All That Burns (22 page)

Kieran studies her too, his head tilted like some curious, cautious panther. “You’re angry?”

“Ye—” Anabelle catches my stare, sees how I’m tensed and waiting for an outburst. Another broken vase. “No. Just worried. I thought you’d left.”

“Only for a short time,” the Ad-hene says. “I would not leave you without saying good-bye.”

Silence falls over the foyer, but it still feels like they’re speaking. Pouring through entire conversations with their eyes. The quiet stretches on and on: wasting more seconds and minutes.

“We found a clue,” I say when I can’t stand it any longer.

Anabelle looks away from Kieran, her brown eyes sparkling with hope.

“It’s not much. . . .” I try to counter her excitement. “We found the Black Dog which attacked the carriage, but it was dead. The prisoner found it first. You were right, Belle, a mortal’s doing this. They’re using magic through runes.”

Anabelle’s breath is sacred and quivering. “Runes?”

“Yes. There was writing all over the tunnel. . . .” I trail off when the princess turns. Her bare feet pad on the wood floor as she runs to the grand piano, snatches up some decorative sheet music. “What are you doing?”

But the princess is all mumbles, searching through every shelf and drawer in sight. “Pen. Pen. I need a pen.”

We follow her into the study. A room of leatherbound books and mahogany. The air smells distinctly of pipe smoke—sweet cloves and tweed.

“Belle, what’s going on?”

The princess doesn’t seem to hear my question. A plump black fountain pen has captured her attention. She leans over the desk she found it in, glides its elegant arch tip over the back side of the sheet music. Skitters and scratches crowd the page like claws.

Finally Anabelle steps back, wipes that crown of angel hairs from her face. “The runes. Did they look like this?”

My heart snags at the sight of black ink on paper. The
princess’s rendering is softer than the tunnel symbols, filled with more bend and curl. Even so the etching is undeniably similar, a fragment from the long nightmarish web Kieran and I were just caught in.

I snatch the ruined sheet music from Anabelle’s fingers. Its edges warp in my trembling hands. “Where did you see this?”

“Last night,” she answers. Her voice is nearly as shaky as my hands. “On the television. It’s Julian Forsythe’s tattoo.”

“Are you sure?”

The princess nods. “The cameras didn’t stay on it for long. I just remember thinking it was odd. That’s why it stuck with me.”

“But—but you said he went to Oxford. . . .” I trail off as the complete oversight of my statement rings through my head, showing just how much my mind has settled into the mortals’ thought patterns.

This is a land of magic now. Full of shape-shifters and spells which can alter your appearance in an instant. The man standing on the podium looks like the Julian Forsythe who walked the halls of Oxford, but that hardly means he actually is. A sorcerer could have easily killed the young politician and slipped into his skin, his life.

I think of that night in Windsor Castle’s ballroom. That eerie smile on Julian Forsythe’s face. The scathing, surgical precision of his eyes. The cool lilt of his words:
We don’t have to be enemies. The way I see it, you and I have a common goal.

Who’d really been speaking that whole time? Mordred? Lancelot? Merlin? A soul I’ve forgotten entirely?

“It’s him, Emrys. It has to be.” The gleam is back in Anabelle’s eyes. Lighting up her words.

My insides are all dread—thinking of those blue, blue eyes and that dark, dark cell and the rage which lurks inside each. Now that the prisoner has a face, I’m even less certain I can challenge him as I am.

“So what now?” The princess asks after a pool of silence.

“We should tread softly,” Kieran says. “It’s an adder’s nest. This magic is too potent and untested for my strength alone. Even without magic, this man wields a good deal of power. The mortals drink his words like mead.”

Anabelle’s face scrunches with frown and thought. “What about Queen Titania? The Frithemaeg? They can help us!”

I shake my head. “She won’t come. Not without solid proof.”

“So we get it.” The princess takes back the paper, stares hard at the letters. “If Forsythe is the one behind all of this, there will be more than just a tattoo. More runes. Or evidence that he orchestrated Richard’s kidnapping.”

“What are you suggesting?” My words dance on eggshells.

“I know where his office is. I sent a coronation invitation there.” Anabelle’s eyes go sharp. She’s looking at Kieran. “We’ll go at night, when he’s gone. Use veiling spells. Be quick. Find some evidence and present it to Titania. He’ll be back in the Labyrinth before he knows what hit him.”

My stomach plunges at the thought of what she’s suggesting. Whoever is staring out from behind Julian’s sapphire eyes has spent countless years plotting. They stole a king out from under the eyes of an entire kingdom. Pitted mortal and Fae against each other with clever speeches and damning evidence. Took thinly veiled prejudices and worked them in their favor, blinding Faery queens and human governments alike.

It seems almost
too
simple, walking into this soul’s office. Finding what we need and leaving. Just like that. I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is a trap.

“I don’t know,” I begin. “It will be dangerous.”

Anabelle puts her hands on her hips. “Do you have a better plan?”

Not without reclaiming my magic. I look back at Kieran. He leans in the doorway, lithe and brawny, so I can’t help but notice the muscles gathered under the cling of his thermal shirt. His power fills the office, pedals my weary heart. Chains it through the moment under the bridge: our fingertips touching, words he said, things I felt . . .

“Emrys?” The princess snaps with fingers and voice and I’m back in the office, trying my best to think of a better plan.

“Kieran can only veil one of us without risking exposure,” I think aloud.

“So teach me,” Anabelle says. “You said you would.”

“I think maybe Lady Emrys is right, Princess.” Kieran pushes off of the doorway. Night curls spill and spool against his regal brow. “Searching through this soul’s office will be dangerous. It might be best if you stayed here.”

Hurt flashes through Anabelle’s face. “You’re the one who told me I shouldn’t be afraid. I’m not getting left behind this time!”

Kieran frowns. His shale eyes cut over to where I stand.

We’ll be alone again, if he has his way. He’ll call me Emrys instead of Lady Emrys. His voice will dip low and I’ll have trouble remembering what Richard’s touch feels like. I’ll start to think more and more about the futures Kieran pried open with five small words:
He’s not your only choice.

I can’t let that happen.

“All right.” I nod at the flustered princess. “I’ll teach you.”

I take her to the rooftop, where we have the least chance of her spells deflecting and collapsing a wall. The rain is lighter now. Clouds hang low over the city, drape over rooftops and weather vanes. I can barely see past the next house as I face the princess.

“First you have to focus. Center yourself.”

Anabelle nods. “Kieran says it’s like staring at a pinpoint of light. Or concentrating on a candle.”

“Well, Kieran isn’t here right now.” A fact I’m more than thankful for. I’m not sure if I could concentrate under his gray stare. “But yes. That pull, that energy you feel inside you is what you must concentrate on.”

Anabelle shuts her eyes. Draws several deep breaths of frost-laced air.

“Veiling spells are tricky,” I explain. “They have a lot of different layers and details, depending on who you want to see you. We’ll start with a very general one. It will hide you from everyone.”

It feels strange, trying to put into words something that’s always been so reflexive. Like teaching someone to walk. Or speak a language you’ve known all your life. So much of it is innate, beyond explanation.

I try my best anyway. “Keep concentrating. Now I want you to take that energy inside you and twist it into this word while you speak it:
behyd
.”

Her eyebrows furrow together. The word rises up and out of her. As naturally as a breath.
“Behyd.”

She vanishes—a shimmer and gone—like summer heat rising. I blink, but the air in front of me is only swirling mist.

Kieran’s right. She is a quick learner.

“Good job,” I say, even though I don’t really mean it. Not in my deepest of hearts.

She reappears like a wraith through the fog—bright face and open mouth. Her joy wilts fast into a frown. “It didn’t stick.”

“I didn’t even expect you to disappear that time,” I tell her, trying to ignore the jealous pang under my chest.
Anabelle’s magic fills the air, burning thicker than the cold. My skin sings with it. “Holding the spell for a long time is where your emotions come in. Whatever feeds your magic will maintain the spell. Try to think of a strong emotion. A positive one. Something which makes you happy. I know that might be hard with everything that’s happened, but—”

“Got it.” Anabelle shuts her eyes again. Nibbles the edge of her lip in concentration. Her whole face is pink with near-winter cold.
“Behyd
.
”

She’s gone again. I’m alone and stunned in this island of mist. Waiting for Anabelle’s emotion to waver. For her spell to fail.

Mist spits through my hair, plasters it to my cheeks. A few sparrows land by my feet. Heads cocked, ready for crumbs I don’t have. The minutes stretch out; the birds realize I’m empty-handed and head back off into the almost-storm.

And still I wait.

The princess is a natural. Of course, I don’t know why I expected anything different. Everything she does is perfect. The emotion Anabelle is tapping into is strong, wealthy. Made of stolen glances, beetroot flans, and magic sessions.

I think of all the smiles I’ve seen on her face the last few days, so at odds with everything crumbling around us. I think of the reason why he almost kissed me. How I almost let him.

We’re in very dangerous territory.

“Am I ready?” Anabelle’s voice springs up behind me. Grenading all sorts of emotions through my body: shock, guilt, green, green envy.

I spin around and she’s there, standing by a stack of folded lounge chairs. Where just a few nights ago Kieran stood, and I told him how much his presence meant.

“Let’s practice it a few more times,” I tell her. “Just to make sure.”

She nods and we do. But there’s no need. Her spell is dead-on. An arrow into a bull’s-eye. Every time. In the mist and out of it again.

My thoughts feel just as cloudy. Swirling with the feel of Anabelle’s magic all around. And the memory of Richard’s kiss, echoing so far into my waking hours. And the dark, brimming smolder of Kieran’s touch.

He’s not your only choice.

I came up here to the rooftop to escape Kieran and his words. But it’s too late. They’re already lodged inside, creeping like feeler roots. Finding all the cracks in my
mortal soul, prying open a Pandora’s box of thoughts.

What would it be like? If I’d never met Richard. If I hadn’t retreated from Kieran’s lips. If magic and love could both be mine . . .

No.

I don’t love Kieran.

But . . . there’s something there—a glimmer—which makes me think I could.

He’s not Richard. He never will be. But he is a choice: a never-ending life of power and magic. A life where I can keep Richard safe from every threat. A life where Richard isn’t forced to be fighting, always fighting for a cause which isn’t even truly his.

Maybe Queen Mab was right. Maybe mortals and Fae can never be together. Maybe Richard and I were never truly meant for each other. No matter how much we thought otherwise, no matter how much we wanted it. We were just a fling—fleeting as summer—and now the autumn has come.

Maybe all this time I’ve only been choosing what
I
want the most. What’s best for
me.
Maybe my choice to be with Richard was just as foolish and destructive as Guinevere’s. Maybe it’s time to undo it before the
kingdom burns. Before there are only ashes left.

No. No. No.

All I want to do is go back to sleep. To be with just Richard. Only Richard. In a place where all of these other forces and wants and choices don’t exist.

But all dreams must end. Both the real and the waking.

“Emrys, are you listening?” We’ve been up here so long that Anabelle is almost soaked through with the storm’s breath. She’s a mess. Hair plastered to her face and skin mottled with cold. Yet I’ve never seen her look more alive. She’s kindled from the inside, her spells flashing like a lighthouse on the rocks. I can hardly stand to look at her for it.

“I was asking you what spell we should work on next.”

Next?
I wrap my arms around my chest and shiver. I’m just as wet and dripping as the princess, but there’s no light inside me to ward off the dreary November chill. I don’t think I can stand on this rooftop much longer, watching Richard’s sister gain back everything I’ve lost.

“We’re done for now.” My breath rises like dragon’s smoke between us. “Belle?”

Anabelle looks at me. Bright, life, innocence. And I hate what I’m about to say. Why I’m about to say it.

“Be careful, with Kieran. I know—” I swallow a lungful of mist, wonder if I’m saying too much. “I know he’s attractive. But—”

“Really, Emrys?” She laughs, but the sound is too loud. Pounding decibels trying to drown out the truth of things. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s cute and all, but I’m focused on finding Richard. Not getting a new boyfriend. Besides, can you imagine what Mum would think if I brought home an Ad-hene? Two immortals at family dinners. She’d have a conniption.”

Too loud. Too many words. Crowding, crowding, crowding. I even it out with a silence.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, sister.” The princess smiles, flashing pearly edged teeth. “Thanks for helping me today.”

Every one of her words is a bitter pill. But I can’t let her see how they’re choking me. I turn and start to head for the stairs.