ChapterOne
Run!Even though my mind screams the word, I don’t move fast enough. Olah is my witness. I try, though. I propel my legs, pump my arms, and gasp for breath. But the pounding of footsteps behind me only gets louder.
Faster.
With my heart roaring in my ears, I cut a sharp left, racing past a group of surprised shopkeepers. Some shrink in horror, while others stare wide-eyed.
A part of me wants to turn around, grind the heels of my boots into the dusty street, and use my Bloodstone magic to curse the man who’s chasing me, but I cannot. If I do, the darkness inside me will grow even stronger.
And then…
It could kill me.
Pain rips through my scalp when the man grabs a handful of my hair and yanks me backward. Fury ignites inside my veins as I tighten my hand into a fist, rotate, and connect with the man’s weathered face.
He releases me as anger sears behind his black eyes. Enough anger to murder me if I allow it. But I won’t. I have come too far to allow some merchant to kill me. At least, I think he’s a merchant. Perhaps I should have chosen a different target.
The man growls at me—actually growls—and lurches even closer.
I definitely should have chosen a different target.
Desperation drove me to pickpocket him. Well, try to pickpocket him. Clearly, I am not a proficient thief.
“Who are you?” His eyes scour me as I crouch, preparing myself for his next attack. He glances from the hump on my back to my dirty face and gray hair, and I wonder if he sees past my disguise. “You’re fast for an old woman.”
When he lunges for me again, I jerk to my left, then counter with a quick strike across his throat. His eyes bulge, and his mouth hangs open as he gasps for breath.
I flee again—through the center of the market and past the stone buildings lining the streets of Rock Mountain, the city near the Bloodstone foothills. My lungs burn, and my hair whips across my face, but I don’t stop. I cannot afford to stop.
On my fourth turn, I lose him and breathe a little easier. I raise my hand to my chest, feeling the pounding, the proof that fear still lives inside me.
Once I reach the outer edges of the city, the air turns more putrid with the overwhelming stench of waste and rot. I slow to walking and take in my surroundings—the dilapidated buildings, some with boarded-up windows, and others with partially intact roofs. The alleys littered with trash. The people wearing worn surcoats.
My heart still thumps wildly as I enter the crumbling cottage I have called home for the last three weeks. Three weeks with no sign of my friend. Three weeks of struggling to survive.
I gulp in a fetid, yet desperate, breath and try to calm my racing thoughts, but the merchant’s face refuses to fade. Instead, it joins the myriad of images that haunt me—the people I’ve tricked, the lies I’ve told, and the things I’ve stolen—all to keep from starving.
The moment an innkeeper saw the black on the tips of my fingers and declared me diseased, the people in this city rendered me unemployable. Now, every day is measured by degrees of chaos, desperation, and hopelessness.
Today, I tried to steal from the wrong merchant. And tonight, I will not eat because he defended what is rightfully his. This is what I have been reduced to, surviving at the expense of others.
It is not what I imagined when Everly suggested we use her magic to travel backward in time. It sounded so simple. I should have known it would be anything but.
The floorboards creak as I move to the washing stand, wet a cloth, and wipe the ash from my face. Each stroke seems like it erases a decade from my disguise.
The illusionisnecessary. No one can recognize me. Otherwise, it could be catastrophic, considering another version of myself lives in this city. That thought alone threatens my sanity, so I try not to dwell on it.
After I finish, I sink to the lumpy bed in the center of the tiny cottage and raise my hands to my throbbing temples, the sight of my fingers, sending chills down my spine.
When I left Karra, the black only affected the fingertips of my right hand. After my first two weeks here, it crept slowly up my fingers. Then a week ago, during a moment of pure desperation, I cursed someone, proving I am a danger to myself and others if I don’t keep a tight rein on my rising darkness.
Some days it whispers. Others it roars.
Since that last curse, the progression of the black has accelerated. It now covers both hands up to my wrists, almost to my binding tattoo.
Today, I was able to suppress the desire to use my Bloodstone magic on the merchant. Tomorrow?
I rub my hands together, wishing I could change so many things, wishing Everly would walk through the door, wishing Hector would pull me into his arms and tell me everything will be all right.
