evidence of my run-in with . . . well, whatever they were.
My back had cramped as I rolled the hems of my pants down. I twisted halfway around in the mirror, then tugged up the back of the Ramones T-shirt I’d paired with my flannel pajama bottoms to check out the place where the firespell had hit me. I expected to see another bruise,
some indication of the force that had pushed me to the floor and knocked the breath from my lungs.
There was no bruise, at least that I could see from my position—half-turned as I was to face the mirror, one hip cocked out, neck twisted. I almost dropped the bottom of my shirt and went on my merry way—straight into bed with the coffee table’sVogue .
But then I saw it.
My heart skipped a beat, something tightening in my chest.
At the small of my back was a mark. It wasn’t a bruise—the color wasn’t right. It wasn’t the purple or blue or even that funny yellow that bruises take on.
It was green. Candy apple green—the same color as the firespell that had bitten into my skin.
More important, there was a defined shape. It was a symbol—a glyph on the small on my back,
like a tattoo I hadn’t asked for.
It was a circle with some complicated set of symbols inside it.
I’d been marked.
I stood in front of the mirror for fifteen minutes, worrying about the mark on my back. I turned this way and that, my hem rolled up in my hands, neck aching as I stretched until I thought to grab a compact from my makeup bag. I flipped it open, turned around, and aimed it at the mirror.
It wasn’t just a mark, or a freckle, or a weird wrinkle caused by lounging in a hospital bed for twenty-four hours.
It was a circle—a perfect circle. A circle too perfect to be an accident. Too perfect to be anything but purposeful. And inside the circle were symbols—squiggles and lines, all distinct,
but not organized in any pattern that looked familiar to me.
But still, even though I didn’t know what they meant, I could tell what theyweren’t . The lines were clear, the shapes distinct. They were much too perfect to be a biological accident.
I frowned and dropped my arm, staring in confusion at the floor. Where had it come from? Had something happened to me when I was unconscious? Had I been tattooed by an overeager ER doctor?
Or was the answer even simpler . . . and more complex?
The mark was in the same place I’d been hit with the firespell, where that rush of heat and fire (and magic) thrown by Sebastian had roared up my spine.
I had no ideahow firespell could have had anything to do with the symbol, but what else could it have been? What else would have put it there?
Without warning, there was a knock at the door. Instinctively, I flipped the compact shut and pulled down my T-shirt. “Yeah?”
“Hey,” Scout said from the other side of the closed door. “We’re going to grab a Rainbow Cone at a place down the street. You wanna come with? It’s only three or four blocks. Might be nice to get some fresh air?”
Something in my stomach turned over, maybe at the realization that, at some point, I’d have to tell Scout about the mark and enlist her help to figure out what it was. That didn’t sit well. Her telling me about her adventures was one thing. My being part of those adventures and part of this whole magic thing—being permanently marked by it—was something else.
“No, thanks,” I said, giving the closed door the guilty look I couldn’t stand to give Scout. “I’m not feeling so great, so I think I’m just going to rest for a little while.”
“Oh, okay. Do you want us to bring some back?”
“Uh, no thanks. I’m not really hungry.” That was the absolute truth.
She was quiet for a minute. “Are you okay in there?” she finally asked.
“Yeah. Just, you know, tired. I didn’t get much sleep in the hospital.” Also the truth, but I felt bad enough that I crossed my fingers, anyway.
“Okay. Well, take a nap, maybe,” she suggested. “We’ll check in later.”
“Thanks, Scout,” I said. When footsteps echoed across the suite, I turned and pressed my back against the door and blew out a breath.
What had I gotten myself into?
True to my word, I climbed into bed, pulling the twin-spired symbols of St. Sophia’s over my head as I tried, unsuccessfully, to nap. I’d been supportive of Scout and the Adept story in the hospital. I’d made a commitment to believe them, to believe in them, even when Foley showed up. I’d also made a commitment not to let the basement drama—whatever it was about—affect my friendship with Scout.
And now I was in my room, head buried in cotton and flannel, hiding out.
Some friend I was.
Every five minutes, I’d touch the tips of my fingers gingerly to the bottom of my spine, thinking I’d be able to feel some change when, and if, the mark disappeared. Every fifteen minutes, I’d climb out of bed and twist around in front of the mirror, making sure the mark hadn’t decided to fade.
There was no change.
At least, not physically. Emotionally, I was freaking out. And not the kind of freaking out that lent itself to finding a friend and venting. This was the kind of freaking out that was almost . .
.paralyzing . The kind of fear that made you hunker down, avoid others, avoid the issue.
And so I lay in bed, sunlight shifting across the room as the day slipped away. The suite being relatively small, I heard Scout and Lesley return, mill about in the common room, and then head into their respective bedrooms. They eventually left for dinner, after a prospective knock on the door to see if I wanted anything. For the second time, I declined. I could hear Scout’s disappointment—and fear—when she double-checked, but I wasn’t up for company. I wasn’t up for providing consolation.
I needed to be consoled.
Eventually, I fell asleep. Scout didn’t bother knocking for breakfast on Sunday morning. Not that I could blame her, I supposed, since I’d ignored her for the last twenty-four hours, but her absence was still noticeable. She’d become a fixture during my first week at St. Sophia’s.
I snuck down to breakfast in jeans and my Ramones T-shirt, my hair in a messy knot, the ribboned key around my neck. I wasn’t dressed for brunch or socializing, so I grabbed a carrot raisin muffin and a box of orange juice before heading back to my room, bounty in hand.
What a difference a day makes.
It was around noon when they knocked on the door.
When I didn’t answer, Amie’s voice rang out. “Lily? Are you in there? Are you . . . okay?”
I closed the art history book I’d been perusing in bed, went to the door, opened it, and found Amie and Veronica, both in jeans, brown leather boots, snug tops, and dangly earrings, standing there. Not bad outfits, actually, if you ignored the prissiness.
The last time they’d sought me out, they offered a chance to go treasure hunting. The offer this time wasn’t much different.
“We’re really sorry about what happened,” Amie said. “We’re heading to Michigan Avenue for a little shopping. Are you up for a field trip?”
I was an intelligent person, so my first instinct was, of course, to slam the door in their faces.
But as they stood there in my doorway, hair perfect, makeup just so, they offered me something else.
Oblivion.
