Page 2 of Strange Familiar

Fine then. If she was such a terrible person—and Cillian loved her anyway, or thought he did, or did before this—then she might as well continue as she’d begun. “I can’t sleep,” she informed him. “I’m too upset and it’s frankly inconsiderate of you to lie there, pretending to sleep, when I’m this upset.”

Cillian emerged enough from his protective cocoon to rake a hand through his dark curls, sending them into greater disarray. He looked adorably tousled and she wanted only to climb inside that furry shell and allow him to kiss and reassure her. They’d started out the carriage ride that way, cozied together under the blankets. Until he’d moved away from her, taking the other bench on the pretext of sleeping.

For a painfully hopeful moment, she thought he might be about to open his arms to her, invite her in, but he only rearranged his furry armor, wrapping it more indelibly around his slim body, firmly shutting her out. For the first time, Alise understood what Cillian’s frustration must have been like all those times she’d refused to talk to him, to unbend even a little. She supposed she deserved this turnabout, but she didn’t have to like it.

~ 2 ~

“First of all,” Cillian told Alise, the pulse of overwhelming and unfamiliar anger edging into his vision, “I wasn’t pretending to sleep.”

“Ha to that,” she fired back, her wizard-black eyes catching the soft light and turning it into a glare. Those eyes dominated her piquant face, giving her the aspect of a fairy with her delicate bones and lush mouth. She shimmered with magic, the intensity of it intertwined with her fierce personality and ferocious intelligence. He loved all of that about her and at the same time could only acknowledge how woefully he paled in comparison. He’d always known he wasn’t good enough for Alise, but he’d never thought he’d be an actual burden on her. But after Gordon Hanneil so easily stripped him of his will, turning him into a mindless puppet, Cillian had to face the fact that he was and always would be a liability to Alise.

His heart turned over a little. He wanted her, needed her, but the rest of everything was crushing him and he couldn’t seem to reach past any of it. All he could do was put her off.

“By using the phrase ‘pretending to sleep,’ you’re implying deception on my part,” he continued calmly, reasonably, taking refuge in his own strength: relentless academic debating. “I argue that I was attempting to sleep by creating all of the outward appearances of sleep in the hope that the power of suggestion would lull me into the true depths of somnolence I crave.”

There, that sounded good, and wasn’t entirely untrue. Never mind that he’d be leaving out the critical piece of information that nothing could possibly lull him to the level of relaxation needed for sleep with his mind and heart in such turmoil, let alone the soul-crushing, magic-draining weight of the archives he’d stolen.

Alise gazed back at him in something more than mild astonishment, her full, bow-shaped lips actually parting in surprise. “Did you just lie to me using a whole bunch of jargon to cover it up?”

No. Well, yes, sort of. He pulled the blankets tighter around him; he couldn’t seem to get warm, a damp chill lurking in his bones. Though the Refoel healer, Jonathan, had poured magic into bringing him back from the damage that vile Gordon Hanneil had done to him, weakness still ate away at the core of him. It’s the magic drain, he realized. Never had he used his library magic to accomplish such a massive feat.

First, the immense effort in the archives to locate the artfully hidden folders that had tucked away all reference materials related to the history of House Phel, where they’d been stowed in spaces outside of physical reality. But he’d found them, when no one else could, and he’d unlocked them, too. It had taken every bit of cleverness and drained him of his admittedly median levels of internal magic pulling off that trick, along with all the magic Alise had given him so generously.

Then this: carrying those Phel archives, centuries worth, folded up inside himself, continued to pull from him, eating away at the wizardry that had always been available, though he’d always used it for minor work like indexing manuscripts and keeping track of where he’d put everything. At this rate, even with Healer Jonathan’s heroic efforts to shore up his strength, Cillian would be a hollow shell of a wizard by the time they reached House Harahel with the stolen archives. Stolen. What would his grandmother say? After the entire business of Szarina when he, dazzled by her and stupidly in love, helped her cheat, his grandmother had agreed with the Convocation Academy Provost to give him a second chance. But no third.

“Cillian.” Alise sounded terse, torn between aggravation and worry. How perverse of him that he loved her equally for both. “I asked you a question and you’re just staring blankly. I can’t decide whether to kick you or call for help.”

“What help would you call for?” he asked, more curious than anything. Distantly, he observed that he wasn’t making an enormous amount of sense.

“Oh, now there’s a completely unhelpful response,” she muttered. “I’m turning this carriage around. We’re going to House Phel instead of Harahel. At least there Wizard Asa might be able to help you and Nic and Gabriel will know what to do.”

“You can’t,” he said, wishing he could put more force in his voice. This was a very bad idea though he couldn’t fully recall why.

“Oh, I can,” she replied, brows lowering in threat. “I can program this air elemental to take us off the edge of the known world if I so choose and if you don’t start making sense very soon.”

“I love you, too,” he said, flush with the warmth of knowing she cared. Then he belatedly remembered she’d yet to say she loved him. He thought she probably did, although that wouldn’t factor into the future of their relationship. Life wasn’t like the fairytales: it took a lot more than love to conquer most obstacles.

“It’s like you’re drunk.” She knotted her fingers together, worrying the slender bird bones with such force he feared she’d break them. One thing about Alise, though—people might mistake her slim, youthful appearance for weakness, but she was made of unbreakable determination, possessing a core of strength beyond what most people could muster. At the moment, he could wish she had a bit less determination. Any other person would be sleeping off their ordeal, not badgering him. “Or it’s exhaustion,” she continued, narrowing her sharp black gaze and prodding him with her wizard senses. “How do you feel?”

Like utter shit. “I just need to sleep,” he practically begged.

“Except you weren’t sleeping,” she retorted with remorseless logic. “I sat here for hours, watching you ‘create all of the outward appearances of sleep’”—she put air quotes around the words—“which I don’t believe for a minute was in the ‘hope that the power of suggestion would lull you into the true depths of somnolence you crave.’ You were trying to fool me into leaving you alone, and I did, for quite a while, but that’s over now. You need help, whether you’ll admit it or not. We’re going to House Phel.”

“No,” he managed to say.

“Yes, Cillian. I’m not going to sit here and watch you die, which is what I’m afraid is happening.”

Was it? He didn’t think so, but what did dying feel like? Maybe this sense of fatal weakness, of emptying out inside meant death. Still, it seemed like he should be more upset about it if that were the case. He forced himself to focus, dimly aware of Alise using her formidable wizardry on the—for her—simple task of redirecting the air elemental. They couldn’t go to House Phel, he knew that, but why?

“House Harahel is closer,” he whispered.

She barely flicked him a glance. “By a slim margin. More important, I have no guarantee of our reception there. At least at House Phel I know they’ll listen to me.”

Ah, he should have realized she’d worry about her reception at House Harahel. Her concerns weren’t unfounded. The House Elal heir-apparent arriving unannounced wouldn’t be a welcome event. But she wasn’t alone in this.

“They will listen,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if she heard him. She didn’t appear to, her focus on the air elemental driving and directing the carriage, which slowed as it changed course. “You’ll be with me.”

“That won’t do me any good if I arrive with you dying or dead,” she replied. “Call me selfish, but I’d prefer not to engage in combat with another high house, even if they are a bunch of supposedly peaceful librarians. I’ve learned from you that you all might seem quiet and mild-mannered, but you possess hidden skills that can be scary.”

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