“Ah . . .” he stammered, and Newt spun to me, her hair now looking exactly like mine, frizz and all.
“Rachel. Love. You want to trade? I have Nicholas Gregory Sparagmos about somewhere. I put him somewhere safe. I can’t remember exactly, but if I put my mind to it, I’m sure I can find him.”
Nick? Shaking my head emphatically, I grabbed Trent’s arm and pulled him to me. “No. Thanks anyway.”
“No?” she echoed, her expression falling. “Pity. I’m catching fireflies,” she said, black eyes a startling contrast to her innocent oblivion as she worked the lid off the large jar now in her hand. “Firefly, firefly, glowing there in the sky,” she sang, dancing away with the jar swinging in the air as a film of ever-after coated her and she was fourteen and sickly again. “Play with me and don’t be shy. Bring your light that will not die. Pretty little firefly.”
Trent’s face was pale as he watched her dance in the red light hammering down on us. “She wasn’t like that before.”
Ruddy face sour, Al swung his cane in a wide circle and watched her. “It comes and goes. We tried chaperoning her, dosing her into forgetfulness, spelling her into memory . . .” He shuddered. “Nothing seems to work but Rachel.”
“Me?”
Al gave me an unreadable look. “It’s especially bad when she’s remembered something. That’s why I came up here. I don’t like her mucking about with your line. Which is fine, by the way. Why are you here? With that elf?” he finished darkly.
Uneasy, I licked my lips, immediately wishing I hadn’t when acidic dust coated my tongue. “I might ask the same of you,” I said, avoiding him.
“I’d forgotten how barren it is up here,” Trent said, pointedly changing the subject, and Al pulled his eyes from Newt, hopping about as she tried to catch something in her Mason jar.
“Yes . . .” he drawled. “You made a f**king mess before you left us to die in it.”
Trent didn’t even flinch. “My ancestors, maybe. But not me.” He tilted his head. “What is she doing?”
Huffing, Al pulled his velvet coat straight. “And yet you’re still not going to do anything about it. Don’t tell me you’re innocent of the blame.”
“Newt!” I called, and Trent gasped when Al moved to cuff me to be silent. Dodging it, I shifted away from him. “Newt? What did you remember?”
The image of innocence, Newt ran back to us, a cover on the top of the jar. “I caught four this morning,” she said, little-girl voice excited. “They’ll be calling them out again soon, and I’ll be ready with jars and jars. If I catch enough, my room will be bright when the sun goes dark.” Head tilting, she looked straight at the sun, unblinking and with no ill effect. “I don’t like the dark,” she said, her enthusiasm dimming. “If you give them a good shake, they glow even brighter. See?”
Al cleared his throat as Newt energetically shook the jar and held it up, proud of something none of us could see.
“Delightful, delightful,” Al drawled. “Newt, love, can I have them? Pretty please?”
Her expression darkened suspiciously until he smiled his best and she coyly conceded. “You may,” she said as he took it, and another, identical jar appeared in her hands. “I can get more.” And off she skipped, making me shiver at the aspect of a sickly girl in hospital pajamas dancing in the desert.
Frowning, Al’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?” he asked Trent point-blank.
Oh God. I wanted to know that, too. “He’s here so I’m not alone,” I said before Trent could open his mouth. Behind him, Newt had caught something, setting her jar beside a rock before another appeared in her hand and she started jumping again.
“You don’t trust me,” Al said, and my eyes jerked to his.
“I trust you, but he doesn’t.”
Trent’s hands were behind his back, the windblown grit turning his hair red. “There’ve been some new developments with that overactive wave. We came out to look at Rachel’s line, knowing if she went to you, your answer would be that it was fine.”
“That’s because it is,” Al growled, his mood worsening.
“And that’s why both you and Newt are up here?” Trent asked, squinting at Al as the demon glared at him over his round blue glasses. Good grief. They were like little boys.
“Al,” I said before it got any worse. “My line is leaking wild magic.”
“It is not—” Al’s words cut off, and he turned to Newt cavorting in the dust. “No,” he breathed, but it sounded more like wishful thinking at this point.
Trent eased closer to me, and Al stiffened. “I think it’s intentional,” Trent said. “Someone is pulling wild magic from her line, either because it’s the newest or perhaps because she lives in reality and it’s easier to pull it from her line than another.”
“Is that so,” Al said snidely.
Undeterred, Trent nodded. “The overstimulation of witch magic is about what I’d expect, tracking through Cincinnati and the Hollows until the energy is spent. I’m guessing they average a life span of an hour or so before dying out.”
He and Trent were inches apart, and Al took a deep breath, hesitating when he noticed Trent’s scent and pulled back. “Then you’d be wrong,” Al said, and Trent frowned. “Wild magic has a half-life of a decade. If it was wild magic, it would circle the globe before dying out, wreaking havoc the entire time. Therefore, it’s not wild magic.” Seemingly not caring, Al took a tin of Brimstone from a tiny pocket, delicately sniffing a pinch. “Not everything is about you, itchy witch.”
“But they hardly get past the river!” I protested, sure it was.
“Which fits with my idea that this is intentional.” Trent took my hands persuasively, and Al’s brow wrinkled. “Someone is creating the waves and then catching them, either to contain the disastrous effects in Cincinnati, or they are simply collecting the energy for another reason. We just have to find out who’s doing it, and why.”
Not liking Al’s expression, I ran a hand over my hair to find it was a snarly mess. The light of discovery was in Trent’s eyes, and something in me quivered. “If it’s intentional, then who’s helping them with the magic?” I asked pointedly, and we turned to Al.