“Why not?” I asked, suddenly worried.
“If his father breaks in when you are in contact during a shared consciousness, he could use your magical connection to track you down. He could follow the pull of your newly-awakened powers to find you. A connection like that could put everything in danger. Do you understand?”
I nodded my head before leaning against the tub and closing my eyes.
“Open your mouth.”
I obeyed, but didn’t look as Wyn placed the bitter, gritty drevo on my tongue again. I closed my jaw around it tightly, fighting against the reflex to spit it out.
“Ready?”
“MmmmHmmm.” I felt Ilyan’s wide hand lay flat against my collar bone.
The warmth of his magic swam into me, the heat stretching to every corner of my body. It stayed there comfortably before his hand moved me under the water. I fought the temptation to gulp in air as he pushed me under. The warmth of his magic gained in intensity as I lay there, under the water, my lungs beginning to protest the lack of oxygen.
Ilyan’s magic continued to increase until it grew into a pain, my lungs adding their own throbbing in their panic for air. My eyes snapped open again, just as I was about to pass out. I didn’t see Ilyan and Wyn.
I saw Ryland’s bedroom, I saw Edmund sharpening a knife, and I saw a lot of blood.
TwentyThree
I saw only a flash of the bedroom before I was dragged into the white space again. I stood frozen, in the middle of the large room, not daring to move. My hands flexed at my sides, every part of me on high alert. I heard a scuffle and a whimper, followed by a pained sob. I spun around at the sound, my heart plunging to see Ryland curled up in a ball on the floor, his body naked except for a pair of boxer shorts. His hands gripped his curly hair tightly, his knees pulled up to his chest. He sobbed as his body writhed.
I ran to him, but as I got closer I couldn’t help but think that something was off about him. Just seeing him curled in a ball on the ground, he looked smaller, leaner and less muscular. I had almost reached him when I stopped short, remembering that I couldn’t touch him. He cried out in agony again before reverting to his tortured ball.
“Ryland!” I called out, lifting my voice above his screams.
“Stay away!” he yelled, his voice panicked and high pitched. “Don’t hurt me! I can’t take any more.”
I gaped at him, his body looked completely fine. Everything was smooth and perfect. Except for his boxers. I looked at what were obviously blood stains, some of the pools of red still wet and glistening.
Edmund, sharpening a knife.
My heart caught and sputtered, my stomach threatening to turn out its contents. What had Edmund done to his son? Ovailia had said I could see how he really looked by seeing with my mind and not my heart, but when looking at the wet pools of blood, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see.
“Ryland,” I kept my voice even.
“Don’t hurt me!” He curled himself into an even tighter ball, his joints turning white from the tension.
“I am not going to hurt you, I promise.”
“You will hurt me! Everyone always hurts me!”
“I won’t hurt you. I want to keep you safe.”
His whimpering and terror lessoned, but his body stayed wrapped in a ball.
“Everyone hurts me,” he repeated, but his voice wasn’t as terrified.
“I won’t; I promise.”
His body unwound from within itself, and he moved his hands from in front of his face to peek out at me. His blue eyes pierced me from behind dark lashes. He removed his hands all the way, looking at me from the ground where he lay.
I tried my best to stifle a sob. The boy that lay on the ground was definitely Ryland, but not the Ryland I had shared a cheeseburger with, not the Ryland I last saw. I looked into the face of a much younger Ryland; a Ryland who I stole cars with and snuck into his parent’s pool in the middle of the night. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. He looked at me in confusion, the lack of recognition evident on his face. My heart plummeted.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice catching in between tears.
“Joclyn,” I answered honestly. “Don’t you remember me?”
“Joclyn?” His face screwed up in fear. “You’re too old to be Joclyn.”
I guess he was right; if he was sixteen, he’d remember me at about fourteen.
“It’s me, Ryland. I promise. I just look a little different.” I gave him a little smile and his body relaxed a little more.
“How do I know it’s you?”
“Do you remember when I was ten and we stole the car? Or when I was eleven and we snuck into the swimming pool, and you tried to do a flip and split your head open on the diving board?” His body began to relax with each memory I shared, so I kept going. “Or how about when we first met and you said that my eyes—”
“Looked like diamonds,” he finished for me.
“Yeah.”
“So, it’s really you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not going to hurt me?”