Charles complies reluctantly.
“Don’t worry.” I gasp. “I’m good.”
The pain in my arm has lessened to an ache, but it’s still there. Emma’s beautiful face flashes in my memory: her shimmery brown skin, big fearless eyes, and hair that flows down her back like a river at midnight. More than Charles’s healing magic, it’s the thought of sneaking off to see her again that really heals me.
CHAPTER TENEmma BaldwinNEW ORLEANS, 1922
My arm is slick with a sheen from the ocean of sweat soaking my body. It’s a bruising reminder of the vicious training session that I barely survived. I lie on the mat in the sparring ring, splatters of blood on my catsuit, as my body spreads like a snow angel. I’m aching everywhere. My pride is shattered. The metallic taste of blood lingers in my mouth. I spit crimson and wipe my lip with the back of my hand. My family just says, “Sorry,” and offers to magically treat my wounds. Not today, they won’t. Their healing magic is just another lie. It’s another way this family covers up the ugly truths they don’t want to face.
Mom stands outside the ring, holding on to the ropes. “A warm bath will do you good,” she says. “And some banana pudding. I can make some for you… Would you like that?”
I stare at the ceiling, ignoring her.
“I love you, Emma,” she says. “We all do. We’re sorry, but it has to be this way.”
“She’ll be okay,” I hear Demetri say. “She knows we’re just trying toprotect her.” His voice dips. “Emma knows love and heartbreak are the same in this family.”
No. Love should never be this painful or dysfunctional. Most days, I would kill for my family, but today the betrayal I feel after the assault they called “battle training” makes me want to kill them. Unfortunately, loyalty won’t let me. So I lie on my back, exhausted and angry, with a tear sliding from the corner of my eye.
Everyone leaves the training gym. Except Grandmère Clair. “Get up, Emma,” she orders, her voice a dagger covered in expensive silk. Dim light from the high windows casts dancing shadows across the aged beauty of her honey-brown face. An amused smile curls on her lips. “Nothing is bruised as bad as your ego, luv.”
“Is this what love looks like to you?” I ask, motioning to my split lip. My muscles scream in protest as I force myself to sit up and glare at her. I wince at the agony that shoots through my body, echoing each movement.
“Love protects,” she replies, extending a palm to help me to my feet. “By any means necessary.”
I refuse her hand and sit gasping in the center of the mat.
She chuckles. “Emma,” she coos softly, kneeling beside me. “You only hurt yourself by refusing assistance and healing magic. You must understand that, sometimes, we have to be cruel to be kind.”
She adds, “This is your reality now. I’d rather you live to hate me than die at the hands of that Davenport boy. So, yes, I’ll be brutal. Be as hard on you as it takes to help you master your ability and harness your power. The world won’t handle you with velvet gloves, dear. You’re female and Black, Emma. Life will always be a battle for you.” She smiles and uses a finger to draw a heart using the drops of crimson that fell from my lip onto the mat. “Isn’t it wonderful that we have each other? Family is a bond of blood and a covenant of courage that shields us from arrows of hate, oppression, and adversity. And in this family, we’ll teach you how to win. How to succeed, despite all of it.”
Anger simmers higher inside me, splashing up to bubble behind mygritting teeth. “What if I don’t want to battle? My life is hell! I don’t want any part of this.”
“Ah,ma chérie.” She chuckles again, stroking my bruised cheek gently.
I flinch, jerking back.
“Hell is a library with no books,” she continues. “And a life without freedom. Or control. Destiny is calling, little bird. If you want your future to be bright, you’ll need to fight for it.”
I bite back the urge to scream in frustration. As much as I hate it, I may need her help to win the Tether if my plan to stop it fails. I need to fight better, to be stronger, to prove that I can survive whatever the Tether—and life—throws at me. But I’m scared. Failing means falling into a wormy grave. And I don’t want to die. I sure as hell don’t want to be forced to kill. I guess destiny is just like my grandmother: as cruel as she is beautiful.
My belly churns with anger, aching from the blows I’ve taken. I hate the curse my family is forced to live under. Hate what this Tether has made us do and who the curse has made us become. I wonder what our family could have been without slavery. Without Sabine, her curse, and the generational trauma they caused. Would my sister still be here, braiding my hair and talking about boys? Would my grandmother be the type that makes cookies and punch instead of punching me?
Grandmère Clair is speaking, but I can’t hear her. Tears pool in my eyes. I look at the wall of weapons that reflects the elderly mercenary moving above me. She dances on her feet like a boxer swinging her fist at the wind. She would’ve never been the cookie-making type.
I look toward the window. The sleek silver of one of the time-traveling Bentleys shimmers in the moonlight. The glitter of the stardust coating the car’s curves sparks an idea.
“Gran,” I grumble, sitting up straight. “If I’m forced into this death match, I need to know more. Teach me more than just fighting and how to use stardust as a weapon. Show me how to make illusions.”
“You should rest now, Emma. Go relax.”
“I can’t. You wanted me to take training seriously. I am now.”
Grandmère Clair strokes her red, swollen knuckles, as if hitting me had wounded her. At least she isn’t giving me that stupidThis hurts memore than youspeech that naughty children get before they’re spanked. She has a thoughtful expression on her face. She eases her golden-brown body against the corner pads of the ring and dusts the sleek black catsuit hugging her slender frame. Adjusting the huge gold belt, the crescent moon shimmering at her waist, she coos, “Little bird. Don’t be a glutton for punishment.” She runs golden-brown fingers through her wild silver bob and gives me a smile that mirrors ageless perfection.
“Teach me,” I say, standing on wobbly legs. “I can handle it.”
She eyes me like a mother wolf staring at the runt of the litter. After a pause, she stammers, “O-okay.” Her expression darkens. “Illusions can trick enemies and protect secrets,” she warns, “but beware,ma petite, the art of illusion is a double-edged sword. It can cut deeply when it’s not approached with a clear and controlled mind. Understand?”
