A Matter of Heart (25 page)

It’s enough to slay his
anger. He’s mere inches in front of me in a split second, my name tripping off
his lips, soaked with concern. But I won’t let him off the hook so easily. “You
have,” I choke out, “
eight
houses all over the world, and you never
thought to tell me about them. I mean, I know it’s just property and all, but
you’d think it’d be a topic of conversation, right? But no—I hear about this
from your brother, and I don’t know if you’ve figured this out or not, but in
the last two years, I’ve learned more about you from him than you.”

Jonah’s bewildered. “What
are you talking about?”

“Like your mother.” I’m on
the verge of full-blown blubbering. “
He
told me about her, not you. Why
not you? Not once in all the years have you ever shared with me the details of
her death. I’ve told you,”—I jab my finger into his chest—“nearly everything. I
told you about my grandpa’s death, I told you when I broke my arm, when I got
into monster arguments with my parents, everything,
everything
, and you
can’t even tell me you own properties across the plane, even when I tell you
all the time how much I want to travel, how I’ve been nowhere, ever, and you
sit and pretend to listen sympathetically, but you know what?” I continue
jabbing, hysterical now. “
Callie knows these things
. She knows about
these houses of yours. She’s even been to some, hasn’t she?” I don’t even give
him a chance to respond. “Callie knows, and you say that you love me, that I’m
the person who means everything to you, but I don’t, because I don’t even
warrant this sort of information!”

“Chloe, she’s known me most
of my life,” he says, voice even, like he’s trying to get mine to match his,
“so of course she’d know.”

“I’ve known you longer!” I
can barely breathe anymore. “Don’t you get it? I’ve.” I jab, one poke per word,
“Known. You. Longer.”

He stares at me like I’m
crazy at first, but then he must really get it, because his face melts from
confusion into what I can only interpret as guilt. He grabs me gently by the
shoulders and tries to tug me closer, but I struggle, because I stupidly want
him to simultaneously leave me alone and hold me so tight I won’t be able to
think anymore.

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he
murmurs, and I give into our pull. His arms go around me, and I feel his
sadness as I press against his chest, feel just how remorseful he is for all
the words we’ve just thrown at one another. “Of course I should have told you.
I love you, Chloe. More than you could possibly ever imagine. Gods, I’m such an
ass sometimes.”

And
I cry, until there are no more tears to let go of.

I’m in the bathroom, taking
some ibuprofen for a newly raging headache, but I can still hear what they’re
saying in the living room.

“This,” Kellan is saying,
“is why I told you that this isn’t going to work. But you had to be stupid and
insist—”

“I’m sorry,” Jonah says.
“And I wasn’t stupid, well, tonight, yes, I was unbelievably stupid—but about
you two needing to reconnect, no.”

“How’s this going to work,
J, if every single time you say, ‘Oh, you two, spend time together,’ and when
we do, you freak out so badly that she has no other choice than to break down?
Because, wow. That was so much fun and did a great deal of good for everyone
involved.”

“Today was a really long
day,” Jonah says, “and even I lose control occasionally. It doesn’t excuse
anything, but . . .”

“She says you two don’t
fight.”

Silence.

“And yet, here you are,
fighting. Again, wow, J. This is a super plan of yours.”

“Admit it,” Jonah says; even
from behind a closed door, I can tell he’s bitter. “You haven’t been this
content in forever.”

It’s so odd to hear them so
tense with each other, when they normally present themselves as calm and in
control when I’m in the room with them. “Is she aware of just how much it kills
you for us to be around each other?” Kellan asks.

“I’m working on it. If it’s
what’s best for her, and you, then I will do it.” A long break, then, “No. My
mind’s made up.”

Kellan sighs loudly. “Why
didn’t you ever tell her about this house? Or any of them?”

“I don’t know. Because real
estate is irrelevant to me? Because I’m an idiot? It’s not like I was trying to
hide it from her, you know.”

“I’m not the expert in relationships
or anything,” Kellan says, “but even I know that sometimes you need to share
stuff with the other person. Just because it means zilch to you doesn’t mean it
wouldn’t mean something to her.”

“Oh yes,” Jonah groans. “For
being so crappy in relationships, you certainly make sure you do everything so
blindingly brilliant when it comes to Chloe, don’t you?”

Something loud sounds.

“Kel, wait. Please, just
don’t . . .”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do anything stupid
tonight.”

Silence before, “You can’t
have it both ways, Jonah. I get to choose how to deal with my shit, and you
know what? It’s none of your business. So back off.”

More silence.

“So don’t tell her anything,
and it’ll be fine,” Kellan says.

Silence.

“I’m sure you got off on
telling her that, right?” Kellan snaps. “Even though I specifically asked you
not
to?”

Silence.

“That’s great, J, just . .
.” Footsteps sound, then, “You know what? No. Don’t forget it. Go screw
yourself instead.”

My hand goes to the
doorknob. I can’t let them go on like this. Just as I’m about to turn the
handle, Jonah says, “What did you expect me to do? Lie?”

My hand drops back to my
side. A bark of laughter precedes a stretch of silence. Kellan eventually says,
“Since you’re so good at talking for me, you can do it.”

I hate how they do this,
talking half in their minds, half out loud.

Jonah matches Kellan’s tone
perfectly. “Don’t take out your anger with me on her.”

“Yeah, but you can, right?
No—don’t answer that. She knows I’m not pissed off at her.”

The door slams. My head
throbs, stronger than before. I take two more ibuprofen, and then an extra
third, just in case. And I can’t help but wonder if this is only the beginning.
My emotions are already spinning out of control again.

I think I need to go visit
Kopano and see about some shields.

“I’m sorry,” I say to
Etienne Miscanthus, positive I must’ve misheard what he’s just told me. “Did
you just say Kleeshawnall Rushfire is dead?”

My Council buddy nods
gravely. The word rings through my mind like a series of loud church bells. I
stare at the other Creator’s seat, so close to mine, and notice, for the first
time this afternoon, that there is nothing there. Not his collection of tiny
coffee cups, let alone his favorite bleeding happy face one, not the blanket on
the back of his chair, not the perpetually sharpened four pencils (never pens;
pens are for lesser beings who have no spines, he’d claimed), nor the plaque
that bears his name.

Nothing but an empty wood
desk.

“As a doornail, I’m afraid,”
Etienne offers. He turns in his seat to fully face me, despite two Magicals in
the center of the assembly room arguing with great heat over hurricane
strengths while others attempt to talk over them. “Isn’t that an odd turn of
phrase, though? A dead doornail. And how intriguing that it pops up on both of
our home planes. Must’ve been started by a Magical.”

Etienne is fifteen years
older than me and less stuffy than ninety percent of the Council, which is
probably why I gravitated toward him early on. He’s got an interesting face;
while I wouldn’t categorize him as handsome by any means, he is starkly
compelling with extremely pale, brown skin framed by hair even blacker than
Jonah’s. And his eyes, well, they’re out of this world: vivid violet, a color
never found on the Human plane. It doesn’t matter that his nose is long and
large and that his mouth is much too small for his face. Those eyes are perhaps
the most stunning I’ve ever seen.

For the life of me, I can’t
remember what color Rushfire’s were. And it makes me sad, which I don’t really understand,
considering he barely spoke to me and tolerated my questions even less. “How
did it happen?”

“Well, peaches,” Etienne
says in that fabulous, sophisticated Elvin accent of his that sounds different
than any on the Human plane, “if I remember correctly, he was two hundred and
three.”

As Etienne is a Storyteller,
I don’t doubt his facts. Even still—“Exactly when did he . . .” It’s hard to
even say. “Go?”

Etienne strokes his smooth
chin, assessing me with those jewel-like eyes of his. “I can’t believe you
haven’t heard already.”

Old insecurities of being
left in the dark far too often rear their ugly heads. I thought, as an adult,
I’d be past them, but I guess not. “Tell me?”

He leans closer. “The
mighty, yet crotchety Kleeshawnall Rushfire left our existence to explore the
great unknown a mere few hours after creating the portal which allowed his
successor to be saved.”

Somebody shrieks, “Are you a
madman?” and the room hushes for a good two seconds. My heart beats loudly in
my chest, but not loud enough to drown out the words my friend just uttered.

Dead. Because of me. And on
the heels of being accused of three other deaths. There’s been no news of my
missing teammates, which gnaws at my soul.

The arguing around us begins
afresh. Etienne says, as quietly as one can while still being heard over chaos,
“Rushfire was old. He’s been old for ages. Any bit of Magic might’ve done him
in. For all we know, an addition to his infamous coffee cup collection was the
breaking point.”

Maccon Lightningriver, the
Goblin who sits in front of us, turns around and scoots his chair closer. A
consummate gossiper, which easily explains his friendship with Etienne, Mac
isn’t one to let a juicy story, even one as tragic as this, pass without
additional comment. “He was basically a freeze-dried mummy for the last decade.
Dust motes flew out of his mouth whenever he spoke.”

Etienne laughs outright. I
don’t, though. I would’ve before, even just an hour ago, but now it seems too
morbid to.

Mac grins and motions to the
floor, where there are at least twenty members now arguing vehemently. “Is it
wrong that I’d rather dish on Rushfire than focus on hurricanes?”

“Of course not,” Etienne
says. “We are infinitely more interesting than those windbags.” And this bad
pun causes the two of them to laugh even more.

Maccon stands up and turns
his chair around, so he can lean his arms and chin against the back. “Rumor has
it that Rushfire actually resembled a mummy when he was found—all wizened up.
Creepy, no?”

I shudder. “Are you
serious?”

“Magic takes a lot out of a
person,” Mac muses. And it makes me think of Kellan, in that cave, using up way
too much to try to keep me comfortable. I shudder again; the next thing I know,
Etienne has dropped his chunky gray knitted sweater over my shoulders.

“Careful, petunia. Mustn’t
catch a cold, now that you’re our only Creator.”

“You ought to bring a
sweater and leave it here,” Mac adds. “Or a blanket.”

Like Rushfire
is
what he doesn’t add, even though I know he’s thinking it. “You two sound like
my parents,” I joke. And then I’m sad again, because I know my parents never
got on me about such things. Not even my father, sitting on the other side of
the room, knee deep in the history of hurricanes in the Southern Hemisphere of
the Dwarven plane. I can’t remember a single time in which he admonished me
about needing a coat.

Maccon’s infamous smile, the
one that weakens many a girl in Annar’s knees, slides across his full lips.
“Your dad is in no way as hot as me.”

I roll my eyes. Okay, yes,
I’ll admit Maccon Lightningriver is ridiculously good looking. But not only is
he a gossip, he’s also a world-class flirt, much to the chagrin of his fiancée.
Theirs is an arranged marriage, a tradition strong in his part of the Goblin
plane—with her apparently more invested in the relationship than he. Mac’s
hinted about his dissatisfaction with his situation a number of times over the
last few months to Etienne and me. I used to feel sorry for Izadorna, his
fiancée, until she bitched me out in public after witnessing a platonic hug
between Mac and me. Now I feel sorry for him, because I can relate in a really
weird way, despite being happy with Jonah and our Connection. Mac, though—he’s
not in love with Izadorna. And although it’s his parents and his culture tying
him to her, it appears to be just as controlling as Fate has been with me. “I’m
impervious to your charms, Mac,” I remind him. It’s mostly true. “You can stop
trying any time now.”