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CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
My instincts take over.The fangs come out first, and I don’t remember cutting myself, but warm blood trickles down my fingers. Just as quickly, I lose the air in my lungs as I slam into the wall.
There’s a voice calling somewhere. Distant. I think it might be saying my name. But then a pair of eyes comes into focus, so similar to mine they give me vertigo.
There’s a hand around my throat, holding tightly enough to keep me subdued, but not enough to harm. Once the haze clears from my vision and I come back to myself, the hand loosens another degree.
“I really am sorry about that,” says the man in front of me—Westcott.
But now that he’s standing mere inches away, I know in my bones that’s not him. And after a moment of straining my ears for a heartbeat I never find, the pieces click into place.
“You’re Westcott’s shadow self.”
He nods, dropping his hand and taking a step back from me. “You can call me James, if you’d like.”
“What are you doing here?” Calla asks, arms tightly crossed over her chest as she looks him up and down.
But he doesn’t respond to her. It’s like he doesn’t hear her at all. His smile widens as he takes me in, looking nothing like the way Westcott smiles. There’s no hidden spark in his eye, no threats thinly concealed beneath the surface. For a shadow version, he’s so full of…light.
His hand lifts like he wants to reach for me, but he lets it drop to his side, his smile turning sad. “I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances. And how strange this must be for you. This place. Me.”
I exchange a sideways glance with Calla, and she steps up next to him, but still, he doesn’t turn.
“I saidwhat are you doing here?” she demands, but her voice loses its bite by the end as he continues to pay her no mind. Slowly, she reaches a hand forward and waves it in front of his face.
He doesn’t react.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to…” He clears his throat as he continues to stare at me, his eyes growing misty. “I’m a stranger to you. I know that. But I’ve, well, I’ve watched you grow up. And I’ve been so proud of you and the choices you’ve made.” He winces and tilts his head to the side. “It’s made the version of you over here…well, you’ve met her.”
It made them the opposite of us. Cold. Hateful. Unforgiving.
But then that would mean this man standing in front of me is the opposite of everything our father turned out to be—ruthless, selfish, cruel. That would make this version of him…well, the father I’d wrongly built Westcott to be in my head.
He gives me a sad smile like he can tell what I’m thinking, like he can see all of the missed possibilities too.
When I turn to Calla, her face is pale.
“You can’t see her, can you?” I whisper.
Slowly, James looks from me to where Calla stands, but it’s clear his eyes don’t focus on her. “See who?”
Calla covers her mouth with her hand.
“Calliope is standing right next to you.”
His eyes scan the space around us, like she’ll suddenly materialize.
“You really can’t hear me?” she asks.
His silence is answer enough.
“What does that mean?” I demand. “Why can you see me but not her?”
“How did she get here?”
“Westcott forced her.”
“I saw what happened with you, Valerie. Saw it the moment you crossed over. But Calliope…” He tilts his head as if something’s occurring to him. “He would have anticipated that,” he murmurs, more to himself than to us.
