Torn. Part 13

"And I should believe you . . . why?"

"If I wanted to hurt you, I would've left you to the Darklings."

I edged away, shaking my head. It sounded logical, but everything about Luc defied logic.

"You want proof?"

"Proof would be good."

"Let me see your ankle." I braced myself against the wall, ready to bolt. He knelt at my feet and examined the wicked-looking cut. He pulled out a cloth and dabbed gently at the blood, his fingers light and warm. "Wonder you didn't kill yourself in these shoes. Not that I don't appreciate the effect."

"Are you supposed to be magically obnoxious? Because that I would believe."

He grinned. "Close your eyes," he said.

"Um, no." That was the sort of move you saw in slasher movies, right before the killer decapitates a C-list starlet. Instead, I focused on the fireplace, the sound of the logs crackling, the shadows the fire cast in the dimly lit room.

Luc spoke, the words like a flame licking at leaves, his fingers hovering over the stinging cut and the deeper throb of the sprain.

A sparkling warmth flowed over my foot, traveling up my calf along with Luc's fingers, and the pain receded to a pinp.r.i.c.k before disappearing entirely.

He gave my leg a light squeeze, and I dragged my gaze away from the dancing fire.

The cut was gone.

My ankle was unmarked, as if there'd never been anything wrong at all. I reached down and touched the spot where the cut had been, the skin smooth and unbroken.

"You . . ."

He nodded, getting to his feet. "Try standing."

I did, taking his hand in case I started to collapse.

The room spun and he guided me back to the couch. I sat down with a thump, unable to even form the question. I looked up at him, speechless.

"Magic," he said, smug as always.

CHAPTER 12.

I picked up the teacup again, needing something to do, and set it right back down when I couldn't keep it from rattling in the saucer. Cautiously, I probed at my ankle.

Luc settled in next to me, one arm stretched across the back of the couch, like he hadn't just turned the room on its end.

"Could you . . . you know . . . explain?"

"Not much to explain. There's magic in the world. Some people have a talent for it. Some don't."

"That doesn't make any sense." Magic didn't exist. Sure, it was a handy explanation for everything that had occurred lately, but it was impossible. I opened my mouth to say so, but Luc stopped me.

"You aren't going to tell me I'm wrong, are you? Been a long day, Mouse. Been a long couple of weeks. You really gotta argue somethin' you know you can't win? Everything you've seen tonight and you still don't believe me?"

"Magic? Actual, real, witches and spells and broomsticks magic?"

He mock-scowled. "Now you're just pokin' fun."

"Magic?"

He nodded.

"And your talent is first aid?"

"Among other things."

I couldn't stop touching my foot. "In the hospital. You healed me."

"Seemed like the least I could do."

A thought struck me. "Why didn't you help Verity? You could have fixed her! She'd still be-"

His voice was sharp, cutting off my words neatly. "I can heal people, Mouse, not raise the dead. Magic has limits, too."

I threw myself back against the couch. "Then what's the point?"

"What's the point of anything?" he shot back. "It's like any other gift-brains, or a nice jump shot, or bein' able to wiggle your ears. Something in my blood lets me tap into the magic."

"Verity had it, too?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Did she know? Do her parents?"

"She knew, but her parents had no idea. They're Flat, like you. No magic. There's usually someone in the family, though. . . ."

"Evangeline." It wasn't a question.

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. "She gave Vee some tips, started making more trips up to Chicago once she realized what was happening. But Verity needed more guidance. She was packing too much power to be running around unsupervised. So, we brought her down to New Orleans."

"She came home, though."

"Girl was stubborn. Said she wasn't missing her senior year, wasn't leavin' you. You ask me, she got spooked."

I traced a finger along the edge of a cus.h.i.+on. "She backed out of our New York plan. She was going to Tulane."

"Compromise. Evangeline let her come back for this year. After that, playtime was over. She had a job to do."

"But the Darklings . . ."

"Followed her home. We didn't expect that. Didn't know they were such a threat."

"I still don't get why they were after her. What was the special job?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. "More than a job. She had a destiny."

I threw my hands in the air, exasperated. "Oh, again with the fate thing? Really?"

"You asked," he snapped. "So shut up and listen, 'cause I don't feel like repeatin' myself. There's a prophecy-something magic folk, Arcs, have been hearing for as long as anyone remembers."

I bit my lip to keep from interrupting.

"The raw magic that all Arcs draw on ain't stable. It's powerful stuff-too dangerous to mess with directly. Like . . . a nuclear reactor. You mess around with nuclear energy at the source, you'd be dead. But if you convert it, you can power a whole town, right? Magic works the same way. There's lines-ley lines, Flats call 'em-all over the world. They connect to the raw magic, draw it out, convert it to somethin' safe for Arcs to use. You with me?"

Not really, but I nodded.

"Good girl. Each line matches up to one of the four elements-earth, air, fire, water. Most Arcs use only one type. The other lines just don't work for 'em, like the power's not switched on. If you want to do magic, you tap into your element's line."

"What's your element?"

The fire in the hearth blazed up with a whoos.h.i.+ng sound, and he grinned. "Guess."

I rolled my eyes, gestured for him to continue.

"We rely on those lines. Not just to work spells, but for political stuff, physical safety, everything. Without the lines to balance the magic, our whole world would fall. But the prophecy, it says the lines will fail, bit by bit. And when they slip completely, there'd be one person who could fix it. Turned out to be Verity." He dragged in a breath, carefully watching my expression. "Do you believe me?"

"Um . . . no. Even if I did, it's not logical. If Verity was going to save your world, why would anyone want to stop her? That makes no sense." None of it made sense, but it seemed like my only hope was to treat what he was saying as fact.

He looked weary, his eyes shadowed. "There's a group, the Quartoren, in charge of things. They make the rules, ensure all the different factions get along, make sure everything's running smooth. If the prophecy's right, and the Torrent comes, it'll all crash down. Chaos, pure and simple. The raw magic will wipe out the weaker Arcs. Be the perfect time to come in and take charge . . . magic fluctuating, Arcs dead, Quartoren scrambling . . . It's a power play. Taking out Verity was their opening move."

"Okay, so someone sent the Darklings after her to stop the prophecy. Who?"

"Still working on that." He looked at me, brow furrowed. "But now they're coming after you. I'm thinkin' it's got something to do with your taste in jewelry."

Unbidden, my hand crept to my neck. "I've had the ring for a few days, though. Why would they come after me tonight?"

"When did you put it on?"

"Just before the party."

He nodded, though his frown deepened. "Anything happen when you did?"

"It kind of . . . got brighter, but I was standing under a porch light. It was probably just a reflection. Why?"

"The ring reacts with the magic in Verity's blood, ties her into the lines. It sends out a kind of signal, but only for Verity, not anyone else. If someone tuned in right, if they were lookin' for it, they'd know when she put it on. They could use it to find her."

"You were tuned in? And the Darklings?"

"The ring's a family heirloom, part of the prophecy. I've been lookin' for it since Vee came home," he replied. "Darklings feed off of magic, so when the ring switches on, they come runnin' like it's dinnertime. Probably only held off because you were in a house full of people."

a.s.suming he wasn't crazy, it made sense. Kind of. "If the ring only worked for Verity, why would it matter if I wore it?"

"Something about you set it off." He took my chin in his hand, turned my face from side to side, inspecting it. "You sure you ain't got magic?"

I pushed his hand away. "No, I don't have-do I look like someone who can do magic? Wouldn't I have used it tonight?"

"Didn't ask if you were good at it. Could be you're not full strength. Or too scared to try."

"I'm just me. Plain, ordinary me. There's nothing special, much less magical, about me." Which was exactly how I liked it.

He pointed one long, elegant finger at me. For a brief hysterical moment, I thought he was going to work some sort of spell and I'd end up as a frog or a coatrack or something. "Nothin' ordinary about you, Maura Fitzgerald, no matter how much you're wis.h.i.+ng otherwise." He paused, eyebrows lifting. "How's your daddy doing in Terre Haute? Parole hearing coming up soon, right?"

"Don't talk about my father."

"How about your uncle, then? Charming Billy Grady, the only Irishman in the Chicago Mob, runs your neighborhood and a good stretch of Western Avenue? Talked the Outfit into letting him run the territory, 'cause he could share the profits and keep the peace?"

"That's just talk," I said dully.

He shrugged. "Whatever. But that ring shouldn't light up for anyone except Vee. Since it did, might be good for your longevity if we could figure out why. Tell me 'bout the alley."

My fingers knotted together in my lap. Luc covered them with his own. "I can make it easier to remember."

My laugh sounded hollow, even to my own ears. "There's not enough magic in the world for that."

He had the decency to look ashamed. "All I meant was, if you're blockin' something, there's spells that can help."

"And have you digging around in my head? No, thank you." I closed my eyes. "I was spending the night at Verity's house. We went out for ice cream. I was mad at her. She was following me home, through the alley, and all of a sudden, she just . . . stopped."

"Go home," Verity says, and at first I think she's angry, too, but there's a note in her voice, tremulous, and I glance back, searching for something scathing and awful and hurtful to say. She's ruined everything and I want her to suffer for it.

Her face is vividly white in the too-dark alley, and her voice carries perfectly in the sudden silence. It's as if someone has pressed the mute b.u.t.ton, and my feet slow as something comes swooping down, and my ears fill with a roaring, shattering sound.

"Run, Mo! Just run, d.a.m.n it!"

They're prowling toward her, saying something hoa.r.s.e and guttural, horrifying even though I don't understand the words.

"Run!" she screams, her face stark and terrified. "Go!"

I do, knowing she'll be right behind me. But when I reach the end of the alley, banging into a Dumpster and grabbing a door frame for support, Verity is twenty feet away, surrounded by the monsters. She's answering them, her voice light and liquid, ringing out in the night like a crystal bell. The things close in around her and it's like watching a candle flame being snuffed, her voice changing from that urgent, powerful music to a scream.

I go back.

I launch myself at the nearest monster. He's crouched, arms reaching for Verity, but when I jump on his back he bats me away like a mosquito, claws ripping open my hand and forehead, and I land, bone-jarringly hard. Blood obscures my vision instantly. I can hear her screaming still, so I try again. In seconds, I am soaring across the alley, slamming into the wall. The world goes dark.