by Angel Lawson
There’s a buzz in return, the door unlocks and I step into the building. Hildi is in unit four, so I climb the first set of stairs. I knock, bracing myself for whatever anger she has after I lost my mind the day before, but when the door opens Hildi barely glances at me. Her brilliant blue eyes are rimmed with red. I can’t stop staring at the bruises on her neck.
“Can we talk?” I ask. She nods and I step into the apartment. I’m barely in when I stop cold. Sniffing the air, I catch the familiar scent. I instinctively cover my mouth and nose with my hand. “Oh my god, Hildi.”
“She’s got it—the virus,” Hildi replies, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “I came home from your place and found her like this.”
“How? Do you know?” It doesn’t matter. It’s a stupid question. “How far along is it?”
“From what we’ve seen she probably has a few days. I’m not taking her to the hospital. I’ve seen the news, it’s a cesspool there.” She sighs, but it’s more like a shuddering cry. “I don’t know what to do.”
She leads me to her room. The bed is centered in the room. I’m sure Andi is a knockout in real life. I can tell that from her dark, red hair and the angles of her face, but right now? She looks like death. Actual death. Ashy face. Sallow skin. Her lips are pale and cracked. She’s asleep, or at least I hope she is. I notice heavy curtains cover the large windows and the lamps are all dimmed.
“Bright light hurts her eyes.”
“Hildi, I came to apologize. I am so, so sorry about what happened yesterday.” I reach for her hands and I’m happy when she doesn’t pull away and punch me. “I’m working on this. Figuring out what to do—how to save these people. People like Andi.”
“I’m not sure what you can do. It’s spreading rapidly. Half the businesses in our neighborhood are closed—either out of fear or actual sickness. I think it’s worse than what the news is reporting.”
The sinking feeling I’ve had since speaking with Christensen churns in my belly. What it will take to end the spread of the Darkness is possibly more than I can give. It’s a sacrifice. One after the other. It took one to get it rolling: Xavier, and it will most likely take more than one to get it to stop.
And if I go…Anita goes. We’ll have to get to the Otherside together. There I can free my guardians, if they’re even still alive, and we’ll kill the Morrigan. Hildi watches me closely. “What are you thinking about?”
“How to stop this. Anita says she knows how, but she wants to return to the Morrigan’s side. I’m going to have to take her.” I tell her Christensen’s theory about reuniting the three sides of the Queen to fully kill her.
The Valkyrie shakes her head. “No. There has to be another way.”
“Splitting her up only gave us a little time.” I glance at Andi, who takes a long, shuddering breath. “A slow spreading death instead of quick and total annihilation.”
“What if you go and it’s worse? What if she’s too powerful to stop?”
“There’s no good answer here. No good solution. People are dying—people have died. I can’t let fear hold me back from at least trying to stop her and find a cure.”
Hildi sits on the bed next to her partner and takes her hand. There’s no doubt that the look in her eyes, directed at me, is nothing but pure pity. “I don’t wish the burdens you carry on anyone, Morgan. You’ll have to make the decision.”
“I feel like it’s already been made. Do I even have a choice?”
“May the gods be with you.” She stands and gives me a hug. “But if you succeed, bring me back the cure.”
I squeeze her tight. “I will.”
Chapter 11
Dylan
After hours of absolute frustration, tedious work, and three shots of whiskey, I’m able to download and print off Sam’s photos. There’s little doubt the Guardian documented his final moments in this realm so we would find them. There are dozens of shot with no organization, just a continuous shot of the grisly, dark scene.
My brothers didn’t even have the chance to fight. The Morrigan slipped in from an invisible portal, one that simply merged our worlds together. I stare at the photo—a vision?—of Clinton, bound and beaten. I recognize the hard stone floor and the chains.
“Oh my god. What…what is that? Where is it?”
I spin and find Morgan in the doorway of the dining room. I’ve spread the photos across the long table. My heart pounds--I didn’t want her to see them, but then again, it’s her fight too. The truth will help us find them.
She snatches the photo from my hand. I pretend not to see the tears in her wide, dark eyes and reach for the final, erratic shots, stashing them in a pile. Her hand clamps down on my wrist. “Don’t. I want to see them.”
I hand them to her, each worse than the last. Whip marks, lashes, and bruises. Blood pooling on the cold, stone floor. “I don’t think Sam saw them before he was taken or even had a clue what was coming.”
“Does that make it better?” Her voice is hard.
“I’m just trying to piece it together.”
“They walked into a slaughter. So the Morrigan—or at least some manifestation—was able to sneak through a completely invisible entrance and ambush them.”
I point to one of the photos with the black, coiled tentacles slipping from one world to the next. “They’re in the castle dungeons.”
“How do you know?”
I roll up my sleeves and point to the scarred tissue around my wrist, then cut my eyes to a photo of Damien chained with his arms extended over his head. Iron manacles wrap around his wrists. “It’s not the first time the Queen has taken a guardian prisoner.”
She frowns and touches the marks on my wrists. “You? When?”
I look down at our hands. “When you opened the gate before.”
“When my parents died.”
I nod. Morgan looks like she may be ill. I pull out a chair and guide her into it. “Don’t blame yourself for that one. It was all my doing.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, but drops it anyway. “How far in the future do you think these photos show?”
I’ve already studied the wounds. The scabs and reopened injuries. I see the gaunt thinning in their cheeks, the lost glimmer in their eyes.
“A few weeks.”
“Weeks?” Her jaw drops.
“I suspected all along that they were still alive.” I wrap my hands around the back of the chair. “It’s not her way to make anything quick and painless.”
Morgan stares at the photos, her mind running. I see the way her eyes move, the way her fingers clench. Her emotional reactions are why I hadn’t told her. She’s not the best at keeping in check.
She turns and lifts her chin. Her next comment catches me off guard. “Andi is sick—she caught the virus.”
Another stone sinks. “And Hildi?”
“She’s fine. Probably immune.” She exhales and glances over the photos one last time before standing. “I’m going to bed.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No.” She gives me a weak, tired smile. “I’m exhausted. I probably just need a little time alone.”
It’s not exactly a dismissal or even a rejection. I’m exhausted as well. Even if we bonded tonight, I’m not sure how much energy I’d have to give.
I grab her hand before she leaves, tugging her back to my chest. I do kiss her. I’m not letting her get away so easily, and the flare of heat still rises between us. “Find me if you need me, okay?”
She nods, licking the taste of me off her lips.
“Goodnight, Dylan.”
“Goodnight.”
Chapter 12
Morgan
I don’t go to bed or even go to my room. Instead I walk up the four flights of stairs and enter Bunny’s studio. The massive, high-ceilinged room is drafty and cold and I wrap my arms around my chest to stave off a chill. I hadn’t been in here alone before. Not before or after Bunny’s betrayal.
I had seen the paintings, th
ough. Canvas after canvas of similar, haunting scenes. Most are of the castle. The Morrigan’s castle. I’ve seen it in my dreams. Written about it. I know that in the realm where she lives it’s cold and barren—a reflection of the soulless anger that resides in her heart.
I walk to the one with the tear and touch the jagged canvas edges. Dylan almost killed Bunny that night. It’s a testimony to my confusion that I’m okay that he missed.
I walk down the long row of paintings and find a hint of obsession. What was Bunny trying for here? Some kind of perfection? Slight variations occur in each scene. A light in the castle window of one. The curved branch of a withered tree in another. Stopping at one set in the gloomy gray of the Otherside’s day, I try to figure out what I’m missing. My eyes keep going back to the light in the arched window, a faint pale yellow. A slight blur mars the middle of the glass. A person? Someone watching.
A faint, cool breeze wafts over me and I blink, realizing my nose is centimeters from touching the canvas. I feel the tingle of magic, a faint reminder of the day I stepped between realms in the park. Narrowing my eyes at the two-inch window, I press a finger against the yellow glass.
Nothing.
Just hard, painted canvas, cast in the shadow of fading magic. Bunny must have infused it in the materials but how do I activate it?
I stare at the painting for a few more minutes, quite sure I can see something beyond the glass. If there’s something in there, then I can hopefully get through there, like Bunny, Anita, and the other Guardians did. I’ll need strong magic and someone to walk me through it—not Dylan. Someone more willing to take on the darker sort of magic required for this kind of spell.
I’m not exactly sure who can help me, but I have an idea where to start.
*
The zap is familiar this time as I pass through the disarming wards of the bar. Being so unfamiliar with my magic and abilities, I’m never sure what I’m losing—they’ve only been strong under spells or in the fighting ring—but I feel a specific loss when I step past the bouncer and into the shadowy room.
The music is loud enough to disguise conversations but not overbearing. The crowd is lighter than last time, empty tables are scattered across the room. I don’t see anyone familiar but I decide to wait it out and find an empty stool at the bar.
“What would you like?” the bartender asks. I saw her speaking to Dylan the other night. She’s got creamy brown skin and a shaved head. Her features are tiny, the tips of her ears slightly pointed. I try not to stare at her teeth, sharp at the canines, but fail.
“Whiskey,” I reply, scanning the rest of the bar. I’d come to like the taste of it after being handed a glass so many times at The Nead. She pours the drink and slides it across the bar. “Thanks.”
She helps another customer and I try to search the dark room. It’s impossible, though, without looking nosy. The bartender wipes the counter and says, “You were here the other night. With the Raven.”
I nod and take a sip of the fiery drink. “I was.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Where is he this time?”
I shrug.
“He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”
“Why would you ask that? I’m an adult. I can go where I please.”
She snorts. It’s a delicate sound. She leans over the bar and I see her eyes, green with flakes of swirling gold. “Tell me, Your Majesty, why are you here? Maybe I can help?”
“Why did you call me that?”
“Your Majesty? Are you not the Queen of Ravens?”
“No,” I say, but it feels like a lie. I look at my drink. “It’s complicated.”
“Not really.”
Another customer approaches and she walks down the bar length. I consider leaving, but the woman may be able to help. When she returns, I take another sip of my drink and ask, “What’s your name?”
“Cirice.”
“Well, Cirice, I’m looking for the Shaman.”
Her head tilts. “No, there’s no way your Guardian knows you’re here.”
“Do you know where he is? The Shaman? I think he can help me.”
“Oh, I’m sure he can,” she laughs under her breath. “That’s one bag of trouble you don’t want to get into.”
“Dylan warned me, but like you said, I’m the Queen and he’s my Guardian, not my boss. I have to make the hard decisions—the tough choices. If the Shaman can help me, I have to take the risk.”
The bartender hesitates but her eyes flick over my shoulder toward a darkened corner of the bar. There’s a small booth tucked against the wall. I can make out a figure sitting alone.
“Thank you,” I say, drinking the remainder of my whiskey and sliding the glass across the counter. I ease off my stool.
“Wait,” she says, holding up a finger. I pause as she grabs a glass and a bottle of a dark liquid in a green bottle. I can’t read the language on the label. “It’s his favorite.”
I reach for the cash in my pocket, but she shakes her head. “The Ravens have a tab. I’ll put it on there.”
Of course they do. Again, I nod my thanks, take the bottle, and start across the bar. I feel the eyes of the patrons watch me when I pass. There’s little doubt they all know exactly who I am. That also means they know I’m responsible, at least partly, for the sickness raging outside. Tran mentioned not everyone was opposed to the Morrigan’s war, but it’s impossible to know what side anyone belongs to, so I keep my chin lifted and walk straight to the booth.
The Shaman sits with his back to the corner, focused on a small book. An empty glass sits next to it. I approach and hold the bottle out first, silently thanking the bartender for giving me an opening line. I open my mouth but without looking up he beats me to it, pushing his glass closer to the edge and saying, “Fill the glass and take a seat.”
I screw off the lid and fill the glass to the rim. The liquid is so dark it looks like ink. I do as he says, sliding into the booth across from him. He closes his book, takes a sip of the drink, and smiles. “Remind me to tip Cirice generously. She’s worked the bar long enough to know exactly what her customers want. Is that why she sent you here? Gift in hand?”
His skin is dark as midnight. His voice deep and smooth. There’s no denying the confidence he carries, the lingering of magic even if the wards have him controlled—something I doubt as the seconds flip by.
“I thought maybe we should meet, personally.”
He rests his hands on the table and I spot the tattoos and rings on his fingers. “I figured you’d be back. Your guardian doesn’t know you’re here, does he.”
“By now? Probably.” Whatever alarms and bells Dylan has in the little bat cave of his mind have probably been triggered. “Which only means we should probably get to it.”
He smiles, and the simple act puts me at an unnatural ease. Another gift, I assume. “The Morrigan took my guardians. They’re either dead or trapped in her realm, and we can’t open the gate. It was damaged in Bunny’s escape.”
His eyes narrow for a moment. “You want in the Otherside. What about your traitor?”
“I’ll be forced to deal with him, too.”
“And you think you can just storm the Morrigan’s castle? Get inside and do what you want?”
I shrug. “I don’t have another choice.”
“There are always choices, dear. Always. Suicide by the Goddess of War is one of them.” He looks me up and down and I fight squirming under the gaze of his yellow eyes. “I’ve witnessed you fight in the ring. I saw your true powers emerge, but that was when you were complete—whole with the Morrigan.” I hold his gaze and realization clicks. “That’s what you really want, isn’t it? Your full strength.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to get my guardians back and stop the sickness.” I swallow. “I know the risks.”
He chuckles, flashing those teeth. “I seriously doubt it. But I’m not here to judge. I’m here to open pathways. I can give you what you want.”
“What’s t
he cost?”
The smile drops from his face and his expression is blank, like a slate. “There is no cost, because I’m interested in the results. Although, I can only offer you a limited return. One for the way there and three back for your Guardians. If you’re truly up to the task of taking on the Morrigan, you can find a way back on your own.”
He wants to trap me there, force the altercation between me and the Morrigan. He offers his hand across the table, waiting for me to take it or not.
I take a deep breath, knowing that if I accept, it’s an oath I can’t get out of. That’s the price—losing control. I wipe my hand on my pants and hold it over the table, curling my fingers into a fist at the last moment. “I accept your challenge, but I’m going to need one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I need two entry tickets to the Otherside.”
His hand wavers in the air. “They won’t be able to return—not on their own.”
I unclench my fist and slip my hand into his, shaking before he can ask any other questions. “Good.”
Chapter 13
Bunny
I stare at the canvas, still wet with paint. The oil shines, malleable but firm, and I thought for a moment that the movement was just that—the oil—but when I peered closer, nose nearly touching, I know what I saw was real. Someone looking at me from the other side.
Not the Otherside. That’s where I am, locked in my studio tower. But the painting is of the other realm, my former home and studio in the attic of The Nead. It’s the opposite of here—the flip of the mirror. It’s the way back and the way in, and gods almighty I think Morgan may have just been on the other side.
My fingers coil around the paintbrush, pushing back the desire to reach through and grab her.
Not that I could. Not yet at least, and what are the chances of it being so easy? The magic hasn’t set, not from my side anyway. And the painting is one of many—hundreds—left to confuse Dylan or anyone else looking for entrance. I need to get back to The Nead. I must. If I don’t bring the Queen what she wants, her wrath will rain upon the house. Not just on me—no—she never goes after her opponent directly. No, the Morrigan is methodical about her pain.
