Secret Keeper (My Myth Trilogy - Book 2): Young Adult Fantasy Novel

by Jane Alvey Harris

  The maidens ahead of us can surely hear our conversation, but they don’t turn around to correct Aidan or Claire. Are they also Seeing decaying corpses, or are they endorsing the delusion, encouraging it, even?

  Because what Aidan and Claire are having is definitely a delusion. The people entombed in crystal are undoubtedly alive.

  They lie perfectly still in their supine positions. Perhaps they’re in some sort of sci-fi cryo-sleep or trance? Maybe. But not dead. I can see their chests rise and fall with breath beneath their hands, which are folded peacefully over their breasts.

  Not to mention, they’re speaking to me telepathically.

  The influx of their energy as we proceed down the narrow aisle coruscates within me. If I don’t do something with the power radiating through me, I know I’ll explode like a roman candle.

  I start weaving.

  “Claire. Open your eyes.” I nudge her with my arm. “It’s okay, I promise.”

  Her delighted gasp rebounds off the walls, ending in little-girl giggles as she caresses the new color-changing shift I’ve woven for her.

  “Thank you, Emma! She lets go of my hand long enough to twirl. “We’re twins, now!”

  “Yep. And check Aidan out,” I prompt. Claire peeks at Aidan, erupting in laughter at the curling strawberry vines encircling his wrists and running up his arms. Tiny white flowers blossom and ripen into succulent red fruit while we watch.

  Claire reaches around me and plucks one, popping it in her mouth. “Delicious!” she squeals.

  Poor Aidan just sighs. He knows there’s nothing he can do. It’s exactly like when he and Jacob add me to their obnoxious meme group-chat and I remove myself only to have one of them add me back instantaneously. Every. Single. TIME.

  “Hey,” Claire cries as I plait delicate lisianthus flowers in Aidan’s hair, laughing. “I want some of those!”

  I Channel and weave, not knowing if the subtly fragrant blooms are real or synthetic…how could I create organic flora out of nothing? Though to be fair it’s not really nothing. It’s living energy streaming from powerful Fae in crystal caskets.

  The power comes in a continuous spate now. No ebb, only flow. I’m weaving as fast as I can, spending energy lavishly like it’s a credit card with no limit and no consequence. But I’m struggling to keep ahead of the rapid charge of energy. When I can’t contain or disperse it any longer, every one of my traveling companions knows it. They fall away from me in unison as a carpet of wild clover springs up beneath my bare feet, blanketing the floor in a broadening circle around me, the epicenter. A fine multicolored vapor diffuses from my wings, gathering in diaphanous clouds at the apex of the temple’s granite ceiling, showering everything in droplets of burnished rose-gold.

  Compelled, I ascend the steps of the dais to the freestanding enclosure, placing my fingertips to match those pressed up against the other side of the crystal lid. Excited anticipation squeezes my heart, because there is only one person this man could be.

  “Great-grandfather,” I whisper.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It’s him. Every cell in my body knows that this man is my great-grandfather, the High King Ælfwig. The confines of the crystal tomb barely contain his powerful hulking form and barrel-chest. His face is deeply lined and his beard and brows are a startled white that don’t match his hair, which is raven-wing black, like Mom’s. His hair flows around his head on unseen currents of electricity, giving the impression of being suspended in the act of growing in real-time.

  The instant the whispered greeting leaves my lips I begin receiving some kind of wordless communication from him. An instinctual part of me awakens as soon as he transmits the first message: a dormant cipher I’ve never experienced. The information arrives as images on my mental screen—not pictures—more raw and ephemeral than that, but I can read them as easily as I would read sentences in a book.

  Instantly, I understand how this language works. Nouns and adjectives are colors; movements are verbs; shapes and where they’re positioned represent syntax and structure.

  Blue-violet and blush-pink flow across the stage in my mind, intermingling to form a single fuchsia flame rising in elegant arabesque to convey: You are wanted and needed here, Emily. Welcome home.

  Immediately, I know the color he’s sending is Mine. It’s ME. The color of my energy is fuchsia, the same color as the butterflies I conjured in the glade with Kaillen.

  I respond, gathering pigment from my chakras with my Inner Eye and sending a reply composed of equal parts orange enthusiasm and yellow restraint. My response surges from left to right in crisp tangerine, widening in an open-ended forty-five degree angle across my mental screen: I’m eager to learn, Grandfather. Teach me.

  I clutch at the images of our conversation, trying to screen-grab the information and store it in my brain’s hard drive. I’m afraid as soon as I’m pulled away from this place I’ll forget it all and be left with nothing.

  But strong, thick horizontal bands of peaceful aquamarine stream up onto my screen from my own throat chakra, telling me that this beautiful, silent, direct way of communicating is part of who I am. It was with me before speech, perhaps even before birth, and no one can take it away from me.

  With a vertical column of glitter gushing a fountain of sparks at the far right of my mental display, Grandfather explains that mastery of expression will come as I open fully.

  Open fully? LOL. I don’t know how I could open any more fully. My life is an open book. Practically everyone who knows me knows all my terrible secrets. There’s probably a hashtag re: my detox floating around social media along with an awkward selfie of Soph and me. #PrayersForEmily. Ugh.

  But then, I realize that’s not what Great-grandfather means about being open. I think of Nancy’s past remarks about how I’ve only just scratched the surface of my healing. I still clamp down and throw walls up when I’m stressed. Every. Single. Time. And I’m quick to blame myself for not better handling it, but Nancy reminds me to take it slow. I’ve been coping for such a long time by compartmentalizing and burying painful emotions and memories that it’s going to take a lot of practice to learn new ways of processing emotions and ultimately, making peace with them.

  No. Grandfather isn’t suggesting I be more open about my past. He means staying open when I feel threatened going forward. He means listening to my True Voice, to being open to receiving inspiration when it comes.

  For the zillionth time it hits me how much I still have to learn. But, like Mom always said before she checked out, ‘Intelligence isn’t measured by what you know. Intelligence is measured by your ability and desire to learn.’

  I’ve got tons of desire to learn.

  Once again the pinwheel vortex of magenta and ultra-violet whirls center stage in my mind. Hypnotized, I watch the colors blur. They pull my focus in toward my center until I become part of their mesmerizing choreography. The swirl shifts direction, pushing me out along the undulating tips that materialize into limbs…my limbs. A flame dancer takes shape, head thrown back, arms flung wide, hair and wings rippling behind, lean legs spinning in an unbridled display that is all the more intoxicating because it is completely untrained and spontaneous.

  As this primal passionate expression blends to create my specific hue of fuchsia, I’m awash with elation. The dancer Grandfather projects is actually me, twirling in the dazzling light of our shared Connection, and even though my body is perfectly still, inside I pirouette with my Flame.

  For my reply I simply add a paint stroke to his image, transmitting a burst of twinkling diamonds from the core of my fuchsia wildfire. They spiral outward, radiating a vibrant leaf green…

  “ENOUGH.”

  The command is guillotine-sharp, slicing my Third Eye’s screen in neat halves, decapitating my Connection with Great-grandfather. My flame dancer wobbles headless for a moment before collapsing into a million motionless, colorless pixels at the far recesses of my now dark chakras…spent heaps of ash.

 
; Fingertips still resting against Grandfather’s, I turn from the crystalline casket to see the High Queen at the bottom of the steps. She’s spitting mad.

  Geez. Talk about a buzz kill.

  A slinky black suit that fits tight like spandex has replaced her armor, outlining her toned muscles, accentuating the sleek ferocity of her body. Metallic thread delineates the lissome contours of enormous wings spilling down her back beneath the suit. I wonder what color they are, and if they’re cicada wings, like mine…

  Omg, I mind-whisper irreverently to my light friends. She’s what would happen if a panther, a ninja, and a wasp had a baby who grew up to be the leader of a cycling club!

  The lights bob in mirthful agreement. Yes, yes. You’re so clever. They zip and dart and bounce in a purposeful arc, pulling my attention beyond the Queen to the temple proper where Aidan, Claire, and the banished Fae are gathered, gaping at me with huge anime eyes and tiny ‘o’ mouths.

  Wouldn’t it be hysterical if their faces froze that way? I whisper to my conspirator lights.

  Yes, yes, hysterical, they agree. But can you blame them? Look, Emily. Look what you’ve done.

  Bowers of curling grape vines and bunches of harvest purple fruit festoon the crystal sarcophagi. Rose gold rainwater collects in the shallow basin at the center of the temple, creating a mellifluous brook trickling musically through the narrow aisle between the two rows of caskets.

  Now my eyes are huge anime eyes, my mouth the middle of a Cheerio.

  I’ve re-created the enchanted nursery from Toad’s belly, only with way more butterflies.

  Oopsies.

  “Your Majesty,” Chloe kneels, eyes downcast, voice stoic. “Forgive me. I was unable to contain Lady Alvey.”

  The Queen’s glare remains fixed on me as she addresses Chloe. “Rise, Maiden. The fault is mine. This task was always greater than your capability.”

  Ouch. Chloe rises and takes a step back.

  “This saves us the lengthy process of scanning the entire group,” the Queen declares. “It is quite clear Emily Ava Alvey is the one responsible for destroying the Seal and damaging the barrier. Have you come here to make recompense, Child?”

  “Recompense?” As in she wants me to repair the damage?

  “With his dying breath, my husband—the High King Ælfwig—created the barrier between Realms, and powered it with his own life force. You have caused irreparable harm to that barrier, placing the citizens of the Seven Kingdoms…MY people…at risk. You must atone and make amends.”

  Here’s a list of all the things that are becoming abundantly clear to me:

  Great-grandmother is a real bitch.

  Great-grandfather is very, VERY much not dead, and she knows it.

  Half “her” people live in filthy squalor outside her giant black city gate, bunched up between flimsy walls, yet she’s accusing ME of putting them at risk.

  Oh HELL no.

  “Excuse me, Ma’am,” I begin, ready to politely contradict her obvious BS. But the zipping lights surge with brick-red caution as they pass around and through me.

  Quiet, Emily. Not here. Not now, they hush.

  “Yes, Child?”

  “Er…um… That is… Nothing.”

  “Out of control and articulate, I see,” the Queen intones with the slightest royal smirk. “A winning combination. Maidens. Escort the exiles to the east lanai. See that they are provided with refreshment.”

  “Yes, your Majesty,” the dozen or so maiden guides answer as one.

  I move down the steps to join Aidan and Claire. As I pass the Queen, she rests her black-gloved hand on my shoulder.

  “Child.” Her voice carries through the temple. “You will remain.”

  As the maiden guides herd the Fae back the way we came, the vines untwist themselves, un-growing in slow-motion rewind with the dry crackle of snapping twigs. The grapes deflate as if they’ve been punctured, leaking spent juice. The luminous stream evaporates in a hazy mirage of steam.

  But it isn’t the Queen who is causing the destruction of my accidental joy extravaganza, at least not as far as I can tell. But then, who could it be? Is it all falling apart because my Connection with Grandfather was cut?

  I have so many questions and no one to ask. Where the heck is this Champion I’m here to find?

  “This way, Child,” the Queen commands.

  Following her around Great-grandfather’s casket, I’m shocked to see a deep gouge in the quartz above his ribcage. The minerals are flattened, as if smashed by a giant’s sledgehammer. Fissured veins explode in a cloudy wounded web, distorting his body beneath the lid into a shrunken mandrake root.

  With a shock, I realize I did that. I hurt him this way when I broke the Seal. How did I not See it before?

  An echoing ache rips through my ribcage.

  Will I never stop hurting the people who love me?

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Let’s get right to it, shall we?” The Queen pinpoint-presses my back with her index finger to steer me toward a dim opening at the back of the crypt. “Did you work alone, or did you have help?”

  She moves her hand firmly to the top of my head, cupping my scalp and thrusting me through a low entryway. A heavy vault door swings behind us, sealing shut with the soft, snicking whir of enchanted First Realm technology, cutting me off from Grandfather and the comforting presence of my tiny light friends.

  I’m suddenly very alone and very anxious.

  “Answer my question, Child.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “It is proper to address me as Your Majesty, Child.” The Queen observes me with needle-sharp eyes.

  Without looking down at my wrists, I feel Xander and Toad pulse their support through my radial arteries. I hold the Queen’s gaze, thinking with all my might: You aren’t my Queen, Ma’am, and I’m definitely not your Child. Of course, I’m way too chicken to say it out loud. Instead I simply nod. “Yes…Ma’am.”

  I study her face. She elevates her chin and raises her brows in superiority. Is it my imagination, or is there a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips? Even though I’m technically being polite, she seems to pick up on my subtle insubordinations.

  She must have been stunning once. She’s still stunning, in a hard-as-granite, can’t-take-my-eyes-off-the-muscles-in-her-jaw kind of way.

  Could she ever have been like me? Has she ever been lonely or anxious? Did anyone ever hurt her when she was still soft?

  Okay, screw the pensive questions: Is she going to eat me alive?

  “You may be powerful enough to have broken the seal and destroyed the barrier on your own, Child, but you obviously have no control whatsoever. You could have easily killed everyone in your party including yourself. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  I wince at the thought of Ian lying lifeless on his stretcher, of Ava wingless and covered in mud. Of Jacob, kidnapped. Of Xander, dead. I’m responsible for a lot more damage than she knows.

  Instead of responding, I pivot, examining the circular War Room.

  It reminds me of a movie set of the Batcave—if the Batcave were in the nav room of a submarine. Charts and graphs litter the massive circular table that dominates the center of the chamber. High-res digital renderings of Google Earth-type images cycle around display boards mounted on the curving walls. Shallow light rises from luminous stones recessed in the concrete floor’s perimeter.

  “I don’t appreciate being ignored, Emily.”

  Then don’t ask me rhetorical questions, Ma’am.

  She clears a wide swath of scrolls from the table and pulls out a chair for me. “Sit,” she orders. “Don’t touch anything.”

  I should probably sit on my hands, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that just like a child, my fingers itch to push the glowing LED buttons set into the table’s glossy edge.

  “Tell me, Emily Alvey. Why did you attack the barrier? Why are you here in my city?”

  “I didn’t attack anything…at
least…I didn’t mean to.” The words pour out and I’m trying—and failing—not to sound guilty. “I wasn’t even thinking about the barrier or the Seal when it happened. I mean, yes, the Fae asked me to break the Seal so they could return home, but that’s not what I was trying to do, I swear!”

  “You’re saying you destroyed the barrier accidentally?” she challenges.

  My body slouches forward. She sounds exactly like me when I incredulously ask Claire how on earth she expects me to believe she ‘accidentally’ kicked her brother. My head bows, my mouth mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

  “Sit up, Child. A maiden does not mumble during negotiations.”

  Negotiations? Is that what we’re doing? Negotiating? It feels more like the Spanish Inquisition.

  Straightening, I inhale a shaky breath and try to order my thoughts. “It’s true, I didn’t know what I was doing.” I speak slowly, imploring her with my eyes. I have to make her understand. “My fa--, I mean, Drake. He cornered me. He was going to use me to hurt my brothers and sister and enslave the banished Fae…”

  “Yes, Drake. Traitor Counsel to Queen Rhyannon. You were working for him.”

  “No, I was trying to escape from him!”

  She pushes back from the table, standing and turning away from me. Her hands clasp quietly behind her back, but she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  Should I tell her Drake is my father? Does she already know? Should I tell her about the Third Realm he created, or that I have—or had—the weapons? Should I tell her about his plot to overthrow the First Realm?

  There’s a strange game of secrets, of half-lies and partial truths being played in this Realm, and I don’t know the rules. I need someone to tell me what I should do.

  Tell her your Purpose, Maiden. Tell her what you want and need and keep it simple, my Heart urges.

  Because I’m desperate for guidance, I obey my Heart, even though I don’t entirely trust her. “We came here because Ian…General Raidho…was injured and needs treatment,” I venture. “And because the Fae wished to return home.”