The two of us reaching, grasping, fighting for our lives, fighting to hang on to each other—but it’s no use.
Our skin is too wet, too slippery, too slick to grab hold of.
And though I try to keep my eye on Damen, try to determine the direction from which he cal s out my name, it’s too dark, too confusing, I’ve no sense of time or place, no sense of up or down—and the next thing I know, I’m sinking.
It’s over.
Too late.
The river has claimed me.
twenty-three
I’m gagging.
Gagging on mud, and muck, and total y icky bottom-of-the-river sludge. Something hard and metal ic clanging against my upper molars and floating on my tongue—something I’m determined to rid myself of.
I push up onto my elbows, and then onto my knees. Balanced on al fours, I spit onto the ground, scoop a finger around the inside of my mouth, and rid it of rocks and debris along with a strange medal ion that pops out and dangles before me—hanging from a brown leather cord I wear at my neck.
I lean back on my heels, pinching the piece between my forefinger and thumb as I peer at a smal silver circle of a snake swal owing its own tail. Thinking it curious, more than a little interesting, but having no idea where it came from.
No idea why I find myself wearing it.
No idea what it could possibly mean.
I fal back in exhaustion, close my eyes against the sun. At first enjoying the feel of it, the way it dries my clothes and warms my skin, but it’s not long before the pleasure’s diminished by rays so intense they leave me sweaty and breathless and suddenly overcome with a deep parching thirst that has me scrambling back toward the river, hoping to drink, only to find the river is gone. Replaced by a landscape of sand, a multitude of cacti, and two blazing suns overhead emitting dual sets of harsh, unforgiving, searing hot rays.
My skin begins to blister and burn as my lips crack and bleed, and with no shelter to be found, and too weakened by my thirst to go searching for one, I’m left with no choice but to curl my body into a bal . Bowing my head until my chin is tucked tightly to my knees, my hair hanging down before me, hoping it wil shield me, only to end up sacrificing the back of my neck in order to spare my face.
Think. I squinch my eyes tightly, try to center myself, try to concentrate.
Think, I scold. Remember.
But the heat’s so intense it’s impossible to focus on anything but my scalding skin and unquenched raging thirst.
I yank my sleeves down, down past my wrists and over my hands, al the way down to my fingertips. Trying not to cry out when the cotton rubs against the blisters, splitting them open and al owing the juice from the wounds to sizzle right there on my flesh. Working past the pain, I shove them deep into my pockets, attempting to make myself smal er, less of a target, trying to hide from the heat, but it’s no use. With dueling suns, one at my front, one at my back, there is no escaping their wrath.
My fingers squirm deep, and then deeper stil . Ultimately coming across something slick and hard with rough edges—a stone of some kind.
A stone I cannot remember.
I work my way along the sides, along the cool smooth surface, knowing I need to think, to concentrate, to remember … something …
but having no idea what that something might be.
I turn the stone over. Explore each side, again and again, until a flicker of light plays on the underside of my crusted, shuttered lids. A flash of color, a myriad of varying hues, creeping into my vision—my inner vision—accompanied by a string of words meant to prod me, nudge me, insistently swirling through me, demanding my notice—though I’ve no idea what they mean.
Words that continue to loop and repeat, playing over and over, each and every syl able stressed with greatest urgency, until it sounds something like:
Dark—like his eyes.
Red—like the blood that flowed from me.
Blue—like the river, like the stone in my pocket.
A stone I must see.
I work it up past my hip, slide it across my bel y and over to where I can see it. Marveling at how it’s managed to stay cool despite the raging inferno around me, daring to slit one eye open, despite my lashes singeing, my skin scalding, and my retina searing, I peer upon it, twirling that bril iant blue-green crystal around in my fingers, awed by the sight of it, until I notice something even more wondrous—the energy that radiates from my skin like a halo of the brightest, most radiant, golden-flecked purple.
The color reminding me of the one I felt earlier. The one that thrummed right through my body, back when I was in Summerland, just after I’d inadvertently traded Fleur’s experience for mine. That colorful feeling convincing me there was more to Damen’s and my story.
That we’d both lived a life we’d yet to acknowledge.
And suddenly I know what it means—know what it is.
That bril iantly shimmering shade that I see is the color of my soul.
My immortal soul.
It’s what my aura would look like if I had one.
The truth descending upon me so hard and fast it leaves no room for doubt in my mind.
I can’t die here.
Can’t die anywhere.
While it’s true that my body may not outlast this heat, no matter what, my soul wil live on.
Like the snake that hangs from the cord at my neck—each life feeds into the next.
And the moment I acknowledge that, accept it for a fact, a soft spring rain begins to fal and I jump to my feet, smiling, laughing, as I tilt my head back. Opening my mouth as wide as it wil go, encouraging a smal pool of water to col ect on my tongue. Aware of the sand fading beneath me as my toes curl into a lovely expanse of flowers and grass that springs up to replace it. Aware of my skin healing, regenerating, as one sun sparks and fades and burns itself out, while the other one dims into a warm, forgiving, life-sustaining glow.
I spread my arms wide and twirl in the field, skipping, and leaping, and dancing in a rain that, having healed me, is now reduced to a light, shimmering drizzle.
I did it! I can’t help but smile triumphantly. I won! I outsmarted the river—remembered the one thing that matters most—with a little help from my friends, of course!
Friends.
I stop, my breath coming ragged, too quick, as I gaze al around, my joy vanishing the moment I realize two truths I’ve forgotten ’til now:
—I’m not like my friends. My body’s immortal, my soul is not.
—Damen’s not here. Which means he forgot. Couldn’t hold on to the memories. Al owed the river to get the best of him.
And, having traded the soul’s immortality for physical immortality there’s only one place left to find him.
Trapped inside the Shadowland.
twenty-four
Though I’ve been there before, three times at last count, I have no idea how to find it. No idea where it actual y exists, or how to locate it on a map.
My first visit was via the experience Damen shared with me in his head. The second was when I telepathical y showed Roman the place where Drina’s soul went. And the third was when Haven kil ed me, sent me to that horrible abyss for what felt like forever but was probably only a matter of minutes.
That’s how the Shadowland works.
But it’s not like I ever made the trip by foot. It’s not like I ever set out to find the physical manifestation of it.
So, hoping for answers, I fal back on al that I’ve learned, the things Ava taught me. And instead of al owing my mind to run amok with questions and thoughts that only result in creating panic and uncertainty while never actual y arriving anywhere helpful or good, I choose to focus on the silence within. Trusting it to guide me, to lead me, to see that I arrive in the place I’m most meant to be.
Determined to fol ow my gut, my heart, my intuition, the hidden truth resting inside—I blaze my own trail, led solely by my own instincts, but when it feels like the trek is taking too long, I dec
ide to speed it up a bit and manifest a partner.
Riding my mount for as far as she’l go, I slide off her back the second she halts just shy of the perimeter, the place where the grass turns to mud, where the trees are al burned out and barren despite the constant deluge of rain that never ceases to fal . It’s exactly like I first thought, this horrible place real y is Summerland’s yin—its shadow self—its opposite side—providing a clear demarcation between the two worlds—one light, one dark—leaving me with no doubt in my mind that it marks the entrance to the Shadowland.
I tap my horse on her rear, urging her to head for greener pastures, as I glance al around, hoping to find Lotus, or maybe even a guide of some kind, but realizing I’m al on my own I trudge deep into the muck. Trudge past what feels like mind-numbing miles of bleak, dreary, desolate, drenched, and soggy landscape, wondering if there wil ever come a point where it turns into something else, stops looking the same. That point coming much sooner than imagined when I stumble upon a scene so drastical y different, I stop, swipe a hand over my eyes, and blink a few times to make sure I’m not hal ucinating, that I real y am seeing what I think I’m seeing. And even then, I stil have my doubts.
I creep forward, my head swiveling as my eyes strive to take it al in. It’s surreal, surely a crazy mirage of my own mental making. And yet, no matter how many times I blink, no matter how long I hold my breath and stare, it refuses to yield in any way until I’ve no choice but to accept the fact that the scene that lies before me is not only real, but an exact replica of the one in my dream.
The dream I was sure Riley had sent me.
The dream I had again very recently.
The dream I was sure had been merely symbolic, something I was meant to take my time pondering, analyzing, dissecting, until I could final y break it down into manageable bits that actual y meant something.
Never once thinking I was supposed to take it literal y.
Never once thinking that an entire landscape of rectangular blocks—a maze of glass prisons—could real y exist.
I take a deep breath, take a few cautious steps, and squinch up my gaze. Peering at a crowd of tormented souls, knowing exactly how they feel having been there myself.
Alone.
Isolated.
Devoid of al hope.
Surrounded by silence, an infinite darkness, forced to relive their very worst choices, their most tragic mistakes and wrong turns, the bad decisions and selfish acts that caused others pain—forced to relive their own personal hel over and over again. Experiencing the pain they’ve caused others as though it’s their own—just like I did when it was me in their place. Having no way of knowing that there are others just like them—that while they may feel alone, the irony is they’re actual y trapped among their own kind. Al of them ruled by an assault of images, age-old regrets, with no way to turn off the pictures, no way to silence their heads.
And just as I wonder what I’m expected to do from here, the memory of Lotus’s voice plays in my ear.
There are many who await you. Await you to release them, to release me.
And I know this is what she meant. I have to start here.
I approach the first block, observing a frenzy of energy that belongs to a tormented, agonized soul I don’t recognize. Though there’s no doubt it’s one of Roman’s, since other than me, the only ones Damen turned were the orphans. And I can’t help but wonder just how many immortals Roman might’ve made, remembering how he once answered Haven when she posed the question: That’s for me to know, and the rest of the world to find out. Not to mention how many might’ve inadvertently, accidently, ended up here.
I close my eyes, press my palms to the glass, and wait for some kind of sign, further instructions, an order that wil soon be revealed, only to be met by a blast of despair so dark, a torment so bleak, I can barely contain it. Soon fol owed by a surge of bitter cold so intense I can’t help but jerk back. Gaping at my freezing, frostbitten palms, knowing that as long as I’m here, there’s no chance they’l heal.
Desperate to end it, for myself as wel as them, I kick at the glass, kick as hard as I can, and when that doesn’t work, I pound with both hands. And after hurling my body against it to no avail whatsoever, I dig deep into my pocket, locate the bit of crystal Ava gave me, the smal piece of cavansite that enhances intuition and psychic healing, prompts deep reflection, inspires new ideas, helps rid oneself of faulty beliefs, and aids in inducing the memories of one’s prior lives, hoping it can help me here as wel . And when my hand lights up, when my palm heals, when my skin emits that bril iant golden-flecked purple hue I glimpsed earlier, I know exactly what to do.
I take the sharp edge, the jagged tip that narrows to a point, and drag it vertical y down one side of the glass, then horizontal y across the top, and then vertical y down the other, cringing at the high-pitched, squeaky, nails-on-a-chalkboard, wince-inducing kind of sound that results, but knowing I’ve succeeded when the prison col apses, shatters onto itself, and a cool blast of air whizzes by as the trapped soul rushes out.
My heart hammers hard in my chest as the entity hovers before me, growing, stretching into a varying col ection of personas—a ful array of prior-life guises, none of which I recognize. Emitting a bright flash of color as it shrinks down into itself once again and takes flight, soaring high into the sky, quickly disappearing from sight.
I pause to catch my breath, amazed by what I just witnessed, what I’ve just succeeded in doing, then I head to the next cube and repeat the sequence again, and then again. Releasing one trapped soul after another, having no idea where they go, but figuring anywhere’s got to be better than here.
And then, just as I move for the next, I find him.
Damen.
Though it’s not at al like I thought, not at al like I expected.
Rather than being trapped like I feared, he also wanders from block to block.
His hair wildly mussed, his eyes haunted and red-rimmed, his voice thick with remorse as he begs forgiveness for al that he’s done.
Begs forgiveness for their being here.
“This isn’t your fault,” I say, quietly approaching him. “You had nothing to do with this, Roman’s the one who turned them. You know how proud he was of his elixir, how he liked to share it freely, or at least with whomever he deemed worthy, whereas you only gave it to the orphans and me. Unless…” I swal ow hard, look at him, a whole new thought occurring to me, one I pray is just pure paranoia and not at al true. “Unless there were others you haven’t told me about?” I suck in my breath.
Relaxing only when his bereft gaze meets mine and he says, “Six orphans. Plus you. That’s the grand total of my personal legacy.” He lifts his shoulders, breathes deeply, looks al around, before returning to me. “Stil , in the end, it doesn’t real y matter who fed them the elixir, doesn’t matter who decided to turn them, because al of this—” he sweeps his arm wide, hand arcing before him, al around him,
“everything you see here—it al stems from me. I was the first. I planted the seed. Roman never would’ve gotten there if it hadn’t been for me. So, you see, Ever, this is my fault. It’s like Lotus said, I’m the cause and our love is the symptom. I couldn’t let you go. Couldn’t handle the pain of a life lived without you. And while you, my sweet Ever, my dearest Adelina, may very wel be the cure, I have to do al that I can to correct my karma, to right al my wrongs. And what better place to start than right here?”
I pause, taking a few moments to consider his words, while careful y sifting through a few of my own. “Wel ,” I say, my voice low, quiet, my eyes never once straying far from the elegant planes of his face. “From what I’ve experienced so far, the best way to make up for al that is to release them. That’s pretty much al we can do at this point.”
I show him the crystal, show him how I’ve been using it to break through the glass and set the souls free. Motioning for him to join me, and watching as he places his palms to the surface and sends a silent plea for fo
rgiveness. His flesh throbbing, blistering, blackening, before becoming almost mummified looking—refusing my offer of the crystal that wil al ow him to heal, he prefers to suffer, convinced he deserves it, as he fol ows me from one to the next. The two of us repeating the sequence—Damen expressing his regrets as I send the glass shattering so another soul can rush out.
When we get to the next one, we halt—immediately sensing something different. Instantly alerted to something unusual that sets it apart from those that came before. And even though the energy within is just as frantic as al the others, thrashing furiously, crashing from top to bottom and side to side, moving so fast it’s hard to get a handle on, to see it for anything more than a confusing blur—it’s stil an energy we both recognize.
So I bow out. Step to the side.
This particular soul is Damen’s to release, not mine.
While we al share a past, a long and convoluted history of jealousy that always ends in murder, my murder, the two of them have memories that don’t involve me, have nothing to do with me—and not al of them bad.
I hand him the crystal, listening as he cal s to her silently, telepathical y, but stil I can hear. And when he places his hands on either side of her cube, everything stil s.
Damen? she cal s, sensing his presence, his energy, or maybe it’s just wishful thinking. Maybe she’s been cal ing for him since the day I kil ed her and sent her soul here.
I am here. He closes his eyes, presses his forehead to the glass, holding on to the sides with each hand. I have failed you. Failed you in so many ways. Failed to love you in the way that you wanted, in the way that you needed. And though I may have saved your life, may have spared you from the black plague, I’m afraid that in the end, I stepped in where I didn’t belong, and, because of it, I’ve reduced you to this.
His breath fogs up the glass, prompting him to swipe a finger across it, then clear it with the scorched palm of his smoldering hand.
Drina Magdalena, you are Poverina no more. So please go. Be free. You have other places to be. I was never meant to be your destiny.