AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“How long have you been researching it?” I ask.
He’s really angry now. “Seven years.”
In the front seat Philip snorts.
“So you started before Zacharov got the diamond?”
“I’m the one who told him about it.” Barron’s expression is firm, certain, but I think I can see the fear in his face. He’s lying, but he will never admit he’s lying. There is no evidence in the world that will make him back off a claim once he’s made it. If he did, he would have to admit how much of his memory is already gone.
Philip and Anton snicker to each other. They know he’s lying too. It’s like going to the movies with them in the summers when we all stayed in Carney with our grandparents. The familiarity makes me relax despite myself.
“So I actually agreed to do this?” I say.
They laugh more.
I have to proceed very carefully. “If the Resurrection Diamond is supposed to prevent assassination, are you sure I’m going to be able to get around it?”
It seems to be within the bounds of believable ignorance or hesitation. Anton grins at me in the rearview mirror. “You’re not doing death work. Whatever that stone is, it won’t stop your kind of magic.”
My kind of magic.
Heart to stone.
Me? I’m the transformation worker?
Who cursed you? I asked the cat in my dream.
You did.
I think that I’m going to be sick. No, I’m really going to be sick. I press my eyes shut, turn my head against the cold window, and concentrate on holding down my gorge.
He’s lying. He’s got to be lying.
“I’m—,” I start.
I’m a worker. I’m a worker. I’m a worker.
The thought repeats in my head like one of those tiny ricocheting rubber balls that just won’t stop banging into everything. I can’t think past it.
I thought I’d give anything to be a worker, but somehow this feels like a hideous violation of my childhood fantasy.
What’s the point of pretending to be anything less than the most talented practitioner of the very rarest curses? Except, I guess I’m not pretending anymore.
“You okay over there?” Barron asks.
“Sure,” I say slowly. “I’m fine. Just tired. It’s really late. And my head is killing me.”
“We’ll stop for coffee,” says Anton.
We do. I manage to spill half of mine down my shirt, and the burn of the scalding liquid is the first thing that makes me feel halfway normal.
* * *
The entrance to the restaurant—Koshchey’s—is so ornate that it looks like something out of another time. The front door is a brass so bright it looks like gold. Stone fire birds flank it, their feathers painted pale blue, orange, and red.
“Oh, tasteful,” Barron says.
“Hey,” says Anton, “it belongs to the family. Respect.”
