Illusions of Fate
Page 19
One of the birds dives at us and smashes against an unseen barrier, exploding in a poof of feathers that turns into ash. “And how,” Finn says, huffing with anger or exertion, his cane still tracing patterns into the air, “do you intend to evade the flock of familiars even now conveying our every move?”
“I can’t do all the work! Surely if you are so important as to merit the smashing of my every finger, you can figure this out.”
“Stop!” he says. I fear he is going to leave me, but he nods. “Here, this should work.” He traces a rectangle onto the blank space of a head-high wall, then knocks the tip of his cane on it three times in rapid succession. The wall melts away and, instead of a view into the small front lot of the house, it opens into blackness.
He ducks to go through, then looks back and sees my hesitation. “Trust me?”
“Of course I don’t.” I grit my teeth and swish sideways past him, but I miscalculate the width of the door and brush my ruined hand against the brick. I cry out, the pain intensified to a blinding wave.
This time when his arms come around me, lifting and cradling, I do not object. He hurries down a flight of stairs in the pitch black. The wall seals behind us, cutting off the harsh screams of the birds. At the bottom, Finn taps his cane against the wall and a line of sconces burst into flame, illuminating a stone tunnel with periodic holes in the ceiling. It drips with the slick collection of water from the cobbled stones of the street above us. Finn’s fine shoes splosh through the accumulated slush and stone-strained filth.
“Not far now,” he says.
“I can walk.” I do not want to, of course, but most of the dizziness has passed and the pain has dulled to merely overwhelming.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I need you close for this next part anyhow. And will you please get rid of the bird.”
I cradle Sir Bird closer to my chest. “You will have to get rid of me first.” Sir Bird squawks loudly.
“Accursed stubborn creature.”
“He is not accursed!”
“I was speaking of you.”
He stops and I brace myself to be dropped, but he shifts me with the gentlest of movements to free his cane for wider access. I turn to see a circle, inscribed with patterns, burned into the wall. Beneath us, a wider circle glows faintly under the streaming water Finn stands in.
“Running water helps,” he says as if that is any explanation at all. “But I cannot have any part of you outside of the circle. If you would stand on my feet and”—he pauses and looks down as though unwilling to meet my gaze—“wrap your arms around me in as tight an embrace you can manage without pain, that should be enough.”
“Must we?”
I do not know why this sounds more intimate than being carried in his arms, but my cheeks burn. He nods and removes his arm from beneath the bend of my knees, easing me down until my toes meet the water and the tops of his shoes. Keeping Sir Bird between us and angling my hand so that it touches nothing, I wrap my free arm around Finn, trying not to note the smooth muscles of his back beneath his long, black overcoat.
“If you could—that is, would you mind terribly—tucking your head in as well?”
I close my eyes and lean in. My head fits right at the hollow of his neck, and the image of his collarbone springs unbidden into my mind. My breath must catch because he murmurs about having hurt me again. I shake my head, pressing it closer into his neck. “It’s fine,” I whisper, not trusting my voice.
“This won’t be painful, but you will be disoriented. Try not to let go when it’s finished. I fear you would fall.”
I nod into his neck, his pulse beneath my cheek.
He whispers a series of foreign words, and we are swept away, twirling and tumbling in a rush of water that is neither cold nor wet. It takes me several seconds to realize I am still upright, clinging to Finn, and even longer to process that we are not in any river, nor are we in the sewer system, but rather in a bright room where every square foot is covered in books—crammed on shelves, piled on tables and chairs and couches, strewn haphazardly in teetering stacks on the floor.
“You’re trembling.” Finn’s voice is a low song beside my ear, and I know I should let him go, but the commands refuse to transfer from my brain to my arm.
“Here is the back of the couch. Use it to steady yourself. I’m going to clear a spot for you to lie down.” He’s careful and gentle, as though addressing a spooked animal.
I nod and pull my head away from his neck, keeping my eyes down. I cannot look him in the face, not so soon. I shift to lean against the couch, and he slowly releases me. I sway but manage to stay upright, and he darts out of view. The sound of books being flung to the floor punctuates an otherwise silent room.
“How are you?” I whisper to Sir Bird.
He is breathing, I can feel it, but I have no knowledge of normal bird breathing, much less magical bird breathing, to determine whether it is too fast or too slow. It is easier, though, to focus on the bird rather than let my mind dwell on my own pain.
“Here,” Finn says. His arm is around my shoulders again, and he guides me around the couch to where I can sit. I don’t want to lie down. It feels too vulnerable, too personal, and brings to mind the other strange couch I woke up on today.
The coffee table.
The hammer.
“Are you going to be sick?” He sounds alarmed.
I lie down and squeeze my eyes shut. I feel fingers reaching to take Sir Bird and flex my arm instinctively.
“I can’t do all the work! Surely if you are so important as to merit the smashing of my every finger, you can figure this out.”
“Stop!” he says. I fear he is going to leave me, but he nods. “Here, this should work.” He traces a rectangle onto the blank space of a head-high wall, then knocks the tip of his cane on it three times in rapid succession. The wall melts away and, instead of a view into the small front lot of the house, it opens into blackness.
He ducks to go through, then looks back and sees my hesitation. “Trust me?”
“Of course I don’t.” I grit my teeth and swish sideways past him, but I miscalculate the width of the door and brush my ruined hand against the brick. I cry out, the pain intensified to a blinding wave.
This time when his arms come around me, lifting and cradling, I do not object. He hurries down a flight of stairs in the pitch black. The wall seals behind us, cutting off the harsh screams of the birds. At the bottom, Finn taps his cane against the wall and a line of sconces burst into flame, illuminating a stone tunnel with periodic holes in the ceiling. It drips with the slick collection of water from the cobbled stones of the street above us. Finn’s fine shoes splosh through the accumulated slush and stone-strained filth.
“Not far now,” he says.
“I can walk.” I do not want to, of course, but most of the dizziness has passed and the pain has dulled to merely overwhelming.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I need you close for this next part anyhow. And will you please get rid of the bird.”
I cradle Sir Bird closer to my chest. “You will have to get rid of me first.” Sir Bird squawks loudly.
“Accursed stubborn creature.”
“He is not accursed!”
“I was speaking of you.”
He stops and I brace myself to be dropped, but he shifts me with the gentlest of movements to free his cane for wider access. I turn to see a circle, inscribed with patterns, burned into the wall. Beneath us, a wider circle glows faintly under the streaming water Finn stands in.
“Running water helps,” he says as if that is any explanation at all. “But I cannot have any part of you outside of the circle. If you would stand on my feet and”—he pauses and looks down as though unwilling to meet my gaze—“wrap your arms around me in as tight an embrace you can manage without pain, that should be enough.”
“Must we?”
I do not know why this sounds more intimate than being carried in his arms, but my cheeks burn. He nods and removes his arm from beneath the bend of my knees, easing me down until my toes meet the water and the tops of his shoes. Keeping Sir Bird between us and angling my hand so that it touches nothing, I wrap my free arm around Finn, trying not to note the smooth muscles of his back beneath his long, black overcoat.
“If you could—that is, would you mind terribly—tucking your head in as well?”
I close my eyes and lean in. My head fits right at the hollow of his neck, and the image of his collarbone springs unbidden into my mind. My breath must catch because he murmurs about having hurt me again. I shake my head, pressing it closer into his neck. “It’s fine,” I whisper, not trusting my voice.
“This won’t be painful, but you will be disoriented. Try not to let go when it’s finished. I fear you would fall.”
I nod into his neck, his pulse beneath my cheek.
He whispers a series of foreign words, and we are swept away, twirling and tumbling in a rush of water that is neither cold nor wet. It takes me several seconds to realize I am still upright, clinging to Finn, and even longer to process that we are not in any river, nor are we in the sewer system, but rather in a bright room where every square foot is covered in books—crammed on shelves, piled on tables and chairs and couches, strewn haphazardly in teetering stacks on the floor.
“You’re trembling.” Finn’s voice is a low song beside my ear, and I know I should let him go, but the commands refuse to transfer from my brain to my arm.
“Here is the back of the couch. Use it to steady yourself. I’m going to clear a spot for you to lie down.” He’s careful and gentle, as though addressing a spooked animal.
I nod and pull my head away from his neck, keeping my eyes down. I cannot look him in the face, not so soon. I shift to lean against the couch, and he slowly releases me. I sway but manage to stay upright, and he darts out of view. The sound of books being flung to the floor punctuates an otherwise silent room.
“How are you?” I whisper to Sir Bird.
He is breathing, I can feel it, but I have no knowledge of normal bird breathing, much less magical bird breathing, to determine whether it is too fast or too slow. It is easier, though, to focus on the bird rather than let my mind dwell on my own pain.
“Here,” Finn says. His arm is around my shoulders again, and he guides me around the couch to where I can sit. I don’t want to lie down. It feels too vulnerable, too personal, and brings to mind the other strange couch I woke up on today.
The coffee table.
The hammer.
“Are you going to be sick?” He sounds alarmed.
I lie down and squeeze my eyes shut. I feel fingers reaching to take Sir Bird and flex my arm instinctively.
