house. And as I did, I hoped I hadn’t saved the witch’s life for the second time only to have damaged my tentative understanding with Aiden in the same moment.
Christopher was waiting at the door to the laundry room. After yanking off her snow-crusted runners, he wrapped two layers of blankets around Opal and pulled her from my arms. I was also shivering as I toed off my boots and followed Christopher into the kitchen. The kettle was already steaming on the stove, along with a small pot brewing the hot cocoa Christopher had promised Opal.
The clairvoyant settled the young witch on one of the kitchen island stools, stepping back carefully as if she might keel over the moment he let go of her. She didn’t. He stepped around to stir the small pot, then pulled mugs from the cupboard.
I hovered a few steps into the kitchen, oddly bereft of emotion and feeling momentarily untethered.
“The sorcerer forgets himself,” Christopher said, glancing back at me. His light-gray eyes were traced with simmering white magic.
“He doesn’t really know us,” I said. And Aiden truly didn’t know what we could do, how we’d been trained. But there was a good chance that curse might have killed Opal if he hadn’t been there to get it off her. I could boost magic immensely. But the witch would have needed to know how to counter the malicious spell herself.
Paisley deliberately bumped me with her shoulder as she sauntered into the kitchen and around the island. She paused beside the fridge. Then, reaching out with four tentacles, she lifted the cookie jar from the counter.
Opal, appearing from my vantage point to be nothing but a pile of blankets perched on the stool, straightened. Warily, perhaps, but I couldn’t see her face.
The demon dog carried the cookie jar down the length of the kitchen island, setting it on the corner nearest to Opal. Her tentacles retracted, and she looked over at me, dropping her large maw open in an easy smile.
Something painful expanded in my chest. I breathed against it, absorbing it. Right. Taking care of someone, anyone, was more than simply saving them from the brink of death. I stepped forward.
Christopher set the teapot and side plates on the island. I crossed around Paisley, placing her between me and Opal. Then I opened the cookie jar, set two ginger snaps on a side plate, and slid the plate over to the young witch. Christopher poured the cocoa into one of the mugs, setting it beside the ginger snaps.
I took another cookie from the jar, offering it to Paisley. The demon dog took it gently in her mouth, then swiveled her massive head to blink at Opal.
The young witch pushed the blankets and the jacket’s hood off her head. Her eyes were reddened with spent tears and pain. She touched her matted hair, face crumpling.
“I’m …”
I stiffened, about to tell her that she shouldn’t speak, shouldn’t tell us anything. Just in case there was a secondary curse on her.
“I’m going to have to shave my head,” she said mournfully. “Again.”
“No,” I said, harsher than I’d intended. “You’ll oil it. We had … have a friend, and she oiled her hair and skin.” I glanced over at Christopher for support.
He took the strainer from the teapot, nodding. “I have some coconut oil.”
“A black friend?” Opal asked.
I nodded. “Zans. Samantha. Her skin is darker than yours. And, when I knew her, she kept her hair short. But even if it takes time to work it through, the oil should help your hair.”
“You … you won’t make me cut it?”
“Absolutely not,” Christopher said, pouring the tea.
“What if I have lice?” she asked, lip quivering. “They won’t let you sleep in a shelter if you have lice.”
“You don’t have lice,” I said, splashing milk in the mug of tea Christopher had set by my elbow.
“How do you know?” she asked defiantly.
I smiled, raising my mug to smell it, hiding that I was pleased she had some fight left in her. The tea was too hot to drink. “Because you’re a witch, Opal. No parasite lives off you, if you don’t desire it.”
Her eyes widened. She glanced at Christopher, then back to me. Then her gaze fell to the cookies on the plate before her.
“The tea smells lovely,” I murmured. “Is this the lavender mint?”
“Yes.” Christopher plucked a cookie from the depths of the cookie jar.
I did the same.
We both nibbled and sipped. Feigning a relaxed demeanor, though I had no doubt that my magic was twitching and writhing around me as much as Christopher’s was around him.
Opal eased her grip on the blankets, reaching for the ginger snaps I’d placed on the plate for her. Her hand was steady. She snatched and stuffed a cookie in her mouth in the same motion, chewing frantically.
I looked away. Then immediately forced myself to look back at the desperate witch steadily, without pity. The moment at hand wasn’t about me, about my fierce, misplaced need to fix every bad thing that had ever befallen the young witch. I wasn’t that powerful, not even remotely. And I certainly couldn’t raise the dead, assuming that Opal’s mother was, in fact, dead.
But whatever was going on, we would figure it out. That, I knew for certain. I glanced over at Christopher, silently asking him to help me take vengeance on whoever had kidnapped and abused the witch currently perched on a stool in our kitchen. Because there could be only one reason for her presence.
Someone was using her to come at me. At us.
Christopher nodded curtly. His magic compressed, tightly ringing his irises. Then he nodded again at whatever that magic was showing him.
Opal took a sip of her hot cocoa, then stuffed the second ginger snap in her mouth.
I added two more cookies to her empty plate, offering another to Paisley. The demon dog took it from me, playfully pretending to swallow my hand in the process.
Opal started crying. Then sobbing. She took a giant swig of the cocoa, her tiny frame racking with sobs in between swallows.
I wanted to run. To flee the emotion being vented from the young witch, and all the reciprocal feelings it evoked. I pressed my hip to the edge of the counter and forced myself to once again remain present. There was no point in running off without a target to destroy.
Paisley wormed her big flat head into Opal’s lap. The girl clung to her, finding comfort in the monster she’d just been fleeing. The monster who had saved her life almost a year and a half ago.
The pain in my chest tightened into a hard knot, as raw as it would have been if I’d been knifed and unable to remove the steel blade. I clung to the knowledge that I would have vengeance.
Violence might no longer be a path I took as willingly as I once had. But I wouldn’t deny it when it was shoved in front of me.
I honestly had no idea how good people had the capacity for forgiveness under any circumstances.
I reached out with my other senses, seeking the light hum of magic I could feel in the barn loft. Aiden was in his pentagram. His power felt full, heavy. Comforting. Though I was still certain that he was angry at me for amplifying him without permission.
Opal’s sobs quieted. She scrubbed one of the blankets across her face, then reached to take another cookie but didn’t eat it. Instead she looked at me, hiccuping.
I steeled my
self, holding her gaze without flinching. As I had across the barrier of magic that had separated us in San Francisco. A barrier built to contain me, using Opal’s lifeblood.
“My mom is dead.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Someone stole her face.” Opal’s tone hardened as she shouted, “Stole her face!”
“I’m sorry.”
Abandoning the cookie back to the plate, Opal curled her fingers inward, pressing tiny, fierce fists to the speckled quartz counter. “You’ll find her, Emma.”
Her. So Isa Azar wasn’t the kidnapper. “I will.”
“Be careful about what you say next, Opal,” Christopher murmured gently. “When Aiden comes back, you can tell us everything.”
Opal nodded but didn’t take her gaze from me. “I know, Emma. I know you. I remember.” She pointed her right index finger at me. Her expression was resolute, etched with pain. “I remember the warehouse.”
“So do I,” I whispered, already knowing what she was asking. Already knowing I was going to answer all wrong. A good person would offer soothing words, and maybe some kind of therapy. But, in the end, there was only one thing I was good for. Only one reason to flee your captor in between snowstorms and find me, instead of going to the mundane police for shelter.
Opal didn’t want shelter.
Which was good, because I couldn’t offer it to her. Not even if I wanted to wrap her back up in the blankets, hold her too tightly, and fill her so full of magic that her mere presence, her capacity for power, would terrify anyone who even dreamed of striking against her.
Because amplified by me, those dreams would be Opal’s domain. And from those dreams, her would-be abusers would never wake up.
“I know you’re an angel.” Opal’s voice cracked.
The young witch’s statement, her comparison, threw me. Hannah Stewart had also thought Christopher and I were angels when we’d rescued her from the forest, though I was fairly certain it was Christopher’s magic Hannah had reacted to that evening. And there had been nothing remotely angelic about my behavior in San Francisco.
I opened my mouth, ready to insist that angels didn’t exist. But Opal jutted out her chin, presumptively denying my response.
“My guardian angel,” she said. “They tried to hurt you. Those sorcerers …” She spat the word like a curse, and her magic rose, called forth instinctively. “They tried to take your power by hurting me, killing me.”
That was a simplified interpretation of events. “Yes.”
“And you rose up!” She flung her hands forward, fingers clawed. “You tore through the magic that held you. You slaughtered them all.” She blinked rapidly as if shaking off the remembrance. Then she settled her gaze on Christopher. “Both of you.”
He nodded. His expression could have been carved out of stone. Magic seeped from his eyes, following what might have been spent tear tracks down his cheeks.
Neither of us had the capacity to deal with a hurt child. Yet we were the people she’d chosen, and refusing that connection would have been utterly disrespectful.
“My angels,” Opal whispered. Then, squaring her tiny shoulders under the pile of blankets and my puffy jacket, she reached her hand toward me, offering to shake mine, to forge a deal. “Emma … Emma …”
“I hear you, Opal.”
She grimaced. “You will find the woman … the demon that stole my mother’s face.”
“I will.”
“And you’ll kill her. For me.”
There it was.
I knew I should have said no. I should have tried to mitigate the situation, to explain that the reason Opal had been targeted was because of me. Instead, I reached forward, clasping the witch’s forearm. Her fingers were so tiny they couldn’t close around my arm.
Something vicious rose up in me. Magic born from that darkness laced through my words as I met Opal’s steady gaze. “We aren’t angels, witch,” I said. “There are no such beings. Not on this plane of existence, at least. But …” I glanced over at Christopher.
He nodded.
“We will find the person who stole your mother’s identity. The person who stole you from your life. And we will eviscerate her.”
“We will,” Christopher murmured.
Opal laughed, a terrible sound of vindication, full of desperation and anger.
Aiden stepped through the door from the laundry room, pausing just within the kitchen.
I had felt him move toward the house, then wait, listening to our conversation. The tenor of his magic was still amplified. Riding the rage that backed my vow to Opal, I met his piercing blue gaze defiantly, daring him to question how I was dealing with the witch.
He grimaced, then shook his head. Perhaps a little ruefully.
Opal loosened her grip on my arm. “Okay. Okay.” She reached for her mug of cocoa and buried her face in it, taking small sips.
“It’s a trap,” Christopher said, also picking up his mug and sipping his tea.
“Of course it is,” I said, keeping my tone light. “But they’ve lost their bait.”
“Perhaps deliberately.”
“It makes no difference. What I see coming, what you see coming, stands no chance against us two.”
Christopher laughed quietly. “True.”
Opal petted Paisley’s broad head. She took her cookie from the plate again, then gave the other cookie to the demon dog.
With the beginnings of an action plan, my magic settled. I turned my gaze on Aiden a second time. “Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
I noticed then that the sorcerer had brought in a large bag of driveway salt, setting it at the door to the laundry room, propped against the wall.
Opal stiffened, but she kept her attention on her mug. She hadn’t felt the sorcerer behind her. That was something to work on.
I brushed the thought away. It wasn’t my place to train the witch. Avenging her was the only action available to me within the strict structure of the Adept world. Witches were trained by witches.
“Not all sorcerers are the same,” Christopher said gently, leaning back against the sink.
“I know,” Opal said belligerently. But she tracked Aiden with wide, wary eyes as he stepped around her and the island to pour himself a mug of tea. “There were sorcerers at the Academy.”
Aiden nodded, stirring a splash of milk into the mint tea. His magic brushed against my shoulder and neck, the touch comforting. Which was odd, because it felt intentional on the sorcerer’s part, and I was still assuming he was angry with me.
“There are different sorcerer families,” Aiden said conversationally. He settled his gaze on Opal. “Just as there are different witch families. I am from both. Though the way has shifted as I’ve walked through this world, I’ve chosen every step of my path.” He glanced at me, then away. “I’m not fully dark or fully light.”
Opal eyed him. Then she nodded. “You have my ring. My …” Her voice hitched.
All three of us instantly stiffened, ready to jump forward. To react to another possible assault against the witch, another intent-triggered spell.
“… my mother’s ring.”
“Yes,” Aiden said, his sedate tone at odds with his stiff shoulders. “I’ll give it back to you as soon as we figure out if you carry any other foreign magic.”
She nodded.
No curse triggered.
It had simply been emotion, not magic, that had caused the break in her voice.
The three of us relaxed. Paisley wandered over to sniff the bag of salt.
Opal glanced between us. Then, inexplicably, she smiled. It was tentative, but it was a smile.
That smile and everything behind it did terrible things to my insides. I struggled within a sudden storm of rage, terror, and a soul-deep belief that Opal was braver than I ever could have been at her age.
Braver than I could be even now.
I settled my hand on Aiden’s forearm.
He stilled, mug halfway to
his lips.
“I’m sorry, Aiden. For the forced amplification. I could have taken a moment to ask.”
“I would have said yes.” His gaze cut to Opal, who was watching us closely. The brown sugar that crusted the top of the cookies she’d eaten dusted her fingers. “Without question. I’d been strengthening the ward line all morning. My magic was lagging behind what I needed it to do.”
“Still, I should have asked.”
Aiden shifted his arm out from under my hand. I let him go, stomach souring. Then he captured my fingers in his, squeezing.
Confused but hopeful, I met his gaze. “We’re okay, then?”
“Always,” he murmured. “I’m displeased at my own reaction, not the circumstances. Never the circumstances.”
I nodded.
Opal set her mug down on the counter. “Okay,” she said resolutely. “What do I have to do?” She fingered the blankets she was still swamped in, flicking her gaze to me. “Do I … do I have to take off my clothes?”
Aiden’s hand convulsed in mine. “No.”
Opal flinched at his harsh tone.
“The sorcerers stripped us both,” I said, keeping my own voice even. “Me naked and Opal down to a tank top and underwear. In San Francisco.”
“They painted runes on Emma,” Opal said, taking up the story and matching my matter-of-fact tone. “In my blood.” She lifted her chin. “I didn’t know that part until later. Capri … my foster mom … helped me work that out. Said it was better to confront the memory than bury it. Said that sorcerers do terrible things.” She looked at Aiden.
“I don’t deny it,” he said smoothly. “I won’t be painting runes, but I will need you to use a drop of your blood to seal a pentagram.” He nodded toward the bag of salt. “You will draw it out yourself. I don’t know any other way to teach you to do it as efficiently as it needs to be done.”
Opal glanced over her shoulder, sliding off her stool. “I’m going to infuse it with my own magic?”
“Yes. But the witches, the Academy, would call it blood magic.”
She tilted her head at him. “Even a single drop?”
“Yes.”
“And they consider that wrong?”
“They consider it a rocky path. Especially at your age. An opening for darkness.”
Bonds and Broken Dreams (Amplifier 2) Page 17