I draw in a deep breath, the action causing my head to throb.
I know this pain—and I know the accompanying confusion.
Shit. I must’ve used my magic—probably a lot of it too, if my headache is anything to go by.
I take a deep breath and go over my list of basics.
I am Selene Bowers.
I am twenty years old.
I grew up in Santa Cruz, California.
My parents are Olivia and Benjamin Bowers.
I am alive. I am okay.
The people clustered around me have been asking me questions. I try to focus on one of them. “What?” I say dazedly.
“Does anything hurt?”
I frown again, then touch my temple. “My head,” I say hoarsely. My muscles ache, and my clothing is growing damp from whatever is beneath me, but those are minor inconveniences. Even the headache will disappear eventually.
“What’s going on?” I murmur.
“You were in a plane crash,” one of the flight attendants says.
“What?” I sit up too fast, and I have to place a hand on my head as a wave of vertigo washes through me.
There was a magical attack—our plane was being pulled out of the sky—I tried to stop it.
I suck in a breath when it all vaguely comes back to me. But the tattered memory feels more like a dream than something I lived through, and when I try to pry details loose, it seems as though they disintegrate.
I blink around at the gathered crowd; then I focus my attention beyond them.
I make a small noise when my eyes land on our massive plane, which rests on a bed of flattened trees. Some of its siding has been ripped free, and the tip of the wing has been torn apart.
“I…survived that?” I say.
“We all survived that,” the pilot corrects. He’s giving me a look, like he has so much more he wants to say. “Every single one of us.”
I continue to stare at the mangled plane, struggling to wrap my mind around that.
Our plane crashed. It literally crashed. And we all survived.
And I must’ve helped. My confusion and my pounding headache are evidence enough of it.
Unfortunately, I don’t remember much of the experience. Except…except…
Empress…
My breath stills.
I remember that coaxing masculine voice. I—I heard it on the plane. I think, though I can’t say what role it played. And trying to piece it together is only making my head pound harder. I press my fingers to my temple, trying to ease the pain.
“There’s a doctor making the rounds,” the pilot says, drawing my attention back to him. “Can you sit here and hold tight?”
I swallow, then nod.
He pats my leg and stands, moving away to, I don’t know, do whatever pilots do when they crash-land. He does throw me one last glance over his shoulder, and there’s a question in his eyes. He must’ve seen something or heard something, something unexplainable, and now he has questions.
I’m grateful I cannot remember whatever it is he’s remembering. I have no idea how I would explain my magic.
While I get my bearings, one of the flight attendants fishes out some aspirin and a tiny bottle of water. She too gives me a look as she hands the items over, only hers is less curious and more…rankled. I get the distinct impression we had some sort of unpleasant encounter, and it leaves me wondering just what went down in that plane right before we crashed.
Once I’ve taken the medicine and established that I really am okay, she and the other flight attendants leave my side. I watch them head toward other people who are sitting or lying down. There are dozens—if not hundreds—of people milling about. Some are crying while others are holding one another or staring off into the distance.
I let my own gaze drift over our surroundings. Densely packed trees tower above us, blocking out most of the sunlight. Shrubs have found their homes here on the forest floor, fitting themselves into every available nook and cranny. The ground is wet, the plants are wet, and judging by the steady patter of rain, the air itself is wet.
A strange whooping call echoes in the distance. Beneath that sound, there are birdcalls and fainter noises that must belong to frogs or bugs or whatever else inhabits this place.
So we crashed somewhere in the rainforest, which is somewhat alarming when I realize there must be hundreds of miles of wilderness around us.
How long will it take for anyone to find us?
Around me, the jungle seems to literally darken with my thoughts. I touch my head, wondering if beyond the memory loss, I sustained some trauma to it. It’s only when I see a band of deep-blue magic twisting through the trees that I realize I’m not imagining things at all.