I should hate the way his hand envelops my wrist, but somehow, I think he’s the only person I can tolerate touching me right now. His breaths quicken as if he can sense that shift in me. The acknowledgment of ruthless desire. I gather the magic within me, a deep breath with it, releasing both as I concentrate my magic through each card. But the longer it takes, the more my combat training tells me to just use my body to break his grip.
“You’re holding yourself back.” His eyes are piercing. “Why?”
“My training says to punch you.”
“It’s more than that.” There’s a challenge in his voice. Antagonism dances with yearning, some piece of me dislodging, magic churning, and his hand peels away from my skin. “That’s it.”
His words paint a flush across my chest, and he smiles down at me. The power dripped from me, but I don’t understand why it’s so difficult to channel. It seems almost effortless when he uses it.
Draven lures over the last druid, a second-year, and the guy steps into the ring without hesitation. I don’t know his Arcana, and Draven rubs his chin a moment. I swear the World tattoo across the back of his hand glows red before he stands up straighter.
“The Devil.” Draven says it like an accusation. His hand rests against my upper back, and chills race over me as he tells the second-year, “Go ahead, cast an illusion. Over both of us.”
The Devil Arcana glowers, as if annoyed to be bossed about, but he obeys the order. The room around us shifts, objects winking out of existence and being replaced in the same moment with new furniture. Draven and I soon stand in a swanky room, reminiscent of the druid court. Music blares around us from a loud band settled at one end, a busy bar at the other, and filling in all available space are other druids, dancing and swaying to the euphoric rhythm.
“Where did he go?” I ask Draven as druids pass between us. He merely observes the space, where little imperfections create cracks in the illusion. The lyrics to the song are gibberish, the faces of many of the druids shift between one moment and the next as if the Devil Arcana cannot imagine them in thefull range of movement, and the stale scent of the classroom lingers.
I pass a thought to Draven.Nothing is quite right here.
It’s impressive but the closer I look, the more things seem wrong.
The Devil’s in the details, he tells me, passing through the throng of wildly dancing druids without worry. He doesn’t even weave through the crowd, shoulders back and undaunted, and soon I realize if I don’t move, they merely pass through me like phantoms. It rankles my instincts, but I fight it, following him through the illusion. He sidles to the bar, something we’re much closer to than the stage, and gazes up and down it. Passing a cocky grin my way, Draven nods his head to the bartender. He looks like the Devil Arcana and yet not. His nose has a slight crook, and his hair is longer but its coloring is unnatural, like a bad dye job. His new beard is barely attached to his face. A poor disguise.
My mental shields open a small amount, just enough for me to whisper to Draven on the other side of it.Not very creative.
Did he seem bright to you?Draven hisses right back.I’d like for you to have the honors.
I can barely draw my cards and you want me to dispel this? I wouldn’t know where to start.I shift uneasily on my feet, crossing my arms. All day my power has been like pulling teeth, slippery and elusive as an eel in a hollow cove.
“Watch what I do.” Slowly he draws the World, waiting for me to do the same, then the Devil. This takes me quite a bit longer, a sweat breaking against my temple, headache pounding like a drum—but then I have it, floating in front of me, as a circle of magic dances in the air. The second-year glances at us a bit anxiously, making a large show of cleaning a glass in hishands, but the way he handles it I can tell it’s weightless, like a poor mime, the illusion only going so far.
Draven tells me, “The magic of the World rests within you. Even without making the Descent at the end of term, where it’ll be bound to you.” He flashes his tattoo of the World, and I don’t look forward to whatever that process will be. I’m thankful I have eight months before I need to worry.
He goes on, “The World enters your very soul every time you handle your cards. That building feeling in your chest looking for an escape is your power. You’re scared of releasing it, of unraveling control, but allowing it to flow out of you is what will put youincontrol.” He lightly brushes my hand. “Point the flat of your palm at him and fire your magic through it. Like light hitting a prism, it’ll flare through the World and then the Devil and turn his own spell back on him, shattering the illusion.”
All this time I thought the pressure in my chest was just anxiety. I take a deep breath, my attention moving inward, focusing on the feeling I had thought was stress and frustration. Closing my eyes, I drop my mental shields, and then Draven is there, not controlling me, but guiding me to let the swirling tempest release. I stop fighting it, allowing it to rise out of me. Suddenly the magic awakens, he’s gone, and it’s rushing down my wrist, my blood boiling with it. A gust of heat races down my arm as my power blasts from me.
The Devil Arcana puts his hands up, the bartender façade fading, the fake beard shriveling, his slightly bent nose shaping back to his own, and his brown hair returning to red. The vision dissolves beneath the flow of this power, this unrelenting tide turning it into nothing but fiery ash on the breeze. He’s frozen in a flinch but then opens his eyes, surprised.
I turn to Draven, and he watches me like nothing else exists. Finally, his daring smile turns to the second-year.
“You can go now.”
THE LAST PRIVATE CLASSof the day is really a short report of recently gathered intelligence given by Professor Fenrys. It’s odd being a class of two, yet I find I prefer it. I’ve finally broken through my Arcana, and though I’ve still struggled with other cards throughout the day, at least I can access the World when I call it. And in this class Draven asks as many questions as I do, forever curious for more details about the state of the realms.
Fenrys tells us that tensions with the seraphs are the highest they’ve been since the end of the war. That word of his broken engagement, rumors swirling about a prophecy surrounding me, and his own defiance in announcing me as his fated mate has effectively reached every cranny and cave in all of Arcadia. How his father and King Altair respond to all of it now will be the determining factors to whether another war arises. Yet King Silas still seems to want to avoid outright battle.
At the end Draven thanks her and she gives us both a cheery congrats. We walk out of the small building at last, the sun casting its last rays over the tall grass of the steep hillside. The world is a wash of tangerines and gold, the air pleasantly cool as we traverse the black dirt path to our Hearth.
I don’t want to break the steady silence between us: him clearly stewing on his father and the political mess, me lost in how the fear of yesterday washed away to nothing just by spending the day with him, harnessing my power. But … maybe it’s my turn to thaw a bit of the ground between us.
“Thank you. For today, I mean.”
Draven stops walking beside me, as if he ran into an invisible pole. His hand flies to his chest and he staggers exaggeratedly. “By Azazel’s scythe, I swear she just uttered actual gratitude.”
“Okay.” My jaw juts in contempt at his mockery. “No need to go into heart failure. Actually, can you have a heart attack without a heart?”
“You tell me,” he fires back, but we’re both grinning, eyeing each other. His smile turns more sincere. “You’re welcome, Rune.” He swallows, eyes flicking ahead. “Can’t have you distracted with our second public date coming up.”
