Secret Keeper (My Myth Trilogy - Book 2): Young Adult Fantasy Novel Page 8

  She’s stopped wiping at Ian’s mouth. One of her hands hovers slightly above the crown of his head, the other above Kaillen’s hands at his ribs.

  “The High Palace is at least a three day ride…” Kaillen is saying.

  “By horse,” Marcus scoffs. “We can get there before morning in the vans.”

  “What if we aren’t welcome?” Jack asks, returning to the group. “The Royal Guard could wipe us out long before we made it to the city gates.”

  The elves continue to argue, but I’m transfixed by Quince’s hands. They’re glowing.

  I stiffen my legs beneath my wildly inappropriate evening wear, and approach the group huddled around Ian, leaving Aidan and Claire to look after Ava.

  My mouth drops open as I stare at the two flowing strands of Intention Quince manipulates to delve into Ian’s wound. One strand slowly extracts the arrow from of his body while the other cauterizes the lesion in its wake. The brilliant light her weave casts throws the shocked faces of onlookers into sharp relief.

  The gloom trapped by rain and densely packed clouds evaporates, vaporized as each of the Fae guarding the perimeter lowers their weapons. One by one maidens embrace Blaze while elves grasp Keen for the first time in a century.

  “Jack. Marcus.” Kaillen’s voice is barely more than a whisper this time. “Hurry. Go back to the Vineyard. Bring everyone and all the vans. We’re going to the Royal City to beg the High King’s help.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It’s night when I awaken in the backmost seat of the van with Kaillen’s jacket tucked around my shoulders. Loud, leaden raindrops beat against the van’s hood, insistent, demanding entry. The headlights’ halogen beams barely pierce the thick, omnipresent fog, which threatens to swallow us whole.

  Both Ian and Ava need medical attention, I know, but honestly, they might have a better chance of surviving if we’d waited out the storm. There are no safety rails or road signs to warn us away from precipices or falling rocks here. Technically, there’s not even a road. I doubt Marcus can see more than five feet in front of the van and he must be doing at least 70 mph over un-cleared terrain. I can’t handle the violent arc of the windshield wipers. Any second they’ll snap off and we’ll careen off the side of a cliff.

  If I weren’t scared stiff and queasy from bouncing around like a pre-popped popcorn kernel in the way-back seat, I’d be stifling mad giggles at the crazy-ridiculous idea of a gaggle of faeries off-roading in a speeding caravan of twelve-seater passenger vans through a torrential downpour with zero visibility in the middle of the night…to meet, erm…a Faerie King.

  A Faerie King who also happens to be my great-granddad, and whose surname is carved on my arm in runes: Ælfwig = Alvey = Elf Warrior.

  It was King Ælfwig who banished the Fae a hundred years ago, and constructed an impenetrable wall between the First and Second Realms. He is the one who sealed the Doorway shut so they could never return…

  …Until I broke the Seal.

  Yeah. That’s about where the idea stops being funny.

  Before the other vans arrived, I heard Marcus insisting to Kaillen that they send out scouts to “ascertain how extensive the damage is,” and Jack arguing that it would be “foolish to waste resources” since we don’t have enough men or munitions to stop anything from crossing the barrier anyway, even if it’s only a localized breach.

  I focus on steadying my breath and my heart and my brain, but it isn’t working. Jack said anything, not anyone. As in, “Hey you royal screw-up, in addition to standing there idly watching while your evil father, Drake, killed your confidant/dragonfly guide, getting Ava and the General wounded, and losing one of your brothers, you’ve also unleashed an entire Realm full of monsters on an unsuspecting world.”

  This is the worst thing I’ve ever done, and that’s really saying something.

  Claire’s sound asleep with her head on my lap. Aidan has his earbuds in beside her. I’m tempted to tell him to save his phone battery since there probably aren’t spare chargers lying around the High Palace, but I decide to let him be. He’s clinging to Claire’s hand like it’s a lifeline.

  A hollow pang squeezes my lungs beneath my ribs. I can’t stop thinking about Jacob. Nissa was so right when she said we’re stronger when we’re together. And now I’ve lost him, and I don’t know how to get him back.

  Miserable, I button Kaillen’s jacket all the way up to my neck for comfort. Except it isn’t comfortable. At all. My wings are crushed straight down my back and I’m practically sitting on their tapered tips. Pins and needles prickle between some of the panels where the blood flow has been pinched off. The silver thread in my stupid sparkle-gown is sweaty and itchy, but Kaillen’s jacket is somewhat dry, and it still smells like him—woodsy and dark—amber and clove in a locked cedar box.

  Kaillen. My boyfriend. OMG, Kaillen is my boyfriend.

  A tickle slow-climbs up the rungs of my ribcage to dizzying heights in my neck, teetering there on the ledge of my clavicle before plummeting through my chest, completing two loop-dee-loops through the amusement park in my belly, then clickety-clacking back up the greased track to do it all over again.

  I don’t just miss Kaillen. I crave him.

  Everything’s been a whirlwind since he sheltered me in the alfalfa field. We haven’t even kissed on the lips yet. What will it be like the first time?

  Gabe’s kisses were so hungry… The memory of his hands crushing me against his chest when he told me I belonged to him after the council in the grove knives through the floor of my pelvis. God, I’m such a perv. But I’m also super confused. How can I still want Gabe in such a visceral way? It makes no sense to my brain. He kidnapped Jacob and colluded with Drake to enslave the Fae… On the other hand, his mother died giving birth to his Halfling little sister, who committed suicide a couple years ago, and Drake lied to him and told him it was the elves’ fault, which kind of makes me understand where he’s coming from. He’s got major issues. No wonder he’s acting shady AF…

  OMG, FOCUS, Emily!

  Kaillen is who I want to kiss, not Gabe. Adamantly, I shove thoughts of Gabe to the ground, stomping them to little bits with my mud-caked feet. I close my eyes and inhale Kaillen’s scent from the collar of his jacket. I envision lying down next to him beneath the bobbing stalks of uncut hay, their crowns bent heavy by buds of sweet-smelling purple flowers.

  What if I was in charge below this billowing sea of ripe jade grass? What if I didn’t wait for him to kiss me…what if I kissed him first? Would he think I’m a skank?

  I’d definitely be braver with my eyes closed and no words to trip me up. There are so many things I need him to know that only the pressure of my lips and fingers can convey…

  “Close your eyes,” I say—not bossy, but playful—and he obeys, the barest smile quirking the edges of his mouth. A gentle breeze riffles through my hair as I prop myself up with my forearms resting on his chest.

  “Am I squishing you?” I ask, but he only chuckles, rich and deep from his diaphragm, tightening his arms around the small of my back.

  “You weigh as much as a bird,” he says, and even though that is far from true, I let all my weight sink against him.

  “No fair, you’re peeking! Close your eyes!” I demand when he opens one eye just a slit. I can’t let him see the awe that overwhelms me as my fingers trace the smooth brown perfection of his broad cheekbones down to the blunt square of his stubble-covered jaw.

  It’s like I’m unearthing the Eighth Wonder of the World, exploring the tucked in corners of his lower lip, discovering the wide ridge and vermillion border of his upper lip. My tiny kisses—a consuming language of eager verbs and shy adjectives—tell him what is in my heart: I want to see him. I want to know him. I want him to see and know me.

  Without words he replies to these secret things. One of his hands slips beneath the flannel of my thrift store shirt trailing electricity up my spine, as his other hand tangles in my hair. He melds his body to mine—not in
sisting or demanding—only listening and answering in call and response: a mutual willingness to be vulnerable and to learn…

  A huge whump jolts me out of my fantasy and back to real life. Marcus swears, veering hard to the left. The entire van leans sideways, sending Aidan careening into Claire, who squashes into me, smashing us against the window.

  The endorphin rush from my imagined scene with Kaillen is replaced by a fight or flight surge of adrenaline. But the van rights itself and Marcus slows down. Barely.

  “Everything’s fine,” he says loudly from the front seat. “It was just a rock.”

  How he can tell it was just a rock through the impenetrable dark is beyond me. It felt like we broadsided a woolly mammoth.

  Aidan is unfazed but Claire is scared. I soothe her, and turn to look out the back window. Headlights from the van behind us bounce through the bleak night and I realize that while I’m daydreaming about communicating in the International Language of Love, Kaillen sits in another van not knowing whether his father will live or die.

  I’m even lonelier than I was before, and I have no one to blame but myself. I could at least be riding in the comforting presence of Quince right now, or Ava. But as soon as the first van arrived from the Vineyard I hid behind a tree, peering out to make sure Xander’s twin-sister, Twist, wasn’t inside. When all the Fae had exited and I knew the coast was clear, I ducked into the recently vacated backseat with Aidan and Claire in tow, and then bravely fell asleep.

  Because I’m a coward.

  Surely Twist has learned by now that her twin sister is dead. I’m ashamed I wasn’t the one to tell her. If I had any honor at all I’d have kept vigil in the rain until her van arrived at the grove from the Vineyard.

  But I can’t face Twist. How could she ever forgive me? We couldn’t even find her sister’s body.

  Vivid, generous, Xander. She came to save me from my father and lead me home. I watched Drake Channel the weave that destroyed her and I did nothing to stop him. I hate myself for that.

  I can’t even begin to imagine what Twist must be experiencing right now. She and Xander sacrificed their maiden forms to be my dragonfly guides in the Second Realm. Now she’s back in her maiden body for the first time in a decade, but without her twin. And I’m fantasizing about boys. Disgusting.

  I have to fix this. The first thing I’m going to do when we get to the Royal City is apologize to Twist for not being the one to tell her how Xander died. For freezing up and staring, paralyzed, while Drake murdered her. For getting trapped in the Third Realm so she had to come after me in the first place.

  Quiet your mind, my Heart’s Voice coaxes. You can’t undo what’s happened. Mourn. Be angry. And then let go.

  Let go? No, I won’t. I’m not letting go of Xander. Not ever. I don’t like this new Voice. At ALL. I’m sure she has some goddessy words of wisdom to impart about the grief cycle or whatever, but I’m not in the mood to listen right now. I ignore her completely and focus my attention on my imminent meeting with the High King.

  Should I curtsey before him? The maidens still mock me for my last curtseying debacle, which occurred when Ian and Kaillen came to Dallas right after Mom’s overdose. In my defense, I was nervous because I hadn’t seen either of them in years. Plus, the curtsey to Kaillen had totally been sarcastic. And also, yeah, I was pretty high on pills at the time.

  This is different, though. This is a king. And not just any king…The King.

  I’m guessing Great Granddad might not be all that happy to see me, seeing as how I’ve destroyed his precious barrier and all. In fact, he probably won’t be thrilled to see the Fae from the Seventh Kingdom either, since he went to all that trouble to eradicate them in the first place. I can’t imagine a mere curtsey would do much to appease him.

  I’ll just keep my mouth shut, speak only when spoken to, and keep my eyes peeled for my Champion.

  Unless… OMG. What if Ælfwig is my Champion? And what am I even supposed to call him…Your Majesty? Your Royal Highness? Gramps?

  Foreboding picks my cuticles ragged. I’m going to give myself seven ulcers. Maybe I’m overthinking things? Maybe I should just call him what everyone else calls him. And if he is the authority figure I’m looking for, I’ll just say, ‘Please can you help me rescue Jacob from the Lost Ones and then obliterate Drake, if it isn’t too much trouble? I really appreciate your time, thank you very much.’

  Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy.

  Ugh.

  Leaning my head against the window, I pretend I’m a little girl, bumping and bruising along in the back of Uncle Marcus’ speedboat all bundled up in a beach towel on Mom’s lap after a sunburnt day of fun at the lake, instead of racing over the perilous landscape of a strange Realm in the pitch dark of a monsoon.

  Just as the tension in my neck and shoulders eases enough to allow me to drift off to sleep, a realization jolts me wide-awake. Nobody told me how I’m supposed to recognize the authority figure when I find him.

  It could be literally anyone, because the question really isn’t who has more authority than me, the question is who doesn’t?

  Chapter Twelve

  I’ve worried fifty new hangnails by the time a watery sun rises, dispelling the inky night to reveal a dirty-dishwater day. I haven’t slept a wink. The rain has died down to a light drizzle and we’re finally on a semi-level stretch of packed dirt roadway, thank God. Several pairs of wheel ruts stripe the middle, I’m guessing from carts coming to and from the Palace. I’ve never been to this part of the First Realm.

  I trade places with Claire so she can look directly out the window at the lofty towers poking through the low-hanging thunderheads. Marcus has confirmed they are indeed part of the Royal City. Claire’s giving minute-by-minute commentary on everything we pass. I know it well by now as I’ve been silently narrating each detail of the countryside since sunrise.

  The landscape here is markedly different than the lush flora and fauna surrounding the ruins of the Seventh Kingdom. It doesn’t at all meet the ethereal otherworldliness of my imagination’s unspoken expectations. In fact, it reminds me of the wilderness we used to drive through to get to Grandpa Alvey’s cabin nestled high in the Uinta mountain range in Utah, only much more drab.

  A system of swift moving streams crisscrosses the valley floor below the tree line. Each stream connects to a swollen river running parallel to the dirt road. Stands of quaking aspens surround the meadows on both sides where the valley floor climbs steeply up into rocky canyons blanketed in pine. The colors flow in subtle gradients of green above trembling white aspen trunks, like a paint-by-number canvas shrouded in chill fog-gray. When I allow my vision to blur with the speed of the van, the geography morphs into the ghostly surrealism of dreams.

  My hands and feet buzz with numb-nervous anticipation.

  A few minutes ago I tried sucking in the Spark from the medallion at my throat, shrinking down into my center so I could wrap myself in calm. But the Spark wouldn’t hold still. Every time I got close it flitted off into shadow, then winked out of existence all together.

  I tried Channeling the Blaze in my wings to weave a more suitable dress or a shawl, or at least some lip gloss and a hairbrush—anything to help me pull off an air of modest poise for my imminent meeting with the High King—but I couldn’t even find one whip-thin tongue of flame surging through my body. Zero electric ribbons of light flickering around my chakras.

  Nada.

  That’s when I started coming unhinged, because what if my powers never work again? If I don’t have access to Blaze and Keen here in the First Realm, how will I protect myself? More importantly, how will I protect Aidan and Claire?

  To keep from going bonkers, I initiate a game of “I Spy with My Little Eye,” with Claire, who then nudges Aidan awake. Claire spots the giant mangy mastiff Aidan spies sniffing among the boulders just beyond the river. We crowd Claire’s window, our breath steaming up the glass.

  “Are those humans?” Claire gapes, interrupting the game
.

  I follow where she’s pointing at several small groups of people huddled under makeshift shelters dotting the dreary landscape. My mouth drops open in shock.

  “I thought only Fae lived in the First Realm,” Claire says. “But those ladies don’t have wings.”

  “Maybe they’re just bunched up under their blankets,” I suggest. “See how I’ve got mine under Kaillen’s jacket?”

  “No way.” She shakes her head. “They’d be all big and lumpy like yours.”

  “Some of them have wings,” Aidan says. “Look.” He points to three figures emerging from a ramshackle shed a stone’s throw from the road. Two of the wide-eyed adult maidens clearly have wings folded beneath the filthy, threadbare blankets clutched around their hunched shoulders—it looks like they’re wearing backpacks—but the third maiden is wingless.

  Marcus slows the van. The maidens stare at us in fearful amazement. One calls over her shoulder to a nearby hut. More mysterious beings emerge from crude dwellings to gawk at us as we crawl past.

  “Holy balls, Batman,” Aidan whispers. “They’re vagrants.”

  “Holy BALLS,” Claire seconds, and then asks: “What does vagrant mean?”

  I can’t even scold them for their language. My mind spins, trying to process this bizarre input. A mundane landscape is one thing, but not in a million years would I have imagined faeries living like this.

  “It means they’re homeless,” Aidan answers.

  “Wait, you mean…? Wait…” Claire tugs on my sleeve, looking up at me with horror-filled eyes. “Emma, does that mean they live in those huts?”

  “I think so, Bug.”

  It’s difficult to tell who is more bewildered, us in the van, or the Fae in the valley. They rubberneck us like we’re UFOs. Some of them run along after us, while others wave their arms and shout things I can’t make out. As we approach the end of the valley, a rock crashes into one of the back windows, leaving a spider web crack. I turn around to see a bedraggled elf wagging his fists at us indignantly.