Chapter Sixteen

The moment the words drifted off Anjeline’s tongue, her magic swathed around her and enveloped Rebel in its shroud. Leaving the fox to work his own silver tongue on the magician. The ground fell away and they were swept up into a billow as she turned to smoke, allowing the force of the vase’s allure to pull her essence within. Rebel’s sudden gasps were met by silence, as if the dizzying effects of being wrenched in between stole her breath.

And as quickly as it began, they were within.

Plush carpet materialized beneath their footing, grounding them from stumbling. Anjeline’s essence curled and uncurled back into form, the transport of magic making her feel like a squeezed fruit. If it wasn’t for Anjeline clasping Rebel’s hand, her spirit would have drifted afar. She heard Rebel’s stomach grumble, and recognized the queasy hitch in her breathing. “Probably should have warned you first,” Anjeline said.

“Pro-ba-bly.” Rebel wheezed, releasing what would be considered her best glare, though it was ruined by the fact that she was halfway bent to her feet.

Anjeline tried not to laugh at the fierceness of that glare. “Now you understand my hatred of the vase.”

A nod came. “I’ll never ask you…to get inside it again.”

The vessel shook momentarily. Jaxon had told them he’d be hiding it within a concealed compartment under the floorboards in his office. A place Skinner would never think to look. Not when they searched for the Fingersmith. She pressed her lips together, still listening as Rebel mumbled words Anjeline had never heard, though certain they were curses. But once Rebel glanced in front of her, she ceased.

“Holy mother…”

Rebel’s eyes glistened, taking in every inch. The feathered pillows, the circular bed with its canopy of draping silk, the decorations covered in gold clasps or dotted in chips of jewels. A smile cracked Rebel’s stunned face as she spotted Anjeline’s own galore of books piled in pyramids. Then her gaze fixed on the oval-like windows peering out of the vase’s enclosure, and her mouth dropped like an open door.

Sunbeams glistened through the windows, showing a magical view, giving the impression they were on an island unlike any other. A sunset streaked across the sky, from lilac to deep purple, reflecting off the sea and the surrounding islands.

The image cast colors over Rebel, dazzling across her awed expression. Judging by her reaction, Anjeline suspected she’d never seen the actual ocean. No. This definitely wasn’t the ocean. Because if it were, then Anjeline would be free from this prison, and Rebel certainly wouldn’t be beside her with a bruise on her cheek in the shape of a lycan’s claw. Nor would a magician be standing outside, sniffing around.

“It’s an illusion,” Anjeline told her. “The vase’s bound to my essence so I can subconsciously create fantastic worlds within. Like being in a constant dream state.”

Rebel touched the window, but the wall rippled like she’d thrown a pebble in it. “Being imprisoned in a bottle isn’t exactly the hell one would think it is,” she said.

“It is when it’s been your hell for seventeen years,” Anjeline replied.

Her brow knitted together. “And I’m the first? That you’ve hidden within?”

Anjeline nodded. The only one.

In light of her reaction to the appearance of the dragon, she’d found herself anxiously coaxing Rebel to hide in the vessel with her. Something Anjeline had never done. Not inside her safe haven. And certainly not with a human, Madrath would say. The vase might have been a prison, but at least it sheltered her from the pain and darkness from the outside world. Still, the loneliness within had become unbearable, so much at times she wished it might obliterate her completely. But now, as she drew closer to Rebel’s side, she realized she didn’t feel the burden of it, not like she used to.

Not before a girl had stolen her.

Rebel’s focus drew to the ruby satin of the bed, then she looked to her in question. Anjeline gave a nod to whatever she wanted and said, “You might as well. I have a feeling we’ll be in here a while.”

No faster than a blink, Rebel removed her satchel, and in one loud whoop fell backward onto the bed, sinking into the pillows. A gratified sound slipped from Rebel’s throat. “If I could sleep on clouds, I imagine it would feel like this.”

Against her will, a smile tugged at Anjeline’s lips, pulled to the surface by Rebel’s charm. She sat on the bed. “Clouds are vaporous,” she said matter-of-fact. “You’d slip through.”

Rebel stared up at her and then snorted out laughing.

An endearing sound. She doubted Rebel knew how lovable the sound was, the voice which had softened some of her hardness. It reverberated off the gold walls, filling the vessel with a noise it had never heard. Since her imprisonment, she couldn’t remember ever laughing, and never inside here. A warm feeling crept up her spine, but she brushed it away.

The vase’s walls trembled again.

Rebel tensed, and they waited for the shaking to stop. In hopes of extinguishing both their anxiety of what was taking place outside the vessel, Anjeline flicked her wrist. The illusion of the sea rippled away. Snow flurries now drifted like tiny presents from a night sky. A fireplace crackled near, creating a cozier and more calming atmosphere. “The fox will be infuriating Skinner soon,” she said.

“You have him pegged.” Rebel puffed a breath of air.

“But not you,” Anjeline said. “You’re still a mystery.”

Rebel’s mouth opened, then closed, and a sheepish grin appeared. A flattering look, compared to the bruise on the skin of her cheekbone where it had started to heal. Countless scratches streaked her arms and neck, a reminder of the lycans attack and the witch’s gripping spell. The pendant around her throat caught the light and glittered.

An intense curiosity filled Anjeline, wondering at the way Rebel would clutch the pendant as though the thing itself were a wish. Unthinking, she reached up, and when Rebel didn’t pull away, she touched the pendant. The metal warmed as she traced the pendant’s face, the little knife, the gentle dips and points of the rose engraving. She glanced up in question. “May I?”

Rebel nodded and opened the locket, showing the photo of a woman, her irises as clear as the gray ashes of a fire. A woman, who at the time it had been taken, looked no older than Rebel did now, with features so sharp they could burn an image in your mind.

There was something distinctive about the necklace, but Anjeline couldn’t discern what, and she puzzled over the photo. “She looks familiar.”

“Because she looks like me.” Rebel didn’t need to explain. Her voice held such longing she looked like she regretted saying it.

“What happened to her?” Anjeline dared to ask.

“I…don’t know.”

“You never knew your family?”

“Welcome to the definition of being me.”

After a beat, Anjeline’s thoughts turned to understanding. “Rebel,” she said softly. “You can’t make alive the dead.”

“That’s not my wish.” Rebel snapped the pendant closed, but reluctance crossed her face. Once she spoke again, her voice cracked. “When I was little, I used to believe there was a secret world of magic. Used to believe someday my mother would come for me. For hours, I would sit on the roof waiting for her, and I would wish. I wished forever for parents who didn’t exist. Eventually…I knew to stop expecting the wish to come true.”

Such sadness pooled in those eyes that Anjeline wanted to smooth a hand down her cheek. She stilled at the thought but imagined a little, lost girl. All alone. Wishing. Thinking of all the things Rebel had never experienced, never been offered. Like affection. And she wondered what it must have been like to live forever scrounging to survive, when at any moment, something could be taken from you if you didn’t take first. Like being imprisoned, Madrath’s voice whispered to her. Still, if Rebel’s mother were alive, she imagined to be reunited would mean something far greater than any wish.

All at once, the vessel shook with a tremor.

Rebel bolted upright. “What in hell?”

Thundering footsteps sounded all around them.

One heavier than the other. Skinner and his giant. Someone was stomping now. Anjeline scowled up at the long neck of the vessel. They could barely make out what was happening, but judging by the sound of Jaxon’s curses, the magician and his behemoth were searching the club. The fox had promised to keep the vessel hidden at all times until he had defused the threat with whatever lie or bargain he could invent to have them leave.

Which is precisely what concerned her. “I’m not so fond of this plan.”

Rebel absentmindedly rubbed at her chest. “Which piece of the plan? Where we’re lying low in an illegal club surrounded by highly illegal paraphernalia, or where we could be trapped here for hours because Skinner’s anal retentive?”

“The part where we’re both vulnerable inside a vase while your friend’s outside making deals with a dragon.”

She frowned. “Jax wouldn’t betray me. He’s diverting Skinner. For us.”

“Despite his good intentions, he’s still a thief,” she said, before she could stop herself.

“As am I.” Rebel stared pointedly with her default look—the tight jaw and rigid posture when she felt the need to guard herself. It was the same facade Anjeline used to keep others from seeing within. She opened her mouth to explain, but Rebel cut her off. “You still don’t trust me? I’m hiding with you in your vessel, but you still have no faith in me?”

They rocked back and forth like this countless times, and Anjeline was never sure how the conversation would end—in an argument or with a smile. But, of course, Rebel would think that. Thanks to a wicked, powerful hand, Anjeline’s misgivings had blossomed into a venomous flower. While she’d been trapped in the vessel, dreaming of her kin and the sky, the world around her had moved and changed and been shaped by human evil.

“Trust is an expensive gift.” She let Rebel interpret that as she pleased.

The footsteps momentarily stopped. Voices were dimmed now. The fox manipulating them into the lie he had concocted. Then the stomps headed to a different room.

Rebel was still frowning at her. “You trusted a person once? Solomon?”

“Once.”

“Has a jinni ever been known to…like a human?”

A chill snaked through Anjeline, knowing what she really was asking. “There are stories of the Jinn adoration, some who came to…cherish humans. But none ended well.”

Her first human friendship had been a thousand and one lifetimes ago. Since man took to capturing Jinn, to trust—let alone befriend them—went against everything their laws suggested, everything Madrath had drilled into her. But Solomon had shown her differently. The one human who treated the Jinn as equals, trying to build a bridge between them. Peace. He showed her friendship. Trust. Only now, the human in front of her made her feel a similar connection.

She felt fingers run over her brass wristlet and her breathing hitched.

Rebel trailed a thumb over the cuff. “All stories have a beginning. If I’m supposed to help break your bonds, I have to know how that magician trapped you.”

Their gazes locked, drifting on an ocean of vulnerability. The more Rebel pushed against Anjeline’s walls, the harder it was to keep them up. Having Rebel here left her exposed. Peeling back parts of her, displaying her secrets, remembering the dark magician ripping away her freedom… She wasn’t sure she could endure the shameful truths she’d hidden away, what she’d suffered.

“Nero,” Anjeline said, the hurt still burning as brightly as it had the first time. She hadn’t thought of the day in over a decade. “It wasn’t just the wishes that turned horrible, it’s what he carried out with the power he obtained from them. From the moment the dark magician summoned me, I endured watching it. All of it…”