Read Unmade Page 14


  “Ten, you all right?”

  Ten shook his head mutely.

  “Dad—” Kami began, and looked around the dark garden. “Dad—where’s Mum?”

  “That’s what I want to know!” Dad snapped. He tried to lunge forward again, but Lillian’s thin pale fingers were tight and magic-strong around his bicep. “I was sleeping in the office and then this one broke in and dragged me outside and she wouldn’t let me back in!”

  “You were on the sofa in your office?” Kami asked. “Why?”

  “Because sometimes adult relationships are complicated,” Dad said. “And sometimes adults don’t want to talk about that when their houses are burning down!”

  Kami had never been unaware of their house burning, but seeing her father and her brother’s face had pushed the knowledge to the back of her mind for a moment. Now she looked back at the collapsing shape of what had been a house, the thatched roof that was a seething mass of flame, and the orange shimmer against the black sky. The night was painted glowing colors by the destruction of her home.

  “She’s still in there,” Kami whispered.

  “Jared came for me,” Ten offered unexpectedly. “Like he did before. He went back to get her.”

  They were both in there, and both of them were helpless.

  The roof fell in then, with a groan and a crash and long streaks of orange light stretched across the night sky, like the marks left by a burning witch’s fingers.

  Kami let go of Ten. Jon lunged for the house. Lillian held him firm.

  “Let me go!”

  “I will not,” said Lillian, with furious calm. “What good will it do for you to die too, for your children to be orphans? Do you think this is how I want things to be? Do you think I value the life of this wretched woman over the life of my boy?”

  “Do you even know her name?” Jon demanded.

  “Do I care?” Lillian demanded in return. “Possibly I would have learned it if she had not been so busy making profiteroles for the traitors in Aurimere!”

  Kami heard their arguing, but did not pay attention. She was walking toward the burning house, concentrating on wrapping the deep dark of the night, the bite of the air, the dew of the grass, and her own determination around her as some sort of shield. She could not stop the fire, and she did not know if she could protect herself, but she was going to try.

  The door of her house was standing open. It didn’t even look like her house anymore, not her door with the little watering can hanging beside it. It was just a burning wreck that she had to walk into even though she was hurt and scared. It was an ugly trap with people she loved inside it.

  She crossed the burning threshold, into her burning kitchen. There was a flaming beam in the chaos of shadows and heat and twisting fire, in her way as if someone had set it there as a barrier to forbid her entry.

  Fire was a fiercely burning veil over her eyes and her face, settling in a hot weight over her hair. She reached out and took hold of the beam, thought of Lillian holding back her father when she shouldn’t have been able to, and told herself that she was strong, that she would neither burn nor yield, that she was marble.

  She could magic herself, but not the fire. The fire was still there, and still so terribly hot. Kami was keenly aware of that: she could feel the heat even though she was not burned. It was as if her magic was material covering her, and she knew that only the thinnest layer of magic in the world separated her from agony.

  She threw the beam into a burning wall and stumbled through the curling smoke and the raging fire, almost putting her feet through the collapsing floor, not even sure of where to go, when she saw movement in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs.

  Kami ran toward the sight of her mother and Jared, their arms around each other’s hunched shoulders. The fire cast their faces in white, red, and shadow in quick succession—it was like seeing people she loved in hell.

  Neither of them ran to her. Neither of them could run, that much was obvious. She got hold of her mother’s hand, soft and clinging, the only thing in this house Kami could touch and feel safe, and began to usher them out.

  They were almost in sight of the front door when part of the wall fell in. Kami put her arms around her mother and Jared both, spun them away from the shower of white-hot sparks. She put herself between them, thought only of protecting them, and felt as if the material of her magic was tearing and fraying all over. If it failed, they would burn together.

  The brick wall was burning coals around their feet. Kami, Claire, and Jared dragged themselves over it, through the furnace of fire and finally, finally out the door.

  The light of the burning Glass house shone through the black thornbushes like a star in a spiked cage. When the wind blew in the wrong direction, Holly could feel a blast of heat as if she had passed by the open door of a furnace.

  She wanted to run to Kami and help her. But someone had to stand guard between the Glass house and Aurimere, had to stop the sorcerers from coming down to pick off any survivors. Holly peered into the darkness and saw a familiar face coming toward her.

  “Hi, Holly.”

  Ross Phillips. He’d been Amber Green’s boyfriend for years and years, for as long as Holly could remember. Holly had made out with him once, when they were both drunk, sitting outside in a field at one of those parties that were mostly boys and Holly, because nice girls didn’t go to that sort of party. Holly had always thought it was sort of a self-fulfilling prophecy—the nice girls weren’t asked, because the boys respected them. The boys chose who they respected and who they did not, and then condemned the girls for going along with their choices.

  Ross had told her, that night, that he really loved his girlfriend, and even though Holly didn’t love him and hadn’t wanted him to love her, she’d known he was really telling her that she was unlovable—not someone to be taken seriously, one of the grubby Prescotts, desperate and scrambling and out of favor with the Lynburns in the manor.

  “Stay back,” Holly called. “I’m a sorcerer, just as much as you. I’ll hurt you if you come any closer.”

  “I doubt that,” said Ross, and took several steps closer without even hesitating.

  She didn’t even mean to do it. She felt indignation rise, wanting to make a scathing comment and not knowing quite how to: the feeling burned in her chest. Fire shot from Holly’s fingertips and almost took Ross’s eyebrows off. He stumbled backward in a hurry.

  “You mean you doubt me,” Holly said, breathing hard and trying not to show how shocked she was. “You really shouldn’t.”

  “Come on, Holly,” said Ross, gently scornful despite his singed eyebrows. “I think we both know—”

  Ross collapsed. Holly stared at her own hands in disbelief for a moment, then glanced up and saw Angela with a large branch.

  “That you’re an asshole?” Angie asked Ross’s prone body. “Yeah, we’re pretty clear on the subject.”

  She’s so mean, Nicola Prendergast had once whispered to Holly, and Holly had nodded because she wanted Nicola to like her. Angela Montgomery doesn’t have to be so rude all the time. It wouldn’t cost her anything to be nice.

  Holly didn’t know about that. She’d felt like being nice cost her something, even if it was just feeling a little bit lesser, every time she smiled without meaning to. Angie was smart and rude, no second thoughts tripping her tongue, able to make anyone be sorry they ever crossed her path and refusing to feel sorry about it. She could even deliver cutting repartee to an unconscious body. She was so mean, and it always made Holly smile.

  Holly was a bit concerned about Ross’s physical wellbeing, though. “Uh, I heard head trauma is actually kind of a serious thing to happen to someone. It’s not like in the movies. It can cause permanent damage.”

  “I heard that about burning people’s houses down as well,” Angela spat, as if she was a fire herself, throwing out sparks.

  Holly knew it was hard for Angie, not being able to go to Kami and help her. Lillian Lynburn ha
d sailed in with her boys behind her, assuming she would lead, and someone had to guard the perimeter. But that didn’t mean Holly wanted to kill anybody, or to let Angie kill anybody either.

  She was silent, thinking of how to phrase this. She didn’t know what showed on her face, but Angie drawled, “Oh, all right,” and knelt down to check Ross’s pulse.

  “He’s alive,” she said in a voice that sounded so bored Holly might’ve been imagining the thread of relief running through it. “That’s the best I can do for him. His evil sorcerer buds can heal him or take him to the hospital and bring him an evil magic fruit basket for all I care.”

  Holly barely had time to feel relief herself, just the beginnings of it, like beginning to take a breath and then being hit again. She saw in the darkness something darker moving. She saw her parents were coming toward her.

  Holly felt dumb. She should have known Rob Lynburn would send more people than Ross to do his work.

  She had run between her father and Angie once before, at the great battle in the town square. Her father had backed away, lifted his hands as if in surrender, and then turned them on another of Lillian Lynburn’s sorcerers, who died later that night. Holly didn’t even remember who it had been. All she remembered was kneeling down beside Angie on cobblestones that were iced by night but warm with blood, and being so thankful that Angela was all right and that her father did not put his loyalty to Rob Lynburn above his daughter.

  She was the baby of the family, the youngest girl; nobody had particularly wanted her when she was born, and she had no reason to think that since she was born she had impressed anybody enough to make them change their minds. About the only thing her parents had ever said positively about her was that she was pretty, and they had been clear that being pretty did not matter.

  It was so strange and horrible that now, with the night wind rushing through her hair and her blood pounding in her ears, her parents were looking at her as if they loved her. Now when she was afraid that she was going to hurt them to stop them from hurting her or those she loved, now when love was nothing but a double-edged weapon that would hurt them all worse than they already were.

  “We don’t want to hurt you, baby,” said Holly’s mum, speaking as if she could read her mind.

  “Holly, you never were that bright, but this is the outside of enough,” her dad snapped. “Do you think you have a hope of standing against Rob Lynburn and Aurimere? It’s not for us to decide what the best course of action is. We know the bargain. We have all known the bargain, generation after generation.”

  “So you’re ready to burn down houses with children inside them because Rob Lynburn tells you what to do now, and you’ve decided never to think for yourselves again,” Angela shouted back. “How dare you call her stupid because she doesn’t want to be herded like a sheep?”

  “She’s not a sorcerer,” Holly’s mum whispered. “We can go through her, if Holly would just stand down—”

  Angela lifted her branch, and Holly’s dad lifted his hand.

  Angela looked down at her branch. It was burning but not quite enough to burn her—not yet. She pursed her mouth and shrugged.

  “Thanks,” she said, and lunged at Holly’s dad.

  Flames would devour the branch in a moment, but in this moment it was a weapon. There was the sudden sharp smell of burning fabric as Hugh Prescott’s shirt caught on fire. Holly’s mother darted in toward Angie, but Holly got in front of her. She was standing in front of Angie, facing down both her parents, before Angie had to drop the branch.

  “I won’t stand down!” Holly shouted. “You stand down! You have to surrender, because I won’t!”

  She saw her father’s face twist in anger, as it did when any of them stepped too far out of line, gave him too much lip. She saw his arm rise and braced herself, stupidly again, as if she was about to be felled with a physical blow.

  A blast of wind knocked Holly off her feet, sent her spinning through the air. Holly landed hard on the ground and rolled, jolted and sick, helpless as a doll sent tumbling down a hill.

  She gasped, blood but no air in her mouth, and watched his big, heavy boots move toward her across the earth, every footfall a thunderclap. She remembered being woken by the sound of those boots on their stone floor when it was still dark. She remembered raw, cold mornings, with her dad already in the fields, hearing her mother say that her father was out there working for them, only for them.

  “Hugh, no, no!” her mother screamed, and threw herself between them, blocking Holly’s view of those dirt-streaked boots. “Not my little girl!”

  Angela hesitated. She had dropped the branch, but Holly knew she would have gone after him with her bare hands—except now they were all waiting, and listening. Even Holly’s father seemed to be listening.

  “Listen to me,” her mother said rapidly. “If we take young Ross and say that we felt we had to get him to safety, that they were ready for us—well, that’s true, isn’t it? What if we just left, eh? We don’t need to hurt Holly. Leave it to someone else. Come on now, do.”

  Holly lifted herself painfully, a long streak of pain aching across her ribs, her palms dug into the cold earth. She called through a mouthful of blood, “He killed Edmund!”

  There was a pause that Holly thought might be a heedless silence, but then she heard her father say, gruff and grudging, “What?”

  Holly did not lift herself up again. She spoke with her eyes turned to the ground, bitter earth between her lips. “Rob Lynburn killed Uncle Edmund. He didn’t run away, he didn’t want to leave Lillian, he didn’t want to leave you. Rob shut up Jared with—with all that was left of him. You hated your brother for leaving you to suffer, but he didn’t. He suffered. He died. Rob Lynburn killed him. He never left Sorry-in-the-Vale. He died when he was seventeen.”

  “It’s a lie,” her father said hoarsely.

  Holly thought for a moment that she might have made a mistake: her father, when presented with what he did not want to hear or could not understand, became baffled and enraged at once. She didn’t want to be hurt again, and she wouldn’t let Angie be hurt. She began to lift herself up again.

  She saw her mother physically turning her big husband, small hands firm on his shoulders.

  “Hugh, Hugh, it doesn’t matter. You never knew her to lie, did you? Holly’s not a liar. She believes it if she said it. Maybe someone lied to her and—and maybe they didn’t, but we can’t get anything else from her. We agreed to go, didn’t we? Let’s go.”

  A lot of family fights had ended this way, with her mother leading her father away, patting and coaxing and ending the whole scene. It was so normal, and that made it seem bizarre and awful on this burning magic night.

  Holly watched their pale backs receding from her until Angie blocked the sight, her dark eyes wide with concern.

  “Holly,” she said, and knelt down, pulling Holly into her lap. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  Holly did not know if Angie’s carefully gentle hands meant what she wanted them to mean, or if it was just what she had thought for so long was all that was between them, simply friendship, as if she and Angela had exchanged feelings as simply as swapping each other’s jewelry.

  If Holly had to feel all the pain and longing, she would take the comfort. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Can someone see about a magical fruit basket?” and heard Angie yelp with bright sudden laughter. She laughed too, even though it hurt.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stone Marks the Spot

  The night air was so different from the air inside that stifling house that it felt like plunging into deep cool water. Kami gasped with relief even as she turned to her mother and sank her hands into her mother’s burning hair, putting the fire out, turning the trails of sparks back into long smooth tresses. Kami stroked her mother’s hair lightly, before she let Claire go. She thought she understood why parents stroked hair so much: it was a gesture that said, Here you are, lovely and alive and entire. I did that.

&n
bsp; “Mum!” said Ten, and Claire turned to the sound of his voice. Kami’s hand dropped from her hair, and her mother caught that hand in hers and pressed it, then let go to lean down and scoop Ten into her arms as he ran to her.

  “Claire,” said Dad, with the softness of deep relief.

  “Jared, thank goodness you’re all right,” Lillian said pointedly. “And well done for saving What’s-her-name, I suppose. I would have been devastated if anything happened to her.”

  Kami looked at Jared. She hadn’t been able to look at him, not properly, when he was on the other side of her mother, when she’d had to think of protecting and saving them. All she’d known was that he was whole, and now he was safe. They were all safe.

  She was smiling, which was probably wildly inappropriate, but he nodded at her. “You did it,” he said.

  “I didn’t do it alone,” said Kami. “Thanks for saving my mum.”

  The corner of Jared’s mouth twisted up a little, in the small smile she felt he was always trying to sneak past people without noticing. “You’re welcome.”

  The firelight cast his face half in light and half in shadow. There was a dark smudge along the side of his eye, across his temple: Kami had thought it was soot, but now she could see the raised skin and recognized a bruise.

  She hastily lifted a hand to the spot. Jared flinched back, but she grabbed his wrist and held him still so she could heal him, and tried not to mind.

  “What happened?”

  “Well,” said Jared. “Your mother threw her bedside lamp at me.”

  Kami looked over at her mother, who looked apologetic. She could picture the whole scene: her mother waking to fire and chaos, and finding a Lynburn’s face framed against the nightmare. She was quite proud of her mother for fighting back.

  “That’s what happens when you insist on going around wearing a leather jacket and riding a motorcycle,” she remarked. “When you start dating a girl, parents are going to have strong words. Deliver lectures. Set curfews. Hurl projectiles.”