A Matter of Heart Read online

  by

  Heather Lyons

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  Barnes & Noble Edition

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  A Matter of Heart

  Copyright © 2013 by Heather Lyons

  http://www.heatherlyons.net

  Cerulean Books

  First Edition

  Cover design by Carly Stevens

  Book formatting by JT Formatting

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my three boys,

  who are still way too young to read such a book—

  this one’s for you.

  Mama loves you.

  But . . . I’m only eighteen. You expect me to do that at eighteen?

  This is what I want to say, or rather shout out-loud, but I’m pretty sure that excuse would go over as well as somebody tossing a bag of kittens over a waterfall. Plus, I’m pretty new at this whole Council thing and don’t even know if I’m allowed to agree or disagree when it comes to matters such as these. I’ve been to all of four meetings so far, but until today, they were sedate enough that I’d fallen asleep in one.

  Ok, two.

  I know I ought to be more involved, considering people acted like I was the second coming in the midst of her grand debut into Magical society, but it’s a lot to take in, being responsible for quintillions of beings on six different planes of existence. I’d even go as far to say it’s totally overwhelming. I suppose, back when I used to imagine what it’d be like when I was a seated member, I expected serious debates. Strong convictions. Moral righteousness yet fair decisions. And those things are present during meetings, but when the topics are whether or not a river ought to be diverted or dried up or a forest fire needs to be started to encourage new tree growth, the shine of being in charge of the universe wears off pretty quickly.

  In the last month, I haven’t been asked to do anything further than introduce myself and give a short speech, written by my Intellectual father to replace the one I’d agonized over for three whole days. Since then, I’ve sat in a surprisingly comfortable chair and listened for hours to Council members of varying tiers and crafts drone on about matters affecting their various planes of existence. I vote when asked, but as it’s done electronically, even that doesn’t require my voice.

  These meetings only exacerbate my feelings of inadequacy about joining the Council so early. Once eighteen, most Magicals spend two years at the University of Annar taking tailored classes suited to honing their crafts and then another two years as an apprentice under a seasoned mentor before going to work, let alone joining the Council. But I hadn’t been afforded that luxury. I was told that, five days after I graduated high school, I was to report to my first official meeting in Karnach, the gorgeous and imposing rotunda which houses not only the assembly rooms but all Council member offices as well. I would be allowed a single class per semester, totaling four over two years if my schedule permitted, but there would be no internship.

  Which is unfair and, the more I think about it, fairly irresponsible of the rest of the Council, considering I’m one of their big guns—a Creator, one of only two currently in existence.

  Speaking of . . . nearby, Kleeshawnall Rushfire lets loose a round of his typical snorting/coughing sounds which act as nails on a chalkboard for those of us seated nearby. Afterwards, he pulls out a crusty handkerchief to wipe a gob of far-too chunky phlegm from his chin. I try not to cringe, but man, is it hard.

  After shoving said handkerchief back into his shirt pocket, the ancient Faerie barks out, ignoring the heated debate I really ought to be paying closer attention to, especially as it concerns me, “What does it take to get something other than sludge in my coffee cup?”

  The Elf next to me, a Storyteller named Etienne Miscanthus, attempts to smother his burgeoning laughter. He’s been pretty nice to me so far, which has been comforting as my seat is nowhere near anyone I know. As for myself, I worry that my face shows the perverse fascination I have towards Rushfire.

  “Jackals! All of them,” the Creator who once might’ve been my mentor comments loudly. Spittle decorates his wiry beard and moustache. Then his rheumy eyes swivel towards me. “You’ll see, missy.” He thrusts a cup adorned with a bright yellow happy face, a bullet hole bleeding out on top, in my direction and shakes it until coffee splatters down his shirt. “Give ’em an inch, they’ll take a mile. Ask me to do them favors, do they, and give me this . . . this . . .” He pulls the cup back so he can peer within. “Shit, is what it is!” He slams it back down on his table. “I repeat, what does it take to get a decent cup of coffee around here?”

  Etienne bursts into full-fledged laughter. In front of us, an extremely good looking Goblin only a couple years older than me turns and stares, equally horrified and amused. Rushfire sneers at them, snarls “whippersnappers,” which only serves to incite another round of laughter, then promptly falls asleep.

  Behavior like this highlights why I’m the one who’ll be tasked with overseeing an atoll’s destruction on the Goblin plane rather than Rushfire. He’s old, nearly senile, and extraordinarily nasty. So, I get why my name’s being thrown around.

  But it doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

  “This is ridiculous,” a familiar voice argues. I search the crowded assembly until I find Astrid Lotus, the Council’s lead Seer. She is standing, hands planted on her desk. Somehow, even though she’s not moving, the dozens of metal bangles she always wears clack together loud enough to rise above the arguing. “We shouldn’t even be thinking about sending out an eighteen-year-old to do such a feat before she has a few years under her belt!”

  “The atoll no longer serves its area any purpose,” a sour looking Dwarf named Endolff Strikertree counters. He’s standing on his chair; all he needs is a toga an
d his Marc Antony act will be complete. “What’s your objection, Lotus?”

  The bracelets jingle as Astrid rights herself. I’m struck by her Elvin beauty, like I was when I met her last year after my parents forced me to visit in an effort to get me back on whatever track they thought I needed to be on. “No other Council members are ever asked to do complex tasks within their first few years. And yet, we suddenly break tradition and expect Chloe to do so simply because she’s a Creator?”

  Another voice rises above the mix. “She’ll do it if told so.” This one I know all too well. It’s the same voice I’ve heard all my life, reminding me how I better live up to my responsibilities or I’ll embarrass the family for, I don’t know, centuries or something. I find my father, still seated, open books spread across his desk. He pushes his glasses up his nose without even sparing me a glance.

  “Noel, whether or not that is the case,” Astrid says, “I’m shocked that, as an Intellectual, you’re ignoring how this goes against our bylaws and traditions.”

  He glares at her. I dig that she glares right back.

  “I absolutely agree that this atoll needs to be dealt with; there’s no doubt about that. But it must be Rushfire, not Chloe.” Her eyes meet mine. They’re soft and sympathetic, which surprises me despite her gentleness at our last meeting. “At least, not yet.”

  At the mention of his name, Kleeshawnall Rushfire releases a deafening rip of a snore. The Goblin in front of me—I think his name is Mac?—erupts in laughter once more, as does the Storyteller. In fact, they’re both laughing so hard they’re practically crying. Several other people nearby are also cracking up, but the rest of the Council seems to be merely exasperated over Rushfire’s apparent lack of interest in the matter.

  “Honestly, Lotus,” Endolff Strikertree growls. He motions towards the slumbering Faerie. “You want to entrust my plane to the hands of—”

  “Don’t say it,” Astrid warns. “Kleeshawnall Rushfire has served this Council for nearly two hundred years. He deserves your respect.”

  The man in question snores again, this time adding a bit of drool to the phlegm in his beard.

  Try as he might, Strikertree can’t hide his disgust as he regards Rushfire. “Lilywhite will be fine. The Guard assigned to her can walk her through what she needs to do.” His dark eyes find me; they’re so piercing, I fight the urge to shrink in my seat.

  You’re first tier, a little voice in my mind whispers. It’s Caleb, an old friend from California who also happens to be my secret Conscience. Never show your fear; they’ll eat you alive if you do.

  Challenge accepted. I stare right back at the Dwarf, hoping he sees a girl ready for anything, even though I’m quaking in my Uggs.

  I can do this, I think.

  My attempts must be successful, because he looks away first. “She’s been under the Guard’s care for nearly a year anyway.”

  Thanks, dude, for reminding everyone I had to be babysat for my entire senior year of high school back on the Human plane. Like it isn’t humiliating enough that I’m the youngest person in the room and they’re debating whether or not I’m seasoned enough to work.

  “Graystone will oversee the mission, despite the terrain,” Strikertree continues. “They have a good enough working relationship—his presence ought to make her feel more comfortable.”

  I try not to roll my eyes before I search through the crowd. Karl Graystone smirks back at me. I start to wave but then reflect that a Girl in Charge, sophisticated and ready for whatever Fate and/or the Council dishes out to her, might not do that with everyone watching, even if it’s at someone she practically considers her brother.

  Working relationship, indeed.

  Astrid tries her best to argue against me going out and wreaking destruction on my very first Council mission, but in the end, her voice is amongst the minority.

  Great. Just . . . great.

  As the meeting ends, the Elf next to me leans over and grins. “Welcome to the glory that is the Council, pumpkin.”

  My mom appears in the doorway of my office fifteen minutes later, which shocks the hell out of me. Never close, we’ve spent the better part of my life treating each other more as acquaintances than relatives.

  She deposits a handful of envelopes on my desk. “I’m on my way to your dad’s office and thought I’d drop off some mail that came to the California house.”

  Because, you know, checking in and seeing how your daughter is doing isn’t a good enough reason. I half-heartedly sift through the envelopes. They’re mostly junk mail, which goes to show how much attention she paid to them. “Thanks.”

  She’s already back at the door when I call out, “Mom?”

  Annoyance flickers across her face. My heart squeezes painfully in return. “Yes?”

  I go for it anyway. “Want to have dinner tonight? Me and you? It could be a girls’ night.”

  She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, which, upon reflection, I probably have. I might as well have asked if we could braid each other’s hair and make pinkie promises while painting toenails.

  Karl appears behind her. “Hey, Mrs. Lilywhite. How are you?”

  She offers him a big smile, one I’ve never been awarded. “Karl, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Abigail?” Eww, is she flirting with him? My mother doesn’t flirt. She’s the Ice Queen. I don’t even think she and my dad ever touch one another. I often wonder if I was a test tube baby or a possible immaculate conception.

  Karl isn’t fooled, though. Over the last year, he learned firsthand what kind of parent and person my mom is. He gives her a brief nod of acknowledgement, which leaves her no other choice than to turn back to me. “I’m sorry, Chloe, but your father and I already have plans.”

  I swallow my disappointment. Why I’m bummed is beyond me. It’s not like I actually thought she’d say yes. “Maybe another time, then.”

  She leaves without answering. Karl shuts the door behind her and regards me with what can be best described as sympathy. People always seem to give me that look when they see me with one or both of my parents, which royally sucks.

  I love the dude, but I don’t need his sympathy. He knows better. “How is my favorite goddaughter?”

  He grins at the thought of his little girl. “Your only goddaughter is perfect.”

  When he and his wife Moira asked me to be Emily’s godmother, I was so excited I screamed. She’s probably the cutest baby on all the planes, so I don’t doubt his assessment one bit.

  “How are you, though?” He drops into the chair in front of my desk, resembling a giant crammed into a child’s chair. “You look a bit . . .” He holds his hands out, making a gesture that normal people probably would never be able to decipher.

  I can, though. “Like someone who just got thrown to the wolves?”

  He doesn’t even blink with my effort to switch subjects away from my mom and back to work, which is what I assume he’s here for anyway. “Exactly. Talk to me.”

  I drop my chin into my hands, propped up by elbows against my oversized, whitewashed desk. “How soon did you get to work, once joining the Council?”

  His hazel eyes unfocus as he considers this. “I think it’s a bit different for me, because I was going on Guard missions nearly the moment I turned eighteen. But to answer what you’re really asking, it was at least six months before they had me set off any tremors of significant magnitude.”

  Karl is a Quake, one of the best in all of Magical society. It’s sometimes hard to accept that this man, who guided me through one of the most difficult years of my life, not to mention taught me more about what it means to be a Magical than any other person before him, has been responsible for horrible, destructive events on nearly every plane of existence. But then, so many of our crafts are dual-edged; not only can I create nearly anything, including civilizations, but destroy them as well.

  “I’ve reviewed the mission,” he tells me, all business. “It’s pretty straightforward. We go in, you nu
ke the place, we go home.”

  I tap a pencil against my desk. “Is it inhabited?”

  Ah. Now he understands my uneasiness. “No. Not permanently, in any case.”

  I do the unthinkable. I ask him if he knows, for sure, how many people have ever died because of his quakes.

  But he isn’t offended or even hurt by my question. I knew he wouldn’t be, because Karl Graystone is a pragmatist. “I don’t know, Chloe. I think it would only serve to drive a person insane if they kept track of such matters.” He leans forward, the chair groaning below him. “You can’t tell me that you’d ever want to know.”

  My words are automatic. “Of course not.” But is that true? Could I really handle not knowing if I ended life? I resent that I even have to ask such questions. I mean, how many other eighteen-year-olds are in the position to consider whether or not to keep a kill list? Not many, that’s for sure. Serial killers, maybe, if there actually are any of the eighteen-year-old variety.

  Panic I’d been trying to hold back all day wells fast and hard. I may have to kill people on my first mission. The room spins so violently that I grip onto my desk for dear life.

  “I’ll be there with you the entire time,” Karl is saying. His voice is a bit distant. Echo-y.

  Breathe, Chloe. Breathe.

  I never am alone, not really. My Conscience Caleb is here, as he always is, the voice of reason in my cluttered mind. He is encouraging me even now to count and breathe and not lose it, because when I do so, when I let go and allow my emotions to rule me, bad things happen.

  Bad things like breaking bones and fences and staircases and innocent trees.

  Breathe, Caleb whispers in my mind.

  When I blink, Karl comes back into focus. I force my lips to curve upwards. “I know. And I appreciate that.”

  The chair creaks as he leans back; it surely wasn’t created to seat men nearly seven feet tall. “Sucks that Jonah wasn’t here for today’s meeting.”

  At the mention of my fiancé, I let loose a giant sigh. Also a member of the Council, and also recently required to join at eighteen, Jonah Whitecomb was sent off on a day mission back on the Human plane earlier this morning. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I miss him like crazy already and he’s only been gone seven hours.