by Emily Mckay
“I don’t understand.” I’m shaking my head and I take one step back from him, and then another. “How does a Sleeker do this? It’s a bullet hole.”
Kane tugs his shirt down. “Sleekers have tentacles.”
“Yes, that they use to grab things and pull them closer to them.” At least, that’s how Wallace described them in the books. “They don’t…spear things with them.” The image that pops into my head is horrific. “Do they?”
“They do if they’re really mad. Or when someone’s running away from them. Or, in my case, if they want you to stand really still while they make you watch as they torture someone.”
“Smyth did that?”
“Yeah. He made me watch while he tortured my mother. When she refused to tell him what he wanted to know, he killed her.”
I remember the scene from the first book, of course, when Smyth kills the High Queen. There’s no torture in the book. And Kane wasn’t forced to watch. Still, I know how the memory of it has haunted him.
And yet, Kane’s voice as he says this is so perfectly blank. So completely emotionless.
Whatever anguish he feels when he remembers his mother’s death, it doesn’t show on his face. I could take lessons from him about how to talk about trauma.
“And you think my scar is a Sleeker’s handiwork? Like yours?”
“Honestly?” He gives his head a shake, his gaze dropping back to my scar. “I can’t say for sure. I can’t see it well enough beneath the tattoo. And you don’t remember. That makes me suspicious, too. Sleekers make wounds that look a lot like that. And Curati can adjust anyone’s memories. I would almost guarantee that whatever monsters your dad thought he saw were really there.”
My knees give out at his words. I don’t fall to the ground, but I feel weak enough that I can’t keep standing. The car is behind me, and I slide back against it.
Of all the things that I had imagined he might say, this was nowhere on the list. Maybe my dad wasn’t crazy. Maybe there was no psychotic break. Maybe my dad didn’t hurt me. Maybe my mom was wrong.
Thoughts tumble through my brain so quickly, I have trouble catching them, let alone sorting them out into any kind of order. My dad has been in and out of psychiatric facilities for the past six years, in court-mandated therapy. Taking court-mandated Thorazine that has left him confused, incoherent, and sometimes drooling.
Seeing him like that… The first time, I cried so much, I threw up. It ripped out my stitches and I still couldn’t stop sobbing. I lost a pint of blood before Mom could get me back to a real hospital.
But maybe it hadn’t been him who had shot me at all. Maybe he wasn’t crazy. Maybe he was just fine. Maybe when I get back, I can explain, I can make people understand, I can get him out. I can—
No. I can’t think about any of that now. Maybe I can do something to help my dad, but not until I get home. Not until I finish what I have to do here.
Saving Kane’s life is my one chance to make a difference. To do something big and important. And it’s not just Kane’s life that’s in danger. It’s the princess’s life and the Curator’s. It’s the balance of power in this world.
“Okay, what do we do about the tattoo. How do we fix this?”
He frowns at my question. “What? You want to find the Sleeker who did this to you, because—”
“No, I don’t care about that.” Maybe I should, but I can’t. Not yet. “Forget the scar. What do we do about the tattoo?” His blank look doesn’t shift into understanding. “In my world, tattoos aren’t burned on by magic.”
He nods. “I know that. They’re inked on.”
“Right. And the inks they use contain metal.”
He blinks, looking from my face to my tattoo several times, and I can tell it’s taking him a moment to process my words. That’s how foreign this idea is to him.
Finally, his eyes close and he takes a step back from me.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right. In your world, people actually inject metal under their skin?”
“In my defense,” I argue. “In my world, there aren’t ginormous dogs bred to track down and murder anything associated with the isotopic frequency of Dark Worlder metals. So it’s a little less weird there.”
He gives me a once-over that I think is supposed to be insulting but only makes me feel flustered all over again. “Yeah. I’m still gonna have to guess that your chest looked better without it.”
I pull my shirt back into place. “Can you do something about this or not?”
“I have no experience with”—he waves his hand in the general direction of my tattoo—“with this kind of thing.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “What about your actual rune? The one your mother gave you? Couldn’t you just duplicate it somewhere on me?”
“First off, rune magic is incredibly difficult. It takes an extremely long time to work. Secondly, I suck at it. The last thing you want is me doing rune magic on your skin. Trust me.”
“So then we’re stuck with me literally radiating the Dark World?”
“Apparently.”
“I should stay here,” I say.
“No. We need you on the island with us. You’ve said that yourself. I’m just going to have to stay between you and the hellhounds and blast the shit out of them.”
…
The others take the news about my tattoo slightly better than Kane.
Kane doesn’t tell them why I have the scar. It helps that I don’t show them the tattoo. Less embarrassing for me, at least.
But the discussion makes me think of something. “Won’t the hellhounds just follow us to Houston?”
“Not if we loop-jump there,” Kane says.
Ro stills, a frown of concern marring her features. “You’re planning on loop-jumping all of us?”
“Yeah. It’ll be the fastest, safest way to get there.”
Morgan and Ro exchange a look. Clearly creating a loop steady enough to transport six beings halfway across the state is not as easy as Kane is making it sound.
“Do you still keep The Blossom in that slip south of Seaside?” Kane asks Crab, ignoring their obvious concern.
“I do, indeed.”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll loop-jump directly onto The Blossom. If Cupcake goes directly from here to there without ever setting foot on the ground in Houston, they’ll lose the scent.”
This explanation seems to satisfy everyone.
Kane, Morgan, and Ro head off to other parts of the house to gather what they need. Cricket is, presumably, somewhere wiping down the rest of my stuff. Crab and Kendal don’t have any belongings with them. My own messenger bag is still where I left it, slung across the back of one of the kitchen chairs, so I have nothing to gather. There’s nothing useful for me to do now.
And, just like that, I am alone with Crab and Kendal.
Only then do I think to ask, “Why are we leaving for your boat now? I thought it was almost impossible to do magic during the daylight hours.”
“Well now, nothing’s impossible, is it? It’s really just a matter of managing the energy. Sure, most folks can’t really handle the flow during the day. It’s too powerful, you see? But Kane? Well, Kane has been using magic in full sunlight as long as I’ve known him.”
The others get back quickly, so I don’t have a chance to grill Crab about his statement. But it does leave me wondering if this is one more thing Wallace got wrong. Kane is a Dark Worlder. He’s less powerful than most Tuatha, not more powerful. Or is there something I don’t know?
Excerpt from
Book Five of The Traveler Chronicles:
The Traveler Undone
All of Saint Lew is accorded neutral territory. There hasn’t been an outbreak of violence within city limits in over eighty-seven years, since before the last High King was crowned.
Furthermore, the Great Cathedral is considered the most sacred ground this side of the Atlantean Ocean. There isn’t a soul alive who would violate the sanctity of the cathedral.
So naturally, I expect a trap.
Smyth could wipe out two-thirds of the courts in one swoop.
If I were in his shoes, that’s what I would do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Based on Crab’s personal appearance—shabby, rumpled, and with the distinct smell of fish—I expect his ship to be similarly unkempt.
I’m wrong.
Whatever his personal hygiene, Crab’s ship is as neat, orderly, and cute as a vintage children’s toy tugboat.
The Blossom sits high in the water and is made entirely of wood. The hull is bright red, the wheelhouse dark blue. When we land on her deck, we are greeted by the smell of fresh ocean air and wood warmed by the midmorning sun. There is no unpleasant stench of diesel in the air, like there would be in a marina in my world. Instead, at the stern of the boat there is a large paddle wheel.
Crab scrambles up a short ladder and goes straight into the wheelhouse. A moment later he calls out, “Let her loose, Kane.”
Kane hops off the stern of the boat onto the dock and unwraps the line from the mooring. Then he tosses the rope onto the boat and leaps back on.
As soon as she’s loose, the paddle wheel starts to slowly turn and The Blossom eases out of the slip. A few minutes later, we’re heading for the open water of the bay. The water is smooth and still, so I get my sea legs quickly. It’s a brilliant, clear blue, much clearer than the water of Galveston Bay in my world. I can see all the way to the ocean floor where schools of fish dart among the patches of sea grass. For a few moments, I get lost in the wonder of it all: the crisp, clean salty breeze, the gentle rolling of the ship, the soothing thud, thud, thud of the paddle wheel. Then, just as my heart is beginning to fill with contentment, a dolphin leaps out of the water just behind the ship. And then another.
“They like to play in the wake,” Kane says as he joins me at the stern.
“Aren’t they afraid to get too close to the boat?”
“I guess they trust Crab.”
“Why can’t I hear the engine?”
Kane cocks his head to the side with a bemused smile. “This is the boat of a Siren. It doesn’t need an engine.”
“Doesn’t need…” And then it hits me. “He’s running it by himself? With his affinity for water?”
Kane nods. “Exactly.”
“But I thought he said that when we reach the Crimson Miasma, he wouldn’t be able to steer the ship through. If his power is running the boat, what are we going to do?”
“We’ll have to crank it ourselves.”
Sure enough, there are handles on the paddle wheel so it can be turned by hand. Well, that’s not going to be fun. But it’s not like I really thought any of this would be easy.
It’s a good thirty or forty minutes before we reach the first wisps of fog.
At first, it’s just a few tendrils drifting up from the water, like steam rising from a hot tub on a cold day.
“It’s starting,” Crab calls out. “Everyone get into place.”
We had planned for this. I would be up in the boathouse to help Crab steer. Morgan, Kane, and Ro would be at the paddle wheel to turn it by hand.
But none of us expected it to hit so quickly. We’re still moving to our prearranged spots when everything changes from one moment to the next. Clear blue skies vanish and a thick, soupy fog rolls over us. I am only a few feet from the bow of the ship, but as the fog spills over the hull, the bow disappears before my eyes. I fight off a burst of panic at the idea of being adrift.
But we won’t be lost. I have my phone. It has a compass.
I pull out my phone and open the app. It spins for a minute and then settles on a heading of roughly northeast. Okay.
If we head into the Crimson Miasma heading northeast, then that heading should get us to the island. Southwest should get us out of the Crimson Miasma.
By the time I’ve put my phone safely back into my messenger bag, the fog has encompassed more than just the bow. Behind me, there’s only dense, swirling gray.
It’s unnaturally warm and thick enough to choke me. From above, there’s a creak and then I hear Crab call, “We’re nearing the thick of it. I could use a wee bit of help at the wheel.”
“I’m almost there,” I call back.
The wooden railing is slick beneath my hand as I make my way back toward Crab. My messenger bag is slung over my shoulder, resting just in front of my body, and I clench my right hand around the strap. Having something solid to hold on to helps.
I can see only eighteen inches from my face. I can hear the creaking of my feet on wooden planks, the thud, thud, thud of the paddle wheel—slower now than it was before.
Fear tiptoes up my spine even as a drip of sweat rolls down my temple. I brush it away with the side of my hand as my steps slow and I strain to hear. Anything.
The paddle wheel slows to a thud…thud…thud…and then nothing.
The length of the boat stretches endlessly. This must be the Crimson Miasma messing with my head. Making me feel lost, even though I know exactly where I am. I’m on the deck of The Blossom. She is no more than forty feet long. That’s fifteen of my strides. All I have to do is count my steps.
One…two…three…
My foot slips out from under me, and I land hard on the deck. Too hard.
Excerpt from
Book Five of The Traveler Chronicles:
The Traveler Undone
I’m just going to say it, sometimes, having friends sucks.
You know why?
Because they know when you’re being a dick.
Strangers don’t always notice, but your friends? Yeah. They notice.
Kinda makes me wish I didn’t have any.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Are you all right?” asks a voice from above me.
I’m on my back, a thrum of pain emanating from my skull.
“Wha—” I start to ask, but the words get stuck in my mouth.
“Are you all right, miss?” the voice asks again.
I blink my eyes open. I’m on the floor. Flat on my back. My messenger bag is clenched in my hand, my only familiar anchor in a sea of the unfamiliar. High above me, white acoustic tiles frame fluorescent lights. There’s a guy leaning over me and a girl just behind him. Where am I?
I wedge a hand under me and push myself up to get a better look around. I see tables of books and shelves of tchotchkes. I’m in Book People.
“You fainted and hit your head,” the guy says, putting a hand lightly on my shoulder.
“We called 911,” the girl interjects.
I’ve fainted twice in two days. And, no, it’s not too much coffee or not enough breakfast this time.
No. That’s not right.
I didn’t faint. I hit my head.
Or did I?
Another throb of pain pulses through my skull.
“I found a cell phone in your bag,” the girl says. She holds up a phone and waggles it in front of me. “I called your mom.”
I squint at the phone. It has my cell phone case—a black and white OtterBox, because I kept cracking the screen. I drew diamonds with a silver Sharpie all over the black outside rubber. Definitely my phone.
But how did she get it out of my bag when my hand is still clenched tightly around it?
“No,” I say, trying to give my head a shake. “This isn’t right.”
“You want to see your mom, don’t you?” she s
ays, her tone shifting from helpful to soothing.
My mom. My best friend. My lodestone. The one person I can always trust. The one person who would never lie to me.
“Yes,” I say. “I want to see my mom.”
She can help.
She can explain what’s happening. Help me make sense. Help me…
I blink and in the instant my eyes are closed, the air feels thick and sticky. Foggy.
Then I’m back on the floor of Book People.
“I called your mom,” the girl says. “She’s on her way.”
No. That’s not right.
“She’s in D.C. She can’t get here.”
“It’s okay,” the guy says. Like his sister, his tone is soothing. “Your parents will be here in a minute.”
“My parents? My dad?”
“Sure,” the guy says. “Of course, your dad will be here.”
I close my eyes again and take in a deep breath. Of Crimson Miasma. With my eyes closed, I can feel the dampness of the fog on my skin. Feel it creeping into my senses. Faintly, as if from a great distance, I hear the lapping of water against the side of the boat, the creak of boards rubbing against one another as the ship rocks in the still water.
With my eyes closed, I am back in the Kingdoms of Mithres. But when they’re open, I see only what the Crimson Miasma wants me to see.
What it thinks I want.
I open my eyes to see both of my parents leaning over me. I’m in a bedroom with lilac walls and fluttering curtains. It’s the house in Cincinnati, where we lived before the incident.
“She’s awake,” my mom’s voice says. “Hey, honey. You’ve been sick, but you’re all right now.”