Lina
Lina was across the carpet in an instant, cursing, knife in hand.
She ripped the door open, burst through, and almost tripped over her own feet in shock.
Where was the corridor? The balconies and their billowing gossamer drapes? The gleaming walls of gold leaf and glowing amber? The door had taken her someplace else. Lina sucked in a breath. The air tasted tight. Metallic. Like licking the striking side of a matchbox. Dragging her tongue across her bottom lip would end in a mouthful of sparks.
She stood in a room at the top of a storm-ravaged tower. Its roof was caved in, its stained-glass windows shattered, a light rain falling sideways through the holes. Candles, books, and ruined furniture littered a sodden, blackened carpet.
Sudden guilt speared Lina. This was their fault. Her fault. When she’d thrown the bottled spell to summon the storm, she’d seen lightning strike the palace towers. She’d wanted to bring the whole hateful place down, but she hadn’t thought—
The door slammed shut behind her.
Lina jumped. “Finley?” She grabbed the door handle, dropping the knife to grip it with both hands.
It wouldn’t turn, wouldn’t open, wouldn’t give.
She thumped a fist on the wood. “Finley? Finley!”
Someone groaned. Lina whirled, the door handle digging into the small of her back. She snatched the knife off the floor.
A fallen cabinet against the wall opposite shuddered, throwing up a cloud of dust. Someone was struggling to crawl out from under it, fingernails scrabbling at the carpet. Their blond hair was matted with blood from a deep gash on their forehead.
Lina’s heart stopped. Oh God. Had they been in here when she’d brought the storm down? Had anyone else?
“Don’t move!” Her slippers squelched as she picked her way through the chaos. She felt like she was going to be sick. “Don’t move. I’m coming. Hold on.”
“What have you done?”
Her head jerked up at the familiar voice, mouth falling open as she squinted at the dusty, blood-streaked face. “Thomas?”
“What have you done?” The words were rasping, thick with pain and accusation.
“I didn’t—God, I’m so—” Lina’s breath hitched. She slipped on a leather-bound book and her ankle buckled as her weight shifted suddenly. She crumpled, landing hard, the carpet grazing her palms raw. The knife jolted out of her grip.
She gasped, gritted her teeth, and looked up. “I’m okay. Just…hold still…”
There was no one trapped beneath the fallen cabinet. No one struggling to crawl out of the ruins on bleeding hands and knees. The space Thomas had occupied was empty save for dust.
The hair along the back of Lina’s neck rose. “Thomas?” It came out as a whisper.
The air shifted. The slightest gust of wind ruffled the pages of another book, muffled the soft patter of raindrops. Lina struggled to her feet. She was suddenly acutely aware of something, someone, moving somewhere behind her. A whisper of silk. A cat-soft step.
She swallowed hard, steeled herself, and slowly turned.
There was no one. Nothing, save a fading twist of night-dark smoke.
Lina willed her heart to stop racing. She reminded herself of the black pearl she’d swallowed minutes before. She layered her words with the same soft, syrupy sweetness she’d used to compel Finley. “I—I know you’re there.” She bit her cheek, cursing herself for the stutter. “Why don’t you come out? Where’s my brother? What have you done with him?”
No answer.
Lina licked the parched surface of her lips. “My name is Lina Kirk. I’m here for Thomas Lin. I’m here to take him back.” Her voice grew louder. “But you knew that, or you wouldn’t have conjured that…that illusion, that thing.” Fresh anger stirred to life in her stomach, burning away her nerves. “You can’t pick the same boy twice!”
The smoky air seemed to pulse with half-heard laughter, as if whispering back: Who says I can’t?
“Why don’t you show yourself?” Lina coaxed, stressing each syllable. The pearl’s magic had worked to charm Finley. It worked for the sopranos at the Conservatoire. Why wasn’t it working now?
She tried forcing the lock on the door with Finley’s knife but only succeeded in blunting the blade.
He was going to be very angry about that.
If he was still alive.
If she ever saw him again.
If the Witch Queen hadn’t already fed him to her sea serpent.
In a fit of pure frustration Lina hurled the blunt knife across the room. A panicked tear singed a stripe of fire down her cheek, and she swiped furiously at the wetness.
“Are you still there?” she tried again. “I just want to talk. I—”
There was the softest snick, a key turning in a lock. A drawn-out groan of rusted hinges.
Lina jerked back as the door swung wide, but no one stepped through. The open door merely waited, patient, golden glyphs glinting over its polished wood, the shadows beyond beckoning in silent invitation.
Lina hesitated. Where would it take her this time? Unlikely that it led anywhere good…
But what did she have left to lose? They’d already taken Finley, stolen Thomas. Both were in danger because of her. She wasn’t helping either by staying put.
She crossed the threshold. And again, the Water Palace’s doors, like doors in a dream, took her elsewhere, somewhere she least expected. It was a chapel, hushed as church. Cold and smelling strongly of incense, its holy walls were decorated with human bones, a chain of skulls grinning above the altar.
Still no sign of anyone.
The next archway—double doors this time—opened into a ghostly salon, pale light falling through thin windows, furniture hiding beneath fluttering white sheets. The door after that led into a crypt where soul cages—lobster pots that sea devils placed along the seabed to lure in the souls of drowned sailors—lined every shelf.
Turning, Lina caught the quickest gleam of two pairs of cat-curious eyes. A flash of two little girls in little black dresses—two witchlings with gold swirls painted on the apples of their cheeks.
Their bare feet pattered. Their black skirts swished.
And then they were gone again.
Lina’s heart danced a furious beat. Were they playing games with her? Was this all some twisted form of hide-and-seek? Did they think this sort of thing frightened her? Lina was an islander, raised on breakfasts of charms and curses.
She flung open the next door. And the next, and the next, and the next.
For hours, days, maybe an eternity, she searched the palace for Finley and Thomas, for glimpses of a girl made from smoke. There was no keeping track of the time. With each step she grew wearier and wearier. She hadn’t slept since before the revel, and there was something hypnotic, nightmarish, to this endless sequence of doors. The rooms all melting together. And her ankle—God she was just so tired of hurting. Every day she woke up hoping, and it was still there—this weakness, this stubborn ache.
She was so scared the pain would always be there now, that it would never go away. And she knew she was making things worse by not resting, but she couldn’t rest, couldn’t stop now.
“Is this the best you can do?” she called out. “I’m not giving up.”
She forced herself to push through yet another door, feet sinking with shocked splashes into ice-cold water.
Lina hissed, eyes taking a beat to adjust to the sudden darkness, tongue suddenly tangy with the taste of salt and old seaweed. She was standing knee-deep in the shallows of a flooded sea cave rippling with emerald and sapphire light.
Still water stretched in front of her, craggy fissures in the walls where sea-worn statues stood guard. Moss-covered stepping stones jutted like jade teeth, forming a slippery path through the spill.
Uneasiness curled inside Lina’s belly, her mind filling instantly with all the stories Finley had terrorized her with when she was small: Tales of the sea serpent the Witch Queen kept as a pet. The giant monster that snacked on the island’s criminals and swallowed mainlander ships, that slept in a cave carved into the flooded foundations of the Water Palace.
But it wasn’t like the monster ate just anyone, right? It protected the island, the islanders. She wasn’t a criminal… Was it a crime to break into the palace?
Lina started to turn back, twisting to find the door she’d just stepped through. But her attention caught.
Held.
Visions and images chased each other across the still surface of the water, flashing like fish scales. On the island, too, puddles sometimes reflected skies different from the one overhead.
Lina caught a glimpse of skirts whipping like whirlwinds, dancers spinning around a crackling bonfire in a field with mountains beyond. A view of the mainland. They celebrated their own grotesque version of St. Walpurga’s Eve, burning black-clad effigies and sometimes, when they caught them, real witches.
Next came a shimmery vision of Caldella, the island’s winding water roads and pastel rainbow of tightly stacked town houses, its cobbled squares and secret gardens. Longing stole Lina’s breath. Her beautiful enchanted city. The setting of her love story. She wanted to focus the image, to pinch and poke at it until it revealed her front door, until it showed her family, her brother, showed her where Finley was now.
Before she could do anything, the image changed.
Now, the water showed the Conservatoire, its mirrored walls and polished floors the rich, intoxicating color of melted caramel. And a figure, Lina herself, twirling, nimble feet dancing over two crossed swords, performing one of the island’s traditional dances, one staged on the eve of battle, that foretold triumph or loss depending on whether your feet brushed the naked blades.
Would she dance like that again? Would she be able to? Her cousin, a doctor, had said she would, but there was always this lingering fear at the back of her mind.
Every injury took its toll. Limited her. Even before she’d broken her ankle, it had been stiff from scar tissue; she couldn’t count the number of times she’d rolled it. It was her weak ankle. It was going to take so much work to get back to where she’d been. It had already taken so much hard work to get there, and it was hard work, not talent, Lina knew. Hard work and always picking herself up again.
She gave herself a shake.
You’ve been through this before. You’ll get through it again. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
Focus.
She searched the cave, the shadows, voice echoing across the water as she shouted, “How long are you going to keep hiding? Aren’t you tired of this game?”
The visions the water had shown faded until the surface reflected only her anguished face.
God, she looked awful. Like something broken and brought in with the tide. Hair matted in knots, kohl smudged under eyes red from lack of sleep.
And then that image vanished, too, the water shivering like someone had stroked a single finger down its back.
Lina opened her mouth to speak again.
It went for her legs. A slick tail lashed out, coiled around her calves, and ripped her from the shallows. Black water swallowed the sound of her screams as the serpent dragged her under.
Lina thrashed and fought and clawed and kicked. But its tail coiled tighter, dragged her deeper, and the black water was everywhere. Behind her eyes. Filling her throat, her nose.
She spluttered, choked, inhaled, choked again. Bloated faces and swollen flesh swirled in a great tide of bubbles. The ghosts of drowned boys come to accompany her to a watery grave.
No.
Strength leached out of her limbs.
No.
Her arms chopped weakly at the current. Her kicks were feeble. A numbness was creeping through her fingers and toes, stealing into her chest. Lina’s vision flickered. She saw the bubbles drifting up. Her last breath floating to the surface.
No, please.