Page 21 of Wicked Chains
"I miss him, Hank," I whisper. "Drake. He's the only one who hasn't tried to control me or use me. And now he's gone, and I don't know if he's coming back."
Hank croaks and hops in a small circle on my stomach.
"Ash did something to him. Banished him or... or erased him." My throat tightens. "What if he's just gone? Forever?"
The thought makes me want to throw up. I've spent most of my life not letting people get close enough to matter when we inevitably left. There’s no point getting attached to people whenyou’re never going to see them again. But somehow, Drake slipped past those defenses. The ghost boy who can only be touched by me. Who looks at me like I'm something valuable because of who I am to him, instead of what I am. I’m not something to be used, not to Drake.
Hank makes another croak, more insistent this time, and hops up to my chest, so we're almost face-to-frog-face.
"What?" I ask him, raising my eyebrows. "You trying to tell me something?"
He croaks again, and suddenly I remember what Soren said in class. About familiars being manifestations of our magical selves. About them choosing us for a reason. About how frogs live between two worlds, water and land.
Just like Drake exists between life and death.
I sit up so quickly that poor Hank tumbles off my chest, catching himself with a less than graceful hop onto the bed beside me.
“That's it.” The pieces clicking together in my mind. "Soren said familiars choose us for a reason. You chose me because you can help me find Drake!"
Hank blinks, which I’m sure is as good as confirmation.
"In class, Soren said I needed to let my magic reach out. That my familiar already existed, I just had to introduce myself formally." I look at Hank with new appreciation. "What if I can do the same thing with Drake? He exists somewhere, right? I just need to find him. To reach out with my magic."
I stand up, galvanized by this new hope. "Come on, Hank. We're going to the fourth floor."
Hank hops back onto my shoulder, and I check the hallway before slipping out, not wanting another run-in with Ash or any of his bloody coven minions. The coast is clear.
What if this doesn't work? What if Drake really is gone forever? Or worse, what if I find him, but he's changed somehow? What if Ash did something to him that can't be undone?
By the time I reach the dirty stairwell leading to the fourth floor, I’m sweating and my heart is pounding. I push open the door slowly, grimacing at the creak of the old hinges.
The fourth floor is exactly as I left it last night, depressingly empty. I make my way to the spot where I last saw Drake, where he vanished right before my eyes.
"Okay," I say, setting Hank down on a nearby retired desk. "Let me concentrate."
I close my eyes, trying to clear my mind the way Soren instructed. It's even harder now than it was in class. There's so much noise in my head, what with Ash's threats, Lucien's betrayal, Soren's—well, whatever you callthat—and beneath it all, the constant fear that I'll never see Drake again.
“Come on, Rose. You can do this.” I glance over at Hank.
“Ribbit.”
I extend my hands like I did in class, feeling slightly stupid but desperate enough to try anything. I think about Drake, his sad eyes, his half-smile. I think about how it felt to be with him, and my cheeks flood with heat, but I continue. I imagine my magic moving out from me, searching for him across whatever separates us.
Nothing happens.
"Damn it," I whisper, frustration building. I drop my hands and open my eyes. "This isn't working."
Hank croaks encouragingly from his perch.
"I don't know what I'm doing wrong," I tell him. "When I summoned you, it just happened. I didn't have to try so hard."
I close my eyes again, trying a different approach. Instead of reaching out, I turn my mind inward, to the place inside me where my magic lives, where I can feel it when it connects with the earth, with the elements, with the universe. The power that's been bound and claimed and fought over. The power that's mine, regardless of the mark on my skin.
"Drake," I whisper, and my voice shakes. I picture him, not just the sharp cut of his jaw or his ink-black thick eyelashes, but the stubborn, sweet mess that he is. I want his half-smile, the way he looks at me. I want his hand holding my smaller one, the nervous breath the first time he kissed me.
I say his name again, softer, and let my magic flow, with no attempt to control or channel it. I just set it free.
The tingling starts in my fingertips, like pins and needles, then rushes up my arms in a cold wave. It’s almost painful, but I don’t fight it, though my vision swims. For a second, I think I’m going to pass out, but I wince and hang on.
