Page 30 of Blood Currents
I could lie to them about her activities while giving her just enough real warnings to keep her safe.
But what kind of love was that?What kind of twisted protection required me to betray her trust while claiming to care for her?
I stood abruptly, pacing to the window.I could tell her everything, confess what I’d done and explain why I’d done it.Ask her to understand an impossible choice.
The image of her face rose in my mind—not anger but disappointment.The slow death of that light in her eyes when she looked at me.The way her voice would cool, distance growing between us with each passing day.
And my parents would know immediately.They’d see through any reconciliation, any forgiveness she might offer.They’d know I’d betrayedtheminstead.
And then they’d destroy her—not quickly, not obviously, but methodically and completely.They’d done the same to others who threatened their plans.
I’d helped them do it to Zhang.
My fingers found the violin where it rested in its case—a familiar weight, a piece of myself untouched by politics and masks.The first note cut through the silence like a wound, raw and imperfect.Then another, and another, until the room filled with a melody that was mine alone—aching and unpolished andreal.
As I played, I faced the truth I’d been avoiding.I loved her too much to be honest with her.And I wasn’t strong enough to break free of my family without destroying us both in the process.
Tomorrow, I would see her again.
I would carry the weight of what I’d said while wearing the same face she’d learned to trust.I would continue the performance, play both sides, and maintain the masks that kept us all alive.
And I would watch her turn to Cyrus, whose flames burned clean and true, who could offer honesty where I could only give performance.I would watch her reconnect with Keane, whose quiet steadiness had always anchored her in ways my shifting illusions never could.
I would lose her, piece by piece, day by day.And I would bear it because the alternative meant losing her completely, permanently, to my parents’ ruthless calculations.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to her phantom presence.“I hope someday you’ll understand why.”
But even as I said it, I knew forgiveness wasn’t what I deserved.What I deserved was exactly what was coming: the slow death of something precious I’d poisoned with necessary lies.
I played until my hands shook too badly to hold the bow, until the music became little more than broken notes in the dark, until the decision crystallized like ice in my chest.
I would protect her from my parents.Even if it meant protecting her from me too.
13
Marigold
The necromancy classroom had alwaysbeen my sanctuary at Wickem—the one place where I could breathe without feeling like I was drowning in whispers and sideways glances.Even now, with everything falling apart around me, the room remained exactly the same.Sunlight cut through tall windows in familiar golden rectangles, protective sigils glowed faintly on the walls like gentle stars, and the air hummed with the comforting weight of old magic and traces of spells long since cast.
It still felt like the one place I belonged without question, without apology, without pretense.
Today, though, I could barely breathe.
I knelt on the cushioned floor, my knees pressing into the worn fabric that had supported countless students before me.My fingers traced the familiar lines of a summoning circle in blue chalk, the powder catching under my nails and leaving faint streaks across my skin.The motion should have soothed me.It usually did, like a meditation, a return to something pure and untainted.But my hands shook just enough to blur the lines, the tremor subtle but persistent, like my body was betraying the calm I was trying so desperately to project.
The chalk felt gritty between my fingers.Foreign.Like everything else in my life had started to feel wrong.
“Wow,” Raven said, flopping down beside me with her usual dramatic flair.Her dark curls bounced as she settled cross-legged on the floor.She began drawing her own circle with quick, confident strokes that made my careful, shaking lines look pathetic by comparison.“You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
Her tone was light, teasing, but I caught the concerned edge underneath.Raven had always been good at hiding worry behind humor—probably where she learned to make jokes about everything that scared her.
Lucas settled on my other side with his characteristic quiet precision, every movement deliberate and careful.His notebook was already open, pencil poised to sketch the diagrams Professor Undergrove would inevitably assign.
“She hasn’t slept,” he said matter-of-factly, studying my face with those sharp, observant eyes.“Have you even eaten today, Mari?”
The question hit harder than it should have.WhenhadI last eaten?Yesterday?The day before?Time had become slippery, meals forgotten in the chaos of sneaking around, hiding Keane’s recovery, and pretending everything was normal when nothing would ever be normal again.
I forced a laugh that felt brittle as old glass.“I’m fine.”
