Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

“Do something to me.”

  His hands drop. “What?”

  “You never work on me—”

  “Because you’re my Connection.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, yeah. You don’t want to work on people and wonder why they’re around you. Ethics and whatnot. But this time, why not? You’ve got all these great, new powers. Test them out on me.” When he hesitates, I wheedle, “Just this one time. C’mon. It’ll be fun. Make me feel something special.”

  An eyebrow lifts. “Are you saying I need to use my mojo to get you to feel something special around me?”

  I give him a sly grin. “Of course not. You’re quite talented at that sort of stuff all by yourself.”

  He laughs and caves in. “Alright. What do you want to feel?”

  I close my eyes. “Surprise me.”

  His breath is soft against my face. Tingles deliciously zap up and down my body. “This is good,” I murmur.

  “I haven’t done anything yet.” I shiver contentedly anyway. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  And then, the most incredible sensation of pure bliss sweeps through me. It starts slowly, a series of goose bumps rippling alongside my arms in union, and then inside me. Once it convenes where my heart is, it alters, infused now with the sensations of first and true love—all tingly and breathless and exciting at the same time.

  I know this feeling. I’ve felt it a million times with Jonah over the years.

  “This is how I’ll always feel about you,” he whispers, feather soft, against my ear.

  The love I have for him violently expands beyond the limits of my heart. I do not know how my rib cage manages to hold it in.

  chapter 43

  I am being hugged by Karl’s wife, Moira, as we stand in their living room. It’s nice to be in a real home and not one of the many safe houses I’m normally sequestered in during my weekends in Annar. Karl had offered to see if I could stay at with my dad, but I dismissed that ridiculous idea right away. So here we are, in the Graystones’ apartment, and everything is safe, friendly, and welcoming. The only thing missing is Jonah, who, like me before, isn’t permitted to come to Annar while I Ascend.

  Moira is very short, with a wide, pretty face; skin the color of coffee mixed heavily with milk; a pert nose sprinkled with freckles and dark curly hair. She’s also so pregnant she can barely stand up without teetering. Karl notices this right away, practically peeling her away from me so he can usher her to a chair by a fireplace. When he goes to get her something to drink, it gives us a chance to catch up, face to face.

  “I’ve been wanting to thank you for some time now,” I say, sitting down in the chair opposite her. “I know it can’t be easy to have Karl gone, especially with the baby due soon.”

  “As you and Jonah have a Connection,” she smiles, “I’m sure you are well aware what it’s like to be away from your significant other. So yes, it’s hard. But it’s for a good reason, and therefore, we deal.”

  “Karl’s been good to me,” I admit.

  Her eyes sparkle. “Shh! You’ll ruin his reputation. He rarely tolerates most people’s crap, but he’s gotten all squishy about you, like you’re his sister or something. It’s very sweet.”

  “I bring with me a lot of crap,” I say solemnly.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Karl re-enters the room, carrying a cup of juice and a snack for his wife. It’s the first time I’ve gotten to watch them interact in person, and the only time I’ve witnessed another couple with a Connection together. They seem to be constantly aware of each other’s presences in the room and move, therefore, in tandem. She leans toward him, he leans toward her, as if they are magnets that can’t be away from one another. He’s no longer “serious Guard extraordinaire,” but a man hopelessly in love and unafraid to let anyone see it. And she’s just as obvious, with every look, touch, and word filled with love for him.

  It is a beautiful thing to witness.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot,” I murmur, “about the baby.”

  “Our baby?” Moira asks. Karl instinctively puts his hand on her tummy; she wraps her hand around his.

  Honestly, as I know no other pregnant couples, who do they think I’m talking about? “I’m moving here in a few months, you know.”

  “And this has to do with our baby, how … ?” Karl asks, forehead scrunching.

  “Once she’s born, you should stay here and assign someone else to me.”

  You’d have thought I’d just asked them to cut off each other’s arms by the way they’re glaring at me.

  “I mean,” I clarify, “I’m moving here soon, anyway, right? Within five days of graduation? And if I’m one of the lucky sixty percent whose head doesn’t explode upon early Ascension—”

  “What kind of fool are you to have told her that?” Moira snaps incredulously.

  “Then,” I continue, “I’ll have my full power load. And Jonah’s Ascended now, too. So, you could stay here, with Moira and the baby.”

  After a long silence, in which I genuinely worry they’ve lost the ability to speak, Karl manages, “I have orders, Chloe. I’m to oversee you until you graduate and move here.”

  “I just explained that. Your baby will need you more than me.”

  Moira turns to her husband. “I think I can understand what you mean about her now.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I know. And when she and Jonah get together, it’s like there isn’t a single ear between them.”

  “Hey,” I protest. “I’m trying to help here.”

  “Don’t help,” Karl says. “And don’t worry about us. We’re good. We’ll always be good.”

  There is a special place in Annar meant exclusively for Ascension. It’s located a half-mile below the surface, accessible by a singular elevator which can only be manipulated by a Mover. As I have no idea what a Mover does, I have to rely on Karl to explain how Kiellee, a rather plain-looking Faerie on the Guard, can shift the space continuum and make doorways appear where they normally are not.

  I’m not sure what I expected the place where Magicals Ascend to look like, but it certainly wasn’t what I’m faced with. Everything is opulent—all silks and velvets, gorgeous antique furniture made of exotic woods and metals, and museum-worthy artwork.

  “What’s this place called?” I ask Karl.

  “Valhalla.”

  “Like the Norse legends?”

  He smirks at me. “As you well know, most legends have some basis in fact.”

  I think about this. “Valhalla was filled with Valkyries. Warriors Odin stockpiled.”

  “Well,” Karl muses, “I suppose it’s sort of like that. Only we make the warriors here.” He winks. “As for Odin, he was one of the early Magicals.”

  Sitting at one of the most ornate desks I’ve ever seen is a cheerful Elf, his white-blonde hair twisted up in odd knots across his head. He has only two things adorning his spotless desk: a sheet of thin gold and a name placard that says: Quincey Buttercup, Master Secretary.

  “Is that a craft?” I whisper to Karl as we approach the desk.

  “You mean Secretary?”

  I nod.

  “Nope,” he says, trying to hide his smile. “Although Quince here probably wishes it were. He’s a Smith.” When I cock an eyebrow, he clarifies, “He works with metals.”

  “Good morning!” Quincey chirps loudly. His voice echoes off the heavily wallpapered walls. “What a gorgeous day to Ascend!”

  I look around; there are no windows, and on our walk over this morning, it’d rained on us. Quincey’s hand whips out and grabs mine, even though it was hanging by my side. I try not to wince as he pumps it up and down like he’s putting air in a bike tire. “Look at you! All adorable and eighteen! I could just pinch your cheeks!”

  “Simmer down, Quincey,” Karl says. “There’ll be no cheek-pinching this time.”

  “Right!” Quincey says, mercifully letting go of my hand. “Well, I suppose Lilywhite here is an eager beaver to
get this over with. Shall we?” He motions to the two chairs sitting in front of his desk. I sit down, but Karl remains standing.

  “Smashing,” Quincey says, sliding the sheet of gold in between us. “First, the logistics. Name? Age? Birthday? Craft? Current location?” He drills me, rapid-fire, question after question, yet doesn’t write down a single answer. Once done, he smiles so brightly that I’m blinded by his white teeth. “Put your left hand on the gold, please. And do not move until I tell you to.”

  Karl nods encouragingly, so I lay my hand onto the sheet. Within seconds, it grows scalding hot. Just as I’m about to rip my hand away, Quincey barks, “I said no moving!”

  Had he grown fangs, I would not have been more surprised. I keep my hand where it is.

  The metal grows hotter and liquefies under my skin. I have to bite my lip from screaming out in pain, but just as I’m about to tell Quincey what he can do with his gold, it cools. “You may remove your hand now,” he says, smiling brightly once more. I rub my red palm, scowling; Quincey, on the other hand, admires the sheet of gold. There is a perfect imprint of my hand in it, every last line present.

  I motion toward it with my wounded hand. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s that for?”

  “Your file,” the Smith says. “We must be able to always accurately identify you, no matter your state. As long as you have your hand, we’ll be able to do that.”

  “And if I don’t have my hand?”

  He titters nervously. “Oh, well—in that case, we have your blood from the oath-binding ceremony.”

  What’s this? EWW.

  He runs his hands over the gold, smoothing out the edges as if they’re made of putty. “And … if I’m not mistaken, you’re Connected to Jonah Whitecomb, correct?”

  “Uh …” Is this common knowledge?

  “Connected pairs are always able to identify their mates, even if the body is badly mangled,” Quincey continues, sounding like he’s describing his favorite kind of cotton candy. “So if need be, Whitecomb would be able to ID you, even if it was just a small piece left. If he was still alive, of course.”

  I nearly choke on my tongue. Karl hauls me up out of the chair and says, “Keep working on those people skills, Quincey.”

  “Always!” the Elf chirps. “I’m doing a hell of a lot better lately, aren’t I?”

  “I can’t … I can’t believe …” I gurgle as Karl tugs me down a hallway. “He just … is he … ?”

  “Stupid?” Karl offers. “No. Actually, Buttercup is pretty smart. But he’s got no idea how to interact with people. He’s been down here working with the Medium for most of his life, making rare one-day-a-month trips to the surface.”

  He definitely needs more time up there.

  The Medium, the person in charge of helping Magicals go through Ascension, is an extremely old Gnome dressed entirely in white. He moves slowly with a cane, his bare feet covered with grass stains. “Well, well,” he says, his voice surprisingly youthful for a face so craggy with years, “if it isn’t the notorious Creator.”

  “Uh … yes?” Karl has already left, not being allowed in the Medium’s office. Which is, in itself, a misnomer, because the room is huge, at least twice the size of the room Quincey rules, and more like a hotel lobby than any office I’ve ever seen before. It’s circular, with doors spaced roughly ten feet apart lining the walls. Each door is made of a different wood, each door handle a different metal. Some doors look new, some old. None are marked.

  “You aren’t sure?” he asks, lifting a very hairy eyebrow up. The hairs are so long that they brush down and threaten to scrape his eyeballs.

  “Yes,” I say more firmly. “I’m the Creator. My name is—”

  “Frankly, child,” he interrupts, tapping the cane on the ground next to him, “I do not care what your name is. It is irrelevant.”

  Oo-kay?

  “You are aware of the risks?” he asks, leading us to sit down on the only two uncomfortable chairs in the entire room. There are plush couches and loveseats everywhere, yet he chooses two small, wooden stools.

  “That come with Ascending early?”

  “It is not normally recommended,” the Medium continues. “And the truth is I dislike having to clean up the mess afterward.”

  Flashes of blood-splattered walls pockmarked with gray matter fill my mind. “I thought the whole head-exploding thing was metaphor-

  ical—”

  “Sometimes,” he says, not smiling. “Sometimes not. Did anyone explain how a Creator’s chances are even higher of becoming unstable during the process?”

  NO, NO THEY DIDN’T.

  “I’d say they hover more around seventy percent of failure. Creators are tricky creatures; your sort have more power than the others. Many bodies don’t deal well with Ascension even at the appropriate time.”

  Seventy percent?! WHAT. THE. HELL?! I close my eyes and count to twenty. Slowly. Then I pinch the bridge of my nose. “If I choose not to Ascend today?”

  “There is no more choice. Your handprint has already been collected.”

  You can do this, the little voice says. Trust that the odds are in your favor.

  I am an overthinker. Typically, when it comes to the big stuff, I think and think until I make myself sick. All those weeks fretting over what Jonah was thinking and feeling when he’d moved to town. All these past weeks worrying about how Kellan is dealing with things, if I’m failing my parents, of what expectations are on my shoulders, of what I’ll be doing in Council chambers, of what I’ll be asked to do. Of what it’d be like to run, of where I’d go and who I’d become. I’ve thought of all of these things. In great detail.

  If I were to contemplate how small my chances are of surviving Ascension, I’d go mad. So I stand up and smack my hands together. “Tell me what I need to do.”

  “Pick a door.” His cane swings around in an arc. “And then go through it.”

  “Are all the rooms the same?”

  He’s amused. “No.”

  I close my eyes and turn my body round and round, like a kid at a birthday party, getting ready to hit a piÑata. When I open my eyes, I walk directly to the door in front of me. It’s a pale wood—blonde, really—with a sapphire doorknob surrounded in platinum.

  Behind me: “I wish you luck, Creator.”

  Blinding light assails me, so much so that I stumble forward for a good few minutes before it begins to fade. Once it does, I halt in my tracks at what I see in front of me.

  It’s the exact setting where I’d met Jonah for the very first time—a dappled riverbank, complete with the small, stone bench he’d once sat on. I’d perched in the tree above, watching him night after night. I know this spot. I know the tree hanging over the river. I know this bench like the back of my hand.

  What I don’t know is why I’m here, or how the door I just entered, half a mile below Annar’s surface, could lead to someplace from my dreams. Or, perhaps most importantly, just what I’m supposed to do here. The Medium gave no specifics, let alone helpful hints.

  I wander around, rediscovering places I’d believed long lost. Eventually, I shuck off my shoes and wade into the water. I bend down to run my fingers through the inky darkness. It doesn’t feel like water. It’s more … dense. Soft. When I pull my hand out, no droplets fall. It’s oddly warm, soothing, and far more sparkly than I remember.

  I don’t know how to explain it, but I suddenly know what to do. I back out of the water and climb the tree hanging over the river. It’s the same tree Jonah first kissed me in. I take my time moving across the branch, smoothing my hands across the worn bark, remembering how beautiful and magical it’d been up here.

  So it makes sense that this is the place I launch into my new life. It’s where I knew, for certain, I was in love. To move into my new life, I want these pieces, these reminders of who I am, what I have, and what I stand to gain.

  I pull myself into a standing position, grabbing onto the branches above me. I creak and sway, but I hav
e no fear. I will survive—not because of the expectations on my shoulders, or the ones from my family, but because I simply know I will. I will not be part of the seventy percent who fail.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let myself fall forward.

  chapter 44

  Darkness is the first sensation—not uncomfortable or terrifying, but safe and enveloping. It pushes against me, seeps into every pore until I am heavy. Sated. And then, just when I feel as if existence is a pleasant, distant memory, the darkness evolves into sunlight—still warm, still comforting, yet exciting now. The darkness flattens, then twists into strands of yellow light, escaping through the same pores it’d once sought refuge in.

  When there is nothing left, no darkness, no light, no nothing, and I’m floating high and weightless, something rushes into me. Something so sharp, I’m knocked breathless—not in pain, but surprise.

  The unknown pulls toward my center, sucking every last molecule of air with it. And then it explodes until everything is glitter, all blues and silvers and golds, and it’s beautiful, amazing—like the birth and death of the universe all at once. I become a part of the iridescence, a free-floating consciousness no longer attached to anything tangible at all.

  And then consciousness floats away, leaving nothing at all behind.

  The room I’m standing in is nondescript. Plain off-white walls, scuffed hardwood floors, no windows, no door, one singular cot-like bed with a white sheet and a flat pillow. I do not know how long I’ve been here or how I even got here in the first place.

  What I do know is that my body is thrumming with so much power that I can’t believe my skin hasn’t split open yet. It races through every vein, every pump of my heart, every firing of a synapse in my brain. I’m crackling with energy, so much so that I have no doubt that if I were to toss a single strand of hair at the bed in the corner of the room, I’d blow it up.

  It’s then I realize this is the whole point of being in this room. I’ve got … well, who knows how long, to get myself under control. I can only hope that the room can keep me from destroying everything in the process. But a small victory is that my brain seems to still be functioning, that my thoughts are fairly coherent and rational.