Chapter Thirty-Five

“Almost there.” Bodin points at the curl of smoke rising above the treetops. “That smoke is coming from our firepit. I’m guessing it’s about a mile away.”

I smile at him. He’s been nothing but encouraging during our long hike down the mountainside, through the dense forest, and back toward camp. His steadfast optimism, the curve of his lips—these are the only things that keep me going.

I ran out of energy miles ago. My limbs are vermicelli noodles, my muscles have aches upon aches, and my lung capacity has shrunk to the size of a grain of rice. I don’t know how long we’ve been walking. I just know that there’s only two of us remaining.

After the foam body smashed into the ground, I stared numbly at the disparate pieces—a sphere for the head, a rectangle for the body, and cylinders for the limbs. I might still be there if the croc-people hadn’t converged on us. Without explanation, they slapped windcuffs on Rae and scooped up the gold coins that are Eduardo, collected all four of our weapons, and escorted our friends away.

Rage filled me, all the stronger because it was so helpless. Ever since we woke up on this island, Xander has been toying with our emotions, taking pleasure from our pain. Enough. He’s not a scientist. The experiment he’s conducting on us isn’t “research.” He’d better be glad I haven’t come into my ability, because the way I’m feeling right now, I wouldn’t hesitate to rain havoc onto Xander’s head.

Please, pra Buddha cho. If I do have an ability inside of me, let it not be passive. Let it be powerful enough to save us—and bring down Xander, to boot.

“Hey, Bodin?” I ask as the treetops hug over our heads, shielding us temporarily from the hot rays of the sun. The air here is cooler, the ground moist, but not muddy. “Can I ask you something?”

“Hmmm?” He grabs a gnarled stick, swinging it in front of us to move the worst of the brambles out of my path.

“Back at the clearing,” I say slowly, gathering my thoughts, “I experienced the worst moment of my life. Seeing Mama—or who I thought was Mama—hurtling down to the ground. Knowing that I could do nothing to break her fall. My life flashed before my eyes, or at least—my life with her. The way she would roll me in my blankets like a burrito. The magic kisses she would give me to tuck in my pocket. All the moments of my childhood and beyond. And then the foam mannequin turned out not to be Mama. Which is miraculous. But my ability didn’t surface. Why?”

“I was wondering that, too.” Bodin holds back a bendy branch, gesturing for me to go first. He follows at my heels, and the branch whips back into place.

“Not just you, but for the both of us,” he amends. “I didn’t manifest, either. That endless outpouring of monkeys—it was intense.”

“Both Eduardo and Rae, certified badasses, came into their abilities,” I say, working through the facts. “That scenario was obviously designed to break me, as it was Mama’s scarf tied on the mannequin. But here I am, same old me.” I glance down at my less-than-athletic body. “Huffing and puffing, with no ability to speak of.”

“I like the same old you,” he says, reaching back and squeezing my hand. I don’t mind his casual little touches anymore. In fact, I look forward to them. Crave them, even.

“Everything that’s happened since we arrived on hell island has been designed to wear us down. Our bodies have been pushed to our physical limits; our minds have been jolted by surprise after surprise.” I look up at Bodin. “What else? What else about my life will Xander twist and manipulate? I can’t even tell what’s real and what’s fake anymore.”

“We’re real,” Bodin says, true urgency in his eyes. “No matter what happens, to either of us, my feelings for you are genuine. Please believe that.”

“I do,” I say softly.

But suddenly, I’m too impatient to linger. Because I recognize our surroundings. The white sand, undulating gently to the water. That precise grouping of three palm trees. The flat rock that Lola liked to sit on, braiding bulletwood flowers into her hair. The structures that we painstakingly built: the firepit, the lean-to, the main shelter.

We’re home—or at least the one place of comfort we’ve managed to carve out of this nightmare. I sprint across the sand. In the distance, I see a figure that appears to be Mama, under the shelter where she belongs. Where she’ll be safe.

As I run, it occurs to me that I shouldn’t be able to move this quickly. A short while ago, I couldn’t even talk without panting at the air. Amazing how the sight of a loved one can rejuvenate you.

“Mama, you’ll never believe—”

The words die in my throat. Mama’s here under the shelter, all right, her head bare instead of covered by an orange scarf, sleeping bags cushioned around her. But she’s lying on her side, curled into a fetal position. She’s shivering in spite of the sultry island air.

A croc-person kneels by her. Not just any croc-person—Three. He dips a washcloth in a coconut shell filled with water and tenderly wipes her forehead, her neck, her ears.

He glances up, and I have to swallow twice before I can get the words out. “How…how is she?”

“She’s burning up. I think she has some kind of infection.” Even in that gravelly voice, Three sounds helpless, which makes my stomach plummet. “I’m trying to bring down her temperature. Keep her pulse points cool. But the fever just won’t break.” His voice cracks on the last word.

No. The dread fills me, so familiar, so cold. Creeping up my toes and radiating through my body. No. This can’t be the end. I just got her back, when her crushed body was revealed to be a mannequin. This can’t be the moment where I say goodbye.

“I tried giving her coconut water by squirting some in a syringe into her mouth, but she can’t swallow anymore.” Whatever desperation he can’t convey with his voice shines clearly in his eyes. “The liquid just runs out of her mouth. She’s dehydrated, Alaia. She needs an IV, as well as antibiotics. There are some in the infirmary, in the cave at the north end of the mountain. The other croc-people told me about it. But the cave is sealed with some kind of magic, to prevent anyone from entering.”

“Will Xander…?” I can’t even ask the question.

Three shakes his head, his snout moving back and forth. “I asked him. I begged. He… He won’t budge. He refuses to help her because she’s no longer any use to him. He generally prefers younger subjects, but he brought along her and Khun Anita as leverage. In case you or Kit needed the extra push to come into your abilities. But you already endured the falling mannequin, and so, she’s served her purpose.”

I sink onto the platform next to Mama. She is my only focus. Her wan, tired face. The sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Her glassy, unfocused eyes.

“Mama, it’s me,” I say, licking my lips.

Her pupils flicker in my direction, and then they sharpen on my face.

“Alaia,” she rasps, as though my name is glass coming out of her throat. She raises her hand, but she doesn’t have the energy to move it farther. I duck my head underneath her palm so that she can rest it on my hair.

“Don’t move,” I beg her. “Don’t try to talk. Conserve your energy. We’ll get you help.” Tears fill my eyes. Forget the 121 smiles. I will not let her die like this, if it’s the last thing I do. “Just hold on.”

“Are you…in danger?” she asks haltingly. Her hand falls off my head, and she points one feeble finger toward the lotus flower floating in the copper basin. The one that Three had brought her the previous night. But instead of the fresh pink blooms of before, so delicate and pretty like Mama, the petals are now shriveled up. Dying.

“The lotus flower…withered,” Mama continues, one labored word at a time. “That’s how I knew…you were in…danger.”

“Not anymore, Mama.” I settle her hand gently by her side. “I’m safe now.”

She nods, tired out by the conversation, and her eyelids droop.

“Sleep,” I whisper. “Rest. You’re my mama.”

“And you’re my baby,” she mumbles, her eyes closed.

I rise and join Bodin and Three, who are chatting a few feet away.

“The withering lotus flower is a Thai folktale, too,” Bodin tells me. “Your mom has manifested her ability. She can sense danger to her loved ones with the health of a lotus flower.”

“Don’t tell Xander,” I plead with Three. “He’s already made it clear that he’s not going to help her. If he takes her into his custody, there’s no telling how he’ll torture her.”

“I won’t,” Three says. “You can count on me.”

I nod. “Please watch over her.”

I’ve hardly taken two steps, however, before Bodin lopes after me. “Alaia. Where are you going?”

In response, I stop and press my lips fully on his, doubling the kisses I’ve had in this lifetime. But…if this is the last kiss I ever have, I want it to be a good one.

After a few searing seconds, Bodin wrenches away. “Look, I’m never going to complain about kissing you. But you haven’t answered my question.”

I turn and start walking once more. I was never a good sleeper. As a baby, I used to wake every couple of hours, scratching at my skin because of an undiagnosed milk allergy. And then, in my childhood, I woke up screaming from OCD nightmares. Not the ones most people dream, but the ones that represent hell to me. An unfinished sentence written on a whiteboard so that I couldn’t complete reading it. Various posters and street signs flying past at warp speed, too fast for me to name and catalogue the shapes. An errant touch, one half of a ballet exercise—a leap on my right side but not my left—so that I would remain unbalanced and incomplete forever.

Each and every one of those times, Mama woke from a light sleep and came to my side. It didn’t matter how physically exhausted she was or how emotionally draining the day had been. Always, she stroked my hair. On countless nights, she whispered soothing words of comfort. To me, she is peace, the only one that I’ve ever known.

And now, at the end of her life, I will give her the peaceful death that she deserves.

“Alaia—”

“Mama needs help,” I say tightly. “She needs that IV. She needs antibiotics. I’m getting into that cave. I don’t care what it takes.”

“Yes, yes, and yes.” We move down the beach, one of his long strides to every two of my shorter ones. “How?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I’ll figure out a way.”

He maneuvers so that he’s facing me, and I stop. “I’m coming with you.”

“No.” As terrified as I am about heading out on my own, this is the easiest decision I’ll ever have to make. When it comes to Mama’s safety, Mama’s peace, I have no doubts. All the what-if scenarios fade away, and the only course remaining is the correct one. The right one. The only balanced path in the universe there is.

“I need you here. To keep an eye on Three, whom I don’t fully trust. More importantly, to fight off the croc-people, should they try to take Mama away.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m not strong enough to resist them, but you…you can take on a group of them. I saw you battle with the krabong. It’s like you’ve been training with it your whole life. You can cause the very same damage with a stick. Please,” I conclude. “Do this for me.”

He nods. “You only have to ask.”

I start to walk again, alone. But while my solitary state was a shackle around my neck before, I feel light now. Strong. As though I could take off into the air.

“Alaia, wait.”

I turn, and I know I’ll never forget this image for the rest of my life.

Bodin stands so straight, so tall. The newly risen moon frosts his hair, and the tumultuous ocean crashes at his feet.

“You need a weapon,” he says. “Let me make you a spear. It’ll take me twenty minutes, tops.”

“I don’t need a spear.”

I point to an object by his right shoulder, a few feet behind him. It sticks out proudly from the glistening white sand, drawing the moon’s light as surely as the boy himself.

It’s Rae’s double-edged sword.