by Sacha Black
Her mind is tighter this time, the images faint, like a watercolor painting. She’s trying to control what I see, and I don’t understand why.
I’m in a small room, in a bed covered with patchwork blankets. I sit up, trying to make out the details, but the harder I stare, the weaker the dream gets. I clamber out of bed and hold onto a set of drawers to steady myself. The dream shifts in and out of focus, the ground moving like a see-saw. My stomach curls and more of the color drains from the dream. The vault rumbles, my frustration fueling its anger. I try to push the vault back, force it into submission, but I’m asleep, and so is my conscious brain. A hairline crack appears in the surface of the vault, just enough for a slither of Imbalance to leak out, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
The color pours into the dream. Sheridan materializes in the door; her mouth falls as she stares at me, and she grips the door frame so hard I think her fingers might break. Threads of black dance around the room like spiders’ legs, skittering over the walls and ceiling, and they all originate from me. I try and grab them, but my fingers swipe through them as if they’re nothing more than smoke and shadow. More images pop into focus: colors like an explosion of summer.
A distinctive white mask appears on top of a set of drawers. My eyes widen, I know exactly where I’ve seen this mask before. I reach for it, but as my fingers brush the surface, a thread splinters from the wall, twisting and undulating as it flies toward Sheridan. Her eyes skit from me, to the thread, to the mask. She shakes her head, almost apologetic, at me. Then she raises her hands and twists them into various shapes until I’m yanked backward, and the dream whites out.
Dammit, Sheridan, what are you hiding?
I’m back in the corridor under Trey’s mansion. My back is against the wall, my legs wrapped around him. His hands hold my thighs, and his mouth wanders over my skin. He plants soft silky kisses everywhere his lips roam. The Imbalance is gone. I’m confident Sheridan’s okay because I can still feel the pressure from her sharing my mind. The dream fractures and reforms in a different room.
Trey’s teetering on the edge of another precipice. Only this time, it’s the edge of the Heart of Trutinor’s fountain. Beneath him, the thick creamy blood shimmers, sloshing and splashing on the floor with a ferocity that feels like a threat, and it makes my heart pound. In the center of the fountain, is the giant white beating heart. On the other side of the fountain, Sheridan’s body fuzzes in and out of focus. I move forward, my arms stretching out in front of me to loop around Trey’s arm to pull him off the ledge. But he doesn’t move. He grips my hand and pulls me up and onto the ledge with him. Our chests press against each other, locked in the perfect balance. One step forward, and Trey will fall, one step back, and I’ll pull him down to safety.
The heart behind him thuds – slow steady rhythmic beats, that pulse so hard my dream vibrates, and my head fogs with the hypnotic drumming. Trey inches back, frowning at me.
I look down; I’m in Victor’s body. Sheridan steps round, coming closer so she can watch. Victor’s furry hand jerks out, his claws protruding from his paw pads. His arm punches into Trey’s chest.
I scream and yank Victor’s hand out. But Victor’s body is gone, and I am left holding Trey’s heart in my hand. It beats once, twice, thick warm red blood spilling over my wrist and dropping onto the fountain’s rim. I go to grab Trey, but my fingers don’t reach him. A disembodied scream rushes around the room before being swallowed by the padded walls. I try to pull Trey off the ledge, but my body is moving in slow motion.
A smile hovers on Trey’s face, then he coughs, spraying blood over my cheeks. A river of red bubbles over his lips until his expression slackens, his face lifeless. Dead. My fingertips skim his chest but too late, he’s already falling backward into the fountain. As he disappears, the white fluid splashes up, drenching me in hot metallic-tasting blood. Panic grips my entire body in great spasming shudders. I drop the heart, stepping backward and falling off the fountain ledge, through the floor into darkness, until my eyes open, and Sheridan’s hand clamps over my mouth.
Eighteen
‘Fate is decided. But a decision can be corrupted.’
Rebel Proverb
I grip her hand, but she pulls me onto my side to face her. She shakes her head at me, her brow carved deep with wrinkles and a finger pressed to her lips. When I nod, her grip loosens. I’ll stay silent, if for no other reason than I want the explanation for why she’s dreaming of the mask the rebels wore during the attack.
She sits up, takes her pinky wand out, and moves to the back wall. Despite a night of sleep, her hair still looks styled. I pull my hand through my less styled, more tangled hair and straighten out the t-shirt and combat pants I fell asleep in.
Sheridan waves her wand over a patch of wall, and a window ripples into view shining bright morning light into the room. She taps the corners of the frame with her wand, and a foam liquid rushes out creating a seal around the window. Then she opens the door and shouts for Felicia, who slopes in, yawning and rubbing her face. What is it with these two looking immaculate first thing in the morning? Felicia’s dark crop of pixie hair is as perfect as if she’d just had it cut. She lies down on the mattress, and Sheridan seals the door the same way she did with the window.
Sheridan turns to me and says, “Okay, it’s safe to talk now. You never know who’s listening.”
I have so many questions rushing through my head; I’m not sure where to start. “Those weren’t your dreams, were they?” I say, scanning her face.
Her mouth twitches, as if she wants to hide the truth from me, but then her shoulders sag, “No. They weren’t dreams.”
“Memories?”
She nods. Felicia glances from Sheridan to me, and frowns, “How did Eden see your memories?”
“I don’t know,” she says, looking at the mattress and picking at a stray thread. But she does know. Of course she knows; I saw the fear in her eyes as the threads of Imbalance went for her.
“Because there’s residual Imbalance inside me,” I say. “I should have told you before you agreed to dream share. I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be an issue because it’s in my subconscious. It was risky and stupid, and I’m sorry.”
“Residual what?” Felicia says, sitting up, awake now. “You’re still Imbalanced? I thought that disappeared once you were Bound to Trey?”
“It did and it didn’t. We have more control now. But it will never disappear completely. I think it’s what connects us to the prophecy.”
“Are you hurt?” Felicia says, grabbing Sheridan’s face and pulling her this way and that. “Any signs of infection? I only have one vial of dream fever antidote in the apartment. I’ll have to…”
Sheridan silences Felicia by touching her hand. “I’m fine,” Sheridan says. “She didn’t infect me. I don’t think she can. It’s not me that’s inside her head anyway, just a representation of me.”
“Yes, but it’s your essence,” Felicia says, throwing her hands up. Her face is dark, like thundering clouds. In all the times I’ve met Felicia, I’ve never seen her anything other than bubbly. It makes me nervous.
“Honey,” Sheridan says, “I’m fine. I’m not hurt, and I don’t think I will be.”
Felicia gives Sheridan a stiff but satisfied nod before lying back down, arms folded, though the scowl furrowing her forehead starts to flatten out.
“Why do you have memories of rebel masks?” I ask, pulling some pillows together to lean on. “There was a rebel attack at the Council… All the attackers were wearing the same mask.”
She hesitates, “If I tell you…”
“You can trust me. We’re connected now. My dreams are yours. You’ve seen something you shouldn’t have too.”
“The heart?”
I nod.
“Heart?” Felicia asks, but thankfully Sheridan doesn’t reply. We share a look, of faith and respect and secrets, and I know that Sheridan is going to become a good friend.
�
��Guess we’re going to have to learn to trust each other.” She takes a breath, “I was born in the rebel base. My parents are both rebels, as were their parents.”
I frown, “How long have there been rebels?”
Sheridan laughs, “Since the First Fallon tore Trutinor in two.”
The Libra Legion has only been working against the First Fallon for a couple of decades; I almost feel sorry for their plight.
“Do you really have agoraphobia?” I say, eyeing her.
She smiles, narrows her eyes at me, and says, “No comment.” She sits up a little and continues, “I can only tell you so much. While my family is free-born, we’re not high ranking enough within the rebels to know the details of their plans.”
“Then what can you tell me?” I say.
“That they’ll never give up.”
“What do they want?”
“What they’ve always wanted.”
“Justice, Balance, and freedom?” I say, echoing the words of the rebels from the Council attack.
“Exactly,” Sheridan says, “there’s a larger plan that I don’t know anything about. What I do know is that they’ve spent a long time working toward a way to end the Binding system.”
“The Binding system?”
She nods, “The First Fallon has poisoned the system. She’s using her position to manipulate the Bindings, and that’s why there’s an increasing number of them failing. We call them Misbinds.”
I should be surprised. But after what happened to Rita and me, I just feel relieved to be able to put a name to it. Then I realize Rita never replied to me, and I make a mental note to message her again.
“Then why not stop the First Fallon poisoning the system and creating the Misbinds? Why do you have to end it for good?”
“Because if not her, then someone else. Systems can be abused. They always will be. If the embodiment of Balance itself is corruptible then so is everything else. Besides, do you really think our fate should be decided for us? That we should have no choice over who we love and who we’re Bound to for the rest of our soul’s eternal life? It’s unjust,” she says, her voice getting louder. Felicia places her hand on Sheridan’s arm as if to tell her to calm down. Sheridan takes a short breath and lowers her tone. “The only way to stop the injustice is to end the system completely.”
My fingers skim over the ridges of my Binding scar, tracing the dips and curves of both our essence’s markings. Could I live in a world with no Bindings? What would my life look like without my Binding to Trey?
“Isn’t destroying the system as bad as corrupting it?” I say, finally.
“Perhaps,” she adds, “but there are only two sides to every war, and we all have to choose.”
“Maybe,” I say, staring out the window at the rising sun, “you’re not the only one who thinks that.” Victor’s said it, so has the Last Fallon as has Hermia. But what if they’re all wrong? “Or maybe we shouldn’t have to choose sides at all,” I say, more to myself than her.
I fall into a frustrated silence. There’s so much I don’t understand. There’s a war brewing in Trutinor. I know whose side the prophecy says I’m meant to be on, and I know who my parents would want me fighting alongside. But what if I belong on another side entirely?
“Do you want to talk about your dreams?” Sheridan says, after a while.
“Right, yes. My dreams,” I say, focusing on her again. “I’d nearly forgotten. Trey dies every time. All the dreams are different, except the two versions of Trutinor - the crumbling one you saw and the washed out white one with all the bone buildings. But everything else changes including how Trey dies. Do you think they’re prophetic? Is Trey going to die?”
She twiddles with her wand, avoiding eye contact as she spins it between her fingers as though trying to drill a hole in the mattress.
“Well, the bad news is, I can’t be certain. Not enough dream time with you yet. But I have some initial thoughts, and the good news is that I know where to research for more answers. We can get to the bottom of this.” Her eyes stay fixed on her wand.
“Sheridan?”
She looks up, “Mmm?”
“What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing,” she says, giving Felicia a sideways glance.
“Sheridan…?” I say, harder this time.
She puts the wand down, “Fine. But I don’t want you to jump to conclusions.”
“Okay,” I say, my stomach tightening. “But they are dreams of Trey dying. Kind of hard not to jump to conclusions.”
“You’re not a scryer,” Felicia says, “you can’t be seeing the future.”
“Then why is Sheridan wearing that expression?” I ask, laughing nervously.
“You can’t technically predict the future,” Sheridan says. “Only scryers have that ability… In theory.”
“Theory?” I say, my heart racing. “But you think that somehow I am…? Predicting the future, I mean.”
“I’m not sure. Maybe variations of,” she twists her wand on the palm of her hand, her eyes all distant and glazed.
“That’s not possible? Everyone’s fate is predetermined,” Felicia says, sitting up.
“Precisely, there’s a prophecy…,” I say, wishing she’d hurry up and get to the point.
“Which is exactly why I need to investigate. I’m not certain of anything,” Sheridan says.
“But there’s a chance I’m seeing future versions of Trey’s death?” My chest is so tight I can barely breathe. She looks at me now, giving me an apologetic smile, “Sorry, I should have led with the part where I don’t think the prophetic part of your dream is Trey’s death. The part that concerns me most is the consistency of the two versions of Trutinor. I’m not convinced they’re prophetic, but they’re also not nothing either.”
“So there’s still a chance they’re just nightmares?”
She hesitates but nods.
“But you don’t think they are just nightmares?”
She shakes her head once.
“And Trey’s repeating deaths?”
Sheridan’s lips pinch as if she doesn’t want to tell me what my heart already fears.
“Sheridan?” Felicia says, frowning, “she came here for us to help her understand what the dreams were about. You can’t not tell her the bit she needs to know.”
“It depends,” she says, reluctantly.
“On?”
“On whether the versions of Trutinor you’re seeing are prophetic or not. If they’re not, then the likelihood is that Trey’s deaths are just your subconscious fear of losing him.”
That’s not subconscious; the thought terrifies me. I’ve lost my parents - I can’t lose him too, it would break me.
“And if they are prophetic?” Felicia asks.
Sheridan swallows hard, “Then Trey’s deaths might be too.”
Nineteen
Lani Luchelli, Personal Journal.
12th October, 2017
Paris
* * *
Cassian has only returned once. He promised he would be back to visit, but I’ve seen Renny more than I’ve seen him. She’s still furious of course, but honestly, I’m not sure if it’s because Cassian lied, or the fact she’s Bound at all. She says she visits me when she returns to see her friends from Earth school, but I’m not sure I buy it. But I don’t mind much, I’m grateful for the news she brings, of Cassian, the boys, and of… Him. She says Eden is looking for me, and she only found out because Hermia asked Cassian why she couldn’t track me. So now they know: I’m human, essence-less. Powerless. Strangely, it’s a relief; knowing they know feels like I’m stripping layers of filthy secrets away that were suffocating my skin. Finally, I can breathe. Ren says Eden is trying to convince Trey to look for me, but she won’t succeed. That boy is as stubborn as Kale was. And even if she does, I’m not sure I can face him, either of them. Not after what I did. But I’ve also decided I won’t run. Not anymore. There’s something about Paris; I like it. It could be home: the
vintage architecture; the lilted accents; the permanent smell of warm pastry and sweet wine. Ren is certain Eden is coming… Well, I guess this is where she’ll find me.
I blink, her words churning inside my head. The walls in her dream room seem to shrink. My chest clamps, my breathing spiraling out of control.
“I don’t think so,” Felicia says, gripping my arm and pumping a wave of Siren compulsion through my body. She holds my arm until I calm down.
“Thank you,” I say, “for the…”
“It’s nothing,” she says, letting go of my arm and shrugging. “Lucky for you, anxiety happens to be my speciality.” She winks at me, but I only manage a weak smile because my insides are still slick with panic. I make my excuses, telling them I need to find Trey and sort out our disagreement. But really I just need to see him, to feel his chest rising under my hand; to know with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears, that he’s alive.
We exchange CogTracker details. Given Sheridan and I will likely invade each other’s dreams for the rest of time, it seems courteous.
I leave their apartment, but I’ve so rarely spent time in the South that it takes me a minute to push the rising panic down long enough to work out which way Trey’s house is.
The air is cool and bright. The morning sun isn’t quite high enough to take off its evening jacket and shower heat on me. I flip open my CogTracker and scroll to the notifications. My blood runs cold. There are eleven missed calls from Titus, five from Trey, and a dozen more CogMails.
Something’s wrong.
I locate the main road that will take me back into the center of Siren City and sprint the entire way up it. My lungs burn by the time I reach the center of the city, and I’m forced to slow down. Once I’ve caught my breath, I pick up the pace again. Despite the throb in my thighs, as I enter Siren City high street and spot the back of Trey’s mansion at the other end, I burst into another sprint. I ignore the smiles and nods of various Sirens and Keepers I know as I run past the row of huge white mansions, marble pillars and marble statues filling the streets. On the other side of the road, the lower floors of the mansions have all been carved out to make way for shops and restaurants filled with glass windows and the smells of breakfast and coffee.
