They died? So the king and queen aren’t locked away. They really did vanish. Which means . . .
“Once I understood your importance, I also knew precisely where the Verity’s new vessel had gone.” He strides to me, stands so close I can smell his hoity-toity cologne. “I merely had to bide my time.” He places the hilt in my open palm. What kind of game is this? “According to Ebony, the vessel hardly let you out of his sight. I had to wonder then if he would ever confront me.”
My fingers curl around the weapon, but I can’t bring myself to raise it. Impossible to breathe.
“So I decided to test a theory.” Jasyn extends a hand toward the grand staircase.
I turn to find Long John Silver taking the steps one by one as if performing a dance. But he isn’t alone, a slumped Makai at his side. He lugs my uncle, who surpasses the skinny pirate in both height and weight, step after painstaking step. Heave, rest. Heave, rest. When they reach the dais, Haman drops him, brushing his hands in rhythm with my uncle’s achy groan.
“Makai,” I croak, moving toward him.
Ky stops me where I step. Hand on my shoulder, he still won’t look at me.
Jasyn clears his throat. “Along with Ebony, I assigned the task to Haman. I wanted to see exactly what the vessel would do, how he would react to the events surrounding you. First came your mother’s fabricated death. It seemed the pain you bore belonged to him. It was obvious in the way he looked at you.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Remain calm. He’s trying to get to me.
“I told him.”
I whip toward the dais at the sound of Lincoln Cooper’s lurid falsetto. Apparently, Ebony not only can skip from form to form at the bat of her fake eyelashes but she can change her clothes as well. I would never know it was her in Lincoln’s salmon-colored shirt, skinny jeans, and oak blazer.
My entire body jerks. “What are you, a Mask?”
“Shield actually.” Well, that explains a lot. Why Ky won’t—can’t harm her. “I take after our dear departed father.” I wouldn’t brag about that. “Masks have two forms, three at the most, and they can only change their own matter. I, on the other hand, have the unique ability to camouflage myself. I’m limited to the human alias, of course, but you don’t see me complaining.”
“That’s why you weren’t at Mom’s funeral. You came as Lincoln.” No wonder I always thought the guy was such an insensitive jerk. “I don’t get it. Why go through so much trouble to sell Mom’s paintings?”
“All part of my cover.” Ebony reverts to herself. Her manicured hand hovers over a yawn. “I needed to keep an eye on her. On both of you, until His Sovereignty decided his next move.”
His Sovereignty? Gag me.
Haman glides by, dragging a bow-and-arrow-free Makai along. Captain Creepy drops my uncle at the foot of the dais and climbs the steps. He stands beside the tapestry. Pulls a cord.
Like a curtain, the atlas whooshes aside, fanning my face and revealing a stone wall.
I leave Ky and kneel beside my uncle. He waves me away. Says nothing.
“As I was saying . . .” Retreating, Jasyn joins his team, taking center stage. “The vessel’s reaction was exactly as I predicted. He cared for your safety, but there was something else too. A sense of caution. And fear. When I allowed Elizabeth to escape the night of your kidnapping, my suspicions were all the more confirmed. He would go the distance to keep you from me. When Haman killed him, I had my answer.” Jasyn waves his hand as if brandishing a wand.
Haman types a code into a small keypad, and the wall beyond the throne revolves. Stone grates against stone as the opposite side emerges, ushering with it three very familiar figures—two Soulless supporting a beaten and battered man.
“May I present the hero of our tale.” Sweeping an arm toward the trio, Jasyn croons, “Prince Charming himself.”
My heart palpitates as if separate from my chest. The blade clatters to the floor. I’m not going anywhere.
Joshua. Is. Here.
ACT IV
For Good
THIRTY-TWO
Limited
The day I met Joshua is one I’ve relived a thousand times.
I burst through the front door. Slam it behind me. The light fixture rocks and rattles above our foyer.
“Mom?” I call up the stairs.
No answer.
I toss my backpack on the sunroom couch as I move toward the kitchen. I lean over the bar. “Mom?”
Silence. What day is it? Tuesday. Mom’s drawing caricatures in Central Park.
I cut across the kitchen and exit through the back door. Backyards in Manhattan are a rare enigma. Too small to be considered a yard, but too large to be called a porch. We have lovingly dubbed it the “rear sidewalk.”
September stinks. Do I really have to endure three more years of this? Of the homework and grades. The whispers and taunting. Stinkin’ prep kids and their high-and-mighty attitudes. Stinkin’ Blake and his band of brainless oafs. Name-calling is so third grade. What a bunch of juveniles.
I plod down the metal steps, klunk, klunk, klunk, and drop onto the glider swing. Tuck one foot under my thigh and let the other dangle free. My toe pushes off the ground, keeping the swing in motion.
Buzz. I draw my phone from my pocket. Text message from Mom. Tap, zoom.
I’ll be home soon. Do you want pizza from Caesar’s?
Even in a text, Mom doesn’t lax on spelling and grammar.
I tap out a hasty reply.
sure. c u soon. <3
Music. I need music. It’ll get my mind off a rotten first day. Scroll, tap. Scroll, tap.
I sing a duet with Christina Perri about being “human.” I let my head loll back against the swing cushion as words that could be my melodic memoir emerge. Fake smiles. Forced laughs. Falling apart. This, pathetically, is me. I sing past the heartache. My soul bleeds the lyrics. Is this it? Will anything ever change?
Crash!
I nearly crack my head on cement as I tumble forward. Cause of almost-death? Induced heart attack. I crane my neck, searching for the interruption’s source.
A guy peeks over the western wall of my yard—er, rear sidewalk. He’s older. Seventeen, eighteen maybe. Short stubble shades his strong jaw, and those eyes, a piercing cerulean blue.
I scramble to my feet, lurch for the stairs. Please don’t let him see my face. I can’t suffer further humiliation today. If only invisibility was an option.
“Wait!” His fetching tenor stops me midescape.
My pulse tap-dances on my eardrums.
Blue Eyes swings over the wall in an Olympic-worthy move. Pretty bold to enter a stranger’s yard uninvited. This is New York. I could be a serial killer for all he knows. For all I know, so could he.
I smooth my hair. Study my charcoal Chuck Taylors. Maybe he won’t notice the birthmark.
Ha. Good one.
“Please don’t stop. That was . . . you have the most beautiful voice.”
Beautiful? Nice try, Prince Eric. The only person who’s ever linked that term to me is Mom, and she doesn’t count.
“Thanks.” I can’t bring myself to make eye contact. I’m not ready for him to run away screaming yet.
“With a voice like that you could do anything.” Does he realize how close he’s standing? He smells different from other boys. Natural. Axe spray not required.