Read Larkstorm (The Sensitives #1) Page 8

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  “Good morning ladies and gentlemen!”

  A monotone man’s voice on the intercom startles me awake. A pause. “Due to the unexpected change in weather, we’ll be stopping in thirty minutes at the next station for a train change. Please gather your belongings and board train 2-B to continue on your journey. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Another weather delay?

  My moved bag.

  The ticket agent.

  “They don’t want me to find him,” I mutter aloud.

  “What?”

  I hang over the edge of the bed, surprised Maz is awake. He stares up at me.

  “I think someone’s following me. Someone who wants to keep me from Beck,” I say.

  “It’s only a weather delay. What does it have to do with you?” He watches me like you would a senile caretaker. “I think you’ve gone nutter.”

  I jump off the bed. “I’m not crazy.” I cross my arms. “At the train station, the ticket agent knew my name—without seeing my wristlet—and someone came in here and moved my backpack. Someone is following me.”

  Maz gives me a pitiful look. “Okay, first. You’re acting like a two-year-old. Second, everyone knows who you and Beck are. I’ve seen the birthday cards you guys get from members of the society—people you’ve never met.

  “Third,” he holds up three fingers. “The room attendant probably came in to tidy up. Your room was locked, remember?”

  My heartbeat slows. He’s right. Beck and I are well-known, partly because of our ancestors and partly because of Mother’s position with State. And the attendants do come in for evening turndown service.

  But I’m not convinced.

  I pick up my backpack and head for the restroom. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  The hallway and bathroom are empty. I brush my teeth and resist the urge to smooth my hair into a ponytail. I know I’m right. Someone doesn’t want me to find Beck.

  I don’t change my clothes—no need to use up my clean pieces too soon. After giving myself a satisfied once-over, I head back to my room.

  “Your turn,” I say as I slide open the door. “Oh! Sorry! Sorry!” I try to slide the door shut but it’s stuck.

  Heat works its way up my cheeks. Maz is only wearing his underwear.

  I hear him laugh. “It’s not like I’m completely naked.” He steps into his pants and grabs his shirt off the floor. I look away as he pulls it over his light brown hair.

  “No, really. I’m sorry!” My ears burn.

  Maz’s lips move into a lazy smirk. “Haven’t you ever seen Beck without clothes?”

  “Of course. When we’ve gone swimming.” I cross my arms. “I’ve seen all of you shirtless.”

  “That’s not the same. Shirtless and naked aren’t even close. What do the two of you do in your room all alone?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  “Huh. I guess Beck wasn’t lying.” He clicks his tongue.

  I cycle through a list of snappy retorts but give up when the train lurches to a stop. Thankful for the interruption, I motion to Maz. “Come on. Grab your pack and let’s go.”

  Before we head out, I give the window shade a tug and it coils around itself.

  I gasp. Snow covers everything.

  Last night, before dark fell, it looked like we had moved into warmer weather. But now, a thick layer of ice and snow coat the ground.

  “What the hell?” Maz says. “The bartender told me we’d passed into the Southern Territories.”

  It never snows in the Southern Territories—it’s one of the warmest areas of our Society.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Must be what’s causing the weather delay. No one knows what to do.” He yanks his school jacket out of his pack. “Looks like I’ll need this after all.”

  I slip on my heavy jacket. “Ready?”

  “Yup. Do you know what stop this is?”

  “No idea. Can you check your wristlet?”

  Maz shakes his head and his hair flops into his eyes. “It hasn’t worked since I left school. Tried it earlier.”

  “Can you try again?” He starts to shake his head but I stop him. “Please?”

  An odd look flickers across his face. Maz holds the blue band and taps it. Nothing happens. “See? I think they turned it off or something once I left school.”

  Why would the State turn off his wristlet? “That’s odd. They normally want to know where we are.”

  Maz shrugs. “I’m probably not interesting enough.”

  “Feel left out, do you?” I joke. Poor Maz. Like me, he’s always been a little overshadowed by Beck.

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder and motion toward the door. “Okay. Ready to go?”

  We walk into the cramped hallway and exit the train. Despite the announcement, confused people clog the platform and form a crowd three deep around the conductor.

  Maz and I bob and weave across the slick ground and through the crowd. Unlike the other passengers, who struggle to walk, we’re used to this weather.

  “Hey Maz, where?” I yell over the blast of the train whistle.

  “Platform 2-B!”

  The whistle screeches again. I jog left, careful not to slip, and press through the growing crowd. Cold air stings my face and each breath feels like inhaling icicles.

  A sign catches my attention. “Look.” I point to the sign, which reads Falls Way, Summer Hill and Tryse. “We’re here—no need to board– ”

  “Oh no,” Maz whispers loud enough for me to hear.

  Before I can ask him what he’s talking about, an arm grabs me and spins me around.

  “Sister! How good to see you!” Callum yanks me into an embrace.

  To my right, Maz stands confused and unsure what to do. I lift my head and with my eyes, tell him to stay back.

  I knew I was being followed, and now he believes it too.

  “Callum—what? Where did you come from?” I resist the urge to fly at him and beat my fists against his chest. Callum can’t see me angry. He needs to believe he doesn’t scare me. “Where’s Annalise?” I scan for my beautiful sister-in-law among the crowd.

  The corners of Callum’s mouth move upward in a sliver of a smile. He holds me at arm’s length and runs his eyes over me in a peculiar manner. Shivers race along my back. If only I had Beck’s warm arm wrapped around me now.

  “Annalise is attending to things.” He pats my head, much like Maz did last night, and straightens his coat.

  Maz slinks further away and turns to run but slips on the ice.

  I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of panic. It gathers with my anger and grows in intensity before pushing out from my chest—sharp points looking for a target.

  Calm. Stay calm. I can’t let Callum know I’m frightened. And I can’t let him notice Maz.

  “Have you come for me?” I ask.

  “Of course. Can’t let you go running off after someone like Beck.” He waits for me to answer; his blue eyes bore into me.

  I fold my arms across my chest and stand with my legs wide. I feel powerful like this, much bigger than I am. I don’t move my eyes from his. “I’m not going with you.”

  “Look at my little sister.” Callum flashes his icy grin. “All grown up.”

  It’s obvious he doesn’t see me as a threat. And why would he? I’m so much smaller than he is. But that can work for me. Like in wrestling—no one expects a small person to be stronger or faster. Maybe the best thing to do is be direct and catch him off guard. “What do you want, Callum? I know you and Annalise accused Beck.”

  His eyes dance beneath his sculpted eyebrows and he chuckles. “We couldn’t have you paired off with someone like that. Bad for the family.”

  “And since when did any of you ever give me much thought? Beyond the fact that I’m birth-mated to another Founder’s descendant, which is great for Mother’s political career.”

  “Tha
t’s not the case anymore, is it?” Callum adjusts his scarf and his eyes soften. “Mother sent me to bring you home. She wants to help you.”

  “She can help? How?” I keep my face blank. Since Maz first suggested it, I’ve had time to ponder involving my mother. But I don’t know how she can give me what I want most: Beck.

  “Mother can fix this—you can still claim a spot in State, if you want. She’ll see to it.” His tense posture contrasts with the soothing sound of his voice. “She can even find you a more suitable mate.”

   “A different mate? Mother wants to pair me with someone else?” I choke out the words.

  Callum clenches his jaw. “Don’t act surprised. You are not compatible with Beck. And you’re not legally bound yet. Surely you understand.”

  His words work their way into my mind. Each one presses down harder than the previous.

  A different mate, just like Bethina and Maz said. The idea rubs an already raw spot in my heart—Beck is my mate. I can’t possibly be with anyone else.

  “Best you come home until we can get this all sorted out.”

  Home. To San Francisco. To my mother who can make everything better. It almost makes perfect sense. The best thing to do is let Mother figure this mess out. I can still have a career and a future.

  But not with Beck. And he’s the only thing I want.

  I need to get away from Callum. If I stay, I’ll never see Beck again. Maybe if I go along with him…I bite my lip and nod. “Right. We need a plan.”

  His lips curl back to reveal perfectly straight white teeth. “Exactly. A plan. Mother has some ideas and she’s anxious to see you.”

  Something in his tone alarms me. Beck was right to not trust Callum. There’s something wrong with him.

  I assess my situation. All I need is for Callum to relax and let his guard down. My mind flies through a series of questions, trying to pick the best one.

  “Were you on the train? How did you know where I was? I don’t have my wristlet.”

  Aggravation settles into his features and ages him beyond his twenty-two years.

  “No, I wasn’t.” He glares at me.

  It was the wrong question.

  “Finding you was easy, Lark. We expected you to try to reach him. Of course you’d come here.”

  With great effort, I keep my face empty, without emotion, while I ponder his use of ‘we.’ Did he mean he and Annalise, or he and my mother, or all of them?

  “We should go see Mother. She’ll know what to do.” I give Callum my best high-voltage smile and hope he believes me.

  Callum extends his arm and waits for me to take it. His cool blue eyes skim over my shoulder to something behind me.

  “Shall we?” he asks.

  It’s my chance to run. Maz stands just beyond Callum, and if I can get to him first, we can disappear into the crowd.

  I use all my strength and shove Callum. Before he can respond, he’s flat on the ground, gasping. Beck would be proud—all those years of wrestling paid off.

  “Run, Maz! Run!” I sprint toward him, slipping but staying upright.

  But I’m not moving. The air is heavy and my body feels as if it’s submerged in water. All around me people walk normally, but I struggle to take a step.

  In front of me, Maz holds his leg up midstep. He’s trapped also. And terrified.

  “Lark,” he says before falling in slow motion.

  “Maz!” My head swivels toward Callum.

  He smirks and looks to my right. I turn. Annalise waves at me from the next platform.

  “Heya, Lark! So nice of you to stick around.” Her body sways in a slow circle. The air around me tightens like a boa constrictor squeezing its prey.

  Fury. Absolute anger grows in my heart, like a million fireballs erupting from a volcano.

  “You! You did this?” I scream.

  My brother appears at her side and kisses her hand. His cheerful voice rings out, “Surprise!”

  “Callum, your mate—she’s a Sensitive?” My words hang in the air as I frantically try to get someone, anyone’s attention. But no one’s looking at us. How can they not see this?

  The squeezing intensifies and forces the oxygen from my lungs. If this lasts much longer, I’ll be unconscious.

  Callum touches his lips with his forefinger and winks. “Shhh…Birdie, don’t tell.”

  Annalise’s laugh echoes off the cold, hard surfaces of the gleaming train station. 

  The shell around my heart shatters.

  “Don’t call me Birdie!”

  A thundering snap resonates through the station and still, no one even looks at us. With one final squeeze, the thick, suffocating air releases me, and I stumble. Somehow, for some reason, Annalise has let me go. I don’t waste time wondering why, and once steady on my feet, I run.

  I look back at Maz. Callum and Annalise flank either side of him. They hold him upright and he looks terrified. I hesitate and debate whether to go back for him.

  Go, Maz mouths.

  And I do.

  13

   

  The smell of fresh hay teases my nose and my eyelids drift open. I’m in a barn, curled up in a clean stall empty of animals.

  As I stand and stretch, the image of Annalise on the platform, surrounded by the snow, resurfaces like a bad dream.

  She’s one of them. And Callum knows and doesn’t mind, just like Maz doesn’t mind about Kyra. And yet they’re trying to keep me from my Sensitive mate. Why?

   Unsure of the time, I sneak to the edge of the barn door, hiding in the deep shadows, and peer outside. The snow’s gone and it’s still light outside—probably late afternoon. The vacant barnyard shimmers like a mirage under the unrelenting sun. For someone like me, who prefers winter, it’s too warm. But it seems safe, and for now, that’s all I can ask.

  I pass an extra bale of hay and decide to lug it back to my stall. It’ll make a good bench. It’s too hot for long sleeves, so I change into my t-shirt and pull my hair up into a ponytail.

  Better.

  I find a dinner roll Maz must have placed in my backpack and take a nibble. That small discovery reminds me of him, terrified and helpless on the platform. I know he told me to go, but I feel awful about leaving him. Callum wanted me, not him. Maybe if I had given myself up, they would have released him. And then he could have found Beck and told him how I tried to find him.

  I break off a piece of roll and pop it in my mouth. What do Callum and Annalise want with me, anyway? It can’t just be that Mother wants me home. Annalise wouldn’t dare show her Sensitivity for something like that. The risk is too great. There has to be something more.

  Maybe they’re trying to keep me from Beck because they know I’ll try to make him good? Maybe they want him to be bad so he can work with them? Maybe Annalise is mind-controlling Callum, my mother and everyone else in hopes of assuming Head of State?

  I realize, for the first time, I have no idea what Sensitives can actually do beyond vague notions of ‘destroy the world,’ ‘kill us,’ ‘control us,’ and the like. We never actually learned about their specific abilities in school.

  The jangling of keys startles me and a tight ball forms in the pit of my stomach. I hide myself in the furthest corner of the stall and cover my legs with loose hay. The noise comes closer and stops at the stall next to mine.

  On the other side of the slats, an old woman stands next to a wheelbarrow. She’s dressed like a farmer—knee-high rubber boots, wool jacket over a loose cotton shirt, hair pulled into a braid. Only an old lady would wear such a jacket in this heat. Still, I’d hoped someday to wear an outfit like that.

  A sigh escapes my lips.

  “Is somebody here?” she asks.

  I pause and weigh the risks. She looks harmless, but you never know. Sensitives are everywhere.

  She calls again. I watch her through the narrow gaps of the stall while analyzing the situation.

  I need help. I have no idea where I am
or how to get to Summer Hill. Maybe, living out here away from the major towns, this old woman won’t recognize me?

  “Yes,” I say softly, half hoping she doesn’t hear me and turns away.

   She inches over to my stall.

  The woman clenches her hands over her heart and drops her keys. Her mouth hangs open.

  I leap to her side, concerned I’ve given this poor elderly woman a heart attack.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that I’m lost and–”

  “Oh good gracious, child!” She grabs my hands. “Do you know how worried everyone is? Your poor mother has been on TV begging for your safe return and here you are hiding in my barn!”

  “What?” I stammer. So much for my hope she won’t recognize me.

  “Let’s get you up to the house. We’ll ping the authorities and get you back where you belong.” She pulls me toward the barn door.

  I attempt to process what little information she’s given me. My mother’s been on TV asking for my safe return. As if I’d been…kidnapped.

  “You must be terrified.” She pats my hand gently. “I saw the look of that boy they caught at the train station. Shifty fellow. You can tell by the eyes.”

  “At the train station? Maz?” I say. What is going on? Maz is being accused of kidnapping me?

  “Him and all those others.”

  I let her lead me toward the barn door. The old woman pauses mid-step. “What in the world? Where did this come from?”

  Long, spiky points of ice hang from tree branches as if waiting to impale the next passerby. It coats the ground, slick and dangerous. An obstacle course of death.

  Like the destruction left by the Long Winter.

  Then it hits me.

  The snow is connected to Annalise—she somehow controls the weather. Every time she’s around, it’s as if the icy, cold edge hidden beneath her silky purr manifests into a roaring storm.

  It makes sense—the strange dancing snow at school, the freak ice storm that caused the train delay—all Annalise. That’s her magic.

  Pangs of panic rise in me. She’s coming for me.

  “I have to go,” I say, as I scan the storm. Annalise could be just outside the door, and I wouldn’t know it.

  “Nonsense.” The woman’s watery blue eyes question my motives more than her words do. “Let’s get inside and ping Ms. Greene.” She holds up her wrist, exposing her blue wristlet—mated but not a States woman. A common worker. “This storm seems to be interfering with my wristlet. We’ll have to ping from the wall screen.” She smiles at me again. “Ms. Greene is going to be relieved to know you’re alright.”

  I can’t think of any way to refuse without causing her physical harm. And I don’t want to hurt this woman.

  I follow her blindly, through the snow, to her house. The sun is now but a faint glowing orb obscured by the gusting snow. The transformation from sweltering summer to frozen winter is unnerving.

  “Poor thing! You’re shaking like a leaf!”

  I hold my hands in front of me. They tremble, but not from the cold.

  It’s because I’m trapped.

  The woman leads me up the side stairs and into the house. The warmth of her tiny kitchen greets me, a sharp contrast to the blustering storm outside. She points to a small table shoved against a wall.

  “Have a seat.” She picks up the kettle. “Would you like tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  My mind races. I need to get out of here. I can’t let her call my mother.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat, my food ration has been cut and…” She looks at me apologetically, as if I should understand.

  “You don’t have enough food?” I ask. How is that possible? The State provides for everyone.

  “No, of course I do,” she stammers and stares at the table. “Where are my manners?” Her lips curve up gently. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Miss Tully.” She offers her hand in greeting.

  “Thank you, Miss Tully. It’s very kind of you to take me in.”

  “It’s the least I could do. Especially after seeing that story. The way those–” Her mouth puckers as if tasting something bad. “–those Sensitives, took you like that. You’re lucky someone found your wristlet. Such a smart girl leaving a clue like that.”

  She beams at me, impressed by my craftiness. The safest thing to do is play along with the kidnapped scenario. But my heart sinks. How much trouble is Maz in?

  “Well, I needed to think fast,” I say.

  “Like a true leader,” she says, her wide smile growing.

  I eye her wristlet. “Is your mate home, too?”

  “Oh, no. She died many, many years ago.” She sets her cup down on the table and shuffles to the wall screen. “I need to find the hotline number for the authorities. I bet you can’t wait to get home.”

  I nod and hope I appear grateful, but my heart hammers in my chest. I have to get out of here. Before she calls Mother.

  Miss Tully fidgets with the wall screen’s manual controls. Nothing happens and I give a silent prayer of thanks. The feed must be down.

  My relief is short lived when an image flickers on the screen. The storm causes it to fade in-and-out before solidifying. But when it does, my mouth drops open.

  There, on the screen, is Beck leisurely walking back to our house. His head’s down, as if lost in thought. How can that be? What’s he doing there?

  The newscaster speaks over the image. “We’ve attempted several times to contact Beck Channing, the missing girl’s mate, but he remains in seclusion, unwilling to take interviews.”

  I study Beck’s image closer. Something about it isn’t right. He walks up the front stairs, his backpack slung over his shoulder. He reaches the door and enters.

   The backpack! It’s the one I left in the barn. He can’t be carrying it because I have it. Beck’s not at home. This is an old feed. But why and when did they shoot this?

  I move closer to the wall screen and hope the hotline number doesn’t come up anytime soon.

  “He’s rather handsome,” Miss Tully says. “You’re a lucky girl.”

  Unable to tear my eyes from the screen, I mumble, “Yeah, he’s great.”

  Beck’s image disappears from the screen. In its place are headshots of Kyra, Maz, Ryker and two other students who I recognize but don’t know. Under their pictures are the words “Accused Sensitives: Kidnapping Suspects.” So they’re saying Maz kidnapped me and is Sensitive?

  Miss Tully jabs her finger at the screen. “Those children need to be punished for trying to abduct you! And the sum of money they tried getting from your family. Despicable!”

  I sort through the information. There are five pictures on the screen. Five, including Maz. Five. The same number as the Sensitives discovered at school. And Beck’s not included.

  Maz’s words ring in my ears: I bet she’s in major damage control mode right now.

  That’s what this is. Mother’s damage control. No one knows Beck is Sensitive. And I didn’t run off. I was abducted as part of a plot by Sensitives to extort money from my family.

  On cue, Mother’s image appears. She looks haggard. Strands of her normally neat blonde hair have fallen out of her chignon. Dark circles line her blue eyes.

  “We just want Lark back. Safely. Please.” She clutches a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her mouth and turns from the cameras as if to hide tears. My mother never cries. She’s the backbone of our society, the one people turn to for strength. Even when the last Head of State was assassinated, she didn’t shed a tear. She kept right on doing her job.

  And yet, she’s on the wall screen, crying about me.

  Newscasters shout questions at her, but she refuses to answer and disappears into the center of her security detail.

  I watch some more interviews—the ticket agent who sold me my fare and insists he thought I was being controlled by “unnatural forces.” The bartender in the dinin
g car who noticed Maz and I arguing, but feared for his own safety. And so on. Each interview more fantastic than the last. The only person they didn’t interview, besides Beck, is Bethina. Even some of my housemates posed for the cameras.

  The teakettle whistles and Miss Tully pours two mugs. I look outside. The storm rages, but if I want to get to Summer Hill, I don’t have a choice.

  “Miss Tully?”

  “Yes, dear,” she says.

  “I believe I came here once, as a child. On a field trip. We stopped at Summer Hill. Is that very far?”

  “Is that where you were headed? To that old relic?” She stirs her tea.

  “Yes. It was the only place I could think to go in this area. After I made my escape.” It’s not exactly a lie, I think.

  “I never understood why people make such a fuss over pre-Long Winter artifacts. Who’d want to live surrounded by all those old things?”

  I smile politely, not wanting to sound like I’m prying for information.

  “Well.” She stops stirring her tea and takes a sip. “You were headed in the right direction. It’s normally about an hour by foot. But I don’t think you would have found it. The trail is behind the barn. You can’t see it from the road.”

  “Oh.” I pretend to look relieved. “Good thing I didn’t wander out then. Especially with this storm.”

  The Newscaster interrupts us. “If you have any information about the location of Lark Greene…”

  Miss Tully scurries across the room to the wall screen controls in anticipation. “Please contact the San Francisco Missing Person’s Bureau.” A number flashes across the screen and Miss Tully taps on her wristlet.

  “Oh nutter,” she mumbles. I hope that means she needs to re-enter the number.

  I have to go. Now. Fast. If Miss Tully calls, it could be mere minutes before Annalise and Callum arrive. Because if the blizzard outside is any indication, they must be near.

  I jump to my feet and say, “Oh no! I left my backpack in the barn!”

  Before Miss Tully can stop me, I run to the door. “Will you ping while I go get it? I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “You be careful,” she responds. “It’s awful out there.”

  “I will. Be back in a minute.” I zip my jacket all the way up and adjust my scarf.

  When I open the door, I’m pulled into a winter tornado.

  The howling wind circles me and nearly knocks me down. The barn is only about a hundred feet away, but the furious snow obscures it until I’m just inches from the door. I waste no time and run to my stall, locate the pack and throw it over my shoulder.

  At the barn door, I scan the landscape. Even if Miss Tully were trying to look for me, she’d see nothing but a sheet of white. But that also means there’s no way for me to watch for Callum and Annalise.

  The snow forms a wall of white all around me. I touch the side of the barn and feel my way around, until I come to the back.

  The snow eases slightly and I spot two rows of trees sloping upward. There’s no path to speak of, since about six inches of snow cover everything, but that must be it.

  I give the open field a quick once over. Annalise and Callum are nowhere to be seen so I trudge to the path. My feet sink deep in the snow. The wind picks up and blows against my back, hard.

  Annalise must be getting closer. Determined to avoid her, I try to quicken my pace but the snow makes it difficult.

  Halfway up the hill, I slide back and land a few feet from the bottom. Frustration pokes at me. It begs me to give up and trek back to the house. It pleads with me to lie to Miss Tully again and say that I got lost in the storm. And for a moment, I listen—lying, after all, is becoming second nature for me.

  The silence of the storm surrounds me. Even though the snow falls at an unseemly rate and the trees bend to gravity defying angles, there’s silence.

  The sound of my breath fills my ears. Deep inside I feel a gentle pull, as if several strings have been tied around my heart. They lift me from the snow and urge me forward.

  With renewed determination, I climb the hill again. This time, the dwindling wind makes the attempt easier but reaching the top is agonizingly slow. I slide back with every other step on the icy path. To make matters worse, when the wind gusts, it’s from behind. Strong blasts knock me to my knees.

  Walking upright doesn’t get me anywhere, so I crawl. The snow stings my ungloved fingers, but I have no other option.

  As I near the crest, the wind and snow start up their game of torture again. The frigid air cuts at my throat and stings my nostrils through my scarf. The endless strain of confusion, frustration and heartbreak becomes too much and I break. Tears freeze on my cheeks.

  Annalise and Callum must be close to cause a storm like this.

  “C’mon, Annalise!” I yell into the gray sky. “Come get me if you want me so badly!”

  In response, the snow spins violently and lashes at me. But no one comes. I’m alone, crawling in the snow, crying. My clothes are a wet mess. My hands are frozen. I wipe my snotty nose on my stiff scarf.

  Why are they doing this? Why? Is it really so awful that I want to see Beck?

  Tired of fighting, I close my eyes and roll onto my back. The memory of Beck’s warm hand in mine fills me. My tears slow as the invisible strings around my heart tighten. They comfort me in some strange way and prod me to get up, to keep going.

  The sensation is so odd and unexpected. It’s as if I’d cried out all the fear and frustration. Enough, I think. Enough of the self-pity. Sitting here crying isn’t going to bring Beck to you.

  I stand, determined to press on. Only a little bit more, I tell myself. Beck is nearby. You just have to walk a little bit more.

  But what feels like hours later, I’m still walking and crawling—my fingers numb and my cheeks wind burnt. And yet the strings won’t let me stop, even though I want to. They drag me along and force me forward.

  I’m not sure where I am. Miss Tully said Summer Hill was just up the path, but there’s no visible path. For all I know, I may be standing deep in the forest somewhere.

  I search for an indication of my whereabouts. There’s nothing but snow and trees.

  How do you pass a house as large and magnificent as Summer Hill?

  You don’t. Not even in a blizzard.

  I must not have gone far enough. I need to keep going.

  Branches snap from the weight of the snow. Without warning, a snow-heavy tree groans and breaks, falling directly across the path. The sound severs my heartstrings and I’m left untethered, lost in the woods.

  Defeated, I slam my bag on the ground. It’s not fair! Why am I going through all this? Beck obviously didn’t care enough about me to share his secret.

  I throw myself into a snow bank, no longer caring if I get wet. Let me die here.

  The storm swirls around me as if feeding on my misery. I’ve always loved this weather, but now it’s like everything conspires against me.

  If I ever see Annalise again, I’ll…I’ll what? Run away, so she can’t squeeze the air from my lungs again? What exactly can I do against a Sensitive?

  I sit up and hurl a handful of snow. The wind shifts and a faint sparkle of sunlight glimmers off my left. I squint and see a shape about ten feet in front of me. Somewhere, over there, is sun. Curious, I stand up and trudge over to where I saw the glimmer.

  There, in the middle of this snowstorm, is Summer Hill—completely enclosed by an invisible dome and as clear and sunny as the brightest summer day.

  14

   

  Summer Hill.

  Like a mirage, the pale yellow house shimmers beneath the glowing sun. Tall meadow grass bends and sways, sending a ripple from the bottom of the hill to the top, where the house sits. From my perspective, the roof appears to break through the bright blue sky.

  My fingers tremble as I unzip the front pocket of my backpack and take out the picture I stole from the album in my room. Beck and I smile from the wo
oden steps of the very porch wrapping three sides of this house, in front of the same row of low, white-washed chairs.

  The second story appears to be made entirely of glass, which gives the illusion the sloped roof floats above the rest of the house. Further off to the left are the smaller, brilliant white outbuildings. Just like the picture.

  I’m here.

  Like earlier, an invisible string tugs on me, urging me forward. I can’t explain how, but I know, absolutely know, Beck is here.

  Tears of relief threaten to ruin my moment as I run toward the house, eager to see him. But I’m stopped after three leaps by an invisible barrier. There’s no pain; just a sensation. Like landing in a thick mess of immovable pillows.

  Like at school, a transparent barrier protects Summer Hill. Only this one extends over the house as well. Like a giant, inside-out snow globe, where the snow whirls around the outside, but inside the sun shines, bright and steady. Insects buzz through the grass and there’s not a cloud in the sky.

  I reach out with my fingers until the smooth surface slips through them. It molds to my shape but doesn’t let my fingers pass. Small vibrations radiate from the dome. It’s not at all like the barricade at school.

  I make a fist and swing at the invisible wall, but my hand finds nothing solid to strike.

  “Hello!”

  No one answers. I thrust my hand at the dome again, grasping for something to hold, but come up empty.

  My eyes dart around the interior. Summer Hill is silent. And seemingly empty. The only sign of life is a lone dragonfly flitting amongst the tall grass.

  I crouch on the frozen ground and puzzle over the security system. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. There’s no visible opening and no way over it. Whoever put it here doesn’t want Beck to leave.

  The dome only goes over Summer Hill as far as I can tell. Maybe I can tunnel under the wall?

  I sink to my knees and dig through the snow. Once I hit the ground, I pull a fallen branch over the spot and use it as a shovel. It snaps—the ground is rock hard.

  Tears well in my eyes, but I shouldn’t cry. I need to just keep digging. My fingernails claw at the frozen ground. Bits of dirt loosen.

  Anger latches onto me. It removes all my previous excitement. My fists strike the barrier, but like before, they’re unable to find a target.

  I didn’t come all this way to be turned away. Small flames lick my burning heart and copy the escalating fury of the storm. A scream forms in the back of my throat. “Let me in!”

  A small pop—like a cork being released from a bottle. I slam my fist into the nothingness again. The barricade wobbles and a wall of warm air hits me and blasts through my ears. Beneath my hand, the thick, soft barrier dissolves.

  I leap backward.

  The barrier’s gone, completely disintegrated. Afraid the wall will close, I grab my backpack and push my arm through.

  A thunderous voice calls out to me and I freeze.

  “Lark Greene. What are you doing tearing holes in the sides of people’s homes and bringing in all the cold air?”

  15

   

  Bethina watches me from the porch.

  An icy fright spreads through my veins and paralyzes me. I envision Annalise and Callum standing behind me, laughing as Annalise wraps me in her heavy air trap.

  I raise my hands toward Bethina, prepared to ask for help. But I can, in fact, move. There’s nothing holding me.

  My attention swings back to B. Is this a trick? How’d she get to Summer Hill before me? The only time she ever leaves our house for more than a few hours is when she accompanies Beck and me to our parents’ homes. She’s never gone away without us before. But neither of us are at school anymore either.

  I hesitate, then place one foot where I believe the opening to be and swing it side-to-side, trying to locate the invisible edges. I’ve encountered too many things in the past two days to blindly walk through the barrier.

  “Lark Greene, either you get over here right now or I’m going to put a world of hurt on you.” Bethina stands tall, arms folded, and waits.

  Years of experience have taught me this is her serious mood. The dread disappears and I push my body through the hole. Once inside, there’s a faint zipping noise. The snowflakes disappear. The tall meadow grass brushes against my shoulders as I walk toward the porch.

  “Quickly. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.” She turns and disappears through the front door.

  A rush of air hits me from the right, then another from my left. They tickle over my body, probing into the loose edges of my jacket. When they find an entrance, they race under my clothes, like a swarm of invisible mosquitos.

  What are they?

  Before I can figure it out, the tickles become nibbles, then bites. I swat at them, striking my arms, legs and torso until they recede.

  Behind me, a whisper. I spin to confront it.

  “Who’s there?” My weak voice wavers more than I’d like.

  Hushed voices float across the field, churning into one another and mingling with the wind so that I can’t make out specific words.

  Something, or someone, watches me from the grass. My quickening pulse thunders in my ears. “I can hear you. I know you’re there.”

  A tall, young man steps into the path in front of me. My breath hitches. Even in my confused state, I can see he’s gorgeous. Chiseled jaw, piercing blue eyes, light brown hair. The kind of guy Kyra would make all kinds of inappropriate comments about.

  He throws up his hand, like telling me to stop. I freeze.

  “Bethina’s waiting for you,” he says, the words razor sharp. For being beautiful, there’s something ugly about the way he regards me.

  A sliver of pale yellow streaks through the grass. Dull blue appears to my left. A glint of green pulls my attention to the space behind the man.

  All around us, dozens of people crouch low in the swaying grass. Watching me.

  The man, dressed head-to-toe in muted red, squares his shoulders as if to challenge me.

  The hair on my neck pricks up and I take a step back. “I know.”

  My eyes find his wrist. Like mine, it’s bare. So, he’s not a State-identified Sensitive. But who, or what, is he? And does he have something to do with the invisible mosquitos?

  The man glares at me before retreating back into the grass. He whistles a few snappy notes of a song I vaguely recognize, and vanishes.

  I swing my head from side to side—surely he didn’t disappear?

  Unease grows in me. Anxious to be with Bethina, I race the rest of the way to the house. I leap the stairs two at a time and cross the wide expanse of the porch to the unlocked screen door. It slams shut behind me.

  In the large, sunlit entryway, my heart thunders in my ears. The Channings have always welcomed me into their home and I have many happy memories of Summer Hill, but the strange barrier over the estate, and the sinister people outside, have left me feeling less than safe. For all I know, I could be entering a home full of Sensitives—Beck included.

  “I’m in here, Lark.” Bethina’s voice calls from the room I remember as the library.

  Generations of smiling Channings peer down at me from the photos lining the hallway. The library door is ajar and I slip through the crack, not bothering to open it further. Unlike the rest of the world, Beck’s father insists on keeping old, paper books and they line three of the walls, floor to ceiling.

  An oversized window dominates the fourth wall and Bethina stands before it, looking out.

  “I see you met Eamon.”

  “The man in the field?”

  She dips her dark head but doesn’t say anything else, just stares out the window.

  “What is he?” The man’s—Eamon’s—naked wrist could mean anything. Maybe he’s an uncaught Sensitive or perhaps an extremist living on the fringe of the society. Either way, whatever he is, it isn’t good.

  “He’s a healer.”

  That??
?s not the answer I expected. “A healer?”

  Bethina turns around. The corner of her eyes crinkle and she smiles. Instead of answering me, she says, “I’m very happy to see you.”

  That makes two of us. Bethina always knows how to fix my problems. Seeing her here, at Beck’s home, makes me wish I’d been more patient. Maybe she would have helped me. “I’m sorry I ran off, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Her gaze locks on mine as if searching for something. Seeming to find it, a rush of air escapes her lips. A sigh. “There are some things we need to discuss.”

  She lifts a pile of clothes I hadn’t noticed before off a side table. “But first, why don’t you change? You’re soaked and shivering.” She holds out a sundress and undergarments. “I brought these for you. There’s a bathroom down the hallway.”

  “Where’s Beck?” I ask through clenched teeth.

  “He’s here.”

  Tears sting my eyes as relief overcomes me. He’s here. Not in jail. Not on his way to a labor camp. But here, with his family.

  Beck is okay.

  I start for the door, eager to find him. “Is he outside?” I ask. He can’t possibly know I’ve arrived, or he would have greeted me the second I broke through the barricade. Maybe I can surprise him.

  She shakes her head. “After you and I talk, you can see Beck. Now go change.”

  I spin around and cross my arms. “No. I want to see him now.”

  Bethina tilts her head slightly and raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t need to say anything for me to know arguing is pointless.

  I yank the pile of clothes from her hands. As upset as I am over the delay in seeing Beck, I don’t want to sit in dripping wet clothes. My skin burns and tingles as it slowly rises back to a normal temperature.

  I hurry to the bathroom and strip. The dry sundress and sandals are a vast improvement over my frozen jeans and soggy boots. After splashing some water on my face, I run my hands through the knots in my hair until I look marginally presentable and then gather my wet items before heading back to the living room.

  “Here.” I throw my dripping wet clothes at Bethina.

  She doesn’t reach for them. Instead she lets them fall to the ground. “I don’t care how mad you are, Lark, you will not disrespect me.” From a side table drawer, she removes a plastic bag and hands it to me. “Pick up that mess. When you’re done, have a seat.” She motions to the couch.

  “First,” I say, “why can’t I see Beck?” Bethina is not going to lecture me.

  “He’s waiting to see how it goes.” She keeps her eyes locked on mine.

  “He doesn’t want to see me?” I ask, trying to understand. Beck’s waiting to see if I still want him? Is he worried I won’t forgive his lies and secrets? I don’t even want to think that. I scoop up the damp garments and shove them into the bag. Then I dangle the bag out by one finger toward Bethina. When she doesn’t take it from me, I toss it onto a chair.

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” She points at the sofa again. “Sit. Please.”

  I flinch under her unwavering gaze. There’s no way around it. I’m going to have to sit here and listen to her if I want to see Beck. Loose pillows dot the back of the rock hard sofa, and I pick one up and hold it tight across my chest. Bethina takes the chair across from me.

  “Tell me about your journey.”

  “My journey?” I snap. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

  She folds and unfolds her hands in her lap. It’s a gesture I’ve seen her make hundreds of times when dealing with my housemates. But this time, her eyes bore into me and no one else. All the anger, all the bitterness vanishes. It’s as if I’ve been purged of any desire to lash out. My anxiety lingers, but I’m calm. I can’t explain it and that strikes me as odd. One minute I want to storm out of the room to find Beck and the next, I’m content to sit and wait.   

  “Tell me what happened,” Bethina orders, this time more forcefully.

  The events after I left our house tumble out of me. I have no control over it—my body is forcing me to tell her everything. When I get to Maz joining me, I stop.

  “Bethina, we have to help him.” My voice rises. “He’s been accused of kidnapping me. I saw it on a wall screen—he and the other students. My mother is trying to protect her image. And now Annalise and Callum have him. We’ve got to do something.”

  Bethina waves for me to stop. “There’s no need to help Maz.”

  “What are you saying? Of course we need to help him. You didn’t see what Annalise can do.” I glare at her. How can she not care? Maz is one of her charges. “He was scared, Bethina.”

  She gives me a strange look, as if I should understand something. I wait, unsure what to say.

  “Maz is Sensitive. Your brother and his wife pose no danger to him.”

  I freeze. “That’s impossible! You didn’t see how scared he was on the platform. And all he wanted…” I break off.

  “Was for you to stop looking for Beck?” Bethina raises her eyebrow.

  “To help me,” I whisper, remembering how he told me to run.

  She shoots me a bewildered look. Apparently, Maz wanting to help me isn’t what she expected.

  I think back to the afternoon in the living room and how Bethina made a point of telling me Beck wasn’t in jail. She would tell me nothing, yet she knew what was going on. She could have saved me from the train, Callum, Annalise, and the freezing, relentless snow. She could have brought me straight here, but she didn’t. Instead she tried to make me sit and listen, just like now.

  Chills run down my spine.

  The only way she’d know is if she were one of them.

  I swallow hard to flush the bile from my throat and nervously play with my necklace. “You’re Sensitive?” I whisper, hoping, praying I’m wrong.

  Bethina’s lips form a small smile. “I prefer the term ‘witch’.”

  16

   

  A cold sweat covers my brow. I’m alone, in a room, with a Sensitive. Probably in a house full of them. I’m a sitting target with nowhere to run.

  I slump into the couch as if punched. This is not at all what I expected. All these years, I’ve lived surrounded by Sensitives. Completely oblivious. Bethina, Kyra, Ryker, Maz…and Beck. Is there anyone in my life who’s just a normal human, like me?

  “Are you going to kill me?” I ask weakly. I don’t see how there can be any other outcome. Sensitives hate my family. And me.

  “Of course not.” Bethina keeps her face soft and kind. “I love you as if you were my own.”

  My brain whirls. “But Sensitives hate humans. They want us all dead.”

  “Eliminating humans is not our first priority.” Bethina walks toward the library door and shuts it. The hair along my arms stands up. For a moment I wonder if it’s for privacy or an attempt to keep me trapped inside.

  She inches toward me, cautiously, and says, “There are only a few thousand of us left—humans and infighting have dwindled our numbers. We only want to protect our own kind.”

  “So the State’s policies have worked?” I ask smugly.

  Bethina shakes her head and sits next to me on the couch. I flinch but she doesn’t seem to notice. “The State doesn’t actually hunt us, Lark.”

  “Of course they do. I’ve seen the work crews and the news reports. It’s the State’s top priority.” And why Beck was taken, I add silently. The memory of snow pressed into my cheek, waiting for the school alarms to sound, nibbles at my brain. “My wristlet—it warned us of the Sensitives’ presence. It’s how Beck and I knew to hide.”

  She sighs. “No, it didn’t. Wristlets only detect those who have been branded with the red wristlets by the State, and most State-identified Sensitives are nothing more than petty human criminals. They’re called Sensitives so the public believes it’s safe from the ‘Sensitive Threat’.”

  My mouth drops open. Maz was telling the truth. “But mine chirped. The security worked,” I ar
gue.

  Bethina rolls her shoulders and stretches her neck. “I’m rather positive Annalise had something to do with that.”

  I cringe at the mention of my sister-in-law’s name. She entrapped me and tried to kill me with a brutal storm, but Bethina’s saying she warned me of the Sensitives’ presence. It doesn’t make sense. She’s Sensitive. Callum confirmed it.

  “Why would the State do that?” I ask.

  Bethina holds my hand in hers and traces circles along the back. Calmness seeps through me, starting at my heart and spreading to my fingers and toes. “The Founders needed people to believe in a common enemy. They needed a scapegoat and people already knew about us. History is littered with witch-hunts and burnings. It wasn’t hard for Caitlyn to convince the public.”

  Convince the public of what? Their evilness? “Let me guess. Sensitives didn’t cause the Long Winter?”

  Bethina shakes her head. “Actually, no. That was a man-made event. But we took advantage of it. Don’t get me wrong, Dark witches have caused their fair share of disasters over the years, but creating a catastrophe that destroyed most of our family lines wasn’t their doing.”

  My mind swims, trying to make sense of everything she’s telling me. “How did you take advantage of it?”

  “We keep several of our people in the State as high-ranking officials to ensure we are left alone. Until recently, the Light and Dark witches coexisted somewhat peacefully—with each other and with humans”

  There’s a long silence. A breeze from the open window moves over my body, but despite its warmth, I shiver and hug my knees to my chest.

  “There’s two groups of witches? And you don’t get along?” I ask.

  “There are.” Bethina takes a long sip from a glass of water and clears her throat before answering. “The Dark witches have forced most of the Light witches from the State. We still hold lesser jobs, but we have no political power. And they’ve begun arresting actual Light witches.”

  The room sways slightly and I clench my head with both hands. The dizziness abates when I close my eyes.

  “Please let me see Beck,” I plead. “Please, B. I’m scared.” I gingerly open my eyes, afraid the room will start moving again, and study her face. It’s soft and loving, the way it’s always been, but I can’t shake the fear growing in me. “I need Beck.”

  “No. If you’re not ready to hear this, then you’re not ready to see him.” Bethina’s voice is firm and even.

  Anger pushes away the fear and my fingers curl around the pillow in my lap. I launch it at a table lamp. The lamp totters before falling to the floor. The sound of the decorative base shattering releases some of my anger. Some, but not all. I don’t want to sit here any longer than I need to.

  “What’s your deal, Bethina? You’ve lied to me my whole life and now you expect me to believe you?”

  Bethina recoils slightly. As if my outburst surprises her. “I want you to understand we’re not monsters. We’re more concerned with ourselves than what’s happening in the human world. For thousands of years, we co-existed peacefully with each other and humans, until Caitlyn Greene and Charles Channing got involved and made a mess of everything.”

  My mouth drops open.

  Bethina shifts in her seat. “I’m sorry, that’s not fair. In all honesty, Caitlyn, with Charles’s help, kept everything running smoothly. It wasn’t until after Charles’ death that the two sides had a falling out. We’ve been fighting ever since.”

  “So you’re at war?”

  “Not in the strictest sense. We are locked in a struggle stretching back generations.” She rubs the backs of her knuckles. I know this gesture—she’s nervous. I brace myself.

  “After the Long Winter, only two truly powerful families were left—one Light and one Dark—along with several lesser lines. As fate would have it, the last children of these two lines fell in love and were bound. But it was highly controversial. She was Dark, a destroyer, and he was Light, a creator. No one had ever done this before. And no one knew what type of child to expect.”

  “An evil monster?” I offer.

  Bethina waves her hand at me, telling me to be quiet. “They had two children, twins—a boy and a girl.”

  “Twins?” I ask, unsure what the word means.

  “Children who are born at the same time to the same parents.”

  “Like a litter of kittens?”

  Bethina nods. “Something like that. It was common hundreds of years ago, before the State began population control.”

  Satisfied, I motion for her to continue.

  “The twins, like their parents Miles and Lucy Channing, were Light and Dark.”

  Channing—Beck’s family. I squeeze my mouth shut and jam my fist against my lips, trying to keep my screams inside.

  “Do you need some time?” Bethina’s soft voice asks.

  In my heart, I knew. But to hear Bethina say it. To hear it out loud.

  “Was the son Charles Channing?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Beck’s-–”

  “An extremely powerful Light witch. When he’s mature, he’ll be one of the strongest we’ve seen.”

  My tongue smarts beneath my teeth. I can’t speak, because if I do, it won’t be words coming from my mouth, but a long anguished cry. Beck’s lopsided grin flashes through my mind, his floppy hair, the warmth of his hand in mine. Not Beck. Anyone but him.

  The awful summer heat wafts in through the open window and clings to my skin. It’s too hot. I need air. I need something.

  I jump up and run to the window, shoving it open wider, until I can’t force it up anymore. But that doesn’t stop me from trying. I bang the sill against the top rail, over and over again.

  “What does it mean?” I cry. “What is he? Is he evil?”

  On the well-tended part of the lawn, the tunic-clad people I saw earlier stroll about. A few of them watch the house, like they’re listening to us. That handsome man with the scary voice sits on the edge of the porch, swinging his feet back and forth. He turns his head toward me, and smiles, like my pain amuses him.

  “What!” I scream. “Why are you smiling at me?”

  Bethina locks her arms around me, holding my back against her. “Shhh…it’s okay, Lark. Take a deep breath.”

  The man on the porch laughs. Over my shoulder, Bethina growls, “Leave, Eamon.”

  He jumps off the porch and walks along the side, his finger trailing over the wood porch. The song he whistled earlier fills the air. When he’s out of sight, I let my body go limp. Bethina holds me, stroking my hair, until I regain control over myself and let her walk me back to the couch.

  She pours a glass of water from the pitcher on the side table and hands it to me. The icy coolness feels good.

  “Beck is not evil. He’s Light, a creator.” She drinks from her own glass. “The Dark witches aren’t inherently evil either. But they are destroyers and they do like power.”

  Okay. If he has to be Sensitive, at least let him be a creator. “Is he in danger? Do the Dark witches want to hurt him?”

  Bethina closes her eyes. Her chest moves evenly with each breath, like she’s sleeping. “What do you know about your family?”

  Most, if not all, of my knowledge comes from my schoolbooks. “The normal stuff about Caitlyn. That my grandparents both worked in the political branch of State. And of course, Mother is the Vice Head—the highest ranking position a Greene has held since Caitlyn.”

   “Your grandparents, and parents, interbound.” I give her a blank stare, unsure what that means. “They broke with the mating system by marrying outside of their group, and mixing Light and Dark. They completely disregarded the system Caitlyn, your ancestor, implemented to preserve and strengthen bloodlines.”

  A numbness spreads through my body and my heart beat accelerates. “They were Light and Dark? My family? They’re Sensitive?”

  “Yes.” She watches me carefully, folding her hands in her lap. “Caitlyn’s bloodline is
very strong. Instead of diluting with each generation, it appears to grow stronger. Some say your mother’s Dark powers are unrivaled by any other mature witch, surpassing even Caitlyn’s abilities.”

  I grasp at the corners of my mind and attempt to stay present. My mother? She works for State. She can’t be.

  Only she can. Because Bethina told me the State is all a sham. An illusion set up to fool people like me.

  Bethina holds my gaze and a deliciously warm feeling creeps from my toes to my head. That horror, while not gone, lessens and is replaced with another: Bethina is controlling my emotions.

  She moves across the room and sits next to me. “I know this is a shock.”

  For the first time since I left school, I feel completely defeated.

  My entire life has been a lie: The State, Beck, Bethina, my friends.

  My family.

  Me.

  I’m Sensitive. I’m one of them. How could Kyra think this was good?

  I lean forward and retch.

  Out of nowhere, a basin appears under me and I empty my stomach.

  Bethina hands me a tissue and I wipe my mouth. The sour taste lingers and threatens to send me reaching for the basin again.

  This has to be a mistake. “I’m Sensitive?”

  “Yes. Your mother’s family is an unbroken line of powerful witches tracing back to the beginning of time. Your father comes from a lesser Light line—you look very much like him.”

  At least I’m on the right side—with Beck.

  But then I realize that means we’re up against Mother—and the power of the State—and my stomach churns again. “Is Beck safe? Does my Mother want to hurt him?”

  “He’s safe for now.”

  It’s not the response I want. I’m sure Mother won’t hurt me—I may not see her frequently, but she’s worried about me. I saw her on the news crying—she wouldn’t do that unless she meant it. She can’t afford for people to think she’s weak.

  But Beck, would she hurt him? And why hasn’t she already done so?

  “Lark, do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Bethina’s face looks aged, older than I remember.

  “For many years, the Dark witches have led seemingly peaceful lives waiting for a Dark witch, stronger than any other, to lead them. That time has arrived.”

  Her eyes pierce me.

  Panic rips through my body.

  Bethina takes my hand and presses it to her heart. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

   

  17

   

  The world is fuzzy, distorted even. Nothing looks right anymore. Bethina’s mouth moves, but there’s no sound. I can’t hear. Still, I cup my ears, shielding them from words I don’t want to hear.

  Blood pounds at my temples and races through my veins, gathering speed. Inside me, energy builds. I squeeze my eyes shut. It does no good.

  “No!” I scream, and the window nearest us shatters. Rain pelts us through the gaping wall.

  “No!” I curl in a tight ball. Knees to my chest, I rock back and forth, trying to forget Bethina’s words. Her hands rub my back as tears run down my cheeks and onto my knees.

  “How?” I bury my face deeper into my knees. “Why?”

  The house shakes. A deep rumble echoes through the room. The floor rolls beneath my feet and yells come from another part of the house.

  Bethina touches me again, and I slip into darkness.

  My eyes won’t open, but I feel a shift in the room. It settles. I hear glass picked up, windows being replaced. My heart slows. A stillness seeps through me. I’m calm.

  I allow the peace to settle. My breath is steady and slow. Indistinct sounds filter through my brain like a low volume hum. My life, my history—none of it makes sense anymore.

  Mercifully, I disappear into a quiet void.

  When I open my eyes, I’m alone. Bethina left me. Somewhere outside a bell tolls. Six o’clock.

  My head rolls and drops like I’ve been drugged. This is nothing like Annalise’s thick air. My body just doesn’t want to move. I blink and try to open my mouth to call out. No sound. My voice is gone. Sleep draws me back into its grasp and I welcome it.

  Unlike before, my dreams aren’t empty. Violent images dance through my mind while my heart burns stronger. It whirls inside of me, pulsing, coming to life.

  I feel the energy gather speed. Anger builds. My mind circles around Bethina’s words: My family is Dark, my great-great-grandmother, probably my brother, definitely my mother.

  Dark. Every single one of them.

  And me.

  I’m the Darkest of all. The most evil. Me.

  Distant muffled voices float around me.

  They aren’t kind.

  “Malin’s daughter,” they hiss and scream. I hear it again, and again, and again.

  I want to cover my ears and hide from it, but I can’t. I’m stuck.

  All sound disappears and my mind swims through consciousness, blurring the present with the past. I remember the little girl crushed by a tree branch. I’d hated her. Hated her lack of concern for Beck. I’d wanted her to hurt.

  I did hurt her.

  The anger works through my body as I remember. My soul’s on fire.

  The energy simmers again. It pulses and pushes out from me.

  Bethina lied to me. She never intended for me to find out. My body shakes. I can’t control the trembling. Anger, followed by pain, stabs through me.

  “Shhh, Birdie. It’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

  Calmness descends. That voice I can hear. That voice I need. My body stops shaking and I slip back into the still darkness.

  Hands, so many hands touch me. My face, my arms, my stomach.

  “She’s burning up. We need to do something.” Beck’s voice is urgent, scared.

  Movement. I’m carried somewhere. Cold air assaults me. I can’t see anything. More talking but I don’t understand. The pain subsides and I feel safe—the anger is gone.

  I force my eyes open and search. I’m outside, under the stars. Unfamiliar faces crowd the space around me, watching.

  “Beck?” I whisper.

  Strong hands reach around me, lift me off ground and pull me close. I know these arms.

  “I’m here, Lark.” I turn my face and see the one thing that always makes me happy, no matter how terrible I feel—Beck.

  My voice is raw. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

  Nothing makes sense. I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. Beck moves so our foreheads touch. I bury my head in his shirt and inhale, finding peace.

  “Careful, Beck, she’s in shock.” Bethina’s voice shakes.

  Beck carries me inside and lowers me back onto the sofa. He takes a blanket from the chair and covers me.

  “There you go, Birdie. When you’re ready, we can talk.”

  More unfamiliar faces watch us, waiting.

  But hours go by. Then days. I don’t say anything. I sit, staring into a void. Beck stays with me, holding my hand and begging me to wake up.

  Begging me to come back to him.

   

  18

   

  I decide to wake up. It’s that simple. One minute my mind wades through endless nothingness and the next, I open my eyes.

  I couldn’t be away from Beck any longer.

  My eyes flutter for a moment and adjust to the soft light filtering through the sheer curtains. Beck’s head is crushed against the side of the couch, his fingers entwined with mine.

  I study his sleeping face. His rosy lips and long, black lashes. The bronze of his skin. There’s nothing, not one thing, about him that indicates he’s Sensitive.

  But then, I can’t see it in myself either.

  His blond waves tempt me. I run my free hand over them and as his soft hair tickles my palm, a deep sense of peace spreads through my body. It feels wonderful. Beck stirs a little but doesn’t wake.

  I scoot down until
my face is even with his. “Beck,” I whisper. “Wake up.”

  He rubs his face into the hard cushion but gives no other sign of being awake.

  “Beck.” I trace my finger along his cheek.

  A smile spreads across his lips, and he reaches for me.

  “You really are an evil witch,” he murmurs groggily.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “You’re awake.” He watches me in awe, as if he thought it would never happen. “How do you feel?”

  “Good. Great, actually. Like someone took me apart and fixed me up better.” It’s true. All the anguish and horror has evaporated and I feel amazing. But being around Beck has always had that effect on me.

  My stomach growls and a small laugh escapes my lips. “Hungry.”

  “Let’s get you some breakfast.” He straightens up and lifts me to my feet. “But give me a minute. I just want to look at you. Make sure you’re okay.”

  I stand still, not sure what he wants me to do or what exactly he plans to do. I must be making a crazy face because he chuckles.

  “What?”

  He grins. “I can’t remember ever seeing you so confused. What are you thinking?”

  “I was wondering if you were going to whip out your magic wand or something.”

  Beck cringes and buries his face in his hand. “Ahhh, no.”

  Please let the floor open and swallow me now. I try to look everywhere but at Beck, but of course, I can’t look anywhere but at him.      

  “All right then, change of subject.” A faint red tint creeps toward his ears. At least I’m not the only one mortified by my slip. “You feel great, right? But let’s make sure you’re physically okay.”

  Beck’s eyes rake me over as if he were searching for something. He runs his hand down my arms, over my neck and across the small of my back. Each time he touches me, tiny sparks leap off my skin.

  When he’s finished, I spin and end with a dramatic pose.

  “And do you like what you see?” I tease.

  “Very much.” Beck hugs me tight and I feel safe. “You have no idea how relieved I am.”

  His hands trail up my spine before settling them on my shoulders. “For the record, we don’t use wands. At least not the kind you’re thinking of.” He winks at me.

  I punch him on the arm. Hard.

  “Okay, then,” he says, rubbing the spot where my fist made contact. “Let’s get some breakfast. Unless you want a shower first?” He takes my hand again.

  The sensation of his skin on mine sends my heart into a spastic jig. “Normally, I’d say ‘yes’ to the shower, but I’m starving.”

  He leans in and exaggerates an inhale. “At least you don’t smell bad.” His grin widens and I give him a playful shove while keeping a tight hold on his hand. I’m never letting go again.

  Beck squeezes mine back and leads me through the hall and into the ancient dining room. Not that it’s old looking. It’s just full of old stuff. Antiques and what not. Beck’s parents are avid collectors.

  Between my welcoming committee and the people from the other night on the lawn, I thought there were at least a hundred people here, but the room is empty.

  “Where’s everyone?” I ask.

  “There’s a makeshift kitchen out back.” He hesitates and his eyes dart toward the kitchen door. I can tell he’s not telling me everything.

  “And?”

  “Well, we didn’t know what to expect. My parents and Bethina wanted to be prepared, so they called a Gathering.” He says the word like it has meaning to me and glances at me. I can tell he’s trying to gauge my reaction. “You floored everyone showing up by yourself with that storm in tow. Quite impressive, really.”

  “So I did do that? Caused the storm?” I follow his eyes back toward the kitchen. There’s something out there he’s nervous about me knowing. I keep talking, drawing his attention back to me. Whatever it is can wait until I get a few answers. “Why was it punishing me though? Shouldn’t it attack my enemies or something?”

  “Punishing you? What do you mean?” He lifts my hand and places a kiss on my wrist, which sends my heart into a chaotic flutter. “Breakfast awaits.”

  He leads me into the kitchen. There are no appliances—at least nothing that I can identify as an appliance—just counters, cabinets and two plates piled high with food. Bethina must have prepared them for us.

  I’ve recovered enough to resume my train of thought. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was intentionally trying to fluster me. “The storm. Every time I…” I trail off. The question is on my lips, but how to form it so I won’t sound crazy? “Every time I thought I was getting close to you, it pummeled me. I don’t think that storm wanted me to get here. Are you sure it wasn’t Annalise?”

  Beck hands me a plate and then takes his. Bethina’s specialties fill mine, along with a large serving of fruit. Strange delicacies I’ve never seen before cover Beck’s plate. “Annalise can’t do that. We’re positive it was all you.”

  He tosses a plump blueberry into the air and catches it between his teeth. It’s an impressive move—but one I’ve seen him do a hundred times.

  “So your parents called a…a Gathering?”

  We’re back in the dining room now, and he balances his plate on one hand while pulling out a chair for me with the other. It looks expensive, old and frail. And we’ve never been allowed to sit on them before. Last thing I need to do is break one of Beck’s dad’s prized chairs. But to my surprise, it feels solid beneath me when I fall into it.

  “Yeah, it’s a group of Light witches, the leaders from each of the Five Societies and their delegates. But also my parents’ security detail, family members, and tutors for Bea—and you and me now, I guess.” Beck takes the chair next to mine and immediately bites into a weird white blob-looking thing.

  “Bea’s here?” I ask. Like us, Beck’s younger sister should be at school, with her housemates.

  “Bea’s always been here. Light witches don’t go to State schools. My parents just pretended she went away for our sake.”

  I gape at him. So they’ve been lying to us, too. Is there anyone I can trust?

  “You should try this.” He tears off a piece of the nasty looking food and places it near my fruit. “It’s delicious.”

  I poke at the doughy white surface. It yields beneath my finger. “What is it?”

  “A delicacy from before the Long Winter. It’s called a pork bun.”

  I blanch. “Pig? You want me to eat pig?”

  “It’s good. Try it.”

  I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. “We don’t eat meat, Beck. It’s barbaric and taxes the ecosystem.”

  “Lark, people have eaten meat for thousands of years.”

  “I can’t. It’s gross.” I nudge the disgusting thing to the edge of my plate and dig into a serving of Bethina’s pepper and corn fritta on the opposite side. I notice he hasn’t taken another bite of the ‘delicious’ white blob and is instead inhaling pancakes.

  “You don’t like it either!” I accuse.

  In defiance, he shoves another piece of the pork bun, which oozes blood-like red sauce, into his mouth and chews carefully.

  “I’m getting used to it.” He swallows hard and takes a long sip of water. When I raise my eyebrows, he says, “Fine. It’s disgusting. But it’s what Light witches eat, and I’ve got to eat it.”

  “Well, I’m not going to.”

  Beck forces down another piece of pork bun and I roll my eyes at him. “What were you saying about security?” I ask, hoping to get him back on track.

  “The State isn’t my parents’ biggest fan.” It’s a simple statement. Like saying ‘I breathe air.’ Just a matter of fact. “They only pretend to work for it.”

  “So my mother–”

  “Hates us.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. We’re mated. You’ve visited her home. She let you go after the attacks. She could have placed you in jail.” My word
s tumble out fast and run incoherently into one another. “Bethina said my father was…” I struggle with the next words. “A Light witch. Mother can’t hate Light witches if she was bound to one.”

  Beck massages his knuckles and stares past me. Avoids my gaze, is probably more accurate. “That’s kind of her thing—hating people.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I hoped Bethina would explain all this.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dark witches draw their power from fear and anger. They’re destroyers. We Light witches are creators, thriving on calm and happiness.”

  “The storm—as I became more upset, it grew in intensity. But how? How did I do it?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. You just did.”

  I play with the fruit on my plate. “What happened at school? I know Annalise and Callum turned you in, but why?”

  “To separate us. After their visit, I suspected what was happening. When Mr. Proctor stopped me after I…” He blushes and casts his eyes down. “Kissed you, he said I needed to go immediately to the head’s office, but wouldn’t tell me why. I thought they were going to hold me, so they could take you.”

  “Take me?”

  Beck pushes his food around with his fork and stabs a weird tube of meat. “Annalise wasn’t lying when she said that group was looking for you. I thought maybe your mother sent for you, as a protective measure. I guess Annalise realized I would try to stop them if they attempted to separate us.”

  “I wouldn’t have gone.”

  “You think I went willingly?” His lip curls upward. “Anyway, they put me in an empty room and a little while later Kyra, Maz, Ryker and two younger students were brought in. They pretended I wasn’t there.” He clenches his jaw. “Ryker wouldn’t even look at me.

  “It wasn’t too much longer before Annalise showed up, without Callum, and left with everyone but me. She didn’t speak to me.” He pushes his hand through his hair and it falls into messy disarray. “Then my parents arrived, and brought me to Summer Hill.”

  “Was Kyra okay? Did they hurt her?”

  Beck rolls his shoulders back as if shaking off something unpleasant. “Kyra was fine. She actually seemed excited—dare I say happy—to see Annalise.”

  The thought of my best friend hanging out with Annalise makes my skin crawl.

  “And Maz? He was at the house before I left. And on the train.”

  “Annalise probably sent him back to get you.” Beck exhales loudly. “Maz is a Dark witch. I’ve known for a while, but he and I, well—it never seemed to matter before.” Disappointment seeps into his voice.

  “He told me to run. He wanted me to find you.”

  Beck scrunches up his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yeah. He asked me why I didn’t want to call my mom and all. But he was helping me. At least, I think he was.”

  This causes Beck to break into a wide grin. “He’s a good guy, even if he is Dark.”

  “What about Kyra? Ryker? Are they Dark too?”

  “All the other students were. I was the only Light witch student at school.” His voice drops and I can tell from the way he holds his shoulders he’s agitated.

  A hole rips through my gut and my head threatens to explode. “So it’s okay for Maz and Ryker to be Dark, but not Kyra. What about me? Is it okay for me to be Dark?” I’m shouting, angry with the way he’s talking about my best friend.

  “I don’t know. I’ve always thought of them—Kyra included—as my friends. But now…” He rubs my back, like he always does when I get upset, and my anger melts away.

  Still, all those times at school when the two of them were at each other’s throats for seemingly no reason. And how it just started, suddenly, one day after Kyra returned from her brother’s binding. It all makes sense now. They both knew who the other was.

  Once again, no one thought to tell me. Not even Beck, who, from what he just told me, was all alone. One against many.

  I wait for him to laugh and tell me it’s all a big joke. That he was bored and decided to leave school for a while. Something. Anything would be better than the words coming out of his mouth.

  But he doesn’t.

  The grapes on my plate are no match for the prongs of my fork. I stab one, metal scrapes the stone plate and Beck cringes. But oddly, other than wanting to spear fruit, I feel relaxed. Happy even.

  It’s so odd, like the way I want to feel is hidden just under the surface of my skin, but I simply can’t access it. I imagine a sign flashing over my head—Anger: denied.

  “Why do I feel so happy and calm?”

  His eyes light up. “You mean other than because of me?”

  I elbow him in the ribs and he lists, feigning injury.

  “Well, Miss Greene, you are a Dark witch surrounded by nearly a thousand Light witches.”  He stares at the kitchen door again and I realize the witches he’s talking about are probably out there somewhere. “Plus, you’re not mature yet. You’re strong, but not strong enough to overcome all of us. And...” He sits straight, imitating a State Man. “If we want you happy and calm, you shall be.”

  I’m going to get stronger? What does that mean? I bite back my questions—fearful of the answers.

  “Why didn’t I act out before?”

  “The best anyone can figure, I somehow block you. Mask your dark powers.” He closes his eyes.

  “But how? Shouldn’t we be equally strong? We’re the exact same age and—”

  “We should be, but for some reason, I’m stronger than you right now. I am, or will be, the most powerful Light witch. And you, my dear Birdie, will be the most powerful Dark witch.”

  His olive green eyes probe deep into mine, searching my soul, pealing back whatever Darkness there is in me. Exposing me.

  I’ve never felt so bare. Or so wicked.

  My mind processes his words, but all I can think about are his lips, his eyes, his strong hands. Him.

  “Do you know why?” Beck asks just when it seems that neither of us are ever going to speak again. That we’re going to suffocate in the weird airless space between us.

  I untangle my traitorous tongue. “I don’t know anything.”

  “Because you’re the direct female descendant of Caitlyn Greene and I’m the direct male descendant of Charles Channing. The power in our families grows stronger each generation.”

  Beck tilts his head, like I saw him do with Callum and Annalise in the Headmaster’s office.

  “Why do you do that?” I ask as he traces his fingers along the back of my hand. My heartbeat slows and I focus on his face.

  He raises an eyebrow.

  I clarify. “Tilt your head.”

  “Hmmm. Didn’t know I did.” His hair bounces as he bobs his head from side to side. “I guess it helps me pick up on the ‘sound’ you’re giving off. I can tell how you feel.” He studies the table.

  Realization courses through me.

  “Oh.” Heat flares across my face. “How long have you been able to…?” I can’t finish my thought.

  “Since I was ten.” He mumbles and scuffs his toe back and forth across the floor.

  “Ten! You’ve been able to ‘hear’ how I feel for seven years?” All those times my heart raced when he smiled at me or took my hand or made me laugh. Or worse, when I wanted nothing but to be alone—far away from him.

  But another issue presses more importantly in my mind. “You knew about your abilities and never thought to tell me?”

  “Don’t be mad, Lark. I couldn’t.”

  I yank my hand away. “Couldn’t or didn’t want to?”

  Beck’s silent. He’s never been good at hiding his emotions, and I can tell he’s struggling with an answer.

  “Both. I wasn’t allowed to tell you, but I also understood telling you was a bad idea.”

  I close my eyes. The skin on my lip gives way under my teeth and bleeds. “You knew. All this time, you knew. And you lied to me.”

  My heart shatters into a thous
and pieces. The tears won’t stop now. He lied to me. The one person I always trusted.

  His hand is on my arm, pulling me out of my chair and close to him. I protest by pushing against his chest. Beck loosens his grip and I step back—away from him.

  “Do you really believe you would’ve dealt with this well at age ten? You’re barely dealing with it now.”

  “I think I’m dealing with it fine.” I cross my arms and try to blink my tears away. I know I have to be stronger than this, but my heart disagrees. Its broken shards stab me.

  “No, you’re not. You did major damage to the house after Bethina told you.” He tugs on my arm. His other hand goes toward my hair and his fingers play with a loose strand. I stiffen but don’t resist. “Don’t kid yourself, Birdie. Anyone would be shocked to find out they’re not only a witch, but a powerful Dark one at that.”

  A small tremor shakes my body. Tears rim my eyes and I blink quickly to hold them back. With all my strength, I break from him. The dining chair nearest Beck topples over. Then the next. Chair after chair smashes to the ground and splinters into pieces. Beck inches closer. Tiny steps from one side of the table to the other. He steps over the destroyed chairs, trying to reach me, but I run toward the kitchen. Before he can stop me, I tear open the door and immerse myself in the stifling heat of late morning.

  Behind me, Beck calls, “Lark, don’t. Please, don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Stay away from me.” The shards smash around the empty container of my heart and the air presses on me heavily, until my lungs empty and I gasp. “You lied to me. By not telling me, you lied to me.”

  I charge down the stairs, unsure where I’m going. All I know is I need to be alone, away from Beck, so I can process everything I’ve learned.

  Two steps across the lawn and I jerk my head up.

  A group of people—witches, whatever—stands directly in front of me, blocking my path. Beyond them, a blur of brightly colored tents stretch as far as I can see. Rows and rows. Hundreds of them. And everywhere, witches watch me.

  I’m trapped between the not-so-friendly looking group before me and Beck behind me. There aren’t many options

  Deciding on the lesser of two evils, I turn toward Beck and he inches closer to me. Like he’s afraid of me. Tiny, deliberate steps. The way he holds out his hands reminds me of someone approaching a wild animal.

  He reaches out and strokes the side of my face with the back of his hand.

  When I look up, I’m surprised by the dampness on his cheeks.

  “Lark, I’m sorry.”

  “Keep her under control, Beck.” I recognize the cruel voice. Eamon. How dare he? First he stalks me in the field, then he laughs at me when I’m falling apart. And now? Now he’s telling Beck to control me?

  I begin to whirl toward Eamon, but Beck grabs me and pulls me to his chest. His arms wrap tightly around me. Without thinking, I fold under his touch. It’s always been like this with us. I can be a raving, crazed wreck and one touch, one look, from Beck and it’s all forgotten.

  My heart fumbles and my anger slows to a simmer. With each touch, I regain control of my emotions. His hand is on my jaw: I forgive him because I trust him. His fingers running across my shoulder: I forgive him because he didn’t ask for this any more than I did. His hand moving down my arm: I forgive him because he’s Beck.

  From the way his chest heaves, I know my outburst frightened him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He bends and pushes his forehead against mine. Staring at each other this way, with our freckles aligned, always makes me feel calm. His warm breath washes over me.

  “I’m sorry, too.” He touches my nose with his finger. “I promise to not keep things from you ever again.”

  Wanting to feel closer to him, I press my ear against his chest and listen to the hum of his pulse. It beats strong and steady, and I force my breathing to mimic it.

  “Are you listening to me, boy?” Eamon demands. I don’t like the way he’s talking to Beck and turn to face him.

  Beck grabs my shoulder. “Easy, Lark. Let me handle this.”

  He strides across the grass, leaving me standing by myself. It’s too hot. The sun beats on me, threatening to turn my pale skin red. I hate this weather but I hate the hundreds, if not thousands, of eyes trained on me more. They stare at me like I’m some sort of circus act.

  If only I could disappear.

  Beck stands before the others with his legs spread wide, like he’s someone to reckon with. There are only nine witches with Eamon, and not one of them, aside from their leader, looks prepared to challenge Beck.

  He must really be something, if this group of adults is willing to do what he says.

  Eamon lets out victorious laugh. A long, taunting sound aimed at me.

  It takes every ounce of self-control I have to not storm across the narrow strip of grass separating myself from the group of witches. Beck said to let him handle this, and even though my body wants a confrontation, I think he’s right.

  I close my eyes and try my best to ignore Eamon.

  It’s not so easy.

  “Get her under control,” he says. “Or we’ll have to do it for you.”

  I fling my eyes open and launch myself across the grass. “Get me under control?” I shriek. “I’m not the one going around threatening people.”

  Instinctively, I throw my hand up over my head, fingers splayed wide. Someone in the crowd screams and Beck lunges for me. He shoves me behind his back and assumes same protective stance he used with Callum and Annalise at school.

  Only this time, it’s the two of us against ten, if you don’t count the hundreds of witches watching us. An uncomfortable build-up of energy nibbles at me.

  Eamon flashes a menacing smile at us. “She won’t last long.”

  With a jerk of his head, he and his entire group disappear.

   

  19

   

  A lone weeping willow sits on the far edge of the lawn, away from all the tents and prying eyes. It’s the perfect hiding place.

  Beck holds the long, green branches aside for me. It’s cooler in here—more to my liking. Once he releases the branches, it’s like we’re in our own private world.

  “What was that?” I demand as we arrange ourselves, me against the trunk and Beck stretched out with his head in my lap.

  He sighs heavily. “You can’t go around threatening people, Lark. It’s not going to help your case.”

  “Threatening people? When did I threaten anyone?” I can’t believe he’s accusing me. Didn’t he hear the hostility in Eamon’s voice?

  He runs his hand through his hair. “You have no idea, do you?” He stares up at me, his face upside down. “When you threw up your hand, it seemed like you were going to unleash a spell or something.”

  “I don’t know how to do magic.”

  “You may not know how to, but you do it. I’ve seen it.” Beck reaches up and presses his finger against my lips when I begin to protest. “The storm, you did that, remember? You have no idea what you’re doing—that’s the problem.”

  My hands go to his hair and I twirl the waves around my fingers. Blood races through my body but not in the angry way. More like a warm, comforting sunshine pulsing through my veins. Just being here, with him, is all I need to feel right.

  Beck grins, feeling my contentment.

  I playfully slap the side of his head but at the same time experiment sending him another feeling—happiness. His grin widens.

  “You’re happy. Or at least happier,” he says, obviously pleased with himself.

  “As happy as I can be considering I’m a Dark witch and everyone seems to hate me.”

  He tugs on a loose strand of my hair. I bend my neck so my eyes line up with his full lips.

  “I could never hate you. No matter what,” he says just loud enough for me to hear.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  I lean back agai
nst the tree, and Beck puts his arms behind his head and closes his eyes. We sit like for awhile, listening to the world around us: the wind blowing through the weeping willow branches; a bird chirping high in the branches above; somewhere out on the vast lawn, a group of children sing the song Eamon whistled my first day at Summer Hill. I remember Ms. Jensen, the music teacher, making us sing when we were little. Alouette, I think it’s called.

  It’s life as usual, except not. Because everything has changed. I’m not Lark, the beloved descendant of a Founder, anymore. I’m Lark, the evil, Dark witch everyone here seems to despise. Except Beck.

  What does it mean, anyway? To be Dark? Does it mean I’m going to be some sinister monster running around doing evil? “What do we do now?”

  “You learn to control your powers. After that storm and your performance this morning, we have some work to do.”

  Powers. I have powers. My hands cover my face and I count. One. Two. Three. Four.

  A tug on my hand breaks my concentration. Five. Six. Seven. Beck rubs it softly, his finger tracing along the back. Warmth spreads up my arm and fans out across my body. I relax.

  Eight. Nine.

  “You can’t change who you are, Lark.”

  Ten. A deep breath.

  “What happened to the Sensitives at school?” I ask. “How did you…” I don’t want to say kill: Beck doesn’t hurt people. “Stop them from attacking us?”

  Beck tilts his head and closes his eyes. His muscular chest strains the thin fabric of his t-shirt when he inhales. “I didn’t do that. You did.”

  I don’t want to hear this. I was supposed to join the State in two months. I was supposed to have a comfortable life—with Beck.

  “You put your hand out in front of me and then light radiated from it.” He pauses. “A blinding white light. You killed all of them.”

  I slump back against the tree, the world tilting around me. I killed them. A numbing thought surfaces—if Beck hadn’t stopped me just now, with Eamon, what would I have done to that group of witches?

  “Why am I evil?” My voice hitches and cracks.

  “You’re not evil.” He tries to pull my hand down toward him, but I tense and he stops. “I wouldn’t be here if you were.”

  “But I will be, right?” I killed people, a lot of people, and he doesn’t think that’s evil? An uncomfortable heat floods my body, burning me from the inside. My pulse thunders in my ears.

  Beck fidgets with his shirt before answering. “I can’t change what happened, but at least believe me when I say you’re not evil—only Dark. You can’t help what you are, just like I can’t.”

  “At least you’re Light.” A frightening thought flashes through my mind and I clench my teeth.

  “What’s wrong?” Beck asks, alarmed.

  “What if I hurt you? Or Bethina?”

  The muscles in Beck’s neck stiffen. “You don’t know how to control yourself. But we’re going to teach you. It’s going to be…okay.” The way he says it, I’m not convinced he believes it.

  “Nothing can change how I feel about you.” He traces swirls across the back of my hand and then looks away. “Don’t you know I’d do anything for you?”

  Deep inside me, something shifts, telling me what I’ve always known. The bond between us is more than just being mated. Beck is, without a doubt, my other half.

  But I don’t know what to believe. All my life I’ve been told Sensitives want to destroy the human race and hurt me. But now I’m supposedly one of them. And not only that, I’m Dark—a destroyer who thrives on anger and fear. But I’m not evil? And yet I killed people? Nothing makes sense.

  Beck sits up and leans closer to me. Our faces are inches apart. His lips near mine. All I’d have to do is move forward, just a little, and they’d meet.

  Without warning, he stands and walks to the edge of the shade, where the drooping branches touch the ground. He keeps his back toward me, but I can tell he’s upset. My arms long to hold him, comfort him. I want to tell him it’s going to be okay, but I can’t. My body won’t obey me.

  Something he said earlier wiggles back into my brain. “You’re stronger than me, right? And the Light witches somehow counteract whatever I have going on? Maybe I don’t have to be Dark. We could live where there are a lot of Light witches and I can stay like this forever. I could be normal.”

  “It’s not that easy, Lark.” He turns toward me, face serious and eyes troubled. “You are Dark. You need to accept that.”   

  I stand up, smooth the front of my dress, and walk toward him. The heat from beyond the shade of the tree creeps through our green fortress. When I slip my hand into Beck’s, his fingers squeeze mine rapidly—a hand hug, just like when we were younger.

  I grasp on tighter. “We’re not children anymore and we’re here, together. In just a few weeks, we’ll be bound. Bethina told me it’s common in my family—Light and Dark witches binding. And your ancestors did it too—right? Charles’s parents?”

  “I can’t imagine my life without you, Lark.”

  He steps back and holds me at arms’ length. Even from this distance, I feel his heart pounding. My breath comes fast and shallow. Please, please let him kiss me now.

  His next words come out in hoarse whisper. “We’re cursed. On our birthday, you will slowly drain me of my light, feeding off of it and swallowing me in darkness. Payment for my being stronger than you for eighteen years.”

  With tears in his eyes, he says, “We can’t be permanently bound, Birdie, because being around you will kill me.”

  20

   

  Time stands still as Beck’s words slide around in my brain, looking for a place to grab hold. They find a landing place and hurl their full weight at me.

  “No,” I whisper. “I won’t…I—I couldn’t.” The taste of blood stings my tongue—my lip’s bleeding. I’ve been biting on it, trying to keep the screams inside. “Who told you that?”

  Beck touches my lip with his finger and flicks away the blood. “Bethina, my parents, all these others.” He pulls apart the branches again, exposing the tent town on the other side. “They’ve done nothing but work on this for years. Trying to find a way to end the curse.”

  “They’re lying,” I insist. “Why would anyone curse us?”

  “I don’t know.” His face contorts and for a moment, I think he’s choking. Beck gasps. “I wish it weren’t true.”

  “But you’re here. With me. What’s wrong with you?” It makes no sense, Beck wanting to be with me, knowing what he does.

  “My whole life has been you. Always you. The first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night.”

  He stops. Conflict eats away at his beautiful face.

  “Until recently—until today—you’ve never shown any real interest in the binding, or for that matter, in me, beyond being my best friend.” He stares past me now. “No one expects you to actually care for me.”

  Maz was right. Beck thinks I pushed him away, not out of a sense of responsibility, but because I didn’t want to be with him.

  “You can sense my feelings. Don’t you know the answer to that?”

  The air around us is still—the breeze gone.

  “It’s never been completely clear.” Beck pushes his shaking hands through his hair. “But you do, don’t you?”

  Do I? My chest seizes. The burning feeling pulses deep in my heart and tries to force its way out. A soft hum fills my ears and makes it hard for me to think. I want to tell Beck how being away from him is unbearable. How all I could think about is getting back to him. I want to tell him that I need him like I need air.

  But my body won’t let me. It’s like someone, or something, is interfering with my free will. So I say, “I’ve risked everything to find you—my career, my future. To be with you. Isn’t that enough?”

  It’s not. Beck’s face falls and he wraps his arms around his torso like he’s trying to hold himself together.

  “
Okay, then. I guess maybe you should go change. Bethina put your clothes upstairs in the room—the one we’ve always shared.” He parts the branches and walks out onto the lawn—away from me and away from the house.

  My brain screams at me to run after him, but I’m glued to this spot, unable to move. Beck’s figure grows smaller and smaller before finally disappearing into the trees along the far side of the grass. Once he’s out of sight, feeling returns to my limbs.

  How is it he can feel every other thought coursing through my being, but not the most important one?

  The sunlight is even brighter now and casts a harsh glow across the lawn. It must be near lunchtime.

  With nothing else to do, I drag myself from the cool shade of the tree and toward the old-fashioned house.

  Heads turn as I pass and a few people actually cross the lawn to avoid getting too close to me. No one says hello or smiles. I’m alone, a black hole surrounded by light, and no one, except for Beck and maybe Bethina, wants me here.

  My heart yearns for Kyra. If she were with me, she’d find the whole thing amusing—laughing about how we need to learn to control our boys through magic. Or promising to unleash all sorts of terror on whoever treated us poorly. She’d probably have the entire place on high alert. Whatever she did, it definitely wouldn’t be boring.

  But she’s not here, because she’s Dark and Beck’s enemy. Like I should be.

  But why? Why do we have to hate each other?

  My fingers trail along the wooden railing of the porch, feeling the prick of splinters as my skin catches. I close my eyes, my lungs heaving, and drop my chin to my chest.

  How do you hate someone you’ve spent your whole life laughing with?

  A breath, then another. Slowly, I feel the sadness ebb from my body and anger rushes to fill the holes it left behind.

  Why didn’t anyone tell me? Were they hoping I’d wake up fixed one day?

  My rage swells as I fling open the side door leading to the kitchen and march into the dining room. The chairs still litter the floor.

  What am I going to do? If Beck’s parents see this, they’ll never forgive me. What if they make me leave? What if they force Beck and I apart?

  Then again, maybe that’s not such a bad idea, considering how I’m going to kill their son if he’s around me.

  A groan, like the sound of a tree settling in the soil, followed by a louder cracking noise. I swing my head toward the window to see if the weeping willow fell over. But then a sharp snap draws my attention back to the dining room.

  The table lies in two pieces.

  I stare at them, my brain whirling, trying to understand what happened. Like on the train, my hands vibrate.

  Oh my God. I did this.

  For a moment, I entertain the idea of trying to fix the damaged furniture, but it’s destroyed beyond repair. And if I don’t even know how I break the furniture, how the hell can I repair it?

  I sprint up the squeaky stairs to the second floor. Our room is halfway down on the right, its door cracked slightly.

  Once safe inside, I slam the door behind me and dodge the two large travel trunks lying in the middle of the floor, before collapsing on the bed.

  Is this what magic is? Breaking things and causing weather anomalies? Scaring people and living life in the shadows? Killing?

  Memories of Maz and I on the train flood my brain. We were talking and something he said upset me. My hands started to shake and then everything shattered. But it makes no sense. Why would I hurt myself? It’s the same with the storm, why would I do that?

  I roll onto my stomach and kick my sandals to the floor. If my mother knows where I am, and she truly sent Annalise and Callum after me, how long before she has the State all over Summer Hill? What will happen if she publically accuses Beck’s parents of kidnapping me? It would be a great reason to expose them as Sensitives—especially if she hates them as Beck claims.

  Which raises the question—why am I still here? The Channings know about the threat I pose to Beck, and Eamon clearly doesn’t like me. So why haven’t I been tossed right back into the snow?

  With a sigh, I rub my face into my pillow. Our birthday. All my life, I’ve loved that day. But now it hangs over my head like a time bomb, tick tick ticking away the weeks until I—what? Kill Beck?

  But it’s my life, so I must be able to control some aspect of it, right?

  Except, Beck said the adults have been working on it for years and they still don’t have a solution. The seriousness of the situation crushes me—it’s completely unfair. I didn’t ask for any of this and I don’t want it. My fists strike the hard headboard until pain radiates along my arm.

  And that’s when it hits me.

  Something seems off.

  I stare at the bed. It’s a normal bed with a blue and white bird-motif on the coverlet. Just a normal twin-sized bed, but there’s only one.

  Only one.

  This is just my room. Beck is sleeping elsewhere. A solid knot anchors in my stomach. Did he have his things moved? Or were they never here?

  From below, Bethina’s rhythmic voice calls my name. “Lark? I need you to come down here.”

  I don’t feel like seeing anyone. But habits are hard to break, and all my life, I’ve been obedient. “Coming!”

  I kick the offending bed. It doesn’t make me feel any better. Showering can wait, but I need something clean to wear. I feel gross. Inside the trunk closest me, I find a white sundress with a purple sash and throw it on. A quick peek in the mirror to smooth my hair, and I’m ready.

  The stairs moan under my weight like the sad soundtrack of my mood—each creak underscoring my increasingly sullen and confused state.

  Bethina waits for me at the bottom. The normal light in her eye, vanquished. Like seeing me pains her.

  “The Channings want to speak with you.”

  I glance at the parlor room doors. From the other side, I hear hushed voices and the clinking of ice cubes. Bethina motions for me to follow her into the front room, and I do.

  If the hallway is like a photo gallery, this place is like a mausoleum. The walls are covered in life-sized paintings of people I assume are long dead based on their fashions. It’s creepy, like they’re all staring down at me and disapprove of what they see.

  “Sit down, Lark,” Mrs. Channing says, pointing to a weird square chair opposite of her.

  I struggle to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy chair and am half-tempted to forgo the pile of rocks for the floor. What did they stuff these antique things with?

  Bethina stands next to me, her hand on my shoulder. “Would anyone like a drink?”

  “A Scotch, if you please,” Mr. Channing says. The rest of us ignore each other.

  Bethina places her palms together and a serving tray appears on the coffee table. Like instantaneously. I blink and absorb the fact that I did, actually, just see my caregiver make something materialize out of thin air.

  “I’ll let you talk.” Bethina hands Mr. Channing his Scotch before striding out of the room and pulling the French doors shut behind her.

  The oversized chair dwarfs me. My feet dangle off the edge and my right sandal falls to the ground. I don’t retrieve it, instead I fold my hands in my lap and count how many times my legs swing back and forth.

  For several long minutes, no one says anything. I feel a bit like a caged animal the way Mrs. Channing stares at me. She tilts her head, a gesture I now recognize, and closes her eyes as if concentrating.

  My eyes roam around the room, past the antique furniture and paintings. There’s a fireplace—something the State frowns on because it pollutes the air—and several cases stuffed with old-fashioned paper books. A well-stocked bar sits off to my left. Curiously, in the spot where the wall screen has always been, is Mr. Channing’s old coin collection - perfectly organized and mounted to the wall.

  “Where’s the wall screen?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  Mrs. Channing opens her eye
s and says, evenly, “They have all been removed. We think it’s best if, while you’re here, you focus on your studies. Besides, we don’t need wall screens to know what’s going on in the world. We can use magic for that.”

  “How?”

  Mrs. Channing gives me a cold smile. “That’s of no concern to you”

  And that’s that. They’ve effectively cut me off from the outside world. No wristlet. No wall screen. Nothing.

  “While you are here, you will abide by a few rules,” Mr. Channing says. “And in return, we’ll provide you with training, to help you learn to use your magic in an appropriate way.”

  “So you’re letting me stay? Even though it’s dangerous for Beck to be around me?”

  “You are an untrained Dark witch. It’s in our best interest to help you learn to control yourself,” Mrs. Channing replies.

  Flutters of hope build in my chest. Maybe I can be fixed. Why else would the Channings insist on training me, if not to save their son?

  “The rules are simple. First, you will not leave Summer Hill. We have strict security features in place, such as the dome, and letting you roam around on your own is simply too dangerous,” he says.

  “Okay,” I mutter. It’s not like I have many options.

  “You will also adhere to a strict schedule. You will have classes all day, with breaks for lunch and dinner. You will not miss these classes.”

  Since I’ve never intentionally missed a class in my life, this shouldn’t be hard. Plus, if the only way I can save Beck is to learn how to use magic, I’ll gladly sign up for extra classes. “Absolutely.”

  My eyes move to the picture directly behind Mrs. Channing. It’s a man and woman, obviously a couple from the way his arm encircles her waist and he gazes down at her. But it’s her eyes that catch my attention.

  “Who are they?” I ask, pointing at the picture.

  Mrs. Channing knits her brow together and turns her head. “Miles and Lucy—Patrick’s great-great-grandparents and Charles Channing’s parents.”

  I study the picture with more interest. “Her eyes look like Beck’s. And mine. Was my father related to them, too?” I ask, remembering that Bethina said my father descended from a lesser Light line.

  Mr. Channing chuckles. “Well, I suppose he could have been. But Sebb was most likely a distant cousin. He certainly was not a direct descendant of Charles Channing.”

  Sebb. My father’s name was Sebb. I’d never heard it before and let it roll around in my mind. Sebb. Other than Bethina, during her radical reteaching of Society history, no one’s ever spoken of him to me before. “Is Sebb short for something?”

  “Sebastian,” Mrs. Channing says. “And your father was a fool to bind himself to Malin, so don’t go getting any romantic notions about him.”

  Beneath my calm façade, irritation pricks at me. Does she have to be so nasty? I bite my lip and narrow my eyes in her direction. A thump against my chest pushes me back against my chair.

  No one’s touched me, and yet, I can’t seem to move. Or even allow myself to feel anything other than…complacency.

  “As we were saying,” Mrs. Channing continues, “in addition to classes, you will be encased at all times.” She enunciates the word ‘encased’ like I should understand. “And because of your tantrum earlier, and my dining room chairs, we will be tightening it. Can’t have any more mishaps.”

  My fingers rub at the little fibers of my sash until the friction burns. “Encased? I don’t know what that is.”

  Her lips stretch into a soft smile. “You must know we’d never allow anything to harm Beck.”

  I understand. I’m a threat. Underneath her pleasant demeanor, Mrs. Channing is frightened of me—just like Callum and Annalise.

  “I don’t want to hurt Beck. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Her smooth voice is patronizing. “But when you arrived, you were in a state. Breaking windows, causing a mini-earthquake, and destroying my house.”

  I stammer, “I caused an earthquake?”

  “Beck didn’t tell you?” Mr. Channing interjects. “Left out the good parts, did he?” He winks at me.

  Here he sits with his son’s mate, who may or may not kill said son, and Mr. Channing winks? The whole conversation makes my skin crawl. My eyes flit instinctively to the door. I want to run from this room. I don’t want to be here anymore.

  Mrs. Channing scowls at him. “Really, Patrick, is that necessary?”

  She directs her attention back to me. “We will do everything and anything to protect Beck. That’s why the encasing is necessary. We need to be sure that while you are here, learning, you can cause no harm with your out-of-control magic.” She pauses and considers her next words carefully. “The encasing acts like a buffer, so to speak, and helps keep your magic in check. Since you’ve never used magic before, it’s a precaution we must take.”

  I scrunch up my toes. The encasing seems like a good idea, considering what I did in the dining room. Plus, I haven’t had seven years of clandestine practices, like some people I know.

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I repeat.

  The other sandal hangs off my foot and I shake it loose. It lands with a soft thud and I lift my eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Channing watch me closely as if expecting something more to happen.

  No one says anything. We just sit in the shadow of Beck’s ancestors, staring at each other and listening to the ice cubes rattle around Mr. Channing’s glass. Sip. Clink. Rattle, rattle, shake, sip.

  The memory of Beck sitting under the tree, wanting me to tell him I care for him, stabs at my heart. I’ve already hurt him, more than I ever meant to. Tears well in my eyes, but I hold them back. I gather myself and wipe my face blank. I can’t let them see me upset.

  Mr. Channing waves his hand and a tissue appears in my lap. “There now, Lark. There’s no need to worry. We’re doing this to protect you as much as Beck.”

  I’ve always liked the Channings. The few visits Beck and I had here were filled with scavenger hunts, raucous family meals and fun. Seeing them worried about their son, knowing it’s my fault, is difficult. I don’t want this burden.

  “There is one more thing,” Mrs. Channing says curtly.

  Shouting from the hallway causes all three of our heads to turn. A body bumps against the French doors. Another bump and they burst open to reveal Beck and another man, who I can’t see, arguing. At the sight of us, Beck holds up his hand to silence the other man, who complies.

  “Beck?” Mr. Channing demands. “What are you doing there?”

  “Nothing.” He steps out of the room, and the door slams shut.

  Mr. and Mrs. Channing exchange a worried look. Mrs. Channing rises from her chair and walks the length of the room. She stops to adjust some flowers in a vase, but I can tell by her rigid posture that she’s tense. It’s a ploy—an attempt to hide her concern.

  Her slow trek gives me time to process the information about the encasing. My magic is wrapped up tight. No longer subject to my lack of control and safe to everyone around me. A thought dawns on me.

  Mrs. Channing pauses before opening the door. The hallway is empty. At least from where I sit, it appears empty. I assume she sees nothing because she closes the door and returns to her chair.

  “Mrs. Channing, does the encasing do anything else?”

  She stiffens. “It keeps you calm.”

  I stare at her hard. Beneath my dress, my heart thumps rhythmically. The sound of pumping blood rushes through my veins and fills my ears. She tries to look away but can’t.

  “And?”

  “It prevents you from expressing strong emotions, since those emotions, combined with untrained magic, can cause harm.” She breaks my gaze.

  She must be wrong. I’ve expressed strong emotion just this morning on the lawn with Eamon. Of course, I didn’t actually do anything, but I wanted to. My eyes grow wide as I understand what’s happened. I couldn’t do anything. Just like I
couldn’t tell Beck how I feel.

  “Like…” I hesitate. “Love?” I ask, wanting to prove my theory.

  “That’s irrelevant. You’re Dark and incapable of love.”

  A cold numbness spreads through my body and works its way into my heart. I gape at her in disbelief. “Incapable of love?”

  The numbness gives way to rage. I place one foot on the ground, then the other. My body vibrates as I stand. Mrs. Channing stares at me with disbelief and panic. With small, deliberate steps I move closer to her chair until I’m standing over her. Mr. Channing doesn’t move. His hand and glass are suspended inches from his mouth.

  “Why do you think I left home? Why do you think I’m agreeing to your rules?” I pound my fist on the arm of her chair. The rhythm matches the speed of blood charging around my body. “Because Beck is the only thing I care about.”

  “Care, but not love. Don’t claim the impossible,” she says.

  I lean over Mrs. Channing and rest my hands on either side of her. My face is just inches from hers, but she doesn’t cower.

  Her dagger-like eyes cut into me. “Oh, I’m sure you have your own little way of loving, but it’s not real love, Lark. You need to understand that—what you feel for Beck isn’t real love. And it never will be.”

  A low hum fills my ears. I want to lash out but can’t. The energy pushes against my chest harder and harder, trying to escape. I double over, gasping.

  Under the tree, I wanted to tell him how much he means to me. But I couldn’t. In our room, that last day, I wanted him to kiss me. I know I did. The way he makes me blush, the peace I feel when he’s near me. Aren’t those things love?

  Mrs. Channing exhales slowly, her eyes hard. She senses my energy.

  Like when I first arrived at Summer Hill, a strong gust of wind—magic, probably—hits me, and the energy evaporates. The noise of the room rushes back into my ears and the blood flows slow and steady around my body. Calm.

  “Don’t forget, little girl, I’m still in charge here.” Mrs. Channing’s fingers dig into the arm of her chair and she squares her shoulders to me.

  Mr. Channing throws his head back and drains the drink. “The only way we can keep Beck safe is to keep him away from you. If he doubts your feelings, it will be easier for him to let you go when the time comes.”

  I step back from Mrs. Channing’s chair and she runs to her husband, like a frightened child. Her threats mean nothing.

  “Let me go? Where I am I going to go? I know I can’t be around Beck, but where am I supposed to go?” My voice cracks. “Bethina’s here, Beck’s here. I can’t go back to school.”

  I hang my head and squeeze my eyes shut. The room is silent except for the rushing sound of energy filling my body.

  When I open my eyes, Mrs. Channing grabs her husband’s arm and stumbles to the left. “Patrick,” she begins, but stops.

  I narrow my eyes and focus on how she’s annoying me. Why is she being so unfair?

  Mrs. Channing presses her long fingers to her eyebrows and moans in pain. Her body quivers. She turns toward me and then back toward her husband, as if trying to understand something.

  Heat floods my body in delicious, comforting waves and a million pricks of energy tingle in my fingertips.

  I splay my fingers and close them rapidly. The energy increases. Interesting.

  Mrs. Channing gasps.

  “Patrick.” Alarm fills her words. “She’s already stronger than we thought. We don’t have much time.”

  On cue, the parlor door swings open. Bethina walks across the room and takes my hand protectively.

  “Patrick, Margo, Lark needs rest. This is too much for anyone to digest in one sitting.” She guides me out of the room and toward the stairs. I don’t resist and the Channings don’t object.

  “Stay away from Beck,” Mrs. Channing shouts from the parlor. “Stay away from my son.”

  Bethina squeezes my hand in a familiar way. “Go lie down for a bit. Get some rest. You never get enough rest.”

  As I climb the stairs, Mrs. Channing’s hysterical voice drifts from the parlor. A smile forms on my lips and then a laugh escapes. I throw my hand over my mouth, trying to hide it.

  I shouldn’t be laughing. But I can’t help it. The sound pours out of me and echoes down the hallway.

   

  21

   

  The morning sun washes across my eyes. Like a cat, I stretch and roll into the warmest spot. I lie there a few minutes before kicking the duvet back.

  Did I make the right decision by coming to Summer Hill? These people—witches—fear me.

  And I don’t entirely trust them either.

  But what choice do I have? School is out of the question—I’ll just end up with Mother.

  Which leaves me here. Sitting in a room, in a house full of Light witches who don’t seem to like me but want me here for their own safety—and Beck’s.

  I have nothing. My mate is off limits and my friends are my supposed enemies—I think. Are the Dark witches on my side or not? Because Annalise wasn’t exactly friendly.

  And who knows what role Bethina plays in everything.

  I look over at where Beck’s bed should be. If I were still at school, I’d pester Beck until he woke up. Then I’d curl up in his arms and let his steady heartbeat drown out all the bad news of the past few days.

  He must be sleeping somewhere nearby. I can’t imagine the Channings forcing him to sleep in one of the outbuildings just to keep us apart. So, if he’s in the house, I could walk down the hallway and find his room.

  Except I may harm him.

  A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. Mrs. Channing sticks her head in my room. “Good morning, Lark,” she says smoothly with no hint of yesterday’s fear. “Did you sleep well?”

  I swallow a sarcastic reply. “I did. Thanks.”

  “Wonderful. Do you think you’ll be ready for breakfast in fifteen minutes? Your lessons start at nine—we need to make sure you get off on the right foot.”

  My head nods along in agreement with her words. “Sure. Where should I meet you?”

  “Breakfast is being served on the lawn today.” She gives me a strained smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

  So I guess that’s how it’s going to be. We’re all going to pretend they love having me here, while I’m to pretend they haven’t messed with my free will. Compromises.

  I dress quickly, in a hurry to be out of solitary confinement, and head toward the lawn.

  The bright, early morning sunlight blinds me momentarily and I squint. At first, only a few lone souls meander about, but within seconds, the lawn is alive with a crush of people. Like my welcoming party, these people seem to have appeared out of nowhere. The sun reflects off their vibrant, shimmering tunics, creating a rainbow of green, yellow, blue, red, and orange—the distinct colors of the Five Societies.

  This isn’t a small, local Gathering—the Channings have called on witches from across the globe. Which means this witch thing is bigger than I realized. 

  Their voices—laughing, singing, whispering—blend together and create a low hum. But even with that, I can hear the flap of bird wings, crickets chirping and the rustle of the grass. Everything seems amplified,more alive. Maybe my unchecked magic prevented me from seeing true beauty before?

  I move toward the breakfast line and it all stops.

  Dead silence.

  Every set of eyes latches onto me, and I shrink back toward the kitchen door. No one has to tell me I’m not wanted.

  “Lark?” Mrs. Channing calls cheerfully from buffet. “Are you coming?”

  Her voice breaks the other witches’ trance and they resume their activities. Maybe this isn’t a good idea and I should stay in the house. At least there people can’t ogle me with suspicion.

  Mrs. Channing motions with her hand. “Now or never, Lark.”

  As uncomfortable as I am, I’m also starving. And she has strawberries—my favorite.
>
  When I step off the porch, the witches nearest me retreat, like I’m toxic. Don’t let them see you upset. I steel myself against their disapproving glares and stroll, jaw clenched, to the front of the breakfast line. No one objects.

  After I fill my plate, I scan the crowd for Beck. But all I see are hostile faces watching my every move. I wonder if he’s still upset with me, or if he’s being kept from me. Doesn’t matter. Either way, he’s not here. And that’s probably a good thing…until I learn to control myself.

  With my shoulders sagging, I stop in front of an open seat.

  “Is this seat taken?” I ask the group of young witches.

   They keep their blond heads turned away from me as they gather their plates and leave. My breath shakes as I inhale and my lip trembles slightly. I’m acutely aware the witches sitting around me fall in two camps: Those who pretend I’m not here, and those who scowl and glare at me.

  I’d give anything to have Kyra with me right now. Or Maz. Who am I kidding? Even Ryker and Lina would be better than this.

  As I nibble away in isolation, I survey the massive tent village. It extends from the base of the hill, where the house sits, all the way to the edge of the forest, which leads down to the lake. There must be a thousand tents, easily.

  Judging from the flags fluttering on the tents, the village is divided into four quadrants—red and blue at the far back with yellow and orange closest me. Green—the color of our society—dominates the middle where the four corners touch.

   Unexpectedly, Mrs. Channing slides into the seat across from me. Sunlight glints off her emerald green dress. A quick glance at my own lavender sundress confirms its plainness.

  “Are you almost finished? You’re meeting with Dasha in ten minutes on the West Lawn.” She points toward the far side of the house.

  A group of young children stands off to our left, engaged in a rowdy conversation. The colors of their tunics mix together like a melting box of crayons. Suddenly, one of them darts past us, toward the breakfast line. The rest of them shout and cheer as he clears our table.

  They’re afraid of me, too.

  I frown at my plate.

  “Do you think she’ll be okay working with me?” The poor strawberries on my plate stand no chance against the sharp tines of my fork. I stab at them, smashing some and spearing others.

  “Dasha is excited to work with you. We all are,” Mrs. Channing says. I almost believe her. Almost.

   A flash of copper over her shoulder draws my attention. A pretty witch, not much older than me, watches us. She doesn’t even try to hide it when I stare back at her. Instead she flashes a wide smile and lifts her hand, fingers wide, in greeting.

  Well, that’s…different.

  “You’ll like her. She’s an expert in her field.” Mrs. Channing draws me back into our conversation.

  “Great!” I feign enthusiasm. No one has ever accused me of being a bad student, and I’m not going to let them start now. I glance over Mrs. Channing’s shoulder again, but the young witch is gone. “Guess I should head over.” I scoop up my plate, and without waiting for a response from Mrs. Channing, stand up.

  She touches my arm. “Give me a moment.”

  There’s a softness in her voice that wasn’t present yesterday. I wait but don’t sit down.    

  She sighs. “I’m sorry about my behavior yesterday. It wasn’t fair of me to expect you to not become upset. Perhaps I let my fear get the best of me, but you did destroy my home.”

  Her words sound like the Mrs. Channing I’ve always known. But something feels wrong, forced. My eyes taper into two thin slits.

  “I’ve always liked you, Lark, even though I’ve known who you truly are since the day you were born.” She trails off. “There are many people who don’t care for you. Please be careful.”

  And then she’s gone. The seat she occupied, empty. I swivel my head around, looking for her, but it’s no use.

  Well, it wasn’t a big revelation. The huge empty space around me is a good indicator of my popularity.

  Not wanting to draw more attention to myself, I slink along the edge of the lawn—away from the parting sea of witches—toward the back of the house.

  A few cheerful bars of Alouette follow me as I walk and I hum along, trying to remember the words. Something like:

  Alouette gentille Alouette

  Alouette JT plummery

  Or something like that. I don’t remember much. Ms. Jensen would be upset.

  Maybe it’s my imagination but people trail after me. They keep well back, probably just in case I go crazy and fling some Dark magic at them or something.

  A nagging voice, deep inside me, screams for me to run. That this is a perfect opportunity for me to get the heck out of here. That if I left now, Beck would be safe and I’d be…what? What would I be?

  Still alone. That’s what.

  Dasha, or at least who I suspect to be Dasha, waits for me in the middle of the large lawn. She’s facing the tent village and fidgeting with gold bangles that cover her arms from wrist to elbow, obscuring the sleeves of her red dress.

  “Dasha?”

  She jumps. And screams.

  “Oh my. I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I—you—I wasn’t expecting you from that direction.”

  The bangles on her arms clank.

  “I’m so sorry.” This isn’t a good start. “Really. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to avoid all that.” I point to the throng of witches filling the East Lawn.

  She swallows visibly. Mrs. Channing lied. Dasha, like everyone else, is terrified of me. I wonder how she had this job forced on her.

  “Well, now. Shall we start?” She speaks formally, like a States Person, but there’s a hint of a slight accent. One I can’t place but have heard before. The jangling of her bracelets lessens as she moves her mouth into a tight line and waits for me to answer.

  I want to learn. I really do. And I want her to like me. “Sure.” I give a bright, eager smile. “Are you from the North?” I ask, trying to put her at ease.

  Dasha presses her lips together. “That is irrelevant. You are here to learn.”

  Well, okay then. At least we agree on that. “What are you going to teach me?”

  Her body relaxes but she gives a tense smile in return. “I’m an expert in movement. My job is to teach you how to transport between locations by thought alone. It’s the first thing young witches learn—control over their physical being.”

  “Really?” I can’t hide my enthusiasm. That sounds amazing.

  “Yes. Now, if you will. Simply focus on your destination.” She points to a tree across the way. “Let’s start with that tree. You need to clear your mind, and focus on your body moving, can you do that?”

  “That’s it? No magic words or anything?”

  “Lark, that is undignified. We don’t speak gibberish.”

  I suck on my lip. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I don’t know anything about magic. You’re my first teacher.”

  “I am aware of that. But it doesn’t mean I’ll allow that kind of behavior.” She gives me a displeased look, reminiscent of Mr. Proctor. “Now, clear your mind and focus on moving your body to that tree.”

  That doesn’t sound easy. “Can you show me first?”

  Dasha dips her head and with a faint rustle, disappears. A second later, she’s standing near the tree.

  That sound. It’s the same one I heard the day Beck and I confronted the Sensitives at school. No wonder the alarms didn’t sound—the school barricade is useless, and if Bethina’s telling me the truth, some members of State knew. It was all a sham.

   “Your turn.”

  I have no idea what she did. I close my eyes and push all thoughts, except for the tree, out of my mind. I squeeze my eyes tighter and imagine myself standing near the tree. Nothing.

  The rustling sound again. I open my eyes to find we’ve been joined by a group of maybe two dozen witches. They’ve formed two lines, flan
king Dasha and me on each side, and face each other.

  Unsure what to do, I lift my hand and say, in my most nonthreatening voice, “Hello.”

  “Killer,” one of them—a boy of about thirteen—hisses.

  I freeze mid-step and focus on him. “Are you talking to me?”

  A few snickers. The boy stares past me, not willing to meet my gaze. “You killed my mother. At your fancy school.”

  My breath catches and my knees wobble. I killed this boy’s mother. Even if it was an accident and in self-defense. “I’m-”

  “Sorry?” he asks in disbelief. “You’re not. You would kill all of us, if given the chance.”

  I shake my head. “No. You don’t understand. She threatened me.”

  The boy lifts his eyes. Unshed tears glisten in his eyes. An older woman lays her arm across his shoulders and he buries his head into her armpit. A long, low sob fills the air.

  I killed his mother.

  More than ever, I want to disappear. And transporting seems like my best option at the moment. I close my eyes and focus on moving as far from this boy—and these other witches—as possible.

  I concentrate on the tree and do exactly what Dasha said. But nothing. I’m still standing in the same spot.

  Dasha appears next to me. “Are you trying? Or is this a big game to you? Movement should be easy with your capabilities.”

  Someone in the crowd attempts to cover up their laugh with a cough. Great. Not only am I failing, I’m doing it front of an audience.

  “Of course I’m trying! I have no idea what you did. It’s not like you explained it or anything.” Anger boils inside me.

  “Try again. Failure is not an option.” She takes a step back from me. “Focus your mind, Lark. You can do this.”

  The anger seeps through my brain. I’m not sure if I’m mad at Dasha for accusing me of not trying or myself for incompetence. With a deep breath, I clear all my hostile thoughts and focus on the tree.

  The air rushes over my skin. A small movement and then a horrible, searing pain as I smack into an invisible barrier. I crumple on the ground a good ten feet from the tree. Blood clogs my throat and runs down my face.

  “Oh my!” Dasha leans over me but doesn’t touch me. “What happened?”

  I try to answer but blood pours down my throat and I gag. Unfamiliar faces lean over me to get a better look at my injuries.

  I hear someone say, “That’s what she gets.”

  No one offers to help me. And why would they? They hate me.

  And then a man’s velvety voice says, “Perhaps I can help?”

  “Oh thank the stars! Eamon.” Dasha’s voice darts between fear and concern. “I don’t know what happened. She seemed to be doing fine and then this!” She says ‘this’ as if I planned to cause myself bodily harm.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced,” he says to me. “Eamon Winchell, healer.” He tugs on his red tunic. “Member of the Northern society.”

  A healer. Right now, I don’t care who he is, along as he can make the throbbing pain stop.

  Eamon bends and examines my nose without touching me. The bronze highlights in his hair shimmer and I try to concentrate on that as he holds his hand inches above my body. “Your arm is broken. And your nose, too.”

  Dasha wrings her hands. “Can you fix it? Please say you can fix it.”

  “Not a problem.” His blue eyes rest on my face. “I’m going to touch you. Don’t move.”

  I lean to the side and vomit blood. Stinging tears well in my eyes. “I’ll try.”

  “Give us room,” he says to the crowd and they immediately back up. Eamon places his hand on my arm. Under his touch, pressure builds until a snapping sensation takes over. My bone vibrates, mending itself. He watches me closely.

   “Don’t move or I’ll have to re-break it.” His lips twitch into a smile before pressing together.

  I focus on my breathing. In and out. In and out. The vibrating shakes my arm, shoulder, and torso in an uncomfortable but not painful way. It’s hard to stay still with my body shaking uncontrollably.

  Eamon lifts his hand. “Can you bend it? Does it hurt?”

  Gently, I lift my arm. It feels fine. As if nothing happened. I whip my head up to thank him and am overcome with nausea as blood pours down my throat again.

  “Your nose is going to be harder.” He leans in close to me and places his hands on my cheeks. “You must hold still, no matter what. We don’t want to ruin your pretty face.”

  “Eamon,” Dasha interrupts. “Should I get Margo? Let her know what happened?”

  “Yes. But tell her Lark is fine.”

  Dasha disappears.

  “Now. Let’s see.” Eamon’s eyes glare at me, full of hate.

  I instinctively pull away from him.

  “Now, now Alouette. No need to be difficult.” He mockingly slaps my cheek. Pain shoots through my nose and into my eyes. More laughing from the group around us.

  Through clenched teeth, I sputter, “My name is Lark.”

  “Alouette. Lark. C’est la même chose,” he says, his voice like honey as speaks the official language of the nearly non-existent Northern Society—one I don’t understand but recognize. “You still need to be a good patient and listen to what I tell you. Never know what will happen if you don’t.”

  I tense. “You don’t like me.”

  “No one said I had to like you. I just have to do my job.” His hand glides over my nose and the bleeding stops. A flick of his wrist and pain ripples through my head. I scream and cover my face with my hands, in an effort to block whatever he’s doing to me.

  “Move your hands or I can’t fix it.”

  I grit my teeth and lower my hands, prepared to cover my face again if the pain returns. I can’t open my eyes, but I feel Eamon’s breath as he leans over me. A strong vibration runs through my cheeks and nose, but this time it doesn’t hurt.

  I open my eyes as he stands up. Behind Eamon, Dasha and Mrs. Channing appear. There’s no sign of the other witches who surrounded us just moments ago. And still no Beck. It’s like he’s vanished and left me here all alone.

  Mrs. Channing blanches. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re covered in blood.” She turns to Eamon. “Thank you, Eamon. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  He tilts his head at the women and disappears, leaving nothing behind but a faint rustling sound and a cold lump in my chest.

   

  22

   

  Time passes quickly at Summer Hill. The days slip away, bringing us closer to October and mine and Beck’s birthday. Closer to whatever’s waiting for us. Days I can never get back.

  This morning I’m supposed to work with Eloise. I’ve given up on seeing Beck. Either the Channings really are keeping us separated, or like everyone else, he’s afraid of me. I want to believe it’s the first reason.

  As I cross the expansive South Lawn to my next lesson, I’m not sure what to expect. After my experiences with Dasha and several other teachers, I’m not optimistic about my lessons. I’m either too hopeless to learn magic or my teachers are too afraid of me. Regardless, when it comes to magic, I’m a miserable failure.

  All I want right now is to learn how to control myself. Maybe that will be enough to keep Beck safe and me from falling deeper into darkness. I really don’t know since no one’s told me anything and I haven’t been able to find Bethina. My stomach knots at the thought of her abandoning me here. Surely she wouldn’t do that?

  The sun moves higher in the sky and its unrelenting rays beat on me. Other than the ever-present crickets and butterflies, there’s no one here.

  Huh, maybe I’m in the wrong place. I scan the field one more time and then turn to head back toward the house. Mrs. Channing will know where I’m supposed to be.

  A faint rustle causes me to turn. I recognize the sound of a witch materializing near me.

  Crouched low in the swaying grass is the copper-haired witch,
the one who waved at me during breakfast last week. In the sunlight, her wavy hair shimmers like the vintage pennies Mr. Channing collects and displays in little glass boxes on the walls.

  “Oh, heya, Lark.” She stands and dusts her hands on her short—like barely-covering-her short—skirt. Kyra would love it. “I’m sorry I’m late. I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”

  She offers me her hand in greeting.

  I stare at it. Is this a trick? Surely she can’t be that comfortable around me. No one is. She waits, her big eyes friendly.

  Everything about her reminds me of Kyra. Not in looks, but in bubbliness. Loneliness gnaws at me—what I wouldn’t give to have Kyra here right now. She’d have a thing or two to say about my current situation, I’m sure, and I’d love to see Mrs. Channing take her on. Kyra can wear anyone down.

  I hesitantly accept Eloise’s greeting and shake her hand.

  “Sorry, it took me a lot longer to repair the dome than I thought it would.” She has the same faint accent as Eamon and I wonder if they’re friends.

  Eloise flings herself back into the grass, her fingers point upward. “See up there?”

  I squint, my head tilted back, looking for what she sees.

  “It was getting weak and the Channings were worried that it may not hold out the Dark witches. But I took care of it.” Her lilting voice is full of pride.

   My mind races with that information. There are Dark witches on the other side?

  I stare upward, but see nothing except bright blue sky. They’re out there. Waiting. That can’t be good.

  “Yeah, can’t have Dark witches mixing with Light witches, you know,” I say, half-joking, but more serious.

  “You’re funny.” Eloise laughs and shakes her head. “So, what do you want to do first? Protection charms, weather enchantments, you name it, we’ll do it.” Her smile extends from ear to ear and seems genuine. I can’t help but smile back, not just because she’s so likeable, but because I miss having someone to smile with.

  My heart drops. If Beck were here, I’d have someone. “Well, since I can’t really seem to do anything, why don’t you pick something and I’ll give it a try.”

  Eloise rubs her hands together, like she’s warming up and then closes her eyes tight. She’s quiet for a moment and I wonder if I’m supposed to do the same.

  “I know!” she says suddenly. “Beck told me you can manipulate weather. Let’s give that a try.”

  She stands on her toes and reaches both hands over her head. With measured steps, she turns in a silent slow dance. Her face is blank and her blue-gray eyes fix on a spot in the distance. Eloise’s tiny body vibrates and blurs in front of me.

  “And voila.” She makes a grand flourish in my direction. “What do you think? Wanna try?”

  I look around and try to figure out what she did. The sun looks the same, perhaps a bit higher, but still bright in the sky. I feel no wind and see no snow.

  “Ummm, Eloise? What did you do?”

  She laughs, a soft trilling sound, and points beyond the house. In the distance I see not one rainbow but two, interlinked and forming an ‘m’ shape.

  “That is no small feat on a sunny day like today.”

  Rainbows. This much-too-pretty witch wants me to create a rainbow? What a waste of time. I laugh out loud at the absurdity.

  “That’s great and all. But apparently I can cause earthquakes, storms, blizzards—powerful, destructive stuff. I don’t see how playing with rainbows is going to help me.”

  To my surprise, she’s nonplussed. “Oh, it’s completely relevant, Lark. Really. You just need to be able to feel where your power comes from. Once you can do that, you’ll be able to better control it. That’s what we’ve all been trying to teach you.”

  I’m not sure how moving around by thought or inventing rainbows or any of the other lessons I’ve been subjected to achieve this. But what do I know?

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” I frown. “Beck told me Dark witches draw power from fear and anger.”

  “Each of us have a different way of accessing our power. For me, it’s something happy, like dancing.” She pirouettes. “Do you know what yours is?”

  “I think the main problem is I wasn’t aware of what I was doing when I used my powers.”

  She crosses her arms. “Maybe you should think about what was happening. Maybe that will give you a clue.”

  The desire to be a good student surfaces. If I can figure out how to control this power, than maybe I can keep Beck safe. With a deep breath, I channel my concentration.

  I was trying to get to Beck.

  My heart whirls.

  I was angry that they were keeping him from me.

  A sharp pulse stabs me.

  I have to stay away from him.

  There’s an intense pull, deep inside me, and then it’s gone. My heart slows to normal and I fall forward, landing on my hands and knees. My breath exits my lungs in one giant whoosh—I didn’t realize I had been holding it.

  “Interesting.” Eloise crouches next to me. She offers me her hand and helps me up. “What were you thinking about?”

  I smooth my dress and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Beck. Or rather, how angry I am about Beck being kept from me.”

  She tilts her head and looks up toward the sky. “Were you concerned or worried about him?”

  “I guess so, why?”

  Her eyes wander over toward the East Lawn. Even from this distance, I can see Beck playing a chasing game with his younger sister, Bea. Her blond braids move in opposite directions as she dodges past him.

  My pulse races and I start walking through the shorter meadow grass toward him—not caring about the promise I made to the Channings.

  A loose group of witches surrounds him and he says something, which apparently is funny, because they all start laughing. Beck grabs Bea and tickles her. Her shrieks and laughs drown out all other noises.

  Well, isn’t that nice? He’s off having fun and I’m stuck getting my nose broken and being treated like a dangerous criminal.

  I’m halfway across the lawn when something invisible yanks me back. I struggle against it, pushing back, but its grip tightens until I double over and gasp for breath.

  Eloise jogs to my side and helps me up. “You okay?”

  I don’t answer. My eyes narrow into slits. A girl stands next to Beck, her glossy, golden hair blows in the light breeze.

  “Who’s that?” I don’t disguise my jealousy.

  “Oh, her. That’s Quinn. She’s an amazing singer.” Eloise twists her hair into a loose bun.

  “Really?” A small, hot mass lodges itself in my heart. This girl, Quinn the great singer, is standing too close to Beck. I clench my fists. Quinn laughs and reaches out to touch him. When her hand brushes his back, she jumps back as if shocked. Unaware, Beck continues playing with Bea.

  Eloise squeals in delight. “You did that, didn’t you?”

  I shrug.

  “Oh, yes you did!” She puts her hand up, waiting for a high-five.

  I ignore Eloise and try calming myself by rubbing my pendant. The hatred toward Quinn lingers, so I turn my back on the scene across the lawn and ball my fists against my thighs. You’re stronger than this, Lark. You don’t need to give into these emotions.

  Shame floods my conscience. “You think that’s a good thing? What kind of teacher are you? I hurt that girl!”

  Eloise draws her eyebrows together and tiny wrinkles appear between her eyes. “Okay, so what would you say if I told you I invented Quinn? That only we could see her?”

  “You what?” I look back at Beck and his group. Quinn stands in the same place, not moving. No one pays her any attention, even though she’s now in the middle of some sort of raucous ball game. My mouth hangs open. I somehow affected Eloise’s power. Even though I’m encased and supposedly not able to hurt people, I did. Or maybe my power only works on imaginary people? Huh.

  “Why would you do
that?” I ask.

  “I needed to see how you worked.” She arranges herself in the grass, legs tucked to her side. Eloise pats the ground next to her. “Come sit with me.”

  I hesitate, unsure if I should trust her. She did just manipulate me into hurting someone—even if that person was a figment of our imaginations.

  “Did Beck give you that?” At the mention of his name, I look back toward the spot where he’d been playing with Bea. They’ve moved off further toward the village and I watch them disappear into the tents.

  “What?”

  She motions to her chest. My necklace. Again with the necklace. “Why is everyone so interested in it?”  

  “It’s his token. It means he likes you.” She pats the ground again and waits for me.

  I must look confused because Eloise laughs. “He likes you and when you walk around with it on, everyone knows what it means—he’s devoted to you.” She raises her eyebrows in a conspiratorial way. “It’s driving his parents, and some of the others, crazy.”

  “Well, in that case, I’m never going to take it off.”

  Eloise giggles. “Now that’s the spirit.”

  Her kindness toward me is strange and I almost feel like a normal girl again. Almost. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “You’re not afraid of me?”

  There’s no way to take it back, but Eloise doesn’t seem to find the question strange. “Of course not. You’ve got a lot of spark.”

  “You mean that in a good way, right? Not like I’m going to start a fire or something.”

  “Oh, absolutely!” Eloise pats the ground again and I sit next to her. A little flutter works its way around my stomach. I have a friend, finally.

  Eloise lies back in the grass and looks up at the sky, or rather, the dome. “I wouldn’t worry about Beck. He’s devoted to you. In fact, he gave us a few problems during the encasing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She holds a dandelion puff to her lips and blows, scattering the white fibers across her prone torso. “That night on the lawn, when they encased you, it took every Light witch around to perform the spell.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.” Eloise chuckles and props up on her elbows, a glint in her eye. “Beck kept blocking us. It took a while for us to understand what was happening—we all thought it was you—but once we did, we were able to encase you fairly quickly.”

  Well, well, well. Eloise is a source of information. Maybe my new friend isn’t a bad teacher after all.

  “Why would he do that? And how?” He must already be very strong to overcome a Gathering of so many witches.

  “The why isn’t hard. He’s very protective of you, if you haven’t noticed. In fact, I’ve never seen two people more hell-bent on looking out for one another. Even if it means…” She shrugs and lets me fill in the rest. What I hear is: Beck isn’t afraid of me. He doesn’t hate me. Relieved, I sigh.

  Eloise picks up a blade of grass and presses it between her fingers. When she opens her hand, it’s transformed into a small, white flower. She lets it drop to the ground.

  “How is a different thing all together. None of us could figure it out and he wasn’t talking. Bethina finally put the pieces in place. Looks like you guys have some weird thing going on.” She falls back into the grass.

  “And that would be…”

  Eloise rolls onto her stomach. Her skirt barely covers her as she swings her legs back in forth in the air. “There’s a part of his lightness embedded in you. That’s how he can calm you so easily.”

  Oh.” Warmth spreads through me. That sounds nice—I carry a piece of Beck around with me all the time. I like that. It doesn’t seem like a curse at all.

  The happiness doesn’t last long, maybe three seconds, before the full meaning sinks in. “Oh! So that means…”

  “You got it—he’s got a bit of your darkness wedged in him. Why do you think everyone’s panicked? If he can influence you, what can you do to him?”

  My spine stiffens. “Nothing! I wouldn’t!”

  “Maybe not now. But later. When will you be eighteen anyway?”

  “October seventh.”

  “Then that’s the big day. So far, Beck seems to be the stronger of you. He’s masked you for a long time and he’s good at it. But you’re getting stronger. Bethina doesn’t think Beck’s permanently stuck in you, anyway. She thinks you’re going to rip it out or something when you mature. Honestly, no one knows. ”

  She drops another white flower to the ground and a butterfly flits to it. Eloise gently lifts the butterfly and blows on it. It turns into a small, red apple. She tosses it to me and I catch it. I hope she isn’t expecting me to eat the used-to-be-a-butterfly.

  “Eloise, what if I don’t tear it out? What will happen?” I set the apple next to my leg.

  “That’s where we run into problems. The best I understand, it’s like Caitlyn and Charles, except you two aren’t twins.” She grabs the apple and takes a bite out of it, oblivious to the shocked look on my face.

  “Twins?” I process the word, remembering what Bethina told me, and blanch. “They were siblings—Beck and I are related?”

  Her eyes light up in surprise. “You mean you don’t know? What do they teach you at your fancy school?”

  “Apparently not accurate history.” My mind’s spinning. “Are you sure they were twins? Brother and sister?” The story Bethina told me my first day at Summer Hill was missing an important part.

  “Positive. I didn’t fail school, you know.” Eloise acts insulted. “You’re distantly related, five generations back or something. I’m not sure it even counts as being related.”

  Caitlyn and Charles were brother and sister. The Dark and the Light. But they were best friends, so what happened? Why do the two sides of our family hate each other?

  “Anyway,” Eloise continues. “The Gathering is convinced your magic will destroy Beck if you’re near him, even without the curse.”

  I’m not sure why it matters—the Channings and Greenes are cursed to fight to the death. What’s a little shared magic?

  I start to ask, but Eloise interrupts me. “If you’re permanently lodged inside him, you’ll either kill him or turn him Dark, too. You won’t even have to fight.” She shudders.

  “You’ll destroy him just like Caitlyn did to Charles.”

   

  23

   

  I run across the lawn, my head down. There are no tears—only a fog of confusion. I’m not paying attention, but my feet find the porch stairs and the front door slams behind me.

  If I don’t kill Beck because of the curse, then my stupid darkness will do it for me. No matter what I do. No matter how much magic I learn. I can’t fix this.

  What kind of monster am I?

  I scream, calling out Bethina and Mrs. Channing’s names. I need someone to explain this to me.

  The hard surfaces of the entryway amplify my shouts and they echo around me.

  Eloise is here. She paces back and forth, distraught, talking to me. “Lark, I thought you knew. I’m sorry.”

  “You thought I knew? What? That I can’t be fixed?” I point to myself. “Why do you think I’m doing all this?” My hands sweep around my head, as if to scoop up the room. “Because learning how to control myself was supposed to keep Beck safe!”

  Eloise cowers to the doorway but doesn’t leave me. My hands vibrate and I clench them into balls as I storm into the library hoping to find someone—Mr. and Mrs. Channing or Bethina—to explain everything to me. Not just bits and pieces, but the entire mess.

  The room’s empty. “Damn it. Where are they?”

  “Lark?” Eloise says gently.

  “What?” I snap.

  “Is there anything I can do for you? I want to help.” From the way she looks at me, I believe her.

  My mind spins. “Who cursed us? Why?”

  “Caitlyn.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. None of this makes
sense. Caitlyn cursed her brother?

  Eloise crosses the room and stops before a wall of books. She runs her hand down a row, plucks an oversized, leather-bound one from the shelf and says, “Why don’t we start here?”

  She holds the book out so that it faces me and I read the title The History of Witchcraft:The Salem Witch Trials Through the Founding of the Five Great Societies. I take it and place it on the desk. The outside feels brittle and delicate, and prone to disintegrating at any moment. In my life, I’ve never touched an antique book—most of my reading and research is done with my wristlet or regular book. I’m not exactly sure how to operate this relic.

  “Charles Channing,” I say to the pile of paper. “I want to know how he died.”      

  Eloise raises her eyebrows and opens to the back. “This is the index. You look up terms here and it will tell you the page number. It doesn’t speak to you and you can’t speak to it.”

  She places her finger on Charles’ name. Page 178. I pace next to the desk as Eloise flips the pages to the right one.

  “Here,” she says.

  I stop pacing and run my hand down the delicate paper.

   

  Charles Channing and his twin sister Caitlyn founded the Western society. While Caitlyn is generally credited as the first leader of the State, it was Charles who worked tirelessly behind the scenes to secure the Western Society’s borders and acted as Caitlyn’s most trusted advisor.

   

  Charles died at age 31. His health failed rapidly during the last years of his life. What role, if any, his twin sister Caitlyn played is unknown. But the circumstances of his death are eerily similar to those of Miles Channing, his father, who was bound to the last Dark witch of the Greene family, Lucy. Many suspect, over the course of their lives, Caitlyn and Charles drew repeatedly on each other’s powers, resulting in Caitlyn’s darkness slowly leaching all light from Charles and resulting in his death.

  See Caitlyn Greene, page 236

   

  Thirty-one. That would give me thirteen years to figure this out. More careful page turning until I get to Caitlyn’s page. I gloss over the beginning information until my eyes land on:

   

  At Charles’s urging, Caitlyn assumed her mother’s maiden name, Greene, as a symbol of unity between the Light and Dark witches. This allowed the Channing twins to pass themselves off as close friends to the non-witch population rather than siblings—a necessity for both to be elected to the newly formed Society council without raising suspicion amongst humans as to why one family remained virtually unharmed by the Long Winter. Subsequently, all Caitlyn’s female descendants have retained the last name Greene, even after binding.

   

  Huh. I’d never given it much thought before. I’d assumed we kept the name Greene so that people would know we were descended from a Founder.

  I skim to the middle.

   

  Witches, plagued by the genetic inability to produce more than two offspring, or mate successfully with humans, saw our numbers diminish after the Long Winter. To prevent our extinction, Caitlyn implemented the mating system which she presented to humans as a way to curb overpopulation and preserve limited natural resources. In actuality, Caitlyn’s purpose was to ensure the survival of the witch population by creating strong magic lines and limiting human breeding.

   

  Witches can only produce two children? That’s why the State has child limits? I read the words again and my stomach drops as I begin to understand. If the endless parade of the State-identified Sensitives on the wall screen are merely humans, and they’re forbidden from reproducing, then the State—or rather, the Dark witches who control State—are actively decreasing the number of humans.

  It’s a slow, generations-long genocide. And my mother oversees it. I gasp and throw my hand over my mouth. No wonder the Light witches hate her—she probably wants to do the same to them.

  “What is it?” Eloise asks. She stands at my side reading along with me.

  I shake my head. If she doesn’t know, I’m not going to say anything. I don’t need her to hate me too. “Nothing. It’s just surprising.”

  I run my finger along the paper. Its dry surface scratches my skin. At the end of the section I read:

   

  Shortly after Charles’s passing, Caitlyn, devastated, withdrew from society. Amid speculation put forward by the Channing branch of the family that she was responsible for her brother’s death, Caitlyn grew increasingly unstable. The result was her curse on the two sides of the Channing-Greene family—she wanted her accusers to suffer as she did.

                          See Channing Family, page 54

   

  Caitlyn cursed us? Fury builds in my chest. First she tries to save the witch population by keeping humans in check and then she curses her own family to kill each other? How could she be so selfish and shortsighted? Didn’t she care about ruining her descendants’ lives?

  I flip back and study Charles’s picture, taken not too long after the founding of the State. He grins back at me, his eyes hinting at mischievousness. He was so full of life and yet, just a few years later, he was dead.

  I rub my hand over my forehead. Maybe this is all a mistake—Beck and I aren’t twins, after all.

  But Miles and Lucy, my great-great-whatever grandparents, weren’t either, and he still ended up dead.

  A swell rolls under my feet and knocks me forward into the desk. I hear Eloise shriek, and then she’s down on the ground beside me.       

  “Did you do that?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.” And I don’t. I haven’t any idea of what I can do.

  The walls vibrate and the sconce nearest us crashes to the floor along with pieces of plaster.

  From outside, an ear-piercing wail blares through the air. It reminds me of the earthquake sirens at school.

  “What is that?” I yell over the noise.

  Eloise’s eyes widen. Confusion, then fear, and finally understanding moves across her face. She jumps to her feet. “Lark, c’mon. I need to get you somewhere safe.”

  She pulls me out of the room and down the hallway. The air around us crawls along my arms.

  “What’s happening?” I shout over the wail of the sirens.

  “It’s the alarm. We’re under attack.” Eloise shoves me into the parlor. “This is the safest place I can think of.” She doesn’t sound confident and her eyes race across the room to the far window.

  The paintings of Beck’s family have fallen off the wall and lie scattered about. Broken bottles and their spilt insides litter the area around the wet bar. But the scene is nothing compared to that on the lawn.

  Panic and terror mix into a blur of confusion as Light witches spin in circles, like they’re unsure where to cast their spells. They never take their eyes off the dome—even when the air shudders and the ground pitches beneath them.

  But it’s the vibrations of the spells and counter-spells that frighten me the most. They produce a roar unlike anything I’ve heard. It’s like a hundred trains raced through a tunnel, and the air forced out the other end of it was released into our sanctuary.

  Eloise runs to the window, throws it open and sticks her head out. “There,” she yells at me. “That’s the weak spot I patched this morning. If they don’t notice it, we should be okay.” She turns to me. Uncertainty shadows her face as the dome dips and caves.

  “Lark, listen to me.” Eloise paces in front of the window. “They wouldn’t sound the alarm if it wasn’t necessary. The Dark witches are trying to break through the dome.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “Is it my Mother?”

  Eloise shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know. But she can’t be happy about you being here.” She glances at the chaos outside. “I have to help them. You have to stay here, out of sight. Don’t move.”

  I nod. “Go.”

  Without a glance back, she r
uns for the door.

  I assume her place at the window. Witches cover the lawn, each one shaking and quivering as their magic tries to hold the bowing dome.

  I should be out there helping. The witches on the lawn are ready to fight. And if Eloise is right and Mother isn’t happy about me being here, then they’re attacking because of me. And what am I doing? Hiding in the house, unable to help. More of a problem than a solution.

  I can’t fight. I can’t help. I’m useless.

  The floor rocks like a boat at sea. My fingers reach for something, anything, to keep my balance.

  Rough hands grab me and slam my back into the wall. The window shatters and sprays glass around me. I choke, unable to draw air into my lungs.

  “Look what I found. A Dark witch on the loose.” Eamon’s face is inches from mine. His hot breath fans across my face. “I bet you want to be out there, helping them destroy us.” Two strong hands circle my wrists and yank them over my head, pinning me against the wall and his hipbone digs into my side as he presses against me.

  I turn my head from him. If I could move my leg, I’d knee him in the groin.

  Eamon’s lips graze my ear. “I don’t care what Bethina and Beck say, Alouette. You’re evil. Just like the rest of them.”

  “Stop calling me that,” I order. My voice is strong and confident. I am not afraid of Eamon—or his threats. Not this time. “My name is Lark.”

  His mouth is millimeters from mine and I can feel the movement of his lips as he sings: Alouette, gentille Alouette. Alouette je te plumerai. Je te plumerai la tete.

  On the last word, he steps back and slams me into the wall again. My head whips forward and lands with a dull thud against the wall. Stars dance in my eyes.

  “What do you think, little Lark? Shall I pluck your head? Or le cou?” His fingers trail down my neck and linger in the hollow, just above the pendant of my necklace. “Or perhaps le dos?” He wraps an arm around me and jams his hand against my back.

  How dare he touch me? I’ve done nothing. Energy tingles along my arms, rushing toward my heart.

  “Get your hands off me.” I cough. Pain shoots through my ribs and I wince.

  “What? You gonna hurt me?” Eamon sneers. “You can’t. I’ve seen you in training.” His hands grip my shoulders harder. Sharp fingernails dig through my thin shirt—I’m sure he’s drawn blood.

  He rips at my necklace. The links dig into my neck and the friction burns my skin. When it breaks, Eamon tosses it across the room. “You enjoy flaunting your power over him, don’t you?”

  A piercing stab in my temple. Then another, more intense. My body won’t move. It’s immune to my commands. Waves of energy build and begin pulsating, but they can’t escape.

  “See? You can’t do anything. Not even help those monsters out there. Do you really think we’d let that happen? That we’d let them have a weapon of destruction like you?”

  My body shudders. The energy pounds behind my eyes. It wants out but is trapped. My vision is gone.

  “Stop. Please.” My words should be lost to the din around us, but I know he hears.

  “I should kill you. It would solve everything.” His large hand reaches behind my head and pulls me close to him. The motion makes me dizzy in my blind state. “What do you say, should we end this? Save everyone?” His words are little more than snarls.

  I bite my lip. The metallic taste of blood works across my tongue. No. I’m not going to let Eamon hurt me. I pull my breath in sharp and focus on this piece of nothing in front of me. This animal who’s attacked me.

  I spit my words at him. “Take your hands off me.”

  And then he’s gone. I’m free.

  The house has stopped pitching. Everything is eerily quiet. Too quiet.

  The sound I hear next isn’t what I expect.

  “I won’t let anyone hurt her. Do you understand?”

  Beck.

  The stabbing in my temple eases. My sight is clouded, but I can see them. In front of me, Beck towers over Eamon.

  “Of course you won’t. You’re no better than she is, are you?”

  Beck’s fist strikes Eamon’s jaw and he stumbles backward. But Eamon only laughs. “That’s right, Beck, show me how angry you are. Show me how pissed you can be. Because that’s her, you know. She’s controlling you.”

  Beck lunges for him and lands a punch square in his gut.

  A twinge of delight ripples through me. Eamon deserves this.

  Beck grabs Eamon by the shoulders and throws him across the destroyed room. His body smashes into a toppled bookcase.

  A laugh threatens to leave my lips, but I swallow it. Beck’s head swivels toward me. His eyes flash a warning. A small, disapproving move of his head. It’s all I need to pull myself away from the emotion. Beck can feel my pleasure—he knows I want him to hurt Eamon. And it’s wrong.

  Sprawled on the broken bookcase, Eamon doesn’t stop. “Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to convince all of us how it’s in our best interest to accept their demands.” He pulls himself up and squares off with Beck.

  Beck charges and the two fall into the glass shards. They roll over each other, jockeying for the top position. Beck’s arms, face and neck bleed from deep cuts.

  “Beck,” I cry. “Stop. This is what he wants. You have to stop.” Beck has Eamon pinned beneath him. “Don’t do this.”

  Horror and regret fill my body. Beck ignores me and drives his fist into Eamon’s face over and over again. A sickening crack fills the air.

  I’ve never seen Beck like this. Out of control. Furious. I know Eamon’s right—Beck’s acting on my emotions and I need to stop him.

  A bright red stain spreads across Beck’s shirt. I lay my hand on it. “Beck, think. He isn’t worth it.”

  His body relaxes beneath my hand. A deep breath, and then he shoves Eamon down hard before standing up. His strong, bleeding arms reach for me and I fold into him.

  A burning runs down my spine. It’s not the same as the painful energy. It’s relief. The pain at my temple is gone.

  Behind me, Eamon stands. I refuse to face him.

  “I see how it is. You’d rather protect an evil bitch than fight to save the rest of us from them.” He points out the window at the shuddering dome. “She’s the enemy, Beck. The sooner you realize it, the better.”

  I hold my hand to Beck’s chest. “No, don’t,” I say when he tenses at Eamon’s words. “Let him go.”

  Eamon slides behind me and out the door as a large crack shakes the house. I tumble forward into Beck arms.

  Cool, calming air rushes back into my lungs. I tilt my head back and pull in another breath. “Please tell me that didn’t just happen. You didn’t pummel Eamon because you know I wanted it.”

  Beck’s eyes search my face. “Listen to me. Don’t tell anyone, do you understand? You can’t tell anyone what you suspect.”     

  “Suspect? I saw you, Beck. You don’t act like that.”

  He runs his hand over the back of my head until he finds the tender, swollen spot. “Are you okay?”

  “Me? I’m not the one who’s cut and bleeding. What were you thinking?” I shake my head at him.

  He kisses my forehead. “That’s the problem. I wasn’t.”

   

  24

   

  “I guess we can’t see the healer for these?” Beck flips his forearms over. Deep gashes ooze blood. The smaller cuts form a network of red lines across his arms and hands.

  The sirens are silent and the ground still. The battle must be over.

  “Bend down.” I lift his shirt over his head as gently as I can and examine his back. A large piece of glass is stuck in his skin. Over the years, I’ve watched Bethina administer medical care to my housemates. Even though I know it’s best to leave the glass in for now, I ask, “Do you want me to pull it out? I don’t have anything to stop the bleeding.”

  “Then let’s leave it. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as m
y hand. I think I broke a finger.”

  I touch his hand. Beck winces and yanks it away. “You broke more than your finger.”

  “Probably.”

  I rip his shirt in half and then half again. Beck raises an eyebrow at me. “Bandages. Not big enough for your back, but should work on your arms.”

  He nods.

  With a piece of the shirt, I dab at a cut on his arm. “Why didn’t you just use magic? Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

  “I’m not a bully, Lark.” He sees my confusion. “It was fairer this way.”

  “But he could have used magic on you. He could have really hurt you.” Latent worry creeps into my voice.

  Beck shrugs. “He tried.”

  He doesn’t need to say anything else. I understand. Eamon tried to use magic, but Beck blocked him. He’s stronger than I realized. Which means, underneath this encasing, my dark power may be too.

  When I finish bandaging him, Beck places both hands on my shoulders. “You’re missing something.”

  I scan the room, and then run my eyes over Beck’s bare chest. Even in his cut and bleeding state, he looks amazing. Lean, muscular and a little too amused by my admiration of his physique.

  I give him a playful shove on the only non-injured part of his body—his chest.

  “What?”

  He traces his finger along my collarbone. A heavy blend of chills and sparks follow in their wake.

  Beck’s eyes brighten when I sigh.

  “Your necklace.”

  “Eamon broke it.” My hand cups his as it runs down my arm. “He threw it somewhere.”

  The room is a disaster. The possibility of finding it without cleaning up first is slim.

  “We can find it later. Let’s go see if anyone needs help,” I say.

  “How ‘bout now?” He holds his hands in front of him, palms up. “We’ll find it with magic.”

  Even though he’s covered in makeshift bandages and probably has broken bones, Beck’s standing in front of me, smiling and asking me to find a silly necklace. How can I refuse?

  Easily. My lips press tight. “Beck, I can’t do magic. Eloise, Dasha—they’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”

  Undeterred, he grabs my hand between his. “You haven’t tried with me.”

  I start to shake my head but he stops me. “Put your hands on mine. I want you to close your eyes and envision your necklace back where it belongs.”

  This is futile, but if he needs to see it himself…I close my eyes and picture the little patina bird hanging around my neck. I imagine the weight of it and the coolness on my skin.

  Beck’s laugh causes me to throw my eyes open.

  I knew it wouldn’t work. Plus I probably looked ridiculous, the way I scrunched up my face in concentration. “Don’t laugh at me. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  He points to my chest. “Doesn’t look that way.”

  I lift my fingers to my neck and find the soaring bird. It hangs there, just as it has since the day Beck gave it to me. The weight, the coolness—I hadn’t imagined it.

  It was magic.

  “I did that? By myself?”

  “I only gave you the freedom and space to do it.” He runs his hand over my hair. “It was all you.”

  “I did it.” My fingers run over the raised markings on the wings, like they have so many times before.

  “You did.” He kisses the top of my head flooding me with a sweet comfort.

  “But the encasing?”

  “The encasing is still in place. I don’t know how to break it. But I figured out a long time ago—when we were kids—how to combine our magic. And our magic together…well, it’s very powerful.” He lowers his voice. “I don’t think they can stop us—and that’s why both sides are scared.”

  I gasp. “You think they’re lying? About the curse?”

  He ruffles his hair. “No. The curse is real. But your mom doesn’t seem to want us to fight anymore than my parents do. I thought it was an ingrained family tradition. Shouldn’t they be encouraging us to hate each other?”

  I’d hoped he had a reason, but the answer is simple. “They’re trying to protect us. In their own way, I guess. Your parents drilled that into me the other day. Keeping us apart makes the most sense.”

  “But they placed me in a school full of Dark witches to be with you,” he says. “And you’re here.”

  I wrinkle my forehead. “That, I don’t understand.”

  Beck pushes a stray hair off my face. “Until we know more, promise you won’t tell anyone—not Bethina or Eloise—about what we can do with our magic.”

  I purse my lips. Something feels wrong, but I can’t quite figure it out. But if I can trust anyone, it’s Beck. “I promise.”

  He steps away from me and surveys the room. “If it’s this bad in here, it’s going to be worse outside.” Books, shattered glass and overturned furniture litter the floor.

  “Did my mother do this?”

  “Yes.” Beck swallows hard . “Well, her people did. Malin doesn’t do the dirty work.” He takes my hand and draws soft circles on the back, and I allow myself to relax. “I could hear them calling your name.”

  My stomach drops. They wanted me. Just like Eamon said. “If it would keep her from attacking—keep everyone safe—maybe I should go to her.”

  Beck shakes his head. “Please don’t say that. The thought of living without you…”

  I squeeze his hand. “You and Bethina are more my family than my mother and Callum. I’d rather spend the rest of forever hidden away here, with you, than be with them. But if being here puts you in danger, than I need to consider my options—sooner rather than later.”

  He frowns. The back of my hand tingles when he presses his lips to it. He pauses, then says abruptly, “Should we see if anyone needs our help?”

  While we’d been talking, the roar of the battle ended and I hadn’t noticed. With my hand in Beck’s, we pick our way through the wreckage of the room. His mom will be livid when she sees what we’ve–-

  I freeze. The lawn is destroyed—the once tall, swaying grass is flattened and witches lie scattered, like forgotten toys, moaning in pain. Eamon, seemingly uninjured, darts around the battlefield, tending to the wounded.

   I narrow my eyes. If only something would fall from the sky and smash him.

  A fierce tug yanks me out of my thoughts and back to the scene before me.

  Beck.

  “You can’t think like that,” he says, leaning into me.

  I turn to face him, and catch a glimpse of the house over his shoulder. My hand flies to my mouth and tears well in my eyes. It’s in ruins—many of the windows are blown out; the roof is missing along the right side; the far end of the porch has collapsed.

  “Oh heya, Birdie. That’s nothing. We can fix that. Today, even. It’ll look like new.” Beck wraps his arm—his injured arm—around me. “Don’t cry, okay?”

  The nagging knowledge that Beck’s injuries, the injuries of the others, and the destruction of the house is all my fault weighs heavy on me. If I wasn’t here, my mother would not have attacked.

  “It’s destroyed,” I whisper and whip my head around, surveying more of the scene before me. A small tremble forms in my core and releases a wave of heat, which radiates along my nerves. If Bethina, or Eloise, or even little Bea are hurt, so help me, I’ll–

  “Well, yeah. That’s what Dark witches do, Lark, they destroy things.” Beck’s factual voice snaps me out of my internal monologue.

  “Like how I’m going to destroy you.”

  He tilts his head. His eyes are guarded, closed to me. “I don’t believe that.”

  Before I can argue, Beck’s head swivels to the left, as if he heard something. I follow the direction of his gaze but only see more injured witches and destruction.

  “Over there.” He points to a distant figure, nearly dwarfed by the tall grass. Eloise.

  She’s not moving. Her arms are wrapped around her kne
es, her head thrown back staring at the dome. My feet carry me to her side faster than I thought possible.

  When I realize Beck isn’t next to me, I glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s okay. I expect to see him limping along, but he’s surrounded by witches touching him. Hanging on him. The normally playful glint in his eyes has grown dark and serious.

  I kneel, legs shaking, next to Eloise.

  “It held,” she says, lifting her trembling hand toward the dome. I lean in to better hear her. “I made it hold.”

  Relieved she’s not injured, I pull her head to my chest. That one small act seems to uncork a tidal wave of emotions. Eloise’s tiny body convulses with sobs and she presses her face deeper into my body.

  “All they want is you.” Her words come in spurts. “They need you.”

  Hearing it said aloud numbs my mind. Hardens it. I belong to no one and they—Dark and Light—need to understand that.

  Fury builds in my chest, and I breathe deeply, trying to calm myself. I force myself to do what I know I should: help.

  Eloise lifts her tear-stained face. “Lark, I was terrified.”

  “Shhh. It’s okay.” She lays her head back against my chest. I glance over at Beck. I need his help to calm Eloise.

  I’ll be right there.

  My breath hitches in my throat. Surely he didn’t just talk to me in my head?

  Yeah, I did.

  Our matching olive eyes meet. As clear as day, he says, Don’t look so surprised.

  The whole experience lasts maybe three seconds and I’m not sure I trust my mind or if it’s wishful thinking.

  And yet, he immediately untangles himself from his admirers and heads toward us, wincing as he walks. I’m not sure what worries me more: Beck talking to me in my head, or him trying to help others with a large piece of glass stuck in his back.

  I turn my attention to Eloise. No matter how hard I try, the calming circles I draw for Eloise don’t work. Maybe I’m still too angry over Eamon’s attack to calm her properly?

  Beck understands. He bends next to us, gritting his teeth in pain. His hand replaces mine. After a minute, Eloise’s sobs slow and her shaking eases.

  She lifts her head again and looks into my eyes. “I don’t know what it is about you, Lark. I should be scared of you, but I’m not—you’re not frightening at all.” Her copper hair hangs around her face and matches the redness in her eyes. She squeezes my hand. “You’re worth fighting for.”

  I gape at her, trying to make sense of her rambling. All I can think about is that I’m sitting in a field surrounded by chaos and destruction and my first thought wasn’t to help people, but to hurt Eamon and seek revenge if anyone I cared about was injured.

  I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I should be offering my assistance. I should be trying to help.

  Except I’m Dark. A destroyer.

  And this is all my fault.

  25

   

  The physical repairs to Summer Hill take less than two days. At the end of the first, the roof is fixed and the windows replaced. By the following evening, not a thing is out of place. The tall grass sways in the breeze and the porch looks better than new.

  But the repairs to me? I’m not fixable.

  I’m Dark. Evil. A threat. Like Annalise and, of course, Mother.

  Dust swirls around me as I trek down the path to the lake. The Channings don’t give me time alone, so I’m stealing it. Skipping lunch. I need to get away and clear my mind.

  High above me, birds shriek warnings of my presence.

  Smart birds. Even they fear me.

  The glassy lake shimmers at the end of the trail, and I walk toward it until I’m standing on the beach. There’s no sound now—not even birds. No one is trying to find me.

  I linger under the trees and kick off my shoes. As my toes sink into the cool sand, I look for a place to sit.

  Next to me, at the top of a sandy embankment, there’s a rope swing tied to a tree.

  The thought of soaring out over the water and then letting go, at the precise moment, appeals to me. I scurry over the exposed tree roots and wrap both hands around the rope.

  One. Two. Three.

  Air rushes past me as I hurtle out over the lake. There’s no room for hesitation. Either I drop or I end up smacking back into the tree. When I feel like I’m at the furthest extension, I release the rope and plunge toward the water.

  It’s not at all warm like I’d expected. The coldness shocks me and for a moment I’m not sure which way is up. Then buoyancy kicks in and I’m floating toward the top.

  My lungs empty in a gasping rush when I break the surface.

  From the beach, I hear clapping. “Well done, Lark. Well done.”

  My feet tread water, keeping me up right, and I jerk my head back toward the beach. My favorite teacher stands on the shore, watching me. “Mr. Trevern! What are you doing here?”

  He stands in the glaring sun with his hand shielding his eyes. “Well, after the lot of you left, the State placed me on ‘administrative leave.’” His fingers create quotes around the phrase. “My services were no longer needed.”

  “You’re Sensitive, too?” Not that it surprises me, since everyone else in my life seems to be, but I still have to ask.

  “I prefer witch, Lark. But yes.”

  I use long, even strokes back to the beach. Water drips from my hair and clothes as I climb out. The warm air prevents post-swim chills. “So you came here? When did you arrive?”

  “Actually, I arrived shortly before you did.”

  “Oh right—because you know how to travel through space,” I say bitterly, defeat peppering my words. “Can’t say it’s something I’ve mastered yet.”

  “You’ll get there, don’t worry.”

  I resist a sarcastic comeback and instead ask, “How come you didn’t come say ‘hi’ to me earlier?”

  “I didn’t want to intrude on your lessons.”

  Apparently he doesn’t know about the growing group of witches—including the sad-eyed boy—who watch my lessons everyday. Nothing can possibly be more distracting than people laughing and taunting while you’re trying to concentrate.

  I squeeze water from my hair and flop onto the sand. I’ll worry about getting it out of all my crevices later. “So, are you teaching me, too?”

  “No. I’m here in an advisory role.”

  I sit up. Beneath the sand coating me, my skin begins to turn pink. I’m already nearly dry.

  “You tutored Beck at school—in magic—didn’t you?” I don’t hide the jealousy in my voice. Mr. Trevern was my favorite teacher and he never thought to offer me his services.

   “I did.” Mr. Trevern tips his head toward the shade of the trees. “Let’s have a seat, shall we?”

  I follow him to the cooler air, thankful to be out of the scorching sun, and find a nice spot on the ground.

   “Who are you advising? Beck?” I dust the sand from my exposed skin. “Not me, I hope. I’m not exactly a star student here.”

  “You’re not happy.”

  I meet his eyes. “And you’re not scared of me.”

  He gives a half-smile and his brown eyes crinkle at the edges. “You’ve never given me any reason to be.”

  I wiggle my toes, observing their pinkness. From the corner of my eye, I catch him watching me.

  He smiles and points at my feet. “Your mom used to do that. You’re very much like her.”

  I whip my head around so I can stare directly at Mr. Trevern. “You know my mother?”

  Confusion wells up in me. Mr. Trevern is supposed to be a Light witch—that’s why he’s here—but if he’s friends with my mom, he must be Dark.

  He hesitates and his shoulders roll forward slightly. “She’s my sister.”

  My muscles tense. I leap to my feet, my mind moving two steps ahead, formulating a plan to warn everyone a Dark witch has broken through the dome. I leave my shoes behind as I run to the edge of the tre
es. The fallen pine needles sting my feet and pebbles cut my toes, but I can’t stop.

  I need to save everyone. I need to prove I’m good.

  “Lark wait, it’s not like that. Let me explain,” Mr. Trevern’s voice calls after me. “I’m not Dark. I promise.”

  I spin toward him. There’s at least a hundred feet between us, but I can see his face perfectly. I narrow my eyes and scan for any sign of Darkness. Not that I would know what to look for.

  Mr. Trevern raises his eyes to mine and I gasp. They’re the same olive green as mine. As Beck’s. How did I never notice it before? All that time we spent working side by side in the greenhouse. And I’m positive they were brown just a few minutes ago.

  I stand on the edge of the shade, torn between running and listening to him.

  “The last time someone explained something to me, I didn’t like what I heard,” I shout.

  Mr. Trevern stands on the beach, hands outstretched. “Stay, please. I want to talk, and I know you must have questions.”

  “Why is it everyone knows about my life except me?”

  “I can fix that, Lark. I can tell you what you want to know.” His eyes glint in a way that reminds me of Beck. Honest eyes. I take a step back toward the beach, toward Mr. Trevern.

  “Will you tell me about my mother?” I cross my arms and plant my feet wide.

  “What do you want to know?”

  A million questions poke at me. Each one begging for me to choose it. I search for the loudest ones.

  “Why is she Dark and you’re not? Why were you at my school? Why do you like her?” I fire questions at him.

  Mr. Trevern pushes his hand through his hair. “Okay, let’s see. First, she’s Dark and I’m not because our parents, like yours, interbound.”

  I stretch my neck and look off toward the water. “Bethina told me. How does that make you one of each?”

  He motions for me to come closer. Even though the sun beats down on me, I shake my head. Until I’m certain of his motives, I’ll take my chances with a sunburn.

  “It seems the darkness passes through the female side of our family. The men, if they exhibit powers at all, go light.”

   “So Callum’s light? Then why’s he with Annalise?”

  “Actually, Callum isn’t anything really. He’s just a very weak Light witch with limited powers. He may as well be human. Haven’t you noticed the way he defers to Annalise?”

  “I thought it was because she holds a higher office than he does.”

  Mr. Trevern shrugs. “No, that’s just the two of them. Some weird power thing they have.”

  “So he’s like her whipping boy?” I laugh at the thought. It’s funny in a weird, twisted way.

  Mr. Trevern grins and I feel myself relax slightly.

  “Interbinding isn’t normal though, right?”

   “That’s correct. Our parents—mine as well as yours—broke with tradition and refused their selected mates. It created quite a commotion.”

  “How did they even meet? My parents?”

  “Sebb was a young teacher at the school, and Malin…well, Malin is very good at getting what she wants. And she wanted Sebb.”

  “My father was a Singleton?” He had to be if he didn’t have a mate.

  Mr. Trevern shifts uncomfortable. “No. He had a mate, but she died.”

  “How?”

  “She drowned while leading a sailing expedition on the Bay,” he answers flatly.

  I raise my eyebrows. “And did my mother do that?”

  He shrugs and curls his lip. “Malin was present, but there was no evidence. It was ruled an accident.”

  I snort. “How convenient.”

  “Like I said, Malin gets what she wants.”

  I consider this. My father is dead, as are Miles and Charles, obviously. “How did he die? Did she suck all the light out of him?”

  Mr. Trevern blanches. “No. Like my father, Sebb was killed by ignorant, fearful witches who didn’t understand what they were doing.”

  I inch closer to him. Baby steps. My mind warns me to stay alert, but my heart tells me this is Mr. Trevern, my favorite teacher—and apparently my uncle. If he had wanted to hurt me, he could have done it a long time ago.

  He tilts his head toward me. I jump back.

  “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to sense my feelings.” I pace back and forth, back and forth—each rapid, erratic step in sync with my heart.

  “Actually, I can’t do that. I don’t have that power.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He laughs. “We’re not gods, Lark. We each have one thing we excel at and the rest we either do passably or can’t do at all.” His eyes twinkle and drift off into the distance. “Let me qualify that—all of us except you and Beck.”

  “Right, because I’m not good at anything.”

  His eyes twinkle. “Ah, but you’re wrong. You clearly hold elemental powers—the storm you caused is proof of that. As for the other areas, we don’t know yet.”

  The storm is old information, but… “The other areas?”

  He rattles off the list. “Movement, illusion, defensive and elemental. Along with all the subcategories.”

  Four main groups with subgroups. And the witch world believes I hold powers in more than one category. “Which do you suspect?”

  Mr. Trevern smiles at me. “Why don’t we do some deductions?” It’s as if we’re back in class. He’s the teacher and I’m the eager student wanting to please. “Have you noticed my eyes are no longer brown?” I nod and he says, “I’m an illusionist. I masked them to hide the true color from you.”

  My pacing evens to a steady tempo until I stop abruptly. My scalp sizzles along the part of my hair. The shade of the trees beckons me and I no longer resist. I slip into its coolness but stay a good twenty feet from Mr. Trevern.

  “And my mother? What’s her power? Can she read minds? Affect the weather? Influence people by touch?”

  He stretches out on the ground and pauses as if collecting his thoughts. “It’s easier to list what she can’t do. Malin is very strong but she can’t do everything. She can’t read minds—no witch can; she can’t heal; she can’t sense weak auras; and she’s not particularly good at some areas of movement.”

  My feet ache. I give in and sit on the ground with my knees folded under me. “Do you still see her?”

  Mr. Trevern winces and stares at his hands. “No, I haven’t seen Malin since you were a baby. She doted on you endlessly. And after your father’s…” He seems to be searching for the right word. “Accident, she became even more protective of you.”

  “It’s okay, Mr. Trevern. I know my father’s dead.” There’s no twinge of sadness. My father died when I was just a few months old. I may only vaguely know my mother but I have no memory at all of my father.

  Mr. Trevern twists his hands together. “I have to apologize. I lied, I’m sorry.”

  I knew it. I should have listened to my first instinct and not trusted him. Of course he’s working for Mother. I jump to my feet, my pulse thundering in my ears.

   I’ll hurt him and then warn the others.

  I lift my foot to smash his face. Incapacitate him so I can run. As I start to slam my foot down, Mr. Trevern lifts his anguished eyes to mine. He doesn’t move to save himself, merely raises his finger as if asking for a minute. I stop. I can’t hurt this man in front of me—my favorite teacher. It’s wrong to hurt him.

  “It wasn’t an accident—your father’s death. He died protecting you and your mother. I came with a group of Light witches to confront Malin. She escaped with you, but he didn’t survive. I’m so sorry.”

  My brain spins as my eyes rest on the kneeling man before me. He helped kill my father?

  I don’t know what to say. The thought of me as a baby, with a mother and father protecting me, seems strange. Mr. Trevern may as well be talking about someone else, someone from a history book who I’ve heard of but have never met.

/>   “Why would you do that?”

  Mr. Trevern lifts his face. Our eyes meet. “I will never forgive myself for ruining your family.”

  None of what he’s saying makes sense. “She’s your sister. I’m your family.”

  “Lark.” He stretches his arms and beckons me toward him. I stand my ground—just out of his reach. “I let people fill my mind with nonsense. I was jealous of Malin—her status, her powers.”

  “So you tried to kill her? And me?” My feelings are detached from my words. I’m talking about two different people. Not Mr. Trevern and myself. It’s too surreal.

  “Yes. And I’ve regretted it every day since.” His clasps his hands together.

  “Why was I with my parents? Didn’t I live at the school, with Bethina and Beck?”

  “Malin needed Beck’s magic to keep you safe–”

  “How?” I ask impatiently.

  Mr. Trevern holds up his finger, telling me to wait. I show my displeasure by crossing my arms and huffing.

  “Until she found him, you were safer at home, where she could protect you.” He shakes his head. “His parents, however, hid him as soon as they learned of Malin’s plan to pair him with you.”

  “Because I’m going to kill him.”

  “You are both a danger to each other.” His eyes bore into me. “After we killed your father–” He pauses and swallows hard. “Malin was desperate to protect you. There are so many among us who let fear control them and who would seek to destroy you, even as a small child. As Caitlyn’s female descendant, you will be very strong. You already are.” The corners of his mouth pull down and a shadow of shame flicks across his face. I motion with my hand, prompting him to go on.

  “When Malin found Beck, she convinced Margo to give him to her. All it would take is one word from Malin, and the Dark witches would hunt him. Margo had no choice but to agree. No one thought the two of you would grow close. Your natures are so different.” He runs his hand through his thick hair and looks off at the lake.

  “How did that stop witches from attacking me?”

  “Malin entwined your magic by placing a piece of your darkness in Beck and his lightness inside you. It acts as a failsafe. As long as you’re children, no one can hurt either of you without the other suffering too. It’s why neither side moves against you. It’s keeping you safe until your birthday.”

  Two hearts entwined as one. You will carry a piece of each other for all the rest of your days.

  My eyes widen in horror. The language he’s using—entwined, pieces—I’ve heard that before. The words begin to make sense. Eloise didn’t fully explain it to me.

  There is no sound. I’m spinning and grasping and struggling against the sickness of it all.

  “She bound us?” I whisper.

   

  26

   

   

  Mr. Trevern hops to his feet and grabs hold of me, his fingers curling around my shoulders. “She did it to protect you. You’re an incredibly powerful Dark witch. Possibly the strongest we’ve ever seen.”

  “What does it do?” I shout. “The binding?”

  “Unlike humans whose bindings are purely ceremonial, ours aren’t. We witches exchange a piece of magic with our mate, tying us together as long as we both live. And when we die, we return the piece of our loved one to them.”

  I push him away. This can’t be happening. I don’t want to hear this.

  My feet pound the dirt path, each step taking me further and further away from Mr. Trevern and his revelations. Beck said we can’t be bound, but that’s exactly what my mother did.

  “No,” I cry and slam my fists into my thighs as I double over, trying to keep the screams inside. Everything makes sense now—how we can affect each other’s emotions, the insistence we grow up together, Beck talking to me in my head.

  Caitlyn and Charles may have been twins, but their Light-Dark parents were bound. They shared a piece of their magic with each other, just like Beck and me. Just like twins would.

  That’s why I’m going to kill Beck. Because we’re magically bound.

  I’m going to suck out his light just like Caitlyn did to Charles, and their mother did to their father.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I shout at the sky. It makes no sense, Beck wanting to be with me, knowing one of us will kill the other. “What’s wrong with his parents? Why are they letting me stay here?”

  My questions are met with the low hum of insects and an occasional bird chirp.

  I’m a prisoner. They’re not trying to help me. They’re trying to figure out what I can do, so they can stop me. So they can kill me first.

  Every part of my body revolts and I don’t know if I’m shaking or crying or laughing at the graveness of it all.

  Well, they’re going to have to do a lot more than some silly encasing if they want to keep me here.

  The faint rustle of a witch transporting alerts me. I’m not alone after all.

  Mr. Trevern watches me from the deep shadows of the tree. “You don’t have to do this alone, Lark. That’s why I’m here. To help you.”

  “Can you undo it?” My sobs garble my words.

  He approaches me slowly. “We don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Of course you do. He’s going to end up dead, either from me or some idiots like the ones that killed my father.”

  Mr. Trevern puts his arm around me and waits. When I don’t protest, he pulls me to his chest and I let myself go limp. “It’s not permanent. We hope when you turn eighteen, you’ll reject your mismatched pieces and the failsafe will break.”

  I draw in a long, steadying breath. “That’s good, right? I won’t be able to hurt him. I’ll run away and we’ll never be permanently bound.”

  Mr. Trevern presses a piece of cloth into my hand. A handkerchief. I dab my eyes and wipe my cheeks.

  “It is. But we’re not positive it’s going to be so easy.” He drops his voice. “The most likely scenario, the one everyone including Malin believes, is that on your birthday, you will fight each other to reclaim your respective pieces.”

  “Fight as in argue or fight as in battle?” My voice shakes as I ask.

  He runs his hand over the stubble on his chin and frowns. “Battle.”

  I don’t really want to know more, but I need to be prepared. I brace myself for bad news by digging my fingernails into my palm. “If that doesn’t happen?”

  “If Malin is wrong and the binding isn’t temporary, you will retain each other’s pieces. In the past, when the magic from your families mingled, the Dark witch pulled heavily on the Light witch’s power. Eventually, the Light witch died.” Okay. Breathe. You already knew this, Lark.

  Mr. Trevern continues. “Another possibility is Beck may become Dark.”

  “But he’ll live?”

  Mr. Trevern hesitates and knits his brow together as if trying to decide whether or not to answer my question. After a long pause, he says, “The Gathering won’t let him live as a Dark witch, Lark. The two of you would be too powerful. We’d be outnumbered.”

  Can this just stop getting worse already?

  “I won’t let anyone hurt him.” The tears stop and determination takes over. “And I won’t kill Beck.”

  He gives me a weak smile, “I know you don’t want to.”

  “Mr. Trevern–” I begin.

  “Call me Henry.” Henry? Such a normal name. Strange.

  “Okay, Henry,” I say, testing it out. “Can I learn to not be evil?”

  He takes another handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face. I never noticed how young he was compared to my other teachers.

  “I don’t think you’re evil, Lark, and I don’t think Malin is inherently evil either.”

  I run my tongue over my teeth. “I hurt people. When I’m scared or frightened, I hurt people and destroy things. How is that not evil?”

  “It upsets you. You show remorse—Mal
in doesn’t. She never has. There’s light in you. Don’t forget that.”

  I stare at my fingernails. They’re caked with dried sand. “Right—Beck’s light.”

  Henry stammers, “No. There’s more to it.”

  “No, there’s not. Beck’s influence is why you think I can do things my Mother can’t.” I flick a speck of sand off my arm. “We both have Light fathers and Light mates. But Beck is stronger than either of them.”

  Henry grimaces. “I’m positive, if you just set your mind to it, you can fight this.”

  I give my favorite teacher a dirty look. “I’m evil and you know it.”

   “No. You’re wrong.” He set his mouth firmly. “I’ve kept you safe. I’ve done all these things because I know you’re not evil. I believe with everything in me you won’t harm anyone intentionally.” Sadness seeps through his words. “You can fight this.”

  He’s wrong. I want to crush Eamon. I want him dead.

  And I don’t want to change that. Not at all.

  Henry rests his arm on my shoulder and I shrug it off. My mind focuses on the chirping crickets in the field just beyond where we stand in the trees—their buzz grows louder once his words end. All around us, life grows and flourishes in direct conflict to our conversation.

  Death. Death and destruction have hounded my life. I understand that now. First my father died from being too near me. And now Beck—Beck will die too if he’s around me. People either want me dead or want me to kill for them.

  Henry grasps my hands between his. His eyes study my fingers before he says, “I need you to tell me something. No matter how difficult it is for you to do so. Do you understand?”

  The gloomy numbness weighs inside of me. How much worse is this going to get?

  “What do you want to know?” My heart fumbles.

  “Do you love Beck?” His voice is soft, almost a whisper.

  The words slice through me. My heart seizes and then spins, faster and faster. I open my mouth but my teeth act like barbed wire, trapping my words inside.

  The struggle must rage on my face because Henry says, “Easy, Lark. You can do this.”

  Emotions swell up inside me. Do I love Beck? The question bounces around my brain. “I care about him. He’s my best friend. When he’s not near me, I fall to pieces.” The words tumble out of me. “I want to keep him safe, protect him. I need him to make me laugh. I need him.”

  “But do you love him?” Henry grasps my hands harder. A small click and then an opening in my heart.

  “Yes,” I sputter. “Yes, I love him.”

  The opening closes. It burns and wields itself shut.

  Henry releases my hands. Bewildered, I fall back onto the ground exhausted.

  The words dance around my mind: I love Beck. How could I not know that? How did I not realize what he’s become to me? Not just a mate and a best friend but the boy I love.

  Henry breaks my musing. “As long as you can love, you’ll never be evil. I’m positive of that.”

  Sweat runs down the back of my shirt. I’m a mess. And I’m standing at the edge of the forest, admitting to my teacher-slash-uncle that I love Beck.

  I’m going to kill the boy I love. And I get no say in the matter and there’s no way out.

  Henry touches my shoulder. “No matter what you think, you’re not evil. You’re Dark. There is a difference.”

   

  27

   

  I don’t put much stock in Henry’s words as I head back toward the house and upstairs to my room. Killing the boy I love seems downright evil to me. Even if it’s not what I want.

  Agitated voices drift from the library. Instead of searching it out, I head down the picture-lined hallway toward my room, milling over what Henry said before I left: “Don’t be too hard on Beck. Margo cast a tongue-tying spell on him; he can’t tell you everything he wants to.”

  Another thing I don’t completely understand, but it sounds similar to my encasing. Why would his mother do that to him?

   I pause before a group of photos. The witches all look so happy and unconcerned —not at all like a group of people hunted by Dark witches. I wonder how many of them were cursed to fight my family line to the death. How many did my mother, and her mother, and all my relatives before me kill? I study a photo that has several Channing boys in it. Did any of them fall to my wicked family?

  Dread hangs over me like an unwanted companion as I rush through my shower and run back to my room.

  I shouldn’t be anywhere near Beck, Henry’s made that painfully clear, but my heart isn’t listening. It sputters and spins, anxious to see the boy I will one day kill.

  But it’s not that day yet. And I’m not ready to give up hope.

  From a trunk, I select a navy sundress with a tiny purple flower pattern before strapping a pair of low-heeled sandals to my feet.

  My hair falls into natural waves. I swipe mascara over my lashes but leave the rest of my face bare. I give myself a once over in the mirror and all but run to the East Lawn.

  A miserable day, I think, as I cross the grass. But that doesn’t mean it has to end that way. Plus, if what Henry says is true and I can learn self-control, the biggest threat isn’t me sucking the light from Beck, but me using magic against him. When the failsafe and our binding is broken, I plan on having as much self-control as possible.

  Eloise waves to me from a long table and motions for me to join her. It’s crowded with young witches I don’t know. Some of them look familiar—I’ve seen them following Beck around—but most of them are strangers.

  I hesitantly walk toward her, doubtful they’ll let me sit with them. Other than Bethina, Henry, and Beck, Eloise is the only person who doesn’t cringe when I come near.

  “You look pretty, Lark.” Eloise’s eyes sweep over me and she gives me a thumbs up. “Beck will like that.”

  The gangly guy next to Eloise lets out a chuckle. “She could wear Long Winter clothes and he’d still think she looked toasty.”

  Heat rushes to my face. He didn’t just say that.

  “That’s good! Give yourself a little color before he shows up—you look healthier that way,” Eloise teases. It’s such a Kyra thing to say that for a minute, I almost forget who’s speaking to me.

  “I like your dress, Lark,” a girl to my left says, moving over to make room for me. When I don’t sit down, she laughs. “You looked stunned.”

  “Where are my manners?” Eloise says. She points first at the girl then the boy. “Lark, this is Julia and Kellan.”

  The two witches extend their hands and I stare at them. After weeks of being treated like an outcast, I’m not entirely sure what’s happening. I scan the fifteen or so people sitting at the table. Most of them are caught up in conversation. I’m an afterthought—it’s completely opposite of the witches who watch my lessons and harass me. The ones who whistle Alouette every time I approach.

  “Thank you,” I say, accepting their greeting. It feels so good, These witches aren’t shunning me or treating me like I’m a monster. I grin at Eloise and a giddy giggle escapes my lips.

  Immediately, all talking not coming from our table ceases.

  I swing my head around, to see what happened.

  Hundreds of eyes stare at us. I turn to look down at the group of witches sitting with me, and for the most part, they’re trying to pretend everything is normal. Eloise clears her throat.

  Oh. It’s me. Everyone is staring at me.

  I let my hair fall across my face, a sad attempt to hide from their disapproving eyes, and sit down across from Eloise.

  “Hey.” She leans across the table and pushes my chin up. “Don’t let them win.” Our eyes lock and a rushing sound roars through my ears, followed by a surge of bravery. “Keep your head up. You deserve to be happy as much as anyone else.”

  She’s right. I’m not going to let anyone ruin my semi-good mood. I tuck my hair behind my ear and let my eyes roam around the lawn, looking for Beck
. All the other witches have gone back to pretending I don’t exist. Apparently, I can’t laugh, get upset, cry, sneeze or just about anything else, without triggering some weird group stare.

  “You may want to hold your head still. You’re gonna give yourself whiplash.”

  I smile at her. “Oh, right.” My heart pounds and little knots form in my gut.

  Eloise juts her chin in the direction over my shoulder. “There he is.”

  Trying to seem as collected as possible, I slowly glance in his direction and my breath immediately locks in my lungs. Beck glides toward us, the wind blowing his blond hair, and the memory of running my fingers through it sends shivers down my spine. Even from this distance, his eyes twinkle. I fix my attention on how his shirt hugs the contours of his muscular frame.

  Eloise lets out a low whistle.

  “Wow!” she stage whispers. “He’s rather spectacular, isn’t he?”

  I can’t tear my eyes away. The closer he gets to me, the faster my heart races. He stops a few feet away from the table, tilts his head, and smiles at me. I study my nails, embarrassed, but at the same time happy he at least knows.

  “Eloise, you look stunning tonight.”

  Her copper hair is twisted into a careless up-do; little pieces cascade across her shoulders. Her grass green dress contrasts beautifully with her milky skin. I wonder if I can even compare.

  Eloise shakes her head at him.

  “I don’t know how you can even notice me when that gorgeous creature sits there.” She dips her head toward me. Her wide smile makes her look even more appealing.

  Julia, the girl next to me, scoots over, giving Beck room to swing one of his long legs over the bench. He straddles it and our bodies are just inches apart.

  “Lark is amazing, isn’t she?” he says to Eloise, but his eyes stay on me.

  My heart lurches forward.

  I love him. You. I love you.

  I want to lean closer and whisper in his ear. Instead, I chew on my thumbnail—a nervous habit I gave up when I was twelve and realized torn fingernails were disgusting.

  Damn encasing.

  Are you feeling better? He asks in my mind. I gasp, still not used to hearing him inside my brain.

  Lark? Can you hear me? Panic creeps into his voice—or whatever it’s called when he does this mind-talk thing.

  Yes.

  Lark? It’s like a bad wristlet connection—I can hear him, but he has no idea.

  I try yelling I can hear you and place my hand on his. A sharp, painful current pulses through me.

  “What the hell?” Beck yanks his hand back.

  I stare at mine in disbelief. “Did I?”

  Eloise clears her throat and subtly motions with her head to my right just as Mrs. Channing walks by our table. She pretends not to see us.

  “Excuse me for a minute.” Beck leaps up and walks briskly to his mother’s side.

  They’re too far for me to hear the conversation, but it’s clear they’re arguing and that Mrs. Channing is agitated. She places her hand on Beck’s chest defensively. Beck stands still, not moving a muscle. Finally, he storms off toward the house.

  My jaw clenches. Eloise, pushing the food around her plate, scrapes her fork along the bottom, unleashing an awful scratching sound. Unable to bear the noise or my anger anymore, I slam my fist on the table. The impact knocks over my water glass and captures Eloise’s attention. She rights the fallen glass and throws a napkin on the spill.

  “Lark, hey. Don’t worry about it. He’s not upset with you.” Eloise sits next to me now, her arm around me. “It’s just his mom’s worried, that’s all.”

  “I know.” My nails dig into my palm as I attempt to calm myself, but it’s not working.

  “It’s stupid, honestly. If she really thinks keeping the two of you apart is going to make this easier on anyone, she’s delusional. Or blind. Everyone can see what you mean to each other.”

  She hugs me tight, trying to comfort me, when all I want to do is find Mrs. Channing and show her just how badly she upset me.

  “C’mon, let’s get you back to the house, so you can calm down without everyone watching you. You have evening lessons tonight. Can’t have you miss those.”

  She releases me and gives me a hopeful smile. Over her shoulder, the rest of Beck’s friends watch me cautiously.

  “Maybe Eamon’s right,” one of them says.

  “Don’t be stupid. If Beck says she’s okay, then she is,” Julia whispers.

  “Look at her—she’s quivering. That’s the magic. She’s trying to hurt us.”

  I glare at them. “I can hear you.”

  They shut up. Before I can say anything else, Eloise leans into me. “Can you compose yourself enough to make it back to your room?”  

  I nod, thankful that at least one person cares about my feelings. She links her arm through mine.

  “Ignore them, Lark. I’ll take you back to your room and go find Beck. We’ll get this straightened out, I promise.”

  My anger doesn’t lessen as we cross the lawn to the house. Thankfully, no one pays me any attention.

  “I thought maybe...” I sniff, my nostrils flaring. “Things were going to be better. That Henry could convince the Channings to let Beck and I spend some time together.”

  “Saw Henry, did you? Beck thought you’d like having him here. He argued hard to get the others to allow it.”

  I freeze. “Beck discusses me with others?”

  The thought of him talking about me with a group of Light witches bothers me.

  “Oh, we all do. It’s the Gathering. Everyone is curious about what you can do.” Eloise’s mood is light, her voice matter-of-fact.

  I increase my pace. The familiar whirling beats against my chest. “So, I’m a lab rat? A Dark witch you all sit around discussing and observing?”

  Eloise jogs to catch up. “No! Lark, really it’s not like that. We’re just trying to figure out what you can do, that’s all.”

  Hot red flashes dance in front of me. “That’s not all and you know it! You’re trying to figure out what I can do before my eighteenth birthday. Why do you think that is, Eloise, huh? Why would anyone be interested in that?”

  I’m running now. The pulsing in my chest is now a million sharp stabs.

  “I don’t know.” She sounds confused.

  “Oh c’mon! I don’t believe you! You’re a smart witch.”

  “Really, Lark, I have no idea.”

  I glare at her. Eloise is no longer trying to come near me. Her normal easy manner is gone and her eyes wide.

  “They want to know how to stop me, Eloise! You know, KILL ME!”

  Energy bursts through my chest and sends me flying backward.

  Eloise screams. “Lark, get control of yourself. You have to stop this!”

  But I can’t. Energy gathers around me. In the distance I hear a crack of thunder. Chaos spreads across the crowded lawn.

  Eloise leaps into the air and within seconds, I’m surrounded by Light witches. Each one connected to their neighbor. They circle me like a caged animal.

  “You did this to me!” I lunge at Eloise. A strong desire to hurt her percolates but isn’t able to break through. “You made this happen. I thought you were my friend!”

  My body rocks against my control. Everything fades away and I feel myself tumbling through space.

  A searing pain tears at my heart and crushes it. It eats away at every piece of my body. Over and over again the pain comes. Unable to tolerate it anymore, the world around me turns black as I slip into unconsciousness.

  28

   

  The pain doesn’t go away. It just lessens enough to make me aware of it. My body is on fire. The hair brushing my neck feels like flames licking my skin again and again.

  There’s a muffled hum rising around me. I try to turn my head to unblock my ears, but I’m paralyzed. Behind my eyelids, colors flash—red and orange—followed by blackness. I want to
open my eyes, to see what’s causing these flashes, but again, I can’t.

  Air moves over me. But it’s not a gentle, caressing air. No, it feels like sandpaper being raked over my skin. It rubs me raw.

  Someone, or a few someones, carries me. Close to my ear, I hear Eloise’s voice. “Lark, you need to hold still. Stay still just a bit longer. This will be done soon.”

  Does she not know I can’t move? What’s happening, I want to ask. I can’t.

  The pain releases me slowly. My lungs fill with air and I take two large, gasping breaths. The sensation nearly chokes me. There’s chanting now.

  “Illuminae hvit,” they repeat.

  My eyes, while heavy, are no longer glued shut. I force them open. All around me, white lights whiz and skip through the air as if choreographed.

  One floats near me and I reach for it. Without warning, the ball of energy turns and hits me directly in the chest. My insides are ablaze. I scream, but nothing comes out. My body convulses, unable to control itself.

  “Stop!”

  The command comes not from me but from Bethina. I can see her near my feet, watching me. Her face contorts in pain.

  “That’s enough. Lark has had enough. We do not practice magic that harms.”

  An angry voice—Mrs. Channing— “Bethina, surely you’re joking. Lark just tried to kill all of us. You saw it.”

  “I saw no such thing, Margo.” Bethina cool hand rubs my leg. “What I did see is you push this fragile girl past what she could handle. What I saw was you acting irrationally and causing a much larger problem.”

  A deep voice, Henry’s, joins in. “Margo, Lark doesn’t want this. She wants to learn to control herself, but if you keep having these encasings put on her, how will she?”

  “That is just your theory, Henry. We don’t know if it’s true or not.” Mrs. Channing sounds irritated. “Have you forgotten whose daughter this is?”

  “What proof do you need?” Henry booms. “She can’t perform any sort of magic when you have her heart locked up so tight it can barely beat. How will she learn to control it if you don’t give her the chance?”

  Another voice invades my prison, Patrick Channing’s. “I think I’ve seen enough of her darkness to know I don’t want it anywhere around me or my family.”

  I try to lift my head to say I don’t want this either. I don’t want to be Dark. I just want a chance to live the life I thought I was going to have. A life with Beck. That’s all I want, I try to say. But still no words.

  Bethina cradles me in her lap. “Shhh, Lark. I know you can hear. I know you want to say something, but you can’t. Soon, just wait a minute.”

  From my core, the familiar calming warmth radiates to my limbs. It’s the same sort of peace I feel when I’m with Beck. He must be nearby.

  Bethina addresses the group. “This is what we’re going to do. We will give Lark a few more days of trying to learn like this. If that doesn’t work, we’ll remove the encasing.”

  “Bethina, that’s unwise.” The edge in Mrs. Channing’s voice could cut steel. “You can’t just let her walk around here like that. Besides, this encasing isn’t going to be as easy to break as the last one. I made sure of that.” She glares at Henry. “There will be no mistakes this time.” She storms off, followed by her husband.

  Henry kneels beside me. “Can you hear me?”

  I move my head.

  “Good. Can you talk?”

  I swallow hard, the saliva moistening my tongue. “Yes.”

  “All right. I’m going to help you stand up. Bethina?”

  Two pairs of arms lift me and I press my full weight on them. The field spins and I stumble forward, but Bethina and Henry steady me.

  “How much of that did you hear?” Bethina’s voice is barely audible above the drone of crickets.

  I give a dry cough. “I remember hearing you say ‘stop’.”

  “So you know you were encased again,” Henry says.

  “Yes. I heard that. But why? Why didn’t the first one work?”

  Henry shifts under my weight. “I cracked it when we were on the path. When I took your hands, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.” The locking sensation—that’s what it was. Henry unlocked the encasing so I could confess my love for Beck.

  Bethina tugs on my arm. “Lark, the Channings and most of the other witches aren’t happy about your outburst. You can’t do anything like this again. Do you understand?”

  I choke and clear my throat. “Bethina, you know I don’t want to! But no one has shown me how to not do it.” I sound whiny, even to myself. “My classes are useless. I still don’t know how I do anything. Don’t you believe I would stop if I could?” The long answer wears me out. I drag my feet to let Bethina and Henry know I need a break.

  Bethina’s voice is soft. “I believe you Lark.” She touches my forehead with her fingers. “I believe you.”

  We start walking again. When we reach the porch, Henry swings me up into his arms. Shouting drifts from a far off room. I nudge Bethina with my foot. She confirms what I know: Beck is fighting with his parents. Again.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that. Henry, can you get her upstairs?”

  “Of course.”

  Bethina walks toward the argument, leaving Henry and I alone. I rest my head against his shoulder. He carries me up the stairs, past the pictures of the Channings—the good ones—lining the walls.

  With his toe, he pushes my bedroom door open. He crosses the room and lays me down on the bed.

  “Do you want me to stay? Keep you company until Bethina comes back?”

  Even though I enjoy Henry’s company, I want to be alone. “No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.” His fingers touch my forehead. “Good night, Lark. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  When he’s gone, I bury my face in my pillow. Loud, choking sobs rattle my body. From outside my window, a bird lets out a mournful warble. It matches my mood perfectly.

  Downstairs the arguing grows louder and a door slams. Footsteps on the stairs warn me to pull myself together. But there’s no hiding my red eyes or tear-streaked face.

  Bethina doesn’t bother knocking before slipping into the room.

  “Oh,” she says. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

  I shake my head, afraid tears will spill if I talk. The bird lets out another pitiful chirp and falls silent.

  She walks to the chair nearest the window and sits down. I lean back into my pillows and pull the covers to my chin.

  “What happened down there?” I ask.

   “You need to stay away from Beck.”

  Before I can protest, she raises her hand to quiet me. “That’s not my rule, that’s Mr. and Mrs. Channing’s. And as your hosts, you’ve got to respect that.” She purses her lips. “Now if someone could just talk sense to Beck.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say. We both laugh, the sound oddly out of place with the current mood.

  “Beck is a stubborn one, isn’t he? I always thought he was the easier going of the two of you, but I’m starting to rethink that assessment.”

  She looks out the window. “If you can keep yourself pulled together and really try to learn from your teachers, the Channings will let you stay until your birthday.”

  “And after?” I already know but have to ask.

  “You have to go, Lark. We can’t risk having you near Beck.”

  My face crumples, and she changes direction. “I know how you feel about that, but what if I came with you? Helped you find your way?”

  It wouldn’t be Beck, but at least I’d have someone who cares about me. “Really? I wouldn’t have to be alone?”

  “I’d never leave you alone.” The gentleness of her voice reminds me of the old Bethina—the one who tended my bumps and bruises; who always had cookies waiting for me on Friday afternoons; who cared for me.

  “We’re not at school anymore, B. No one is making you take care of me.
And you’re not my parent.” I toss a pillow across the room.

  “Maybe not, but I still think you need me.”

  In the uncomfortable silence, a thought occurs to me. “Who’s taking care of the rest of the house? You’ve been gone a long time. Are you going to get in trouble?” The last thing I want is Bethina losing her job because of me.

  “Oh, I was fired, more or less. Three strikes and you’re out, as they say.”

  “Three strikes?” I ask.

  “Kyra, Beck, Max, Ryker, and you.” Her lips form a tight smile. “Make that five strikes.”

  “Oh,” I say softly. Bethina loved her job. “But what about the other kids? Who’s guiding them toward their bindings?” This was a major part of the last few months of school and also an extremely emotional time for both the students and the housemothers who raised them. Not having Bethina there must be difficult.

  “Most likely an apprentice.” From the way the corner of her eyes crinkle, I know she’s trying to hide her hurt.

  “Well, since you and I both have nowhere to go, let’s go there together.” My joke falls flat.

  “We’ll have to leave the day before your birthday, if you can make it that long.” Bethina folds her arms authoritatively. It’s her “You better or else” look.

  From outside, the bird lets out another series of mournful chirps. Bethina moves closer to the window to observe it. “Strange, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that little bird was trying to talk to us.” She shakes her head. “Well, good night, Lark. No class for you tonight. Just try to get some rest and remember, tomorrow is a new day. A fresh start. Make the most of it, Lark Greene.” She taps my forehead and leaves me alone.

  I roll over and hug the covers tight around me. An endless flood of tears roll down my cheeks as I bury my face deep into my pillow and scream.

   

  29

  “Lark, wake up.”

   A hand softly pushes my hair back from my sleeping face.

  Beck.

  My eyes try to open, but they’re swollen shut from the tears. I rub hard, trying to unglue them. “What’s wrong?”

  He sits on the edge of my bed. “Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” I say and move over toward the edge, giving him room to lie down next to me, but instead he stands up.

  “Feel like going for a walk?”

  That’s the last thing I feel like doing. The new encasing, combined with my sob-fest, has given me a massive headache. I roll onto my back and pull the covers over my head. “Not really. I have a headache.”

  “Here.” He pulls back the sheet and touches my forehead with his fingertips. The pain subsides. “Is that better?”

  “Where’d you learn that trick?”

  He grins. “While you’re out running around with Eloise, playing with rainbows, I’m learning useful stuff.”

  “Oh, whatever. Eloise is a great teacher—she’s taught me how to attack imaginary people.”

  Beck bows. “Miss Greene, I concede.”

  “Nutter.” I kick my feet at him playfully and he catches them. For the first time in weeks, it feels like old times. “Fine, I’ll go for a walk with you.”

  “Meet me under the weeping willow in ten minutes?”

  I nod.

  “Bring a heavy sweater.”

  When he’s gone, I roll off the bed and onto my knees. I wish I knew what time it was—it has to be after midnight. We’re going to be exhausted tomorrow morning. I have a hard enough time in class as it is.

  My clothes from earlier lie folded on the chair. Bethina must have picked them up. I put them on, find a cardigan—it’s too warm for a heavy sweater—and carry my sandals in my hand. No need for extra noise,especially on the already squeaky steps.

  I tiptoe down the stairs, shifting my weight from side to side and doing my best to not topple over. My toes tap each spot lightly before I place my full weight down. Shift, tap, shift, tap—all the way to the bottom.

  Between Beck’s clandestine visit to my room and the sneaking out at night, I can’t help but feel like I’m performing a criminal activity. Still, a little flutter of excitement tickles my stomach. We’ve barely had any time together, and even though I know the stakes, I can’t change the fact that I long for him.

  The kitchen door is nearest the weeping willow, so I sneak through the dining room and kitchen. Once out the door, I slip on my shoes and run to the tree.

  Beck’s already there, leaning against the trunk and looking nervous.

  “You might want to put this on.” He takes my sweater from me and holds it open, waiting for me to slip my arms in.

  “It’s not cold,” I protest.

  “It will be in a minute.”

  “Really? Because it feels like a typical humid night to me.”

  The moonlight casts an eerie glow across Beck’s face. It saps the normal golden color from his skin, leaving it ashen.

  “Take my hand?”

  Such a strange thing for Beck to say, so formal. But I place my hand in his, eager to feel his warmth. “Where are we go–”

  But before I can finish, I’m hurtling through a black void.