“Is this supposed to be Morgan Street?” I hadn’t realized Remo was standing next to me until he spoke.
Morgan Street was Rowan’s main street. Although I’d visited my maternal family’s birthplace over the years, had fished in the Great Lakes with Pappy, and had wandered through my family’s graveyard with Nima, I’d never known it to look this way—alternating two-storied, pastel-painted houses and squat brick buildings—but perhaps, when Gregor and Linus established their prison, this was how Rowan had looked.
Shop awnings poked from the quaint buildings. One in particular caught my eye—BEE’S PLACE. Nima and Neenee Cass had talked so often about it that even though it no longer existed in today’s Rowan, it felt familiar.
Relief flooded me. Dread would’ve been more appropriate, because this town could be nothing like the real one I held dear to my heart and would tarnish its memory. Goose bumps sprouted over my skin even though it wasn’t cold here. At least there was that.
Hugging myself, I asked, “You think everything will be fake here again?”
“Only one way to find out.” He started walking.
The first building was made of red brick and read COUNTY JAIL. Remo pulled the door open, and we went in. There were desks, and behind them, a bulky metal door. Neat stacks of papers laid on the desks next to huge square gray things. I tried poking one but nothing happened. “What are these supposed to be?”
“Computers.”
I blinked back toward the enormous box made of plastic and black glass. “You mean, like Holo-Screens?”
Remo twisted the knob on the metal door, and it opened with a beep. “Yeah.” He stared into a dim corridor lined with metal grates.
“Jail cells?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Anyone in there?”
“Not that I can see.”
He let the door go, and it clanged shut, and then he walked to the desk and slid open a drawer. It rolled right out, and objects rattled inside. Even though this world looked kinder than the last two, I sensed it was a front to lull us into a false sense of security. Evil undoubtedly lurked here, lying in wait like a tigri.
I leaned over a stack of papers and thumbed through them until I found a folder labeled Cruz Vega. My eyes widened. Was this the same Cruz Vega who’d helped Iba and Nima liberate Neverra and who’d died to save Neenee’s life? The one who’d brought Pappy back to life after Stella had slit his throat? The fallen hero we paid our respects to each year on the anniversary of his death?
I flipped open the file and flicked through it until I came upon a mugshot of a handsome man with black hair and green eyes, the very same man Iba had a picture of in his office. Although I was grateful he’d sacrificed himself to allow my aunt back into Neverra, a piece of me had always wished he could’ve found a way to survive.
“What did you find?” Remo asked, spinning a pen he must’ve picked up in the drawer.
“Unless this is part of the decor, Cruz Vega seems to have been arrested for”—I skimmed the file until I found a sloppily handwritten note—“murdering and impersonating a medical examiner.” I scanned the rest of the page, my gaze widening when I caught the bailee’s name and signature. My father’s. “Think this is real?”
Remo approached and peered over my shoulder. “Maybe. Too bad your dad can’t bail us out of here.”
“That would be convenient.” I scraped my hair back and studied Cruz’s picture again. The fae had been male-model gorgeous, not to mention kind, generous, intelligent, and selfless. If he’d survived and had been my age, or around my age, I would’ve fallen head-over-heels for him.
“You have some drool on your chin.”
I lifted my gaze off the picture and set it on the fae who had, unfortunately, survived. “Funny.”
He obviously thought it was funny since he was smirking. “While you were staring at the dead fae, I took inventory of the place, and besides this pen”—he twirled it again between his fingers—“there’s nothing here.”
I wanted to take the file with me, as a sort of memento for Nima and Iba, but had no bag and didn’t want souvenirs of this place. Besides, this was all fake, or deepfakes, so it would probably not survive transportation through the portal. I set the file down and walked over to the door Remo propped open.
“After you, Trifecta.”
Oh . . . the horrid nickname. “Why do the good men die but the bad ones persist?” I asked as I brushed past him.
“Just because he died heroically doesn’t mean he was a good man.”
“I beg to differ. That’s exactly what it means.”
“Then according to your logic, that makes me a good man.”
I stopped walking and whirled to face him. Although the back of his body was coated in mud, his front was surprisingly clean and devoid of scrapes. “How does that make you a good man, Remo?”
“Well.” He clicked the top of his pen, sliding the ink tip out, then clicked again, sliding the tip back in. “I saved you from breaking your neck in the last cell and died doing it.”
“Except you didn’t die.”
“I beg to differ.” He clicked his pen again. “I came back to life, but I most definitely died.”
Even though he did have a point, calling me bad company canceled out any heroic act. “If you want to be a hero, stay dead next time.”
He shot me a lopsided grin. “But then you’d be awfully lonely.”
“Unlike you, I’d rather be alone than in bad company.” I took off toward the next building, the one sandwiched between Bee’s Place and the jail—a mint-green two-story house that read ANGEL SPA.
“You seem awfully bitter I called you bad company.”
I spun around. “Was it supposed to be a compliment?”
His eyes darkened. I waited a couple seconds for him to apologize. When no apology came, I turned back toward the spa and shoved the door open. The bell over the door tinkled. I inhaled, expecting the scent of warmed candle wax and exotic oils. All I got was dry plaster and musty air. Glass jars lined the walls, but all were empty. I went up a set of carpeted stairs that creaked underfoot. The small landing gave onto three rooms—two had massage tables and empty cupboards, one had a small iridescent-tiled bathroom. Excitement tore through me at the sight of the sink. I twisted both the hot and cold knobs, but lo and behold, not even a rusty trickle spurted out. I turned to the toilet and lifted the lid to find the bowl as dry as the back of my mouth. Damn.
“Anything useful upstairs?” Remo called out.
Even though the massage tables were padded and thus looked relatively comfortable, we needed water and there was none. “Unfortunately not.”
He looked up the stairwell.
“If you don’t trust me, go check.”
He returned his gaze to me. “I trust you.”
“Huh. A Farrow trusting a Wood. That must surely be a first.”
His jaw ticked as though he were working really hard to bite back a retort.
I pushed past him out the door, then walked toward the next establishment—Bee’s Place. Instead of barreling inside, I backed up into the road to take in the two-story brick inn with its big picture window. This place contained so much history that it somehow felt sacred. I had to remind myself that this wasn’t the real Bee’s Place. Just a pretty copy placed in a parallel universe. Still, my heart held steady as I crossed back toward it and pressed my fingertips into the glass door.
I froze on the threshold, the aroma of something sweet and flaky wafting into me. “Do you smell that?” I whispered, stepping inside.
Remo’s nostrils flared. When his pupils dilated, I surmised the fragrance wasn’t imaginary.
The glass door clapped shut behind us, and I jumped, but then I sniffed the air again and tracked the scent like a lupa. My nose led me to a square opening built into a wall beside a varnished bar. I peered inside, making out the gleam of metal countertops and the shine of upside-down pots—a kitchen!
Even though I could climb
through the opening, I strode along the wall on the lookout for a door, stomach twisting in anticipation. The second I spotted it, I looked for a handle but found none. Remo, who’d trailed me down the dim hallway, pressed his palm into the wood, and the door swung on its hinges.
“I was about to do that,” I said.
He shot me his usual arrogant smirk, the one that touted: I am so much smarter than you.
Instead of sinking to his level, I notched up my chin and entered the dim space that smelled so sweet, licking the air would surely candy my tongue. My nose guided me toward a large metal and glass box glowing with a light that enveloped the edges of a bubbling golden pie. I latched onto a long handle and tugged. A burst of hot air shot into my face. I was about to reach inside for the pan when Remo’s voice stilled my hand.
“You’re going to burn yourself.”
“Burn myself? I’m made of fire.”
I stuck my hand inside and grabbed the pan. Even through the glove, the heat of the metal scorched me. I didn’t let go even though it felt like the material was melting and adhering to my skin. I all but tossed the pan onto the center island.
“You burned yourself, didn’t you?” Remo followed the downward trajectory of my hand.
“Nope.” My cheeks flamed, though. Hopefully, the obscurity would hide my blush.
He crossed the kitchen toward a sink and turned the knob. I was expecting it to be dry, but there was a groan followed by a familiar splash that made my heart catch and my throat tighten. I strode over to him so fast I thought I’d regained my Hunter speed. Remo didn’t scoop out any water; he simply watched it fall. I grabbed a bowl from a shelf and shoved it underneath, terrified this was a fluke and any second the pipes would run dry.
I pulled off my gloves and laid them on the counter. My fingertips had reddened but thankfully not blistered. Although they felt funny—a little plasticky—I didn’t complain, knowing Remo would get a kick out of my predicament.
I lifted the bowl out and carefully placed it aside. Then I cupped my hands and filled them with the water coming out of the spigot.
“Amara, maybe—”
The warning Remo had been about to utter died on his lips as I splashed the water on my face—a shot of pure bliss. I repeated the motion. The water dripping off my chin was laced with blood, yellow mud, and the remnants of my makeup.
“It’s real.” I grinned up at Remo. “Real water.”
Remo’s expression was as tight as the line of his shoulders, and the rest of his body, for that matter. When he didn’t make any move to scoop some out, I tossed some in his face. He sputtered and spit as though I’d just lobbed toxic waste at him.
I laughed. “Relax. It didn’t melt your skin off.”
He grumbled something as he wiped his forehead on his sleeve.
I grabbed a glass off a shelf and filled it, and then I gulped down the contents hungrily. I felt like laughing again. Simple pleasures. I filled up the glass and fit it into Remo’s hands. He reluctantly closed his fingers around the slick surface and then stared at it so long that I rolled my eyes. “I’m not dead.”
“Yet.”
My pulse quickened at that single word, and then my exhilaration waned. Would the water poison me? After what felt like an hour but was surely no more than a handful of seconds, Remo gave in and tipped the glass to his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drained it.
Once empty, he set the glass down and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. “At least, if we die, we’ll die together.”
“How romantic.” I rolled my eyes and circled the island to reach the peach pie. I broke off a piece of crust and placed it inside my mouth. The flaky dough melted on my tongue and slid down my throat. I hummed in contentment, then broke off another piece, and another, thanking the Great Spirit for the offering. Maybe She hadn’t had a hand in it, but regardless, thanking Her couldn’t hurt.
“That good, huh?” Remo was watching me from across the island.
I pinched a gooey peach and laid it on my tongue. The explosion of flavors made my entire body quiver. “The best I’ve ever eaten.” I pushed the pan toward him, metal scraping against metal.
He crossed his arms, making no move to tear off a piece of the divine dessert. “And it doesn’t worry you that it was somehow baking when we walked in?”
My vertebrae jammed together as I swallowed the lump of peach. I raised my head higher, straining to hear any footfalls on the floor above before deciding that whoever could bake so well was not my enemy. Of course, this led me to a lightbulb moment.
“We aren’t alone,” I murmured in wonder.
Remo neither nodded nor shook his head. He watched the pie and then he watched the oven behind me. “Did you turn the oven off?”
The oven? Of course, the oven. That was the name of the box from which I’d taken the pie. I swung around. The glass no longer glowed. “Could it have turned off automatically?”
He sighed and came around my side of the island. He popped the door down. Neither hot air nor light drifted out of the cooking box this time. “Maybe. Some of these had built-in timers.”
“How do you know so much about ovens? Are antiquated electronics a prerequisite curriculum for becoming a lucionaga?”
A corner of his mouth curled. “Surprisingly, no. I learned about them through Mom. She used to run the bakery in this town.”
Right. “What was it called again?”
“Astra’s, but it’s not on this street. It’s by the harbor, and since these cells seem built on single streets, I don’t think Grandfather included it.”
I stretched and pulled the pan back toward me to snatch off another piece. Remo watched me eat. If he’d been a friend, I might’ve force-fed him, if only to prove how delectable it was, but he wasn’t a friend. For all I cared, he could starve himself. More pie for me. I hummed around the bite of food.
“I was thinking of something . . .” Remo said.
“You? Think?”
He squeezed one of his eyes a little shut.
“Lighten up. I was just teasing you. I might not like you, but I know you’re smart.”
Even though only a trickle of daylight streamed over Remo’s face, I caught his cheeks reddening. Was he not used to compliments? I was pretty sure he was praised every day of his life by his friends, family, and harem of women.
“So? What were you thinking?”
The big firefly’s chest rose and fell a few times before he finally managed to squeeze out his answer. “I was thinking about Karsyn’s dust.”
I narrowed my eyes, wondering where he was going with this.
He nodded to my hand, to the dark whorls that stained my left palm and wrapped around each one of my fingers. “It’s still on your hand.”
“It is,” I said slowly.
“Can you pull it out and use it like your mother?”
I dropped my gaze to my tattoo. “I don’t know. I’ve never magnetized dust before.” I wasn’t even sure I knew how to get it out. I dug through my memories, trying to remember if I’d ever seen my mother do it, but couldn’t think of a single time. She was always so cautious about her trapped dusts. Yes, plural. She hadn’t only taken ownership of Remo’s grandmother’s dust. On the Day of Mist, she’d magnetized another Seelie’s wita, and since he’d died after attacking her, it had become hers. Which wasn’t usually the case, but Nima was unusual. Almost as unusual as I was.
“Never?”
I gnawed on my bottom lip.
The fact that I didn’t have the slightest clue how to coax it from my skin must’ve shown on my face, because Remo asked, “So you don’t know how to use it, do you?”
I shook my head.
He rolled his neck from side to side. There was a series of little pops. “Can’t believe I’m about to teach you how to wield a weapon you could use on me—”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. The same way that if you wan
ted me dead, I’d be dead.” I leaned my hip against the cool island. “And I don’t mean in this world, since death doesn’t seem to be final.”
He stared at me for a long time, as though dissecting my words, trying to find one that didn’t ring true. “I saw your mother use it. She touched her tattoo, then slowly dragged her hand away, and the wita clung to her fingertips.”
“When did you see her using it?” I wasn’t jealous, but I was surprised he, of all people, had had a demonstration.
“In the elevator. It was one of my . . . visions.”
Oh.
“She was arguing with Mom. It must’ve been right around the time she found out about what happened to my grandmother because she was asking your mother if it was true. If she’d really killed Stella.”
“Is this the part when you tell me my mother brought out her dust to gas yours?”
He shot me a remarkable glare before averting his gaze and rubbing his earlobe. “Actually, it was my mother who brought out her wita.” He said this so quietly I thought I misheard him. “Your mom stepped back and clutched her neck, yelling at mine to stop. That she didn’t want it to come to this. My mother didn’t put it away, so your mother brought hers out and crafted some sort of shield.” His eyes seemed slightly unfocused, as though he was standing in the same room as our feuding mothers. “Your dad arrived then, shouted at my mother, threatening to throw her out of Neverra, and then grabbed yours and flew out of the calimbor.”
If only Gregor hadn’t opened his big mouth and blabbed to Faith that Nima had murdered his former flame. He insisted the information had slipped out, that he hadn’t meant to cause a rift between my mother and Remo’s. Though knowing the wariff’s fondness to have a finger in every pie, I betted his oversharing hadn’t been accidental.
“It’s hard to believe our mothers were friends, isn’t it?” I kept expecting to see a younger version of Nima strut down Morgan Street. “It’s sad that your mother can’t forgive mine for the accident.”
Reckless Cruel Heirs Page 13