Withering Rose (Once Upon A Curse Book 2) (5 page)

I can't think about my mother. It's too
hard.

So I think about a different queen. "But
Deirdre was undefeatable," I protest, shaking my head and pushing
my father away. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. "Her magic was
so strong. She could steal people's emotions. She could control
their thoughts and their movements, could put suggestions in their
mind. Loyalty was her power. How could anyone defeat that?"

"I don't know," my father says, shaking his
head. There is still a hint of pity in his eyes, but mostly there
is love. "The general said there will be more information coming in
over the next few days. Some of the survivors are going to share
their stories and reveal what they know about defeating the
magic."

I pace across my flowery carpet, grasping in
vain for another option, another plan, another chance at freedom.
But my father is right—where could I go where they wouldn't find
me?

And then I stop as though struck.

My feet are rooted to the ground.

My head turns toward the gray concrete wall
of my room, but my eyes see beyond it. My gaze cuts through the
underground, through the dirt and the iron and the rock, and
remembers a view I haven't seen in years—the sweeping veranda my
old room on the surface used to look upon.

The mountains.

Snow-capped peaks far off in the
distance.

The sanctuary that has always been waiting
within reach but I never considered until now.

"I can go to the beast," I mutter, speaking
to myself.

But my father hears. "Absolutely not."

He stands, grabbing my arm, turning me away
from the wall as though he too can see the vision filling my sight.
But I spin in his hold, eyes wide with possibility.

"It's perfect, don't you see, Papa? We can
tell them he kidnapped me. It worked years ago when I lost control,
they believed when you said he wanted to take me for revenge. They
never doubted you." My words are flowing at a mile a minute as the
excitement mounts. My pulse races as the puzzle pieces begin to
fall into place. The more I speak, the clearer everything becomes.
"I'll run away. I won't use any of my magic until I reach the
border where the beast's magic begins to affect the machines.
They'll think it was him."

"Omorose," my father tries to interrupt.

But I can't stop. I won't. "There's a bunch
of kids going to the surface for a party tonight. I'll go with
them. I'll get separated from the group. Tomorrow morning, you tell
them I never came home. I can leave some clues behind me, shred up
some of my clothes. I can even cut myself if I need to. I can—"

"Omorose!" he shouts.

I only stop because I notice a tear falling
slowly down his cheek.

"Omorose," he repeats, voice breaking. I can
see the fear written across his face. Fear for me.

"He has magic, too, Papa. He won't hurt me,"
I say.

"You don't know that. You can't. The
stories—"

"Are just stories," I finish for him. Then I
reach up and wipe the drop from his deeply tan skin, meeting his
watery gaze. "Those stories are from a different time, Papa. The
world has changed. People with magic can't afford to be each
other's enemies, not anymore. He'll help me, I know he will."

"Help you what?" he asks, tone full of the
same dread that's written across his face.

I know what answer he wants to hear. It's
the only answer that might make him agree to this plan. The only
answer he'll accept. But it's also a lie. And it rolls smooth as
butter through my lips. "Help me get rid of it."

Relief flickers in his cocoa irises.

I fight the guilt coiling in my gut. "If
this is what magic has become, my death trap, my personal prison, I
don't want it anymore. It will kill me slowly if I use it. My death
will just be quicker if it's discovered. The only freedom I see for
myself is the freedom I could have if the magic were gone. And the
beast might know something. His magic might be able to help. I have
to try. I have to do something."

The words are more heartfelt than I thought
they'd be.

I'm no longer sure who I'm lying to.

My father.

Or myself.

"Okay," he whispers.

For a moment, I think I've imagined it.

But then he sighs, and his shoulders fall as
though a weight he has been carrying around his entire life has
been lifted. And maybe it has.

"Okay," he says louder, with more
authority.

I jump into his open arms, and he catches
me, just the way he used to when I was a little girl. Laughter
rolls up my throat from a place I thought had died with the
earthquake. I feel light, bubbly, like a child again. More than
anything, I feel brave.

"Thank you, Papa," I whisper into his
chest.

His grip tightens.

"I'll come back as soon as I can," I
promise. "And then we'll both be free to find a new home together.
A place where we don't have to pretend. A place where we don't have
to live in fear any longer."

It's after midnight by the time I've found enough
nerve to leave my room and make my way to the surface. There's a
quiver of excitement beneath the anxiety, a little part of me that
is thrilled to finally go on an adventure. But the bigger part of
me is shaking at the thought of leaving everything behind, of
seeking out a man so terrifying we call him the beast. And there's
another little piece of me, the wallflower piece I can't quite
shake, who is just scared of the simple fact that I'm going to my
first real party. And that when I'm there, I need to create a scene
so embarrassing that no one will blink twice when I run away. But
before any of that can happen, I need to make it to the surface,
and I need to control my magic.

The last time I breathed in fresh air was
five months and seventeen days ago. I always keep count. I always
try to see how long I can push it before needing to use the magic
just a little bit. The more I can keep it inside, the better off I
am, because I never really know when a storm is going to pass
through that is ferocious enough to affect the electricity,
covering my tracks. But the older I've grown, the worse my control
has become. Each time I use the magic, my addiction to it
strengthens. Right after the earthquake, I was able to repress it
for three years before that night in my sleep when it leaked out.
And then three years turned to two, which turned to one. The last
time I went to the surface, I had been holding the magic in for
eight long months, and I was desperate for release. I was barely
able to contain the power beneath my skin. Each breath was a
struggle for those last few days. We'd been in the middle of a
drought, and I was terrified a storm would never come.

My fingers still twitch at the memory. And
as I turn down another long hallway, they keep shaking, more and
more with each step I take toward the exit.

The only thing I'm thankful for right now is
that there is no need to worry about getting caught sneaking
outside. I've heard of some freedom fighter bases where everyone
lives underground, where the magic they are fighting is so
dangerous that they need to implement very strict rules just to
ensure everyone's safety. But here, there is no need. Though we
call him the beast, the most frightening thing about him is that we
really don't know what his magic does. We live very close to the
edge of where his magic stretches, but he's never tried to use it
against us, not unless we go on the offensive first. So we live a
relatively safe life. Safe enough that many of the people who live
here still choose to live above ground. And tonight, everyone is
celebrating. Some are drunk on preciously saved alcohol. Some are
just drunk on joy. Everyone is wandering the halls, going up into
the night and coming back down to the underground base. Disguised
by so much activity, I don't look the least bit suspicious as I
make my way slowly across the base.

Not yet, anyway.

But I will.

Which is why I wait until the ramp to the
surface is empty before slowly making my way up the steep incline.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering unnaturally. The
concrete walls press in against me. My boots thud against the thick
floor.

I hate it down here.

So I keep my eyes glued to the solid metal
door at the end of the tunnel, watching it grow bigger with each
step as I try to ready myself for the onslaught. Breathe in.
Breathe out. Step one foot. Step the other. I bring my body into a
rhythm, clearing my mind, doing whatever I can to prepare.

Then, gently, I reach out and input the
eight-digit code we are all forced to memorize at the start of each
year. When the light turns green, I twist the silvery latch in the
middle of the door, listening as the bolts slide free. I open
it.

The smell of wet grass hits my nose.

I double over as my magic surges to life. A
cry leaks out as my heart explodes, scorched by the magic as it
forces its way out of the tiny hole I'd pushed it into. Heat
courses painfully through my body, stinging and tingling, as though
every part of me was numb and is suddenly being prodded painfully
back to life. I shiver and twist. Every muscle clenches tight as I
struggle for control, but I know I can't let it out. Not yet.

My senses expand as the magic begins to take
over. I'm aware of each blade of trodden grass, every flower
struggling in the early winter frost, all of the dead leaves
scattered across the ground. I feel every stem stretching into the
sky and every root seeping into the dirt. Nature overwhelms me with
its glory.

I continue breathing slowly, focusing my
thoughts on counting out each inhale and each exhale. Every time I
come to the surface it is the same, and after so long, I've
mastered the painful and unnatural process of keeping my magic
inside.

After a few minutes, I can finally
stand.

I take a hesitant step, forcing my feet
fully through the door as I close it behind me. The tunnel exits
into an old abandoned cottage with shattered windows, which is why
that grassy breeze slipped in so easily. The high-security door I
just exited looks like no more than rotting wood on this side, an
old closet door with its paint chipping off and rusted hinges. Even
the keypad is disguised, hidden behind a crooked picture frame. No
one would ever take notice of this old broken-down home, so it
conceals the entrance to our base quite effectively.

Magic simmers beneath my skin as I make my
way fully outside. I can't allow myself to get distracted for even
a moment. Half of my attention must remain on controlling it.
Sometimes, the magic is my friend. Sometimes it does what I want
when I want it to. But at times like this, it feels foreign with a
mind of its own, like another soul living inside of me, with a will
and wants different from my own. Right now, it yearns more than
anything to be released back into the world where it belongs.

I force a smile to my lips as I pass by
people still celebrating on the streets. Some sit on their porches,
talking loudly, strumming guitars. Others are quieter in their
revelry, looking up at the stars and the moon, lost in their own
thoughts. I try not to disturb them as I wander through, searching
for my peers.

Though I've never been to one of these
parties, I've overheard enough conversations to know where all the
kids my age go to get away from adult supervision for a little
while. I wasn't sure if they'd go there tonight or if they'd stay
closer to the base where everyone was celebrating, but as I walk
through our small aboveground town, I don't see a single teenager
hanging around. So I wander past the last row of houses and follow
the dirt path leading to our solar energy field.

Totally off limits, of course.

But that's what makes it fun, right?

I walk for a mile or so with only the moon
to guide me before I finally see soft lights in the
distance—rechargeable flashlights. We all have them stored in our
rooms in case of emergency, not that this would exactly qualify.
And then I notice the glinting ebony surfaces of the solar panels
resting in parallel lines across the massive field, the most
reliable source of energy for our base. I'm told in old Earth,
people didn’t have to worry about electricity too much. If you paid
for it, it was there. But the earthquake messed with their power
lines and grids, especially out here so far from major cities.
Sometimes the adults talk about the old days when things like cell
phones and televisions were considered necessities, not
luxuries.

By the time I reach the fence, I can tell
the party is in full swing. Someone must have hijacked access to an
outlet because music mixes with laughter and muddled conversation,
probably one of the old CD players we keep in the classroom.
There's a lock on the gate, so I'm guessing Dean stole the codes
from his father to sneak inside and get access to the grid. But
everyone else is outside the fence on the far side of the field. I
make my way over, trying to build my courage with each step.