The Line

Page 39

“No harm indeed,” Emmet said to me under his breath as he retrieved the straight razor, using it to cut the ropes that bound Oliver to the table. “Let’s get you into bed,” he said. One moment Oliver was there in front of me, and the next he was gone. “Don’t worry about your uncle. We’ll watch over him while he rests.”
“But how did you know?” I asked him. “How did you know to come?”
“We heard your call, and we summoned your family to return home,” Emmet replied. He sensed that I wanted more of an explanation, so he continued. “We promised we would renew and strengthen the charms Ginny was using to protect you. If ever you are in true danger, we will come to you, at least as long as this body still has form.”
Something began to gnaw at the edge of my consciousness. “You said you summoned my family?”
“Yes,” Emmet replied.
“Then where is Connor?” I asked. Iris gasped and ran from the room, apparently alarmed by the mention of her husband.
“You had better follow her,” Emmet said to Ellen, and, reluctantly returning from the high she had been experiencing, she went after her sister.
For the first time, I was left alone with the golem. His dark eyes surveyed me, and he traced the back of my hand with his index finger. His touch was warm. “You enjoyed taking charge,” Emmet said. “And you did it well. You stopped that spirit from ending your uncle’s life.”
“I was bluffing. You were the one who stopped her.”
“No,” he said. “We did not. You were the one who stayed her hand.” Before I could object, he continued, “There is magic in the air from Oliver’s blood and the spirit’s rage. None of it came from you, but you made it yours. A part of it still lingers in you,” he said. “It was your will that kept the spirit from killing Oliver. When you saw us, you relinquished control, but you were wielding the power when we arrived.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“We are saying that for one not born of the power, you channel it as naturally as if you were. You do it instinctively,” he said.
“Well good for me,” I said, “but I’ve had enough for one day. I’m going to go make sure Connor is all right, and if he is, I’m going to bed. And frankly, I might stay there for a while.”
“Then we wish you sweet dreams, young witch,” Emmet said, bowing to me in a courtly manner.
“Yeah, right,” I responded and padded down the hall. When I reached the second floor, the sight of the linen closet door made me wonder if my visit to Jilo was somehow linked to the timing of Grace’s attack. But that possibility was going to have to wait until tomorrow to be considered. I needed sleep.
TWENTY-ONE
I was dreaming of Peter—his touch and the feel and scent of his skin—when I awoke to an unfamiliar sound. I tried to place it without opening my eyes. I wasn’t sure if I could take anything remotely similar to what I had encountered yesterday, so I refused to budge from beneath my covers. The sound repeated again and again, a rhythmic whack like someone felling a tree. Realizing that it wasn’t going to stop, I clambered out of bed and over to the window, opening it wide enough so that I could lean out. Oliver was down below, swinging an ax into what was left of our kitchen table, splintering it into so much kindling. He was shirtless and glistening from his exertions. I watched as he swung again, his muscles playing beneath his taut and flawless skin, the same skin that had been hanging from him in shreds only a few hours ago. Wearing running shorts and shoes, he looked like he was dressed for a marathon rather than a stint as a lumberjack, but then again, what do you wear to destroy a family heirloom that’s stained with your own blood? I leaned back in and closed the window.
I called Peter, but it went straight to voice mail, which meant that the supervisor of the building site must be on hand. I texted him a quick “I love you,” pushing aside the guilt I felt about Jackson, then brushed my teeth and pulled on an old T-shirt and a pair of cutoff sweatpants. I was pretty sure that Aunt Iris was going to need help cleaning this morning. I had stumbled to bed without giving the carnage in the kitchen further thought, and I figured that the residue would be grizzly. When I got to the kitchen, the windows and the door were wide open. The air smelled of burned sage, but other than that it was bright and spotless. Not a single drop of blood. The room was completely empty of furniture, which indicated that the chairs must have gone on the chopping block along with the table. I went around to the back, where Oliver had stopped hacking up the table. He dropped bits of it into a large barrel, squirting them with lighter fluid before dropping in a match. The wood burst into flame like a sacrifice to some angry god.
“I was eighteen,” he said, although he hadn’t done anything to show that he’d acknowledged my presence. “You were a newborn, and we had recently lost your mama. I don’t say that as an excuse. I just want you to understand how long I’ve been living with my guilt over one stupid, angry decision.” I said nothing, but went and sat on the ground next to him.
“It was a different world back then,” he continued. “Not the kind of world where a football player could invite his boyfriend to homecoming.” He tossed a few more chunks of wood into the barrel. “This all has to be burned,” he said, nodding at the pile of wood that was all that was left of the table where I had grown up eating my breakfast. The chairs were already broken up and lying at the bottom of the pile. “My blood has soaked into it, and unless it’s burned, someone could use it to control me or steal my power. I’ll have to get a hold of the clothes Jackson was wearing and burn them too.” He surveyed the shards of broken furniture all around him. “Jilo would sell her soul for this pile,” he said.
I wondered again if Jilo had kept Grace from breaking through until I was safely out of the way. Could she have created the storm to slow me down? The lesson she gave me, being aware of danger and fending off attacks, would indeed have been appropriate if she had suspected I would get home before Grace was finished. Could Jilo have really intended to allow Grace to kill Oliver—or maybe even my entire family?
“Adam was never comfortable with being gay.” Oliver shifted gears again without warning. “He still isn’t, but it was much worse back then. He wanted to go into the military and then become a cop after his service was completed. Being gay didn’t fit into his plans at all. But then he made the mistake of falling in love with me, and I loved him right back.”
“Don’t be angry,” I had to say. “I don’t want to hurt you by saying this, but maybe you loved him so much that you—”
“That I ‘bent’ him?” Oliver’s laugh was bitter. “No, Gingersnap, Adam was plenty bent long before I laid eyes on him. Don’t let his butchness fool you. It’s the real knuckle draggers who can’t wait to get on their knees.” I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that. Oliver looked at me and tossed another bit of wood into the fire. “To make a long story short, I loved Adam. As a matter of fact he’s the only man I have ever loved, although now I am damned if I know why.” He stopped poking the fire and turned to meet my gaze. “Truth is, I will go to my grave loving him. Hell, I came pretty close to doing that last night.” The right side of his mouth edged up in an attempted smile, but it fell flat. “And now,” he continued, “I have to live the rest of my life seeing you look at me the same way he does.”