Reflection Pond (6 page)

Then they were in another room, and when Rowan shut the door, it became blissfully silent. Callie collapsed on the first flat surface she found—a coffee table. Rowan took the couch across from her.

“The bartender—she had these teeth…” She curled her fingers into claws to demonstrate. “And that man—he had leaves…and that other man…”

“Is a giant, man-eating ant,” he finished.

Callie’s eyes widened. She
knew
what she saw, but even now, the memory felt hazy, soft at the edges.

“It’s the drinks. They allow you to see us in our true form,” he said.

She squinted at Rowan. Though his face wavered along with the room, he still looked normal. Too-long black hair curled just above his shoulder, wary blue eyes watched her. The front of his tunic gaped open, showing Callie his bare chest.

“You look fine,” she mumbled.

“Of course I do,” he said. “It’s because I have clothes on.”

Callie frowned.

“I can take them off if you prefer…”

Her face emptied of blood.
“No…
no.”

“Really?
It’s no big deal…” He undid two buttons of his tunic.

Lifting a hand, she gestured to his chest and attempted to change the subject. “Why don’t you have a tattoo?”
She’d seen so many tonight, trees, flowers, plants, all intricate and looping graceful lines.

Rowan’s laughter died instantly and his expression turned dark. “First of all, it’s an imprint. If you’re going to live here, at least learn the language.”

“Who said I
wanted
to live here?” She threw at him. She pressed her hands to her head. Her body felt insignificant, as though her mass wasn’t enough to root her in place. “I
tried
to go home, but
you,”
she jabbed a finger at him, “y
ou—”

“You don’t have a choice. You belong here…it’s your home.” He said the word
home
as though it burned the inside of his mouth.

“I don’t know you.”

“I don’t know you, either,” Rowan said. He whispered something else, but it was too low for Callie to hear.

“This is your fault,” she accused. “You did this. What did you give me? Why am I seeing things?” She swayed, her body wanting to dance, even when she told it no.

Rowan stood, leaving a trail of blue footprints across the white carpet. “Come on. Hazel will worry if you don’t enjoy your party.”

“I don’t care. Take me home.”

“Haven’t you heard the stories? Once you come to faerie you
can’t
go home.”

“Faerie?
You’re joking, right?” Her gaze sharpened suddenly on Rowan’s shoulders. “What’s that?” She lifted a finger and poked the subtle protrusion that rose from his back.

Rowan caught both her hands and smiled tightly. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

Callie ignored his hand and shoved to her feet, keeping one hand out to catch herself. “Why don’t you show me now?”

Rowan smirked and opened the door. String music exploded through the doorway and vibrated the bottoms of Callie’s feet. Rowan tugged her into the hallway where a woman with skin as green and bumpy as an alligator was kissing a man—or at least Callie thought it was a man—with gray fur.

She froze and stared for so long that she didn’t hear Rowan calling her name. Eventually, he came back for her and caught her arms, talking softly as though to an injured animal.

“Come on, Callie…maybe you’re not drunk enough yet.”

“No…no more,” she protested.

As soon as they reentered the ballroom, he handed Callie another drink. This one was thick pink and smelled of berries.

The woman with alligator green skin waltzed by in the arms of a man with gills. A girl with fire red hair stopped in front of Callie, her skin alabaster white and smooth as stones washed for centuries by a river. She took the glass from Callie’s hand and swallowed down the frothy pink liquid, clutching the flute with webbed fingers.

“Willow?” Callie blurted.

Ash appeared at her side. He too, had pale skin and webbed fingers. Callie gaped at them.

“You need to drink more,” Willow insisted, snatching a glass from a waiter’s tray as he passed.

“Oh my God.” Callie took the glass from Willow’s waiting fingers. She didn’t want to drink it, did she? By the time she decided not to, the glass was already empty. “Who are you?” Callie squinted at them.
“What
are you?”

Willow didn’t answer, just procured another glass. “You’re too coherent for this conversation,” she declared. “Drink that and then go dance. You need to worry less and have more fun. You’ll have plenty of time to panic when the celebration is over.”

Callie looked to Rowan. He lifted a shoulder.

Ash held out his webbed hand.

Then—

CHAPTER THREE

Lights flickered through the window, illuminating Callie’s face. She lifted one eyelid and groaned. Her shoulder blades and tailbone ached as though she’d fallen asleep on a sharp rock.
Why
was she on the floor? A steady beat throbbed at the base of her skull, like someone taking an ax to her brain and chopping it into tiny pieces. She pressed a palm to her forehead in hope of drowning out the world. A rumble shook the floor, vibrating up through Callie’s body.

She forced both eyes ope
n. A gilt ceiling rose over her. Lightning turned the gold into knives that stabbed at her eyeballs. Her clothes felt damp and sticky. Her mouth tasted like rotten fruit. She rolled onto her side, cringing the entire way.

…and blinked.

…and blinked.

A woman lay next to Callie, hair spilling across the floor
in a dark, silken waterfall. Her eyes were open, a startling blue that reminded Callie of an endless sky, bright against the china pale of her iridescent skin. She looked like stone, so smooth, so cold. A single scarlet droplet dangled from the woman’s dry lips.

Wine,
Callie thought, but the idea had no roots.

Where was she?

Callie couldn’t remember.

As she watched, the dark bit of liquid grew heavier and heavier, finally falling into a large puddle of—

Wine?

She was so still.
So pale. So—

Dead.

Callie scrambled to her feet, her hands slipping and fumbling. Her mouth rounded, but no sound came out. The woman was wreathed in red. It splattered her face and trailed her neck. It spread beneath her like a blanket.

Help
—
someone
—where was she? Callie lifted her hands in front of her face, horrified. Her arms were streaked with blood, an abstract painting of death.

“Help me,” she said. “Help me!” Her voice gained strength and she screamed. She ran for the closed door, her heels sliding in blood. She crashed into the frame, leaving bright, damning handprints. “Help me, help me,
help me.”

She left smudges on the doorknob and on the gold
en walls of the never-ending hallway. She threw open doors to empty rooms, still screaming. “Help me!”
Nobody, nobody.
She yelled at the hallway, the doors, the windows.

Finally,
footsteps.
Callie ran toward them, the swirl of her dress flinging blood onto the floor. She crashed into a blond woman. She knew her…knew her…

“Sapphire!”
Callie shrieked. “There’s a—and she’s—”

Sapphire’s hands were all over Callie. “Where is it? I don’t see any—”

A dark-haired boy emerged from a far doorway. “What’s all this screaming?” he growled, then he saw Callie and his face went pale. “Let me heal her,” he said, rushing to them and pushing Sapphire away.

“She’s not hurt,” Sapphire said.

“Then what—”

Callie grabbed a fistful of each of their shirts.
Sapphire and Rowan. She knew them now. “She’s dead. She’s dead.”

Rowan’s expression went from worried to
confused to horrified, and then he was running away from them, into the room where Callie had been. Sapphire went after him. Callie followed, her stomach twisting. She reached the doorway as Rowan said, “She’s gone.” He was knelt over the woman, hands pressed to her face.

Callie could see the wounds now, how they tore at her flesh,
jagged slices in her arms, her legs, her neck. Callie’s gaze traveled over the pooled blood to Rowan. His lips were moving.

“What happened?” he said. “What happened?”

Sapphire was on her knees now, the woman’s head cradled in her lap. “Orchid,” she whispered, saying the name over and over again like a prayer.

Callie swallowed the bile at the back of her tongue. “I don’t know. I don’t—”

“What happened?”

She backed away, his words sliced through her skull. She tried to remember, but there was nothing.

Nothing.

***

“Take Callie back to your cottage,” Sapphire said, gathering the prophetess against her. When she closed her eyes, fat tears dripped onto her cheeks and fell from her chin. The prophetess’s head lolled, her mouth hung open.

For a moment, Rowan was speechless.
“To my cottage? She did this, Sapphire. I’m not going to house—”

“She is
innocent
,” Sapphire said through clenched teeth.

Rowan gestured to Callie. She stood in the doorway, blood soaked arms splayed, eyes wild. “She literally has blood all over her hands.” When he glanced back, instead of the prophetess, Rowan saw the broken body of his foster mother. Nausea turned his stomach and guilt burned in his throat. When he blinked, the prophetess’s face returned.

“She is my
sister,
Rowan. It’s the prophecy. It’s happening.”

“We need to—wait. What?”

“Rowan,”
Sapphire snapped. “Orchid is gone, that means it’s my place now, and I order you to take Callie back and get her cleaned up. You will speak of this to no one.”

The blood drained from Rowan’s face. What Sapphire asked was impossible. He was a master at evasion, twisting the truth until it bordered on falsehood, but those tricks only took him so far. “You know I can’t lie.”

Sapphire closed her eyes and Rowan watched her throat work. “Come closer,” she said, drawing him down to her. She pressed her lips to his ear and spoke his true name. Rowan’s body vibrated beneath the weight of the command. “You may speak only to Callie and myself about finding Orchid like this. Your story is that you took Callie back to your cottage when the party disbanded.” When she pulled away, her eyes were full of pleading and tinged with remorse. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice breaking. “Hazel will believe that she didn’t do it. But the rest of them…” she trailed off. “We have to protect her. Please, Rowan.”

Rowan nodded and stepped away from Sapphire, chest full of horror. His feet trailed blood.
Callie still filled the open door, dress stark against pale skin. Wraith-like. Her hands trembled, leaves caught in the wind. A growing outline of crimson rounded her feet like the makings of a pagan circle.

He took her arm. The sudden burst of energy from the girl surprised him. He should’ve been used to it by now, but he’d never felt such a unique energy. It was as though it ran in torrents inside her veins.
Every cell, every pore. Pure, untapped energy.

“I didn’t do it,” Callie whispered as he led her into the hallway.

Rowan used glamour to hide the blood stains and pinked her cheeks so she looked drunk, not devastated. Her eyes were twin oceans at midnight, wide with terror. If anyone looked too hard, they were screwed.

“I believe you,” he said. And because he couldn’t lie, it must’ve been true. If Callie had killed the prophetess, then Rowan was just as much to blame because he was the last person to see them together.

He’d taken Callie to a room while the party was still in full swing. She was stumbling, cheeks bright, tongue loose. She’d laughed and danced—and she was beautiful in faerie form, with her golden hair and iridescent blue skin. He’d spun her around the dance floor and she’d clung to him, uninhibited.

He’d envied that freedom—the release of who you were to who you
are.

But eventually her eyes grew tired and Rowan led her away where she could sleep it off. Orchid was waiting inside for them and Rowan had gone into the next room to give them privacy at Orchid’s request. He must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing he remembered was Callie shrieking in the hallway. He was supposed to keep Callie safe—that was his duty as escort—and he’d let her down. If he’d stayed, the prophetess would still be alive. Callie wouldn’t be scared and soaked with blood.

He was just as much to blame as anyone. Perhaps more.

It wasn’t the first time someone he’d let someone die.