CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

Being the Powerful One comes with perks, not the least of which is I don’t have to work the shop this morning. Nana figures I’ve been through enough and gives me the space to absorb the events of the past few hours.

I hide in my room, rubbing my thumb across the palm of my hand. Like most magical things, the results of what we’ve done are not predictable and whereas I would have thought a gash like that would require some serious bandages, there’s only a faint pink mark where the blade was dragged across my skin.

Being bound to Lucas is a lot like an arranged marriage: I barely know the guy, I’m not sure I would have anything to to do with him if I did, but here we are, inextricably attached to one another. This isn’t his first trip to the altar, of course, and he seems to know exactly how I feel because he makes himself scarce with just a reminder that if I need him, he’ll know and be there right away.

Without sufficient sleep, I drown myself in caffeinated beverages. The combination means that I’m totally wired and holding onto the thread of one thought for a second is practically impossible. Sitting cross-legged on top of my bed, I drag the spell book, our family grimoire, into my lap. It seems the book is mine now, as is the responsibility of studying it and figuring out what I can do, as well as what I’m not supposed to do even if I have the power to do it.

Settling back with my third Black Magic of the morning, my head still buzzes from the sudden news, the bloodletting, and what turns out to have been a generous splash of bourbon in my tea. I slowly lift the cover, magic tingling through my fingers. There are hundreds upon hundreds of pages, the paper rough and ragged, written in a variety of shades of ink by many hands. The words are foreign to me at first, probably Gaelic or something even older. I frown at them, wishing I’d actually paid attention when Nana tried to teach me the basics. It might as well be total gibberish.

But as I scowl into page after page of writing, something strange happens: the words transform themselves, shifting gradually from odd combinations of letters to the English I can actually make sense of. I turn to other pages to make sure I’m not hallucinating and, sure enough, they are also readable. I laugh, wondering if I can use this trick to pass Spanish for once.

Returning to the opening page, I read the words written there, a greeting from a long dead relative, another Heart Seeker, no doubt someone else with extraordinary powers.

Sister,

If you are reading this, you have become the owner of the continual work of generations of Seekers. In the Dark Times we who escaped the forces that would destroy us saw the exigency of preserving our history, of making sure that we are not forgotten as we are, women whose sole purpose has been to help their fellow humans through the very special gifts with which we have been blessed.

This document, therefore, is invaluable and utterly irreplaceable. Guard it with your life, Sister, for in these pages, you will find not only the story of those who wrote it, but of those who followed. Likewise, contained herein are the secrets to our very special skills, the work of hundreds of us as we have toiled in the darkness to bring others to the light.

And insomuch as the value of this book is beyond measure in the telling of our tale, so too, could it be used as a powerful tool, not only to destroy us, but to destroy our fellow human beings. Beware: there are many who will not stop until this volume is in their hands, providing them with untold power.

Blessings upon you, Sister. May this volume serve you well. May its spells lead you to the fullness of your abilities and assist you in assisting others.

I run my fingers over the writing, trying to picture this relative of mine. I wonder if she had the curling black hair, fair skin, and green eyes that most of us do. And what about her power? Did she know she had it all along or was it a surprise to her, too? Then there’s the question of a Watcher. Maybe she was also bound to a person she barely knew. In my own little circle of grandmother and aunts, I’d never imagined myself as a small part of a bigger picture. There’s comfort in that, comfort in being one of many.

Flipping through the pages of the book, I read through a variety of spells. There are some for pretty irrelevant things: getting cows to give more milk, bringing a bountiful harvest, finding water. As time moves forward and the farm references thin out, we progress to the things I know about: aura reading, fortunetelling, love potions. There are dozens of recipes - literally just recipes - and spells, written in a lots of handwriting and inks. It’s all straight up boring, a total anti-climax to any hopes I’d had of learning what I’m really capable of doing. There’s no point in being stalked by killers if I can’t get anything cool from it.

I toss the book on the bed and stretch my arms over my head. What now? Do I just go back to school like nothing has happened? I try to envision Lucas lurking in the cafeteria, struggling to blend in with 1500 teenagers. The kind of torture that would be for him makes me smile. Hours and hours of listening to the asinine droning of my classmates is the perfect payback.

As I make plans to subject him to the worst of my subjects and teachers, I notice a disturbance. Something shimmers in the corner of my eye, a stream of magic set loose in the room. The pages of the grimoire are fluttering, hopping ever so slightly, sending a spray of power into the air. I stretch my hand out to see what’s up, and the pages begin to turn rapid fire, one after the other. They give the impression of moving with purpose, turning to something I should see. When they come to a stop, I check out the page. It’s a set of instructions, instructions for pushing the mind of another person, for making him or her bend to my will.

I’ve tried a few little things like that before, but not in a long time, not since I got nabbed and found myself grounded - without laptop or cell phone - for two months. Nana told me it was immoral to twist another human’s will to match my own. The book does not appear to agree. If anything, the fact that the grimoire has opened to this page makes me believe that pushing a person’s mind is something I’m supposed to do, to use as a tool. Nana would say it’s a tool to be used sparingly and for the greater good, not for passing classes without doing work or other petty, selfish desires.

With the book in my lap, I read over the instructions a few times, memorizing the short list of words to recite. When I’m done, I etch the sigils into the air. The space around my fingertips glows like a golden fire.

I think about the potential of a thing like this, the times it could have come in very, very handy, the people I could use it on. Lucas. I wonder if Lucas is susceptible to magic like this, if I can bend his will to mine, getting him to leave me when I want peace, getting rid of him altogether.

Right on schedule there is a tap on the door. It doesn’t take any magic to tell me who it is - although to be honest, I did feel a twitch of some kind, a pull. Maybe binding isn’t just an expression.

The door opens a crack and Lucas pokes his head in, eyes focused on the floor like he’s afraid I’m in my underwear.

“What do you want?” I greet him.

He sighs, resigned to death by a thousand papercuts, the torment being attached to me will bring.

“I came to make sure you were OK.”

“Wouldn’t you know if I wasn’t?”

He steps into the room without invitation.

“I’ll know if you are in physical danger. I meant something less concrete, you know, how you’re feeling about all this.”

“You’re concerned about my feelings?”

“A happy Seeker makes for a happy Watcher.”

I make a noise at him without answering.

He swipes a hand over his face, already exhausted by our interaction. “How long are you planning on being angry? I’m not here to hurt you, Tristan. I’m also not here of my own choosing. This is my responsibility, you and your survival are my responsibility. We don’t need to like each other, but it would make things easier if you were a bit less hostile.”

If Lucas is going to be this easy to frustrate, I don’t see how he’s going to survive. But he’s right, I’m being an ass, mainly because he made me feel something. Getting involved with people is against all of my well-established principles, but I did it. I did it because he seemed like a nice guy in a bad situation. Instead, I found he was a skilled liar and, I’m guessing, some sort of trained killer. And that makes me feel naive and stupid and I’m going to have to guess being naive and stupid will be a problem in my current situation.

“How long have you been a Watcher?” I decide asking questions is easier than outright agreeing to be nicer.

He raises an eyebrow, gauging the sincerity of my change of tone, feeling it out for tricks.

“A long time.”

“Very specific.”

“You won’t like the specific answer.”

“Which is?”

“That I don’t know, exactly.”

I fold my arms across my chest. If I can’t get him to answer such a straightforward question, how will I get anything more important out of him?

Before I can start yelling, he adds, “There have been many, most likely. I remember some more than others. But each time we are...finished, I begin over again.”

Finished.

“Finished…” I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands to hide the trembling. “Like they move on and don’t need you anymore? Or…”

“Yes. Sometimes. But others. Not all Seekers make it, Tristan, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It seems like anyone with a bodyguard like Lucas - experienced, capable, big - should be able to survive. I can’t imagine, actually, that they would keep sending him out if he sucked at his job. So maybe it’s the Seeker. There’s clearly something I need to know here.

“Because?”

Lucas closes the door and comes around to my side of the bed. After a minute’s hesitation, he sinks down onto the mattress next to my feet.

“Because there are rules, rules that are set in place to keep you safe, to keep others safe. Not everyone follows the rules, however, no matter how many times they’re warned, no matter how fervently we explain their importance.”

“I’m very familiar with rule breaking.”

“But you’re not foolish - at least I don’t get the impression you are. In your own way, you are intelligent and resourceful. I also suspect you understand the difference between wanting to be independent and to have fun and putting your life needlessly at risk.”

“You give me too much credit,” I assure him.

He smiles. “Being a good judge of character is important in my line of work.”

“What is your line of work exactly? Are you going to…” I search for a sufficiently old-timey word, “vanquish my enemies? What does a vanquishing look like?”

“Vanquish. You could say that. Generally speaking, I will do whatever I can to ensure that you are safe and that The Rippers, at least these particular Rippers are dealt with in a manner that will ensure they cannot hurt you.”

It isn’t hard to imagine that largely supernatural beings aren’t just dispatched with a good beat down in an alley.

“And how,” I imitate his formal style, “does one deal with such creatures? Do you cut their heads off?”

Something flashes across his face. I’m not far off.

“Hell no. Seriously? You decapitate them.”

Lucas glances away, focusing his attention on the floor again. “I do not remove their heads.”

He does not remove their heads. He. He does not.

“There is no goddamn way I am cutting off someone’s head,” I shout, jumping to my feet.

“Tristan,” he says it quietly, trying to steady me. “Calm down. This is all very new and we’re getting ahead of ourselves. With the right amount of effort, it will never even come to that.”

“You’re damn right it won’t come to that.” I’m not sure we’ve jumped from working in a coffeeshop to cutting off people’s heads in the span of a few hours, but things are really spiralling out of control right now.

Lucas must understand my thought process because he does his best to bring me back down the ladder.

“There are many other things to be done before something so drastic and you and I are going to go over all of them as best we can. But Tristan?”

I look over at him. “They’re already here. You’ve already had contact with them. Our time is...limited.”

So cramming. I can do cramming. I do cramming. But not like this. Not with my life.

“Like how…”

“How limited?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. So we have to be ready.”

“And how do we do that?”

Lucas reaches and takes my hand, gently pulling me toward him. My heart stops beating for a second and my stomach does something not entirely unpleasant, but then he just tugs me down to sit beside him.

“First,” he explains, “we make an agreement.”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“An agreement that you will be honest with me.”

I snort - it may actually be a scoff.

“I didn’t lie to you,” I remind him.

“Not yet,” Lucas responds. It is a sensible enough answer, and one that shows he knows me. “But there may come a time when you will be tempted to do so. You did not tell your family about the first visits - two, I believe - that you received, did you?”

He’s got me there.

“I didn’t - but I wasn’t lying. I just didn’t think it was important. I don’t like to worry them about every little thing.”

“But now you know better,” he continues. “As a result of our binding, Tristan, I am very attuned to your needs. Should a Ripper approach you, I will know it. But there are things a Seeker can do to interrupt that kind of communication. Things that have happened in the past.” Lucas squeezes his hands together between his knees. Whatever memory this conversation is bringing up, it’s not a pleasant one. I watch his face as he decides how much, and what, he’s going to choose to tell me.

“There have been a number of Seekers who were even less thrilled by my presence than you are. They resented my interfering. They believed I was not protecting them so much as dictating the ways in which they were to use their new found power. They discovered ways in which I could be...avoided.”

A conversation with Lucas, it seems, is something in need of deciphering. I read between the lines, interpreting avoided, and laugh.

“You mean they ditched you?”

If the expression on his face is any indication, the memory of that event is a combination of embarrassment, displeasure, and...something. Something I don’t know enough about Lucas to understand just yet. And while I could just amp up the magic and force it out of him, I’ll let him sit with his unpleasant memories for a bit.

“My most recent assignment,” he answers. “The one right before you. The results were...disastrous.”

“I…” I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry for him. For her. I’m scared for myself. For my family. This is all becoming just a little bit too real.

Lucas looks at me, his gray eyes flashing. “Swear to me, Tristan…”

I would probably swear to anything he wants with him looking at me like that.

“What?” I mumble.

“Swear to me that you will never, ever try to escape from me. That if you need time, distance - whatever - that you will tell me so we can find a way. Do not run off.”

“You’re asking me not to ditch you?”

“Indeed.”

I consider this unexpected twist in a day of unexpected twists, that a guy - a pretty hot guy - would actually, and quite earnestly, ask me to swear not to leave him. This isn’t some romcom, though, and Lucas isn’t any ordinary boy. There are things at work here that, for the time being, only Lucas knows, and I’m going to have to take him at his word, believe that if we are supposed to be together, then that is the way it has to be.

“Sure,” I answer.

He raises his eyebrows, wanting more, wanting words.

“I swear it. I won’t ditch you.”

I’m not sure it’s an absolute and inflexible truth, but for the moment, it is enough.