I stare at the canvas, still wet with paint. The oil shines, malleable but firm, and I thought for a moment that the movement was just that—the oil—but when I peered closer, nose nearly touching, I know what I saw was real. Someone looking at me from the other side.
Not the Otherside. That’s where I am, locked in my studio tower. But the painting is of the other realm, my former home and studio in the attic of The Nead. It’s the opposite of here—the flip of the mirror. It’s the way back and the way in, and gods almighty I think Morgan may have just been on the other side.
My fingers coil around the paintbrush, pushing back the desire to reach through and grab her.
Not that I could. Not yet at least, and what are the chances of it being so easy? The magic hasn’t set, not from my side anyway. And the painting is one of many—hundreds—left to confuse Dylan or anyone else looking for entrance. I need to get back to The Nead. I must. If I don’t bring the Queen what she wants, her wrath will rain upon the house. Not just on me—no—she never goes after her opponent directly. No, the Morrigan is methodical about her pain.
I cannot bear another night of screams from the dungeon.
What I have done to my brothers is unredeemable. Even if Morgan ever chose to look past my actions or if I can assist in her stopping the Queen, the Guardians, my brothers? They will torture me in the ancient ways.
I deserve nothing less.
Stepping back from the canvas, I exhale an exhausted shudder of relief. It’s complete. I’ve worked day after day, night after frigid night, until my eyes blurred and my fingers cramped.
But the painting is a masterpiece, if not in subject but ability. My magic is so much stronger here. It doesn’t take the layers and layers of infused ingredients to create the gate. Here, the magic is combined in every brush stroke, every drop. Runes mixed with images, stirred with spells and paint. But even then, there’s nothing that can be done until the oil dries, which may take days with the damp chill of the castle. Glancing around the room, I spot the fireplace and the dry heat it emits. There’s little wood—I’m only given a few logs a day—just enough to keep my fingers nimble. I stare at the other paintings. The rejects—or ruses. The wood backing would make acceptable kindling. The jar of turpentine, a decent accelerant.
The Morrigan’s impatience for war has brought me to this moment. I toss the first canvas in, watching the painting melt with the heat of the fire. I watch the earth realm disappear into a puddle of goo, and direct my most recent painting toward the heat.
Soon I will cross back over, and with the gods on my side I’ll earn the good will of my mistress. If not, I think, watching the canvas vanish beneath the flames, I’ll brace for the future and the hellfire that will destroy us all.
Chapter 14
Morgan
I step out of the bar, feeling the faint tingle of my magic having been returned after crossing the wards. Again, my magic is faint—weakened by the split and being separated from my mates. Dylan is a pleasant boost, but not enough. I’m hoping what the Shaman and others have said, about magic being stronger on the Otherside, is true. It explains a lot about why the Morrigan wants me trapped over here.
I wait for the car to arrive—I’d been too chicken to drive here in one of The Nead’s vehicles. There’s little doubt that they are outfitted with trackers, anyway. Pulling out the phone, I check the app—the car is three blocks away, caught in some kind of traffic. It gives me a moment to go back over the final moments of my conversation with the Shaman, how I’ll pass through the gate and where.
The instructions were vague. He’d told me to go to the last place Bunny had been seen. Look for the “cracks.”
“The gate will still be there. It was created centuries ago. That house was built over the portal. You just have find the actual gate.”
Bunny’s studio makes the most sense. The magic is strong there. It always has been. I’d known it since that day he’d painted me with runes. The catch would be getting up there unnoticed. It’s a long way from the cells in the basement of the house to the attic. I’ll have to figure something out.
A block down the street buzzes, catching my attention, and I’m sucked into a strange sense of déjà vu. I step into the road, into a flicker of a memory—no, not a memory—a photo. One of the scenes from Sam’s photos.
The street is empty except for leaves blowing against the curb. The air is cold, but it’s nearing winter. It’s not the icy fingers of the Otherside clawing through the realm, although in my mind I can almost make out the black tendrils of smoke, the vision of Clinton bound and beaten. I can taste the sulfur in the air. The image of him is superimposed—this world over the next—and I reach my hand out, wondering how far away he really is.
Leaves crunch behind me and I center back in this world.
“Well, well, well,” a deep voice says. “Isn’t it a little dangerous to be out here alone?” I spin and face a lanky man. His skin is pale. A heavy beard covers his chin. I don’t know him.
I cut my eyes away from him, looking down the street for the car. “Why would it be dangerous?”
“Dark street, outside a shady bar. Three people went missing in this very spot a week ago.”
Ah, so he knows who I am. He doesn’t need to know that I’m aware. “I heard.”
He eases closer. I feel the brush of his leather jacket against mine. The hair on the back of my neck prickles in warning. “Plus there’s a nasty virus going around. You’re not afraid?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, wrapping his arm around my waist. I rear back, jabbing him with an elbow and stomping on his foot. I spin, kicking him in the thigh and catching the glint of silver from a blade in his hand.
“There’s only one reason for you to come back here tonight. You’re going to try to stop her.” He lunges, swiping the knife toward my gut. I jump back but he snags the front of my jacket, tearing the leather. “I can’t let you do that.”
I quickly move behind a parked car but he scrambles for me, sliding over the hood. While he’s off balance I punch him twice in the face, slamming his wrist against the window shield. He struggles but my adrenaline surges, and like with Hildi, magic rallies. My nails grow long and pointed, stabbing into the thin skin of his wrist. He releases the knife with a surprised jerk. It clatters under the car.
“Stay away,” I tell him, panicked at the nails, sharp as razors. He’s frozen, and that gives me time to race toward the main road. The metal of the car hood groans under his weight but within seconds he’s back on his feet, chasing me.
The color of his eyes darken as he runs, the hatred in his veins vibrates off his skin. He moves his hands together, creating a ball of visible energy—like fire but not quite. He tosses it in his hands before throwing it at me. I dodge and it crashes into a blue mailbox, knocking it to the ground.