Unblemished

by Sara Ella

  The unsteady vessel rocks. I take the bench behind Ky. He doesn’t look at me again.

  Stormy straddles the rear seat as Kuna pushes us off and dives underwater. I whirl. “What’s he doing?”

  “You’ll see.” Stormy’s fingers brush my arm, her brown eyes twinkling. Away from the shadow of the trees, the colored tips of her brown hair shine. They’re flames of neon purple. Dancing. Licking the night air.

  I could never pull that off.

  When we’re several yards out, a tumultuous splash pierces the tranquil sea. Kuna reverse-melts up from the water, shirtless, a tattoo identical to Wren’s looks miniaturized on his exaggerated pec. He smiles, pearly whites and all. There’s a secret in his eyes.

  What?

  He smiles wider, vanishing below the glassy waves. Another splash. A set of scaly green fins flicks. Slaps. Sends a cold shower our way.

  I guffaw. This can’t be real. Kuna is, he’s a . . .

  Merman?

  Flying I can handle. Seasickness, not so much.

  The waves chop and slice, manipulating the boat like a sautéed vegetable. The taste of stomach acid fills my mouth. I guzzle it back on a flood of stale canteen water. Nasty.

  Kuna shows up every now and then to give Stormy the thumbs-up, then returns to the world below when she mimics the gesture.

  Wow. A merman. What next?

  How long until we reach that sliver of land on the horizon? It might as well be a floating stick of gum. Thin and flat and far away. I can’t see the Haven’s shore anymore. Maybe we’re going faster than I think.

  Ky sits and sulks, his slumped back toward me.

  Let him sulk. He deserves to feel guilt for what he’s done. He’s lucky I don’t push him overboard. He did as much to Joshua.

  “Is that how I raised you? To hurt the people who hurt you?”

  Of course not, Mom. But where’s the justice? The punishment for his crimes?

  My middle churns again, and not because of the waves or constant undecided motion. Gage’s disdain for Ky is no secret. I don’t know much about him, but I know he wouldn’t bring Ky along just for kicks.

  Kuna must be pushing us from below because no one’s rowing. I always thought of merpeople as dainty redheads in purple bikinis. If Disney only knew.

  The boat tips too far to the right. I brace myself, eyes on the water. Any second Kuna’s going to pop up, his potato-sized thumb pointing to the moon.

  Come on, come on . . .

  Ka-boom! Thunder. Close thunder. One, two . . . flash! Lightning surges. Droplets of rain pelt down, full and extravagant.

  Stormy’s eyes are locked on the sky. Without a glance she orders, “Get down.”

  I scoot to the left and jam myself into the hampered space between benches. My hand slips, sending a splinter through the tip of my middle finger. I try to get it with my teeth. Futile. Never thought I’d miss Quinn, or rather, her purse. Tweezers would be nice to have right about now.

  The bottom stinks of mildew. It’s not far down. I sit with my knees to my chest, the sea still in full view. Rain gathers in the cracks between floorboards. I’m no sailor, but there must be a drain somewhere because we’re not sinking.

  Ky abandons his seat, too, fixes his gaze on me. “Untie me.”

  I recoil, refusing to look him in the eyes. “You think I’m going to help you after what you did to me? To Joshua?”

  “I can help them.”

  “Why should I trust you? What reason have you given me?” I turn my head slightly.

  He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Let me give you one now.”

  Around us the storm intensifies. We’re rocking uncontrollably. I stiffen from a spike of pain. Is the Illusoden wearing off so soon?

  “Hey.” Ky draws my attention back to him. “You’re bleeding.”

  The pain prickles and spreads, most pronounced on my right side. I press my hands to the warm, damp spot on my shirt. I don’t have to look. Ky’s right.

  The others busily prepare defense.

  Crud. This is a bad idea. “Fine,” I hiss. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  He turns, and I dig my fingers into the thick knots binding his wrists. The rope chafes my skin. It’s too tight. I bend and work at it with my teeth, gnawing and pulling. There. Almost got it. It’s loose!

  Ky acts quickly. He removes his top layer, wrings it out, and then rips it down the middle, leaving only a black thermal clinging to his form. He slips his hands beneath my jacket, wraps his torn tee around my waist, cinching it snug. The others are so focused on what’s happening outside the boat, they don’t notice us.

  “Ouch!” I will not take the Illusoden yet. I don’t need it. I don’t.

  He pauses. “Does that hurt?”

  “You think?”

  His brows furrow, and his lips flatten into a thin line. “Didn’t the Physic give you something for the pain?” Why should he care if I’m in pain or not?

  “Illusoden.” The word pants out of me.

  “When did he give it to you?”

  Does it matter? I shrug. Wince. “This afternoon.”

  Ky’s lips move but no sound emerges. He closes his eyes, then opens them. They’re hard and calculating. Then he shakes his head. The odd moment is over.

  What was that about?

  He knots the ripped T-shirt once, twice.

  This must be what a corset feels like. I can barely breathe, but I’m alive.

  He shakes as he stands, hugging the bench between his calves. Ky picks up the rope and wraps an end around each knuckle. Is he planning to strangle someone?

  Did I make a mistake?

  His focus remains seaward.

  I sigh and take in the others. Stormy’s gaze hasn’t left the sky. Preacher watches the sea, a death wish in his glare, in the way he grips his weapon. Gage holds a pair of binoculars to his eyes, his head twisting from side to side. Nobody seems to notice or care their prisoner is free.

  Splash! Kuna soars over the boat. Did he jump? Was he thrown? I’ve got a feeling I won’t have to wait long to find out.

  Is that . . . a head . . . in the distance? Coming closer. No way.

  A little girl, no older than six or seven, swims toward us. She’s wailing, “Mama! Mama!”

  We have to help her. Whatever danger lies below the surface will go for her first. I push the pain aside and reach out.

  Ky grips my wrist, shoves my arm down. “Don’t. It’s a ruse.”

  Isabeau’s gorgeous face invades my thoughts. Was that her true form?

  No. It wasn’t.

  My heart seizes. The girl cries louder, her squeal carried by the wind. Every instinct says rescue her. I cover my ears, trying to drown out the sound. I’m tired of this. Tired of fear.

  The girl snakes into the air, towering high. Like a mermaid, the top half of her body is human. But the similarity ends there. Her bottom half is red, slender, and slimy. Serpentine.

  Preacher nocks and shoots, nocks and shoots, his face twisted into wrinkled knobs.

  The monster doesn’t even twitch. Instead she opens her small mouth wide, exposing rows and rows of deadly-looking fangs. A Venus flytrap, hungry and ready to devour. Then, ever so slowly, she glides forward on the chopping waves.

  Gage yanks an oar from the boat’s bottom and rows, puffing determined breaths through puckered lips. Left, right, left, right.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Leviathan,” Ky answers. “The Dragon of the sea.”

  We’re going to die. Right here, right now.

  I rise, gripping the boat’s smooth edge. If we’re all goners, I’m going to stand. Face what’s coming. I won’t cower. My knees knock as water sloshes over the side.

  “What are you doing? Get down.” Preacher reprimands me like an insolent child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  Ky brings the rope over my head and pulls back against my neck.

  I claw at his hands. I love you, Mom.

  He pulls
tighter.

  Gasp. No air. Joshua’s face flashes across my blurred vision, calming me for the briefest, purest instant.

  Stormy looks our way at the exact second the storm subsides. Why doesn’t Ky’s stare affect her, or the others for that matter? If he wanted to, he could make them all go limp with one glance. Couldn’t he?

  “Let her go, Kyaphus,” Gage commands.

  The Leviathan shrieks.

  The boat flips.

  Smack!

  We’re all going to be fish food.

  THIRTEEN

  That Boy

  My eyelids are fifty pounds too heavy. I’m waking, but I can’t quite bring myself to full consciousness. These sheets are so not Second Reflection material. I roll my head from side to side. This pillow isn’t either. Too . . . fluffy. Do I smell lavender and vanilla? Yes. Mom’s burning candles again. We’re home.

  I open my eyes. Billows of white gossamer drape over and around me. I’m lying beneath a heavy gold-and-maroon damask comforter. Not home. Not even close.

  The surroundings beyond the four-poster bed are, in a word, presidential. Persian rugs. Ceiling-high curtains. Soft-glowing lamps. Wingback chairs. A grand vanity mirror with intricate carvings in its frame. A tray piled with frosted pastries. A china tea set on a mahogany table. It’s a scene straight from A Little Princess.

  I sit. Ky’s T-shirt bandage is gone, along with my clothes. A silky green robe swathes my naked body. My face flushes. Who undressed me?

  Testing my strength, I lean forward, then side to side. Sore. Far from dying. I peel the comforter off, swinging my legs over. The mattress is as deep as it is wide. I have to hop to get down. The plush rug conforms to my feet. I walk to one corner where a fire crackles in the hearth. My Uggs rest beside it. Next to them my clothes are neatly folded on a chair, bra and underwear included. Who folds underwear? I pull my long-sleeved shirt from the middle of the pile. Sniff. Things are looking up. I’m not going to smell like a hobbit today.

  With my back to the door, I dress locker-room-style, the robe draping my body. When I’m done, I toss it on the bed and glide my feet into the toasty, sand-flecked boots. I find a brush on a table and run it through my hair. Where knots should be, the bristles meet sleek locks. I set it down and smell my skin. Baby-powder fresh. Has someone been grooming and bathing me too?

  Why do I feel as if I’m forgetting something? The Illusoden. I dig in my pockets, check under the chair. Nope. It’s gone. Nothing I can do about it. Might as well eat.

  I snatch a croissant from the pastry tray, tear off little pieces, and pop them in my mouth. The sweet, buttery flakes melt on my tongue. Steam rises from the teapot. I pour some, add cream and sugar, and sip with caution.

  Earl Grey. Mom’s favorite.

  I meander around. The lamps are electric. If I’m still in the Second Reflection, there’s only one place this could be. Jasyn’s castle. Robyn said he’s the only one who has access to electricity.

  My insides seethe. Ky. It’s the only explanation. I’ve no idea how, but I know he brought me here, the traitor. Why did I untie him? Stupid.

  Another glance around and I scrunch my face. Wait. If I’m a prisoner, why am I in this luxurious suite instead of a dungeon?

  I open what I think is a closet door and discover a master-sized bathroom complete with civilized plumbing. Guess I could’ve changed in there.

  What now? No doubt those grand double doors are guarded. I pace to the covered window, push the velvety curtains aside. Night blankets the sky beyond the glass, pale moonlight doing little to illuminate the landscape. We’re on a hill. The only other light provided is artificial, spilling from lampposts stationed around the hill’s edge. Beyond that, the world is inky black.

  I zero in my gaze on what I can make out. One story below me lies a courtyard, a Bethesda Fountain replica dominating its center. Where the Angel of the Waters statue should be stands a sculpture of a Dragon, a single, thorny rose nestled between its bared teeth. I press my face against the stained glass. Are those stables? How hard can it be to ride a horse? If this is Jasyn’s castle, Mom’s here somewhere. I’ll find her and—

  “You ought to be resting.”

  Crash! China shards and hot tea ring my feet. Good thing I put on my boots.

  A man with a pragmatic expression and deep-set brown eyes stands by the bed. He’s dressed in a suit and tie, his hands folded casually in front of him. “Please, do not be alarmed. I am not your enemy.”

  Liar. “Jasyn?”

  He laughs. “I do not think I have ever heard my name spoken with such disdain. We have not even been properly introduced.”

  Scowling, I cross my arms. “Where. Is. My. Mom?” Each word is a spiraling dagger.

  “Elizabeth is in her suite. She is resting now. You may visit with her later.”

  What’s up with this guy? He’s so coy and . . . nice. “Why all the dramatics? Healing me. Putting me up in a fancy room. Why not kill me now and get it over with?”

  His eyebrows sink. “Kill you? What purpose would that serve?”

  I drop my guard a fraction. What game is he playing?

  He steps forward gingerly. “I can assure you, my dear granddaughter, the last thing I want is your blood on my hands.”

  I convulse from top to bottom. “I’m not your granddaughter.” No way. Not buying it.

  “Come.” He gestures toward the doors. “Let us go for a stroll in the rose garden.”

  The courtyard’s layout reminds me of Conservatory Garden. Paths broken up by plots of soil where flowers and grass should be. We amble over a flagstone walkway, sharp angles of broken rock pieced together like a mosaic. Sconces dangle from the castle walls, giving the courtyard a certain ambience. A waist-high, gray brick wall borders the brink of the leveled hilltop. When we reach it, I stand beneath a lamppost, let my eyes adjust to the dim light. Below, a black forest waits, and beyond that, a lake comes into view through a break in the trees. From this distance, it just looks like a great big puddle. The smallness reminds me of a landscape model Joshua built for school once.

  Twinge. How am I supposed to let him go? Maybe I was his duty, but he meant so much more to me.

  The water in the fountain at the courtyard’s center is frozen. Our footsteps seem to whisper “shhh” as we round it in silence. If I thought the inside was grand, the outside is just as impressive. While the interior is sophisticated—The Plaza, The Ritz, and The Pierre all rolled into one—the exterior is magnificent. Belvedere Castle and background skyscrapers combined. A seamless blend of contemporary architecture and medieval charm. Walls made of granite. Cone-capped towers. And oh, for all the windows. High and low, arced and squared, wide and narrow. It’s literally like gazing upon Fifth Avenue hotels at night, with some guests still awake, rooms illuminated. Others have long gone to bed, their lamps extinguished.

  Joshua would have loved this.

  Jasyn clears his throat. “Tell me. What have you been told?”

  You’re my enemy. You’re a power-hungry soul-stealer. I alone can supposedly lead the people to their lost king. “Not much.” My breath fogs. I shiver. How is he not cold?

  “Ah.” He grins. “You do not wish to tell me?”

  “How about I ask you some questions?” He wants to talk, let’s talk.

  “All right.” He veers from the fountain and heads down a hedge-lined path. The leaves have all fallen and died, the bare branches stretching, unashamed at their nakedness. This is his rose garden?

  I glance again at the night sky. The naked rosebushes. The black forest. Joshua mentioned Shadow Territory. This has to be it. Maybe it’s not even night at all. What if it’s always night here?

  I trail Jasyn’s course. The hedges are a maze, weaving out from the courtyard and back in again. “How did you heal me?”

  “I did not simply heal you, my dear. I brought you back from the dead.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Is it?”

  He’s lying. No one is t
hat powerful.

  “I have access to many rare remedies. One of the many perks of being king.”

  You’re no king. “How long have I been here?”

  “Two full nights.”

  I count backward in my head. It’s Wednesday. Three days since Joshua died.

  Since I died.

  “Who undressed me? Brushed my hair? Bathed me?”

  “One of my female servants.”

  Phew. If he’s telling the truth.

  “Where did you get your fancy suit?” He looks as if he stepped out of an Armani catalog, nothing like the other residents I’ve seen.

  “I have the means to conduct commerce with some of the other Reflections. My favorite is yours, the Third. So much luxury and frivolity there. I send my personal assistant, and she brings me back whatever I request. If you like, I can have some peanut butter M&M’s sent to your room. I know they are your favorite.”

  How did he—? “No, thank you.” Don’t fall into his traps. Move on. “Haman promised Isabeau he would give her my mom’s . . .” Gah, how do I say this? “He promised something of my mom’s.” Is hers one of the lit windows? Is she looking down on me now?

  He frowns. “Haman said what he had to in order to get past the Troll.”

  “He seemed serious. Made some kind of weird, hand-kissing vow.” When Jasyn shows no sign of concern, I add, “I don’t want that night crawler anywhere near her.”

  Waving me off, he says, “Do not worry about Haman. I have made it explicitly clear to all my servants no harm is to come to you or my daughter.”

  I stop, cup my hands on my hips. “Well, harm did come. Haman and Ky killed Joshua, and they almost killed me. If you’re my grandfather, as you claim, how could you let those things happen?”

  Jasyn pivots, inclining his head. “Tell me more about Joshua. He was your Guardian, correct? You two were close?”

  My arms relax, and I march past him. “It’s none of your business.” How does he know so much about my life? “You’re avoiding my question. If you’re my—?”