by Katie Zaber
Sitting up slowly, I take in the rest of the ritzy room.
Support columns the size of tree trunks but made of smooth white marble frame the angelic plafond. They have a radiant shimmer, like polished ivory. At the base of the columns is a stunning floor. It looks like opal marble. Vivid shades of greens, yellows, blues, and pinks explode on the extravagant floor. I would have loved to have it in my condominium. Opals are my favorite, even though they aren’t my birthstone. I love to stare at them from different angles as the light reflects off the stone, showing its hidden colors. I doubt the floor is opal. They are too fragile and are known to break easily.
Years ago, I had a gorgeous boulder opal necklace. The stone looked like a glassy piece of petrified wood, enchantingly rustic. Vibrant teals, turquoises, and lime greens sparkled against browns, creams, gold, and various shades of chocolate. It was my favorite piece of jewelry. My dad let me pick it out. It was the last thing he bought me.
They don’t tell you when you are a kid, but opals shatter and turn to dust without constant oil and maintenance. I still don’t know what the necklace hit, but it shattered. Crying, I picked up the fragments and stashed them in my jewelry box where, after years of sitting, the fragmented stones crumbled into a pile of dust. It broke my heart. I destroyed the last present Dad gave me. I never bought another opal. I was too scared the same thing would happen, but I have always admired their beauty.
If this room weren’t my prison cell, it would be the most spectacular, gaudy, expensive room I’ve ever seen. The price of the construction and supplies had to be over a million dollars before adding the furnishings.
On top of the clam lounge, someone put a couple towels and a note. I walk over and pick up the very thin, crinkly paper; it reminds me of rolling paper. There’s glossy black ink with curly writing, but it isn’t cursive. However, it’s strangely familiar.
Get washed. Dress nice, formal attire only. - T.C.
Formal attire, my ass.
Who do they think I am?
What do they want?
Who the hell put that here?
Why is my prison cell so fancy?
Who the hell is T.C.?
My stomach twists, and it’s not from the headache.
I want answers.
Where the hell am I?
I open the window above the bed and receive a burst of salty air and a spectacular view. A million-dollar view from a tropical hideaway up a mountain cannot compare to what is outside the window. I open the door and step out onto the balcony. It overlooks a pristine ocean. Looking over the ledge, I get dizzy. The room must be at least ten stories high, and the castle keeps going up and up. It’s for sure a castle. The walls on the outside are the same brilliant white stone blocks that are inside my cell. They must make up the castle’s entirety.
The water isn’t deep this close to shore, I can actually see the ocean floor. During low tide, I could probably walk to the islands closest to the beach. Beautiful, tranquil, turquoise waves lap onto the golden sands below a clear baby-blue sky. When I look at the horizon, the sky and ocean meet but seem as if they combine into one never-ending body of blue. In the distance, people enjoy the beach. They play in the water, lay out in the sun. Children splash one another. People fish with nets and poles. A couple little boats bob in the current. From the size of their boats, they must be fishermen. Farther out, massive wooden ships all sail in the same direction. There must be a port nearby. Tiny little islands are scattered across the horizon. Birds flap their wings and caw in the distance. The waves crash along the shore while colorful tropical trees sway in the breeze.
It’s easy to pretend I’m on vacation at a luxury resort in the Caribbean. People would pay thousands to stay here, but I would give anything to escape this tropical paradise.
When and how did I get here?
Am I even on the same continent as Capo?
Quietly, I close the balcony door and tiptoe across the room toward the three doors. I jiggle each door handle, finding all three locked.
I slink back to the tub. I might as well enjoy one last bath. Upon closer inspection, I’m stunned—I don’t believe my eyes. Attached to the tub are long bronze-looking pipes that go down and into the wall behind it. Double-crossed metal handles center the faucet. On the back of the faucet is a small lever, I assume for stopping the drain.
Hot and cold water.
It’s more luxurious than anything else in the room, and that’s saying something. Each soap smells tantalizing. Rich, new, exotic aromas make me think of the Caribbean again. Without further consideration, I peel off my dirty clothes and toss them into a pile. Most likely, it will be the last time I wear them.
My fingers run across the grooves on the clam tub. I can see the wear and tear in the shell’s surface, a clear sign it was once alive. Someone smoothed out the calcareous texture, but you can’t hide the natural scars on the shell. The tub is real.
Kevin has a small metal tub, but no running water. We had to heat and lug around buckets of water. It takes five buckets to fill his tub halfway, and you need at least two more buckets to rinse. That’s not my idea of a rejuvenating bath.
Giddy with the anticipation of an actual bath—my last bath, I’m sure of it—I turn on the hot water. Inch by inch, the tub fills with steamy water. Bubbles foam. They smell of cinnamon, ginger, jasmine, citrus, and nutmeg. Those smells used to comfort me. Now they make me anxious. Slowly, I sit down in the water and rest my head against a pillow that teeters on the edge of the tub.
The hot water soothes my muscles, easing them slightly. I take a deep breath and sink to the bottom. It’s quiet and peaceful below the water.
How long can I hold my breath?
Will anyone hear me scream underwater?
How would T.C. react if I drown?
Underwater, I scream until every puff of air leaves my lungs. I scrape my nails against the bottom of the tub, breaking them. My entire pinky nail rips off, floating away. The pain doesn’t faze me.
I’m numb.
I watch beads of blood leave my body and drift in the water. For a moment, they don’t combine. They stay separate, but it doesn’t last long until the water dilutes the blood. Rose-tinted water. Frustrated beyond words, I cry. The tears mix with the bath water and become undistinguishable once they leave my eyes.
I take in a deep breath of water. Seconds tick by. I hold it in.
It’s easy to swallow mouthfuls of water—it’s much harder to work against instinct and not cough it up.
I hold the side of the tub as I choke up the pink water. Blood and tears. It leaves a salty, coppery taste in my mouth. If only I could anchor myself to the bottom of the tub and drown.
Everything else has been taken away. I have nothing left but a mystery.
Who is T.C.?
It’s difficult to scrub and wash with my nails now mangled, but the soaps intrigue me. It smells like something…something I know. I can’t quite put my finger on it. The perfume reminds me of fall, home, and the beach.
I wrap myself in an absorbent towel and meander to the clothes.
It’s sickening. So many clothes. So many styles, textures, colors, it’s overwhelming when I only want to wear jeans and a t-shirt.
What will appease T.C.?
What will enrage him?
After searching in vain for pants of any kind or a blouse, I decide on a plain dark brown halter sundress. No frills or designs, it’s made of a comfortable material and it’s not too tight but not too loose. There are a couple different styles of flats and sandals to choose from. At least my feet won’t blister from the insane heels. I find simplistic footwear. Mocha brown sandals as plain as the dress.
My nail beds continue to bleed. The remains of my jagged nails snag on every material, causing more blood to flow. I wrap my hands with two scarves to contain the mess. Behind me, there are tiny drops of blood forming a trail from the tub, to the clothes, then to the shoes.
It doesn’t really matter. Soon enou
gh, I’ll be dead.
I can’t help noticing the lack of mirrors. I wonder how mad I look. Blood dripping from my fingertips, hair a bloody wet mess, most likely blood smeared over the rest of my body from changing—I must look like Bloody Mary. At least the dark brown hides any stains on the dress. It’s odd. With the spa, the clothes, and vanity, you’d think there would be mirrors, but there are none.
Ready, I scream by the locked door, “T.C. I want answers!”
Five minutes later, the door swings open. I swear I heard no footsteps. The Fae who kidnapped me inspects me with disgust and revulsion, until he sees my hands.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ll get a doctor.” What an odd response from my enemy.
“It doesn’t matter.”
He shrugs. “He will see you now.”
The silver-eyed Fae walks away, expecting me to follow. His long silver hair is tied in a black leather thong hanging midway down his back.
Wham. I slam the jail cell door shut. The sound vibrates off the walls and travels down the never-ending hallway. He turns around with inhuman speed, coming within an inch of my face. Cold steel eyes shoot a death stare from his scarred tan face. It’s a wonder he didn’t lose his eye from the way the scar runs down his face. Another centimeter over and it would have gotten it.
“Quiet. Follow me,” he says, his teeth making the F in follow sound like a hiss. He turns to continue down the long corridor.
Hell no. I want answers now. “Who is T.C.?”
“He will answer your questions. He instructed me to bring you to him, not converse.”
Not waiting for a reply, he starts walking down the endless hallway again.
I don’t want to follow, but he seems to be bringing me to someone who will answer my questions.
More of the same white stones line the hallways. Lanterns hang from the ceiling, illuminating the hallway with a soft blue hue. Three metal chains are used to hang each lantern. They hang every five feet. Thick jade doors with dark doorknobs line the halls sporadically. The walls are bare, no decorations. There is nothing to mark our position in the castle. Everything looks exactly the same. It’s rather bland but incredibly easy to get lost.
We descend two flights of stairs and continue down another hall with the same aesthetic. It’s clean, cold, and dull. After fifteen minutes of walking, we arrive at large double doors made of painted black wood. Four fully armed Fae stand guard. They must be T.C.’s bodyguards. Silver talks to the other Fae in some language I’ve never heard of while they stare at me, revealing no emotion and a lack of facial expressions.
All of them are handsome, but they look designed or built rather than organic. It’s creepy how perfect they look. It’s unnatural. Everyone has imperfections they hate and want to change. The four men look like Greek gods. They could all play the role of Hercules in a Hollywood movie without trying. Chiseled chins, defined cheekbones, sculpted muscles sticking out of sleeveless beige tunics, hair cropped short, they each average around seven feet tall. If they were on Earth, they would be rich models living in Los Angeles. A plain gold torc sits snug around each of their necks. Silver, my captor, wears a solid gold torc too. It must symbolize their rank.
A soldier-model knocks on the door twice before opening it.
He grows irritable as I step timidly into the humongous room. Without a sound, the door closes. Silver and the four guards wait outside.
Across the expanse, a Fae sits on the throne, talking to another. Both of their faces present me with side silhouettes. Their faces are too far away to see and are busy, absorbed in conversation.
The room is as grand as a cathedral, but instead of an altar, there’s a throne. I’ve never felt so tiny, so insignificant. Each footstep echoes. They built this room to intimidate, to make their audience feel miniscule in comparison to the ego that demands all their attention. It implies everyone is unworthy, irrelevant, null, and helpless to the king’s almighty power. A simple reminder that I am no one.
Radiant white ceilings tower above. They glisten as if just polished. The floor-to-ceiling windows are two stories high and line the two walls. The ocean is to my right, and to the left, a lush green jungle. Onyx floors give a stark contrast to the glimmering white ceiling and walls. It reminds me of a contemporary style hotel. The only thing missing is the fancy, uncomfortable, impractical furniture. My mistake. The throne and rows of solid snow white benches look like they would make my back hurt. The throne has no visible details. It appears chiseled from one solid slab of rock, the same as the benches. Ninety-degree angles, straight lines, simple design, no cushions, overall extremely minimalistic. The room is void of color besides white and black. It’s a castle fortress with a modern makeover.
It feels horribly wrong.
I don’t know whether to walk or stay until summoned. Anxious, I want answers and decide to walk down the long aisle between the rows of benches. My eyes focus on the man who ordered my capture. He won’t turn his head to notice me. His own way of reaffirming I’m too unimportant to acknowledge my lowly presence.
When I’m halfway from the throne, he waves the other Fae away. The king doesn’t move. He waits for whomever he spoke with to leave. Only after the Fae closes the single frame door behind the throne does his majesty turn to me.
My legs become rubber. I stop walking. I choke. My mind stops all thought process. I want to scream, cry, run, and explode. Goosebumps cover my body. My stomach twists. A clammy, cold sweat builds up on my skin.
I’ve seen many inconceivable things since my arrival in this strange world. Different plant and animal species that don’t exist on Earth, unexplainable events that have shaken me to the core. I thought nothing else could surprise me as much as finding Kevin alive and well in Capo. He was an unsolved mystery. I knew when we lowered his coffin into the ground that it was empty. His body, for a sure fact, wasn’t there. This meant that even though we found no trace of him or his friends, there was still a slim chance he was alive. It shocked me to reunite with Kevin, but that was nothing like this. Nothing in life could have prepared me for this moment.
Nothing.
Saliva fills my mouth. My body prepares to throw up. I can’t process what I see. My hands rise to rub my eyes. It’s a cliché movement, but when something truly absurd, so unimaginable, so preposterous, stands feet away, it becomes a subconscious reaction. It’s comparable to seeing a mirage in a desert. Every fiber of your body wants to run toward it, to drink the water, to lie in the cool shade of the desert oasis and find a haven. Nine out of ten times, there’s nothing but sand and lost sanity. It’s a trick. It’s always a trick. It looks lifelike, so real, it makes you wonder if there is something wrong with your eyes or mind.
I tell myself he won’t be here when I open my eyes.
Shit, it’s my mind.
Maybe it’s a dream. Nope. I just pinched myself and it hurt.
This must be an illusion, a trick, or trap. It’s possible the Fae sent the Mara and are using my memories against me. It’s a sick form of torture, making me think he’s alive.
“Megan, you are here!”
The only one in the room, he jumps up from his throne, laughing and running.
He’s tanner than I remember, also taller. He’s a lot taller, almost another foot taller. There’s no way he’s the same person. He can’t be. It looks like him, but as a Fae, not human. It’s as if someone Photoshopped him to look like a Fae.
“Come here. Give me a hug.”
His arms are wide open. They wait for me to embrace him, but I can’t move.
If this is real, was he trapped?
Did he come here out of free will?
It can’t be him. I saw him dead. They closed his casket and lowered it into the ground. Then they shoveled dirt onto his coffin. Every person at his funeral scooped a shovelful onto his casket. This is impossible. He’s dead.
“Say something.” Bright royal blue eyes stare at me. His curly red
hair is fading to gray. It can’t be him.
I stand speechless. How do I start a conversation with someone I buried?
Chapter Sixteen - Kevin
Megan walks toward the Fae. She says something. It responds, but I can’t hear them. The sound is jumbled, as if I’m trying to hear them under water.
Every part of me screams, Don’t go! Save yourself! Run! We’re already dead!—but the words won’t muster. I can’t push the air out of my lungs.
We’re dying.
I can’t see Dana’s face. I don’t know if her lips have turned blue or if she’s still alive. I had a view of Megan. Now I only see Xander, and part of Ciara’s face. He sits frozen with no expression. Half of Ciara’s face is wet with tears and she stares where Megan sat a moment ago. Their lips aren’t blue, but neither do they move. We’re statues sitting in a circle around each other.
These are our last moments.
My whole body has stopped responding. Numbness washes over me, starting at my feet. It slowly crawls up my legs, hitting my gut, but I’m unable to puke. The sensation travels up my chest, further constricting my lungs, which threaten to explode under the extreme pressure. Tightness circles my neck like a noose. My eyes hurt. They feel like balloons filled with too much air. Saliva fills my mouth, but it doesn’t taste normal. It tastes almost like sour metal. Tunnel vision begins, the room spins, and I can’t focus on anything except the ringing in my ears. An alarm goes off in my head, screaming at me to breathe. Time is out. I’m dying.
Megan faces us. She opens her mouth, but she says nothing. Her lips tremble. She looks down at its hand. She’s hesitant as tears stream down her face. She bites her lip and closes her eyes before taking the last step and grabbing its hand.
“No!”
An explosion erupts from my chest, blasting the air out. I cough up stale air while getting to my feet. Everyone coughs, struggling to breathe. My fingers clutch the hilt of my ax, but she’s gone. She vanished in front of our eyes. Sarah screams. Silent, purple lightning flashes across the room to the exact spot the Fae stood, just a second too late. The stench of burning wood fills the air. Clank, clank. Two daggers puncture the wall. They would have hit the Fae in the neck and heart—if it had one.