Somebody shrieks, “Are you a madman?” and the room hushes for a good two seconds. My heart beats loudly in my chest, but not loud enough to drown out the words my friend just uttered.
Dead. Because of me. And on the heels of being accused of three other deaths. There’s been no news of my missing teammates, which gnaws at my soul.
The arguing around us begins afresh. Etienne says, as quietly as one can while still being heard over chaos, “Rushfire was old. He’s been old for ages. Any bit of Magic might’ve done him in. For all we know, an addition to his infamous coffee cup collection was the breaking point.”
Maccon Lightningriver, the Goblin who sits in front of us, turns around and scoots his chair closer. A consummate gossiper, which easily explains his friendship with Etienne, Mac isn’t one to let a juicy story, even one as tragic as this, pass without additional comment. “He was basically a freeze-dried mummy for the last decade. Dust motes flew out of his mouth whenever he spoke.”
Etienne laughs outright. I don’t, though. I would’ve before, even just an hour ago, but now it seems too morbid to.
Mac grins and motions to the floor, where there are at least twenty members now arguing vehemently. “Is it wrong that I’d rather dish on Rushfire than focus on hurricanes?”
“Of course not,” Etienne says. “We are infinitely more interesting than those windbags.” And this bad pun causes the two of them to laugh even more.
Maccon stands up and turns his chair around, so he can lean his arms and chin against the back. “Rumor has it that Rushfire actually resembled a mummy when he was found—all wizened up. Creepy, no?”
I shudder. “Are you serious?”
“Magic takes a lot out of a person,” Mac muses. And it makes me think of Kellan, in that cave, using up way too much to try to keep me comfortable. I shudder again; the next thing I know, Etienne has dropped his chunky gray knitted sweater over my shoulders.
“Careful, petunia. Mustn’t catch a cold, now that you’re our only Creator.”
“You ought to bring a sweater and leave it here,” Mac adds. “Or a blanket.”
Like Rushfire is what he doesn’t add, even though I know he’s thinking it. “You two sound like my parents,” I joke. And then I’m sad again, because I know my parents never got on me about such things. Not even my father, sitting on the other side of the room, knee deep in the history of hurricanes in the Southern Hemisphere of the Dwarven plane. I can’t remember a single time in which he admonished me about needing a coat.
Maccon’s infamous smile, the one that weakens many a girl in Annar’s knees, slides across his full lips. “Your dad is in no way as hot as me.”
I roll my eyes. Okay, yes, I’ll admit Maccon Lightningriver is ridiculously good looking. But not only is he a gossip, he’s also a world-class flirt, much to the chagrin of his fiancée. Theirs is an arranged marriage, a tradition strong in his part of the Goblin plane—with her apparently more invested in the relationship than he. Mac’s hinted about his dissatisfaction with his situation a number of times over the last few months to Etienne and me. I used to feel sorry for Izadorna, his fiancée, until she bitched me out in public after witnessing a platonic hug between Mac and me. Now I feel sorry for him, because I can relate in a really weird way, despite being happy with Jonah and our Connection. Mac, though—he’s not in love with Izadorna. And although it’s his parents and his culture tying him to her, it appears to be just as controlling as Fate has been with me. “I’m impervious to your charms, Mac,” I remind him. It’s mostly true. “You can stop trying any time now.”
His smile turns lazy, like he doesn’t believe me. Etienne smothers his own smile before saying, “The point is, sweet potato, that you need to take good care of yourself nowadays. We have no idea when the next Creator will be born.”
Which makes me the only Magical in all of existence that is now solitary. All other crafts have, at the very least, three or four living practitioners. Many have dozens.
I’m suddenly quite lonely in the crowded Assembly room.
Jonah and Karl have met up with Kellan and some friends for a guys’ lunch across town; none of the weirdness from the Guard showdown at the hospital has lingered between these old friends, thankfully. I’m also having a guys’ lunch, only I’m in Etienne’s office after the meeting went to a tumultuous vote. “Two hours,” Maccon mutters, kicking his feet up against an immaculate coffee table. “Two. Freaking. Hours we’ll never get back. And all to decide how much time a hurricane will stay a hurricane before transitioning into a tropical storm.”