Chapter Twenty-Five
Soulstice
The sun seems sad to go as it shrinks hastily behind the clouds, pouring out the remainder of its rosy haze. My bags are half-packed to return home, but I’m not looking forward to going home. I miss Gran, but I don’t miss the silence. All the unspoken words that have staled in the years since the massacre.
In the passing moments between classes and studying, the crew has formulated one last plan: to break into the storage closet and steal a human heart.
The potion needs time to steep, and there’s no reason that shouldn’t be over the holidays. By the time we get into the swing of next term’s classes, Soren could be home free.
If it works.
“Are you getting dressed or what?” Sabbath says, shooting me a glance. “The feast is in an hour.”
I shake my head. “Yeah. Sorry. Was just thinking about...”
Soren. I’m thinking about Soren.
I swallow, feeling Sab’s eyes on me. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll get ready.”
There’s something else circling, something about the Claiming that lurks at the perimeters of my consciousness. I can’t draw the thought near enough to heed it.
“Oh, you fancy,” I say at ten till the hour. Sabbath twirls for me, big silver dress swelling out and dark blue lips parting into a grin. “One might even say you look… necro-fancy.”
A swift knock strikes our door, and Sabbath responds to my seductive wink with a decidedly pre-eyerolly look. She peels the door open to find Nik standing there, nose ring at odds with his dapper suspenders.
“Where’s your date, Mika?” he asks, scanning the room.
“Yeah?” Sab gives me a pointed look.
“Still a surprise,” I tease. “I’ll just head down with you two if that’s alright.”
In the hours since lunch and the feast, the banquet hall has been transformed. Long shimmery drapes of fabric billow from the ceiling and golden orbs sparkle in the air like fireflies. The back end of the chamber has been made into a winter wonderland of a dance floor. Spotting the Joneses from across the hall, I take Sab’s hand as we wind through the crowds.
“Mika!” she hisses. “How is he supposed to hold my hand if you’re acting like my date.”
It’s a fair observation.
I release her as we slip into seats next to Tuesday. “Oh, hello!” Tuesday grins, scooting aside to make room as the conversation abruptly cuts off with our arrival. Her dark green gown matches her emerald hair exactly, which is pinned in a wispy ballet bun tonight. Tomorrow rocks her usual look: dark lips, long black hair, and a black skintight dress.
“Do you know Novaleigh Grimaldi or Reenie Revel?” Tu beams. “They’re both in Spellwriting with me.”
I nod at the two girls across the table, who are a year ahead of us. Novaleigh is willowy, like a pixie who’s found her way out of Stillwood, and Reenie’s dirty blond curls compliment her curvier frame. Not quite outcasts, not quite popularity contest winners, the two witches give me the distinct impression that their relationship with the Joneses is founded largely on social commonalities.
Tuesday gestures to us. “I know Mika from Exotic Plants, and Sabbath is Mika’s roommate. Nik—”
“We all have a class project for Architecture of Magic together,” Tomorrow cuts in, simplifying.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say. “Please, continue.”
Reenie’s eyes slide to Tomorrow as if asking for permission. “Oh, well, we were just talking about—”
“It’s fine,” Tomorrow nods. “We were just talking about the Claiming, and if there’s a way out of it.”
Novaleigh’s eyes bounce from Tomorrow over to us, and then she decides it’s okay. “I was saying that you don’t have a choice, really. They don’t leave room for... dissent.”
Reenie leans in close. “Anyway, it wasn’t so bad as they make it sound.”
“I don’t want to seal my fate to those wormsuckers is all,” Tomorrow says determinedly. She shares a look with me that acknowledges our shared experience down in the Catacombs.
“All it does is bind us to the High Council; we can’t use magic against them and whatnot. That seems only fair, to keep the witching world safe. What are we going to do, anyway?” Reenie laughs. “We’re spellwriters. Not like we’re on the front lines of any political coup.”
“You can’t use magic against the Council?” Sabbath asks, looking over at me.
“Well of course not. That’s the whole point of the Claiming, isn’t it?” Novaleigh replies. “The magic they give you is part of the community magic. It’s tied to all of witching society, and that magic can’t go against the Council, since they gave it to us all those centuries ago.”
“But that can’t be true. How did my—” I cut myself off suddenly as the question also registers in the two spellwriters’ eyes.
How did my mother manage to murder a whole High Council? I clench my fist under the table, feeling the ghost of the lines burned into it.
“It’s what we were told,” Reenie shrugs.
“They’re liars,” Tomorrow says matter-of-factly.
“At the time, I thought it made sense. But there are a lot of conspiracy theories out there, a lot of details that have never been released about the night of the massacre.” Reenie leans across the table to me, whispering self-consciously. “I know it’s not polite to say, but I’ve always wondered about your mom, Mika. If there was something else going on that would make someone snap like that. Something that the High Council—”
Her mouth clamps shut and I turn to follow her gaze, finding Soren a few paces behind me in a sleek tuxedo vest that contours his frame too nicely for my taste. The bowtie would have looked silly on anyone else, making me hate it even more.
“This is Soren,” Tomorrow announces, but it’s obvious they know. The girls smile politely.
A delicious but socially awkward meal ensues, and then students abandon their plates, scattering onto the dance floor in hives. I’ve always danced with Sabbath at these things, but I’m trying to give her space. I’m the one who landed her the date, after all.
She grins at me as Nik spins her around, her curls flying out of their crystal hairpins. They are both in competition for Worst Dancer in the World, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.
“Would you like to dance?” Soren asks, offering me his hand.
A frown and a smile play games on my face. I’m not sure which will win.
“It’s just a dance, Mika. Don’t overthink it.”
“I’m not.”
“Your face disagrees.”
“Fine,” I take his hand gingerly, wondering if the sparks are going to literally fly between us, but tonight they don’t.
We twirl silently for a minute, and I do everything within my power to keep my touch light, distant.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why would anything be wrong?” I ask.
“Your eyes keep wandering off.” I follow Soren’s gaze to Enzo, and I realize I keep looking for him in the crowd. “You miss him.”
I shrug. “It’s not really about missing Enzo. It’s more about the way a person makes you feel about yourself that you miss.” I tilt my head, considering, “Enzo never danced with me at a ball, though. So that was lame.”
“You deserve more than a novice potions dealer who won’t dance with you.”
“You know, when you cheer someone up, Soren, you’re supposed to tell them new and helpful information. Or at least repeat old information in a new and exciting way.”
“You’re...”
Omens, he’s bad at compliments.
“I’m a catch,” I finish. “And I plan on making the perfect housewitch one day, don’t worry. Enzo hasn’t put me off track. In fact, I just aced my exams in Practical Magic and I’ve even been practicing my sandwich-making spells, too.”
A grin plies at Soren’s lips. I’m surprised to realize that this is its own kind of power—the power to make him smile. It feels almost as good as pissing him off.
“Here’s an example of a compliment,” I demonstrate. “‘Your face is kinda nice, Soren Cain, when it’s not busy trying to convince everyone that you want to murder them and their families.’”
“That’s not what my face says. And that seems a bit backhanded for a compliment.”
“You have Resting Brood Face, Soren. Ask any girl. Ask Amandine.” I peek up at him, curious to see how he’ll react to her name. As usual, he gives me nothing. “Nothing but brood,” I sigh dramatically. I’m so tempted to tell him he’d be pretty if he’d just smile more.
I know Amandine is cavorting around here somewhere, making herself highly relevant to any boy she deems attractive enough to be seen with. I don’t really want to ruin a perfectly peaceable moment with Soren by talking about my nemesis, so instead I muse, “I think people are afraid of you.”
“Of course they are,” he agrees.
“Is that on purpose?”
“Sometimes. Not all the time.”
I consider this for a moment as we spin.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asks thoughtfully.
I snort, which is the perfect reaction to convey my derision. “No. You scare me about as much as I scare you.”
“How do you know that you don’t scare me?”
“I have pink hair.” I incline my head, impressing upon him just how un-scary this is. “You wouldn’t mock someone you’re scared of by giving them pink hair.”
“Maybe it was on purpose.”
“To make me more manageable?” I quirk an eyebrow. “Seems like the wrong color, Soren, if you meant to temper me.”
“Never. What time are we meeting them?” he asks, changing subjects abruptly.
I look up at the great clock at the front of the hall. “Quarter to midnight.”
When I glance back over at him, Soren’s eyes are watching the clock like he’s enduring every second that must pass between now and then. Maybe this is part of him—the frantic energy stilled to stoicism, his need to be in control when he is so fearfully out of it. Maybe he has a hard time being present because most days his own body feels like a stranger.
My eyes search his face as I consider this. Lost in the thought, I wait for his to find me again. They do, and it’s a weird sensation when they latch… like we’re seeing each other from across a crowded room. Here, between us, is something... something silent, and secret, and brave.
This washes over me and I bathe in it curiously, holding Soren’s gaze longer than I normally would. It soon becomes a test, like most things between us do.
Who will blink first. Who will look away first. Who will die first.
This does seem to be the game we’re playing, one where one of us could die.
Finally, Soren jerks his eyes away and my heart sputters a bit, unsure of its own reaction. And then the full weight of the truth hits me: I’m in the arms of Soren Cain, who despite being my sworn enemy two months ago, is now a guy whose life I’m trying to save. If anyone were to ask me why, I’d have no words that could make sense of the reason. This is a bizarre realization, a wrenching one, because it illuminates a foreignness of self that terrifies me.
It’s not Soren who makes me afraid. It’s who I am when I’m with him.
The crackle of energy starts in my chest, and then crawls to my fingertips, setting my skin simmering under the invisible fabric of some unnamed magic.
I think Soren feels it, too, because a new expression passes across his face. The rune from Purgatory burns against my skin, not unpleasantly, but it’s what I feel next that’s the real kicker—a swell of something far more powerful than my normal level of wakened magic.
Something deeper. Something older. Something far more real.
It’s stretching, flexing. Like for a moment, I have a new limb growing from my side, reaching out into the world, wondering what it might feel like to touch it.
Soren pushes away from me instinctively, setting his hand on his shoulder as if he’s felt a tinge of pain.
I stare down at the rune on my hand, the lines alight with soft blue magic. People continue swirling around us, unaware and unconcerned. It’s in the dense busyness of the dance floor that my theory cobbles itself together.
“What if this binding spell was given to me a long time ago, instead of when I died?” I pause, the thought coming at the same time the words do. “What if I’ve always had it, Soren?”
“You think the Council gave it to you?” he asks. “When you were tithed?”
“No,” I shake my head. “Someone else.” I need to tell someone before the theory festers in my head, and he’s the only one with any scraps of knowledge that can set me back on the right course. “What we heard in the Catacombs—”
Soren’s face tenses and I drop my voice.
“What if this rune was given to me to protect me from the High Council?”
“By who?” He frowns, as though my logic is a reach.
“My parents.” I pause, brain frantic. “My mom.”
“Mika…” Soren begins, and I think for sure he’s going to follow it with something deep and revelatory. “It’s time to go,” he says.
Reaching for my hand, he instead finds my wrist and pulls me through the crowd. I catch a glimpse of Amandine, who stares at us, hard to miss amongst the shimmering blues in her rouge ballgown. Before she catches herself, I see a fleeting look of jealousy strike hard on her face.
There’s going to be hell to pay there, for sure.