Alex had it all wrong. She didn’t need anyone. It was me who couldn’t survive without her.
“You’ll figure it out, Jemmie,” Alex said softly. “But if you want my opinion, you belong right here in Hawthorne.”
Glints of her golden magic sparked in my vision, forming an aura around her face—she had so much that sometimes it just wafted from her unbidden. I closed my eyes to shut it out. If Alex knew what I felt every time I was around kindled power, she’d probably tell me I should leave town and live somewhere else, far away from the magic that made my vision blur and my head ache. Though I knew she’d say it out of concern for me, it would still kill me to hear. And no matter what I decided, it couldn’t erase the truth that ruled my life:
It was freaking painful to love something that didn’t want you in return.
TWO
ALEX AND I SPENT THE BETTER PART OF THE AFTERNOON at the Medici Cottage. It wasn’t until the sun started to set that we left the house and followed the river three miles south to the Schoolhouse.
It, too, sat on the edge of Sable River, and although it hadn’t been an actual school for a century, going there was always an education.
One I both looked forward to and dreaded.
The two-story structure, which served as the Devils’ League clubhouse and party headquarters, had been constructed of red brick, with white trim around the doors and windows. The old leaded glass windows were still intact, as was the bell tower and the giant bell inside. Just the thought of it made me cringe a little. Last summer after so many things had fallen apart, I’d managed to get drunk enough to climb up there and try to ring it. Crowe had had to rescue me after I got stuck, and I wished I could forget the sad, disgusted look on his face as he did. I’d stayed away from the Schoolhouse for nearly six months after that out of pure shame. Since then I’d been back a few times, but never for more than a drop-in.
Alex pulled into the lot and drove past a row of parked Harley-Davidsons. They were lined up equidistant from one another, the front tires all cocked to the right. Parked Harleys always reminded me of stacked dominos—kick one and they all go down. Not that I’d ever try something like that in a place like this.
Alex parked in front, in the spots reserved for her and her family. An old oak tree loomed over us, and in the murky evening light, it looked like a giant with a thousand gnarly hands. The old gas lamps were lit up, too, casting golden halos on the cobblestone path up to the front door. Music spilled out open windows—and so did magic. I blinked as my vision hazed with it, as my stomach rolled with its heavy, multifaceted scent. Alex skipped along next to me, oblivious and happy. Why was I the only one who seemed to be allergic to the stuff? It was so unfair.
I breathed through my mouth and focused on the song that was playing. Something old, something rock-and-roll. Familiar and grounding, even if it wasn’t my favorite.
“‘Lord knows I can’t change!’” Alex sang along with the music, her arms raised above her head. “I love this song,” she added when the lyrics gave way to a guitar solo.
“Me too,” I lied, and stepped aside as Boone, a giant of a man, ambled past, his body clad almost entirely in black leather.
“It’s the little banshee!” he called over his shoulder.
Everyone at the Schoolhouse called Alex “the little banshee,” because when she was a baby all she did was wail.
“Your brother was in a mood today. Fair warning, sugar,” Boone said as he made his way toward his motorcycle.
Alex and I shared a look.
I pulled the heavy wooden door open and Alex slipped in ahead of me. Better she go first. Crowe wouldn’t kill his flesh and blood. Besides, I welcomed the chance to adjust to the onslaught that greeted me. Like many of the kindled motorcycle clubs, the Devils’ League was a small, single-chapter club with only twenty full-patch members and a handful of prospects and hangarounds who might prospect in the future, but there were a few hundred friends of the club, members of the kindled community who gathered to support them, which was what seemingly all of them had done tonight. The Schoolhouse was packed, swirls and splashes of amber, green, pink, purple, and orange haloing the kindled, hanging in the air. Just the sight made me clutch at the wall. I willed my feet to be steady.
The music was even louder inside, thrumming through the floorboards. In the first classroom we passed, everyone had abandoned the billiards tables and danced to the guitar solo that was somehow still carrying on, punctuated by quick, frenetic drum riffs. They were a motley crew of men and women, gyrating and jumping, hair whipping, arms raised and flailing. When the lyrics picked back up, the entire room broke out in song.
This was the double-edged sword of the place. There was something intoxicating about seeing this crowd here, something so us. And yet it also made me ache because I couldn’t be fully part of it. Unlike everyone else, I couldn’t just let go and revel. A ringing had picked up in my ears, and the colorful aura signaled a major headache coming on. Perhaps sensing me falter even though she couldn’t possibly know why, Alex threaded her arm through mine and tugged me toward the bar—and that was right where I needed to be if I wanted to survive the evening.
To get there, we had to walk past the library, which was situated in the far left corner of the building. The room was fronted by thick double doors that were always closed and locked. That was the casting chamber and meeting place, accessible only by members of Alex’s family and trusted members of the Devils’ League, as well as a few select kindled who were allies of the club.
I could smell the magic inside even now, so potent that it collected like a film on the back of my throat. There were notes of something metallic and steely, but it was overwhelmed by something sticky and sweet. Venemon magic—specifically Crowe’s, which had a musky, masculine undertone that distinguished it from Alex’s. It made me want to breathe deep. It made me want to run.
No magic in the kindled world was inherently good or bad. But Crowe could turn a hex as easily as a child could cast a handful of rocks. Of course, the venemon magic that ran in the Medici family lent itself well to being twisted. They could heal, but could just as easily inflict pain, or crush bone, or make someone ill.
Crowe was devastatingly good at both healing and hurting—and didn’t hesitate to do either.
A lot of conservative kindled said that made him a criminal. Crowe once joked that it made him talented. After all, his ancestors had been renowned for their poisons and antidotes, which were really just well-cast spells. The better-known Italian Medicis were assassins and court enforcers and aristocratic warriors, but many were also skilled physicians and healers. Crowe parlayed his inherited abilities into a gold mine like so many of his ancestors before him.
The Devils’ League sold his magical healing cuts through trade lines all across the continental United States. They also sold mild hexes that might cause someone to vomit for a week or lie in bed in anguish for a day. But the top sellers, by far, were Crowe’s amplifying cuts. The charm gave the user a temporary boost, much like a shot of adrenaline, and that included making whatever magic the individual cast about ten times stronger.