A Feather of Stone

Except Q-Tip. He sat in front of me, his eyes on mine. He hadn’t heard any of the spell, but it had affected him. He was only a cat, but there was an unblinking knowledge in his eyes. He knew what I had done to him. He knew I was the kind of person who would take his power and use it against his will. Slowly he turned away from me and walked to the house, the offended line of his small back seeming a bitter accusation.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. But of course he didn’t hear me—none of them did. Guilt and shame crashed down on me. I had taken a lesser being’s power and made it my own. And I had loved it so, so much. And I wanted to do it again.

  My face crumpled. I tried to hold it in but couldn’t—sobs broke out of my chest. I kicked over the candles, the cups of water and sand. Falling to my side, I curled up on the ground and sobbed and sobbed, my arms covering my face, making myself as small as possible. As if I could make myself so small and insignificant that the goddess wouldn’t see what I had done, the terrible line I had crossed.

  Thais

  Melysa was in our house when I got home on Friday.

  “Thank God this week has ended.” I groaned, dropping my backpack. “Lately it seems like every week takes months and months to get through.” I went to the fridge and got some iced tea and a yogurt and sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Where’s Clio?” Petra said. She glanced out the window, and I realized she was checking the time. I’d become very aware of this lately—whenever Petra or any of the other witches wanted to know the time, they glanced up at the sky first, then sometimes double-checked it against a clock or watch. I couldn’t believe figuring out where the sun or moon was could really narrow down the time that much—they were probably constantly late for appointments or TV shows.

  “She said she had to run a quick errand. I took the streetcar home.” Clio had seemed a little off all day—she’d looked tired and kind of drawn, sad. I’d asked her if she was okay, and she’d said nothing was wrong. I wondered if she was still pining over Luc. I sighed. We’d both loved him so much. And Clio didn’t have Kevin to help take her mind off him.

  “Did anything happen at school today?”

  I felt Petra’s blue-gray eyes on me and knew she meant anything weird. I shook my head. “Nope. No snakes, wasps, or streetcar accidents.”

  Petra shook her head. “I’ve questioned everybody,” she said. “Of course, all of them are terrific liars—we’ve all had to be over the years. But someone must also be using a spell of concealment.”

  “The snake might have been just a coincidence,” Melysa said. “They’re everywhere. I’ve seen copperheads in the lagoon at City Park. Maybe the attacks really are over.”

  Petra nodded, looking like she wanted to be convinced. “Maybe so.” She smiled at me. “At any rate, I’m always glad when you two get home.”

  I smiled back and finished my yogurt. I was glad I had a home to come to, no matter how weird it was sometimes. The months I had spent at Axelle’s, in the Quarter, had been totally unsettling. Even though Petra and Clio were witches, even though I was now even more caught up in the Treize’s drama than before—still, I had a home and people who cared about me. I didn’t know if I would ever get over my dad’s death. But at least I wasn’t floating, lost, in a world I couldn’t relate to.

  I did my homework at the table while Melysa tied herbs in little bundles to dry. There were racks in the outside laundry room, and now I knew what they were for. Many of Petra’s herbs and medicinal plants had been destroyed in the fire, but she’d gathered the ones she could save, and now we had yarrow, skullcap, catnip, lemon verbena, and other plants whose names I hadn’t learned yet, all hanging upside down to dry.

  Petra was steeping other plants in small copper pots on the stove. She had a whole system where she strained the infusions through cheesecloth into small glass bottles, then stuck preprinted labels on them. These she stored in a cabinet in the workroom. I would never learn everything they knew.

  “This stuff I’m going to save till Sunday,” I said, closing my chem book. “I got the worst out of the way.”

  Petra smiled at me. “Clio always leaves everything till the last minute.”

  “I know. But I hate having it hanging over my head.”

  Melysa looked up. “Would you like to learn more about a witch’s tools?”

  I knew about the four cups and the special gowns witches usually wore during circles. Clio had mentioned other tools, but I didn’t know much about them. I nodded. “Like what?”

  “Well, there’s the wand,” Melysa said. “You don’t have one, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Clio does—why don’t you use hers?” Petra suggested. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. You won’t do enough magick to alter its vibrations very much. I think she keeps it in a box under her bed.”

  “Okay.” I got up and hurried upstairs. A wand. Like Harry Potter! In Clio’s room I got on my hands and knees and pushed her bedspread aside. She never made her bed, and the covers always looked like a wrestling match had taken place. An instant image of Clio and Luc together on this bed flashed into my brain, and I literally winced and drew in a breath.

  I sat back on my heels and let that breath out. I didn’t know if they’d gone to bed or not. I didn’t want to know. I thought they probably had—Clio was way ahead of me in that department. I’d never even gotten to third base. But thinking about it, picturing them doing it, was intensely painful, and I’d tried to banish the idea from my mind.

  Which I did now.

  Another deep breath out, and then I looked under her bed for the box. It was made of inlaid wood and looked very old but well kept. An intricate rose made of several different kinds of wood decorated the top. I pulled it out, and as I did, I noticed the edges of some paper sticking out from between Clio’s mattress and her box spring.

  I bit my lip. There was no reason I had to know what those papers were. If they were love letters from Luc, I didn’t want to see them or even know they existed. If they were Clio’s diary, I didn’t want to read it.

  But I slid my fingers in and pulled it out, as if I were watching someone else do it.

  It was a tattered old book, with crumbling pages and a threadbare spine. The cover had been red once, but you could hardly tell anymore. I opened it.

  Being the Personal History of One Hermann Parfitte; and How He Learned to Subvert the Power of Others. Oh my God. What was Clio doing with this?

  I opened the first few pages and skimmed some lines. It was partly in English and partly in French. I saw what looked like spells, but they were in a language I didn’t recognize, as if French had been put in a blender. Clio had made some notes in the margins, translated some words. Her handwriting was worse than mine, and I turned the book this way and that, trying to make out what she had written.

  A minute later I sat there, quietly freaking. It felt like the pages themselves were sending out tingles of magick. The few words Clio had translated were control, will, spirit, power, afterlife, and living beings. Oh, jeez. What was this about? Daedalus had taken over our energies at the Récolte circle. Had Clio stolen this from him? Was she trying to learn how to do it herself? Was she trying to figure out how to make herself—and maybe me—immortal? What was she thinking? This seemed so dangerous.

  I closed the book and pushed it back under her mattress so that none of it was visible—I was betting Petra didn’t know about any of this. Clio and I had to talk about it. If she didn’t bring it up, I would.

  Quickly I opened the box, hoping I wouldn’t stumble on any other dark secrets. Thankfully, there were only recognizable tools inside. I took Clio’s wand, closed the box, and hurried back downstairs.

  Swishing it experimentally, I went back into the kitchen. “Okay, ready,” I said.

  Not by Ordinary Means

  It was still beautiful. Richard turned the knife over and over in his hands, feeling the cool, razor-sharp obsidian edge. The hilt was finely carved and polished to an infinitely black gloss.
You could practically see each individual feather strand. He stroked his fingers slowly over the almost-imperceptible ridges, thinking about the last time this knife had been used. Ordinarily it would be impossible to hone an obsidian knife to such sharpness. But of course, this hadn’t been made by ordinary means.

  Richard uncrossed his legs and rolled his shoulders, stretching out the kinks he had from paddling and digging. The metal box rested on his mattress on the floor. He’d brushed off most of the dirt, enough to see that the metal was untouched by time or rust, the painted symbols still clear and precise. One symbol on the box’s lid, black and spiky and flowing, matched exactly the tattoo on his chest, across his breastbone.

  There were other things in the box, but just as Richard replaced the knife, the doorbell rang. He frowned, trying to feel who it was, but he couldn’t really tell. Someone knocked hard on the door. Shaking his head, Richard slipped the box under a loose floorboard beneath his bed and said a quick spell over it.

  The doorbell rang again. The last thing Richard felt like doing was dealing with someone, but it sounded like they weren’t going to go away.

  He was almost to the door when the doorbell rang again.

  Richard unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Okay, keep your pants—”

  Clio looked back at him, her eyes the clear, deep green of a camellia leaf.

  “On,” Richard finished. He hated the way his heart sped up when he saw her. What was she doing here in the middle of the day? Or at all? “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

  “It’s four o’clock,” she said in that superior way of hers, where the “you idiot” was implied at the end. “Is Luc here?”

  His eyes narrowed. Just like that, his heart burned, as if someone had tightened barbed wire around it. “Afraid not. Lover boy’s out.” His voice sounded even and disinterested. Good. He turned and walked down the hall, leaving her. The door shut behind him, but he refused to look back. Then he heard her footsteps, and his throat tightened. For some reason Clio tied him in knots. It was infuriating. No one got to him this way.

  His jaw set, Richard went back into his room, saw his mattress on the floor, and cursed under his breath. You stupid ass. Why didn’t you go to the damn kitchen? He grabbed his cigarettes and lit one, knowing how much she hated it.

  Clio stood in the doorway of his room, seeing it for the first time—the dark blue walls, the painted silver symbols. The room was practically empty except for a low nightstand, the mattress, a small altar in one corner, and a broken dresser.

  He turned to look at her, blowing smoke in a stream toward the ceiling. The fan blades chopped it up and it disappeared.

  “When will he be back?” Clio asked, her face closed, eyes guarded. She didn’t seem to be craving alone time with Richard. Fine. As long as they were on the same page. She was probably still pissed about his grabbing her at Récolte.

  “Don’t know,” Richard said, sounding bored. “I’m not his keeper. Sometimes he stays out all night.” Pain and anger flared in her eyes, and Richard felt maliciously pleased. Served her right, mooning over Luc. He’d never had much of a problem with Luc, but somehow this just rankled. He blew more smoke toward the ceiling, keeping his eyes on her.

  “Do you have to do that?” she asked tartly. She was standing in the doorway, holding tight to the purse on her shoulder, as if he might mug her.

  “It’s my room,” he told her. “Whatever I want in my room goes.”

  Clio flicked him a glance, and just like that, the atmosphere between them changed.

  Which he wasn’t going to mess with. “Go on, then,” he said. “Go home.”

  But she stood there, and for the first time Richard noticed that she didn’t look model stunning, like she usually did. There were circles under those green, almond-shaped eyes, and her face looked drawn and tight. She was upset about something. Well, he didn’t give a damn. She could stew in her own juices.

  “Quit,” she said, her voice faltering. Richard just looked at her. “Quit kissing me.” She raised her chin a fraction, trying to summon defiance, but instead looking only vulnerable.

  Biting down his anger at both her and himself, Richard forced his voice to be neutral. “Fine. You got it. I wouldn’t touch you with someone else’s pole.”

  For ten seconds—Richard counted—Clio looked at him, emotions crossing her face like clouds across the sky. His cigarette had burned down, and he ground it out in his ashtray. Why wouldn’t she go?

  She launched herself at him just as he straightened up, and he grabbed her arms in surprise. It wouldn’t be the first time an angry woman had come at him, but—

  In the next second Clio was holding his head in her hands, kissing him. Richard heard her purse hit the floor.

  This is stupid, this is not good, this is not what I should be . . . uhh . . .

  His hands slid down her slim, strong arms and held her at the waist. She pressed her lips harder against his so his mouth would open. His brain shorted out and his senses went on overload. She was insistent, molding herself to his body, and then she slid her arms beneath his unbuttoned shirt, her fingers spreading across his back.

  He groaned as he felt her heat and urgency, her anger and pain and uncertainty. It was more intoxicating than anything he’d come across so far, and his search had been wide and varied. Now, now, now. She pushed her tongue in his mouth and he reciprocated. He wanted her, her wildness. Breaking the kiss for a second, he pulled her down to his bed on the floor, keeping his eyes open so he could see her fine black hair fan across the white sheet. Clio’s gaze was locked on his, her face serious and flushed, mouth half open. He gathered her under him. She pushed at his shirt and he helped her get it off, and then her hands were all over him, trailing across his chest and holding him to her and smoothing over his tattoos, leaving heated trails of raw nerves.

  He kissed her again, so deeply it was like they had fused together, were drinking from each other. She tasted wild and sweet, not like whiskey, not like cigarettes. Beneath him she was strong and curvy, not tiny, almost as tall as he, and their legs tangled together. Her sandals came off and he pushed them onto the floor.

  They shifted onto their sides, still facing each other. Clio kissed him hard on his mouth, his face, his neck. Her teeth bit his neck gently, then she kissed the same place, touching it with her tongue. Silky hair brushed against his face and he held it back, framing her cheekbones, one thumb touching her birthmark. Goddess, he wanted her, he wanted her more than anyone. . . .

  Clio was wearing a thin white shirt over a pink camisole, and he tugged off the shirt easily. Keeping his mouth glued on hers, he slid his hand under her camisole, touching her bare back. Richard couldn’t believe this was happening, knew he should stop, knew it was Luc she wanted. But here they were, and she wanted him too.

  “Oh. God.”

  His eyes flashed open to see Clio pulled back, staring at him. Her face was flushed, her lips red and swollen. Inside, his mind was screaming, Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop.

  “I thought—I had the thought that I needed to do a nulling spell,” she whispered, her voice sounding broken.

  Richard blinked as his brain tried to translate her words. Nulling spell. Oh, so she wouldn’t get pregnant. Fat chance.

  “Good thinking,” he got out, reaching for her, but she pulled back, her eyes huge and sober.

  “Then I thought—you’re with the Treize. You can’t have children anyway. But—what are we doing?”

  What did she think they were doing? He stared up at her, breathing hard, and then it hit him: what the hell were they doing?

  “We don’t even like each other,” Clio said, sounding horrified. She scrambled away from him, one hand at her mouth.

  It was like someone had thrown ice water on him. In one second the heat and the wanting and the fierce longing to join with her fled, leaving him cold and appalled.

  “No, we don’t,” he said hoarsely. He swallowed. But he’d wanted her so
bad. . . .

  Sitting up, Richard pushed his hair off his face with both hands, not looking at her. His hair was damp with sweat; his skin felt on fire. With anyone else, he would have spun a string of lies, said anything that would get him where he wanted to go. But the words wouldn’t come now—he couldn’t do that to her. He got off the bed and leaned against the dresser, a thousand thoughts crashing into his brain. They’d been one zipper tug away from having sex.

  “You’ve never slept with someone you didn’t like?” he asked, feeling appalled at what had almost happened.

  She moved to sit on the edge of the bed and scooped up her white shirt from the floor. Pulling it on, she lifted her hair out of the collar. Her hair looked like she’d been caught in a tornado.

  “No, I have,” she said, so quietly he could hardly hear her. “It . . . wasn’t anything. It was like . . . eating or taking a bath. Neutral, not bad. But this . . . is way different.”

  “Yes.” No argument there.

  “I don’t know why. It’s too . . .” She shrugged, unable to explain.

  “Yeah. But we—really don’t like each other,” he said, sanity returning like harsh sunlight. “We’re just . . . on fire for each other.” It was horrible to admit it out loud, but he dared her to deny it.

  Frowning, looking unhappy and still flushed, she reached for her strappy sandals and put them on. He tried not to look at her legs, her face, her collar-bone, where he’d kissed her so hard she might have a bruise. She seemed completely unlike the arrogant, totally self-assured Clio he’d met, the one he knew could chew up guys and spit them out. Five minutes ago he’d thought he had to have her or die. Now it was like they were both already dead.

  Clio stood up, pushing her hair off her shoulders. She reached down for her purse. Richard couldn’t go near her.

  She hadn’t looked at him for several minutes. Now she left without a word, walking down the hall, shutting the front door behind her. All without meeting his eyes.