Blood Magic (27 page)

We drove home into the sunset. It was hot pink and gold and this wicked, sharp teal melting into darkness. The wind burned my cheeks and nose, and I leaned back into the seat so that its icy fingers could tug at my hair.

Nick was driving very fast. Too fast to have to worry about aerial attacks. Both his hands gripped the steering wheel, at ten and two, and his arms were firm, not loose or relaxed. When he turned the wheel to take us around a curve, his shoulders angled, too, his whole body tilting with the motion of the car. I bit the inside of my lip and watched with my temple resting against the cool leather.

Impulsively, I put my hand on his thigh. He didn’t move for a moment, then he skimmed his fingers over the back of my hand before grabbing the steering wheel again. His thigh flexed under my hand as he pressed the pedal down farther. A fresh rush of icy wind cut into my eyes and I closed them, concentrating on the rough denim of his jeans under my palm. It was my wounded hand resting there, and my pulse beat quickly along the length of the cut, focusing my attention, making the hair rise on my arm. The gentle, rapid rhythm connected us, and I just knew his heart was working hard, too.

My face flushed as the temperature in the car seemed to rise, until not even the wind made a dent.

I wanted his lips on mine, his arms around me. I wanted him laughing and telling me something mean about his stepmom. Or rolling his eyes at one of the peculiarities of Yaleylah. I just wanted him. The inside of my lip ached where I’d been chewing on it.

Every time I opened my mouth to demand that he pull over and let me kiss him, we passed another car or I caught a glimpse of a dark, shadowy bird flying into the swiftly moving trees, and I knew we had to get home. I knew if we stopped, we might stop forever.

We almost didn’t make it back to Yaleylah.

I pushed the car faster and faster until I felt, or imagined, the shudder of strain when we curved, and only let up so that we didn’t scream off the road and flip a bazillion times. I couldn’t even glance at her. Her hand on my thigh was like a miniature nuclear explosion.

It took a clenched jaw, eyes on the road, and singing the theme of
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
in my head over and over again to keep us on the road and me in my pants.

When the tires finally crunched over the gravel into Silla’s driveway, I let myself look. Her eyes were tightly closed. “You okay?” I winced. “Sorry. I know better than to ask that.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I just—stop the car.”

I did and twisted to look at her.

She put her hands on my face and kissed me.

For a second, neither of us moved. Then her mouth opened and she sucked my lip between hers and pulled herself forward by my neck. I fumbled to help her closer, lifting at her hips to get them over the gearshift. It wasn’t easy, but we managed to keep kissing while we struggled and rearranged ourselves until she was sideways over my lap, back against the door and shoulder pressing the steering wheel. I had an arm around her back and the other hand tight to her thigh.

Everything fell away in a roar, as though the planet had cracked underneath us and it all collapsed into the blackness except for my car—except for us.

My hands found the hem of her shirt and slid under. Silla gasped when my cold fingers touched her skin, but she pressed
into me and kissed harder. “Nick,” she whispered, kissing again and again. Her hands ran up into my hair and she squeezed, pulling. The pain only made everything better, and I skimmed my hands up her sides. I could feel her breath shuddering through the quick motion of her diaphragm, and circled my thumbs up her ribs. Our kisses slowed, became more lingering as Silla held my face where she wanted it. My thumbs brushed the cups of her bra and I slid them around to the back, wanting—

Silla broke off, putting her cheek against mine. “Nick,” she said again, and then, “Nicholas.”

I stopped moving, just panted.

“We’re—we’re at my house. In the driveway.”

My hands fell slowly to her hips. “I forgot.”

“Me too. It’s probably, um, good.”

I just grunted. I should have agreed, pretended that I didn’t want to take off all her clothes. But I wasn’t lying anymore, and all that.

“Nick.” The light made long shadows across her face. One eye was pale and bright, the other cast in darkness. It was hard to read only half her expression.

“The idea of you not being who you said you were …”

I waited. Watched her as she looked at her lap, at the radio, up at the darkening sky, and then directly into my face. “It scared me. I like you. A lot. You make me feel alive. Like the magic does, except it’s just you. I mean, I want it to be just you. Not the magic. Not a lie or pretense or anything. I want to feel this way because you do, too.”

The poem I’d thought of that afternoon, just before all the
shit went down, popped back into my head. “I do,” I said, resisting the stupid urge to quote poetry at her.

“We should go inside.” Silla climbed off my lap, ending up rather awkwardly on her knees in the passenger seat. Laughing lightly at herself, she opened the door and got out. I handed her the shopping bag.

“Silla?”

“Yeah?” She turned to me, and light from the front porch illuminated her completely.

“I should, uh, go. If Tripp called my dad … I turned my phone off, but I don’t really want him to bury me for being too late.”

After a moment where she just looked at me, Silla nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be careful.”

“You too. Night, babe.”

Inside, Reese was finishing a bowl of cornflakes. The entire kitchen table, except where he was eating, was covered in the contents of the magic box.

“Here.” I dropped the plastic sack of silver next to his bowl.

“Judy’s in the bath. But before we try to sleep, we should put salt at all the doors and windows, along with pinches of this heather flower.”

“Sure. We didn’t find any focus stones.”

“We could try to use Dad’s paperweights as focus stones. You know, maybe that’s why he had that amethyst.”

“Good thinking.”

“Sometimes my brain works.” Reese caught my hand and
tugged lightly so that I sat down next to him. “I’ve been thinking about something else.”

I picked up his coffee mug and sipped at the dregs. “Yeah?”

“Nick.”

“Oh, Reese, not now.” I rolled my eyes, expecting some big-brother thing.

“This isn’t about you having a boyfriend. It’s … just think about it. He knows the magic, his grandpa died and left him that house at the right time. His mom and our dad have a past. And we don’t know him that well. He lied to you about knowing the magic.”

And Nick suspected his stepmother for some of the same reasons. “I can’t believe that, Reese.”

“Won’t even entertain the possibility?”

“I did, and let go of it. It’s not the truth, and you don’t think so either.”

“I don’t?”

“No, or you wouldn’t have let me go off with him just now.”

“Silla.”

“
Reese
. I know what it’s like for somebody you know to be possessed. When Wendy was possessed, it was horrible—it felt wrong and disgusting. Nick doesn’t feel that way. Besides, he was here with us, and the birds attacked him. And he’s the one who saved Wendy. We can’t just start suspecting everybody. You want to think it’s Gram Judy, too, since she just got here when they died and we barely know her?”

Reese pushed his lips together and looked down at some papers on the table, flattening them with his hands.

“We can’t live like that.” I stood up.

After a moment, he said, “You’re good for me, Silla.”

“I know.” I leaned down and put my cheek against his hair for a moment.

“He still lied to you. Which is the opposite of cool. I might have to punch him for that.”

I laughed quietly. “You won’t.”

“I might.”

“We worked it out. I promise.”

Reese sighed, but it was more like a resigned growl.

Patting his shoulder, I said, “I’ll be right back. Gotta pee.”

Upstairs, as I washed my hands, I stared down into the porcelain sink, at the water spots on the faucet. I hadn’t scrubbed the bathroom in days. Maybe this was helping both of us. Or just giving us something new to obsess over. I brought wet hands up to press against my face. The water was cold on my skin, cold and relieving. I blotted my face on the hanging towel, and in the mirror I saw Reese’s bracelet. The one Dad gave him that he never wore anymore.

It sat on the shelves nailed behind the bathroom door. The tiger’s-eye stone stared at me, tawny stripes glowing like it was alive. I turned and picked it up. The ring on my left middle finger matched it perfectly.

The inside of the silver cuff was etched with three runes.

I carried the bracelet downstairs and into the kitchen. “Reese.”

He rumbled something and didn’t look up from the papers he was working on. They looked like lists. I waited, sitting at the table next to him. After a moment, he glanced up. “Yeah? What are you doing with that?”

Flipping the bracelet over, I showed him the runes.

Taking it, Reese brought it close to his face and studied the inner circle. He frowned rather fiercely. “So?”

“Stop being defensive and think about it.”

He set the bracelet down onto the table and took my right hand. “Are there runes on your rings?” Slowly he drew the emerald ring off my middle finger. It was the thickest and largest, and when he tilted it, we both saw the inner circle of tiny runes.

One by one, I removed the rest. Emerald, tiger’s-eye, iolite, onyx, garnet, plus stoneless silver bands. One for every finger but my right ring. And each one inscribed with runes.

“That”—he pointed to the runes in my tiger’s-eye ring, which matched the ones in his bracelet—“is the same as for the protection amulet. The one that might have been etched in the dirt outside, remember?”

“Do you think we can use these as the focus stones?”

Slowly, Reese nodded.

“Wear it,” I said, scooting the bracelet closer to Reese. The tiger’s-eye was as round and wide as a quarter, and winking at me.

“Sil.”

“He wanted you to.”

“Then he should have told us about all this. Maybe none of this would have happened if he’d trusted us.”

“Maybe.” I began replacing my rings, thinking of Nick’s mom teaching him the magic and its not helping either one of them. The metal rings had cooled in the brief time away from my skin. It was like tugging on armored gloves.

“Why aren’t you mad at him, bumblebee?”

Glancing up, I saw Reese wasn’t looking at me but at the bracelet. He was holding it in his hands. “I … I never thought it was his fault.”

“But he made choices that led to it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah. I do. We do. And he didn’t bother to prepare us, or Mom, to help him. To defend against this. He chose to be alone. Unfortunately, he didn’t
die
alone.”

“He loved us.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe the rings and the bracelet were all he thought he could do. To keep us safe.”

“Maybe.”

Unwelcome thickness crawled up my throat. I worked my jaw, and swallowed sudden, shocking tears. I shook my head, blinked them away. I’d cried enough today. Reese was staring at the bracelet still, the skin around his eyes tight. He squeezed them shut, clenched his hands around the bracelet.

Standing, I put a hand on his head and petted his hair, like he’d always done for me. My fingers shook. Reese leaned his head against my chest, and I hugged him. I thought of that night I’d been telling Nick about, after my opening performance. When I’d been so alive because everyone knew me. Knew who I was.

Reese’s arms came around my waist, and we held each other, alone together at the kitchen table.

July 4, 1946

Philip remains in France
.

Some days I hate him for it. Other days I want to tear across the waters and find him, shake him until he promises to return with me
.

I returned to Boston, to our old house, where I was born into this blood four decades ago. Here, I am a lonely rich girl whose husband abandoned her for war. Some weeks I entertain madly, laughing with suitors and the cream of Bostonian society. Some weeks I shut my doors and build stores of magic, grinding powders and pushing my magic into focus stones. I turn rocks into silver and gold to sell for money, and I barter curses and binding boxes because Philip would despise me for it
.

But he left me and refuses to say when he will come home
.

The Deacon came last month, and I entertained him as best I could. We traveled down the coast, and he showed me the cemetery where he found Philip stealing bodies so long ago. I like the Deacon for many things—his amorality is refreshing after Philip, and his imagination quite matches mine. But here in Boston, he seems superstitious and old-minded. For all that I am powerful and skilled, he frowns at
my pants and makes clear that he is displeased by the general mood of the modern world
.