The scent of woodsmoke around him grew stronger. Asa realized he’d lost his concentration enough to very nearly set the tree ablaze, and he wasn’t here to start fires.
So he rolled off the limb, caught himself with one hand for a moment, then dropped silently to the ground, landing on his feet. The jolt would have broken bones in a human; for Asa, it registered as a thump, no more.
Night had begun to fall. In his black coat and dark jeans, he blended easily into the shadows, no magic required. He liked walking along the streets without being seen, without having to pretend to be Jeremy Prasad. Not that there weren’t parts of that masquerade he relished—but sometimes he wanted the simple luxury of being himself, being able to enjoy this world for what it was.
Two weeks to Thanksgiving, a holiday Asa had never experienced. It seemed to involve eating, so he was game to give it a try. He ought to have the joys of this world while they were still here for the having. The more brilliant colors of the leaves had faded to brown, and already as many were on the ground as on the trees. Given the heat that radiated from him, he didn’t need a coat; the one he wore was mostly for show, and also because he looked damn good in it. The mere humans around him were already beginning to don heavier coats, scarves, and those ridiculous knitted hats that made them look like garden gnomes.
Thinking of garden gnomes reminded him of the last time he’d become seriously distracted, enough to nearly start a fire—the night he’d watched Verlaine working on her computer. Her silver hair had fallen over her shoulders, and the light from her screen had illuminated the thin, fragile lines of her face. Her eyes had been wide, like she was drinking in every single thing she could learn, everything the world had to offer.
That memory was replaced by the one from this afternoon in the hospital, when she’d slumped in a plastic chair like a broken doll, all hope and joy gone.
Two people, he thought, anger rising inside him. Only two humans in the world aren’t ensnared by Elizabeth’s spell. Only two of them can see Verlaine for what she really is: her fathers. She might have been allowed to keep them both. It was so little, and it was all she had.
He thought of going back to her, but no. Verlaine would be with her remaining father now; they needed each other. There was little else for Asa to do but go home.
The mood was a little strained around the Prasad home at present. Mom had been allowed to come home two days earlier, having shown no further signs of dangerous behavior. (When not influenced by magic spells, Mrs. Prasad could come no closer to violence than cooking her superspicy curry.) Still, she remained shaken, and Dad kept agreeing to absolutely anything she said so as to avoid setting off another “incident.” This of course irritated her more than any argument could, so both of them remained tense and cranky.
However, Asa did his best, telling funny stories about school that made them smile, and asking his mother what she wanted for her birthday next week. Her face lit up so brightly that he knew, beyond any doubt, that Jeremy Prasad had never remembered his mother’s birthday in his life.
So. Errands for evil Sorceress: taken care of. Verlaine: in the best place she could be. Prasad parents: pacified.
And yet he still had to do forty-five minutes’ worth of medieval history homework before bed.
I’ve known people from the fourteenth century, he mused as he started outlining his paper about the Hundred Years’ War. You’d think it would speed things up a little. But no. And I’m being forced to assist in an apocalypse I’d rather never see; could it at least happen before this paper is due? Of course not.
Around nine p.m., his father appeared in the doorway of his room. “Hard at work, I see.”
“History.”
“Your mother seems well. Doesn’t she?”
“Yeah.” Then, thinking better of his casual reply, Asa tried to assume a more stricken expression, one that would make it clear he was anguished but finding the strength to carry on . . . something like that. Of course he knew his mother was fine, that she’d just run into an amateurishly executed couple of spells. But nobody else knew it yet, so a little more concern was called for.
“I just wanted to say, you’ve really come through these past couple of weeks. For your mother and for me.” Mr. Prasad looked surprisingly moved. “You’ve made some changes recently. Keeping your room clean, not talking back, doing your homework. Don’t think we haven’t noticed. It meant a lot to your mom, you being there for her.”
“We’re family. That’s what family does.” At least, as far as Asa remembered.
Mr. Prasad smiled, slightly disbelieving. “You’re finally starting to grow up, son.” Then he shuffled off to bed.
Asa glanced at the screen saver on his computer, which was a collection of pictures Jeremy had taken over the past several months. Girls in bikinis either pretending they would flash him or actually doing it; him and his friends hanging on one another while drunk; one of a guy vomiting on the beach while Jeremy laughed: The sheer monotony of it was clear to Asa, even if it hadn’t been to Jeremy. This was all just sensation—the most primitive kind—apparently selfish and certainly thoughtless.
Jeremy’s face came up again, this time as he stood behind the wheel of a speedboat. He didn’t seem to be watching where he was going—on the water at a speed that, to judge by the flumes of sea spray behind him, could be no less than sixty-five miles an hour. Really, it was a miracle Elizabeth had even gotten the chance to kill him; by rights, Jeremy ought to have died of pure idiocy long ago.
Asa murmured, “I’m a better you than you ever were.”
15
“YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY, SWEETHEART?”
Nadia did her best to smile at her dad. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Then again—her eyes were probably red and puffy, and her throat was hoarse from all the crying she’d done. Coming up with an excuse would throw him off. “I guess I’m just upset about Verlaine’s uncle Gary.”
“He seemed like such a great guy. I kept meaning to ask them over for dinner some night, cook some burgers on the grill or something.” Her father could only cook outside, over open fire; when he walked into a kitchen, it was a different story. That was why Nadia was the one putting a lasagna into the oven now. “The same weird thing that happened to that girl at”—he glanced over at Cole, who was in the living room watching SpongeBob SquarePants with rapt fascination—“at L-A-C-A-T-R-I-N-A?”
“Yeah.”
“And the doctors still don’t have a clue what that is? Doesn’t look like any disease I’ve ever heard of. Something in the water, maybe? We have to get one of those filters.” He sighed heavily and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I really should have gotten to know Gary better.”
“He’s not dead, Dad. He’s just in a coma. So think positive and stop with the past tense, okay?”
“You’re right. Sorry.”
Dad wasn’t looking so good himself lately. He hadn’t been sleeping well, to judge by the late-night pacing in his room; his eyes were shadowed, and he’d lost some weight, despite Nadia’s best efforts with waffles and pasta. The last time he’d looked like this much of a wreck had been in the first few weeks after Mom had left.
Nadia hated knowing why he wasn’t sleeping. Every time her mind turned to the idea of what he was thinking about during those sleepless hours—who he was thinking about—her stomach twisted uncomfortably. Elizabeth’s hold over him had closed around their home like a cold, thick fog no amount of sunshine could dispel. Betrayer’s Snare might protect him if and when Elizabeth tried to strike at him again, but it could not undo the dark magic she’d used. That was beyond Nadia’s power.
“I forgot something!” Cole yelled from the living room, without ever looking away from the TV screen.
She and Dad exchanged looks. Nadia said, “Oh, yeah? What?”
“I’m in the Thanksgiving play!”
“That’s great!” she said, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster on a day as horrible as this.
Dad seem
ed to be trying just as hard. “So, are you a pilgrim or a Native American?”
“I’m mashed potatoes.”
Had they heard that wrong? Nadia went into the living room. “What do you mean, mashed potatoes?”
“We’re all different Thanksgiving food, and I’m mashed potatoes. Levi is the gravy, so we get to be onstage together. I need a costume.”
“A costume?” Nadia turned to her father in disbelief. “How are we supposed to make a mashed-potato costume? What would that even look like?”
Dad actually grinned. “At least we don’t have to make a gravy costume.”
That made her laugh—too hard, like the joke was a lot funnier than it really was. But her feelings were all over the place, like her heart had been shattered and the fragments lay anywhere and everywhere.
Mateo was wrong about her not loving him. Her entire heart ached for him every second, like it couldn’t beat without reminding her that he should be here with her, now and always. How could he think otherwise, even for a moment?
“Nadia?”
“Sorry, Dad. I guess I’m zoning out.” She needed a minute. “Listen, I’m going to check on Verlaine. Dinner won’t be ready for about another half hour.”
He waved her off. “Do that. Give her my best. I’ll just be here trying to figure out why kids are dressing up as food.”
Nadia retreated to her room. In a minute she’d text Verlaine. Right now she needed a moment to get herself together. She pulled her fluffy, white duvet over her, like it could shelter her from any of the crap that had happened today.
Instead she could pretend it was Halloween night.
That night, after the carnival and the fire and the terror of nearly losing each other, she and Mateo had come back here. Her dad and Cole had been in New York City, and he’d been able to call his own father and let him know he was okay, so there had been no one in the way, nobody to stop them from spending the night in each other’s arms.
They hadn’t made love. Mateo never had before, they didn’t have any protection, and besides, they were both so exhausted they were shaking. Even after she showered, grime from the fire stained her skin; his cuts and bruises had needed even more bandaging than hers. So it wasn’t exactly the ideal moment for wild, unrestrained passion. He’d stripped down to his underwear because he had nothing else, but she’d worn an oversize T-shirt that wasn’t going to show up in a Victoria’s Secret catalog anytime soon.
But they’d huddled together in this same bed, beneath this same blanket, and kissed each other until her lips were swollen, and raw from the little cuts of his teeth and hers. Their kisses tasted like smoke. She’d bent down over him, her hair falling around their faces like a curtain, and they’d smiled at each other as though they were keeping the most perfect secret in the world. His hands had woven through her hair, caressed every inch of her body, left her panting and yearning and yet completely, utterly content. When they fell asleep, arms and legs tangled and close enough to feel each other’s breath against their skin, Nadia had reveled in the knowledge that this was only the beginning.
How could everything have changed so fast?
A terrifying figure rose from the ground—as though it were part of the ground come to life, some demon hatching from the earth itself. Mateo didn’t run, didn’t cower, but as he stood there, he felt only helplessness and fear.
Rain pounded down all around him; he and Nadia stood ankle-deep in mud. But they weren’t in the forest or at the shore; instead they stood in the middle of the school complex, which was flooded inches deep. Water had plastered Nadia’s hair to her forehead and cheeks, but he thought those were tears in her eyes. “Go,” she begged. “Go now while you can.”
“Not without you.”
“I can’t leave. He owns me. He owns me forever.” Nadia pushed Mateo back. “Save yourself.”
“Nadia—Nadia, no!”
Mateo awoke with a start. In the first instant he could only think of that horrible shape rising out of the mud, and the fact that Nadia couldn’t get away—but then he thought, Vision.
Immediately after that he thought, Where the hell am I?
Cold bit into his skin as he drew up into a ball. Clad in only boxers and a T-shirt, he seemed to be . . . at school. On one of the picnic tables outside. Great.
“Oh, man, check this out!” somebody called. Mateo turned his head to see a couple of jocks staring at him from the gymnasium entrance; apparently the basketball team had an early-morning practice. Double great. “This freak’s half-naked at school!”
Derisive laughter stopped short as Mateo rose to his feet; the jocks got weird expressions on their faces as they ducked inside. Okay, being laughed at was a lot less horrible than being feared. Mateo winced—the courtyard was paved with gravel, which cut icily into his bare feet, and he didn’t know how to even begin dealing with this. Call Dad? He hadn’t grabbed his phone as he sleepwalked out the door. Walk home through town? The rumors would spread like wildfire—not like they wouldn’t already, because the whole basketball team was probably texting up a storm—
“Mateo?” He turned again and saw a friendly face: Ms. Walsh, the guidance counselor. Nadia seemed worried about her, but right now she was smiling and taking off her own coat as she came toward him. “Are you okay?”
“I sleepwalk,” he said. It was the truth, at least a sliver of it.
“Ugh. What a pain. I used to do that sometimes when I was younger—though it’s been a while. One time I woke up in the shower of my college dorm.” Ms. Walsh draped her blue coat over his shoulders like this situation was the most natural thing in the world. Mateo felt kind of stupid wearing a woman’s coat, but way less stupid than he had parading around campus in his underwear. She patted his shoulder. “Good thing I came in early today. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
“Thanks.” Mateo hoped Dad would sleep a little later than usual this morning—maybe he wouldn’t even have to know about this.
Ms. Walsh’s Mini Cooper was ridiculously small, but Mateo was able to fit inside, even though it was a bit cramped. He was grateful for the lift, even more grateful that Ms. Walsh immediately put on the heater and didn’t insist on awkward conversation. His mind wandered back to the horrible vision he’d had—a possible future, he knew. But as ever, he didn’t know how much of the vision was literal truth and how much was symbolic. Once magic got involved, it was a lot harder to tell all that apart.
When they reached his house, Ms. Walsh said, “Forgive the question, but you’re still seeing Nadia Caldani, right?”
“Yeah, of course.” Echoes of yesterday’s argument tugged at Mateo, but he knew his answer was true. Right now he was unsure how she felt about him—but he knew exactly how he felt about her.
“Let her know I’d like to see her, okay?”
That was a little odd, but right now, Mateo owed Ms. Walsh one, so he wasn’t going to get into it. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks for the ride.”
“No problem.” She smiled like a woman with a secret. “We have to stick together, people like us.”
Elizabeth lay in the swath of fabric she used as a sort of bed. It hung in one corner, not unlike a hammock. The cloth was dusty and threadbare, and spiders had woven small webs around the spikes she’d hammered into the walls so long ago. All that mattered was that when she slept, she didn’t have to touch the floor.
Floors were dangerous. The spells that could catch you from below—she didn’t intend to fall prey to any of those.
The chill of autumn had begun to deepen. Frost lined the dawn-pink windowpanes. Snows came so much later now than they once had; Elizabeth could remember when it was not unusual to face the first winter storm in early October.
This room, though—this would be forever warm.
Elizabeth smiled at her metal stove, glowing with a fire that had nothing to do with combustion, brilliant in a way no darkness could ever dim. Its heat sank into her skin, working its magic, infusing her with everything she’d ever taken, eve
rything she deserved.
The house began to creak and groan, as it sometimes did during a heavy storm—but the day promised to be bright. As Elizabeth lifted her head, the floor itself began to shake. The broken glass scattered about her floor began to skitter along the worn floorboards, and the glow from her stove brightened—brightened again—until it was nearly blinding.
Immediately Elizabeth dropped from her bed and went to her knees. Shards of broken glass pricked her flesh, drawing blood, but she paid the pain no mind. Instead she prostrated herself, accepting the blame.
“I will not disappoint you, my liege,” she whispered. The light burned her eyes, even through her closed eyelids. “Nadia Caldani will come to me. I swear it.”
The heat only intensified. His anger was growing; His impatience, too—this close to the end of His confinement, it was no wonder.
Nadia had something to give him that no one else did. Elizabeth understood. It wasn’t that Nadia was more important, more beloved—only that she was a necessary step.
Purpose restored, Elizabeth lifted her head, allowing the light and heat to sear her. This small punishment was no more than she deserved.
“Not long now,” she said. “I swear it.”
The burning heat slowly dissipated. Elizabeth opened her eyes; everything had a sort of faded, red-gold look, as though she had stared into the sun for too long. She could see the trickles of blood around her cut knees.
As she rose to her feet, her resolve strengthened. It would have been simpler to do this more gradually—less complicated, less prey to difficulty—but the One Beneath had already waited too long to claim this world for His own. Elizabeth would not be the one to make Him wait even longer.
Then let it come all at once. Let it claim who it will. Let it begin.