I cast. No hate or anger in my magic, just like Opal always said.
“I forgive you,” I whisper.
And the water comes like an avalanche.
It crashes against the warlock, throwing him against the wall. The Fae scream and scatter, releasing Freddy in the process. Everyone is drenched in magic, as the blue in the room not only extinguishes the warlock’s cast, but also covers all else in water and mist.
Only the Ripple approaches me. It wears my face as it looks at me and then, as if probing my mind for everyone I’ve ever loved, it flashes through many different appearances. My family, flickering in front of me like a strange dream.
It doesn’t move to harm me. It only tries to read me. I think of the first moment I met this odd creature. When I reached down to throw a stone.
It threw one back. Just as clumsily. Just as weakly.
“You’re not a ripple,” I say to it, quietly. “You’re a reflection. You don’t do something unless someone does it to you.”
This lonely creature, new to the world of magic, only knows how to imitate. And Portia wants to teach it violence and hate.
Its image once again lands on Opal. She must be
so present in my mind, the creature cannot read anything else.
I have no desire to cast stones now. I step forward and hold the shapeshifter, my head against its sternum. It doesn’t feel or smell like her, but I want this lonesome oddity to feel something other than fear and loathing. Though stiff at first, and perhaps deeply bemused, it eventually raises its arms to return the embrace.
It is a moment of peace, one I’ve been craving, and it calms the final pieces of the storm inside of me.
When I gently pull away, the Ripple has shifted once more, and I am looking at myself. Like a strange mirror image, only it doesn’t echo your every movement. At least not in real-time. I stare into my own face, and I decide to let go. I don’t need to retaliate. I don’t need to poison myself with dreams of revenge, when I could be living my life and making things better for the people I love.
I always stared at Opal and wondered why she didn’t carry more anger around with her, the way I did. I took it for weakness, or rather a lack of fortitude.
I was wasting time with all that red when there
was blue to feel. This warm, settled, and strong feeling of magic.
I’m not going to tell myself lies anymore. I’m quite good at magic. But I’m going to get better.
What she always wanted for me.
I shake my hands, stimming out little flecks of magic. I watch as Malachi rises to a standing position. He starts to charge me, building up to another cast – this one more personal and more intense. The same colour as the spell the Druid used on Opal. I brace myself, readying for it.
Until I feel hands on my left shoulder, pushing me. A shove that ejects me from the spell’s path. I hit the floor and have only a few seconds to look up and see what has happened.
Alona has physically forced me out of the line of fire and now stands boldly in my place. I scream in protest as Malachi is unable to divert the course of his spell. It hits Alona in the torso and her arms spread out like an angel’s wings. Her eyes look up and she begins to transform. Instead of hitting the ground, like Opal, her whole figure cracks and transfigures into a tree. Tall and grand, stood right in the heart of the hall. It is not her usual transformation. This oak tree does not teem with life the way she usually does.
Instead of a body, we have been left with a tree. One that is still and silent and solitary.
“Alona?”
I touch the trunk, my hand hot and wet against the bark. I hear Freddy running over to us, placing himself between me and the warlock. I hear raised voices, but I don’t listen. I don’t take in whatever is being said.
I feel what little is left of my heart starting to break.
“Are you happy now, Portia?” I say, running my hands over the roots of the tree, which are now dug deep into the ground. “What else do you want to take from me?”
I force myself to look at her. She still seems disillusioned. None of her infamous gleam is alive in her face anymore. It was something I used to fantasise about. I used to play scenarios in my head, over and over, where the smugly chaotic glint would be wiped out of her eyes.
There is nothing satisfying or glorious about any
of this.
“I could never be you,” I say softly. “This is hell. If you feel this badly inside, all the time. I could never
do it.”
Her eyes flit to me and we stare at each other. “You learn to let it keep you warm.”
The words fall between us, and I shake my head. The warlock is in my peripheral, too afraid to fire while Freddy stands between us. He awaits another command from Portia, but one does not seem to
be forthcoming.
I expect her to speak but we are all interrupted. We turn to face the large doors at the back of the hall.
Someone is knocking.
Chapter Twenty-TWO
The Siren and the Witch
The knock is proud and unapologetic. It gives me hope.
