Havenfall

by Sara Holland

  Brekken smiles. “I would, you know.”

  “Would what?”

  I’m distracted, putting down another card. Haven—a scale on top of a sword—to his Solaria. Mine again.

  “Protect you.”

  The seriousness in his voice catches me off guard. He’s earnest, just stating a fact. He’s witnessed a lot of my human feelings over the years—from weeping over Nate to raging at my mom—and still doesn’t quite know how to deal with it, doesn’t grasp the concept of deflecting with humor. But in a weird way I appreciate it. That means whatever I hear from him is the truth. Not the fake platitudes humans rush to give each other at the first hint of discomfort. No one thinks you’re crazy. Everything will be okay.

  Instead, Brekken slides toward me and puts his arm around me, and I lean in, even though his body is cool compared to mine. I put the cards aside, grateful not to have to think about Solaria anymore, though it feels silly to admit this even to myself.

  His voice comes softly. “So why do you keep coming back? You have a whole world to explore.”

  His words are wistful. Everything about Haven fascinates him, from the cars to the diner food to the idea of the post office. But the ancient protective magic ends at the edge of town; he can’t go farther. Just like I can’t go into Fiordenkill—it would be a game of what would get me first, the air or the enforcers.

  “There are other reasons I come back. The magic. Seeing you.” I make my voice deliberately offhand on the last two words, a little dizzied by the wine, or maybe it’s how close he is. “Anyway, Marcus doesn’t have kids. Who will run this place when he’s gone?”

  “Do you want that?”

  I look up at Brekken. I need to remind myself to blink, not wanting to stare, even if he probably wouldn’t notice. Sometimes in the dark days of winter, when I’m mired in my real life in Sterling, and my life is freezing walks to school and finals and lunch hours spent alone in the library, I think about Brekken and he doesn’t even seem real. Like maybe I’ve only dreamed him. Then I get here again and he’s larger than life.

  Sometimes it feels like this—how I feel right now—is the only real thing there is.

  “Maybe,” I say honestly. “I have a lot to prove first, but I think so.”

  “Well, I think you’d be wonderful.” He looks uncertain, lips parted, like he’s on the brink of telling me something else. I have a crazy urge to touch his lips—to feel whether they are cool, like everything from his world, or warm, hot like my hammering chest, my raging heart. “If you took over, what would it mean for … for us?”

  Us. So he feels it too. Maybe. Or else I really have lost my mind.

  But I don’t think I’m wrong. Not about this.

  He’s so close to me now, leaning closer, looking into my eyes. In the darkness, his are hard to read. The scent of wine edges his breath, and the stars outline his head like a halo. And I don’t know if it’s the wine buzz or tonight’s emotional roller coaster or if this is something that’s been building for a long, long time, but the impulse rises in me like bubbles in champagne. I stretch up, feeling the bale beneath us shift slightly.

  “Us?” I ask softly. Our faces are so close, I can feel my breath stutter.

  “Yes, us,” he whispers, his words like feathers against my skin, and with that, the gap closes between us.

  His lips find mine.

  The softest brush of contact. He hovers, not pulling away but not going any further either, and I think my entire body might explode.

  The whole world seems to stop turning, as if everything is waiting with bated breath.

  And then, all at once, we’re kissing. His mouth is cool against mine—and then warm. A spark of sensations fly through me. Something seems to wake up in me—my heart jumps, and it’s so sweet it almost hurts, the realization that Brekken is kissing me back, one of his hands coming up to cup the back of my neck while he traces my cheek with the other. It sends delicious chills down every inch of my skin. I should do something with my hands too. I move them to his waist, then his back, feeling the solid shape of him beneath his light jacket. He sighs against my mouth. I try to remember to breathe. Can’t remember, can’t think about anything except how he tastes like wine and snow—

  He pulls back, looking into my eyes. I let out an embarrassingly ragged breath, trying to read his expression. My heart and mind are competing for which can race the fastest. What is he thinking? Why can’t I tell?

  “Maddie.” But then he smiles, and the moon lights him up, bringing out the sharp angles of his face, and warmth floods my whole body as he leans down to kiss me again.

  I shift my body closer. My foot connects with something. I register a distant clunk, and the scent of wine spreads through the air. But all I care about is the roaring of my blood in my ears and Brekken’s breathing, faster and faster, and his heartbeat even, as he drops his hands to grip my waist, knotting his fingers in the silk of my jacket. The silver scales of the coat scrape together, and he fumbles with the buttons, and the urgency is suddenly wild, like a surge of birds taking flight all at once, and I don’t care if my jacket is ruined, don’t care about the wine pouring out over the floorboards. Let my jacket tear, let wine drip down onto the horses. Right now, all that matters is how Brekken’s pulled me into his lap, how I can feel his heart hammering against mine, his body shuddering with it. The whole world—all the worlds—could fall apart outside this barn, and in this moment, none of it would matter.

  Tonight, Brekken is mine.

  I don’t know how long we sat there in the loft, lips against skin, pulses cresting together, breath in the dark, whispers and the startled laughter that escaped as cool air touched my skin, as my jacket and Brekken’s playing cards fell to the floor, landing right in the blooming stain of wine.

  I wanted it to go further. I wanted it to be my first time. But then Brekken felt me shiver with the cold, and he—ever chivalrous—promised we’d pick this up later.

  Now, lying awake in my room around midnight, too wired to sleep, I feel engulfed in an unfamiliar glow of happiness. There is no rush, I remind myself. We have all summer. We have this time, and we have each other. We have the beginning of whatever this is, blossoming and unfolding between us.

  I’ve never been the giddy type, but my chest literally aches with the sweetness of it. I roll over in bed, the roughness of the linen pillowcases creating a tingling feeling against my cheeks as I replay the feel of Brekken’s lips lingering on mine, his cool, sure hands on my hips pressing me against my bedroom door as he went in for the goodbye kiss, his breath in my ear as he whispered good night, Maddie.

  Eventually sleep closes in, but the feelings stay with me. Even just in memory, the sensations burn away all Marcus’s worries, all my fears about not belonging, of being unwanted. It doesn’t matter if we have to keep it a secret. I’ll happily spend all three months of summer in the barn loft if it means I get to keep kissing Brekken.

  I drift off.

  And then a noise cuts through the haze of happiness—as vile and jarring as the dreams it shattered were soft and sweet.

  A crash.

  A scream.

  6

  It’s still dark, the sky purple-tinged at the edges outside my window.

  More screams.

  I sit up, feeling around for my lamp in the dark. I’m no stranger to bad dreams, but mine are always the same, with the same ingredients. Mom in her jumpsuit and dead eyes—beautiful eyes, one brown and one green, but with no life behind them—being dragged from a courtroom by faceless men in white uniforms, her limbs dragging on the floor like she’s already given up and died. Or our old house, a thin strip of kitchen—linoleum floor, battered table, walls scrawled with crayon marks—visible through cracks in cupboard doors. The sound of breaking glass and Nate’s scream and my mother’s cry. You can’t take him! Then spilling out of the cupboard afterward, the broken glass and blood covering the linoleum, the streak of red leading back toward the window where a monster di
sappeared with my brother. Mom in the corner with her head between her knees, keening. Her fingers bloody too, nails broken, like she was trying with all her might to hold on to something before it tore from her grasp.

  These are the images I associate with the sound of screams.

  These screams, though—they are unfamiliar. Not mine or Mom’s or Nate’s. And there are so many of them. Why are there so many? What’s happening?

  Finally my fingertips connect with the lamp, and I manage to turn it on, even though my hands are shaking. I’m still wearing my fancy clothes, my necklace with one of Nate’s silver jacks, my jacket—damp and stained now—and even my shoes. I guess I was too giddy to take them off again after Brekken and I snuck back inside a little before midnight, silencing each other’s giggles with kisses. As my boots hit the floor, more screams—at least that’s what it sounds like—filter up from downstairs.

  What the hell is happening?

  I grab my phone off the nightstand and run into the hall, but then spin on my heel when I realize how light my pocket feels, the usual jingling absent.

  Dread washes over me. My keys are gone. I duck back into my room to see if I’ve left them on the nightstand, but they’re not there either. My stomach turns over.

  Something’s wrong.

  I have to shove through clusters of sleepy delegates on my way downstairs, their willowy frames wrapped in silk robes or cloaks or blankets. People protest and withdraw as I run by, but I couldn’t care less if they’re in their night things or if they’re wondering why I’m not. More guests are gathered at the edge of the railing of the staircase, trying to see what’s happening below. The screaming has stopped now, replaced by a confused clamor of voices, muffled shouting. I stop at Brekken’s door and knock, but there’s no answer.

  “Brekken!” I try the handle—locked. “Open up. This isn’t funny.”

  I stand there for a long moment, my heart sinking down through my guts. He’s a soldier now. Whatever people are screaming about, what if he went down to deal with it? Or … A thought—an ugly thought—twists in the back of my mind.

  The look on his face in the loft, like he was considering whether to tell me something. And then later: his hands roaming, my waist, my hips, over my jacket, under it.

  My keys, gone.

  I push the idea away as I run, horrified at myself.

  The lower floors—the common area—are emptier, quiet. That makes it easier to hear where the muffled shouting is coming from—the long corridor at the back of the inn, where Marcus’s office is located—and the tunnels with doorways to the other worlds.

  It’s an unspoken rule that I’m not supposed to go down here, but I don’t care about that now. The corridor slopes down and curves gently toward the left, toward the center of the mountain, the old-fashioned lamps along the walls doing little to penetrate the darkness.

  Willow is emerging from the passage, her face pale. She jumps when I round the corner. It’s clear she’s been pulled out of bed, a silk dressing gown tucked tight around her frame, her hair rising wildly in all directions like black fire. She isn’t wearing makeup, and the green scales glitter on her cheeks.

  “What’s going on?” The words leave me in a rush of breath. “Who was screaming?”

  I expect her to yell at me, but instead she grabs my arm and hauls me into Marcus’s office, shutting the door behind us.

  The room is ransacked, chairs tipped over and drawers and cabinets hanging open. All the lights are on, even the harsh overhead that Marcus never uses. It washes the room in colorless light, making the people standing around the perimeter look haggard and sickly: Graylin, Sal, who guards the doorways, and the Silver Prince. Why is he here—why are any of them here? And—

  Marcus. He’s lying on the desk, eyes closed. Panic shoots through me, hot and sudden. For a heartbeat I’m five again, back in the cupboard, hearing Nathan scream; I’m tumbling out into the quiet, seeing Mom sitting in a puddle of blood and broken glass, looking at me with empty eyes.

  “What the hell?” I gasp.

  Graylin is saying something, standing next to the desk, a protective arm laid over Marcus’s chest. A stunned, lost look in his eyes as they meet mine.

  He’s saying something, his mouth moving, but I can’t hear him with the blood roaring in my ears. I’m moving toward Marcus, the room blurring around me, then my foot trips on something and I’m falling. I catch myself on one of Marcus’s built-in bookshelves, wood cutting into my hand, and twist around. Something large, weirdly lumpy, is wrapped in a rug.

  “What is that?” I choke out. My thoughts fly in all directions. The office is a mess, papers littering the floor. On the far side of the room, a spill of ashes trails out from the fireplace. Something wet and dark as ink seeps over the exposed flagstones. My heart pounds painfully against my ribs and my ears buzz as I try to process what I’m seeing.

  A body.

  Blood.

  Fear fills me up, and I lurch toward the bundle. Willow steps back, and Sal makes a grab for me, but I’ve already seized a corner of the rug and yanked it up, held by a wild, terrible fear that it’s Brekken, that something’s happened to him, that whatever he seemed afraid of earlier closed in.

  But instead, as the wrap of carpet unrolls, I see indigo fur, claws, a bloodshot eye, all of it sodden with dark blue blood.

  A beast.

  A Solarian.

  My palms are stained blue. For a second, I’ve forgotten how to breathe. I’m convinced that this is it. I will die of a heart attack right here, right now.

  To see one like this, up close. It’s too much.

  Someone grabs my arms. Graylin. He pulls me up and away, and I feel his hands shaking. “For skies’ sake, don’t look, Maddie.”

  I stare at him, too stunned to think anything at all. Then Marcus’s prone form behind him draws my gaze. I don’t see any injuries, but he is ghost-white and oh so still, his chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly. The Silver Prince stops pacing to meet my eyes. He looks bone-pale and furious.

  “What’s wrong with Marcus?” I croak, unable to tear my eyes away from Marcus’s closed eyes, his empty face.

  “We don’t know yet,” Graylin says, keeping his hand on my shoulder. “We think the Solarian attacked him.” He looks distraught, with dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.

  My stomach drops even further. Soul-eaters. That’s what Solarians are. They devour your soul before destroying your body. Is that what happened to Marcus?

  Graylin moves his right hand in a complicated motion over my uncle’s form, and the air between his hand and Marcus’s chest shimmers. Fiorden healing magic. But can it undo the damage from a Solarian attack? I don’t know. My heart beats unevenly, nausea coiling in my stomach. All I can manage is, “What happened?”

  The Silver Prince moves, kneels by the Solarian’s corpse and peels back the carpet for a moment. I close my eyes as a spill of curses in a language I don’t recognize fall from his lips. The air in the room heats up, and a hot breeze whips my face as he dips his fingers in the blue blood. In his other hand, he clutches a silver bangle stained with something red.

  “I killed this beast after it killed my manservant,” he hisses, rage and disgust boiling off him and infecting the room. “It ate him. Not even bones left.”

  His manservant.

  The thin man with the colorless eyes, watching silently on the ballroom floor as I spilled my fears of not belonging to the Silver Prince.

  He’s dead? Eaten?

  The Silver Prince looks up at Graylin. “You need to question the Fiorden delegation. Find out what the soldier was doing down here.”

  “What soldier?” I hear myself ask.

  The Silver Prince looks squarely at me, suspicion kindling in his eyes. “The one with you in the ballroom.”

  The soldier. He couldn’t mean—No. I find myself shaking my head, as if to scatter the words. I want to pinch myself. I’m still in a nightmare; I must be. None of this makes sense
.

  “Graylin,” I whisper, my voice trembling, threatening to break. “How did this happen? Where did this Solarian thing come from?”

  But Graylin doesn’t seem to hear me. His gaze is intent on Marcus and the magic streaming from his hands.

  Sal is the one who answers, his voice heavy with regret. “The Solarian door,” he says. He scrubs his forehead with the heels of his hands. “It’s cracked.”

  “And this thing escaped?” Willow looks more shaken than I’ve ever seen her. “How? Why now?”

  “We can’t let them find out,” the Prince is saying, but I’m still stuck on Sal’s word, echoing over and over in my ears like struck metal. Cracked.

  Cracked.

  Cracked enough to let this monster through, just like the one that tore my brother from this world. I feel suddenly dizzy with the worst jolt of déjà vu.

  “The door is open?” I croak.

  No one answers; they just exchange tense glances. My pulse is a war drum in my ears. This can’t be real. Can’t be. I’ll go to the door. I’ll see that it’s the same as ever, just a stone wall framed by a dusty archway, and the nightmare will be over and I’ll wake up.

  “Maddie!” Graylin is reaching for me, but I dodge him and dart into the hallway. I glance to my left, where the floor slopes down into a pool of darkness.

  “Maddie, don’t go down there.” Graylin steps carefully toward me, like I’m a horse that might get spooked. His voice is misery. “Please don’t—”

  Sick dread cascades over me. I don’t want to see it. I want to go back to bed and pretend this is all some Bosch-painted nightmare. But this is my home too and I have to know. I have to.

  Graylin is shouting something else at me, but I’m already running.