My father raised Ky. I have so many questions. I don’t dare ask.
“Magnets, such as Stormy, can summon things. Their symbol is a moon.”
I blink. What’s Ky saying?
“Like Shields, all Magnets hold different strengths.”
The Callings. Right.
“Stormy is a water Magnet. Her ability is linked to that particular element alone. Other Magnets might control fire, wind, or earth. Still some have no connection to the elements at all, their gifts lying with matter or energy. Whatever their specialty, this Calling takes great focus and exertion. The summoned thing can remain only as long as the Magnet wills it.”
It all comes together. The storm. The Threshold water. Stormy is one talented Magnet. I wonder if she’d let me see her tattoo.
“Then there are Masks. Lark, Kuna, Isabeau, Wren, Robyn—they all have alternate forms. It’s a more common Calling than you’d think. They’re represented by a butterfly, the simplest and most beautiful example of transformation.”
Hard to picture Kuna with a butterfly on his back. “And Physics?” Act natural. Don’t let him see all I can think about is Tiernan and how he connects us.
We’ve reached the square, and Ky sits on an iron bench across from the inn. Two empty flowerpots flank it. The cat from the windowsill curls up on one end, its orange-tipped tale tapping.
Ky stretches his lean legs out in front of him. “Physics come in all shapes and sizes. Organic Physics, like my mother or Physic Song, have a knack for mixing medicines. They use remedies concocted from nature. Illusoden, for example, was invented by Lancaster Rhyen, my mother’s grandfather.”
As in the dude they made a statue of? “A Physic founded the League of Guardians?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. A Physic is more than a white coat and a fancy title. There are some Physics who guard their Calling with more ferocity than an Ever. A mere touch from such a Physic could cure even the deepest wound, which is why a Physic’s mark is a handprint.”
Nathaniel. Is his touch that powerful? Must be. Why else would Wade put so much faith in the man? Does Ky know my grandfather is his adoptive grandfather? Part of me hopes he never finds out.
“No matter what,” Ky adds, “if someone is already meant to die, if it’s their time, nothing can change that. Not a touch from a Physic or a drop of Ever blood. Death is a Calling all its own.” He scratches the cat’s neck, and it purrs in satisfaction.
I join him on the bench, trying not to sit too close. Otherwise he might hear my thundering heart, see the sweat forming at my hairline.
He scoots over so our thighs touch. Ky hesitates a second before raising his arm and wrapping it around me in one fluid motion. He’s just protecting me. Doing his job. The big brother I always wanted.
Moan. He has no clue how technically true that is.
As he continues his explanation, the hand resting on my shoulder lifts animatedly every so often. “Finally there are Scribs and Amulets. Scribs, like Grizz, have excellent memories and are talented in reading, writing, or drawing—sometimes a mixture of all three. They’re responsible for recording anything and everything regarding Reflection history. Genealogies. Events. Even legends. They can be a bit insufferable because of their brilliance. Think of them as the savants of the Called. Scribs are always correcting you, and some have compulsive tendencies. Many are able to read something once and never forget it. It should be no surprise a Scrib’s symbol is a quill.”
Compulsive tendencies, huh? Grizz in an eighth note.
“Amulets have the gift of illusion.” An unexpected chill sends a tremor through my body. Ky rubs my arm with his palm. “They’re meant to be secret keepers, their purpose to conceal anything an enemy might desire. Amulets are generally attractive and easy to like. Their symbol is a lock and key. Crowe, as you may have guessed, is an Amulet.”
I consider my time with Jasyn. His kind demeanor and calming voice. He almost had me fooled. “Amulets are responsible for the façades, aren’t they?”
“Yes. The trick is to look for tells. No matter how strong the façade, there are always glitches—signs that what you’re seeing isn’t real.” Such as my nonexistent porcelain skin? “If an Amulet can’t fool you, the façade is useless.”
“So the façades at the Haven and subway Threshold, at the Broken Bridge, an Amulet created those?” My eyelids droop and I stifle a yawn.
“Many Amulets, actually.” Ky yawns too. We’ll never make it to the Haven if we can’t stand up in the morning. Still, I can’t bring myself to move. “The ones on our side act like sentinels, assuring certain protections remain in place. I’ve no idea who constructed the façade at the Broken Bridge for Isabeau. But the Threshold beneath the subway, the Haven entrance, and many other gateways have an Amulet ally assigned to them. Every so often the façade has to be strengthened, reconstructed, or even moved, should its location be jeopardized. The Guardians have a good team, though I’ve yet to see an Amulet as talented as Crowe.”
So much to take in. Not just the Callings, but their unique aspects as well. And the tattoos. I can’t get them off my mind. But there’s this other thing, too, something Robyn mentioned. “What about Mirrors?”
Ky stiffens. “Mirrors?”
“Back at the Haven, Robyn said something about a person who could have all the Callings.”
“Mirrors don’t exist. No one is that perfect.”
“Perfect?”
Another stretch. Another yawn. “The Verity augments your greatest strength.” His words have that slow, falling-asleep pace. “For me, it was my desperate need to defend those I love. For my mother, it was her innate desire to help people. Crowe was probably good at keeping secrets as a child, a talent he’s obviously abused since then. But for someone to possess a quality strong enough to hone all seven Callings in some form or another? Such a person might as well be the vessel of the Verity himself.”
Mirrors don’t exist. Got it. “What about me?”
“What about you?” He knocks his knuckle against my shoulder. Is he teasing me?
I squirm. Flush. Maybe it’s a stupid question. “Do you think my mom gave me Threshold water when I was born?” Yep. Saying it aloud does sound childish. I just escaped playing the lead role in Close Encounters of the Troll Kind, and I’m worried about auditioning for a part in X-Men: Days of Future Called? Priorities, anyone?
“If she loves you as much as you appear to love her, I wouldn’t doubt it.”
I make a mental pros-and-cons list. My soul is guarded until I turn eighteen: pro. If a Calling hasn’t manifested yet, I probably don’t have one: con. Sigh.
The cat crawls onto Ky’s lap, a purr rumbling its back. He doesn’t seem to mind, stroking the feline with his long fingers. “I know what you’re thinking. You’ve still got some time. You don’t turn eighteen for a couple weeks, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So a Calling could still be in there somewhere. And if not”—he shrugs—“be glad you won’t have to carry the burden. Plenty of people don’t have Callings. Gage, Preacher—” His mouth snaps closed, as if realizing comparing me to those guys probably isn’t the most encouraging thing he could say. “Don’t worry. I have a good feeling about you.”
Better. “Thanks.” Goose bumps sprout along my arms, despite my layers. Could I possibly have a Calling somewhere deep inside? Does Mom have one I never knew about? I rack my brain trying to picture her bare shoulder. The image doesn’t surface. She never was the tank top–wearing type.
“So, we’ve spent this entire time talking about me. Your turn. Tell me something about you.”
Me? What’s to tell? “I wear a size eight shoe.” Gah, that was lame. Now I’m thankful for the cold. Otherwise my cheeks would ignite, turn my skin to ash.
“While I appreciate that imperative piece of information, it’s not quite what I had in mind. Try again, this time make it real.”
Real?
Real.
I’ve never spent much time trying to get to know myself. I’d actually avoid myself, if it were physically possible. Except, there is this one thing . . . “I love music.” My heart contracts. I miss music. “Singing actually, though I do play a couple instruments. It’s kind of like my outlet. My way of expressing emotion? When I’m sad or lonely or scared, and I find the perfect piece to describe that feeling, it’s like the artist climbed inside my head and wrote the song for me. Or when I don’t know what to say, I sometimes find it easier to reference a particular lyric.” I twist the hem of my shirt. This is the most anyone has talked. Ever. “Dumb, huh?” I tuck a stray hair behind my ear. My right leg jiggles. Stop fidgeting, will you?
“You are many things, Ember, but dumb is not one of them.” Ky slouches against the bench. Tilts his head back. Closes his eyes. “Sing to me,” he croons.
My heart stops beating. Literally. His reference to one of my favorite songs ever catches me so completely off guard, gives me déjà vu like he wouldn’t believe.
“Well?” He taps his toe.
“What, you mean now?” Breathe in, breath out. Let it go.
“I’m sorry, was there another time you had in mind?”
He’s so infuriatingly sarcastic, it’s almost endearing. “What do you want to hear?”
“Singer’s choice.”
Out of habit I begin humming the melody to one of Joshua’s favorites, one we played often during our afternoon jam sessions. But the sound falls flat, a generic cover of my past life. Nothing’s ever as good as the original.
Or maybe it’s not the song. Perhaps I need to change my tune. Joshua always picked the playlist. It didn’t really bother me, mostly because it meant I didn’t have to make a decision. They were always made for me. Whatever he chose, I sang.
But not tonight.
I clear my throat, start again, this time choosing an oldie Mom used to sing when I was little. I still remember the first time I heard “Smile” by Charlie Chaplin. It was the first day of kindergarten. I didn’t want to go, didn’t understand why I had to be separated from Mom for four whole hours. Then she started singing.
“I want you to remember these words,” she said. “Sing them until you can’t remember why you were sad to begin with.”
And I did. Mom couldn’t get me to stop singing after that.
My voice shakes a little during the first verse since I haven’t warmed up, but when I reach the chorus, the melody comes easily. I’d almost forgotten how much I love this. I close my eyes, letting the lyrics flow, thinking only of Mom and how I’d give anything to see her smile again.
The thought forces my own lips to curve.
On the final note I open my eyes.
My grin fades, and all air flees my lungs.
Joshua is standing on the inn’s porch. Teeth clenched. His gaze acid. It’s almost as if my eyes float out of my body, watching from above, taking in the whole scene. Ky’s arm around my shoulder. Me wearing his jacket and singing to him, a pastime Joshua and I shared. Something special and so very much our own.
Oh no. He’s got the wrong idea. I reach out, but Joshua turns his back, strides into the inn’s shadows, and slams the door. The sign rattles on its hinges, echoing the shake of anger beginning to rise in me. What’s his problem? He made it clear he wants nothing to do with me. I just sit there, staring where he stood. I control my urge to move. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it is over. It’s better this way. Easier.
Don’t feel. Don’t care. Don’t—
I close my eyes, clamping my lashes against inevitable tears. If it’s easier, why does it feel as if I’ve just attended another funeral?