Nil on Fire Read online

  Better still, in the crucial seconds during transfer—in those precious moments when her unconscious mind lay raw and exposed—the island discovered that she would fight until her time’s end, honing the innate strength she already possessed. And the island would let her. The island would provide ample opportunities for growth, and would force her to become as powerful as she could possibly be—but it mattered little, because in those same precious moments, the island had already chosen her fate.

  The fight would be delightful.

  Time to wake.

  *

  Carmen woke, instantly on guard.

  She hopped to a crouch, feeling naked without her knife. Then again, she was naked, which made the loss of her only means of protection that much worse. Around her, tunnels of water snaked through the rock; the ocean crashed close enough to hear even though she couldn’t see it.

  What in the world? she thought.

  Still crouched, she turned slowly, feeling the cool sea breeze brush her skin, the constant stickiness of Colombia conspicuously absent. She completed a full rotation, absorbing her quiet surroundings, the lack of people, of anything remotely familiar. In the distance she was fairly certain a zebra stood at attention, watching something. Maybe her.

  She’d never seen a zebra before, except in books. She’d never been to a zoo. She’d never needed to go; her father had simply brought the animals to her. A petting zoo, he’d called it.

  She had no interest in petting a zebra.

  And if it threatened her, she’d kill it.

  Where am I? she wondered, taking stock of her surroundings carefully. A spike of fear reared its head; she crushed it instantly, without hesitation. She had no time for fear, or the vulnerability it brought.

  Standing slowly, Carmen backtracked, replaying the last memories she had.

  Ice.

  Heat.

  Pain.

  Not all the pain was hers. At that, she smiled.

  The last thing she clearly remembered was surprising Carlos, an older boy who thought himself more attractive than he was in every sense of the word. He’d thought he’d surprise her. He’d thought he’d corner her in private, and teach her a lesson. He hadn’t liked her repeated refusals, and he’d liked her mockery even less. But he hadn’t expected her skill, or her speed. And there was no way he could have known that her father had trained her himself—to protect herself—especially from boys like Carlos who refused to take no for an answer. In the end, it was Carlos who’d learned a lesson. The slice down his cheek would leave a scar.

  She had been the stronger one when it counted most.

  Father would be proud, she thought, lifting her chin. Only he wasn’t here, and she’d no idea where here was.

  But there was one thing she knew in the depths of her soul: she was Carmen Medina, youngest daughter of Juan Felipe Medina, the owner of the largest construction company in Bogota and a self-made man who’d risen to wealth and power one smart move at a time. She had his genes, his ruthlessness, his cunning.

  She might be alone here, but she wasn’t afraid.

  She wanted answers. She wanted clothes. But more than anything else, she wanted a weapon.

  *

  A weapon, the female wanted. The island would see that she found one.

  It had let her acclimate long enough.

  Summoning heat and air, the island pushed at the female’s back. The island wanted blood, and when it was time, this female would spill it.

  Until then, the island would play elsewhere.

  Turning inward, the island reached for the seam. The island found it easily, focusing on the invisible wedge left behind, a weak point preventing the seam from closing completely, a remnant of the past that had grown over time. With calculated precision, the island leaned on the wedge, widening the rift between worlds: a razor-thin gap that should not be open, not now. Not after the crucial hour.

  But it was. Open and unguarded.

  Under the island’s pressure, the seam expanded a mere fraction. A surge of power rolled through the island in a delicious ripple. Through the seam, the island sought the one who had escaped, one it had desperately wanted to keep: the female, Skye. If it couldn’t have her, it would break her.

  It was almost time.

  CHAPTER

  6

  SKYE

  JUNE 2, LATE MORNING

  Holy crap. The darkness. It’s gaining strength, feeding itself, pulling power from a place I can’t see, from I place I haven’t dared look.

  But when I woke from my last nightmare, I knew: I need to confront the darkness, now, before it’s too late. Because as the darkness grows stronger, I’m growing weaker, probably because I don’t sleep—at least not well. Sleep is a full-on war, waged in the dark. Waged with the dark. Something has to give, and I don’t want it to be me.

  If the darkness wins, I’ll lose.

  I’ll lose me.

  I’ll be gone, lost to the infinite blackness, to the darkness between—like Sy, like others I never met. Now I know that the Wall wasn’t always true. That a check didn’t always mean that person made it back, or made it through; it just meant that person caught a gate. Sy was proof of that.

  So many things we thought were true on Nil were wrong, or at least not completely right.

  But me, I’m still desperate for the truth. About Nil’s past, about why Paulo stayed. About what lives in the darkness. Maybe my curiosity is genetic, like my recklessness, because now I can’t help wondering what will happen if I turn toward the dark, rather than away from it. Maybe if I reach into the darkness on my terms, maybe I’ll see what’s calling me, and why. And then I can beat whatever it is, because I’ll finally know what I’m up against.

  Part of me knows that’s insane, like lock-me-up-in-a-padded-room crazy.

  But the other part of me thinks it might work. Even better, I’ll make my stand during the day. Confronting the darkness in daylight seems safer than a meeting held in the dark. The light will be my edge, my weapon. So today, when the sun rises, I’m going to face the dark. Maybe I’ll even figure out what it wants. Because the darkness wants something; I just don’t know what.

  It wants you, my subconscious hisses.

  No. I play my own devil’s advocate. But maybe it wants something from me.

  The distinction seems critical, like the answers. Knowledge brought more than power; it offered freedom—at least it had on Nil.

  The only thing holding me back is fear. And not just any fear, one in particular: I fear I created it, that the darkness actually comes from within me, born of the void created by Dex’s death. That the darkness is a manifestation of guilt. That it’s all in my head.

  I fear that if I look into the darkness, I’ll see me.

  But the calm, resilient part of my mind reassures me I’m sane, and the fierce part of my soul—the part that helped me survive Nil—agrees. Somehow I’m certain that the darkness of my dreams is real: that it’s foreign and lethal and not to be ignored. That it’s a remnant of Nil. One I brought back with me, a shadow of that last gate.

  So maybe, in the end, I just need to acknowledge it and say good-bye. Because if I’m the one who brought it back, then I need to be the one to let it go.

  I have a plan. It involves a nap. And it’s happening today.

  As soon as Rives leaves for Marseilles to see friends, I’ll banish the darkness for good. End of story.

  I feel better already.

  My name is Skye Bracken, and this is the truth that will set me free.

  *

  Two hours later, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake.

  The darkness poured in just as I knew it would, a greedy blackness writhing with life and invisible whispers, begging me to come closer. I crept to the edge, sensing the invisible line, taking the utmost care not to cross it with any shred of myself. All I could see was black. Endless, terrifying black.

  Before I could look deeper, I felt the line bend.

  The darkness surg
ed with victory, reaching for me with sinewy claws, spilling across in roiling ribbons of sentient blackness—and the instant the darkness breached the line, the whispers turned deafening. I lurched away, too slow, too late. The darkness brushed my shoulder with icy fingers and the profound depth of it was shocking.

  I felt it.

  The whole of it. The essence of it. The want.

  It wanted me.

  The darkness held me in place, binding me with invisible ties. I screamed for Rives, but the darkness absorbed the sound; it devoured my desperation, my plea, everything—even the timbre of my voice, as though all were a preview of the full course of me.

  A pinprick of light flared.

  I was the bug under the microscope, caught between the light and the dark, a microscopic speck in time and space and something much greater than me. I could still feel the line, still feel the edge of me. I could almost see that crucial boundary, reflected in the wisp of light.

  The light pulsed, once; the chorus of voices converged into a single clear tone: desperate, and unquestionably human.

  I leaned closer, trying to see—and abruptly, the line thinned. The darkness snarled, the light faded, and I had a moment of complete clarity that if I fully crossed that line, I would not come back.

  Like I’d flipped a switch, I fought with all I had, lashing out with muscles and bone and blood and will. I broke free; I woke up. I lay alone on the bed in the sun-filled flat, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Still shaking, still wanting.

  Now that I’m awake, why do I still feel it?

  CHAPTER

  7

  RIVES

  JUNE 2, MORNING

  Each step away from Skye felt loaded, like a magnet fighting its pull.

  Don’t leave her alone.

  The quiet thought made me pause. I almost turned back, retraced my steps.

  But I didn’t.

  Skye had asked me for space, for time alone. I kept moving, kept walking. Kept going through the motions. I boarded the train, took my seat, but my worry weight was too great to shake.

  She’s fine, I told myself. After all, this girl was the same one who’d taken down a ninety-kilo cat with nothing but a rock and piece of twine.

  That clear truth made me relax.

  But the moment the train left the station, the whisper exploded in my head like a scream: DON’T LEAVE HER ALONE.

  Too late, I thought, jumping to my feet.

  I already had.

  CHAPTER

  8

  NIL

  AFTER NOON

  That one did not listen well.

  His mind less guarded than hers, he heard but did not listen, not even to himself. He had left his mate, leaving her vulnerable.

  Power had shifted, like the seam itself. Like the focus of the island, reaching there and here. Perhaps the shift was meant to be, since she was the one who had caused it.

  Indeed, she was the one.

  The island saw it so clearly. The end was written; the future spilled like the light of a thousand suns, bursting with brilliance and flaring into the now.

  Now, it would be up to her: his mate, the one called Skye. The one with the power to listen, and to hear, and above all, to survive.

  In the meantime, the island must choose wisely, both here and there, with what little power it had left. Here, the island had developed an affinity for the one called Hafthor, a male who was potentially worthy of the Sight. Usually the island gifted the Sight to females, but there had been exceptions. It was too soon to judge.

  For now, the island would see through Hafthor’s eyes. Occasionally, human sight had proven useful, even insightful, and the island would utilize every advantage it could.

  Through Hafthor’s eyes, the island watched.

  *

  From behind the largest thicket of palms, Hafthor studied the girl. Long black braid, sharp cheekbones. She would be beautiful, he thought, except for her smile. It hinted at cruelty.

  And she was a thief.

  As he’d watched, she’d strolled into the empty village, past the wooden wall packed with names—some of which looked recently added—and strode into a small thatched-roof hut as if it were hers. And yet, he knew that it wasn’t, just as he knew that the rope she’d walked out with wasn’t hers, or the cloth bag bulging with gourds.

  The hidden people would not approve.

  He’d met no one else here, but he knew they existed: he saw their fingerprints on the empty beds carefully made; he heard their voices in the wind and their whispers in the trees; he felt their dead lying still in the field of flowers.

  He felt the hidden people everywhere, and they demanded respect.

  Perhaps this girl felt them too, because she didn’t linger in the village. After poking her head out and glancing around, she walked straight toward his hiding place, a look of satisfaction on her face. He shrank back, blending into the palms. She passed him without a glance, too intent on looking over her shoulder, her satisfaction shifting to caution, as if she sensed she was being followed.

  Hafthor silently observed as she headed south.

  Seconds passed, weighted and thick.

  Then he followed, taking care to stay concealed, which was not an easy feat given his size. She, on the other hand, was lithe and nimble, and exceptionally stealthy. Hafthor lost her trail within minutes.

  Now he stood alone on the black sand beach, south of the City, in the place he’d first begun. Full circle, he thought, taking in his surroundings, a message to begin again. To go a different way.

  He pressed his fingers to the tattoo on his shoulder, then crossed his arms. Closing his eyes, he listened.

  South, the sea whispered. Go south.

  Without hesitation, Hafthor went south.

  CHAPTER

  9

  NIL

  MID-MORNING

  Paulo stood inside the Arches, facing the mountain. It towered over the island like a silent giant. He knew in the deepest part of his soul that he was not alone on the island, even if he was the only human. But surely by now there must be other people.

  So why hadn’t he seen them?

  Pawns, he thought abruptly. We’re part of a game, pieces to be played. Perhaps he was the only pawn in play, perhaps not. But it mattered little to him. He had no control over others, or the island. But he could control himself.

  Or could he?

  How long had he been staring at the mountain?

  Frustrated, he ripped his gaze away, his thoughts drifting to that last day with Skye. To his failure. His eyes fell, and when they landed, he startled.

  Etched into a small flat rock at the base of the smallest arch, Skye’s initials stared at him. S. B. Above the two letters hung the words Search and Look Inside.

  He read and reread the words, searching for meaning. Had Skye left this message for him? Had she known he would stay?

  What had she known that he didn’t?

  He stared at her initials until his neck ached, then he turned away, the rising tide calling him down from the rocks. With ease, he worked his way down the jagged black cliff, not missing a foothold. At the bottom, he paused. The skin on his back prickled as an unseen hand dragged ice down his back.

  Run, whispered the sea.

  A shimmering gate vaulted into the sky. A wild gate, the kind that still filled Paulo with unease.

  He ran. Up the black beach, away from the gate, cutting and swerving as he stayed ahead of the leading edge until the glittering wall collapsed. Finally, it winked out. Gone.

  Paulo dropped his hands to his knees, his chest heaving, but his eyes stayed alert as he began counting.

  One.

  Two.

  The air thickened.

  I said run. The breaking waves rumbled like laughter. A second gate appeared meters from the demise of the first, shooting skyward, then rolling directly toward him.

  No, Paulo thought with force; he was already sprinting. Not today. I’ll go on my own time, of my own free wil
l.

  I control me.

  A black cat popped its small head out from the scrub brush, ears twitching. Without missing a step, Paulo cut right, grabbed the cat from the bushes, and spun around; he threw the cat directly into the shimmering gate. Rainbows of glittering light washed over the cat. Paulo staggered toward the sea, triumph warming his face as the cat vanished. Let the cat take this wild gate, he thought with pleasure, a ticket to an unknown place. My time has yet to come.

  Paulo had business to finish, and the will to see it through.

  The gate winked out; the sea breeze kicked up without break.

  Noon was over.

  Paulo rested his hands on his hips as he tilted his face toward the mountain. Nice try, he thought, a smile pulling at his lips. But I’m still here, still fighting. And I’m not done yet.

  *

  From his vantage point in the trees, Hafthor watched the dark-haired boy with interest. For the past few minutes, the boy had darted and dodged two separate walls of glistening air, walls identical to the one that had captured Hafthor back in Iceland. The boy’s speed and agility were remarkable. Equally remarkable was the expression on the boy’s face: determination, and peace. He had no intention of touching either of those walls, and he hadn’t.

  He knows something about this place. Hafthor eyed the boy’s clean white cotton shorts and the tribal tattoo on his bare shoulder. Something important I don’t.

  This person was one he needed to meet.

  As the boy turned away, Hafthor stepped from the trees.

  “Hallo,” he said, lifting his hand in greeting.

  The boy swiveled back. He didn’t look the least bit surprised to see him, nor did he gape at Hafthor’s bedraggled palm-frond skirt. Instead, the boy smiled. A kind smile, one that inspired trust.

  “I’m Paulo.” The boy walked up and offered his hand.

  “Hafthor.”

  They clasped hands briefly and let go.

  “Tell me of those walls.” Hafthor pointed back to where the shimmering walls had vanished. “They brought us here, yes? But they are dangerous?”