“Hello, Hearteater,” he said.
He had found her. She had foolishly hoped it would take him longer to figure out her identity. Or that her stabbing had wounded him enough to buy her a few weeks to figure out a plan. She knew it wouldn’t kill him. She had just wanted to incapacitate him long enough to make her escape.
Now here he was.
Impossibly, in her room, in the Wildling newland. Here to kill her.
Before she could breathe, his hand was wrapped around hers—the one that held the dagger—so painfully that she flinched.
Isla grunted, adrenaline rushing through her, as she tried to wrestle herself away. That only made him angry. He growled and shoved her against the glass wall of her room. It felt nothing like before.
No, this time he twisted her arm painfully, so that her own knife was at her throat.
She writhed beneath him, heart pounding, arm flashing in pain. All he did was frown down at her, eyes fixed in a glare.
“You cursed hearteater”—he spat the word like it disgusted him—“dare to come to my realm, disguised, to assassinate me.” The blade dug against her neck. She had sharpened the tip herself; it was so sharp that it immediately cut into her skin. She smelled her own blood. He was going to kill her, stab her just like she had him.
She wasn’t like him. She didn’t have power that would delay her death. Isla flicked the wrist that he wasn’t holding. The weapon disguised as a bracelet unveiled its spike. She stabbed it through his thigh.
The Nightshade ruler roared, and her dagger dropped to the floor—but before she could take her chance to escape, the blade to her neck was replaced with an invisible grip.
She choked as she floated in the air, clawing at her throat. He stood there, focused, as she was hauled farther up the wall.
Isla gasped for breath, but the grip didn’t loosen. She saw stars. Could barely hear him as he said, “Was this your plan to keep me from the Centennial? To try and break the curses? Did you mean to make a fool of me?” The pressure gripped even tighter, and her vision went white. “Who are you working with?”
Isla tried to speak, but her words sounded like whimpers.
“How did you travel to Nightshade so quickly?”
At that, Isla glared at him, enraged, exasperated. How was she supposed to answer all his questions when he had her throat in an invisible fist?
Like he could read her thoughts, he bared his teeth—
And released her.
Isla fell to the floor in a heap, gasping, her fevered forehead and hands flat against the cold ground. Her unbuttoned dress slipped down her shoulders.
It took what seemed like a lifetime to catch her breath. Once she did, she gripped the dagger from the floor, scuttled to the corner of her room, away from him, that monster, that filth—
He had almost killed her.
Across the room, Grimshaw frowned. Frowned.
It was her turn to bare her teeth at him. She lifted the dagger in his direction, with a shaking arm. “Monster,” she said, her voice just a rasp against the back of her throbbing throat. She spat at him.
He had the nerve to laugh. He took a step forward, and she had to force herself not to flinch.
“I’m the monster?” he said. Another step. “When Wildlings eat the hearts of men?” He looked down at her with disgust.
He didn’t know, then, that the curse didn’t apply to her. That was good.
Her hand went to her neck, and she winced. The skin there was tender.
Grimshaw followed the trace of her fingers. “Do I need to remind you that you stabbed me?” With a furious motion, he tore his shirt up to reveal an angry scar just inches from his heart.
Isla swallowed. Stabbing him had been a mistake. She had been panicked, acting on instinct.
Now she knew how foolish it had been. If he hadn’t been her enemy then, he certainly was now. Grimshaw would be at the Centennial if he decided to accept the invitation. He would kill her.
The Nightshade ruler took a step closer. Prowled, really. His chin bent low, he looked at her with eyes dark as charcoal, squinted into a glare.
She scuttled back an inch. Another.
“How did you get into my realm?” he demanded.
Panic spiked through her chest. She forced her eyes not to dart to the floorboard where she hid her starstick. Her spine was drenched in fear, but she used all her strength to sit up straight, to meet his gaze.
The Nightshade ruler’s voice became eerily calm. “How,” he said, taking another step. “Did.” Another step. “You.” The word held the same poison as his look as he regarded her, splayed against the greenhouse glass like a weakling. “Get. In.”
He bent down low, eyes never leaving hers. By the time he was almost nose to nose with her, she used that fear as a cover. As she cowered beneath his shadow, she gripped the blade still in her hand.
Before he could take another breath, its tip was resting just below his chin.
Her nostrils flared. Her voice shook, out of not just fear now but anger. Anger at herself for being so weak.
“Get,” she said, matching his tone. “Out.” Something in his expression flinched at the spit flying from her mouth, from the intensity of her words. Good. “Of. My. Room.”
She pushed the blade into his skin for emphasis, waited to feel the heat of his blood on her hand.
But before she could apply enough pressure, he vanished.
She collapsed fully against the floor, shaking like a child, wondering how the Nightshade seemed to have the same portaling ability as her starstick.
KEY CLICKING INTO A LOCK
Isla startled awake. No. Oro was still clutching her hand, but he was finally sleeping, head leaned to the side. She didn’t want to wake him.
A single memory was one thing. Two?
She had been so weak. Cowering. Now that her abilities were unraveled, she refused to ever feel that way again.
That day, Isla left her bed. She bathed in the small tub Ella had set up. The water was freezing, as Oro couldn’t use his abilities in the Place of Mirrors to heat it, but she gritted her teeth against the chill. She put on the dark-green pants, long-sleeved shirt, and high brown boots Leto had made her.
Isla began her training.
The dirt was dead in her hands.
Isla sat in the middle of Wild Isle, fingers curled into the soil. The headache and voices hadn’t gone away, but she forced them to the corners of her mind. She had been trying and failing to use her powers for nearly an hour.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Before . . .” All she’d had to do was place a hand on the forest floor and it had exploded with life and color.
Oro was standing a few feet away, leaning against a half-rotted tree. “Raw power is like a beast. Without mastery, it lashes out unpredictably. Not always when you want it to.” The memory of the rebels touching her skin flitted through her mind. “That’s why learning control is so important.”
“And difficult?” she asked, finally pulling her hands from the dirt.
“And difficult,” he agreed. “Using it in a directed way requires intense focus.”
Focus.
Her mind was filled to the brim, a thousand thoughts running rampant. She couldn’t focus on a single thought if her life depended on it.
“It might,” Oro said, and only then did she realize she had said part of that aloud. He bent down and grabbed a rock. He placed it in front of her. “Instead of just trying to force your power out, focus all of your mind and energy on this,” he said. “Move it.”
He got up and left.
She whipped around. “Where—where are you going? I thought you were going to train me.”
“I am,” he said.
She watched him walk back to the Place of Mirrors.
Her first impulse was to yell at his back that he had promised not to leave her, but no. She could do this.