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“Neither of you see the boy?” Dalca searches my eyes. “You don’t hear him?”
I shake my head. “What’s he saying?”
Dalca pauses. “He’s laughing.”
A shiver runs up my spine. A laughing child, a shadow, a cat. I’m not sure which I’d rather face. At least the massive cat would kill me quickly. Casvian’s lips are a thin line. I wonder what he sees, but I’m too afraid to ask.
I catch another glimpse of the shadow. Is this the form a curse takes within the Storm? Is this what will sink into me when I leave the Storm, cursing me?
I smile at my optimism. If we’re the first to return from the Storm, perhaps a curse isn’t so bad a price to pay.
“The cat is watching us,” Izamal says in a measured voice, like he’s trying not to spook it. “He has blood on his teeth—massive teeth, like scythes—and his yellow eyes... they’re human eyes. Does it mean something?”
Casvian stares at his own personal demon, a vein in his jaw working. He marshals himself by retreating to the realm of his intellect. “There are two possibilities. One, there’s nothing there, and our minds are playing tricks. Two, thereissomething there, and it’s concealing its true shape from us.”
I bite my lip. Maybe there’s a third option: there are four somethings here, each tailor-made.
“What would it want?” I ask. “If therewassomething there?”
“Excellent question, apprentice,” Casvian says dryly. “If only we knew more before we undertook this mission.”
“Let’s keep moving.” Dalca’s gaze is fixed far ahead. “We may be the first to see this far into the Storm. Who knows more than us?”
I squash down a thought of Ma. How far did she get?
Casvian shoots him an exasperated look. Izamal stares at Dalca, wearing an expression of cold focus. It makes me shiver.
We follow Dalca on the path, our personal specters tagging along,for what seems like miles and miles. Our pace is steady, though frustration shows in tight jaws and clenched fists. At least an hour or two must pass, but as Casvian says, we don’t know if time works the same way inside the Storm.
We walk and walk, until we find ourselves standing beside an awfully familiar black tree shaped like a massive, gnarled hand. The path stretches on beyond it, dim and clouded.
“Did we get turned around somewhere?” Izamal asks.
“No,” Dalca answers, walking forward. And soon we find he’s right.
The forest is gone; instead a lifeless desert fades into existence on either side of the path. I look back at the dark tree. There’s no sign of the forest.
The shadow creature follows.
“Still there?” I ask.
“Still there,” comes the unenthusiastic chorus.
The desert winds howl, each at a different, miserable pitch, coalescing into a symphony of wails.
“It’s gone,” Izamal says. I glance back—but my shadow’s still there.
Izamal grasps at his wrist.
“Your mother’s charm.” Dalca understands at once. “Is anyone else missing anything?”
“Yes.” Casvian starts. “The Haveli mark.” He touches the skin of his chest. It must be some sort of family ikon.
I reach for my collarbone and find nothing. “Ma’s locket.”
Dalca nods. “Tokens of protection. The deeper we go, the more we’ll have to give up.”
He examines each of us in turn. His bright eyes ask,Will you turn back?
