Chapter 39
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
I know it’s not possible, since they’re all the same image, but every version of Donovan looks more pissed off than the next. “What did you do?” he growls.
“Me?” I’m half-tempted to shatter one of these mirrors and impale him with a shard. “If you recall, I was trying to find a way for us to cooperate. Which is more than I can say for some?—”
“Shhh!” He holds a finger to his lips.
“Did you just shush me?” Now, each of the hundred Runes looks as enraged as he does, my eyes wide with fury and my arms folded across my chest. “Who do you think you?—”
“Shhh!” he says again, and this time he points.
It’s a struggle to keep my eyes on Actual Donovan, rather than his myriad of reflections, but I manage it, following his finger to its inevitable conclusion: a stone that’s popped up from the floor, containing a small speaker, as well as a tiny pad and pencil. A quiet stream of static issues from the speaker, interrupted by a series of beeps. It pauses, then starts up all over again.
“Um,” I say, “what the hell is that supposed to be?”
Donovan doesn’t answer me. Instead, he edges closer, peering down at the speaker as it starts its little ditty all over again. His eyebrows are knitted, like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “No way,” he breathes, and damn if he isn’t smiling…not a lot, but still. The corners of his mouth quirk up the tiniest bit, the way they do when he’s amused but trying not to show it. “I think it’s Morse Code. I learned it in Scouts.”
My mouth falls open, and around us, a hundred Runes’ mouths do the same. “You’re kidding me.”
“No. Listen!” He gestures at the speaker. “It’s not random. There’s a rhythm to it. I’ve been listening to it over and over, and I think…” He kneels, grabbing for the pad and pencil. His dark head bends as he scribbles furiously, tilting his head as the beeps do their thing. Then he shoves the pad at me with a triumphant smile.
I glance down at it, hoping for answers. Instead, I see this:
.-- . .-.. -.-. --- -- . / - --- / - .... . / .... .- .-.. .-.. / --- ..-. / -- .. .-. .-. --- .-. ... .-.-.-
Donovan’s looking at me expectantly, his sapphire eyes alight with excitement. I never thought I’d see him look at me that way again: with true happiness, like there’s no place he’d rather be. My gut twists, and I have to clear my throat twice before I can speak.
“What does it say?”
He takes the pad back from me and translates: “Welcome to the Hall of Mirrors.”
The speaker starts up again, emitting a different set of rhythmic beeps and pauses. Donovan sinks to the stones, braces the pad on his leg, and scribbles some more. I sit down next to him, peering over his shoulder, but it’s pointless: all I can make out is a series of meaningless dashes, dots, and slashes as his hand flies over the paper with lightning speed.
There’s something alluring about the purity of his concentration, the way everything in the world disappears for him except what he’s focused on. It’s almost…gravitational, as if being around him holds the scattered pieces of myself together. I glance away, but that’s no help: everywhere I look, there he is, a hundred Donovans with his dark hair falling over his face and his mouth quirking up as he scribbles and his attention hyper-focused on the page.
This is a freaking nightmare.
All I want is to reach for him, to brush his hair out of his eyes and tell him how sorry I am. To explain everything, even though I know he won’t believe me. Instead, I wrap my arms around my knees and grip my wrists tight. Don’t do it, I tell myself. He doesn’t want you anymore, and that’s a good thing. Just get through this, and do what you came here to do.
I bite my lip and close my eyes. Behind my lids, the echo of the flames from the fire pits flickers. The air fills with the crackle of burning wood, that interminable beeping, and Donovan’s running commentary. “I think…” he mutters. “Maybe…” He huffs with frustration, and I picture him running his hand through his hair, the way I’ve seen him do so many times. But then his breathing evens out. “Okay!” he says, sounding triumphant. “Got it.”
Blinking my eyes open, I find him smiling at me, a disarming grin that cracks me wide open. “Here,” he says, shoving the pad back at me. I take it and read aloud:
“I am a test of communication, a challenge of reflection. Two must stand and face each other’s direction. They must follow the path, or face fire’s wrath. Their eyes must not waver, their focus must be true. For if they break contact, they’ll begin anew.”
Oh, fabulous. “A riddle?” I say, frowning down at it.
Donovan shrugs, the light of discovery fading from his eyes. “I guess. The sooner we solve it, the sooner we’re out of here.”
“Right,” I say, trying to sound as businesslike as possible. I scramble to my feet, and he follows, standing opposite me. Two must stand and face each other’s direction, after all.
He’s just inches away, his vanilla-and-cedar scent filling the space between us. But he’s also everywhere. He’s all I can see. My voice is breathy when I say, “But what path?”
As if my words have summoned them, some of the stones beyond the speaker begin to glow, as if lit from within. The glowing stones are set in an irregular pattern—two to the right, then nothing, then three to the left. I watch, brows drawing down in puzzlement, as the stones between the glowing ones fall away, replaced by honest-to-God streams of bubbling lava.
“There’s your answer,” Donovan says, one dark brow rising. “Man, I hope Smashbox has solid liability insurance. Because if that shit is real, and I burn so much as my pinky toe, I plan to sue the bejesus out of them.”
I shake my head, my hair flying. I came here to avenge my parents’ murder, not get barbecued. “This is crazy. I can’t…I don’t…”
“Rune.” His voice is calm, steady. “I’m just joking. It’s some kind of illusion.”
“Sure,” I say dubiously. It doesn’t look like an illusion to me.
“Ethan thinks we can’t get along, right? That we don’t have what it takes to finish that damn project of his. What did that thing say? A test of communication, right? So let’s fucking communicate, and prove him wrong.”
“We can’t get along,” I point out, trembling as I look down into the lava. What will happen if we lose our balance and fall in? Worse still, what will happen if I’ve misjudged Donovan and he pushes me? What if this is all a trick, to take my life? Or his?
“Sure we can. At least, long enough to get out of here. Now, look at me.”
With considerable effort, I drag my gaze from the fiery depths and meet his gaze. “Good,” he says. “ Their eyes must not waver, remember? Don’t look away.”
And so I don’t. I stare into those deep blue pools as the mirrors shiver, their surfaces rippling to reflect distorted, funhouse versions of ourselves. “Step to the right,” all the Donovans say—the one right in front of me and all of the warped versions of him. “With me. Here.”
His hands rise, gripping mine. The moment we touch, the floor beneath us shudders. That electrical shock is back, flowing between us, sparking over our skin.
“Do you feel that?” Donovan’s voice is a hoarse whisper.
I nod, my mouth dry. “Donovan?—”
He shakes his head. “Just…step to the right, would you? Onto the stones.”
The air between us wavers, and I can’t help but think about what Cooper said—about how our proximity is what’s causing the ley lines to spike. About how it could unravel the world. But I can’t make myself let go of Donovan’s hands. I don’t want to.
“I can’t see the stones,” I whisper. “Not if I’m looking at you.”
His throat works as he swallows. “I…I could pick you up, so we’re at eye level. And then you could look, for both of us. From your angle, you’d be able to keep eye contact with me in the mirror, and see the reflection of the stones, too. And I’d look at your reflection, so we wouldn’t break the rules.”
“Pick me up?” The words emerge as a squeak.
“If you’ll let me.”
I should say no. God, I know I should. But instead, I manage another nod, and then I’m in Donovan’s arms. He scoops me up, like I’m a bride he’s carrying over the threshold. I can feel his heart thrashing against me, but his voice is calm when he says, “How far to the right should I go?”
I peer at his reflection, the up-close scent of him intoxicating me. My head swims with it. In my peripheral vision, I make out the glowing stones, somehow shining clearly despite the funhouse warp of the mirrors. “E-eighteen inches,” I stammer.
“Very precise.” I swear I can hear the smile in his voice.
This is, so, so wrong. I ought to insist that he put me down. But I don’t. I let him cradle me as he steps eighteen inches to the right. Then another five, at my direction. Then two. And then at last, onto the first of the glowing stones.
“Holy fuck.” He clutches me tighter as the heat from the lava streams rises, washing over both of us.
I don’t dare take my gaze off the Donovan in the mirror. “Now what?”
“Now,” he says, slowly and deliberately, “we have to figure out how to make it to those three stones to the left.”
I try to glance at them out of the corner of my eye, but the angle’s all wrong. I can’t see a thing, not unless I look away from him.
“How?” I say, my voice trembling.
“Do you trust me?”
His eyes hold mine in the mirror, their expression grave. And despite what’s passed between us, despite everything, there’s only one answer I have to give. “I do.”
“That’s all I needed to hear,” he says. And then he jumps, with me in his arms.
We’re airborne for a moment, the lava flowing below us and our eyes fixed on each other’s reflection. Tiny flames lick their way across Donovan’s irises, and for an instant I worry that I’ve made a terrible mistake. But then we land on the stones with a thud that sends him to his knees, eyes still locked on mine in the mirrors, which ripple once more, their distortion vanishing.
I want to make some crack about his Clark Kent alter-ego. About the superhero hiding inside his data engineer shell. But I’m too busy forcing my heart to resume a normal rhythm. All I can do is cling to him and stare into his gorgeous eyes and try to remember how to breathe.
Donovan kneels on the stones, arms still wrapped around my body, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he lets go. His chest heaves against me. “Rune,” he says, sounding breathless. “Rune, I?—”
But before he can finish whatever he was about to say, there’s a horrible cracking sound, and the floor falls away, hurtling us into the darkness beyond.