by Emily Mckay
“Enough,” Smyth snarls again. And this time, before I have a chance to protest, Smyth’s arms stretch out toward me. He keeps his feet planted firmly on the ground but his arms reach for me. Not his human arms, but something else. They sprout from his shoulder blades, undulating toward me, their movement more like the limbs of an octopus than those of a person—human or Tuatha. Instead of hands, they end in flat, spade-like paddles, like the head of a flatworm. There is an elegance to his movements, a sinuous grace. Then, in an instant, their movement changes from lazy undulations into rapid, whiplike snaps. I barely have time to ram my own arms between them and my body as the great loops snake around me.
His massive Sleeker arms yank me off my feet and drag me to him, across the coarse grass and rocks of the plateau.
See? This is what I get for thinking the hellhounds were the threat here.
“No!” Kane roars.
Smyth’s arms twist as he sets me upright directly in front of him. Kane’s expression twists in anguish. And I know he’s reliving the moment Smyth killed his mother in front of him.
Kane whips out his blasting rod and aims it right at Smyth.
Smyth doesn’t even flinch, but raises one of his paddle-hands and wags it in front of Kane in a gentle chiding.
“Do not be a fool,” he says softly. “We have a bargain. The lives of all your people for the life of this single Dark Worlder.”
I’m sure Kane is going to argue. He won’t abandon me here.
Kane stares at Smyth, hard, for a moment, the muscle in his jaw twitching, the arm holding his blasting rod so tense, it quivers. “All my people?”
The faintest smile twists Smyth’s lips. “All your people on this island.”
After a long moment, Kane lowers his blasting rod.
Kane’s betrayal is like a kick to the gut, but what did I really expect?
He’s told me all along that he didn’t care if I lived or died. That there was no honor among thieves. I’m just the fool who didn’t believe him.
Deleted from the Advance Reading Copy of
Book Five of The Traveler Chronicles:
The Traveler Undone
I always expect to run into trouble, but this was more than even I expected.
Morgan frowns. “Wait. Where’s Cupcake?”
“Smyth took her. There’s another island. One with no Everdawn. That’s where he took her.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going back for her.”
“So,” Morgan says with a nod. “You’re going to Crescent Island.”
Morgan’s smile tells me he knows more than what he’s admitting. Which just goes to show that you can’t trust anyone. Even your best friend.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Okay, Kane and the others may have left me here to face a monster alone, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let the monster win.
One of Smyth’s broad flatworm hands clamps around my mouth.
Oh…and while we’re on the subject of not giving in to bullies—no one tries to shut me up and gets away with it.
I claw the edges of his Sleeker paddle to pry it loose from my mouth. This thing is gross.
But I have bigger problems as he drags me away from Kane and the others, down the rocky slope to the path that switchbacks across the island. I stumble multiple times, trying to keep up.
With every step, my mind races. Will Smyth uphold his end of the bargain? Will he really let Kane and the others go?
I do not believe that I am all he wants. Why would he want me at all?
The Curator wanted me to come here because she believed that, as someone of Sleeker blood who was not tethered to this world, I could move freely between worlds and find the lost Oidrhe.
If the Curator is right and I am destined to find the lost heir, then maybe Smyth wants to take me out before I can?
When we reach the split in the path, he drags me east, toward Crescent Island.
Still struggling to keep up with Smyth, I catch only a glimpse of Kane and the others as hellhounds escort them toward the stairs that lead down toward the ocean. Once they’re all on the boat, they can leave. Kane and the princess will be fine. They can continue their journey to St. Lew. They can fall in love. And maybe, just maybe, I have saved Kane.
Even as I cling to the hope, I have doubts. Smyth shouldn’t be here. But then again, neither should I.
The path evens out enough for me to see the bridge that connects Gull Veston Island and Crescent Island.
Smyth’s paddle-hands loosen just enough that I am able to pull them off.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask, looking at the bridge.
It’s the kind of bridge that would give Indiana Jones nightmares. Made of thick rope and crumbling planks of wood, it spans a distance of at least fifty feet, sagging low in the middle like the belly of a donkey. If it was connecting two sections of a child’s tree house, I wouldn’t cross it. Given that the drop is at least a mile of rocky cliffs, I am more than hesitant.
Vertigo crawls its way up through my belly, threatening to drag up my sad, half-eaten Luna bar with it.
“You cannot be serious!”
Apparently, Smyth is not much of a joker.
I dig in my heels.
He drags me closer to the bridge of death.
“Okay, I get that you people don’t like using steel, but I think you need to seriously rethink your building codes!”
Smyth’s flat-worm paddle slaps back onto my mouth, cutting me off.
Well. That’s rude.
I guess that’s the thanks I get for trying to keep him from plummeting to his death. And dragging me with him.
There is no way this thing can support our weight.
Bridge maintenance in the Kingdoms of Mithres is obviously underfunded, because these ropes are way too loose. The second he steps on the first plank, our weight shifts the bridge’s center of gravity over to our side of the canyon so that it’s almost a vertical drop straight down. The planks slip out from under my feet. Only Smyth’s Sleeker arms keep me from falling.
Thank God the hellhounds stop just short of the bridge. They line up along the cliff, shoulder to shoulder, so close to the edge that the claws on their massive paws curl over the edge and dig into the side of the rock. But at least they stay there.
Smyth must be used to crossing this bridge, because he barely seems to notice the way the bridge vibrates and sways with every step. The wooden planks creak and moan. Wind whips up from the gully between the two islands, like nature itself is trying to keep me away.
Only Smyth’s boa-constrictor arms keep me moving forward. I have to keep moving, but I can’t look down. His arms are so big around my chest, I can’t see my feet. I stumble. A gap between boards catches my left Converse and for one panicky second, I’m stuck.
Then Smyth gives me a yank and my foot wrenches out of the shoe.
And Smyth keeps moving.
Maybe I should be thankful. If Smyth hadn’t dragged me along behind him, I never would have made it across.
But those planks of wood are old. And without my shoe, splinters stab my sole.
And this asshole just keeps walking.
Because I’m nothing to him. Dark Worlder trash. Something to be thrown out.
I let my body go limp. He barely notices, his arms hefting my weight so he’s carrying, rather than dragging me behind him.
No matter what he thinks, I am more than just another Dark Worlder.
I have value, even here. Especially here.
I am Sleeker born. I have powers, even if they don’t match his.
Yeah, okay. I can’t use my powers to fight him. I’m not stupid.
I’m untrained. Even if I have the ability to grow creepy Sleeker arms like his, I don’t know how to use them. How to fight with them
the way he obviously does.
All I know about being a Sleeker is what I’ve read in books. Books that I’m now thinking are not accurate enough!
Okay, I also know what the Curator has said. That I was made to want things beyond my reach.
Well, right now I want my damn shoe.
If I’m going to have any hope of protecting myself against Smyth, I need my shoe. Besides, it’s mine.
I want it back. Even if it is beyond my reach.
I want so many things. So many things beyond my reach. So many things I can’t have. I want my father back. That intrinsic sense of safety that his mental instability stole from me. I want him whole and healthy and normal. I want other things, too. Silly things. A permanent home. Thicker hair. A high school boyfriend. A prom date. A best friend.
I want all of those things.
Some of them are truly forever beyond my reach.
But that damn shoe is not.
And just like that, I feel my will reaching out for it.
Because I am Sleeker born and Sleeker bred. Just like the Curator said.
My Sleeker arms don’t feel anything like I thought they would.
I thought…I don’t know. That my body would stretch and pull and grow. But that’s not how it works. They aren’t my cells somehow stretched and reformed. They are pulled from the air around me. A physical manifestation of my will. They don’t grow out of me. They materialize.
And there’s only one of them. Maybe because I’m reaching for only one shoe?
I only know that I want the arm to be there and suddenly it is. Long and undulating, slender and elegant. Instead of Smyth’s spade-like paddle, my “hand” has willowy fingers.
Fingers that snatch the shoe from the spot where it’s wedged.
Triumph surges through me as my Sleeker arm snakes back around and carefully slides the shoe onto my foot before dissipating into nothingness. With any luck, Smyth never even saw me do it.
As we near Crescent Island, the bridge does that wonky center of gravity thing again, so that he has to climb the remaining planks like a ladder. One of his Sleeker arms unwinds from my torso to snake up to the rope and leverage us up.
The moment we touch land, the sun above us shifts to a spot just west of overhead. Time flows normally on Crescent Island. Magic can be done here.
I want to drop to my knees and kiss the lush green grass—clearly Smyth pays more for landscaping here on Crescent Island than he does on Gull Veston Island. Even the air feels richer. Laden with more oxygen as well as more power. But Smyth doesn’t give me the chance to relish the feeling of solid ground beneath my feet. He drags me across the lawn toward the Victorian mansion nestled against the outer curve of the island.
Like something out of a gothic novel, it’s planted right on the edge of the cliff, so close, it looks like it could tumble off at any moment. The house is a three-story monstrosity hewn of gray stones and draped in creeping ivy.
I am not going to lie. I am more than a little relieved he doesn’t take me inside. Instead, he stops on the lawn. His long Sleeker arms turn me to face him and the paddle hand that has been covering my mouth snakes away, trailing across my cheek in a gesture that is almost loving.
I ask the question that has been bugging me since he grabbed me on Gull Veston Island. “How were you able to take me with your Sleeker arms while you were still in the Everdawn? Magic can’t be done there.”
Smyth shakes his head, making a disappointed clucking sound. “A Sleeker’s arms are not part of his magic. Yes, Sleekers have magic. We use magic to open the threshold between worlds. But our arms are part of us, part of who we are. They don’t materialize out of the air, no matter what you may have thought when you used your arm to grab your sneaker.”
“Oh.” So he noticed that, did he? “Okay then.”
That sucked. For a minute there, I thought I had a trick up my sleeve—powers he didn’t know about.
But obviously, he knows I am of Sleeker blood. It doesn’t seem to impress him.
I bump my chin and take a step forward, prepared to bluff and stare him down. “I am a Sleeker like my father before me. And I have powers you cannot possibly know.”
For a second, he blinks, as though surprised. Then he tips his head back and laughs. This dour, humorless man laughs.
Actually, it’s more of a cackle.
“Oh that is… What is that word you Dark Worlders use? Oh, right. Cute. That is cute. You think your father was a Sleeker.”
Suddenly my mind is racing. “But my father—”
“Your father was a weak and mewling Dark Worlder. With no power whatsoever.”
“But… But…”
If my father wasn’t a Sleeker, then…
“No. My father was a Sleeker. He was tall and thin. He wore suits like yours. Gray. Meticulous. He was a Sleeker.”
A smile teases at Smyth’s lips, as though this idea pleases him. “Perhaps your mother has a type.”
“No!” My panic is choking me, rising so fast, I don’t process his words. “I am Sleeker born and Sleeker bred. The Curator told me so. I am Untethered.”
“In this world, genetic power is passed from mother to child.”
No. He’s wrong. That doesn’t make sense.
The image of my father flashes through my mind. His lean frame. His elegant features.
“My father was a Sleeker,” I say again, more weakly this time.
“From mother to child,” Smyth says again, more slowly.
“No. My mother was human.”
My mother couldn’t possibly be a Sleeker. She couldn’t possibly be, because…because she’s my mother. She tells me everything.
“She was born in Indiana.” My words rush out in a flood of proof. Concrete proof. She couldn’t possibly be what he is saying she is. “Her parents were Bill and Julie Staller. She was an only child. She grew up on a corn farm. She was a cheerleader. She had a beagle.”
“Oh, did she?”
But I don’t need Smyth’s sarcastic question to raise my doubts.
Because suddenly, all of this proof doesn’t feel like proof at all. All of these things she told me about her childhood seem so completely, perfectly all-American. The corn. The beagle. It’s too perfect.
Panic clutches my heart as my breath comes in rapid bursts.
Suddenly, my mind is racing through my own childhood. Looking for clues. There had been pictures of my grandparents. Two of them, one framed and on the mantel next to the photo of my parents’ wedding. The other on my mother’s dresser.
But why weren’t there pictures from her childhood?
“No.” My protest is barely above a whisper. I can’t believe it. My mother would never have lied to me. Not about anything, let alone something like this. “No. It’s not possible.”
“But of course it is, you ridiculous child. Why else would I even bother with you?”
“You’re a fanatic,” I say numbly, repeating what I know of him from the books. “You hate all Dark Worlders. You believe we are a blight on the Kingdoms of Mithres.”
“Well,” he says, his tone amiable. “That is certainly true. You are a blight. But think about it.”
He steps closer to me and his thin, Sleeker arm slithers up, cupping my cheek with his flatworm paddle.
“Think. About. It,” he repeats, the tip of his not-a-hand tapping against my cheek with each word. “Think of the planning that it took to get you here. This has been years in the making. I manipulated the Curator into going to look for you. Convinced her that you had to be found. That the lost Oidrhe could save the kingdoms—all without her realizing I was behind it. All so that she would find you and bring you here. To me.”
“All along, you needed me here? Am I…am I the lost Oidrhe?”
“The lost Oidrhe? The lost ruler who will once again
unite the Kingdoms of Mithres?” Smyth laughs again. That same blood-chilling cackle. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Oh.” I didn’t really believe it, of course. There is nothing about me that screams long-lost ruler. “But then…why? Do you need me to find the lost Oidrhe?”
“No, you are useless to me.” Then he takes one ominous step closer to me. “Or rather, mostly useless.”
The slender arms encompassing me tighten ever so slightly, pulling me closer to him, until he reaches out with his human hands and grabs a lock of my hair.
“Wait. What?”
Before I even know what he is doing, there is a flash as one of his Sleeker arms morphs into a long razor-thin blade and slices downward, cutting off my hair.
“I don’t need you at all. All I need is a lock of your hair.” He waggles the chunk of hair before me. “With this, I will be able to track down your mother.”
“My mother?” I ask, but Smyth has already turned and is walking away from me, his long arm beginning to unwind from around me as he leaves.
The same mother that he claimed was a Sleeker?
Why does he want her? Is she in danger?
If my mother is a Sleeker…
It’s a betrayal so deep, I can’t even think about it now. But Smyth, who has raised more questions and given me almost no answers, is already walking away from me. He got what he needed from me.
But I am not done with him.
Even though he’s wrong about my mother—I’m sure he’s wrong—he can still use my hair to track her, to hurt her.
I walk after him. His arms are loose enough around me that I am able to peel them off, stepping out of them as they pool around my feet.
“What do you want with her?” I call out. He doesn’t even glance at me. “I have to know.”
His stride slows ever so slightly, so I know he heard me. He is just deciding whether or not I am worth the time it takes to answer.
I pick up my pace, closing the distance between us. “If I am Sleeker bred, and I was made to want things forever beyond my reach, what I want now is answers.”
He stops but still doesn’t face me.