Rory narrowed his eyes. Things had gotten weirder and he didn’t like it one bit. Maybe Kenzie didn’t want the ring opened until they’d had a chance to talk, but Rory wasn’t real keen on listening to anything Kenzie wanted. Rory could scry the ring now and they’d know what it was before they even saw Kenzie again, and Rory could be the one with the upper hand for a change.
Without letting himself think one second more, he reached for the ring box and cracked the top.
It hit like an ocean wave, or a gust of wind—an invisible force full of power barreling out of the opened box. Rory saw a flash of gold and glinting jewels as his legs gave out. He smacked his face against the counter as he fell, catching the corner of his glasses and knocking them off. He flailed and his hand struck the box, sending it flying off the counter, and as he tumbled down he heard the high-pitched clink of metal striking wood.
No—shit—
Down on the floor, Rory clutched at his head. He’d opened a music box and gotten blasted by a symphony. He ground his teeth against the ringing in his ears. He couldn’t think for the pressure in his skull, couldn’t see without his glasses—
He had to close that ring back in its box.
The shop was nothing but a blur of color as Rory dragged himself from behind the counter on hands and knees. He felt along the floor in sweeping motions until his hands landed on his glasses. His heart plummeted; the temple had come loose. They werebrand new. But there was no time for regret, not with the unbearable force in the shop, so he balanced the broken frames on his face as best he could.
The box was just beyond him, on the floor, and Rory swore out loud as he saw it open and empty and the ring nowhere nearby. But as the pressure mounted, he grimly realized that he wasn’t going to have trouble finding it—he could just follow the crushing sensation to its source.
He picked up the box in his hand. Easy to ignore the prickle of lead on his skin when his whole head was buzzing like a swarm of bees.
“Come on, come on,” he said aloud as he crawled on toward the bookshelves. He thought he could just—there! A glint of gold where the ring had rolled just under the lip of the bottom shelf.
He set the box as close as he could, but he was going to have to pick up the ring to get it back in the box, and he couldn’t bear to wait another second for a better plan.
He shoved his hand under the bookshelf and closed his fingers around the ring.
A pale man stands on the bow of a ship. He’s dressed in a long blue coat with gold trim, a white cravat, his white-blond hair tied back. There are sounds of human misery below him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or, he doesn’t care.
He lifts his hand and on his finger, the ring catches the brilliant sun, the white stone glinting. A gust of wind sweeps down the deck and the ship’s sail billows with a clap.
Two sailors are bringing a man in chains forward. They shove him down to the wooden planks of the ship’s deck, at the feet of the pale man.
The pale man traces a finger over the ring, a cruel smile on his lips. “You tried to incite the other prisoners to riot.”
The man swallows hard but doesn’t speak.
The pale man’s smile grows. “The ship moves at my command,” he said softly. “And in exchange, the captain lets me do as I please with the cargo.” He traces the jewel on the ring again. The words are chilling but the day is hot, the sky stretching endlessly on all sides in flawless, cloudless blue—
It should be snowing.
Rory gasped, the breath torn from his lungs as he was thrown back into consciousness. With a rush of adrenaline, he seized his moment of clarity, and shoved the ring into the lead-lined box before slamming the lid shut.
The pressure vanished.
The vision was gone.
He toppled flat on his back on the floor of the shop. Black dots threatened the edges of his sight as he tried to focus on the ceiling, on the yellowish light of the bulbs far above. His heart pounded in his ears as he took huge gulps of air, too fast, fists balled against his mouth. If he didn’t slow his breathing he might pass out, might get himself sucked right back into a vision—
“Focus,focus.” His voice was loud in the silent shop. Good. He kept talking, anything to keep himself conscious, to anchor him to the here and now. “The past is over. This is real. The floor, the wood, the lights. You’re Rory Brodigan now and this isreal.”
His voice broke. He made himself say it again. “You got out.You got out.This. Is. Real.”
He tensed all the way from his clenched fists to his toes—and then, like a bowstring loosed, his body crumpled.
He let out a breath that was almost a sob as his tension turned to trembling. He rolled onto his side and curled into himself on the floor, as if he could somehow stop the shaking. Would have been nice to have a blanket. Or company.
Or be a different person.
It took several minutes for his breathing to slow and the dizziness to fade. Finally he braced himself on the bookshelf and shakily pushed up enough to see the antique clock over the cash register.
It was nearly ten.
