Secret Keeper (My Myth Trilogy - Book 2): Young Adult Fantasy Novel

  THE MY MYTH TRILOGY: BOOK TWO

  SECRET KEEPER

  Lock it up and throw away the key.

  JANE ALVEY HARRIS

  Dedicated to all the fierce, inspiring women in my life, with Love.

  And specifically for:

  For Goldie, my personal Purveyor of Magic,

  who has read every word at least a dozen times, and supplied more than a few.

  For Paula, the first person I call when something goes wrong…

  …or right. Okay, just the first person I call.

  For Amy, my Womb Mate and Traveling Companion. Thank you for a lifetime of support.

  For Nancy, my real-life therapist, who taught me to listen to and love all my different voices.

  And for Nicole. You are the Champion I was looking for.

  XoXoXoXoXo

  Jane

  Chapter One

  It’s disgusting, I know, a nervous habit. My fingers and lips are stained with ink that won’t wipe away.

  But something’s different this time.

  I’ve stopped my anxious gnawing and discarded the dented pen, but ubiquitous dark continues to bleed into my shock-opened mouth, sliding silty and foreign between my teeth and over my tongue. Ebony stain streams through my pharynx into my sinuses, gliding across my optic nerve, enveloping me from the inside out in an opaque sheen of indelible dye.

  Blinding me. Choking me.

  This isn’t ink from some chewed-up pen…

  My secrets—buried and broiling in the pressure chamber of my psyche—have finally boiled up, and now they’re seething over.

  I kick and flail, clawing sightless at my throat, desperate for breath. But my airways are blocked. My struggle weakens.

  Rough hands flip me sideways. A thick finger invades my mouth, knuckles knocking against my molars. An untrimmed nail scrapes the back of my throat, pushing against my soft palate.

  Suddenly I’m on my knees in the dirt.

  My entire digestive system revolts, clamping, clenching, until I’m one narrow bile-launching tube. I retch, projectile spewing thick streams of night-black substance onto the sodden earth between my hands. Remnants of diamond stars glimmer in the toxic pool.

  Several pair of shoes queue at the edge of my vision. Hands stretch toward me.

  Wiping sour spit from my mouth on the back of my arm, I latch weakly onto Uncle Ian’s strong, work-brown fingers. Other hands steady my shoulders as he pulls me to my feet.

  Faces swim in and out of focus. Too many faces. Aidan wasn’t with me when I tore down the Third Realm’s sky, apparently swallowing it, too. He was with Kaillen, Claire, and Quince in the grove.

  The grove. I’d been practicing with Ava in the grove. She’d been trying to teach me about being Ovate—the word Fae use to describe a rare group of people born with the ability to Channel from the source opposite the gender they were assigned at birth—maidens who never grow wings, but can access masculine Keen, and elves who do grow wings and can access feminine Blaze. Even more rare are people like me, who can access both masculine and feminine powers.

  Soft-filtered afternoon sunlight had shone through birch leaves and redwood needles as Ava taught me to activate the gauntlet, shield, and dagger using both my masculine Mind’s Eye and my feminine Inner Eye. The harmony of Blaze and Keen’s intertwining melodies sang through me, intoxicating me with delicious power, opening a portal to the memory of an enchanting midsummer evening from my childhood. Without thinking, I eagerly followed. The medallion Drake had given me—a luminous crystal orb dangling from the center of a sinuous silver chain—contained a tiny Spark of Keen. It was supposed to help me focus when Channeling the elements in nature, but it was a trick. A trap. It sucked me from the peaceful grove in the Second Realm, ensnaring me in the twisted Third.

  But I destroyed the Third Realm, and now I’m here. The people I love are here, too—wherever here is. Their eyes are wide with questions, their mouths tight with worry.

  A wobbly scan of the crowd ignites panic in my chest. They’re all here except...

  “Jacob,” I rasp, fumbling at Ian’s sweat-damp shirt collar. “Gabe kidnapped Jacob!”

  But Ian shakes his head, grim.

  I have to make him listen. “We need to find Jacob,” I insist. “He isn’t safe!”

  “I’m right here, Emily.”

  “Jacob!” Relief pours over me as I turn to see my fifteen-year old brother standing just behind me. Gabe is at his side, one eyebrow cocked at me in concern.

  “We went to fill the van with gas and stopped to get Starbucks.” Jacob’s voice is composed, but there’s wariness in his gaze and a twitch of revulsion to his lips, like he’s worried I might be rabid. “We came back as soon as we got Nancy’s text.”

  “You were in the garage,” I stammer, shaking my head. “I sent you the weapons. The Voices said I destroyed the barrier. The Lost Ones took you hostage…”

  Dread steals my breath. I shrink against Ian’s chest and cover my head with my hands. If Jacob and Gabe are here, does that mean he’s here, too?

  I was alone with Drake in the Third Realm, barefoot and defenseless. His ugly words littered the chill pavement around my feet.

  Or had I been hallucinating? Was the whole thing just another cruel scene from the twisted recesses of my tormented psyche?

  Pills. I had a handful of pills.

  Ian’s saying something, but his words are garbled…fish tank rocks slow-settling behind mirrored glass.

  “Where’s that damn ambulance?” someone swears.

  I’ve woken up way too soon. All the realities I’ve chosen overwhelm me with their eager nearness: the First Realm, home of the banished Fae; the Second Realm, where the Fae lived, disguised as my human relatives my entire life; and the Third Realm, where Drake had trapped me and tried to take the weapons I possessed.

  Which Realm is this? Where are we?

  I’m no match for so many possible realities. The hands at my shoulders fumble for a better grip as the full consequence of my loose-limbed weight slumps against them.

  I’m a rag doll falling ground-ward: empty head, knotted cloth for joints.

  ***

  “Where are you, Emily?”

  Nancy’s voice floats to me sun-bleached and faded, like a beach towel left out too long on a patio chair. My eyes are closed, lashes glued shut with dried tears.

  My breathing labors as I try to locate my surroundings, clinging to every ripple and flash of sensation: a scent, a sight, a sound in the dark. Nancy instructs me to stay calm, reminds me I’m safe, that nothing can hurt me here.

  Aunt Nancy knows about Magic and different Realms. She says that following my imagination is a good way to understand what’s happening beneath the surface of my consciousness. Her conviction gives me courage to explore my interior landscapes while she anchors me to reality.

  Images solidify, whirling colors settle…and it hits me.

  “I’m in a courtroom,” I answer.

  Not the old-timey courtroom of Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, with an upstairs viewing gallery and polished wood-paneled walls. This set is modern and sparse. Molded-plastic chairs are positioned behind featureless Formica-topped tables; a flat-screen computer monitor flanks each side the sterile judge’s podium at the front of the room.

  “Look down at your feet, Emily,” Nancy prompts. “Tell me what you see.”

  “Black ballet flats,” I report, pausing at the unfamiliarity. I don’t remember ever owning shoes like these. I narrate the rest of my outfit: “I’m wearing my long-sleeved churc
h dress with the itchy collar and a gray wool cardigan…”

  “A wool cardigan and long sleeves? Are you cold, Dear?” Nancy asks. “Do you need another blanket?”

  I’m only distantly aware of my body, of the pillows propped under my head, the generic no-slip socks pulled up over my ankles, the thin coverlet tucked around my hips. I’m aware of Nancy in a chair just a few feet away, the comfortable temperature of the room. But these things are only background noise.

  “No. I’m not cold. I’m wearing the cardigan because of my arm,” I explain. “So they won’t see my scars.”

  “So who won’t see your scars, Dear?”

  “Everyone. If they see my scars they’ll think I’m mentally ill.”

  “Are you mentally ill, Emily?”

  “I… I don’t know. I cut brands into my bicep. I overdosed on sleeping pills.”

  “Has anyone in this facility spoken with you about a diagnosis, or discussed mental illness with you?”

  “No. But as my counselor, you have discussed anxiety and depression, self-harm, and ego state therapy with me.”

  “Has anyone outside this facility told you that you’re mentally ill?”

  A long printout with the names of all the people who probably think I’m crazy scrolls through my mind.

  But I can’t remember if any of them have actually said the words ‘mentally ill’. Except…

  “Margaret,” I say.

  “Yes, that sounds like something Margaret would say,” Nancy agrees. “I’m glad you felt safe enough to introduce me to Margaret, Emily. She’s your Critical Parent ego. For many years she’s attempted to keep you safe by motivating you with shame and fear. From what you’ve shared with me, you’ve already done a phenomenal job at making peace with Margaret, and I’m very proud of you. Do you think there will ever be a time you’ll feel comfortable not hiding your scars under so many layers of clothing?”

  Standing in the quiet courtroom, I consider her question.

  “I hope so.”

  The concepts Nancy has been introducing me to during our therapy sessions while I’ve been detoxing this last week have already initiated a merciful shift in me.

  “Good. Sometimes, even after we’ve made peace with an injured ego, it still takes practice to shift behaviors in our daily lives. This hypnosis session we’re having right now is an excellent tool for reinforcing new thought pathways and behavior patterns in your subconscious mind.”

  I extend my right arm in front of me, rotating my wrist up to the courtroom ceiling. I concentrate on accepting my scars as part of who I am, and on loving the frightened girl who carved them. The cardigan disappears. The long jersey-knit sleeve of my dress shortens to the shoulder, exposing the silvery-pink scars arcing around my bicep in the angular Elder Futhark runes that spell my last name:

  Ansuz, Laguz, Uruz, Jera = Alvey: Elf Warrior.

  Beneath them, Algiz—the three-pronged mark of protection—almost seems to glow.

  “Is there anyone else with you there in the courtroom, Dear?” Nancy asks. “A judge, perhaps, or an attorney?”

  “Yes.” Blurry shapes resolve into detailed characters when she mentions them. I describe the judge, who sits behind the podium, a plump no-nonsense, tight-bunned Nanny McPhee-type, minus the warts and snaggletooth.

  “Who is on trial in this courtroom today, Emily?”

  “I am.”

  “Oh? With what crime have you been charged?”

  An itch niggles between my shoulder blades, but I force my arms to remain motionless at my sides. Uncomfortable, I shift on the thin mattress of my hospital bed. It’s just like the one Mom sleeps in across the hall.

  “I… I don’t want to say.”

  “Emily, listen carefully to my voice.” Nancy’s words are slow and measured, gentle but firm. “This is your session. You’re in charge. If there’s ever a moment when you feel overwhelmed, just nod and we can take a break, okay? You’re not really on trial, Emily. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like to take a break?”

  “No.”

  Logic says Nancy is right. I’m not on trial. I haven’t committed any crimes, nor have I been accused of any. But the feeling is so real: every nerve in my body tells me this is where I’ll be dissected, where the defense will pick me apart, probing holes in my sudden revelation of decade-old abuse. This is where they’ll pit my word against his. Where they’ll make me say things out loud that the fiercest part of me has kept buried for years, things that shredded my sanity and almost ripped me to pieces. Things I’ve only recently had the strength to say to myself. The fear is overwhelming.

  Nancy must see it in my clenched muscles, my strained eyelids. She speaks soothingly, explaining that it’s normal to feel nervous about how people might react to me after my overdose, that it’s important for me to be kind and not judge myself. I’m barely listening though, focused instead on surveying the courtroom with morbid curiosity, absorbing every detail.

  The prosecuting attorney and I sit at the table in front of the judge to the left. The defense sits across a small aisle.

  The defense attorney smiles and holds up a yellow legal pad. He’s made a hangman game, complete with scaffolding and the blank spaces for two words:

  _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

  He winks and taps at the drawing with the lid of his pen, inviting me to play.

  “A,” I mouth, scooting my chair an inch closer so I can see better.

  He leers derisively, shaking his head as he writes ‘A’ to the right of the noose, then slowly draws a big round head.

  “T,” I venture.

  He smirks and nods, writing in two t’s.

  _ _ t _ _ _ _ t _

  Jury selection is in process. The lawyers take turns asking potential jurors questions comprised of what I can only surmise are a compilation of all the Judge Judy, Criminal Minds, and Law & Order: SVU episodes I’ve ever seen, neatly filed away by my subconscious and pulled out for this special occasion.

  Defense attorney: “Number 27, do you understand that the defendant does not need to testify in this trial? The burden of proof rests solely on the prosecution. Could you, in good conscience, convict the accused if he chooses not to defend himself on the witness stand?”

  The defense attorney is looking at Number 27, but gesturing to me with urgent taps of his pen on the legal pad. He leans forward, nudging the pad to the edge of the table so I have a closer view. I’m so engrossed in our game that I’ve tuned out whatever is going on with the prospective jurors. I’ve guessed the letters S, E, M, and C, wrong.

  Finally I guess two letters right. Now it reads:

  N _ t G _ _ _ t _

  Prosecuting attorney: “Number 42, could you deliver a guilty verdict despite the fact that there is no physical evidence because the case is more than a decade old?

  (No evidence because I hid the secret deep down—so far inside nobody could get it—not even me). “P,” I guess. “B.”

  As I run out of letters, my hangman’s body grows with limbs and feet and hair. It’s remarkably detailed: one arm has runes carved into it, and even though the pen is blue ink, the girl in the noose has marigold hair, just like me.

  “I!” I cry.

  N _ t G _ i _ t _

  Progress. But not enough.

  Defense attorney: “Number 11, the primary witness for the prosecution was seven years old at the time the alleged incidents occurred. Do you consider the testimony of a child to be reliable? Furthermore, how dependable do you consider the memory of a child over the course of ten years? Is it even possible to trust what someone thinks they remember from such a young and impressionable age?”

  “L.”

  N _ t G _ i l t _

  “It’s like the Salem witch trials,” Number 11, a bony woman with a perma-frown mutters. “Some little brat doesn’t get her way so she makes up a story about how her neighbor abused her when she was little. Ruin a person’s life that way. And it could hap
pen to any of us! Happened to my friend, John, who lives across the street. Whiny stepdaughter didn’t like her curfew.”

  Defense attorney: “The defense approves Juror Number 11, Your Honor.”

  “F,” I scramble. “J!” Both wrong. Dead Emily in her noose already has Xs for eyes. A limp tongue lolls out of her circle mouth.

  And just like that, seventy-five potential candidates have been whittled down to fourteen: twelve jurors and two alternates.

  The defense attorney sneers in disgust that I haven’t solved his puzzle yet.

  “O.” I finally get another one right.

  Not G _ i l t y

  “Not Guilty,” I whisper, hopeful.

  Gleeful, he nods, filling in the last letter and finishing the drawing with drops of blood running down the side of Dead Emily’s neck.

  Oh no. This ‘Not Guilty’ isn’t meant for me.

  The heavy glass doors at the side of the room swing open. A bailiff leads Dad inside. He’s wearing a crisp suit and a cornflower blue button-down dress shirt. The color matches his eyes. He has the kind of eyes that always gleam when he looks at you, like you and he share a special secret no one else knows about.

  I shudder. I don’t like our secrets.

  The newly appointed jurors lurch up from their seats and cheer as he enters, transforming from ordinary humans to hunched goblins, clapping their gnarled gray-green claws together.

  My fingers blanch white as chains materialize out of thin air and shackle my wrists together. Wild sparks of terror go off behind my retinas, blurring my vision.

  The jurors are crimbal, monsters from the First Realm.

  And Dad is Drake, the evil Ovate. His blue pressed shirt replaced with a suit of monochromatic black. His crimson-lined cloak hangs darkly from his powerful shoulders, swirling around his ankles even though the air is perfectly still.