Page 59 of Magpie
I am transported back to the day when Irina’s mother died, and the others began whispering about leaving her at the nearest village. Something in her soft eyes called out to me, and I knew then that I would do anything to keep her. Somehow, I knew even then that she was my destiny.
“As I said, this girl will go to the ends of the earth for you. You may even be able to persuade her to go to the gates of death…” Elspeth smiles at me, her own hand resting on Irina’s head. Irina frowns in her sleep, becoming restless, but I do not move the witch’s hand, watching as Irina thrashes.
“Irina will do anything I ask…” I say, suddenly uneasy, not liking the way the witch’s hand curls and grips Irina’s hair, far too possessively. And still, I don’t stop her, don’t move her hand from Irina’s forehead. I look away from it, holding Elspeth’s gaze. “I will ask her, and she will do it. You just need to show us how.”
I frown when the witch just shakes her head. “Oh yes, boy, you will ask her,” she says. “Time and time again you will ask her, and it will be the only thing she denies you.”
I scowl. Irina never tells me no. How dare this witch insinuate that?
Elspeth grins. “You could live endlessly like me, and be content with that, knowing that no matter how far you run, one day Death will catch up to you. Or…”
I wait. The key is still dangling between us. I don’t move to take it.
“Or you can convince her to give you everything, to give you that sweet control you so desperately crave. One day, if you press her enough, she will grant you that power, and it will cost you everything.”
Looking down at Irina, I see her sweet face pulled into a look of anguish as the witch strokes her hair.
She would want us to be together forever. She would do anything to ensure it.
For her, I tell myself. I am doing this for her.
Looking away from the sorrow on Irina’s sleeping face, I lock eyes with the witch, and as the storm screams on around us, I take the key.
Ido not carry many memories of my youth. The few that trickled back into my mind after leaving Alister are mostly of my years leading up to the House. The further back in my life I try to remember, the muddier it becomes, like wading deep into a swamp.
I do, however, remember my father taking me to the zoo. I cannot call to mind his features, or any familial bond we may have had, but I remember the animals. The jaguars in particular. I was young, young enough for everything around me to feel big. I remember holding his hand as I begged to see the big cats. He led me to the jaguar exhibit. I excitedly watched the three sleeping beasts, waiting for them to stretch and curl like housecats. Instead, they slumbered. I began to fidget, pouting about how boring they were, sunbathing on the many branches and rocks that made up their cage.
“Daddy, look,” I said, pressing my face against the mesh wall that blocked the animals from the path. The jaguars were rousing, their eyes trained on the center of the cage. I was entranced, watching as their muscles tensed, their limbs movingwith the grace of dancers. I thought they were beautiful, a wondrous, powerful thing. I was completely enthralled.
It wasn’t until a mother screamed at her child not to look that I realized what had woken the slumbering beasts.
A stray cat had somehow made its way into the animals’ cage. It was a hissing and spitting ball of panic as the jaguars closed in. I was frozen, my childlike mind unable to see the very near future, unable to understand the death waiting in the predators’ gazes. My father realized too late what was happening, and before he could pull me away, a jaguar pounced, and then all I could see was claws, and teeth, and hunger.
The ravenous look in the jaguars’ eyes is mirrored in Alister’s, the same predatory need to devour etched into every line of his face. He leans against the door, sticking his hands casually in his pockets as he once again traces his eyes over every inch of my exposed skin. The sky is still dark, the sun hours from rising. The ritual will be going on for some time. It’s unusual for him to abandon the performance before the ending.
But tonight is an unusual night.
He pushes off the door, taking one slow step forward. Just one. He is testing the distance between us, testing to see if I will bolt. It takes all my strength to stay rigid, smiling pleasantly back at him.
The jaguar sizes up its prey. My plan, feeble as it may be, requires him much closer than this, and before he can make another move, I rush forward and throw my arms around him. Standing as tall as I can, I guide his face to mine and kiss him.
He instantly rears back, shock and perhaps fear of me giving him pause. He peers down at me, scrutinizing my docile expression. I press myself closer to him, looking up at him meekly through my lashes, and he gives me that crescent-moon smile. The one that has haunted my dreams since the moment I left. His arms twine around me, binding and tight. His touchis strong, and far too greedy, trying to pull me closer, press me into him. His lips are on mine in a second, and that grave-cold sensation splinters out of him, trying to worm its way into me.
Before the numbing fissures can break through my steel wall of defiance, I break the kiss, pulling back. He doesn’t let me get far, caging me in his arms.
“You returned to me,” he says. I hate the way he speaks of me like I’m an object, nothing more than the wrought iron key stored inside his heart. How little my life ever meant to him outside of fueling his endless flame.
I nod at him, trying to not scowl. Some hint of my true feelings must betray me, because his eyes narrow, suspicion clear on his face as he studies me. Before he can speak, I fall into him, burying my head in his chest, listening for the heartbeat I know isn’t there.
“I came back,” I say, because I may have returned, but I certainly didn’t return to him.
He pushes away from me, taking a step back, eyeing me with cold judgment, and my heart sinks. My plan is failing spectacularly.
“You’ve been quite a disobedient little brat, Magpie,” he snaps, his grin replaced with a grimace, his voice dripping with indignation. His tone is sardonic, painting my efforts to dig my key out of the cavern of his chest as nothing more than a childish tantrum. Like my escape means nothing, my efforts completely pointless. I resist the urge to rip his shirt open and expose the scar I suspect is covering his chest, proof that my fight made its mark.
I drop my head in false shame. My hair falls over my shoulders, covering my face. Undeterred by my mock contrition, he grips my chin, roughly forcing my head up to meet his eyes. Real shock and fear rise in me as I realize how wildly out of control of the situation I am.
“I was…lost,” I say, fumbling for an excuse.
