I roll my eyes. “Stop making excuses. You swore to be honest. How can I trust you if all you do is lie?”
His hand closes into a fist that he lowers to his side. “Don’t you see that everything, everything, I’ve done is because—”
The pool bubbles, gurgles. The water turns green, a rerun of last night’s show, but in a new venue. I blink rapidly. My palms go clammy. This is bad.
A man with greasy, slicked-back hair emerges. He’s clad in leather pirate garb, and water cascades from his frame, from a holstered gun on one hip and a sheathed sword on the other. A black patch covers his left eye, completing the Davy Jones effect. Some kind of weird tattoo creeps up his neck and stops at his jaw. Like long black claws going for the kill.
Joshua assumes a protective stance in front of me.
“Joshua, my old comrade.” The man leers. “It’s been too long.”
ACT II
I’m Not That Girl
EIGHT
Hands Touch
My back smashes wall. Joshua’s frame is a stalwart tower separating me from Jack Sparrow’s much older and less attractive cousin. Why do I get the feeling my shivers are caused, not by the chilled stone icing my skin through layers of clothing but by grease-head’s frosty glare?
Joshua reaches back, wraps an arm around me, and draws me closer. “It hasn’t been long enough, Haman. And do not call me comrade. You betrayed the League of Guardians to follow Crowe and the Void. As far as I’m concerned, you were never on our side.”
Haman steps ashore, his gait slow and uninterested. “Details, details.” He smiles. A silver tooth fits like a single black key among a row of sparkling ivories. “I’m here for the girl. But you already knew that.” He sighs. “There’s no use stalling. You can’t win this, boy.” Haman titters. “The Void grows stronger each moment. With each heart that turns black. With each soul that gives in, my master moves closer to victory.” He laughs again, a mocking, disrespectful sound.
Joshua huffs. “You’ve chosen your side. As far as I’m concerned, you and Crowe deserve each other, you two-faced son of a swine.”
This time Haman snickers. “You have some nerve pointing out my shortcomings. Tell me, Joshua, how does it feel to be a murderer?”
Now he’s flat-out lying.
“You. Tell. Me.”
Joshua’s rage emanates straight into every fiber of my being. With each word, each lie, my own anger escalates. It’s like he and I are one entity, a series of melodies and harmonies woven together to create one intricately beautiful, yet complicated, piece.
Haman snaps his fingers.
Joshua collapses to the floor, writhing in pain.
I scream. This time the waterfall’s roar drowns the echo. “What are you doing to him?” I throw off my backpack and kneel. Joshua kicks me hard in the thigh. I ignore the bruise already forming and place my hands on him. Calm down. He’ll be okay.
He twists and turns in silent agony.
I glower at Haman. Sweltering tears spurt from my eyes. “Stop it!”
His good eye twitches. Hesitation? Could my pleas convince him?
“Please! I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll come with you, but please don’t hurt him.”
He lifts a hand and examines his fingernails.
I cover Joshua’s entire body with my own. What do I do? What do I say?
“Be brave,” Mom whispers.
I can’t. I don’t know how.
I lie next to Joshua, hold him. I’m useless. I couldn’t save Mom. I can’t save him.
“Please,” I breathe into his neck. “Please.”
Joshua goes still.
I sit and lift his head into my lap. His eyes are closed. His face is no longer contorted but peaceful. “Joshua.” I trace his brow. “Wake up.”
“He can’t hear you.” The voice is not Haman’s.
I jerk my head toward the door we came through. Ky stands there, plus one swelling eye, minus a hoodie. He’s got a tan pack slung over his back. Blood stains the front of his Mets shirt. Makai’s blood.
“Are you alone?” Haman asks.
Ky nods. “Archer won’t be a problem.”
They both turn to me. “What about her?” Ky asks with a jut of his chin.
“Also not a problem.”
Ky comes at me then.
I close my eyes and hold on to Joshua with all the strength I have. Arms stronger than mine wrench me away. I’m kicking and screaming, never looking directly at Ky.
Snap.
My intestines feel as if they’ve been ripped from my gut, twisted into knots, and then thrown back in. My forehead sears. My ears ignite. Every bone, nerve, and muscle shrieks against the torture. Make it stop. Please.
“What should I do with the rebel?” Ky transfers my dying body to Haman’s arms.
I’m released from the pain the moment his hands touch my skin. Just before I pass out for the second time today, Haman answers, “Toss him in the water.”
“A fire destroyed Lincoln Cooper’s gallery. As far as we know, your mother was the only one inside. We’ve yet to uncover her remains, but we have two witnesses who saw her enter half an hour before the blaze began. We suspect arson. Did she have any enemies? Any suspects we can follow up on?”
I stare with blank eyes past the NYPD officer relaying the information of Mom’s disappearance . . . death? I can’t look directly at him. Too real.
Now I’m wandering aimlessly through Central Park. How did I get here? I don’t remember leaving the house.
“El?”
My numbed heart flutters. I rotate in slow motion.
Joshua takes a hesitant step toward me. “I saw the cops outside your house. El, I’m so—”
I close the distance between us, fall against his chest, and cry.
We stay that way awhile. He doesn’t push me away, but he doesn’t fully embrace me either. He lets me be, and for a moment, it’s okay.
Until it isn’t. I want more.
My snot and salty tears soak his flannel shirt. I can’t even think about how my face looks right now. I won’t think about it. I sniff and dry my cheeks with my jacket sleeves. My forehead only reaches his chin. When I look into his eyes, I’m home.
This is right. This is real. I still have Joshua.
I rise on my toes, close my eyes, and—
“No.” Joshua pulls away, taking all warmth and life with him. He scratches the back of his head, avoiding eye contact.
Tears burn. I trip over myself. I’m gone.
I open my eyes, attempt to recover from the all-too-real flashback. I try to breathe in, but I can’t. No air underwater.
This must be the Threshold. What do Haman and Ky plan to do with me once we get to the other side—Reflection?
Drowning doesn’t get easier with experience. It’s like shooting up with a dose of panic. Walls close in while the surrounding space remains vastly empty. It doesn’t help that my body is wracked with sobs, involuntarily welcoming my death sentence with every gulp of water.
An arm secures my waist, pulling me down, down, down into the whirlpool of green. I don’t bother seeing who has hold of me. Bubbles rise as I fall. Then a body disrupts the still water above. Joshua’s limp and unconscious form sinks in slow motion. I reach for him, wince at the pain the small movement causes. I don’t care. I keep reaching, keep fighting.