Nightfall

by Shannon Messenger

  Cyrah?

  Wylie’s mom nodded. “Hello, Sophie.”

  Her voice added a melodic curl to the words and Sophie marveled at the detail Prentice had managed to pull together for the vision. He’d rendered each curve of her face perfectly. Added each fleck of violet into Cyrah’s eyes. And when she tossed her long straight hair, the sun turned the strands every possible shade of red.

  “I had a feeling you might be coming to see me soon,” Cyrah told her. “And I tried so hard to be prepared. I wanted to be me this time—the real me.”

  You mean Prentice, Sophie clarified.

  Cyrah nodded. “I wanted to show you I was ready. But . . . I couldn’t figure out who I am. So this was the best I could do.”

  This works, Sophie promised, even if it meant she was going to have to break the news of Cyrah’s death to the woman herself—sort of. And the script she’d carefully practiced seemed to unravel.

  “She’s one of the few things I’ve been able to hold on to,” Cyrah added, each word pounding a nail into Sophie’s heart. “Though I guess I’m not saying that right. I’m supposed to think of me as her right now, aren’t I? This is always so confusing.”

  It was.

  You’re doing the best you can, Sophie told her.

  They both were.

  Distantly—in another world—she felt soft pressure on each of her hands and a thread of warmth trickling through her brain. Tiny reminders that she wasn’t in this alone.

  “Are you looking for another memory?” Cyrah asked, adjusting one of the jeweled combs tucked into her hair. “If so, I should warn you. They’re not in much better shape than the last time you were here. I keep trying to pull things together. But it’s such a mess.”

  I know. That’s why I’m here.

  Cyrah sucked in a breath. “Is it time to . . . ?”

  We’re working toward it, Sophie promised. But we have to do this in steps, to make sure we don’t overwhelm you.

  “That sounds . . . slow.” The sky flooded with storm clouds.

  It won’t be, Sophie said, hoping that was true. And no matter what, it WILL happen.

  The clouds receded, but the sky stayed dimmer than it had been, the air colder, with a sharp wind that rippled the smooth surface of the lake.

  “You told me not to think about how many years have passed,” Cyrah whispered. “And I’ve tried not to. But . . . I need to know.”

  Are you sure?

  Some small, wimpy part of Sophie couldn’t help hoping the answer would be no.

  But Cyrah told her, “I think it’ll help me start piecing things together.”

  Sophie nodded.

  She realized Cyrah couldn’t actually see her, so she gathered her consciousness, shaping it into something more focused and solid, until she had a body of sorts—a mental avatar that appeared in the scene. The soft fabric of the teal tunic she’d dreamed up brushed her imagined skin as she reached for Cyrah’s trembling hand and led her over to a cluster of boulders nestled among the sparkly plants, then took a seat on the uneven stones.

  If this gets to be too much, Sophie transmitted, you have to tell me, okay?

  Cyrah chewed her lower lip. “Give me a second.”

  Blinding flashes erupted across the lake, and dozens of graceful black swans emerged from the sparks, tucking their dusky wings as they glided along the glassy water.

  “Swans help me focus,” Cyrah explained. “Especially black ones.”

  I remember you telling me that.

  Sophie jumped when more swans appeared at their feet, bobbing their noble heads and filling the air with their slightly mournful squeaks.

  Does that mean you remember the Black Swan?

  Cyrah reached out to stroke the nearest swan’s neck. “The words feel familiar. And there are flickers. A sense of urgency, and . . . something like a warning. But not enough to wrap my mind around.”

  That’s still good, Sophie told her. It gives us somewhere to start.

  “I thought we were going to start with how long it’s been.”

  You’re sure you can handle that?

  “I’m not sure of anything. But . . . is it the worst thing you’re going to share?”

  No, Sophie admitted, deciding to be honest.

  The swans flapped their wings, and their squeaks turned to groans, making it hard to hear Cyrah mumble, “Then tell me.”

  A fresh thread of warmth boosted Sophie’s mental strength, giving her the courage to say, It’s been about thirteen years.

  Icy rain erupted around them, matching Cyrah’s tears. “That’s . . . a very long time.”

  It is, Sophie told her. And . . . it’s my fault. You put yourself through all of this—gave up all those years—to protect me.

  The confession shredded something inside Sophie. But Cyrah’s rain turned warmer, until it was mostly a mist hovering around them.

  “I had to protect the moonlark,” she whispered, reaching out to brush Sophie’s cheek. “And I knew the risks. I may barely remember what I look like—or what it feels like to be awake. But I’ve always known this was my choice. And . . . that I had to trust.”

  Prentice had used a similar phrase once before—the first time that Sophie had tried searching his memories.

  We have to trust.

  He’d trusted her.

  Counted on her to fix him. Taken that unimaginable risk.

  And she’d failed him all this time.

  But not anymore.

  Wylie wanted me to tell you he doesn’t care how long it’s been, she transmitted. And that he loves you.

  “Wylie.”

  The name brought back the sun, melting the mist and casting glints of gold across the black swan’s feathers.

  But the clouds slowly returned. “He must be all grown up.”

  He’s a Level Eight at Foxfire, Sophie admitted. And he’s missed you every single day. But he never gave up hope that you’d come back. And Tiergan’s taken amazing care of him.

  “Tiergan?”

  Sophie’s heart stopped with the slip.

  “Why has Tiergan been taking care of him?”

  It . . . doesn’t matter.

  Thunder cracked all around them, sending the swans scattering. “Why has Tiergan been taking care of him. Did I—did Cyrah . . . are they together?”

  No! Sophie promised. It wasn’t like that.

  “Then what was it like?”

  It’s . . . hard to explain.

  “Try.”

  Not now.

  “Why?”

  Far, far away Sophie could feel pressure on her right shoulder—Keefe’s warning.

  Because this is getting to be too much for you.

  “I’ll decide when it’s too much! Is this what you meant when you said there would be worse things to tell me? Is it something with Cyrah?”

  Sophie tried to pull her mind back—tried to melt into a blip of thought and ghost away—but Cyrah snatched her wrist with an iron grip, chaining her to Prentice’s consciousness.

  “Tell me!”

  I will, Sophie promised. But not until your emotions are under control.

  “I don’t care about my emotions!”

  You will if this sets you back months and months.

  “You think I can just forget this? You think the question won’t be trapped in here with me, rattling around my head while I wait and wait and wait for you to come back?”

  Cyrah’s features widened with each word, and her red hair turned black and twisted into dreadlocks as her skin darkened and her body stretched taller.

  The new form was smudgy and indistinct—like a crayon drawing by a small child.

  Still, Sophie knew who she was looking at. Prentice?

  He struggled through a nod, and a fresh crack of thunder shook the scenery, sending the last of the swans flapping away.

  Warmth crashed into Sophie’s mind, paired with a soft, blue breeze. But neither stopped the lake from cresting into a wave and crashing over her, dragging
her to a bubble of inky black.

  “Just tell me,” Prentice begged. His form looked even sloppier in the shadowy pocket. And his voice sounded as brittle as the jagged memories that swarmed around them, slashing and shredding and clawing closer.

  He repeated the plea again.

  And again.

  And again.

  The shards broke through, aiming for Sophie’s skin. And when they couldn’t break past her mental shields, they turned on Prentice, smudging his weary form like jagged erasers.

  “This is how it’s going to be for me,” he told her. “Just this, endlessly.”

  The shards kept blurring and smearing.

  Until there was very little of him left.

  So when he repeated his plea a final time, Sophie told him everything.

  Every heartbreaking, ugly detail.

  Until the shards of memory stilled.

  And the lasts wisps of Prentice vanished.

  Sixty-five

  NO!”

  Sophie wasn’t sure if she was transmitting the plea or screaming it.

  But she could feel bursts of warm tingles blasting through her consciousness as the blue breeze swirled faster and faster.

  Prentice, please!

  PLEASE.

  You have to come back.

  She repeated the cry as she dove into the jagged memories—not caring what chaos she might find on the other side.

  Dark nothingness awaited—the space so black and empty, it felt like dropping into a void—leaving her falling, falling, falling, so fast and so far, she might as well have dropped through the center of the universe.

  The blue wind chased her down—raced ahead—managed to catch her.

  And the jolt forced her to stop.

  Think.

  As if there was a distant voice chanting, “You’ve got this! You’ve got this! You’ve got this!”

  The confidence mixed with the next rush of warmth, and she slowly remembered that Prentice couldn’t be gone.

  He’d simply hidden himself away. And she could find him. If she didn’t give up.

  With that resolve fueling her, she grabbed the blue wind and tugged, shaping it into feathers—gorgeous cerulean wings that fluttered at the slightest wisp of thought and shimmered in the darkness.

  Please, Prentice, she transmitted. If you won’t come back for me, do it for Wylie. He loves you. He needs you.

  She repeated the plea again and again, until the darkness seemed to tighten—until there were edges behind the blackness. Barriers that held in her sounds, filling the space with soft, looping echoes.

  Some small part of her mind found the effect familiar, but she was too focused on adding images to wonder why. She didn’t have nearly as many memories of Wylie as she’d like—and too many of them were heartbreaking. But maybe Prentice needed to see that.

  Maybe he needed proof of just how much his son missed him to find the strength to return.

  So she showed him the heated arguments she’d had with Wylie about healing his father, and Wylie’s hopeless visits when they’d feared that Prentice had been lost forever. She even showed him a glimpse of the injuries Wylie sustained during the Neverseen’s interrogation. And she finished with the last image she’d seen, of Wylie clinging to Prentice’s hand, asking her to tell him that he loved him.

  He’s waiting for you, she told Prentice.

  Come back.

  Come back.

  Come back.

  Far away there was pain in her shoulder—Keefe warning her that Prentice’s emotions were crashing—and a fresh blast of blue wind surged to lift her wings and make her lighter.

  But other than her echoes, Prentice’s mind stayed silent—and there were no warm trails to follow. No sign of recognition.

  Please, Prentice, she begged. So many people need you here.

  She showed him glimpses of Alden’s guilt and devastation, and the Collective’s frustration and impatience, and Tiergan’s grief and loyalty—as well as glimmers of his love for Wylie.

  When that didn’t make a difference, she added her own struggles to the mix—every tear she’d shed over her role in his current situation. Every nightmare. Every wasted day.

  Don’t you see how much you matter? she asked. How deeply you’re loved?

  Maybe he needed proof.

  So she scraped together every ounce of love she could find within herself and poured it into the darkness in a white hot rush.

  The light swirled with the black, mixing into a hazy shade of gray.

  When it still wasn’t enough, she dug deeper, reaching into her heart and tapping into that raw emotional well, where everything burned with a new kind of heat. It seared every thought as she gathered up the force of it, erupting into sparks as she blasted it into Prentice’s consciousness—and the blue wind fanned the sparks into flames.

  Harmless flames.

  Helpful flames.

  Flames that danced and crackled and gobbled up the murk.

  Warmth followed, swelling from within that time—growing and growing and growing until it melted each of the jagged shards of memory and welded them into some sort of mass as the rising energy launched Sophie up, up, up—so fast, so sudden, it knocked her back into her body, leaving her blinking and trembling and gasping for breath, her now-bare hands held fast by clammy, shaking palms.

  People called her name, pummeled her with questions—each voice stomping on the next until their words were a mush of noise.

  Except one.

  One voice that silenced everyone.

  All eyes turned to Prentice as he blinked eyes that were clearer and more focused than they’d been in over a decade, and moved lips that had done nothing but mumble and groan and drool but now formed hoarse, crackly words.

  “I think . . . I’m back.”

  Sixty-six

  PRENTICE WAS HEALED.

  Sophie hadn’t meant to do it. Hadn’t recognized that she was unconsciously going through the steps of a healing.

  But . . . Prentice seemed okay.

  He was disoriented, and overwhelmed, and heartbroken.

  But he hadn’t shattered.

  He’d simply clung to his son, and they’d both cried together, until his weak body collapsed into sleep—real sleep, Livvy assured them. She’d quadruple-checked.

  She’d also had Keefe read Prentice’s emotions to make sure they were holding steady. And had Tam take a quick reading of his shadowvapor to ensure it was within a normal range.

  Mr. Forkle also chose to monitor Prentice’s dreams.

  He could do that now, without risking his sanity.

  Because Prentice was healed.

  But he wasn’t back to normal, either.

  His memories were a mess—the splintered fragments mashed together so haphazardly that there was no rhyme or reason to anything. And no matter how hard any of them tried to help him make sense of it, his mind remained chaos.

  “It’s up to Prentice now,” Mr. Forkle said as he took the seat next to Sophie on one of the benches lining the cabin’s wraparound porch. “He’s the only one who can sort out his past.”

  Blur and Wraith had left already. As had Della. And the rest of the group had ducked outside to give Wylie, Prentice, and Tiergan some privacy to discuss what happened to Cyrah.

  “But he will get back to normal?” Sophie asked.

  “ ‘Normal’ is a relative term,” Alden reminded her, his eyes on the forest beyond, where a smoky mist seemed to be thickening as the day stretched on.

  He didn’t look as peaceful as Sophie would’ve expected. Mostly thoughtful.

  Fitz went over and wrapped him in a hug.

  “From this point on, Prentice will have his health,” Mr. Forkle told them. “And his son. And the chance to make new memories. The rest? Only time will tell. The consciousness continues to shatter after the initial break, so after all of these years, his memories have all but dissolved. Imagine a piece of glass that you smash with a stone. One hit and it’s easy enou
gh to see how to fit the shards back together. But smash it again? And again? And again, and again, and again?”

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise. But the reality of it flattened Sophie’s heart. “There’s really nothing we can do?”

  “If you’re hoping for a quick fix, no,” Mr. Forkle admitted. “But I do think it would be wise for all of us to make memory logs of everything we remember about Prentice, or things we’ve glimpsed in his mind, or—”

  “I disagree,” Quinlin interrupted. “He’s already lost more than a decade of his life—why waste another second of it trying to scrape together the past? He should be focusing on rebuilding and moving forward.”

  “Why can’t he do both?” Linh countered.

  “Because nothing good can come from looking too deeply into the tragedies that can’t be changed.” Quinlin paced to the farthest corner of the porch, tracing his hand along the railing. “We all watched Grady and Edaline fall apart after Jolie—are we really wishing the same for Prentice?”

  “I think it’s too early to know how he’ll respond—long term—to Cyrah’s loss,” Alden said quietly. “But I can’t imagine he’ll want to forget her.”

  “I never said forget her,” Quinlin argued. “But he already remembers enough. Any more will only add to his pain—which is why we should treat this memory loss as the gift that it is.”

  No one seemed to know what to say to that—not even Sophie. And it killed her that Quinlin might be right—that it might be better to leave Prentice with fragments and mysteries than put him through additional grief.

  She couldn’t figure out why it hurt so much—or wouldn’t let herself admit it—until she was away from Keefe’s prying Empath senses, alone in her bed later that night with nothing but Iggy’s snoring and her own miserable thoughts for company.

  Some tiny, desperate part of her had been clinging to the hope that whatever secrets had caused Prentice to call swan song—whatever had helped him to know about the Lodestar symbol—would somehow lead them to Nightfall.

  It was a silly, illogical idea. But now that it was gone, the only choice left was to go back to their needle-in-a-haystack ways.

  Back to endless piles of schoolwork, and discouraging nightly reports and nothing, nothing, nothing.