Storybound

by Emily Mckay

  “What?”

  “Do you make a habit of kidnapping girls?” I sneer.

  He blinks like he’s surprised by my accusation. “Actually, you’re the first. And I didn’t kidnap you. I rescued you, Cupcake.”

  Something in his tone—either his wry humor or his obvious derision—makes me look at him. Really look at him.

  It’s the first time I’ve had the chance to study him.

  This Kane isn’t the living, breathing representation of my fantasy. He’s just a little…off. His hair is lighter. More chocolate than inky black. And there’s a springiness to it. A slight wave. His jaw is narrower. He looks younger, too. Sure, Kane is nineteen in the books, but he felt older. And then, there’re his eyes. In the books, they are a merciless steely gray. Here, now, in the light, they are an unmistakable honey brown.

  The kind of warm brown you’d want to spend hours staring into.

  You know, if the guy hadn’t just locked you in a cage like some frickin’ psychopath.

  Kane squats down, which puts him almost at my eye level.

  “Tell me about these books.”

  “What books?” I ask.

  “The Traveler books. The ones that make you think you know so much about me.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. Oh shit. “You know about the books?”

  “The Curator told me about them. About how she gave my stories to some Dark Worlder writer to try to lure out an Untethered Sleeker.”

  “Wait. She gave the stories to Wallace? What does that mean?”

  “She’s a Curati. It’s what they do. They curate stories.”

  Something about his tone, which is so reasonable and measured, so calming, ratchets down my emotions a bit. I’m able to blink back the tears that were threatening just a moment ago.

  “I thought the Curati curated bloodlines.”

  “Well, sure, they do that, too. But their main job is to curate stories from the many universes, to gift those stories to Dark Worlders.”

  “So Curati are muses?” Okay. Mind. Blown. I sit up on my knees, inching forward. “So all human creativity, all our books, all our movies, are gifts from the Curati? That’s… Wait. Why do they do that?”

  “To strengthen the Thread. The Thread is—”

  “Yeah. I know. It’s the magical cord that connects every living creature to the universe. It’s the power the Tuatha use to fuel their magic. That’s in the books. And the Curator talked about it, too.”

  “Exactly. Emotion feeds energy into the Thread, so—”

  The Curator hadn’t told me that part, but my brain leaps ahead and I finish the thought before he can. “The more humans care about a story, the more energy goes into the Thread.”

  “Yes.”

  “So Tuatha are just emotional vampires who use humans to fuel their magic? Ew. That’s gross.”

  “Don’t Dark Worlders use the decayed flesh of others to fuel cars?”

  “No! We use gas. That’s… Okay, I see your point. But that’s still gross.”

  His lips twitch, like he might smile, and something about it unsettles me, but before I figure out what, he pulls his gaze from mine to look out the windows behind me.

  “Because they curate stories, the Curati have the ability to impart visions. They find stories from the many universes that will appeal to humans. And then they give those stories to writers and artists.” He pauses, shifting his eyes back to mine. “They’ve never gifted stories from our world. That’s strictly forbidden.”

  “But the Curator did it anyway. She spent the past”—I do the math quickly—“six years imparting visions to Chuck Wallace? All so that she could find an Untethered Sleeker?”

  “So that she could find you.”

  I slowly lean back against the side of the cage, blowing out a long breath. “Wow.”

  “That’s not what she told you?”

  “No. She just talked a lot about the vast tapestry of the universe and the threads that connect—” I stumble over my words, my mouth suddenly dry. I can’t tell him what the Curator said. That the threads of the universe connect the two of us. I clear my throat and continue. “That connect every living thing.”

  “Yeah. That sounds like her. Not completely wrong, but vague and misleading.” He pins me with a look. “And she brought you here to…”

  He lets his words trail off, leaving me to finish the sentence.

  “She says it’s my destiny to help you find the lost Oidrhe.” Kane scoffs, but I rush on before he dismisses what I’m saying. “But you’re the lost Oidrhe. Aren’t you?”

  Kane ignores my question and stands, arching up on his toes like he needs to stretch after crouching for these few minutes. “See, this is why I have trust issues.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down at me. “Tell me about the books.”

  The chill in his voice sends shivers down my spine. The not-good kind of shivers. “Are you going to throw me up against the wall and accuse me of being an assassin again?”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Okay.” I let out a shuddering breath. “They’re just contemporary fantasy books.”

  “Give me the details.”

  “Okay. They’re called The Traveler Chronicles and they’re about you. Or rather, about someone very much like you. His name is Kane the Traveler. He’s a mercenary wizard. He carries a blackthorn blasting rod.”

  I look pointedly at the hand he held the blasting rod in when he pressed it to my neck. He shoves his hand in his pocket in what seems to be a conciliatory gesture.

  I let out a shuddering breath and keep talking. “He lives in Austin, in a loft decorated like this one. He—”

  “I get it.”

  “—has grey eyes though.”

  Kane smirks. “Nice touch. Because he’s a grey wizard, skirting the line between right and wrong. The grey wizard with grey eyes.”

  “It’s kind of a running theme in the books,” I whisper.

  I used to fall asleep dreaming about Kane’s grey eyes. I loved how mysterious they made him seem. How haunted. I even loved that Wallace used the English spelling of grey, instead of the dull American gray. I don’t know why that mattered to me, but it did.

  Now, staring into Kane’s actual eyes, I can’t remember why cold grey seemed romantic, when clearly honey brown is so much…yummier.

  I swallow as the smirk slips from his face. That’s when it hits me. The thing that bugged me about his almost smile.

  “Holy shit. You have dimples.”

  “What?”

  “Dimples. You have—” I gesture to his cheeks as his gaze narrows.

  Okay. He does not seem happy about me noticing those dimples.

  Wow. Dimples. I did not see that coming. Dimples seem so…whimsical. So not Kane.

  This is so weird. So…awkward. Right. That’s what I’m feeling. Just very, very awkward.

  “I have an app,” I blurt out suddenly. Because I’m not good with long silences.

  “A what?”

  “An app.” I fumble in my bag for my cell phone, unlock it, and thumb through until I find the Traveler Chronicles app I downloaded before the third book came out.

  I hand the phone through the bars. Clearly, he’s seen a smartphone before, because he clicks away, his frown deepening with every click. The app has covers, blurbs, and excerpts from all the books. Links to the forums. Even links to collections of fanfic on Wattpad.

  Which makes me very thankful there’s no internet connection in the Kingdoms of Mithres. Because I sure as hell do not want him reading the fanfic I’ve “Liked.”

  Finally, he asks, “What else do you know about me?”

  “I know—” But I break off, unsure what to say. I know every major event in Kane’s life from the time he turned fifteen. I know that he blames himself for his mother�
�s death. That he blames himself for the chaos in the Kingdoms of Mithres, that he feels guilty for not claiming the throne and feels unworthy of it all at the same time. I know that before his mother’s death, she tattooed him with a complicated rune that protects him from the hellhounds. I know that he’s a Dark Worlder, like me. “I know everything.”

  “And you read all of this in the books?”

  “Yes. The Traveler Chronicles. It’s a five-book series and—”

  “How many people have read these books?”

  “Millions. They’re best sellers.”

  “Millions? Millions of people know all these things you know about me?”

  “I—” God, when he says it like that it seems like such an invasion. How would I feel if my whole life were on display like that? “But some things are different,” I argue. “Your eyes, for example. And…um…your jacket.”

  “My jacket?” he asks, running a hand down the front. “What’s wrong with my jacket?”

  Oh, now he sounds insulted?

  “Nothing. It’s just…” I cock my head to the side. It’s made of brown leather, but not the stiff leather of my world. It’s supple and thin but still tough. Like he’s worn it every day for years. Like he’s fought battles in it and imbued it with enough magical protection to stop a bullet. Which, if the books are right, he has. But, still… “It looks like a hoodie.”

  “So?” He pulls the hood up. “Of course, it’s got a hood. How else would it protect the back of my neck?”

  I shrug. “In the books, you wear a leather duster.”

  “A leather duster?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I live in Austin. If I wear a leather duster in the summer here, I’ll die of heat stroke.”

  “This is my point! I’m sure there are lots of things Wallace got wrong.”

  “Wallace is the author?”

  I nod. I’m having enough trouble making all of this make sense without wondering which bits Wallace got right and which he got wrong. Or why.

  “What do you know about my family?” His tone is suddenly sharp.

  “About your birth parents? Your Dark Worlder parents? Nothing. No one knows who they are. The woman who raised you as her own was Queen Nerida of the Grey Court. Her infant son was sickly and dying. She crossed to the Dark World and swapped her child for you.”

  “What happened to the baby?”

  “The queen’s real baby?”

  He nods, his gaze sharp.

  “You never know for sure. At first, you assume that baby died. But throughout the books, you get hints that maybe Dark Worlder medicine was able to save the child.”

  He seems to consider this, looking worried and torn, before asking, “What about the king?”

  Kane’s tone is still so cold, I hardly know how to answer.

  “He never knew you weren’t his. He blessed you as his own, bestowed the title of heir upon you, and the queen mostly kept you away from him until you were eight. He got suspicious when you couldn’t do basic spell work.”

  “I couldn’t do basic spell work?” Kane snorts derisively.

  “Well, you’re a changeling, right? So you can’t tap into the thread the way everyone else can.” I nod toward his right sleeve. “That’s why you need the blasting rod. To help you focus your powers. So now you can do spell work.”

  Kane’s lips are twitching, as though it is all he can do to keep his laughter in check. “So let me see if I’ve got this straight. I can’t do basic spell work without my blasting rod, but somehow I’m able to pull loops?”

  “A lot of fans think that’s a problem. They say it’s lazy writing. It doesn’t bother me, though. I mean, if Wallace wanted you to have a cool power, then pulling loops—”

  I break off, suddenly aware of what I am saying. Wallace has nothing to do with whatever powers Kane has.

  “Hey. Why can you pull loops? If it’s not lazy writing, then what is it?”

  Kane flashes me that sardonic smile of his. “Maybe everyone here can pull a loop, but they just prefer driving around in whatever crappy Dark Worlder car they can find.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. What about siblings?”

  “None. At least none here. Who knows in the Dark World? But Morgan Geroux is like a brother to you. You’re also close to his younger sister, Ro. You meet Morgan in the second book, when you’re both gambling on this riverboat outside Nawlins. At first you really hate him, because he beats you at poker. But then this other guy steals your mother’s medallion and Morgan offers to help you get it back. There’s this whole heist plot. But it goes wrong and then—”

  “My mother’s medallion?” he asks, sounding skeptical.

  “Yeah. You wear it around your neck.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Do I look like the kind of guy who wears jewelry?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a man who wears jewelry.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Besides, this isn’t jewelry. It’s a charmed medallion. It protects lost things and helps them find their way back. It was the last thing she gave you before she died. It’s like a compass. It’s your most treasured—”

  Just like that, Kane turns his back on me and walks away.

  “Wait!” I call out, desperate now. Jesus, what did I do wrong? “You can’t just leave me here in this stupid, frickin’ cage!”

  He pauses, glancing back as he scrubs at his forehead. “It’s a Faraday Cage.”

  I blink, my mind working sluggishly. “A Faraday Cage? One of those things that blocks electromagnetic radiation that people use to protect computers from EM pulses or whatever?”

  Kane looks confused for a second, but then shakes it off. “No. A Faraday Cage. One of those things that blocks and deflects magical pulses.”

  “Magical… But that’s not what a Faraday Cage is.”

  “Look, I don’t know what a Faraday Cage is in the Dark World, but here it blocks magic. End of story.”

  “But—”

  “You and I both know the Tuatha borrow shit from the Dark World all the time. Sometimes it’s actually stuff—cars, tech, whatever. Sometimes it’s words, phrases, concepts. We don’t always get everything right.”

  Oh. That made sense. There were things in the books from almost every cultural mythology. That was something hard-core fantasy fans bitched about. But if the Tuatha borrowed freely from all over the world, then it made sense.

  “The point is, it breaks down any magical spell going in either direction. As long as you’re in there, you can’t cast a spell.”

  “I can’t cast a spell anyway,” I protest. “I’m a Dark Worlder, remember? I’m a muggle!”

  He stalks a few steps closer and I can see the steely anger on his face. “The Curator says you have Sleeker blood.”

  “Please,” I beg again. “I’m not an assassin. I’m not here to hurt you or spy on you or anything like that. I promise.”

  He arches an eyebrow at this. “You don’t honestly expect me to buy that honor among thieves routine, do you?”

  I wrap my fingers around the bars of the cage. “I’m not a thief.”

  He shrugs. “Well, I am.”

  Before I can say anything else, he disappears back through the door.

  “I need my phone back!” I call out.

  No response. Big surprise there.

  Well, that hadn’t gone well.

  And I’m still in a cage.

  From where I am, I can’t see into the room, but I’m guessing it’s his workshop—where he stores all his magical artifacts and occasionally brews a potion or two.

  For a few minutes, I just sit there. Too much has happened since yesterday morning when I was knocked out in gym class. It’s all too weird.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m going to follow his orders. I don’t car
e how hot he is.

  If I was Tuathan, then putting me in a cage that deadens my magical powers would be a serious blow. But I don’t have any magical powers.

  I need to figure a way out of here on my own. Besides, the bars of this cage are really uncomfortable on my ass.

  I still have my messenger bag slung over my shoulder, so the first thing I do is riffle through it for my keys and the LED flashlight attached to them. I flip it on and scan the contents of my purse, looking for anything else useful. There’s not a lot. My wallet. My Leatherman. A nail file. A Luna bar. My bottle of Xanax.

  Wish I’d remembered that I’d had that back in the warehouse when I thought I was going to be attacked.

  Other than that, I have a pack of gum, a pair of earbuds, my Mac lipstick, and a water bottle. Not much with which to stage a breakout.

  I slip the Leatherman into my jeans pocket, take a sip of water, and put everything back in the purse so I can focus on the cage. I check out the lock first, but the way it’s hanging on the outside, I can’t reach it.

  I’m about to be seriously frustrated when I notice the one obvious thing I’ve been overlooking. The six panels that make up the crate aren’t welded on. They’re bolted together.

  The heads of the bolts are on the inside and the nuts are on the outside. I feed my fingers through the holes and grip the nut between my index and middle finger. The metal of the bolt bites into my fingers so I use the pliers on my Leatherman to hold it still. Finally, I feel the nut give.

  The work is slow, almost excruciating, but finally, I get one off. I pull my fingers back into the cage and shake out my cramping muscles. One down and—I do a quick bolt count.

  Jesus. One down and three more to go.

  Seriously?

  I turn off my flashlight—no point in wasting the battery—and slip it back into my bag. Then I get to work.

  When I get out of here, I am kicking Kane’s ass.

  Excerpt from

  Book Five of The Traveler Chronicles:

  The Traveler Undone

  The apartment is a shithole.

  The building was used as a warehouse sometime in the past hundred years. Everything the previous owner couldn’t sell, give away, or curse someone with, he or she left behind to collect dust mites, mold spores, and chaos demons. Which means every time I walk through the front doors, I sneeze. Then cough. Then trip over something that wasn’t there a minute ago.