Edge of Seventeen (7 page)

“We are
beholden
to it,” she
eventually said. Sharply, she nodded, and turned away again.

The door shut and a wall between them, Cyrus’
ears were keen enough to hear within. After overseeing the physical
and psychic two-week-long torture session, Bernadette encouraged
the girl in whispers and showered her with loving coos. Who was he
kidding? Those weren’t torture sessions.
Sessions end
. What
happened to Sunday was still going on. Even though she’d been moved
from the sigil-etched bare-bones dungeon to the plush guest bedroom
upstairs in the main house, she was still a captive.

When Bernadette spoke, her voice hummed with
spell-casting. Cyrus had enough experience with
witch shit
to know what she was doing. He could have smelled the magic from a
mile away.

“It will grow, Incarnate,” Bernadette said.
“It will grow and you will be a beautiful girl once more.”

Under the witch’s hands, Sunday cried into
the soft white pillow on the bed. He could hear her heaving sobs
sucking and vomiting breath and spit. While he’d carried her to the
room last night, her eyes were so heavily bruised that they’d
swollen shut. Her body was covered in long slashes, some that had
started to scab over and others that were freshly made. She’d
shivered. No matter how much heat radiated from his chest as he’d
cradled her against it, she hadn’t stopped. The girl might as well
have been having a seizure for how much she shook.

Any mundane, having gone through what she had
gone through, would have surely died. She, on the other hand,
survived nearly two weeks of torture. She was but an infant,
fourteen years-old, yet she’d displayed incomparable endurance and
strength. As much as he wanted to hate her for the way she ignited
his fury, he couldn’t help but be impressed.

That she survived meant something. It meant
that she was, indeed, the Incarnate, just as Bernadette suspected.
It meant that, in the body of that battered and broken teenager,
was a power so great that it could level a civilization. It meant
that no one was safe. No one magical or mundane. If there had been
any doubt to the threat Sunday posed to the werewolf earlier, there
was none now. In spite of all that potential horror, Cyrus wanted
to protect her. He wanted to wrap her in the tsunami of his
unhinged ferociousness and hide her away from the masses, even
himself.

He wanted none of this dichotomy. Not the
rage, and not the possessiveness. Killing her would end it all, but
he was true to his word. If Bernadette could save him from himself,
then he could one day walk away from the girl unscathed. That was
the only conclusion that mattered.

The way Sunday cried under the old witch’s
hand now, helpless, afraid, and confused, made Cyrus flush with
shame at his cowardice. Cyrus was
never
afraid. He was
afraid of
nothing
. Not even, he would convince himself, of
that little girl or the demon-goddess that lived within her.

“I will teach you all the ways of the
Incarnate and you will shine as a star shines, only brighter. Yours
will be the light of the sun and we will all be strong
together.”

Bernadette’s words permeated the barriers
between him and the pair. Those words planted seeds of hope in
Sunday. They wove a spell of song onto her body so that she would
heal quickly and thoroughly. It hummed down the hallway so that
even Cyrus could feel its potency from where he sat.

The witch emerged from the room an hour
later. Cyrus met Bernadette’s beaming enthusiasm in the hallway
with a raised eyebrow and a glower. They were still in uncharted
territory, regardless of Bernadette’s attitude. She slowly walked
to Cyrus and stopped a foot away from his boot that jutted
nervously. It was the only sign of anxiety in his demeanor and, in
truth, it was less anxiety than old habit, but Bernadette hadn’t
known that. He hooked his finger between the pages where he’d
stopped reading, and closed the book over it.

“How’d that go?” Cyrus asked without a hint
of affect. Business. The only thing he cared about the Incarnate
was business.

“I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry
about from her,” Bernadette said happily.

She turned to rest her back on the wall and
hugged herself with all the satisfaction of having fulfilled a
lifelong dream. When she closed her eyes and smiled, tears tugged
at the corners of her eyes and ran silently down her cheeks.

“I finally found her and she is so wonderful.
Thank you for bringing her to me, Cyrus. Thank you from the bottom
of my heart. You cannot know the good thing you have done. Not just
for me, but for all of our kind.”

Cyrus’ foot stopped moving. For a second, he
wondered if it wasn’t a bit odd that Bernadette thanked him for
doing something awful and enabling her to do something even worse
to an innocent little girl. His forehead wrinkled as he took in the
sight of this woman and how she was so happy that she was shedding
tears. She had just walked out of the room of what she claimed was
a harbinger of all things horrible that could befall mankind if she
went unchecked and, after singing her a goddamn lullaby, she was
sure that everything would be smooth sailing.

If it was that easy to tell, then, really,
maybe Bernadette was a little full of shit. But, in his world,
there was really no point in asking questions to either suspend or
support his suspicions. So what if she had acquired the Incarnate
for her own benefit rather than to save the world from devastation
at her hands? It made absolutely no difference, not to Cyrus and
not to anyone else who cared. Considering no one else had come
after her when she’d been kidnapped, Cyrus was banking that not
many people cared about Sunday, anyway.

After a minute or so, Bernadette opened her
eyes and drew a deep breath, exhaling shakily as she trembled with
happiness. She pushed herself off the wall and patted Cyrus’
shoulder as she walked past him and back to her room. Alone there,
with the Incarnate just at the other side of a door a few feet from
where he sat, Cyrus turned back to his book and propped his elbows
onto the armrests of his chair and kept reading from where he’d
left off.

One month
later…

The soles of her boots squeaked on the
recently mopped tiles as Sunday crossed from the front door to the
stairway. After a full afternoon of shopping, she was pooped, but
not too pooped to play with all her new things when she got to her
bedroom. The over-long sleeves of her oversized knit sweater hid
her fists. In them, she carried bags of goodies from her trip into
Seattle with Astor, her traveling guard. Sunday still didn’t know
why anyone would want to hurt them, but the threat was real enough
that they required constant security.

Astor was a big guy, way bigger than most of
the people at the house. Even though she was tall for a girl her
age, he towered over her. Inky curls cascaded down his back. His
hair was long,
much
longer than Sunday’s which was only now
starting to grow into something other than a buzz cut. He wasn’t
exactly mundane. She could sense that much about him, but she
didn’t know exactly what he was. Bernadette taught her that some
things were better left unknown, and, like everything else that she
said, Sunday abided by that tenet like gospel.

When Astor thought of how annoying Sunday’s
high-pitched squeaky steps were, she cocked an eyebrow and tilted
her chin to look at him. The corner of her lip curled up into a
dimple and, with a glimmer in her whiskey eye, she winked at
him.

“You could be a little more cautious,” Astor
quickly answered.

“Everyone knows we’re here anyway,” she said,
pursing her lips. “There are cameras at the gate. You should know
about that, Mr. Big Buff Security Guy.”

Astor barked a chuckle and shook his head at
the girl. He was fond of her, and she knew it. Over the few weeks
that he’d been assigned to her detail, she’d endeared herself to
him. The same could be said for anyone in their entourage, really.
Everyone liked Sunday, and Sunday liked everyone. If they lived on
the estate, then they were as good as family to her. Even though
she knew that some people, like Astor, were paid service personnel,
she loved them just the same.

Family, companionship
. They were
abstract words, big words. What they signified was something so
much more than what could be held in one’s hand. Yet, Sunday felt
them tangibly. Astor, Bernadette, Justin, Genevieve, Theodora, and
the dozen or so others, were patches of the quilt that wrapped her
up tightly and kept her warm. Within her, their auras danced and,
with that energy, Sunday came alive. She was powerful. She was
glorious. And she was grateful. It didn’t matter that they quivered
when they recognized the strength of her abilities. She was
nonetheless humbled by them.

Just when Sunday tried to think of a time
before she knew any of them, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Nothing.

She simply couldn’t remember a time before
living in Bernadette’s house or before Astor went everywhere with
her. If she tried to think of a time when she had long hair or when
she’d made a new friend outside the gates, she hit yet another wall
of the unknown.

Astor stopped when he realized the absence of
Sunday’s noisy steps. Over his shoulder, his bright blue eyes
narrowed as they inspected her. She was lost in thought, gaze fixed
to the middle of the staircase, looking at nothing.

“Sun?” Astor started, his raspy voice pitched
with question. “Babe, you alright?” His brow was tense now, skin
pulling tightly around his eyes until all his features were pinched
with speculation.

Sunday didn’t answer. Rather, she stayed
locked in her own head, playing ping pong with a missing ball and
the unseen walls in her mind. As the seconds ticked by, her face
hardened with tension. Her eye twitched, and her nose crinkled.

Astor’s face reddened, and he dropped the
bags he’d been holding. The thump as they hit the tile got Sunday’s
attention. She snapped into the moment, and shook her head free of
her thoughts. After a deep breath, her expression softened until
her forehead was once again smooth of worry lines. When her eyes
met his, they were sparkling again, and alive with awareness.

“You okay, Sun?”

“Of course, jerk!” she returned with a
mischievous grin. Playfully lobbed insults were just another one of
her endearing quirks. Astor sighed heavily, straightening his back
and releasing all concern for her as he exhaled. His favorite
fourteen year-old was back, and she was spunky and sassy as
ever.

“You had me worried for a second there. You
were lost in space. Dazed like a zombie.”

Sunday rolled her eyes and clicked her
tongue.

“You’re such a weirdo,” she mumbled, loud
enough for her bodyguard to hear. “Can we just get upstairs with
all my stuff?”

Bernadette came into the room just as Astor
placed the shopping bags onto Sunday’s bed. It was the same room
she’d always lived in at the estate. For as long as she could
remember, these painted walls had surrounded her. Today, she’d add
a My Bloody Valentine poster. In another week, perhaps another
band’s would accompany it. Maybe in a few more years, she’d be over
her shoegaze phase, and then she’d peel them off and redecorate
entirely.

“I hope you enjoyed your little trip into the
city, because we have quite a bit of work to do later,” Bernadette
said as she plopped down beside the bags on Sunday’s bed.

Bernadette grinned as she always did. Faint
lines fanned around her eyes and lips. To see the only woman she’d
known as a mother happy made
her
happy. Instantly, Sunday
skipped across the room and threw her arms open to grab Bernadette
in a hug as soon as she reached her. Bernadette had the infallible
ability to affect Sunday’s emotions so completely. Sunday felt
every bit of what Bernadette was feeling, and vice-versa. A
thousand invisible strings tied them together. They were one.

If
Sunday bothered to think about it,
she might have found it strange. But she didn’t. When it came to
Bernadette, she never questioned her intense adoration and
devotion.

“It was so fun, B!” Sunday squealed as her
cheek pressed against Bernadette’s. She pulled away and took a seat
beside her patroness. Their fingers laced together, and Bernadette
held their joined hands on her lap. “You should have come with us.
Astor took me to this
amazing
record store. I got posters
and CDs. The lady there told us about this thrift store down the
street, and Astor and I went there afterward. Oh, my God, B! I got,
like, four dresses and two new pairs of jeans.”

Bernadette pursed her lips and tilted her
head.

“I’m glad you had fun, darling, but we’re
going to need to get to work.”

She released Sunday’s hands, and raised her
fingers to Sunday’s face. Magic flowed from her touch and coursed
through Sunday’s veins. Sunday beamed. Her energy was uniquely
invigorating. All over her body, Sunday could feel the buzzing
electricity like a million little sparks. She was awed by the
witch’s power, and she loved every second that she got to
experience it.

“Tomorrow, we’ll be leaving town for
business,” Bernadette explained. “It will be the first time you
will get to use your gifts like this. It will be just as we
practiced, but we must remember to be prepared for surprises.” Her
smile fell, and she lowered her chin, looking Sunday directly in
the eyes. Her voice dropped tenor when she continued.

“You must never trust a warlock,” she said
gravely. “They work directly against our interests. They raise
devils and demons, conjure killing curses, and consort with
vampires liberally. Very quickly, they amass great quantities of
power if permitted. We must always intervene with warlocks. Working
against
our
interests is working for ill. What becomes of
them will be an example to the others of their kind.”