Is also great
And would suffice.
—Robert Frost (1874-1963)
Harper’s Magazine,
December 1920.
Chapter One
Oneida Lake looked almost the same as I remembered. The water was dark and glassy, the perfect mirror for a giant or a god. Late fall had come to northern New York. The surrounding trees had shed their fiery fall cloaks and encircled the lake as skeletal sentries, silent witnesses to what happened there all those weeks before. A blast of wind sent the trees swaying, and they creaked and groaned but gave away no secrets. They told me nothing about what had happened to Skyla.
The bits of detritus scattered throughout the Ramirez family’s cabin maintained the silence as well. Our sleeping gear and luggage lay undisturbed. Empty wine bottles adorned the counter, and dishes collected dust in the drying rack. I ignored the cooler squatting on the kitchen floor. The ice had certainly melted over the past five weeks, and whatever was left inside had probably bred several mold cultures I was happy to never know about. If only mold could talk. Then again, the stuff growing inside that cooler probably could.
Outside, in the front yard, a smear of burnt grass indicated the place where I had gone stellar, transmuting into that other state, but no rusty stains showed where Inyoni had bled out from a fatal cut to her throat. No remains proved Khalani, the Valkyries’ Mistress of the Blade, had existed. No ash pile signified the gravesite of Hati, the mythological wolf who’d killed my brother. No monument to my vengeance, no memorial to commemorate the place where I’d fulfilled my promises.
I had found Mani’s killer and brought him justice. Still, a hollow place lingered inside me: the hole that had formed after Mani’s death. Killing Hati had not healed it. Perhaps it restored some sense of balance, though, because I no longer felt so much like a broken-keeled ship, listing to one side.
I had never killed anything other than the occasional spider or mosquito. Hati was a man, a wolf, a monster, and I had snuffed his animating spark, or his spirit, or whatever it was that had brought him to life. Did it matter whether he was myth or real, magic or flesh and bone? I had wanted him dead, and the result was the same. I kept asking myself if I regretted killing him, if I felt bad about it, but I never did. I still don’t. Was that wrong?
At the end of the day, I managed to look myself in the face without cringing. Nothing else mattered.
I crouched in the yard and studied my hands, my smooth palms, which had held fire and flames and bent them to my will. The transmutation had drained me, and in the days since, I had managed nothing but a pitiful glow from my fingertips. A cold ball of dread resided in my gut and would likely stay there until my fire returned to its full potential. I had no idea how long that would take, how long I would be vulnerable and defenseless.
Not a question you can answer today, Solina. Quit wasting time. Every minute you stay here, you’re putting yourself in more danger.
To satisfy my need for diligence, I circled the lot one more time. I didn’t want a doubtful voice whispering in my ear when I left the lake: Are you sure you didn’t miss something? Are you sure…? After my second inspection, I realized the big black truck was gone, the one Thorin had left at the Aerie for me, the one Skyla, Inyoni, Kalani and I had driven on a cross-country sprint from Mendocino to Oneida.
In the end, Thorin had provided resources, supported my decisions, and honored my wishes. A cooperative Thorin was hard to dismiss and even harder to resist. Letting him get close meant trusting he wouldn’t compromise my independence or manipulate my plans in ways that best suited him. It meant believing he had not only his own interests at heart but mine, too. Not sure I’m willing to take that chance on him. Not until I know myself better. Not until I can stand on my own and face him as an equal.
Maybe Nate McNairy had taken the truck to remove evidence. Maybe Thorin had managed to track it, despite having insisted the truck was a ghost, untraceable. Maybe Skyla had used it to escape from Nate, and she was on the run, same as me. The idea of Skyla as a fugitive was a hopeful one, and I clung to it because it meant she had survived.
Other than the absence of the truck, I found nothing worth noting. After shushing the questioning voice in my head, I returned to the driveway and climbed into the backseat of the cab that was waiting for me—meter running, of course—while I conducted my investigation. A rental car would have been more economical, but it required identification and paperwork. Coming back to Oneida Lake was dangerous enough, but Skyla was worth that risk. Coming back to Oneida Lake and leaving a trail would have been suicidal. Sacrificing myself to save the world was a noble idea, but dying because of lazy mistakes was just plain wasteful.
And I don’t want my life—or my death—to be a waste.
“Where to now, miss?” the driver asked.
“Take me back to where you got me,” I said.
The taxi had picked me up from a bus station in Syracuse, the closest depot on Greyhound’s route.
The cab driver fiddled with his GPS and said, “Okee dokee. You got money to burn, I guess?”
“Not a lot of money. Just a whole lot of worry.”
Chapter Two
Five weeks later…
The sour odors of alcohol and sweat infused my work shirt. My deodorant and body wash had fought gallantly on my behalf, but the arrival of a celebrating men’s softball team and a spilled glass of cheap gin had struck the conquering blows. Spills and stains had defeated me before and probably would again unless my fairy godmother showed up and worked a miracle on my behalf. In my experience, magic was rarely so benevolent. I was better off relying on myself.
The bar smelled nothing like my family’s bakery with its signatures of vanilla, yeast—the bread kind, not the beer kind—cinnamon, butter, and warm sugar. Even the cleaning solutions and rubber floor mats supplied their own distinct notes. I missed my bakery, but not as much as I probably should have, considering I had once been resigned to spending the rest of my life there, pinned under the weight of my parents’ expectations. A lot had changed since then. Metamorphic things. Immortal things.
I swiped a rag over the old wooden bar top, clearing smudges and spills. Then I reached for a nearby mop and bucket to do the same for the floors, another chore added to a long and exhausting day of doling drinks, fencing grabby-handed advances, and placating obstinate drunks. A glance at the overflowing tip jar cheered me up, though.
“Hey, Sabrina,” Nikka said as she passed me on her way to the front door.
Her casual use of my false name felt like nails on a chalkboard, but the precaution was necessary for not just my safety but hers, too.
“You gonna be much longer?” she asked.
“Nah,” I said. “Just finishing up.”
“Five, ten minutes?”
“Something like that.”
“Then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“Uh.” I racked my brain for items on my to-do list that I might have overlooked, but mopping up and totaling the register receipts were the last chores in my nightly routine. “Then, nothing, I guess. I’ll go to bed.”
“You always go to bed.” Nikka pursed her lips into a pretty pout.
