40
Dorian
If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.
—Emily Brontë,Wuthering Heights
“Atticus?” I ask.“Atticus.” I shake him. Panic grows. He’s not responding.
Raven stares, exhausted, stunned. What have we done?
My hands dance over Atticus’s face and chest, searching for signs of life. He’s not breathing, he’s not moving. His heart’s not beating.
No, no, this can’t be happening. I unlock the manacles, and I pull him into my arms. Raven rushes forward, letting out a single strangled cry as the realization sets in. He’s dead—Atticus is dead.
Searching for help, I spot a pile of ash on the floor outside the cell. It’s all that’s left of Professor White. She is gone, too, consumed by the power of her own magic. I simply shake my head, not knowing what happened. Maybe I’ll never know. Perhaps I don’t care. Atticus isn’t breathing, and I press my ear to his chest and listen for the beating of a heart.
“No, no, come back, you can’t go,” I say. “Don’t do this, please. Don’t.”
Raven shudders as a sob escapes her. She hasn’t let go of Atticus’s hand. She’s holding it so tightly she might not ever let go.
“What about the cities you want to build?” I ask Atticus. “Whatabout the places you want to see? What about everything you want to do? Come on, Atticus, you were never a quitter.” I wait for him to wake up or crack a smile; I can’t take a breath until he does.
But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t wake.
He’s dead. This has to be a nightmare. It can’t happen like this.
Raven plants a kiss on his lips. She whispers Atticus’s name, asking him to open his eyes. “I love you,” she says. “Iloveyou. Please.”
Then Raven looks at me tearfully, as if asking what else can be done, but I don’t know. I don’t…
She kisses my lips next. A gentle, assuring kiss, warm and sweet and too sad to bear. “Dorian,” she says, “he’s gone.”
I shake my head. This can’t be happening, not like this. Feeling her lips on mine, I sense Raven’s feelings for Atticus. And I know her feelings for me. We’re a twisted, knotted rope of love, and affection, and desire, tangled up and impossible to undo.
I love Atticus. I love Raven. I always have. I never had the chance to tell Atticus what he means to me. I wish I’d been able to say it. I wish I’d been able to tell him how I feel. And now he’s…
Atticus rests limply in my arms. Raven rests her hand on my shoulder. I thought I had to choose between them. That’s what I believed…
What if we don’t take no for an answer?That’s what Raven said that day we were rejected from Sibylline. Never give up. So why am I doing it now?
I will not let him sacrifice himself. I will not let the universe dictate what I can and cannot have. I didn’t let Sibylline, and I certainly won’t let Death itself.
Together, we break rules.
“Raven, help me,” I say. “Help me do this one last thing.”
I kiss her again, and she kisses me back, tears running downour cheeks. She nods against my lips. Through her touch, warmth spreads inside of me. Her power melds with mine, creating an undulating, swirling vortex of our shared love, our devotion, our will.
We are wizards even if the school will never admit us.
We are the deciders of our own fate.
We make magic, because we are magic.
And our kind of magic made the universe.
Raven’s hair changes, from black to white, and I know, inexplicably, that the same is happening in mine, too. Raven lifts a hand, tracing it along my face, pouring everything she has into this moment. She’s given everything for Atticus, and I’m giving everything back.
