Chapter 7
Seven
Torchlight dances across the walls of the tent the Player leads us to, throwing shadows over a woven rug on the sand and the massive bed—yes, bed, singular—that takes up most of the space.
Lazy spirals of incense curl up from a copper dish in the corner next to a red velvet screen held in place by a gilded frame.
The whole space smells faintly of fire and clove.
“You shall find both costumes and props there,” the Player says, nodding toward a domed trunk at the foot of the bed. It’s carved from dark wood and banded in copper. Its surface is etched with spiking flames and dotted with yellow and orange gemstones that wink like warning lights.
“The Festival of Flame begins at sunset,” she continues. “A guard will be sent to collect you. If you are no longer here…” Her voice hardens enough to make a lump of nerves form in my stomach. “There is not one of us who could or would protect you from your fate when you are found.”
She turns to leave.
“Wait,” I blurt. “We’ll perform. That’s fine. But we need to get home. We don’t belong here. We’re not even sure where here is. The Kingdom of Wands, yes, but…” Words fail me as I try to form a question that won’t undo the lenient sentence we’re serving.
The Player’s gaze finds mine, steady and full of something I can’t quite name. “Why, you’re in Towerfall. Within the bounds of the greatest kingdom of the realm. It seems fate has led you here.”
With that, she steps out into the heat, the tent flap whispering shut behind her.
No matter how much I want to, I can’t keep my hands from shaking. I just lied to royalty to save us from death, and even with the information the Player gave us, I’m still not sure where we are.
“Well…” I swallow past the lump in my throat and turn to face Declan. “I suppose all that’s left to say is you’re welcome.”
He presses a long finger to his chest. “What exactly should I be thanking you for?”
“For saving you from becoming a kebab. Or did you miss the part where they were about to flambé your ass because you didn’t know when enough was enough?”
“Didn’t realize you were looking for a thank-you.”
“Oh, screw you.”
“Tempting.”
I throw my hands up. “You’re impossible to pin down, you know that? It’s…it’s…obnoxious.”
“That’s rich, coming from the woman who improv-ed a story-witch persona in front of two queens with a fondness for public executions.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” I snap, then inhale through my nose. “Okay, no. No more bickering. That’s clearly not helping, and wanting to strangle you isn’t going to get us back home any faster.”
He doesn’t reply. He just stands there, arms folded, taking up too much space without even moving, which only makes me more annoyed.
My heels stab divots into the rug, and I kick them off with a frustrated grunt.
The plush weave beneath my bare feet is surprisingly soft as I shrug off my purse and toss it onto the bed.
Shoulders tight, I fumble through its contents for my ritual pouch.
I pull out a chunk of rose quartz and balance it in my palm as I whisper a soft chant.
“You’re safe. You’re resourceful. Everything’s going to be okay. ”
I can feel him watching me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to sink into the words. Be one with the present. Centered. Peaceful.
Even with my eyes closed, his gaze burns hotter than the sun, needling me and undoing every breath I try to steady.
“What?” I snap, lids flying open.
Declan’s gaze flicks to the crystal in my palm. “That’s your plan? Whisper to a rock until someone rescues you?”
“It’s a crystal, and many people believe they reduce stress.
Excuse me for needing a little help bringing down my blood pressure.
” I wrap my fingers around the quartz and squeeze.
“And I am by no means waiting for someone to rescue me. I can do that myself,” I say, although I’m not sure which lie is greater.
His mouth curves faintly. “I’ll give you this—you’re committed to the bit.”
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, reminding myself that chucking this crystal at his head is the opposite of the love and light I’m desperately trying to channel.
“Say whatever you want. I refuse to stoop to your level.” I flash a saccharine smile and flutter my lashes. “Which, I just have to add, is that of an annoying twelve-year-old boy.”
“Noted.” He slips his hands into his pockets and tilts his head. “Next time I’ll try a strategy that doesn’t work quite so well on you.”
With a stifled grunt, I turn my attention back to my items and start to line up the contents of my pouch across the silk sheets: crystals marred with scorch marks, a partially melted bottle of rosemary and lavender air-cleansing spray, the mini affirmation deck—
I run my thumb along the scorched edges of the cards. “Everything is burnt.”
Declan moves closer, squinting down at the bed. “Right. Your purse was practically on fire. What exactly do you keep in there?”
Ignoring him, I dump the rest of the pouch on the deep persimmon bedsheets. My breath catches when I spot the one thing undamaged.
The Wheel of Fortune.
Its edges are smooth, gold-dusted, untouched by flame or smoke. Not a single singe mark.
I hold it up. “You don’t think the card has anything to do with this?”
He scoffs. “Honestly, I’ve been wondering if my bartender slipped something into our drinks.”
“And now we’re trapped in a shared trip?” I shake my head. “We’ve already established that hallucinations don’t work that way. Plus, I don’t know about you, but I’m not having a very groovy time.”
Declan arches a brow and brushes a streak of grit from his sleeve. “You know drugs exist outside of Woodstock and that whole groovy decade?”
“I wouldn’t know.” I lift my chin, clutching the rose quartz tighter. “I don’t do drugs. I’m high on life.”
Shaking his head, he blows out a breath and plucks the card from my hand. His fingers brush mine, and I hate that I notice how warm his skin is. For a second, he just stares at the card, his expression shifting, curiosity sharpening into wariness.
“Is this design solar powered?” he asks.
My stomach drops. “Why?”
He flips the card so it’s facing me. “The picture. It’s moving.”
Before I can respond, the flames in the lanterns shoot higher, and a hot gust of wind blasts through the tent. The flap tears open with a snap. Sand rushes in, stinging my cheeks and burning my eyes.
I dive for my purse, fumbling for the hair clip I know is buried in there somewhere. “Ow—shit—sand in my mouth—hold it shut!”
“I am holding it shut!” Declan grits out, wrestling the silks.
I rush to help him, balling the fabric in my free hand as I struggle to clamp it shut with the other. Just as I fasten the hair clip into place, a sheet of parchment whips through the gap and smacks me square in the face.
Cursing, I peel it off, the paper warm, rough with grains of sand, and hand-painted in furious strokes of burnt orange and bloodred.
At its center is an unmistakable image. An image I know all too well.
A wheel.
Its spokes gleam a metallic gold. The same gold as the Wheel of Fortune. This wheel’s outer ring is charred on one side, and behind it is a faceless figure wrapped in robes of flame, arms outstretched.
Along the bottom, scrawled in a looping script with familiar curves and slants that pull at the edges of memory like an itch I can’t scratch: REMEMBER.
My throat tightens.
It’s her.
I am as real as you are.
It’s Fortune.
And now she’s painted on a flyer that literally slapped me in the face. This message is meant for me.
That strange knot forms in my chest, like fate is clawing its way out of my very soul.
“This is a sign from the universe,” I whisper, voice thin and breathless. “It has to be.”
I’ve said that before. Hundreds of times, probably. To the camera. To myself. Usually it’s just code for something good will happen if I want it badly enough. But this feels different.
With a sigh, Declan pinches the bridge of his nose. “We should take a moment to—”
“No, listen. This woman—” I shake the parchment in front of his face, the metallic paint catching firelight.
“She was here the second we landed. She came to me. She knows something. She can tell us what’s going on.
” I glance down at the flyer again, conviction sparking.
“She’s probably my Wise Woman. I’ve read about them.
And this place seems like they’d have Wise Women, right? ”
Declan blinks like I’m speaking in tongues.
“My mentor,” I clarify.
“Oh.” His mouth curves. “Your Obi-Wan.”
I smile. “Declan Thorne, are you secretly a nerd?”
He doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t matter. A Star Wars nerd won’t get us home, but I know who can.
I rip off my makeshift tent closure and throw open the flap. Heat slaps me in the face, the air scorching as sunlight pours in. A white glare burns across my vision, turning the world into one overwhelming blaze.
I stumble forward, sand already searing the soles of my bare feet, and plow directly into something solid. Copper-threaded fabric. Immovable muscle.
The impact bounces me backward with a startled yelp. My heel catches on the threshold of our tent, and I nearly go down before a thick hand clamps around my arm, steadying me with far more force than necessary.
Dav looms above me, lips curled, brown eyes burning beneath the fringe of his sideswept hair. “Going somewhere?”
“I didn’t realize we were on house arrest,” I snap, yanking my arm from his hold as I glare up at him.
“Course not.” The words are delivered flatly, but an unspoken threat simmers just beneath them. “But you’re not performers either. And I have a duty to protect my queens and kingdom.”
The fabric of the tent rustles behind me, and I feel Declan before I see him—his presence a low, controlled shadow in my periphery. His hand curls around my arm.
What is it with men thinking they need to touch me to make a point? I don’t need to be claimed to exist.