Haman’s steed bucks him off, bolts forward past the—
A large winged creature with an eagle’s head and lion’s body stands on all fours, the front two feet talons, the back two paws. It snaps its razor beak and claws the ground, ready to pounce. Something brown and lumpy is strapped to its back. But none of these oddities sticks out as much as the brilliant blue feather growing from its mane.
The window. A sudden flash of blue. But the beast is huge. How could it fit inside the trome? “What is that thing?”
“Griffin,” Ky snarls.
Haman stands, adjusts his collar, and snaps his fingers.
The griffin charges.
It thrashes its head, flinging Haman to the side like a rag doll.
Serves you right, scalawag.
An anxious thrill grips me. Friend or foe? Either way, this thing has overcome a man I revile. I could run up and kiss it.
We back up. Turn. Race across the bridge. Ky kicks the horse hard. Twists the reins around his knuckles. Leans forward.
I crane my neck as the griffin lifts off the ground, beating its enormous wings. It’s gaining. Is it . . . smiling?
Two sets of talons grab me, yank me, lift me off the horse. Ky strangles my foot and rises too. I kick him. A searing pain shoots up my leg. I still.
He tightens his hold. So much for not speeding up my internal injuries.
The griffin breaks through the branches and we climb up, up, up into the fog. We’re rising above it. For the love of New York pizza! To the left is the forest of tromes, a canvas of warmth and spice. Then there’s the vision on the right, hidden until now. As we soar over the gray into the horizon, the lens adjusts to perfect focus.
A mixture of forest and brick, trees and towers, comprises the skyline. The colors fade from black in the distance to gray and then green beneath us. To the untrained eye it’s just an oddly tinted woodland landscape, but to my widening stare, it is precisely the opposite.
It’s my favorite painting come to life, the single piece I kept out of dozens of Mom’s creations. The paints she used were more vibrant, but even with the change of hues I recognize the likeness. I slacken my jaw. I let out a small yelp, but the current of wind sailing past my ears muffles the sound. No wonder I loved that painting so much.
The landscape below, rising and falling like a web of never-ending staircases, is a reflection of New York.
I’m from the Big Apple. I’m not afraid of heights.
My arms feel ready to pop from their sockets where the griffin clutches. My foot has fallen asleep thanks to Ky’s death grip. But I’m flying. Pain and discomfort are obsolete.
As I look down on the Second Reflection, I pick out where things should be. Central Park, the Flatiron Building, Belvedere Castle. Everything is there, but it’s also not. A towering mountain replaces the Empire State Building. A neighboring canyon instead of Yankee Stadium. This place is distorted, contorted, changed, and identical all at once. It’s larger, broader, a state to New York’s city. But it’s New York. It’s home.
Over land, forest, and sea we glide. A trip that would take twenty minutes in the city takes at least an hour here. When at last the griffin descends, it’s around where Staten Island would be—if Staten Island were a small state. Forest swathes this version on all sides. Where are we supposed to land?
The griffin dives.
Ky’s eyes are slammed shut, his face fifty shades of green. Why didn’t he let me go? He didn’t have to tag along. Why would he risk his life to stay with me? What’s so important?
I close my eyes, waiting for branches to catch on my clothes, for leaves to pummel my face. When I’m sitting on firm ground without so much as a bruise or scratch added to my injuries, I lift my lashes.
Ground was the wrong word. Platform is more accurate. A circular landing covered in autumn foliage matches the forest exactly. Clever. A camouflaged helipad.
Ky lies on his back, eyes sealed, one hand still wrapped around my ankle, the other clutching his pack like a lifeline.
I try to breathe past the stabbing in my veins. It’s not getting worse. Really.
At least my clothes have dried, dangled from the griffin’s talons like jeans hanging from a wire. My boots are still damp though.
“You okay there, Maverick?”
Ky doesn’t laugh. He blinks. When he shoots a glare toward me, I look away. “Don’t you mean Goose? He’s the one who died midair.”
Wait. He actually gets the Top Gun reference? I thought—never mind. “Why’d you hold on if you’re afraid of heights?”
He sits. “I’m not afraid of anything.” His words are shaded.
“Whatever.”
“This little chat is cute and all, but we need to move before we blow our cover.” Another voice, female, joins the conversation.
I glance up and just as quickly look away. The girl on the platform is 90 percent buck naked. The brown pack hanging from her shoulders and a tattoo of a crown over a crossed arrow and sword above her right breast make up the covered 10 percent.
“Hello, Wren.” Ky stares up at her.
Two questions. One, where’d the griffin go? Two, why’s there a nude girl standing in its place?
“Kyaphus.” She avoids eye contact. With him and with me. “For a second there I thought we might lose you.”
Doesn’t sound like that would’ve bothered her in the slightest. When I look at her again, she’s dressing, removing articles of clothing from her pack and covering her olive skin. She tips her head as she shakes loose the folded clothes, and a single streak of sapphire shines amidst tangles of midnight hair. She slips on a pair of fudge-brown, skintight pants, then an auburn ribbed tank top. An army-green jacket with an abundance of loops, buckles, and pockets completes the ensemble.
“In your dreams, Song.” Ky may not be able to trick this girl into a staring contest, but why doesn’t he draw his knife? I haven’t seen him with it since he stabbed Makai. Did he lose it?
She opens her mouth, never looking directly at him, but I interject, “Hold on.” I meet Wren’s scowl. “You’re the griffin? How did you—?”
“She’s a freak.”
“You should talk, Rhyen. At least I use my Calling for good—to serve the Verity. You’re nothing more than Crowe’s lapdog. A slave of the Void. A waste of oxygen. Go on, little puppy. Go home to Daddy.”
Ky leaps to his feet. Growls, “I am no one’s slave.”
“Enough!”
We freeze. An insanely muscular man steps onto the platform’s ledge. An army guy cliché with his buzz cut, green jacket, combat boots, and at-ease stance. At his hip rests a sheathed knife, the handle wrapped in what looks like snakeskin. Behind his ear hangs a short, thin, dark-blue braid secured with a leather tie.
“Wren, report to the Physic’s cabin. He’ll check you out and clear you for your next assignment.”
Griffin Girl dips her head, limps past G.I. Joe, and disappears behind him. Stairs maybe?
“As for you, Kyaphus.” The man lugs Ky to his feet, cinches his arms behind his back. Like Wren, he never makes eye contact with Paralysis Boy. “You are headed straight for the Crypts. I’ve wanted to throw you in there since you abandoned the Guardians. Looks as if I will get my chance at last.”
Ky puffs out his cheeks. Twist, jerk, pull. Fail.
Ha. It’s not fun when you can’t control your own body, is it?
“You’re in over your head, Gage. Just wait.” Ky’s jawbone bulges. He levels Gage with a bloodthirsty glare.