Quentin Coldwater learns to cope in a world without magic. Julia Wicker, in a rampant effort to forget her assault, clings to her childhood friend for life.
It had been twelve hours since the Plumbers came and turned off the Wellspring, the source of all magic. All because of him. Quentin Coldwater tossed about in bed. Images of Ember's pale, swollen face flashed in his mind. The tyrannical Fillorian god's last words burrowed deep in his ears; Quentin cupped them and buried his face in his pillow. How could he have been so stupid? What did he think would happen other than the absolute worst? Quentin's breath caught in his throat and threw him into a coughing fit. He lay flush against the mattress. The only one who could've helped him now was God knows where dealing with her own problems. Quentin wondered for a moment how she was doing. He wasn't the only one dealing with the dark, the bleak and insufferable longing for a feeling that almost seemed too good to be true anyway. He wasn't the only one hurting. Quentin had to understand that, had to know and understand there was a world out there and he wasn't the only one suffering in it. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, dialed the only number he knew by heart second to his father's, and waited. She picked up on the third ring.
Julia Wicker woke from her trance with a start. The white haze blocking her thoughts lifted. The airy pockets of nothing grew heavy and bleak in her chest, anchoring her to her living room couch. The black shroud over her sight cleared. Suddenly she could smell—the congealed, pungent remains of a bagel she tried eating for dinner earlier and couldn't keep down, long flushed down the toilet but still noticeable if you pay close enough attention; the hydrangeas Quentin brought by a few weeks ago, now withered and dying on the windowsill; her B.O. God, she needed a shower. Julia stood on gelatinous excuses for legs and, in wobbling to the utility closet to fetch a towel, heard two loud pings from her bedroom. Hearing was always the last sense to return after an especially long trance. She crossed into the room and grabbed her cell from the unmade bed. Q's contact info shown on the screen. When she answered, they were both quiet for exactly one minute and twenty-five seconds. Julia took the plunge.
"So, magic's gone."
"Every fucking bit of it," Quentin said, the bite in his tone echoing Julia's own bitterness about it.
"What if I told you it wasn't?"
She heard Quentin's breath catch.
"I'd probably tell you that's a fat load, Jules."
Julia cracked a smile. It hurt. "Guess you'll have to come by and get your first facial."
Quentin's chuckle on the other line made something stir in her soul, something she was sure Reynard snuffed out.
"You just want to see me." Quentin said.
"I want to make sense of this."
Quentin probably smiled, Julia wasn't sure.
After they hung up Julia undressed and stepped into the shower. The world sank and stretched around her like Saran Wrap over a moldy sandwich God stuffed behind all the other food in the fridge because he felt too guilty to throw it away. Tears welled in her brown eyes. The marks where Reynard scraped and clawed were all too raw for her to shake them off or run away. They say when you're scared of something it seems bigger than it really is—her body was stained with blotches rivaling a crater, black blotches full of jagged cuts and bruises Reynard branded her with. Julia pawed at her hips, thighs, and lower back, a whimper in her throat. It took seconds for sobs to tear through her. She backed into a corner of the shower and let the stream of hot water drown out her wailing. She was almost grateful for the heat; the sting could filter everything and give her some clarity. Julia let the water fill her healing cuts, wincing between shaky breaths and sniveling. A sole word shown with white-hot intensity in her mind: Pregnant. She shut off the water and stumbled to her room, slipping on a robe and laying in bed. Her eyes were swollen half shut and trained on the ceiling.
Quentin stood at Julia's door shifting his weight from either foot. It had been a while since he stopped by; last he saw of her, she seemed more like an apparition than a real, breathing person. He'd almost had to force Julia to take the hydrangeas—her hands just wouldn't do what they were supposed to, fumbling and trembling along the length of the vase like that. It's not like flowers were going to bring any lasting, or even temporary, comfort. Really, what do you do? What do you do when your friend has had something precious stolen from them, been robbed of their bodies? As Quentin mulled these questions over in his mind, footsteps from inside the apartment caught his attention. A second later their eyes locked. Quentin gave a labored wave, and Julia's answering smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"You ready?" Julia said.
"Not sure what I'm supposed to expect."
They sat in her quaint living room with glasses of wine and a plate of cheese and ritz crackers strewn across the beat-up coffee table—Quentin wolfed and scarfed while Julia barely touched anything. Quentin would've pointed it out if he weren't so hungry.
"It's simple," Julia said, her legs drawn to her chest, hands balled. "Expect the unexpected."
Julia held out her palm and produced a spark. There was no incantation; she didn't cast with any Latin or High German or Arabic. Just pure, raw, wild energy she almost seemed to draw from within.
Quentin nearly choked on his snack.
"Holy shit, you weren't dicking around."
Julia smirked. "I don't tend to."
"How? How is this real? You sure you're not messing with me?" Quentin shot to his feet, mouth agape, and grabbed her free hand—the other slender set of fingers was finally making for a slice of cheese. "Am I just really, really high, did you put something in my drink?"