Page 50 of Crowning of the Sword
“Show me where I come from!” she screamed at the mirror, and the power of the pendant forced it to show the street, the inconsequential street that meant everything. “Tana, please, my Blade, rip the veil between our worlds and send me home.”
The mirror cracked. Light poured from within, illuminating Ember with sunshine from another place, throwing the forever twilight room into light.
The door crashed open and rebounded against the wall. Cole stood in the doorway, no longer the golden-haired, handsome fae for whom she had fallen, but a twisted, unearthly representation of the worst of humanity: hate, rage, terror, horror, and death. And behind him, a darker shadow in black, giving her courage.
In two strides, Cole was across the room. He reached for her with fingers like claws, but the power of her Blade protected her, and he shrieked and jerked his hands back, his skin already raw red and blistered from the protective shield shimmering around her.
The mirrored glass split further apart. She took one last look at Cole, twisted with rage and pain, and at Ashe, tall, calm, resolute. And then she stepped forward, into the crack, into the veil between her world and theirs.
Cole’s shrieks cut off as soon as she had stepped through. A shimmering empty stretch of nothingness surrounded her, that stretched on and on and on.
“Tana.” Her voice was muffled, strange and insubstantial, the sound of a soap bubble popping in silence. “Let them not follow me.”
The veil became thicker, more substantial, a fog that became like porridge, and she fought to move, her arms and legs trapped by viscosity, the sludge creeping up her torso, crushing her ribs. It felt as though her heart was struggling to pump her lifeblood, and she struggled for breath, her lungs constricted. The veil was no longer a thick white cloud, but shades of mottled grey, and she understood the colour was changing because of her, and if she didn’t get out, she would die.
She forced a leg forward, as though she were wading through thick mud, dragging the other forward. Another step. And then …
She fell out of the veil and onto a road, a backpack landing next to her. At once, a stream of memories came blasting into her mind and she recoiled, a hand to her head, crying out with the pain of remembering. Sunshine blazed through her closed eyelids, and she sucked in a shaky breath and then another.
There came a roar, a familiar throaty roar of a Mustang, and a car she knew drove slowly past the cul-de-sac, the sound of the engine fading into the distance.
She was back. She was back.
Epilogue
People crowded the gallery, laughing, chatting, and discussing the works on display. Jean-clad student servers with trays of sparkling wine wandered throughout, offering glasses left and right.
Ember stood to one side, a solemn figure in black pants and a black shirt, her uniform of choice now. Nobody had ever seen her wear any other colour, and it had become her signature look.
Behind her hung a huge painting of a gothic castle wreathed in mist. The cloudy haze held suggestions of fantastical creatures crouching in the gloom, but the more one looked, the more one couldn’t be sure. The figures and faces were only visible if one wasn’t looking directly at them, and more than one group had taken up position in front of it for a time, staring at it and then looking away, hoping to glimpse its secrets.
The painting was a standout piece amongst the others of her class, and she had already been offered three commissions and the chance to show her paintings at the gallery once she had enough for a solo exhibition. The evening was a triumph for Ember, and she accepted it gladly and with quiet dignity.
The gallery slowly emptied until only a few remained, including her art tutor, who was more than a little drunk and hugged Ember so tightly she thought her ribs might crack. “I’m so happy for you,” she kept saying, dabbing at her eyes with a used serviette. “You’re really going places, Ember. I’ve had the paper asking about you. They want to do a review.”
Ember shook her head. “Oh no. I don’t want that.”
“But you need exposure. How else will you sell your paintings?”
Ember gave a tight smile and accepted another hug, assuring her tutor she’d think about it. She was on the other side of the country now. There was little chance Bruno would find her, and besides, it had been three years now.
She went to find her coat in the back room, shrugging it on with relief, for the night was getting chilly. The relentless heat of the last few years had cooled, and people were wondering if this was it, if climate change had finally stabilised. Scientists were cautiously optimistic, and governments were smugly congratulating themselves. There hadn’t been an unusual weather event in months.
Ember emerged from the back room and made to leave, pausing at the door as she saw someone new standing in front of her painting, considering it closely. She looked around for the curator or her tutor, wondering if they could take over the spiel about the work. She was exhausted. The strain and the excitement of the last few days needed to be soaked away in a hot bath.
But she couldn’t see either of them, and so she approached the viewer with a rehearsed smile on her face, wondering which of her stock phrases to begin with. “Do you like it?” “I’m sorry, it’s been sold,” or, “Hello, I’m the artist.”
But as he turned to face her, she froze, her hand automatically covering the orange pendant that hung around her neck, the pendant that she never took off, not ever.
His dark eyes seared her, the mouth as deliciously grim as she remembered, and his tone was biting as he said, “Hello, Ember. I think we need to talk.”
TO BE CONTINUED …
