Jester, p.14
Jester, page 14
“My mother raised my sisters and me on her own. Scholars aren’t paid much, you know, just a modest stipend and whatever grants they can earn, so we lived simply, but we were happy together.”
His face takes on a wistfulness. “She was so proud when I was chosen to attend the academy. Worked double shifts every day for a year so I’d have enough money to go.”
I nod. The academy is where prospective scholars are apprenticed and trained. It’s notoriously difficult to get into and entails a rigorous four-year program before scholars graduate.
“She passed her magic on to me the day I left for the academy. Told me I was going to be the best scholar the academy ever had.” All the paper now gone, Cillian stares at his empty hands.
“What happened?” I ask, because it’s obvious his story doesn’t have a happy ending.
“I flunked out.” The admission is flat.
“How?”
Cillian’s smile is brittle. “Nervous breakdown during exams. I got up halfway through the test and never went back. My mother still doesn’t know I left.”
I do my best not to gawp at him. Know-it-all Cillian, an academy dropout?
“Obviously, I couldn’t go back after that, and I certainly couldn’t run home crying to my mother, so I came here to Oasis, where no one cares about your past.” His voice is harsh, mocking.
“Devils.”
“And now, here I am, trying to prove I’m not the worthless, anxious wreck my professors thought I was.” Cillian shakes his head, as if by doing so he can dispel the memories there. He leans back, rubbing at his jaw. “I haven’t spoken to my mother or sisters in three years now.”
I think of Edward, who I’d give anything to speak to again. “They must miss you.”
“I can’t go back.” He’s shamefaced, voice barely a whisper. “After everything my mother sacrificed—”
I sniff, still not convinced. “Surely they’d be more upset at you ignoring them all these years than the fact that you flunked out of school.”
To this, Cillian has no response. He stares at the mound of shredded paper as though he can find the answers there.
“You remind me of my youngest sister,” he says, finally.
I smile in spite of myself. “She’s incredibly charming, I assume?”
“A spoiled brat,” Cillian says, but there’s a smile behind his lips that wasn’t there a moment ago. He pauses, gaze far off. “I miss her terribly.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I find I mean it. I wish I hadn’t asked. I don’t want to feel bad for Cillian, and I definitely don’t want to feel bad for blackmailing him.
My apology seems to rouse him.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” he says, curt, sweeping the little pile of shredded paper neatly into his hand. “You’re the one who can’t control your magic.”
And, after shoving another ridiculous stack of books at me, Cillian dismisses me for the day.
Although the Saguaro stage is mine to use whenever I like, I’ve been rehearsing alone in my rooms. I don’t want anyone to see my act before the queen does, especially not Luc.
The spirit I’d managed to evoke, a bland young man about my own age, evaporates as something is shoved unceremoniously under my door. Frowning, I release my hold on the magic.
Tearing open the tiny black envelope, I find a single crimson ticket inside. A ticket to Luc’s next show, tomorrow morning. Instead of advertising the Panther theater, the ticket only gives “The Crown Hotel” as the location for the show. Likely another of Luc’s tricks. Rolling my eyes, I toss the ticket on my desk and try to ignore it.
Although I do my best to focus on my own act, my attention keeps wandering back to Luc. Like an ember, the stupid ticket burns through my thoughts all day, rendering me useless. Devils knows I’m dying to see what Luc has planned for his next show. Tossing aside my notes for my own act, I try to get some sleep. I’ll decide in the morning if it’s worth it or not to bother seeing Luc’s performance.
A rumbling sound wakes me early. Wrapping a robe around myself, I stumble to the window, tugging open the privacy blinds, and gasp.
A crowd of tourists fills the streets. It’s hard to see exactly where they’re going, but it looks like the Crown. I squint at the mass of people streaming like water down the Noose. Why in the nine hells—
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Luc’s ticket, still sitting where I left it, innocuous, on the desk. Scrambling, I tug on a pair of trousers, grab the ticket, and race down the stairs. The lobby is characteristically empty, but outside there are so many people, I almost can’t push open the doors to leave. Following the crowds, I jostle and push my way to the Crown.
On the steps of the Crown, Luc awaits, clad only in a pair of worn blue jeans and his trademark boots. A simple brass buckle from the belt slung low on his hips winks, catching the sunlight. I try hard to drag my eyes away from the sharp bones of his hips. He catches my eye and winks. Flushing, I turn away, pretending to be interested in the sunlight glinting off the Crown.
It’s obvious why we’re here, why he chose this location instead of the Panther stage. What better way to get the attention of the queen? My gaze sweeps the crowd; the queen is nowhere in sight. A vicious satisfaction thrills me. Luc can’t get the queen to come to his show, even right on her front steps.
Luc gives a short bow, neglecting his usual speech. He wipes at the sweat already beading his forehead, even though the morning sun is still cool. He’s nervous, I realize, my own heart pounding in response. Stretching his neck, he shakes out his hands. Running them along the glass of the hotel, his fingers wrap into a nonexistent crevice, pulling first one leg up, then another. He’s climbing, I realize, dumbfounded. Up the side of the largest hotel in the Oasis.
No wonder I could never find him rehearsing. Unlike the other hotels on the Noose, the Crown boasts floor-to-ceiling windows in every room, giving the illusion of a giant, many-faceted mirror, reflecting the Noose back on itself. I stare up the side of the building, which is so sheer, a single miscalculation on Luc’s part could be fatal.
Squinting against the sunlight, we all watch as Luc carefully makes his way up the side of the building, which reflects the golden sun so that it’s dazzlingly bright. How he can see anything that close to the glass is beyond me. His progress is surprisingly quick, and my eyes scan for the telltale sign of a rope or cable, but there is nothing. Nothing but the taut muscles in his back and the unrelenting strength of his arms.
About halfway up, he stops to rest on a windowsill. I calculate madly; the Crown Hotel boasts 118 floors. Which means he’s fifty-six stories high right now. With the grace of an acrobat, he lets go with one hand to knock on the window. Even with my own feet planted firmly on the ground, a wave of dizziness forces me to look down for a moment, the palms of my hands tingling. I hate heights.
It takes a moment, but the window finally swings open, revealing a woman. Even from here, there’s no mistaking the shock on her face. Her golden hair tosses in the wind as Luc gives an over-the-top bow from his perch on her windowsill, and suddenly I realize. Luc didn’t pick just any random windowsill—he picked the queen’s suites.
They speak for only a moment before the window glides shut again. Luc lingers in the windowsill, stretching the muscles in first one arm, then the other. He wipes the sweat on his jeans and stares up into the sun, seeming to steel himself. Then he starts again.
It’s obvious the first half has drained him. His pace is slower now, and there’s a noticeable shake as he reaches for the next handhold. I can’t fathom what he has planned. Is this the whole show? Scaling the side of the queen’s hotel? It’s a daring feat, but where is the magic?
A commotion at the front doors of the Crown steals my attention from Luc. The doors open, revealing the queen and her entire retinue. My heart sinks as she takes her place in the crowd, craning her long neck to watch Luc’s ascent. That’s one way to get a queen’s attention, I admit grudgingly.
A collective gasp from the crowd returns my attention to Luc, who hangs, one-handed, from a window ledge. It’s the final floor, 118 stories from the ground. Heart thrumming, I watch as he reaches for the sill, arm shaking, and misses. Someone near me screams. Perhaps it’s the queen.
I can’t even make out his features, he’s so high up, a speck against the great hotel. Letting out a roar, he swings the other arm and makes contact. Even from here, I can see the way his muscles quake as he strains to pull himself up to the roof of the hotel. Once over the edge, he collapses in a heap. The audience around me erupts in cheers.
He savors it for only a moment, throwing his arms into the air in triumph. I clap with the rest of them, not sure if I’m applauding because I’m impressed or because I’m relieved he didn’t kill himself. I don’t know if even Luc could survive a fall from that height.
Luc leans his head back as the wind tousles his blond hair. So high up, he’s a speck against the blue of the wide sky. And then, with his arms still spread wide, he falls, plummeting over the side of the hotel.
I scream. I can’t help it, but I’m not the only one. Even some of the men let out shocked cries as Luc hurtles to the ground. It happens so slowly it feels surreal. Luc’s face is serene as he tumbles to the earth. I scan the audience frantically for one of his plants, for a cushion of some kind, anything. But there is no one and nothing to greet him when he lands, nothing but the dusty street, and the eyes of the crowd.
I close my own eyes just in time, but I don’t miss the wet crack as he lands.
There is no way he could’ve survived that. My eyes fly open at the ensuing commotion. Luc’s neck is bent at an odd angle, those golden eyes staring blankly at the sun. His entire body is shattered, seemingly beyond repair. The queen’s servants flutter around her; she’s fainted, and this time I don’t judge her for it. I draw a shaky hand to my lips, wondering if I’ll be sick.
A young man darts out of the crowd and kneels at Luc’s side. Gently, he angles Luc’s neck so that it’s not bent at such a violent angle. With an expert hand, he unstoppers a tiny glass vial, dribbling its contents into Luc’s mouth. Steam pours from Luc’s lips. The boy stands, eyes scanning the crowd.
“My master requested a volunteer before he died.”
No one responds, still too stunned at the sight of Luc’s broken body lying mangled on the pavement. The boy points a finger at me.
“You. The girl with the rose hair.”
I shake my head. I want no part in this. But the boy is not so easily deterred. The crowd parts as he makes his way toward me and grasps my hand. I have no choice but to follow him to where Luc lies.
“In order for my master to resurrect, he requires the kiss of a pure maiden.”
Several of the audience members scoff at the boy’s words, which are antiquated, but I’m still caught on the word “kiss.” The boy gestures to Luc, pleading in his blue eyes.
“Please. Play along. If you don’t, he’ll die.”
The words are soft, meant only for me and not the audience surrounding us. Biting my lip, I dare a glance at Luc. His chest is still, lips parted. A ghost of steam from whatever the boy poured into his mouth still wafts like his spirit has already left him. I’ve spent the last year hating Luc with every fiber of my being. I don’t anymore, I realize.
Steeling myself, I lean over and let my lips brush his, so faint it could barely be considered a kiss. Nothing happens. My heart thuds dully inside of me. What if he dies because of me? I think again of the girl he couldn’t resurrect, lips blue, blank eyes staring at the sky. The same way Luc’s eyes stare beyond me to the sky he fell from.
“Kiss him,” the boy pleads, eyes desperate. “He’s dying.” And I oblige, crushing my lips to Luc’s. Luc gasps, pulling me into him. His pupils constrict, the veins in his neck bulge. His grip is painful, as though he’s using me to claw his way back from the Beyond. Maybe he is.
I wince as the shattered vertebrae in his neck realign with a series of pops. The broken bones reconnect, the open wounds zipper shut as Luc heals in front of my eyes. He pants, and from his tortured expression, I can tell he’s in excruciating pain. His body spasms under me, my face buried in his chest, which smells like copper and tastes like salt.
Finally he releases me, blood rushing back to my arm in a river of tingles. The crowd erupts into cheers, but he ignores it. It’s as if we’re the only two people in the world. With a shaking hand, he reaches up to brush a lock of my hair away.
“Well done, my little plant.”
I startle. “What?”
I steal a look at the boy, but he’s gone. The realization hits me like a sinking stone. Of course. It was all planned, all a trick. Revenge for my own show, likely. As the knowledge hits me, Luc sweeps me in for another dramatic kiss. I slap him with all the force I can muster. Recently dead or no, he’s made me furious. He’s tricked me again. I stalk away, realizing there are actually tears in my eyes, and this makes me even more angry.
The clouds gather quickly, shrouding the sun in gray. Lightning cracks across the sky, lighting the valley below in flashes. Rain in the desert is never a peaceful thing. It comes in violent torrents, quick and deadly. The first fat drops hit my face like a warning, followed by a downpour. I slog through the floodwater back to the Saguaro, passing a man carrying a tiger cub on his shoulders and two girls in feather headdresses crying, feathers drooping.
My lips sting where Luc’s lips met mine. How can I ever hope to beat him? Somehow, he always knows my weakness. Somehow he is always better. I promised Rose and Yasmin I would beat him, and yet, I have nothing. Nothing but a legion of ghosts awaiting justice. How am I supposed to impress a queen with that?
The rain rolls down my face like tears, soaking my clothing through.
In less than an hour, gallons of water have flooded the Noose. This is power, I think, as the water pulls at my legs. Not even magic can turn an entire desert into an ocean. The same rain drenches all of Oasis, soaking queen and commoner alike.
It hits me then, like a lightning strike.
I know what my next show is going to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What in the nine hells have you done, boy?” His father is not angry, and that is perhaps the most distressing thing to the boy. He is anguished.
“I did what you taught me—”
“I never taught you to go against the Crown! You absolute, mewling fool . . .”
Scraggly bushes and sun-beaten fences blur in front of the boy’s unseeing eyes as the high judge’s motorcar speeds them away from the debacle at court. After the boy’s outrageous sentence, before his father could spirit him away, the court had quickly devolved into madness.
“Perhaps there’s a way to still make this right. You are still only an apprentice, which means according to law seventeen, statute B . . .”
The boy listens to his father ramble in silence. In all his nineteen years, he has never seen his father frightened before. Angry, yes. Disgruntled, certainly. But never afraid. The high judge pours himself a drink with shaking hands but doesn’t drink any of it.
“After everything I’ve done for the Crown . . . there’s no way . . . a silly, youthful mistake . . .”
“What else could I have done?” the boy protests. “The evidence was irrefutable, spoken from the mouth of one who cannot lie!”
His father, the man with a resolve of stone, of unwavering morality, or so the boy thought, regards him with an ashen face.
“The dead cannot lie. But you should have.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Luc’s kiss still burns. I don’t think about how badly I wish to strangle him, wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until my fingers ache, because I can’t kill him. I’m not even sure I can beat him.
The ink on the invitation I’ve written smudges, leaving a black smear. Wordlessly, I throw it into the trash and begin anew. If the queen won’t come to me of her own volition, I’ll ask. I’ll beg if need be. I hadn’t bothered to invite the queen to any of my shows until now. Because this show will be different. This time, I at least have a shot.
Of course, there’s always the chance that this invitation won’t even reach the queen in time. I waited too long, and without a seeker, well . . . I bury that thought down deep with all the others as I finish signing the invitation with a flourish.
I’m startled by a knock at the door, causing me to leave another trail of smudged ink on my invitation. I crumple it up and toss it in the direction of the trash, not caring if I miss. Expecting housekeeping, I fling open the door, surprised to instead see Yasmin, looking small and out of place. I usher her in, forgetting in my concern to be ashamed of my tiny quarters. Yasmin doesn’t seem to notice; her eyes are glazed as she traces the pattern on my bedspread.
“Are you okay?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at the bed.
“You’re in love with Luc.”
The accusation comes out dead, flattened. I flinch, as if burned. “Excuse me?”
“It’s obvious, Lisette. Everyone on the Noose is talking about his show. The one where you kissed him.”
She’s never called me Lisette before. That’s the only thing that registers in my numb mind. I let out a startled laugh.
“I don’t love him. He tricked me.”
“Yeah, sure he did.” Yasmin rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way she holds herself, arms crossed, as if afraid of my response.
“It’s the truth.” My hands grit into fists at the memory of the kiss, stolen from me like everything else. “He was mocking me.”
Yasmin’s eyes flicker up to mine, wary. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Thank the devils,” she says, gusting out a breath, collapsing at my desk. “I really didn’t want to have to hate you too.”
Her foot knocks one of the crumpled invitations on the floor. “What’s this?”
