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The sun is dwindling over the horizon when Neil finally joins him, the familiar shape of his magic carpet stretching out across the empty space beside Andrew, the weight of him disturbing the stillness of the air. Neither of them says anything at first, watching the setting sun leave blood orange trails in its wake. It’s almost the same color, Andrew thinks before he can stop himself, as Neil’s hair, like the redder parts of a fox’s fur. He scowls, angry that such a thought even crossed his mind.
Not until the sun is fully gone does Neil venture to speak. “They were wondering where you went.”
Andrew raises an eyebrow and, against the desires of his fragile, fearful brain, looks down. They’re hovering at a near dizzying height, and Andrew is being held up by nothing but his own magic. There is nothing below him but space to fall. One would think that, for as many times as Andrew has done this, he would have gotten over the sensation of the world tipping on its axis, the blinding sensation that bolts through his body, but fear doesn’t really work like that. He’s just as terrified as he was the first time.
The rest of the coven is wandering somewhere below him, no doubt preparing for the upcoming new moon. Andrew thinks that the luminescent blob beside the greenhouse might be Renee’s bright hair, bleached white with human dye. He can’t make out anyone else, but then again, he doesn’t really try.
He doesn’t look at Neil as he responds, “Let them wonder.”
When Neil first tumbled into the arms of Palmetto, a furious, twitchy 18-year-old with no other options trying desperately to bite back his own tongue, every ounce of Andrew’s body screamed kill him, kill him now. Andrew hadn’t wanted him around, not his family, not the coven, not the delicate bonds of magic that blurred the line of fantasy and reality, living and dead. Neil, whose secrets had secrets, this walking contradiction of a man. Neil, with whom every conversation felt like hovering in the sky and looking down.
Andrew can feel Neil’s eyes on him as he opens a fresh pack of cigarettes, letting the plastic wrap fall to dust in his hands before pulling one out. He faces the top of the pack toward Neil, and wordlessly, Neil takes one for himself.
Andrew drops the pack from his hand, letting the space around him swallow it up. When it disappears, it sends a nearly imperceptible ripple through the air. When Andrew needs it again, he’ll find it. Then, he pokes his forefinger out. A familiar, warm feeling spreads through the palm of his hand, traveling outward. A few sparks dance on the breeze, and then, all at once, a small fire erupts to life on the tip of Andrew’s finger. He lights his own cigarette, and then Neil’s, which he’s already holding out to Andrew, expectant. Andrew tries not to think about how familiar all of this has become.
Andrew puts the cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs and leaning backward to exhale up into the stars. He turns his head slightly, toward where Neil is collecting cigarette ash in his hand and tossing it out in front of him. As each piece of ash flies forward, it brightens and sticks to the sky, resembling a star. Neil is throwing them to create the pattern of a pawprint, which will stay there, a new constellation, until the heat of the sun unsticks the ash.
“Another cigarette wasted on a stupid party trick,” says Andrew, turning his eyes away from Neil’s silhouette.
He can hear the smile in Neil’s voice as he responds, “You gave it to me. Willingly. What does it matter what I do with it now that it’s mine?”
Andrew doesn’t care for magic. Never has. But a practicing witch needs a coven, and Aaron wanted to be a practicing witch.
Healing is a common power. Control of the elements, all four, is not. Magic comes from pain, and for that much magic, one must go through a lot of pain. To Andrew, magic, in many ways, is a harsh reminder that trust is a liability. Wymack’s offer was unsurprising. Andrew had gotten another offer, too.
Andrew did not care about being a practicing witch.
But Aaron did.
“Don’t sound too pleased with yourself,” says Andrew. “You are a nuisance and a terror.”
“Yeah,” Neil replies softly. “I suppose I am.”
Andrew was disappointed, but not surprised, that everyone else was so willing to accept Neil into Palmetto. One might think that, given how much the Foxes needed to go through to grow magic as strong as theirs, they would be warier of a man who can manipulate reality itself, who can make people see exactly what he wants them to see. A man so clearly built from a life of lies. Magic manifests from the experiences of the witch. Lying begets the power to lie more.
Neil was hiding his appearance; constantly vacillating between a chameleon one loud shout away from bolting and a man controlled by a viciously sharp tongue; and worst of all, Andrew found him interesting. The only things that Andrew finds interesting are very dangerous things indeed.
Neil has created another two constellations by the time that Andrew finishes his cigarette and crushes it to powder between his fingers. Another pawprint and a key. Andrew scowls at the stars, feeling something fierce and undeniable clawing at his chest.
“Predictable,” he says.
“Are you talking about you or me?” Neil asks.
Andrew’s eyes flicker toward Neil, his expression flat. “Don’t waste your breath on stupid questions.”
Neil hums, a noise of understanding. Andrew wants to strangle him.
Andrew spent a considerable amount of time trying to coax the truth out of a liar. He thought he was past the point of trying to solve the unsolvable, but not only was Neil an irresistibly difficult puzzle, but the only way Andrew could keep what was his safe was to put all the pieces into place.
So he did. Piece by piece. Neil’s appearance. His real appearance. The forces he was running from. The father that inflicted pain on Neil, first to draw his magic out of hiding, to turn him into a worthwhile investment, and then to make sure that that investment panned out. The mother whose “protection” made Neil’s magic, ironically, grow stronger. Every time that Andrew fit a piece in, the hole grew two pieces larger. And every time that Andrew fit a piece in, Neil did too. Everything that turned Andrew into what he was. His foster families. The Spears. Tilda. The Hemmicks. Aaron.
It feels like they’re hurtling toward some kind of precipice. And what goes up that high must fall all the way back down that height.
Neil’s new constellations reflect like spotlights off the ground, illuminating the other Foxes as they make their preparations. That was Renee by the greenhouse, a skeletal three-headed dog crouched beside her, its heads biting at each other. A few feet from her, Dan and Kevin are drawing on the ground in chalk, their focus deep and intense, as Nicky flickers in and out of existence, bringing them supplies from the Tower. They’re so small, distant. Andrew could almost convince himself that, if he reached out his hand, he could pick them up like dolls.
When he turns his head to look at Neil, Neil is already looking at him, an intuition of Andrew’s next move. Maybe Andrew really is predictable. Or maybe Neil is always looking at him. He hates both ideas.
“Yes or no?” He asks.
Neil’s answer comes quick. “Yes.”
They both have a lot to reckon with, still haunted by the forces that gave them their magic in the first place. They will be caught, and they will have to fight, and they will reach that precipice.
But for now, they just are.