Sometimes, if I stop fighting, the ley line will relax. My academic advisor, Professor Liddel, and I have spent a long time working on relaxation techniques. Another breath. Calm. Acceptance.
Acceptance... Fine. Roark was right. Losing control of my power isn’t how I want this all to end. And as much as it hurt, he made a valid point. There’s no way I can help him or anyone unless I figure my own shit out.
* * *
The book lies open in my lap, but I can’t comprehend a
ny of the ancient calligraphy scrawled there. Something about the ley line devouring yet another host. Just like every other historical account.
Breathe out.
A lack of control. I suffer it. Every one of the ley line’s hosts died from it eventually.
The energy inside me coils tighter, feeding off the frantic pace of my thoughts. The edges of the book dig into my stomach when I tighten my grip on it and try to contain the magick I’m leaking.
Breathe in.
You have one last year here. There’s still time to master this. There’s still time to save the farm. To set your parents up for life before you go.
Right. There’s time. Yes. Breathe out. Calm. Acceptance.
Breathe in. Out.
The ley line eases back a tiny bit.
I crack my eyes, proud I’ve controlled myself. Too bad the edges of the book are on fire. I yelp and slam the book shut, patting the smoldering remnants with my hand and blowing to dissipate the scent of charred parchment.
Shit.
Before anyone can come check on me, I hurry back to the shelves and shove the tome in place, pretending I don’t notice the wisps of pale smoke still rising from it. It’s not like anyone’s going to be using it anytime soon. I’m the only person who ever comes to this section.
The study of ley lines is the magickal equivalent of studying black holes. Everyone has a theory on what they are and how they work and then you try to get close enough to study them in real life and you die, so the research stops.
Only a few random humans have ever managed to channel the ley lines’ energy and these hosts’ appearances throughout history aren’t consistent. Human bodies aren’t designed to act as conduits for that level of power. So the ley lines burn us out really fast, like light bulb filaments when the current’s too strong. We die, and no one can explain how to prevent it.
That thought makes the ley line quiet for a moment. Long enough for me to leave the library before the air shimmering around me from the invisible heat I’m putting off can make the building spontaneously combust.
The cool night air outside helps. With the spontaneous combustion issue, I mean, not my inevitable death. The reality isn’t as terrifying as it used to be. All the other people who had this power died before the age of twenty, including Joan of Arc. So...hooray, I’ve already exceeded my life expectancy.
That’s what Herman and Sue wrote on my birthday cake back when I turned twenty-one. Happy Birthday, Finny! You’re still alive!
“More’s the pity,” Roark had murmured as he snagged a piece of it and vanished back to his room. It wasn’t insulting; Roark’s never hidden that he’ll be first in line to dance a jig on my grave when it’s all over.
Maybe Roark will end up killing me first. Take that, history.
Restless, but unwilling to risk others’ lives while I’m this out of control, I check my phone to see what time it is. Plenty late now. Hopefully Roark’s gone to bed or wandered off to do whatever Unseelie princes are supposed to do when the faerie Courts are squabbling.
I don’t want to see him again tonight. But part of me craves it because he’s the only person who calls my future like it is. Who calls me like I am.
Instead of heading home, I walk the grounds. Even after dark, I never worry about walking Mathers’s campus. It’s one of the few neutral zones in the world established by the magickal Pantheons. No one is stupid enough to risk the wrath of immortal entities to commit any crime against a student while they’re peacefully studying at university.
“Hey.”
I jump and the ley line follows suit, rising up and smashing into me like a rogue wave. A quick spin and panicked “The fuck?” reveals the cause of my most recent heart attack.
Robin Goodfellow sits cross-legged a few feet above the ground. Instead of the drunken sneer he sported the last time I saw him in the park, he’s all humble contrition now. Pressing a hand to my sternum doesn’t help me catch my breath, but it does make me feel a little less like my heart will beat its way out of my chest.
“What do you want?” I ask.