Unblemished

by Sara Ella

  Elizabeth’s unborn child.

  The second I’m able to move on my own, I’m figuring out a way to save her. From Jasyn. From Isabeau. The woman had to be lying. Mom would never have an affair with a married man. And she’s sure not pregnant. When I find her—and I will find her—she’ll set me straight.

  She’s lied to me before.

  But she wouldn’t lie again. Not about this.

  Ky shifts behind me. I have to use him to learn what I can. If this were New York, I’d have no trouble with direction. I hate to admit it, but I need his knowledge of this place, this Reflection, if I’m going to escape . . . and survive.

  “I always thought trolls were crude, hairy ogre-monsters.” Keep it light.

  “Not everything is visible on the surface, princess.”

  Do I hear spite? “How so?”

  He tightens his hold on the reins. On me. Annoyed? Frustrated? “I mean, appearances can deceive. A jagged surface doesn’t always allude to what truly lies beneath.”

  You and the boy have something in common.

  It’s what Mom would say if she were here, but I won’t believe it. Ky and I are nothing alike.

  Better keep a tab on things I can use to my advantage. Weaknesses. Isabeau is Haman’s weakness—someone he fears.

  Check.

  Now what’s Ky afraid of?

  “Can’t we go any faster?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  He breathes in. Out. “The wounds Haman inflicted start deep, then work their way to the surface. You’re bleeding internally now. Eventually your skin will rupture and you’ll bleed out.” He explains it like a doctor diagnosing a terminal patient. How does he know so much about this? “We’re trying to get you to the castle without speeding up the process. Any sudden movements will only worsen your condition. It’s why we continued through the Threshold into Lynbrook Province rather than taking you back to the Pond. The alternate Threshold would’ve left us practically at Crowe’s doorstep. But this way is safer. Your Reflection has too many obstacles when it comes to getting from here to there.”

  Be still. If what Ky says is true, I’ll be dead before I have a chance to save Mom.

  “What does Jasyn want with me? Why all this trouble to bring me here?”

  “Shhh!”

  I raise my voice. “Tell me. Or I swear I’ll throw myself off this horse—”

  “I said be quiet!” he whisper-yells.

  The black horse stops. Rears. Whinnies wildly. Ours follows like a tipped domino.

  I clench its mane so I don’t fall. Crud, that hurts. “What’s happening?”

  “Whoa! Easy, girl.” He pulls on the reins, digging his heels into the horse’s rear.

  Something emerges from the fog ahead. Is it an animal? A bird?

  Haman’s steed bucks him off, bolts forward past the—

  A large winged creature with an eagle’s head and lion’s body stands on all fours, the front two feet talons, the back two paws. It snaps its razor beak and claws the ground, ready to pounce. Something brown and lumpy is strapped to its back. But none of these oddities sticks out as much as the brilliant blue feather growing from its mane.

  The window. A sudden flash of blue. But the beast is huge. How could it fit inside the trome? “What is that thing?”

  “Griffin,” Ky snarls.

  Haman stands, adjusts his collar, and snaps his fingers.

  The griffin charges.

  It thrashes its head, flinging Haman to the side like a rag doll.

  Serves you right, scalawag.

  An anxious thrill grips me. Friend or foe? Either way, this thing has overcome a man I revile. I could run up and kiss it.

  We back up. Turn. Race across the bridge. Ky kicks the horse hard. Twists the reins around his knuckles. Leans forward.

  I crane my neck as the griffin lifts off the ground, beating its enormous wings. It’s gaining. Is it . . . smiling?

  Two sets of talons grab me, yank me, lift me off the horse. Ky strangles my foot and rises too. I kick him. A searing pain shoots up my leg. I still.

  He tightens his hold. So much for not speeding up my internal injuries.

  The griffin breaks through the branches and we climb up, up, up into the fog. We’re rising above it. For the love of New York pizza! To the left is the forest of tromes, a canvas of warmth and spice. Then there’s the vision on the right, hidden until now. As we soar over the gray into the horizon, the lens adjusts to perfect focus.

  A mixture of forest and brick, trees and towers, comprises the skyline. The colors fade from black in the distance to gray and then green beneath us. To the untrained eye it’s just an oddly tinted woodland landscape, but to my widening stare, it is precisely the opposite.

  It’s my favorite painting come to life, the single piece I kept out of dozens of Mom’s creations. The paints she used were more vibrant, but even with the change of hues I recognize the likeness. I slacken my jaw. I let out a small yelp, but the current of wind sailing past my ears muffles the sound. No wonder I loved that painting so much.

  The landscape below, rising and falling like a web of never-ending staircases, is a reflection of New York.

  I’m from the Big Apple. I’m not afraid of heights.

  My arms feel ready to pop from their sockets where the griffin clutches. My foot has fallen asleep thanks to Ky’s death grip. But I’m flying. Pain and discomfort are obsolete.

  As I look down on the Second Reflection, I pick out where things should be. Central Park, the Flatiron Building, Belvedere Castle. Everything is there, but it’s also not. A towering mountain replaces the Empire State Building. A neighboring canyon instead of Yankee Stadium. This place is distorted, contorted, changed, and identical all at once. It’s larger, broader, a state to New York’s city. But it’s New York. It’s home.

  Over land, forest, and sea we glide. A trip that would take twenty minutes in the city takes at least an hour here. When at last the griffin descends, it’s around where Staten Island would be—if Staten Island were a small state. Forest swathes this version on all sides. Where are we supposed to land?

  The griffin dives.

  Ky’s eyes are slammed shut, his face fifty shades of green. Why didn’t he let me go? He didn’t have to tag along. Why would he risk his life to stay with me? What’s so important?

  I close my eyes, waiting for branches to catch on my clothes, for leaves to pummel my face. When I’m sitting on firm ground without so much as a bruise or scratch added to my injuries, I lift my lashes.

  Ground was the wrong word. Platform is more accurate. A circular landing covered in autumn foliage matches the forest exactly. Clever. A camouflaged helipad.

  Ky lies on his back, eyes sealed, one hand still wrapped around my ankle, the other clutching his pack like a lifeline.

  I try to breathe past the stabbing in my veins. It’s not getting worse. Really.

  At least my clothes have dried, dangled from the griffin’s talons like jeans hanging from a wire. My boots are still damp though.

  “You okay there, Maverick?”

  Ky doesn’t laugh. He blinks. When he shoots a glare toward me, I look away. “Don’t you mean Goose? He’s the one who died midair.”

  Wait. He actually gets the Top Gun reference? I thought—never mind. “Why’d you hold on if you’re afraid of heights?”

  He sits. “I’m not afraid of anything.” His words are shaded.

  “Whatever.”

  “This little chat is cute and all, but we need to move before we blow our cover.” Another voice, female, joins the conversation.

  I glance up and just as quickly look away. The girl on the platform is 90 percent buck naked. The brown pack hanging from her shoulders and a tattoo of a crown over a crossed arrow and sword above her right breast make up the covered 10 percent.

  “Hello, Wren.” Ky stares up at her.

  Two questions. One, where’d the griffin go? Two, why’s
there a nude girl standing in its place?

  “Kyaphus.” She avoids eye contact. With him and with me. “For a second there I thought we might lose you.”

  Doesn’t sound like that would’ve bothered her in the slightest. When I look at her again, she’s dressing, removing articles of clothing from her pack and covering her olive skin. She tips her head as she shakes loose the folded clothes, and a single streak of sapphire shines amidst tangles of midnight hair. She slips on a pair of fudge-brown, skintight pants, then an auburn ribbed tank top. An army-green jacket with an abundance of loops, buckles, and pockets completes the ensemble.

  “In your dreams, Song.” Ky may not be able to trick this girl into a staring contest, but why doesn’t he draw his knife? I haven’t seen him with it since he stabbed Makai. Did he lose it?

  She opens her mouth, never looking directly at him, but I interject, “Hold on.” I meet Wren’s scowl. “You’re the griffin? How did you—?”

  “She’s a freak.”

  “You should talk, Rhyen. At least I use my Calling for good—to serve the Verity. You’re nothing more than Crowe’s lapdog. A slave of the Void. A waste of oxygen. Go on, little puppy. Go home to Daddy.”

  Ky leaps to his feet. Growls, “I am no one’s slave.”

  “Enough!”

  We freeze. An insanely muscular man steps onto the platform’s ledge. An army guy cliché with his buzz cut, green jacket, combat boots, and at-ease stance. At his hip rests a sheathed knife, the handle wrapped in what looks like snakeskin. Behind his ear hangs a short, thin, dark-blue braid secured with a leather tie.

  “Wren, report to the Physic’s cabin. He’ll check you out and clear you for your next assignment.”

  Griffin Girl dips her head, limps past G.I. Joe, and disappears behind him. Stairs maybe?

  “As for you, Kyaphus.” The man lugs Ky to his feet, cinches his arms behind his back. Like Wren, he never makes eye contact with Paralysis Boy. “You are headed straight for the Crypts. I’ve wanted to throw you in there since you abandoned the Guardians. Looks as if I will get my chance at last.”

  Ky puffs out his cheeks. Twist, jerk, pull. Fail.

  Ha. It’s not fun when you can’t control your own body, is it?

  “You’re in over your head, Gage. Just wait.” Ky’s jawbone bulges. He levels Gage with a bloodthirsty glare.

  I watch the exchange, spying something I didn’t notice before. Ky’s eyes are two different shades, one green and one brown. Strange. Beautiful.

  It’s almost as if he senses me staring. He whips his head in my direction, and for the briefest moment our eyes meet.

  I scowl at my boots. What am I thinking? He’s a scumbag. There’s nothing beautiful about him.

  “Careful now, traitor.” Gage lifts Ky in the air as if he weighs nothing. “You wouldn’t want me to lose my patience.” His regard remains just out of Ky’s line of vision. “And if I find out you had a hand in whatever is delaying Archer and David . . .”

  Joshua. Kill me. Kill me now. If just hearing his name unravels me, how am I supposed to . . . ?

  Mom. Concentrate on Mom.

  Gage whistles like he’s hailing a cab, and a girl of maybe fifteen appears. She’s wearing a sky-blue Bohemian-style skirt and a cream-colored peasant top with a drawstring neck. A waterfall braid pulls luxuriant brown hair off her face, only a stripe of lavender resting against her cheek.

  For the first time Gage smiles. Says to me, “Welcome. I am Lieutenant Commander Jonathan Gage, but you may refer to me as the latter.”

  “El,” I say.

  He gives a slight bow. “Commander Archer sent word we should anticipate your arrival.” He withdraws a small scroll from his pants pocket and hands it to me.

  It’s literally torture to unfurl the yellowed paper, which is actually two pages rolled together. My lips move silently as I bite back the pain and read the first page. I skim Makai’s short explanation—he and Joshua are returning, and they’re bringing a girl. Me. He even warned Gage we might be compromised and requested he send someone to watch for us in Lynbrook Province.

  When I move on to the second page, an inner gasp scratches my throat. One side of the paper is ripped, the page torn from its former home. The profile sketch of me is recent, not quite a year old. Mom does one for every birthday. Since we don’t have a ton of pictures, this is her way of commemorating the milestones. She always drew the profile from my left side, my good side. Just another way she showed her love. Mom knew I’d hate to have my ugliness recorded.

  My fingers tremor as I roll the papers together and hand them back to Gage.

  He pockets the scroll and quirks a brow. “I must admit, I expected Commander Archer and Lieutenant David to accompany you.”

  I close my eyes, shielding tears. Shake my head.

  “I see.” Gage clears his throat. “This is Robyn. She’ll take care of you from here. If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend.” He lowers Ky, gives me a departing nod. They disappear below the crown of trees.

  Robyn comes over and kneels. Her catlike hazel eyes examine me. “You’re injured.”

  Nod. Wince. “Haman.” Swallow. “He did something to—”

  “Say no more.” She holds up a hand. “Can you move at all?” Her voice is tender, pretty. The tonal quality suggests she’d make a lovely singer.

  I lean forward. Bad idea. “Listen, my mom . . .”

  Her hand warms my shoulder. “One moment.” She vanishes beyond the landing. Moments later, a gorgeous Bengal tiger creeps forward, a bundle of clothes in its mouth. The animal is larger than a cub, but not fully grown either. What strikes me most is its teeth are flat, not at all menacing as they glisten dramatically in the sunlight. I hold perfectly, statuesquely still. What other option do I have? I can’t even twitch, let alone move. Wait, that purple tuft of fur on one cheek, the wad of blue and cream cloth in its mouth. Robyn? Can she shape-shift too?

  I drive rationality aside as the tiger approaches. She lowers her body, scooting toward me like a submissive pet. Her clawless paw touches my leg, and she jerks her head backward. The tiger wants to take me for a ride.

  Weirder things have happened today.

  I hunch over the throbbing in my stomach, biting my lip and closing my eyes. My crawl onto her silky back is slower than service at McDonald’s in Times Square on New Year’s. When I’m straddling her body, clutching her fur, Robyn walks to the platform’s end and pad, pad, pads down a spiral staircase.

  The scene below is a vision for homesick eyes. Tromes and cabins. Brick towers and cottages. Woven together along networks of paths and roads. Women, men, children, animals. How many of them can transform the way Wren and Robyn can? How many are merely wildlife? My questions could fill Carnegie Hall.

  Robyn leaps from the last stair onto the soil, her shoulder bones peaking and sinking with each step.

  I lift my head an inch. Earthy scents. One stands out. Basil. A very Manhattan sort of smell. I don’t know why. It just is.

  We head down a road. Multicolored storefronts cluster on either side, giving it a Chinatown feel. A woman with a baby attached to her hip by a wide piece of cloth sells eggs. We pass by and her green eyes expand, the corner of her mouth lifting.

  A stranger just smiled at me. Definitely not New York.

  Chop! An enormous fish head tumbles off a counter, plops into a basket on the ground. The butcher drops his cleaver, wraps the headless fish in brown paper, and hands it to an older man with a wheelbarrow. Their carefree exchange ascends on laughter and pleasantries. There’s a vibe to this place, a distinctive quality of interconnection and community.

  The style seems to be a mixture of medieval bohemian and not-so-distant-future dystopian. Unlike Wren, the girls and women wear long skirts and lengthy tops accented with knotted sashes. Braids and teased buns and makeshift twists for hairstyles, handmade Uggs decorated with beads and feathers for shoes. The men sport boots and fabrics in muddied hues. Flannel shirts. Loose-fitting carg
o pants. Casual. Farmer-esque.

  A log cabin stands at the end of one lane, a garden to its right. Smoke rises from a chimney, and curtains the color of Robyn’s skirt trim the windows. Some of Mom’s earlier paintings featured mountain scenes. Cottage homes cozied up among thickets of trees. Did her inspiration transpire here?

  Robyn walks up two steps, nudges the slightly open door with her nose, and enters.

  The one-room cabin is larger than it first appears. My nostrils flare when the smells of aloe vera and ash intrude on my senses. A fire crackles in an ancient-looking wood-burning stove. Hammocks tied to wooden frames line the far wall, a curtain hiding one. A pair of boots peeks out where the hanging fabric ends. Subdued voices converse on the other side.

  “I’m sorry, Wren. I won’t be able to clear you until your ankle heals.”

  “What?” Wren’s owl-like screech reminds me she’s no ordinary human. “It’s no big deal. I’m fine.”

  “You are not fine. That’s a nasty sprain. You must have overexerted it.”

  The curtain swishes open. Wren springs from a hammock and hobbles toward us. Her fury is a hot coal in my stomach. A lit match at my ear. “This is your fault.”

  The guy with the boots walks over and places a hand on her back. His weathered smile reaches his grandfatherly eyes, and surprise, surprise, a blue braid nestles behind his ear. “Go get some supper, Wren. You need your strength.”

  She shrugs him off with a blood-chilling scowl. Then she tromps away. Limp, shuffle, limp. Slam! The walls shake. Bottles on shelves rattle and clink.

  The man scratches Robyn between her ears. “How can sisters be so different, kitten?” He strokes the underside of her chin and she purrs. “In a few years your Confine will lift. We’ll see how tough Wren is once your fangs and claws come in, hmm? She won’t be so ferocious with a full-grown tiger in our midst.”

  Robyn emits a shaky growl. Is she laughing?

  “I’m Wade Song.” He stoops to my level. “I see you’ve met my girls.”

  What did Ky call Wren? Song?

  Wade lifts me off Robyn’s back without pause and carries me to a hammock. Starchy fabric envelops me, drooping under my weight. Stiffness and fatigue press down. Kneading. Coaxing. The curtain closes. My eyelids sag.