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I’m not sure if I believe him.
I leave them there, in our picture-perfect kitchen, and head for the bedroom. Our bedroom.
Ours…but not really.
Nothing feels real anymore. Not since Dreamland. Not since I started running.
Behind the closed door, I lean against the cool wood with a sigh. This isn’t living; it’s hiding. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the chaos to find us even here, in the hills above Pacific City.
“Get it together, Aisling,” I whisper to my reflection in the mirror. She looks like me but there’s fear in her eyes, a tremor in her smile. Her hair is stringy, no sparkle in her eyes…
She knows this peace is borrowed, that time is a thief.
And time is running out.
Chapter two
Oberon
Celestial Hills bleeds the last of its daylight as Aisling and I hit the pavement hard, our boots scuffing the concrete with each step. The day’s a dead end, nothing to show for it but sore feet and the sour taste of failure lingering on my tongue.
The Dreamland dancers are still lost…and we’ve both failed them so many times over that it barely even hurts anymore.
“Let’s call it,” Aisling sighs, her grey eyes scanning the horizon that swallows the sun whole.
“Agreed.” My voice comes out rough, like gravel tumbling in a hollow drum.
We shuffle towards a coffee shop that’s all sharp angles and glass walls, a modern cutout against the evening sky. The door chimes an unceremonious welcome, and we slump into chairs by a window. We come here every so often because it has this game Aisling loves—chess, a practice that apparently helps her remember what happened to her before Pacific City. The chess board between us is an old thing, wood worn down by countless hands.
I nod at the barista, my voice a low rumble. “Two coffees, black.”
Aisling rubs at her temples, nails clicking softly against skin. “God, I could use this.”
“Long day?” I tease, even though I know the answer.
“Feels like the longest,” she groans, then straightens up as the steaming cups arrive, her fingers curling around the warmth.
I watch her study the board, pieces set up in their starting positions. I pick up a pawn, thumb brushing over the carved wood. “Wanna play?”
“Of course,” she admits, a small smile playing on her lips, fleeting like a shadow chased by light. “Why would I bring you here if I didn’t?”
I’m still learning the rules, so I glance down at the board and lean forward.
“Show me,” I say.
“You’re white,” she replies. “You start.”
I nod, looking down at the board as I make the first move.
So she teaches me—her hands deft, movements sure, explaining rooks and knights without dressing them in fancy words. Her tactics are raw, stripped of artifice, and it’s like watching a dance—the kind where every step means survival.
It’s not unlike the dance she does in real life…always stepping close to danger, twirling around its edges.
“Your move,” she challenges, chin propped on her hand, gaze fixed on the board.
I advance a pawn, simple and direct. Inside, thoughts churn like the sea during a storm. I’ve seen things, been places, done stuff that would make angels weep. But here, now, with her—it feels like it was all worth it, just for the sake of playing chess in a coffee shop with Aisling Faye.
“Anything coming up?” I ask.
