by Paula Weston
Nathaniel breathes in and out slowly. ‘I will not “call down the Garrison” as you so crudely put it.’ His voice is wintry, hollow. ‘There are matters between my brothers and me that are not of your concern. I have kept you and protected you from the moment you came into my custody. Do you think it was an accident I found each of you? It was destined, and every decision I have made was for your good, to give you the chance of redemption.’
‘Redemption for sins we didn’t commit,’ Jude says.
‘Together, we will find your fathers,’ Nathaniel continues. ‘We will hand them over to the Garrison. Only then will you have the freedom and knowledge you so desperately crave, Judah. And you cannot achieve that if you are dead.’
‘I don’t plan on dying in Pan Beach.’
‘That does not mean it will not happen.’
‘Did it ever occur to you that our fathers’ sin was not in seducing human women, but in failing in their role as watchers and protectors? Gatekeepers are planning to attack a town full of people. If you let that happen, aren’t you falling all over again?’
‘Do NOT lecture me.’ Nathaniel’s voice is coarse enough to flay skin. ‘I watched over this planet when the sun was young and men remembered there were worlds they could not see. You are a child.’
It’s as if the room snaps frozen. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.
‘Being young doesn’t make me wrong,’ Jude says.
‘Perhaps you should reserve such sweeping statements until you know the magnitude of the havoc you and your sister wrought a year ago.’
There’s no answer to that.
I say carefully, firmly, ‘We’re going to Pan Beach.’ I scan the faces of the Rephaim on either side of Nathaniel. All conflicted. ‘Anyone else is welcome to join us. It’s not about choosing us over the Sanctuary—or at least it doesn’t have to be. And we could really use the back-up.’
We wait. Still nobody moves. Of course they don’t. It’s too much to expect—
Daisy steps out from the line of Rephaim.
Our eyes meet and I let her see how much this means. She crosses the floor with stilted steps. Jones nods his approval and makes space for her beside him. Nathaniel watches without a word.
‘We need to talk about Mya,’ Jones says to Jude.
‘We will. Not here.’
I’m ready for Nathaniel to issue an ultimatum. He doesn’t. He waits, and the rest of his Rephaim wait with him. Is this what it was like when the Outcasts walked out a decade ago? Daniel is fixated on a spot somewhere above my head, lost in his own struggle. It’s not about joining us—I doubt that option has even entered his head. But maybe he’s reframing how he sees Nathaniel, and that alone would be a seismic shift. Uri’s attention strays to Malachi and Micah. Calista catches Taya’s eye one last time, urgent. Taya shrugs.
Rafa cracks a knuckle, puts his back to Nathaniel. ‘All right, enough with the drama, let’s get out of here. Everyone know where we’re going? Good.’ And then to me, quieter: ‘You sure you two want to do this without a parachute?’
I nod. If there’s one place I’ll be able to shift to it’s that bungalow—the only place I’ve ever thought of as home. And Jude’s been to Pan Beach so all he has to do is trust me to guide us to my kitchen. I know it’s a risk but I want to do it. I need to.
Rafa puts a hand in the small of my back, leans in close. ‘I’ll see you at your place after I get the crew settled. Got your phone?’
My nerves crackle a little now. ‘Yeah.’
‘You two go first.’
Great. I get to shift with an audience of Nathaniel, Daniel, agitated Sanctuary soldiers and impatient Outcasts.
‘Come on,’ Jude says. ‘Let’s do this.’ As always, he’s up for anything. He faces me and for a second I’m back in that cable car with him, about to fall into a gaping chasm with only a bungee rope to stop us smashing into the river below. We grip hands and he gives me a wry smile. ‘Three…two…one.’
I picture stepping through the imaginary curtain into my kitchen. Sunlight streaming onto the red laminate. My library swipe card on the bench. Dirty coffee cups in the sink. The floor of the Sanctuary drops away, quick and violent. The cold rushes in: the wind tears at me. I can feel Jude’s hands still in mine. I’m doing it. I’m doing it. I’m—
Everything stops. And I’m in darkness.
AND NOW I SEE
The hurricane has frozen. Not disappeared as if we’ve arrived at the other end: frozen. I can’t open my eyes. Can’t feel Jude. Can’t speak. Are we stuck? My breath hitches, sticks. I’m suspended in a giant block of ice. In blackness. Total blackness. My head pounds at my temples, the base of my skull, the bridge of my nose.
What did I do wrong? Are we trapped on the other side of the curtain? That thing Rafa said never happens? Are we trapped with the Fallen? I can’t breathe, can’t think.
Then I feel it. A touch on the nape of my neck, on the scar where my Rephaite mark should be. I can’t tell if the thing touching me is warm or cool. Living or dead. I’m numb, either from the lung-crushing coldness, the lack of oxygen or that touch. But the scar flares unbearably hot for a split second.
And then it’s over.
I’m back in the maelstrom, Jude’s hands in mine. And then…we’re in my kitchen. An impossibly gentle arrival.
I blink against the sunshine, rest for a second against the bench. My fingertips, still numb, trace the scratches and wine stains on the red surface.
It’s all familiar.
Except it’s different. All of it. The jacaranda tree outside the window, the sound of the surf down the hill a block away, the smell of coffee grounds. I let go of Jude without looking at him and go to my room, hear the chatter start up in the kitchen behind me as the Butlers catch their breath.
My room is exactly how I left it. The beat-up desk from the market covered in clothes and books. Faded curtains. Dirty coffee cups on the floor. But none of it feels the same.
‘Gaby?’ Jude is at the door. We lock eyes and I see I’m not the only one feeling it. We exchange a long, silent look. He grips the doorjamb, waiting. He knows the world is about to change.
Because I remember.
Everything.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve hopefully expressed my gratitude to each of you individually, but for the record, my heartfelt thanks go to:
My editor, Mandy Brett, and the rest of the awesome team at Text Publishing including Anne Beilby, Rachel Shepheard, Alaina Gougoulis and Steph Speight.
The team at Orion/Indigo Books, particularly my editor Jenny Glencross and senior publicity manager Nina Douglas.
My agent, Lyn Tranter (Australian Literary Management), and Jane Finigan at Lutyens & Rubinstein Literary Agency in the UK.
For invaluable input into early drafts of Shimmer: Alison Arnold, Rebecca Cram (Place), Michelle Reid and Vikki Wakefield. Special thanks to Michelle for going the extra mile.
My nephew, Aaron Minerds, who kindly explained to me what happens when you fire a rocket into a building. (It’s okay, he has a military background.)
My family and friends, whose enthusiasm for my writing never fails to make me smile.
Murray: thank you for your love, good humour and endless patience—and the steady supply of espresso and pinot noir.
And, again, to all the readers, bloggers, reviewers, booksellers and librarians who continue to support the Rephaim series. Thank you.