Something tells me the banter between Aidan and Nathaniel isn’t foreign to these people. Do they see a heated argument? A disagreement between mates? What I’m witnessing is something that raises a feeling I can’t quite put into words. Because I know what perhaps no one else here, aside from Bianca, does.
Aidan and Nathaniel are best friends.
It’s Nathaniel who introduced Aidan to Ember. My gaze falls to each person present once more. Ember isn’t here. I rack my brain. They met when Aidan was . . . thirty. And . . . they both died when Aidan was . . . seventy-five? If it’s 1945, I’d say Aidan has a few more years before he meets his queen, but it can’t be too much longer. How I’d love to be present for that event.
I graze my right cheek with my fingertips. Push a stray curl from my forehead. What would it be like to witness the Kiss of Infinity that created Ember’s mirrormark? How would it feel to see someone else just like me?
“What is there to hear, Henry? What you are proposing we do is madness!” Nathaniel combs his fingers through his hair and crosses to the fireplace, then reaches out to warm his hands. He exhales. His next words come leisurely, as if sifted through a sieve. “If we use our Callings out in the open, the lot of us will be sent to internment camps. Or worse, we’ll be used as weapons by our greatest enemies. Is that what you want, man?”
Leave it to Nathaniel to play it safe.
Aidan shakes his head. “The war is coming to a close.” His voice never rises. “I feel it, Archer. We all do.” He sweeps his hand over the room.
A wave of nods ensues. Even Bianca gives a curt, purse-lipped gesture, her eyes forever trained on Nathaniel.
My grandfather spreads his fingers, then curls them into fists.
Aidan joins him by the fire and places a hand on his shoulder. Nathaniel is taller but the king stands straighter, making him appear the loftier of the two. His next words are for my grandfather alone, but the small space makes them easy enough to decipher. “Think of what you could accomplish, my friend. You are the greatest Physic of our time. Your hands could save hundreds, thousands even. All I am asking is that you give it a try. We can change history. Together.”
Nathaniel closes his eyes and swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. After what seems like an eternal silence he concedes. “Relay the time and place and I shall fulfill my duty. To you. To the Verity. The Reflections. For us all.”
I’m new here, but even with my jacked memory I can see what’s going on. I’m taken back to something once shared with me. It comes to me like a dream. I can’t see the face of the speaker, can’t even distinguish his muffled, faraway voice. But the words are there, drawing me back to an unexpected but welcome feeling.
Home.
“We had to keep our Callings hidden,” the voice says, “as most people in the Third hold no belief in the Verity, the Void, or the Callings. Some do, but they conceal their abilities well, opting for a quiet life rather than becoming a science experiment in some test facility.”
This is the life of a Called in the Third. This is why Nathaniel is afraid to use his gift out in the open.
A throat clears and every head turns toward a man in a chair three away from mine to the right. His head is bowed, black bowler hat tilted low over his forehead. Face hidden beneath the shadow of the brim, he says, “I think we are all forgetting we have a much greater power at our disposal. What better way to fight the Shadowalkers than with the very entity they bow to?”
Chills creep along my neck. Because, unlike the dream voice, I know this voice immediately. I swallow hard and have the urge to disappear into my chair. Has the Void already taken ahold of his soul? Does the Verity live within Aidan? It must. Because, black veins or none, there’s no mistaking the coldness in my other grandfather’s eyes as he lifts his head and locks his gaze with mine.
SIX
Ebony
Everyone gather up front!” Preacher’s razor-blade bellow carries down the cottage hall. “We’re assembling two groups. One led by the Commander and the other by the trait—” He clears his throat. “Kyaphus. You’ll be filled in on more details once you get your butts in gear.”
Ugh. Basically, I have two choices. A, I can run and hide with Elizabeth’s Guardian caravan, wait out this whole revenge rampage my mother is on. Or B, I follow Rhyen on his quest to save my sister and, in turn, the Reflections. Either way, I kind of come out a hero.
Then again, there’s always option C, which I’m sorry, but am I the only one here who recognizes we so need a third option? This path would take me on the road never traveled. While Rhyen runs full-steam ahead to save his future, and the others do everything they’re able to survive the present, my heart can’t help but wander to the place I’ve dared not trespass until now. I’m putting myself out on a limb here. The old Ebony would keep quiet, let the others sort through this mess on their own.
Old Ebony? Those words don’t even belong in the same sentence, do they? Which means all I have is the new and, dare I say, improved version of myself. The choice means a trip down memory lane where I’ll be forced to dig up old ghosts. If I’m being honest, the idea scares the living fairy lights out of me. Of course, I didn’t gain my reputation as a heartless you-know-what without a little effort. Fear isn’t something I cower before.
Option C it is, then.
I secure Khloe’s second French braid, then immediately start in on my loose mocha-colored locks. The task is one I could do in the dark with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back.
Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but you get it, right?
I start on the right side of my head, weaving the strands together around the back and finishing the braid off on the left side. Then I take the tie held between my teeth and fasten the do like a boss. Next I grab the only item I was able to salvage from my purse before we were basically shipwrecked. The antique silver compact is the lone thing I still have from my childhood. I wasn’t about to let it go now. Excuse me for being nostalgic and all. Some girls hang on to a teddy bear or baby doll. I have a compact, and I don’t think it’s unreasonable I would want to keep said compact close at all times.
Sheesh, Ebony. Insecure about your security blanket much?
Muffled voices seep beneath the bathroom door. Preacher’s yelling as usual and Commander Archer is ordering him to calm the Void down.
Go, Uncle Makai. Never heard him use less-than-appropriate language before, but it’s a start. Makes him much more intimidating in my not-so-humble opinion.
Now, for some face time. And I don’t mean the digital breed either. I examine myself in the compact’s round mirror, tilting my chin, turning my head this way and that. My rich brown eyes look barren without liner on their lids, and my hair is in desperate need of a conditioning mask. The mirror is ancient and extremely fragile, not the plastic kind CoverGirl sells. The natural light streaming through the window above the sink hits the glass just so. No two mirrors are alike, and this one’s portrayal of me is by far my favorite. As if it’s saying, “Gorgeous, darling. Simply stunning.” Even today, with the bridge of my nose peeling and my lips flaking, this mirror manages to make me feel good about myself. I’ve never been one to pretend I’m not beautiful. I know I am.