A matter of heart, p.19
A Matter of Heart, page 19
He cuts me off. “It’s small. Hardly anything worth getting out of bed over. Just enough to give you wiggle room to drag a freaking mountain range around.”
I hold my hands out—in my palms lies a small screen that shows me, monstrously proportioned and standing in the Indian Ocean, literally shoving the country under the Himalayas.
Karl squints down at it. “Where am I? Where’s my mighty fist, shaking the world?”
An unladylike snort escapes me as I insert him into the scene, smaller than me but gifted with a fist larger than his body.
“That’s more like it.”
I grin up at him. “You should give it to Em. Let her know just how awesome her godmother is.”
He rolls his eyes but shoves it into his backpack anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, Karl’s compass tells us we’re in the right spot. No one else is around—the air is thin and cool, the wind sharp through the trees, the only sounds around those of birds and their wings soft upon the skies. I scan around us, marveling at the majestic beauty of the Himalayas rising through the clouds.
“Ready?” Karl asks.
I nod and find myself a strong tree to brace against. Karl squats down next to a crop of gray, weathered rocks and smoothes a clean circle of leaves and debris in the dirt below him. I watch in fascination at how he treats the moments before he works with reverence, like he knows just how heavy the weight of his actions are. That he ensures they come from the right place, with the best of intentions, no matter how large or small they are.
I am lucky to have him as my mentor.
Karl closes his eyes and lets out a breath; when they open, his hand, inches now from the target he’s created, clenches shut. Those hands of his are weapons of the worst kind. If he was to hit a person, he could shatter bones into shards. But I’ve seen him with his daughter, holding her close and wiping away tears. I’ve seen those hands offer me tissues when I broke down and pull his wife in for a hug when she outbakes him in a cook-off.
In the grand course of life, they’re good hands.
His fist taps the ground, just once. A small ripple radiates out, pressing me back against rough bark. I wait until my foot falls easily forward and then, mimicking his reverence, I give appreciation to the land around me. I whisper, “Thank you,” before I urge it, oh so slowly and gently, to lay to rest under the giant in front of us.
A half-hour from the village, Karl lets loose a string of curses under his breath. One of his arms whips out to block me from moving forward.
We’re the only people on the trail. A bird screams above us. “What’s going on?”
His head drops close to mine, his voice tense against my ear. “You don’t hear it?”
I do now. Another scream, only it’s not a bird.
Karl pulls out his cell phone, fingers flying across the keypad. An answer beeps in response just as another shriek sounds in the distance. The screen tilted in my direction tells me: 40 min out. Get ready.
I scan the area. Woods, rocks, patches of snow, and dirt surround us. Another scream bursts through the trees, rattling my teeth.
Adrenaline floods my blood stream. I’ve been on probably thirty missions in the three months since being attacked on the Elvin plane, and things have been calm. Why do I keep letting myself getting lulled into complacency by these things?
Like rats, or influenza, the Elders always. Come. Back.
We take off at a sprint, barreling down the uneven path. The keening behind us ebbs and swells, making it impossible to pinpoint which direction they’ll strike from. Sometimes I swear they’re coming from my right, then my left, and other times directly behind me. It’s disorienting, but I shadow Karl closely, believing wholeheartedly he’ll get us back to the village in time for Raul to swoop in and fly us away.
I can’t allow myself to think of any other ending.
Out of nowhere, Karl goes soaring to the left, enveloped by a swath of darkness. I skid to a halt so quickly I topple into the dirt and gravel, ripping up my knees through newly ragged denim. But as painful as this is, I’m glad, because an Elder streaks inches above my head.
I scramble forward, toward where Karl is pinned on the ground underneath a distorting Elder. Another, the one who’d missed me by too much yet too little, circles around my friend’s body, fashioning a brutal tail I’ve seen pulverize bones more than once. “Run!” Karl growls, his fist trying desperately to connect with the intangible, but I won’t. Can’t. I refuse to leave behind the man that I view as my brother, my mentor, the one who’s been more of a father figure than my own sad example for nearly two decades.
Fire and hydrogen lick above my bloody palms, swirling into tight, glowing balls. I hurl them at the Elders, not caring one iota that these were the first Magicals. That some might believe them worth appreciation and devotion, since they’ve managed to persevere for millennia even after a long-dead Creator stripped them of almost everything.
Because, in reality, they’re nothing more than monsters.
When my mini-suns make contact, the Elders detonate a cacophony of agonized, eardrum shattering wailing that leaves me nearly deaf. But they’ve retreated long enough for Karl and me to get to our feet.
He mouths something—I think it’s let’s go already, but bells are ringing throughout my skull. My brain jiggles as I run, my feet pounding and skidding against the earth, dirt and wind batter my face, and all I can think of is: Emily cannot lose her daddy. I’ll be damned if another person sent out to protect me gets hurt.
And then . . . I run smack into Karl, who’s stopped suddenly. Relief tingles my toes: there’s a thin pair of twisters in front of us.
Raul was never good at estimating time. Forty minutes my foot!
Karl grabs me and folds me into his arms, tight against his chest, his head coming down over mine. My already ringing ears pop a second time when the tornadoes skirt around us; the only reason I stay on my feet is thanks to Karl’s strength.
Karl lifts my chin skyward; Raul’s helicopter is in the distance.
Behind us, the Elders are dodging between the tornadoes. I hope they’re scared shitless. I chase after Karl, yelling about how we will get to the helicopter, as there isn’t enough flat ground to land on, but he mouths ladder.
It’s just Raul up there, and I don’t want to risk a moment more on the ground than we have to. A ladder of my making rappels down, dragging on the dirt. Karl shoves me forward first, and terror fills me as I grip onto the heavily swaying rope, but I climb. He’s inches below my feet, and I feel, more than hear, his encouragements to keep going-going-going as Raul lifts us higher into the air.
I refuse to look down. Nothing would be more embarrassing then passing out, moments before safety is achieved.
I slide head and belly first onto the floor of the chopper. Karl shoves me forward as he climbs in after me. He somehow manages to rip my ladder off the doorway and tosses it into the blue.
I scramble towards the open doorway. The Elders are below, still trapped between the tornadoes. And because I’m pissed off, my bow and arrow set I’d made last year in the dash to San Francisco materializes in my hands so I can send off a series of supercharged, concentrated bombs in their direction.
Karl forces me to look at him. It’s over, he mouths. Let’s go home.
As I watch the tornadoes dissipate in the distance, I can’t help but think he’s wrong. Because it’s not over. Not by a long shot.
Not until I fulfill my promise to Earle.
Cora is reveling in what she considers to be a great victory as she locks me into a bear hug. “See?” she says to Raul. “I told you she’d come. I’m irresistible when I want to be.”
I squeak from a general lack of air and she lets go only to grab my hand and pull me through the crowd. She hollers something, but I cannot hear her. The pulsing music makes my recently repaired yet still tender eardrums throb. My head aches more than normal.
Being here, in the same hotel ballroom as last year, is surreal. Very little has changed—the same twinkle lights consume the ceiling, the same black suede couches litter the floor, the same trays of saké grace the hands of servers. Images float through my head, fuzzy ones that seem more like dreams I can’t quite grasp in daylight.
It’s different now, Caleb tells me when my anxiety spikes. Jonah’s here with you this time. Everything is different.
At a circular bar in the middle of the room, Cora orders us two virgin margaritas. Being a Shaman, Cora shies away from alcohol, saying it does too many funky things to a body. “You are going to enjoy yourself tonight or else,” she warns, swiping a finger-full of salt to lick.
Jonah and Raul catch up with us just as the bartender sets a bowl of Gnomish nuts near us. Cora shoves it back; bowls of nuts are germ factories, she insists. “No Mai Tai?” my boyfriend teases, and I groan, because I know I won’t be living that episode down anytime soon.
“You’re evil.” He laughs. Gods, he’s hot tonight. He’s not even dressed up—Jonah doesn’t do dressed up often—just a simple royal blue t-shirt that fits him like a dream and jeans frayed at the hems. He’s totally oblivious to the hungry stares of the girls around us, which both exasperates and delights me.
Why, oh why, did Jonah have to listen to my father’s rant about premarital sex? But since that’s off the table for another four months (oh yes, I’m counting down the days), we compromise with a kiss that curls my toes and turns the room twenty degrees too warm for comfort.
“Why are we here again?” he murmurs, forehead against mine. His heartbeat sprints under my palms. It’s a feeling I adore.
My words are breathy. “You insisted.”
His head turns against mine. “You must be mistaken. Why would I do that when we could be at home, alone and—”
Raul bumps into us, knocking us apart. He’s waving his hands around in the air, shouting out a greeting. “Get a hotel room, why don’t you?” Cora smirks. The smiles on both my and Jonah’s faces slip slowly away. The moment has been effectively ruined.
I try not to think of a hotel room, exactly one year before. I reach for Jonah’s hand, to ground myself. Caleb’s right. Things are different now. Jonah and I are together, and we’re going to get married, and we’re going to have our happily ever after. Last year is behind us. He and Callie are over. I made my choice. There will be no more hotel rooms shared with Kellan again.
I try not to think about how much that saddens me. And then I get angry because I shouldn’t be upset.
I made my choice. It was the right choice.
Raul gives Cora a quick kiss and barrels towards whomever he’d flagged down. She turns to me, grimacing. “Ugh.”
“Why ugh?” I frown down at my margarita; it tastes like crap, to be honest. And then we lose Jonah’s attention, too; some guy I don’t know has him talking sports.
Cora hitches a thumb in Raul’s direction. “Those guys are bad news.”
I peer into the crowd. It takes a few moments, but I finally spot Raul. He’s talking to Maccon Lightningriver and a few other guys I’m only vaguely familiar with.
I abandon my so-called drink. “How so?”
“Every time he goes out with them,” she says, “he comes back with a broken bone. Or worse, some kind of lipstick on his shirt, which he claims was an accident. You know?”
“You think he’s cheating on you?” I ask, but she smiles and shakes her head.
“I know he’s not,” she says, and then Jonah leans into me and says he and Kai will be right back. I do a double-take as they walk away, realizing Sports Guy is actually Sushi Guy as Cora continues, “For all of Raul’s swagger and game, he’s as trustworthy as a person gets. He’d never hurt me by cheating.”
She is confident with this assertion, which is a good thing as there’s some waifish Elf with wavy hair floating like a halo around her, throwing her head back to laugh, her hand on Raul’s shoulder.
“I’d never be able to forgive him if he ever did that to me,” Cora says, and when I go still, she sighs. “Foot, meet mouth. Sorry, Chloe.”
“It’s not like Jonah and I are poster children for cheaters,” I snap.
She appears genuinely contrite. “I’m just saying.” Which, as it so happens, does not actually sound contrite.
Jonah texts to tell me he and Kai met up with a few old friends, so I follow Cora over to where Raul is. While Cora asserts herself in between her boyfriend and the model wannabe, I turn to say greet Mac, who’s flirting with someone who is definitely not Izadorna.
It’s Sam, the Guard with violet streaked hair that tried to pump me for info in the hospital as I was recovering from the mission from hell. And even though I’m sure she’s a perfectly nice girl, she still irritates me, as she’s now a Belladonna lackey in my mind. Because why else would she’d been at the hospital? But Mac is oblivious to this as he pulls me in for a hug. “I was hoping you’d come,” he grins, and I have no doubt he’s had his fair share of saké tonight thanks to his overly shiny eyes.
Saké ought to be the official drink for people trying to escape their problems.
A Dwarf with a huge tray filled with filled glasses offers me one. Good lords, do I want one—especially on the heels of the drink Cora ordered me—but I politely decline.
“Hi Chloe,” Sam says to me. I give her a smile, but it’s thin at best. She takes the hint and excuses herself to go talk to somebody else nearby.
“Sam thinks you don’t like her,” Mac says to me, amused.
Sam thinks right. I ask delicately, “Where’s Izadorna?”
He sighs heavily and rubs at his forehead. “Is it wrong that I don’t care?”
I don’t answer that. “I had no idea you were friends with Raul.”
He glances at our mutual pal. “Yeah, he’s good for some fun, you know? We went sky diving earlier today. That psycho dared us to pull our cords at the very last possible minute.” My eyebrows shoot sky high, and he chuckles. “No worries, though. I only broke my ulna. Should’ve seen your fiancé’s brother. Broke his collarbone, dislocated an arm, and shattered a kneecap.”
WHAT?
“It’s a good thing we get Sam to come along,” he continues, oblivious to the dismay I must surely be showing. And then he lifts his shirt and runs a finger over a series of notches carved into the leather of his belt.
I fear I already know the answer, but I ask anyway. “What are those?”
His sighs and drops his shirt. “Distractions.”
My eyes slide over to Sam. Several people are chanting her name as she downs glass after glass of saké in rapid succession. So. Sam must be a Shaman, then? And apparently one of the group Kellan hangs out with that Jonah disapproves of, which I now can totally understand why. It occurs to me that maybe she might’ve come to the hospital more out of friendship than on Belladonna’s orders. Even still, knowing what I know now, my opinion of her hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s only lowered.
She enables them. They can go crazy and try their hardest to destroy their bodies out of some kind of twisted love of adrenaline, and she’ll be there to put the pieces back together.
“You know, Sam never gets drunk,” Mac murmurs, also watching. “It’s one of those Shaman things. Her body is always trying to correct whatever is wrong.” His fingers scrape over the stubble on his chin. “Poor girl.”
Does that mean Sam is trying to escape from something, too? And if so, if this is a requisite of this group of Guard, what does Raul need a distraction from? A quick glance over at the Spaniard and Cora shows only typical Raul—exuberant and flirtatious. Even Cora is happy.
I’m about to ask Mac about Raul when I notice whom Sam has decided to drape herself across. It’s Kellan, looking pretty gorgeous himself in a messy, I-don’t-give-a-damn way. He’s laughing, and so is she, and so are all the people surrounding them.
When did he get here?
A myriad of emotions hit me too many directions. I’m incredibly disturbed by what Mac just revealed to me, horrified by what Kellan is putting himself through. Curious about Raul, who I’ve only ever known to be happy. Irritated by Sam for too many reasons, petty and possibly justified, while sympathetic, too. And pissed off she’s got her hands all over Kellan, and that he’s allowed it.
Even though I picked Jonah.
I toss out a random excuse to Mac and bolt in the opposite direction, away from these things that can only bring me trouble. Undeterred, he’s hot on my heels, asking what’s wrong, but my feet, my Conscience tell me that I need to go.
“Chloe, wait.” Mac grabs my arm, and I collide with a couple making out. They shoot us quality death glares before resuming their efforts at tonsil hockey. “What’s going on?”
Being an Informer and working in politics all the time, Mac is often too savvy for his own good. Even drunk. I attempt to tug my arm free, but he’s got a good grip. There’s way too much concern in his eyes, and I just can’t deal with it. Not now. Not if I’m going to make it through tonight.
I need Jonah. Where is Jonah?
Mac’s arm is suddenly yanked away. Kellan is standing there, no longer laughing. “Want to explain to me what you’re doing?” he asks in a low voice that somehow manages to rise above the music.
Mac blinks in surprise, but recovers quickly enough to show his annoyance. “What’s your problem, Whitecomb?”
Okay, this is going nowhere good and fast. I shove myself in between them. I cross my fingers and hope that a hastily erected shield to block my emotions will hold. “Kellan! When did you get here?”
His focus remains on Mac, expecting an answer. Mac, though—Mac looks like he has no plans on answering it.
So I offer up a big smile, the stupid cheerleader smile Kellan knows all too well. “Mac and I are good friends. We’re just talking.”
The tension in Kellan’s shoulders eases. “Where’s my brother?” He doesn’t let me answer, though. He glares at Mac, asking, “Do you mind?”
