TWENTY-ONE
SAGE
Amazingly enough, my closet isn’t just a smaller version of Aelia’s; it’s actually got stuff in it that I like. There’s edge and grit, and not a pink thread in sight. It’s still all completely overpriced label wear, but at least it’s not Kardashian chic. I can’t let myself get used to it, though. I never stay anywhere long, and I doubt this time’ll be any different.
I pull out a bra, a T-shirt, and jeans, and I’m shocked when the jeans fit kind of tight, and so does the bra. I don’t even remember the last time my clothes weren’t baggy. I check the sizes and they’re what I would’ve thought fit me. But the hips and butt are pretty snug in the jeans, and the elastic on the bra is digging in under my arms.
I move to the full-length mirror.
My face . . . is something wrong with the mirror? My face looks rounder.
My hair is damp from my shower, but it seems longer, thicker at my neck now, and hanging farther past my chin in the front—is that right? I step closer to my reflection, touching my cheek and combing my fingers through my hair. I study the jagged silver scar on the side of my neck, marveling again at the fact that I should be dead. And then my eyes fall to my bra.
Holy B-cups, Batman. I have tits.
Right there, in the mirror, I can see them. They’re small, but—oh my freaking God, I almost have cleavage. Actual cleavage. Whoa.
I don’t want to put a shirt on. These things are amazing.
But how did they get there?
Could this be an Aelia magic thing? How does a person’s body change so much in a day? I doubt the two meals I’ve eaten since getting here put ten pounds on me. Not normal, and completely weird—but, then again, what hasn’t fallen into those two categories in the last two days?
I decide that I must be extra bloated from PMS or something, and pull my shirt over my head as I wander over to look at the bookshelf.
Everything is exactly how it was the first time I came in here—before I turned half of it to ash. The yellow gauzy curtains, the fluffy chair, and the countless books filling the shelves around the window and along the walls. And that bed. It’s so comfortable, so dreamy. I’d marry it if I could.
But I’m not even a little tired right now. And I’m actually starving.
I go into my small kitchen and open a few cupboards. There are coffee grounds and spices in one, breakfast stuff in another: a box of steel-cut oats, some dried fruit, and a bag of granola. I grab the granola, take a bottle of water from the fridge, and pluck an apple out of the fruit bowl on my way out the door.
As I walk into the yard again, the late-morning air curls around me, the smell of moss and water and night jasmine tickling my nose. It’s so gorgeous here. So alive. And this is where I’m living, with a full closet and a full belly. It’s like I won a weekend at a five-star resort. With deadly creatures and mayhem, but still . . . it’s pretty.
I close my eyes and take in a long breath through my nose, letting a smile fill my lips.
There’s a prickle at the back of my neck. I turn to see Faelan watching me from a side doorway that leads into the greenhouse. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s leaning on the frame, gaze intense, unnerving.
When he realizes I’ve caught him staring, he straightens, his hands fidgeting with a leather strap around his neck. “We should start,” he says. “We don’t have a lot of time.” And then he disappears inside.
The greenhouse is cluttered with plants—wisteria in purples and pinks drip from the trellised ceiling, and white roses climb the glass walls. There are several trees crowding the edges of the room too, with twisted branches and bright green leaves. It’s a chaotic garden in here, just like his bedroom, but this space is open in the center. Stones and moss carpet the floor, and there’s a rough-hewn wood desk on the other side, covered with open books, stacked books, and books lying like fallen dominoes.
Faelan obviously doesn’t use the desk much. He shuffles a larger book from the bottom of a pile and opens it to a page in the center, saying, “I guess step one before the Introduction tonight will be helping you connect with your power, to feel it for what it is.” He focuses intently on the page in front of him. “This talks about some of the science of it. Maybe it’ll help us move through the first stage of training more quickly.”
I move to his side. It seems like he’s trying to avoid looking at me, so I study his profile as I set the bottle of water down on a clear corner, noticing he’s squinting a little and his jaw muscle is twitching. My gaze falls on the small medallion hanging from the leather strap around his neck. It’s really intricate, a twisted design of green metal, probably oxidized copper. It could almost be a tree. A piece of amber is embedded at the base. It must have been tucked in his shirt before, because I hadn’t noticed him wearing it.
“What’s that thing around your neck?” I ask.
He gives me a sideways glance. “It’s a torque.”
“Really? Don’t only demis wear those?”
He doesn’t respond; he just turns the page of the large book. I glance down, but the words are all squiggles to me. I’m dying to know what it says, how any of this weirdness fits in with science, but first I want to know why he’s so clammed up.
I lean on the table, facing him, my back to the book. I can tell he’s uncomfortable, which makes me even more curious.
“So you’re not going to answer my question?” I ask. “Why are you wearing a torque?” I’d stopped wondering what Faelan is, but now, after everything that happened this morning, I’m all curiosity again. “You’re not a shade,” I say. “And I’m fairly sure you’re not a pixie.” His nostrils flare, and I have to bite back a smile. “What did Aelia say the other ones were? Oh yeah, those gross wraith things. And selkie mermaids—I know you’re not either of those.”
“It’s just selkie, and you’re forgetting alfar.”
“Oh right. Aelia said those were like angels.”
“No.” A dark tone fills his voice. “No, they’re not.”
“Is that what you are?” I ask quietly. He doesn’t seem to like them. Maybe that’s why he won’t just come out and say what he is—he’s ashamed. I wouldn’t know an alfar if I fell over its dead body in the street, so he must know I wouldn’t look down on him if that’s what he is. I wouldn’t be like those girls who were gossiping about James in the club because he wasn’t status worthy.
He sighs and finally looks at me. “I’m not an underling, Sage,” he says. “All the creatures you mentioned are underlings.”
“Oh.”
He picks up the medallion hanging around his neck and studies it for a few seconds, then he tucks it in his shirt. “I’m a son of Cernunnos. The third son.” He says it like the words are weighing him down.
I’ve heard that name before. Aelia mentioned it yesterday when she was gossiping about some girl named Astrid who Faelan supposedly used to date or something. The House of Cernunnos—not a band. “He’s one of the five gods,” I say.
“Yes, one of the Penta.”
“So you’re a demigod.” Why would he hide that? And if he’s a demigod, shouldn’t he have a more important job than babysitting? It seems like being the child of a deity is a fairly big deal, but he’s running around following all of Marius’s orders. I reach up and touch my own necklace. “And you wear a torque.” Now that I think about it, I don’t remember seeing one on Marius. Or on the dark raven guy, Kieran.
“It’s not something we advertise,” he says. “A demi wears a torque for one of two reasons: either someone placed it on them to control their powers, or they place it to control themselves. Whoever places the torque is the only one who can remove it.”
Well, I know why I’m wearing one. “Which is it for you?”
“I placed the torque. It helps me contain things.”
“What sort of things?”
He hesitates but then says, “My father’s blood.”
“Cernunnos.”
“Yes.”
“Because . . .” When he doesn’t finish for me, I add, “What kind of god is he?”
“He’s the god of the wood, of the hunt, and the horned god of fertility.”
Um. Horned god of fertility? That sounds a bit skanky. “And he’s your . . . dad?”
“Unfortunately.”
The idea that he’s not a fan of his godparent sends a wave of relief through me for some reason. “So you’re like me.”
He releases a tense laugh. “No, I’m not like you,” he says. “Not even a little bit. I’m a stray.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I first gave my allegiance to my father’s House at my Emergence, but a hundred years later I abandoned my vow, breaking my covenant and casting off my name. The House of Brighid took me in, and I chose to give my allegiance to her instead—what there is left to give, anyway.”
I want to ask him why he left the other House, but the conversation seems to be distressing him. It’s very clear he doesn’t usually talk about all of this. “Whatever you say, it sounds like you are like me,” I say, quietly. When his brow pinches in question, I add, “I was a stray too—in the human world. No one wanted me.”
Without hesitation, he says, “We do.”
His response hits me in an odd way, the layers underneath the words making us lock eyes for an extra second. Breathing is suddenly tougher, and the skin along the back of my neck tingles again, like when I caught him watching me a few minutes ago.
“So,” I say, trying to break the growing tension. I turn back to the table, tapping on the open book. A small puff of dust rises from the page. “This looks cool. Who wrote it? What’s all that say?”
He clears his throat and focuses on the book again. “A monk wrote it in the twelfth century, I believe. It’s a study of the bloodlines and how the energies, or powers, work on a cellular level.”
I move my hand away from the yellowed paper. “Oh, that’s . . . complex. And super old.”
“It’s been protected by magic and re-bound a few times over the centuries, but yes, it’s old. And the theories are definitely complicated, especially for the time.” There’s a small smile in his voice. “The Otherborn have always been ahead in the sciences. But I think you and I can handle it. Even with your American education.”
“Very funny.” I smirk.
He almost gives me a real smile.
Warmth fills my skin at the flash of his dimple. “So, what’s first on the list?”
Discomfort surfaces in his features again, the light in his eyes fading as quickly as it came. He moves away from the desk to the center of the room. “I think we should begin with the most basic theory,” he says. “Showing you where your power—or your energy—comes from.” He motions to the spot in front of him. “Can you stand here?”
I hesitate, but then move toward the spot. For some reason, I’m nervous again, feeling the same caution I did when I woke up this morning beside his sleeping, half-naked body.
I position myself to face him, keeping a good space between us. “Like this?”
“Good.” The muscle in his temple shifts. He moves around and comes up behind me. “I’m going to take off your torque.”
“Okay.” My body tenses involuntarily.
His fingers brush the back of my neck, and a surge of heat fills my cheeks, my chest. As soon as he moves away, it passes.
He sets the necklace aside on the desk and walks over to stand in front of me again, looking lost. “So, uh, like I said, this would normally start slower, but I’m going to push you.” When I don’t argue, he continues. “I need you to focus. Close your eyes and picture yourself from the outside, standing there. Feel the green life, sense the cool of the air around you. Can you do that?”
I close my eyes, trying to focus and do what he said. It’s a little weird, but I need to make this work. One of my foster brothers was into meditating. I try to remember what he used to do. After a second of trying to quiet my mind, I feel the air brushing at my skin and smell the plants filling the greenhouse. “Okay, I got it.” I think.
“Your world is no longer what you know with your five human senses,” he says. “There’s going to be an added layer now. And, eventually, several more—but we’ll worry about that later.” I hear his shoes scrape the dirt floor like he’s shifting position. “Uh, let’s see . . . it’s been a while since I’ve seen someone else go through this . . . but it’s about sensing your body differently. Deeper, inside. There are parts of you, as a demi, that you haven’t tapped into in your human life.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Like when you’re sick and your bones ache with fever. Instead of just knowing you’ve got an infection, like you would with your human awareness, now you should be able to feel the part of your body causing the illness, the flaw, and draw your energy into that spot to repair it on a cellular level.”
“Whoa. Really?”
“It’ll take practice, though.”
“How did I start a fire when I was sleeping? That’s the part I’m worried about.”
“We’ll get to that.” His feet shift again and he begins to pace. “First you have to feel deeper, understand where the energy is coming from in a more practical way. So what you have to do is look inward. Peel your skin back and consider your muscles, your tendons, your bones.”
I scrunch up my face.
He ignores my reaction and continues. “But most importantly, you should think about the blood that feeds all of it. The life that weaves the energy through you, with your heartbeat.” After a pause, he asks impatiently, “Are you focusing?”
“Yeah, yeah, totally.” But I’m not sure I know how. What do my insides really look like? “So, the muscles and stuff, that’s what I’m thinking of? Or the blood?”
He grunts, and I squint to peek at him. He’s frowning at the floor and shaking his head. “Let’s simplify it. Just listen to your heartbeat, okay?”
That I can do. I close my eyes again and go as still as possible.
“Breathe in through your nose,” he says, “and listen.”
I do what he says, breathing in and out slowly. A bird’s song rises into my consciousness, and I hear the distant rush of the waterfall outside, but I make myself block them out and hone in on my own body as I breathe. The feel of my pulse moves to the forefront. It beats slowly in my head, in my neck and my hands, a quiet vibration. “Okay, I’m good.”
“Your energy, your power, travels through your blood. It feeds your cells, keeping you young. But when uncontrolled, it can seep from your skin unwittingly, having serious effects on the outer world around you. Like the fire in your cottage. Your power spilled out through your skin—maybe because of a nightmare. You understand?”
I nod. That actually makes sense. “But the torque is supposed to stop that?”
“And yet yours didn’t. So you’re going to have to focus and learn quickly if you don’t want to hurt anyone.”
No pressure.
“You’re listening to your heart, right?” he asks, his voice coming closer.
My pulse beats a little harder. I nod, keeping my eyes closed.
“Now, think about last night,” he says, “when Kieran cornered you. Were you afraid?”
I pause at the reminder of the moment, not sure I want to be honest, but there’s no point in playing it off. “Yeah.” I was terrified, and yet I did nothing to stop it.
“What else did you feel?”
“Confused,” I say quickly, and then I add more quietly, “Powerless.” My throat tightens, the vulnerability rushing back in.
“Focus on your pulse and be in that moment again.”
I don’t want to think about it, but my mind fills with the emotions and sensations. My heart gallops faster as I remember the strange pull I felt toward Kieran, the terror when I realized I wasn’t able to defend myself, the warmth of my blood smearing my neck and chest, the chill of the asphalt against my cheek before everything disappeared.
A push of heat fills my chest in a sudden surge, rolling down my arms, along my abdomen and legs—
“Okay, breathe,” Faelan says urgently. His voice sounds farther away. “Come back.”
I open my eyes and see he’s across the room, staring at me. The heat in my body fades as quickly as it came, washing out like the tide. “What happened?”
“Did you feel anything?”
“Heat,” I say. “In my chest, then my arms and legs.”
He steps closer again, walking over to look at the book, reading something quickly. Then he turns back to me. “Your power washed over you, and flames coated your skin. It’s called the cadence, the time between the pulse and the release.”
“Excuse me?” I look down at my perfectly normal arms. That warmth was actual flames?
“How much time passed between you feeling the energy spark and the moment it spread through you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know . . . maybe two seconds?”
His lips thin. Obviously, that’s bad.
“It’s a start,” he says. “The more you feel the process, the more you’ll be able to control it. Can you try again?”
“I guess.” I really just want to take a nap, but I need to figure this out.
“We’ll take a quick break,” he says, his voice turning gentle. “Drink some water, and we’ll start over when you’re ready.”