Matter of Truth, A (6 page)

Using Magic is the same as, say gambling. Or alcohol. Or
drugs. Detox is hard, abstinence becomes easier over time, but if you give into
it, man, the hit is too strong to resist.

I fabricated myself all the transcripts I need. And then,
even though it’d been suggested I hold off for Fall admission, I go for Summer.
Flush with my decision and subsequent action on that resolution, I can’t help myself.
I make myself a new pair of boots and a new coat and take Nell out on a walk
with a brand new, fancy leash that says her name on it.

Maybe I can do Magic and still be Chloe. Er, Zoe.

As I walk through the neighborhood for one of me and Nell’s
ten-minute-max walks, I spot Mr. McGillicuddy kicking his ancient Oldsmobile.
The thing is notorious for breaking down on him on a daily basis. He’s a nice
old man. He’s helped me out several times when Will and Cameron weren’t around.
So I decide to help him by giving him a new engine. And it feels awesome, just
incredibly awesome to help somebody out and know that I didn’t kill anyone or
destroy anything.

I gave an old man the means to go visit his
Alzheimer-afflicted wife in a nearby nursing home without having to pay for a
taxi.

Maybe I can do this after all.

Will tosses a pack of paper towels
into our shopping cart with the enthusiasm of a shot putter. He’s in a mood;
Becca called twenty minutes before we were supposed to leave to run errands and
broke down once more, weeping about she might be pregnant—except, she lost the
baby in the accident and that was over a year ago. It’s a conversation they’ve
had a dozen times, when snatches of memory crawl their way back to the surface
of her broken brain. Poor Will suffers through hearing about how his girlfriend
and best friend cheated on him more times than is fair. And yet, he listens to
her, offers forgiveness, but like always, she and the memories tie him down in
ways he can’t escape.

As I can only imagine the horrors I would feel, let alone
act upon if the same were true about Jonah (or Kellan), I’ve decided to try my
best to distract him. “Did you know that houseflies taste with their feet?”

He regards me as if I’ve turned into a fly myself. I nod
vigorously—interesting facts! I gots them! But he shakes his head and grabs the
wrong toilet paper, chucking it next to the paper towels. I quietly put it back
on the shelf and pick the right kind. Cameron is quite particular.

A little girl nearby wails; her sibling dances around the
cart she’s strapped in, clutching a dolly’s head. Sure enough, the little girl
is holding a decapitated, naked baby.

My heart goes out to her. As the mother ignores the two, I
zap the doll’s head back on. The children go quiet—the boy stunned, the girl
increasingly delighted. I debate giving the poor thing clothes but figure the
kid must have a reason why her dolly is naked. I hide the small smile creeping
on my lips when she clutches the doll to her chest.

“Jesus. I’ve prattled on so much that I’ve lost you. Sorry,
Zo.”

I jerk my attention back to Will. He looks so sad, so . . .
lost. “No! Don’t be silly.” I nudge his arm with my shoulder. “Maybe it’s time
to change your number.”

“You don’t think I want to?” He tugs on his earlobe. “Becca’s
mum begged me not to. Says the connection to me is the only thing that gets her
through some of her better days.” He sighs heavily. “She cheated on me. Broke
my heart. But . . . I’ve also known her my whole life, Zo. I stupidly can’t let
go of her or Grant. I just . . . I wish I knew how.”

It’s because he’s a good person. He puts Becca’s fragile
mental welfare at times above his own. As for me? I just abandon those whose
hearts I shatter.

When the mother pushes the cart past me, the little girl
grins and holds up her doll for me to see. “Pretty,” I tell her.

“My baby,” she proudly tells me in return.

Her brother scowls, trailing slowly after his mother and
victorious sibling.

Four—no five—uses of Magic in less than two days. I need to
get myself under control, especially since there’s this rotting undercurrent in
my brain that my craft is being wasted on things like dog leashes and boots
rather than the betterment of civilizations.

My mother’s words, crafted from caution and disgust, weigh
heavily upon my conscience. She turned away from me first. Why should I care
about what she thinks? I grab a box of tissues. The good kind, with lotion,
which I have a sneaking suspicion I might just need in the dark hours of
tonight.

“Grant’s mum called last night, too.”

I look up from the cart. “What did she want?”

He won’t look at me when he says, “The fuck if I know. She
cried. Tried to remind me of how we played together in our nappies. That this
was all Becca’s fault. I don’t know. She—I guess she needed to reach out to
somebody who loved him, too.”

I wish I could personally call the woman right now and tell
her to back the hell off.

For the rest of the shopping trip, Will is on autopilot,
leaving me to wonder what I would do if I were in his shoes. What if I found
out that Jonah was expecting a baby with someone else—somebody like his
ex-girlfriend Callie, whom I called a good friend? For the last five hundred
years or so, Magicals have been able to produce one pregnancy, so if in my
absence they have sex and he’s so taken away with the moment he forgets a
condom and she’s fertile or some crap like that—

Ka-BOOM!

Five seconds later, Will grabs my arm, asking me if I’m
okay. He’s absolutely soaked, covered head to toe with laundry detergent. As am
I. As are the three other people in this unfortunate aisle of the store.
Because every single bottle of detergent just exploded, sending down a
rainstorms of scented, slimy cleaners down upon us.

I’m shamed to my core. Some things never change. Even now,
even after I’ve tried to deny myself Magic, I still can’t control it when my
feelings get too intense.

The store manager grovels at our feet, which is horrible and
humiliating for him, since I’m to blame. All our bills for that day are paid.
But when we go home, Will won’t let the subject go. He’s curious. Of course
he’s curious.

In the end, I lie to him, as I’ve done since the day I met
him. Because what would he think he if he knew his best friend was the kind of
person who destroys things when she gets upset?

“May I help you?”

The man sitting at the counter is fairly nondescript: tall
and lean, with mousy brown hair and matching eyes. His face is pockmarked and
aged by sunlight. Head tilted slightly to the side, he’s studying me.

He may be nondescript, but he’s also an Elf, which sends my
freak-out-sensor into high gear.

Rationally, I’m aware that there are Elves living on the
Human plane, including non-Magical Elves who know nothing about Magicals. Or
Creators. Especially Creators who, just a week before, destroyed the laundry
aisle of a big box store. It’d been in the news, which left me stumbling on
uneven ground.

When the Elf doesn’t answer, I’m tempted to turn around and
get the hell out of here. But then his head snaps back to normal position and
he smiles, teeth crooked on the bottom row. “Sh-sure. Do you h-have coffee?”

Seriously. He says this in a diner, with a coffee pot
brewing right behind me. “Decaf? Regular?”

“Decaf is f-fine,” he says. “Got to keep my senses
f-focused, you know?”

Like the junkie I apparently am nowadays, I use Magic to
will the shield I built around me all those months ago to become tighter,
stronger so that, even if this Elf is a Magical, he’ll have no clue who I am.
Excepting, of course, if he’s carrying a picture of me; blonde hair and blue
eyes aside, it’s not like I had plastic surgery. “What is it that you do?”

He blinks a few times, like he’s shocked I would question
him.

“Your job,” I clarify, leaning against the counter. I tuck a
strand of my hair behind an ear. “That requires you to be alert?”

“Oh.” He fingers the menu I’ve handed over. “It’s, hmm . .
.” He rubs at his forehead, flipping his lanky, greasy hair to the side.
“C-complicated.”

I don’t recognize the guy, but then, Annar is a large place,
and even a first tier Council member doesn’t know all the main players, even
ones who stutter. But if I had to guess, this guy, this Elf, is a Tracker for
the Guard.

Part of me wants to run, like
now
. Hit the road,
rework all my shields, and find a new place to hide. But another part insists
I’ve done good work. I’ve got roots growing. I can’t leave Cameron and Will
behind—not yet, at least.

I burned a lot of bridges to get to where I’m standing.
There isn’t a lot left of Chloe Lilywhite that exists outside of Annar. But if
I run right now, he’d be at my heels within seconds. I wonder if he carries
handcuffs. Would he arrest me? Exactly how would he drag me back to Annar?

Worse yet, what if he
tells
somebody?

My heartbeat is deafening. I give the Elf what I think is a
smile and ask, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

He takes a couple of deep breaths, nostrils flaring. He’s
breathing my scent in which leaves me no longer in doubt—he’s a Tracker. I’ve
seen enough Trackers in my time to know they do this. “No.”

No kidding. “What brings you to Anchorage?”

He clears his throat. “I’m here for a j-job.”

Is he testing me? “The so-called complicated job?”

He nods, his fingers tracing over the rim of the cup I’ve
slid over.

I’d been told, a year or so back, that the Guard’s Trackers
can assume roles easily, become whoever and whatever it takes to find their
quarry. I’d be willing to bet my life savings that this nervousness and that
stutter are fake.

So, as freaked out as I am, I’m also pissed off. I issue my
own challenge. “How long are you in town?”

If he senses my anger, he doesn’t show his hand. “Oh, not .
. . uh . . . well, as l-long as it t-takes, I guess. I mean, as long as the job
t-takes.”

I bet. “Have you found what you’re looking for?”

His eyes narrow for the briefest of moments before
resembling a lost puppy dog’s. “Huh?”

Asshole. I tap his menu. “Do you know what you’d like to
order?”

“Oh! What’s g-good here?”

“The pancakes,” I tell him truthfully.

“It’s n-nine o’clock at n-n-night!”

I fake grin. “There’s always time for pancakes.” Like the
bastard deserves Will’s pancakes.

He orders them, though. I force myself to go about my normal
duties. I hang the order up at the kitchen window. I fill a few other
customers’ cups with coffee. I take another order. Hang that one up. Get the
pancakes. Give them to the Tracker. Tell him to let me know if he needs
anything else. Watch him the entire time out of the corner of my eye.

The nervousness fades away when he doesn’t think I’m
watching. He fingers the menu, the silverware I placed in front of him, the mug
I held. His fingers slide across the plate in the exact spot mine laid.

How did he find me? Was it the grocery store mishap? The
flurry of Magic usages I did over the last couple weeks? Or was I just not good
enough with covering my tracks?

I wrack my brain for what his name could be. Someone Karl
might’ve mentioned as being good. Or Kellan. Lon—no—Larry? No.
Lee
.
That’s it. Lee Acacia. An Elf named Lee Acacia was considered to be royalty
when it came to tracking difficult quarries. He was one of the guys who made
the most progress with the Elders.

Lee Acacia is sitting in my diner. Eating Will’s pancakes.
Watching me. And sending text messages.

“Yo. Space cadet.”

I nearly jump out of my skin. But it’s only Will, taking a
break from the kitchen.

“You look like you’re a million miles away,” he says to me.

“Just thinking about whether or not I’ll get into college.”
It’s not a lie. I’d been fixated on that before the Elf walked into the diner.

“Why wouldn’t you? You’re brilliant. They’d be daft to not
accept you.”

Bless his heart. “You’re biased.”

He leans his hip against the counter and grins. “Nah. I’m
nothing if not a brutal realist.”

The Tracker’s cell phone rings. I jerk at the sound.

“I know we’re supposed to go bowling tonight, and you’ve got
your tricked out trainers, ready to lift you out of the gutter, straight on the
path to victory, but I was wondering if we could just go home instead. I’m
knackered,” Will is saying.

Yes, yes, go home. Lock the doors behind us. I nod
vigorously. “I’m beat, too.”

The Tracker appears annoyed. He’s talking quietly, and I
can’t hear his words, but I see his face. He’s angry and clearly arguing with
whoever is on the other end of the line.

“I DVRed a hockey game.” Will tosses a straw wrapper at me.

“You’re so Americanized,” I murmur, but my attention remains
riveted at the end of the counter.