“Is this what you were after?” he screams.
He takes a step forward and I shake my head, warning him not to come closer.
“Lira,” Elian whispers. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
I wake up gasping for air.
My hands clutch the thin white bedsheet, and my hair slavers over my bare shoulders. The ship rocks slowly to the side, but the motion that I used to find comforting makes me more nauseated by the second. My heart ticks madly against my chest, shaking more than beating.
When I unclench my fists from the bedsheet, there are scratch marks on my palm. Angry red streaks across the lines of my hand. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to catch my breath.
The image of Elian’s heart plays on an unsteady loop. The betrayal in his eyes. The punishing sound of my mother’s laughter.
I spent my life hiding from the possibility of being different than what my mother told me I must be. Swallowing the child with a desire to become something else. I was a siren and so I was a killer. It was never wrong or right; it just was. But now my memories are cruel dreams, twisting into merciless visions and accusing me of a past I can’t deny.
The truth of what I am has become a nightmare.
33
Elian
THE WATER IS SLUSH by the time the Saad makes her berth. Cold has a faithful presence here, and with dusk rapidly approaching, the air seems almost frozen by the impending absence of sun. Regardless, it’s just as bright as if it were morning. The mirror of the frozen sky against the white water, flecked by tufts of ice and snow, makes for a kingdom that is beautifully void of darkness. Even in the dead of night, the sky turns no darker than a mottled blue, and the ground itself acts like a light to guide the way. Snow, reflecting the eternal tinsel of the stars.
Págos.
I feel the beat of the necklace against my heart as we step foot onto the snow. Finally the crystal is within reach. I have the key and the map to navigate the route, and all that’s left is for Lira to tell me the secrets of the ritual.
The air is crisp on my skin, and though my hands are wrapped under thick gloves, I shove my fists into my pockets anyway. The wind penetrates here through every layer, including skin. I’m dressed in fur so thick that walking feels like an exertion. It slows me down more than I would like, and even though I know there’s no imminent threat of attack, I still don’t like being unprepared in case one comes. It shakes me more than the cold ever could.
When I turn to Lira, the ends of her hair are white with frost. “Try not to breathe,” I tell her. “It might get stuck halfway out.”
Lira flicks up her hood. “You should try not to talk then,” she retorts. “Nobody wants your words being preserved for eternity.”
“They’re pearls of wisdom, actually.”
I can barely see Lira’s eyes under the mass of dark fur from her coat, but the mirthless curl of her smile is ever-present. It lingers in calculated amusement as she considers what to say next. Readies to ricochet the next blow.
Lira pulls a line of ice from her hair, artfully indifferent. “If that is what pearls are worth these days, I’ll make sure to invest in diamonds.”
“Or gold,” I tell her smugly. “I hear it’s worth its weight.”
Kye shakes the snow from his sword and scoffs. “Anytime you two want to stop making me feel nauseated, go right ahead.”
“Are you jealous because I’m not flirting with you?” Madrid asks him, warming her finger on the trigger mechanism of her gun.
“I don’t need you to flirt with me,” he says. “I already know you find me irresistible.”
Madrid reholsters her gun. “It’s actually quite easy to resist you when you’re dressed like that.”
Kye looks down at the sleek red coat fitted snugly to his lithe frame. The fur collar cuddles against his jaw and obscures the bottoms of his ears, making it seem as though he has no neck at all. He throws Madrid a smile.
“Is it because you think I look sexier wearing nothing?”
Torik lets out a withering sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. I’m not sure whether it’s from the hours we’ve gone without food or his inability to wear cutoffs in the biting cold, but his patience seems to be wearing thin.
“I could swear that I’m on a life-and-death mission with a bunch of lusty kids,” he says. “Next thing I know, the lot of you will be writing love notes in rum bottles.”
“Okay,” Madrid says. “Now I feel nauseated.”
I laugh, but the sound is lost against the rhythm of nomadic drumbeats that barrel toward us. Up ahead, a line of warriors approach. There’s at least a dozen of them, standing in a perfect military arrow, marching fiercely in our direction. Even with the blizzard, they’re easy to spot. The snow does a poor job of obscuring their imposing statures and impressively systematic formation. They hike seamlessly in step with one another, feet crushing into the snow with the pound of every drumbeat. They look like giants, their uniforms so dark, they ink the empty landscape.