Black Magic

Chapter Twenty-Two

Later that evening I storm into the gymnasium at exactly 9:30, frustration and indignant anger rushing through my body and twitching in my skin. After some time to think—about the coven meeting, about everything that happened with Camila, and about Mother—I've steadily worked myself up to vicious annoyance. It pushes against the inside of my skin and pulses in the air around me like an unwavering heartbeat of anxiousness and anger.

Sixten is sitting in the middle of the floor, eyes shut serenely. He doesn't so much as move when I step inside the gym, sitting perfectly, eerily still. "Good evening, Desdemona." His voice is low and measured, trailing slightly at the ends in relaxation. Despite the monotonous tone I can hear something bright and pleasant underscoring the serene evenness of his words. The pleasant calm he's exuding is equal parts soothing and infuriating; Sixten must be able to feel the change in energy as I clench my hands into fists because he cracks one eye open, bright silver staring at me from the blank expression on his face. "Is everything alright?"

With a ragged sigh, I shove my hands through my hair, fingers tugging at the snarled waves hard enough to send pained tingles down my scalp. "Coven meeting." Leaving my hair free for the entire day was a mistake; it's nothing but a mess now, the frayed ends of it falling past my waist in tumbling tangles. I scowl at a particularly stubborn knot, forcing my fingers through it like a comb. "Everyone is so . . . infuriating."

Sixten blinks, still staring at me. "Ah." A soft smile spreads on his face. "You look different with your hair down."

I shake my hair out, flipping it behind my back. "Mother thinks it makes me look like a wild animal." God, there's always something about my appearance that annoys her. If it isn't my hair it's my vicious freckles; if it isn't the freckles it's the eerie paleness of my violet eyes. "She's so—gah!"

"Wild isn't necessarily a bad thing. I like it."

"You—what." Cheeks prickling with heat, I tilt my head back down to stare at him.

Sixten blinks. Then he stands, the movement fluid. "Begin with some stretching," he instructs, the easy mellow of his voice a little sharper. "You'll be running today." He makes a face, just the tiniest scrunching of his nose that only makes my cheeks pinker. "Unfortunately it's much colder, and I won't force you to run outside, so I suppose you can use the treadmill." He indicates the row of a few old treadmills set up against the mirrored wall with a jerk of his head.

Instead of dwelling any longer on the embarrassing blush, I immediately start on some pre-running stretches. Halfway through a butterfly stretch, with my nose nearly touching the blue mat, I can hear Sixten sitting down somewhere and rifling through his bag. I avoid looking at him fully as I go through the rest of my stretches, willing the blush down until the only heat on my skin is a faint red flush from slight exertion.

"I've never really liked treadmills," I say as I stand, pushing my hands towards the ceiling with one last stretch, spine popping and cracking.

When I finally turn my head to see Sixten he's sitting up against the wall, absurdly long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He furrows his brow, glancing up from the worn sketchbook balancing in his lap to meet my eyes. "I can't say I disagree."

Rolling the stiffness out of my shoulders, I step up onto the treadmill and steadily raise the speed until my legs burn with every step. A comfortable, painful tightness warps around my chest. I breathe deep and let the burn of exercise wash over me. It's familiar, dissolving the anger and the frustration, leaving nothing but pure energy in its place.

I glance to the side to see Sixten still hunched slightly over his sketchbook. He looks so intense, his eyes bright and focused on the paper in front of him, a blue pencil scrawling and smudging across the surface. It's almost relaxing, watching him draw; the familiar pain of running fades into the background as I stare at the concentration in his face, the almost entranced way his hand is moving over the paper.