Where the Lightning Goes E-Book

Jackary Salem

• Herausgeber: Derealization Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

After a powerful wizard tears Elle’s soul apart and steals her memories, she’s locked in a house to rot. Her only remaining memory is of falling from the sky, though even that raises more questions than it answers. Upon her escape, she falls into a world that’s equal parts vicious and beautiful. Magic is everywhere, everyone is out for themselves, and every truth is accompanied by a lie. Her lack of memories grows maddening and painful. She’s positive that the key to recovering her memories is in the sky-castle from her dreams, but getting there will require magic she doesn’t have. Traversing an enchanted painting, stealing a sword from a dragon’s den, and outwitting a demon are only the beginning. And this time, she’s got more than freedom and memories on the line. 

Without magic, there is no survival.

Leseprobe

Copyright

Copyright @ 2023 by Jackary Salem

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America.

First Edition May 2023

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

ISBN: 978-1-958362-04-4 (hardback)

ISBN: 978-1-958362-02-0 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-958362-03-7 (ebook)

LCCN: Forthcoming

Derealization Press: 1120 Bloomingdale Pike, Kingsport, TN 37660

www.jackarysalem.com

Cover by Kim Dingwall

1

When Elle was little, she fell out of the sky. Her only memories were of an expanse of black and a horizontal flash of light. She’d been Inside ever since.

“I can’t believe you’re really going.”

Elle looked at Quincy, who worried and whined by the door of her room. He fidgeted with the ratty strip of sheet tied over his empty eye sockets, straight black bangs parting around skinny fingers.

A smile touched Elle’s lips. The dilapidated gray walls of her room, always so dark and claustrophobic, felt brighter. The empty floor, unfurnished save for the sheet Elle slept with, looked almost homey. Quincy’s annoying lack of confidence and can’t-do attitude only made her grin wider.

“The only reason I can even think about going is you.” She held up the hammer, uncaring that he couldn’t see it. “You and this hammer. I mean, saying you wanted to help was one thing, but stealing from Miss Cynthia?” She shook her head. “You’re incredible.”

“I wish you could have been there. It was really scary.”

“If I could have gone with you, I would’ve. You know that.” Elle glanced at the door. It was thick enough that the volunteer guard on the other side couldn’t hear them. She lowered her voice anyway. “They don’t even let me go to the bathroom alone.”

“Maybe if you stopped trying to escape all the time, they’d let you out more.”

Irritation darkened Elle’s good mood. “They’re the ones in the wrong, Quince. They have no right to keep me here.”

“In your room?”

“In this house!” Quincy flinched. Elle grimaced at her own stupidity. She glanced around to see if her outburst had attracted anything dangerous. When no shadow demons leaked from the walls, she lowered her voice to its usual whisper. “Besides, you know that old crone hates me. Even if I was the picture of obedience, she’d find reasons to punish me.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe she’s just trying to keep everybody safe.”

“And if she is? How does that make it okay?” Elle’s voice rose in pitch but not volume as anger and incredulity flooded to the surface. “She’s torturing me, Quincy. How can none of you see that? Leaving me locked in here. Only letting me chat with one person for one hour every few days. It’s inhumane!” Tears stung the backs of her eyes. “Even if she didn’t like seeing me suffer, which she does, this isn’t okay. I don’t care what her reasons are. No one deserves to be tossed in a room to rot.”

Elle waited breathlessly for a reaction. For understanding. Rejection. Anything. Quincy fisted his fingers in his shirt and said, “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Sorry, Elle. I didn’t know it was that bad.” He hunched like he was waiting for a reprimand.

She sighed, and the frustration she felt for him flowed out with the air in her lungs. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t get it. Rather than continuing to unload her emotional trauma onto his innocent eleven-year-old shoulders, she said, “I just wish I could fight back. If I had even a little magic, she’d think twice about doing this to me.”

Quincy shook his head hard. “No way. Don’t even joke like that. Magic attracts . . . you know.”

“Demons.”

He ducked his head. Elle blew a lock of frizzy brown hair out of her eyes, wishing he’d chosen something else to be sensitive about. It made sense, what with demons having gouged his eyes out and all. It was just counterproductive. They lived in a world filled with demons. He was going to have to get over it eventually.

He murmured, “Yeah. That.”

“Miss Cynthia does magic. It’s how she gets the supplies and lights the house. If she can do it without getting eaten, so can I.”

“Maybe you should ask her to teach you again. It’ll be safer if you know how to do it first. Before you have to fight the . . .”

“Demons.” Elle crossed her arms, doing her best to pretend they hadn’t had this argument a million times already. “I’ve tried, Quince. I’ve begged. She just laughs in my face. Which is exactly why I need to go Outside. My teacher’s out there somewhere. I just have to find them.”

“But why? Why’s magic so important?”

“Have you ever been around Miss Cynthia when she does magic?”

“No.”

Elle scrunched her nose. She wasn’t sure how that was possible considering how packed the house was. But then, she didn’t think she’d ever seen Quincy and Miss Cynthia in a room together, either.

“Well, it’s amazing. Not the things she does, but the way it feels. Just being near her when she does magic is like, I don’t know, being alive? Like I live every moment of every day in a constant state of drowning. Then she does magic, and I can breathe again.” Elle looked to Quincy for some sign of comprehension. He twisted his hands together, obviously lost, and her willingness to open up to him died. She shrugged. “It’s everything, and I want it for myself.”

“Okay.” He smiled, but she could tell he didn’t understand. “You go and learn magic, enough to protect us both. Then when you come back for me, it’ll be easier.”

“Or you could get it over with and escape now. There’s no telling how long it’ll be before I can come back here again. Or if I’ll survive long enough to come back at all.”

Quincy's thin black brows rose above his blindfold. “And you think I’ll be okay out there? I’m only eleven. You’re . . .” He hesitated, tugging on his overlarge shirt. “Well, I don’t know how old you are, but it’s older than me. You’re practically an adult. Besides”—he gestured embarrassedly to the cloth on his face—“I’ll only get us killed faster.”

“And? It’s a monster-infested wasteland out there. It’s not like my chances of survival are great to begin with.” Elle rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m not going because I want to live. I’m going because I want to live better. Just think about it, Quince. Magic. Adventure. Furniture.” She waved her hammer in a half circle to emphasize the bare walls and empty floor. “Plus, if you escape with me now, I don’t have to come back later.”

Quincy whined. “I can’t. I’m not as brave as you, Elle.” His lips wobbled. He sniffled. Elle wondered if people without eyes could cry.

Once it became clear he wasn’t going to cheer up on his own, she huffed. “You’re stupid for wanting to stay, but it’s not like I can make you leave.”

Quincy perked up. “You mean . . . ?”

“I go. You stay. When I’m strong enough, I’ll come find you.”

“And then we’ll go on a huge adventure? Together?”

“That was the deal.”

A ridiculously happy grin dimpled his left cheek. “You’re gonna be so surprised when you see me again. I’ll be older, and you’ll be stronger, and we’ll work together to take down bad guys. Like, pow pa pow!” He punched the air a few times.

She snorted. “I don’t know about all that. I’ll be happy just to survive.”

“And get your memories back. Don’t forget about that.”

Elle stiffened. Bitterness, resentment, and yearning roiled to life inside her.

All her memories from before she fell out of the sky were blank. Not blank like paper but blank like a pit. Like a void had opened up within her and hollowed out the base she was supposed to be built on. She’d once thought her need to find out who she was would fade with time, but a decade of emptiness had taught her otherwise. Every day she went without knowledge of her past was another layer of herself scraped from the inside of her skull. Piece by piece, layer by layer, she was being devoured.

While she wasn’t positive retrieving her memories would make it stop, she couldn’t think of any alternatives, either.

“Elle?”

“Yeah. I heard you. Learn magic, return to the sky, get my memories back, then come find you.” Fear prickled in Elle’s stomach. Each task sounded more impossible than the last. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“You could die.”

“Not helpful.”

“I think you’ll do good. Prob’ly. You’re smart and super brave.” Quincy bit his lip. His fidgeting fingers stilled. “Please be careful.”

“I will.” She closed the distance between them. The urge to hug him blossomed within her, but it felt too intimate. Too awkward. She laid her hand on his shoulder instead. “Thank you for helping me. Seriously. I don’t think I could’ve survived in here much longer.”

“It’s not for free. You’re gonna help me, too.”

Elle flicked him on the side of the head.

He giggled. “Okay, okay. You’re welcome. Just don’t . . . don’t forget about me, okay?”

“I won’t.” Elle squeezed his shoulder, and he tilted his head to nuzzle into her hand. She glanced restlessly at the flat gray ceiling. It was impossible to tell time, as there were no windows and the magical lighting in the house never changed, but it felt late. “You should get going.”

Quincy nodded. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll be back. And hey”—Elle cracked a humorless smile—“I might fail before I even open the door. Then they’ll lock us both in here, and there won’t be anything for you to miss.”

He didn’t laugh at her joke, which was fair because it wasn’t funny. She pulled away and tucked the hammer into the back of her pants. Quincy turned and felt around until he found the door. He whispered, “I believe in you,” then knocked for the volunteer guard to let him out.

A second later, Elle was alone.

Bitterness sank its claws into her heart. She curled her fingers into a fist, trying to will it away. Much as she was thankful for Quincy’s help, she hated the way he treated her escape like a game they couldn’t lose. Like if she failed to open the door, the only consequence would be trying again.

He didn’t understand how suffocatingly small her room was or how staring at the same four walls day-in and day-out played tricks on her mind. He didn’t have a ravenous void in his chest tormenting his every waking moment. He didn’t need to leave. Elle though?

She’d die if she stayed. Maybe not in a day or a week or a year, but two years? Three? Elle could already feel her will to fight slipping away. Every day she went without human contact was a day she considered giving in. Giving up. They’d locked her in her room to break her, and if she didn’t escape tonight—if they doubled the guards and took away her visitation rights—they’d succeed.

She’d told Quincy she wasn’t sure how much longer she could survive Inside, and she’d meant it. Her sanity chipping away. Her hope shriveling. Her dreams dead. When she blinked, she could see herself sitting placidly on the living room floor, playing yet another rousing round of Guess Which Book Is Behind My Back,and that scared her more than the demons.

Anxiety squirmed in her stomach, nauseatingly thick. She squeezed her eyes shut and thought of the lightning instead. A single horizontal flash across a pitch-black sky. Beautiful in its intensity, with a dozen sharp edges and limitless warmth. The memory filled Elle with a sense of love and belonging, momentarily dulling the horrors in her heart.

She didn’t know what the lightning was or why it made her feel at peace. She didn’t know where it had come from or where it’d gone. She did know she’d find it again. So long as she could get Outside—so long as she had air in her lungs and strength in her legs—she’d find it.

She had a hammer. She had a plan.

She’d find it.

2

Elle sat in the middle of the floor with the hammer in her lap. She fiddled with the worn wooden handle and tapped bitten-down fingernails against the long, flat side of the metal head. Muffled voices sounded on the other side of the door, and Elle didn’t have to listen to know Quincy was complaining of a nightmare. Something about demons gouging out his eyes or being forced to watch his parents die. Something about a warm glass of milk.

It didn’t matter what he said so long as he said it while crying: snot pooling on his upper lip, voice wobbling—the whole nine yards. Empathy would cause the night guard to falter, willingly abandoning their post, and Elle would make her escape.

She squeezed the hammer’s handle, adrenaline making every little movement seem both too loud and too fast. The moment of truth crept closer, terrifying and addictive. Elle forced herself to breathe. She closed her eyes and thought of the house.

Five dank, gray bedrooms. One cold, hearthless kitchen. One small, often-broken bathroom. One bleak, useless living room. Two glorious wooden doors: boarded shut.

Four of the bedrooms and the bathroom were upstairs. The doors would be closed while fourteen of the sixteen other occupants slept. Quincy and the night guard would go down the stairs and to the right, toward the kitchen. If Elle wanted even a chance at escape, she’d have to follow them out of her room, down the stupidly creaky staircase, and into the living room. She’d hide until Quincy and the night guard went back upstairs.

From there, it would be a quick jaunt down the hall to the back door. Miss Cynthia slept on the lower floor, bedroom situated between the kitchen and the front door, but so long as Elle was quiet, it wouldn’t matter. They were still on opposite ends of the house. The likelihood of Elle waking her was microscopic.

(And, realistically, if Elle got loud enough to wake anyone, a few missing boards would be the least of their problems.)

The lock on Elle’s door clicked, signaling Quincy had completed his end of the bargain. Elle’s heart thundered in her chest. Her legs shook as she stood. She tried to draw on the lightning for courage, but the reality of what she was escaping to suddenly required more than a derisive scoff or a puffed-up chest.

Even if she managed to get out, she could be running to her death. Demons were sadistic beasts with bottomless stomachs. The world was a wasteland. And no matter how much Elle hated the house, Outside could be worse.

She shook out one hand, then the other. She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. She crossed the room. The hammer weighed heavy in her hand and heavy on her heart, cautioning. Going Outside meant more than changing her own life. It would change the lives of every other survivor, too. There was a chance they’d go on as they were, affected by her departure only in terms of a new bedroom opening up, but it was more likely they’d be slaughtered. She laid her free hand on the knob, fingertips full of consequences.

A deep breath in. A slow breath out.

She turned the knob and pushed.

The hallway, much like the rest of the house, was gray. Emptiness tangled with silence. Elle stepped out into the hall, and despite the enormity of the moment, nothing changed. The magical lighting didn’t flicker. The temperature didn’t rise. The other survivors didn’t wake.

Elle tucked her hammer into the back of her pants and covered the head with her shirt. Cool metal pressed into her lower back. She eased her bedroom door closed.

The lifeless hall greeted her with indifference, and she returned the sentiment in full. She crept to the left, where two flat gray walls bracketed worn wooden stairs. If Quincy and the night guard returned before she made it to the bottom, there would be nowhere to hide.

Elle brushed her fingers over the wall to her right, smooth only in appearance. Tiny pockmarks and minuscule bumps caressed her skin. She used her free hand to press the hammer to her spine and slid one bare foot over the edge of the uppermost step.

Thirteen planks of wood mocked her efforts, promising to creak and give her away, but Elle had played this game before. She pressed her toes to the far-right side of the first step, foot flush with the wall. The wood held steady under her weight, silent as the grave.

She tiptoed down the stairwell, muscle memory steering the way. Only one stair could be trusted center-plank. Two stairs couldn’t be trusted at all. Elle danced past those traps, trusting her body—her own knowledge and skills—above all else. She touched down on the bottom floor without a single whisper of protest from the wood. She released her hold on the hammer.

Quincy walked out of the kitchen.

Panic jammed Elle’s heart into her throat. She skittered to the left. A loose floorboard groaned beneath her. She rounded the corner and threw herself against the living room wall.

The solid, metal head of the hammer smacked the wall with a resounding thud. Her heart dropped into her stomach. She sandwiched her hand between her back and the wall, palm cushioning metal, but it was too late.

A loud whisper echoed through the house. “What was that?” The voice was high-pitched, the words accented and enunciated. Terri.

Elle clenched her eyes shut as Quincy asked, “What was what?”

The air near Elle’s left shoulder drastically cooled. She shivered, icy terror sinking into her blood. She looked up.

Black mist dripped from the corner of the ceiling like translucent sludge. It puddled on the floor next to her feet, twisting and hardening to form disembodied claws. Hopelessness settled in her lungs as the claws connected with a palm.

Terri said, “I could’ve sworn I heard something.”

Quincy whimpered. “Do you think my nightmare was real? Are the d-d-demons going to come kill us?”

A long, skinny arm sewed itself to the other end of the palm. The claws inched toward Elle’s foot. Tears beaded in her eyes, and she held her breath, refusing to call for help.

Terri spoke in a low, soothing tone. “No, sweetie. There are no demons here. I, um—you know, I probably just imagined it. That’s all. Even adults get a little spooked sometimes.”

Elle looked from the malformed demon on the floor to the rest of the room. Twenty-eight well-read books, half a pack of cards, and a board game with no board decorated the center of the otherwise empty floor. A cylindrical sandwich-sized torso wriggled into existence. A claw nicked the side of Elle’s foot, drawing blood. And it occurred to her, in a moment of almost bland morbidity, that there was an upside to being killed rather than captured.

At least if she was dead, she’d never have to play Guess Which Book Is Behind My Back.

Terri offered another soft reassurance. Quincy sniffled. The stairs creaked, announcing their departure. Elle waited one breath. Two. The torso and the arm melded together, claws scraping wood. Elle darted around the corner, out of the living room. She snuck down the hall as quickly as she could, heartbeat denting her ribs.

The only person capable of banishing the demon was Miss Cynthia, but Elle would die before following protocol and waking her up. If demons invaded, they invaded. If the other survivors got caught in the crossfire . . .

Elle stopped by the back door. Guilt slithered under her skin. She glanced over her shoulder, down the drab gray hall, and toward the open archway of the living room. She told herself demons hunted by sound, not sight or smell. So long as she escaped in silence, the thing in the living room would sit harmless and still until morning.

(Probably.)

Elle curled her fingers into a fist, nails digging painfully into flesh. She retrieved the hammer from the back of her pants.

Both the front and back doors were boarded up in the same way: two slats of wood parallel to the floor, bracketing the doorknob, and one plank at a diagonal. Nails held the boards to the wall, one small gray circle per corner. That made twelve nails between Elle and freedom.

She laid her hand flat over the diagonal board and wedged the forked end of the hammer up under the lower-left nail. The edge of the hammer didn’t scrape wood. The wood didn’t creak. She pushed the handle of the hammer down, leveraging her strength against the solid wooden door, and the nail slid soundlessly free. Elle caught the little sliver of metal before it could hit the ground, and for a singular second, she knew something was wrong.

Taking the nail out had been too easy. Too quiet. Like thrusting a knife through bread, it hardly took any effort at all. She squeezed the nail in her fist. An invisible, microscopically thin layer of something flexed around the metal and abutted her palm. It shot the distinctive order to be quiet straight to her brain, as clear as if someone had pressed their lips to her ear and spoken aloud.

Warning bells went off in the back of Elle’s head, labeling her escape a trap. She opened her palm, panic rising. A rolling fog invaded her thoughts.

Elle swayed on her feet. A thimble’s worth of anxiety squirmed under a cloud of exhaustion, and though Elle knew whatever she’d been thinking about was important, she couldn’t for the life of her remember the topic. It sat on the back of her tongue and in the farthest corner of her mind, a distant dream. She tried to retrace her steps from the demon to Quincy’s uncertain fate to the door. She unfurled her fingers, revealing a thin cylinder of metal.

Elle’s thoughts flitted back into place, settling around how strange it was that such a tiny thing could have kept her trapped for so long. She’d always imagined nails to be bigger. Stronger. More ominous. She twisted the little piece of metal between her fingers, distinctly unimpressed, then set it on the floor to her left. Her focus recentered around a quick, quiet escape.

She started on the next nail.

The first board came down easily. It weighed less than she’d thought it would, but its length killed maneuverability. She gripped both sides of the wood, careful not to scrape the floor or bump the walls, then laid the plank down in the hall.

The second board joined the first, easy as breathing. Eight nails dotted the floor to her left, then ten. Twelve. She held the final board in the crooks of her elbows, forearms flat to wood and fingers hugging her hammer. She stared at the wholly uncovered door. The weight in her arms took weight off her shoulders. She stepped back. Something sharp pierced her heel. She flinched and hissed. She turned.

The edge of the final board smacked the wall, deafeningly loud.

Anxiety and fear made a dizzying brew. Elle stumbled to the left, blood-tipped nail falling from her wounded heel to the floor. Her other foot knocked into the two boards in the hall. They twisted and crashed. Panic flooded her veins and drowned logical thought. Black smoke oozed from the crevice between ceiling and wall.

Every ceiling.

Every wall.

Elle dropped the board, no longer concerned with a silent escape. She glanced at the floor (eleven nails off to the left, one nail lying bloodied on its side in the middle of the tiny foyer, impossibly separate from the rest), then to the exit. Scratching echoed down the hall, frantic and quick. The demon from the living room rounded the corner, six thin limbs ending in overlarge claws. Its small cylindrical torso hadn’t changed. The simple circle of its skull housed more teeth than face.

Elle’s blood pounded in her ears. She leapt for the door. The demon sprinted down the hall, claws trampling over its still-forming kin. Elle grabbed the knob with the hand not holding her hammer. She twisted her wrist.

Locked.

Terror coiled in her gut and brought tears to her eyes. She swiveled, hammer at the ready. The demon opened its maw, revealing rows and rows of sharp black teeth. A second mouth opened above the first, then a third. Its head twisted so the mouths were vertical.

Something invisible threw the demon into the wall, black skin swelling as it screeched and writhed. It burst into a cloud of smoke. Miss Cynthia appeared at the end of the hall, toes stopping just shy of the bubbling black floor.

Elle’s arms trembled, adrenaline edging on exhaustion. Unformed demons coated the walls and soaked the floor. Cold, wispy tendrils lapped at her ankles, the beginnings of sharp talons piercing soft skin. Elle tried to pull away. The pecks of pain dug deeper. Miss Cynthia clapped her hands, fingertips toward Elle, then spread her arms wide. The demon smoke pooling around Elle’s feet reared back, clearing a small circle around her.

Relief blossomed without Elle’s consent. She stared at her savior, hatred kissing gratitude, and asked the only question she could.

“Where’s the key?”

“Elle.” Miss Cynthia stepped forward, the bottom of her thin blue nightgown dragging through black smoke-sludge. Hollow cheeks highlighted eerily bright blue eyes. Thin biceps shook from the effort of keeping the demons at bay. “Elle, stop. This is . . . this is bad, but it’s not too late. Quick. I’m going to teach you a spell, and we can—”

“Where’s the key?” Elle raised her voice. The demon smoke in the center of the hall thickened: not a writhing mass of body parts, but the torso of a singular, massive beast. A scream sounded from upstairs, igniting a chain reaction of shouts and bangs. Quincy. Elle glanced at the ceiling, heart cracking. She pointed the hammer at Miss Cynthia. Her voice sounded hoarse, even to her own ears, as she said, “Give it to me. Now. I’m leaving.”

Miss Cynthia raised both brows, forcing already wrinkled skin to bunch near gray-white hair. “What part of ‘you can’t’ do you not understand? Even if I open the door, there’s nowhere for you to go.” Miss Cynthia raised one hand, fingers shaking. “Please, Elle. Please. If you'll just . . .” Tears cascaded down her cheeks. The smoke-sludge nearest Miss Cynthia’s legs molded itself into claws as big as hammers, signaling the approach of something gargantuan. Miss Cynthia’s voice cracked, panic bleeding through. “I’m sorry we locked you up. I am. But it was a choice between you and everyone else. I couldn’t—”

Sobs cut off speech, and for the barest moment, Elle believed her. Guilt doused determination. Elle’s grip on the doorknob loosened. Then Miss Cynthia glanced up through thin gray lashes, and her eyes were cold. The fear, the concern, the apology: they were all fake. Miss Cynthia wasn’t scared.

She was enjoying this.

Fury crashed into Elle like a physical force, and she reacted without thinking. She raised the hammer as high as she could and brought it down on the knob. The clank of metal on metal echoed through the hall. The demonic torso on the floor gained another limb, sharp claws scraping the thin magical barrier around Elle’s feet. The door bled black.

This close, Elle could feel the demons’ intent to harm. It seeped into her bones, promising cruelty and pain. She shivered, terrified. She struck the knob again. Once. Twice. Three times. The old bronze sphere dented, then bent. It fell to the ground with a heavy thump, instantly swallowed by demon smoke.

Elle opened the door.

A deep black emptiness stretched as far as she could see in every direction, leaving no distinction between sky and ground. It was with a sinking feeling that she thought there might not be any ground. Dread lanced through her, skewering any dreams of escape. She gripped the doorframe like a lifeline. The sweat on her palm wet the handle of her hammer. She reached past the doorway, into the nothing.

Bitter cold bit into her skin. The air felt both empty and thick, like negative space. It hurt to keep her hand Outside, but she couldn’t pull it back in. Whatever was out there, it wanted her to move forward. To accept the nothingness. To die.

This was where things went to die.

Fear filled Elle to bursting, and she choked on the desire to flee. To cower in the safety the house provided. She tried to yank her hand Inside again. Outside tugged back. The hammer slipped from her fingers, a gray-and-brown fleck in a sea of black. It vanished. Elle slipped farther into the nothing.

She squeezed her eyes shut as her breathing stuttered, lungs pushing air out in quick uneven huffs. Horror and terror tangled, a thick blanket covering a slumbering beast.

Anger stirred.

She’d been tortured. Ridiculed. Humiliated. She might’ve just sacrificed her best friend. And for what? To give up right at the finish line? To give into her fear, just like the adults she despised?

Elle forced her eyes open, an animalistic noise crawling up her throat as she wrenched her hand back through the invisible barrier. It stung like nails scraping skin. Her head swam. Miss Cynthia spoke, but it sounded like gibberish. Looking down—down, down, down—made Elle dizzy, so she clutched the wall and turned.

“Are you satisfied yet?”

Elle focused on Miss Cynthia and the half-formed demon lumbering between them. The screaming upstairs grew louder, new voices joining old. Anger turned to nausea.

“Where are we?”

“Safe. Or at least we will be if you close the door. Close it now.” Bright blue eyes glanced anxiously at the hallway-sized monster and its eight whip-like tails. Its head emerged from the muck, half as high as Elle was tall. Miss Cynthia’s voice dipped low. “I’ll help you board it up, and maybe, maybe if we do it together, we can fix this.”

“No.” Elle took a step back only to stop when her heel crossed the border. Outside grasped at her exposed flesh, gleeful and malevolent.

Miss Cynthia let one hand drop to her side, focus shifting from Elle to the beast. The black-smoke sludge swallowed Elle’s toes, cold and unwelcoming. Miss Cynthia raised both hands, palms out. She shook her head, sad but sure. “Try to think clearly, Elle. Even if you somehow make it out there, you won’t last. You have no magic.”

“I’ll find someone—”

“No one will teach you. The closest magic-anything is Adair, and he’s more demon than human. Even if you don’t die before you reach him, he’ll kill you on sight. Now, please. I can’t do this without you. I can’t—” Miss Cynthia broke down crying. Sweat slid from her forehead down to her temple and into sleep-tousled hair. The demon’s head attached itself to the body, all eyes and teeth. Elle couldn’t tell if this was all part of the show or if Miss Cynthia was genuinely outmatched. She wasn’t sure if it mattered. Even glancing at the bleak nothingness Outside was enough to convince her that whatever fantasies she had of survival were just that.

Still, she tested the air beneath her heel. Whatever she chose, she would never get the chance to choose again.

Staying meant claiming this house as her home. It was an acknowledgement that the other survivors were right all along, and a promise never to try again. It was welcoming defeat. Going, on the other hand, meant death.

Stay or go. Life or death. Containment or freedom.

Elle spun to face the abyss, braced her hands on the doorframe exactly long enough to admit this was crazy, and leapt.

3

For the second time in Elle’s life, she fell out of the sky. She remembered all of it.

First there was darkness surrounding and consuming her until she felt suffocated by the nothing. Then there was light. A pinprick grew and gave way to startling shades of blue she hadn’t known existed. Puffs of white interrupted the endless expanse of blue, though none were close enough to touch.

The longer she fell, the more she got to see. Blue opened to make way for browns and greens, which Elle instinctively identified as land. Trees and grass and dirt, just like the books described. Her imagination didn’t begin to measure up to the real thing, and now that it was practically at her fingertips, she wasn’t sure how she had lived so long without it.

She was equally unsure how long she’d be able to live with it because she wasn’t slowing down.

It was here that Elle could admit she hadn’t thought things through. She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d expected. Maybe for a hero to show up and pluck her from the air or for magic to slow her fall to a gentle drop.

What she got was the ground, hard and fast and all at once.

Agony lanced through her bones, punishing her for surviving. She lifted her head, migraine pounding behind her eyes. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. She propped herself up on shaking arms, and the world spun.

Blue. Green. Blue. Green. Blue. Green. She closed her eyes again, nauseated. Her thoughts jumbled. She heard Miss Cynthia telling her, in no uncertain terms, that Outside was unsurvivable. She heard screams echoing down the stairs as the other survivors—as Quincy paid for her selfishness. She heard birds.

Elle opened her eyes to see the world had settled. Pain still throbbed in her skull and scraped along her skin, but she could see. She could stand.

She pushed herself to her feet, wobbly but able. Her right heel twinged, reminding her of the nail she’d stepped on and the discomfort her adrenaline had ignored. She pressed her sole flush to the ground, acclimating herself to the pain rather than avoiding it. Dirt stung her open wound. She rested her hands on her hips, her breathing labored, and looked around.

Blue colored the sky above her, decorated only by white splotches and a blindingly bright yellow sphere. The sun. Elle craned her neck, seeking some sign of either the House or the pitch-black void from which she’d fallen. Blue and blue and more blue stared back.

To her left, a forest stretched out to infinity. A bird hopped on the ground near the forest’s edge, red feathers darkening in the shade. A small, fuzzy creature with a long tail skittered up a nearby trunk. The bird chirped, uncaring of the noise it made. No demons dripped down from the bright green foliage.

The area to her right had no trees. Green grass and swaths of white, yellow, and purple flowers decorated the rim of a large body of water. Sunlight sparkled off the translucent surface, yet another new shade of blue. Wind cooled her cheek, causing flowers to sway and the water to ripple. Awe warmed her heart, gentle and yearning.

She’d dented the ground when she fell, creating a small crater in an otherwise well-kept, winding dirt path. The dusty-brown strip stretched as far as she could see in either direction, cutting a clear line between the forest and the field.

Paranoia bled into wonder as the years spent locked in a tiny room, the demons she’d seen slither from the walls, and the void outside the House clashed with fresh water and clear skies. She hunched her shoulders, the outside world suddenly feeling too open. Too bright. She squinted at the sky, then the forest. The urge to take cover burrowed beneath her skin. She dug her nails into her palm and ripped it back out.

Elle hadn’t risked everything to cower in the shade, clinging to some vague notion of safety. She’d done it for freedom. Thus, despite everything in her screaming to duck under the canopy of trees and hide, she shuffled toward the water.

It was bigger than the leaky bathtub by far. Bigger than the entire House. She’d guess it was a lake, maybe, or an ocean. A sea? The books in the House hadn’t differentiated between bodies of water other than to say that oceans were salty.

Elle dropped to a crouch. Her legs shook. She pressed her knees to the ground, thin blades of grass parting around her shins and tickling the tops of her feet, then lowered her hands into the water. It felt blessedly cold, which informed Elle that she was warm. She glanced up at the sky, trying to spot the source of the heat. White smeared over blue and yellow gleamed. If a witch or wizard controlled the temperature, she didn’t see them.

Staring at the sun made her headache worse. She turned back to the water, wondering if temperatures were as stable Outside as they were in the House. Sweat trickled from her hairline down to her chin. She hoped not.

The water above her fingers shimmered, begging her to go deeper. To dunk her arms in up to her elbows, then to soak the short sleeves of her patched-up shirt. She cupped her hands and brought the water to her lips instead. She drank from her palms, so thirsty that the water actually tasted sweet. Cool and smooth and not at all salty. Not an ocean. She drank two more palmfuls, then another after that. Her belly filled, her headache lessened, and for the first time since her fall, her mind cleared enough to feel the world.

Not the world as a physical thing, with its jutting trees and over-warm air, but the spirit of it. The potential. The water sang to her, a lullaby lost to a dream. The earth hummed with strength. Elle tilted her head, and the wind whispered past: a ghost dancing in the ether.

Potential thrummed all around her. It lived in everything, everywhere, filling an already gorgeous world with wonder. Elle laid her hand over her heart, wet skin soaking faded cloth, and felt that same potential in herself. Beautiful and bright. Sparkling. Elle had never felt anything like it. Not in the rough wooden flooring or the crumbling gray walls of the House. Not in the other survivors. Not in herself. And like being connected to her own soul—like asphyxiating for an eternity, then drawing her very first breath—she felt alive.

Tears burned behind her eyes as the painful void of her lost memories loosened its grip, and gratitude overtook her. She folded her torso over her thighs and cried into the grass. The potential of the earth stretched out beneath her, endless and forever. Quincy’s whispers of encouragement twisted with the survivors’ terrified screams and echoed in her heart.

She cried harder.

Her shoulders shook. Her throat ached. When her tears ran dry, her headache returned. She wiped her face on her sleeve and drank more water. She stood.

Fatigue fluffed up behind her ribs, filling her to the brim, and though her situation hadn’t changed, she felt better about it. She looked from the clear blue water to the dirt path, then the forest. There was no telling which direction would lead her to a wizard capable of teaching her magic and which would lead to death. Miss Cynthia’s cryptic warning about Adair bobbed in the back of Elle’s mind, pointing out that the answer could be ‘both.’

Elle studied the sky, still bereft of black holes and floating houses. Her distrust of the old witch battled with the fact that she had nothing else to go on. She still needed to learn magic and locate her memories. She still needed to figure out both where she was and where she’d been. Whether or not she needed to avoid someone named Adair on the way was irrelevant. Either she’d run into him or she wouldn’t.

Elle stepped back onto the path to the left of her crater. The potential of the world flowed around her, present in everything but especially strong by the forest’s edge. It molded to the trees and condensed in the air. It beckoned her closer.

She crossed the gap between the dirt and the trees. Low-hanging branches reached out. Soft, itchy grass bent under bare feet. And though sticking to the path presented her best chance of finding other people, adventure called from the woods. She stepped forward, for the first time free to make her own choices and bear her own regrets.

She allowed the forest to swallow her whole.

4

There was a girl in Adair’s backyard.

Adair didn’t generally like it when people trespassed on his property, and the penalty was generally death. This girl, however, was special.

She’d fallen out of the sky.

While her plunging through the air was odd in and of itself, the fact that she had enough magic to survive the impact was what had actually caught his attention. Adair had stood off to the side after she’d landed, unsure if she was an enemy, a refugee, or a reckless idiot. He’d waited almost patiently for her to notice him and declare her intentions. But she never did. The girl drank from the pond, cried, then wandered into the mirage in his yard.

Fifteen minutes of pointless meandering. Twenty. Thirty. He might’ve thought the innocent act a trick if not for the determined way she circled the trees.

Much as he would’ve liked to attribute her enchantment to his magical prowess, the mirage was relatively simple. It was only made to trap the magicless and the weak. Anyone with an ounce of mirage knowledge or even a good sense of direction would quickly realize the forest was fake. It wasn’t that difficult to see the same four trees were being repeated indefinitely.

Yet the odd girl didn’t see. She wove a determined path through the “forest,” never once stopping to question her surroundings. Adair momentarily toyed with the idea of setting her free, if only to ask where she had fallen from, then let it go. If she couldn’t get through his half-assed mirage with the impressive amount of magic at her disposal, she deserved to stay lost.

He returned to his cabin without sparing her another thought.

“You sure you want to leave her out there?”

Adair tensed. A man with straight black hair, a strong jaw line, and flawless skin lay sprawled across the couch, looking irritatingly relaxed for someone invading Adair’s home. His feet were perched on an armrest while his arms cushioned his head, and if not for the fact that he had spoken, Adair might have thought him asleep.

Then the man blinked, and Adair knew him. Or at least knew his eyes. They were a bright, vibrant blue boasting not of warm, sunny days but of blizzards that ravaged the land and ruined its people. He—it—was the embodiment of death and every fearful thing that came thereafter.

Demon.

Annoyance prickled on the edges of Adair’s consciousness. “What do you want, Cypress?”

Cypress grinned, and the perfection of its smile gave away its status as a shapeshifter. “You know, I was hoping you’d be the one that remembered me. You were always my favorite.”

Adair frowned. “Get out.”

“So soon?” Cypress’s grin turned sideways. “You don’t even know why I’m here.”

Adair sent a spark of fire toward Cypress’s skin. Cypress disappeared from the couch and breathed cold wind onto Adair’s ear. Adair spun, but no one was there.

The room looked empty—felt empty—but Cypress wasn’t one to flee so easily. Adair commanded his magic to spark again, filling the entire house with electricity. A grunt sounded to his left. He reflexively targeted the source.

The electricity dissipated to reveal Cypress standing in the dining room, watching the flesh of its burned palm repair itself. It looked more interested than upset, which Adair expected but didn’t enjoy.

Cypress said, “She’s desperate to find someone who will teach her magic.”

“So?”

“So desperate people do desperate things.”

Cypress’s gaze flicked from its wounded hand to the only painting in Adair’s house, and the void in Adair’s chest momentarily filled with fury. He summoned enough fire to burn down a forest, but by the time the air ignited, Cypress was gone.

Adair loosed a string of vulgarities, none of which properly relayed his anger. Rage fueled him, and he hated that he clung to the feeling. Shame curled around his fury, but it was still better than the boredom and the nothingness, so Adair leaned into that, too. He cursed harder, until the harsh words were empty echoes that once again meant nothing.

He strengthened the wards around his house. Anyone slipping into his home unnoticed was undesirable. For a demon of Cypress’s caliber to do so was unacceptable. Even without precautions in place, Adair should have been able to sense that kind of power long before it approached.

So why hadn’t he?

Adair looked out the window to watch the daft girl still lost in his mirage. Frizzy brown hair clung to sweaty skin and brushed thin shoulders. She wore a faded, patched-up brown T-shirt that looked like it’d never been washed and equally shabby brown cargo pants. She was relatively short and too skinny to be anything but malnourished. Dramatic entrance aside, there was nothing special about her.

He leaned against the wall, wondering what he’d missed. Demons weren’t known for their honesty, and Adair was better versed with Cypress’s sick sense of humor than most. The girl could be an assassin.

Adair watched her climb halfway up a tree, slip, and land face-first in the dirt. He dismissed the possibility of assassination. Still, she could be a shade or any number of other nefarious creatures charmed to look human. The only way to know for sure was to interact.

He breathed a heavy sigh and left the cabin, dragging his feet the entire way to the mirage. She jumped when she spotted him, and he felt miraculously less impressed.

She asked, “Where’d you come from?”

“I should be asking you that, trespasser.”

“Trespass—” She narrowed her eyes and curled her lips, surprise giving way to confusion. “What’s a trespasser?”

Adair opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shook his head. “Where did you come from?”

“The House.”

Adair cocked a brow, and the girl pointed helplessly upward. He scanned the sky for any signs of a house or, more reasonably, a portal. His search came back empty, but the girl didn’t strike him as a liar, either.

“This house . . . it’s in the sky?”

“I think so. Or above the sky, maybe. It’s a dark place.”

His frown deepened. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Elle. You?”

“Adair.”

Elle paled, already wide brown eyes growing wider. She took a step back. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction, all things considered, but he did find it curious that she’d heard of him and not trespassing.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged because he hadn’t decided yet. She turned and ran, but so long as they were in the mirage, it was useless. She rounded the second tree, no doubt unaware of her own trajectory, and came straight back to him.

When she saw him again, her lips twisted. She made a frightened noise with the back of her throat and raced past. He allowed it, well aware that she would circle the other two trees and end up where she started.

Elle repeated the process an irksome number of times before coming to a stop in front of him, chest heaving. “How are you doing that?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are! You keep . . .” She panted. “Keep appearing in front of me.”

“No, you’re in a mirage. A rather simple one at that.” Adair shot her a pointed look, just in case she wasn’t aware of her own stupidity.

She scowled. “Well, let me out.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have to. You entered my domain. Brought a demon to my home. I can do what I want with you.”

She flinched, heel tapping the exposed root of a nearby tree. “I didn’t do any of that.”

“You did. You trespassed on my land. Entered without my permission. Cypress came with you.”

Adair took a threatening step forward. Elle tried to flee. He bade the roots to entrap her ankles, slamming her into the earth.

She squirmed onto her back, eyes on the roots curling up her calves. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry!”

“Why are you here, Elle?”

“I didn’t mean to come here. This is just where I fell.” She tried to wedge her fingers between bark and skin, desperate to free her feet. The roots didn’t budge.

He asked, “Yes, but where from? Why?”

“I already told you. I came from the House. I came to learn magic and to find my memories and—and—” She bared her teeth. “And you aren’t going to stop me.”

She kicked out, and despite Adair’s magic, the roots broke. Elle tossed a surprised glance between the broken roots and Adair, apparently unaware of her own capabilities. She scrambled to her feet and took off at a sprint. He walked out of the mirage before she could circle the trees and face him again.

An unfamiliar spark of hope lit the void where his heart should’ve been, a dying ember on a cold night. Much as he loathed to admit it, he owed Cypress for pointing her out.

Elle, at least for Adair’s purposes, was the perfect mix between powerful and ignorant. She was both strong enough to instinctively protect herself and unrefined to the point of uselessness. That meant he could expose his weakness to her without fear of being killed. And, if they were both lucky, she could survive long enough to fix it.

He watched her loop the trees for another few minutes, unsure she understood what being in a mirage actually meant. The longer he looked, the less he cared. Trapped was trapped, and at the rate she was going, she’d still be there in the morning. He turned and walked away.

Hopefully a night in the cold would be enough to curb her attitude.

5

Elle was beginning to think the forest might never end.

Night had distracted her for a bit, with a show of darkness and cold that she had never experienced in the House. Exhaustion brought forth patches of sleep, though none were restful. She feared Adair’s ability to appear out of thin air, and as much as she imagined standing brave against him, it was hard to think up a scenario where she left alive.

That did not, however, mean she was going down without a fight.

The sun rose, and the heat returned. Hunger coiled in her gut, but she was used to living off meager portions and scrounged supplies. She waited. When Adair reappeared, she attacked. A forceful lunge. Her shoulder in his stomach. A surprised grunt. She’d meant to shove him to the ground, but he was solid as stone. He stumbled back, barely a step, then grabbed her waist.

Pressure turned to agony as his fingers heated, the sickening smell of burned flesh wafting upward. Elle kicked and squirmed, but he only held her tighter. Reactionary tears blurred her vision. A scream scraped its way up her throat. She craned her neck to look at him, meaning to beg or bargain. Her breath caught in her throat.

Dark brown eyes watched her, empty and uncaring. There was no anger, wariness, or self-preservation. No empathy, either. Adair wasn’t hurting her out of instinct or obligation, but just because he could.

Fear ratcheted up. Pleas died on her tongue. He threw her to the ground, the pain of her landing numbed by the pain in her sides, and she cried into the dirt.

“Did you really think you could kill me?”

“No.” Elle raised her head, every brush of her shirt against her wounds a fresh wave of agony. She forced a grin. “Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

He stared at her, infinitely tall and built with brawn. Black hair lay short on the sides and fluffed out on top while a five o’clock shadow darkened his jaw. He sneered. “You’re a fool. And were this any other time, any other place, you’d be a dead fool.”

Elle blinked, not understanding. “You mean . . . ?”

“I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to offer you a deal.”

She perked up. Her sides screamed. She hunkered back down. “What kind of deal?”

“I need you to run an errand. Do it successfully, and I’ll teach you magic.”

“What’s an errand?”

He gave her the same odd look as when she’d asked about trespassing, then said, “It’s a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Does it matter?”

Caution whispered that yes, it very much did matter, but longing was louder. If she wanted to learn magic, she had to be brave. To dive into the unknown as many times as it took, regardless of risk. She shook her head. “No. I guess not.”

“Then follow me, and know that if you attack again, I will kill you.”

There was no bluff in his tone, no lilt of playfulness in his voice. She nodded and stood. Pain seared her sides, finger-sized holes in her shirt revealing burned, bloody flesh, but she didn’t complain. Adair took two steps, then vanished.

Frustration flared. She gritted her teeth, hating him for not helping her out and hating herself for needing the help in the first place. Adair materialized out of thin air, just to the left of where he’d vanished. He looked her over, equal parts disdainful and disinterested, then poked her between the eyes.

The majority of the trees ceased to exist. The path reappeared to her left, and the water beyond that. On the other side of the remaining trees sat a wooden building. Smoke billowed from a small stone tower on the roof.

Amazement overrode her ire, bathing the world in wonder. “What did you do to the forest?”

Adair grunted and again motioned for her to follow. This time, she could see him striding toward the wooden building.

Feeling braver now that he officially wanted her alive, she caught up and repeated, “What did you do to the forest?”

“There was no forest. You were in a mirage. Remember?” He said remember like it was a threat, but getting a response at all only served to encourage.

“A mirage is a fake forest?”

“No.”

She waited for him to elaborate. He clenched his jaw and ignored her. She walked even closer.

He pushed out a breath through his teeth. “A mirage is a trick of the eye. Something that looks real but isn’t. In this case, it was a forest. You were running around those trees”—he gestured to four unimpressive trees—“but thought you were in a forest.”

Awe spiraled into excitement, imagination blooming. “Will I be able to do that some day?”

Adair shrugged. He led her into the wooden building, and curiosity made way for delight. Adair had furniture.

A blue couch sat across the room, cushions partially facing the door and partially facing the hearth. Bookcases bracketed the fireplace, though most of the books were on the floor. The rest of the walls were bare. In a connected room to her right stood a long, heavy wooden table and four comfy-looking chairs. Books littered the surface of the table by the far wall, directly in front of a door-sized painting. Words she didn’t know and equations she couldn’t understand were written on the wall surrounding the frame.

The painting depicted a field, a woman sitting at a little table, and a sunset. What drew Elle’s attention, however, was the amount of potential surrounding it. Was the painting a mirage, like the forest?

She stepped forward, fingers itching to touch the couch or the chairs. “How did you get all this?”

“I bought it.”

“Bought?”

“Again, where did you come from?” He shook his head and held up a hand, palm toward Elle. “Actually, you know what? No. I don’t care. Go sit at the table, and I’ll explain your task.”

He walked into the next room. She rushed after him, fingers curling around the chair nearest the painting before he could change his mind. The potential in the chair felt sturdy and reliable, much like the trees and the ground. She pulled it from the table and plopped into the seat.

The curved back of the chair offered support in a way leaning against the wall of her room could never hope to emulate. She stretched out her legs, knees settling in a comfortable bend. And oh wow.

Furniture was amazing.

Adair grimaced, like her happiness somehow made his day worse. She slumped and let her hands fall to her sides, spine happily contouring to the wood of the chair. He ran his hand through his hair, messy black locks catching between his fingers, and muttered something in another language. He pointed to the painting in front of the table.

“See this painting?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re going to go inside and retrieve my heart.”

She waited one beat, then another. Too much time passed for there to be a punchline. “I . . . what?”

“The painting.”

Elle nodded, showing she understood.

“Go inside.”

“Inside the painting?”

“Yes. Go inside, get my heart—”

“From the painting?”

“Yes. Get my heart and bring it back to me.”

Elle deadpanned, “From the painting.”

Adair’s disdain broke through with a snarl. “Yes. From the painting. Or do you have a problem with that?”

His cold, empty eyes said he’d kill her if she did, so she shook her head. “No. No, no problems here. I just. . . . Don’t I need to learn magic first?”

Adair pressed two fingers against his temple, and the only word Elle could think to describe him was impatient. He said, “This painting is enchanted. Anyone can enter it, magic or no.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Elle glanced between Adair and the painting. She didn’t know whether to be terrified or amazed, so she went with both. She sat up straighter, heart thumping, and gestured weakly to the canvas. “And your heart is in there?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line, genuine irritation flashing. “Question time is over. Are you going or not?”

“Now?”

The potential in the air around Adair flexed, and she knew, on some instinctive level, that he was the cause. He spoke, voice flat with warning. “Now.”

Nervousness combined with fatigue, making her legs feel weak. She stood and walked to the painting. Even without taking its magic nature into account, the art was impressive. Textured green grass paired with the pinks and oranges of an eternal sunset, and the woman at the table looked serene. Even the painting’s frame was eye-catching, with little flowers carved delicately into the wood. Elle ran her fingers over the designs before swerving to touch the scribbles on the wall. Were these the spells that let Adair put his heart in the painting, or were they his attempts to retrieve it?

She glanced covertly at Adair, who met her gaze head-on. He definitely looked heartless, but not necessarily like the type of person whose heart required protection. If not to keep it safe, why risk taking it out in the first place? For fun? And more importantly, how was Elle supposed to get it back?