Page 44 of Wicked Bonds
Soren laughs. “The cavalry arrives. How predictable.”
“Not the time,” Lucien barks. He’s focused on the spirits, tracking their movements.
“Lighten up, Lucien. Now, the question is whether our Rose can put them back, or if we need to call in the Coven.”
They’re both looking at me now, and I want to disappear into the ground. “I don’t know how. I didn’t mean to do this.”
“Intent is irrelevant,” Lucien says. “You woke them. You need to contain them the same way.”
“Helpful as always,” Soren drawls. “Perhaps something more specific? Unless you’d prefer I handle this.” His eyes go black, and I feel a pull, like he’s reaching for something inside me.
“Don’t you dare,” Lucien growls, and for a second I think they’re going to fight right here while water spirits turn the courtyard into an ice rink.
“Both of you stop.” I feel a bubble of panic rising. “Just tell me what to do.”
They exchange a look, the kind of male communication that involves a lot of jaw clenching and eyebrow movement. Finally, Soren steps closer, but Lucien doesn’t stop him.
“The spirits are water, but they’re bound to earth,” Soren says. “The fountain is stone. Stone that’s been here longer than anything else. You need to connect to that.”
“I’m not an earth witch,” I protest. “I can barely light a candle without setting something on fire.”
“You’re not any one kind of witch,” Lucien says, and before I can be offended, he continues. “You’re all of it. Stop trying to force the magic into categories.”
Easy for him to say. But I close my eyes, trying to block out the screaming students, the sound of water, the way my whole body shakes. I reach for the magic, but it’s like trying to grab falling sand.
“Not like that.” Soren’s voice is closer, and I feel his presence at my back, not touching but close enough that his heat is there. “Stop thinking. What do you feel?”
“Wet,” I say. “Cold. Pissed off.”
He actually laughs. “Besides that.”
I try again. Under my own panic, there’s a heartbeat, deep and slow, coming from the ground itself. It’s been there all along, I realize, since the moment I sat on that bench. The oak tree, the stone fountain, even the earth under the academy, they’re all connected, all part of something older than time.
“There,” Lucien says quietly. He’s moved to my other side, still not touching, but I can feel him there too. “Now pull.”
I don’t pull. I ask. Some instinct I didn’t know I had takes over, and instead of forcing the magic, I reach out to that ancient current and make a request.
Please.
The ground quakes. Not violently, just a gentle acknowledgment, like the earth is waking up from a nap. The water spirits pause their haywire dancing and twisting, turning toward me with faces that almost look curious.
I kneel, placing both palms flat on the wet ground, and the connection strengthens. Through the stone, through the roots of the oak tree, through the very foundations of the academy, I can feel the water calling its children back.
The spirits resist at first, pulling against the summons, but I push more of myself into the request. Not my magic… me. My stubbornness, my anger at being lied to, my grief and defiance.
One by one, they flow back toward the fountain, leaving trails of rapidly melting ice. The watching crowd has gone silent, and I can feel their eyes on me, but for once I don’t care. I’m too focused on the sensation of the spirits passing through the connection I’ve made, cold and old and even grateful.
The last spirit pauses in front of me, its face solidifying just enough that I can make out features. It’s young and sad, familiar in a way that makes my heart move into my throat. Then it dissolves into the fountain with the others, and the water stops flowing. Within seconds, the fountain is dry again, moss-covered and innocent, like nothing happened.
The courtyard is soaked, ice melting into puddles, and several decorative plants are definitely dead, but the crisis is over.
“Well, then.” Soren says, breaking the silence.
Lucien helps me stand, his hand on my elbow for just a second before he pulls away. “You did well.”
The crowd starts dispersing, conversations erupting as they process what they saw. Thorne lingers, her perfect face twisted in something between annoyance and envy, before Harry pulls her away. They’re all talking about me, about what just happened, and I know by dinner this will be another story about how Rose Smith is a walking disaster.
“Fuck,” I breathe, running a wet hand through my hair.
