The End of Magic, page 7
Marji rolled her eyes.
“I wouldn’t have gone anywhere with him.”
“That’s not the point,” Dev said, reaching for her own sandwich. “You’re supposed to set a good example for Ginny—”
“You seth a bath one,” Ginny said, her mouth full of Tater Tots.
“Ginny.” Freddy’s tone was a warning. Then he turned to his elder daughter: “Marji, you know why your mom and I are upset . . .”
He waited for her answer. Finally, she nodded, still sullen.
“Yeah, I know. Stranger danger.”
“If anything happened to either of you, it would be the end of our world,” Dev said. “We just want you safe.”
She put a hand on Marji’s shoulder and felt the tension there.
“Just think about how sad we would be if anything happened to you. Can you do that for me?”
Marji nodded.
“Now let’s eat our lunch before the bread turns into a soggy mess,” Dev continued, and squeezed Marji’s shoulder.
“Okay, Mama.”
• • •
Later, Dev had put the red pebble on the stone mantelpiece and promptly forgotten about it. Neither of the girls had ever mentioned it again and she was pretty sure that had been the end of it. But now as she stared into the orange scrying bowl, she saw Marji pick up the stone and put it in her pocket as they closed up the house and left for home.
She watched as they returned to their home in Echo Park and Marji placed the pebble, and some other shells they’d collected at the beach, onto the windowsill above the kitchen sink. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Dev realized the stone had been there all the time. It had been right in front of her nose and she’d never noticed it.
She looked up from the image in the bowl.
“Wait,” she started to say, but then stopped, at a loss for words.
“It was magic and once it was in this house, there was no stopping it,” her mother said. “Thomas and I worked the binding spell and the stone stole the spell’s power, using that power, which was supposed to protect us, against us.”
“No,” Dev said, her voice so high that she didn’t recognize it as her own.
“Yes,” Darrah said. “Marjoram had no idea what she was doing. The Flood used her like they use everyone. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”
Dev realized her sister was right, but she still felt awful. Like she’d failed her mother and sisters, her daughters, Freddy . . .
“I wish I were dead, too,” she moaned, and wrapped her arms around herself.
“Don’t ever wish that,” Delilah said. “We need you.”
“I’m such a failure.”
Melisande took her eldest daughter in her arms.
“Stay alive, Devandra. You and the girls. Get them from the dreamlands and stop The Flood. Don’t let our deaths be in vain.”
Dev nodded, relief flooding her heart as she recognized the truth in her mother’s words . . . and also understood that her daughters were still among the living.
“I won’t, Mama,” she said, closing her eyes as tears overflowed them.
• • •
She was back in Eleanora’s room. Back in the bungalow on Curran Street where she’d spent so many happy hours with her beloved blood sisters. Freddy was staring down at her and she saw fear in his eyes. He was terrified he was going to lose her like he’d lost the girls. She reached out and took his hand, the first real touch between them since the tragedy . . . since their house had burned to the ground with her mother and sisters inside it—and the girls had disappeared with Thomas, an almost-stranger.
“I’m still here,” she whispered as she brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Desmond
The old man held vigil over Daniela’s bed, sitting in a hard-backed wooden chair his son had found for him. The armchair the hospital provided for visitors was much too soft and hurt his already aching back. As he waited, whiling away the minutes and hours, he often reached out a hand as if to touch her. But he would always bring it back to his lap, never once actually making contact. He knew that to touch Daniela would only send her farther away from him, from their world. So he sat and did nothing. Just watched the gentle rise and fall of his daughter’s chest and prayed she would survive.
Desmond Delay—this was the name he’d chosen for himself and it suited him well, he thought—was old and dying. It didn’t matter what was killing him, only that it was. He wished to live long enough to see the new beginning The Flood would create, but he didn’t hold out too much hope. His days were numbered and he knew it—plus, he wasn’t so sure The Flood would be delivering on what they’d promised him and its other followers.
Not that he would ever voice those thoughts out loud—and definitely not to his son, David, who came and went from the cold hospital room with the regularity of an automaton. He was worried about his father, afraid this “trial by bedside” would be the end of the old man. He didn’t say as much, but Desmond could almost read his son’s mind these days. He knew the younger man was worried that Desmond would die and then he would have to enact The Flood’s plans on his own, the responsibility of which scared the hell out of him. The strange thing was that Desmond was also worried about this—though for a very different reason.
Though his son was loyal to a fault, there was something wicked about the child he’d created. Not quite a sociopath, but not terribly far from it, either. He took too much pleasure in carrying out his duties, in expunging the Earth of the witches that, even now, held humanity back from its destiny. That the situation was thus—well, it was more Desmond’s fault than anyone realized. He had always been too lenient with the witches (the self-named blood sisters) and had even fallen in love with two of them. Though both women had borne him children—three in all—Desmond had been responsible for each of the witches’ deaths . . . something he was not proud of. He had known as he’d bedded them and loved them that one day he would have to destroy their world.
But the children he had wanted and had tried to protect—in his own way.
He had failed with one child, a daughter, who had been killed in a car crash that he had no hand in . . . though he suspected other members of his order were not so guiltless. She’d left him a grandchild, but the girl, Lyse, had been lost to him before he’d even found her. She was one of the evolved blood sisters, whose powers came from all the disciplines of magic. Once the other members of The Flood had realized this, he’d been forced to let his plans for her go.
Now only his son and Daniela remained. His son was his right-hand man. Did as he was told and worked tirelessly for The Flood. Daniela was another story. She’d been raised by her mother, Marie-Faith Altonelli, a member of the witches’ Greater Council and an extremely powerful witch in her own right. Daniela was her only child and a formidable magic wielder, as well. A talented empath, she could not only feel the emotions of those she touched, but she could manipulate them into thinking and doing what she wanted of them . . . not that she willingly abused her powers in this way. Desmond had used her talent to manipulate things to his liking—though she had no idea at the time that he was doing it.
Marie-Faith had never told the girl of her parentage, had never let Desmond reveal the truth to his daughter, either . . . but he’d stayed close to them throughout Daniela’s childhood, behaving as much like a real father to her as Marie-Faith would allow.
He thought he’d done a good job with Daniela, had made her feel loved and understood, and because of this loving connection, he felt sure that if she woke up from her coma, he would be able to turn her to his ways. He was certain he could convince her to become part of The Flood, using her incredible talent to do the good work . . . and now that unadulterated magic had returned to the world her incredible talent would become even more magnificent.
Magic had been returned full force to the Earth, magnifying every blood sister’s power—and The Flood had plans, so many plans, for that power. They’d been unsuccessful in creating the last and final weapon because the witches they’d captured, the evolved ones, hadn’t been “awake” enough yet. This was what their scientists had learned after performing all sorts of psychological and neurological tests on the women. The failure of these noninvasive tests had, finally, led to the witches’ bodies being cracked open like sardine tins and their brains harvested for further study.
Their own damn fault, he thought, but it was more out of habit. He didn’t actually believe the words he was thinking. Hadn’t for a long time now.
In truth, Desmond was disillusioned with the dogma he’d once wholeheartedly embraced. He was so entrenched in the movement, though, that, at this point, it seemed ridiculous to do anything but continue forward with the Bataan Death March he’d set himself on all those years ago. He hadn’t known back then that The Flood would make a monster out of him. Only . . . he should’ve seen it even then, should’ve understood what he was sacrificing. He’d just been so angry and hurt by Eleanora’s rejection of him: He’d loved her and she’d taken their unborn twins away from him, without even telling him he was a father. Then, to add insult to injury, she’d given the children away—he would’ve taken them both had he known—and subjected them to the horrors of adoption. Their daughter had come out all right in the end, but their son, well, Desmond only found David later in life and, by then, his personality (with all its imperfect traits) was already set.
So he’d brought him into the fold, made him a foot soldier in the war for a new world order. Only with time he’d become disillusioned and now he wasn’t so sure that the future The Flood sought to bring about would actually make the world a better place. Human beings were flawed and imperfect. Magic, or the utter destruction of it, was not going to change that.
Now he wanted Daniela to wake up, to see her once more before he no longer counted among the living. This was the one hope he held on to, the only thing that kept him going.
“Father?”
Desmond was pulled from his thoughts by his son’s rumbling voice. David stood in the doorway of the hospital room, and Desmond realized he’d probably been standing there for a while. Had probably already called to his father once, maybe twice, and Desmond hadn’t heard it. He really was getting old.
Both of his witch lovers, Marie-Faith and Eleanora, dead and gone before him, and, here he was, still tenaciously holding on to life. It was surreal.
“Father?”
Desmond realized he’d disappeared into his head again.
“Yes,” he replied, giving David an indulgent smile.
The man was physically handsome with a charming countenance, even if his brain was rotten. Tall, with perfect posture and silver hair cropped close to his skull, all holdovers from his years in the military, David looked very much like Desmond when he was younger.
“We should go. You’re wanted.”
Desmond nodded. He knew he couldn’t sit by Daniela’s bed forever—he would have to leave her for now. At least he knew she would get the best possible care here. He’d had her transferred to a clinic where many expatriates living in Italy went for treatment, the doctors and medical staff known for their top-drawer medical care. Besides, he’d be back—and, maybe, by then she’d be awake.
Desmond climbed to his feet, using his trusted cane for support. Every time he wrapped his fingers around the polished metal lion’s head handle, he was reminded of Daniela. It had been her gift to him many years ago, and he cherished it.
“I’ll come by and check on her while you’re gone,” David said. “Just in case she wakes up.”
“Good,” Desmond said, and then he took his son’s arm and followed him out of the hospital room.
Daniela
Daniela floated, barely aware of her father’s, or anyone else’s, visits. She didn’t know where she was, or even why she was there—just that she was alive and in pain. It was a strange surreal feeling. Like she was sleeping and not sleeping at the same time, her awareness of reality so tenuous that it hardly existed at all. Except for the pain . . . that was the one thing that kept her tethered to what was left of herself. The damage to her anterior insular cortex had been severe—had anyone done an MRI of her brain, they’d have seen a lesion the size of a quarter there.
Daniela could not quite remember what had happened to her, and she was only aware of the continued damage she was being unwittingly subjected to by the clinic staff because it hurt—and the pain brought her closer to reality. The men and women treating her didn’t know that every time they touched her, they were only making her worse. That she was an empath, a very powerful one, and now that magic had returned to the world, instead of just her hands, her whole body had become a conduit for her empathic talents.
Touch her arm to take blood—damage done.
Lift her up to change the sheets of her bed—damage done.
Check her pulse—damage done.
The list went on and on—and all the damage done would be a constant reminder that the gloves she’d worn for most of her life would not be able to protect her anymore.
That she was, for all intents and purposes . . . untouchable.
Lizbeth
“Hello, there.”
Lizbeth looked up to find Tem’s brother, Thomas, standing in the doorway of the Red Chapel. He was wearing a ripped T-shirt and tight black jeans, his thin frame well-muscled. Though they were both tall and lanky with pale skin and dark hair, their features were so different you would have to know they were related in order to see the resemblance. There was a sadness to Tem that didn’t exist in his brother. The gangling awkwardness that made her Tem so charming was reversed in his brother. Thomas had a fierceness to his gaze, his bright blue eyes scalpel sharp.
This only hinted at their different personalities. Lizbeth could sense one was a giver and the other a taker. One put others before himself and the other . . . he was ambitious and out to succeed. She just hoped that didn’t mean Thomas would throw them all under the bus to further his own ends.
“You don’t look happy to see us,” Thomas continued, leaning against the doorjamb. His voice purred and Lizbeth remembered that he, too, could be very charming, but in a brasher, more confident way than his brother.
“LB?” Ginny said, a tremor in her voice.
Lizbeth swallowed hard, shaking herself from her thoughts. She tried to focus on the little girl standing in front of her, tried to compartmentalize her own feelings so she could be there for Dev’s daughters. Marji was shaking, her body so ridiculously thin and small in her bright red cotton dress that Lizbeth wanted to hold her even tighter. Hug the grief out of her. Instead, she began to unconsciously stroke Marji’s long dark hair, a gesture she’d seen Dev perform a thousand times.
“It’s okay. It’ll all be okay,” Lizbeth said to the girls, though her eyes searched out Tem. He looked grim, his jaw set, gray eyes flashing with concern.
—I’ll find out what happened.
He spoke the words in Lizbeth’s mind and she was glad they had this link, could discuss things without frightening the girls. She nodded, letting him know she would keep an eye on the girls so he could go speak privately with his brother.
“Shall we go inside, Thomas?” Tem asked. Thomas quirked an eyebrow but didn’t argue.
“Of course. Let’s leave the ladies to their reunion.”
He turned and went back inside, disappearing into the darkness.
—I’ll be right inside if you need me.
She nodded and watched him follow his brother into the cabin. When they were gone, Lizbeth turned her attention to Marji and Ginny.
“You have a pretty voice,” Marji whispered, tilting her chin up to look at Lizbeth. But her gaze was empty, her eyes hollow and without luster. It was as if she was looking through Lizbeth. Or, rather, her gaze was directed inward, but she was going through the motions of interacting with the outside world.
Despite the shock of what they’d been through and the awfulness of the situation, leave it to the girls to be unfazed by Lizbeth’s newfound ability to speak.
At least Marji isn’t shaking now, Lizbeth thought, but then she realized this zombielike stare was somehow worse.
“Can we go to the playground?” Ginny chirped.
“The playground?” Lizbeth asked, not sure where someone would hide a playground here on this miniature island.
“It’s behind the chapel,” Marji said, in a listless voice.
“Can we?” Ginny repeated, grabbing at the hem of Lizbeth’s plaid shirt.
Wait a minute, Lizbeth thought. I’m not wearing a plaid shirt. Yet when she looked down at herself, she was, indeed, wearing a purple plaid shirt and a pair of cuffed indigo jeans with black moccasins. This was an outfit from her past . . . before all of the craziness had started. When Eleanora was alive, when Lyse was still living in Athens, Georgia, and when The Flood wasn’t even on Lizbeth’s radar. It made her realize something important: The dreamlands had tried to cater to what they thought she wanted.
It was odd to realize she’d totally misunderstood the place. She’d always thought the dreamlands changed of their own volition, creating the places they wanted you to visit. Now she wasn’t so sure about this. It was actually more like the dreamlands sensed a need in you and then changed themselves accordingly. Trying, in a not very straightforward way, to fulfill that need. A few people, like Tem, had found a way to bend this aspect of the dreamlands to their will, but everyone else was at the dreamlands’ mercy . . . trapped in a land that was trying desperately to please them. It had been frightening here in the dreamlands when she was a child and had visited them without meaning to. She’d been lucky enough—or maybe luck wasn’t the right word—blessed enough that the Tall Lady had found her and had made sure of her safety during her childish wanderings. Now she would do the same for Dev’s girls, protecting them and making sure they were never at the mercy of the dreamlands’ whims.
