Dark Swan Comic 1-4 by Richelle Mead
“So sorry. Anyway, I’m going to set it somewhere out here in this miniature wasteland, and you will tell me where it is.”
“Oh. I get it. I’m supposed to, like, work on my non-visual senses? Listen to where you set it?”
“You won’t use any of your physical senses at all.”
I heard him walk away, presumably with the water, but I couldn’t tell where he set it. He paced and paced in circles, kicking rocks and scuffing his shoes so I was clueless by the time he returned to me. When he spoke next, his words were right by my ear again.
“Now, given freedom, even with just a blindfold, you’d be inclined to move and want to use something—anything—to find the water. You’d turn around, sniff the air, whatever. Now you have to accept that all of that is gone. You cannot rely on what you usually can. You are trapped and powerless—more or less. Give in to that. Open yourself up to whatever comes. Find the water.”
“How?”
“By reaching out to it. Tap into a sense other than the usual five. Remember the exercises we did last time, about reaching beyond yourself—in this world, not the spirit one.”
“I thought magic was inborn. Isn’t that what separates humans and gentry?”
“It is inborn. And your inner magic summons and controls storms. To do that, you must summon and control the appropriate elements. And to do that, you must be able to find them. Hence, you focus outward.”
“How do I do that?”
“Just concentrate. But relax too. Think about the water. How it feels, what it’s like. Spread your consciousness out around you, but don’t go into a trance and let your spirit slip out. That’d be cheating.”
“How long does it take?”
“As long as you need.”
He retreated, and I sat there and waited for some revelation. Okay. Somewhere around me was a bowl of water. And something inside of me was supposed to be able to sense it. I wouldn’t have believed any of it if the living room on the other side of the patio door didn’t stand as proof of my supernatural powers. But I hadn’t had to think to cause the storm. This was different.
All I mostly felt at first was my own body. Dorian’s binds didn’t hurt me, but they were snug. The stitched-up cut stung a little. The back of my head ached. My leg muscles felt stretched and inflamed. I slowly took inventory of every part of me, assessing how each one felt. I could feel the beat of my own heart, the steadiness of my breathing.
After that, I started concentrating on the stuff around me. I heard someone, Dorian maybe, slide up a chair and sit down. A plane droned overhead. One of my neighbors kept a bird feeder, and sparrows regularly chirped and squabbled around it. The harsher cries of less melodic birds sounded in the distance. My street had few houses and was removed from real traffic, but a block or so away, a car started and then drove off.
I thought about water, its appeal growing as the sun beat down. I had put on my own sunscreen and was grateful for it. Still, I could feel sweat pouring off of me. Water would be cool, refreshing. My mom’s house had a pool, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to dive into that crystal-blue surface.
I thought about the bowl of water, thinking of its cool temperature, the wetness on my skin. I tried to feel it, to call to it.
“There,” I said at last. I don’t know how much time had passed. Awhile.
“Where?” asked Dorian.
“Four o’clock.”
“What?”
“She means over there,” I heard Kiyo say. Presumably he pointed.
“No,” said Dorian.
“What?”
“Sorry.”
“Was I close?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
“Damn it! Get me out of this.” I wriggled against my constraints.
“Hardly.” Dorian’s voice held mild surprise. “We must try again.”
“Oh, dear lord. This might be even more boring than the meditation,” I grumbled. “Can I at least get something to drink?”
He hesitated. “Actually, I think your odds will increase if you’re thirsty.”
“Oh, come on—”
“Here we go,” said Dorian. I heard him get up and walk around again, and once more, I couldn’t tell where the bowl ended up.
When he returned to his chair, I tried again. More time passed as I concentrated my little heart out. At one point, I heard someone get up and move toward the door.
“Who is that?”
“Me,” said Dorian. “I’m bored.”
“What? You’re my teacher.”
“The kitsune will call if you need me.”
“I don’t believe this,” I said when he was gone.
“Hey, this was your idea,” said Kiyo.
I heard him shift in a chair, getting comfortable.
I was on the verge of my next guess when Dorian came outside again.
“There. Nine o’clock.”
Kiyo must have pointed again.
“No,” said Dorian.
He made me do it again, and by then, I was furious. My poor muscles, already put through enough, were locking up from lack of movement. The heat was unbearable. To make matters worse, Kiyo asked if Dorian wanted something to drink and then went inside. He returned, and I heard the sound of a two-liter of pop opening, followed by the filling of two glasses.
After that, they started carrying on casual conversation.
“Eugenie will be at my Beltane ball,” Dorian explained, “as my special guest.”
“Sounds great.”
“Your enthusiasm is palpable.”
“Just not my thing, that’s all.”
“Ah, pity. Because if you wanted to come, I’d be happy to extend the invitation.”
“I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all. You could come with Eugenie. I always make special arrangements for dignitaries’ entourages and servants.”
“Will you two shut up?” I asked. “I’m working here.”
They fell silent.
Water, water. I needed that goddamned water so that Dorian would untie me and I could return to air conditioning. I’d also drink a gallon of water while I was at it. Maybe two or three. In fact, when I found that stupid bowl, I’d dump it over my head.
Sweat pooled along the hem of my shirt and where the cords and blindfold pressed against my skin. I’d probably sweated away the sunscreen and would burn. As if my body hadn’t been through enough. Where the hell was that water? Why couldn’t I find it?
I thought again about my mom’s pool, vowing I’d pay her a visit tomorrow. God, it was so hot. I just wanted to be cooler. Water, water, water. I felt like Helen Keller. Or maybe one of those people in the Lakota sun dances where excessive heat exposure induced hallucinations. Maybe I could imagine the water.
I sighed, and then, somehow, I felt coolness touch me. It was a reprieve from the heat. I straightened up as much as I could. Had I done it? Was this what it felt like to touch the water? The third time was the charm. Yes. There it was again. Like cool, moist air blowing at me from the east. I could taste its dampness, hanging around me like humidity in the sauna.
I inclined my head in the direction I’d sensed the cool air. “I’ve got it. Three o’clock.”
“No.”
“The hell it isn’t!”
I heard Dorian get up. He sighed. “I think we’d better quit for the day.”
“But I swear I had it! I could feel it! I was thinking about water so hard.”
“I know you were.”
He undid the blindfold, and I looked up. Billowing clouds, colored like lead, inked out the sky. Wind blew at me from the east—not imagined after all—picking up in strength. Great, heavy drops fell around us, landing with loud splashes.
Water at last.
Chapter Nineteen
Dorian wasn’t nearly as impressed as he should have been by the storm.
“You couldn’t contr
He didn’t seem upset; he simply showed that infinite patience and good-natured attitude he always had. Still enchanted by human stuff, he wanted us to take him into the city and show him entertaining things—particularly the aforementioned women with low inhibitions. Considering the car ride would have literally killed him, we ordered pizza instead.
You could tell it was sort of a letdown for him, but he still enjoyed it. He found delight in everything, I realized. Well—except for those extreme moments of boredom that seemed to plague him, although even in those he still managed to find some sort of joke. I didn’t know many people like that.
I saw him once more that week, this time at his place. He made me repeat the boring water experiment five times, but it only yielded the exact same results. At least this time I didn’t conjure any storms. When I asked if we could do something else next time, he laughed and sent me home.
The day before Dorian’s ball, I mustered up the courage to do something I’d been thinking about for a long time now: visit Wil Delaney.
He still left messages with Lara almost every other day, but that wasn’t what finally made me go see him again. Ever since my mom’s visit, I hadn’t been able to shake the idea of her locked away, miserable and alone, in Storm King’s castle. The pain of that image transferred to my impressions of Jasmine, and no matter how reluctant the girl had been to leave, I knew she was still a victim. I wanted to do something—anything—to help her but had no idea where to start or even how to do it, considering last time’s disaster. Talking to Wil again seemed like a semireasonable beginning.
Kiyo went with me, driving us in his rental car since his poor Spider was out of commission. This car was a brand-new Toyota Camry that seemed pretty nice to me, though it obviously caused him considerable distress.
When we knocked on the door, Wil didn’t answer right away.
“You sure he’s here?” Kiyo asked.
“Yeah. I don’t think he ever leaves. We’re probably being thermal-scanned or something.”
Kiyo gave me a puzzled look.
“Just wait,” I warned.
A minute later, I heard the legion of locks and bolts being undone, and Wil’s face appeared.
“Oh, my God,” he gasped, face lighting up. “You’re back. Wait. Who’s that?”
“A friend. Now let us in.”
Wil gave Kiyo a hesitant look and finally opened the door wider. As we walked in, I could tell from Kiyo’s expression that he was having exactly the same reaction I’d had to the weirdness of Wil’s lair. In particular he paused in front of a magazine lying open on a coffee table. An article’s large headline read: THEY’RE USING YOUR DNA TO TRACK YOU! WEAR A HAIRNET WHEN LEAVING THE HOUSE!
“I knew you’d come around,” Wil burbled out, leading us into the kitchen. “When are we going back?”
“I don’t know that we are, Wil.”
“Then why—”
I held up a hand to silence him. “I just want to talk right now, that’s all.”
His face fell, but he nodded and walked to the refrigerator. “You want something to drink?”
“Sure. What do you have?”
He opened the refrigerator. Inside were about ten jugs of water whose labels guaranteed ultra-ultra-ultra purification and refinement against impurities.
“Water,” he said. “Most soft drinks are laden with—”
“Water’s fine.”
He poured three glasses and sat down with us, watching me expectantly.
“I want to know more about Jasmine,” I explained. “If we’re ever able to go back…” Again, that pale face loomed in my mind. I swallowed. “It might not do us any good if she doesn’t want to go. Is there anything about her…anything you can tell us that might sort of explain that?”
The fanatical gleam left his eyes, replaced by something sober and sad. “I don’t know. I mean, I guess half of it’s being fourteen, you know? Not that she ever seemed all that impressionable. I guess she could have been brainwashed. There’s lots of documentation on that; the government does it all the time. I imagine even fairies have conditioning techniques…”
He started going off on that, and I felt Kiyo’s hand rest on my thigh under the table and give a slight squeeze. It was less of a sexual thing and more of a What the hell have you gotten us into?
Keeping my expression blank, I finally interrupted Wil’s lecture. “Can you give us any information about her? Like…what she was into? Likes? Dislikes? If we could just get some idea about that, it might help us understand her better.”
“Well,” he said doubtfully, “I could show you her room.”
He took us farther into the house, which was just as dark as the kitchen, and into a small room that smelled of dust and disuse. Probably making a great sacrifice to his values, he flipped on the lights. For half a second, I was relieved that Jasmine’s room did not mirror the rest of Wil’s crazed existence. It looked like a normal teenage girl’s room.
At first.
Then I saw the fairy posters.
They were interspersed with other airbrushed fantasy pictures—unicorns and dreamscapes—but fairies definitely made up the dominant theme splashed against the room’s rose-pink walls. These images weren’t accurate representations of the very humanlike gentry but depicted more of what pop culture perceived fairies to be like: small and winged, playing with flowers and fireflies. Those sorts of beings did exist in the Otherworld, though technically they were pixies.
“You didn’t think this was relevant?” I breathed, gazing around.
“This is fluff,” said Wil dismissively. “Stuff girls are into. She’s liked this stuff since she was little.”
I walked farther into the room and knelt in front of a small bookcase. J. R. R. Tolkien. C. S. Lewis. J. K. Rowling. More and more fantasy titles. A shrine to escapism.
Glancing around, Kiyo seemed to be thinking along the same lines I was. “Are there any photos? Any friends of hers?”
Wil shook his head. “She didn’t have a lot of friends.” He sat down on the ruffled pink bed and found a small album on the floor. “Here are a few pictures.”
Kiyo and I sat next to him. The album was sort of a record of Jasmine’s childhood. There were some baby pictures and some shots of her as a little girl. Wil figured into a lot of the pictures, but we saw little of their parents. I recalled his bitter comments about their chronic absence. We did find a few pictures of her with other children, but as she grew older, those became more rare. Mostly these seemed to be candid shots that someone—Wil, most likely—had snapped while she was busy with something. One showed her curled up with a book, another found her lying in a backyard hammock while bright sunshine lit up her strawberry-blond hair. She had noticed the photographer in that latter one and regarded the camera with a sad, sweet smile.
“What did she do for fun?” I asked when Wil closed the album. “Hobbies? Sports?”
He gestured to the shelves. “She liked to read, obviously. And she liked being outside. She went for walks, sometimes planted flowers. Wasn’t really into sports or anything like that.”
“She must have hung out with some people,” I pointed out. “Didn’t you say she was at a party when she was taken?”
“Yeah…kind of surprising, actually. But she went to things like that once in awhile. Not often. But sometimes. I mean, she did things with me sometimes too. We went to Disneyland once. Saw movies. But mostly she was alone.”
“Do you know why?”
“No. I think…I think she just had trouble relating to kids her age. She was smart, always sort of ahead of her time.”
His voice was wistful, and I realized no matter how unstable he might be in some ways, he did truly love and miss his sister.
“Was she this reclusive before your parents died?” asked Kiyo gently.
“Yeah. She was always kin
After a bit more investigating around the room, we finally left. Wil pushed me hard on what I was going to do about Jasmine, but I had no answers to give him.
“Well,” Kiyo said after a few quiet minutes on the road, “that was depressing.”
I didn’t answer right away as I stared off at the road ahead of us.
“Eugenie? You all right?”
“No. Not really.” I sighed. “That poor girl.”
“Starts to make more sense, though, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. Isolated from the real world, she starts living in a fantasy one. Then suddenly Aeson gives her the chance to actually live in that one.”
He nodded his agreement. “Of course, abduction and rape probably weren’t the ways she envisioned escaping off to fairyland.”
I stared off again for a while. “She reminds me of me.”
The glance he gave me was wry. “You dissociated into a make-believe world that you hoped would become real?”
“No. But I was kind of a loner too. I think I had more friends than her, admittedly, but I always had trouble relating to others. It got worse once Roland made me his apprentice. Hard to get excited about boy bands when you’re learning to exorcise ghosts.”
“I don’t think you missed anything there.”
I rewarded him with a smile as I continued thinking. “Even though I didn’t have many friends, I always wanted them, wanted to be noticed. If Jasmine’s the same, then she probably likes being Aeson’s mistress, as sickening as it is. He probably showers her with attention.”
“You’re right…though I wonder if there’s more to it.”
“How so?”
“I think a lot of teens feel disconnected sometimes, like no one understands them. I mean, I felt that way lots of times. Not sure I would have welcomed what happened to her as some sort of salvation.”
“Me either. But I suppose everyone copes in different ways. I took up solitary things. Running. Swimming.”
“Puzzles?”
“Hey,” I said. “How’d you know about that?”
“Because you have about a hundred of them in your closet.”
I laughed, then reconsidered something he’d just said. “What was it like for you, growing up? You knew from the beginning what you were, right?”