The man tried to catch the pouch, missed, and then stooped to pick it up where it had landed on the floorboards of the coach beside his feet. He hefted it in the palm of one hand, listening to the chink of metal.
“Now go on,” Caireann told him impatiently. “Off with yeh, and mind yeh don’t spend it all in one night on drink and women.” She paused, mildly amused by the color that rose to the man’s face. “Make it at least two nights.”
The coachman didn’t respond. He slowly stowed the gold beneath his seat and set about urging his horse back onto the road. Perhaps he thought she really was mad. So much the better if it got him on his way.
Caireann watched him drive away, the brief smile that had touched her lips falling away as the gravity of what she was about to do sobered her once more.
When the sound of hooves had faded to nothing, Caireann took Dorothy by the hand and led her down the steep embankment toward the rocks. Waves crashed below them, sending up spray that occasionally touched their faces, reawakening that deep ache inside her.
Just a little longer, she thought. Just a little.
“I’m cold,” Dorothy complained, clinging tightly to Caireann’s hand and pulling her back from temptation.
“I know, dearheart. It’s only for a bit.”
They reached the stone spire and worked there way around it, Caireann carefully guiding Dorothy as they clambered over the rocks the girl could barely see in the moonlight.
When they reached the far side, a shadow broke away from the spire, as Caireann had known it would. It approached them, its cloak swirling about it in the wind.
“You’ve brought her?” The voice was dry and utterly alien, made up of harsh cicada-like clicks and scratches that hardly formed words at all. It was impossible to detect gender from that voice—and there was no inflection—no warmth.
“I have.”
The figure stepped forward, but Caireann raised a hand.
“Wait,” she said, and she turned toward Dorothy, the last of her charges, and knelt down before her. The sharp stones bit painfully into her knees, but she paid them no mind.
“Yeh have to leave me now,” she told her. “It’ll be scary for yeh, and I’m sorry for that, but yeh must be brave. I promise, it’ll all be for the best in the end.”
Dorothy stared at her with huge round eyes, still clutching her book, and Caireann felt her own eyes sting. She blinked hard. No matter how old a heart, it was always so easy to break.
“I promise yeh,” she said again, “it’ll all be all right.”
“He wanted a quarter,” Dorothy said softly, “but I didn’t give him one.”
For a moment, Caireann thought Dorothy would say more, but she did not. It seemed those words said it all. Perhaps they did.
“Be good, dearheart,” Caireann said, and she leaned forward and kissed the little flyer girl on the cheek, surprising them both.
The girl did not protest as the Reaver took hold of her shoulder and guided her away, back up the embankment and out of sight.
Caireann watched them go, as she had the coachman, but the only thing she felt now was misery.
Everything she’d told Dorothy was true. It was for the best. Everything would be all right in the end. At least, she thought it would—she hoped it would. Perhaps, if she was the praying sort of human, she’d pray it would. But that didn’t mean that it was right or fair, that the journey between here and there would not leave scars.
Some said the power to know was a blessing, some called it a gift. Most craved its power, but more than anything, it was a terrible, terrible curse. That was the bitter irony, the cruel joke of the world—of magic in general, really.
Caireann turned toward the ocean, stepping carefully over the broken stones. She made her way to the place where they dropped away to the sea that crashed against the shore some thirty feet below.
She closed her eyes, breathing in the salt in the sweet clean air and relishing the icy spray that caressed her cheeks like the touch of a lover.
It was time—time to let go, time to give in to the water’s call at last.
Her fingers undid the fastenings of her dress. The garment fell from her, pooling around her feet. She stepped out of it, leaving her shoes behind in its midst.
Now the spray caressed every bit of her, and though its touch was cold, it made her skin burn with the magic’s fever. The crash of the waves below called out to her, and her body responded, filling with the deep and overwhelming ache she’d suppressed for so long.
She took one more step, savoring the anticipation that rolled over her as its own kind of wave. Then, teetering on the edge of the rocks for a moment longer, she dove into the sea.
She felt the change begin before she hit the water, and its arrival brought with it an unspeakable relief, like settling down into a warm bed after a long day’s toil.
Her tail flicked, sending shimmering rainbows of moonlight rippling from its surface and propelling her forward.
Smiling as her hair fanned out around her face, she swam out to sea.
Emily
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Well, this is different.
She stands on the shoulder of a dirt road at the crest of a small rise. Below her, golden wheat fields sway in the breeze, stretching to the horizon in every direction beneath a fathomless dome of cornflower blue. It is cool, but not cold as it would’ve been in the ice rink where she’d expected to find herself. The knowing has different plans, it seems, and those plans include sweet, clean air—and…wheat…apparently.
She becomes aware of a weight in her hand, and she looks down to find she is clutching the crystal sword. She’s holding it just as she was back in the cave before the knowing picked her up and carried her away. Carefully, she slides it into the loop on her belt and begins walking down the far side of the rise. The crunch of the dirt beneath her boots is very loud in the stillness. A gentle breeze ruffles the stalks of wheat, making them sigh, before tugging playfully at her hair. It all awakens a sweet nostalgia in her heart that is almost painful, though she is sure she’s never been here before.
A small white farmhouse stands at the bottom of the hill, nestled between the fields of grain. A neat patch of the greenest grass Emily has ever seen separates it from the road, and a path of round little stepping stones leads up to the painted wooden porch. Its door and shutters are a shade nearly matching that of the sky beneath the brick-red shingles of its roof. It looks like a picture in a storybook.
Toto, she thinks with a wistful smile, I think we might actually be in Kansas this time.
She looks down the empty road before her and into the wheat fields on either side, then starts toward the house, carefully stepping on each stone as she does. It isn’t that the knowing is telling her to go there; it’s simply the only place there is.
The front door swings open as she reaches the porch, and she stops on the first step, startled.
“Hi there.”
A middle-aged woman appears in the doorway, a small, almost shy smile on her olive face. She reaches up to touch the brim of an old and well-worn cowboy hat perched upon a mane of shiny black hair flecked with gray, and everything about her radiates quiet sweetness, from the heels of her scuffed boots to the simple chambray shirt and blue jeans she wears.
Emily returns her smile, because it is impossible to do anything else, and finishes climbing the steps.
“Come on in then,” the woman says, and the words are faintly laced with the spice of living between two languages. She steps to one side, but Emily hesitates.
“Mi casa es su casa,” the woman says, and then, with a gentle laugh, she adds, “…literally.”
And still, Emily doesn’t move, looking down at the woman who is a head and shoulders shorter than she is. In spite of her attire, there is nothing tomboyish about this woman; her bones are delicate beneath an hourglass figure, and despite a few lines—or perhaps because of them—her face is the very definition of feminine beauty.
The woman frowns, but if anything, the expression only enhances her elven features—and her incongruously green eyes.
“In a way, I suppose you could say that. Derek’s just another part of you. In as much as you found Derek inside of you, you’ve found me. Now, let’s go inside where it’s comfortable. Do you want iced tea?”
Without waiting for an answer, the woman turns and heads back inside, and Emily is forced to follow.
“I don’t even know your name,” she calls after her.
The house is pleasantly dim and deliciously cool. The front room is dominated by an old but clearly well cared for sofa. A quilt is neatly folded at one end, and a white and gray kitsper, much smaller than Rascal, blinks up at her curiously from the quilt before going back to sleep. The floor, simple bare boards, seems to gleam in the muted golden sunlight filtering through the lace curtains at the windows, and the faint scent of roses hangs in the air.
“Tamila,” the woman says, looking back over her shoulder at Emily. “Tamila Garcia, but if you’d stopped to remember, you would have realized that you already knew that.” She gestures toward the sofa. “Siéntate. I’ll get the tea.”
It feels strange to sit on a sofa again, especially donned in the leather and chain mail that are still all she has in the way of a wardrobe. She perches on the edge of the cushions, uncomfortably aware of the dirt and grime on her—and the bloodstains.
“Just relax,” Tamila calls from the next room, and Emily hears the clink of glasses and the chink of ice. “This isn’t a physical place. You can’t get my sofa dirty any more than I could give you a new set of clothes. I’d offer you a shower too, but you’d feel worse when you got back and found yourself filthy again.”
Grinning, Emily sits back, falling into the cushions with a sigh. It seems it is impossible not to smile when Tamila is talking. There is just something delightful about her.
Tamila comes back into the room carrying a tray laden with a pair of iced tea glasses and a plate of Oreo cookies. She sets it down on the low table before the sofa and sits beside Emily.
“So,” Emily ventures as Tamila presses one of the glasses into her hand. “This place is like the rink? It’s just a place inside my head?”
“Technically, it was inside my head a long, long time ago. Or it will be a while from now—or maybe not. Time is funny. The wizard’s made a mess of things. Have an Oreo.” Tamila pops one into her own mouth and chews with quiet relish. She catches Emily’s bemused look from the corner of her eye and cocks her head to one side, almost dislodging her hat. “What?” she asks. “Not physical, remember? No calories! No processed sugar! It’s all good. Hell, it’s even organic if you want it to be.”
“It’s not that,” Emily says, laughing a little herself. “I just…what do you mean about time being funny? It’s hard enough to keep my head wrapped around the fact that my old life was a long time ago—hundreds of years, maybe.”
“Yeah, I get that.” Tamila brushes crumbs off her hands onto her jeans, her face growing more serious. “First thing to remember is that here—inside your head, which is really more like inside the knowing—this is outside of time. You can access every part of yourself from any lifetime, even ones that haven’t happened yet. Everyone you have ever been—or will ever be—is here. This…” she waves a hand to indicate the world around them, “…is just a way to make it easier for you to cope with. So you don’t get overwhelmed and go loca.”
“Like in the mines,” Emily murmurs, more to herself than to Tamila, and shudders. “But what does that have to do with the wizard?”
“Nada. Well, okay, not nada.” Tamila takes a long drink from her iced tea, looking rather like a cowboy pulling on his beer. “It’s a little hard to explain. I’m from the year 2067. I was born after you, as Emily, died—” She stops, looking hard at Emily. “Are you getting it?”
Emily thinks for a moment, then reluctantly shakes her head.
Tamila sighs. “The wizard pulled you out of your own life before it had run its course. You didn’t die then, and you haven’t died yet in the time you’re living in now.”
“So,” Emily says slowly, thinking hard, “What does that mean for you then?”
“Exactamente, mija. Nobody knows. I mean, I’m still here for now, at least—we all are—but the wizard has thrown a great big monkey wrench into everything. If you do something that radically changes things in your present, we may cease to exist, or we might change in ways we can’t predict. Hell, a whole new set of lives might be born. For most people, that wouldn’t matter so much. But for you…you know. You can feel all your lives, whether you’re conscious of them or not. If those lives suddenly start changing—or worse, disappearing…” She sighs again. “Well…we don’t really know what will happen then.”
Emily sips her tea, thinking. The ramifications of what Tamila is saying seem endless—too much to absorb. And yet, it feels right—as if she’s always known it all on some level before. Known it.
“Have an Oreo,” Tamila urges again, forcing one of the little sandwich cookies into Emily’s palm. “You’re not likely to have another chance to eat one any time soon. Make the most of it.”
Emily takes it and breaks it apart, the way she always has since she was small. The familiar, vaguely artificial chocolate aroma reaches her nose, and her stomach growls loudly.
She takes a bite of the half with the filling still clinging to it, and it is like stepping back in time. It’s almost too sweet to bear, and she realizes that she hasn’t had anything like it since that last latte at Starbucks. That seems like a very, very long time ago.
“By the time I popped off, the two worlds—the ordinary one and the Haven—had already finished coming back together, más o menos.” She pauses and pats the sleeping kitsper beside her. “As you can see by Bugsy here. But the aftermath of the Rejoining was still going on. Hell, it is still going on when you are now. It may never truly be over.”
“Why haven’t I seen places like this? There have only been hints of…the ordinary world—my world. Where did it all go?”
“Oh, it’s there. You’re getting closer to finding it every minute.” Tamila’s face grows solemn. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it when you get there.”
There is a long silence as they sip their tea, punctuated only by the tinkle of ice. The tea is good and strong, sweetened by the last remnants of the cookie on Emily’s tongue. She mulls over what the woman has told her, her thoughts wandering toward the things she has seen since leaving her old life: an old Coca-Cola sign…some of the ruins and wreckage in Hellsgate…the train tracks…the commemorative coin…the misshapen painting of New York…and the strange, unrecognized signal on her phone. Is she really getting closer? Does she want to be?
“But that’s not what’s important right now,” Tamila says suddenly, setting down her glass and interrupting Emily’s train of thought.
Emily looks over at her, surprised. “It isn’t?”
“No. This is.” She taps the hilt of the crystal sword where it rests on the couch at Emily’s hip.
Emily sets down her own drink and pulls the sword free of its loop. In the spotlessly clean house, the crystal looks dusty and dirty.
“What about it?” she asks, trying to rub away some of the grime with her fingertips.
“It’s a tool. Derek told you as much. It helps guide the knowing, and the more you use it, the stronger it will be—both as a tool and physically. But it is just a tool—a powerful one. You need to be careful with it.”
Again, memories of the mines outside of Hellsgate tumble through her mind, and Emily forces them away with a grimace.
“It isn’t just that,” Tamila says quickly, seeming to read Emily’s thoughts. “It’s also like…” She pauses, her brow furrowing slightly. “…Like …a burglar. He can break into a house by heaving a brick through the window, right? But a set of lockpicks would be better. The
brick is the bigger, more powerful tool, but the picks are the right one.”
Emily looks down at the sword. She has had it for only a day, but already she feels protective of it. It is the door into this place, into a thousand places like it; it is the path that leads her to Derek and Tamila—and all the others she has been; it is the window into her soul, revealing parts of herself she hardly knew existed; it is the answers to all her endless, endless questions.
“It’s a tool,” Tamila repeats, “but don’t fall into the trap of thinking it is the only one.”
The two women sit in silence for another moment. Tamila runs her fingers through Bugsy’s fur, and Emily runs her own over the smooth, hard contours of the sword.
“They are coming, mija,” Tamila says gently. “Go back and take the time with your friends that you have left before they get there.”
A chill passes over Emily, and gooseflesh rises on her arms. She knows who Tamila means.
The Reavers are coming—and they will take her to Daniel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It had been Celine’s idea, and Emily had to admit it was working, albeit slowly.
“Yeh’ve gotta learn to take sips,” Celine had said, huddled against the back wall of the cave in a blanket Maddy had given her. “That’s what I’ve learnt. Sometimes, with magic, yeh only need a li’l.” And Emily had looked away. Celine didn’t know the half of it. Once the knowing really kicked into a high gear, the sheer bliss made it almost impossible to do anything but let it carry her away—and when it carried her away…people sometimes died.
But Celine had been right. Hours piled into days as they sat together, Rascal asleep between them, and Emily tried to take smaller and smaller sips from the knowing. Again and again, she lost control, and again and again, Celine persuaded her to try “once more”…“just one more time”…“and another, Em…”.
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