A matter of heart, p.17
A Matter of Heart, page 17
“Chloe, she’s known me most of my life,” he says, voice even, like he’s trying to get mine to match his, “so of course she’d know.”
“I’ve known you longer!” I can barely breathe anymore. “Don’t you get it? I’ve.” I jab, one poke per word, “Known. You. Longer.”
He stares at me like I’m crazy at first, but then he must really get it, because his face melts from confusion into what I can only interpret as guilt. He grabs me gently by the shoulders and tries to tug me closer, but I struggle, because I stupidly want him to simultaneously leave me alone and hold me so tight I won’t be able to think anymore.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he murmurs, and I give into our pull. His arms go around me, and I feel his sadness as I press against his chest, feel just how remorseful he is for all the words we’ve just thrown at one another. “Of course I should have told you. I love you, Chloe. More than you could possibly ever imagine. Gods, I’m such an ass sometimes.”
And I cry, until there are no more tears to let go of.
I’m in the bathroom, taking some ibuprofen for a newly raging headache, but I can still hear what they’re saying in the living room.
“This,” Kellan is saying, “is why I told you that this isn’t going to work. But you had to be stupid and insist—”
“I’m sorry,” Jonah says. “And I wasn’t stupid, well, tonight, yes, I was unbelievably stupid—but about you two needing to reconnect, no.”
“How’s this going to work, J, if every single time you say, ‘Oh, you two, spend time together,’ and when we do, you freak out so badly that she has no other choice than to break down? Because, wow. That was so much fun and did a great deal of good for everyone involved.”
“Today was a really long day,” Jonah says, “and even I lose control occasionally. It doesn’t excuse anything, but . . .”
“She says you two don’t fight.”
Silence.
“And yet, here you are, fighting. Again, wow, J. This is a super plan of yours.”
“Admit it,” Jonah says; even from behind a closed door, I can tell he’s bitter. “You haven’t been this content in forever.”
It’s so odd to hear them so tense with each other, when they normally present themselves as calm and in control when I’m in the room with them. “Is she aware of just how much it kills you for us to be around each other?” Kellan asks.
“I’m working on it. If it’s what’s best for her, and you, then I will do it.” A long break, then, “No. My mind’s made up.”
Kellan sighs loudly. “Why didn’t you ever tell her about this house? Or any of them?”
“I don’t know. Because real estate is irrelevant to me? Because I’m an idiot? It’s not like I was trying to hide it from her, you know.”
“I’m not the expert in relationships or anything,” Kellan says, “but even I know that sometimes you need to share stuff with the other person. Just because it means zilch to you doesn’t mean it wouldn’t mean something to her.”
“Oh yes,” Jonah groans. “For being so crappy in relationships, you certainly make sure you do everything so blindingly brilliant when it comes to Chloe, don’t you?”
Something loud sounds.
“Kel, wait. Please, just don’t . . .”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do anything stupid tonight.”
Silence before, “You can’t have it both ways, Jonah. I get to choose how to deal with my shit, and you know what? It’s none of your business. So back off.”
More silence.
“So don’t tell her anything, and it’ll be fine,” Kellan says.
Silence.
“I’m sure you got off on telling her that, right?” Kellan snaps. “Even though I specifically asked you not to?”
Silence.
“That’s great, J, just . . .” Footsteps sound, then, “You know what? No. Don’t forget it. Go screw yourself instead.”
My hand goes to the doorknob. I can’t let them go on like this. Just as I’m about to turn the handle, Jonah says, “What did you expect me to do? Lie?”
My hand drops back to my side. A bark of laughter precedes a stretch of silence. Kellan eventually says, “Since you’re so good at talking for me, you can do it.”
I hate how they do this, talking half in their minds, half out loud.
Jonah matches Kellan’s tone perfectly. “Don’t take out your anger with me on her.”
“Yeah, but you can, right? No—don’t answer that. She knows I’m not pissed off at her.”
The door slams. My head throbs, stronger than before. I take two more ibuprofen, and then an extra third, just in case. And I can’t help but wonder if this is only the beginning. My emotions are already spinning out of control again.
I think I need to go visit Kopano and see about some shields.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Etienne Miscanthus, positive I must’ve misheard what he’s just told me. “Did you just say Kleeshawnall Rushfire is dead?”
My Council buddy nods gravely. The word rings through my mind like a series of loud church bells. I stare at the other Creator’s seat, so close to mine, and notice, for the first time this afternoon, that there is nothing there. Not his collection of tiny coffee cups, let alone his favorite bleeding happy face one, not the blanket on the back of his chair, not the perpetually sharpened four pencils (never pens; pens are for lesser beings who have no spines, he’d claimed), nor the plaque that bears his name.
Nothing but an empty wood desk.
“As a doornail, I’m afraid,” Etienne offers. He turns in his seat to fully face me, despite two Magicals in the center of the assembly room arguing with great heat over hurricane strengths while others attempt to talk over them. “Isn’t that an odd turn of phrase, though? A dead doornail. And how intriguing that it pops up on both of our home planes. Must’ve been started by a Magical.”
Etienne is fifteen years older than me and less stuffy than ninety percent of the Council, which is probably why I gravitated toward him early on. He’s got an interesting face; while I wouldn’t categorize him as handsome by any means, he is starkly compelling with extremely pale, brown skin framed by hair even blacker than Jonah’s. And his eyes, well, they’re out of this world: vivid violet, a color never found on the Human plane. It doesn’t matter that his nose is long and large and that his mouth is much too small for his face. Those eyes are perhaps the most stunning I’ve ever seen.
For the life of me, I can’t remember what color Rushfire’s were. And it makes me sad, which I don’t really understand, considering he barely spoke to me and tolerated my questions even less. “How did it happen?”
“Well, peaches,” Etienne says in that fabulous, sophisticated Elvin accent of his that sounds different than any on the Human plane, “if I remember correctly, he was two hundred and three.”
As Etienne is a Storyteller, I don’t doubt his facts. Even still—“Exactly when did he . . .” It’s hard to even say. “Go?”
Etienne strokes his smooth chin, assessing me with those jewel-like eyes of his. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard already.”
Old insecurities of being left in the dark far too often rear their ugly heads. I thought, as an adult, I’d be past them, but I guess not. “Tell me?”
He leans closer. “The mighty, yet crotchety Kleeshawnall Rushfire left our existence to explore the great unknown a mere few hours after creating the portal which allowed his successor to be saved.”
Somebody shrieks, “Are you a madman?” and the room hushes for a good two seconds. My heart beats loudly in my chest, but not loud enough to drown out the words my friend just uttered.
Dead. Because of me. And on the heels of being accused of three other deaths. There’s been no news of my missing teammates, which gnaws at my soul.
The arguing around us begins afresh. Etienne says, as quietly as one can while still being heard over chaos, “Rushfire was old. He’s been old for ages. Any bit of Magic might’ve done him in. For all we know, an addition to his infamous coffee cup collection was the breaking point.”
Maccon Lightningriver, the Goblin who sits in front of us, turns around and scoots his chair closer. A consummate gossiper, which easily explains his friendship with Etienne, Mac isn’t one to let a juicy story, even one as tragic as this, pass without additional comment. “He was basically a freeze-dried mummy for the last decade. Dust motes flew out of his mouth whenever he spoke.”
Etienne laughs outright. I don’t, though. I would’ve before, even just an hour ago, but now it seems too morbid to.
Mac grins and motions to the floor, where there are at least twenty members now arguing vehemently. “Is it wrong that I’d rather dish on Rushfire than focus on hurricanes?”
“Of course not,” Etienne says. “We are infinitely more interesting than those windbags.” And this bad pun causes the two of them to laugh even more.
Maccon stands up and turns his chair around, so he can lean his arms and chin against the back. “Rumor has it that Rushfire actually resembled a mummy when he was found—all wizened up. Creepy, no?”
I shudder. “Are you serious?”
“Magic takes a lot out of a person,” Mac muses. And it makes me think of Kellan, in that cave, using up way too much to try to keep me comfortable. I shudder again; the next thing I know, Etienne has dropped his chunky gray knitted sweater over my shoulders.
“Careful, petunia. Mustn’t catch a cold, now that you’re our only Creator.”
“You ought to bring a sweater and leave it here,” Mac adds. “Or a blanket.”
Like Rushfire is what he doesn’t add, even though I know he’s thinking it. “You two sound like my parents,” I joke. And then I’m sad again, because I know my parents never got on me about such things. Not even my father, sitting on the other side of the room, knee deep in the history of hurricanes in the Southern Hemisphere of the Dwarven plane. I can’t remember a single time in which he admonished me about needing a coat.
Maccon’s infamous smile, the one that weakens many a girl in Annar’s knees, slides across his full lips. “Your dad is in no way as hot as me.”
I roll my eyes. Okay, yes, I’ll admit Maccon Lightningriver is ridiculously good looking. But not only is he a gossip, he’s also a world-class flirt, much to the chagrin of his fiancée. Theirs is an arranged marriage, a tradition strong in his part of the Goblin plane—with her apparently more invested in the relationship than he. Mac’s hinted about his dissatisfaction with his situation a number of times over the last few months to Etienne and me. I used to feel sorry for Izadorna, his fiancée, until she bitched me out in public after witnessing a platonic hug between Mac and me. Now I feel sorry for him, because I can relate in a really weird way, despite being happy with Jonah and our Connection. Mac, though—he’s not in love with Izadorna. And although it’s his parents and his culture tying him to her, it appears to be just as controlling as Fate has been with me. “I’m impervious to your charms, Mac,” I remind him. It’s mostly true. “You can stop trying any time now.”
His smile turns lazy, like he doesn’t believe me. Etienne smothers his own smile before saying, “The point is, sweet potato, that you need to take good care of yourself nowadays. We have no idea when the next Creator will be born.”
Which makes me the only Magical in all of existence that is now solitary. All other crafts have, at the very least, three or four living practitioners. Many have dozens.
I’m suddenly quite lonely in the crowded Assembly room.
Jonah and Karl have met up with Kellan and some friends for a guys’ lunch across town; none of the weirdness from the Guard showdown at the hospital has lingered between these old friends, thankfully. I’m also having a guys’ lunch, only I’m in Etienne’s office after the meeting went to a tumultuous vote. “Two hours,” Maccon mutters, kicking his feet up against an immaculate coffee table. “Two. Freaking. Hours we’ll never get back. And all to decide how much time a hurricane will stay a hurricane before transitioning into a tropical storm.”
I certainly can sympathize. My head roars with a dull ache that seems to be present far too often lately. I root around in my bag for some ibuprofen.
Etienne sets a tray with an ornate white teapot and three cups down on the table, not bothering to shove his friend’s shoes aside. It’s a rare Elvin tea he treats us with, one that’s tart and sweet at the same time. I can’t help but wonder if this goodness is considered a drug on his plane, as I’ll crave it for hours after consuming it. “Important stuff, hurricanes.”
“I’m not quibbling with that,” Mac concedes. “I’m just saying, did it really necessitate two hours of arguing?”
Etienne grins and drops onto the sofa next to me. “The Cyclones certainly felt it did.”
I’m with Mac—I’m over hurricane talk. “I want to ask you guys something.”
“Uh-oh,” Mac says, waggling his eyebrows at Etienne. “Nothing good can ever come of a girl wanting to ask questions.”
I reach across the table and swat at his boots. He laughs and finally moves them to the floor. And then, to my surprise, Alex Himura strolls into Etienne’s office.
“So, I was wondering—” He stops and stares at me. “Chloe! What are you doing here?”
“You two know each other?” Etienne asks, a slender eyebrow arched high.
Alex gives him a quick rundown on our past, which makes Etienne clap his hands, murmur something about the joy of serendipitous coincidences that leaves Mac rolling his eyes, and eventually usher Alex onto the couch next to me. “You and I can talk business later,” the Elf tells Alex. “Right now, Chloe was about to ask us an important question.”
It takes me a moment to remember what we’d been talking about before one of my oldest friends strolled into this office. “What do you guys know about Jens Belladonna?”
My question takes everyone by surprise. Alex is the first to recover, rattling off information like a good Intellectual. “Jens Belladonna, an Elf from the Ranguér region, is a Tech. Born in—”
I cut him off right away. “I don’t need his bio. I want to know why he would . . .” I force the accusation out. “Why he thinks I’m a murderer.”
Mac nearly chokes on the sip of tea he’d conveniently taken in an effort not to answer my question right away. Etienne gets up to pound his friend on the back. “Well,” he murmurs, drawing the word out as long as he can, “that’s a complicated story.”
I simply raise my eyebrows and wait.
Etienne shoves Mac over and sits down across from me. “The truth?”
Why do people always ask me that? What do they think I’m going to say? No, please lie to me. I like being in the dark. “Obviously.”
He toys with his teacup before sighing loudly through his nose. “Chloe, as I’m sure you’re well aware, there are always bad seeds out there. In the Magical community, they stick out like sore thumbs because we are so insular and small. Belladonna reasoned your guilt on the fact that there have been Creators in the past with exceedingly foul reputations. One was a very dark soul who found the Destroyer aspect of her craft preferable to any other. Take for example, Atlantis, on your plane,” he says, tapping his fingers against the china. “It was her task to destroy the civilization, and while most Creators would’ve been troubled, she delighted in it. She was on the ground, taking lives, before she finally erased the continent. It was an embarrassment to the Council, because while Atlantis had been scheduled for extinction, no joy should have been derived from loss of life.”
This isn’t at all what I expected. Abject horror must show on my face.
“She let a few people escape, just for sport, she said. That’s how there are still legends on your plane.” Etienne sips his tea. “There was another Creator, the very definition of vindictive and nasty. Those who went against him, or voted against him in session, paid steep prices. Many Council members disappeared, but never any proof one way or another that it was the Creator’s doing. But suspicions? Absolutely. People were terrified of him. There came a time where no one went against him. The Council was a fearful place during his tenure.”
There is no hint of charm or good-naturedness on Mac’s face now. “My mother used to scare me with stories about him as a child. He’s like a Magical Boogeyman. Make the wrong choices and Benedict Forgestream will find you.”
An under-the-breath chuckle escapes Etienne. “How his mother must have regretted bestowing that name on such an abomination.”
“So.” I scratch the back of my neck just to get the hairs to go back down. “These other Creators. They’re well known?”
“Aren’t all monsters in society?” Etienne asks. And then, “I am surprised to learn you do not know of them.”
As I am, when I really oughtn’t to be. Like my parents ever told me this sort of stuff.
Alex gives me a sympathetic pat on the knee. Of everyone in the room, he knows just how in the dark I’ve been all my life.
Mac leans forward, hands laced across his knees. “Jens was pretty much laughed out of the Council chambers when he accused you, Chloe. Nobody really believes you’re capable of that.”
Etienne clears his throat before taking another sip. He is not one for lies.
Mac closes his eyes briefly, annoyance stark on his handsome face. “Let me clarify: the majority of us thought Belladonna lost his mind.”
