Glass Heart

  GLASS HEART

  AMY GARVEY

  Dedication

  FOR SARA, WHO CAN IMAGINE ANYTHING, EVEN WINGS

  Epigraph

  “Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.”—The Wizard of Oz

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  I’M FLYING. SOARING, SWOOPING, DIZZY WITH power and the sharp bite of the December air on my cheeks.

  The world is wide-open sky, cloudless and clear, and I can go anywhere.

  Except, okay, I’m not really flying. More like skimming, feet hovering inches above the floor of the pedestrian tunnel that runs under the train station. It feels like flight, though. It feels fantastic.

  Like I was meant to use the power inside me. To light up the dank cement walls with shimmering color that bleeds gold and silver and blue, washing them clean. A sort of holiday show, even if I’m the only one who can enjoy it, down here alone.

  Except I’m not, I realize when I turn my head, my body following lazily in the air, a slow-motion hummingbird in a ratty winter jacket. A boy and a girl who look a few years older than me, probably college kids home on break, are standing at the southern mouth of the tunnel, and even though they’re backlit I can see their expressions in the flickering reflection of my lights.

  They’re not shocked, though, or even scared. They look . . . delighted. As if they know exactly what I’m doing, and how.

  That can’t be right.

  It’s pure instinct to push. It just happens, a panicked rush of power spiraling out like aftershocks. The lights flicker crazily and die, I hit the ground with a distinct thud, and the boy stumbles backward.

  But the girl grins. In the last shadow flare of light, her hair is the color of ice around a face that could have come from a vintage postcard. I know I’ve seen her before, even if I can’t think of where right now.

  I spin around and break into a run, pounding through the northern end of the tunnel and up the steps to the street, my bag banging clumsily at my side and my scarf flapping out behind me. I dash across the intersection just as the light is about to turn, and someone in a minivan leans on its horn.

  I make it to the opposite corner and sag against the pale stone wall of the bank before I take a deep breath. The power is still crackling inside me, and the buzz of heat and energy licking through my veins feels so good, I close my eyes to let it rush through me a moment longer.

  That doesn’t change how stupid it was to do what I did, even in the train tunnel.

  Then again, who would ever believe I had anything to do with it? I’m just a short teenage girl with freaky hair and fingerless gloves shivering on the sidewalk. When no one believes magic exists, it can be pretty easy to get away with it. It doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences, though. I know that better than anyone.

  I should be more freaked out. Terrified that two randoms caught me doing something no one should ever see. Magic like mine isn’t a spectator sport.

  But right now the dizzying rush of spent power and adrenaline feels too sweet to ignore. Or to waste on worrying. So I lean against the cold wall like I have all the time in the world, waiting for the bright-hot glow of it to fade.

  When I’m not vibrating with energy anymore, I push off the building and walk down Elm until I can turn the corner onto Quimby Street. I see Gabriel at the end of the block, standing on a ladder, a brown wool hat pulled down over his ears. He turns his head and spots me, the way he always seems to, and there it is, that breathtaking, happy whoosh inside me.

  His whole face changes when he smiles. He’s nearly six feet tall, all lines and angles, but when he looks at me that way? His mouth curves up so slowly, and his eyes get wider, darker, and everything that seems sharp about him on first glance softens.

  I can remember the last time I was this happy, and that’s what scares me. The last time I felt like this was in the early days with Danny, when everything was new and amazing, and the whole world had a bright smear of happiness on top.

  Gabriel and I both know how that ended.

  I thought the novelty of being with him would wear off after more than two months together—really together, no secrets or angry friends or dead boyfriend between us. That being with Gabriel would seem comfortable and familiar, maybe even a little boring. Instead, it’s still a surprising rush, just as intense as using my power.

  The difference is that the power inside me is pure heat, a buzzing, fierce vibration that shocks through me. It’s always a little jarring at first, a surprising jolt. Being with Gabriel isn’t like that at all. It’s a taste of the cleanest, sweetest water you can imagine, cool and pure and addictive, rushing in to fill every crack, soothe every smarting, rough place inside, but it never fills me up. Even now, I always want more.

  “Hey there,” he says when I’m standing beside the ladder looking up at him. In one hand he has a giant blue Christmas ornament with Superman’s S emblazoned on the front, and he ruffles my hair with the other.

  “Jeez, hold on,” I warn him, ducking out of reach and pulling my earbuds out. “You’re no good to me broken, DeMarnes.”

  He snorts and hangs the thing from the hook under the eaves in front of the shop window. It spins there lazily, glowing in the last bit of sun. “Oh yeah, that four-foot drop would be a killer,” he says as he climbs down. His nose is cold when he bends in to kiss me, and I smile against his mouth. For a minute, we just stand there, foreheads together, his hands hooked in the pockets of my old blue peacoat, and I forget that it’s four thirty on a weekday afternoon in the center of town, in the freezing December chill.

  “You okay?” he says, looking at me closely.

  “Totally fine.” I pull back enough for him to see my smile. I know he can feel it, the leftover buzz of power shimmering around me, even if he doesn’t look inside me anymore without permission. “What time do you get off?”

  He wraps my loose scarf around my neck and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. “Six, I think? But we’re really slow today.”

  We walk into Verses, and the dry paper smell of the shop hits me when the door closes behind us. The walls are lined with shelves, and a huge, double-sided display looms in the center of the store, racks crowded with comic books. Batman glares at me from a faded poster as I follow Gabriel to the counter in the back.

  “Ah, the other half arrives,” Sheila says, looking up over her glasses at us. “You’re late today, missy.”

  “I’m not here every day,” I insist, and fight the blush heating my cheeks.

  “No, not every day,” Sheila agrees with a sweet smile. She’s wearing an elf’s hat over her straight black hair, and the bell on the tip jingle
s when she moves. “Just every day that Gabriel works.”

  I roll my eyes at her, but she just laughs and opens her book again, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. On the cover, blood drips artfully from the title over a picture of a farm: Blood Harvest.

  “That looks cheery,” I say, and prop my elbows on the counter as I scan the latest flyers and handouts Sheila always piles up for customers.

  “What’s cheerier than violent, ancient evil under the surface of unsuspecting small-town America?” She holds up her fist without looking away from the page, and I bump it and laugh. Sheila needs horror and sci-fi the way most of us need air, and Verses doesn’t sell anything else but comic books and fantasy.

  “Let’s hope she never runs for mayor,” Gabriel says, grinning at me from behind her, where he has his time sheet in hand. “You really need me anymore today?”

  Sheila waves a hand absently. “Go forth, young lovers! But Saturday is a week before Christmas, so plan on being here all day. I’m hoping for desperate shoppers who can’t get out to the mall.”

  “You’re awesome,” Gabriel says, and scribbles down the current time on his card. “See you Saturday.”

  He loops an arm over my shoulders as we leave. It’s nearly dark already, and the wreaths hung from the street lamps are all lit. “Jingle Bell Rock” is playing through the speaker rigged outside the music store down the block, and a guy in a Santa suit is standing outside the card store, handing out candy canes. He yawns as we pass, and his fake beard slips down his chin.

  Walking down the street with Gabriel like this is still a little strange, same as sitting with him during lunch at school, or seeing his number flash on my phone when I’m with Darcia and Jess and not having to hide it. But I’m done with secrets after what happened with Danny.

  Not the big one, of course, because there’s just no good way to tell your friends you can make it rain in the cafeteria or change the color of your hair with a snap of your fingers. But Gabriel knows, and that makes such a huge difference in my life, it’s still unreal. He knows more about me than Danny ever did, until the end, but he likes me anyway.

  “What are you thinking?” Gabriel says, rubbing his knuckles gently across my head. Comfortable, as if I’m his to touch whenever and wherever, and I pull out of reach just a little bit.

  If I let myself, I would push into his touch like a cat, but the thing about me and Gabriel is, I may have given up on secrets, but he hasn’t. Sometimes it seems like everything I still don’t know about him is the essence of that clear, sweet water, and that’s why I can never get enough. Sometimes it seems like the only thing I really know about him is that he likes me.

  But then Gabriel’s got his own freak flag to fly, since being psychic isn’t something most of the kids at school are going to put on their college applications. And while most of them might be pretty pumped if they thought I could magic up some beer or change the grades on their transcripts, not many of them would be thrilled to know Gabriel can see inside them if he wants to.

  But that’s not exactly the kind of thing you talk about walking down the street on a cold afternoon.

  “I’m thinking that I have no idea what to get Mom for Christmas,” I tell him as we turn the corner onto Elm. What I see just down the block almost stops me in my tracks. “And right now, wondering what the hell Robin is doing.”

  My sister is outside the pizza place, two of her friends standing behind her, and she’s flirting. With a boy who’s shuffling and blowing sun-bleached bangs out of his eyes, his hands jammed in his pockets. He’s a good four inches taller than Robin is, and he looks like an eighth grader. Robin’s only in sixth.

  “He seems a little old for her,” Gabriel says uncertainly, although he slows down and grabs my arm before I can take another step. “But they’re just talking, right? You know, in public.”

  He might be right, but all I can think about is how my twelve-year-old sister is smiling at a boy.

  I know what she’d say. The same thing she’s been saying all fall, ever since her own powers started to emerge. That she’s not a kid, that she’s old enough, that I have to stop treating her like a baby.

  It’s amazing how little I care when the boy she’s talking to looks like he could eat her for lunch and one of her friends for dessert. Plus, she’s probably supposed to be at Mom’s salon anyway or on her way there.

  I’m really good at rationalization when I want to be.

  “Hey, Robin,” I call, shrugging off Gabriel’s hand and starting toward her. “Funny to see you here.”

  In my head, this is supposed to convey that I’m her Big Sister, meaning Important and Scary and Not to Be Messed With, even though this boy she’s talking to could probably eat me for lunch, too. Height is not exactly one of my gifts, and the scariest I ever look is either during a trig exam or when I wake up in the morning.

  Robin is blushing so fiercely, I’m amazed her cheeks aren’t actually giving off heat. One of her friends—I can never remember if her name is Nina or Mina—is squinting at me, eyes trained on my earrings. I’ve got four in my right ear, two silver hoops, a crescent moon, and a tiny pink cupcake. The kid’s always fascinated with whatever I’m wearing, and stands in the doorway to my room when she’s at our house like she’s going to catch me performing a ritual sacrifice or tapping out secret messages to another planet. I have the feeling her L.L.Bean khakis and sweaters are her mom’s doing, not hers.

  “It’s always funny to see your face,” Robin says, pure bravado, and the boy snickers.

  I bristle, and for a moment it’s really tempting to smack him across the street on a bolt of energy made of pure overprotective sister rather than magic.

  Not that it’s easy to ignore the power inside me, gathering into an angry little cloud. It’s frightening to consider what I could do to this kid with an intentional jolt of magic. Gabriel comes up behind me then, and I can almost feel the warning I know must be on the tip of his tongue.

  “Mom’s waiting for you at the salon,” I say, tilting my head and fixing my best “you’re in trouble now” glare on my little sister. “She seemed a little pissed off when I saw her.”

  It’s a calculated risk, since I’m not sure if Robin is supposed to meet Mom there or not, but there’s no way for her to know if I’ve actually been to the salon, either. She wavers—I can see it in the way she glances up Broad in the direction of Shear Magic, and in the nervous clench of her jaw. “Yeah, well, I was just going there. I’m not even late, jeez.”

  “Guess you’ll have to tell her that, huh?” Uncon-cerned, no big deal, when we both know that if Mom’s really mad, the consequences usually suck big-time. “Bye.”

  Gabriel waits until we’re safely down the block, the sound of my sister’s fury only distant chatter, to say carefully, “So . . . this is a new side of you.”

  “Shut up,” I say, but I’m trying not to smile. He’s right. Usually I’m yelling at Robin to get out of my room or to stop poking through my bag or to leave us alone when we’re curled up on the sofa watching a movie.

  But even though she’s still mostly my incredibly irritating, nosy, noisy little sister, she is my little sister. I know it’s not like I can hang around checking out every one of Robin’s potential crushes, but it’s weird to see her poking her toe into the big, bad world of boys. So far, her toes have been safely stashed in her soccer cleats.

  And even if Robin is still pretty far from it, I’m not ready for her to realize how dangerous love can be.

  For now, I slip my hand into Gabriel’s as we head up Elm toward home. It’s full dark already, and in another block we’ve left behind the stores downtown for blocks of old, sprawling houses. Christmas trees spill soft, sparkly light through the windows, and wreaths are hung on doors and lampposts. It’s a little like walking into a snow globe before it’s shaken, so perfectly Christmasy it’s nauseating, until I spot the giant blow-up Santa in board shorts, holding a piña colada and waving from a porch roof a few hous
es down. I snicker as Gabriel and I walk without talking for a while, fingers twined together through our gloves.

  He squeezes my hand. “Cole’s going to help me with the stuff for chem lab. I’m pretty sure I’m going to blow something up.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Pastor is up for explosions,” I agree, and Gabriel bumps his hip against mine, laughing.

  Perfect, I think. It’s cold and it’s dark and I have mounds of homework tonight, but this moment is perfect—balanced on the edge of too little and too much. It’s almost scary how much I love it, how much I wish I could wrap it up and keep it, even if it’s nothing more than the two of us walking home before dinner.

  “Madame Hobart, now,” he says thoughtfully. “I bet she’d be up for reenacting some of the revolution scenes from Les, uh, Misérables.”

  He screws his eyes shut, stopping on the sidewalk in front of a huge brick house strung with white lights and fussy little designer wreaths.

  “Right now?” I joke, but he looks funny, and suddenly I don’t think he’s kidding. “Gabriel? Are you okay?”

  He shakes his head and grabs my hand again. “Just a headache,” he says. “Came out of nowhere.”

  I bite my bottom lip and glance sideways at him as we start down the sidewalk again. “Maybe you should go home instead of coming over. I know you have homework to do later.”

  He makes a face, but he says, “Yeah. I’ll throw some aspirin at it, maybe veg on the couch for a while.”

  It’s nothing but a headache, I know that, but the fragile perfection of the moment before is gone. The hateful, skeptical part of me whispers that it wasn’t going to last anyway.

  I shut it out and hold Gabriel’s hand tighter as I walk him home.

  Chapter Two

  LIGHTS ARE BURNING IN THE HOUSE WHEN I walk up to the porch, and inside it smells like a spice explosion.

  “Hello?”