“But this isn’t the end,” the other Figment added. Its voice was slightly deeper, more grating, like rocks moving together in a current. “We’ll see each other again. In the Crossroad. When we’re strong enough to travel …”
Soon, the lanterns became more frequent and quick bursts of laughter punctuated the air.
The stairs emptied into a cavernous space. Once again, Luc stopped, amazed. The room was filled with hundreds and hundreds of people—or at least, Luc thought they were people. They moved like people, but their skin was the same reddish color as the sand on the beach and looked thick, almost scaly. None had hair, and it was hard to distinguish males from females.
They had to be the Figures.
Each Figure was dancing with two featureless shadows—Figments—waltzing and spinning, dipping and laughing. The happiness in the room was almost palpable.
You’re looking for the pairing? The Figments’ words came back to him.
Luc looked around at the cavelike space, ornately decked out with furniture from the human world—some of it ancient and crumbling, some of it pristine—like Rhys’s raft had been.
Just before the shadows next to him slipped into the crowd, Luc called for them to wait. But when they both turned, he realized he was lost for words.
“Like he said, Luc. This isn’t the end.” The girl reached out to squeeze his arm. They nodded reassuringly before disappearing into the throng of Figments and Figures. Luc was left alone, mesmerized.
As he moved out of the doorway, into the whirling mass of strange bodies, he saw something catch the light of the lantern: Corinthe’s crystal earrings, dangling from the ear of one of the dancers.
Rhys!
As Luc got closer, Rhys tipped back his head and downed the contents of a vial. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned toward Luc. His eye covering hung loose, and Luc saw a violent gash where the eye should have been.
“Ah, you came back,” Rhys rasped. His long hair partly concealed his face. “Did you find your sister?” He swayed lightly, and Luc smelled sweat and herbs and something musty-sweet, like tobacco.
“No,” Luc said shortly. “What’s going on? What is this place?”
Rhys grinned and raised a glass. It occurred to Luc that the man was slightly drunk. “It’s a celebration, my friend. Once a year, at the end of the moons’ cycle, I arrange this secret get-together for those who wish to be whole again.”
“I thought the Figures were afraid of the Figments,” Luc said. But even as he said it, he knew it couldn’t be true. They didn’t look afraid. They looked … joyful. Free. The Figures and Figments laughed and touched and danced without pausing for breath. It was intimate in a way that made him want to look away, but at the same time, he was fascinated.
“The old generation were the ones to battle, the ones who banned the Figments. The young Figures only want to be whole again. They don’t have the fear of their forefathers.” Rhys shook his head. “They know only the feeling of division.”
Luc watched two Figments twirling on the arm of their Figure in the very center of the room. He felt an ache deep in his chest. Jasmine would love this place: the energy, the excitement. Dancing with shadows.
He was reminded of the outdoor concert he’d attended with Jas a few years ago. She hadn’t stopped dancing all night; her hair had been whipping around so fast, she joked she could use it as a weapon. The air smelled like cigarettes and patchouli and sunscreen, and he remembered thinking that he needed to memorize everything: the look and the smell, the way she was dancing, how she’d fallen asleep on the train back to the apartment with her head resting on his shoulder. It was as if he already knew that things would start to fall apart. That she would grow up and get stubborn and wild and moody, that he wouldn’t be able to protect her.
“Don’t you see?” Rhys said in a low voice. “They must have their Others. Their shadow selves. Isn’t that what it’s all about—finding the one who makes you feel whole again?”
As Luc watched the Figure spin faster, he found that it seemed to merge with its Figments so that they were indistinguishable, moving completely in tandem. The music was wild, full of joy and longing. All around him, Figures and Figments converged, melted into each other, became one. Even Rhys was soon swept away by his Figments, drawn into the middle of the floor, where they’d had made room for him.
The music changed and a thumping beat began to vibrate through the floor. The tempo started out slow, then picked up speed.
The Figures and Figments moved with it, as if they all shared the same pulse. They lifted their hands in the air. They shouted, cries of happiness and freedom. Rhys passed in and out of view. He looked so happy. So joyful.
And still the dance went on—faster, more frenzied—nameless arms reaching out and pulling Luc into the mass of undulating bodies and shadows.
Luc’s own heartbeat pounded frantically in his chest as he was swept up in the crowd. He swayed with the others, letting their movements guide him. There was a pressure building in his chest, something he couldn’t name or explain. And then, as the music crescendoed, as the shouts of joy crested over him like a physical force, it brought with it a single word, blazing through him, impossible to ignore.
Corinthe.
When his mother died, she had taken part of him with her. He had never expected to feel whole again.
But he did. He had. A spark, long buried, had jumped to life when he met Corinthe.
He understood her. They were so similar. Both holding tight to responsibilities that were too big, too heavy for them. Trying so hard to do the right thing, struggling to find a place where they fit in.
A realization struck him as swiftly as a lightning bolt: Corinthe made him feel whole again. Around her, everything made sense. He felt the awareness in his whole body, down into his fingertips.
He loved her.
She was his Other.
He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or heartbroken. She was the one—he knew that now—and he might never see her again. Gripped by twin feelings of terror and awe, he pushed his way back out of the crowd, then through the entranceway and back up through the tunnel. He needed air.
Once outside, he stood heaving, his head still thumping from the smoke and music below. At first he didn’t even notice that Rhys had reappeared at his side.
Rhys leaned in close. “Need something for your head?”
Luc could smell his breath. It was clear Rhys was drunk on something. He opened his coat and reached into the inner lining to retrieve another of his vials. As he did so, the various contents of his coat caught the moonlight. One object in particular spilled out and swung from a chain attached to his waist. It reminded Luc of an antique watch, but the shape was different. Whatever it was, it looked somehow, impossibly, familiar.
“What is that?” Luc demanded with sudden urgency.
Rhys shrugged and grabbed the swinging object in his hand. “The compass? Something I made a long time ago,” he slurred. “It was part of a pair. Worthless, I guess. It was supposed to mean something, but she lost hers—” He broke off.
“She, who?” Luc said, taking the object into his hands and turning it over.
“Miranda,” Rhys answered, his voice slurry and heavy with sadness. “Love is bigger than any of us, my boy. It follows its own rules. For love I have lost everything. Even my eyes.”
“Love made you blind?” Luc asked with uncertainty.
“Not blind, you fool.” Rhys suddenly swung around and grabbed Luc’s shoulder. His grip was hard and firm. It was as if he were looking straight into Luc’s soul. “I turned back time,” he whispered. “Not even the Unseen Ones could stop me. And it was worth it. Even though I lost her, too. …” His voice trailed off, and Luc watched him pull another vial from his coat and bring it unsteadily to his lips.