Black Magic

Chapter Twenty-Six

I go for a run the next morning. There's still so much dangerous, desperate energy swirling in my chest; it may be contained now, but I need to burn it off. To avoid any more chance encounters with Elliot I run the road back into the city. It's a featureless, boring run, but the drab surroundings let my mind wander and drift into a calm. The forest is nearby enough that I draw energy from it, letting the steadiness of the trees settle deep in my gut.

When I return, the sun is just beginning to rise over the treeline. I slip back into the room as quietly as possible, toeing off my shoes and shrugging out of my nylon jacket, eyes flickering back to Camila's body burrowed under her covers for any sign of waking.

She still seems to be asleep, so I let out a sigh of relief and crawl back into bed. After the chill of the outside my thick covers are toasty and warm. I wriggle around beneath them, frigid toes curling in the flannel bedsheets, loose hair spilling around my head. It's strange, but—I feel almost numb. Pleasantly warm and comfortable, but my insides are dull. Calm before the storm. But as long as it lasts, I may as well try to use it. So I let my eyes drift shut and fall into a dreamless sleep.

Sunlight is bright in our dorm room when a gentle knock on the door wakes me up. I blink myself awake, staring blearily at the made-up bed across the room. Camila's gone, then. Lids heavy, I settle back on my pillow—and then another knock wakes me again, and I stumble out of bed and head for the door.

Sixten is on the other side when I open the door. I—what—I stare at him wide-eyed, heart skipping in my chest, a maelstrom of emotions suddenly surging to life in my chest. I can't—I can't deal with this right now. I can't do this. I just woke up and it hasn't even been a day . . .

"I'm not interested in hearing anything from you," I blurt out, my voice cracking painfully on the last word. I swallow and hold my chin high. "Get lost."

"I know," Sixten says, his voice rough, accent slightly thicker. The pale skin under his eyes is faintly bruised. He sighs through his nose, running a hand over his pulled-back hair. "I haven't come to offer excuses. I've come to return this." Silver glints between us as he offers me my dagger, hilt-first. The dagger that I—the dagger that I left embedded in his wall.

I want—I want to talk to him about it. Remembering that—remembering my anger, so overwhelming, so all-consuming—it fills me with a sudden, acute fear. My control over the darkness has always been tenuous at best, but . . . but last night I was almost deadly, ready to kill those I perceived as threats. And Sixten is the only person I can talk about it with, the only person who'll understand, the only person who knows exactly why I'm so dangerous—

But I can't. Instead I snatch back the dagger with a terse, "okay." I'll figure this out myself. Self-sufficiency, survival; those are a few of the things I'm good at. And I don't need some bloodsucker—god he's one of them he's the enemy how could I be so stupid—helping me along.

"That's . . . not all."

I glare at him, blinking away tears. "I already—didn't you hear me? Get out of my life, leave me alone, just—get out of here. You don't get to take more of my time."

"It isn't that," Sixten says, eyes widening fractionally, hands held up in surrender. "I only wanted to inform you that the Magick Circle is sending me on a reconnaissance mission to investigate strange vampire activity in the area." His gaze intensifies, burning a hole right through my defenses. "I came to warn you that there is increased vampire activity." He turns—and then he stops, for just a moment, still facing the other way. "Be careful," he says, and then he's striding down the hall.

"Goodbye, asshole," I mutter, knowing he can hear me. Then, with shaking hands, I close the door and stumble clumsily into the bathroom. I turn the water to near-scalding and strip down, leaving my clothes in messy piles on the bathroom tiles. Then I step into the shower and cry until I can't breathe.