Unraveling

by Sara Ella

  “I do.”

  Ky’s constant reassurances are becoming commonplace. I almost hate to admit I wait for them. Expect them. Any moment his voice could vanish. And then he’d really be gone.

  Iron doors mark my path to the right and left every ten paces. Sconces are positioned between, though only a few produce light. The doors bear no windows, just slender slots at eye level, and iPad-sized cat doors at the bottom. A familiar scent puckers my nose, and I opt to breathe through my mouth. It’s not too far removed from the pungent aroma of a subway tunnel. Urine blended with a hint of spray paint fumes and BO.

  I check every peep slot, sliding them across—shick—and back again—clank. Empty, empty, empty. Faster. Five doors. Ten. Three left turns . . . now four. How vast is this level? And how much longer before Preacher realizes I’m not in the kitchen?

  Around a fifth corner I careen, stop dead at the brink of yet another identical hallway accommodating more doors, which I have no doubt also host vacant cells. Is it designed as a labyrinth on purpose? Maybe that’s why I haven’t come across a single Guardian. Who needs them when I can’t even locate one measly prisoner?

  Hmm, better retrace my steps, see if I missed something. Retreat, run right, sprint right, jog right, walk, ouch-my-knee, limp, slow down—

  Wait . . . Is this the way I came? Whirl. Squint. Crud. Nice plan. Maybe everyone’s right. If I can’t navigate a dungeon, perhaps I do need a babysitter.

  Shallow breaths and dizziness take precedence. My knee is really starting to throb now. I half expect my heart to beat right out of the pulse residing there. If I just sit for a minute, regain my bearings, I’ll be fine. Using the wall for support I slide onto my rear, good leg sprawled in front of me, bad one bent to my chest. The earthy floor cools my thigh through the fabric of my skirt. I press my palms to my cheeks, swipe sweaty cowlicks from my temples. Drip, drip, drip. A leak plinks into a pot somewhere, washing a memory to my mind’s shore.

  To think I believed Jasyn would put me up in a penthouse suite. It had all seemed so real. The comfy bed, the crackling fire, the French pastries. What a joke. I’d been in a dungeon cell the entire time. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to see through his tricks—

  My body rigidifies, and my head smacks the wall. Ouch and duh. I rub the sore spot through my thick tangles. Why didn’t I see it? I rise and search the surrounding space. An Amulet has put a façade over this level. Has to be. But I’m usually quick to catch an Amulet’s work. I see through façades before most. It’s one of my strengths as a Mirror.

  Fear spreads deeper, winding its roots around my gut. Something is definitely wrong with my Calling. Stormy had trouble with her Magnet when we were with Gage. Joshua couldn’t heal Kuna. Who else has been affected? And how is this possible? If the Callings are sourced by the Verity—

  My breath ceases. How did I miss it?

  If something is wrong with the Callings . . .

  Then something is troubling the Verity, causing it to remain stagnant . . .

  Which means the problem lies within me.

  This is the reason for the whispers and stares in the halls. Why Joshua won’t let me help. Why Preacher believes the Verity may have been in error.

  A wave of nausea sends my hand to my mouth. Something is . . . wrong with me. The thought makes me feel unclean. Could Preacher be right? Did the Verity make a mistake? What if I’m like cancer and something about me is eating away at the Verity, hindering it from empowering the Callings?

  Gasp. And the Thresholds. They’re sourced by the Verity as well. Whatever happened at Dawn Lake wasn’t an accident or a mere case of someone walking on too-thin ice.

  Fury spreads like wildfire through the fabric of my soul. Just when I was getting used to my mirrormark—accepting it as strength and beauty and so uniquely me. This is almost worse than a blemished reflection. Because true beauty comes from within, from the person you are. And if my soul is weakening the Verity, what does that say about me?

  My eyelids migrate south, and I inhale a controlled breath to quell my shaking limbs. The truth is so clear it slaps me in the face. Is this fate’s design? To keep me the forever screwup? My greatest fear comes to life. Concrete. Final. It’s one thing to hate my reflection, to think I’m ugly, or to worry about how others perceive me. It’s entirely another to realize, deep down, I was right all along.

  I am damaged. And not just on the surface. Not just where others can see.

  My very soul, my essence, my heart is not good enough to house the Verity. I’m no better than the person I came down here to find.

  “Em, no. You’ve got it wrong.”

  I ignore the sadness in Ky’s voice, rise with leg shaking, and move forward. But instead of turning around the next corner, I walk straight through the wall before me. Within moments I’m in a new hallway. Terra-cotta tiles replace the grimy floor, and track lighting above sheds a homey glow. Two doors await ahead, plain white with a tiny window in each like at a hospital. Situated between the doors, a C-shaped nook sinks into the wall, privacy curtain pushed to one side. A cot topped with a ratty comforter and a single flat pillow sits at the back. And there, sitting with legs crossed and red lips sneering, is none other than Quinn Kelley in the flesh.

  I release an exaggerated sigh. At least someone’s Calling is working fine. “Knock the Shield off, Ebony.”

  She stands but doesn’t approach. Plants pristinely manicured hands on her hips. She may look like my ex-bestie with her platinum hair and ice-blue eyes, but it doesn’t matter what persona she takes on. Deep down she’s just my traitorous half sister.

  Her eyes narrow. “What the bleep took you so long?”

  THIRTEEN

  Mine

  You know those moments when you can’t think of anything to say?

  Now is not one of them.

  Every jab and nasty comment. Every unkind word. Every lie Quinn has ever uttered buoys to the surface, breathes and expands. I’ve spent so much time suppressing my hurt, trying to get over it, but now it boils over. A white-hot ball of pent-up woundedness. I have so many things to say to her. So many questions.

  Why?

  How could you?

  What kind of person does what you did?

  Instead I spit out, “Is that all you have to say to me?”

  She blinks. “What am I supposed to say?”

  I emit an irritated gurgle in my throat. “An apology would be nice, for starters.”

  “Life isn’t scripted, El. Get used to it.” She flicks her hand flippantly and hops off the bed.

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Makes two of us.”

  I scan the length of her, absorbing her appearance. Torn fishnet stockings run up her legs, disappear beneath a wrinkled black dress. She’s barefoot too. I never realized how short she is without high heels. A closer glance at her “bedroom” reveals a chamber pot tucked in one corner.

  Quinn shifts. Her shoulders lift as if trying to shrug off my scrutiny. “My Shield has been faulty. I can alter my person, but my clothing remains the same.”

  I recall the first time I saw her shift, when she revealed herself as Mom’s conniving art dealer Lincoln Cooper and I discovered just how deep Quinn’s—Ebony’s—deceit ran. The way she’d played me to exact revenge. Now, as her face contorts, the transformation doesn’t seem out of place. Instead I find it suits her superficial personality. Her sharp features soften, and everything from her hair to her skin fades from bright to shaded.

  Shaded. Like her soul.

  Ugh. And mine apparently.

  Ebony Archer stares back at me, a knowing glare in her espresso eyes. “But that’s why you’re down here, isn’t it? You already know something’s up with the Callings.”

  “What do you know? Why are the Callings”—what’s a good word?—“malfunctioning? Do you know which cell belongs to Gage? Maybe I can question him—”

  “Relax, little sis. Don’t be so rushy-rushy. Lucky for you I eavesdropped on
Gage’s interrogation. I’ll fill you in. But first you’re going to do something for me.”

  This part, of course, is unavoidable. “What do you want?”

  She yawns, makes a show of ghosting her hand over her mouth. “Nothing much. Just a small token, some collateral to ensure you don’t screw me over.”

  As always her word choice proves tactless. A hurried glance over my shoulder allows me to breathe easier. No Preacher. Yet. “Get to the point, Ebony. Name your price.”

  She meets me at the nook’s edge where the tile on my side meets the carpeted floor on hers. Next she reaches forward, palms facing me, and pushes as if an invisible wall separates us.

  I step back and examine the air before me. No, not air, glass. Glass so clean and clear it’s hardly detectable. Ebony’s in a cage.

  “Only David knows the way in and out,” she explains. “But that is irrelevant. Because you, my dear sister, are a Mirror.”

  My face numbs. “How did you—?”

  “I’m not clueless. Your display last Eleventh Month pretty much alerted everyone and their horse to your Calling.”

  My display. I touch my right cheek. Ky and I discovered Queen Ember’s “Mirror Theory” together. I guess most people know my ability based on what they’ve seen me do. Sometimes I forget only a select few know how my birthmark—mirrormark—is related. Every Calling has a symbol associated with it, a tattoo that appears when the Calling manifests. But unlike the seven main Callings, which are revealed by the intake of Threshold water, the Mirror Calling can only be given to one person at a time. And nothing but a Kiss of Infinity bestowed by the Verity’s vessel can create a Mirror.

  Could this be the problem? I’m a Mirror and the Verity’s vessel. Perhaps my Calling needs to be passed on to someone else. Could the Mirror in me be hindering the Verity from functioning properly?

  I shake my head. None of this adds up. If the Callings are sourced by the Verity, why would mine hinder it? Joshua was an Ever and the vessel. It didn’t cause him any complications.

  But Mirrors are different. Special. Rare. Ugh. My brain hurts. Once again I sense this is all connected. But how?

  “En-ee-waaay.” Ebony curls her upper lip and examines her nails. “What I seek is a trifle. You release me, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “That’s it?” No way. Not buying it.

  She smiles. I almost believe it’s genuine. “That’s it.”

  I lift one eyebrow the way Ky does when he doesn’t believe someone. “Yeah, right. Tell me what I need to know first, then I’ll release you.” Maybe.

  In the past moving through a reflective barrier would’ve been easier than playing “Chopsticks” on the piano. But I haven’t attempted mirror walking in a while. If my song is dying and my hands are unable to heal, what other abilities am I losing?

  “Let’s make a deal.” She leans her head to one side and begins braiding her mocha tresses. “I’ll give you what you want, and vice versa.” When the braid is finished she secures it with a black tie from around her wrist. “We can be sure the other will follow through because we’ll seal the promise with a Kiss of Accord. Fair enough?”

  A Kiss of Accord? Hmm. “How do I know this isn’t a trick? How do I know you can help me?”

  “I guess you don’t. But let me add this, sweeten the deal a bit. I’m aware you didn’t just come down here to chat about Callings, or even Gage’s interrogation.” She doesn’t miss a beat when she says, “You want to know where Rhyen is.”

  I blink, keeping my expression as neutral as possible despite the thudding in my chest. This confirms my intuition was correct. Ebony won’t tiptoe around me. She’s exactly who I need. “Where is he?”

  Ebony clicks her tongue. “Do we have a deal?”

  Before I can weigh the pros and cons of her offer—and there are most definitely more cons than pros when it comes to Ebony—the ground shakes. The cell doors rattle on their hinges and rubble tumbles from the ceiling. My half sister’s face turns ghostly, contrasting against her pink lips and darker-than-mine hair.

  Our eyes meet. She pounds the unaffected glass. “Get me out.”

  I glance over my shoulder. Then back at the transparent wall separating us. I could book it or even attempt to mirror walk to a safer place. Alone. Without her.

  Would serve her right.

  “El, come on!” Her shrill plea only grates my nerves. Where was she when I needed her? When I was the one in trouble and could’ve used a real and true friend?

  “El, pleeeassse.” The ceiling in her cell begins to crumble. She covers her head with her arms.

  I consider her for another second. Then I groan and press a palm to the glass, clear my throat. My song is scratchy, off-key, and breathy and barely a melody at all. But it’s enough. A sensation like having the air knocked out of me takes over. It’s as if my lungs are being squeezed through a pipe. Normally the transition from here to there is smoother, and not at all painful. This is so not a good sign.

  Once I’m inside the cage, Ebony flings her arm toward me.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. I should leave her here, make her pay.

  “But that’s not who you are,” Ky says, and I swear that’s a smile in his voice.

  “Get us out of here,” Ebony screeches.

  With her hand in mine, I return to the glass wall. I begin my song but my voice is so raw, I might as well be lip-syncing for the amount of sound coming through my lips. I swallow, shake my head, begin again. Pain shoots up and down my throat and I cry out, making a noise like a beaten donkey. It’s not working.

  “Because you’re relying on the wrong thing.”

  Ky? Sigh. Help me.

  “Think, Em. What did you learn at Nathaniel’s the first time you passed through a mirror?”

  I close my eyes and picture it. The musty attic. My cynical grandfather in his ratty old bathrobe. Ky encouraging me, believing in me.

  How could I forget?

  My eyes open and my soul jolts. Preacher stands on the other side of the glass, his face wrinkled with a mixture of anger and disappointment. He’s pointing a finger at me, commanding me to come out. An all-too-familiar guilt returns and prick, prick, pricks my chest. Preacher’s mad because I lied to him. Because he’s trying to protect me. Maybe Ky was right and Preacher isn’t so bad.

  “Finally she gets it.” Ky laughs in my head. “When are you going to learn I am pretty much always right?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Reflections to El.” Ebony snaps her fingers in front of my nose. “Now is not the ideal time to pursue a career as a space cadet.”

  Where was I? The attic . . . my song . . . the way I felt . . .

  Love. Not song alone, but love. I wonder . . . could it work?

  Only one way to find out.

  This time when I close my eyes and press my palm to the glass I don’t open my mouth. Instead I experience the music, the lyrics, within. I allow the notes to glide across my soul. I feel their reverberations around my heart. They fill me up and undo me at once. I think of Mom and my new sibling. Of Makai, and of course Joshua. And then . . . then I think of Ky. I see his face. Feel his hand in mine.

  That’s when the song comes alive, as if it’s awakening my soul. The glass turns liquid beneath my touch.

  Ebony and I step through.

  ACT II

  Poor Unfortunate Souls

  FOURTEEN

  Joshua

  The air on Lisel Island is thin and briny. I breathe deep, my chest expanding as I take it all in. This is where I grew up. Here I am at home.

  “Do you think he’s expecting visitors?” Wren asks.

  “Nathaniel Archer raised me. I’ve no need for an invitation here.”

  “If you say so.” She shrugs, leaving a substantial amount of space between us as we contemplate the remodeled brownstone.

  One of my first tasks as interim king was to have a team fix it up, and a fine job they did. I have not had a chance to witness it
since the remodel. The caved steps have been demolished and replaced, the door repainted a deep shade of green. The windows are quartz clear, their sills sanded and coated with fresh varnish. Even the planters have been cleared out, at the ready to host flowers come spring.

  If only I could have worked on it myself. Perhaps when this is over I can build one for El. She would love that. A place for us alone, away from duty and responsibility. My father had this one built for my mother. A grand gesture would be just the thing—

  Wren coughs and I consider her with a sideways glance. She rubs and rolls her neck, breathing deep and stretching. She had a more difficult time than usual transforming into her Mask state tonight, and even then her griffin didn’t appear quite right, her feathers thinned, her beak not fully grown. It was a relief she was able to shift at all. So far it seems Physic and Ever are the only two Callings that have vanished completely, but some of the others have also begun to show signs of wear. Stormy’s shaky Magnet and now Wren’s off-kilter griffin. What will fail next?

  Grinding my teeth, I bury my anxiety. My new mortality has made me more cautious as of late, holding me back like a cage. This is why we have come. Nathaniel will have answers.

  Wren proceeds up the steps and I follow. Blueprints for El’s country home occupy my brain, filling me with hope for our future once more. She will require a room for her music, a space magnificent enough to house a grand piano. Would she want a sound studio as well, a place where she can record her own music? Where we can record together?

  I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. First things first. If I desire a private haven where El and I can be us again, I must stop what’s happening to the Callings and Thresholds before it ventures too far.

  Wren knocks on the front door. I chuckle and move past her, twisting the knob and walking straight in. The foyer is not at all how I remember. The wood floor is clean and buffed, the ratty rug removed. “Nathaniel?” I cough and wait. When no answer returns I try again. “Nathaniel. It’s Joshua. Are you home?”