17

sibling rivalry

Lark

Once inside Haystack Rock, we amble across a sandbar, careful not to trip on outcroppings of stone. Water drips from the ceiling, sinking into my wig and leaving snail trails across the vampiric prosthetic and makeup caked on my face.

Uncle steadies his Maglite to illuminate a path so Clarey and I can pick our way a few steps ahead. Here’s where Nix and I played as children, gleaning inspiration for stories to draw and robotics to build. But for some reason, those memories feel fuzzy. Was it the crabs that inspired her drawings of an underwater kingdom filled with stars, and the gimping frogfish that inspired my fascination with automated legs? Or was it the other way around? I pause at intervals—my father’s duffel strapped to my shoulder and filled with select refurbished inventions along with a vial of Perish’s blood—to view the glimmering intertidal pools filled with wildlife once familiar to me. I struggle to remember words spoken between Nix and me while exploring, or even stories shared. They’re out of reach, as if I’m grasping for them with my fading hands and my fingers keep slipping through.

I frown, and with each step closer to the cleft where streams of bluish light filter in from the Mystiquiel side, I can sense the faerie veil creeping over us like a storm cloud, eclipsing the usual to make way for the unusual.

The once common starfish fold their legs, then pop them open, revealing one eyeball blinking on their backs under feathery ornamental-fan lashes; the beaded protrusions along their legs open and close, a thousand tiny mouths spouting foam in every color of the rainbow that gathers at the top of the tide pools then fizzes with a musical sound. The seahorses sprout wings—colorful and gossamer as any butterfly’s—and crook their tails to propel themselves out of the water, swirling around the sun-bright strands emitted from Uncle’s Mag, taking flight to the rhythm of the foamy songs while whinnying like their mammal counterparts. Even the frogfish, normally bald and slimy, grow fur and drag themselves through the murk with clawed fore-fins, resembling teensy Afghan hounds with bulging throats and snapping tongues. They circle the shallows as if tied to Uncle’s beam by invisible ropes.

Other than their vivid colorings, the one thing they all have in common is they’re organic, without a trace of rust or metal. It’s undeniable proof that the healing touch of Nix’s craft has made them dazzling, livelier, heartier. They swim and float through fan blades of shadow and shimmer, casting rainbow imprints on the slippery-slick cave walls. My reflection joins theirs—providing a screen for their antics. I glare at myself, watching them play across the disguise like the world’s strangest zoetrope.

The edges of my heart quiver, a sickly sensation, as if it’s peeling back from my arteries and curling up—penitence for all the destruction I wrought upon these beautiful creatures; even my lungs seem smaller somehow, as if they’re withering in increments, like how it feels when Clarey’s gum paste dries and crinkles tight.

My breaths grow more labored; yet despite a marked shortness of oxygen, my pulse accelerates with my eagerness to be home again at last. The eldritch weirdness is both enticing and tragic; if I’d been able to provide a sanctuary equal to Nix’s, I’d be reigning by Perish’s side, and all the inhabitants of Mystiquiel would’ve thrived and blossomed instead of warping into damaged cyborgs.

I really was trying to help . . . ​I’m sorry I hurt you instead. I silently aim the apology their way, wishing to suppress the ache around my neck where their gratitude would’ve graced me with an eternity necklace. I wonder if Nix is wearing it now, if she was able to win their loyalty like I never could.

Uncle and Clarey find their way behind me, both of them gaping at the creatures and their performances.

“Beautiful,” Uncle says softly.

“They seem so . . . ​carefree,” Clarey adds, twisting the knife.

I know it’s not an intentional dig—they both want Nix to come home, so there’s no way either of them is comfortable seeing her success here. Instead, like me, they must be wondering if we misjudged the tattoo’s motivations, mistook that something went wrong with the world, because this all looks so very right.

My mind reaches for more palatable scenarios. Maybe Perish just couldn’t live without me. Maybe he’s been watching through the glass in the castle, viewing through the windows between our worlds. He might have seen my blood creating flowers and it renewed his faith in me, or he saw me fading and realized it had to do with my bond to this world and he wants to protect me. Any of these could be the reason he lured me back, and all would lead to me trading places with Nix one final time. She’ll return with Uncle and Clarey, I’ll stay here, and everyone will end up safe and happy . . . ​settled in the place where they belong.

As if fate’s punishing me for the fantasy, Clarey shouts, “Guys, I hear a rumble!”

Seconds later, the rock walls begin to tremble and pebbles skitter all around us as the ground quakes.

“Grab on somewhere!” Uncle screeches, dropping his Maglite. It hits a rock, cracks, and blinks out, leaving us in semi-darkness—the bluish glow streaming from Mystiquiel’s entrance our only source of illumination. I scrabble to catch hold of a craggy protrusion for balance, mechanical fingers clacking and whirring in my leafy gloves with the effort. I have the passing sense that my left hand feels feather light all the way up to my wrist now, but can’t stop to analyze the rate of my fading. I assure myself that once I find Nix, we’ll both be whole again.

Beneath my grip, the outcropping vanishes as the ground smooths out, forming a giant slanted chute. The three of us thud to our backs and my stomach careens while we spin and slip, down and down, a reverse shuttle, feetfirst toward the sea cave’s opening from where we originally stepped in.

The creatures, startled from their mesmerizing play, scramble around us, stirring up airborne funnels of water to coat the curved walls so we swirl faster. Uncle has the lead and Clarey’s in the second spot, as our bodies accelerate faster than logs in a flume ride. Dread scatters through me. Does the world remember me even in costume? Why else would it be sucking us down a drain like mucky refuse with its occupants paving the way?

Out of desperation, an idea strikes. Every denizen of this world has weaknesses and I know them all, having shared their consciousness not so long ago. While we were connected, I tried to alter those weaknesses to make them stronger. For instance, what these little sea-fey lack, due to their lives in the darkness, is light. They feed on any scrap that comes their way. It’s why they were courting the beams from Uncle’s Mag so brazenly moments ago. During my tenure, I tried to generate light through their bodies, so they’d have a continuous supply. Yet instead of giving them strength, I made them sick.

Where I went wrong was trying to change them. I should’ve simply given them a light source. Today, I can do that. And if I satisfy that craving, offer them an olive branch, they might help us slow down before we’re plunged back into the ocean outside Haystack Rock. It’s time to delve into my gadgets.

Against the wet friction heating my spine, I struggle to shift Dad’s duffel onto my chest. Positioning the bag where I can unzip it, I search for the waterproof centipede flashlight I made back in fourth grade for inventors’ camp.

My body sways to and fro, boots almost touching Clarey’s head as I skim the interminable curling slide. Water splashes my face and speckles the fake, downy lashes along my upper lids. The glitter diminishes my vision temporarily, as if I’m peering through a curtain of crystal beads and swan feathers.

I manage to blink away the droplets, but it’s still too dim to see much, and one of the drawbacks of a mechanical hand is I can’t use touch to help me find things. Fortunately, the flashlight is sticky—cylindrical with suctioned spines all around—and gloms to my leafy hand coverings upon contact. I whoop quietly. Having put fresh batteries in everything before we left, I flick it on, and instantly the ten miniature disco globes discharge a rhythmic kaleidoscope of color, slanted lights gyrating through holes in the body’s rubber casing.

The sea-fey home in on the brilliant dancing rotations, gathering at my side to get closer. “You can have it!” I shout, sputtering out a gulp of water. “But first, you help us!”

I toss the light toward Uncle so he can hold it hostage until they pay their toll, smacking my elbow on the curved side in the process, which curtails the launch. I curse when the gadget doesn’t quite reach him and lands instead on the chute between Clarey’s feet.

The suction feet latch onto Clarey’s shoes, and a fluorescent shimmy of light spangles his wet form in orange, green, pink, and yellow pinpricks. The magical sea creatures congregate on the chute around him, each one latching to the other to form a flexible latticework: a sieve that lets the water pass but slows Clarey’s lit-up form. I position my feet on his shoulders, my own speed diminishing by proxy. Once we come to a stop, anchored by the mesh, I lean across Clarey and pop the spiny centipede off his shoes.

First, I shine the spinning lights down into the channel, seeking any sign of Uncle. The gushing water flushed him away—too far to see. “Uncle Thatch!” I scream. His muffled shout echoes back to us, indecipherable.

Clarey shoves aside dripping curls of hair and cups his BAHA. “Your uncle’s okay . . . ​but the cave’s avalanching closed behind him so he won’t be able to get back in.” Clarey’s dual-toned eyes catch the churning lights, a penetrating somberness cutting through the dark. “He would want us to go on . . . ​to find Nix. You know that. She might be fading, like you.”

I nod, for once grateful for Clarey’s supersonic hearing. I know he has an ulterior motive for us going forward. But I do, too. Not just that I want to see Perish again—even if it’s only a glimpse. Even more because I owe my sister for bringing her here. For tricking her. I’ve got to give her back her life, no matter how much this world wants revenge on me.

I point the disco lights toward the top of the chute, and our sea-fey-netting comes alive with activity. The seahorses whinny, the starfish blink wide-eyed, and the frogfish release bulbous-chinned barks.

“Get us back up there, and the light belongs to you,” I answer.

While some keep our weight sustained, others branch out to widen the pattern into a ladder. Clarey and I climb the pulsing, breathing rungs. Once we reach the top, the sea-fey pull themselves up behind us and collect the prize I’ve tossed to the ground. The centipede’s suctioned feet pop free from the rocks as they drag it toward pools that have refilled. Clarey and I pick our way to the veil’s crossing point at the opposite end while the fey take turns basking in the spinning lights beneath the water, their shadows casting an eerie, aquatic carousel across the cave’s roof.

Clarey and I exchange anxious glances as we prepare to cross through the opening to Mystiquiel.

“Are you ready?” he asks, helping me free my wig’s silvery strands from beneath the duffle’s strap on my shoulder. He gestures to my face and clothes. “You’re about to become a goblin fairy.”

“I was born ready,” I answer, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said in two months.

Together, we tread onto the beach, still hidden behind the rock’s wall, which gives us time to gather our wits before we’re exposed to all things eldritch. Our feet sink slightly with each step, stirring up glimmering golden granules as fine as spun sugar.

“Sand,” I mumble, trying not to envision how thrilled Perish must’ve been to see this in place of metal shavings.

Clarey frowns. “Didn’t everything get erased when we left?”

I nod as a singed breeze brushes across the top of the rock and stirs our hair. The ends of mine slap my cheeks and scrape against my back. I tug them forward to braid them. My scalp prickles at the strain, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m no longer wearing a wig. The sparkling strands have adhered to my natural hair like extensions and taken root deep into my skin. I gnaw on my lips with my fangs. The bony points draw blood from my tender flesh, proving the prosthetic teeth are mine, too. I tap the tip of my bone-hard horns, but don’t have to check the ear tips, because they’re itching—sense organs awakening where once there was only silicone.

Stroking my mouth and nose, I test to see if the mask still reacts like unfeeling rubber. Instead, nerves activate, causing pleasure receptors to light up in my brain.

I try to peel free the leafy coverings from my mechanical hands, but they’re one with the carbon fiber skeleture underneath. Just like the attached metal fingers and palms are an integral part of me now. Higher up, on my arms, the cuff bracelets have adhered to my skin . . . ​the black leather and silver studs fading into my flesh so there’s no finding where they start or stop. I’m a full-on fey cyborg . . . ​the personification of the curse I put upon this world.

I gulp and inhale as much as my shrinking lungs will allow, then focus on the wings at my back. They weren’t in direct contact with my skin, but the aged, threadbare fabric of the fairy dress underneath proved no barrier to the magic. They, too, have bonded with me, all the way to my scapula. Without the flip of any switch, the gossamer appendages flap, prompting tickles to quiver along the nerves in my shoulder blades. My feet leave the ground, barely an inch, but I’m hovering. The wings are too small to lift me any higher or hold my weight for long, much less the added bulk of Dad’s duffle. So I drop back to the ground, stumbling on the sand in an effort to right myself.

Clarey catches my elbow, helping me balance.

“Whoa,” I whisper, my breath catching.

He traces his BAHA—burrowed into the skin behind his ear like a hungry tick. “Right? FYI, you’re handling it way better than I did my first time.”

We step out from behind the rock, agape at the chaos that greets us under the hazy blue of a perfect moon—not a giant crystal ball like I once hung in the ether. Groups of fey gather on the beach, about a football field’s distance from red-striped circus tents similar to those that once contained my Astoria.

“She must’ve restored your design, like a tribute,” Clarey muses.

“Yeah. But she made it better.” That’s how she discovered my jaunt as an arsonist and uncovered my deal with Perish. Since she purposefully tapped into my Architect blueprints, the mind-share would’ve been intense and detailed. Which means she was in my head—but was she in my heart? Does she know how I feel about Perish and this place?

I look closer at the gnomes and piskies, sprites and trolls, sprigs, wights, and others, all returned to their true forms. They should be rejoicing, frolicking in newly created settings. Instead—whether furry, scaly, or twiggy, with leafy hair or dragonfly eyes dripping sap—they all shiver in fear.

Scanning the stretch of tents, I find a gargantuan gash flapping in one side. Sidewinder trolley tracks—embedded in the sand starting at the jagged tear, and leading to the groups of fey—depict a tale of hasty retreat from the city.

“What’s happened here?” I ask Clarey, although it’s obvious we’ve arrived to a world tilting out of control.

He angles his ear toward the city. “I hear crackling, and the sound of combat.”

I clench my teeth as we walk slowly, hoping to stay unrecognized by the refugees. Nix’s tents have no roofs, only striped canvas walls. Smoke rises from inside and blots the sky, a thicker and blacker haze than the waxy candle-burn that once enshrouded my Mystiquiel. The scent differs, too. This is the bitter heat of charred wood and blistered paint—a fresher, more potent version of the weeks-old soot we encountered while sorting through Enchanted Delight’s remains.

If Clarey’s BAHA is right, some sort of battle is taking place, which means the orange blinking glow on the other side of the canvas walls can mean only one thing . . .

I press my hand to my chest, the hollows inside growing wider. “Nix’s Astoria is on fire.”

“This is cuckoo,” Clarey murmurs. “The Goblin King called back his firebug—”

“To snuff out the flames,” I finish his thought, awakening a twinge at my sternum that lances all the way to my gut. I don’t have time for mourning the many bad choices I’ve made since my pact with Perish. Something’s gone horribly wrong, and I have one last chance to save his world and all its occupants. But all I’ve ever done is destroy. What makes me think I’m capable of doing something right?

I shake off my doubts and jog through the sand toward the tents, Clarey following in my footsteps. I flicker my wings in alternate pulses to take hovering strides, skimming atop the beach, giving me a commanding lead.

Racing along the shoreline, we’re about thirty yards from the tent’s gaping rip when Clarey shouts a warning from behind.

“Something’s under the sand!”

Seconds later, the beach comes alive. Dents appear in the sand around me, resembling a honeycomb, and I’ve barely blinked before they widen and deepen, reminding me of ant lion dens being stirred from beneath to capture prey. Yet that’s not what’s going on here . . . ​I know what’s coming, even before the razor-sharp hooves reach up from each burrowing depression. Proving me right, mushroom clouds of grit poof upward as a pack of kelpines clamber out from their hiding places. Several snarling roars reach me—the force so strong it knocks me to my knees. I scramble about, coming nose-level with hot, rancid breath.

The pack rearranges into a line, putting themselves between me and Astoria’s tents. Like all the other fey, these giant amphibians have returned to their fleshy forms: black-and-white hides, fish-scale-covered legs, whiplike tongues, the agility and bloodthirsty appetites of cheetahs, and three times the size of Clydesdales.

The alpha bends its graceful seahorse neck down to sniff me, catlike whiskers twitching. It bays once it has my scent. The others stiffen, the scruff of their necks and long tails bristling. An unintentional shudder races through me.

The pack recognizes me . . . ​and they want blood.

The refugee fey look on from afar, appearing relieved I’ve been stopped. At first, I assume it’s because they’re celebrating my imminent dismemberment, now that they know who’s under my ingrown mask. Then I realize why they were shivering with terror to begin with. They may be safe from a flaming Astoria here, but they’re also sitting ducks, waiting for their own death at the hungry maws of the kelpines.

I’m a decoy, nothing more.

“Hey, get away from her!” Clarey shouts from a few yards away. I motion for him to stay put.

Shaking its zebra-striped mane free of sand, the leader paws a serrated hoof but doesn’t budge, as if there’s an invisible line between us it won’t cross. Steam rises from its nostrils, and it releases a threatening snarl with sharklike teeth that could rip me apart in less than a blink. Yet the creature holds back.

“We need to retreat to the rock!” Clarey shouts from behind. “Unless you want to be dinner?”

“Wait,” I answer. I crab-crawl diagonally, situating the duffle in front of me while unzipping it.

Clarey grumbles something under his breath.

“It’s okay.” I move an inch; the pack’s eyes follow and their flanks twitch, but still, they stand immobile. “It’s like they’re forbidden to hurt us.”

Truth is, I understand these creatures well enough to know they could’ve already captured and shredded both of us to bits—with bone-brittle teeth, snappish tongues, or lancinating hooves. Instead, they’re forming a barricade . . . ​forcing us back the way we came.

“They’re not here to feed,” I reason aloud to reassure Clarey and myself. I keep my eyes locked on the alpha’s. “They’re here to stop us from entering, just like the sea-fey tried earlier.”

I silently rifle through other introspections: someone . . . ​or something . . . ​is determined to keep us out, yet they don’t want to hurt us.

My mechanical hand vibrates along the left palm, a phantom twinge reminding me of the scar Perish and I shared, of the magic that passed from his veins to mine like wildfire. I always assumed, once I left this world, that bond died, smothered by my banal humanness, or at the least snuffed out once my flesh began to fade. But just thinking of the conflagration that once burned so bright between us, I feel a stir. An ember. A spark that flares through my capillaries and vessels, a scalding splash of knowing that burns my blood with dread. He’s wounded, defeated. And within the hour he’ll evaporate on the wind. Unless his magic gets jump-started.

He needs the ember I hold inside. I have to get it to him.

That’s why he sent for me . . . ​but someone else is trying to keep me from helping. Could it be Nix? Are we going head-to-head again, on opposite sides? I attempt to step into her thoughts, to feel the emotions driving her, but without being able to link pinkies, without touching skin to skin, all I can get is the sense of an all-consuming heat. As if a full-body fever stands between us.

I’m disappointed, having hoped that since we shared roots in this world, it might open a new channel.

“Lark, what’s the plan?” Clarey interrupts before I can drill deeper.

Filled with renewed purpose, I gesture for him to hang on, then stare down the line of kelpines. There’s no way around. Reaching into the duffle, I form a strategy.

During my hive-mind reign, I saw how these creatures functioned as shapeshifters: feline equines while terrestrial, then growing tentacles, gills, and fins upon contacting water. But like the mermaids of lore, they had to reabsorb those aquatic features to function again on land. If they happened to venture back to shore while still tentacled, they were oafish and lumbering—unable to move until completely dried, which took hours.

It’s why, as the Architect, I tried to improve them by giving them inner circuitry that enabled each to divide in half through binary fission so they’d function as symbiotic cyborg beings—skilled, deadly pairs that could simultaneously hunt on both land and sea. In the beginning, my adjustments worked brilliantly, until the metal warped their innards and left them dying.

Returned to their original state, they’re healthy but limited to one body once more. A characteristic that will help Clarey and me get past them, while also keeping the refugees safe until Perish, the world, and everything wrong can be repaired.

“Clarey, be ready to run to the busted tent when I say.” I utter the words so softly the kelpines barely tweak their striped ears. But with Clarey’s ocular superpower, he could probably hear a bee buzzing at his aunt’s boutique from here.

Using the light of the moon, I single out the items I need to make this work. Once I have them pulled from the bag and lined up in the sand toward the tide, I flick two dozen switches, sparking my waxed-cardboard seaplanes to life. Rubber-band paddles, attached to their bows like helicopter blades, launch them into the sky.

Just as I hoped, the kelpines mistake them for pack rat faeries, and their feline instincts overtake. Whiskers and tails atwitch, the pack forgets all else and gives chase, kicking up sand as they leap and bellow in an effort to snatch the tiny squadron from the sky with long, snapping tongues. A few seaplanes topple down and get trampled or swallowed, but the majority land atop the waves, skating in every direction like water bugs across the crests. The kelpines continue pursuit into the ocean’s surf, until every last hoof and leg has transformed to tentacles, every set of nostrils to gills, and every ear and tail to fins.

Finally in the clear, I shout for Clarey to follow.

Stirring clouds of sand, we sprint for the damaged tent. The evacuated fey watch us pass with bewildered appreciation. I wave half-heartedly, hoping my successful tactical maneuver will win me some small clemency for all my mistakes.

“Everyone knows it’s you . . . ​your costume was a waste of time!” Clarey shouts from behind as he gains proximity.

I bite back how wrong he is, because I’m realizing now that it was less about anonymity and more about wearing their skin, so maybe they’d finally see me as one of their own.

When Clarey and I plunge through the opening, the walls disappear from view. There’s only Astoria facing us now, and a hot, smoke-filled sky. The trolley slithers by, its serpentine skeleton cutting through smoke and flame, carrying another batch of fey that seek the protection of the beach.

Clarey and I stand slack-jawed, facing the inferno. It’s like seeing the bakery blaze that first night, yet this is multiplied—street by street, building by building. I can’t imagine what caused it.

“Maybe Nix did this . . . ​maybe she’s at war with Perish and using his world against him,” Clarey suggests.

Could it be? Is Nix trying to escape because she’s angry at Perish for my betrayal?

“No,” I answer without hesitation. “She’s an artist, through and through. She wouldn’t put the fey populace in harm’s way. She loves them”—as much as I do—“because they were her muses for so long.”

“Then someone else did this. Who, and why?” Clarey asks.

I try to home in on her emotions again, to feel what she’s feeling. This time, I catch a snippet of her intention. She’s determined to save someone more important to her than her own life, yet she’s also mourning that she might not be able to do it because she’s too fearful and broken.

It confirms my suspicions that she shares not only my love for this world but for Perish as well.

The breath I draw into my wilting lungs scalds, but the parched sensation has little to do with the smoke. Why wouldn’t she fall for everything in this place—just like I did? It’s weird and wondrous, and wild. Wasn’t she always seeking some part of her that was missing, just like I was? It appears we both found it here, but in her case, she’s actually an asset . . . ​she fits.

I glance at Clarey through bleary eyes but don’t have the stomach to tell him what I’m sensing. Even if Perish no longer wants me, I have to get to the castle to help him save his throne. I owe Nix that, at least.

And Clarey’s the key to getting us there, even if he hasn’t figured it out yet.

“We need to put out the flames so we can get past all this,” I tell him as I dig inside the duffle.

He frowns.

“When that was my eye”—I draw his attention to the moon, pointing—“I watched you make it rain here.”

The scar along Clarey’s eyebrow creases with a nostalgic lilt. “Yeah. Because of Nix. She believed in me, helped me get over being afraid. No one’s ever given me power like that. And I don’t mean just the magic.” He sighs, obviously lost in longing. “Feels like rain.”

I bite my cheek, conceding to a camaraderie with his soon-to-be-broken heart that I wish I didn’t share. “Well, it will feel like rain if you can remember the song you played.”

He rolls his eyes. “That is the . . . ​oh, never mind. Get me my harmonica.”

“Way ahead of you.” I hand him the instrument he earlier wrapped in a handkerchief.

He tucks the hanky in his pocket and places the harmonica at his mouth. The instant his first note trills, the smoky grayness in the air doubles as the sky fills with clouds. His fingers dance across the grooves upon each inhalation and exhalation. He taps a metal-tipped shoe, cradling the instrument against his lips. I blink droplets from my swan-feather lashes when cool rain begins to fall in sync with his warbling melody. By the time he reaches the chorus, flames hiss, snuffing out in puffs of steam—gray and white.

Patch by patch, the fires extinguish. On Clarey’s last note, the smoke and steam clear and moonlight reveals the charred remnants of the town. The only thing left unscathed are garishly colorful plots of wildflowers that look exactly like the ones I’ve been bleeding all around the real Astoria. Although I don’t know how it could be possible . . . ​I saw their petals and stems blazing moments ago.

I shrug off the discrepancy as Clarey drops the harmonica in his pocket and Perish’s knights come into view. Half of them have formed a calvary engaged in a fight with some menacing fey I recognize as Scourge’s henchmen. They’re so intent on the battle, none of them seem to notice the rain.

Perish’s magic stirs inside me again, that knowing incinerating deeper inside my blood, a smolder that reaches all the way into my bone marrow: Scourge overthrew Perish and took his crown. But how is that even possible? There are enchanted protectors in place. Nothing could get past them . . .

Renewed fear for my Goblin King scatters through every nerve as we traverse cautiously around the battle, choking on scorched air while ducking behind debris to stay hidden.

We’re only a few feet from the Mystiquiel sign when we reach a golden statue that takes my breath away. It’s almost as if I were looking in a mirror, had Clarey painted my skin a glistening gold instead of gray. Nix must’ve made it of herself as a tribute . . . ​the perfect match for Perish. “She’s beautiful.” My admiration is both excruciating and sincere.

“You are, Lark.”

I frown. “What?”

“There’s a gap between her front teeth. It must be you,” Clarey points out.

I stare in awe, having missed that detail. Why would Nix make this in honor of me when she’s ready to take my place permanently? I’ve barely had time to digest the implications when a half dozen of Perish’s knights ride in our direction, on an obvious mission to apprehend us.

“We’ve been spotted. Get down!” Clarey says, dragging me behind my statue. We watch from our hiding place as a flock of something flies across the moon, causing a momentary eclipse. Once the light reappears, it gilds white papery wings atop something that looks oddly like—­

“Gingerbread men?” Clarey barks, disbelief grating his voice.

The flock dive-bombs the knights headed our way, stopping them in their tracks.

Clarey and I duck lower.

“Gingerbread men . . . ​with paper wings,” Clarey mumbles, fear quaking behind the observation. “What the heck is going on here?”

But I already know, and the implications sicken me. “The mural,” I answer, at last understanding how much my hand had in this moment; I wrought this havoc every bit as much as Scourge did. “The characters in the mural. They traveled here through my and Nix’s bond somehow. That must be it. When I set it loose from the wall, I kept waiting for the sketches to come alive in our world. But they came here instead.”

Clarey gulped. “That must mean . . .”

“Krampus is here, too. Somewhere.” Then all the answers fall into place. A creature, made only of paint and imagination, would have the ability to steal the Goblin King’s crown; it’d be immune to all the magical rules. “Scourge must be using Nix’s sketches to take over Mystiquiel.” The epiphany slips out in a murmur, but Clarey catches it loud and clear.

“You’re saying this is some kind of throw-down between the goblin brothers?”

I clench my teeth, wishing I’d already told Clarey everything. There isn’t time enough now, so I abbreviate the details. “Scourge was trying to steal Perish’s crown from the second I arrived here the first time. He wants to imprison humans. At least a portion of us . . .”

“But the goblins are already doing that with your family.”

“It’s not enough for Scourge. He wants to bring people here as infants, breed them like sheep, raise a stable of Architectural sacrificial lambs so the fey will have a constant supply.”

Clarey falls from a squat to his knees—as if the revelation has physically knocked him down. Flecks of soot stir with the movement and float upward, catching on his lashes. He blinks them away, eyes widening. “Scourge wants to cash out all humanity? Which means Perish is actually the good guy?”

I shrug. “Uncle might not see it that way. He’d say he’s the lesser of two evils. But I know another side of him. A noble side that only wanted to save his world, to keep Mystiquiel from relying on humans any longer. He had a plan. One to end the contracts between our family and the fey forever. It would’ve set my family free. But Scourge wouldn’t let it happen. He’s the reason I ruined this world the first time. So Perish could get the upper hand.”

Clarey’s brown complexion pales. “That’s why you burned bridges between our worlds? To hold Scourge at bay in Goblinsville . . . ​not to keep Nix trapped here?”

I’m struggling with how to answer that when Clarey shoves me down farther behind the statue. We both look up as a duo of flying gingerbread men dives toward us. One tackles Clarey and straddles him while the other snatches my horns, lifting me. The scent of ginger, cinnamon, and vanilla has never been more menacing.

Needles of pain triangulate through my scalp as I drop my dad’s duffle and weave metallic fingers through my hair to wrest my horns free, my wings flapping haplessly. Clarey growls and grunts, rolling around with his vicious cookie captor. My vision blurs, eyes watering from the strain on my skull. My attacker carries me higher in the air. I hang limp, pretending I’ve given up, until I’ve gained enough height to thrust out my legs and wrap my ankles around my statue’s neck. I tighten my hold to keep myself from being lugged away. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to clear my tears so I can see again, but a sudden snapping sound forces me to look through the haze.

Clarey clenches a broken gingerbread head and slides the cracked body off his chest. He tosses the head away as it tries to bite him. The decapitated pieces wriggle in an attempt to come back together as Clarey flings my dad’s duffle upward, clipping my assailant. The gingerbread man’s arms snap off from the impact. I tug them free from my head and use my wings to slow my descent to the ground where Clarey stomps on the remains of the dastardly duo, reducing them to crumbs and torn paper wings.

“Thank you.” I latch onto him.

To my surprise, he hugs me back. “You should’ve told us, Lark. I wouldn’t have been so hard on you. Why did you keep it secret?”

“Because Perish is my friend,” I mumble into Clarey’s smoky floral-scented shirt, scrunching up my eyes in self-deprecation. Why can’t I just admit out loud that he’s so much more? “Because I made a promise to him. And I was afraid you and Uncle would keep trying to bring Nix back, even though this world needed her to fix everything I broke.”

Clarey stiffens at that and pushes me an arm’s length away, but loses his gusto as his gaze shifts over my shoulder.

I feel what he sees before looking, as a sword’s tip touches my wing.

I whirl around. A boggle stands tall over us in full regalia: boar-size toad’s head, sharp white tusks, and red-furred muscular limbs—no metal or voltaic taint to maim him. Seeing him whole makes my heart both elated and heavy. I wish I could’ve kept all the fey this healthy.

“The queen and the Architect bid your company,” says the knight.

“Where are they? Is Nix okay?” I ask, hope and anticipation at war with my fear of the answers. I already know not to ask about Perish, whose magical dividend is searing all my vital organs like an iron brand.

The boggle doesn’t respond; instead, he picks up my duffle and shoves it at me—taking care not to touch my hand. Clarey and I trade worried frowns as the sound of scraping draws our attention back to the gingerbread attackers we crushed. The crumbs are somehow reuniting into bodies, broken arms dragging across the ground to gather up the cookie heads and stitch them back in place with icing.

“It can take them anywhere from a few minutes to an hour to regenerate,” the knight answers my unasked question. “Our efforts to defeat them are futile . . . ​they keep coming back. Because they’re not really alive—”

“They can’t be killed,” I finish for him.

“I swear I’ll never eat gingerbread again,” Clarey mumbles, looking almost green.

“Come with us now and we’ll see you safely out of here.” The knight nudges Clarey in the direction of four royal boggles seated astride their mounts and holding the reins of three robust and prancing unicorns ready for riders. Their hides remind me of the ornaments I placed on the tree earlier—sleek and marbled like gemstones. Nix’s choice of coloring feels like another tribute to me somehow . . . ​to us. Maybe she isn’t as angry at me as I assumed.

I step up to my proffered unicorn, aching to stroke its mottled purple-and-white hide—glossy as a freshly polished lepidolite. But it spooks, pawing a rainbow hoof and snorting to warn me away. “How am I supposed to ride? It won’t let me on . . .”

The boggle adjusts some blinders on the unicorn’s bridle to shield its eyes, then attaches a grazing muzzle to cover its nose and mouth. “If she can’t see or smell you, she won’t know you’re the filth that nigh ruined our world.” His harsh features form a spiteful grimace as he holds the reins so I can mount.

Gulping back a pained moan, I grip the saddle horn and settle myself in place, again taking note of how the boggle goes out of his way to avoid touching me. I came back here knowing that this world could never forget . . . ​but I hoped that maybe in time they could find a way to forgive.

The knights urge their unicorns to a gallop, and mine and Clarey’s fall in line with the rest. Clarey tosses me a sympathetic glance, as if he understands my agony. He thinks I’m hurting from an artist’s perspective . . . ​he thinks I’m ashamed that I failed in creating the perfect designs. But it cuts so much deeper than that.

I didn’t just fail as a mechanic, or even an Architect. I failed as Perish’s partner . . . as his would-be queen. And there’s no higher pedestal to fall from than a throne.