Reckless Cruel Heirs

by Olivia Wildenstein

If we could even leave this basement, what with the windstorm raging outside.

  “I thought I hated etiquette class, but faerie prison . . . it’s officially the worst,” I muttered.

  “But it has soap and pie.” Remo’s voice nipped my nose.

  I looked up so fast my neck cracked. He was again crouched before me.

  “Show me your arm, Amara.”

  “It’s fine,” I gritted out.

  “You’re moodier than usual, so I’m guessing it’s not fine.”

  “I have every right to be moody. I solved an impossible riddle, and for what? To activate a natural disaster?” The snort accompanying my pithy commentary froze on its way out of my nostrils, turning into a whimper when Remo tugged on my arm.

  I tried to reel it in, but he held on firmly. His fingers climbed the length of it. Everywhere he touched elicited new whimpers.

  Finally, he released it, his expression grim. “I don’t think I can fix it this time.”

  I fluttered my lids, my lashes clumped with old and new tears.

  He rose and walked around the cramped quarters, looking into one of the portholes before popping it open. He extricated a long length of fabric—a tablecloth or a bedsheet. As I wondered why it had been stored in the box, Remo twisted it, then looped it around my neck and knotted it.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Making a sling. Hopefully, it’ll help.” He lifted my elbow and placed it inside the white hammock. “Better?”

  Surprisingly, it was. After a beat, I said, “I really miss flying.”

  Remo shot me a grim smile. “Think of how much you’ll appreciate it once you’re home.”

  “If we ever get home.”

  “We will.” He picked up one end of my makeshift sling and wiped my cheeks with it.

  There he was being nice again.

  “Can I suggest something?” He let the fabric flutter back down. “Once we get back, you should train using the spirals. I can give you some pointers if you want.”

  I shook my head but smiled. “Oh . . . Remo.” And then I was laughing but mixed into the laughter were giant sobs.

  Like earlier, Remo didn’t quite seem to know what to do with this insane version of me, but then his arms came around my back, and he pulled me against him, tucking my head under his chin, and even though his hug didn’t magically heal my wounded arm, shredded face, or chipped ego, it dimmed my pain.

  “Why can’t we catch a break?” I murmured against his solid chest.

  “Maybe because we’re in a supernatural jail.” His hand came up to the back of my head, and his fingers combed through my hair, causing a trail of worrisome goose bumps to strain against the compressive fabric of my suit.

  Worrisome, not because he could feel them—the material was much too tight and thick—but because this wasn’t the first time my body reacted to his touch.

  Something banged against the door, and I jumped. When the latch didn’t break, I asked, “Now what?”

  “Now we wait out the tornado.”

  I swung my attention back to him. “You think it’ll stop?”

  He nodded as he climbed back up to his feet and walked over to the wall of wine. He scanned the labels, then selected one and blew dust off the dark glass. “What are your thoughts on Cabernet?”

  “I’d be fine with moonshine at this point.”

  “Can you make a bottle opener, Amara?”

  I frowned. “Is it just for me, or are you planning on drinking?”

  “Don’t feel like sharing?”

  “I thought you didn’t drink.”

  “I don’t.”

  I touched my tattoo but remembered the dust was presently glowing on the ceiling. Tentatively, I stood up. My knees felt like they’d been stuffed with damp cotton, but surprisingly they held me upright. I directed my good arm toward the orb and snatched off a piece, then twisted it into a corkscrew that I handed over to Remo. He popped the cork out of the bottle, then tendered back the bottle opener, which I wadded up and tossed back toward the glowing orb.

  He took a swig of the wine, then proffered it my way. The woodsy flavor coated my tongue and throat like velvet. I took another swig, then passed the wine back. We didn’t talk as we drank, just plopped down beside each other with our backs to one of the brick walls. Every so often, the ceiling and door would groan, and my dust orb would shudder, but then all would settle and grow still again.

  Halfway through the bottle, my blood began to fizz, sweeping away the ache in my arm. I leaned my head back against the bricks and watched the orb I’d created. “I’m glad you followed me through the portal, whatever your reason for doing so.”

  Remo coughed. He passed me the bottle and coughed some more.

  I took a swig. “My grandfather was a really screwed-up man.”

  He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and side-eyed me. Since he hated my parents, he probably admired Linus. After all, Gregor had been a fan of the tyrant—before he’d switched camps on the Day of Mist, sensing the winds were changing—and Remo and his grandfather were almost the same person. No. That wasn’t true. Gregor would never have crafted a sling for my arm.

  Or hugged me.

  “At least it never gets boring for prisoners in here,” he ended up saying.

  “Ha.” My cheeks lifted with a cheerless smile. “Most creative correctional facility I’ve ever been to for sure.” I took another drink, then passed the bottle back to Remo.

  “You’ve been to others?”

  “Sook loves virtual reality arcades, and some of the games we play take place in prisons.”

  “You two are close, huh?”

  I bobbed my head. “He and Giya are my best friends. My only friends. Hard to trust people when you aren’t certain of their intentions.” Not that people had lined up to be my friend after Remo’s rumor about my killer blood.

  His gaze slid down my face. “I remember when that dile stung you. Sook was bawling when I got there.”

  I shivered at the memory of the sting, how frightened I’d been when I’d felt the venom coursing through my veins. I’d told Giya she could take the pearl earrings Nima had gifted me after her trip to the South Sea, and I’d told Sook he could take my roll-up TV—the first one in Neverra. The last thing I remembered before my heart had stopped was Giya telling me to shut up and that she hated pearls—she didn’t.

  Remo put the bottle back into my hands, and I upended it. “You know what I remember? How disappointed you looked that I’d survived.”

  There was a beat of silence. “Disappointed? I . . . I wasn’t disappointed.”

  “Angry, then? Annoyed?” I glanced at the strong lines of his profile. “It’s fine, Remo. Water under the bridge. Air under the portal.”

  “You’re terrible at reading people.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  I sat up a little. “What were you, then?”

  “Hand over the wine.”

  “Bottle’s empty.”

  He got up and crossed the room to select a second bottle.

  As he walked back toward me, I said, “We’re going to get wasted.”

  “That’s the plan. At least, my plan.”

  “I’m down with your plan.” I stood, and the room spun a little. I was already well on my way to inebriation.

  I grabbed a piece of my orb to fashion a corkscrew again, then handed it over to Remo. Once he’d yanked the cork out, I chucked the gob of dust back toward the orb and sat back down, bumping my tailbone against the wall because I’d miscalculated the drop.

  Forget on my way, I’d reached my destination.

  Remo tipped the bottle to his mouth and drank. And then drank some more. When he sat back next to me, he said, “Scared and relieved.”

  “What?”

  “How I felt the day you got stung by a dile.”

  It took my befuddled brain a full minute to compute what he was admitting. “Why?”

  “Because, Amara . . .” W
as that a blush snaking over his jaw again? Instead of teasing him about it, I waited to see if he would add anything. Because, Amara, wasn’t much of an explanation. “What good is a hero without a villain?”

  My eyes widened, and then I blinked. And then I laughed. “I’m your villain?” In between waves of hilarity, I said, “What a villain I make. Scared of ghosts and a complete klutz on stairs.” I wiped the corners of my eyes and elbowed him with my good arm. “No one would read that story.”

  Although he hadn’t even cracked a smile, his eyes glittered. Even his lips seemed to shine. It was probably all the wine I’d ingested that made his features all glowy. When I lifted my eyes back to his, I found him staring at me with a disquieting intensity.

  My breathing hitched, scattering too much oxygen throughout my body. My head felt light, my chest too. And then all of me felt too tight. I snatched the wine from his hands and drank. “Will I still be the villain in your story if we get out of here?”

  “When.”

  I frowned.

  “When we get out of here. Not if. And if you stop being the villain, then I stop being a hero.”

  “You saved the villain so many times that you’ve earned hero-status for life.”

  “Yeah?” His voice sounded funny, all at once hoarse and slightly high-pitched. He’d apparently had too much wine also.

  I leaned my head on his shoulder. “You might’ve even become the villain’s hero.” I did not just say that. I clamped my lids shut, wishing I could incinerate the words. “That was the wine talking.”

  His shoulder shifted, and I thought he was pushing me away, but then his arm wound around my back, and his hand settled gently on my achy bicep. I must’ve grimaced, because he slid his fingers to my ribs. “Here I was hoping to ply you with alcohol to get a second free peepshow; instead I earn hero-status for life. Prison isn’t half-bad.”

  I smiled, his humor deflating my ballooning mortification. “Oh come on, it’s awful, but your cellmate is pretty awesome.”

  He chuckled, and the vibrations combined with his warmth made me sink into him a little more. “She’s a handful, though.”

  After several breaths, I said, “Good thing you have such big hands.” Wine-brain made my thoughts very slippery.

  Said big hand gripped my side a little harder, and then Remo propped his bristly jaw on top of my forehead. “We should try to sleep.”

  “Yeah. We should.” If only to stop spouting humiliating, drunken declarations. Big hands? Seriously, Amara?

  Even though I didn’t think I’d sleep, I’d obviously underestimated my level of exhaustion, because I fell down that rabbit hole as swiftly as I’d fallen through the portal.

  20

  The Wreckage

  I awakened slowly, my mouth vinegary, my palate fuzzy, my left arm leaden, and my ear numb from where it was still pressed against Remo’s shoulder. I blinked around me, wondering if I’d been asleep for a minute or for several hours. My stirring must’ve awoken Remo, because his head rolled off of mine and his palm popped off my ribcage.

  I shifted so he could pull his arm out from around me, and then I stood and stretched. Before the silence could grow awkward, I said, “Ready to go check if anything’s left of our world, hero?”

  That made him smile. And in turn, it made me smile.

  Good. We were good.

  He ran his palms down the sides of his face, then pressed himself to standing. “How’s the arm? Is it swollen?”

  Between the fabric sling, the compressive sleeve, and the weak lighting, I couldn’t tell. “I don’t know.”

  He peeled the white fabric away and prodded my flesh. It felt like he was touching my very bone. When I hissed, he stopped and tucked it back into the cloth.

  “It’s broken isn’t it?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. But whatever you do, don’t use it today.”

  “I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. How’s your head?” I’d had a slice of pie last night; Remo, to my knowledge, hadn’t eaten anything, and wine on an empty stomach was a killer.

  He rubbed his brow. “It’s felt worse.”

  I was curious as to when it could’ve felt worse, because my brain personally felt like it was bobbing inside my skull.

  “Grab the wita, and let’s go.”

  I lifted my tattooed hand toward the orb, which landed like a feather inside my palm. Since it was our only source of light, I kept it aglow as we made our way toward the exit.

  Before he unlatched the door, he said, “Stand behind me.”

  Since I didn’t care to get more banged up, I did.

  The latch clicked, and then Remo drew the door open, and it seemed like every piece of furniture and every brick of the inn converged inside the cellar. I swear, things kept coming, crashing, rolling. At some point, I thought we’d get buried alive under chairs, cracked ceramic, and broken mirrors, but fortunately, the influx stopped. Unfortunately, by the time it stopped, the pile we needed to scale was treacherously tall and loaded with jagged points.

  “Have any advice on what sort of tool I could make with my dust? Besides a lighter . . . I don’t think creating a pyre would be very safe considering there are no exits.”

  “A cast. You should make a cast.”

  “How will that help us?”

  “It’ll immobilize your arm and protect it.”

  That jammed my lips together and poked at my heart. Filing his kindness away to analyze later, I stared at the pile until an idea clicked. One that would help us. Not just me. “Stand back, Farrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to try something.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “Always. I’m the Trifecta, after all.”

  His teeth flashed as he stepped back.

  I turned my glowing orb into a bucket of glue, which I handed him, because it was darn heavy. “Can you toss it?”

  His eyebrows hitched up. “What is it?”

  “Glue. It’ll lock the debris together and coat any sharp edges.”

  “You think there’s enough?”

  “Duh. It’s magical glue.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was convinced, but still, he threw my wita concoction onto the mound of twigs and glass. After a few minutes, I prodded the base of the pile with my boot. It was hard as concrete. Remo tested a higher spot in the pile. When there was no give, he climbed. The ceiling was so low he had to stay crouched.

  “Smart little villain you are.” He held out his hand.

  I smiled, my heart lifting in time with my good arm. I seized his outstretched fingers, finding footholds in the stationary mound. Once on top, we crawled toward where the staircase should’ve been, the edges of broken things jabbing our knees and shins. Remo dug through a spot of loose debris until he uncovered one of the cement steps. Once he managed to stand, he nodded to the stationary mound.

  “Grab your dust.”

  My dust? Had his tongue slipped?

  I started to sweep my palm over the mound when he said, “Actually, wait.”

  I fisted my fingers and was about to ask what he’d forgotten down in the cellar, when his forearm snaked around my waist.

  “Okay, go.”

  Stunned by his unceasing thoughtfulness, I spread my fingers slowly, and the golden strands of wita curled up like smoke. Things popped and rattled as though it was every stick for itself. Sure enough the knoll changed shape, sinking in spots, swelling in others, and its modifications affected the clutter in the stairwell. Everything rolled and tumbled anew, gushing like a mountain stream during snowmelt.

  Remo’s arm tightened around my middle, keeping me from getting swept into the debris. Once things settled, he said, “Grab my hand.”

  I searched the wall for a rail but found none. Biting my lip, I slid my hand into his, then slowly pirouetted. My stomach churned, and not just from last night’s winefest. Without meeting his gaze, I followed him up the stairs, the pressure on my fingers easing and hardening as we
ascended. When we reached the opening, a pothole amidst a titanic field of rubble, I glided my fingers out of his and spun to take in the extent of the devastation.

  The only thing that remained in the valley was the train. It gleamed red and silver in the brash light. I turned away from it to find Remo squinting at the steep bank that we needed to scale to reach the portal. It seemed somehow steeper and taller, as though the tornado hadn’t only leveled out the town but excavated the valley.

  “I wish I could make a hoverboard.” Unfortunately, we couldn’t craft electronics from wita.

  “That would’ve been practical.” He tipped his neck back, inspecting the magnitude of the rock wall, and then he took in the glittery field of wreckage, his eyes stilling on an uprooted tree. “If you make me an axe, I could try hacking at the trunk to make a ladder.”

  “Or I could make a ladder. A really thin one.”

  “You don’t have enough dust for a ladder. Not even for a thin one.”

  I sighed. “We’d need more than one tree to make a tall enough ladder. And how would we stick all the trunks together?”

  He shrugged. “With your magical glue.”

  “What about a rope with a hook?” I suggested.

  “I couldn’t swing it that high.”

  “Maybe I can float it up.”

  He exhaled long and deep. “Not if it has anything heavy attached to it.”

  I took a step, and glass crunched. A big, pointy piece that reminded me of the one which had jutted out of Remo’s back.

  I must’ve stared at it too long, because he said, “Don’t even suggest it.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I wasn’t going to.”

  “We go back to the train.”

  “What if the next cell is worse?”

  “What if it’s better?”

  “You’re revoltingly optimistic.”

  That chiseled his hard expression into a softer one. “One of us has to be. Besides, have you ever met a pessimistic hero?”

  I rolled my eyes as we started toward the train. When I skidded twice and almost face-planted into the rubble, my equilibrium impaired by the limb locked against my torso, Remo took my flailing hand and held it. I tried to squirm my fingers out of his, but he simply squeezed harder, sealing my palm against his calloused one.