“Say something,” he urged. He was afraid.
Lily had never been the cold anger kind of girl. She was a yeller, a foot stomper, and a pillow thrower. This blankness she felt toward him was completely unlike her, but she couldn’t help it. All she could see when she looked at Tristan was a guy who’d taken a sophomore girl into the bathroom for a quickie at a party. It was nasty—borderline nauseating—and she wished she’d never seen it. It had stolen something from her, but she didn’t know what it was just yet.
“What?” she replied when his expectant look intensified. “What do you want me to say, Tristan?”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re punishing me. Fine,” he said tersely. “Just remember I never made any promises. And I never lied to you, Lily.”
“Let me get this straight,” she said, sitting up and turning to him. “As long as you don’t verbally promise anything to anyone, you can treat girls like dirt, and you aren’t technically doing anything wrong. Aren’t you going to accept any responsibility for this?”
He looked away. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m just pointing out that I never said we were exclusive.”
“And that’s your justification? The same justification you gave me about Miranda yesterday?” Lily felt like she’d been tricked. Like some huckster had sold her snake oil and blamed her for not reading the fine print when it made her sick. “I used to think I meant more to you than they did, but I don’t, do I?”
“You know I care more about you than I ever have about anyone else.” Tristan was yelling now, and in a way he seemed relieved—like having a big fight would clear the air. “You have no idea the things I’ve gone through for you. I’ve been there for you, defended you, protected you. I could have slept with you the other night on the couch, but I didn’t. I stopped before we went too far because I knew I wasn’t ready to be faithful to you, and I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“I bet you think that makes you a good person.” Lily wasn’t angry anymore. She just wanted the whole thing to be over. “It doesn’t, Tristan.”
Lily had never shown this side of herself to Tristan—the harder side that had protected her when girls started whispering about her family behind her back—and he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. The look on his face, after the shock had passed, was pure hurt. Then the anger set in. Proud anger.
She saw the shape of him put on his shirt and storm out, but the image was blurry because she didn’t have the strength to focus her eyes. She just couldn’t find a reason to try and stop him. What was the point, really? He wouldn’t be coming back. And if he did, nothing would ever be the same anyway. Their friendship was over.
She repeated the phrase Tristan isn’t my friend anymore in her head, trying to convince herself that it was real.
Lily sat in her bed, legs pulled up, chin resting on her knees, not seeing anything but blurry shapes and colors. Things would never be the same again. Especially not after half the school had witnessed one of her seizures. Lily had been embarrassed many times in her life, but no one outside of Tristan and her family had ever seen her foam at the mouth before. As messed up as her life had been, it was about to get exponentially worse. And this time she would have to face all the jeers and taunts in school alone. Tristan wasn’t her friend anymore and he wouldn’t be there to help get her through it. He wouldn’t stand up for her, or protect her, or drive her home and make her talk about it. Lily didn’t know what to look forward to after a day of horror at school if she couldn’t look forward to seeing him.
Lily stood up and got dressed. Her legs and arms still felt rubbery and weak from the seizure, but they still worked, and that was good enough. Jeans. T-shirt. Chucks. She went outside and down to the shore. She sat on a rock and stared at the water. Gray. Cold. Wild. She let her mind drift out there somewhere with the waves, farther and freer than ever before. There wasn’t one thought in her head. Usually when Lily tried to empty her mind, it became ironically crowded, but not this time. For once, there was silence inside of her, an empty space that seemed to be expanding. Tears slid down her face. She wished she could just disappear.
She heard a faint voice again from far away, a voice that sounded just like hers.
Are you ready to go now?
“Yes,” Lily answered, only feeling half crazy. Maybe this is what her mother felt, she thought. Maybe being crazy didn’t feel crazy at all—it just felt like you were having a conversation with yourself. “I’m done here.”
* * *
I watch the flames rise around me and hear the wood of the pyre pop and groan. Even though I’m prepared for this, the fear I feel is unavoidable. No matter how strong you think you are, fire has a way of bypassing rational thought. It talks directly to your skin. Your brain never enters into the conversation.
Heat builds around me, and the fire begins to eat into my flesh. Yes, fire has teeth, and it chews at you like a living, breathing animal. It even roars like an animal. When you’re in its mouth, you have to fight for air. Fire, like a lion, likes to suffocate its prey.
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The flames rise, and I twist and scream, trying to get away, but the iron shackles on my wrists keep me bound to this stake.
I’m a witch. And witches burn.
There are other ways for a witch to gather power, of course, but the pyre is the best. When I’m burning, I’m completely focused. Every micro-joule of energy is converted into power. It’s almost like I can’t waste any part of my pain. Like agony itself is another source of power. When I come to the pyre, I remember that I am alive.
I also remember what I owe for my life—what I did to keep it. I remember what I must do, even if it makes me the villain of my own story. Most importantly, I remember that the good of the many really does outweigh the good of the few. Even if one of those few is me.
It took me eight months to find the right candidate, to watch and wait, and now she’s finally ready to come. She’s strong. She’s independent. She’s a survivor. She has all of my power, but in her world she is powerless—sickly, even. I need to be certain that I’m not stealing the savior of another world in order to save mine. But most importantly, there is no Rowan in her world. If there were, I’d never be able to convince her to leave. I wouldn’t bother trying. I know what it is to love Rowan and what it feels like to lose him. I’d never ask that of another.
I feel like I’ve been roasting on this pyre for days, but I know that in reality only a few seconds have passed. I haven’t even begun to transmute the energy of the flame and use it to bring her body from her world into mine. Funny how quickly the mind moves, but how slowly time does when you’re in pain. I always think of Rowan when I’m in pain, probably because the comparison comforts me. If I survived the pain of losing him, I guess I can handle anything.
This logic has served me well over the past year. Whenever I’ve felt weak and doubted my path, all I’ve needed to do is think of Rowan and what I did to him. If I didn’t have mercy on him, why should I be merciful with others? There’s a clarity that comes with cruelty. When you’ve alienated everyone who means something to you and you’ve sacrificed every last sense of self, then there really is nothing left to lose.
This girl I’m about to steal has no concept of loss. She doesn’t understand the difference between infatuation and love. That’s a good thing. I don’t want her broken like me. I want her wounded, yes, but stronger for it. There comes a day when every girl loses the stars in her eyes. And then she can see clearly.
This is Lily’s day.