The Shadow Hour

by Melissa Grey

  Echo met her own gaze in the mirror. The wide brown eyes were hers, though if she angled her head just so, she saw shades of other women, other vessels. Rose’s eyes had been darker, Samira’s lighter. Even the texture of her hair seemed to change in the reflection. It was normally straight and fine, a chocolate-brown undistinguished to the point of plainness when compared with the vibrant feathers of the Avicen. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the gentle cascade of feathers down her back, long and bold like Rose’s. Or a tumble of copper curls belonging to another vessel whom Echo could not name. She was herself and yet she was not. She was all of them. But Rose had walked away from the firebird. Samira’s chance to hold its power inside her had been stolen from her with a blade across the throat. Echo was left to carry its unbearable weight. She alone was left to face the darkness that craved her demise. She’d felt its call just as surely as it had felt hers. The firebird and the kuçedra. The light and the dark. Two sides of the same coin. She had warded the island against Tanith, but she knew the writhing shadows of the kuçedra were waiting, biding their time.

  Slowly, she disrobed, shedding articles of clothing one by one. The mirror reflected the horrible truth she had felt pulsing under her skin.

  On her rib cage, slightly to the right of her heart, a rounded spot had begun to show, darker than a bruise. Blackened veins branched from it, as if the toxic malevolence were being pushed outward by the force of her heartbeat.

  No one could touch the kuçedra’s power and remain untainted. Not even Echo. Not even the firebird. It had gone to the Nest in search of her. It had ridden Tanith’s body to Avalon, eager to sink its claws into Echo, to infect her with its darkness. Its shadow dwelled inside of her like a cancer, and last night’s battle would continue to rage beneath her skin. She pulled on a long-sleeved T-shirt, wrinkled from having been rolled into a ball at the bottom of her backpack. She would hide her mark as long as she could, and so long as there was blood in her veins, she would fight.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  A large four-poster bed awaited Echo in her bedroom—it wasn’t really hers, it never could be—but she spent the night curled in a too-soft armchair in the Ala’s room, the soft sounds of the river drifting through the open windows, Phineas Ogilvy’s A Compendium of Fairy Tale Creatures resting on her knees. She had every intention of returning it to Professor Stirling, but she wanted to read it first. She fell asleep before she’d even finished the preface.

  The sound of Ivy’s voice roused Echo from her slumber.

  “We found a cure,” Ivy said quietly, her gaze flicking to the Ala’s silent form on the bed. “Maybe. We think. We hope.”

  They had interpreted the page she’d stolen from Caius’s library. It was a formula for an elixir, the chief ingredient of which was the bloodweed Echo had found in the heart of the Tian Shan mountains. It was their best chance, Ivy explained, of fighting the infection. It was a long shot, and they had no choice but to take it. Even the Ala, as powerful as she was, was weakening rapidly. The beat of her heart had slowed, and her breath had grown shallower as her lungs succumbed to the poison coursing through her veins.

  “Someone should be in soon to give it to the Ala,” Ivy said, running a hand through her matted feathers. She looked like she needed a good meal, a bath, and a five-hundred-hour nap. “I have to get back to work, but I wanted to tell you myself.”

  The news was enough to make Echo break her vigil. She slipped from the Ala’s room to follow Ivy, her steps as quiet as a cat’s. Silence had descended on Avalon in the wake of the attack and the halls were empty enough for Echo to slink through them unnoticed. Fifteen paces ahead of her, Ivy walked, shoulders hunched and arms wrapped tightly around herself. Sorrow plucked at Echo’s heart. Ivy shouldn’t have to carry that weight. No one should.

  Ivy disappeared through a door off the great hall that led to a kitchen that hadn’t seen culinary action in years. The sounds of hushed voices and spoons clanging against pots floated through the open door. Echo inched forward. Right before the heavy wooden door closed, she caught it with the toe of her boot to keep it from slamming. She ducked inside, keeping to a low crouch to avoid detection. She didn’t want anyone to ask why she was here or what she needed. The Avicen needed a hero. Echo needed to be one, no matter the cost. She was supposed to be their savior, but all she’d brought them thus far was ruin.

  Small vials of red liquid sat on a nearby countertop, their contents shimmering in the gaslight like rubies. With a flick of her wrist, Echo had one in her hands. The glass was hot to the touch and the vial felt like it was burning a hole in her pocket as she exited the kitchen and made her way back to the Ala’s room, silent as a shadow. No one had seen her. No one had to know.

  Back in the room, Echo made sure to lock the door behind her before taking the vial out of her pocket. She transferred it from hand to hand, warming her palms against it. If this worked, no one would ever have to know that Echo had not escaped her encounter with Tanith—with the kuçedra—unscathed. The cork slid free with a soft pop and the pungent scent of bloodweed assaulted Echo’s senses. She knocked back half of the elixir before the odor could make her gag. The second the liquid touched her tongue, her body rebelled. A wave of nausea more powerful than she’d ever felt before rolled through her so swiftly that she almost didn’t make it to the toilet in the adjacent bathroom before vomiting up crimson.

  The black patch of skin over her heart throbbed. With a trembling hand, she yanked the collar of her shirt down far enough to look at it and the sight was almost enough to make her retch again. The black spot had grown. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She could feel every thin vein protruding from the infected area as the toxin burned through her veins like acid. This wasn’t right. The elixir was supposed to help her. This didn’t look remotely helpful.

  She tried to choke down the rest of the elixir, but her body rejected it once more. Every swallow brought a growth of the blackness in her veins as if the poison were spreading out of pure spite. Echo heaved into the toilet, one hand resting against the cool porcelain, one hand clutching the vial so tightly she could feel it starting to crack in her grip. The truth sat heavy in her empty stomach. The elixir would not work on her. Perhaps Echo was too different. She was the firebird. Something not human, not Avicen. Not quite mortal. The rules, it would seem, did not apply to her. Her throat burned as the last of the elixir was expelled from her body. Tears threatened to fall, but she would not allow them. With a strangled scream, she threw the vial against the wall, watched it rain shards of glass on the stone floor. She would find no salvation in a magic potion; she was on her own. Like always. Her limbs felt heavy with exhaustion, only made worse by the trauma of purging her body of the elixir, but she cleaned up the evidence of her failed cure as best she could. No one needed to know. She rinsed out her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. If she looked like hell before, she could only imagine what she looked like now.

  Silently, she made her way back to the Ala’s bedside. There was nothing for her to do but wait. She picked up the compendium she’d dropped in her haste to follow Ivy, but her eyes made no sense of the words on the page. Sleep claimed her soon enough.

  At dawn, a gentle hand nudged her shoulder. She jerked awake. One of the healers from the infirmary stood beside her, a bowl of oatmeal in one hand and in the other a tray bearing a needle, a small bottle full of red-brown liquid, and an empty plastic bag with the biohazard symbol.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” said the healer.

  Echo accepted the bowl with murmured thanks. Her stomach felt hollow, but she didn’t dare eat. She was a bundle of nerves, and the smell of brown sugar and oats made her insides twist. Silently, she watched the healer prepare the Ala’s injection and only half listened to the explanation that an intravenous dosage was being given to those incapable of swallowing. The sight of the needle sliding into the crook of the Ala’s elbow seemed as though it should have been an impossibility. Echo had never seen the
Ala bleed. It was unthinkable that something as mundane and fragile as the metal of a needle could ever pierce the Ala’s flesh. To Echo, she had been invincible, a Titan among mortals. The healer withdrew the needle, placed it carefully within the plastic bag, and applied a bandage to the Ala’s arm. It was the pale peach color sold in the first-aid section of pharmacies, and it stood out against the Ala’s dark skin like a fresh wound.

  “Will it really help her?” Echo asked.

  “We hope so,” replied the healer. “Though I can’t say how long it’ll take for the elixir’s effects to take hold on a case as advanced as hers. If they ever do.”

  “I’ll wait,” said Echo.

  The healer hesitated, pity etched in the lines of her face. She folded her hands, unfolded them, folded them again. “She might not wake up.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Biohazard bag in hand, the healer departed, sparing Echo a sympathetic glance as she closed the door.

  Echo folded herself into the armchair by the Ala’s bed and drew up her knees. She opened A Compendium of Fairy Tale Creatures. Its watercolor illustrations were vibrant in the morning sun, in exquisite condition despite their age. Mindful of the book’s increasingly fragile spine, she flipped through the folio’s pages with care, admiring one meticulous drawing after the other as the hours slowly slipped by. They were done in the style of Audubon’s Birds of America, but these creatures were fantastical. Unicorns drinking from crystal springs, gryphons sunning their wings on wide flat rocks, dryads emerging from oaken alcoves. A phoenix, its feathers gold and red, rising from a mountain of ash. Beneath each illustration was a brief hand-lettered explanation of the creature’s folkloric origins.

  The phoenix, Ogilvy wrote, is a ubiquitous beast, appearing in mythologies the world over. The concept of death and subsequent resurrection is a popular concept and in ancient civilizations is often embodied in the form of a bird. In ancient Egypt, this entity was known as Bennu. The Persians called it Huma. Slavic mythology features a similar creature known as the firebird. Many iterations of the tale share a commonality: the appearance of a phoenix-like figure is often viewed as either a blessing or a curse, or in some cases, paradoxically, both.

  “A curse,” Echo read aloud. That was what she was. A plague upon the Avicen house. “Sounds like me.”

  “I’ve always found your company quite pleasant,” came a weak voice from the bed.

  Phineas Ogilvy’s Compendium of Fairy Tale Creatures slid from Echo’s lap, forgotten as she launched herself from the armchair and fell to her knees beside the Ala’s bed. A trembling hand reached for Echo. The swelling in the Ala’s veins had diminished, and her skin was as smooth as polished jet.

  “Ala?” Echo’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but the Ala’s face cracked into a fragile smile at the sound of it.

  “I’m here, little magpie. A little worse for wear, but free of that vile place.”

  It took every spare ounce of Echo’s willpower not to throw herself atop the Ala’s chest and weep. The Ala’s smile faded, like the sun retreating behind a cloud.

  “Help me up,” said the Ala. Echo did as she asked, piling pillows behind the Ala’s back and testing them for maximum fluff. She settled on the bed, one leg folded beneath her, her hand clutching the Ala’s like a lifeline.

  “Vile place?” Echo asked. “What do you mean? Where were you if not here?”

  A shiver stole across the Ala’s body despite the summer heat and the blankets heaped upon her. “Someplace dark,” she said. “And cold. A void where nothing good or clean or bright has ever existed. I could feel it there, the kuçedra, hiding where I could not see it.” Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, as if she were slipping back into that terrible nothingness. “But I could feel it. A great drain, as if the life was being stolen from me. It was feeding on me, growing stronger as I grew weaker.” She shook herself, her strength returning in small pieces. Her gaze rested on Echo, warmth seeping into it like the coming of dawn. “Was it you who freed me?”

  “I can’t take all the credit,” Echo said. She hid a sniffle behind the back of her hand, though she knew the Ala’s keen eyes missed nothing. “Ivy did the hard part.”

  The mention of Ivy’s name made the Ala sit up straighter despite the weakness that obviously still plagued her. “Is she all right?”

  Echo nodded. “She’s fine. She’ll be happy to know you’re awake.”

  The Ala canted her head to the side. Keen eyes, Echo thought. “And the others?”

  “Rowan’s okay. He’s downstairs, helping the other Warhawks. Dorian and Jasper, too.”

  The absence of one name was not lost on the Ala. “And Caius?”

  Echo looked down at the fraying laces of her boots. They’d need replacing soon. Outside, a bird warbled a lonely tune, its song carried away by the wind and the river.

  “He’s gone. Tanith took him,” Echo said. “I lost him.”

  We lost him. Rose’s grief was fresh and strong, compounding Echo’s own.

  “Chin up, my little magpie.” With her free hand, the Ala nudged the underside of Echo’s jaw. “Nothing is ever lost forever.” She patted Echo’s knee. “Now, tell me what happened while I was sleeping. I could feel the kuçedra coming closer, but then all of a sudden it retreated, as if something had pushed it back.”

  “That might have been me,” Echo said. “Tanith found us.” Echo didn’t mention how. The shame of her carelessness burned like a brand. She’d given up the location of the Avicen sanctuary the moment she’d touched Tanith. The kuçedra had looked into her soul and seen all her secrets. The carnage outside was on Echo’s conscience. “We fought. I won.”

  “You did something,” the Ala said. “The island feels…different. Charged.”

  “Remember that spell we used to create the wards around my room in the library?” Echo said. “The ones that were bound to me and kept other people out?”

  The Ala nodded.

  “I found another use for it.”

  “Clever girl,” said the Ala. A cough shook her chest. It was wet, as if she’d been drowning and was now on dry land. She pounded her chest weakly until it subsided. “And our forces? Altair?”

  Echo closed her eyes. The sight of Altair’s heart, clutched in Tanith’s clawed fist, leaking blood onto her porcelain skin, was as fresh as it had been the day before. “He died.”

  The Ala was silent for several minutes. Echo opened her eyes. The sheen was difficult to see on the Ala’s dark skin, but the tears were there, falling silently from raven-black eyes. She didn’t brush them away, as Echo would have. She let them fall freely. “We’ve lost so much, you and I. We will not lose any more.”

  “But how? I can’t fight Tanith like that again,” Echo said. The Ala was the one person she didn’t need to be tough for. “She’s too strong. She has an army. She has the kuçedra.” A flash of memory: armor shredded as if it were as flimsy as tissue, blood soaking into blackening soil, the cry of a vulture awaiting its carrion. “She bound it to herself just as the firebird is bound to me. She’s its vessel now. How can I beat that?”

  “An army does not a victor make,” said the Ala. “And power can be overcome. Caius was stolen from you. You know what you have to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re a thief, Echo.” The Ala squeezed Echo’s hand, her grip strong despite her frailty. “Steal him back.”

  THE FINAL BATTLE IS COMING

  IN BOOK THREE OF THE GIRL AT MIDNIGHT SERIES:

  THE SAVAGE DAWN

  ✷

  SUMMER 2017

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When you’re a rookie writer, there’s one bit of wisdom you tend to hear a lot: second books are hard. But hearing it and living it are two different things, and nothing quite prepares you for just how hard your second book is going to be to write. Thankfully, I (and The Shadow Hour) had a team of amazing people to keep me (relatively) sane when it felt like I wouldn’t survive to see the end of this book.
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  I’m incredibly lucky to have an editor like Krista Marino. There were times during the writing process when I felt completely adrift, and she was always there to reel me back in when I needed it. Krista, thank you so much for your patience and your sage advice and your kind words.

  It takes a small army to produce a book, and I’m glad the folks at Delacorte Press and Random House Children’s Books are on my side. Aisha Cloud, you are a great publicist and a fantastic person. I loved the cover for The Girl at Midnight so much and I wasn’t sure how Alison Impey was going to top it, but did she ever. The fact that Jen Wang’s gorgeous illustrations are on these covers continues to blow my mind. I’m in love with the work you’ve all done.

  A million thank-yous to my agent, Catherine Drayton, for helping me keep my head on straight when I was feeling most overwhelmed. Between the expected challenges of writing a book and the unexpected challenges of illness and injury striking at the worst possible times, Catherine was there to hold my hand, and I’m so, so, so grateful.

  I’m indebted to the early readers of The Shadow Hour. The Midnight Society—Amanda, Idil, and Laura: You guys are my true north. When it felt like I had no direction, I reminded myself that I was writing this book for you (mostly because I know you’d straight up murder me if I didn’t). And Virginia Boecker, who read a very messy version of this book and managed to find the good in it when I couldn’t see it: We survived our Book Twos. Go team.

  And to the readers of The Girl at Midnight: Thank you. Seriously. Thank you for spending time with Echo and Ivy and Jasper and Dorian and Caius and Rowan and Rose. Thank you for your tweets and your Tumblr messages and your emails. Thank you for caring about the people who live on the page. Thank you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Melissa Grey was born and raised in New York City. She wrote her first short story at the age of twelve and hasn’t stopped writing since. After earning a degree in fine arts at Yale University, she embarked on an adventure of global proportions and discovered a secret talent for navigating subway systems in just about any language. She works as a freelance journalist in New York City. The Shadow Hour is her second novel, and the sequel to her first, The Girl at Midnight. To learn more about Melissa, visit melissa-grey.com, follow @meligrey on Twitter, and look for @melissagrey_ on Instagram.