The Fiery Heart (16 page)

He tapped his head. “No, she's here. I mean, not right now, but I know she's waiting. And when I'm sober, she'll be back and give me hell for this! I have to get the ruby back!” He turned with startling speed and pounded on the grating.

The shopkeeper took a step back. “I'm going to call the police.”

“No, wait,” I said, hurrying forward. “How much does he owe?”

“Two fifty.”

“It was two hundred!” cried Adrian.

“Plus fees and interest,” said the man, with far more patience than I probably would've had.

I reached for my wallet. “What credit cards do you take?”

“All of them,” he replied.

I paid for the ruby, and while the man went to get it, Adrian called after him, “There better not be a scratch on it!” When he got the ruby back, he held it up and scrutinized it with narrowed eyes, as though he were a master jeweler.

“Come on,” I said, taking hold of his arm. “Let's go.”

He stayed where he was, clutching the ruby in his fist and bringing it to his lips. His eyes closed briefly, and then, with a deep breath, he followed me to my car.

He chatted a lot on the way home, relating antics and stories from the night, and going on and on about how he'd been wronged by the pawnbroker. I said nothing and barely heard a word he said. My hands clenched the steering wheel with white knuckles, and all I kept thinking about was that frantic look in his eyes when he'd pounded against the grating.

He began to quiet as I hunted for parking in his neighbor-hood. When we got inside, I saw that the full effect of what had happened was sinking into him. I didn't know whether to be relieved or feel bad for him.

“Sydney, wait,” he said, when he realized I was about to turn right around and leave. “We need to talk.”

I sighed. “No. Not tonight. I'm tired, and I want to go to bed. And I don't want to talk to you when you're like this. There'll be plenty of time tomorrow.”

“Will there?” he asked. “Or will you have to keep your distance and stay with Zoe?”

“Don't start with that,” I warned. “You know we can't help that. You knew it when this started, so don't try blaming me for us tiptoeing around.”

“I'm not,” he said. “But why do we have to keep doing it? Let's make a real escape plan. Let's leave. We'll go to the Keepers or something and be together without all this bullshit.”

“Adrian,” I said wearily.

“Don't ‘Adrian' me,” he snapped, a surprising glint of anger in his eyes. “I don't know how you manage to do it, but just by saying my name like that, you make me feel like I'm five years old.”

I nearly said he was acting like it but managed to bite back the comment at the last minute. “Okay. We can't go to the Keepers because the Alchemists visit there all the time. And you wouldn't last one hour in those conditions. Besides, could you abandon Jill?”

The pained look on his face answered for him.

“Exactly. We're stuck here and just have to manage as best we can until . . . I don't know. Something changes. You know that. You've always known that.”

“I do,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair again, and by this time, it was beyond hope. “I do . . . and I hate it. And I don't have to be drunk to feel this way. How long, Sydney? Where is this all going? At what point do we get out? When you and Marcus pull off your revolution against the Alchemists?”

“It's not that easy.” I averted my eyes for a moment. “We're also pulling off a revolution against the taboos both our races enforce.”

“What's going to happen to us?” He leaned against the back of his kitchen and stared off at the dark window, lost in his own thoughts. “What
is
our escape plan?”

Silence fell. I had no answer, and I did the cowardly thing by shifting the topic back to him. “Is that why you did this tonight? Because of us? Or was it because of spirit? Jill mentioned that you used a lot of it.”

“No, Sydney.” It was a little disconcerting that he kept using my first name. It made it hard to stay angry. He walked back to me and caught hold of my hands, a haunted look in his eyes. “I didn't just use spirit. It was like . . . I
was
spirit. It filled me up. I had to look into that girl—Olive—to find out what had happened to her. Spirit infused every part of her, and I had to summon so much to see it. Then I had to confine it. Do you know what that's like? Do you have any idea? The only thing I've ever done that required more was saving Jill.”

“Hence your backlash,” I said.

He shook his head. “I tried. I tried to hold out. But when I swing up like that . . . well, eventually the pendulum swings back. It's hard to explain.”

“I've been down before.”

“Not like this,” he said. “And I'm not saying that to be a smart-ass. The way I feel . . . it's like the world starts crumbling around me. Every doubt, every fear . . . it eats me. It weighs me down until I'm swallowed in darkness and can't tell what's real or not. And even when I know something's not real . . . like Aunt Tatiana . . . well, it's still hard . . .”

I went cold all over, recalling his words from the shop. “How often do you hear her?”

His voice was barely whisper. “Not often. Although, once is too much. It's so weird. I know she's not there. I know she's gone. But I can imagine what she'd say, and it's just so real . . . it's like I can practically see her. I haven't yet, though, but someday . . . someday, I'm afraid I really will, and then I know I'll really be lost . . .”

I was so floored, I didn't know what to say. There'd been lots of talk about madness and spirit, but I'd rarely thought it was more than his moodiness. I drew him to me and finally found words.

“Adrian, you have to get help.”

His laugh was harsh. “What help is there? This is my life. Jäger shots are about as good as it gets. At least they take the edge off.”

“That's not a solution. You need real help. Get a prescription like Lissa did.”

He abruptly pulled away from me. “What, and kill it altogether?”

“Stop spirit, you stop the depression and . . . other things. Like needing to drink until you're yelling at a pawn dealer.”

“But then I don't have spirit.”

“Yes, that's the point.”

“I can't. I can't cut myself off from it.” Lines of pain were etched on his face.

“You can do anything you want,” I said firmly. There was a pain welling up inside of me, and I summoned as much steel as I could to keep it hidden. A concerned Hopper was sitting nearby, and I picked him up as a distraction, stroking the golden scales. “Do it, and you'll save yourself. And Jill. You know the darkness can bleed into her.”

“I did save her!” he exclaimed. A bit of that desperate, frantic gleam returned to his eyes. “She was dead, and I saved her. With spirit. I saved Rowena's hand. I saved Olive's blood. Do you know how much effort that was? It wasn't just the amount—the magic was so intricate, Sydney. I don't know if anyone else could've done it. But
I
did. With spirit. With spirit, I can actually do great things for a change!”

“You can do plenty of other great things.”

“Yeah? Like that?” He pointed at his latest self-portrait attempt, which even I had to admit was pretty bad.

“You're more than the magic,” I insisted. “I don't love you because of the magic.”

He faltered a moment at that. “But how can I just let go of the ability to help others? I asked you this before. Should I have let Jill die? Let Rowena ruin her career? Lose our chance at saving people from becoming Strigoi?”

My control finally snapped, and I set Hopper back down. “There's a line! At some point, there's a line you can't cross! Yes, you've done amazing things, but you're reaching a point where you'll have to pay a big price. Are you ready to pay it? Because I'm not! There comes a time when you have to step back and balance yourself with the needs of others. What happens if you do some major feat of spirit that pushes you over the edge? That gets you locked away? Or dead? Then what? How much else will you accomplish? Nothing. You don't know what the future holds. You don't know what you can do if you break free of spirit's influence.”

He moved forward and clasped my hands again. “But I'm not going to be able to. You think I can stand aside the next time I have to heal someone? Let them suffer? That's a temptation I can't fight.”

“Then remove it. Talk to a doctor. Take the decision away, and see what wondrous things you can do when you're in control of yourself again.”

Those green, green eyes held me for what felt like an eternity. At last he swallowed and shook his head again. “I can't, Sydney. I can't give it up.”

And at that point, I couldn't hold it in any longer. The tears started as just a few trickles and before I knew it, I was consumed by full-fledged sobbing. I buried my face in my hands, and all the grief, all the fear I'd held inside me for him came bursting out. I almost never cried. I certainly didn't do it in front of others. And although I considered most of my dad's lessons completely useless these days, I'd still clung to the idea that breaking down like this and showing so much emotion was a sign of weakness. But I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop.

I was scared. So, so scared for him. I dealt with logic and reason, and this was too hard for me, having to manage the unreasonable. And I'd meant what I said. I was afraid that one day, he'd go past frenetic painting and drunken antics. What if the pawnbroker had called the police before I got there? What if his aunt told him to walk off a building?

I felt Adrian's arms go around me, and although they were strong, his voice wavered. “Sydney . . . are you . . . are we . . . are we breaking up?”

It took me almost a minute to speak without choking. I looked up at him in shock, unable to believe he'd think I would leave him because he was suffering. “What? No! Why would you think that?”

The alcohol was wearing off, and his earlier frustration and sadness were now completely trumped by fear and confusion. “Then why are you crying?”

“Because of you!” I beat my fists on his chest. “Because I love you, and I don't know what to do! I can solve almost any problem, but I can't solve this. I don't know how to deal with that. And I'm afraid! Afraid for you! Do you know what it'd do to me if something happens to you?” I stopped hitting him and clasped my hands over my own chest, as though there was a danger my heart might fall out. “This! This would break. Shatter. Crumble. Crumble until it was dust.” I dropped my hands. “Blown away on the wind until there was nothing left.”

Silence fell between us, broken occasionally by my gasps as I tried to get over my sobs. It was so quiet that I heard my cell phone buzz in my purse. Zoe, I realized. In the wake of what had happened with Adrian, she seemed like something from another life. Slowly, reality seeped into me. She was very much a part of this life, and she was probably afraid that Jill was going to turn me into a snack.

I broke from Adrian and read the text, which was about what I expected. I told her I was fine and was on my way home. When I looked back up, Adrian was watching me with a longing and despair that made me want to rush back to him. But I knew I'd never leave then, and it was time to go. The rest of the world was marching on.

“We'll talk later,” I whispered, not that I had any clue what else to say. I found my wallet and set some cash on the back of the couch. “To get you by.”

“Sydney . . .” He took a step forward and reached toward me.

“Later,” I reiterated. “Go get some sleep. And remember, I love you. No matter what else comes, I love you.”

It seemed like a paltry thing in the face of all that plagued him, but for now, it would have to be enough.

I
T WAS THE TEARS THAT BROKE ME.

Maybe I could've stayed obstinate and argued against her, making excuses about why I was trapped by spirit. I could've probably done a decent job, even against her superior logic. But as I began sobering up after she left, the image of those tears haunted me. I'd always rejoiced in those rare moments of passion I saw in her eyes, that deeper emotional side she kept guarded. She wasn't someone who showed her feelings easily to others, yet I alone was special enough to see the full wealth of her emotions when she was full of joy and desire. And tonight, I'd apparently been special enough to witness her sorrow too.

It ate me up, especially because the next time I saw her, she acted as though nothing had happened. She was good to her word. She wasn't going to leave me. But despite her smiles and her cool countenance, I knew she must be frustrated. I had a problem—no, I
was
a problem. One she couldn't solve. It had to be driving her crazy, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized she shouldn't have to solve it. I needed to step up. No one had ever cried for me before. Honestly, I didn't think I was worth anyone's tears.

“But I have to be,” I told Jill one day. “If she cares that much and can hurt so much for me . . . how can I let her feelings go to waste? She thinks I'm important. I have to prove that I can be.”

“You
are
important,” Jill assured me.

We were sitting outside her dorm, enjoying a surge of winter warmth. The shadow of the sprawling stucco building kept the worst of the light away from us.

I shook my head. “I don't know. I don't know what I can offer her or the world. I thought it was spirit. I thought the things I can do with it would be my contribution to the world. Like you and Olive.” I'd heard nothing about Olive since she'd gone to Court, and for all I knew, my efforts might have actually failed.

Jill squeezed my hand and smiled. “Well, it's certainly a contribution as far as I'm concerned, but Sydney was right—you don't know what else you might be capable of. Most people don't leave their mark on the world through big miracles. Some do,” she added quickly. “But sometimes the biggest impact is made by a series of small, quiet things. You won't be able to do anything like that if you're—”

“—locked away or dead?” I finished, echoing Sydney's words.

Jill winced. “Let's not think about anything like that. No point stressing over what hasn't happened. Just work on what you can control now.”

I slung an arm around her. “There you go again, Jailbait. Being all wise beyond your years.”

“Your wisdom must be rubbing off on me. You're already doing great things without even trying.” She leaned into me. “But seriously, Adrian. Try it. Try to stop spirit and see what happens.”

“I haven't used it since then. Not even to look at auras.” I also hadn't had a single drink, not even my daily allotted one.

“It's only been a few days. Not to say your sacrifice isn't noble. But are you going to be able to resist using spirit if . . . I don't know . . . if, say, Sydney cuts her leg shaving? Are you going to be able to resist, or are you going to think, ‘Oh, a little spirit healing on that cut won't hurt'?”

“She does have great legs,” I admitted. “I'd hate to see them marred.”

“Exactly. And you'd think that a teeny, tiny bit of spirit wouldn't hurt anything. And then you'd think that the next time. And the next time—”

I held my hands up. “Okay, okay. I get it. Thank God Sydney's too careful for this shaving fiasco to even be a possibility.” We both laughed at that, and then the severity of the situation settled back on me. “You win. I'll try . . . but I just can't shake the feeling I'm being selfish if I do this. I've been selfish my whole life. It'd be nice if I'd overcome that.”

Jill met me squarely in the eye. “Every time you use spirit . . . is it just to do good?”

I took a long time to answer. “You're asking me something you already know the answer to,” I said. I used spirit for the rush because I felt blissful and godly. At times, I got the same high I would from drinking or smoking.

“Then there you go,” she said. “See what happens. If it doesn't work, you stop. It's a pill, not a lifelong commitment.”

“Why does that sound familiar?”

She grinned mischievously. “It's what you told Sydney about birth control pills.”

Hard to believe I'd nearly forgotten about that. “Ah, yes. A conversation you're best left out of. We need to preserve your innocence for as long as possible.”

Jill's wry expression was another of those that looked too wise for her age. “That ended the moment we were bonded.”

Just then, Sydney and Zoe stepped out of the dorm's front door. They didn't see us, sitting on our far bench, and Jill called out to them. Zoe stiffened. Sydney smiled, though it was a polite Alchemist smile.

I leaned back and crossed my legs, hoping I looked as insolent as possible. “Well, well. The Sisters Sage. Where are you guys off to? Volunteer work at the library? Liquidation sale at the Container Store?”

Incredibly, Sydney managed to keep a straight face. Aside from reinforcing my love for her, it also made me want to take her to a poker game sometime. Between that and my aura reading, we'd make a killing. “Close. Zoe needs some graphing paper for her math class.”

“Ah,” I said. “Office supplies. That was going to be my next guess. I only held off because I figured you guys kept reams of that stuff under your beds.”

And still, Sydney managed that amazing control, though her lips
did
twitch ever so slightly. She glanced at Jill. “Need anything?”

Jill shook her head, but I piped in, “I could use a new sketchbook and some pigment sticks and—”

Sydney sighed and put on a tormented expression. “Adrian, I wasn't talking to you. Come on, Zoe. We'll see you guys later.” They started to walk away, and then Sydney abruptly halted. “Oh! I have to talk to Jill about something real quick. Here.” She tossed Zoe her keys. “You can bring it out of the parking garage.”

Zoe's eyes widened like Sydney had just said Christmas was coming early. It was actually kind of sweet, and I had to remember that Zoe was a perpetual scourge upon my love life. “Really? Oh! Thank you!” She snatched the keys without a second thought and trotted away.

Sydney watched her fondly. “Really?” she asked me. “A Container Store liquidation?”

“Come on,” I said. “Don't act like you wouldn't be all over that.”

She grinned and turned back to us. The sunlight made her hair turn to molten gold, and it took my breath away. “Maybe,” she agreed. “Depends on how tasteful the colors were.”

“I'm guessing you don't actually have to talk to me?” Jill asked, with a sly smile.

Sydney shrugged and tucked some of that marvelous hair behind her ear. “Not specifically. Mostly I just wanted some breathing space. It's nice to talk to both of you.” But her eyes fell on me, and I could've cut the tension between us. I knew that she, like me, was having a mental struggle in staying apart. I would've given anything to hold her just then, to trace the edge of her cheek or feel the strands of her hair between my fingers. Clearing her throat, she looked away and seemed to be groping for a safe subject. Well, a semi-safe one. Her voice dropped as her eyes turned back up with a gleam.

“I did it.” She cast a quick glance around before continuing. “The salt. I got all four elements into it.”

Jill caught her breath, just as consumed by the quest as Sydney and me. “You think you can use it to replicate Marcus's ink?”

Sydney nodded eagerly. “The hard work's done. It just needs to be ground up and suspended in any ink solution to use for tattooing. Then, I need a guinea pig. I guess the brave thing would be to try it on myself.”

“I have absolute faith in your abilities,” I told her, “but maybe you should wait and experiment with one of Marcus's starry-eyed recruits.”

“I suppose I could. I mean, I don't think it'll cause any harm. The biggest problem will be whether it works or not. And the only way we can find out is if the Alchemists try to re-ink the guinea pig—which none of us want.” Her small, thoughtful frown was adorable. “Unless I could get a hold of Alchemist ink and do more experiments . . . but, ugh. That won't be easy without sanctioning. And I don't have an earth user around either.”

I scoffed. “I'm sure Abe would love to help.”

“Oh, yes,” said Sydney. “I'm sure he would. I'm sure he'd love to know
all
about my side project.”

Zoe pulled up just then in that beast of a car. She didn't drive over the curb or crash into the building, so I supposed that was promising. Nonetheless, I saw Sydney's sharp eyes studying the exterior for even the tiniest ding. Satisfied, she took the driver's seat from Zoe and waved goodbye to us. Her eyes held mine, and for a few moments, I was suspended in that amber gaze. I sighed as she drove off, and when I glanced down, I saw Jill watching me knowingly.

“Fine,” I said. “I'll make an appointment.” She hugged me.

I called a psychiatrist recommended by Carlton's health center and kind of hoped it would take a while to get in. After all, specialists were always busy, right? This one apparently was—but had just had a cancellation for tomorrow. The receptionist told me I was incredibly lucky, so what I could do? I accepted and then skipped mixed media the next day, earning “slacker” name-calling when I asked Rowena to let me know what I missed.

The doctor's name was Ronald Mikoski, but I promptly forgot that because he looked exactly like Albert Einstein, complete with disheveled white hair and mustache. I'd thought there'd be a couch where I'd lie back and talk about my mother, but instead, he directed me to a plush armchair while he settled behind a desk. Instead of a notebook, he had a laptop.

“Well, Adrian,” Einstein began. “Tell me what brings you in here today.”

I started to say, “My girlfriend made me,” but that sounded petulant.

“My girlfriend thought it'd be a good idea,” I amended. “I want to get some antidepressants.”

The bushy eyebrows rose. “Do you? Well, we don't just hand out prescriptions around here, but let's get to the bottom of things first. Are you depressed?”

“Not at the moment.”

“But you get that way sometimes?”

“Sure. I mean, well, everyone does, right?”

He met my gaze levelly. “Yes, of course, but is yours worse than the average person's?”

“Who can say?” I shrugged. “It's all subjective, right?”

“Does your girlfriend think it's worse than the average person's?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“Why?”

That made me falter. I didn't know if I was ready to talk about that. I hadn't expected to. I knew enough about mental health from Lissa to understand that psychiatrists prescribed medicine and therapists talked you through your problems. I'd thought I could just come in here, say I needed pills, and get them.

“Because . . . I drink when I get down.”

Einstein's fingers tapped away. “A lot?”

I was ready with another “subjective” quip but chose to answer bluntly. “Yes.”

“When you're happy too?”

“I guess . . . but what's wrong with letting loose?”

“Tell me how you feel when you ‘get down.'”

Again, it was another opening for a joke. Like, I should've said something about getting down at a dance club. After all, how could I describe what I felt in those dark moments when spirit's shadow seized hold of my soul? And even if I could find the words, how could he understand? How could anyone truly, truly understand? No one could, and that was part of what made things so bad. I always felt alone. Even another spirit user couldn't completely understand my experience. We were all in our own personal hells, and of course, I couldn't actually mention spirit specifically.

Yet, I found myself talking to Einstein anyway, describing everything as best I could. After a while, he stopped typing and just listened, occasionally asking me to clarify my feelings. Soon, he shifted from how I felt when depressed and wanted to know how I felt when I was happy. He seemed especially interested in my spending habits and any “unusual behaviors.” When we'd exhausted that, he gave me a bunch of questionnaires that asked variations of the same questions.

“Man,” I said, handing them back. “I had no idea it was this hard to qualify as crazy.”

I saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. “‘Crazy' is a term that's used incorrectly and far too often. It's also used with stigma and finality.” He tapped his head. “We're all chemicals, Adrian. Our bodies, our brains. It's a simple yet vastly sophisticated system, and every so often, something goes awry. A cell mutation. A neuron misfiring. A lack of a neurotransmitter.”