My pulse beats between my ears, a frantic drummer midbattle, as I whirl to look at the room around me. And, for the first time, I see it,reallysee it.
The stone walls have no outlets. There are no wires coiling in the corners. There were none hanging along the road we came down. There isn’t even a sink. There’s no bathroom at all. I turn, my mind skipping, unable to see a single modern thing in the cabin. Not one.
“No. No, no, no,” I breathe, rounding the chair, putting it between him and me and the rapidly unfolding truth. “Where were the streetlights? There were no streetlights! And the cobblestones. The sheep! There wasa sheep in the middle of the city, and you—you—you—where are all the outlets?”
His ground-eating strides bring him to me in an instant. “Sit down, Fawn.” He takes my arm and tries to guide me back to the chair.
“I told you,I’m Hannah!”
I wrench my arm free, stumbling back. My heel catches on the uneven floor, and I almost fall, but I clutch the edge of a rough-hewn table. My fingers brush over its surface, feeling the grooves of the wood, the splinters. The room is dimly lit by candles—actual candles—not a single electric bulb in sight. My mind races, trying to latch onto something familiar, something that makes sense. But there’s nothing.
“Those people in the bar had never seen a phone,” I whisper. “They didn’t know what Wi-Fi was.”
Kane is tense, but there’s a softness in his eyes, as though he can see that I’m falling apart. That everything is falling…falling into place too fast and too real.
“This is actually happening, isn’t it?”
He simply stands there, his silence an answer in itself.
“And I just fell. I just…appeared.”
See the door and open it.
I saw the door, and I fell through. This is not in Chicago. Not even Illinois.
I’m in another world.
Panic sends my heart into my throat and my arms beating against him.
He grabs my shoulders, those dark eyes taking in mine. He has to see it—see that my mind is cracking in half with the truth. Because itisthe truth, and I’veknown it on some level since the sidewalk swung open and I landed in the palace.
“How…how do I get home?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
Heavy drops of rain splatter onto the stone floor, and I look down. No, not rain…blood. My blood paints the floor in crimson splotches, and he tightens his grip on my arms.
“How do I get home?” I repeat, the world going dark around the edges. “How do I get home?”
“You must find the Empress, Hannah,” he whispers, his words warm against my cheek. The last thing I feel as I surrender to the dark.
Six
I was dreaming of Posh Pulse. Of Stephanie and Jade. Of failing and falling…falling…falling… The fragmented images slip through my mind like sand between my fingers as my eyes flutter open and I’m greeted with swirling darkness.
The world drifts into focus, hazy and unsteady. For a moment, I’m back in Chicago, in my bed, in my predictable life. And then the room around me becomes a bit clearer. The stone walls are lit with the barely there glow of a dying fire. Spiderwebs sway from the wooden rafters, and the earthy scent of smoke fills my nostrils.
It all comes crashing in—sheep hooves on old cobblestones, firelight glowing against angry faces, the mob’s cry ofwitch, their fear of my phone and belief it was magick, the men’s blood, and my own.
I was bleeding. I was stabbed!
This would be a headline if I were back in my city, back in my state, closer to home.
My heart beats like a gong, and my breath comes in ragged gasps. I try to sit up and whimper as pain sears my stomach and crashes against my consciousness. I try to move again, but the agony only grows. My body won’t obey. There’s something around my stomach—thick, heavy bandages—but there’s no way I can heal from a stab wound without going to a hospital.
Panic twists my lungs, and I draw in a strangled breath. This hurts more than the time I had appendicitis and was convinced I was dying. My palms sweat, my hands shaking with each weak attempt to get up, get away. But I’m helpless. Utterly helpless.
A shadow moves in the dark, drawing closer. Kane is tall and imposing, barely illuminated by the dim glow of the fire. He kneels beside me, and I flinch. A cry of pain batters the back of my gritted teeth. Kane reaches out, surprisingly gentle as he presses a cool, damp cloth to my forehead.
“Drink this,” he says, holding a cup to my lips.
