At this, the jumble of energy beneath my touch turns cold and prickly, almost painful against my skin. Waves of revulsion and shame emanate outward, the wall turning colder with each passing second.
Soon the self-loathing is so intense, I nearly cry out in pain.
Whatever Baz is fighting in there, he doesn’t want us to see it. He doesn’t wantanyoneto see it. And worse? Even if he survives this monster, he’s never going to be the same.
“Any luck?” Kirin asks.
I pull back from the wall and shake my head, turning away so Kirin can’t see the tears in my eyes.
“Stevie,” he says softly, his hand stroking my hair. “Whatever this is, we’ll deal with it. But you have to talk to me. You can sense things that the rest of us can’t. So that means you have to translate for us, no matter how scary or painful it is. You have to tell me what’s going on.”
Kirin’s right. I can no more shield him from this than I can shield Baz from whatever he’s wrestling with upstairs. We have to face this—all of us. Head on, eyes wide open, or we may as well surrender to the Dark Arcana right now.
I take a deep breath and dash away my tears. Now is not the time to break. Baz needs us, strong and ready to fight.
“Here’s what’s going on,” I say, turning back to face Kirin. “Whatever Baz is facing in there is so fucking terrifying, his mind is putting up physical barriers.” I bang on it with my fist, accomplishing nothing but a throbbing hand. “We’re not getting through it. We’re not getting up those stairs. So we either figure out a way to help him from here, or we’re going to lose him forever.”
Fourteen
BAZ
Footsteps nearby. A creak in the floorboards. The soft snick of the doorknob turning.
With a jolt, I open my eyes. I’m lying in a small bed, staring at a wall covered in black-and-white photographs—a pineapple on a kitchen counter. A close-up of an ornate glass chess piece. A portrait of a teenaged Carly Kirkpatrick baking cookies, eyes squeezed shut in a rare bout of laughter, flour dusting her nose.
I know these pictures. Itookthese pictures.
My mouth turns sour and metallic as I realize I’m back in my bedroom—the one they set up for me when Janelle and her husband took me in.
And I’m shivering with cold.
No, not cold,I realize.Fucking terror.
“Honey, are you awake?” Her voice calls to me, the words hissed and slurred as she pushes open the door. Light spills into my dark bedroom from the hallway, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight, pretending tonight will be different.
“Baz, sweetie?”
The sharp tang of alcohol floats in through the doorway. I don’t answer her. Just force myself to take deep, even breaths. Pretend I’m asleep.
I’m asleep, Janelle. You don’t need to wake me. Your daughter is in the next room. This is wrong. Please, please go away…
My silent plea goes unanswered. She maneuvers her way inside, her shadow sliding along the far wall twisting and bending, turning from woman to monster before my eyes.
Then she shuts the door behind her, throwing us both in darkness.
I hear the familiar pad of her footfalls as she makes her way to my bed by memory. The scent of her perfume makes me gag, and I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying out.
She’s warned me before; it will only make things worse.
She lifts my blankets, cold air licking my bare arms and chest. Not for the first time, I wish I’d thought to wear more layers to bed.
Not that it would stop her.
The mattress dips as she slides beneath my blankets, fitting her body against my backside.
My skin crawls with revulsion, but some stupid, childish part of me still believes if I pretend I’m asleep, she’ll leave me alone.
I force out a long, slow breath. A soft snore.
