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“I mean, I thought it would be more…more…” I give up searching for the right word. “Just more.”
“It was. Once.”
The Bridge looks like a sad, lonely place—everything I fought against hospice care embodying. “I figured the queen would have a space to sit on the Bridge to do her royal stuff. Is she on break?” Does she get breaks with the way people cross over at all hours? I hate to ask.
“I hear she spends most of her time sleeping these days.”
“What about her mates?” I try out the plural. “Do they go with her on the Bridge? So they can fly her away if it comes tumbling down?”
“Our current queen didn’t choose any mates. She preferred to remain alone.” After tossing out that verbal mic drop of an emotional bombshell that I want to unpack when I don’t feel like death rewarmed, Jace follows Atticus toward an enormous tower that stands beside the Bridge, making it look even more pitiful in comparison.
Jace follows my gaze. “The Royal Tower,” he explains. “The other four towers house the queen candidates.”
I glance over uniform towers, so precise and exact in their slender, round similarity—each spaced at equal distances along the wall and all perfect copies of smaller versions of the Royal Tower. Or three of them are. The fourth stands at a distance on the far left next to a big gate leading out of the keep. The last tower is short and squat compared to the others.
I point at it. “Why’s that one different?”
“It’s the Twins’ Tower—our tower. It wasn’t originally meant as a candidate tower until my brother and I came along. For now, it’s yours until you take the royal one.”
“Oh.” How do I tell him that I have no idea what they expect of me with this whole queen trials thing? I can’t even go through the damn portal without wanting to hurl. In my world, I couldn’t take a test without the reading sparking a massive migraine. Before I can figure out what to say, a much smaller gargoyle with jagged stumps instead of wings rushes forward and speaks in a language I don’t understand.
“Truman,” Atticus says in English. “This is Rosemarie.”
“Welcome, queen candidate.” Switching to the same language if in an odd cadence, Truman bows, his head almost sweeping the ground. “These two have talked of nothing else since they sensed you at the Bridge of Souls. Come, come. We’ll get you set up.” His body language from his hunched shoulders to his torn wings shouts that he’s shy, and he is trying so hard.
But my gut twists, sour bile floods my mouth, and the humming from the Bridge gets louder.
Portal travel sucks.
I attempt to smile at him. It wobbles. I’m nervous, worn out, and—in the quietest corner of my mind, I admit—scared of this strange place where everyone but two gargoyles will be complete strangers. I barely met the twins before we jumped realms. Huey hovers close, but what good is a tiny owl if something nasty in this place decides to come at me?
Atticus reaches into a pouch at his belt. “Put her down, Jace. I have her translator.”
I don’t let go of Jace, although my strength has dwindled. While I’m not retching, I’m not far from it. My pulse pounds in my head in an unrelenting beat. Fatigue weighs on me the same as if I’d pulled a solid week of double shifts at the hospital.
When Jace shifts my weight, I whimper. This isn’t a badass way to make an entrance into a new world.
“You’re sick,” Jace says, worry in his voice. Worry that I’m surprised to see is mirrored in Atticus’s face.
“Portal travel,” Truman says. “Difficult on humans. I’ll find a healing potion.”
He hurries off toward one of the many stalls set up along the wall. The collection of booths, tables, and shelves looks like a haphazard farmer’s market without the colorful signs and canopies. In fact, everything here is a stark contrast to the ripple of colors we just passed through. The twins’ realm has every shade of grey but not much else. I tug at my bright clothing, suddenly self-conscious of how much I’ll stand out here.
“Don’t,” Jace says. “You’re perfect. Just as you are.”
“Agreed.” Atticus has none of the same warmth in his voice, but he speaks it like a command. He reaches for my hand. At least he isn’t grabbing for me this time.
Keeping my movements slow so as not to kick off another wave of nausea, I put my hand in his. His touch—rougher and harder than Jace’s—makes me want to insist he hold my hand some more. He loops a plastic band around my wrist, one like those Theo had in the haunted house’s library.
“It’s a translator,” he says, fastening the band with care so as not to pinch my skin. “It’ll let you understand the words no matter the language spoken. We could use runes instead, but they’re permanent. I promise the translator won’t force you to have any connection to the demon.”
He bends forward in a half bow, brushing his lips over the inside of my wrist above my bracelets. His touch is sultry heat compared to the coolness of the crystals. His gaze locks on mine, and my breathing picks up. My skin heats for a reason having nothing to do with the trip through the portal.
When Atticus is kind, I don’t know what to make of it.
He gives me a look that has my belly doing somersaults, and maybe I don’t need any healing potion. A nap while being held by either of the twins sounds every bit as good.
No, I need to keep my cool and not go crazy over a couple of gargoyles. I pull away, dropping my other arm from Jace’s shoulder. I clutch my purse strap like it’s a lifeline to tie me to my real life—one back in a world without a soul guardian, gargoyles, or whatever the dark spirit who floats by us might be. Seriously, what is that? A phantom? A wraith? No, I can’t risk wanting to know.
