by Melissa Grey
Echo threw her arms around the Ala and buried her face in the Avicen’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of honey and old books that clung to the Ala’s raven feathers like perfume. The Ala hugged her back tightly, and over her shoulder, Echo caught sight of Dorian on the other side of the room, sword drawn, a frown frozen in place. Echo bit back a laugh. Dorian had been on watch during the night, standing guard to make sure no intruders made it past their wards. He looked absolutely stymied that the Ala had been able to do it, breakfast in hand, as though the wards were nothing. But the normal rules of in-between didn’t apply to the Ala; she could navigate its darkness with an ease no living creature could hope to match, even Caius.
Echo pulled back, looking up into the Ala’s onyx eyes. “I missed you.”
The Ala smiled and smoothed down the unruly strands of Echo’s hair. “I missed you, too, my little magpie.” She gestured to the food on the table. “I brought your favorites. Bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel, and jelly doughnuts. I thought you might like something a touch more substantial after weeks of eating nothing but”—she picked up a box of Pop-Tarts, squinting at the label as she read the ingredients—“high-fructose corn syrup.”
Echo yanked open the bag and drew in a deep breath. Heavenly. She grabbed a doughnut and bit into it, powdered sugar drifting down like snowflakes, savoring the taste of the jelly as it exploded on her tongue. It was bliss. Around a mouthful of doughnut, she said, “I love you.”
“As I love you, little magpie,” the Ala said. She turned and looked at Dorian’s sword, lifting a single amused eyebrow. “Do you plan on using that, boy?”
Shamefaced, Dorian lowered the blade. “No.”
“Then I suggest you put it away.”
He did.
Caius drifted over to where Echo stood, clutching the bag of doughnuts. Now that he was close to her, she was more self-conscious about her state of undress and the powdered sugar on her face. One of his hands settled on her lower back briefly as he reached around her to claim a coffee, the warmth of his skin radiating through the thin cotton of her shirt. He brought the cup to his mouth and smiled at her over the lid. “Good morning,” he said, voice rough from sleep, slightly deeper than normal. He took a sip, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, the angle of his head highlighting the elegant line of his throat.
Echo rubbed at her sugar-coated lips with the back of her hand. “Morning.” He knew what he was doing. He had to know. No one got to be two hundred fifty years old without learning how to make drinking coffee look pornographic.
Behind her, the Ala cleared her throat. Echo jumped, and Caius winked at her. Now he was just being unfair. Echo snagged a napkin from the depths of the paper bag and wrapped another doughnut in it to take to Ivy.
The Ala made her way to the bank of windows at the other end of the room, near Ivy’s bed. “Come, Echo, I have something to discuss with you.”
Echo followed, doughnuts in hand, and plopped down on the mattress. A wordless groan emerged from the Ivy-shaped pile of blankets. Echo poked at the center of the blanket lump until Ivy peeked out, delicate features pulled into a frown, white feathers sticking up at odd angles. Waving the doughnut under Ivy’s nose, Echo said, “I got you a present.”
Ivy snaked a hand out from under the covers, grabbed the doughnut, and retreated beneath the blankets.
Echo looked to the Ala, who was watching their exchange with a bemused expression. “So, what’s the deal?” Echo asked. She took another bite of her doughnut. Jelly leaked around its edges. “How are things at the Nest? Is everyone okay?”
By everyone, she meant Rowan. Their relationship might have been burned to the ground in a firestorm of bad decisions and even worse luck, but she couldn’t not care about him. Caring about Rowan was inherent to her being, ingrained in her DNA.
“Everyone is fine.” The Ala’s tone was all too knowing. “Including Rowan.”
Echo breathed a small sigh of relief. There was a chance, one she was reluctant to acknowledge, that he would hate her for the things she’d done: siding with Drakharin or, at the very least, appearing to; running off with little explanation and leaving him to deal with a mess she’d helped create. Killing his partner. But even if he hated her, she’d still care. She would always care, no matter what catastrophes she wrought.
The Ala leaned against the windowsill, hands resting by her sides. Stray bits of sunlight dappled the unevenly tinted panes, backlighting the Ala with a soft glow. “But that’s not why I’m here.” She glanced at the corner of the room, where the TV was sitting, dark and silent. “I assume you’ve kept abreast of recent events.”
Echo ceased her chewing and the mouthful of doughnut slid down her throat like a heavy lump of clay. “If by recent events, you mean all this weirdness with an active inactive volcano, whole villages swallowed up by destruction, and recurring nightmares that seem to be pointing a finger directly at me, then, yeah. Kind of hard to tear my eyes away.”
“These events are more than mere anomalies,” said the Ala. “I can sense it.”
From beneath her pile of blankets, Ivy asked, “Like a disturbance in the Force?”
The Ala nodded tightly. “In a manner of speaking.”
From the corner of her eye, Echo saw Caius shift and set his cup of coffee on the table, only to pick it up and then put it down again. She turned just enough to see his face; he was looking at her, but he wore an odd expression, one she couldn’t quite read.
An unfamiliar presence ghosted softly at the back of Echo’s mind. She squeezed her eyes closed, letting it settle. If it had been Rose, she would have known. Occasionally, she felt the press of other souls—long-dead vessels—against the walls of her skull, but they were never as tangible as Rose. Sometimes, she would feel emotions that she knew were not her own: fear, regret, despair. When the presence stilled, Echo asked the Ala, “Okay, but what does any of it have to do with me?”
The Ala pushed away from the window, smoothing her hands over her long, gauzy skirt. The white linen was a stark contrast to the pure black of her skin and feathers. “I think these bizarre happenings have everything to do with you.” At Echo’s chagrined expression, she amended, “Everything to do with the firebird, that is. I’m sure you’re familiar with Newton’s third law of motion.”
Echo’s love affair with physics in her early teens had been brief and turbulent. “For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction,” she recited. The words were nothing new; she’d read them in a battered physics textbook fished out of the library’s discard pile—out-of-date volumes were prime candidates for permanent relocation to Echo’s private collection—but now they took on a new weight.
“When you awakened the firebird,” said the Ala, “you created an imbalance. The universe detests an imbalance. You, my dear, are a creature of light. And where there is light, there must also be darkness. I do not believe your light came into this world alone.”
A creature of light. It was a lovely way of putting it, Echo thought. It made her seem pure when she felt anything but. She felt crowded, her own mind polluted with everything that wasn’t Echo. “So the dreams were true. The volcano, that village. That was me.”
“No,” the Ala said, voice strong with certainty. “But sometimes, when a door is opened, we cannot always control what comes through.”
The Ala came over to Echo, dropping to a crouch by the mattress. Ivy curled into a little ball, shins resting against Echo’s thigh. It was a comforting pressure, a reminder that she wasn’t alone, no matter how isolated being the firebird made her feel. “This is, of course, all speculation. There are certain…methods of accessing the information that might illuminate our situation, but they’re far from pleasant.”
Echo rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, her appetite forgotten. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”
“This won’t be easy.” The Ala tucked a strand of messy hair behind Echo’s ear. “I’ll have to sort through the contents of your mi
nd, to see if I can learn the firebird’s secrets. But I can’t choose what we unearth. The process is unpredictable at best, and traumatic at worst. You might see things that will frighten you.”
A sudden flash of someone else’s fear seized Echo. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the memory, but that just made it worse. Behind her lids, all she could see was the blinding brightness of flames. The smell of burning feathers, the sound of crackling wood, and the feel of her own skin blistering in a heat so powerful, Echo thought that if she opened her eyes just then, she would find herself in the inferno that had claimed Rose’s life.
“Echo?” Ivy’s voice was soft and a little unsure, but it anchored Echo. She opened her eyes, clinging to the sound of her friend’s voice like a tether.
Echo had to clear her throat twice before she could speak. “I’m fine,” she said, in a voice only the tiniest bit uneven. The others were all looking at her as though they expected her to break. Caius gravitated closer, coffee forgotten on the table. He paused halfway to the mattress on which Echo sat. She wondered if he felt like he couldn’t intrude, not with Ivy on one side of her and the Ala on the other. She wanted to tell him that it was okay, that she wanted him near, but she couldn’t find the words. And even if she could, she wasn’t entirely certain she wanted to share them with a rapt audience.
She drew in a shaky breath. And then another. And another, each one slightly steadier than the last. Eventually, the phantom stench of acrid smoke cleared, and she felt like herself again.
The Ala was still crouched in front of her, dark eyes full of concern.
Echo smiled for everyone’s benefit but her own. Put on a happy face, she told herself. Be strong. For them.
“But before we head through the looking glass,” she said, reaching to confiscate the remainder of Ivy’s doughnut. She pointedly ignored the halfhearted scowl her friend threw at her. Stealing food was normal. It was her thing. Not Rose’s. Not the firebird’s. Just hers. Echo nibbled on the edge of the pastry, focusing on the way the powdered sugar melted on her tongue. “I need to find some pants.”
CHAPTER SIX
Echo closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation of the lumpy mattress beneath her and the warmth of the sun on her face as late-morning light filtered through the painted windows. She was lying in the corner of the room farthest from the door, hidden by bedsheets strung to the ceiling with twine, which doubled as privacy curtains. She heard the Ala’s skirt whisper against the hardwood floor as she settled into a comfortable seated position. The Ala had warned Echo that the process of submerging deep enough into her subconscious to access the firebird’s trove of repressed memories would be difficult and time-consuming.
With her eyes closed, Echo’s other senses were heightened. The sheet-curtain may have provided the illusion of isolation, but she could still hear the sounds of the others quietly milling about the room. They were trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, but there was only so far they could go. Their voices were hushed, and though Echo couldn’t understand their words, she found it hard to concentrate on her own psyche while they spoke. Even so, she didn’t want to tell them to keep completely silent; a small part of her liked being able to hear them. The familiarity was comforting, like a crutch. Ivy’s voice joined the quiet conversation, her tone inquisitive. Echo drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Focus, she told herself. Eye of the tiger.
“Are you ready?” the Ala asked.
“Not really,” said Echo. Her nose was itchy, and she was suddenly aware of every uncomfortable spring digging into her back. When she reached up to scratch the bridge of her nose, the Ala tutted.
“You have to stay still for this to work, Echo.”
“I know, I know.” Echo opened her eyes to find the Ala looking at her, expression somehow both soft and stern. “It’s just…” Echo folded her hands over her stomach and knotted her fingers together. They’d grown worryingly bony. Stress had done a number on her appetite in the past few weeks. She looked back at the Ala, not bothering to mask the fear in her eyes. “I’m scared.”
The Ala’s face softened, and she stroked Echo’s hair back from her forehead. “It’s all right to be scared. I’d be surprised if you weren’t. You’re about to delve into centuries’ worth of memories, many of them unpleasant. Tragedy seems to have followed the firebird’s vessels like a dark cloud, leaving wounds that have never quite healed. What we’re about to do is equivalent to pulling out the sutures and forcing them to bleed anew.”
“No offense, but this isn’t your best pep talk.”
Amusement tugged at the Ala’s lips. “There’s no sense in lying to you with sugarcoated promises that everything will be fine. You’re entirely too clever for that.”
The words weren’t comforting, but at least they were honest. Echo nodded, her hair rubbing against the thin pillow beneath her head and escaping the braid she’d quickly put it in. With more determination than she felt, she told the Ala, “All right. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
“Remember, I’m here with you,” said the Ala. “If you become lost, simply call out for me, and I will find you.” She placed a hand on Echo’s forehead, her skin cool against Echo’s. Her hand slowly descended, covering Echo’s eyes inch by inch until all she could see was darkness. She closed her eyes, and when she felt the pressure of the Ala’s hand lift, she was surprised that she couldn’t see the light of the sun behind her lids. She cracked her eyes open and sucked in a gasp. The ceiling was gone.
Above her, the sky was a blanket of black velvet, punctured by a dense scattering of stars. The moon floated overhead, full and heavy, like a bright, ripe fruit. Instead of the warehouse’s drab gray walls, large smooth stones surrounded her, arranged in a neat circle. In the distance, she saw a ring of trees and, behind them, a dense forest. Her hair caught on dry twigs and brittle leaves. She scrambled to her feet, but her body felt wrong, like her skin was stretched too tight over her bones. She stumbled; her center of gravity had shifted. She looked down. No wonder her body felt different. It wasn’t hers.
It was dark, so she couldn’t quite make out the color of the clothes she wore, but a brisk evening chill pricked at her bare upper arms. She brought her hands up to rub her forearms, and when she felt the slightly raised texture of her skin, she froze.
No way. No freaking way.
Holding her hands out, she wiggled her fingers, feeling unfamiliar muscles bunch and flex. Moonlight danced along the scales on her forearms, the glow making them shimmer.
She was a Drakharin. Well, she was in a Drakharin body, but after dealing with Rose, she was beginning to appreciate just how fuzzy the line between self and corporeality was. She brought her hands to her face, feeling for more scales. The skin there was smooth, though, and her cheekbones were sharp and prominent, so unlike her own face, which still clung to the softness of youth. Her fingers traced the curve of her cheek to her ear, running along the ridge of her jaw, up to the fullness of her mouth. She touched her nose; it was long and aquiline. When she felt the bridge, she smiled. A smattering of scales was peppered across the skin there, like freckles.
When she spoke, her voice was alien. “Where am I?”
The only answer the night offered was a resounding silence.
She peered up at the stars, trying to pick out constellations she might recognize. Her brief love affair with astronomy had left her with a rudimentary knowledge of the night sky, which had been refreshed by the time she’d spent on the warehouse roof with Caius, gazing up at the stars stubbornly shining through London’s smog. If she could find Polaris, then maybe she could get her bearings. Scanning the sky for the familiar shape of Ursa Minor, Echo frowned.
The sky wasn’t right.
Or maybe it was, but it wasn’t the sky she knew. None of the constellations were where they were supposed to be.
And then it hit her. The alignment of the stars, when viewed from Earth, changed with the procession of the equinoxes. If she had been whisked
away to a memory that took place thousands of years ago, the celestial pole wouldn’t look the same. She craned her neck, even though she could feel it getting stiff, trying to find something she would recognize in the place where the North Star would be.
Slowly, the stars began to form shapes in her mind. She brought up a hand, tracing patterns in the sky.
There.
The constellation Draco. The dragon. How fitting. Caius had told her that it was considered the king of the sky in Drakharin mythology. And that four thousand years ago, one of its fainter stars had been the North Star.
Four thousand years.
She looked back down at her hands, at the strange body that she now inhabited. A chill raced along her spine, raising the fine hairs at the back of her neck.
A sound from the woods, like the snapping of twigs underfoot, made her jump. From the shadows among the trees emerged a group of hooded figures, chanting words in an unfamiliar language.
The unease in her gut blossomed into panic, heady and sharp.
“Who are you?” she asked, though she knew it was futile. If she couldn’t understand them, they probably couldn’t understand her. But, to her surprise, the words that came from her mouth weren’t in English. Her lips and tongue moved in a way that felt completely foreign. It sounded like the Drakhar Caius and Dorian occasionally spoke, but the words had a different cadence to them. Four thousand years. It must have been some kind of proto-Drakhar.