by Sara Ella
When we reach the hall housing the countess’s bedchamber, I pause at the corner and peer through the dark. Gage stops, too, so quiet I wouldn’t know he was there unless I, well, knew. The roof bears wide gaps that could almost be mistaken for skylights if they were not so oddly shaped. My gaze lifts to the brilliant night sky and my pulse silences. One of the better Third Reflection anthems comes to mind. A song by—what was the band’s name?—Switchfoot? I never got around to learning the chords to “Stars” on guitar. Perhaps when this is all over, it’s one El and I can sing. Maybe on a night like this. A night when we’re together again and the only thing we need to worry about is the chill in the air.
“When I look at the stars . . . I feel like myself.”
Never were words more true.
El would be proud if she knew I was thinking in lyrics the way she does. I don’t believe she’s aware I know that detail about her. She’s never shared it with me, but I observe so much more than she lets on. Music is El’s oxygen. I’ve always held a love for it as well, but for her it’s different. I wish she were here now, but she’s nowhere near. Because I still haven’t completed my task.
I still have a job to do.
The countess’s chamber doors hang off their hinges. Two Guardians stand like fence posts on either side of the frame, as alert as if it were high noon. I have to laugh at the fact swords are their weapons of choice. They’ll be no match for me and Jonathan.
Blade at the ready, I sidestep down the hall. Jonathan follows, staying back and close to the hall’s opposite wall. At about the halfway point the Guardians notice us, unsheathe their weapons, and wait. We keep our pace steady, waiting for the last possible moment to attack. We’ve had enough practice together, and our movements remain in sync.
At ten feet out I glance back and to the right. Jonathan and I exchange nods. Three, two, one, charge. The Guardian on the right thrusts and I deflect, turn 360 degrees, and do the same with the left Guardian.
My partner steps in at the precise moment both Guardians thrust their weapons. He hits the left Guardian upside the head with the flat of his blade while I duck, countering my sword against the right Guardian’s kneecaps. Wailing, he collapses to the floor. I grip my hilt tighter and rise from my crouch.
Amateurs.
The remaining Guardian backs against the wall, rubbing his injured head, sword arm shaking. He can no doubt see this match is already won. Still, he stands his ground, parrying right, ready for one of us to make our next move. I’ve got to hand it to him. I admire a man who will stay and fight in the name of the one he’s sworn to protect. Such a man is one I’d trust with my own life.
But not today.
I jerk my chin toward Jonathan. He closes in on the Guardian, who lowers his weapon half an inch. No question who will win this standoff. I don’t see what my partner does next because I slip from the hall into the countess’s bedchamber.
Perhaps this will be easier than I anticipated.
Her bed lies at the room’s center. Chunks of ceiling act as obstacles, but I dodge them without issue. When I’m at her bedside I pause, watch her chest rise and fall, rise and fall. My vision blurs and unwarranted rage fills me. I narrow my gaze. She’s fooled me once. I’ll not tolerate her doing so again.
Remain calm. Keep your head. I am only here to scare her. I will not harm her.
“Unless she gives you no choice.”
No. It’s not a choice. I refuse.
“We shall see.”
I climb onto the bed. When I’m straight above her, she wakes. Her eyes and mouth widen at the same time. I cover her mouth to stifle a scream, though even if more Guardians showed up, I doubt we would have much trouble taking them.
“Listen carefully,” I whisper in her ear. “I am going to remove my hand in a moment. The only thing, the only thing that is to come out of your mouth is the location of the true Midnight Rose.”
She nods, eyes frantic. Her gaze shifts right.
I follow it and squint into the night. There, at the chamber’s other end, on a table domed in glass, is the rose. Of course she would keep it near. If she values it as much as Isabeau seems to, she’d want it close. I move to get up, lifting my hand—
The countess jerks her head up and bites down.
My teeth clench.
“Do it! You have a right to defend yourself. You are justified in this.”
No.
The countess’s eyes change. She’s shifting into her Siren state.
“Do it now. Before it’s too late. If she speaks with her Siren voice, you’ll be done for. You’ll never find the rose. Never achieve what you’ve worked so hard for.”
What choice do I have? The voice is right.
Free hand trembling, I raise it in the air. I pause. But then the countess opens her mouth and my hand comes down.
The blow is hard.
The blow is deadly.
The countess does not wake.
ACT IV
Her Voice
FORTY-ONE
Upon the Water
Welcome aboard the Iron Lass. I do hope ye enjoy the voyage.”
Isaach winks, then brandishes a pint, uncorks it, and chugs. Ale leaks and courses down and around the corners of his mouth, flecking his beard with alcohol droplets. Gone is the sour demeanor he wore during the council meeting. This man is a swab-bucketful of just enough drinks and not enough kilt. My gaze avoids him when he lounges on a nearby barrel, legs wide and drink punching the air. Unicorn Joust indeed. This man should not be allowed near weaponry of any sort. Ever.
Our crew goes to work, joining with the Iron Lass bunch to ready the vessel. It’s not as large as the Seven Seas and designed more like a Viking ship, with one sail at the center, lengthy oars protruding from either side, and the head of a Dragon carved into the wood at the bow. Yes, I finally learned the difference between stern and bow. I’m a true pirate now. Savvy?
My sisters and I share one oar, which is heavier than it first appears. We’re setting sail from the south side of Tecre Island, opposite of where we entered through the Tecre Sea. Just getting out of what I’ve been informed is Sarames Bay is difficult enough. Countess Ambrose didn’t come to see us off and Tide didn’t show either. We waited, but Ky figured our resident surfer dude decided to remain behind with his people. Makes sense but a glance at Ebony’s heartbroken expression has me irked. Tide, at the very least, could’ve said good-bye to her.
Dawn breaks but the air remains chilled. My face is numb and I rub my hands together, blowing hot breaths between them. According to Ky it’ll take all day to reach the Fifth’s Threshold. My arms scream from the burn brought on by rowing. But the work feels good, just as it did when we helped clear the Fourth’s wreckage.
Each day I grow stronger, more confident. When I happen upon my reflection it’s leaner, more toned. My round face has lengthened. My cheeks are more defined. It’s been awhile since I even bothered to feel self-conscious of my mirrormark. I was worried about change, terrified of what it would bring, but perhaps it’s for the better.
The old me would never be able to handle what’s happened. The old me would have fallen apart over Joshua’s betrayal. Yes, it hurts, but it won’t break me. I won’t let it. As Ky said, Joshua makes his own choices. I can’t be blamed for them, and I won’t be made to feel guilty for his despicable actions.
Joshua and I have been through so much and not enough. Through everything and nothing. Through beginnings and endings.
Joshua and I have been through . . .
We’re through.
The wind picks up a few miles out and a horde of dark clouds brews in the distance. Even from here I can see the lightning flashes within them. A natural squall or something caused by the draining Thresholds? Captain Isaach is passed out, and Ky orders us to draw in our oars. We do so, locking them in place. He struts to our trio, brows knit and eyes searching the waves.
He’s thinking what I am. Drat. We’re headed straight into a storm and
it may be another side effect of the Void’s hold on the Verity—the Verity’s connection to the Void. I rub my right arm, which still hurts, but I’ve gotten used to the ache. Is that good or bad?
“It’s neither,” Ky assures my mind. “Believe me, there’s no other way to cope with the pain but to live with it.”
Wind whistles past my ears. I lift the hood of my sweatshirt. What should we do?
“What do you suggest, my queen?”
I’d roll my eyes, but the seriousness in his thought makes me think better of it. My gaze descends. This is really the first time anyone has looked to me for guidance. The task is harder than it seems, and I make a note to put together my own council when and if I ever return to the Second. I’d include Mom and Makai and Stormy. Maybe I’ll earn some points back with Preacher if—
“Em?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. See who has one of the three remaining Callings. If we’re lucky maybe there’s a water Magnet on board who can help calm the storm. Unlikely, but all avenues should be exhausted before we buckle down and wait. Man, now I really wish I’d brought Stormy.
“Good idea,” Ky thinks. “Why don’t you go ahead and shift, scout things a few miles out. Don’t fly too close to the gale, but get close enough to report what we’re up against.”
Aye, aye, Captain.
He turns, moving from crew member to crew member, asking if they’re Called and if any are Masks or Scribs or Magnets. Not that a Scrib could do much, but who knows? Maybe someone carries knowledge of hurricane survival. What could it hurt?
I move to the stern, crouch behind a crate, strip off my top layer of clothing. Then I release the song within. My voice has grown stronger, clearer. I let the lyrics surround me. Wait for the familiar feeling of weightlessness.
But nothing happens.
Try again.
Fail.
Again.
Nothing.
Ten times. Ten times I sing my Mirror melody—the notes their own symphony—and neglect to transform. No. Not again. The Verity has absorbed another Calling. My voice is stronger because of it, but what does this matter? I’d hoped Mask would be the last to go. Nothing is ever so fortunate.
My heart an anchor at my feet, I don my clothes. Head across the ship to give Ky the worse-than-sucky news. But before I reach him, Ebony stops me.
She’s gotten super easy to read. The mischief perking her cheeks lets on she has a plan B. Hands on her hips, she quirks a brow. “Trouble in the butterfly department?”
“What are you thinking?”
Lips curving at the corners, she says, “I think you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“What else?” She flips her hair. Her Calling may be gone. Her makeup and nice clothes absent. But she’s Fifth Avenue as ever, all attitude and class. Poise. “I think it’s time we teach you how to project.”
If you’d told me two months ago that Quinn Kelly—in any shape or form—would one day teach me how to not only harness the Magnet within but project it, I’d have laughed. “Magnet what?” I would have said. “How much crazy-sauce did you eat last night?”
Good thing no one ever asked. They’d totally be saying, “I told you so,” right now.
“Again!” Ebony’s shout barely carries over the storm’s roar. “Don’t go soft on me. Draw out the Magnet. Be the Magnet.”
Oh sheesh, she sounds like my old PE teacher. “See the ball. Be the ball.”
I swipe the rain from my eyes. Slick my hair off my face for the hundredth time. What I’d give to have Stormy here. What’s she been doing in my absence? If only there were such a thing as phone calls between Reflections. I wish with all my heart to see her. To tell her about everything that’s happened. To confide in her about Joshua. And Ky. Ebony has opened up to me, but I haven’t crossed that street yet. I’m still feeling her out I guess. Waiting to see if she’s for real this time.
“What are you waiting for?” she calls through cupped hands.
Ugh. Fine. I put thoughts of Stormy on hold, free my song again. My sneakers slip and slide on the rain-ridden deck. I’m on my knees. Back up. Ack, I’m down. Splinter through the heel of my palm. Lovely.
We didn’t hit poor weather until a couple hours in. Ebony and Khloe put their heads together, working to figure out what my Magnet ability might be.
“Water?” Khloe suggested.
Ebony shrugged. “We could try it.”
And we did. It was the most obvious since Stormy is the only Magnet Ebony and I have met.
Nada. Zilch. Water access denied.
“Wind?” Khloe offered. “Fire?”
Nope and nope. The storm drew closer, and still I’d summoned nothing. Except this isn’t just a storm, it’s a typhoon. Five bucks says we’re overboard before we reach the Threshold.
“I’ll take your wager and raise you ten,” Ky thinks. “We’ll make it.”
When did you become Mr. Optimistic?
“When I realized you loved me.”
Yesterday?
“Try two months ago.”
Why am I not surprised?
“Remember what I told you about Magnets?” The weather is too much and I’ve no clue where on the ship Ky is.
Sort of? Question? Statement? I’m too soaked to tell.
“C’mon, Em. Scrib is working fine. If anyone can remember, it’s you.”
I’m on my feet again. Trip. Bite my tongue. Taste blood. Magnets, hmm . . .
They have to maintain extreme focus. And the focus exhausts them, drains their energy.
Ugh, my energy is already drained. I’m starting a step behind.
“What else?”
I will my brain to recall our conversation that night at Wichgreen Village. So much information. Such a small span of time. But . . .
They summon things. Elements. Matter. Energy.
“Try earth!” Ebony calls, breaking my concentration. “The sand at the ocean bed. See if you can summon that. You could make an island for the ship to wait on until the storm ends.”
I shake my sore arm. Grab the hem of my sweatshirt and ring it out. My feet squish in my sneakers. Wind sends the rain down at a diagonal. Still, I home in on my song. Earth, huh? I’ll give it a whirl.
Annnnnnddddd no.
“Try energy!” Khloe again.
I shake my head. What energy? Where? How do I even wrap my brain around the concept?
Ebony makes a time-out T with her arms. My sisters and I huddle together, bodies racked with shivers. “This isn’t working.” Sniffle. Cough. “We should just hunker down and wait for the storm to pass. I’m useless.”
“You are not useless,” Ebony says. “We just haven’t found your niche.”
My niche. Right. “How do you summon energy? How is that a thing?”
“Too bad Tide’s not here.” Khloe bounces on her toes. Her soggy curls hang like wet rotini.
“That’s it!” With a side hug to our youngest sister, Ebony squeals, “Runt, you’re a genius!”
“I know.” Khloe’s smile is like a painted doll’s.
“What’d I miss?” I glance between them.
“Remember what Tide said?” When she says his name, Ebony lights up like the Lincoln Center fountain.
My conversations with Tide were few and brief at that. “He said . . .” It’s coming back to me. “The Thresholds are comprised of energies rather than elements and—”
“If a Threshold drains”—Ebony’s interruption is rushed and bubbling—“it would create a wormhole. Which is why you have to summon the Threshold now. This storm is a warning. By the time we reach the passageway into the Fifth, it could be too late.”
Holy Verity, could I summon a Threshold? And not only that, project the ability onto another? Could my sisters and I work together to draw the Fifth Reflection Threshold here to get us out of harm’s way? It’s worth a try.
I scoot back. Widen my stance. Close my eyes. The Verity springs up. I feel the power of my Calling
surge, the spark before a blackout. Something tells me this is it. This is the last time the Verity will generate a Calling before going silent once more. And then it won’t be long before its light is doused entirely.
All or nothing. Make it count.
The ship rocks and tilts and I’m forced to brace myself against the railing. Thunder gives a standing ovation with its rounds of applause, while lightning flashes a curtain-call warning. Like the earthquakes, there’s no doubt this storm is anything but supernatural.
Which is why we cannot fail. I cannot fail. We will make it to the Fifth in one piece. We will find Dahlia Moon. We know a broken heart created the Void. Could the opposite rescind it?
The theory formed last night. Wide awake, I paced my room, mulling over the notion. If we could track down this immortal woman who was the first Verity’s vessel, help her find true love as she desired, could the Void be conquered?
Perhaps Dahlia Moon will have more answers.
Ebony waves her arms in frantic arches. I scan my peripherals, then try to block the chaos and find my calm. Around me, everything falls apart. Flint clutches the mast as if his life depends on it. Gunner mans the thrashing sail along with a few crew members I don’t recognize. Ky runs to and fro, barking orders, assisting where he’s needed. Charley is perched on the lookout while the remainder of the Iron Lass crew pours buckets upon buckets of water back into the ocean. Isaach, of course, is still passed out, water sloshing over his gut and up his kilt.
It’s madness. Here. There.
Everywhere.
Countess Ambrose’s final warning buoys in my memory. “The deeper into the Reflections you venture, the more opposition you will face. I have heard rumors of those who worship the Void.”
“Like the Soulless?” I asked.
She gave a solemn shake of her head. “Soulless have no free will. No minds of their own. The ones I refer to are known as Shadowalkers. They revere the darkness. Bow to it.”