Smoke & Mirrors

by C. L. Schneider

  If the cycle didn’t break, I’d withdraw so deeply I’d never come out.

  And she would win.

  Or, I stopped hiding. I stopped avoiding my pain, stopped being afraid of my own trauma. The only way to draw strength from my ghosts was to face them. To own them.

  It was a simple concept and far from new. But as I acknowledged my immediate need for it, something new sparked to life within the eye. A comforting warmth flowed from the piece. It spread, and the burden of my past traumas—the weight that had me gasping moments ago—began to lighten. I no longer noticed the cold or the pain. My discomforts took a backseat, as the eye burned away my physical connections to reveal one far less tangible—and internal.

  The sensation went beyond some psychological awareness or spiritual awakening. A sudden, ethereal strength was coursing through me, and I recognized its resonance. I’d tapped into the might of ghosts before, employing them during hasty, desperate moments of combat. But these were mine. Over and over, Naalish had brought them to light, and shoved them in my face. But this time, I commanded my ghosts to the surface. I held their power in my grasp with a level of detachment that was begging me to act. Now, I thought, before my grip faltered.

  I opened my eyes. Naalish was nearby, oblivious to my sudden mindfulness, as she watched the monitors displaying my hysteria. The bladder and tube were hanging beside me, but there was no needle in my neck, no metal bars holding me to the chair. Had Naalish felt I’d progressed enough to remove them at some point, or had they always been illusion? Either way, my escape hadn’t worried her. I lacked the ability to see through her mind games.

  At least, I did.

  With nothing restraining me, I bolted from the chair. My instinct was always to burn. I shelved it, and sent a black wave bursting from my body. It wasn’t my first ghost-bomb, but this one was trapped in a small, confined space. It rushed out, and Naalish and my chair both soared into opposite walls, striking the screens and shattering the many reflections of my pain with a deafening series of explosions. Colored sparks and splintered glass filled my vision. As the broken pieces sailed toward me, my ghosts rushed back. Rising like a striking cobra, they circled around and shielded me from the flying, jagged shards.

  Smoke grew as the explosions fizzled out. Sporadic embers flashed and pops of electricity arced about the room. One last panel fell and crashed. In the resulting quiet, Naalish shoved up from the floor with a crunch and a ragged cough. Panting, on wobbly legs, she inspected the numerous cuts on her human skin. Glass protruded from multiple places. Blood striped her dress. It was her eyes, though, that got me. They were brimming with fear.

  But of what?

  Was it visible? Could she see how my ghosts had settled to coil defensively around me in slender, black tendrils? Or was she scared because I’d dared stand up to her—and succeeded?

  Bullies don’t like to be bullied.

  “Dahlia,” she said, struggling for authority, “listen to me. You’ve connected with the eye more than we realized. But it’s all right. I can help. Come back to the Guild. Come back to me, and I can teach you. I can train you to wield the gift you’ve been given.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but you’re way past the expiration date on that speech.” Aware of every single ghost whirling around me, I pushed one out, and a curl lashed across the space between us. It wrapped across the queen’s chest and, whether she saw what gripped her or not, she flinched. More slithered tight around her body. “I should kill you,” I said.

  “And thrust Drimera into chaos? Whatever you think of me, some part of you still loves this land. Which is why you must not turn your back on this. Our borders must be sealed. The energy must be repaired. Otherwise, we will not survive what’s coming.”

  “I don’t want Drimera destroyed. But saving your ass and hanging everyone else out to dry isn’t a solution.”

  Realizing she couldn’t bend me, her features squeezed tight. Vindictiveness sharpened her tone. “Such a compassionate response. Your humanity weakens you, Dahlia. You will never master an elder’s power with that as your guide. The years will pass. You will try and fail, and you will watch them die. More with every turn of the season. When they are dropping by the thousands at your feet; when their fragile flesh is eaten from their bones; when the air fills their lungs with blood, you will crawl back and beg for my help.”

  I pretended the picture she painted didn’t scare the hell out of me and lifted my chin. “If I’m so incompetent, why do I scare you?”

  Ire blazed hot in the queen’s eyes. “Dragons fear nothing.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I retracted the whip-like strands restraining Naalish with a fierce jerk. But they didn’t come alone. As my trauma unwound from her body, it ripped hers out into the open, and year upon year of the queen’s suffering and distress—all the emotions she’d stoically swallowed and ignored—heaved from her soul in a great, black mass. She doubled over as the discharge continued. On and on, it poured onto the floor, growing and building, spreading and darkening, until all the pain and torment the queen had endured in her long life lay puddled at her feet.

  When it was done, Naalish drew in a gasping breath. She straightened. A peculiar light shone in her eyes. In this moment, she was free, pure. Nothing hurt. Nothing haunted her.

  Why should she be so lucky?

  With a mental thrust, I shoved it all back. The force of her own pain struck Naalish and plastered her to the wall. She cried out—then stopped, frozen as the manifestation swirled like thick, black ropes around her body. Faster. Tighter. Faster. Tighter. Blood rushed from her eyes and nose. Convulsions twisted and thrashed the queen’s delicate human form for several long seconds. Then the black burrowed into her soul, and she dropped to the floor.

  I tiptoed through the blood-splattered shards to squat beside her. She had a pulse, but it was weak. Her mouth was open wide. Her eyes were fixed. I waved a hand in front of her face, but there was no reaction.

  Shivering and drained, I fell over. As I did, something else fell, landing beside me with a clink. I looked down at the broken chain of my necklace. The setting was cracked.

  But where was the pendant?

  I sat up and checked the floor. It wasn’t there. I raised a quick hand to fish it out of my shirt and felt the piece on my chest, right where it should be. Except—

  Trembling, I ran my fingers over the hard, oval surface. “Fuck...”

  Yaslynne’s eye wasn’t on me anymore. It was in me.

  Thirty-Three

  Luck, patience, and a stolen cloak got me out of the Citadel and through the City of Spires without being noticed. That was the easy part. Every exit on Drimera was guarded, except mine, and I was nowhere near it. Exhaustion at a level that rarely hit me made flying difficult, forcing me to walk most of the way to my hidden exit in the ruins.

  Slinking from cover to cover, hiding in ditches and groves, I sprinted across open fields like my life depended on it. Because it did. I hadn’t simply betrayed the queen this time. I’d taken her down as many pegs as I could without killing her.

  Retribution was coming.

  I thought it might be sooner rather than later, but the patrols overhead flew without urgency in standard flight patterns. There was nothing to indicate they were searching for me. If Naalish was still unconscious or catatonic (or whatever condition I’d left her in), the retrievers might not be dispatched for a while. Or she let me go.

  Both scenarios had implications I didn’t want to ponder. Instead, I spent my travel time recalling the queen’s words, striving to pick the truth from the bullshit.

  I wanted it all to be bullshit.

  The ties she bragged about severing. How my friends had written me off. The many weeks I’d spent at the queen’s mercy, as she attempted to suck me back into the fold without permanently destroying my psyche.

  Making me think I had nothing left on the human world could’ve easily been part of the programming. But the moment I passed through the bre
ach and stepped into my dark office at the gym, it was clear some of it was true. The chill in the air was too deep for autumn. My desk held neither mail nor dust. The missing stacks of bills I’d been ignoring, and the scent of cleaner, pointed to Evans. He must have been taking care of the place.

  But for how long?

  I didn’t own a calendar. The laptop on my desk was off. Not wanting to wait for it to reboot, I headed for my go-bag in the locker room. I was glad to see it was still there. Dumping the contents on the floor, I found the phone and pushed the power button. Leaving it on the bench, I turned on the shower. As I undressed, I kept my eyes on the screen. It came to life with the date and time, and denial dried like sand in my throat.

  8:22 AM. December 24.

  It was Christmas Eve.

  I sat hard on the bench. It’s all true.

  I could have spun a few days absence. Even a week.

  But this? I can’t fix this.

  I left with no word, no explanation, to those I cared for—two months ago. I’d been so anxious to hear their voices. But they wouldn’t feel the same. Not after I’d abandoned them.

  Steam billowed from the shower to fill the locker room, as I sat; struggling to find a reason to get up. My body ached. My mind was bouncing from one gloomy thought to the next. My relationships were shattered. The job I’d devoted myself to was gone. The life I came here to build, the “normal” existence I’d wanted so badly, didn’t exist anymore.

  And I had no idea what to do next.

  Pack up and walk away? Go back to living on the road, alone, like none of it ever happened? Like none of them mattered?

  But they do, I thought. They mattered more than I ever wanted or expected.

  They mattered enough to fight for.

  Maybe I couldn’t get my life back. Maybe I never had a right to it. But allowing Naalish to drive me from the Sentinel, letting her choose for me—Fuck that. “And fuck her.”

  Fifty-four days without a cup of coffee. No wonder I was a wreck.

  Weather wasn’t the only thing to change while I was gone. There was a tension in the city, a sense of the entire population holding its breath, waiting for whatever terrible thing came next. Sirens wailed in the distance. Closer: shouts and the screech of tires. Lights twinkled. Elaborately adorned trees inhabited store windows. But no one stopped to look at the displays. Pedestrians moved with anxious steps and downcast eyes not indicative of last minute shopping. The holiday felt forced, like an afterthought or a failed distraction.

  It was unnerving, but I couldn’t ponder it today. All I wanted was my bed, and some quality time with the coffee and donuts I’d picked up on the way. I was hoping there was a bottle of something in my apartment, anything to take my mind off how, at some point during my escape, I’d stopped feeling the foreign object rooted in my chest.

  Already, Yaslynne’s eye was that much a part of me.

  I had no keys. With a hefty shove, I broke the lock on the alley door and headed upstairs. I came to a sudden halt at the top. Light, more than the weak, mid-morning sun, was leaking out under the door. Beyond was movement, muffled voices, holiday music, and the aroma of food in the oven.

  Someone had moved in.

  I let out a slow breath. Oren. Naalish would have employed him to spin the cover story. She hadn’t given him much to work with, considering my abrupt disappearance. But for the lie to endure at all, my apartment had to go. He didn’t believe I was coming back, I thought.

  None of them did.

  Naalish made sure I had no one. And now I had nothing.

  My apartment was the last piece, the lifeline I’d been holding onto. The remaining anchor still in place to keep me in the Sentinel. From here, I could have tried to rebuild. But if it was gone, maybe it was time to go. How many more hints have to slap me in the face?

  I had money, credit cards, and a backup car stashed in the city. There were exits all over. I didn’t need to be on this world to deal with the blight.

  But if I was going, it had to be now, before I changed my mind.

  I was about to walk away when the lock clicked. An otherworldly scent hit, then registered, as the door flung open. I wasn’t sure whose stare held more relief, mine or the golden-brown eyes of the balaur standing in my apartment.

  I stepped closer. Emotion shook my voice. “Coen?”

  “Dahlia.” His solid arms grabbed hold and pulled me in. So many times, I’d rebuked Coen’s affection. Now, there was nothing I needed more. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” I said, holding him tighter.

  He stepped back to look me over. “Are you hurt?”

  A hand tugged him aside. “Let someone else have a turn.” Finn gripped me with a tight squeeze and a rowdy, “Best Christmas present ever!” I dropped the donut and spilled my coffee as he lifted me off the floor and spun me around.

  “Let her breathe,” Erich scorned, pulling me down. Extricating me from Finn’s enthusiasm, he placed a soft kiss on my cheek. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Same here,” I said, stunned, as I looked back and forth between the three. They were dressed alike, in jeans and black button-ups, but Coen was clean-shaven now. His sleeves were rolled up and his hair tied back. Erich was boasting a full beard. He looked cute and bookish with his waves cut short and his shirt tucked in. Finn’s was unbuttoned with a plum t-shirt peeking out underneath. His messy hair and goatee fit him perfectly. At this moment, all that was truly identical was the genuine delight in their smiles.

  Coen closed the door. I walked further in and glanced around. There were men’s boots on the floor and coats on the hook, garland above the windows, new curtains, and a tinsel-covered tree in my living room. Drinks were on the coffee table. A pile of blankets and pillows sat on the floor by the couch. Music drifted with the crackles of a fake fireplace on the TV.

  I spun around with a confused, “Are you living here?”

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Coen replied. “It needed a caretaker.”

  Erich rescued my breakfast from the floor and the dripping coffee cup from my hand. He sat them both down on the coffee table. “It’s nicer than the efficiency motel we were in. Have you ever cooked in a kitchenette?”

  “Plus, you have way more cable channels,” Finn threw in.

  Laughing, I wiped at the moisture in my eyes.

  I had lost a lot, but not everything.

  “We can go,” Erich said, “if you want to be alone.”

  “No,” I shook my head. “Maybe. But not now. It’s cold out. You should stay.” Moving past them into the living room, I admired the tree. The limbs were overloaded with decorations. Simple red bows, vibrant bulbs, and cartoon character ornaments peeked out beneath strings of gold lights and silver tinsel. “It’s nice. I’ve never had one before.”

  “Never?” Finn echoed. “You’ve resisted the magic of Christmas for nearly a hundred years? Your willpower is a thing of beauty.”

  Erich hooked a thumb at him. “He caved at the first commercial.”

  I laughed, soaking it in. Their strangeness felt so normal. It was like no time had passed since we were together. But it has. And it passed without me.

  “Dahlia?” Coen said. “Where have you been?”

  I blew out a weary breath. “What did Aidric tell you?”

  “Very little.”

  “It was clear he was unhappy with the situation,” Erich explained. “He said we might not see you again. When we asked to look for you, he refused. But he granted our request to live here. I think he hoped, as we did, that if you did return, you would come here. And with the break-ins, it would have been irresponsible to leave your residence unoccupied.”

  “Break-ins? I was robbed? Seriously?” I’d lived here for months without incident. “What did they take?”

  “Nothing,” Erich said. “It became clear you and not your belongings were the target, when your gym was broken into repeatedly, as well, and nothing was stolen at either place.”

  “Don�
�t forget the jeep,” Finn chimed in. “Someone smashed it up with a sledgehammer the night you disappeared.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Now, I was pissed. “Any suspects?”

  “Just one,” he said. “I caught him on your fire escape last week. We had words. With our fists.”

  “Our hero,” Erich mumbled.

  Finn’s responding grin faded with a blunt, “It was Ronan Locke.”

  “What a surprise,” I said. He’s too aware to go back to Naalish, but too fucked up to go underground.” The one time Ronan needed to run, and he didn’t know how.

  “I told him you were gone,” Finn said, “but he didn’t believe me. He thinks we’re hiding you, keeping you from him. He looked unwell. He was drunk, dirty. Talking crazy. He—”

  Erich nudged him with an elbow. “I think she gets it. But Ronan can be dealt with. What’s important is, you’re back.”

  “Your absence left a hole in the heart of many,” Coen said. “Even the city has suffered. The police are doing their best, but between the creatures and the crimes, the exposed corruption of the mayor; panic has come to rule here, Dahlia. It rules on a level the human authorities are not equipped to handle.”

  “And you think I am? Look at me, Coen,” I said, “the list of things I’m equipped to handle right now include a hot meal and a soft bed.”

  He stepped closer. “Please. Tell us what happened.”

  Unsure where to start, I let slip a short laugh, and they stared at me; Finn amused, Erich perplexed, Coen worried—and my pulse jumped. A thrumming beat in my ears like I was coming off a run.

  It was far from the first time their scrutiny had made my blood rush. Usually, the moment was followed by an awkward exchange and a strained tension. I felt none of that now. I was exhausted and anxious. Yet, my body was eager.

  I fled the sensation and ducked into the kitchen.

  My head was in the fridge when shoes appeared under the door. Pulling out a beer, I kicked the door closed and met Erich’s inquisitive stare. He glanced at the bottle in my hand. I shrugged. “Guess I’m skipping breakfast. Though, that turkey in the oven smells great. Are you the one who likes to cook?”