by Lanie Bross
The liquid tasted cool and clean, and almost immediately, Luc felt his senses clearing.
Luc stood up carefully. He saw an endless black ocean before him, stretching to the horizon. Overhead the two suns hung high in the sky.
And suddenly, that thing that had been bugging him since arriving in this freakish place—the worry, the doubt—sharpened and crystallized.
Despite the dual suns overhead, nothing here had a shadow. Even Luc’s had somehow disappeared.
How was that even possible?
Luc moved his arm in a huge circle. Nada. A chill went through him, though the temperature had to be over 100 degrees.
What the hell? First there were two, and now there were none?
The raft swayed. He stumbled toward the tent. Maybe the drink the man had given him had some kind of weird side effect. But no. He had known before on the beach that something was very, very wrong. He had sensed it.
Luc lifted the tent flap and ducked inside, then froze, disbelieving.
He’d been expecting a plain setup, maybe a rough bunk or something. Instead, he felt as if he’d stumbled into a fortune-teller’s living room. The man was sitting in a huge ornately carved wooden armchair. Almost like a throne. There was a brightly colored Persian rug covering the coarse planks and a gleaming table laid with a silver tea set.
Hanging from the juncture where the tent’s poles connected, was a brilliantly lit chandelier. A hole just above it let in enough sun to reflect off hundreds of teardrop-shaped crystals, which threw tiny spots of light all over the room.
The entire space was no bigger than Luc’s bedroom but was filled so lavishly that it felt grand.
“What is this place?” Luc asked. “Who are you?”
The man stood and thumped over to a small wooden chest in the corner. He began filling a pipe. The bird squawked angrily at being displaced and flew over to a perch. “The name’s Rhys,” he said, without looking at Luc. “And that beautiful, indignant lady over there is my Mags. Now your turn.”
“Luc.” Luc watched as the man lit his pipe. Whatever he was smoking had a clean, floral smell. Definitely not tobacco. “I’m from San Francisco.”
Rhys returned to his chair. “Don’t know it. Don’t know much about Humana, actually.”
“Humana?”
“The human world. I can smell it on you.” Rhys chuckled.
Human world. Luc’s heart squeezed up in his chest. “Where am I?” Luc asked.
Rhys moved the goggles to the top of his head and Luc could see both his eyes now. They weren’t just cloudy; they were totally white from edge to edge.
He was blind?
Luc passed his hand quickly in front of Rhys’s face. Rhys scowled.
“I may not be able to see what you’re doing, boy, but I can feel it. I can smell it, too.”
Heat climbed up Luc’s neck. “S-sorry,” he stammered.
Rhys waved dismissively with his pipe and motioned for Luc to sit. There was a bright red settee also crammed into the space—it reminded Luc of something Karen’s parents might have in one of their formal rooms. Karen. Jesus. Was it possible that only last night, he’d been at Karen’s party?
When would he wake up from this nightmare?
Luc suddenly felt unsteady on his feet. He sat down heavily.
“To answer your first question—” Rhys stopped and directed his eyes at Luc. “I assume you have more than one question, correct?”
Luc nodded, then remembered Rhys couldn’t see him. He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
Rhys continued without missing a beat. “This is the aptly named Land of the Two Suns. Not terribly original, but then the Figures aren’t known for being overly clever.”
“Figures?”
“That your next question, then?”
“I guess.”
“The Figures,” Rhys said, “are what we call—”
Mags squawked suddenly, so loudly that Luc jumped, heart in his throat. Rhys cocked his head to the side as though listening—much the way his bird did. “Ah, we have a patient to tend to. Come on, then.” He pulled down his goggles and moved as briskly as possible past Luc, holding open the tent flap to permit Mags to swoop through it. A few seconds later, the vibration of the engine ceased and the boat stopped its lurching movement. As Luc pushed back into the blazing light, his head hurt.
Rhys leaned over the side of the boat. He was talking to someone, but Luc couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Luc advanced closer to the edge of the boat. All he saw was darkness.
Then, as he watched, the water shifted. A black hand—insubstantial, translucent—extended out of the water. Luc stumbled back a step. Mags began clucking.
Rhys pulled out a vial from his jacket and removed the cork. Now a face—was it a face? Luc could just make out shadowed contours that looked like eyes and a mouth—had surfaced as well. The mouth, an even deeper dark than the rest of the thing, opened; Rhys poured the contents of the vial into it. When the vial was empty, Rhys tucked it back into his pocket and the thing disappeared back under the surface.
Luc’s heart was pounding. Questions spun in his head, but he couldn’t make enough sense out of what he saw to form a coherent thought.
“Where was I?” Rhys rose to his feet, wiping his hands on the back of his pants, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“What—what was that thing?” Luc finally stammered.
Rhys tilted his head, looking alarmingly like the bird that perched on his shoulder. “That? That was a Figment, boy.”
“A what?” Luc was getting tired of trying to decode so many unfamiliar words. Blood Nymphs. Figments. His head ached.
“A long time ago, everything and everybody had two shadows, on account of the suns.” Rhys moved to the rowing mechanism and made a couple of adjustments. The vibration started in the floor; the oars began churning in and out of the water again. The raft lurched forward.
“The Figures and the Figments lived together just fine. Then one day, the suns changed orbit and the Figments grew longer, stronger. The Figures got all sorts of nervous and waged war on them.” Rhys’s strange accent flowed like thick honey. “Eventually, the Figures drove the Figments here, to the Ocean of Shadows. The dark keeps them contained, but they want out. Naturally.”
“Figments,” Luc said slowly. “You mean, like, shadows?”
Rhys shrugged and spat. “They been called different things.”
Luc remembered the feel of thousands of hands on him, pulling at his clothes, touching his skin. He’d thought he was hallucinating—but really he’d been feeling the touch of thousands of Figments.
He leaned over the boat and blinked hard. He scanned the ocean in disbelief. His head felt light, as if his skull were slowly filling up with helium. This isn’t real, he told himself. But it was. There were thousands of shadows writhing their way to the surface, and the darkness below him extended to the horizon. He saw that shadows clung to the oars each time they broke the surface. The Figments stretched like rubber bands, until it looked like they would snap, before retreating into the blackness. He wondered where his own shadows were, and whether they were safe. And whether it mattered.
“Will they ever escape?” he asked Rhys.
“Suppose so. When the Figures remember, anyway.” His voice had suddenly changed. It was quieter, filled with longing. He squinted toward the shore, and Luc could have sworn that—despite his blindness—he was staring off into the distance.
“Remember what?” Luc asked.
Rhys’s lips curled into a small smile. “You don’t know, do ya? No matter, we all get there in time. Don’t look at me. I ain’t gonna tell you—I’m just a Healer. Trapped out here, the shadows start to lose it. They blend. Forget who they are, forget what they were. I’ve developed a tincture that’ll help them remember until the right time comes. It’s the balance of the universe, boy, the light and dark, the earth and the sea.”
Luc didn’t know what Rh
ys was trying to say, but he didn’t want to press it, either. More riddles. And riddles weren’t going to help him find Jas.
“Is there a Forest of Blood around here?” he asked, and then felt his cheeks heat up. He couldn’t believe any of this—it was crazy.
Rhys shook his head slowly. “Don’t know that I’ve ever heard of it. Why?”
“I’m looking for my sister.” Luc sucked in a deep breath, then blurted out, “I met a woman on the beach. She said—she warned me my sister was in trouble.”
Rhys turned away from Luc and spat again. Then he swung around and abruptly jabbed a finger at Luc’s chest. “This will lead you on the straight and narrow.” Then he pointed at Luc’s forehead. “This will lead you to the logical, which isn’t always the best truth, if you know what I mean.”
Luc didn’t know what Rhys meant. Mags made a sound, almost like a snort. Anger and helplessness built in Luc’s chest, like hot oil welling there. He didn’t know any more than he had when he’d been pulled onto the raft. Judging by the way the suns had moved across the sky—both looming directly overhead, side by side—time was passing quickly. As he wiped the sweat off his forehead, he moved the shaggy black hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. Christ, it was hot.
“The universe is a tricky place,” Rhys said, seeming to sense Luc’s growing frustration. “The roads don’t always go where they’re supposed to. But I might have a map that can help you find a gateway.”
“A gateway?”
“An entry point to the Crossroad. Boy, don’t give me that look like I’m crazy.” Luc wondered again how a blind man could see the things he did. He sat silently, waiting for Rhys to continue. “I suspect you’ve come and gone through the Crossroad already, so you’ll need to find an entry point. But the map is back on shore, so let’s make our way there. …”
Luc was surprised; he had assumed the blind man and Mags lived there on the raft. The sail snapped as it caught the breeze, and Rhys turned the rudder so they aimed toward shore. They moved across the shadowed ocean, and Luc had nothing to do but watch the Figments undulate in rippling waves. Now that he knew what they were, he saw the sea differently. It seemed mysterious, and heavy with something like sadness.
Please, please. Let this be a dream. Let me wake up.
His alarm would go off and he’d wake up to find Jas sitting in the living room, safe and sound. She’d laugh at the crazy dream he had, especially the part where she was trapped in some blood forest, then they’d head to the Mission, get some breakfast taquitos and coffee at Philz Coffee. Cream and sugar.
Mags’s loud caw pierced his daydream. Still here. Still in this awful place, with the unbearable heat of the suns and the feel of sand underneath his nails.
They were only about fifty feet from shore. The same beach, the same cliffs stretched as far as he could see. In the distance, movement caught his eye. Luc shaded his eyes and squinted. A figure stumbled along, sinking every few feet to her knees before struggling back to her feet. Blond hair flashed in the sun, like a coin under the water.
Corinthe is responsible for your sister.
The words echoed in his head. Blood pounded in his ears.
“I need to get to shore,” Luc said abruptly. He couldn’t let her get away. He even contemplated jumping back into the Figments and swimming.
Rhys must have sensed his intentions. “Don’t try it,” he warned. “They might not drown you, but they wouldn’t let you out, either. We’ll be there in just a minute.”
Luc paced the length of the raft, impatiently watching Corinthe make her way to the cliffs. Rhys deftly managed the steering, apparently with the help of Mags’s occasional caws—the man and the bird seemed to have developed some way of communicating. Within a few minutes, the raft bumped against a sandy bottom.
Luc jumped out and landed in the red sand.
“What about the map?” Rhys called.
Luc hesitated. But Corinthe was already climbing. He couldn’t let her escape; she knew where Jas was. That was what the woman had said.
“Go ahead, go get her.” Rhys seemed to be smirking. “I’ll poke around for it. Just give a shout when you’ve done whatever it is you need to do. Mags will hear you.”
“Thank you,” Luc said, and broke into a run.
By the time he’d made it to the base of the cliff, Corinthe had already gotten halfway to the top. Framed against the looming mass of rock, she seemed so small, so fragile, and he steeled himself against a sudden twinge of pity.
Luc took a deep breath and grabbed a piece of the jutting rock over his head. His arms and hands were still aching from his earlier attempt at climbing, but he was fueled with renewed purpose. Corinthe had done something to Jas. She was obviously a psycho. He would catch up to her, and he would get the truth out of her, no matter what.
Just as he began to follow her, she turned around and spotted him.
Even from this distance, Luc could hear her short cry of surprise. Before he could react, a rock the size of his head came tumbling toward him. He jumped off the rocks and out of the way, and the rock thumped into the sand by his feet.
Several more rained down, each larger than the last.
Small and fragile. Right. Luc wouldn’t make the mistake of pitying her again.
Luc ran ten feet down the beach and started to climb. Hand over hand, he moved at an angle, safely out of the way of any more rocks Corinthe might loosen.
Thanks to the drink Rhys had given him, he felt strong even though there was still a faint pounding in his head. He climbed quickly, confidently, rapidly closing in on Corinthe. She reached the top only a few seconds before he did, and he launched himself after her, scrambling to his feet before she could attack him.
Luc tried to ignore the horrible welts marring her arms. Tried to ignore the cuts on her palms that were open and bleeding. How her feet were bare and covered with dirt, her jeans and T-shirt torn. She looked thin and pale and scared. Even her shadows looked short and huddled together.
What the hell had happened to her?
His resolve weakened a little.
And in that instant, Corinthe lunged at him, her teeth bared, like a wild animal. He easily sidestepped her attack and she fell past him, stumbling to her hands and knees, crying out softly. She turned over and tried to stand, but her arms collapsed and she landed on her back.
This time, Luc didn’t wait for her to recover. Girl or not, injured or not, she was still trying to kill him. He was on her in an instant, straddling her waist, the knife pulled quickly from his belt and pressed against her throat. Her knife. Neither moved. They breathed raggedly together, staring at each other.
“Where’s my sister?” he spat out.
She glared at him. “Let me go.”
He leaned into her a little more. “Tell me where my sister is or I’ll kill you,” he said.
“Then kill me,” she challenged. Despite her obvious weakness, there was fire in her eyes.
“Don’t think I won’t,” he said. But he knew that she could see it: he was not a killer.
Corinthe grabbed his hand, forced the knife against the pulse that beat wildly in her neck. Her eyes glistened in the suns, turning a haunting shade of purple. She arched her back, lifting her chin so she was even more exposed to him.
She looked alone and lost and wild and beautiful.
Protect her.
The crazy thought came out of nowhere.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Because if you don’t, as soon as I am strong, I will kill you.”
His hand shook, making the knife wobble. It nicked her skin and a tiny bead of blood welled up underneath her chin. He watched it roll down her neck and into her hair. His stomach twisted violently and he threw the knife aside.
He couldn’t do it.
“Just tell me where my sister is,” he said, “and I swear I’ll let you go.”
A look of pain—or disappointment?—passed over Corinthe’s face. Her body tensed for one moment underneath him;
she opened her mouth.
And then her lovely eyes rolled backward, her body relaxed, and she lost consciousness.
“Well, now. Quite some lovers’ quarrel, ain’t it?”
Luc turned around. Rhys was grinning widely. Mags let out a single caw, as though in agreement.
12
A barely discernible buzzing floats through the air. Corinthe watches the fireflies in the purple twilight: thousands flicker over the river, mingling with the reflection of the stars on the water.
Sometimes, when she stares long enough, she can’t tell which is which.
Corinthe takes a step closer to the water’s edge. It is forbidden to touch the Messengers. But why? She thinks of the stranger who visited Pyralis once. “Don’t stop asking questions,” he had told her—and now she can’t stop. The question seems to burn a path through her mind, like the hot trails of the shooting stars that blaze across the sky. Why why why? And why do none of the other Fates wonder the same thing?
A strange hunger grows inside her. Hunger. A word she doesn’t even know yet. Why why why? Why can’t I touch the light? Then, suddenly, as though in response to her unspoken question, one of the fireflies darts past her. Before she knows what she has done, her fingers have closed around it like a Venus flytrap—a plant that grows both in Pyralis Terra and in Humana.
For one second, the wings beat against her palm. She’s filled with feelings she has never known, feelings she has no words for yet. Ecstasy. Exhilaration. A sense of flying.
But then the firefly breaks free of her hand and she hears a tiny splash. A marble has fallen into the river. Bobbing along the surface, it starts to float downstream. One of the tarnished marbles. One that was not meant to stay in the river but to be rescued and sorted and delivered. This is what she is designed for, what she does. For all of eternity, she sorts the cloudy marbles from the clear—just like all the other Fates—rescuing the obscure and darkened ones, the ones that have been warped. These contain futures that may not happen on their own. They need help. That’s why she culls them and gives them to the Messengers. There is an order, a set of rules. These are not broken—have never been broken.
