“Let’s see what’s in there,” E says.
His handprint slowly appears in the frost, smack-dab in the middle of the wide pane, melting a hole in the ice.
“I can’t— Fuck,” he curses quietly. “I think there’s someone in there.”
My mouth parts. “Wait. Is it a woman?”
My mind crashes straight back into the dream, to the bruised Iris in the mirrors. “Because I had this dream that Iris was trapped behind glass?—”
“There’s only one way to find out,” E cuts in. “Melt it.”
“What?”
“Melt the ice with your fire.”
I blow out a heavy breath and step forward, anxiety tightening a knot beneath my ribs. Then I press both palms to the frozen glass.
The cold bites so hard, my fingers turn blue on contact.
I didn’t even know something could be so cold.
Fire unfurls from my hands in violent ribbons that slither across the enclosure. Narrow red-and-orange lines race outward in every direction, swirling and drawing beautiful patterns in the frost. Sheets of ice begin to slide downward in heavy slush, and I push my fire further until the leftover ice vaporizes out of existence.
Steam hisses around us as the surface clears inch by agonizing inch.
The enclosure is filled with freshly thawed dark blue water. Whatever’s inside had been encased in a solid block of ice within the tank.
“By the Dark One,” I gasp.
A silhouette emerges inside the tank.
“It’s a man,” E murmurs in shock.
The man suspended in the water looks as though he’s meant to drown there for all eternity. Fae runes are tattooed across his left pectoral and form a network of black ink arranged in the unmistakable shape of an eyeless skull.
He’s naked, his skin almost blue, and covered in bruises and scars.
Some are fresh. Dark purple marks stain his ribs and throat. One eye is swollen shut. Deep cuts split the skin of his shoulders and chest, as though whoever hurt him wanted him alive long enough to suffer.
Others are far older, and I circle the tank to take it all in.
A vicious gash runs down one side of his back. Pale scar tissue mars his shoulder blades, standing above—worst of all—the welts where his wings once were.
The wounds healed unevenly, leaving thick ridges where the muscle was carelessly cut.
I choke on a ragged breath. “Oh, no. Ezra, I think he's?—”
“My brother.” His voice breaks. “Elio.”
Ezra blinks into view, his hand pressed flat against the newly cleared glass, and I hold my breath. The phenomenon is volatile at first, his golden silhouette flickering, but it finally stabilizes enough for him to appear. Not in the glass, not in a mirror, but right in front of me.
In the flesh.
I've seen Ezra before. I saw him at the bridal shop, and then again tonight in the mirrors. I saw him in fragments of memory. In dreams vivid enough to leave me aching when I woke.
I thought I knew what to expect. I was wrong.
A dream isn't real.
