by Bella Jacobs
I shake my head. “I didn’t sign up for any test.”
Atlas curves my mother’s lips into an indulgent grin. “But you were always good at them. Even when you were a sick, sad little girl. But now you’re so smart, so strong and kind. You’re exactly what I’ve been waiting for.”
“Oh yeah?” I arch a brow as my fingers curl into fists at my sides, ready to defend myself the second he makes a move. “How’s that?”
“I never wanted to kill them,” Atlas-mom says. “The others like us. But they couldn’t see what you see, Wren. They didn’t have your good heart. They were going to force humanity to endure hundreds of years of suffering, all for nothing.” He-she takes a step toward me. “But our talk in the clearing that day touched you. I could see it. You have the capacity to think clearly, to understand the big picture. To realize the kindest thing we can do for the people of this planet is to make it quick. Painless. Together, we could make that happen. Almost instantly.” His stolen eyes twinkle. “No one’s ever told you what two Fata Morganas can accomplish together, have they? They want you to believe it’s you or me. One or the other.”
“It is one or the other.” I flatten my hands against the wall behind me, feeling my way along as I ease to the right, into the shadows. The only light in this hole or cave or whatever it is comes from an ancient orange bulb above the primitive door. I have no idea what’s lurking in the darkness, but I already know it can’t be worse than the creature closing in on me wearing my mother’s skin.
“I’m not going to help you destroy everyone on the planet,” I continue, wiping sweat from my forehead before it can drip into my eyes, and fighting another wave of nausea as the smell of decomposing flesh hits me all over again. “I don’t want a part in anything you have planned. I’ve seen you in action. I’ve seen the things you’ve done, all the innocent people you’ve destroyed. You don’t care about humanity or anything else.”
My mother’s features tighten with regret. “I admit it’s hard to take them seriously. From where I sit, they’re already so damaged, so wounded. Is it monstrous to put a suffering animal out of its misery, sweetheart? Or is it kindness?”
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I snap, cursing to myself as I reach the place where the wall curves back toward the door. This antechamber is even smaller than I thought. And damper. I glance down long enough to see black gunk stuck to my fingers then shift my attention quickly back to Atlas as I brush it off onto my jeans. “You’re not my mother. Show your real face.”
“This could be my real face. Reality is ninety-five percent what we choose to believe. So, what would you choose, Wren? This? Or this, maybe.” My mother’s face ripples and stretches, smoothing into darker skin with high cheekbones and melted-chocolate brown eyes.
“You’re not Kite,” I say, my chest tight. “You’re not any of the people I love, and I’m never going to believe you are.” I stand up straighter, nails digging into my palms. “And I won’t help you. You have two choices—step down peacefully and let me try to fix the mess you’ve made, or we fight for the throne. Your call.”
Kite-Atlas arches a brow. “Threats of violence so soon? I expected better from you, Bird Girl.”
“Stop.” The backs of my eyes begin to sting. His voice sounds so much like Kite’s, and I want so badly not to be alone here in the guts of the earth with a monster. But he’s not Kite, and I can’t forget that for a second, no matter how hot it is down here or how my head is swimming. “You started the violence. You killed Sierra.”
“And Carrie Ann,” he says pleasantly. “I found her in the woods, that night after she went furry and ran away. Ripped her head from her body.”
A wounded sound escapes my scratchy throat.
“I didn’t want to.” He moves slowly closer, making my heart race. “But Highborn was watching, and I couldn’t resist playing with him a little.” He smiles, a mad smile I’ve never seen on the real Kite’s face. “You’re right, I do like to play with them. You’d enjoy it, too, if you let yourself. Take a step back and you’ll see, Wren. They’re ants. Maggots. Dim-witted, short-lived beasts who will ruin Earth for all of us if we let them. And there isn’t another inhabitable planet close enough for us to reach, not even in spore form. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
I shake my head, fighting for breath as my pulse races and my face flames so hot it feels like my eyes might bulge out of their sockets. But clearly Atlas isn’t feeling the heat the way I am, so there must be a way around it.
Swiping at my sweat-covered face again, I reach down, finding my flame form and turning it inside out, pulling ice to the surface of my skin, instead. Almost instantly I’m cooler, calmer, able to think more clearly.
And to realize the door behind Atlas is my only way out.
If I have to face him alone, I will. But if there’s any chance I can run, escape, find my way back to my mates, I have to try. I need them, now, more than ever.
I fix the door in my peripheral vision, refusing to look directly at it again for fear of tipping Atlas off to my intention. “I won’t enjoy hurting people.” I shift ever so slightly to the left. “Hurting anything. Ever. But if I have to, I will.”
Kite-Atlas crosses his arms at his chest. “If you have to hurt me, you mean? Well, if that comes to pass…” He smiles. Widely. Nightmarishly. “But you have other demons to battle first.”
I glare at him, fighting to swallow past the lump swelling in my throat. “Like what?”
“You know, little girl,” he whispers. “That part of you that wants to run home. To run away and wake up in your childhood bed, too sick to be expected to grow up and take care of yourself like all the other girls. Admit it, lovely, you liked being sick. Being weak. Leaving the hard decisions to the grownups while you felt noble and special for accomplishing nothing with your life except managing not to die.”
I shiver, suddenly too cold. Almost frozen. But I can’t seem to thaw the ice oozing through my blood
Atlas winks. “I have a Creedence of my own. Her name is Desdemona, and she’s shown me every possible consequence of this choice. In most of the possible futures, you don’t make it out of here alive. And when you do, you almost always choose to join me. To help me.” He extends a hand, his fingers suddenly only inches from my face, though I can’t remember seeing him move. “You even come to love me. I can be everything you need, Wren. I can make you believe they’re still here with you, all the people you love, every single one.”
His skin ripples again, shifting from Creedence to Luke to Dust and back to Kite again, sending tears spilling down my cheeks as I realize I may never see them again.
But then again, I might…
“There’s also a v-version where I w-win,” I stammer, my teeth chattering from the chill I can’t throw off, no matter how hard I try. “I’ve seen it.”
Atlas-Kite cocks his head. “Yes. A slight chance. Worth the risk, I think, for an opportunity to wipe the slate clean. I have so many lovely things waiting in the wings, pretty girl.” He smooths a hand over my hair as I sag against the wall, my knees liquid but the rest of me ice. “Terrible, beautiful things. I can’t wait to show you. You’ll come to love them, I think. As much as I do.” His bends low, keeping his face even with mine as I slide to the floor. “But if I never see you again, I’ve enjoyed this. You’re magnificent. The best challenger to come around in ages. You could complete me, Wren, and I you.” He leans in, kissing my forehead, making me shudder with disgust.
“Sweet dreams, darling.” He stands, backing away. “The black under your fingernails is a fungal parasite, similar to Ophiocordyceps unilateralis. It’s extinct on Earth, but still alive and well here in my realm. It’s one of the so-called zombie parasites. The priests and priestesses of my boyhood used it to test the worthiness of their devotees.”
He reaches for the doorknob, and I try to stand, but my body refuses to respond. I’m frozen solid now, locked in the fetal position against the fungus-infested wall.
“
If you’re very strong and very lucky,” he continues, “you’ll fight your way free of its control and come find me on the other side. If not, you’ll go gently, surrounded by all the things that make you truly happy.”
“N-no,” I stutter, my voice thin as smoke.
“It can only use what it finds inside you.” Atlas-Kite grins. “We carry the seeds of our own destruction, lovely, and the fungus knows it. Good luck tending your garden.”
I blink, frozen lids dragging down and back up again, and he’s gone, vanished through the door or into thin air, leaving me alone with Sierra’s rotted corpse and the parasite burrowing inside, already making it hard to remember how I got here.
To this place.
To this toxic womb somewhere between the real world and a monster’s forbidden kingdom.
To being so alone when I had so much, so many…
When I had love.
Love. I hold tight to the thought, wrapping my arms around it and squeezing with all my might as my eyes close and my brain goes cold, colder, frozen so solid my thoughts are trapped beneath the surface, giving the darkness within a smooth place to travel.
It glides closer, coming to teach me. To test me. Maybe even to kill me.
But I will love my way through it. All of it.
Because we don’t just carry the seeds of our own destruction inside of us—we carry the seeds of our salvation, too. And mine lies in the bonds I’ve formed with the men I love, the men who love me, the four irreplaceable people who are out there somewhere, waiting for me to find my way home.
To be concluded in
Unbroken.
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Sneak Peek
Enjoy this sneak peek of UNBROKEN
Wren…
I wake from the strangest dream.
The strangest, wildest dream… There were monsters and mad scientists and secrets and sadness and four amazing men and love, unlike anything I’ve ever known. God, there was so much love, a shameless abundance, spilling over the edges of my cup, making me feel like anything was possible.
I try to hold on to their faces, their names, but it’s all slipping away, the way dreams almost always do.
Slippery dreams, as slippery as that thing…
At the end of the dream, there had been something horrible oozing across the floor. Something I’m not going to regret forgetting.
My eyes creak open, letting in the sunlight, banishing the last of the nightmare shivers. My room is brighter than usual, making me wonder if I’ve slept through my alarm and whether I’m going to be late to the shelter.
But then Mom calls out from down the hall, “You want waffles or pancakes, Wren?” and I remember that it’s Saturday.
“Waffles, please. Be there in a second,” I call back, bringing a hand to rest on my belly beneath the covers. My stomach is a little unsettled, but the nausea isn’t nearly as bad this morning as it has been the past few months. Maybe the doctors have found the right cocktail again, the mix of drugs that will hold the Devour Virus at bay for a few more months, maybe a few years, if I’m lucky.
The thought is logical, but it feels…off. Wrong, somehow.
I sit up, hugging the covers to my chest as I scan the room, plagued by the terrible feeling that I’m forgetting something more important than a dream. My gaze flicks from my books on the shelves, to the papers strewn across my desk, to the bureau with the big mirror where the pill bottles sit all in a row, waiting to be tipped out, one at a time, and gulped with the glass of water I keep by my bed.
I tip my chin down to see the big pink Tupperware bowl in its usual place, as well. But I don’t need it this morning. I’m not so sick that I won’t be able to make it to the bathroom in time.
I’m not that sick at all, in fact.
The slight nausea fades as I swing my legs out from under the covers and start toward the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, wishing I could remember the dream.
Or that thing bigger than the dream…
But I can’t remember going to bed last night or what my parents and I ate for dinner. It’s all a blur.
“The meds,” I grumble as I use the bathroom and wash my hands, meeting my own weary gaze in the mirror. It’s happened before—the meds that make me feel the best physically aren’t always the best for maintaining prime mental function.
It comes down to a choice: feel shitty or think shitty.
Usually, I choose the former—my brain is too important to my work to risk making one of my kids feel bad because I can’t remember what we talked about the day before or, God forbid, their name—but I can’t deny it’s nice to omit vomiting from my morning activities. My shower is equally pleasant. I don’t have to use my sit stool a single time, and I even have the energy to brush on a little blush and mascara after I get dressed.
Mom will like that. Not that she cares whether or not I wear makeup, but she gets so excited when I look healthy. Even if it’s a lie.
We all know the virus is winning.
No, it’s not. You’re not sick. Wake up, Wren! Please!
I blink at the voice drifting through my head. It’s my voice, but…not mine, too. It feels like it’s coming from somewhere far away, another place and time, a place I instinctively know I don’t want to be. It’s a cold, frightened voice, a voice that’s running out of hope and options, the voice of someone who’s left behind all comforts of home and is alone in the wilderness.
Not alone. You’re not alone you have… So much…
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut until the nagging tug at the back of my thoughts fades away.
Auditory hallucinations. I make a note to mention them to my doctor at my next check-up and pad down the hall toward the heavenly smell of crispy waffles and warm maple syrup. I turn the corner into the kitchen to find Mom setting the table and Dad just in from the garden, a huge bouquet of roses in his arms, and my throat goes tight.
God, it’s so good to see them…
So good. Like I haven’t seen them in ages, like a part of me expected never to see them again.
“Grab forks will you, Wren?” Mom asks, her smile fading as she sets the creamer down and glances up to find me standing frozen in the archway. “What is it, baby?” She hurries around the table, reaching for me. “Are you okay? Are you feeling worse? Did the pain in your hips come back?”
I shake my head, swallowing past the lump in my throat as I struggle not to cry. “No, I’m just… I just love you so much.” I fall into her open arms with a laugh that turns into a sob against my will.
“Oh, honey, I love you, too.” Mom wraps me up tight, the way she’s done ever since I was a little girl. “More than the sun and the moon and the stars in the sky.”
“Me, too. I don’t know what I’d do without my girls.” Dad appears, enfolding us both in his even bigger arms, cradling us close to his chest. He smells like the garden—sunshine and herbs and freshly cut flowers—and I pull in a deeper breath, wanting to suck the comforting smell down into my soul.
This. Home. Family. Safety. Acceptance. Love without fear that it’s all going to be ripped away.
How did I ever take it for granted?
It’s so precious. The most precious thing in the world.
“I’m just so glad to be here,” I say, swiping at the tears on my cheeks as I pull back with an easier laugh. “Sorry to be so emotional.”
“Stop it.” Mom takes my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “I love your big heart. I wouldn’t trade it for a mountain of pancakes.”
“What about waffles?” I narrow my eyes, and Mom laughs, the way I knew she would. She’s been through so much hell in her life that she’s always ready to grab at a piece of heaven.
And what’s more heavenly than laughing with someone you love?
�
�Well, waffles are another story.” She winks as she motions toward the table. “You sit down, baby. I’ll grab the forks. I can’t wait for you to try the new recipe. These are sweet potato waffles. With honey butter to melt on top and caramelized walnuts, whipped cream, and warm syrup for toppings.”
My stomach growls, and we both laugh again. “That sounds amazing.” I settle in, sighing happily as Dad arranges the roses in the vase in the middle of the table. “And those are so beautiful.”
“It’s a perfect day out there, too,” Dad says, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
I glance over my shoulder at the garden, where the morning sun is kissing every fruit, vegetable, and tightly curled flower bud, coaxing life out of the ground. “It is. We should go for a walk after breakfast. I have extra energy this morning.”
“Well, of course, you do.” Mom clucks as she sets a fork by my plate and slides into her seat next to me. “It’s the new medicine. Working like a charm.”
“Won’t be long now,” Dad agrees. “And you’ll be good as new.”
“Healthy and strong and able to live the life you’ve always dreamed of,” Mom says, beaming at me. “And then it will be like this every day. Perfect and happy and safe.”
“No more scary things. No more death waiting around the corner,” Dad says, his words sending a shiver up my spine. “Not ever again.”
Death. Around the corner. Waiting. To spring a trap.
I blink, and visions of a cramped cave and a corpse flash on my closed lids, making my drink of orange juice go rancid on my tongue.
“All our prayers are finally being answered.” Mom sighs, eyes shining as she reaches for the syrup. “We should celebrate. It’s almost your birthday, Wren. What would you like to do? A day trip to the mountains? Tea at the botanical gardens?”
A garden. There’s something there.
A reminder that I have business that needs tending. My thoughts lunge toward a connection, but they’re a puppy on slick tile, unable to gain traction, spinning out on unsteady paws.