And, because I can’t pretend the rules don’t matter entirely, I will happily answer for my violence if I have to. If the Elders tear away my honor or the law comes knocking, I’ll have to hold my hands up and not flinch. It would be a bargain — my standing for her peace. I tell myself this aloud, the promise sharp and clean in the open air.
To further calm the bloodlust that has risen inside me, I allow myself to picture her sleeping — hair splayedacross the pillows, my chest, the slope of her jaw — and it steadies me. Not because I’m saving her from everything. No, I learned a long time ago that, given who we are, that’s an impossible feat. But I am choosing what I will let her carry, when I can. She could never forgive me for the blood currently coating my knuckles and I’d have to live with it. But I can’t let her carry Brett’s voice more than she already does.
A small, ugly part of me still wonders if I should tell her it all. If honesty, however brutal, would be better than using myself as a shield. But then I remember how she looked at me after the club, the way her fingers had curled into mine on the walk home like she needed to remember she has something to hold onto. She’d told me once, in a whisper, that sometimes her memories come back in pieces. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it comforts. I didn’t want to give her a painful piece that belongs to someone else. Gods know she has enough painful pieces of her own to reclaim.
I stand, wiping the worst of the blood on the dark wash of my jeans. I debate kicking some dirt in his face when he blinks away. Fear finally appears to be seeping in where his swagger had been. Not from the sprain of his ribs or the split lip I’ve gifted him, but from the quiet certainty even his dense ass can’t miss.
I don’t say a word. I don’t think I need to. As I walk away, I make another promise — not to the Elders, not to rules or rightness, but to the girl I loved who can’t remember the whole of who she is. I will be careful with what I tell her. I will continue to be brutal in the ways that will keep her safe. I will be honest in all the ways that matter. And if ever one of Brett’s poisoned seedsfinds the grounds to sprout in her life, I will be the one to pull it out, root and all, even if it bleeds me dry.
The light fades as the park swallows me up and I head home with all that weight tucked under my ribs. Both lighter for having decided, heavier for the cost. But at least I’ve decided. That, I tell myself, will have to be enough.
CHAPTER FORTY
As the days of summer drag on, I realize that I’m happy. Not content, not just neutral, but real, down in the guthappy. Now that Flint has given me some answers, I’m nearing the end of my first draft — a feat I never thought I’d surmount. Betsy, Gods love her, has been much more tight-lipped, telling me I’ll “understand when the time is right”, whatever that means. Knowing Betsy, she’s being cryptic just for the sake of beingcryptic.
Part of me had hoped, somewhat desperately, that finding out I was Fae, that I have magick, although no powers yet to speak of… well, I had hoped it would bring my memories back and fill in those blanks. Who I was, who I am. Who am I supposed to be? But as the weeks have gone by and no further information has made itself known, I’ve lost the hope of that. Even Flint has stopped talking about Goira or answering my questions about whether or not he knew me before all the time I lost.
The only thing Flint has been forthcoming with lately is training. Now that I have access to magick, he has been training me in all sorts of fun ways.
He has taught me to trigger the healing in my own body (mostly in hopes that I would stop losing things, but alas, even magick isn’t enough to compete with my ADHD). I can easily water the plants, and I’ve managed to keep a houseplant alive for the first time in years.
One of the first things he taught me was how to manipulate the air and the water molecules within the air to create a sight shield for Calida, which means that she and I are able to spend more time together outside.
I’ve learned that magick and power are two different things. When Flint says magick, he’s referring to the ability to touch the elements, to work with the world around me. Power is specific to me, although he says he isn’t sure how my power will manifest. The only comparison I can draw in my tiny ADHD brain is the X-Men and I really hope I get a bad-ass power. Oooooh, lightning. Lightning would be cool. Oh — shadows! How awesome would that be? I think I would make a totally bad-ass Shadow Mommy.
However, up until now, I’ve been completely unsuccessful in producing even a spark of fire. Flint has triedeverything he can think of, but I think I’m intimidated by it so I’m blocking myself. Which is how I find myself in my current predicament, in the woods. With an audience.
Betsy has a cane of all things planted in the dirt, like some Golden Girl commander preparing for battle.
“Again,” she orders. “Focus. Breathe in. Claim it.”
I stand stiffly in front of a neat stack of tinder, balanced on a wide, flat stone, shaped like an altar. My palms are sweating and my shoulders feel like they have boulders in them. “You say that like it’s fucking easy, Bits. Clearly, it’s not. If this were a movie, I’d wave my hand and — poof — instant bonfire.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you that fiction is different than real life. Otherwise I’d be in a why choose relationship with a bunch of hot hockey hunks.” She giggles. “Now focus, pumpkin. It’s all about will. The world will bend for those who do not doubt their right to command it, for those who give back. Now. Again.”
“Come on, Cas!” Annemarie sits cross-legged nearby, trying to twirl a dagger that I think she “borrowed” from Flint’s gear at the apartment. “You’ve got this! Channel that inner flamethrower! Don’t imagine a spark. Imagine Brett’s smug fucking face.”
I shoot her a look and can feel my eyebrows almost meeting my hairline. “That’s not exactly soothing.”
“Who said anything about being soothing? Rage is hot.” She winks at me, then tosses an apple up to Calida, who’s stretched luxuriously along a tree branch.
‘She’s too stiff,’the dragon purrs into our heads. I’m not sure when she added Annemarie to this weird mental group-chat, but apparently she did because Anne nods emphatically.
“Exactly!”
‘Fire likes freedom. Maybe you should practice on something smaller. Like Annemarie’s apple?’
Annemarie clutches her own apple to her breasts, protectively. “Absolutely not! This apple has done nothing to deserve immolation!”
“This is ridiculous! I can’t just…decideto make fire shoot out of my hands!”
“Not with that attitude, you can’t.” Betsy chides.
“Don’t think of it as ridiculous! Think of it as… the world’s most badass party trick!” She gestures with her own hands, almost bobbling the dagger. “No one forgets the girl who can flambé an entire buffet without touching it.”
“Not helpful, Anne!”
Betsy raps that completely unnecessary cane against the stone. “Focus. Both of you. Casie, you aren’t trying to imagine fire. You’re trying to command it. To… ask it to dance with you. It doesn’t care if you can see it in your head. It cares if you believe you have the right to summon it.”
