Текст книги "The Fiery Heart"

Автор книги: Richelle Mead

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Jill met me squarely in the eye. “Every time you use spirit . . . is it just to do good?”

I took a long time to answer. “You’re asking me something you already know the answer to,” I said. I used spirit for the rush because I felt blissful and godly. At times, I got the same high I would from drinking or smoking.

“Then there you go,” she said. “See what happens. If it doesn’t work, you stop. It’s a pill, not a lifelong commitment.”

“Why does that sound familiar?”

She grinned mischievously. “It’s what you told Sydney about birth control pills.”

Hard to believe I’d nearly forgotten about that. “Ah, yes. A conversation you’re best left out of. We need to preserve your innocence for as long as possible.”

Jill’s wry expression was another of those that looked too wise for her age. “That ended the moment we were bonded.”

Just then, Sydney and Zoe stepped out of the dorm’s front door. They didn’t see us, sitting on our far bench, and Jill called out to them. Zoe stiffened. Sydney smiled, though it was a polite Alchemist smile.

I leaned back and crossed my legs, hoping I looked as insolent as possible. “Well, well. The Sisters Sage. Where are you guys off to? Volunteer work at the library? Liquidation sale at the Container Store?”

Incredibly, Sydney managed to keep a straight face. Aside from reinforcing my love for her, it also made me want to take her to a poker game sometime. Between that and my aura reading, we’d make a killing. “Close. Zoe needs some graphing paper for her math class.”

“Ah,” I said. “Office supplies. That was going to be my next guess. I only held off because I figured you guys kept reams of that stuff under your beds.”

And still, Sydney managed that amazing control, though her lips did  twitch ever so slightly. She glanced at Jill. “Need anything?”

Jill shook her head, but I piped in, “I could use a new sketchbook and some pigment sticks and–”

Sydney sighed and put on a tormented expression. “Adrian, I wasn’t talking to you. Come on, Zoe. We’ll see you guys later.” They started to walk away, and then Sydney abruptly halted. “Oh! I have to talk to Jill about something real quick. Here.” She tossed Zoe her keys. “You can bring it out of the parking garage.”

Zoe’s eyes widened like Sydney had just said Christmas was coming early. It was actually kind of sweet, and I had to remember that Zoe was a perpetual scourge upon my love life. “Really? Oh! Thank you!” She snatched the keys without a second thought and trotted away.

Sydney watched her fondly. “Really?” she asked me. “A Container Store liquidation?”

“Come on,” I said. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t be all over that.”

She grinned and turned back to us. The sunlight made her hair turn to molten gold, and it took my breath away. “Maybe,” she agreed. “Depends on how tasteful the colors were.”

“I’m guessing you don’t actually have to talk to me?” Jill asked, with a sly smile.

Sydney shrugged and tucked some of that marvelous hair behind her ear. “Not specifically. Mostly I just wanted some breathing space. It’s nice to talk to both of you.” But her eyes fell on me, and I could’ve cut the tension between us. I knew that she, like me, was having a mental struggle in staying apart. I would’ve given anything to hold her just then, to trace the edge of her cheek or feel the strands of her hair between my fingers. Clearing her throat, she looked away and seemed to be groping for a safe subject. Well, a semi‑safe one. Her voice dropped as her eyes turned back up with a gleam.

“I did it.” She cast a quick glance around before continuing. “The salt. I got all four elements into it.”

Jill caught her breath, just as consumed by the quest as Sydney and me. “You think you can use it to replicate Marcus’s ink?”

Sydney nodded eagerly. “The hard work’s done. It just needs to be ground up and suspended in any ink solution to use for tattooing. Then, I need a guinea pig. I guess the brave thing would be to try it on myself.”

“I have absolute faith in your abilities,” I told her, “but maybe you should wait and experiment with one of Marcus’s starry‑eyed recruits.”

“I suppose I could. I mean, I don’t think it’ll cause any harm. The biggest problem will be whether it works or not. And the only way we can find out is if the Alchemists try to re‑ink the guinea pig–which none of us want.” Her small, thoughtful frown was adorable. “Unless I could get a hold of Alchemist ink and do more experiments . . . but, ugh. That won’t be easy without sanctioning. And I don’t have an earth user around either.”

I scoffed. “I’m sure Abe would love to help.”

“Oh, yes,” said Sydney. “I’m sure he would. I’m sure he’d love to know all  about my side project.”

Zoe pulled up just then in that beast of a car. She didn’t drive over the curb or crash into the building, so I supposed that was promising. Nonetheless, I saw Sydney’s sharp eyes studying the exterior for even the tiniest ding. Satisfied, she took the driver’s seat from Zoe and waved goodbye to us. Her eyes held mine, and for a few moments, I was suspended in that amber gaze. I sighed as she drove off, and when I glanced down, I saw Jill watching me knowingly.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll make an appointment.” She hugged me.

I called a psychiatrist recommended by Carlton’s health center and kind of hoped it would take a while to get in. After all, specialists were always busy, right? This one apparently was–but had just had a cancellation for tomorrow. The receptionist told me I was incredibly lucky, so what I could do? I accepted and then skipped mixed media the next day, earning “slacker” name‑calling when I asked Rowena to let me know what I missed.

The doctor’s name was Ronald Mikoski, but I promptly forgot that because he looked exactly like Albert Einstein, complete with disheveled white hair and mustache. I’d thought there’d be a couch where I’d lie back and talk about my mother, but instead, he directed me to a plush armchair while he settled behind a desk. Instead of a notebook, he had a laptop.

“Well, Adrian,” Einstein began. “Tell me what brings you in here today.”

I started to say, “My girlfriend made me,” but that sounded petulant.

“My girlfriend thought it’d be a good idea,” I amended. “I want to get some antidepressants.”

The bushy eyebrows rose. “Do you? Well, we don’t just hand out prescriptions around here, but let’s get to the bottom of things first. Are you depressed?”

“Not at the moment.”

“But you get that way sometimes?”

“Sure. I mean, well, everyone does, right?”

He met my gaze levelly. “Yes, of course, but is yours worse than the average person’s?”

“Who can say?” I shrugged. “It’s all subjective, right?”

“Does your girlfriend think it’s worse than the average person’s?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“Why?”

That made me falter. I didn’t know if I was ready to talk about that. I hadn’t expected to. I knew enough about mental health from Lissa to understand that psychiatrists prescribed medicine and therapists talked you through your problems. I’d thought I could just come in here, say I needed pills, and get them.

“Because . . . I drink when I get down.”

Einstein’s fingers tapped away. “A lot?”

I was ready with another “subjective” quip but chose to answer bluntly. “Yes.”

“When you’re happy too?”

“I guess . . . but what’s wrong with letting loose?”

“Tell me how you feel when you ‘get down.’”

Again, it was another opening for a joke. Like, I should’ve said something about getting down at a dance club. After all, how could I describe what I felt in those dark moments when spirit’s shadow seized hold of my soul? And even if I could find the words, how could he understand? How could anyone truly, truly understand? No one could, and that was part of what made things so bad. I always felt alone. Even another spirit user couldn’t completely understand my experience. We were all in our own personal hells, and of course, I couldn’t actually mention spirit specifically.

Yet, I found myself talking to Einstein anyway, describing everything as best I could. After a while, he stopped typing and just listened, occasionally asking me to clarify my feelings. Soon, he shifted from how I felt when depressed and wanted to know how I felt when I was happy. He seemed especially interested in my spending habits and any “unusual behaviors.” When we’d exhausted that, he gave me a bunch of questionnaires that asked variations of the same questions.

“Man,” I said, handing them back. “I had no idea it was this hard to qualify as crazy.”

I saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. “‘Crazy’ is a term that’s used incorrectly and far too often. It’s also used with stigma and finality.” He tapped his head. “We’re all chemicals, Adrian. Our bodies, our brains. It’s a simple yet vastly sophisticated system, and every so often, something goes awry. A cell mutation. A neuron misfiring. A lack of a neurotransmitter.”

“My girlfriend would love this,” I said. I nodded at the paperwork. “So, if I’m not crazy, do I still get the pills?”

Einstein skimmed through the pages, nodding as though he was seeing exactly what he expected. “If you like, but not the ones you came in for. Your situation is more complex than just depression. You exhibit a lot of the classic symptoms of bipolar disorder.”

There was something sinister about the word “disorder.” “What’s that mean? In words that don’t begin with ‘neuro’?”

That actually got a smile from him, though it looked a little sad. “It means, in very simple terms, that your brain makes your lows too low and your highs too high.”

“Are you saying it’s possible to be too happy?” I was starting to get very uneasy about this. Maybe the fact that his patients canceled on short notice should’ve been a warning sign that he wasn’t a very good doctor.

“It depends on what you do.” He opened up the packet of papers I’d filled out. “You spent eight hundred dollars on a record set recently?”

“Yeah, so? It’s the purest form of music.”

“Was it something you’d been wanting for a while? Something you’ve been searching for?”

I thought back to when I’d walked past the handwritten sign on campus. “Um, no. The opportunity just came up, and I thought it was a good idea.”

“Do you have a history of other impulse purchases?”

“No. Well, I mean, I once sent a girl flowers every day for a month. And I also had a giant box of perfumes sent to her. And then I bought my current girlfriend some custom perfume that kind of cost a lot. And I technically bought a car for her. But you can’t judge those,” I added quickly, seeing his wry look. “I was in love. We all do things like that in pursuit of the fairer sex, right?” Silence answered. “Maybe I should just take a money management class.”

He gave a small, nondescript grunt. “Adrian, it’s normal to be happy and sad. That’s human life.” I definitely didn’t correct him there. “What’s not normal is to be so drastically sad that you can’t go on with typical activities or to be so happy that you impulsively engage in grandiose activities without thinking through the consequences–like excessive spending. And it’s definitely not normal to switch so quickly between these drastic moods with little or no provocation.”

I wanted to tell him that there was  provocation, that spirit did these things to me. And yet, did the cause matter? If fire users burned themselves with their magic, it didn’t change the fact that they needed first aid. If spirit was causing this bipolar thing, then didn’t I still need treatment? My mind spun, and I suddenly found myself caught up in a chicken‑and‑egg dilemma. Maybe spirit didn’t cause mental illness. Maybe people like Lissa and me were already “off” chemically and that’s what made us gravitate to spirit.

“So what do you do about it?” I asked at last.

He took out a small notebook and scribbled something onto it. When he finished, he tore off the top sheet and handed it to me. “You get this prescription filled and take it.”

“It’s an antidepressant?”

“It’s a mood stabilizer.”

I stared at the paper like it might bite me. “That doesn’t sound right. Is it going to ‘stabilize’ me so that I don’t feel happy or sad? So that I don’t feel anything?” I stood up abruptly. “No! I don’t care if they’re dangerous. I’m not giving up my emotions.”

“Sit down,” he said calmly. “No one’s taking away your emotions. It’s what I said before: We’re all chemicals. You’ve got a couple that aren’t at the right levels. This will adjust them, just as a diabetic would correct their insulin. You’ll still feel things. You’ll be happy. You’ll be sad. You’ll be angry. You just won’t swing unpredictably into such wild directions. There’s nothing wrong with this–and it’s a hell of a lot safer than self‑medicating with alcohol.”

I sat back down and stared bleakly at the prescription. “This is going to kill my creativity, won’t it? Without all my feelings, I won’t be able to paint like I used to.”

“That’s the cry of artists everywhere,” said Einstein, his expression hardening. “Will it affect certain things? Maybe, but you know what’ll really interfere with your ability to paint? Being too depressed to get out of bed. Waking up in jail after a night of drunken debauchery. Killing yourself. Those things will hurt your creativity.”

It was surprisingly similar to what Sydney had said about how I’d be able to accomplish things. “I’ll be ordinary,” I protested.

“You’ll be healthy,” he corrected. “And from there, you can become extraordinary.”

“I like my art the way it is.” I knew I sounded childish.

Einstein shrugged and sat back in his chair. “Then I guess you have to decide what’s most important to you.”

That required no thought at all. “She is.”

He stayed quiet, but his expression said it all.

I sighed and stood up again. “I’ll get it filled.”

He gave me some information on side effects and warned that it could take trial and error to get things right. Walking out of that office and going to a pharmacy, rather than a liquor store, took more self‑control than I’d had to muster in a while. I forced myself to listen as the pharmacist talked about dosing–and warned me against alcohol while on the prescription.

But when I got home, I didn’t have the courage to open the bottle. I put on a record at random and sat on my couch, staring at the bottle in my hand, more confused than I’d ever expected to be. This mood stabilizer was a mystery. I’d thought I’d go in and take something like Lissa had, and even if I wasn’t a huge fan of pills, at least I had her as a reference. But this? What would happen? What if Einstein was wrong, and I stopped feeling any emotions? What if it didn’t do anything except cause the ghastly side effects he’d said were extremely rare?

On the other hand . . . what if it didn’t stop spirit but did  curb the darkness? That would be a dream come true. That was what Lissa had originally hoped the antidepressant would do. The complete numbing of spirit had been a surprise. It was impossible to think I might still keep the magic yet stay in control of my life. The idea was so tempting, I opened the bottle and put one of the pills in the palm of my hand.

But I couldn’t take it. I was too afraid–afraid of losing control and afraid of gaining it. I tried to think of Sydney but couldn’t get a clear grip on her in my mind. One moment, she was laughing and golden in the sun. Another, she was crying. I wanted what was best for her . . . and yet, I knew what she actually wanted was what was best for me. It was so hard to know what that was, though. On a nearby table, Hopper–in statue form–seemed to watch me judgmentally, and I turned him so he faced away from me.

The music drifted over me, and I realized with a start I’d put on Jefferson Airplane. I laughed, but it soon turned into a sigh.

“‘One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small.’” I squeezed the pill tightly in my hand. “‘And the ones that Mother gives you don’t do anything at all.’”

Take the damn pill, Adrian.  The chastising voice in my head was my own, not Aunt Tatiana’s, thankfully. I opened my hand and studied the edges of the pill. Just take it.  I had a glass of water and everything.

But I still held off.

The chiming of the Love Phone made me jump. Still holding the pill in one hand, I found the phone with the other and read a text from Sydney:

Told Z I left my phone in the store, so I went back and got a sketchpad and some pigments. Know any starving artist who could use them?

My heart swelled, so full of love I didn’t know how any physical body could possibly contain such power. I felt like my chest would burst.

“Okay, Alice,” I said, eyeing the pill. “Let’s see what you can do.”

I put the pill in my mouth and swallowed.

CHAPTER 12

SYDNEY

I DIDN’T BLINK AN EYE when my AP chemistry teacher told us we had a pop quiz. But when Zoe told me our dad was about to be in Palm Springs, I nearly had a meltdown.

“What? When’s he getting here?” I exclaimed. We’d just sat down for lunch in the cafeteria.

“Tonight. He wants to have dinner.” She picked up a french fry and scrutinized it as though it held more interest than the news she’d just delivered. “They burned these today.”

Food was the last thing on my mind, and it had nothing to do with concerns about weight. “How long have you known he was coming today?”

She shrugged. “I told you last week.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t exactly fine‑tune the date and time! Couldn’t you have given me a little more warning?”

At last, I warranted more attention than her lunch. “What’s the problem? It’s Dad! You should be excited. It’s not like you have to prepare or anything.”

Well, I wouldn’t have minded preparing mentally. Even though I’d known he was coming, not having a fixed date had allowed me to relax about it. The rest of our gang was sitting with us–Jill, Eddie, Angeline, and Neil–and I could see them watching the exchange with interest. Only Jill really knew the full scope of my parental drama, and when it was clear neither Zoe nor I was going to say anything more on the subject, Jill helpfully shifted the conversation and began talking about some expo her sewing club was doing.

I robotically began eating my stir‑fry without really tasting it. If I pretended to be interested in my food, maybe no one would notice I was on the verge of a panic attack. My dad would be here tonight! Calm down,  I ordered myself. It was only dinner, and since we’d presumably be in public, he’d have to limit his ranting. It wasn’t like he was going to search my room or follow me around.

And yet, no matter how hard I tried to soothe myself with logic, I couldn’t shake my unease. Palm Springs had become a sanctuary for me, in which I tucked away all my secrets–not just my romance with Adrian, but also my true friendship with the others. And, of course, my illicit magic use. I kept all those things well guarded, but just knowing he would be here, in my territory, made me feel as though my entire life had just been exposed.

“Hey, Neil,” said Angeline abruptly. “You ever staked a Strigoi?”

Considering Jill had just been talking about catwalk lighting, it was kind of a weird subject change. From Neil’s expression, he thought so too.

“Er, well, not a real one.”

“But you’ve had lots of practice on fake ones.”

“Yes, of course.” He relaxed a little, now that he was in familiar territory. “It was a requisite part of our curriculum.”

She brightened. “You think you could give me some pointers after school today?”

Eddie frowned. “We went over that a couple months ago.”

“Well, yeah,” she said, “but I mean, it can’t hurt to get different opinions on it, right?”

“How can there be different opinions on driving a stake through a monster’s heart?” asked Jill. Her face declared she wasn’t a fan of Neil and Angeline spending time together.

“I’m sure Neil and Eddie have different skills,” Angeline insisted.

It was a dangerous comment, suggesting one might be more skilled than the other. The guys’ faces confirmed as much. “I’d be happy to show you,” said Neil, puffing with pride. “You’re right that you might benefit from a different style.”

“I’d be interested in seeing this,” remarked Eddie.

“Me too,” said Jill.

“No.” Angeline shook her head adamantly. “You’d just be a distraction, and this is serious business. Just me and Neil.” From the way she looked at him through her lashes, I wondered what business she had in mind. I grabbed hold of her arm as we were all dispersing for our classes later.

“Why the aggressive move on Neil?” I asked. “You were moping about Trey a couple weeks ago.”

Her face fell. “Still am. Can’t get him out of my mind. So I figure I have to get serious about Neil.”

I didn’t really know how to immediately respond to that. “But you said you didn’t think you could really get into him.”

“That’s why I have to try,” she explained, with a look that said I might not be as smart as everyone claimed. “Because then I won’t think about Trey.”

There was no point in fighting it anymore, and while I was dubious about her romantic methods, I knew her and Trey staying apart was a sound plan. “Well, good luck with that.”

Anxiety about my dad continued to eat me up all day. Although I knew I should stay far away from Adrian today, I couldn’t help myself. As soon as I stepped into Ms. Terwilliger’s room for my independent study, she took one look at my face and smiled. “Go,” she said. “Whatever it is you need to do, go.”

“Thank you, ma’am!” I was moving before I finished speaking.

I headed over to his place and let myself in with my key. He was sitting in his living room, working on an unexpected project. A number of his paintings lay on the ground, and he was carefully cutting them up into pieces. It was enough to momentarily allay the panic over my dad.

“What’s this?” I asked. “Did you hate them all that much?”

He smiled up at me. “Not exactly. I got an idea for the self‑portrait. I realized all of these rejects are technically part of me, so I’m going to combine all of them into a collage there.” He nodded up to a canvas on an easel, which already held the remnants of a painting he’d done of his aura.

“You’re bending the assignment a little,” I said, sitting down beside him.

He returned to his cutting. “I’m sure my professor will be so amazed by my brilliance and ingenuity that she’ll want to keep it for herself and hang it above her fireplace. Or maybe her bedroom. Would you be cool with that? Or would that be weird?”

“I guess I could learn to share you,” I said.

“You’re a trooper, Sage.” Setting down the scissors, he turned his full attention on me and raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

I almost smiled at that. Everyone said I concealed my feelings, but he always seemed to know how I felt. “You read my aura?”

I kept my tone light. We’d spoken very little about spirit in the last two weeks, ever since his breakdown at the pawnshop. Thinking about him and the way the magic drove him to such extremes still ate me up inside, but I’d been careful not to nag. He already knew I was worried, and I wasn’t going to bring it up again, unless he did first or I saw a reason. And recently, he’d seemed to be on good behavior. I’d seen no signs of excessive drinking or spirit use. That didn’t mean the problem was gone, of course, but it was a relief to be in calm waters while I tried to puzzle out a way to help him.

“Didn’t need to see your aura.” He tapped my forehead. “You get a cute little frown there when you’ve got something bothering you.”

“Not everything about me is cute.”

“That’s true. Some things are cute. The rest are sexy.” His voice was low as he leaned toward me. “So amazingly, agonizingly sexy that it’s a wonder I can get anything done when all I ever think about is the taste of your lips and the touch of your fingertips on my skin and the way your legs feel when I–”

“Adrian,” I interrupted.

His eyes smoldered. “Yes?”

“Shut up.”

We reached for each other at the same time, and all thoughts of my dad melted away at the crush of Adrian’s mouth on mine. Until him, I had always believed discussions of the periodic table or Latin declension would turn me on. Nope. When I touched Adrian, it was all about him. I came alive in a way I didn’t know was possible and became obsessed with the feel of our bodies wrapped together. I think sometimes he thought I was holding back on sex because I wasn’t ready to cross that physical threshold. But I actually was ready. Believe me, I was. It was the mental threshold that still held me up–the knowledge that once you crossed that line, there was no going back.

And in moments like this, when he laid me back on the floor and leaned over me, I wasn’t sure why I’d ever want to go back. He slid his hand over my leg and hip, then up and under my shirt. There was a confidence in every single move he made, an assurance in knowing exactly how each touch would take me to the edge. His eyes, burning with both desire and urgency, held me as he took in my response, and then he brought his hungry lips back to mine. Meanwhile, my fingers fumbled to undo his buttons, though I didn’t take his shirt off yet. It was just enough to run my hands over his bare chest and feel that warm skin under my fingertips. One day, I’d know what it felt like to have all my skin against his, but when he finally broke off our frantic kissing, I knew today wasn’t the day–especially when he pointed out the obvious.

“Not saying I don’t want to go on,” he told me, voice husky, “but by my count, we’ve got ten minutes until you need to hightail it back to school. Unless . . .” He brightened. “Your sister got transferred?” When I laughed and shook my head, he sighed and eased off me. “Well then, as hard as it is to believe, your mind takes precedence over your body. Tell me what’s wrong.”

I didn’t have to imagine how that concession felt for him, but I was pretty sure I felt the same. Reluctantly, I sat up and leaned against the couch.

“So, Zoe told me today that–”

“Wait. Are you going to talk like that?”

I glanced down and realized he was referring to the fact that my shirt was sitting on the floor beside me. “My bra’s still on. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that I’m distracted. Very distracted. If you want my undivided attention and wisdom, you’d better put the shirt back on.”

I smiled and scooted over to him. “Why, Adrian Ivashkov, are you admitting weakness?” I reached out to touch his cheek, and he caught my wrist with a fierceness that was surprisingly provocative.

“Of course. I never claimed strength in the face of your charms, Sage. I’m just an ordinary man. Now put the shirt back on.”

I leaned forward, testing the strength of his hold. “Or what?” With my free hand, I caught hold of one of my bra straps and started to pull it down . . .

. . . which is how we ended up kissing and rolling around the floor again.

“Damn it,” he said a little while later, breaking free again. “Don’t make me be the responsible one here. We’re down to five minutes.”

“Okay, okay.” I made myself decent and gave him an extra‑abbreviated rundown of the news about my dad. “The whole time I’ve been in Palm Springs, I’ve felt like I’m in control. With him here . . . I don’t know. I suddenly feel like there’ll be a power shift.”

Adrian was all business now. “You aren’t going to lose any power. He can’t take your life away. He can’t take away this.” He gestured around us. “It’s just dinner. He’s probably going to talk about the divorce.”

“I know, I know. It’s just been so hard keeping secrets from Zoe, but I’ve pulled it off. He plays in a whole other league.”

“You’re smarter than him. You’re a better person than him.” He clasped my hands and kissed them, but it was a gesture of support and affection, not raging passion. “There’s nothing to worry about. Be your clever Sage self and tell me about it later tonight.”

“If you’re awake,” I teased. Adrian’s dream visits had been few and far between the last week or so. He’d been sleeping better than usual and had apparently listened to me about the importance of avoiding excessive spirit use. “And we still need to get in touch with Marcus again, so you’ll have to be ready for that soon.”

“I guess I’ll just have to drink more coffee to stay awake.” There was a sly glint in his eye.

“Watch it,” I warned. Taunting me with caffeine was a low blow. “You better stay on good behavior if you want some indecency again.”

“Really? And here I thought it was bad behavior that earned me that.”

We kissed goodbye, and I headed back to Amberwood a little later than intended. It was worth it, though. That short talk with Adrian–and the longer physical contact–had strengthened me. I felt confident, filled with both love for Adrian and readiness for my battles. I could handle my dad.

Mentioning Marcus made me think of my charmed salt. So far, I hadn’t done anything with it. Maybe Adrian was right, and Marcus would want to test it on a new recruit. Ms. Terwilliger was keeping it at her house for me, and although I was familiar enough with Alchemist tattooing ink, I wanted her advice on the magical properties of certain substances that might go into the blend. But when I walked into her classroom, I saw I’d have no chance for magical discussion. Zoe was there, waiting impatiently. Despite being a little late, I’d made it back only a few minutes after classes had ended. She must have run straight from her last one here.

“There you are,” she said.

Ms. Terwilliger glanced up from her desk and gave me a knowing look. “Thank you for taking those papers to the office for me. I was just explaining to your cousin how helpful you’ve been to me.”

I smiled stiffly. “Happy to help, ma’am. Am I excused?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She returned to her paperwork without a second glance.

“What’s the urgency?” I asked as Zoe and I left the classroom.

“We have to go meet Dad now,” she said.

“Now? It’s not dinnertime. It’s not even senior‑citizen dinnertime.”

“Dad got into town early and didn’t want to waste time.”

I tried not to scowl. “And once again, I’m the last to know.”

She shot me a wounded look. “You seem to have other things  you think are more important. Figured you wouldn’t care.”

“Don’t start,” I warned. We reached the parking garage, and I did my usual scan of Quicksilver to make sure no idiot parker had scratched the paint.