The End of Magic (The Witches of Echo Park #3)(71)

The wind was picking up, blowing bits of her russet hair into her face. She sighed as she pushed an errant strand from her eyes. She wished she had a pair of scissors so she could just cut the whole mess of it off. She felt like she needed a change, and lopping her long hair would be an easy way to accomplish it. Finally, she just reached up and grasped the long strands of hair, tying them in a knot at the back of her neck.



       
         
       
        

"I'm going to be trite, but a penny for your thoughts?"

Lizbeth turned to find Thomas standing behind her, gazing out at the effervescent purple water. He was wearing a long woven caftan that came to his ankles, the fabric thick and homespun, so that he resembled a wandering mendicant monk. He didn't look at her as he spoke, just kept his face to the water, eyes fixed on something in the far distance.

"If not a penny, then a silver dollar."

He snapped his fingers and a small silver coin appeared in his palm-which he then held out for her to see.

"Magic tricks don't impress me," she said, her voice even.

She didn't like Thomas, had real trouble reconciling his familial relationship to Tem-they were like night and day, as far as Lizbeth was concerned-and yet she sensed there was something important he needed to say to her, so she tried to keep her dislike in check.

"There are magic tricks anyone can learn," he said, his gaze still focused far out in the distance. "And then there is the magic that a creature like you is born with, and this must be cultivated for a higher purpose."

"What? So I can be like you?" She stared at him, willing him to turn and look her way-to tell her this bit about a "higher purpose" directly to her face.

Reading her mind, he pivoted so his eyes locked on her own. Then he smiled, baring his canines, and immediately she wished she could travel back in time and make a different choice. Not to goad him, but to walk away from the conversation before he looked her way. Because now she was trapped, the full power of his gaze pinning her to the spot where she stood as it burrowed into her, tunneling through skin and muscle, aiming for her heart.

"Yes, so you can be like me . . . and Temistocles. You may only be a half-caste, but that still means part of you is like us. And because of that, you will be called up to defend the innocent against the darkness."

With a concerted effort, Lizbeth was able to ratchet her eyes away from the granite planes of his face. She dropped her gaze to her feet, digging into the sandy shoreline and teasing out a clump of dirty brown mud with her toes. The purple lake and the three suns hadn't been there when she and Tem had carried the girls into the Red Chapel. They had only appeared when she'd come outside to think.

"I'm already doing what you say," she murmured, her chin dipped toward the ground. "Isn't that what combating The Flood is? Fighting the darkness?"

"You're afraid to look at me," Thomas said, and she shrugged. 

"It's like looking into the sun."

He laughed. The first uncalculated sound she'd heard out of his mouth. She looked up and found his countenance much changed. Now there was a welcoming air about him, as if he'd flipped a switch and changed his entire attitude.

"You and your blood sisters think you know me, but I know none of you have ever understood a whit about me. Not really. I loved Devandra's mother, Melisande. And I would have made her mine if I hadn't been called back to take my place, to fight the darkness in my own world."

"Not The Flood?" Lizbeth asked, curious now.

He shrugged.

"You have The Flood. For us it was called the darkness. But though it goes by many names, it is always the same . . . a sickness that slowly overtakes a world and destroys it."

"Why?" Lizbeth asked.

"If I knew the answer to that, well, I don't think we'd be staring at your soda lake and having this conversation."

Lizbeth stared back at him.

"Wait? Are you saying this lake is really and truly filled with my favorite soda?"

She was shocked. She'd just assumed the lake had been created to look like grape Nehi. She'd never in a million years have dreamed that it actually was made of the stuff.

"Why not?" Thomas asked.

Lizbeth didn't have an answer for him, instead, she murmured under her breath: "This place is so weird."

"This is the crossroads of everywhere, the hub upon which all universes spin. Of course it's going to be 'weird.'"

He has a point, Lizbeth thought, not wanting to like Thomas, but starting to . . . at least a little bit.

"You said you're a magician and you want to train me. But so I can do what?"