Page 33
Story: Chasing Eternity
Song grows quiet. Then she does something surprising, she sinks onto the chair opposite Elodie and drops her head into her hands.
“Magick may be the currency of the oppressed,” Elodie says, her voice softening in a way I didn’t expect. “But it also comes with a price. And I’m pretty sure you already know that, don’t you?”
Song’s gaze meets Elodie’s, and in a quiet voice, she says, “But we’re so close, we can’t stop now.”
Confused, I watch the scene unfold. Song is visibly distressed, and I’m curious about where this is going—what it is they’re referring to.What price is Song paying?
Elodie turns to me then, as if reading my thoughts. “Tripping via the book can be really unstable. And it affects different people in different ways.”
“Not everyone’s affected,” Song insists. “Freya and Maisie do it all the time and they’re both fine.”
“But I’m guessing Anjou’s not one of the lucky ones, is she? Which is it—hair loss, bleeding gums, extreme fatigue, open sores…all the above?” Elodie directs a pointed look between Song and me.
Song waves a dismissive hand, refusing to confirm or deny.
“Well, it’s not like I didn’t warn you against getting involved in the Way of the Rose.”
“Way of the rose?” I look between them. “What is that?”
“It’s their little secret society,” Elodie says, voice filled with disdain. “Their time-traveling witchy cult.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “It begins with an invitation that comes in the form of a hard-to-find bottle of Niki de Saint Phalle perfume that mysteriously appears in your room. Then, once you open the box, looking for clues as to what it might mean, you’ll find a little note tucked inside that reads—”
“O follower of fools,” I begin, reciting from memory. “You stand afore the oracle, serpent girdle at your waist, red roses spread above and below you, it’s folly that binds you to this place.”
I meet Elodie’s gaze, catching the sly smile that spreads across her face. But when I glance toward Song, I see she’s having the opposite reaction. She looks deeply concerned.
“How do you even know about that?” she asks, an edge of dread flattening her tone. “Because I know for a fact no one ever sent that to you. No one ever asked you to join. You were on the blacklist.”
There’s a glimmer of triumph in Song’s eyes, but Elodie just laughs in response, a deeply disconcerting sound. Finally, settling deeper into her seat, she looks at each of us and says, “Well, as it turns out, Song, I’m the one who started it all.”
15
“I don’t believe you,” Song says, her words as sharp as daggers.
Elodie meets her defiance with a cool, unwavering shrug. “I’m not sure that matters,” she counters, her voice steady and unflinching. “You know the funny thing about belief? It’s not a prerequisite for truth.”
“You’re so full of shit.” Song shakes her head, refusing to give in, but the quiver of her bottom lip betrays her uncertainty. “You wouldn’t do that,” she says. “You’d never betray Arthur. You’re like his fucking devoted little puppet.” Her words are laced with bitterness, but the insult glides right off Elodie, leaving no mark.
“Did you ever consider that maybe, just maybe, I did itforArthur?” Elodie quirks a brow, looking quite pleased with herself.
Song falls quiet. I join her in that silence.
Elodie leans back, her imperious gaze sweeping over us. “For too many years I’ve watched him collect these lost souls, showering them with every luxury, every opportunity a person could want. And yet, time and again, instead of appreciating the amazing gift they’ve been given, they yearn for their old, mundane, miserable lives. Or at least most of them, anyway. And you two”—she points an accusatory finger—“are no different. Honestly, I got so tired of watching this tedious cycle that one day, I just thought: Fuck ’em. Fuck all y’all.”
The laughter that follows is mocking and bitter. “I mean, you really want to crawl back to your dreary life as a loser? Fine. Here’s a grand adventure I arranged especially for you. A little trail of scattered breadcrumbs that’ll make you feel special, important, like you were specifically chosen for your big secret mission. Oh, and here’s an enigmatic leather-bound book for you to decipher.” She shakes her head, a scornful expression pinching her features, like she can hardly believe how naive we are. “Of course, some of them surprised me by using it only to go back and forth, visiting their family and friends or whatever they do on their silly sentimental little journeys into the past—”
I’m struck by the way she saysfamily and friends. There’s so much contempt in her tone, but I know where it comes from. To her, Arthur and Gray Wolf are the only real family and friends she’s ever known, and her abandonment issues run so deep that every time one of us manages to leave, she takes it as a personal affront, a rejection of her. Despite everything we’ve been through—or maybe even because of it—my heart aches with empathy for her. I tuck this new insight away, refocusing as she continues.
“While I don’t necessarily approve of that,” she goes on, her voice gaining intensity, “at least they’re smart enough to want to stay in Arthur’s world. But for the rest of them—the ones like you and Anjou—” Her eyes narrow, shooting a glare at Song that seems like it could singe the very air between them. “Well, y’all can stay gone for all I care. Gray Wolf doesn’t miss you—doesn’t need you. There’s plenty more where y’all came from.”
Elodie’s face, usually the epitome of poise and control, is now a canvas of someone becoming increasingly unstrung. An angry red splotch creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks, and a small speck of spit glistens at the corner of her mouth. When her flashing blue eyes find mine, they’re churning with an intensity that’s equally unsettling and mesmerizing.
It’s rare to see her perfect facade cracked wide open like this. To witness such raw, unfiltered emotion is a jarring and unexpected glimpse into a part of her she rarely, if ever, allows anyone to see. But it’s her startling admission about being the mastermind behind the Way of the Rose that sends a shockwave crashing through me.
My heart pounds a furious drumbeat that echoes the turmoil in her eyes. It’s like the ground beneath me has shifted, calling into question everything I once thought I knew about our lives at Gray Wolf.
Turning her fierce gaze on me, Elodie says, “And didn’t I try to warn you at your farewell party? When I pulled you aside and urged you to stay out of this mess? To your credit, you mostly listened, which, honestly, I didn’t expect.”
“Elodie,” I begin, my voice calmer than I currently feel, “does Arthur know you’re the mastermind behind all this?”
“Magick may be the currency of the oppressed,” Elodie says, her voice softening in a way I didn’t expect. “But it also comes with a price. And I’m pretty sure you already know that, don’t you?”
Song’s gaze meets Elodie’s, and in a quiet voice, she says, “But we’re so close, we can’t stop now.”
Confused, I watch the scene unfold. Song is visibly distressed, and I’m curious about where this is going—what it is they’re referring to.What price is Song paying?
Elodie turns to me then, as if reading my thoughts. “Tripping via the book can be really unstable. And it affects different people in different ways.”
“Not everyone’s affected,” Song insists. “Freya and Maisie do it all the time and they’re both fine.”
“But I’m guessing Anjou’s not one of the lucky ones, is she? Which is it—hair loss, bleeding gums, extreme fatigue, open sores…all the above?” Elodie directs a pointed look between Song and me.
Song waves a dismissive hand, refusing to confirm or deny.
“Well, it’s not like I didn’t warn you against getting involved in the Way of the Rose.”
“Way of the rose?” I look between them. “What is that?”
“It’s their little secret society,” Elodie says, voice filled with disdain. “Their time-traveling witchy cult.” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “It begins with an invitation that comes in the form of a hard-to-find bottle of Niki de Saint Phalle perfume that mysteriously appears in your room. Then, once you open the box, looking for clues as to what it might mean, you’ll find a little note tucked inside that reads—”
“O follower of fools,” I begin, reciting from memory. “You stand afore the oracle, serpent girdle at your waist, red roses spread above and below you, it’s folly that binds you to this place.”
I meet Elodie’s gaze, catching the sly smile that spreads across her face. But when I glance toward Song, I see she’s having the opposite reaction. She looks deeply concerned.
“How do you even know about that?” she asks, an edge of dread flattening her tone. “Because I know for a fact no one ever sent that to you. No one ever asked you to join. You were on the blacklist.”
There’s a glimmer of triumph in Song’s eyes, but Elodie just laughs in response, a deeply disconcerting sound. Finally, settling deeper into her seat, she looks at each of us and says, “Well, as it turns out, Song, I’m the one who started it all.”
15
“I don’t believe you,” Song says, her words as sharp as daggers.
Elodie meets her defiance with a cool, unwavering shrug. “I’m not sure that matters,” she counters, her voice steady and unflinching. “You know the funny thing about belief? It’s not a prerequisite for truth.”
“You’re so full of shit.” Song shakes her head, refusing to give in, but the quiver of her bottom lip betrays her uncertainty. “You wouldn’t do that,” she says. “You’d never betray Arthur. You’re like his fucking devoted little puppet.” Her words are laced with bitterness, but the insult glides right off Elodie, leaving no mark.
“Did you ever consider that maybe, just maybe, I did itforArthur?” Elodie quirks a brow, looking quite pleased with herself.
Song falls quiet. I join her in that silence.
Elodie leans back, her imperious gaze sweeping over us. “For too many years I’ve watched him collect these lost souls, showering them with every luxury, every opportunity a person could want. And yet, time and again, instead of appreciating the amazing gift they’ve been given, they yearn for their old, mundane, miserable lives. Or at least most of them, anyway. And you two”—she points an accusatory finger—“are no different. Honestly, I got so tired of watching this tedious cycle that one day, I just thought: Fuck ’em. Fuck all y’all.”
The laughter that follows is mocking and bitter. “I mean, you really want to crawl back to your dreary life as a loser? Fine. Here’s a grand adventure I arranged especially for you. A little trail of scattered breadcrumbs that’ll make you feel special, important, like you were specifically chosen for your big secret mission. Oh, and here’s an enigmatic leather-bound book for you to decipher.” She shakes her head, a scornful expression pinching her features, like she can hardly believe how naive we are. “Of course, some of them surprised me by using it only to go back and forth, visiting their family and friends or whatever they do on their silly sentimental little journeys into the past—”
I’m struck by the way she saysfamily and friends. There’s so much contempt in her tone, but I know where it comes from. To her, Arthur and Gray Wolf are the only real family and friends she’s ever known, and her abandonment issues run so deep that every time one of us manages to leave, she takes it as a personal affront, a rejection of her. Despite everything we’ve been through—or maybe even because of it—my heart aches with empathy for her. I tuck this new insight away, refocusing as she continues.
“While I don’t necessarily approve of that,” she goes on, her voice gaining intensity, “at least they’re smart enough to want to stay in Arthur’s world. But for the rest of them—the ones like you and Anjou—” Her eyes narrow, shooting a glare at Song that seems like it could singe the very air between them. “Well, y’all can stay gone for all I care. Gray Wolf doesn’t miss you—doesn’t need you. There’s plenty more where y’all came from.”
Elodie’s face, usually the epitome of poise and control, is now a canvas of someone becoming increasingly unstrung. An angry red splotch creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks, and a small speck of spit glistens at the corner of her mouth. When her flashing blue eyes find mine, they’re churning with an intensity that’s equally unsettling and mesmerizing.
It’s rare to see her perfect facade cracked wide open like this. To witness such raw, unfiltered emotion is a jarring and unexpected glimpse into a part of her she rarely, if ever, allows anyone to see. But it’s her startling admission about being the mastermind behind the Way of the Rose that sends a shockwave crashing through me.
My heart pounds a furious drumbeat that echoes the turmoil in her eyes. It’s like the ground beneath me has shifted, calling into question everything I once thought I knew about our lives at Gray Wolf.
Turning her fierce gaze on me, Elodie says, “And didn’t I try to warn you at your farewell party? When I pulled you aside and urged you to stay out of this mess? To your credit, you mostly listened, which, honestly, I didn’t expect.”
“Elodie,” I begin, my voice calmer than I currently feel, “does Arthur know you’re the mastermind behind all this?”
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