“Was that real?” I demand. Cora doesn’t reply. She’s shaking as she takes the memory off the stone, shoving it roughly into its jar. I lean forward, trying to force myself into her eyeline. “How did you do that?”
That memory looked like mine. It felt like mine. But it clearly wasn’t. Clearly this woman manufactured it, twisted reality to convince me she’s not the enemy at all. It’s some sort of ploy. A tactic to get me to make more sunwalker spells. To betray my people.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts. She’s on her feet, bent over the table, scrambling to put everything in her bag. Her hands shake as sheplucks the ingredients off the stone. “I thought…It was a school memory. I didn’t think…”
She’s crying, I realize. Tears stream down her face, an eerie reflection of the Secora in my memory.
“That wasn’t real,” I spit. “I didn’t…I didn’tloveyou.”
“Oh shit,” Henry mutters.
Cora chokes out a sob as she fastens her bag.
“You’re saying that was real?” I demand when she doesn’t speak. “That we were in love? Forgive me if I don’t fucking believe you.”
“Leave, Elliot,” she says. Voice shaking. Tears falling. If this is an act, it’s a damn good one. “Please.”
She runs—actually runs—from the courtyard. I collapse back onto the bench, dropping my head into my hands. Though I consider chasing after her, Sebastian Vulce’s lingering shadow convinces me otherwise.
16
SHE IS NO MONSTER
ELLIOT
I’ve never been in love. At least, that’s what I thought until Cora showed me that damned memory. Looking through my eyes at fifteen, I absolutelyhavebeen in love. I have been in the soul-consuming, beautiful, reckless love I recently believed didn’t exist. Even though I left the physical memory with Cora, I remember watching it all too well. I can still feel that wild love in my chest, lodged somewhere deep between my ribs.
Two days later, and I’m sick with it, this realization I once loved Harrison’s murderer. It doesn’t feel possible, and I cling to the hope it’s not. Cora and her vampire clan might have manufactured the memory, and there’s one person who should be able to confirm it.
At least, I hope.
I step off the tram, my body vibrating with coiled tension. People jostle around me, all clad in soft yellows and browns. A man mutters about the dismal weather, and a cluster of children start a game of groundball long before they’ve cleared the crowd. I stand in place, hands tucked into my pockets, and watch the children take off into Ochre.
I know this place better than anywhere else. The weathered sign with its bloodied thumbprints. The cobblestone streets. The clay and timber houses, all similar yet slightly different. Empty booths line the walkways, still standing from the recent autumnal festival, but clearly vacated.
With a quick glance at the address in my pocket, I follow the crowd to the east. It’s early enough in the afternoon that shop doors are propped open and the occasional vendor calls out to passerby. I’ve done this, walked the streets of Ochre, too many times to count. And yet, for the first time, I’m forced to acknowledge the strange sensations coursing through my body.
I’ve felt them for over a decade. Inexplicable flutters in my stomach when I pass the primary school. A sharp pinch in my chest when I walk main street. The feelings blossom into something darker, something heavier, whenever I pass the augur house. I stare at the unremarkable building now, at the threadbare curtains covering each of its square windows. Though I’m tempted to slow, I don’t.
I never understood what those feelings were. I assumed they were my imagination. There was never rhyme or reason to tie the sensations to anything meaningful.
Now, I think I get it.
My body is reacting to memories I no longer have. I might not consciously be able to name everything that’s happened here, but my body remembers. I’m reacting to a history I’ve forgotten, and if this last memory is true, no one else remembers it either. At fifteen, I was dating Secora in secret. I hadn’t told Mama or Harrison. We hadn’t toldanyone.
Still, I’m hopeful there’s one person who would have known—and she wasn’t just Secora’s friend. She was mine too.
I turn to the east and walk a series of near-identical subdivisions. It’s late afternoon, and despite the cool air, the direct sunlight makes it feel warmer. I’ve got the sleeves of my whitebuttoned shirt rolled to my elbows, but it’s not enough to keep the sweat from collecting on my palms. I wipe my hands against my pants as I reach the house at the end of the street.
It’s an ordinary timber and clay house. Only the overflowing flower boxes beneath the windows and the array of kids’ toys on the lawn set it apart. I smile at the sight, at the rush of nostalgia that warms my chest.
Margot Blake’s home today looks much like the one she had when we were children. Simple, but beautiful. Messy, but charming. Imperfect, but in a lovely way.
She doesn’t know I’m coming. There’s a chance she won’t be home at all. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell her, why I chose to come in the early afternoon, when she might still be at work. There isn’t much information on her in the autumnal directory, but she’s currently employed at a nearby children’s center.
The last time I spoke to her—nearly ten years ago now—she still talked about pursuing a position in the council.
I follow a colorful brick pathway across her yard and to the front stoop. An empty bin labeled “frogs” sits to the left of the door, and several pairs of shoes line the right side. From the shoes alone, I can tell Margot has as many children as her parents.
