by S. L. Stacy
Peter drops his arm from Anna’s back, his cheeks and neck turning bright red. “Thanks, Eric. Means a lot.”
“Miss Elliot.” Eric nods in my direction.
“Dr. Mars,” I return curtly. Our gazes lock, his eyes so dark and impenetrable I feel like I’m stopping short of a wall.
“My darling.” Eric’s eyes soften when they turn to Anna. Placing a gentle hand at her hip, he brings his head down to brush his lips against hers. The kiss is brief, but when it’s over Anna’s cheeks are slightly pink.
“Hope you’re having an enjoyable evening,” Eric says, looking at me again. “If you have time, you should check out Mr. Johnson’s exhibit. It’s quite bold. But very…special.” His mouth twitches, almost as if he’s about to burst into laughter.
“That’s my next stop,” I say, trying on a bright, clueless smile. I keep my mental shield wrapped tightly around my memory of last night. I’m not supposed to know that Jasper is back—and I’m sure Eric wouldn’t be too thrilled to find out we slept together.
“I hope your semester is going well.” He remains straight-faced when he adds, “I know your sorority keeps you busy.”
I clear my throat, my smile wavering. “Everything’s just fine. Couldn’t be better.”
“I need a refill, my love,” Anna interjects, thrusting her glass into one of Eric’s hands. His thick fingers swallow its delicate stem.
“Anything for you, my dazzling siren.” Eric starts to turn around, cold eyes still trained on me. They go to my neck, and he pauses. “Where did you get that?” he demands. Anna’s hazel eyes follow his, her mouth falling open slightly when she sees the necklace.
My fingers fly to my throat. “What? This?” I shrug innocently, hoping he’ll think I don’t know what the necklace really is. “I borrowed it from a friend.”
Eric cracks a sly half-smile. “It suits you, Miss Elliot.” He turns his broad back to us and strides toward the bar.
“Excuse me.” Anna picks up her skirt and races to catch up with Eric.
Peter lowers his voice in an exaggerated imitation of Eric. “My darling. My dazzling siren. Please,” he says in his own voice. “Eric sounds like he’s reciting from a paperback romance novel, and Anna falls all over him.”
“He’s gotten her hooked on ambrosia,” I tell Peter. “I’m worried. Keep an eye on her.”
“I’ll try. She’s with him most of the time now.” Peter has to turn his bitter frown into a pleasant smile as two faculty members walk up to his exhibit.
I quietly slip away, following the signs for Maxwell Johnson’s Fairy Land. The elderly couple I saw earlier tonight emerges from one of the larger classrooms. They come out into the hallway, smiling at me in recognition.
“You’re a very beautiful girl,” the woman says. “It’s no wonder you’re such an inspiration.”
“Um…thank you?” I say as they turn and hobble away. Feeling perplexed, I go inside, coming to a stop when I see the gigantic portrait of a girl hanging on the far wall.
A portrait of me.
The gold frame surrounding the canvas is massive. The painting is huge. I’m huge. I’m wearing what looks like an indigo corset with intricate beadwork. My wide mouth is rosy pink and slightly raw, like it’s been recently, thoroughly kissed. My violet eyes are wide and desperately searching for something. Or someone.
And, behind me, my wings fan out of my back—blue and purple tipped with black, as velvety and delicate as a butterfly’s.
I glance at some of his other paintings. Thankfully, they’re not all of me. Most of them depict nighttime, woodland scenes with colorful specks of light.
I spot Max in the far corner of the room, gesturing to the portrait as he explains something to a group of patrons, his cousin Vanessa among them. A few of them look between the girl in the painting and me, faces dawning with understanding.
Max’s eyes meet mine, and he hurries over. “You made it! Well?” He beams up at the painting. “Do you like it?”
“To be honest?” I shake my head. “No.” I march back into the hall.
“Siobhan? Wait! Siobhan!” Max follows closely at my heels. “It was hard to paint, I’ll admit. I painted it from memory—”
“That’s not…” I take a deep breath to calm myself before going on. “The detail is beautiful. You’re a brilliant artist. But inviting me here without mentioning there’s a giant, rather sexy portrait of me on display—that is so obviously me—not cool, Max.”
The twinkle in Max’s eyes fizzles out. “I just wanted it to be a surprise. My big romantic gesture.”
“It’s not romantic! It feels…stifling! We aren’t even together, Max. And a creepy painting you decide to thrust on me in front of the entire Thurston art department isn’t going to change anything.”
“Well, it wasn’t all about you. I started it when we were still dating. When we broke up, I just had to finish it. It helped me work through some stuff. Yes, I wanted to surprise you tonight, but I had to finish it for myself, too.”
“You can paint whatever or whoever the hell you want. I don’t have a problem with that. I’m saying I deserved a heads up. Because right now this is humiliating.” I take a few steps backward, shaking my head as though that will erase the lingering image of the painting seared on my brain. “I don’t want any part of it. I didn’t even agree to it. Goodnight, Max.” I start to walk in the direction of the lobby.
“Why is it never me?” Max’s question brings me to a stop. He asks it quietly, resentment simmering just underneath it. “You danced with that Jimmy guy at your formal. You ran away to…save Jasper, or whatever. But what about me? I’m the one who loves you. I’m the one who would do anything for you. Not those other guys—me!” He jabs a finger in his chest.
“Because you don’t love me like you think you do.” I think back to what Victoria said about humans becoming infatuated with their Olympian lovers. “You love my wings,” I whisper. “You love the fantasy.”
There’s a stubborn set to his jaw. “I love you. But you never choose me. There’s always someone else!”
“I’m not choosing someone else over you. I’m just not choosing you. Goodnight.” I turn to go. Max clamps a hand on my shoulder.
“Tink,” he says, using his old pet name for me, “please, don’t leave me—”
“Do not call me that—” An anguished shriek pierces the air, cutting me off. Max and I freeze, his fingers still digging into my shoulder. I shake him off. Everyone around us has grown quiet. When a second cry sounds, the color drains from Max’s face.
“That’s Vanessa,” he realizes. “Vanessa!” He runs back toward his exhibit. I take off after him.
Underneath the large, watchful gaze of my oil painted counterpart, Max’s cousin writhes on the floor, clutching her head. A few onlookers have paused in the doorway to gape at her. Max and I shove past them.
“So much blood!” Vanessa wails. “So much pain!” Suddenly, she sits up, the whites of her eyes swiveling in my direction. The same deep, chilling voice I heard the last time I witnessed one of her visions issues once again from her pale lips: “The flap of a butterfly’s wings will defeat the rebel king.”
Then, her eyes close. She collapses.
“Vanessa!” Max crouches down next to her, scooping her limp body into his arms. He gives her a vigorous shake. “Wake up! Vanessa!”
I feel someone watching me, and look up to find Eric and Anna standing against the wall, arms wrapped around each other’s waists. Anna gapes as, like everyone else in the room, she watches the drama unfolding just a few feet away.
Eric, on the other hand, is watching me, fury combusting in his black eyes. As inescapable as a black hole, his gaze swallows me up. Obliterates me.
I back away slowly, bumping into a few people along the way. It’s only when I’m completely out the door that I can tear my eyes away from his.
I go outside, where a cold drizzle has started. I feel hollow inside, and a little bit jittery. No ma
tter how much I wring my hands together, I can’t seem to stop them from shaking.
Coming to the art show was a mistake. It accomplished nothing. I didn’t even get a chance to ask Max about Carly. All it did was bring another prophecy to light—one that sounded like it could be talking about me and Eric. At least that’s how Eric seemed to interpret it.
And now my history professor probably wants me dead.
I start walking. I don’t consciously think about where I’m going when I get on the bus that goes to Greenview.
I don’t really think at all until I’m standing in the hallway outside Jasper’s apartment, my fist poised over the door. It swings open before I can knock.
Jasper cocks an eyebrow, but otherwise doesn’t look too surprised to see me. He simply tugs me inside, shuts the door and pushes me up against it, engulfing my mouth with his.
Chapter 18
The midday sun streaming through the forest canopy warms my face, waking me up.
At some point after His Royal Pain-in-my-Butt vanished, I fell asleep with my head resting against the trunk. I’m relieved to find myself still nestled in my tree and not lying on the ground. My sleep was restless, my dreams plagued by intrusive green eyes and maniacal laughter. I had a nightmare in which I woke up in a dark, airless void. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down, left or right. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t perceive the passage of time.
A chill brushes my neck. I shove the dream aside, turning instead to my growling stomach and parched mouth. Swallowing feels like a knife stabbing my throat. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten or had a drink of water.
I peer up at the sky through the leaves and notice a piece of round, golden fruit hanging from the branch above me. I reach up and break it off. It’s squishy and slightly fuzzy, like a peach. Too bad I left my Olympus Survivor’s Guide at home. It could be poisonous.
I bring it close to my nose and inhale deeply. It smells like honey. Actually, it smells exactly like the ambrosia extract Farrah gave us to awaken our Olympian genes. I take a small, careful bite. I have no other choice than to hope that I’m right—that this is the ambrosia fruit and is safe to eat.
An intensely sweet juice fills my mouth and dribbles down my chin. I chew quickly, swallow and rip out another, much larger chunk. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I try to chew this piece more slowly, savoring it. A pleasant warmth starts in my stomach and snakes through the rest of my body. I want to devour it whole, but then I remember that too much ambrosia is lethal to Olympians and halflings. Of course, the extract we took to transition was very concentrated. It must be less concentrated in the actual fruit.
I eat the rest of it in a few bites and throw the core to the ground. Then I eat three more. I lean back against the trunk, feeling utterly satisfied and a little drowsy again. My eyelids start to drift close. I force them back open. I’ve slept enough. I need to move on. I need to get home.
I climb down from the tree, jumping from the lowest branch and almost tripping upon landing. I guess I could fly rather than walk, but I don’t know where I’m going, and I’m less likely to miss something important traveling on foot. I’m not convinced my wings could carry me that far, anyway. Flying up into a tree is one thing. Flying for miles and miles to get from Point A to Point B is quite another. Without practice, I don’t think I could keep myself up in the air for more than a few minutes. And plummeting hundreds of feet to the ground terrifies me, even with my newly acquired healing abilities.
After several miles of walking through the humid, shadowy forest, stumbling barefoot over twigs and jagged rocks, I wish I’d flown.
Panting, I back up against a tree and sink to the ground. I blink a few times to bring the trees and foliage surrounding me back into focus. They don’t look drastically different from what I’m used to, although I’m sure a botanist would be able to find the differences. I tilt my head and follow the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the canopy all the way to the forest floor. I close my eyes and concentrate on my other senses. The air smells like wet grass and tastes bitter on my tongue. I hear a breeze whisper through the trees. I feel the heavy air, clogged with moisture, and my skin, sticky with ambrosia juice and sweat. Even so, something feels…off.
I open my eyes and search the ground for something sharp. I find a splinter of bark and pinch it between my thumb and forefinger. Without really knowing why, I poke it into the pad of my other thumb. It stings, blood bubbling from the puncture. A moment later, it heals over, leaving nothing but smooth skin.
I close my eyes again and take a few deep breaths of dense air. I settle further against the tree. I just need to rest for a little. Take a nap. A short one.
The rustle of leaves up ahead makes my eyes fly back open. My breath hitches. I stand up and duck behind the tree, peeking around it. I see a pair of golden hooves and graceful legs first. Then the rest of the horse emerges from the brush.
Intelligent black eyes lock onto my hiding place. A long, silky white mane tumbles down a sinuous neck and shoulders. A burst of sunlight breaking through the canopy glints off of something protruding from the horse’s head. Wait—no. She’s not a horse. My pulse races with childish glee.
She’s a unicorn.
I step out from the tree, reaching out a cautious hand to her. She whinnies softly, white tail swinging.
“Hey, girl,” I coo, taking one step at a time. “You’re okay. I won’t hurt you.” Once I’m close enough, I gingerly touch my fingers to the velvety, pale pink hide of her back. When she doesn’t flinch, I pet her gently. She makes a snorting noise and pulls back her gums, flashing large teeth and a giant pink tongue. So this is where the legend comes from. I wonder what other mythical creatures will turn out to actually exist on Olympus.
“Atta girl,” I say, continuing to stroke her. “You’re so pretty. What’s your name?” My inner five-year-old wishes she could talk back. Disney has ruined me. “I’ll call you…Princess Lily Pad.” Princess Lily Pad was the name of a stuffed unicorn my mom gave me when I was little. I still keep her on my desk at the sorority house.
I jerk my hand back when Princess Lily Pad starts to move. I hope I didn’t scare her. She bows her head and kneels. I pause, then crawl clumsily onto her back. Once I’m situated, she straightens up and trots purposefully into the woods.
Princess Lily Pad carries me the rest of the way out of the forest. We don’t run into any other creatures or people. I’m not exactly dressed for riding, so I’m glad no one’s around to see my already short dress bunched up around my hips. I should have bought some new clothes and shoes back in the village.
As the trees become more and more scattered, the dirt path disappears, the ground turning rocky. The princess picks her way around giant, gray boulders and pads over smooth, translucent pebbles. Shriveled grass and gangly weeds shoot up between the rocks. A snow-capped mountain range looms in the distance, the sun setting behind it, giving the peaks an orange halo. I glance behind me at the two moons rising opposite the sunset in an indigo sky.
When I turn back, a hot breeze batters my face, carrying with it the smell of something burning. Tendrils of smoke reach for us like ghostly gray fingers. I hear the crackling of fire. I squint ahead through the smoke, but I don’t see another bonfire. As the smoke thickens, Princess comes to a stop. She bends again, and I slide off her, gagging and coughing. I stroke her reassuringly.
“Thanks for the ride, Princess Lily Pad,” I choke out. “You’re such a good girl. I wonder where all that smoke is coming from? I’ll go check it out. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”
Princess waits for me while I venture forward, hunching over to keep just below the cloud of smoke. I accidentally kick a few stones loose with my foot. They bounce once, twice, three times before sailing through the air and disappearing. I crouch lower and follow in the stones’ wake inch by inch. The earth gives way under my toes, freeing large chunks of soil and gravel that go skidding downward. I shoot my arms out t
o balance myself, then look down.
I’m perched on the edge of a cliff. Its jagged face plunges into a deep, wooded valley. The forest below is what’s burning. Red and orange flames and black smoke billow endlessly out of the chasm, turning the air hot and foul, even all the way up here. I stagger away from the precipice and collapse onto a giant granite boulder.
Here it is. My test of physical strength. The only way to circumvent the valley and the fire, the only way to get to the other side—which I can’t even see through all of the smoke—is to fly over it. And not only am I simply not strong enough to make it all the way across, I’m too scared to even try. The combination of the smoke filling my lungs and the fear coursing through me is making it difficult to breath. My body shakes uncontrollably. All I can see is myself dropping out of the sky and the flames eating me up. They might not kill me, but as soon as my body heals itself, they’ll eat my flesh off over and over again—a fate worse than death. Until something puts the fire out—but who knows when that will be.
Princess walks up to me and nudges me in the shoulder. I run my hand over her nose.
“You should get out of here, Lily Pad,” I tell her. “We both should. It’s too dangerous. It’s time to give up. I’m never getting home.” Princess pulls away from me and moves her head back and forth like she’s shaking her head.
“It’s no use,” I say. I stand up and prepare to hop on her back again. “I can’t do it—” She turns and bolts away from me, letting out an aggravated whinny. “Hey, Princess!” I call after her, watching helplessly as she runs back in the direction of the forest. “Don’t leave me! I need you! Come back!” I glimpse the shiny fall of her tail before she vanishes into the woods. I groan, swiping a hand through the tangle of my curls. I feel bits of bark and leaves ensnared in them.
“I guess I’m walking back, then.” I peer down one last time at the gaping, burning chasm, then up at the majestic mountains far beyond it. They look so surreal from this distance, almost like crumpled pieces of heather colored paper mâché. They must be beautiful up close.