Chapter Thirty-Five The Nova
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Nova
I couldn’t accept my fate before I’d exhausted every possible escape.
Amid the whispering flowers, I’d found a place to think. The herbage conversed, or rather, mimicked the sound of talking. With mouths dusted with pollen, they shared secrets among themselves above me. My toes dug into the cool dirt, my knees pulled to my chest.
Small blades of grass brushed back and forth over my legs, some reaching for my hand as I let them weave between my fingers.
The first option would be to find willing Peculiars to bring me back, but they didn’t seem to be as responsive as the wild ones from my world.
It seemed like my only option was to exercise my will and open my own door, possibly through the water—but so far, whenever I’d reached through and chanted, I’d only come up with a fistful of mud.
The energy in this place seemed to be too potent, drowning out anything I could demand of it, just like the mishap with the flowers last time I was in this twilight state.
Even if I could make progress, I couldn’t predict how Altair might destroy my methods.
The other option would be to pass. I might have considered it before I knew what I’d done, but Dorian was gone, and soon I would be as well.
The thought was more frightening than I imagined, especially when that option seemed to be easily accessible.
To just be no more, no matter or mind, just cease to exist. Even when I’d felt that pull to the void, it hadn’t overcome the nagging that succumbing would mean I’d lose myself, both to the world and to my own consciousness.
The very last thing I’d do would be to entertain Altair’s bargain.
I was no fool. But even the wisest may be blinded by a deal that sounds superficially good.
Whatever I chose, he would make sure it benefited him.
But it may have been my only way to any sort of safety.
There was no guarantee he would make good on his promise.
For all I knew, I could’ve been one in a collection of millions he’d snatched throughout his existence.
Negotiating was off the table. Even with the chance to counter and make my own plans known, I could lose my way out altogether.
A sudden wave of nausea, and the squelching of my stomach.
It was hard to tell how much time had passed in a world trapped in a shroud of night, but at least my appetite could keep the time. Nothing here looked edible, and even if it was, I had no way to tell if it was safe unless I took a gamble and ate it.
I looked down at my hands, the white patches of vitiligo a steady glow, a nearly white-tinted blue like the plankton in the biolights.
Could my father’s bargain be the reason for my marks? That would explain how they reacted to the darkness. Or Altair’s infatuation with them. Marked by the stars, my dad would say. I was starting to believe he was being honest instead of attempting to romanticize them.
My gut curdled even more.
Nothing made sense. The stories of genies and other folk magic spoke of laws, especially around wishing for someone’s love, their right to say no, their autonomy. I didn’t believe my father was capable of such a selfish request. There had to be more.
I supposed they were only stories. The world was lawless by design, after all.
One wish, two lives traded, and the proof of their contract a permanent seal on my skin.
My mouth was dry. At least the water was safe. I’d already taken in a mouthful when I arrived. Scooting closer to the edge of the pond, I scooped it into my palms. There were no particles, no critters. Crystal clear, as far as I could see under the moon. Then I brought it to my lips.
It was cool like fresh mountain water. I took another handful, another gulp. My stomach settled, but not for long. If I didn’t figure out an escape soon, I’d have to find something edible. The water being safe was a good sign, but it was about the only thing I could trust.
I lay back in the grass, curled up on my side. My petticoat was filthy, dirt on my arms and foliage getting lost in my hair. The curls had only gotten bigger from being exposed to the elements for so long. For obvious reasons, my normal care was not possible in this place.
I was not spoiled; I was not a stranger to having not.
I just had to transport myself back to when I was young and naive to material luxuries, when I believed bread was naturally tough and shaved ice with honey was the most decadent treat at the end of the day.
When I didn’t realize that all our money was going to schooling for Maxim and me.
My stomach churned again.
I turned onto my back and groaned.
Daydreaming wasn’t a sufficiently strong distraction.
The sting of my palm bothered me enough to look at it. Cuts from the long grass and thrashing through these fictitious woods for at least a day. It was interesting how this world could manifest so many creatures and visuals, yet I could still hurt myself on them.
Unless . . . I’d only hurt myself because that was what was expected of the wilderness.
I closed my eyes.
Focus.
I imagined my hand without wounds, the dark skin against pale markings, the way I remembered the creases on my palms or the shape of my knuckles. Any image of my hand without blemish. Then I went further, imagining mending wounds, sewing stitches, anything with the intention of closing the cuts.
“This is silly,” I mumbled to myself—then immediately forgot the words when I opened my eyes.
My hand was blemish-free. I couldn’t even remember the sting of the cuts. They were simply gone—or did they not exist in the first place?
Could I do the same for my hunger?
My stomach pinched.
No, it didn’t seem so.
My senses even began to tease me with the scent of dry-season apples and citrus blooms. The audible memory of a crisp bite into fruit, or the slurp of juice that followed, whispered in my ear like a temptation.
My stomach would turn over and flip into a knot if my mind continued the charades.
There would be no sleep in a condition like this.
With restless mind and feet, I set off. I took my satchel with the grimoire—I had no way of telling if I could find my way back to an exact spot, knowing how this place played tricks on vulnerable minds. Keeping sharp was my only defense.
The stars above soon disappeared among canopies of pointed leaves and creaking branches. The dirt poked at my bare feet; they were numb by now. My throat was dry again, left unsatisfied from the last swallow.
From within the wood, a light.
Only a steady pulse interrupted by the silhouette of proud trunks.
Just off the path, that was it.
As I neared the apparition, a whimsical sight unfolded like a dream.
At first the glow was bright, then a long table came into view, not unlike those in old English mansions. Impossibly intricate and out of place in the middle of nature. Atop its carved surface was a feast of fruits.
Some were familiar: ripe apples, firm grapes, and plump oranges. Some were less familiar, with hexagonal scales and fibrous hairs on the insides of the cut fruit. As I picked one from the pile, it felt real too.
I half believed the feast on the table was the real thing. In more fantastical stories, such a temptation would come with great cost. The fruit was so lifelike, believably tangible. My stomach whined like a begging dog.
“Are you not hungry?” Altair’s taunt in my ear.
I did not look. The fruit was placed neatly back at the head of the table. “You must think me a simple thing if this is a snare.”
“You are paranoid,” he said. “How could such a kind gesture be anything but?”
I turned around, facing the beastly phantom. With steady palms, I pressed them on the edge of the table. “There is nothing you do that isn’t self-serving.”
“You know that isn’t true,” the shadow said, leaning in. “I take an interest in your well-being.”
“In my belonging,” I said. “You do not care if I am well, just that I am kept.”
His face neared mine, his claws resting on either side of me on the table.
I leaned back but kept my place.
“Are you sure you’re not even a little famished?” he asked again. “It’s been so long since you’ve had a meal.”
“No pleasantries. I do not appreciate illusions,” I said firmly, “even the emotional ones.”
“You’re right, I know the answer. So I’ll say it for you.” He turned his head to the side, his third eye bright. “There is a hunger in you—no, a longing.”
I laughed at the insinuation.
“Of knowledge, of curiosities unquenched, of things you’ve yet to experience.” His claw brushed by my leg. “Maybe you’d like to feel as I do when I feed from you.”
My own swallow caught in my throat, the statement stirring something in me. Whether it be morbid curiosity or the appeal of mystery, my monster knew my vices.
“You would, wouldn’t you?” His hand smoothed behind my thigh, pushing me up onto the table.
I startled, my fist clenching in a bundle of grapes, the wet mess slimy between my fingers as the fruit burst.
I held my hand up to push him, and he caught it. The shadows of his face parted, as if a human mouth were there, and just as human of a tongue slipped out before it stretched and snaked between my fingers.
“Is that what it was?” I whispered. “At the museum, with the mammoths.”
“Memories are sweeter than fruit.” He pulled my hand forward, pressing his hips between my legs. “You can taste it too.”
He leaned forward, and I leaned back, my body flattening against the table in between the assorted displays.
My body was tense, unsure, but not denying I wanted to try.
As he neared, I pressed my palms to his chest.
In this form, his eyes were cold, dissecting. I had no way to get a good read on him, not like this.
My hand smoothed over the inky mass. Then finally, I touched his face. The places I touched began to glow, the white light spreading even when my touch had since passed. His face began to turn, to change.