Sorceress, Interrupted - By A. J. Menden Page 0,82
extremely dark magic. No one I’ve ever known has wanted to mess with that kind of magic because it’s so dangerous. It’s the kind that will not only blacken your soul but also the souls of your great-great grandchildren.”
“It’s black magic, then.”
“Blacker than black.”
“Pitch? Noir?”
I gave his weak joke a smile and was heartened when he returned it. But: “A hex is beyond my capabilities, which is why my patch-up job is elementary at best.”
“So, whoever’s working Dylan’s puppet strings is more powerful than you?” Cyrus asked. At my nod, he let out a whistle. “So we’re just screwed is what you’re saying.”
“Well . . . maybe with Wesley and myself working together we might stop them.”
“That’s a big might.”
I shrugged, not wanting to agree. But he was right: it was a big might. Despite myself, I felt a secret thrill of meeting someone more powerful than myself. It had been a long time.
“So, if someone is powerful enough to wield this kind of sorcery, once again, why not just break out the Dragon by himself? Or the Ancient Ones?”
“I’m willing to bet Wesley’s right: it’s because they can’t. There must be some sort of proscription on them setting whatever this is into motion, so they need to find some other person to be their puppet.”
“Magical prophecies are insane,” Cyrus muttered.
“Tell me about it.”
Cyrus eyed me. He was as bashful as I’d ever seen him. “So, I suppose I should admit that you were right: I shouldn’t have been messing around with that spell. Or hex. Whatever it is.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” I agreed. “At the very least, you should have let me be the one to mess around with it.”
“Why you?” Cyrus asked, a trace of bitterness in his voice.
“Because a hex is so powerful. I don’t think you understand how horrible one is. It’s even beyond my capabilities, and I’m the most powerful sorceress I know . . . which is why I should have been the only one to mess with it.”
“Why would you want to mess with it at all if it’s beyond you?”
I looked away. “It might be what defeats me.”
“So, you’re tired of being all-powerful and want a taste of humility?” Cyrus joked. Then he studied me. “Wait a minute. That’s not what you’re saying at all, is it? You would have messed with it because it’s something that could kill you.”
I didn’t say anything, but he took my silence as confirmation.
“Goddamn it, Fantazia! Don’t say shit like that,” Cyrus growled.
“You try living for eternity and see what a picnic it is,” I snapped. “See if you don’t start yearning for everything to be done and over with.”
“That’s not what you really want, and you know it,” Cyrus snapped. “You like to pretend you’re disconnected from the rest of the world and everything’s oh so tragic, that the end would be welcome, but that’s not what you really want.”
“How do you know what I really want?” I snarled back. “You don’t know me as well as you think, Cyrus. No matter what we’ve done together.”
His icy blue eyes burned into mine. “I know what you said the other night. And furthermore, I know why you said it in another language.”
I stared at him in horror. “What? Did you ask Wesley? I’m going to kill him if—”
He shook his head. “I didn’t have to. I may not know ancient languages, but I can read people pretty well. I know exactly what you meant. I also know that you said it in a way I wouldn’t understand because you’re too scared to admit it to me—and more importantly, to yourself. You’re still clinging hard to the illusion that you don’t care about anyone and don’t need anyone.”
“So if you know, why do you keep asking?” I retorted.
“Because I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you admit it to yourself. I want you to realize that you need someone.”
I didn’t answer for a moment. When I spoke, my voice was barely a whisper. “So, what’s the tattoo mean?”
“It’s my personal signature,” he said. “It means you belong to me.”
I glared at him. “You’re saying you wrote ‘Property of Cyrus the Virus’ on my body.”
He laughed. “Not in the way you’re taking it, no.”
“Then in what way could you possibly have written it?”
“In the same way a guy gives a woman an engagement ring,” he said.
I stared at him.
“I’m not as commitment-phobic as you are, Fantazia. I’m not afraid to admit when I want