Page 33 of Contested Crown

The textbook I vaguely remembered from AP American History said that the contested territories were a stretch of the Midwest that had been claimed by one house or another since white settlers started moving west. They didn’t have enough ley lines for any house to start a war over them, and the treaties involved meant that no house would actually go into them to find a runaway mage.

“If enough mages flee into them, wouldn’t that make House Morrison actually go into the contested territories?” I asked.

“They probably are.” Cade picked at the wrapper of his sandwich. “In fact, I’m sure they’ve already sent people in, but they can’t be too obvious or send too many House Morrison loyalists into the contested territories without angering the East Coast houses.”

“Aren’t the East Coast houses going to be angry anyway that House Morrison has a bounty on free mages?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Cade said. “Independent mages have always been a problem for the East Coast as much as the West.”

Cade finally began eating, and I watched the alleyway. We were between two tall buildings, apartments on one side, commercial real estate on the other. In a few minutes, security for one or the other would come and try to get us to move on.

A rat darted between dumpsters, moving from one piece of safety to another. That was me, running from crisis to crisis. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since House Bartlett, and who knew how long it had been since I slept before that.

“We need a plan for getting to Declan,” I said.

Cade breathed out sharply.

Narrowing my eyes, I turned to him. “Cade?”

“With whatjusthappened, I’m more a liability to you than not.” He was looking down at his half-finished sandwich. Folding the paper over, he put it to the side.

“You said you wanted to do this.” I tried to keep my words even, but the accusation was in every syllable.

“Miles.” Cade sighed. “You were more use against the spellwork than I was. I was useless.”

“You aren’t useless,” I said. “We’ve been over this. We’re partners here. I don’t need you to be useful—I need you to bewithme.”

Immediately, I wanted to drag the words back, pull them into myself, but I couldn’t. They were too honest, too raw, exactly what I’d been trying to avoid at Krista’s.

“If I leave, House Morrison won’t come after you. The magic in that room must have been set to activate as soon as it sensed another mage. So it killed the only person helping you because of me.” Cade pulled his lip back.

A few weeks ago, I would have seen only annoyance. Irritation. But now I could tell the deep self-loathing baked into every word. Cade wasn’t irritated because now we had one less chess piece on the board. He was upset because we’d been in a fight, and he hadn’t been able to do anything.

Tilting my head, I considered Cade, waiting until he looked away, a flush rising on his cheeks. Slowly, I finished my sandwich. Then, I crumpled the paper into a ball, licking the last bit of avocado off my finger and putting the trash in the paper bag it had all come in.

“Let me see your hand.” I curled my fingers, reaching toward him, but not grabbing.

“I’m fine,” he said sharply. His hand fisted, pulled tight against his stomach.

“Cade,” I said softly. “Let me see your hand.”

Cade looked down, mouth twitching before he extended out his hand, looking out the window as though to distance himself from the whole affair. He was a cat subjected to an irritation, unwilling to even acknowledge he was hurt.

Gently, I took his hand in mine, the touch a shock. I felt my skin come alive, aware that I should be clinical, I should be distant, but all I wanted to do was touch him. His hand was pale, the skin delicate.

Tracing a finger over one of the bones on the back of his hand, I felt his arm twitch, felt his muscle tense. But he didn’t pull away.

When I turned over his hand, a nasty cut sliced open his palm, the skin split open and the flesh warm to the touch. I inhaled sharply, frowning down at his hand.

“But it was your own magic,” I said. “Why did it hurt you?”

“My magic has always hurt me,” he said shortly.

I remembered the agony of using his power to teleport us, how it had left me down on my knees the first few times. It had hurt him too, but he’d gotten used to the pain.

“Are you going to heal it?” I asked. “You did a healing spell on me yesterday.”

Had it been only yesterday? Our lives were one year after another; each twenty-four hours felt like a thousand.