He thought of his father and Kai, of how scared he was to meet the same fate. He nearly let go of his magic then, but at last, the cogs fell into place and death bent to time’s will, fading back to inexistence, to a moment when Emory had yet to wield it.
At once, Baz let go of the threads of time, heart beating a rapid pulse in his throat. Around him, no one seemed to have noticed what Emory had done, her strange powers there and gone in what would have felt to them like the blink of an eye, thanks to Baz’s magic.
It made little difference, in the end. Travers still sighed his last breath, face turned unseeing toward the sea as whatever degenerative process plaguing him dealt its final blow.
Silence hung over the beach like a shroud, unbroken but by the roar of waves. Emory’s wide-eyed gaze found Baz at the edge of the crowd. Her hands shook at her side, the New Moon sigil like a farce on her skin.
Impossibility filled the space between them. She was a Healer—he’d seen it firsthand as a child, how she would heal her own scrapes and bruises like it was nothing. She’d healed him once too. He still remembered how she had found him cowering from bullies shortly after his father’s Collapsing, how she’d healed the cut on his brow, not caring who saw, not afraid of him like the others were, a kindness he’d carried with him since.
But a Healer couldn’t also bend light and darkness or make things grow. A Healer couldn’t wield death at her fingertips. Power like that was impossible. It was the stuff of myth, echoing back to a time when people could call upon all magics, no matter their lunar house or tidal alignment. No one could use other magics than the singular one they were born with, not even those of House Eclipse—not since the Shadow and the first Eclipse-borns.
Unless Emory was exactly that.
Not a Healer, not from House New Moon at all, but something so rare it was only ever mentioned in books—something Baz had read about not even an hour ago.
She was a Tidecaller.
5 EMORY
VIRGIL WAS RIGHT IN SAYING death held a certain allure.
It had them all transfixed as the authorities came to examine the body—Healers and Shadowguides alike who assessed the nature of the wounds, confirmed the death. Students who had witnessed the horror recounted the event with morbid fascination, and every story remained the same: Quince Travers washed ashore and was revived for a moment before suffering a twisted, gruesome fate, which could only be attributed to the caves he’d drowned in and the unexplained magic that dwelled there.
Emory’s name was mentioned only to say she’d tried to heal him. No one spoke of what she’d done, of how she’d revealed herself to be not only a Healer, but somehow also a Lightkeeper and a Darkbearer, a Sower and a Reaper.
It was impossible. People could only wield the specific magic they were born with, and only during their ruling moon phase. Even bloodletting couldn’t grant them access to other magics, only their own. And yet… that night in the caves…
The blood rite and silver light, the whispers and the strange movement of time as the tide came unexpectedly quick, taking them all by surprise. Everything going black and loud and disorienting, a nightmare of a world trapped and churning in the confines of the Beast.
And in the midst of it all, something brushing against her magic. The resulting pressure in her veins, as if that something yearned to be set free.
Hadn’t she been on edge all summer, hearing her name in the sea breeze, seeing Dovermere in her dreams? She’d chalked it up to grief, the aftermath of such a traumatic experience, but now she recalled the overwhelming feeling of all those foreign magics rushing through her, the dark caress of death yearning to silence the frail heart below Travers’s rib cage, and she wasn’t so sure.
In the end, it wasn’t the Reaper magic that dealt the final blow, but death found Travers all the same. Yet no one spoke of it now because none of them had seen it. And it seemed Emory had Baz Brysden to thank for that.
It had been the oddest thing. One second she could feel death bursting from her fingertips, weaving itself between the ribbons of light and dark, the algae that pulsed to life around Travers’s body. She’d tried to wrench free of Lizaveta’s amplifying touch, to put distance between her and Travers, incapable of stopping these inexplicable, impossible magics coursing through her veins.
Then time paused, held its breath, wound backward. These powers she’d unwittingly unleashed flooded into her like a tide called back to the ocean, a wave in reverse smoothing into the calm waters it had emerged from.
When time resumed, those around Emory kept looking at Travers as if nothing had happened, because nothing had. Baz had prevented it. Baz, whom she hadn’t seen use his Timespinner magic since prep school.
He’d stopped time for her, saved her from herself.
His gaze had not left her since. It burned through her, followed her every movement as if he thought she were a ticking clock set to unleash death upon the beach after all. She avoided him, avoided Keiran and his friends, too, who were as quiet and grim and unsuspecting as everyone else.
Students started to leave only when the authorities took Travers’s body away. Emory couldn’t help but look when it was carried past her on its stretcher. She caught a glimpse of his lifeless upturned hand, where that Tides-damned spiral had bled black on his pale wrist. His eyes were closed, but she could still see how they had looked at her as he convulsed on the sand.
Your fault.
She turned from his sallow form, cheeks burning with the weight of that lingering accusation and the phantom feel of Reaper magic bursting from her fingertips. A horrible conclusion pressed against her mind as she gripped her wrist, pressing a thumb to the spiral mark, but the thought was so unbearable she shut it out, cast a glance about for anything that might keep her from unraveling. There was a slight crease between Keiran’s brows as he watched Travers’s body be carried away. Nisha’s face was tearstained, her head resting against Ife’s shoulder. Lizaveta stood with her arms wrapped around her middle like it was all that was keeping her from falling apart.
And Virgil… Gone was that bright smile, the amusement in his eyes. There was such profound sorrow on his face, as if everything he’d said earlier about the allure of death was a lie he told himself, as perhaps all Reapers did. He caught Emory’s gaze, and the look of understanding he gave her made her wonder if he had seen what she’d done, or almost done. But then Lizaveta touched his arm, drawing his attention to her.
“Come on,” she said quietly. “Let’s get out of here.”
Keiran hung back as his friends retreated down the beach, watching Emory carefully. “Are you all right?”
She wasn’t, but all she could say was, “I will be.” She nodded toward Keiran’s friends. “You go ahead. I’m fine, really.”
His attention caught on a spot behind her where she knew Baz was burning holes in her skull. He hesitated like he might say something, decide to stay with her. But at last, he murmured a quiet See you around, Ainsleif, and left.
Emory turned to Baz, knowing she would have to face him eventually. But he was no longer there. She frowned, searching the few faces left on the beach until she spotted him striding farther down, shoulders hunched against the wind, feet furiously kicking up sand.