“Mom, tell Aspen he can’t sleep in my bed while I’m gone.”
(They were going on vacation to Niagara Falls the next day. My dad and I had come up to help with the ritual for the week that they’d be gone. My mom had come along so she could take me back down to the city, in the event that Grandma decided I wasn’t ready to do the triad just yet.)
“I don’t want to sleep in your stupid bed,” I said. “I don’t want to get girl cooties.”
“Aspen, be nice,” said Mom softly. It was the first thing she’d said since the fire had changed colors.
“Yeah, Aspen,” mimicked Heather, her voice all high, “be nice to me.”
“That’s enough,” said Aunt Holly wearily. “Heather, let’s go finish packing, okay?”
“But my bed—”
“They’ll be sleeping in the guest rooms. Come on, let’s go upstairs. We’ve got a big trip tomorrow.”
Heather stuck her tongue out at me as Aunt Holly ushered her from the room, but I just grinned at her again.
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Grandma, sinking into her chair and smiling up at my parents and me. “I would’ve been in a bind if young Aspen here hadn’t managed it. But aren’t we lucky! He’s quite the talent.”
“He certainly is,” said Dad.
“What did you take?” asked Mom. It took me a second to realize the question was directed at me.
“For the ritual?” I asked. She nodded. “Oh. It was a guy who was afraid of snakes. I made him not be afraid anymore.”
“Fear’s a powerful thing,” said Grandma, nodding. “Good energy. He did so well.”
“See, Annie?” said Dad. “The Cliff’s still standing, and our Aspen just improved someone’s life. Everyone wins.”
It didn’t occur to me till later, but he sounded kind of desperate then, like he really, really wanted her to agree with him.
Mom stood up from her spot on the couch, keys jangling in her hand. “Aspen, are you sure you don’t want to come back home with me?”
“You’re going now?” I said. “I thought you were gonna stay till tomorrow.”
Mom hesitated. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. There’ll be all sorts of traffic. This late, I could probably make it back to the city in just a few hours. You can still come with me if you want.”
I was in a place where fire could turn blue and the things I stole could be visible, where people praised me for a talent nobody else even knew I had.
“No way,” I said. “I want to stay up here forever.”
The first time I woke up that night, it was to the sound of the front door closing. Aunt Holly was back. I ran downstairs to meet her.
“Did you talk to Leah?” I asked.
“Mm,” she said, not meeting my eyes. It sounded more like yes than no.
“What did she say?”
Aunt Holly’s lips twitched, and she put a hand on the banister as if to steady herself. “She said … a lot of things.”
“Well, what did you say?”
She sighed, finally meeting my eyes. “That I forgave her. And she showed me the letter you found.”
It took me a second to work out what she meant. “Heather’s letter?”
“Why didn’t you show it to me?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“I didn’t think—I mean, it was Leah’s, so I figured—”
“My little girl died to save her friend,” said Aunt Holly. “She was a hero. A martyr, even if she never meant to be. I had a right to know.”
Except she still didn’t know. Not really. She had no idea the Cliff was siphoning off the healthy parts of other people in order to keep Willow alive.
I found myself nodding. She did have a right to know the truth of how Heather had died. The whole truth. And I was the only person in the world who could tell her, because I was the only person in the world who knew.
“Aunt Holly …”
But before I could figure out how to continue, she said, “Don’t ever have children, Aspen. Now that you know what kind of blood runs in our family … don’t pass it on. None of us should be allowed to pass it on.”
I frowned, thinking of the gymnast I’d stolen from. “Then who would keep the Cliff standing?”
“Nobody,” she said.
“No, but seriously …”
“This has gone on for too long. The triad ritual, our family being tied up in all this madness. Far, far too long.”
“It’s better than dying,” I said.
She shook her head. “Better? Cooped up in this house, alone, no friends except coworkers you don’t even like, only family to understand who you really are and what you’re capable of? I’m not so sure sometimes.”
“You’re not alone,” I began, and then paused. “I mean, you don’t have to be alone. You could have friends, if you wanted.”
Aunt Holly thinned her lips.
“I have friends,” I said.
“Of course you do,” she said. “A girlfriend who abandoned you as soon as you told her the truth about yourself, and that boy who left with her.”
My cheeks heated up. “Well, I’ve got Leah.”
Aunt Holly gave me a long look, then said again, very softly, “Of course you do.”
“Seriously, if you think the Cliff thing should stop, then why do you keep doing it?”
There was a pause. Aunt Holly smiled, kind of hollow.
“Because if I stopped, she’d only replace me,” she said. “We’re all replaceable. Even my baby girl. My poor, poor girl.”
Before I could reply, Aunt Holly was gone. Through the kitchen and into her bedroom. After a moment, I heard the faint sound of a bottle clinking against a glass. I fled upstairs, where my phone was waiting, and I sent a text to Leah:
I have something to give you. Come over tomorrow?
She didn’t reply.
The second time I woke up, it wasn’t because of the door. It was because of my phone, buzzing on the nightstand beside my head. A text from Leah. Finally.
I opened it.
Why? You want to cry on me for hours, too?
Aunt Holly had cried? Oh, great.
No no no no no, I typed back. I just want to give you something. You free tomorrow afternoon?
Leah: No.
Me: ???
Leah: No I am not free.
Me: I can come by the store if you’re working.
Leah: Pls don’t.
Me: ???????
Leah: Please do not come by the store.
Me: Ok what’s going on
Leah: I thought I was pretty clear about that. I’m done with you people. End of story.
Me: Leah, come on.
Leah: Unless you figured out a way to give Jesse his sight back.
Me: …
Leah: … …
Me: You know I can’t do that. It’s not possible.
Leah: Do us both a favor, ok? Lose my number.
I didn’t text her back after that. Nor did I delete her number. For all I knew, she was just annoyed, and she’d get over it eventually, and then we’d be fine again.
But maybe we wouldn’t. Leah had friend-dumped Heather when she wouldn’t use her powers the way Leah had wanted her to, and she hadn’t bothered feeling bad about it until she learned that Heather was dead. I was not dead. She had no reason to feel bad about dumping me.
I put my phone back down, next to the two items I’d set aside for Leah: The Hound of the Baskervilles, and Jesse’s one-armed Batman.
Jesse. The boy Leah wanted me to help. The price she wanted me to pay for her friendship.
And the thing was, I wanted to pay it. The only thing stopping me from reaching into some complete stranger and stealing their sight for Jesse was the fact that I couldn’t. Sure, I’d feel guilty if I did it—but hell, I’d known I would feel guilty about passing my neck injury to someone else, and I’d done it anyway, because …
Well, because I’d chosen to do it. No matter how much Willow tried to justify it, and no matter how much
I tried to blame my dad, I was the one who’d actually done it. Only me. Just like I’d chosen to steal, over and over again, from Brandy.
And from Theo. And from other kids at school. And from more strangers than I could even remember.
If I really kept going down this path—down the path that Willow had forged, that my father had shaped, that I’d never questioned—how many more people would suffer?
I could stop stealing, of course. I could run away from Three Peaks and back to Brooklyn and swear never to steal from anyone again—but Willow and Holly would find someone new for the triad ritual, just like Aunt Holly had said. Maybe my aunt Calla. Maybe someone else. But either way, nothing would be different. Not really.
Something—something bigger than only me—had to change.
But what?
The third time I woke up, it was because I’d been dreaming. In my mind’s eye I’d seen the entire triad ritual, start to finish. The trek, the tree, the gifts, the leaves, the fire.
And the stone inside the fire.
The little piece of rock that belonged to the Cliff.
Throwing the covers aside, I made my way over to the bedroom door, opening it slowly so it wouldn’t creak. I couldn’t risk waking anyone up.
I went downstairs, the full moon lighting my way.
Without a fire crackling inside it, the living room’s fireplace looked weirdly ordinary. Kind of small. In need of some repair, which I’d never noticed before. I knelt in front of it, my knees protesting against the hard floor, and looked for the thing that would save us: the single stone from the Cliff, half hidden among the logs.
The Cliff wasn’t just a pile of rocks. It was a sentient being. It felt hunger, it preferred certain energies over others, it bargained, and it threatened. Hell, it’d actually given our family magical powers so we could keep it alive.
And if it was a sentient thing, that meant I could reach into it.
Pushing the charred logs aside, I touched the rock and looked for a way in. It was a second before I found it—and when I did, it felt different from the way into people or animals. It was … narrower? And sort of twisty.
Still. In I went. Only to find a jumble of things that didn’t point to the Cliff at all. A memory of fire, and of the feeling of rain on leaves, the sense of standing alone alone alone, the anticipation of people watching, and the memory of Willow, of Aunt Holly, of Heather, of Aunt Calla … of me.
It used to belong to the Cliff. Of course. That meant it didn’t anymore. This stone belonged to the ritual now. It held so many memories and feelings and peculiarities—from the tree, from the fireplace, from my family—that it would be impossible to untangle the Cliff from all the rest.
I withdrew my will from the stone, replaced the logs I’d moved, and sat back on my heels, brushing soot from my hands.
If I was really going to do this, and if the stone really didn’t belong to the Cliff anymore, then there was nothing in this room—nothing in this house—that would help me. If I was really going to do this, I had to go to the source.
I had to go up to the Cliff itself.
Aunt Holly kept her car keys on a hook by the door. I grabbed them, slipped my shoes on, and ran out to start the car. The engine seemed about forty times louder than usual, but there was nothing I could do about that. Even if I woke someone up, at least I’d have a hell of a head start.
I took the route that we’d taken on the Fourth of July, and pulled into the same empty field where everyone had parked that night: the place where the more-or-less-even ground started sloping more purposefully upward, and the woods became too dense to drive through. I’d have to walk the rest of the way, but that was okay. I had my phone, and my phone had a flashlight.
The path got steeper as I walked, and it was really freaking cold. So I tried to climb faster, skirting around boulders, winding my way around thick tree trunks like a pro—but when I nearly tripped in a small gully, I slowed down again. I was panting. Yeah, hiking was Theo’s turf, not mine. I had to be more careful.
Finally, after a painfully long time, I reached the top. The place where the upward slope gave way to the flattish expanse of grass where we’d watched the fireworks. I could see the exact point where the grass ended, where one more step would mean a fatal fall.
Kneeling down, I pressed my palms into the grass. I closed my eyes and felt the shape of each blade. I moved my hands, searching, searching, until … there it was: a way in. Narrow and jagged and winding and so far from human that it kind of scared me. But still.
A way in.
But following the path felt like trying to carve a tunnel through solid rock. My heart raced, and I could feel the muscles in my neck and my stomach and my thighs and my forearms tightening so much that I was sure they’d snap at any moment. But I had to make this work. There was no other option.
I pushed harder, feeling it in my fingernails and my eyeballs and my bones, wondering if I’d actually burst apart before I managed to get through—
And then, it happened.
The rock gave way, and I was inside.
I let out a long, ragged breath.
It didn’t feel the same as being inside the mind of another person. Not that I’d really expected it to be, but still. Where people, and even animals, were made of layers upon layers of thoughts and traits and neuroses and memories and infinite amounts of other things, the Cliff was … surprisingly simple.
In fact, once I cleared my mind enough to really look, I could make out only three distinct things.
First, there was the round, hollow feeling of hunger. That was no surprise.
Second, there was the sharp pinprick of a memory. A young man and a young woman, both around my age, hunched over a fire they’d built.
Ash and Rose. Willow’s children. I knew them by what they clutched in their hands—a rose petal in hers, an ash leaf in his—and I knew them because I knew. Because the Cliff knew.
They were crouched atop one large rock, amidst a giant pile of rubble that extended a short way into the valley. There was bargaining, and there was desperation, and there was magic.
Threaded through the larger memory was a series of smaller, more staccato memories that weren’t quite images, and weren’t quite feelings, but somewhere in between. A sense of being born. Of many small pieces coalescing into a whole. An instantaneous transition from not-being into being.
My breath caught as I realized what I was seeing.
Pieces becoming a whole. Not-being into being. Before Willow’s children had built that fire and brought their mother back to life, the Cliff had just been another quirk of geology. A tumble of rocks and dirt and whatever else you found in these mountains. But now it was a unified entity, far more than the sum of its parts.
Rose and Ash hadn’t awoken the Cliff. Because it hadn’t been sleeping. You can’t sleep if you aren’t sentient. Willow’s children were the ones who’d made it sentient.
Then there was the third thing I saw: a thin, barely visible spiderweb, connecting the Cliff to the May Day tree—and to Willow’s bloodline.
This was the thing that allowed Willow to feel when the Cliff needed feeding. This was also the thing that would allow the Cliff to kill us all—all her descendants—if it fell.
I closed my eyes and breathed, making sure my hands were steady. I hooked my will around all those little tendrils of connection, taking care that each piece was accounted for—that the cut would be clean.
This was it. The last moment that my family would have to serve this thing that existed only to feed its own hunger. This was the moment we would all be saved.
I mean, I was a goddamn superhero, basically.
I took a deep breath, and I got ready to steal the link away, and—
“Aspen.”
The suddenness of the voice made me jump, pulling me out of the Cliff’s consciousness, as my hands flailed around to keep me from losing my balance.
Willow.
She didn’t look angry. She d
idn’t come toward me. She just stood there in a pastel bathrobe and Crocs, and she looked at me, and she smiled.
“How’s your neck feeling?” she asked.
“Um. Fine? But how’d you know where I—”
“Aspen, my love. I’m not stupid. Where else would you be?”
I closed my eyes, blowing out a long breath.
“I was just—”
“There’s no need to explain.” Now she was moving toward me. Not running, like she wanted to stop me, and not creeping, like she had to be cautious. Just walking. Like this was a normal night, and we were both normal people doing normal things. “I know what you were doing.”
I stood up. At least this way I could be taller than her.
She drew closer, the pale moonlight falling softly onto her face. Her kind, grandmotherly face.
“Aspen,” she said, all smile and warmth and understanding. “You think you’re the first of us to have doubts?”
I stared at her. Was that a rhetorical question? I couldn’t tell.
Just in case it wasn’t, I replied, “Well, the ritual’s still going strong. So maybe yeah. Maybe I am.”
“Solid logic,” she said. “But you’re wrong. You’re far from the first. You aren’t even the first Quick to try severing our tie with the Cliff.”
I wasn’t?
“Then how come it’s still standing?” I asked.
“Because,” she said, “while you’re far from the first to have the idea, you might just be the first of my descendants strong enough to make it happen.”
My descendants. A reminder that I belonged to her. That my powers, my magic, my life wouldn’t exist if not for her.
“You have a remarkable power, Aspen,” she continued. “I’ve truly never felt anything like it. Such strength. Such precision. However, you do realize, don’t you, that that connection is the only thing keeping me alive?”
I frowned. “I thought it was just keeping you immortal. Like you’d still be alive, right? Just … normal. We’d all be normal.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that really what you want? Normalcy?”
“Yes!” I said. “God, yes.”
For the first time, her expression grew cold. “And what about the rest of us? This is about far more than just you, Aspen.”
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