Panic was stealing my breath. “I’m not the person you think I am. How can I make you see that?”
An ice-cold smile. “Oh? Have you had a change of heart in the past few centuries? Are you nice now?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Shall we have a bake sale to fund sports for underprivileged mortal children?”
“I’m not two centuries old. I’m mortal. Can’t you tell the difference? I’m from Osborn. I went to Osborn High School. I was Lady Macbeth in one of the plays junior year, and I fell off the stage. Jared Halverson asked me to the prom as a joke, and I got dressed up in a black gown, and he never showed up.” I blurted these last few tidbits of information in a desperate attempt to explain how utterly nonthreatening I was.
His smile only deepened, his beauty making my chest ache. “Well, this is a rather sad display. You’re really going to play it this way? The night before your execution, Mortana, and you’re going to pretend to be a mortal who’s pathetic even among the other humans? This is fascinating.”
I ignored the degree to which he was insulting me and focused on one word: Mortana. There, I had a name. I pointed at him. “Okay. Let’s start here. Mortana. That’s not me. My name is Rowan Morgenstern. If you’ll check my wallet, you’ll see my ID. I’m twenty-two years old. It’s my birthday tonight. I gave a presentation about repressed memories today, and I fucked it right up. I live in a basement with spiders.” It seemed I was unable to stop spewing irrelevant information.
What were the chances an ancient terrifying demon would accept a Massachusetts license as proof of identity? Not great, I thought.
My heart was racing out of control. “There’s got to be some way that I can prove I’m not Mortana.” Never before had I felt so desperate to be back in that spidery basement.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Here I was, hoping for remorse. I thought you might want to unburden yourself before your death. But I see I won’t get that particular pleasure.”
My mouth went dry. “Before my death?”
“You must remember the prison gallows,” he said quietly. “I certainly do.”
I shook my head, my heart thundering. “No. I don’t!” I shouted. “Because for the last fucking time, I’m not Mortana!”
Shadowy magic spilled around him, then shifted in the air. “You’ve been out of the city gates long enough that you will die quickly. You will die like a mortal if I kill you tomorrow morning before your magic returns. It’s not really the death you deserve, but it’s the one you’ll get. You can thank me tomorrow, love, for your mercifully quick death. Assuming you’re not ready to thank me now.”
And with that, he turned and strolled away, shadows coiling around him.
As I watched him leave through the cell bars, the torches flickered out, and darkness filled the prison again.
Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I tried to corral my racing thoughts into a plan. Screaming and begging would do no good. In the darkness, I searched out a dry part of the cell and slid down into one corner. And as I sat in the silence, I realized my first mistake. Dr. Omer would have called me on it right away. You can’t just tell someone they’re wrong—they’ll just argue back. You have to gently guide them to the conclusion themselves so it seems like their idea.
I dropped my face into my hands, my chest tight.
On the cold cell floor, a sense of loneliness hollowed me out. Was I really going to die in this place? Buried with all my secrets? There were so many things I’d never told anyone. Things that were too dark, too scary.
I hadn’t told anyone that the night mom died, I’d been covered in ashes. My senior year of high school, the police had found Mom’s charred body in the Osborne Forest. They’d found me by the side of the road half a mile away, shaking and covered in soot. When I talked about her murder, I could always sense the change in the air. I could feel muscles tensing, breath sucking in. No one wanted the absolute horror of having to hear more about a mother incinerated in a forest. People looked at me differently after learning about what had happened, as if the tragedy had cursed me. And it had.
I didn’t tell anyone how I’d been nearly catatonic, with confused memories of the night. I hadn’t told Shai that when the police had interviewed me, I’d been incoherent, and that I’d been a suspect for a while. All I could remember was that Mom had injured her ankle. She’d told me to run, fast, to get help. I’d known we were in danger, and I’d started to take off in the dark woods. But then I’d heard it—the inhuman sound like a growl. The smell of flesh burning, and her screams. That’s when my memories became muddled, but I remembered a five-pointed star burning bright in the darkness.