Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
“This feels silly.”
“Do it anyway.”
I shut my eyes and imagine my favorite fall jacket from back home, almost smelling the scent of the candle I burn in my house that often clings to it, and to my utter shock, I know I’ve done it. My lashes lift, and I glance down at myself, my hands patting my new attire that I’d created with my mind. My gaze meets his in utter astonishment. “How did that happen?”
“I think that answer might be—”
“Me,” I supply, shellshocked. “I did it.”
His lips curve, and his eyes alight with amusement. “Yes. You did it.” He motions us forward. “Let’s get this walk over with.”
“Wait,” I say quickly, and when he turns back to me, I challenge him. “Can’t you just transport us? Or does that not work here?”
“Magic flourishes here,” he repeats.
My heart thunders in my ears with the implications of what he’s not saying, but it’s broadcasting loud and clear. “You’re afraid of the serpent in me. No. You’re not afraid of it, but you are afraid it’ll enter this place through me. And if that’s true, why am I even here?”
“I told you, Ember. Demons can’t come to Elysium.”
“Then why can’t you transport us?”
“For one thing, you need the endurance to manage your magic.”
I blanch. “Wait. Are you saying I’m out of shape? I work out. I’m in shape.”
“I’m saying, to properly manage powerful magic, you need balance and fitness that you do not have, but you will when we leave this place. You also need to know how to use it, and if I keep doing everything for you, why would you bother to learn?” He starts walking.
Indignant, I chase after him. “Everything you just said to me was ridiculously rude.”
He offers what amounts to a silent shrug. “If the truth is rude, then so be it.” He points toward the forest. “It’s an easier walk than the sand and offers shelter.”
Shelter? I silently demand. From what? “Are there creatures in there I need to know about?” I ask in earnest.
“None we can’t kill,” he promises, pulling ahead of me a few steps.
I dare to catch his arm, to touch him, and the awareness between us is wickedly present and instantly pulsing through every fiber of my being. He stops walking, the tension curling in the muscles of his powerful body, telling me he feels what I feel as well, but I stay focused on my concern. “What kind of creatures, Micah?”
“The kind native to Elysium and nowhere else.”
“What kind—”
“You aren’t here to relax, Ember. You’re here to learn to harness your real self.”
I could declare this far from any real self I know as me, but what good would it do? Isn’t that the problem in his eyes? Maybe even in mine, if I tell the truth. I’ve never fully felt connected to anyone in my family but my grandfather. As for why Micah is as hard as stone right now, I consider the idea that he can see what I cannot while in this place, and maybe my real self is not pretty at all. I release his arm as if burned, and we stare at each other, and he’s so damn unreadable it’s unnerving. What am I? I know he knows, and I yearn to demand answers, but I’ve come to understand him well enough to know nothing is so simple with him. He’ll likely simply challenge me to hop in his head, and that’s not a feasible answer.
I start walking. This time, he falls into step with me but doesn’t speak.
A full minute later, we enter the forest, the light above largely blocked out by the towering trees, only slivers illuminating our path, which is eerily quiet, even our footsteps are without sound. It’s as if the trees suffocate the sound before it reaches realization. It’s freakish and unnerving, as are the vines of vibrant blues, greens, and oranges that frame our path and cluster about the trees. The air echoes with their silent screams, warning me of the secrets of the forest without so much as a rustle of leaves or limbs. I tell myself it’s my imagination working overtime, fear taking root in the soil underfoot.
For what must be half an hour, we travel in silence, and the hum of the vines dims as the chatter of my own mind grows louder, stirring up urgent questions that push me to test the volume of my own voice in the forest. “Oliver is okay, right?”
He halts and rotates to face me, a tree at his back with a trunk several feet wide, gold seams I liken to veins glowing around the lower few feet. “Why are you asking me about Oliver?” he demands softly, and while his voice is low, there’s a crack in the depths that snaps my attention from the glow of the tree to the amber glow in the blue of his eyes.