

* * *

Within Gold and Glass

By Madeline Meekins

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Copyright © 201 5 by Madeline Meekins

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Edition ( Title:  Jamyria: The Entering ) , 2015

Second Edition, 2018

ISB N  978-1-943847-27-3

www.MadelineMeekinsAuthor.com

Edited by Dominique Scott

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To those who became my world: Jason, Myra, and Jaden.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS:

Prologue

Chapter One: The Most Talked About Nobody

Chapter Two: For Curiosity's Sake

Chapter Three: Beneath the Icy Surface

Chapter Four: The Welcoming Woman

Chapter Five: The First Man

Chapter Six: Margo's Choice

Chapter Seven: Hidden Surprise

Chapter Eight: The Penny Challenge

Chapter Nine: Past's Farewell

Chapter Ten: The Unwelcome Duo

Chapter Eleven: Misunderstood

Chapter Twelve: The Jamyrian Jungle

Chapter Thirteen: Into the Depths

Chapter Fourteen: Strength Lacking

Chapter Fifteen: Ian's Insight

Chapter Sixteen: Cleanse

Chapter Seventeen: The Feather of a Clarxen

Chapter Eighteen: Under the Lighted Tree

Chapter Nineteen: Destiny Despised

Chapter Twenty: The After

Chapter Twenty-One: Not of This World

Chapter Twenty-Two: Without a Plan

Chapter Twenty-Three: Storm the Castle

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Acceptance

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Prologue

Nearly Fifty Years Prior

A chilling scream fills the desolate forest.

Thin trunks of ebony stripe the snow-clad woods. The howling wind swirls vicious flurries. All fauna is silenced; the creatures sense the impending battle and burrow into safety.

The cry ebbs in the background, fading into the relentless wind.

Flames burst to life on the edge of an outcrop, a shocking contrast to the black and white world, and drop to the ground below like molten lead. The flames collect and quiver. A circular patch of grass melts to reveal its verdant self from around its source.

A growl rumbles from within its fiery core.

With a roar of his own, a dark man appears from overhead, readying his sword. Each of his strides rips into the snow, uplifting black soil from beneath its luscious white overlay. He skids to a stop, having noticed the flames settled in the clearing below. With a glare of suspicion, the man whips the sword once in his meaty hands. But he does not approach the fiery being. Not just yet.

A woman, small in stature, follows suit though her footing, unlike his, is light and barely disturbs the snowy earth.

The flames before the pair bend their light, shifting into the molten shape of a man ablaze. His skin is charring embers, both blackened and aglow. The sudden increase in heat sears the land, snow sizzling to steam in its wake. A jet of flames streaks from his breath, the darker man unable to dodge it in time —

The woman steps in front, outstretching a hand to block and cast away the blaze with a burst of energy. Her fingertips blister in response.

"Fool! Rushing in to battle will accomplish nothing! Save your hot-headedness and first analyze our foe!" She buries her scorched hand into the snow.

In the shadows of the trees, a curious watcher gazes at the scene.

The flaming beast digs his hands into the soil underfoot, heat spewing from his nostrils. The woman, too, regains her composure, steadying her sword on point. Liquid energy pulses through her veins, strengthening her calves. She prepares to attack, but —

The darker man emerges from near nothingness, blade piercing the distracted beast's chest. A hot, blaring scream rages until his flames burn out to reveal his true self. The man, brown-haired and stocky build, staggers away from the darker man, clutching his gushing chest.

The boy in the shadows sneers.

The air of a threat burned out with the man's flames, but for reasons inexplicable, he does not give into death but hobbles away into the moon-kissed forest, leaving a bloody pathway behind him.

The darker man whoops in celebration, while the woman futilely attempts to repair her singed fingers; healing has never been her forte.

"Don't flatter yourself," she mumbles irritably.

He turns to her, victorious smile shifting to a grimace. "What's this? Are you jealous?"

"Humph!" She turns away coldly. "You wouldn't have been able to strike him down, had it not been for my distraction. Don't fool yourself into thinking you will take all of the credit."

"A kill is a kill. The one who drives in the blade still receives the glory."

"Speaking of kills," she says, cocking her head. "The job has yet to be finished...."

He booms a menacing laugh. "Did you not see the state he was in? Crawling off like a wounded animal? Ha! The coward's ran off to die under a bush somewhere. Call on the others to search for his corpse. The Marked One is dead."

*

The screams in the distance blare on.

She is frightened, the dying man thinks.  She must have been the one who brought in the snow.

It is in her direction he runs.

The only sounds are her scream of terror and his own overworked breathing.  Must find her. Must...

The man falls into the snow in a heap, crying out as the pain becomes unbearable. The bleeding doesn't stop, and he recognizes the empty feeling, though he has never experienced it before, as his spirit leaves the physical behind.

The screaming has finally succumbed. A smile plays at his lips at the irony as he, too, is now willing to succumb.

A gasp.

His eyes pop open to find the girl staring down fearfully at his crimson body. She couldn't be more than fourteen, brown hair to the waist, primped in a summer dress and sandals despite her wintry surroundings. Her eyes are splotchy with tears but stare wide at his open chest.

She drops before him, knees buried in the snow. A hand reaches out for his wound but drops away. Whether out of fear or the realization that there is nothing she can do, he does not know.

"What happened to you?" she whispers simply.

But the man's chest breaks out into spasms, breaths grow uneven. He doesn't have much time. He must reach out for the girl. "I'm — sorry —" he says between gasps.

The girl jumps to her feet, with a sudden uncertainty in her brow. She notices it then: the cluster of dark scars patterned beneath the collar of his shirt. He lifts his hand, placing it on her thigh, and fire prickles her skin. Her scream resounds. A bright light flowing, his hand fuses to her leg, knitting the fibers of their skins together.

It is over as quickly as it began.

The man grabs her by the hips, using what little of his strength remains to lean forward and breathe the word "Run."

She skids away from him, clutching her bleeding leg.

A series of black tree trunks blur past as she runs through the forest, putting as much distance between herself and the crazed man as she can. Snow falls heavily, obstructing her vision. She blinks away the cold, pressing on.

A whirl of black appears out of the corner of her eyes. The hooded figure runs parallel, watching her from the shadow of his cloak.

Out of nowhere, fire splits her jaw in two, and she is suddenly on the ground looking up at the slight woman. Her cheek throbs from the blow.

The hooded man runs into view with a ferocious expression.

"I warned you," says the woman. "Did I not tell you to finish the Mark off?"

He says nothing in return.

"What a bother." She raises her sword, the girl scurrying away. "I wonder if he accomplished what he set out to, prolonging his power for mere minutes. Oh well..."

"That's enough." A third cloaked figure approaches, a younger boy with a terrifying calm. "Always eager to kill, you two are." He kneels before the girl to roughly wipe a smear of blood from her lips. He speaks to her now. "Well, it's a shame for you. Wrong place at precisely the right time."

"She must be killed," the woman insists.

The girl splutters in response, which only causes the woman to cling tighter to her sword.

Standing coolly, the third says, "Unfortunately for you, she has landed herself in  my region. The decision is now mine, and I choose to pass it along to her Majesty."

The darker man growls. "Just barely in your region!"

"But my region, all the same. No objections, I presume?" He stares thoughtfully at the girl, though not in a kind way. It is as if he sees something tantalizing worth consuming. "Her energy level must be off the charts having completely fused with a New Mark. It'd be an utter waste to destroy her.

"I suggest you two scour the land for the Marked One's remains."

*

Flurries catch the moonlight and shimmering stars in their descent. He wonders, as his life leaves him behind, how everything can change so suddenly. How priorities and events that seem as miniscule as snowflakes can turn into avalanches in an instant.

Will she have the necessary strength to tame my curse?

He looks up to find the woman he fought standing over him, curved sword in hand.

"You are much less formidable in that state. Far less bothersome." The woman nears.

He says nothing in return, but rather coughs, splattering blood from his wound.

"I must ask..." She lowers to his level, face scrunched up beneath the cover of her hood. He hadn't noticed before that her head is shaved to the scalp, an unsettling look for such a pretty face. "Why? You are but a new enterer, alone in the midst of the forest.... I'm certain you haven't made contact with any others, so...why? For what reasons do you oppress?"

His lips crack, a maniacal laugh bursts through. "Why do I oppress? This land is a lie! Anyone who stands by allowing others to be taken is not in their right mind!"

The woman's cheek twitches.

"That's right," he says, striking a nerve. "That includes you. The moment I received this curse, I vowed to free those who —"

Her wrist flips while she simultaneously bounces to her feet. Her outstretched sword drips in red.

"Silence," she says calmly, though her breathing is uneven. She stares at his disfigured form which now lacks a head. The brown cluster of scars emblazoned on his chest disappears beneath a layer of blood.

"Come, Belitza," calls the darker man.

The girl whimpers behind her hands. She stands awkwardly between the two men, her wounded thigh trembling. The woman, Belitza, considers her momentarily, wondering idly if the Queen will, in fact, show the girl mercy.

Frowning, she swipes her blade clean and sheathes it before turning to follow the others and leaving behind the corpse of the world's only savior for the coming half century.

* * *

Chapter One: The Most Talked About Nobody

The night sky is tinged orange and dotted with sparks that ascend toward the moon through thick billows of purple smoke. The scents of chemicals and burning plastics fill her nose, which she inhales willingly. Her body blisters against the heat as she takes a step toward the rushing flames.

It is a beautiful form of purification, charring everything to the ground in one swift movement and ridding the world of its impurities. The flames roar like the ocean behind a vast stretch of ash. Her outstretched arms welcome it as it cleanses the earth in its wake. It is unforgiving. It is final. It is, or so it has been said, her destiny.

The skin of her face sears, smile fixed in place. After all, to burn in lieu of another is a noble act.

Without a thought, she plunges into the fire allowing her mind to disappear. Her final cry ebbs beyond the flames. She does not turn to ash, though, but instead shrivels sickeningly into a dried up human form left bald and naked. Nothing more than a corpse and one last recognizable trait.

A glint of gold around her wrist catches the light of the blaze.

Margo Grisby kicks her legs violently into a sitting position and hurls her body over. Ribs clutched and breaths ragged, she counts her pulse as it pounds in her head. Flames haven't visited her dreams for weeks, but it seems hell has greeted her like a distant friend. She shivers and squeezes her eyes shut tightly. So much fire...

But there is no fire here in her bedroom, only buttery walls and mismatched furniture. Slowly she cracks her eyes. Faint gray light filters through her blinds. It could pass for a rainy day. But it's simply early and overcast as St. Joseph, Tennessee, generally is in the fall.

A dream , she tells herself again as she presses the soles of her feet to the cold floor. Vivid as it was, it was nothing more than that. She swears, running her fingers through her tangled hair, partially to reassure it is still atop her head. Wiping a faint sheen of sweat from the back of her neck, she allows herself a moment to wait out the shakes.

In the other room, Margo hears the sounds of her mother in the kitchen, the aroma of hot food drifting into her room and knotting her stomach.

After one last steadying breath, she rocks up to her feet and spins into the small hallway that leads to the living room. An odd assortment of frames filled with photos from better days obscure the dark paneled walls. Since the Hederman's — the owners of their cottage and the Grisby's landlords — refuse to let them paint  the dark paneling,  Margo's mom made one too many attempts to warm the space up: from acrylic slathered canvases to bejeweled pillows. Her mother claims it takes more than dark walls to dampen the spirit of a Grisby.

Margo abruptly stops halfway across the living room as the morning news catches her attention: a second child within the past month has gone missing. This time a six-year-old girl from Alabama, not twenty miles from their farm. Disappearances near St. Joseph are rare, and twice in a month is practically unheard of. She shivers again, not certain if for the girl or the lingering nightmare.

Peeking through the pots overhanging the counter is a head of honey-blond hair, now mixed with a few white strands. "You're up early. Must be anxious to get to work."

"Anxious to be done with it." Margo plops herself upon a stool.

With buoyant laughter, she replies, "Well, I'm making my anxious daughter her favorite meal." She does this sometimes, talks to Margo as if she's still a child. A sixteen-year-old, frizzy-haired, hard-headed child. "Ham and eggs," she announces.

Margo picks at a piece of the mustard-colored linoleum countertop, pulling it up with her nail and letting it snap back in place. To her a new day just means new work. She doesn't see what it's worth being so chipper about.

"Hey," her mom says softly, leaning in. "I appreciate the long hours you've been putting in. The extra pull really  does help out." She cracks an egg in the skillet with an expression as if satisfied with her motherly words of encouragement. "I just wish you had a normal teenager's life," she continues absentmindedly. "I mean, you're a junior now, and you still haven't made any friends. Don't you think it's time you —"

"I'm not putting in extra hours," she breaks her off sorely. "Working on this farm isn't exactly a new thing around here. Dad left over a year ago." Margo immediately winces as the words escape her lips.

Mrs. Grisby flips the egg and scrounges for a clean plate. "Tough night?"

Margo's eyes cut away to the floor. She considers lying, but knows her mom's nights are as nightmarish as her own. "Yeah."

"Eat," Mrs. Grisby commands. She pushes the plate roughly to interrupt Margo's fidgeting with the linoleum, but Margo can only stare at her eggs with her hands folded upon her lap.

"I didn't mean it, Mom. What I said about the work."

"I know you didn't, sweetie." Sitting down with a cup of hot tea, Mrs. Grisby begins her morning dose of reading.

A long moment passes, the only sounds the whirring of the refrigerator and the scraping of metal against the ceramic of their plates until Mrs. Grisby takes a deep breath to steady herself. "Margo...?"

She automatically looks up into her mother's troubled eyes. They are the same eyes as her own: hazel and wide. "Yes?" she encourages.

"Have you talked to... him lately?" Mrs. Grisby drops her gaze to her plate.

"No." Margo shoves two pieces of ham in her mouth to avoid further explanation. Anything to buy time on this sore subject. Her mother rarely brings Owen up, but it seems she used the brief mentioning of his name as a convenient prompt.

"You should at least give him a call every once in a while."

Margo's cheeks darkened. "Why should I? This isn't my fight.  You should call  him ."

"I'm not asking you to fix anything," she replies unperturbed. "Just to have a relationship with your father."

"A relationship," scoffs Margo stabbing the yolk with her fork and picturing Owen's face as it oozes. "Like he deserves that after what he —"

" He left ," she snaps so sharply Margo freezes mid-stab. Her mother composes herself before finishing her sentence. "Because he was hurt." She takes a sip of tea. No amount of time will ever be enough to heal what he'd done to her, so how can she so calmly defend him? "What happened with Kylie was a —"

A deafening screech interrupts her as Margo's chair scrapes across the floor. She rises to her feet in a swift motion. "I can't be here. I can't — I can't listen to this. I need to get to work." She leaves her half-eaten breakfast, dons her jacket and rubber boots by the door, and dashes into the chill of the morning before her mom can speak another word. She half expects her to call after, but all is silent as she walks the distance from their front door to the barn.

They've rented the cottage on the Hederman's farm since Margo was a child. After Owen left, her mother couldn't afford rent, so Margo offered to help out on the farm in exchange for the difference. Mrs. Hederman was all too willing to accept free labor.

Pulling on a pair of work gloves, Margo tries her hardest not to look in the direction of her landlords' house where she can hear the scratching of Mrs. Hederman's broom upon her porch. The woman has never particularly liked Margo, all thanks to her sister Kylie. With two buckets of feed in tow, she stomps off through the fields of corn with nothing more than a spiteful glare from Mrs. Hederman.

Thick fog creeps over the farmlands, the rolling hills peeking through like the fin of a shark. The pond is still, and the distant hum of the tractor lulls her. Stalks of corn sway gently in the wind. It is an ordinary gray day on an ordinary gray farm.

When she reaches the cow pasture, she climbs over the metal fence, careful not to spill any feed. A curious group of cows already  make s their way over to her while she dumps a bucket in the trough. A chorus of grateful moos sound as she begins the walk across the field with the other bucket.

The cows never cease to amaze Margo. How they move in unison, how they expect her to bring their food every day. They seem genuinely satisfied with their short, pathetic lives. Perhaps even happy. It is their perpetual stupidity that amazes her. How can they not see there is a greater field just beyond that gate? One that offers freedom and less ground beef.

The metal handle of the bucket digs into her palm. She's no more than halfway across the field but is in such a foul mood she decides to dump the feed right where she stands. A dozen or so cows take notice of her and slowly gather to see what she's dropped. Spinning on the ball of her foot, she begins her trek back.

Margo kicks her leg once again over the gate and slushes her way through the muddy pathway that leads back to the cornfield. She's in no rush to face Mrs. Hederman, so she opts to amble on her way back to the barn.

It is particularly dark within the confinement of the corn stalks on this day. The lurking fog obscures her vision and the wind rips her hair so violently around her face she has difficulty seeing. Grasping at the loose strands of hair and shoving them into the safety of her hood, Margo suddenly has a terrible sinking feeling that she is not alone in the cover of these crops. She freezes, eyes scanning the stalks, unable to see far beyond the fog. Something suddenly feels very wrong.

But everything appears the same. Nothing unusual. Except, have the stalks ever stood so still?

She takes a step forward, more cautious of her footing now. Indeed, the wind has disappeared, but that doesn't excuse the sinking feeling in her stomach. She tries to shake it away without any luck.

A crunch beneath her foot. Something vivid orange gleams beneath the soft soil underfoot. Dropping to her knees, Margo digs out the vibrant, pearlescent feather. It's a shocking shade of orange with flecks of red that shoot through its wispy strands. It's nearly the length of her forearm, and toward its tip, the color shif ts to turquoises and blues, contrasting its vivid body. Its touch leaves a light burning sensation on her skin when she slips it through her fingertips.

"Strange," she whispers as the burn lifts and is replaced with an icy tingling.

Mr. Hederman toots the horn on his tractor to remind Margo of the current time. She shoves the feather into her work  jacket's inside pocket  and rushes out of the rows of corn and across the field, giving him a nod of appreciation in return and feeling slightly guilty for not getting much work done. She is grateful he understands the importance of an education. His wife, on the other hand, would rather spit a string of obscenities at the mentioning of anything that pulls her from her job on the farm. But Margo is determined to become someone and refuses to be eternally attached to this town, like the cows in the back pasture.

The screen door slams behind her. She drops her boots at the door. Her mother still sits at the table and does not look up from her book as Margo runs past.

She tosses her work clothes on her bed and searches out a tee shirt and jeans. Atop her dresser in its usual resting place, sits the most precious article in her room. She grabs the silky chain by its gold clasps, gently locking them at the base of her neck. The warm tingling in her middle returns. Margo takes the tiny wishbone charm between her thumb and forefinger, smiling to herself.

"Crap," she mutters when she catches sight of her clock in her dresser mirror reading a backwards 'seven-eighteen.' She snatches her bag and dashes to the kitchen.

"Before you leave," her mom says firmly as she claps her book shut. "I think you should think about what I said earlier."

Margo grabs a bottle of water and a granola bar. "Fine, Mom. But I can't think before I leave." She makes her way to the front door, turning to add, "I'll think about it at school. Promise."

She hears the scoff just as the door slams shut behind her.

The wooden porch steps sag and creak with each bound. She slips through the picket fence and breaks out in a run. Not twenty feet across the field, she hears the screen door a second time.

"Wait! Margo, wait!"

She hopes her eye-rolling goes unnoticed as she turns back to meet her mom. "This is why I'm late every day."

"You know how much I love you." Her mother grips her face to kiss her cheek. "Let's just forget about our argument and move forward, okay?"

"Already forgotten," Margo mutters through tightly squeezed cheeks. "I've got to run. Literally."

Her mom chuckles. "You're just like me, you know? Stubborn." And Kylie is like Owen. It's what people have said for as long as Margo can remember. Of course, Kylie isn't as self-absorbed as he is. She carries his gene for passion in a more positive way. Their mother, on the other hand,  is stubborn, unmoved by an argument. Margo is her daughter to a tee.

As far as looks are concerned, Kylie and Margo both inherited Owen's with a dapple of their mom's. Their heart-shaped faces favor his with their dominant cheekbones and widow's peaks. Kylie, however, has their mother's creamy skin and blond hair. Margo has her hazel-colored eyes that blend in with Owen's olive skin and light brown hair. What sets the sisters apart the most is their six-inch difference in height. Kylie towers over Margo's mere five-foot-one.

"If you decide to play hooky and skip out on work again this afternoon, you call me," she fusses, pulling Margo back into the present.

She nods, and as soon as her mother releases her, Margo takes off across the fields.

"Oh, and don't play hooky," she calls after her.

Margo simply waves without turning back.

* * *

Chapter Two: For Curiosity's Sake

The morning air is crisp, leaving Margo's fingers numb, a sure sign that a fierce winter approaches in the coming months. The dirt road meanders through the woods until it meets the graveled one a mile and a half from her home. It is to this intersection she heads to catch the bus, and with only a few minutes' delay, she has no choice but to start jogging. She kicks up a trail of dust behind her.

"Morning, Indiana," calls a familiar voice. She grits her teeth. With a mile already behind her, she's made it to the crossing of Old Dobbin Drive, and Michael Peters strolls around the corner at that precise moment. His attempt at getting underneath her skin does not go easily ignored.

"Silent treatment's getting old," he says from behind her shoulder. Margo can hear his feet shuffling not too far behind, his long legs easily keeping up. "I liked it better when you fought back."

Anger pulses through her. Resisting the urge to turn around and tell him off is beyond difficult. What's worse is she's been resisting for weeks now. But like a deep, pestering splinter, if you try picking it out it will only end up irritating you more.

"Fine," he huffs.

The bus is already waiting at the stop by the time they arrive. This has become somewhat routine; neither is known for their punctuality.

"Ladies first, Indiana." Michael gestures in a mocking manner.

"You know, that's really getting old." Margo snaps her mouth shut. He grins victoriously.

She stomps her way up the bus steps and slings her cursed bag into the first empty seat she can find without speaking to anyone. Not that they care. Everyone went silent around her after the accident.

She presses her head against the cold glass, longing for the time when the stares were minimal or nonexistent as long as her sister was near. The only person at school who speaks to her nowadays is Michael with his lame Indiana jokes, and only a half-wit can find his moronic sense of humor entertaining. So why does she still shrink up inside?

She loops the strap of her bag around her fingers absentmindedly. It wasn't long after Owen gave her this ugly thing that she was dubbed Indiana. " Looks like something out of 'The Temple of Doom ,'" Michael had taunted back then.

Suddenly it isn't the boy sitting across from Margo who angers her but her father. This bag is the last gift he gave her before he walked out high and dry on her mom at their lowest point. The last positive memory she has of him. But it is also a reminder of what he did to them.

It doesn't make sense, really. How hatred swarms Margo's thoughts, yet she cannot unclench her hand from the strap of his bag.

This is exactly what Michael gets off on: her weakness.

She squeezes her eyes shut and focuses on the changes in the drive as the bumpy road shifts to smooth concrete, allowing her mind to wander.

And as always, her mind wanders to t he shadows of two empty faces . B oth are fading memories. She has long since given up on  the girl 's face coming into view . The boy, however, still holds a fraction of a chance, and every once in a while, his blue eyes slip into Margo's dreams. His warming smile, his thick chocolate-brown hair, his sun-kissed skin... A flicker of hope rises within her that he will make his return, acting as if his absence the previous summer had never occurred. Margo understands his reasoning, of course. After what her family has gone through, she would never have expected his parents to send him and his sister to visit. But a phone call explaining his absence  was expected.

"Hey, Margo." The boy snickers.

The memory fades. Gawking with a couple of his friends on his heel, Michael grins the usual smirk he wears before a joke at Margo's expense.

"Is it true what they say?" he blurts. The laughter rising within him makes his words almost unintelligible. "What they say about your sister? That she —"

Before Margo realizes what she's doing, she's already towering over him. Michael cowers away, a look of utter fear on his face.

"Say it!" she threatens, inching closer to him with each word. "Just try to pull that one!"

"Sit down, Margo," the bus driver yells. "Michael, if she hits you, I'm sure I won't see a thing."

The bus roars with laughter, for once on her side. It takes every ounce of restraint within her to sit back down across from him, but somehow Margo finds the strength. And after another five minutes of riding, her anger fades and is replaced by the depression she works so hard to keep buried deep within. The last of the trip is, for the most part, painless and quiet, other than the boy across the aisle muttering private jokes to himself — trying to recover his pride, Margo guesses. Another student whispers to Michael something about taking it too far as students file out of the bus.

Margo stays behind.

After the last person shoots an awkward glance in her direction just before exiting, she lugs herself to her feet dragging the stupid bag behind her.

"It really ain't fair," says the bus driver when she reaches the stairs. "Life, ya know?"

Margo sighs. It isn't the first time she's heard this. "Teenagers are vicious." Once her feet touch the asphalt, she turns to add, "Thanks."

"Anything to see that pretty smile." The air brake exhales as he cranks the door shut.

Margo faces the building. Rogers High School. The penitentiary of her eleventh grade sentence. Swarms of different classes are fighting their way inside the building. There are the popular ones: cheerleaders, athletes, preps. The expressive and talented: artists, band members, glee club. The techies. The 'individually unique' — the definition of 'unique,' of course, meaning whatever is considered 'in' this year. The dark wearers.

Below all of these classes rests one lone category. Margo's category. The nobodies. They consist of the randoms who don't quite fit into any other group. The lone rangers. The brave souls. Just fancy terms for who they truly are: the rejects.

Last year things changed slightly, though not willingly. For a short while, Margo became the school's most talked about nobody. The whispers were like the buzzing of cicadas. Only upon her entering the room did it stop so abruptly that the eerie silence became palpable. Nothing could have made that first day back more humiliating.

A year later and the iciness still follows her through these halls, the bubble of silence around her so chilling. The torture behind her lids every time she shuts her eyes is unmanageable enough without the tangible reminder.

Michael Peters does not talk to her in lunch. Or in fifth period, the only class they share. His eyes shy away nervously throughout the whole hour. It isn't until the ride home that he does something unexpected.

He quietly slips into the empty seat next to her. Even though they are mere inches apart, neither speaks. She waits patiently to see where this will lead.

His shoulders wilt. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier," he nearly whispers. "I didn't mean to —"

"You sounded like you knew exactly what you meant," Margo says hotly.

He nods stupidly.

"Well then, I guess I'm done talking to you, Michael." She turns to watch the hills roll by, counting cows as they pass. Michael doesn't leave her side.

"Margo, do you... Can you ever forgive me?"

She scowls at him. "No."

His lips sullenly twitch downward the slightest bit, and suddenly Margo feels obligated to elaborate. "It's not that I don't want to," she huffs. "But you don't mean it. Not really."

Her cheeks shake as the bus turns onto the gravel road. Relief rushes through her knowing that her escape is near. Michael heads toward the front of the bus long before they reach the stop. She doesn't rise until the bus slows.

The walk home is quiet. Margo is grateful for the silence and takes in the calming scenery. The trees' leaves have shifted into warm hues over the past few weeks and have formed a tunnel of gold around the road on which they walk. The afternoon sun warms the air.

The two near the crossing of Old Dobbin. Margo welcomes the impending lone walk, albeit she is aware of Michael's eyes on the back of her head. Of course he would find a way to prolong their time together....

"Can we talk about this?"

Without faltering her steps, Margo replies, "I don't have anything to say."

The thudding of feet behind her speeds up until Michael blocks her path. "Well, I do."

She groans.

"I shouldn't have brought up your sister like that." His voice is firm, eyes strong upon her face. "It was wrong, and I'm sorry."

"So  what ?" she shouts so loudly a flock of birds take flight at the sharpness of her tone. Suddenly it all spills from her lips. "Did you really expect me to forgive you just because you realized you took it too far this time? How about the past  twelve years of you messing with me? Am I supposed to forgive you for that, too?"

"Look, Margo, I'm just saying that I —"

She jolts from under his touch, and in an attempt to keep her in place, Michael catches hold of her bag from which she also jerks away. Her textbooks fall out in a series of loud  plops .

Defeated, Margo holds stock still, hands balled at her side, cheeks darkening. A hiss escapes through clenched teeth, and a rush of energy pulses down her arms to her fingertips. Her fists tighten in reaction, eyes squeezing tighter until the spasms subside. Her heartbeat slows to an even rhythm.

Michael, noticing nothing, grunts and steps forward to help retrieve her books.

"Just go home, Michael!" She kicks up a cloud of dust in his direction and falls to the ground; her head drops to her knees. Disgust builds inside her once she realizes just how close she is to breaking down. She wills her tears away certain that crying will only allow him to win, and lifts her head to pick up her fallen books.

"I'm just sorry," he whispers. "That's all."

Shoving her belongings back into her bag and not wanting to even acknowledge him, Margo mutters under her breath, more to herself than to the boy standing over her, "You're just lucky I'm not suicidal or something."

Michael's body tenses, unsure how to respond to such a morbid thought. He turns toward Old Dobbin as if her statement went unnoticed and continues walking along. Once he's around the corner, he runs beyond sight.

A hysterical laugh breaks through her lips. Suicidal? Yes, she is far from that. Of course, there are other ways to cause pain to oneself, and she allows them more often than not. She shuts her eyes to prove her point. The two silhouettes are burned in her lids.

It is far past time to move on, and she knows that. She isn't entirely certain why she has endured the memories for so long. It's not because she is being selfish and coveting the past, exactly. Nor is it because she is too fearful to forget. The truth is she simply cannot, no matter how hard she may try, force them out of her mind.

Margo pulls the buckle of her bag and dusts off the bits of leaves from her pants when out of the corner of her eye a sudden flash of orange light streaks through the woods. The unexpectedness startles her; she instinctively whips her head in that direction. The breeze picks up, rustling the stray leaves on the road. Her eyes dart about the trees searching frantically for any reflective, shiny object to no avail.

She shrugs her bag into place and walks forth, assuming her imagination has run amuck. Or worse, that Michael is up to more trickery, and his lame attempt at consoling her had been nothing more than a ploy. She will not allow him to humiliate her twice in one day.

An image — one Margo has grown all too accustomed to over the past months — of Mrs. Hederman pops into her head, her wrinkled face contorted into something much like after having sucked a lemon, which Margo thinks coincidentally suits her personality. She picks up her pace as she is certain the vision will soon come to pass if she isn't in her work gloves by five o'clock sharp.

She skids to a halt. A second twinkle of orange light emits in the woods to her right. Planting her feet, she scrunches up her face to scrutinize the trees.

" Michael ," she calls rather harshly.

But there is no answer in return. The haunting silence only leaves her searching harder until something indeed captures her attention, though it is not shiny or alight.

A path meanders through the trees, its foot meeting the road on which she stands. Quite charming and edged with cobblestone, it twists away until it disappears into the woods. To discover something new in the area is a surprise. Margo's spent her entire upbringing in St. Joseph, Tennessee, known every rock along this road, watched every tree age over the years. How can such an ancient-looking path have gone missed all this time?

Just where the path fades in the distance, Margo catches sight of yet another 'flash of light.' The excitement builds within her like a firecracker ready to pop. It isn't a light after all but a fiery animal with reflective skin walking deeper into the woods.

As quickly as it appears, the animal vanishes around the bend, leaving Margo alone and dumbfounded. She stands there for nearly half a minute, awestruck and in wonder. What kind of animal has skin that reflects light like a mirror?

Curiosity overcomes her. The dirt road slips behind as she joins the animal on the narrow trail. It is unlikely Margo will catch up with it, but it's too beautiful and rare an animal not to try. Imagine the discovery of a new creature, a new life form, a new existence.... It's well worth the slander of a Hederman.

Oddly, the woods shift from amber to green as she presses onward. How unlike September to carry such rich, lively colors. Even the soil on the path seems fresher, filling the air with the scents of sweet earth. The trees grow tighter as she walks along the unknown path. There is hardly room to squeeze through. Margo forces on, determined not to lose the flaming creature.

She comes to a halt, facing a wall comprised of thick, unified shrubbery, which ends the path and her search, as well. It is an unsatisfying conclusion, but turning back seems unavoidable until Margo lets out a small yelp. A thorny vine overhead has caught hold of her hair in its hand. She reaches to untangle the strand from the nasty vine when a faint triangular splotch of orange light catches her attention. It dances around her forearm like a prism set in a window casting its colorful rays upon a wall. As if to catch the light in her palm, she turns her hand over twice, and slowly follows the direction of the light to find a small opening in the shrubs.

Peering through the keyhole in the leaves, the orange light bouncing across her cheek, she sees it: the mystery animal. A tall, exotic bird, much like a peacock, with feathers of vibrant orange shimmering in the sunlight and the long graceful legs of a heron. Its tail drags behind it with long feathers whose tips are blue-green, and atop its head sits an emerald crown of feathers. The bird pecks its pointed beak at the ground.

All of the pieces seem to fall into place at the sight of it. Obviously, she's encountered the same bird whose stray feather she found that morning.

A twig snaps as she shifts her weight.

The bird's head soars high, its long neck curving elegantly. Its tiny head shoots in several directions until its eyes find Margo's and locks with hers. With that, the bird soars through the trees like a gazelle.

Determined not to lose it again, Margo pulls apart the vines like tissue paper and forces through, ignoring the scratching thorns against her bare arms. Without much time wasted, she catches sight of the bird not thirty feet ahead of her. Running at a rapid speed, its head bobs gracefully with every stride. The closer Margo gets to it, the more dominant its colors become. Its body is not merely orange but has hints of reds and golds, and the feathers of its tail have blues and deep purples. Like a bleeding watercolor, its vibrant colors dazzle in the light. Her heart pounds in her ears and her chest burns, but she has come too far now.

Suddenly, Margo is forced to a stop.

A narrow opening in the woods is laid before her as beautiful as a page torn from a fairy tale. Sunlight pours through the treetops in rays that dance upon vibrant green grasses. A cluster of moss-covered boulders is strewn across the area. Pops of red from mushroom caps and wildflowers add zest to the already perfect setting.

But what truly demands Margo's attention are the thousand light specks bouncing around the clearing. The grand bird stands before her proudly with its tail feathers spread. Like water upon a flame, the cool colors of its tail surround its blazing body. And to Margo's satisfaction, the peculiar bird no longer runs but waits, studying her while she studies it.

Her mouth gapes as she absorbs the beauty surrounding her. A dream would make more sense. Surely this is no reality.

The bird stands strangely before her now. Almost as if waiting for something; its beady eyes are fixed on Margo. She takes a few cautious steps closer, and it shows no sign of fear. The sun reflects off of a glossy surface from behind the bird's spread feathers.

"Are you keeping something?" she asks, automatically feeling silly for questioning a bird.

But the focus of its eyes intrigues her, as if it would indeed answer.

No sooner had Margo made that assumption, the creature bows its graceful head and retracts its tail feathers to reveal what is behind it: a globe set in a gold stand which rests upon a boulder. It couldn't have stood more than ten inches high with perfectly smooth glass and glistening filigree.

The colorful woods suddenly turn gray as ash. Nothing matters but what is now placed in front of her., the only thing remaining in color: this globe. She is drawn in like a magnet. The world around her slips away. The only clarity lingering emanates from this globe.

She blinks. The world erupts into brilliant color as she stumbles backwards to the ground. She curses under her breath clutching her numb hand into her chest.

"What..." Margo searches the woods, disoriented. Her arm throbs in violent spasms up to her shoulder, but her hand remains deadened. "How did my...arm...?"

She breaks off in a scream as the pain suddenly becomes unbearable, her face meeting the grass, which she finds is not as soft as it appears. She writhes, its blades scratching her cheek, as the icy current pulses through her arm.

She notices it then. The woods are strange, much too vibrant for early fall, the grass too green, mushrooms too bright. Even the trees seem oddly hued as if brought in from a different forest.

" Margo ," calls an airy whisper.

She scrunches her eyes tightly shut. "No!" she wails. Rolling over, she uses her bad elbow to help push herself to her feet, ignoring the razors digging under the skin of her arm. Her hand flops about as she makes a break for the path.

" Margo ." The voice returns. Not a man, nor a woman. Just a taunting voice, one she should not acknowledge. " Margo ."

But this time she spares a glance in its direction. The colors of the forest dull into grays around the source of the voice once more. Her feet carry her toward the whispers, the woods no longer holding a flicker of her interest. Eyes black with lust, she craves for the promises of the globe. She can hear it calling for her, begging for her to take it into her hands. To own it. To claim it as hers.

" You cannot escape what has already been decided. I am yours. And you  will be mine ."

She peers into the crystal sphere and finds a forest encircling a small city glittering with tiny lights.

"A snow globe," whispers Margo.

" That was all you could say upon our last encounter. "

"Perfect...snow globe..."

" More perfect when the snow is falling ."

She marvels over its every detail. Crystal smooth as glass, golden trees intricately shaped in filigree, and, most unusually, a spiral-shaped etching in the front of its base. It appears haphazardly added, its style contradicting the fairy tale feeling.

" You who are cursed must meet your fate ." The whispers grow impatient. " Take me, Margo. You are only prolonging your suffering. "

The fire blazes within her, the yearning overwhelming. Her numb hand reaches outward,  and she ignores the fact that the cold, deadening feeling grows stronger. She lays her fingers upon its cool surface, and her pain ceases. Life returns to her hand. It seems such hilarity for it to have hurt mere seconds prior when all it took to subside the pain was a single touch. She even laughs aloud, though it is a strange laugh that doesn't belong to her body.

'More perfect when the snow is falling ,' it had said.

Margo picks the globe up in her hands looking deep into the forest. She gives it a shake and watches the little sparkles float down from the crystal sky like fairy dust.

Smiling at her new possession, Margo sets the globe down to properly enjoy the falling snow and tries to let go.

All greed vanishes. The fire within her extinguishes.

"How did I...?" She stares at the globe in her hands unsure of where it had come from. She cannot let go. Ice creeps through her fingertips and into her palms. Fingers contorting, she tries with all her strength to peel away from the globe. She puts her foot on the globe to force her hands apart.

"Gah! Stupid!"

Her impulse lands her with three limbs fused to the globe. Her body weakens, and she does the only thing she can think of: she screams at the top of her lungs, knowing it is a wasted effort. The closest house is Michael's, nearly a mile away.

The cold spreads into her forearms and calf like icy splinters climbing from the globe into her body; her scream shifts from a plea of help into pure agony. In a matter of seconds her entire body is frostbitten.

Rays of light break through globe, and it shakes uncontrollably in her hands. The forest is drowned in white. Her eyes tighten; her lids glow red. Wind rips at her hair, and her feet leave the ground. The ice sends her into convulsions until her body shrivels and twists into any shape to ease the pain. Her throat throbs, head feels as though at any moment it will burst.

The cold, hard earth meets her back, and everything stops.

Margo lays upon the ground panting with her eyes still tightly closed, wondering what pain could be inflicted upon her next. She cringes in fear, not certain it is truly over. But all she feels now is cold prickling at her skin.

Something else is different. She opens her hands studying her palms. The globe is gone.  Maybe it allowed me to drop it through the torture , she thinks, instantly mortified for considering it allowing her to do anything. As if it thinks...

She spares a glance at her new surroundings. The once bright forest is now very different. Darkness has fallen over the woods and the coldness from the globe lurks. A layer of ice frosts over everything. The wind whips violently through the air. But what disturbs her the most is the way she had entered  th e clearing is flipped in the other direction. It is as if everything is opposite, like looking through a mirror.

Margo hops frantically to her feet, scrambling around in search of answers, until —

Her steps grow wobbly and her head heavy. The ground teeters below her as what little light is left continues to fade.

She isn't sure what is happening, but two things are certain: one, touching that globe was a huge mistake; and, two, she is passing out.

Her body falls limp to the ground,  and she hits her head on something hard. Slowly, Margo gives in to the darkness and drifts off into nothingness.

* * *

Chapter Three: Beneath the Icy Surface

Two faces emerge from behind her lids, swallowed in blackness. Margo waits amidst the dark void, preparing for the minute possibility the boy's silhouette would define its eyes, and that they might momentarily lock with hers. The longing seems to last for hours aching her to her core. But when the time arrives, the other set of eyes open instead exposing an emerald so vivid they light up her whole face. Her creamy skin shines more radiantly than Margo remembers. Blonde strands ruffle around her heart-shaped face, softening her already smooth lines. She smiles as if thankful Margo has finally let her into her dreams. The brightness flowing from the being illuminates the entire vision, the golden light taking the form of the dream's backdrop.

The boy for once fades away.

"Margo," she calls out from across the Hederman's golden fields of wheat. She giggles and runs in what she considers her 'stealth mode,' though she is hardly as sneaky as she thinks.

"Kylie, what did you do?" Margo fusses but  c a n't help laughing back at the sight. Her sister has hold of the rim of her tee shirt with a bulging weight sagging its middle downward and bouncing off her abdomen with every stride.

"Hedermans are out," she pants. "Thought I'd show Helen. Live up to the name of 'brat.'" Mrs. Hederman isn't exactly fond of the two of them roaming the farm, Kylie in particular. She's been known to throw a few parties past the eastern side of the farm where the woods meet with the creek. Though she's never been caught red-handed, the aftermath is enough for Helen Hederman's assessment to point toward the two Grisby girls. She was only half right.

Kylie catches up to her sister, and Margo joins her flight back toward the house, catching sight of the green rounds her blouse holds. "Apples? The Hedermans already suspect you for last week's party. You know they'll catch on." She glances over her shoulder at their landlord's grand white house with its green-tiled roof. It sits at the opposite end of the pond as the little replication they rent. Their driveway is empty of the blue pickup.

"Don't you see?" she asks, almost surprised at Margo's remark. "That's the point! Let her know it's me, but only on the inside. She'll never catch me. It'll drive her insane!"

Margo pops the latch on the picket fence that runs the perimeter of their house letting Kylie slip in first. The steps moan as they make their way up the porch and into the living room. Her sister drops the pile of fruits onto the kitchen counter sending them spinning in wild circles. Their mother looks up from her text book sliding her reading glasses down to the brim of her nose.

"Where did you —" She shakes her head. "I don't want to know."

Kylie's glorious smile spreads across her face, hardly masking the mischief inside.

*

Margo  awakens to a rough texture, cold and sharp as daggers. The skin of her arms is exposed and numb. Her eyes crack to see a cloud of frozen air streaming from her nostrils and blades of grass individually frozen over peeking through a light dusting of snow.

It wasn't a dream; she is still in that dark, cold place, crumpled in pain on the hard ground. When has St. Joseph ever been known to have such sudden-changing weather? In all of Margo's life, she's never seen it shift so drastically.

A moan escapes through clenched teeth, a plea for warmth.

The sky glares down upon her with angry clouds, threatening to release their violent weather again. Frost-coated trees line the clearing with icicles snarling down at her like pointed teeth.

The stabbing pain in her scalp suddenly returns. She finds the warm, sticky patch of matted hair which throbs beneath her quivering palm. Margo sits up, much slower this time, to look at her red, tacky hand and stares, once she sees it behind her, at the bloodstained patch of snow. Crimson upon white stretches on.

Lightly massaging her head around the severed spot, she finds the bleeding has greatly slowed. Once she makes it home, she will likely need stitches . H er mom won't be pleased with a trip to the hospital in the middle of this storm.

Still a little dazed, her eyes sweep over her surroundings. The reality of the situation is sinking in and approaching fast. Her body creeps from the feeling of cold into a silent numbness. Blood pumping slower, muscles stiffening...

But she will not give into nature, no matter how strangely it decides to act. Suddenly, Margo is on her feet and determined to escape. She keeps her arms wrapped around each other trying to create as much friction as possible. Her purple hands contradict her white, splotchy knuckles.

A sudden chill runs up her spine that has nothing to do with the cold. So much has changed in this autumn forest. Sunlight no longer pours through the trees. A heavy fog lurks over the area making it nearly impossible to see more than a few yards ahead, and a light sleet streaks the air stinging her bare arms with each drop.

Branches bow, straining against icicles' pull. She notices, then, a tiny hint of green hidden under the casing of ice. The leaves are still bright beneath, and she realizes the life of the woods hasn't fully disappeared; the ice merely stifles it. The grass is still fully green under a thick layer of ice. Mushroom caps have frozen solid. Even the wildflowers hold their blooms perfectly. Yes, there is still much life to be found in this forest.

What caused such bizarre weather anyway ? she wonders. It's late September in the south; snow isn't due till mid January if it is to even come at all.

The wind tears through the icy branches creating a dulcet sound like wind chimes. The sharp wind encourages her to get moving. She cannot be sure of which way is home, but her feet seem to lead her in a good enough direction. With every step there is a sound like the snapping of bones. The sleet, now accompanied with snow, beats across Margo's face. She uses a frost bitten tree to brace herself on a slick patch of ice when — Snap !

A massive icicle, thick as Margo's thigh, falls from the trees towering above. It stabs the earth not three feet from her.

Change of plans.

She backs into the middle of the clearing again, huddling next to one of the large rocks and trying to get in the direct center of the clearing. She scurries to the top of one of the stones, but it, too, is covered in ice. She slips back to the ground, slightly injuring herself again.

Now with a scraped knee and a bloody head, Margo looks quite disastrous. But her only worry is finding protection against the harsh winds, and since walking home is no longer an option, crouching between the stone s  is the next best thing.

The wind is kept to a minimum, but there is no way to avoid the falling snow and ice. She digs her foot in the ground to soften the icy grass and sits on the cold, damp ground to wait out the storm.

Over the next half hour, Margo stays curled up in her soft patch of grass, checking her cell phone for service to no avail. For each gust of wind, she braces herself for the coming crash. She cringes at the sound of each fallen icicle.

While she isn't worrying about life-threatening ice, she tries retracing her steps in her head. She remembers following that unusual, fiery bird that disappeared without her even realizing it. She chased it through the trees down a path she didn't know. Deeper into unknown territory. Deeper....

And then she was here in this very clearing.

Something deep down tells her there is more to the story than she remembers. This place is off, other than just the weather.

"Y-yes!" she attempts to shout.

Her school bag is still draped over her shoulder. She yanks it open and searches through it frantically. She pulls out a textbooks and rips out its pages between tender fingers to use as kindling only to realize she doesn't have a lighter. To be certain, she digs deeper, tossing everything out that is in her way, desperate for anything of use. Of course, she has no need to carry a lighter or match. The closest thing to an emergency item in her bag is a small flashlight on a key ring.

"Sh-shoot," she stutters, throwing more things into the snow.

After a moment's pout, she wrinkles her face up to fight back tears as she bends forward and puts her fingers in the icy snow to gather her things. With jittery hands, she buckles the flap of her bag in defeat and slings back it over her shoulders.

What if I'm so lost I can never find my way home?

She squeezes her eyes again. She barely kissed her mom goodbye that morning. Margo can't bear the thought that their conversations that morning might be their last. She wonders if her mom has even realized she's gone yet.

A pang of guilt hits her. She may assume Margo's skipping out on her chores again. She drops her head to her knees, flushed with anger. If only she'd gone straight home she probably would have never followed that stupid bird and never have found....

Her head snaps up, eyes widened in realization. "The snow globe," she whispers. And then she remembers everything. The globe. The allure it held. The pain. The coldness running through her body. The twisting and contorting of muscles. The wind. The bright light. The whispers blending into her screams. And of course, the changing of scenery as she fell upon this cold, hard earth.

Is it possible that I'm crazy...to think that I'm in a different place?  Margo shivers and shakes harder, the panic taking over.

It isn't logical. New places don't just come about at the turn of a globe. But this certainly feels new. Not only must she have fallen into a different forest, but into a different season, as well. Maybe in this place, fall has long since passed and winter is at its peak. Maybe the globe sucked her through time and spit her out on a different part of the planet. But what if she's not even on the same planet anymore?

Suddenly, the millions of questions halt, and her mind is silent, reeling her back to her first question:  where is she?

The white fog against the snow makes it near impossible to see, especially crouched below the scattered boulders, but for some reason Margo concentrates harder than before as if trying to place something. Perhaps something has subliminally caught her eye....

Her heart skips a beat, picking up at double time.

Two luminous rounds of aquamarine float in the white fog, a pair of curious eyes. Their sharp, intense gaze sends needles up her spine. The figure stands on one of the overlooking stones, dangerously close to Margo's safe place.

She scurries to her feet clumsily and stares back at the figure, her heart pounding out of her ears. Suddenly Margo feels more alone as she stands there. It is just her and this stranger in the thick white infinity.

Backing out of her stone protection, she doesn't dare look away from her visitor. The eyes follow her every step, and for the first time she is oblivious to the sleet's sting as it beats across her skin.

The faint edges of the lurking creature become clearer as it steps lithely down from the boulder and prowls toward her, a thick body standing on four muscular legs as high as Margo's chest. It moves in familiar, cunning patterns. The edge of a tail flicks outward, a feline's sign of distrust. Nearly transparent in the whirl of snow, the pure white lioness watches Margo curiously. Her thick fur ripples in the wind as she skulks forward. The beautiful beast turns and encircles her, eyes twinkling through the flurries. She cracks her jaw to glare dagger-sharp teeth as long as Margo's fingers. A purr-like snarl seeps through.

The cat drops her head to her front paws, her back curling identically to the Hederman's barn cat. The pose snaps Margo out of it. This is no beauty. This is a hunter and, scrawny as she is, Margo her prey. A lump forms in her stomach as this sinks in.

The wind clatters the icy trees and whistles through Margo's hair. Her hand twitches involuntarily at the open air, as if some form of salvation would magically appear. But it won't. She is quite alone.

A second flick of the tail. The cat claws the ground with paws the size of mitts.

Without a plan, Margo does the only thing the prey of an animal can do. She uses her instincts. She runs — straight into the dangers of falling icicles. But she'd rather take a spear through the head than be eaten alive by a wild cat. Panting, blind against the snow, she knocks branches out of her way, giving the cat exactly what she wants: a head start in the game.

Thum-dum! Thum-dum!

The rhythmic thudding of feet catches up faster than she expected. She weaves between trees. If only the snow wasn't falling so hard....

Not ten feet ahead, the outstretched body flies through the air landing with an ice-crunching crash. How the cat ended up in front of her, Margo is not sure. In two bounding strides, it is right on her, paw extended and swiping through the air.

A blaring sound escapes Margo's throat. The impact against her cheek shoots bright lights across her vision and sends her flying into a tree. She quickly pulls her legs into a fetal position just before the second attack plummets from above. A dozen icicles shower down from the treetops like darts. Once the creaking of the straining tree above her quiets, she peeks through her arms hoping the icicles scared the cat away.

It hadn't. The feline paces as curiously as ever, not the slightest bit baffled by the fallen spears.

A spasm throbs up Margo's arm.

"Gah!"

Frostbite? She doesn't know all of the symptoms but is sure muscle spasms are on the list. But how can this happen now? As she faces her death.

There is a new dullness in the cat's eyes as if she's grown bored of her prey. Fur stands on her arched back. In a deliberate crouch, she rocks back one last time before propelling herself forward. Her feet leave the ground as she sails through the air with claws out and paws spread. She pulls her lips back to expose her teeth for a fatal strike.

The liquid, tingling runs down Margo's arm to the tip of her fingers. She shrieks, turning her head to shield it with her arm. The other flails out wildly behind her. A crushing weight hits her back arm, threatening to snap the bones. Margo is suddenly gripping something cold until her knuckles hurt. It is met with a hot liquid. The crashing  boom followed by a whimper is the last sound of the attack.

Margo sits there trembling, not knowing what happened, why she isn't dead. Slowly, she turns around and carefully pulls her protective arm away from her head. In her other hand is a long icicle, piercing through the cat's chest. An icicle she knows for a fact she was not holding before.

She releases it, staggering away from the animal.

The cat slowly moves as if attempting to sit back up, but the burden overwhelms her and her body falls limp, crystal eyes glossy and empty. Her luscious white fur, which Margo now sees has faint gray stripes, ripples in the wind and is painted in red.

Margo falls to her knees, her hands shaking and unable to peel her eyes away from what she has done. The last bit of the weapon melts from the warm blood of the cat's side. Without the intent of the hunt, she suddenly holds the innocence of any ordinary house cat with her silky black lips, pink tongue rough like sandpaper, even a collection of grey whiskers. How could she have seen her as a beast?

A hand involuntarily reaches for her nearby gut disappearing into a layer of fluff. Her fingers instantly thaw. There is no stopping it; Margo melts into the side of the cat's body. It still holds much warmth. She pulls her arms into its side feeling the goose bumps disappear. The numbness soon follows.

What a strange place I've discovered , Margo thinks to herself. She knows she should be more concerned with nearly losing her life, but mountains of questions seem to fill her mind once again. She is desperate to unlock the mysteries of this icy forest and longs to discover its secrets. Or maybe this is just hypothermia talking.

Her mind wanders through wintry woods in hopes of forgetting the beast whose life she's taken. She closes her eyes and involuntarily snuggles closer to the cat.

Icy branches clatter above. She cracks her eyes open, unsure of how long she's slept next to the animal, to find herself lying in the middle of the forest.

Limbs sore from sleeping stiffly for so long, she eases to her feet. The wind hits her cold, wet side. She was so warm a moment ago that she hadn't realized her nap took place in a pool of the cat's blood. She shivers in the breeze. Perhaps her indulgence caused more harm than good.

She decides that since she is somewhere between the clearing with the stones and the road, she would to take a risk and search for the road. The cold envelopes her as she leaves the cat alone in the woods. Her hair drips cold blood as she makes her way through the crystallized forest, leaving a speckled trail of red behind her.

Conflicting thoughts battle on within. One side believes this is all just a strange coincidence and that she'll soon be home snuggled up on the couch with her mom and a cup of hot cocoa. The other part of her knows something greater had occurred.

The fight for the first option presses her to keep searching for the dirt road. There has to be a way back home. She'll search through the night if she has to. No matter how thick the air is, or how chilling the winds. At least for the time being the winds have died, decreasing the chance of falling ice.

An upcoming tree is split in its center creating a distinguishable fork in its trunk that Margo is certain she's seen before. On the way into the woods, she remembers taking a left so if this time she takes a right  —

Her hand thrusts backward wrapping around the trunk of a tree as she nearly loses her balance. A wave of vertigo sweeps through her causing her to cling tighter to the limb. Margo teeters over the edge of a cliff that she is certain is nowhere near her home. The woods should continue on, not drop off into a rocky descent.

This confirms her greatest fear.

Hanging onto the tree for dear life, she uses her feet as leverage in order to pull herself back up. She scoots around until she is safely behind the trunk of tree.

The clean drop off is completely out of place. Her forest would never have ended so abruptly.

Margo gasps.

Light! Below a layer of fog sits rows of little structures that appear carved in ice. And within them is light. Puffing chimneys. Life. Warmth.

The streets of the little town are empty, but it is obvious people reside below. If only she can manage a way down to the warmth. But the only apparent way is to slide with the hopes of surviving. The sheer drop has to be at least thirty feet down.

Margo backs into a tree and slides to the ground with a painful crunch, and before she's able to stop it, she is crying. Her willpower is gone. The severity of the cold takes over. Not to mention, the odds seem to be against her.

She lays on the hard grass with her eyes closed, losing feeling. Tears freeze halfway down her cheeks.

Margo  has always thought of herself as a brave girl having been through enough to call herself that. But now she is scared.  Actually scared. She lays flat and motionless. A drop of warm water hits her cheek.

Stop crying.

The droplets spread across her cheek to her  neck and  arm s, sprinkling lightly and warming her even more than the cat had.

An illusion , she tells herself. Rain doesn't fall warm, especially when surrounded by ice. It isn't real.

But then something else happens: her eyelids begin to glow red. She pops them open in confusion and a powerful ray cast above causes her to shield her eyes. The warmth is satisfying, but the magnitude slightly overwhelming.

She squints. The sky above the trees is clear. Not rain but showers of warm, melting ice beat down on her skin, confronting the goose bumps. Each drop sizzles away the cold.

The rest of the forest remains in darkness and frozen. The light is only cast upon her. She decides not to let it bother her — the fact that the light is only focused on her. After all, she deserves a moment to soak in every ounce of heat available and relax.

* * *

Chapter Four: The Welcoming Woman

The light touches the earth heating a perfect ring of fresh grass that livens the stark wintry forest. Sunlight filters through the trees overhead casting an emerald glow upon Margo, the canopy showering warm drops. She nestles into the soft grass with her arms stretched over her head to bask in warmth. Her muscles lose stiffness and blood pumps regularly again. All thoughts of white monsters and icicles slip far from her memory....

The sun grows warmer and prickles at her skin until all of the drops overhead have sizzled away. She expects a sunburn by now but doesn't bother to check. Not with the comfort of heat in her bones again. No more tingling or numbness, only the toasty warmth that somehow seems to be increasing still. The warm, burning... Scorching even...

It is suddenly too hot. Overwhelmingly and unbearably hot. In a matter of seconds, it strengthens from a day at the beach to the Sahara deserts to the belly of Mount St. Helens. Margo's blood boils in fury, violently pumping through her veins.

She jumps to her feet covering her face, protecting what she can. She has to move — but to where? The only place to go is back into the biting cold.

Whoosh!

The ground slips out from under her feet sending a painful echo through her head when it meets the soil. The air in her lungs escapes, and heat stabs her face as the invisible force flattens her.

Her eyes dart about in search of what caused her collapse. The woods are empty.

The spotlight intensifies growing into a cloud of heat focused solely upon her. Her body is bound to the earth as if gravity has magnified. She cannot escape; to budge is even impossible.

The air around her stirs. Not wind, but more a violent charge of energy, a furious swarm of invisible bees whirling around her. And she is forced to remain still and broken and take the invisible beating.

Her head spins as the light above grows as blinding as the snow globe had. The motion is nauseating, but she keeps her eyes open this time. She has learned throughout the day's events that closing them will only make it worse.

A bolt echoes throughout the sky as the source of the light above explodes. Showers of illuminated rain  fall , splattering down on Margo's face and tearing through her flesh like scorching drops of molten metal. She screams and writhes from the impact. Oddly, the places that hurt the most are the inner part of her arms and the back of her neck. The intensity brings tears to her eyes. Like razors digging into her spine. Daggers carving out the core of her arms.

Margo's screams do nothing. Nothing but lose oxygen.

The pressure lifts, the invisible weight no more. Margo slowly looks around expecting to find pieces of her body, pieces of her own flesh, strewn about after this last beating, but she doesn't. In fact, she feels...good.

She rises shakily to her feet. Margo stands within the same forest she was in after following that flaming bird, the same forest that had been covered in ice and snow, and it has somehow changed yet again. To look inside this forest is to explore the works of a dream in hard form, granted a chance to see imagination. The colors are hardly hues found in ordinary woods but are more vivid and saturated. The leaves not quite a lime green nor the woodsy hunter green they're expected to be. Flowers are scattered throughout the branches painted in vibrant neon. Even the cloudless sky is a shade closer to turquoise. It is as if she's walked into someone's realism painting in which the artist has slightly mixed the wrong colors, throwing off the whole mood.

But — and this realization churns her stomach —  this is wrong. This feels like someone has played God, and the forest is the result of not mixing the colors just right. Abnormal plants and trees fill the woods. Spiky bits of moss cling to trees like sea urchins. The tree trunks are more russet than brown, some with unusually smooth bark. Wild-looking flowers wear large, exotic petals. Even little things she notices — the soil she walks on being too fluffy or a patch of weeds she brushes against too slick against her skin — are strangely off-putting.

The great vast of turquoise sky peeks  through a break in the trees ahead, attracting her attention. She suddenly remembers the city below and sprints to the edge of the cliff to capture the full view of the valley.

Expecting to find the village as oddly hued as the forest, Margo is surprised to find the opposite. The town is drained of color. The grassless land of dust has a few dozen rows of shacks running down its center. There is little vegetation, which appears to be only several acres of crops and a few trees, though even these plants are gray. There are small plots of land with pitiful tufts of grass to feed unrecognizable animals. The buildings are constructed of what appear to sea-bleached logs, but there is no ocean in sight.

The sadness Margo feels for the deadened town lifts when she notices movement below. The villagers hurry about as if simply getting on with their lives, not taking notice to the vanishing ice and lava-spewing spotlight from moments ago.

The arduous drop will pose a problem. She cannot make it safely down from such height. Searching the edge of the cliff for some sort of pathway, her mouth gapes. What she stands on is not merely a valley but a crater, a circular chunk sliced clean out of the ground. The cliff wraps around the city with several miles between Margo and the other side.

She scans the entire lap, but can find no obvious way below. She does notice something; though, it is not nearly as safe as she had hoped. A tree grows from the valley below extending above top of the cliff. Its branches brush against the side of the bluff and grow into the wall of the cliff, forming a perfect ladder. It must have been planted for this very reason, she decides.

She reaches out and grabs onto a sturdy limb about eye level and peeps over the edge. The ground below sways. Margo and heights are not exactly on good terms. But she only needs to step a few feet over and then climb down.

Something catches her attention causing her to freeze in place. The inside of Margo's left arm is covered in congealed blood. She runs her fingers over the area flaking off some of the loose pieces and looks down to finds various blood splatters all over her clothes.  From the cat, maybe?

It wasn't. It was from her.

Looking closer at her arm, she finds a series of oddly shaped cuts, almost pattern-like. Her other arm has similar cuts, too. What's strange is that they don't hurt. If Margo hadn't looked, she wouldn't have even known they were there. Strange, yes, but the questions will have to wait until she is on lower ground, or at least not halfway hanging off a cliff.

Margo gulps back her fears and pulls herself onto the tree, focusing on the injuries on her arms rather than the jagged rocks below.

As she climbs down, she tries thinking back to what might have happened to get the cuts. The cat  did jump at her, but she didn't feel anything from the impact. She was already dead by the time she hit Margo. The first time she struck, her claws weren't even out. Even if it were from the cat, these cuts are not in the shape of claws but more like...etchings.

There isn't much else Margo can think of as she lowers herself down the tree. The branches hold their form as she drops down onto each one below. The gray stone of the cliff runs parallel to her with veins swirling a design on its exposed surface.

Margo freezes mid-step as she remembers something.

The light, the explosion, it had hurt her arms. Actually, it was the very spot of these cuts. The back of her neck hurt as well, and, as she thinks this, she reaches her hand back to where she had felt the pain. And there it is: another grouping of slightly healed gashes. But what can this mean? Is this one of the unusual punishments received when someone enters this place, whatever this place may be?

Margo lowers herself onto the next branch, taking another glance at the strange cuts. Her mind is overloaded with questions. And still with no one available to answer them. She can hardly keep up with the events that have occurred.

She reaches the bottom limb, still about five feet from the ground, and slings herself down without missing a beat, landing in a low crouch.

"Huh?" she says out loud, somewhat surprised at herself.

She shakes away the thought and turns to look at this new part of the land. Margo has never been to Arizona, but this is what she pictures it to look like: hardly any green, the minimal shrubs, dull colors, dust and sand fading into the distance, the bare cliffs....

Looking up, she can see the stretch of unnaturally turquoise sky, a glorious sea whose shores are broken off by the cliff's edge. The few rays of sunlight that shine from above cast eerie shadows into the valley.

A stone wall wraps around the strange city, exposing only a cluster of rickety, gray rooftops. Directly in front of Margo is a looming door, and she is thankful for her first bit of luck. She only hopes that once she reaches the village she will be able to get the answers she needs. Most importantly, what happened when she touched that globe?

The smells of dust and burning wood fill her nostrils. She chokes as a gust of wind spreads sand past her. It is disorienting to experience the humidity the moist forest offered only moments ago disappear into this dry wasteland. The ground below is more sand than soil and slips beneath her feet, which only adds to her weariness. At least most of the sun has fallen behind the tall cliffs.

The wall doesn't have the look of machine-construction. Mix-matched rocks in different shades of gray, tan, and brown are held together with what looks like mud. The door is made of unstained wood and has a rough, natural texture to it. There is no handle.

She's unsure whether it would be appropriate to just push the door open or knock first but eventually opts to give a courteous knock. She holds up her fist and taps lightly a few times, hardly creating a sound through the thick wood. That does not stop her from being heard. The door swings open.

A small man with a curved back grips the frame of the door with stubby fingers blackened in grime. His eyes are sunken into his leathery face and do not seem to follow one another properly. He has no teeth which causes his grimace to disappear into his face. What's left of his paper-white hair grazes the top of his shoulders and wisps in the wind.

After the brief look over, Margo realizes he is glaring at her. "Come in, come in," he fusses.

Suddenly, she feels a bit uneasy and reconsiders. She cannot be sure that if she goes in there she won't come out looking like him — if she is to come out at all.

He grows impatient with her hesitation and reaches out for her hand, giving it a tug.

He freezes, staring down at her, eyebrows tightening. Margo doesn't know what he sees, but grows even more uncomfortable with his boorish staring.

Suddenly, his eyes widen in realization, slightly popping a vein out of his temple. His good eye jumps from Margo's face to whatever it is he is gawking at.

"Could it be?" he whispers to himself. "Already...?"

Margo tries to hold it together, but is unable to control her features.

Instead of pulling her into the city, he quickly steps out with her. A few clumsy tugs on his poncho, and he shoves the heap into Margo's arms.

"Put this on," he says urgently. He glances around nervously.

It smells like stale dirt and body odor, but Margo is too frightened to do anything but obey — and pray she doesn't catch anything. She breathes through her mouth.

"Follow me." He is whispering again. "Quickly. Keep your eyes down."

He takes her by the arm again but only long enough to pull her through the open door. Once they are in the village, he lets her go and scurries off into the streets.

His request to keep her eyes down proves difficult. There is much to see. Now that the ice has vanished, the streets are full of peculiar people. Most stay busy with their tasks or hustle on their way to where ever it is they are going. Some shop from the little kiosks set up along the streets, chatting about. Others pop in and out of buildings. On occasion, Margo receives an unwelcoming, sneering expression.

Something is very wrong here.

There are even fewer plants inside the walls, not even the shrubs that grow on the other side. The sandy roads are packed down harder than outside the gate, and every time the wind blows, a cloud of dust swirls through the air. Margo is reminded of an old western movie. She almost expects to see a bar fight in one of the buildings or a lone tumbleweed flipping down the road.

The graying buildings stand no more than six feet apart. A short set of steps lead to each door, and a small sign hangs outward from above every doorway with a name carved on it and a number hung beneath. She passes 'Herbs and Plants, Number  2 7 ' and 'Fruit, Number  2 3 ' before nearly losing sight of the little man in the crowds. She quickens her stride.

The people here are wrong, Margo notices as a couple duck out of a shop labeled 'Eyewear, Number 21.' That's when she realizes what is bothering her: their attire. They are all dressed in different styles of clothing. Some are from a different era. Those wear anything from tattered bell-bottoms to long ruffled dresses that could have easily been from the early twentieth, maybe even nineteenth, century. The others, though fewer in numbers, are dressed more modern — jeans, short trendy dresses, business suits, or graphic tees.

The crooked man reaches down to give Margo's hand a yank. Apparently, she still isn't going fast enough. He takes a sharp left around the street corner weaving through the crowd.

They stop abruptly in front of the third house on the left. 'Jamyria Welcome Center, Number 12' reads the sign. The building is small. There's nothing that makes it any more special than the other graying, dilapidated buildings she's seen.

But she can't study it for long. He steps up behind her and gives her a push toward Number 12.

"Hurry," he fusses.

Margo climbs the rickety stairs and opens the door. He shoves her into the dark room, and the door slams shut behind her. There is hardly room inside. Bookshelves line all four walls containing stacks of papers along with other odds and ends—a clock, a telescope, a few framed drawings, a skull. The room is lit mostly by the high windows that peek over the tops of shelves and a few lit candlesticks.

In the room's center sits a woman at a small desk, smiling wide. Compared to the townspeople of this dirty place, she is clean-cut. A sleek, chocolate ponytail coils around her shoulder. On her perfectly curved nose rests a pair of trendy red glasses. Even sitting down, it is obvious that this woman is tall and slender. Her presence is misplaced in this town.

"Welcome to Jamyria," she says, smile still in place. She rises to greet Margo, extending a soft, well-manicured hand, which Margo shakes reluctantly, embarrassed by the roughness of her own against this lady's delicate palm. But the woman doesn't seem to notice — at least, she does not say. In fact, her warm spirit  is welcoming.

"Jamyria?" Margo asks a beat too late.

"Oh, sweetie, I know it's difficult to understand...or to take it all in at first, but you'll soon know everything." Her face is strained as she speaks, almost sympathetic. "We'll help you get settled in."

"Miss Saunders." The gruff voice comes from behind Margo. She hadn't realized the hunched-back man was still there. He shuffles his way over to the lady to whisper something in her lowered ear. Her warm smile shifts to something harsher. They both glance up at Margo at the same time.

"Impossible." It is nothing more than a whisper, but the intensity of the single word is not fitting for such a sweet face. Margo wishes to look away from the woman 's ferocious glare. And then, her expression relaxes, and her voice calms. "Well, that  is an interesting theory, Dawson, but we will have to investigate this further."

She looks down upon Margo sternly. The man is still glaring, too, which makes Margo feel very uncomfortable once again. The stench from the poncho suddenly returns causing her to gulp back bile.

"Dawson," the lady continues, softening up her face a bit. "I shouldn't have used the word 'impossible.' It's just...unheard of. Thank you for bringing her to me."

And with that, the little man nods and scoots his way out the door.

"Tell me," says the woman stepping closer, arms folded across her chest. "What happened to you arms?"

Margo takes a step back realizing what they're after now. Her wounds.

"Let me see," the lady says pulling at the hem of the poncho. Though her stomach clenches, Margo obeys and removes the smelly garment.

Mouth dropping open, the woman studies the rows of cuts that run the length of Margo's arms. The blood has thickened and scabbed over into jagged marks. She turns her face away, not wanting to see the injuries she sustained without a conscious realization.

"There's so much," whispers the lady. "So many..."

Her eyes follow the lines on Margo's inner arms, truly studying it as if it is some encryption she understands.

"There was a light," Margo says quietly, unsure of what else to say to answer her earlier question. "It exploded, and I think...it cut me..."

Margo flushes with embarrassment. Why should this woman believe her? Hearing the words spoken aloud shames her. She would label herself as a lunatic had their roles been reversed.

Except, from the knowing look on the woman's face, she just might believe her story.

"And my neck," she continues with a little more enthusiasm, lifting her hair to share the other cuts with this stranger.

"More?" the lady asks, though she is already lightly tracing her fingers around the cuts. Thankfully, it doesn't hurt,  like the areas  are desensitized. "So it  is possible."

Margo is unsure whether she is asking a question or simply stating a fact, so she remains silent.

"You're going to have to come with me."

Margo nods. She doesn't have many options to choose from. Besides, she has never been on her own before, and this lady is the most decent person she's yet to encounter.

She dons her bag from under her desk and hands Margo back the poncho. "Put this back on, honey."

Without hesitation, Margo pulls the smelly thing back on and holds her breath again. She understands her reasoning for the cover-up, though; the wounds seem to attract a lot of attention.

They step out onto the small porch of the Welcome Center. Margo attempts to look inconspicuous in the middle of this strange town — Jamyria. The people scurry by on the streets. A variety of emotions pass her ranging from anger to sadness, depending on the person, but Margo notices that nobody looks happy. Except one.

The lady turns to lock up the  building and meets Margo's gaze with her blazing smile. "I'm Janie Saunders, by the way."

"Margo Grisby," she returns, nodding once.

"Margo," repeats Janie. She holds her hand out toward the street, a cue to start walking. "The town isn't much to look at, but we've done the best we can."

Margo doesn't reply, but instead hopes for further explanation which does not come. Janie leads the way around the opposite corner that Margo had been brought in on. This time she isn't instructed to keep her head down, so she tries to absorb as much of the town as possible. The daunting shadows from the cliffs cause it to feel darker than it is.

The walk is short, only about a block from the corner. Janie stops in front of a building that looks more like a cottage rather than a cabin. Instead of wood, it is made of stone similar to the surrounding wall. 'The First  Ma n , Number 1' reads the signage overhead, the most ornate sign in the village. The letters are painted in gold bordered in winding green ivy, and it's attached to the house with scrolling tendrils of iron.

Janie walks up to the door with her arm around Margo's shoulder and knocks. Minutes pass before the shouts start on the other side of the door.

"What do you want? Come to bother me some more? To question an old man?" he shouts. "I'll blast you all to hell if I have to, I will! Blast you all —"

"Nick, it's me," Janie laughs.

The door swings open. A tall, lanky man leans out with his eyes wide and full of excitement behind his dark-rimmed spectacles. He looks in his late fifties with glossy blue eyes and short gray hair sticking out in several directions.

"Janie!" he shouts pulling her into his embrace, bouncing a bit. "It's been so long."

"It's been no more than two days, Nick! Honestly, you make me feel like I never visit when you talk like that."

Margo's hunches over in the corner of the porch awkwardly as they exchange their brief conversation. She wishes to escape their pleasantries. How can they act so happy amidst such a drab town? How can they pretend the ice had never occurred? She wishes to disappear.

"So, what is it that brings you this way?" he asks, still clinging to Janie's arm in excitement.

"Well," she says bringing his attention over to their guest. "I have someone I think you'd be interested in meeting." Her smile beams on as she gives him a wink.

His face suddenly goes slack as he takes Margo in. "Has it really been fifty years?" he whispers.

"So it seems. Time flies around here, eh?"

"It certainly does," he muses. He can't take his eyes off Margo, and she now knows why.

It takes him a moment to snap out of his gaze, giving his head a shake. "Well, come in," he waves. "We have much to discuss. Janie, start some tea. I'll heat up the stew. Come in, come in." He tugs Margo inside. A slight annoyance creeps through her after being pulled around again, but she enters without a fight.

His home is polar opposite from the Welcome Center. The walls are the same stone as the outside decked in a variety of sketches and paintings (Margo wonders if he provided Janie with the sketches she spotted in the Welcome Center). The honey wood furniture warms and invites. She follows them into the small kitchen — which is even smaller than her parents', if that's possible. Gray stone continues throughout the room, hollowed out in some places to create storage crevices, and is topped with an ancient, honey-colored wooden countertop. In the center wall is a stone fireplace with a fire roaring and licking at the iron pot he places in the flames.

"Have a seat," Nick offers, pulling out a chair.

Margo glances down at the chair and recognizes the warmth in her cheeks. For the first time this afternoon she truly feels safe. It is in the arms of these two strangers she takes comfort, and she is gracious to happen upon them.

Just as she is about to accept his seat, her smile quickly fades. Before she hadn't noticed that his right hand is completely covered in dark scars very similar to her own cuts. A vine-like pattern scrolls across the back of his hand.

What she also hadn't noticed is that half of his hand is missing. He lacks his ring finger, pinky, and the outer half of his palm. A chunk has been sliced clean off.

Margo feels her mouth fall slightly open, and snaps it shut, feeling rude.

"As I said before," Nick says darkly, "we have much to discuss ."

* * *

* * *

Chapter Five: The First Man

Margo's eyes are incapable of leaving his hand. The brown cluster of scars screams for her attention. She feels a strong connection to this stranger, certain she is not alone in her suffering.

"Well," he says after a moment or two. "First of all, I'm Nick Thomas." He waits, but when Margo does not reply prompts, "And you are?"

"Margo Grisby," she blurts, breaking her gaze from his hand. "What happened to  your — "  She stops herself, flushed in embarrassment by her audacity.

"We'll get to that," he promises. "But first, tell me what happened to you. What can you remember?" He leans forward, eyes intense, and crosses his arms so he can tuck his partial hand into his side.

Margo thinks this over for a minute. "Well, the last normal thing I remember was walking home from school." Had that walk down the dirt road been merely a few hours ago?

"Yes, good! What next?" He asks it as if he already knows how the story will unfold, which Margo is certain he does.

"There was a bright bird, as bright as fire. I followed it through the woods."

He and Janie turn to one another in confusion, as if thrown by something she'd said.

"A fiery bird?"

"It led me to where it was guarding a globe." Margo's eyes dart to Janie just in time to see her spilling hot water onto the counter as it overflows from her cup.

"Guarding it? As in keeping you away from it?" asks Nick.

"More like it was trying to bring me to it. Like it wanted me to..." Her voice trails off as the flash of a memory stirs her. Touching the globe, all the pain in that instant. The icy splinters under her skin. Muscles so strained they could have peeled from her bones.

"Well," says Janie. "That certainly is...different."

"Different, indeed." Nick's face twists up in concentration. He paces back and forth in the tiny kitchen. It only takes him two steps to reach each side, and he nearly knocks Janie out of the way in each passing.

"Is something wrong?" Margo asks nervously. The weird parts  have yet to come, and she is surprised to find that this part of the story has set their minds turning.

"It's just that I've never heard of one of this world's creatures crossing over to the Real World. It's quite strange."

Janie is silent in the background keeping her eyes on the floor. Both are in deep thought. Margo almost dreads telling them the rest of the story. Almost.

Then his words hit her a little harder.

"I'm sorry," she says too harshly, tensing her back. "Did you just say that we're in a  different world ?"

Nick chokes, turning slightly green. "Oh, dear... Janie I thought you'd already gotten that far."

"No, I —"

"Oh, thank goodness," Margo says quietly, placing a hand over her heart. "I was afraid I was losing it."

The tension lifts. Nick chuckles. "I'm impressed, actually. You seem to be adapting pretty well. And fast. Most new enterers have trouble accepting even pieces of what's happening, but you seem to really have a knack for this." He smiles crookedly to himself.

Janie shoots him a nasty look.

"I'm serious," he goes on. "She hasn't once asked when she gets to go home or anything. Like she already knows why she's —"

" Nick ," Janie says firmly.

He clears his throat and is back to business. "So after you saw the bird guarding the globe, what happened?"

"Well, I felt funny. Like I couldn't escape from it. Something felt very wrong, but I had to shake it." She skips over where her memory clouds. "Then everything grew bright, and I woke up in the snow.

"Then, there was this huge cat." They exchange another glance. "It was all white and tried to attack me. I couldn't outrun it. I thought I was going to die but... There was an icicle in my hand — I don't know how it got there — but I... I killed it."

To Margo's surprise, Nick bursts out into a hysterical laugh. She grimaces.

"Well, that's something we didn't see coming," Nick belts out.

Janie nods back, joining his laughter.

"Sorry, but you lost me again." She fails to mask her irritation.

"We'll explain it all, I promise. Now, please continue."

She sighs, and continues to tell them the rest. Without any more interruptions, she tells them of the nagging cold and spotting the village from above the valley. How the circle of light cast down upon her and somehow cut her arms and neck. They listen intently to every word and even after Margo has finished they wait patiently in silence for more. "So then I just came down here to find help after the ice was gone."

Nick's pacing finally stops, his face still scrunched up in concentration. "Can I see them? Your marks?"

She nods while removing the filthy poncho once again. Janie silently darts over to her side to help and then backs out of the way with the poncho draped over her arm. Margo hopes she incinerates the thing.

Nick steps forward with his partial hand holding his chin and begins studying the marks as Janie had — as if there is meaning beneath the strange characters. She stretches her arms out into the shape of a  U for him to have a proper look at her inner arms.

Margo, too, gives them a scrutinized look-over. There are four rows of patterns that hide neatly in her side when her arms are down. Each row contains a single line of sharp, jagged characters running from her elbow all the way to the joint where her arm meets her shoulder. Studying them even closer, she sees that there are etchings within each tiny character. She is curious to see the one on her neck.

What's strange is that even though she received these cuts merely hours ago, they are completely healed. The skin isn't pink as an ordinary scar would be but has healed a shade or two darker than the tone of her skin, leaving them brownish.

Nick traces the scars with his two fingers, carefully examining them.

"I just don't think I understand what happened to me," Margo finally says, interrupting his studying. She can feel her eyes widening in fright, although she is trying her hardest to keep her emotions under control.

"There's just so much to tell. Where to begin, where to begin?" He sighs, looking down at Margo with troubled eyes, and she knows then that something greater than all that had happened today is coming. "Alright, Janie. You start, I'll finish."

He gently glides Margo's arms back to her side and offers the same chair he'd pulled out a moment ago. This time she sits without question. Janie places a cup of steaming tea in front of her.

"Well, this is Jamyria," says Janie as she grabs the other two cups and hands one to Nick. They both sit down across from Margo, settling in for a long discussion. "Jamyria is a world that was created by someone with great power. We've learned as much as we can about this place over the years, but we were brought in here just as unexpectedly as you."

Only one word sticks out to Margo, and it isn't the obvious. She should be terrified that someone created an entire world with their 'power.' Or that everyone here was brought against their will. But that isn't what scares her.

"Years?" It can't be possible for them to have been here for that long. Surely they have families looking for them, detectives and police searching for answers.

"Years," Janie repeats, her smile vanishing. "Some for centuries even."

"Centuries?" For a moment, Margo can't even form another sentence. "How is that even possible? Unless... Oh, you mean they've died here...." She bites her tongue.

Janie's lip  twitch es slightly. "No. You see, when you enter Jamyria, the Queen — that is, the creator of this land — sets a curse on you so that you can only age to a certain degree, and then you stop. This allows children to grow to their fullest potential, their most powerful stage. You become temporarily immortal, meaning once she finished with you, you'll continue to age until you pass."

Margo processes this. It all sounds so bizarre and unreal, but why stop believing at this point?

"As you can imagine, we all want to get out of here." Janie takes a sip of her tea between sentences. "In a way, we're all prisoners. Slaves to contributing energy to her source of power." Margo isn't sure what that means, but Janie speaks too quickly to ask. "Sure, we do what we can with what we've got, but who wants to live their entire life that way? Who wants to be told that the only freedom they have is within this little box?" She air-draws a square with her thin fingers. "And even still, we have limitations of what we can do and where we can go within our box. It's miserable, Margo."

Her chocolate eyes plead. For a moment, Margo empathizes. Until she remembers that this hell is her reality, too. Janie searches Margo's face for something, like she desperately has something to ask.

"But we've done our best," she finally says. "We built this town from the ground up, starting with this very cottage. Nick built it himself." She smiles at him, though it does not touch her eyes.

"You built this alone?" Margo asks, amazed.

"From the ground up," Nick repeats proudly.

"Margo, I honestly feel like you're missing the major points here. Your questions seem to be avoiding the facts, so let me reiterate." Janie takes in a deep breath and slowly releases it through her tightly rounded lips. " You are in a different world.  And we are  all stuck here."

Margo is somewhat miffed that she's spelled it out so simply. Of course she heard what Janie had said, but somewhere inside of her, Margo had already sensed that.

"I understand, really," she defends dumbly. "But to be honest, I feel like you're not telling me something." Margo's voice is even, eyes dead on Janie and unwavering. At last, she sees what she needs: Janie's gaze nervously flickers to Nick and back.

"Perceptive, eh?" says Nick, the wrinkles around his eyes more dominant as he grins. "My turn, Janie. Thanks for the intro." He rearranges his posture and intertwines his two fingers with his good hand. "Well, Margo, it's time to talk about your marks."

This she is not surprised to hear.

"When someone enters Jamyria, normally they simply fall into the snow and wait for warmth to come. After about an hour or so, the sun will come out, and as soon as the light spreads, the cold vanishes melting the snow and ice away instantaneously. But every fifty years, someone will enter who has more meaning than just being captured by the Queen." He leans in on the table, his eyes wide. "They're  destined to enter."

Margo's eyes narrow, still unsure where this is leading.

"Those destined are brought here just as unknowingly as any other person and have what's already growing inside of them revealed. These marks. These," he taps the scars on his right hand lightly, smiling crookedly, "are marks of power."

Margo's own scars come into focus.  What exactly is he saying? That these marks have power in them...?

"Yes, Margo. You, too, have that power in you. And you have a lot of power, I might add. Look at all those markings!"

"Don't forget the ones on her neck," Janie adds.

"It's remarkable! Unheard of."

She stares at him blankly.

"You're confused," he points out. "Several unique things have happened here; two very significant unique things. One, there's never been a marked woman." Margo raises her eyebrow skeptically, knowing that he just mentioned a queen having power to create this world. "Let me rephrase that. There  are marked women, but a woman as the  New Mark, now that's unheard of...

"The second thing is that I've never seen so much power wrapped into a single body." He absentmindedly traces the etchings on his hand again. "The more detailed the patterns are, the more power that person contains. And yours are so big! But, at the same time, intricate."

"New Mark?" Margo sighs. "I really am trying, but it's hard to keep up."

"Once someone has been given this power," Janie says softly, "and once they know what they're doing with it, they can pass it along to someone else. There are plenty of women that have marks here, but we've never come across a woman that has received a New Mark, as we call it. That is, their mark is original...freshly created and unique. Do you understand, sweetie?"

"What about this queen?" Margo asks.

"She got hers from her father," Nick answers before Janie can. "That happened long before anyone was in Jamyria, though. Long before it was even created."

"You said this happens every fifty years." Margo went back over their conversation. She glances at Nick's marks. "Does that mean you've been in here for fifty years?"

"Wish I had," Nick says darkly. "I've been here for over a hundred."

The room falls silent. Margo isn't sure how to respond to that. That's a lifetime, or more. And to spend it all here... There's a small part within Margo that cannot help but worry that that will be her fate, too.

"We've gotten a little sidetracked again," Nick finally says. "So, after I entered Jamyria, I received my power, my markings." He holds up his partial hand, and Margo can't help but wince. "My whole hand was covered then." He keeps his eyes on his hand, reminiscing.

"I thought I was going crazy, too. One minute I was in my  backyard , the next I was in this wintry forest. I wandered, searching for any type of shelter — the ice was harsh, as you know. That's when I saw a tower of smoke in the mountains, so I headed that direction. When I grew closer, a man cut off my path. I was so relieved to find someone else that I didn't even think to fear him. But before I could ask him for help, he struck me to the ground. I surrendered hoping that he would either kill me quickly or at least bring me to warmth — you're willing to do almost anything in a moment so desperate."

Margo shivers remembering the icicle in her hand, the hot blood spilling down her hand.

"But I was lucky. I was brought to the pillar of smoke which was coming from the Queen's house." He pauses, watching for Margo's reaction. "He took me into a grand white room lined with scarlet drapes. And directly in front of me she sat there watching me with a cold grin on her face, but she still managed to come across as beautiful. Her smoky-grey eyes...somehow they drew you in, making you almost believe she was good."

"But," Margo says interrupting for the first time, "she's not, is she?"

"No."

Margo guesses she should have realized this, but from the way he describes this queen, she almost believes differently.

"Does she do anything besides just take people in?"

"Far worse," he replies somberly. That is the only answer Margo will receive for now. "When I met the Queen, I was not afraid — not of her at least. She greeted me politely and introduced me to Jamyria, much like Janie just did for you. She also explained that there was no way possible for me to go back and that I would have to get used to life here.

"I became her servant in the beginning, helping her with whatever task or assignment she had for me. I watched her bring in more people, too. Some of them she became more attached to and hired to work for her as protection rather than as mere servants — her Crew, as she calls them. So we servants, along with some of her Crewmen, were ordered to build the castle. It took us many years, but once it was finished, the Queen had no further purpose for most of us. She released us into the jungle.

"It was a relief to be free from the life I had been forced into, but as Janie said earlier, we are only free to a certain extent. We are still extremely limited. I, for example, was never allowed to return to the castle without the Queen's request. And returning to the Real World is impossible. The only chance of that happening occurs every fifty years." They both stare at Margo again. "Are you making the connection, Margo?"

But Janie speaks first. "She's just a girl, Nick. She isn't ready for this."

"Fate certainly thinks she is," he says. "About a year before the Queen released me," he continues. "Rumors began to spread of a prophecy stating that every fifty years the New Marked One would enter. That one of these New Marks would free all of the people of Jamyria."

And now it all makes sense. The click in Margo's mind as she makes this connection is nearly audible. "So you think I'm this 'New Mark?'" Margo cannot help but to burst into hysterics at that.

"You  are the New Mark, Margo. The question is: are you the one who will save this world?"

Margo gives this a generous thought of about thirty seconds before she replies, "No thank you," and scoots her chair out to leave.

But before she can rise to her feet Janie reaches out for her hand. "Wait. Please, just consider it."

"Consider what?" she snaps. "I've barely been in this place a day, and you've already got my life mapped out. I don't even know who you people are!"

"We'll help you as much as we can —"

"Why didn't  you free everyone?" she shouts at Nick. "And if it's every fifty years, isn't there another one out there somewhere?"

Nick's face slightly drops. "I was injured," he says, quietly glancing down at his hand.

Margo is suddenly ashamed of her reaction. Of course he would have tried. He's been in this world — she will have to get used to saying that — for over a hundred years.

"I still have some power left, but I'm no longer a match against the Queen," he adds ruefully. "As for the previous Marked One, they found him not long after he discovered his marks. He was executed immediately."

Margo cringes. So that means that if this Queen  was to find her, she will be put to death? Perfect.

"There's nothing to worry about, though. I have reason to believe that you will be the one to fulfill the mission. There's just so much about you that's different than us previous Marks. Yes, I have much faith in you."

Janie's sweet face is still lit up in excitement or awe. Tears well up in her eyes.

"Well," Margo breathes. "That's an interesting story."

"Ha!" Nick bellows. "Story? Sorry to be so forward about this, but it's no story. It's reality. And you're the center of this reality. Do you realize how many people are waiting for you? Depending on you?"

She grits her teeth. There is obviously no way around them. "Let me think about it."

"Excellent," Nick says.

Janie squeals.

"No, no!" Margo says firmly. "Don't get ahead of yourself. I just agreed to consider it. Nothing more."

"Fair enough," he says getting to his feet. "I think we've put enough on you for one night. Janie, do you mind if she stays over at your place tonight?"

"It's pretty late, Nick," she says still smiling. "She could just stay with you. I mean, we don't want anyone to notice her, right?"

"Sure, of course. As long as you're okay with that, Margo."

"Yes, it's fine." Margo agrees, though she would have preferred to go with Janie.

He leads Margo into the tiny spare guest room, which is more of an art studio than a bedroom. He clears off all the sketches and bits of charcoal on the bed allowing enough room to sleep and offers to get anything Margo needs. She assures him she is fine and only needs a little peace after such a long day.

He shuts the door on his way out, and Margo prepares herself for the most tears she's shed in a quite some time.

* * *

Chapter Six: Margo's Choice

The eruption of voices and shouts fill the room, as the ocean would roar against the sands of the shore. Cheers echo throughout the auditorium directed toward the twirling girl in the center of the stage. With blond curls bouncing off her shoulders and lavender tulle fluttering with her movement, Kylie demands all attention. It has been years since Margo has sat in the crowd watching her sister dance upon a stage, yet every twinge of jealousy has suddenly rushed back. Margo's heart sinks as she watches her sister enjoy every moment. She shrinks down in her chair hoping to block out the sound of applause but finds herself sinking between the cracks of her seat until she grows so small she is nothing more than a weightless being shriveling into darkness.

Margo does not want to be taken from her sister; she loves her dearly. She is even proud that this moment belongs to her. She despises this feeling of jealousy. But it is too late. Margo has already escaped that room landing into a pool of darkness. In the distance a dark figure is slowly growing visible. The person is standing several yards away with their back to Margo. She steps forward and reaches out to touch the boy just as he turns to reveal himself.

She welcomes his familiar face. He smiles as Margo stretches her hand out for him, longing to uncover the thoughts behind those clear, blue eyes — has he missed her as well? But the closer Margo's fingers come to his face, the further he drifts away.

She screams, hating this. The two people she needs, gone. Taken from her. Gone.

Her voice drones on until her throat burns, and suddenly a light forms around her. The flight through the brightness is quicker than she remembers this time, melting into a spread of beautiful colors, more beautiful than imaginable. The world around her is too perfect, too vivid.

Margo notices something cold is in her hand. Clenched in her fist, she finds a magical feather encased in ice. That moment she knows she must have fallen into something even stranger: a land engrossed in power.

And smiling cruelly at the top of a tower is a woman with haunting grey eyes.

Margo's eyes snap open and her body shoots upright. The ledge over the bed meets her head, a blinding pain splits her forehead in two, and she's showered with Nick's sketches. Without a care, she pushes them to the ground along with the others and lies back down, her head throbbing. Surely the downpour of tears should have stopped by now. She allowed herself one night to be weak, one night to give into the crying. But now as sunlight beams through the grainy glass of the window, Margo still has to fight to keep her eyes dry.

They threw a lot at her last night, and she deserves a moment of vulnerability; though, it is not in her character. There is much for her to consider.

Stepping only on the gaps of wood peeking through the scattered artwork like flagstones, she cracks the door, surprised to see that Janie is already sitting with Nick on the honey-stained bench and sipping drinks from steaming mugs. She turns her head in Margo's direction with her radiant smile already in place and gestures for her to join them.

But Margo passes through the living room and ducks into the bathroom before speaking a word to either of them. The bathroom is small, more of an outhouse than anything, but to her  surprise it has a working faucet. She immediately crumples over the sink and splashes cold water on her face. Holding perfectly still, Margo tries to relax her muscles letting the water drip back into the bowl.

At least now she understands why everyone reacted the way they did when they first saw her scars — or marks, as they call them. They are overwhelmed with excitement, hopeful for a better future. Or they  were afraid of being associated with Margo. After hearing this queen executes anyone bearing a New Mark, Margo decides she wouldn't want to be caught with herself either.

The natural fibers of the towel scratch her face as she pats it dry. She catches her reflection in the tiny mirror above the sink expecting to look much older than she had the prior day, but strangely she finds the same minuscule sixteen-year-old girl. Still, she feels as if she has gained ten years. The lives of all of Jamyria depend on her. Margo forces this to sink in; surely that cannot be accurate....

The swirling pool of water in the sink is tinted pink. Margo gasps hoping not to find anymore of the strange cuts, but the source comes from her hair and the memory of lying in the cat's blood yesterday comes rushing back. She gives her hair a thorough rinse and winces when her fingers run over her first cut after entering. Her scalp is still sore from the gash she received from falling after landing in the snow. It is still raw, unlike the markings that have completely healed. She towel dries her hair around the tender spot as best she can.

Then, Margo sees them again: her marks. Tears are already spilling over, breaking her one night rule. Angling herself in the mirror, she is able to see the third mark running down her neck. Three more rows of tiny symbols are etched along the back of her neck, the middle extending slightly further down than the outer two creating a point. This group is slightly different than the ones on her arms, more rounded and swirly.

Margo suddenly realizes that it looks like she has tattoos.  Ah, my mom is gonna kill me! Maybe if I hold my arms like this , Margo thinks pulling her elbows into her sides,  maybe no one would notice them. She practices waving to her reflection, careful to only move her forearms, but the similarities she has with a tyrannosaurus rex are uncanny.

She lets her arms fall limp opting to settle for the yelling from her mom — Margo's stomach churns at the thought — if she is to ever get out of here. She'd take a hundred yellings and a year's worth of grounding if it means she could leave this place. Or even just to know that one day she can return home. But Nick made it very clear that that is never going to happen. Unless, of course, Margo is the one to find the way.

She is faced with two choices now.

One, she can sit back and tell them she simply won't do it. That would be the easiest thing to do. She'll try to make life as meaningful as possible in this world until someone else comes along who can do the job she is too afraid to do. This plan's only flaw is that, according to what Nick said, it will be another fifty years until that chance comes. Janie had mentioned 'temporary immortality' meaning when Margo gets out she will be the same age and can continue life at home where she left off. The downside is that her mom will have aged well into her eighties by then. If she is still alive...

The second option is to just suck up her fears and find the way out. What scares her the most about this path is that she has absolutely no idea what it entails. She doesn't know what's expected of her, but if this really is her purpose, it should all fall into place...theoretically.

And if she fails? She suddenly is reminded of when Janie had knocked on Nick's door yesterday, and he shouted at the door. Do the people of the town still hold a grudge against him? Margo already knows the answer to that. But would failure for her result in a lifetime of ridicule? Or would it mean death?

There is a small part of her that subconsciously knew what her choice would be from the beginning. No matter how high the negatives are stacked against her, nothing could ever stop her from trying to return home.

After one last glance at the new girl staring back in the mirror, she heads back into the living room.

*

Eighteen Hours Earlier

The winds are ferocious, ripping through the highest tower like whistling blades on a battlefield. Two men clad in black stand at attention taking nature's beating in stride. One faces north, the other south. They are lean and structured. They are void of emotion. They are cunning. They are the Queen of Jamyria's Guard.

The majority of the Jamyrian commoners struggle to adapt to the world's extreme weather shifts, but the elite members of the Crew must face these challenges head on without so much as a word. Those who show any sign of cowardice, any weakness at all, are discarded. Those are considered nothing more than trash to the Queen. To survive among her Guard means to live and breathe the essence of fear. They must face death willingly.

There has been a new enterer in Jamyria, and a new enterer means a potential new threat. Although the alleged threat only enters at a fixed time, the Queen finds it necessary to tighten security upon the entrance of each of the world's new occupants. A precautionary measure.

In the highest tower upon Mount Jeidone, the two guards take watch over the land, searching out any irregularities. The weather is so harsh they can hardly see several mere feet before them let alone survey the expanse of land that lies beneath the ocean of fog and ice. Nonetheless, they remain poised at attention without question.

An enterer after Day Seven is always a bother to those within the world. The rain lingers. And when there is rain there is only more ice, which means these two must suffer through biting sleet.

"Luka," calls one of the Crewmen. His eyes narrow against the wind, trying to make out something he spots in the distance.

"Got something?"

"Yeah..."

Luka leaves his post to scan the southern half of Jamyria with his partner, Evan. It is so far off the two of them struggle to see the beam of light through the thick air, but they are certain there is a ray forming from the sky.

"I thought the sun always came out at once, spreading across the land and melting the ice in one sweep." Evan crumples his face in confusion. It is the first time he has ever noticed even the slightest change in the weather sequences.

"That's what usually happens," replies Luka, equally confused.

"Could be a glitch in the sun?"

Luka focuses harder on the light as the snow picks up. "I don't think so...."

The light intensifies until it no longer appears to be a ray but a ball floating above the trees glowing an effulgent white. It is such a powerful force, the cloudy skies around it tremble. Suddenly it explodes, showering sparks in its wake. It ripples outward, casting out the snowy clouds. Both Evan and Luka cringe as the light passes over the tower in a gush of warmth. It takes no more than a few seconds and the world in its entirety is rid of the cold.

Evan's mouth hangs open. "No one will know," he finally says. "This is wrong. Something wasn't right about that, and nobody will know."

"It was similar to the usual sunrise," agrees Luka. "But different, indeed."

They stare across the vivid land deliberating. "You don't think..."

"Can't be," barks Luka as if it is obvious. "It's not near time for that yet."

The two return to silence, the images of the strange exploding light flashing through their heads.

Suddenly, Luka curses aloud realizing his partner's idea could possibly hold some truth. "Do not lose sight of it," he orders just before he turns to the center of the tower and steps off into the void. He drops into the circle that has been cut out of the floor, falling the height of the tower and landing in a crouch at its base.

The room is made entirely of white stone. The only color comes from the red curtains hung along the walls every few feet which give off an eerie effect as if the walls are bleeding. A lush pathway of tiger-skin leads to the grand throne. She sits with her legs crossed, chin in her palm as if she is somewhat bored on this particular afternoon. Her gown puddles in indigo silk pleats that give the illusion that her gown ripples. Hair black as ink is piled atop her head in complicated twists. Her full lips are mauve and striking against ivory skin. A woman so fair is worthy of the title Queen.

The Guardsman is nearly out of breath upon his arrival. He does not stop running until he approaches her throne.

"Your majesty," calls Luka, bowing his head momentarily. "I have come to report an irregularity in the land."

"Oh?" The Queen sounds curious, although she does not yet look in his direction.

"Rather than the sun rising as it usually does, a light formed in the sky. The light then exploded and melted the snow." Luka broadens his shoulders, a nervous act to hide his uncertainties. "It is possible that this is just a misunderstanding, but I thought I ought to report it just in case."

"Shomari." The Queen's voice is light and mockingly playful, but the power behind the single word is enough to tremble her Crew.

The distortion of black slowly molds into shape as the man pulls himself out of the shadows of a tall, draping black curtain which takes up nearly the back wall of the Queen's throne room, a stark backdrop against the white stone walls. He circles the silver throne before him and steps down the three short steps of her dais. The man drops to a knee using his fist to balance his bow. Even kneeling he is close to five feet tall and has twice the muscles of the other Guardsmen lining the perimeter of the room. Skin like caramel. Face nearly hidden behind his hood with every inch of him clothed in black fabric. He is in a different class among her Crew. He is Noble.

"Your Majesty," he says in a rough voice.

"Shomari." The second time she speaks his name somehow holds even more severity than the first. "How long has it been?"

"It...cannot possibly have been that long...."

"How many years, Shomari?!" she wails, growing impatient.

His face scrunches up as he tallies up the years. A low growl escapes through his set jaw. "It must have been fifty," he says shaking his head in disbelief.

The Queen rises from her throne, her hands tense and in fists. " Fifty? " she repeats much harsher than he had said it. "Shomari, what is the one threat to this world?"

He pauses only because he hates being spoken to as mother would her child. "The New Mark."

"So wouldn't you find it appropriate to pay attention to the years considering there is only a New Mark every fifty years?"

"It's the immortality.... It is almost as if time doesn't matter. Or even exist —"

" Enough !"

The word echoes through the room. Shomari follows her order and remains silent, clenching the fist he has buried in the fluff of the tiger skin. The Queen walks the width of her corridor and paces before her throne, her grand dress coiling behind her. She ignores the nervous faces of her Crew. Her mind turns faster than her pacing.

Something has to be done, surely. The last Mark nearly led her prized Nobles to disaster, and her lower ranks are no match to one freshly created; they have the potential to be dangerous and unpredictable. But if the Mark were to end up in the wrong hands...

"Guards," she speaks abruptly. "Send out a small team to locate the New Mark. Be discrete. We don't want anyone knowing we are hunting him yet. And we can assume he does not know what is going on yet. That is, unless he somehow makes contact with someone who will inform him of who he is; though, that is doubtful. Send word to our insiders. You," she points to Luka. "Give them the coordinates of where you saw the light. That's where they will begin.

"And when you find the Marked One, bring his body to me."

* * *

Chapter Seven: Hidden Surprise

A speck of golden light dances before her face. Margo reaches out and grasps at the air, but the bug slips between her fingers and floats off into the night. She takes a deep breath of the humid air. Summers on the farm are always memorable, especially during the six weeks the  Hewitts spend with their grandparents. They are Margo's favorite thing about living on the Hedermans' property. Each summer, Cameron and his older sister Crystal are sent to the farm to enjoy their vacation properly while their parents stay behind to work in Nashville. They wind up spending the majority of their time with Margo and Kylie, and it is always perfect.

The purple sunset reflects off the pond, surrounded by dozens of fireflies that dot the night air. The past month and a half surely has flown past. Margo cannot believe it is already over. The four of them sit quietly in the grass occasionally bringing up some of the highlights of their time together, but mostly they sulk because tomorrow afternoon it must come to an end.

The Hedermans' front door creaks open across the field behind them. They all seem to shrink a little at the sound. "Supper time," calls Mrs. Hederman from their front porch. "And I only made enough for us," she tacks on sourly.

"Guess that's our cue," Kylie says, stretching out her long limbs. She brushes off her shorts as she rises. She helps pull Crystal up, whose long chestnut hair falls over her shoulder.

" Right ," Margo agrees ruefully, also getting to her feet.

A hand lightly touches her shoulder. "Hey," says Cameron softly. "We still have all day tomorrow. Besides, we'll be back next year."

Margo tries to smile without success, finding it difficult to look upon his face.

"Come over first thing," Crystal urges Kylie. "Let's have one last shopping trip before we head out."

"Sounds like a plan," Kylie agrees with a giggle. "You too, little sis?"

For some reason Margo cannot lift her head. She nods with a weak smile on her face wondering why this year it is so hard to say goodbye.

Kylie sighs and grabs Margo's hand. "We'll see you then. Let's see if Mom has dinner ready, too."

Her feet move her, but Margo doesn't look to see where she is being led.

"Night, Margo." The boy's voice is somber, but at the sound of her name, Margo perks up a little. Warmth fills her chest, but her happiness is shattered when she remembers he will be gone by this time tomorrow. Just then, he turns to follow his sister across the field toward the Hedermans' home.

Margo raises her hand in response far too late, but for some reason her throat is thick and no words come out.

"Come on," says Kylie, giving her sister's hand a tug. They walk the length of the pond. "If I were you, I'd just make out with him and get it over with already."

Margo plants her feet and Kylie stumbles backwards against the sudden jerk. "What?" says Kylie. "I mean, it's pretty frustrating seeing you two all googly-eyed over each other. Neither realizing it. Neither willing to make a move. You like him — just admit it!"

"I-I don't know what you're talking about." Margo's cheeks darken again for some reason. "Or why you're accusing me of this."

"It's not an accusation, sis!" Kylie wraps her arm around Margo's neck. "I'm just calling it like I see it. It's cute."

Margo brushes her off and stomps harder through the grass. "I do not like him in that way. It's Cameron. The  jerk ."

Kylie's voice softens. "He hasn't been a jerk since the first summer he visited. And that's 'cause of you."

Margo thinks back to when he and his sister first visited. He teased her for nearly everything she did, called her every bad name a seven-year-old could conjure, until her temper got the best of her. He was the first person she ever stood up to. She had told him he'd better start treating her like a lady or else. A lady? She was only six-years-old.

A giggle slips out.

"See! Admit it."

Margo shakes away the hint of euphoria. "I'm fifteen, Ky. I have more important things to worry about than boys."

"Do you even hear yourself? We're young and should be out living life carefree! Not worrying about —" Kylie scrunches her eyebrows together, perfectly imitating her sister's voice "—  important things. "

A laugh breaks through again, but what surprises Margo the most are the feelings inside her that also seemed to break through in that moment. "You're right," her voice cracks when she admits it aloud. "I do like him. A lot, actually."

Kylie sits down on their porch steps looking up at Margo. "So tell him...."

"Can't."

Her face grows serious. "Margo, he's leaving tomorrow. It'll be another year before you can let him know how you feel."

"Exactly." Margo pauses. It makes the most sense to wait. "Imagine telling him the truth and then having to say  good bye right after."

Her sister frowns. "What if, God forbid, something happened between now and next summer?"

Margo plops next to her on the porch, beaming at their strange reversal in character. "We're young, remember? Stuff doesn't change that drastically overnight. At least not in St. Joseph, Tennessee."

*

"Any crushes?" Janie asks.

Nick left abruptly after breakfast on some secret errand leaving Margo alone with Janie and her hundreds of questions. Her own questions of her impending mission will have to wait. Margo can hardly get a word in other than a quick response to Janie. For some reason she seems to have taken an interest in Margo's mundane life outside of Jamyria.

Blushing, Margo answers with a lying 'no.' Most of Janie's questions are easy enough to answer. From school to free time — Margo chuckles at that one as free time is nearly nonexistent considering her work schedule — to favorite books and recipes. Those answers are simple and one-worded, but every once in a while Janie slips in an unexpected question.

"And your family? What are they like?"

"Oh," Margo gasps, not prepared to answer this question. Of course, for most the answer would be easy. The truth is her family was once close, but they have been damaged. The broken pieces are still scattered about awaiting repair. Even if it were possible to move on, Margo knew that some of the pieces will never find their home again. It just takes time, she'd been told repeatedly. She still isn't convinced.

"We aren't how we used to be. Things were always great between us, but now we've...drifted. It's been difficult."

For probably the first time that day, Janie's smile disappears. Margo's eyes dart away knowing a lecture of some sort is brewing. That is definitely a conversation she wishes to avoid.

"So tell me more about this mission," Margo says quickly.

Janie grins at her forced enthusiasm. "Well, that's Nick's area of expertise. He's been through this already, so I think it'd be best if he gave you the answers you're looking for. He should be back pretty soon...with a surprise."

Now Margo struggles looking for another way to distract her, so she asks the one thing she is too embarrassed to ask in front of Nick and a part of her really needs to know the answer.

"What happened to Nick's hand?" she blurts.

Janie places her mug on the table and lets out one small, humorless laugh. "Nick has been through a lot for this world," she mutters to herself mostly. Margo expects her to leave it at that. Maybe it's the eagerness or urgency Janie sees in her eyes, but something makes her continue. She leans in and sighs, speaking each word rather harshly. "Many of the people of Jamyria don't give him the respect he deserves. They're ashamed of his failure. Makes me wonder if they really understand the risk he's taken for them — for  us .

"He traveled for months searching for answers, but was faced with dead end after dead end. He couldn't find the way out, obviously. And after almost a year of searching, he and his followers decided to start back at square one. So he headed for the castle —"

"Which he was never allowed to go back to." Margo finishes her sentence.

"Exactly." Janie's smile grows darker. "He was caught, of course. It's almost impossible to enter the palace without someone finding out. You see, the Queen can keep track of people in this world. She always watches us."

Margo shivers.

"There are a couple of exceptions, though." Janie nods once towards Margo.

"Me?"

"The original marks are cloaked. There's about a ten-foot radius around them at all times that makes them and anyone standing within those ten feet invisible to the Queen."

"So for the most part, I'm safe."

" Should be safe," corrects Janie. "Nothing in this world is definitive — don't ever completely rely on anything anyone says. Your power  should cloak you from the globe, but who's to say she won't find a way around that someday? I'm sorry we don't have any better answers, but this is a learning process for all of us."

"The globe?" Margo asks curiously.

Janie winces, as if aware she has spilled too much information. "Remember how you found that globe before you entered?"

Margo nods.

She picks up her tea and takes a sip to stall. "The Queen also has a globe very similar to the one that brought you into this world. Hers is much larger, though, and contains a lot more power. She can locate anything or anyone in Jamyria with just a few words."

Margo thinks about this and finds herself wondering if there is more to the globe than that. It seems too simple a feature to react the way Janie had. Either way, she decides she shouldn't push luck on the subject. "So, Nick was going back to the castle...?"

"Right," she says. "He snuck back in with a few people. I still don't know how he managed to do  that . The Queen was furious after learning the Marked One was in her castle. She was even more upset to see that the New Mark was Nick, one of her first true prisoners in Jamyria."

Margo remembers the sign to Nick's house labeled as 'The First Man,' but she cannot get a word in to ask if this is the reason why.

"The first great rebellion took place, a battle the people of Jamyria will never forget." Janie clenches her teeth. "But they were no match against the Queen and her Guard. Nick was soon on his back, others dead. The Queen pulled out her sword to finish him off, but just as she struck, he raised his marked hand blasting her away with his power. From what I hear, she was injured, too, but was able to heal herself without leaving a scratch in the end. The same is not true for Nick. As you saw, her blade cut off half his hand."

Her eyes fall to her cup. "He and his followers retreated, and the Queen never looked for him again. I'm sure her arrogance played a role in it, knowing that he lost most of his mark." Janie chuckles darkly to herself. "She no longer saw him as a threat, so she just let him go....

"It wasn't long until he moved back into his home here. What was left for him to do but to come back? Of course, now he has to deal with the locals' bad attitudes." She scrunches her nose up in disgust. "But like I said, he deserves all the respect in the world for what he did for us." Janie tilts her head. The corner of her mouth pulls up slightly, and she stares into the space between herself and the table as if recalling a private memory. Margo realizes just how strongly she feels about Nick. Perhaps, there is more than friendship between Nick Thomas and Janie Saunders. The way she defends him against the people here... It obviously strikes a nerve every time she mentions his failure. Her expression moments ago tells Margo that she does not condone the actions of these townspeople nor would she allow them to hurt him.

Thinking of his failure and the many people who seem to dislike Nick, Margo wonders if she would have a 'Janie' to look after her if things were to end similarly. Would she be left alone to deal with the heckling? The thought of having to shoulder the lives of everyone within this world is difficult enough to fathom, but failure could mean a lifetime or two of ridicule.

"That's going to be me, isn't?"

Janie's face freezes, holding her smile in an unnatural way. She places her cup on the saucer with a barely audible clink. "You will be faced with obstacles, yes, but these challenges will be your own. Mostly, you will find yourself faced with mental difficulties as you begin to learn the uniqueness of this power. You seem like a strong girl, Margo, but if you don't feel you're ready for this, please tell me. Nick feels you're capable of the task, but if you're worried, speak now before you're in too deep."

In Janie's eyes, Margo finds something unexpected. This is no cry for help, but instead a plea for her to stay behind. Whatever lies ahead is so dangerous Janie would rather wait to return home than see Margo through it.

But she's already decided she can't sit around and wait for the Queen to find her.

"I've sort of made up my mind," Margo says. "I'm going to do it."

Janie's smile grows more genuine. "Well, then, we must prepare you for the journey. Nick will be back any minute now."

*

Light floods the room before Nick in the shape of a growing triangle as the door opens slowly to the dark room. It is a quaint room made of the Central City's common gray, salt-stained wood. There are few furnishing about the room, all of which are abandoned. Sitting on the floor against the back wall is a boy with his knee propped up with an arm draped over it. He wears dusty brown clothes without shoes and has to shade his eyes as the morning light meets him.

"Ever hear of knocking?" he groans from behind the shadow of his hand.

"Why so dark in here?" Nick ignores him and immediately heads over to the window to push open a pair of shutters. The room illuminates too quickly for the boy's liking. "There. You see? That's much better."

The boy moans and considers laying face first on the cold floor but decides against it. "Come on, Nick. It's too early for this."

"The day is nearly half over, my boy. We cannot have you wasting away in solitude. This world is too big, too magnificent, to be contained in this room!"

The boy snorts. "We talking about the same world? 'Cause it sounds almost as if you like it here. Keep talking like that, and I won't know what side you're on."

Nick chuckles. "You really are grouchy in the morning, do you know that?"

The boy has yet to find the humor in their conversation.

"Truth is," Nick continues, "I'm in the market to buy a new shika. Now, nothing too fancy. Just something young, reliable. And it has to — "

"You know my rule," he cuts him off. "You were the one who made me who I am in this world. Take whatever you like. No need to come in here opening shutters and babbling on about what this screwed up world has to offer and all...."

Nick doesn't answer. He instead turns to the window and stares out into the adjacent field catching sight of a pair of brown shikas grazing in the distance. "There's more, too...."

"Oh?" His tone has sparked the boy's curiosity.

"Yes." Nick drops his gaze. "I have also come to keep my end of our bargain."

For a split second, every muscle in the boy's body tenses, and he suddenly jumps to his feet. He crosses over to Nick and slaps a hand on his shoulder. "The New Mark has arrived?"

Nick wears a sheepish expression. "Seems my math was off. Fifty years is hard to keep track of in a world where time deceptively holds still."

He's shaking his head. "None of that matters! The Marked One? It's really him?"

The joy in Nick's eyes is enough confirmation. "But I have to send her away. And I'm here to ask you to be her guide."

Confusion strikes the boy's eyes. "Her?"

Nick smiles. "This one is slightly different from its predecessors."

*

Janie's mountains of questions about Margo's life in the outside world have yet to cease; though, Margo finds it difficult to concentrate on anything other than what is occurring in the present. Luckily, Janie doesn't seem bothered with a single word answer while Margo mulls over the changes happening to her. As long as Margo permits her to babble, Janie seems satisfied. She must really need a friend here.

It'd been no more than a half an hour when they hear the front door open. With her grin somehow widening, Janie jumps to her feet, pulling Margo along with her. "Come and see. Oh, I do hope you like it!"

The sun hits Margo's eyes as they step outside, blinding her temporarily. It takes her a few blinks for them to adjust. That's when she sees it towering over them.

Margo was so engrossed in her thoughts of this new world and finding an escape that she only now recalls what Janie had snuck into the conversation earlier. Nick wasn't on just an errand; he was bringing back a surprise. Where Margo is from, surprises come wrapped in pretty packages. Janie's definition is slightly different.

With its back alone as tall as Margo, the lean creature arcs its graceful neck to peer down at them. It has an elongated deer-like face with short creamy fur rippling down its back. It is unlike any animal Margo has ever seen. It holds a demeanor of power and elegance.

"Surprise! We got you a shika!" Nick stretches his hand out toward the giant thing, but it is no longer the animal that holds Margo's interest.

It is the boy standing behind it.

His crystal blues eyes outlined in deep  indigo lock with Margo's and her chest rushes into spasms. He, too, must be surprised because his face instantly grows horror-stricken. But it is a familiar face framed with short chocolate hair and the most captivating eyes she has ever seen. He is taller than she remembers and his face has thinned into a man's.

Can it really be him? Locked away in this place, too?

Seeing him is like a wonderful dream that suddenly turns sour. The kind of dream where you are not sure if you would rather wake up or keep it going just to see if it will turn into a happy ending.

Nick is spewing facts about the animal he's gotten for her, but Margo ignores him and rushes past. She freezes in front of the boy unsure of what to do.

"Is this some kind of...joke...?" He whispers the words as if they are not meant for her to hear, but Margo jolts as a slew of memories are brought back at the sound of his voice.

"Oh my..." says Nick. He looks between the two of them thoughtfully. "Cameron, my boy, do you...?"

At the sound of his name, she outstretches a hand desperate to touch him yet too frightened to learn if he truly is real. He is mere inches from her grasp. This time will he slip away?

"Margo?" Janie calls in confusion. "What's wrong?"

The blood rushes from his face. Margo's fingers tremble before her and suddenly Janie's delicate hand is on her shoulder.

"No... Not you, too." His voice is but a pained whisper.

Margo looks away hoping he will disappear back into the Real World. He cannot, cannot, cannot be locked away here, too.

"You know her?" Janie gasps, backing away.

It isn't real. It isn't real. He can't be...

"Another mystery with this one..." Nick mumbles.

Margo looks down at her dusty feet. She doesn't dare take her eyes off the ground, even when she notices his feet approaching. But when Cameron grabs her outstretched hand and pulls her toward him, Margo steals a second glance at the boy she admittedly might love, and she is certain he is indeed real. He is much older than the boy she had last seen two summers ago, tanner, with more wisdom in his eyes. Still strong and still perfect. His face wrinkles in pain as he takes her in his embrace, and then she can no longer see anything as she crumples into his chest. A pair of heavy arms encircle her, locking her within their grasp. It takes all of her effort not to weep.

He touches his forehead to hers and breathes in the scent of her hair. "I just can't believe it's you...here."

Perhaps it isn't a bad thing that he's here. Perhaps she deserved a moment of selfishness.

Margo isn't sure how long he has held her, but it is not long enough. Eventually, Cameron pulls away and kisses her on the cheek. Her skin darkens beneath his lips. "I'm happy to see you. I just wish it were under different circumstances."

Margo nods in agreement. The moment is bittersweet.

Nick clears his throat rather loudly, interrupting their reunion. "We should probably take this inside." He points to his inner arm to remind her of the need to remain inconspicuous. The crowds shuffling around have yet to take notice of them, but Margo would rather not take any chances. The four make their way inside, Cameron with his arm tightly around Margo's shoulder as if the reassure she is truly there.

The animal — or shika as Nick had called it — bounces playfully as they pass by, startling Margo. Nick grabs the reins around its neck and ties them to the column of his porch, which Margo finds foolish since an animal of such mass could easily tear trough such flimsy wood. She keeps her mouth shut, though.

"So you two know each other?" Janie asks once they are in the safety of the house and sitting side by side on the living room bench. Janie and Nick settle into a pair of chairs opposite them.

The moment is surreal and Margo struggles to find words. From waking in fear of never seeing his face again to sitting with his arm around her is quite the turn of events.

"It's a long story, but yes. Pretty well, actually." Cameron smiles down at her, the butterflies erupting from within.

"You see," Margo tries explaining. "My family lives in a cottage on his grandparents' farm, and every summer he comes to visit..." She loses her train of thought when everything seems to come into perspective. Margo looks up at him at this realization. The look on his face shows that he must be thinking the same thing. Margo cannot believe how selfish she was to think that he hadn't visited because he didn't want to. She made up so many reasons as to why he didn't show up last summer, and all of them seemed to revolve around her in some way.

Was he really stuck here this whole time?

It's been over a year since she's seen him last. And every time she asked his grandparents about him, they acted upset. Now it all makes sense. They probably were upset because he was missing, and it was too much for them to talk about. Or maybe they thought he'd simply run away  and were ashamed . Margo can never be sure, but she is happy to have him there with her now — even if not for long. She knows she must soon leave him again, but just seeing his face gives her more confidence and possibly even hope.

"Margo and I hung out in the summertime. And it was always perfect," he says still looking at her as he speaks. She takes in the new details of his face. He must be seventeen by now. Gorgeous is no longer a strong enough word for the boy sitting next to her.

His eyes fall to her arms, and his face loses color. "You told me the shika was for the New Mark, but you didn't tell me it was Margo."

Nick answers quickly. "We were getting to that. I felt no need to tell you, as I would have never guessed you knew her. It's very rare to find two people that knew each other in the Real World cross paths in Jamyria."

Cameron assesses his words, but the look on his face says that he's still troubled. He pulls Margo's elbows outward to view her marks. She watches as his eyes follow the lines of them, searching out every detail.

"This is a lot of power, Margo." He sounds impressed.

"That's what I've heard," she responds lightly, a little surprised that he knows more of this than she does. She follows his busy eyes a little longer and then asks, "Cameron, how long have you been here?"

"Since November of last year," he says conversationally.

Margo quickly does the math. "Ten months?"

"Yeah," he says chuckling a little. "I guess so...  How about you?"

"Since yesterday."

His eyes meet hers again, full of anger now. "Yesterday?" he barks. He turns to Nick. "And you already got a shika for her? She's been in here for one day, and you're ready to ship her off? You can't do that! She doesn't even know what she's up against!"

Nick raises his hands defensively, but it is Janie who speaks up. "She's too young," she says softly. "And she's so...small." Her eyes meet Margo's apologetically.

"That Mark seems to think otherwise," Nick answers sharply, stabbing a finger in Margo's direction.

"The Mark can't think, Nick! It doesn't decide when to come out. It just does!"

"It wouldn't have revealed itself had she not been strong enough," says Nick. "It knows she is capable of handling its power."

"I can do this," says Margo confidently. "I'm sure of it."

All three faces turn toward her. She tries keeping her face as cool as possible, no matter how numb her legs grow.

"Margo, I know you," says Cameron. "Headstrong, confident when there's a challenge. But this... This is completely different."

"What choice do I have? It's either me or no one for the next fifty years. So I have to at least try."

He can only stare at Margo for a moment with his mouth hung. "What choice do you have? You can say 'no.' It's that simple. That's what choice you have," he spits. "But...I already know that's not going to happen."

He is quiet for a minute, pinching the bridge of his nose, as he thinks it over. Margo says nothing. She's already made up her mind and refuses to hear any negatives now. It wouldn't be fair for him to try to talk her out of it at this point, and she can see on his face that he knows that.

Suddenly Cameron laughs darkly to himself. "This world sure is fickle, eh, Nick?"

"Indeed..." he replies.

Margo looks between the two of them unsure of what to make of their remarks. Janie seems indifferent. It is like, once again, they are part of an inside joke that she is unaware of.

Cameron drops his hand. "At least I am now certain... This is what I'm meant to do."

"It is as if fate arranged this." Nick smiles oddly in Margo's direction.

"What are you two talking about?" she finally blurts.

"I'm going with you," Cameron says matter-of-factly. "That's why I came here to begin with."

Margo's heart stops. She shakes her head at him. "If they catch you with me, they'll —"

"Kill me. Margo, I know the consequences. I've been here much longer than you," he says grabbing her shoulders. He looks deep into her eyes and says, "I'm not going to let you go out there alone. I can be stubborn, too, you know?"

Margo warms.

Janie's face is just as bright as ever. "He'll take good care of you, Margo. I feel better about this already."

"So do I," says Nick, his lips pulling into a crinkly smile. "We trust you, son. Guide her."

Suddenly, relief warms Margo as she realizes that she won't be alone. She would never have guessed that something good could come from this place, but something has. And now she has motivation knowing that she will not only free the people of this world, but she will free Cameron, too.

But there is a part of her that is now much more afraid of what will happen if she fails. And failure now will be much worse since there is more to lose.

* * *

Chapter Eight: The Penny Challenge

So much had happened within the past twenty-four hours that Margo hadn't realize how badly she needed a break from the chaos. Losing her life back home was tragic but finding a missing piece of that life in Jamyria seems to level the scale some. She and Cameron trade stories of their past summers together, laughing at the fun memories and blushing over the embarrassing ones, almost as if they never lost their time together this last year. As if, for the first time in a long time, her life is normal. Although Margo thinks it unusual to find 'normal' in a different world.

When their conversation eventually fades into quiet laughter, Nick rises to stand at the head of the room. With a sudden clearing of his throat, he demands their attention. Margo leans in, understanding the importance of his next words; they've yet to discuss the task at hand.

"Margo, before we get into the details of your job here in Jamyria, we must go over the basic use of your power."

The abrupt change in the conversation's direction catches her off guard. Since her arrival she's been told of the power she possesses dozens of times, though she hadn't thought about using it. She assumed it was more for show or a status symbol.

She nods slowly in acceptance.

"Now," he continues, "I want you to pay close attention to what I'm doing. And do not be alarmed."

No other introduction is necessary. Nick holds out his marked hand palm side up and closes his eyes. Face strained and wrinkles tightening around his eyes, he channels his every thought and action into whatever it is he's doing. Suddenly slivers of light flare up along the edges of the marks on his hand. Beams of white burst from every detail, filling the room with soft rays. The light separates itself from his hand, collecting midair and taking the form of tiny illuminated orbs above the center of his palm. It only lasts a few blinding seconds, and then the light disappears. In its place is a shiny penny, which he pinches between his fingers and hands to Margo.

"How did you do that?" she breathes, turning it over in her hands. There are no flaws. A perfect replica.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Cameron asks as he elbows her.

She nods still looking the coin over. Now that she sees what this power can do, it is a much greater gift than she had imagined. She wonders what its limits are....

"Once you've gotten the feel of your power, you shouldn't have any problem with this," says Nick. "It's quite simple, actually. And after you've learned the basics, you can move onto more difficult things."

"It's like a magic trick," she muses. "Like pulling a coin out of thin air, only it uses actual magic." Margo smiles and looks away from the penny for the first time. "Can you show me more?"

There is a slight drop in Nick's face when he replies. "I lost a lot of my power a while back. It takes a lot out of me to do even the little things now."

"Oh, right..." Margo feels ashamed for even asking. Janie shuffles her feet uncomfortably.

"Do you think you're ready to try?" asks Nick.

"I just don't know if I understand what you did," she admits. Though he showed her firsthand, he hadn't explained much.

"Well, it may look simple," which it didn't, "and it is once you've got it down, but it takes a lot of concentration in the beginning. Now hold your hand out like this."

He flattens Margo's palm like his was a moment ago.

"It'll work even though my power isn't in my palm?"

"Yes, it makes no difference where your mark is. The power runs through your nervous system, if you want to get technical. Basically, it pulls from your marks but can be sent anywhere in your body. Your hand is just a...comfortable place to create from."

"Nervous system? So, if I'm following you, it's connected to my brain?"

He smiles. "Everything your body does is signaled by your brain, my dear. But, yes, the power is controlled directly from your brain and runs through your entire nervous system where it then escapes your body through your pores. With that, you can do or create anything imaginable. And much more..."

Margo looks nervously at her markings knowing that if she pulls this off they would be lit up as his were.

"Now stand up, close your eyes," Nick says. Margo obeys reluctantly. He speaks in a slow, soothing voice to coax her through the training. "First, concentrate on every detail of the penny — every curve, line, shape, color, every word on that penny." He pauses to let her focus. "Have you got it?"

She nods doing as he said.

"Good. Here comes the tricky part. Begin to search within yourself for something...different. Feel out the different senses in your body until you find something new."

Even though it sounds bizarre, Margo attempts to do as she's told. Straining nearly everything inside of her, she searches for this mysterious 'sense.' She sorts through different actions connected to her brain — lungs with breath, skin with touch, tongue with taste — until she surprisingly does come upon something strange.

There is a definite churning motion inside her that she has never recognized before — a faint sensation much like the static when folding freshly dried laundry. It is coming from somewhere within her. She searches out the prime location of this charge and its function. It forms at the back of her neck.

Margo smiles.

"Ah," says Nick. "You've located it." He doesn't have to ask to know. "Now, focus on this new 'muscle' and work on stretching it toward your hand."

These instructions to Cameron and Janie must seem foreign, but they remain silent all the same. Margo wishes to see Cameron's face, but she doesn't dare peek.

She feels this energy out and works on growing it inside her, pulling it downward, downward... Stretching it down toward her awaiting palm and feeling it overcome all ordinary senses. It floods every inch of her arm like a warm, electric liquid until it reaches her fingertips.

A sudden surge of energy pumps down Margo's arm causing her to jolt backwards.

"Whoa..." She opens her eyes. Her head is spinning as she regains focus on the room around her. Her arm is filled with sharp prickles. "I definitely felt something..."

Margo looks down at her hand only to find it empty.

"You felt it?" asks Nick.

"Yeah, but I must've —"

"You lost your focus," he snaps. The harshness of his voice takes Margo aback.

"I didn't mean to, but when the —"

"Again," he barks.

"Nick Thomas!" Janie fusses. "Let her take her time if —"

"I said ' again !'"

She immediately shuts her eyes and holds her hand out, afraid to disobey. Margo focuses on the energy in her neck again guiding it down her arms much quicker this time, perhaps out of fear of making another mistake. The stream of liquid static runs to her fingers until, this time, it began to seep through the layers of her skin. It flows out of her body completely and disappears into the air. She could hear Cameron gasp.

She's certain it worked this time since she can no longer feel it in her arm. But when she looks down, she is disappointed.

"I felt it, I swear!"

But before she can explain further, Nick barks, "Again!"

"But I —"

" Again !"

Margo turns to Cameron who is sitting still with his face hard and arms crossed while Janie says, "Nick, you're being too hard on her. You can't expect her to be able to get it on her first try."

Nick opens his mouth, but Margo cuts him off. "I really am trying, Nick."

"Trying isn't good enough!"

"But you said it would be hard!"

"You are the one sent to us to do great things!" he shouts. "You should be able to do a simple coin creation."

"How do you expect me to learn from my mistakes if you don't tell me what I'm doing wrong?"

"YOU'RE NOT FOCUSING ON YOUR TARGET!" he belts. "The penny." His breathing is heavy as he paces the floor. His expression darkens.

"Nick..." Cameron warns.

Margo is on the verge of angry  tears now. Had they not been telling her it would be difficult to learn this? Is she really failing so?

Her embarrassment turns into anger as she shuts her eyes, tears nearly spilling over. She holds out her hand pulling everything from her mark into the center of her palm while focusing on the penny she is to create. This time Margo pictures the round piece of copper resting in her hand. The electricity intensifies until it disappears through the pores of her palm. As soon as the liquid feeling dissolve, Margo feels a small amount of weight drop into her hand.

She holds her breath as she opens her eyes but finds a round ball of raw copper resting in her hand.

"Dang it," she mutters, even more embarrassed now.

"Bravo, Margo!" Nick praises. His face is lit up now.

Margo looks up at him dumbfounded by his change in attitude. Cameron stands up and pats her on the back.

"He was just trying to stir up some anger," he tells her.

"What?" Margo gasps.

Nick and Janie laugh, and now she understands. Everyone played their part in the act.

"Don't take offense, now," says Nick, holding his hands up defensively. "The power is not always driven by will but by emotion."

"So you decided it'd be alright to stir up some emotion?" Margo asks, a little irritated.

The three of them stand there with sheepish expressions.

"It worked," Cameron points out.

The frustration returns, "No, it didn't." Margo drops the ball of copper on the small coffee table. It rolls around in wobbly, uneven circles. "I didn't make a penny."

"I must have really scared you..." muses Nick.

"I wouldn't say ' scared.... " Margo looks up at Nick as he scratches the back of his head in embarrassment and realizes that perhaps it wasn't an act. Not that she doesn't trust him, but maybe, before he lost most of his mark, maybe he was quite a scary guy.

"To be honest," he says. "I'm surprised you were able to pull anything out on just your third try. This usually takes a lot of practice, but you even felt your power on the first attempt..." He trails off shaking his head in excitement, muttering incoherently about a prodigy to himself.

"You've done exceptionally well," says Janie.

"I'm impressed," adds Cameron winking down at Margo.

Even though nothing truly physical has happened, Margo suddenly feels a wave of exhaustion. She slumps into the nearest chair.

"I think that's enough for one day," says Janie. She scurries into the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water for Margo.

"Yes," agrees Nick. "No need to push you any further today. Just remember that any strong emotion triggers your power. This is vitally important for a New Mark since you have no prior experience. It's a good way to practice until you get the gist of how this sensation within you works."

Margo nods, and repeats, "Strong emotions...trigger power... Got it."

"Right, then. Get some rest," says Nick. "Spend the afternoon with Cameron." Margo likes that idea, but is far too tired to even think about going anywhere — no matter how badly she wants to explore more of this strange world — so they stay at Nick's house. Most of the afternoon is spent in the spare bedroom that she slept in the night before. There is plenty for them to talk about and catch up on; though, Margo keeps certain things brief and leaves out the more painful memories since his last visit.

Mostly she wants to hear about how he found his way into this world. He tells her it happened on his morning run, like any ordinary day, when he saw a globe reflecting the sun's light. He was curious, of course, and next thing he remembers, he was lying in the icy woods.

Margo shudders as she can relate to it all. She finds she would rather not think about that again, especially imagining Cameron going through it, so she picks up one of Nick's many sketches scattered about the room to change the subject.

"That's the Northern City," he says matter-of-factly. The picture she holds is of odd, round-topped houses suspended in the forest's trees.

"This isn't the only city?" Margo asks, surprised.

He shakes his head. "This is the Central City, the main city. The Northern City's occupants live in this world more...optimistically."

"Meaning...?"

"They're looking up. They haven't given up on life outside of Jamyria as most of the Central City's people have. The people there are willing to fight for a way to freedom — New Mark or not."

Margo's heart sinks a little, realizing which city Cameron had chosen. "Have you given up on life, then?"

"Hardly. I had my reasons for choosing this city. Also, people from the North can be very confrontational, not really my style.... I am, however, more thankful to have taken up a home here now that you've arrived." He stares oddly at her.

"Tell me about this one." She holds up another picture to change the subject.

"Shadow People," he states. His eyes cut away from the drawing, and he acts busy shuffling through other drawings. The picture is nearly all black except the outlines of several people whose dark clothes and gloves cause them to mostly blend into the background.

"Who are they?" Margo asks ignoring his fidgety behavior.

He smiles darkly. "Not everyone here is good, Margo."

"I figured that much out already."

He sighs and takes the picture from her, folding it away. "Most people who enter Jamyria are left 'as is,' but some are changed into something else. Not the way you were changed; they're forced into it by their creator. Sometimes into something beautiful, sometimes something bad. Either way, they have no say in it."

"Not like I had any say in it..." she mumbles.

"The Shadow People," he says, ignoring her statement, "cannot be trusted. Some work for the Queen as spies; others do deeds without her request with hopes of being rewarded. Then there are a select few who are different and choose to keep their distance from the Queen. But the ones who do work for her can be deceitful, claiming to be good only to betray you later."

Margo considers this. "They're marked?"

"No. When someone's been transformed into one of the land's creatures, they're given a power that's relevant to their species. They're limited in what they can do with it, but no mark is required."

"What is it the Shadow People do?" Margo asks nervously.

"They travel through shadows." His face is serious, yet slightly disturbed. From the sound of his tone, Margo expected their power to be much more frightening than this. "Ah, here's another good one."

He holds out a simple drawing of three figures surrounding a woman. All four of the beings were drawn hastily; Margo hopes Nick hadn't left his sketch that way intentionally.

"The three nobles." Cameron gestures to the outer people, one on either side of the middle figure and a larger one behind. "Guardians of the Queen. They are the leaders of her Crew."

"Crew? Oh, right. The people that work for her..." Margo's eyes then widen. The vague sketch of the woman in the middle is the Queen? All of the lines of her face are loose and light as if awaiting detail, except for the pair of eyes looking back at Margo. They are perfect, realistic replicas, cold and venomous.

"But that was then," Cameron sets the drawing down. "Now there are only two nobles: the big man standing behind the Queen and the woman. No one knows where the third ended up. Rumor says he was asked to step down. Others think he was killed."

Something about the tremor in his voice presses Margo move on. She does not wish to hear of the Queen or the Crew she is up against, and she questions why Cameron thought that was a good sketch for her to see.

Flipping through more sketches, she happens upon a drawing that sends shivers down her back. A beautiful girl with long dark hair stands nearly bare in the middle of the woods, but something about her is off-putting, other than her untamed beauty. There is a wild edge to her face; she is feral and raw. Then Margo realizes that even though the picture is sketched in charcoal, it is obvious that the girl has two different colored eyes. One must have been a dark brown or possibly black while the other is light and almost colorless with a pupil no larger than a flea.

"Who is  that ?" she blurts.

Cameron winces when he sees which picture she has. "That's who they call the Beast." This time he doesn't wait for the questions to start. "She's different than the other half-breeds in the woods." Margo notices how he refers to them as half-breeds. "She  is marked . You can't see it because the drawing cuts it off, but it's there." He points down toward where her thigh would have been. " The strange thing is that the mark she bears isn't the Queen's.  No one knows exactly how she came to be, but s he's powerful. I t's almost as if she's more than a Mark, like she senses things others can't. There are only a few who have seen her in person and can live to tell about it."

"Her eyes..." Margo breathes.

"Yeah, we've all wondered about them. But it's not like we can just ask her; she doesn't talk."

Margo's fists tighten around the edges of the paper. Cameron takes it from Margo, crumbling up Nick's work and tossing it aside. He kneels before her. "You don't have to do this."

Margo forces a smile at him. "No,  you don't have to do this."

"I'm not going to let you go alone."

"What if something happens to you?"

"That's exactly why I'm going. Because I feel the same way about you. And I'd go crazy if I sat around here waiting to hear from you. There's a lot out there other than the beauty." He gestures toward the ball of paper on the floor surrounded by hundreds of other sketches awaiting a chance to be turned over.

She shakes her head and asks, "But what if something  does happen?"

He leans in closer; her heart flutters again. "Then, I'll be right there beside you."

Margo fights the urge to reach out, wrap her arms around him, and confess what she's kept locked away for the past year. She drops her eyes as these feelings hit her like a sledgehammer to the heart.

"I missed you so much," he whispers.

"I missed you, too. More than ever this year." The words were waiting on the tip of her tongue, but she cannot allow herself to go on.

"Really?" he asks, full of fascination. "Because I seem to remember our goodbye going a little differently."

Margo kicks herself for taking the conversation one step further into the awkward zone. "Yeah..." She pauses remembering that morning long ago. "But remember, it's been two summers now. And when you didn't show up last time, I thought you didn't want to see me anymore."

Cameron's arms suddenly envelop her again. "How could you think that, silly girl?"

She laughs into his chest.

"Are you going to stay with Nick again?" he asks.

"Oh..." she says, caught off guard by his question. "I'm...not sure."

He lets go to scratch the back of his head nervously. "Because I wanted to know...if you wanted to stay with me, if you want...? You can have the bed, of course."

Margo smiles. "That would be nice. But I don't mind the couch."

"You don't actually think I'm going to make you take my lumpy couch? Jamyria doesn't have your everyday microfiber, plush sofas, you know?"

"Fine. We'll flip for it."

He flashes a grin. "Only if you make the coin."

She rolls her eyes dramatically. "I'll probably just end up having to stay here, then."

"Try," he says supportively, pulling Margo's hand back into position.

She huffs, but still closes her eyes. Focusing on the penny now comes with ease since she is beginning to recognize the energy within her. She tries like before to remember every detail of the penny: the fact that it is a flat, round penny; the year embossed on its surface; Abraham's face that is more rounded and three-dimensional than etched into the coin. She tries to recall the lines of the president's profile: the curve of his nose, the way his beard wraps along his jawline...

She feels a cold weight in her hand. "Will this work?" Margo holds up her latest creation. This time it is a doughnut shaped piece of copper. "I must have over-thought Abe..."

"May I?" asks Cameron.

She shrugs and hands it to him. He stuffs it into his pocket and rises to his feet.

"Come on." He pulls Margo up. "Let's see what Nick and Janie are up to."

The afternoon breezes by. Dusk will soon be approaching, and Margo anxiously awaits the discussion of her mission which is sure to come when at last the time arrives.

"Well, it's time to discuss your duty in Jamyria," says Nick once everyone has gathered around his kitchen table.

"Okay." Margo leans in. "What am I supposed to do?"

Nick opens his mouth, but his words delay. "Well... We don't exactly know...."

Margo waits for him to continue. The silence lurks, and she notices Janie's head drop in shame. When Nick doesn't speak again, Margo's mouth falls open, too frustrated to speak. She suddenly feels as if she's been the part of a joke for the past two days and this is the bad  punch line.

"You. Don't. Know...?"

Cameron shoots to his feet, furious. "You're just planning to send us out looking blindly for nothing? Lead us to our death?"

"Calm down, Cameron," says Janie. "Just hear what —"

"This is the big  secret mission?" Margo shouts, jumping up as well.

"Sit down, both of you," says Nick.

Neither budge.

"Fine, then. I can stand, too. It's not that I'm sending you off to nowhere to try to find the impossible. It's that I don't know what exactly it is you're supposed to be looking for...yet."

"What are you saying, Nick?" asks Cameron through gritted teeth.

"I'm saying, you need further instruction," he replies. "Obviously, if we knew how to get out, none of us would still be stuck in this place, now would we?" He smirks. "But there is another who can help you find your way. I'm simply going to nudge you in the right direction."

"Who?" Margo asks.

"You must first go to the Northern City. There's a man there called Bron who can give you directions to find the Witch —"

"THE WITCH?" shouts Cameron.

"Wait..." Margo says. "The city in that picture we found?"

Cameron ignores her because he is too busy yelling in Nick's face. "The Witch is crazy! She's a sick, cannibalistic, voodoo freak! And I would never take Margo there even if there was no other way to get out of this place!"

"There  is no other way, Cameron," Nick calmly says.

" Someone seems very protective," mutters Janie to herself.

"I personally know the Witch, and she is not the things people say she is," Nick says. "And I assure you, Margo will be safe there."

Cameron holds his fists tight by his side.

"If we have to do it, then we have to do it, Cam. I'm not afraid," says Margo, only partially lying.

"You don't know what you're saying, Margo."

"I knew this wasn't going to be a walk in the park. You can either come with me, or I'll go alone. Either way, I'm not staying here." She points her nose in the air, sits down firmly, and crosses her arms. Margo hasn't done that since she was a child, but the effect is still the same.

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" he mumbles.

"I'm not afraid," she lies again.

"Is this the only way?" Cameron asks.

Nick nods ruefully. "She has the most knowledge of the darker parts of this world. This man from the North, he can show you where —"

"I know where the Witch is," Cameron says sharply. "I had a run in with her not long after I entered. I'm sure I can find her again."

"Very well. Find her, and Margo, you must show her your marks. She should be able to translate them — yes,  translate . They're codes, inscriptions to be more specific. If all goes well, the Witch will be able to tell you what some of them mean and hopefully will send you in the right direction from there."

"And if she can't translate them?" she asks.

He shrugs apologetically.

"No offense, Nick, but it sounds like we're setting out with hardly any goal."

"Well, how are we to know what to do?" interrupts Janie for the first time. "As Nick said, if we knew, we wouldn't have been waiting for you. For whatever reason, you Marked Ones are appointed for this, Margo, so there's something about  you that can help find the way."

"She's right," says Nick. "You're the missing key we've been waiting for. You've been chosen to do this. It's your destiny."

Margo's eyes widen. A spasm of electricity flutters inside of her at the sound of that word.

"Can't you come with us?" she croaks. "I mean, what if this supposed prophecy was meant for more than one Mark?"

"No, Margo." Nick shakes his head. "The Queen will soon know that you are here and send her Guard to search the city. They'll be looking for me since they know I'm a Marked One, myself, and could help you find your way. Besides, I'm an old man now. I'll only slow you down."

There's no way around this. She will have to do this his way even if she has no idea what his way entails — other than the fact that they are heading out with a target on their heads to meet a crazy woman who ironically is called a witch.

"Alright," says Margo tartly. "I guess I'm ready, then. When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow."

"Fine." She rises to her feet with Cameron following her lead. Grabbing her bag on the way, she turns the knob of Nick's front door. "Thanks for..." But she cannot finish the sentence; she wishes to end with the word 'nothing' if only that were true. As frustrated as she is with Nick, the truth is he had still taken her in when she had nowhere to turn and reunited her with her friend.

"Staying with Cameron?" asks Janie with a giggle.

"See you tomorrow," is the only answer she receives. The door closes with a rusty, forced click.

Janie turns to Nick, smile replaced with a scowl.

Nick holds up his hands in defense. "What else could I do? What else could I say?"

She sighs, letting off a bit of steam. Though her face is still annoyed, she responds, "I trust you, Nick Thomas. Though I may not know what they are, I'm sure your reasons for doing this are genuine."

She grabs her shawl and yanks it across her shoulders. Once her purse is over her arm, she, too, pulls the door knob.

The door is forced shut. Nick has placed all of his weight against it, staring at Janie with glistening eyes. "She's so young..." His voice catches, as he repeats the very words Janie has said throughout the past two days.

A soft smile returns to her lips. The man staring back at her is once again the boy she's known over the decades. The salt and pepper hair seems to vanish, along with the wrinkles and thick-rimmed spectacles, and she sees the Nick she's spent the majority of her Jamyrian life with.

"She's different, though," Janie reminds him. "Almost as if she bears too many marks for just one person. And that boy... The fact they found each other is unique in itself. What a destiny this one has. It will be a joy to observe her growth."

"That it will, Miss Saunders." Nick cracks his youthful smile, eyes crinkling up in the corners. "Care for an escort home this evening?"

Her blush does not go unnoticed as she nods. They step out into the crisp air, arm in arm, and await the arrival of the stars overhead.

* * *

Chapter Nine: Past's Farewell

The twilit sky is painted in purple and gold as they ride on the back of Margo's gift to Cameron's house. It is still too early for the stars to appear yet dark enough for the need of a lantern to guide their course, albeit the darkness could merely be a result of the eerie shadows cast upon them from the high cliffs. The shika's silky hair reflects the purple of the sky, shimmering down her back like brushstrokes, and with every step she takes there is the soft sound of her hooves sinking into the silky sand.

It doesn't take long to reach Cameron's home which sits on the other side of the town. There are even fewer buildings here and more open land for farming. Since his arrival at the Central City, he has  raised shika along with other small native animals, so the location is fitting.

The squat house is assembled, like many of the others, out of gray-colored logs. A narrow door is fitted between a pair of black shuttered windows, which he closes on the way in. He grabs an armful of firewood before holding the door open for Margo, an unnecessary, chivalrous gesture that she finds charming. She ducks through the tiny entryway.

"Home sweet home," he says as he drops the wood at the hearth.

Once a few lanterns are alight, the  cozy gray wooden walls and stone floors the color of sand warm the space. Though very different from how she traditionally spent time with him outside of this world, she can still spot pieces of his personality: the shoes he tosses in the corner of the room, shirts hung upon hooks, a handmade drum serving as a coffee table, dried fruits and peppers strung in the kitchen corner. She can already see herself staying here. Or maybe it is simply his presence that she takes comfort in.

"It's not much, but it actually took a lot of work." He laughs in a nervous manner. "So make yourself at home."

"In that case, I'll take a soda," Margo teases.

He smirks and leaves her to go to the kitchen. For a moment, she thinks that by some miracle he really does have a soda — just like the surprise of running water at Nick's. He pulls open a small, squeaky closet door full of an assortment of strange plants tied to its back wall and removes a golden brown fruit. It is long and bulbous resembling a plantain or squash with dry, hard skin. He lays it flat on the counter and smashes off the end of the stem. An intoxicatingly sweet fragrance fills the room as a milky yellow liquid flows from it. He holds the fruit upright just  like a bottle of soda to stop from wasting anymore. He twists the remaining bits of the flaky stem off, hands it to Margo, and says, "Cheers."

"That smell! It's like brown sugar.... What is it?"

"Cocoban juice."

Margo cannot help but giggle at that name.

"Just try it." He rolls his eyes and gently guides it to her lips. Margo concentrates on taking a long gulp, trying not to get distracted by his anxious eyes boring into hers.

The taste is nothing Margo would have imagined it to be. For a fruit so crusty on the outside, it is amazing that such a sweet liquid can come from it — like oranges, sweet  cream , and ginger mixed together.

"Wow," she whispers.

"Sweet, huh?" Something about him seems different as he stares down at her. Softer, maybe. Margo is barely aware of her brows relaxing as she studies his face. Maybe she is growing softer, too.

"We'll have to pack some for the trip."

"I'm on it," he says grinning. He turns eagerly to grab a few more of the fruits stuffing them into a sack. Their shells rattle in the bag like coconuts — perhaps that's where the name came from.

Margo's pinky traces a dent in the side of the fruit in hand, looking down at it. "You seem so much...older. You're not the boy I knew." Why is she frowning?

He turns back looking troubled.

"I mean," she amends, "you're still  you , but you're...different."

He stares at the cloth sack in his hand for a moment before he answers. "I guess I was forced to grow up when I came here. They told me I could go into a foster home for a couple years or start up my own place. So I chose to do things on my own, become a man..."

She remains silent, understanding what it's like to be forced to grow up.

"The Queen favors children... Because they're easier to lure. Did you know most enterers are under ten?"

Margo shakes her head.

"Well, knowing that I was naïve enough to fall for her trap... It's just..." He lowers his head with a thoughtful expression. His grip on the bag tightens, and Margo is afraid to ask what's happened to him over the past year. Then, suddenly his mood lightens. "I'm glad you're here, though. Because that means we'll be out of here soon," he says almost jokingly.

"How strange is this?" She wanders into the living area and takes a seat. The sofa is is more of a linen covered cushion stuffed with soft  straw that she sinks into . Cameron quietly follows. "That we'd both end up in this bizarre world..."

"It's got to be some sort of record. I don't know any others here who've known anyone from the outside. Unless they entered together, which can happen. Rare, but still possible. 'Strange' doesn't even begin to describe it. I'd probably call it kismet or destiny."

Margo's face drops again at the sound of that word. "I wouldn't say that..."

He looks down at her sour face. "It's an honor, Margo. Not everyone is blessed with a destiny, but you truly are. Did you know that I've been in contact with Nick for months awaiting the next Mark so that I could be his guide? And when I finally meet the New Mark, it's you. How can that  not be destiny?"

Margo turns her head away and shrugs. Her hand encircles the wishbone charm around her neck.

Cameron must have caught the hint. He, of course, has no idea where her foul mood came from, and there isn't a chance she'll tell him. So instead of asking, he silently makes the fire. The woodsy aroma soon fills the room as the flames lick the logs, the crackling and popping of sap the only sound in the small  space . Cameron plops down on the opposite end of the sofa. Margo keeps her gaze straight ahead, staring into the fire until all she can see is a blurring streak of orange light. She squeezes them tightly shut to make the blur go away.

"So, are you ready to talk about it?" Cameron asks in a soft voice. Margo cringes  know ing this moment would eventually come. "Why did you turn me down?"

She turns to face him, pulling her knees into her chest. She wonders how that day she last saw him could feel like a million years ago and yesterday at the same time. How long had it actually been? Fourteen months? She would never forget his face that day. That sickened expression. At the time, Margo thought it best to not even acknowledge his request, so she simply redirected the conversation before he could ask her out. But the moment she did that, it was clear...she had broken his heart.

But why? Why had she made that decision to walk away? Did those ten and a half months they were to spend apart truly seem that long? Kylie was right... Something did happen between then and now. So how is she supposed to fix it?

"And don't tell me that you didn't love me because you said it yourself."

"I said I might love you," she snaps. " Might. "

"'Might possibly,'" he corrects, holding up a finger. "So...why?"

"Because..." Margo intertwines her fingers over her chest with the wishbone charm still in their grip. "You were leaving," she finally says. "It seemed...if you were gone... It would hurt more to be apart. I thought, deep down, that we could simply wait for the next summer. And then the summer after that, I would graduate, and...I don't know... Maybe by then, I could move up to Nashville, and we could really try to make it work. Not just pretend to be a couple for those six weeks out of the year."

Cameron is staring at the  space on the sofa that separates them. He seems to have  zoned out as if not truly grasping the things she is telling him.

"But then..." Margo's voice cracks. "You weren't there last summer, and that made me sad... I thought that maybe what I said..." Or that everything else that had happened...

"I already told you that wasn't the case." She looks up to see him staring at her, and she cannot help but notice how beautiful he looks with the firelight bouncing off the hard angles of his face. Thankfully, the light is dim enough to hide the blush she can feel rising in her cheeks. She wonders when he closed the gap between them. He is suddenly so close to her. He takes her hands in his, pulling her arms to him, but as his lips near hers, Margo's body tenses for some reason.

Cameron freezes, lips hovering millimeters away. "So, I'm guessing," his voice is gravelly as he slowly backs away dropping her hands, "that you have conjured up a new excuse."

She turns to stare at fire once again. How she wishes to lay face down in the flames. "We're in a different world... I don't exactly know what to make of everything going on."

"That's somewhat fair." He sighs and rises to his feet but leans down toward Margo so that he can look straight into her eyes. He places his hands on her knees to support his weight. The sudden closeness alarms her once again. "But remember that there is always a chance that tomorrow may not come." She closes her eyes as his lips brush against her hair. "Good night, Margo Grisby. Sorry again for the uncomfortableness of my couch."

He makes his way toward one of the two doors inside the house. "Good night, Cam," she says quietly.

He turns to give Margo a half-smile before shutting the door behind him and leaving her alone in the living area with a huge pile of guilt.

Sleep proves to be a difficult task. Margo tosses around on his couch, which is just as uncomfortable as he had described, hoping that she would eventually drift off. Somehow she ends up staring into the fire again, watching the flames sway like seaweed in a current. In time, the flames shrink until they turn to embers leaving next to no light in the small room. And as the dark room grows even darker, she feels even more alone. Alone with nothing but her thoughts, all of which are all on the boy sleeping on the other side of the wall. She isn't even certain why she reacted the way she did when he tried kissing her. After all, she has thought of Cameron every day since their last moment together. But the changes happening around her are too great and much too fast. It hardly seems the time for new love.

But this isn't  new love. It's familiar, warm, kind....

After another immeasurable amount of tossing, she decides that it can't hurt to check on him. The stone floor is cool beneath Margo's feet as she tiptoes over to his door. Poking her head into the room, she whispers, "Cameron." She hesitates. "Cam?"

All is silent.

She slips into his room and feels her way over to his bed. Moonlight softly filters through the tiny cracks between his shutters, twinkling like fairy dust. There must be a tree outside the window whose leaves filter in dancing shadows. Margo can barely make out the shape of his quietly sleeping body. But his expression looks exhausted and restless.

Margo must not be thinking straight — it is late, and she is very tired — when she pulls back the covers and slides into the bed. His body is  warm . S he automatically relaxes once she is with him , and h er eyelids grow heavy.

An arm gently wraps around her neck, pulling Margo even closer to him, and together they drift off into a soundless sleep.

*

"You've been sulking for the past month," complains Kylie. She turns back in her seat to face Margo. "You made your choice, didn't you? So don't you think it's time to let it go?"

The long country roads wrap through the black scenery, the moon shining overhead. The car makes its lulling descent down a small hill.

"What are you two bickering about?" asks their mom. It's rare for her to pry, but for some reason she seems interested tonight, fitting in an intrusive question here and there.

"Oh, nothing, Mom. Just something between us." Kylie winks back at her sister.

Margo turns away from the burning eyes: her mom's in the rearview mirror and Kylie's greens on full force. Instead, she stares into the passing dark trees on this clear night. The indigo sky breaks through the small gaps between the dark pines' silhouettes. The stars are more prominent now that they are outside of the city glow. She searches out the Little Dipper — anything to distract.

"Don't be so down all the time." Kylie is still turned around in her seat and apparently isn't as finished with the conversation as Margo had hoped.

"You really don't have it as bad as you think you do," Kylie continues. "Of course, the smart thing would've been to listen to me and tell him how you really felt."

Eyes widening in embarrassment, Margo cannot form a clear sentence.

"What's that, Margo?" her mom asks curiously. "This about a boy?"

"Gah! Kylie, learn to keep your mouth shut!" shouts Margo.

Kylie snorts. "I don't understand you!"

"Kylie, don't start —"

"Start  what ? Trying to help my sister?" She, too, is suddenly shouting. "You've sat around for months feeling sorry for yourself, like things are so bad for you —"

"You don't know what it's like!" Margo yells back. "Being compared to you in everything!"

"What are you talking about? How am I being dragged into this?"

Their mom doesn't speak another word in the driver's seat. Probably in hopes of letting them work this out....

"You're — well,  gorgeous !"

"And? You're smart, funny, artistic — oh! And beautiful, too. You'd see that if you stopped to look at yourself! Take value in yourself!"

" Oh ho ! This coming from the girl who has every guy in school!" Margo ignores Kylie's flush in embarrassment. "Yeah, and I can't even have one. NOT ONE! Because the only guy I like, the only guy who cares about me, I won't see for another... another ten months! How is that fair? What value is in that?"

Margo can feel her chest rising with her rough breaths. She takes deep breaths and suddenly feels embarrassed for shouting.

Kylie huffs a long, drawn out "Uhhhhh!" and leans back against the door of the car so that she still faces Margo. "You know," she says after a deep breath, "you're a special person, Margo. There's something about you that's different. A destiny, I guess you could call it. You just don't see it yet. Instead you think I'm the special one, when really it's you." Kylie's voice is calm and steady now, pronouncing each word precisely. "You're capable of much more than you give yourself credit for." All of her anger vanishes in that instant, and a sweet smile spreads across her face. The power behind her words resonates through the space; even their mother turns to stare at her just as a red light casts over her skin. "Just know that —"

A head of blonde hair whips toward Margo as Kylie's body snaps forward with a shattering sound. In an instant, Kylie turns into a black silhouette as the headlights behind her head flood the car. Shards of glass and sprays of blood glow vividly as the light catches them. Screams blend with car horns creating a clashing note.

Margo feels it next.

The metal of her door screeches and warps inward thrusting her shoulder out of socket. A bone splinters; the pain is so great that she cannot be sure which bone it is.  Pop! A blunt hit to her head shoots light across her vision. Her head bounces away, slapping her face hard against the leather of the seat. Hot liquid spills down the side of her cheek. The world spins. It is off-balance and disorienting like a wobbly top. She tries looking up from this tilted angle, but her sight is cut off.

Heat fills the space. There are no more screams. Only the sound of the horn being held down. Mom is crumpled over the steering wheel. She doesn't have a clear view of her sister. The windshield is dripping in streaks of red. She wants to yell for help but her body doesn't respond.

Margo's eyes slowly roll. Her vision blurs into darkness, and her world, as she knows it, disappears.

* * *

Chapter Ten: The Unwelcome Duo

Something tickles across Margo's chest like a stray hair snaking along her skin. A chill shoots through her body.

"Sorry," she hears through the muffling of her pillow. From behind a disarray of hair, she makes out Cameron's shape. He lies next to her with Kylie's charm squeezed between his thumb and index finger. She snatches the necklace away without thinking, sitting bolt upright.

"What are you doing?" she snaps, shoving the necklace back under the collar of her shirt.

"Thought I recognized it. It's from Kylie's bracelet, right?" he asks cautiously sitting up also. The lines of his brow furrow. "I shouldn't have messed with it.... You just looked like you were having a rough night, so I figured I'd let you sleep as long as possible..." He frowns.

Margo is suddenly more conscious of the fact that she has frazzled hair and morning breath. Her eyes dart about the surface of the bed realizing that she is still under the covers while he is sprawled out on top.

"Don't you find this a bit intrusive?" she asks. "Watching me sleep and all...."

"Says the girl who crawled into bed with me."

She smiles and turns away.

"Haven't seen that smile on you since that  day at the carnival." Cameron closes his eyes at the memory, rolling back onto his elbows. "It was our first date."

Margo shoots him a nasty look. "I think you're remembering things the way you want to."

"I remember you said you loved me."

" Might ," she grumbles.

He cracks a smile. "Say what you want, I'm not the one in denial here."

Margo drops her gaze, considering his words though she cannot think of anything to say in return.

"Your eyes," he breathes. Her head snaps up at the change of his tone only to see him staring oddly at her as he had last night. "Yes, just like that... Don't hide them."

She can feel the heat flooding her cheeks but cannot look away from him. It isn't that she finds pleasure in giving him what he wants, but the absurdity in his statement... "You don't have to do that, you know...? I'm not desperate enough to crave that mushy stuff you read about in fairytales." She squeezes her eyes tight to shake away her embarrassment before widening them again. Her jaw is set, tone firm. "They're hazel. Ugly brown."

"No, not 'ugly brown.'" Cameron brushes her bangs away from her forehead and matter-of-factly replies. "Your eyes are  golden brown. But they also have flecks of darker browns in them — and sometimes green, too. Every time I see something new, like they change with your mood. For example," he lightly touches her temple and then traces a half-moon under her eyes. "Why are you sad?"

Her expression freezes. All the blood drains from her face; her fingertips tingle. Never has anyone so easily picked her apart like that. She is frightened, scared he will rip away her shell and expose every nasty truth buried within. How much of the truth has he already pieced together?

"Don't go," he suddenly begs her. "No one is going to be upset with you if you don't go. Or at least wait a few years..."

She exhales loudly, thankful for the excuse to avoid everything going on in her life outside of this world. With a half-smile, Margo glances back at him as he watches her with concerned eyes. Unlike him, she is too embarrassed to voice her fascination in his eyes. They stare back at her like the clearest of oceans outlined in ink.

She cannot speak, frightened another truth may poison her lips. There is one thing she is willing to admit, though, and without knowing what possesses her to act on it she suddenly finds herself pressed into his chest. He hesitates before slowing pulling closer. A hand slips behind her neck and cradles her head gently. He half lowers himself, half lifts her face toward his. Her heart pounds beneath her chest when his breath warms her skin. She shuts her eyes and parts her lips as they linger inches from his.

A sudden pounding echoes like thunder throughout his house.

For a second, the two can only stare at the door leading to his living room, unable to move from the bed or comprehend the interruption. Before they can recover, the brash banging starts again, staccato on a snare.

"Nick wouldn't..." Margo  begins to ask.

"No, Nick never knocks. He lets himself in," Cameron whispers back. He quickly grabs Margo by the hand, tugging her into the living room.

"Resident of the Central City," shouts a gruff voice on the other side of the front door. "By order of the Queen of Jamyria, we have come to search your premises."

Cameron freezes for a second time. Margo's grip on his arm tightens. Her legs are numb and unresponsive as if cemented to the floor. The Queen has found her after just two nights.

It only takes a half second for Cameron to expel his daze. He shuffles about the space silently, unsure of what to do at first. He grabs Margo's bag in his sweep through the room, tossing it behind a basket of orange fruits.

"Just a sec!" he calls.

Standing motionless in the center of his room, Margo watches Cameron swipe up the extra blankets from the sofa and wad them out of sight. He circles the room again searching for any last shred of evidence of a houseguest, nervously running a fist through his hair.

"Don't have a second, resident. Open up."

He grabs Margo too roughly by the elbow, leading her toward the kitchen. "Come on. I'm just getting up," he shouts over his shoulder. He does not look at her as he shoves her into the tiny kitchen pantry. The door slams shut. "Do you really have to make your rounds when the sun's hardly even up?"

With no more than a few inches to spare, Margo twists around until she faces the pantry door. A beam of light filters through a crack in the ancient wooden door, allowing her to peek through just as Cameron pulls open the front door and says, "What are you —  hey !"

Margo stifles a scream as the two men shove past, one of them pushing Cameron aside by his  head . H e flies toward the hearth of the fireplace barely dodging an impact with the corner of the mantle.

The first one to step inside is shrouded by the hood of his black cloak; the only visible part of his face is the taut, unamused line of his mouth. He carries a club the length of his arm which he uses to immediately begin turning about items on the shelves, sending them clattering to the ground. The other stands a head taller than the first — a good two heads taller than Cameron — and is made of nothing but muscle. Though he wears a thick reddish-brown beard he has no hair atop his head. He, too, is clothed in heavy dark fabrics from throat to wrist, a belt with various knives secured to his waist. With his beefy arms crossed, he glowers down at Cameron and slowly approaches him.

"How about asking before you invite yourself in?" Cameron spits as if he believes he is on equal grounds with them. The man towers over Cameron's height, so where did he summon the courage to talk like this?

"Name?" the taller of the two speaks over the ruckus the other is causing.

Cameron sighs, mimicking the other by crossing his arms and leaning against his table. "Cameron  Hewitt ."

"Length of residence?"

"Entered nearly a year ago."

"Any marked acquaintances?"

Margo freezes.

"Yeah," he says coolly. Margo's stomach pinches. "The old man, Nick Thomas. He's a friend of mine."

The man's eyes narrow. "And how do you know this man?"

"Ah, seriously?" Cameron exhales with a grunt, arm pulled up to scratch the back of his head. "He's the First Man. Everybody knows him around here." His eyes dart to the pantry suddenly.

A dark shadow casts in front of the crack in the door. Margo instinctively pulls away from the man searching the area outside, her back connecting with the hanging cocoban. As each fruit meets the muscles of her back, the feeling of needles shoots through her skin. She braces herself for the coming clinking of their hardened skins, visualizing them crashing down simultaneously. But the fabric of her shirt muffles any sounds, and her tense back pins them to the wall.

"Doesn't make you any less of a threat." The taller one retaliates. He crosses over to the back window and swings open a shutter. The sparse lands are as peaceful as ever and filled with grazing animals. "Quite a business you got going on here. Impressive for someone who's only been here a mere year," he says hardly hiding the skepticism in his voice.

"Less than a year. And like I said, the old man's a friend of mine."

"And he just... gave you all of this land? Without asking anything in return?" he challenges.

Cameron raises an eyebrow. "He's taken a shika or two." They are practically nose to nose now, though Margo cannot determine what part of the conversation set the other off.

"Let's go," calls the other after what feels like an eternity of hearing that club poke around the kitchen. He stomps out the front door. The taller one lingers, his gaze locked on Cameron, before eventually he follows suit.

Margo exhales in relief and pulls away from the wall. The clatter of a dozen falling rocks stops the man in his tracks. The cocobans bounce around her feet like dropped soup cans echoing in the small space. Sticky liquid oozes beneath her toes, the sickly sweet smell overwhelming her nostrils. She curses, dumbfounded at her own stupidity. How could she act so carelessly after Cameron endured that interrogation? The clanging sound rings in her ears long after all is silent.

She sees him through the crack in the door. The Crewman slowly turns to look over his shoulder at the pantry door.

"Oy?!" he calls outside to the other. "You didn't check behind the door? Idiot...." He pushes Cameron out the front door. "Keep an eye on this one for me."

The last thing Margo sees is him walking carefree in her direction; he's clearly enjoying the show he is putting on. She drops to her knees, nearly slipping in the cocoban juice. Her hands reach out, colliding into the wall in front of her, to the side, directly behind...frantically searching for anything that will be of use. Anything to hide her marks. More objects fall from shelves. Surely Cameron keeps more than food and dust on them! A bin of vegetables. A sack of grain. Her hand comes upon a thick square of a textured material.

The knob turns.

She unfurls the fabric just as the pantry fills with light. Her legs are slick and coated in cocoban juice. She trembles beneath the cloth which covers her from neck to thigh. Marks well hidden.

The man smirks. "Got a scared one here." He belts out in laughter. The sound is not natural coming from him. "No wonder you took your time answering the door." His cruel smile reaches Cameron, who for a split second looks like he is ready take this guy out.

"Scared one?" calls the other.

"Female." His hand wraps around Margo's elbow through the roughness of the fabric. She does not protest as he leads her to the front yard and tosses her to the ground.

Cameron begins to shout but thinks better of it.

"Humph! You got lucky, boy," says the other. "If you were hiding a male, I'd say you looked pretty suspicious. I wouldn't have left you enough time to make any sorry excuses." He points the club at Cameron's nose. "You'd be a corpse on the ground." Each word is so harsh that Margo whimpers, which sends the red-bearded one into more spasms of laughter.

But to Margo's surprise, Cameron laughs with him. "Wouldn't want to make your Queen mad, though, would you?" His voice turns mocking. "Can she really spare the lost bodies?"

"Watch what you say about your Queen, kid!" the hooded one says leaning in and pulling something metallic from his jacket that glints in the sun when they are suddenly startled by a second pair of visitors.

"Well, good morning, gentlemen!"

"Yes, good morning!" The woman chimes, just as chipper as ever.

Margo cranes her neck until she makes out the two familiar figures strolling casually up to Cameron's house. The Crewman hovering over Cameron cautiously shoves the item back in his coat, making an agitated sound in the back of his throat. There is only silence as the two guests step lithely onto Cameron's lot. The two Crewmen broaden their shoulders while Cameron seizes the opportunity to back up toward the house, toward Margo.

Nick Thomas clings to his hat as a gust of wind nearly steals it in its flight, while Janie squeezes a paper-wrapped package in her arms. "My, my..." Nick speaks to only Janie, ignoring the four pairs of eyes on them. "Seems to be a party going on at the boy's house."

"Yes," she returns. "Unexpected guests from the Queen, herself!" The flattery falls short. "Why, I'd almost say that — oh my! Good heavens, Margo, put some clothes on!" Janie's eyebrows tighten into a thin line as she fusses. She turns to the Crewmen. "How  dare you interrupt her this early! Give a woman some time to put on her face." She scrunches her nose up at them.

The taller one stumbles over his words while the one with the club in hand keeps his cool. "Silence, resident! State your name, time of entrance, and list of marked acquaintances."

"Oh? Taking inventory on the women now, as well? You  are aware that the New Mark is always male?" When the Crewmen don't answer, she tosses up her hands in frustration and replies, "Janie Saunders, entered too many years ago to count, and as for marked acquaintances... Ahem!" She points with her eyes to the man whose hand is lightly touching the small of her back.

The Crewman isn't amused. "For a woman who can't remember the length of time she's spent in this world, I find it hard to believe this half-mark is the only one you know."

The other stifles a laugh.

Janie shuts her eyes, nearly shaking as the blood beneath her cheeks boils. "Do not call him that. He may not be one of the Queen's pets, like yourself, but you should still respect him as an original Mark. Have you any idea what this man has —"

"Janie, dear." Nick catches hold of her shoulder just as she bends her knees to lunge at the man. "You're wrinkling poor Margo's birthday present." The sound of her name causes Margo to whimper again, cowering away from the scene. The quiet plea reaches Cameron, and he instinctively takes a couple steps toward her.

A fist suddenly grabs a handful of his shirt, the other aims for his jaw. Margo sees it coming before it can happen — the coming pain, the blood spilling down his chin — but the reaction this man elicits catches her blindly. A lurching feeling bubbles within her, the nausea and tingling swirling her head, warping reality. Her focus blurs and brightens, the world around her blending into a mass of white like a photograph fading away after being left in sunlight for too long.

The fist is flying toward his face, but all Margo can do is work through whatever sort of episode she is having.

A hand reaches to her head, wrapping fingers through her hair and pulling till taut. She gags, fighting back bile. The fingers pull tighter as the tingling sensation overpowers her. It is coming, she can sense something unknown at its peak. An explosion. The brightness is coming to a close. The last bit of turquoise sky fades. One final peek at the dusty streets and everything is white.

Boorish laughter erupts. "Half-mark!" the man barks, followed by more laughing.

The white overlay disappears quickly, and Margo finds herself entangled in bounds of fabric still kneeling in front of Cameron's house.

The man tosses an unharmed Cameron aside and marches over to where Nick stands with his marked hand outstretched in front of him as if he is planning to attack. "You're an embarrassment to all Marks," he spits in Nick's face. "Why can't you just die already? Let's go." He signals for the other, who begrudgingly kicks over the pile of firewood kept out front.

Once they are well down the road and out of sight, Cameron grabs Margo's wrist and carefully untangles her fingers from her hair. "Margo," he whispers. "I need you to carefully stand up and get inside. Quickly."

She doesn't understand the urgency in his tone, or how her own hands were the one grasping her hair. At least her sudden panic attack has passed. He pulls her to her feet and cautiously guides her over to the  sofa . Nick and Janie enter the room silently, shutting the door behind them.

"My dear, are you alright?" Nick puts a hand to Margo's cheek.

"Great. Guess I'm not adjusting to Jamyrian stew as well as I'd thought." She smiles weakly, placing a hand over her stomach. "And sorry to admit, this Mark may be more of a coward than expected."

The three of them stare down at her in silence, Janie with trembling fingers placed upon her lips.

"But don't worry," Margo continues. "I'm not going to chicken out or anything. I will find a way to get us out of here."

"That was too close," Cameron whispers.

"Can you imagine what they would have done? I've only heard the rumors of the previous Mark's death, and it was not pretty." Janie shakes.

"What are you talking about?" Margo demands.

Cameron crosses the room and sits next to her. He takes her hands in his. "You nearly lost control of your power."

She blinks back in confusion.

"Luckily those two dimwits didn't notice, thanks to Nick's diversion," explains Cameron. Nick winks in the background. "Your marks were glowing under that tablecloth and everything."

"Strong emotions can trigger your power, my dear," Nick repeats his lesson.

"But that can't be right. I just felt a little lightheaded." Margo pulls the cloth tighter around her shoulders, its fibers scratching her skin. "And a little...scared."

"Scared enough to lose it, it would seem." Nick sets a vase back in its upright position on a shelf, as if tidying the one item could right all of the others. "Perhaps she isn't quite ready...." he muses.

Margo starts to protest, but Janie's trilling voice cuts her off. " Now you want her to stay in the Central City, Nick Thomas? Now that the Queen's Crew have arrived? They'll be back to sweep the town again and you know it."

"And so the tables have turned," he mumbles, flitting the spine of a book he'd just replaced. "Continue with the plan. But we'll wait a couple of hours so not to draw suspicion. And, Margo, are you certain you're alright?"

"Tired." She leans back against the sofa. No one protests or speaks another word. It is too much to wrap her head around having seen firsthand the cruel men the Queen employs, and the doubt is beginning to  lurk within her again. She hoped she'd simply be able to outwit her somehow, but if strength and nerves are to be involved, well then she is pretty much already dead.

Nearly an hour later Margo wakes. The aftereffects of her mark linger like sore muscles after a run. She could have made a thousand pennies with the energy she'd spared.

It takes no less than three minutes for Janie's mindless chatter to commence. She worries of the new dangers in the Central City, and how everyone in town will be on high alert for the next few days and how she hopes the Crew will pass through quickly when their search comes to an end. How Margo will be long gone by then.

Nick eventually clears his throat to interrupt her babbling. Janie's worrisome smile — Margo has yet to understand how she can wear a fitting smile for every emotion — turns into one of excitement. "This is for you," says Nick. He hands Margo the paper package that Janie had been carrying on her way there.

"Nick, you didn't have to —"

"It's more a practicality than a present." His grin crinkles the corners of his eyes. "I  do hope you like it, though."

Margo's cheeks warm as she accepts, carefully untying the twine that holds it together. She is partially embarrassed by his generosity. They hardly know each other, and she hadn't thought to provide a parting gift.

The brown paper wrappings unfurl in layers that fall to the floor. Neatly folded within is an article of clothing crafted from caramel leather. She holds the beautiful jacket lined in gray fur out in front of her so it may fall open. An intricate pattern of stitching down its front creates a textured leaf pattern; its buttons are of carved bone. It is collarless much like a modern-day motorcycle jacket while elegantly capturing vintage charm. She wonders how someone who's been out of touch with reality for over a century could have hit her style spot on.

"Nick!" she says.

"It's for when there's a new enterer. The snow can be a shock, and you don't look very well dressed...."

"It's perfect!" Margo breathes, holding it up to measure it against her torso. "It's just my style."

Janie winks a chocolate brown eye at Margo from behind her red glasses. It seems her fashion sense has something to do with this. "Try it on," she encourages.

It stops just above Margo's hip, fitting her curves well. About an inch of fur sticks out from the sleeves and edges. "It's perfect," she repeats. "Thank you again, Nick."

"Well..." He blushes. "Now, it was nothing. I'm just glad you like it."

"I love it," Margo smiles taking it off and folding it into her bag for a colder day.

"It's also a good cover-up for those marks. And speaking of that, make sure you keep your hair down when you're in public, your arms close to your chest."

"I'll stay hidden." Panic rushes through her as she suddenly realizes this is it. She rises to her feet. The others follow her cue. Now is as good a time as ever.

"You look worried, hon," says Janie.

"Not worried. Just ready." She lets out a refreshing breath, expelling every negative thought and memory from the morning. Ignoring the fact that those men were probably just the first of many encounters.

"I packed some more food while you were sleeping," says Cameron holding up a bag and the sack he had put the cocoban in before.

"I should probably drop some weight, I guess." Margo pulls out her own bag and plops the textbooks she'd been lugging around for the past two days on Cameron's table. "Well, I guess this is it, then," she announces, giving a tight nod.

"If you ever need anything," Nick says. "Come back, and we'll be waiting for you." He reaches out and pulls Margo into an awkward sideways hug. He turns to Cameron placing his hand on his shoulder. "I trust you to take care of her. I know you will."

"Don't worry," Cameron says with a smirk. "I won't let anything happen."

Janie is already bawling, handkerchief masking half her splotchy face. "I'm on emotional overload. Come here," she cries, squeezing them both in her arms. "I miss you two already."

Cameron locks up his home with a grim face. "You will keep after the animals, right?"

"Of course," Nick says solemnly.

Margo's first gift from Nick waits out back. The tall animal bows its head to greet Cameron, who holds some type of dried large-petaled flower as a treat for the shika.

Even with her head drawn all the way back, Margo cannot see the top of the animal's back, but mounting the thing no longer worries her. Cameron showed her how simple it was last night. As soon as she reaches it, the shika lifts it hoofed foot up in the air about as high as Margo's knee, which she steps on while grabbing a fistful of hair on the animal's back. Her balance isn't very steady but there is no time to focus on that. The shika swings its foot upwards sending shaky Margo up with it like an elevator. She kicks a leg over before it can drop its foot back down. She hasn't even settled into the saddle when Cameron mounts and sits down in front of her.

"Show off," she mutters.

Nick and Janie stand back. "Be discreet until you're above," Nick warns. "Don't want our friends to stop back by."

Margo shudders, clinging tighter to Cameron's back.

"Next time you see us," Cameron starts. Margo can guess what he was going to say, but there are a few people around the streets. Instead, he finishes it with, "It'll be somewhere much nicer."

Nick winks at them. Janie leans against him for support with a handkerchief obscuring her face. Margo waves one last time and watches the two of them grow smaller behind them. And once they are beyond the town's wall, the nerves hit full force.

They are really on their way.

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Misunderstood

The city sinks into the horizon behind Margo and Cameron. They approach the coming crescent of the cliff's shadows, which gradually swallows them in darkness. The animal moves along a sandy narrow pathway between jagged rocks with ease.

"So how exactly are we supposed to get up top with this...thing?" Margo cannot conjure up the proper word for the animal.

Cameron turns back just to show off his grin. " Shikas are good climbers."

She swallows nervously. "You'd think someone would have thought to make stairs."

"They did."

She pauses before blurting, "Don't you think —"

"This way is faster," he cuts her off.

The shadow pulls them in deeper, the darkness contradicting the turquoise sky like sunshine during heavy rain.

"Some people have traveled far into the mountains," Cameron says. "They say the city looks like a crater on the moon. The cliffs make a ring, a perfect circle."

"Are we on a different planet?" Margo suddenly asks. This question has been burning inside her since she entered. "I mean, that globe could have teleported us somewhere else in the universe."

He shrugs. "How would we know? There's no manual or guide to entering. You just do. And you're expected to deal with it, or else lose your sanity along the way, as many have."

The shika's steps click as the sandy path disappears beneath its hooves and turns to stone. "Like this witch we're supposed to find...?"

Cameron nods. "Are you ready?"

"Oh..." Margo was so lost in thought she hadn't realized the wall was upon them. Its knobby surface soars into the sky obstructing the view of the strange forest above. It appears even steeper from below, a sheet of gray stone fading into the blue. Rocks on the floor jut out like daggers on point. It would be a painful fall.

Cameron squeezes her hand in his, pulling her arm until it's tight around his waist. Before Margo can inquire as to how this will work, the animal rears up on its hind legs. Letting out a small yelp, she clings onto Cameron. The shika digs its hooves into the rocks sending a shower of splinters below. Margo forces her eyes shut and turns her head away. It pulls itself up the cliff. For a second, there is a wave of vertigo as the animal's back feet leave the ground, and the feeling of weightlessness lurches at Margo's stomach. The wind sways them back and forth.

The shika plunges its hooves into the stone gradually pulling them higher with the grinding sound of breaking rocks. Margo's spine is sent on edge. In less than a minute, sunlight begins trickling over, and with a light bounce in its step, the shika gracefully steps onto the flat ground. They face the edge of the familiar forest.

Though her lock on Cameron's waist is still clenched, she comments, "Not bad." Cameron turns the animal back to look down upon the city one last time. The tiny dots of people scatter about mindlessly like mice in a cage. Nothing to do, no one to see, nowhere to go. Just existing in this place. Now that the community is alive and bustling, the people look even more miserable from afar, as if they are each on death row awaiting the dreaded day when it will undoubtedly come to an end. "Nobody looks happy."

Cameron remains silent taking in the view. Upon sharing the gloomy town for nearly a year he must have found truth in her words. "They're not," he chokes. "Let's get moving."

He tugs at the reins to turn the animal back toward the forest. Margo's gaze does not leave the village until it strains her neck. The shika wails somberly as if it understands the meaning of their departure, and it slowly steps into the woods.

"Hold on." Cameron lightly flicks at the reins. The animal's pace picks up moving swiftly and weaving between trees. With the shika's long legs, it is hardly an effort.

The sea of hunter greens she is accustomed to in her woods back home cannot be found in this forest. It blends into a shade closer to lime. The smell of the earth is too sweet. They pass a tree that's bark is covered in bulbous notches like zits ready to burst. Another trunk's bark is so smooth it is nearly bare. Leaves are too frilly and shaped in unusual clusters. Sprigs of fuchsia berry dot branches. The vibrancy is overwhelming. She squeezes her eyes tight to blot out the high saturation. "How far do we have to go, anyway?"

"About a two-day ride, if we don't stop much. Three days at the most."

It could have been worse. She expected worse, actually. Three days, two nights in the forest. And then they'll see this witch, so that will take maybe another night. If she can figure out the meaning of Margo's marks, they might even be out of Jamyria in a week or two.

A couple weeks in Jamyria is long enough for her mother to panic, but still a short enough time for her to not give up on ever finding her. Somehow this news is soothing. She wonders how her mother is dealing with her disappearance. She doubts Owen knows, and if he does, she doubts he cares. Not like she cares what  he r father thinks. It is nothing he deserves to know after everything with Kylie...

She shuts her eyes to blot out her sister's face.

Owen Grisby. Anger floods her veins. He left before her sister was even buried. Margo's mom admitted she was distracted and didn't see the red light. T-boned on both sides. The officers told her it was a miracle she and Margo survived. Owen didn't agree.

So why would he care that she's disappeared?

She lays her head on Cameron's shoulder, feeling only the animal's movement and the tight muscles of his back against her cheek.

"She's fast," says Margo conjuring any conversation.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Oh, speaking of shikas, this girl's yours. So it's up to you to name her."

Margo perks up to peek around him at the white beauty. She'd actually already thought of a name when Nick gifted her but wasn't sure if she'd been named already. "Faux."

"Faux?" he repeats with heavy skepticism.

"Well, I guess I'm not very good at naming pets," she admits. "When I first saw her, I was intimidated by her size, but at the same time, I'd never seen an animal so beautiful. I thought she couldn't possibly be real." Margo smiles to herself. "Her name's Faux."

"Faux it is," he laughs.

Margo shuts her eyes with a grin still on her face. The rhythm of the animal's feet makes her sleepy, and the forest  does smell good — just not right. Like cinnamon, rosemary, ginger, honey...all twisted into one heavenly concoction. Quiet buzzes and clicks orchestrate unknown, playful patterns.

"Do you think this Queen is misunderstood?" Margo asks quietly.

"What would make you say something like that?" Cameron spits.

"Well, this place doesn't seem that bad. It's like an exotic paradise or something." As if on cue, a ray filters through the leaves casting a green-tinted rainbow even without the slightest hint of precipitation in the air.

He snorts. "Well, you're wrong about that..."

"So tell me why, then."

She can feel his chest rise and fall heavily. "She's just not a good person, that's all."

That answer isn't good enough. Margo pulls on his shoulder forcing him to turn and look her in the eye. "Why does she bring people in here?"

It takes him a dozen of Faux's steps to come up with an answer. "Nick found out a little about that...." His eyes fall to the reins in his hands. "She brings people in to increase her power."

"And how does that work exactly? What does she need more power for?"

"From what Nick has told me, the power can become addicting. He also went through a stage when he wanted more, but he came to his senses. I'm not sure how it works exactly, or what causes the urge to gain more..."

"So, basically, she's on a power trip? Pun intended."

He  laughs, though it holds no humor .  "Exactly! The more she gets, the more she feels she needs. And apparently, it's never enough for her."

"Hmm" is all she can get out. None of it  makes any sense, though. Since entering, Margo has been told how terrible the Queen is, but what if everyone is wrong? The world stretches the boundaries of beauty. It's alluring and tempting which can, without a doubt, be dangerous in itself. But what if the Queen's intentions are simply to share her masterpiece with those who can appreciate it? If she is such a bad person, why will no one share an example of what she has done to them besides trapping them in paradise?

"But don't worry. About that happening to you. Wanting more power..." Cameron says suddenly.

"Could that happen to me?"

"Oops. I figured — you know, since you over-analyze everything — that that was what you were thinking about."

"Oh," she sighs and rests her chin on his shoulder. "Well, I'm thinking about it  now ."

"Sorry. Just thought I'd beat you to the punch." He flits the reins lightly steering Faux to the right at a fork in the pathway. "You really shouldn't worry yourself, though. Just focus on finding the way out. That's your only job here. You won't have any trouble with your power, and I'll be right there to stop you if you start getting all psycho on me." He pats her on the hand.

She grits her teeth. "But how do you plan on stopping me if you don't have any power yourself?"

"How do you know I don't?" He raises an eyebrow. "Marks can be passed on."

"Do you?"

"Well, no, but you shouldn't assume."

She mistakes his statement for a joke and laughs. "You can't get anything past me. You'd have a mark."

His face is suddenly serious. "There are a lot more people in here with marks than you realize, Margo. Every single person who works for the Queen has a portion of her power."

She takes in a sharp breath remembering the two men tearing apart Cameron's home. She was an arm's length away from the Queen's Crew, from another marked person. "All of them?"

He nods. "And their mark is hidden on their scalp." He taps the back of his head. "If they work directly for her, she has them shave their heads at all times — the men and the women. But sometimes she lets them grow their hair out to blend in with the crowd. And, Margo, this power does a lot more than just magic tricks." He pulls a cord that's laced around his neck out from under his shirt. Attached to it is the doughnut shaped piece of copper she had made. "It's very dangerous."

Margo swallows hard and whispers, "So they could be...anywhere?" Her eyes uncomfortably dart about the forest.

He nods again. "That's why this is much more serious than you realize."

Now they're getting somewhere. If there really are more people out there with this power, and if it is used with bad intentions, Margo can understand why people here are so on edge.

"But you're safe with me," he says after a long pause.

"I already knew that." She wraps her arms tighter around him. The lull of the ride soothes her as the shika continues to maneuver around the strange array of trees. No matter how bright the forest may be, riding while holding tight to the boy she might love, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers, breathing him in, is heaven.

The day stretches on. The sun behind them now lengthens their shadows. Margo remembers the drawing she found at Nick's house and wonders if a person will suddenly appear from the distorted shadows. Though the sun is low and the colors around them are filtered with an orangey tinge, it is only mid-afternoon. "The sun plays tricks on you in this world," Cameron had explained. "Telling time by the sky is a reformed art here and rather difficult for a new enterer."

After some time passes, Cameron speaks up with a guilty tenor. "Oh yeah... Nick also asked me to teach you how to fight."

"Fight?" Margo snorts. "Sorry, Cameron, but that's not likely to happen." Barely over five feet tall and  a little too  soft , Margo is unable to picture herself fighting.

"You're going to have to learn." Cameron sighs. "I'm not thrilled with the idea either, but Nick insisted."

"Why should I learn?"

"Have you not heard everything we've been telling you? These people will kill you!"

"Well, I know that! I just didn't expect to have to fight back."

"What, did you  want to just stand back and die?"

"I...don't know." Her voice drops because that's exactly what she had expected to do. "I just assumed I would either find the way or die. I never thought about trying to prevent it."

"You — you didn't think about that?" He is appalled by her reaction.

"I've thought about dying," she whispers.

"Margo, listen, that's not going to happen."

"How do you know? Janie made it clear it's a definite possibility, so how can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm with you. And I won't let anything happen to you. I'm going to do everything I can to help you get ready for whatever lies ahead of us — that includes fighting. Just promise me you'll try to learn."

"Okay, I promise," she says reluctantly.

"Good. Janie will be pleased.  It was mostly her idea, actually. She just put Nick up to making it a mandatory part of our trip.  She has quite an influence on that man...."

Margo's heart warms at the thought of Nick and Janie's quirky relationship. Even though they act aloof, there is certainly something between the two of them. They remind her of her relationship with Cameron. Even though there isn't anything complicated about their situation, they deny such an obvious truth.

"They're together, aren't they? Nick and Janie."

"Maybe," Cameron says.

"Don't you think she's a bit young for him?"

"Hardly! She entered less than a decade after him. Only he lost his immortality, and she didn't."

"How did...? I know they mentioned the people here are 'temporarily immortal.' That whole concept just doesn't make sense. Not yet, at least." She tacks the last part on in hopes that her effort to learn is noticed.

"It's hard to understand anything about this world when you're new. In Nick's situation, the Queen lifted his seal of immortality after she discovered he was the New Mark of that time."

"So he's going to die?"

"Not a chance. That happened long before you and I were even born. He's had enough time to create his own seal."

"So, if I'm following, he and Janie are about the same age, only he looks closer to..." Margo didn't want to risk guessing the wrong age.

"Fifty."

"And Janie looks just as she did all those years ago when she entered." Could that woman actually be over a century old? Her skin is flawless, her hair as smooth as silk. Margo whispers, "It's fascinating," as her head drops to Cameron's shoulder again, thinking over all their conversations. The lull o f the shika and the comfort of snuggling against Cameron — mixed with the warm, sweet scent of the woods — causes Margo's eyes to grow heavy.

She must be dreaming because she's remembering things they've not only talked about today, but moments they've lived in the past. Sitting high in swaying Ferris wheel cars. Ice cream sandwiches by the moon-kissed pond. She dreams of people traveling through darkness and a beautiful girl with mix-matched eyes. And pennies, many tries and just as many failures. Thoughts of craters and cities within, and turrets on mountaintops with a Queen whose grey eyes haunt. And blood — her own blood — spilled over the land...

Margo's eyes pop open as she jumps.

"You alright?" he asks.

She shakes away the tiredness to see she is still in the forest with Cameron. But is this the same forest as before? Margo must have been out for a while, without a clue of how long they have been traveling. The changes around her make no sense because they aren't in a forest at all.

They are in a jungle.

* * *

Chapter Twelve: The Jamyrian Jungle

"Cameron, where are we?"

There are no longer warm-toned tree trunks but moss and plant adorned ones. Frilly, tentacle-like vines cascade from the canopy above with hibiscus-like flowers dangling precariously. Everything is mushy, moist, and bright.

"You want an exact location?" he laughs.

"Is this the  same forest?"

The dense vegetation is unfamiliar and full of unknown squeaks and hoots. Margo almost expects a tropical parrot to swoop down or a monkey to swing past on a vine.

"The forest changes the deeper in you get," he answers.

The shika passes a branch of purple flowers, each blossom a cluster of glowing needle-like petals. There are hundreds of shades of green around them and not one fit for a tree. She tightens her eyes again.

"It's too bright," Margo complains.

"It'll get better," he says. "When we get deeper, there'll at least be more flowers to break up the colors."

"Sounds even brighter."

"Like I said, you'll get used to it," he assures her. He pauses. "The forest isn't the only thing bothering you, is it?"

Margo's hold on him tenses. He always manages to see beyond her façade. There is a part of her that longs to indulge him, but sharing all that's happened since their last meeting is far too painful to consider. Speaking the words aloud only validates them. Nothing will change that fact that Kylie is eternally gone. She was a warm glow in Margo's heart like a lamp filling her spirit with light. Losing her was like losing that light. It took only a second for everything to change, just a second to engulf her world in darkness. Now Margo is left blind and clawing for walls that are not there only to fall deeper within the shadows of her pain.

Her death was over a year ago, and Margo is far from healed. She doubts she will ever be the same. She is grieving, and what's worse than grieving is accepting pity from others , so she lies.  "I'm fine. Just adapting to this world, I guess."

He smiles back. "I promise everything's going to be fine."

But it won't. It will never be fine again.

*

"I don't want your meaningless excuses," she says in an innocent voice, though no witness is fooled. Behind the eyes of a doe lay venomous teeth. "I want to hear of results." The  Queen ' s dress dances at the waist, sending shudders to its hem as she steps down from her dais. Hands delicately clasped behind her back, she leans in towards the Crewman and breathes, "Should it be this difficult? He is only one man. Such a job should be considered child's play for my Crew, should it not?"

"Yes, your majesty," he shivers at each of her sweet  breaths that roll across his face. "We are genuinely putting forth our best efforts. He's certainly somewhere within —"

"Of  course he's somewhere!" the Queen spits. Though she is fuming up at him, the Crewman suddenly feels ten inches tall. "Your job is to find him and bring me his head." She takes a deep breath to steady herself. "That will be all." She waves a gloved hand and starts toward the only object other than herself worthy of taking a person's breath away. Resting in three clawed prongs to the right of her dais is a grand globe. It stands nearly as tall as she, comprised of solid gold and a fine crystal sphere. "Show me the Marked One," she orders it. She curses when it does nothing but give off its usual luminous glow, though it is the same result it has given her all day. "Show me my Crew."

This time the globe fills with bits of sand that stir in the wind. The spiral of specks shift into different colors and collect in the center of the globe. Color washes over the image, and a perfect three-dimensional replica of her selected Crew appears. The Queen smiles at the only amount of progress made in finding the New Mark.

"I should be out there with them," growls the man lurking in the shadows. He cannot be seen but for each passing into a faint beam of light as he paces and disappears into darkness once more. His dark face remains hidden under his hood.

"You stay with me," she orders.

"I'm the best you've got!" says Shomari stepping completely out of the shadows, the muscles under his coat tense. "Send me, and I'll have the Marked One destroyed."

"Remember what happened the last time I sent you to kill a Mark?"

He snarls at her. "That won't happen again." Shaking his head, he drops his eyes. "Never again...."

The pair of doors to the throne room suddenly burst open with a clatter. Belitza, Head Guardsman and Noble, stalks in with her emerald cloak rippling grandly behind her small and narrow frame. She stops in front of the throne, flanking Shomari off, and in a swift movement whips down her hood to reveal the circular mark covering the back of her bare head. Her mouth is twisted up in a cruel but pleased expression.

"She's ready," she announces.

The Queen cracks a glorious smile. "Perfect. Have there yet to be any sightings?"

"No, your majesty."

"And our insider? Have we made contact?"

Belitza shakes her head. "We hope to in the next few days. A Crewman is waiting for a safe time to discuss the facts, but as you know, your highness, there can be setbacks and delays when trying to remain inconspicuous."

"Very well," the Queen says. Shomari growls quietly from behind Belitza. "And the Beast...?"

"Has been pushed further from her usual regions to hunt the New Mark. And as soon as we hear of a sighting, she will be moved to the appropriate region." Belitza holds her smooth head high, chin in the air.

"Excellent," says the Queen proudly.

"The Guard is also preparing to move out —"

"No, not yet. I will not risk my finest soldiers knowing this Mark is fresh and could potentially be dangerous. I will not allow disaster to come to my strongest protection. For now, send only a few."

"As you wish," Belitza obeys with a bow. "I will send Saul and his troop. Do you wish for me to accompany them?"

The Queen thinks this over. "Yes, but from a distance. I am ordering you to not interfere no matter the circumstance. If after three days you have yet to find him, report back to me."

"Hold it!" Shomari bursts. "You'll send her but not me? I'm your most powerful Guard. You know I could do more than sit around here all day!"

The Queen rises. She glides down the few steps leading to her throne and is suddenly so close to Shomari her face is nearly under his hood with him. She lowers her voice so that only he can hear what she has to say.

"You know what your job in Jamyria is, Shomari. And you will do it, or I will silence you myself. Understand?"

His chest rises and falls repeatedly in fury, but he can do nothing about the anger locked inside of him. He drifts back to the comfort of the shadows, blocking out the cold tinkling of Belitza's laughter.

*

The setting sun washes a bluish tint over the trees making the green of their surroundings much more tolerable. The Jamyrian  night animals begin to come out, though none are visible, as Cameron and Margo's first day of travel comes to a close. The trees are filled with all kinds of strange chirps and buzzes now, still none recognizable.

They decide to stop upon the arrival of a small clearing. Faux welcomes the rest, shaking out the drenched fur of her neck. Cameron kicks his leg over, sliding easily to the ground before grabbing Margo by the waist to gently help her down.

"Go cool off, girl," he tells Faux, nudging her away. She slinks into the forest and curls up in the safety of the trees.

Together, they unload a pair of mats and blankets, unfurling them onto the damp grass. Settling into their camp, Margo passes Cameron a cracked cocoban while he shares a pouch of tough, dried fruits with her. The meal, though tasty, leaves an empty feeling in Margo's stomach.

"Oh!" Margo gasps suddenly when she notices Cameron's face shimmering in the night — like a hundred reflections of a disco ball or the pulsating lights of a strobe dancing across his face. Margo's eyes search out the shimmer's source, and she finds herself, head fallen back, looking into the sky.

With night fully fallen, the indigo sky has been interrupted by millions of stars above. But they are no ordinary stars that merely twinkle; they  move . Every few seconds, they flutter by like shooting stars zipping through the night, but instead of a single star, they all shoot at once. They rest in place, and then, as if commanded by the lead bird in a flock, they move in a synchronized direction and stop in place again. The light greatly intensifies with every movement, lighting up the sky like heat lightning.

"The stars," Cameron says softly, "are different."

With her eyes locked on the beauty above, Margo forgets everything around her except for the boy she's with on this most perfect of nights.

"Everything is different," she agrees. She watches them scatter and move back into place about a hundred times without pulling her eyes away.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: Into the Depths

A dozen spotlights emblazon Margo's skin. She stands before a hundred waiting eyes without a clue what to say. For some reason this feels like a pivotal moment in her life, so she steps forward to recite her  lines . Bu t there are no lines. Her brain is fuzzy and full of white noise. Bile rises in her throat. This stage, these lights, are not meant for Margo but her sister.

She steps closer to the microphone as if that will trigger something in her mind. The pressure builds. The sea of eyes is fixed on her face. They wait for a performance which she cannot deliver.

Margo clamps her eyelids shut to focus. A wave of vertigo threatens to overtake her, but it's nothing a few deep breaths can't conquer.

She opens her eyes again and everything becomes clearer. The eyes aren't excited and waiting for a performance. They're nervous, anxious, shocked. The microphone dissolves leaving her standing alone on this concrete stage, and she realizes then that she has no memory of how she got here, as if her body dragged her to that spot. People turn and run  away . S ome screaming , s ome standing  around watching with mouths wide. And the lights are not spotlights above her. They are at her waistline.

Headlights.

One person doesn't run from Margo in a panic. A man in a faded red t-shirt runs into view under the streetlamp. "Hey, are you okay?" he asks as soon as he reaches her. He leans down to see her eye to eye and places his hand on her head, but seeing his face suddenly so close to hers only makes Margo dizzier.

She gulps, fighting back the vomit again, but he's able to catch her by the arm just before she can topple over. The heavy scent of smoke and gasoline is in the air. A combination for the worst. A massive heat radiates from behind her. Three cars are crumpled together in a deathly crash. Deathly for the car in the middle which is curled around the other two cars that had crashed into it on either side.

"We need to get you out of here," says the man.

The driver of a black SUV staggers away from the scene, heading toward the adjacent field. His hand is on the back of his head. That SUV ...  Margo has seen it before.

"K-Kylie?" she stutters. She cringes from the pain of speaking for the first time. Her left arm is numb, and her chest has an awful pinch. Her eyes drop to see her arm deformed and broken, likely out of socket.

"Are you hurt?  Beside s your arm.... Your head?" he asks, laying his hand on her forehead for the second time.

"Kylie!" Margo flinches. More images fill her head. Her sister. The black SUV was behind her sister, lights beaming into the car until her sister was nothing but a ghostly shadow. The last thing Margo remembers was seeing her smile, and then her body folding in half. The memory sends a jolt through her. It isn't likely to be true that over the sound of the crash Margo could hear the snapping of Kylie's bones, but she can remember it all too clearly. Her eyes frantically search the crowds for her sister. She has to be okay.  She has to . The image surfaces again. Her smile, the unnatural folding, the snapping of bones.

No Kylie in the crowd.

"Kylie — my sister!"

"You're not the driver?" he asks, a lump forming in the back of his throat.

Smile, fold, snap. Margo winces.

"No, my mom — my sister!"

He jerks her by her bad arm and cradles her in his arms. Running Margo to the edge of the street, he plops her down on the curb.

"Stay there," he orders pointing at her, his voice shaky.

Margo sits there alone and helpless as he runs back toward the burning cars.

*

Her eyelids pop open, breaths heavy and necklace in her fist. Margo forces herself to relax. Another dream...

"Morning," Cameron says a little too nonchalantly. He's sitting casually with his elbows propped on his knees, not yet looking in Margo's direction. The fuchsia-skinned fruit he's sinking his teeth into demands his whole attention.

Squinting her eyes against the Jamyrian sun, Margo pushes herself up. "Been up a while?"

Without answering, he holds out a branch with several of the odd fruits hanging from them. Margo takes one reluctantly. "Thanks."

"Citrosea," Cameron says informatively handing her a knife. "These fruits are everywhere this deep in the forest. Eat up."

Without further introduction, Margo slices it in half. Its thick, bumpy skin bleeds a blue liquid and a sweet fragrance fills her nostrils. Its insides are vivid turquoise as bright as the Jamyrian skies with citrus juice pockets.

He grins at her evaluation. "Try it."

Taking a bite, the soft beads of juice erupt on her tongue. After the cocoban, she expects an unusual taste like strawberries and peaches combined or chocolate or root beer, but is somewhat disappointed to find it tastes like a normal citrus  fruit . She takes another bite wishing for something more substantial on the remainder of their journey. Nevertheless, she is thankful for fresh food and helps herself to seconds.

The afternoon is upon them. The path narrows, and the jungle that was already a tight squeeze grows thicker.

"Just a couple more hours or so. Then we'll break," Cameron says.

"Great." Margo's enthusiasm has faded over the past hour. He's been updating her since about noon.

"And not much longer after that till we get to the Witch," he adds.

The farther they travel, the more nervous Margo grows about their upcoming acquaintance. "So is she really a witch?"

"Yeah, she's pretty crazy. They say she can see the future. I also heard she cooks anyone who trespasses on her land, but I'm not sure about that part."

Margo shivers. "She can really see the future?"

"From what I've heard."

"So she could see whether I make it or not? Whether I die —"

"You'll be fine."

The firmness of his statement is meant to end the conversation, but Margo presses on . "Do you think she'll be able to find anything out from my marks?"

"Don't know. That's the idea, though. Otherwise, this would be a waste of time."

"You're really worried about bringing me there, aren't you?"

"This world is something I've been trying to wrap my head around since I entered," he says. "I was always told that a person, a marked person, would come to save us, but their attempt would most likely end in their demise. That they would make an ultimate sacrifice in order to try to free us. 'But don't get your hopes too high up,' people told me. 'Because that will probably be many Marks from now.'" He pauses to stare at Faux's reins in his hands. "So why did it have to be you?"

"You didn't answer my question," Margo mumbles because she isn't sure what else to say.

"Yes, I'm  worried ," he sighs. " I've imagined the Marked One time and time again. I've thought of fighting. I've thought of war.... Of power, and of death. But the Mark always felt so distant, like an ultimate unknown being. Guess I put them on a pedestal. Should have known they're real people, too." He shakes his head hard. "Just know that I won't let anything happen to you. Ever. I'll always be there to protect you, no matter what."

Deep down, Margo knows there's no way he can promise that, but she isn't going to make that argument again. She also hadn't realized how many people are betting against her and treating her death like an inevitability. She wonders about the Queen, too. Is she already aware the New Mark is in Jamyria? There's no way to be sure they aren't already being tracked.

"Do you think those guys — the, uh, Queen's Crew — were looking specifically for me?"

Cameron shrugs. "Possibly. They make routine rounds now and again. Either way, it's a good thing we left when we did."

"They were scary. I understand why this Queen is so feared. Her Crew looks...ruthless."

Faux's pace quickens, snaking through the web of trees like  an oversized slinky fox.

"Those men aren't the ones to worry about," says Cameron. "Technically, they're part of her Crew, but they're just Intimidators .  They're trained to look tough, but not nearly as scary as her Guard. You see," he says as they duck under a low-hanging vine. "The Crew is broken up into four categories. There are the Servants, who are basically bottom feeders given a mere hint of the Queen's mark. Next are the Intimidators, like the ones you saw yesterday. They are still low-ranked Crewmen who look tough but are pretty much useless. In other words, they only put up a good front. Then, there are her Guards, the fighters. Trust me when I tell you, don't ever find yourself in a situation with the Queen's Guards. You'll wind up dead."

"Fighters..." she repeats. The word reminds her of Cameron's promise to Nick and realizes these are the men  Janie is worried she'll face. "And the fourth category? Is there someone worse than that?"

"Yeah, the remaining two Nobles." They're suddenly interrupted by a noise in the distance: the gentle caress of waves. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes, is it coming from ahead?"

He doesn't answer at first. "I don't remember any water around here. There's a stream along the way, but we're nowhere near that yet."

Margo doesn't understand his worried tone. Personally, she  could care less where the water came from. She just wants to take a  dip . H er entire body is plastered in filth, a combination of sweat and grime.

A sudden jolt nearly causes them to topple over as Faux stops in her tracks. She suddenly rears up on her hind legs. Margo's arms tighten around Cameron who struggles to stay on himself. Faux drops her front feet down and howls, whipping her long neck back and forth.

"Whoa, Faux!" Cameron shouts. "Calm down, girl, calm down." He pulls on her reins guiding her backwards on the trail.

"Is she alright?" The animal's chest quivers underneath them.

He ignores Margo's question. "No, no,  no ! We couldn't have gotten that far off course!" He kicks his leg over, drops to the ground, and leaves Margo alone. He runs ahead on the trail, still muttering to himself.

"Off course?"

He doesn't look back as he stomps through the underbrush, leaving Margo with the shika, and disappears into the dark woods ahead. She quickly slides down Faux as best she can without his help. "Stay, girl," she says patting her nose before taking off behind Cameron.

Further into the forest, the ambiance changes from the limes and bright colors into dark, eldritch shades, as if the woods have grown seasick. The plants have grown thicker and somehow wilder; she has to peel apart the layers to pass through. The sound of water is  stronger where she spots Cameron standing in the dark woods with his back to Margo staring at something ahead. The forest is dark and casting a bluish hue over them.

"I know this land..." He shakes his head, hardly acknowledging her presence. "How could I make a mistake that big?"

"Cameron," she says gently, not wanting to upset him. She inches her way closer to him. "What is it? Can I come?"

"It's not going to make much difference," he snorts.

She walks through an arc of shrubbery, trying to decipher whatever it is he's staring at. It's impossible to see anything in this ever-changing forest. Even though it has grown darker, the woods are still quite vivid and teeming with life. They're surrounded in jewel tones — emerald trees with sapphire shadows bouncing around them. More like the evening of Jamyria. But what stopped both Cameron and Faux in their tracks?

The answer suddenly slaps Margo in the face. It blends so perfectly into the trees; she hadn't recognized what looks like a sheet of turquoise silk billowing in the wind between the trees. But after a moment, she sees it is something more: a wall stretching as far as she can see in either direction made entirely of water. Not a wall holding back water, a wall  comprised  of water. It moves in the wind as if they're looking at the surface of a lake, but it somehow holds itself above the ground.

"The Water Forest," Cameron sighs.

Eyes wide and wonder-filled, Margo steps closer to have a better look at it. Filtered light dances around them. Once she looks past their reflections, she can see through the edge of the water and realizes that it is a forest. The same trees of the woods grow inside as if the water was placed here, interrupting the forest's natural setting. Plants grow on the muddy ground, algae and seaweeds rather than the shrubs and vines growing on the outside. Trees are covered in black slime. It's also much deeper than she realized. She can only see about thirty feet in until the trees inside it disappeared into darkness. The odd Jamyrian lighting affects the water as well. Even though it's dark and casting unearthly shadows, the water nearest them is a brilliant sea green.

Speechless, Margo can only stare, not believing what's before them. It challenges all of the basic laws of nature: gravity should be pulling this down and liquids cannot hold their own form. It simply cannot exist.

"The way," Cameron says rubbing his temple with one hand. "Is through there." The frustration is building up, Margo can tell. He's going to break. "This isn't supposed to be here! It's not right!" He kicks a tree stump, his face growing red.

"Cameron, there's all that algae and stuff in there. This didn't just show up here today."

"I know."

"Then, we're lost?"

"No!" he snaps.

Margo crosses her arms and raises a warning eyebrow.

After a deep cleansing breath, he calmly says, "Something's just wrong. I need a moment to clear my head...to try to figure this out. For now, we should head back to Faux. Shikas don't do so well around the Water Forest."

"It's like a huge painting," Margo speaks quietly. She wants to take in as much as she possibly can before they have to leave it.

"It is beautiful," he says. "But dangerous."

"It doesn't make sense," Cameron complains for about the hundredth time in the past hour. "We were headed in the right direction. So where'd it come from?"

Margo has long stopped trying to answer his questions. She tightens her bag, which is now full of a half dozen citroseas, and hands it off to him. "Doesn't matter, does it? The fact is it's here. Now we have to get around it."

Cameron grunts in response and pulls strap over his shoulder. "This is nice," he comments, checking out the stitching on her bag once it's situated on his hip.

"Thanks. Owen gave it to me."

"Owen? Don't you mean 'Dad'?"

"A lot's changed," Margo says so bitterly Cameron doesn't ask for elaboration.

Faux makes a whining noise. She's finally calmed down, curling up under a nearby tree, but still seems anxious.

"Keep an eye on her while I'm out.  It really scares them here ." Cameron hugs Margo goodbye  and promises he'll be back with a solid plan for navigating around this Water Forest. Margo watches him until he disappears into the trees.

She isn't happy with the idea of being left behind, but after seeing how scared Faux was around the water, they decided it's best if one of them watches after her. Cameron was afraid she would untether herself and abandon them if they both ventured off for too long. And since he's already familiar with the forest, naturally he's the one to leave.

Margo slumps down on the ground, leaning on Faux's side for support and preparing herself for a long afternoon.

Margo awakes with a glob of drool spilling over her bottom lip. She stirs, wiping her face dry, expecting to find Cameron watching over her. But she's still alone with Faux, whom has also dozed off. Imagining how far Cameron is by now, Margo had an errant thought about how convenient shadow-travel would be. She wonders why they are so fearful.

It's stupid sitting with a sleeping farm animal , she decides. A few tight knots of rope around Faux's reins and the nearby tree, and Margo is stomping through the woods back toward the Water Forest.

Margo tries again to imagine how a world of such beauty and mystery can be the result of someone considered evil. First the dreamy night sky full of dancing stars, and now this spectacular living painting!

She nestles into a soft patch of soil and watches the wall of water dance before her. Inhaling deeply, she releases the tension of a second day of shika-back riding and imagines a cool dip in the pool. A smile plays at her lips, which surprises her since Cameron, the only reason she's smiled lately, is nowhere near.

She always did love the sea. And it most likely  is a sea. There is a familiar crispness to the wind with the sharp scent of salt. With eyes closed, she can picture the sounds of laughing children running across the sands or a flock of seagulls overhead. There's no doubt in Margo's mind: this is a wild ocean that has claimed the land.

But why is it here? Did the Queen purposefully create it out of curiosity's sake? In a world where an entire city exists sunken in the earth, this is somewhat ironic.

Just what are you getting out of this, Queen? She lets out an exaggerated groan, falling back onto her elbows.

A tree inside the Water Forest becomes exposed when the wall of water quivers against the growing breeze. Blackened in algae and covered in dozens of snails that retreat to the safety of their shells, the tree's branches shake wetly in the open air. After nearly a minute of freedom, the wind slowly calms, and the water swallows the tree whole once again.

Eerie, but spectacular , she thinks.

Margo looks skyward and an icy chill slides down her back. The water is much higher than she realized. She can barely make out the tops of the already oversized Jamyrian trees that jut out over the surface.

Scrambling to her feet, she snaps back into reality.  Sure , it's alluring, but hadn't Cameron warned her of this place? ' It is beautiful. But it's dangerous ,' he said.

Margo isn't fully certain as to what he meant by that, but decides to heed his advice. She's stared into its beautiful depths for long enough.

Turning to head back to Faux, she pushes aside the curtain of  vines and looks over her shoulder one last time. Something deep in the waters catches her eye: a small orange shape floating serenely in the current, like a scarf carried away in the wind.

It's clearly out of place in the waters. She peers around her reflection, expecting to find a vibrant fish or jellyfish. The orange color is the only thing that stood out at first against the dark backdrop of turquoise, but now Margo can make out a pale face emerging from the shadows of the trees. Her dress billows out around her form like a parachute, orange hair spread like a fan. She suddenly begins kicking violently and waving her arms at Margo. Not swimming. Drowning.

Margo crosses the distance as fast as she can. The girl thrashes beyond the water's edge at about eye level now. "Help," she mouths. Margo can barely hear the muffling of the actual word. Air bubbles escape during her fight with the water. The girl presses her hand against the surface to break through, but it merely slips away causing the wall to ripple outward from the disturbance. "Help!"

"Cameron!" Margo calls in a panic. His name is more of a wail than a shout. "Cameron,  help !"

But there is no answer. Margo knows he's too far to hear her. She doesn't know what she to do without him. The girl is dying.

"Please," the girl begs silently. The bubbles coming out of her nose come to a slow, trickling stop. She holds out her hand, fingers splayed and straining in effort, desperately needing Margo to take her hand. She presses her cheek against the surface of the water, eyes pleading. "Help."

" Cameron !" Still no response. He cannot hear her. He isn't coming.

The girl's eyes shut, and her head begins to roll back.

"No!" Every muscle tightens as Margo fights the urge to reach in and pull the girl out, but she isn't sure what will happen if she touches the water. Will it hold up? Or will disturbing the surface cause it to fall through the breaking point? Maybe it won't make any difference at all like when the girl grazed it; though, that blackened tree escaped earlier....

Margo can't stand back and watch her die. After all, her job here is to save people, not witness their deaths.

The girl stills, her outstretched hand relaxes, letting the water pull her where it wishes. Hair spreads around her face like a matting of cobwebs as the current slowly raises her body up into the trees. Her hand floats limply, still extended toward Margo, barely in reach as she drifts upward.

Margo's eyes don't leave it. She'll soon be too far...

Adrenaline rushes through her  veins , and she plunges her hand through the water, which surprisingly feels no different than the velvety surface of a bath. Deeper and deeper Margo stretches trying to reach the girl's hand, and, when the water is about halfway between her elbow and neck, she grasps the girl's wrist and feels needles run down her spine. Her heart skips a beat.

Everything suddenly feels wrong. The girl's skin is as soft as boiled mushrooms oozing beneath her grip.

Margo jumps. Her hand twitches away, and a pair of black eyes snapped open, no longer pleading for help. Instead they're hidden behind the shadows of her brow, lips curled over her teeth in a hate-filled snarl.

Margo reels her arm away, but the girl's quick movements snatches it back.

" CAMERON !" she screams, making her cry earlier sound like a whisper. " HELP !"

She feels the pull against her arm. It is effortless for the girl, even through the resistance of the water. Her nails dig into Margo's skin, piercing through it, her eyes alight. Margo futilely braces her feet on the ground. She skids closer inch by inch, getting dragged further into the water.

"Margo?" The faint call is too far off.

" Cameron !" she screams, voice straining. " HELP ME !"

Her footing slips and the water rushes up to her shoulder.

Cameron runs suddenly around the bend of water, more than a hundred yards away with an expression as if he's just witnessed the dead. "MARGO!" He darts in her direction, but he's too far. He won't make it.

"Cam—" her voice gurgles as the water slaps her cheek. A wicked smile spreads across the girl's face, revealing a set of perfectly pointed teeth, as she easily draws the rest of Margo in, a swirl of bubbles swallowing her up.

Margo stands in front of the girl as if she'd simply taken a step forward. Only she's stepped into an ocean. Five trails of red seep from Margo's arm where the girl still digs her fingernails in her grip. The look on her face says she's pleased; though, Margo isn't sure why she was taken in. Was it to die? Without a word, the girl releases her from her clutch and silently swims into the shadows of the trees.

Margo spins back to look out at Cameron. She can see him yelling her name; even hear it a little through the water. "Swim up! Swim up!" he's shouting while pointing to the sky and jumping.

She pushes her hand on the surface, but it's like trying to claw her way through a sheet of flexible plastic. There must have been some kind of one-way invisible barrier.

"Swim up!" he keeps yelling, but Margo isn't sure if she can make it that far. The pressure this deep wears her down; she has to be at least  a hundred feet under. To swim against it is impossible, not to mention she hadn't gotten a good breath of air. She won't last long.

Kicking and pulling her arms, Margo swims toward the surface, ignoring the salty sting of the cuts in her arm. There's a sudden jerk on her ankle. She screams at the touch, wasting more oxygen.

Eyes black with fury and hair spread around her face like a flame, the girl glares at Margo with pointed teeth bared. The grip on her ankle tightens, pulling her to a halt. Margo kicks at the girl's face with her free foot.

The world suddenly shifts. She kicks harder, reaching out toward the edge of the water as it grows further away. Deeper into the trees and away from Cameron, the girl pulls Margo who bends to pry away her fingers. The girl only squeezes tighter until Margo's calf threatens to split. She kicks again, but it's no use.

Her nose burns for air. Her rhythmic kicking slows as her leg grows heavy, the energy dissipating. Her arms float to her sides as she loses control. Pressure builds between her eyes. There is nothing left.

Should I just give in?  she thinks wryly. There's no need to keep fighting when she's clearly no match against this girl. She shuts her eyes, feeling the sting from the salt under her lids. Hot tears disappear into the sea.

The grip loosens allowing Margo's leg to slide free as the current takes her deeper into the unknown forest. Bubbles trickle across her still face as the last few seep from her nostrils and up through her hair. Then there are no more.

She takes a breath. It's like inhaling bleach, not water. Like sniffing tiny shards of glass. It burns up the bridge of her nose and on through the sides of her face. This is torture.

Only she hasn't died yet.

Waiting for the end brings back a whirl of the declarations she's made these past few days. She fooled no one. Even Cameron admitted he expected the New Mark to die. She at least hoped to have died in some heroic fashion. Not before she even tried.

Only she wasn't dying! If God truly loves her, wouldn't he put an end to all this pain? Couldn't he take it all away?

Numb me.

The pressure grows more intense. Her brain feels as if it will rupture. She opens her eyes again — the salt water stings — but there's nothing to see but dark blue in these shadowy depths. Then her eyesight fades until everything is completely black.

This must be it: death. What Nick said of the last Mark suddenly comes back to her: he was executed before he even knew who he was. But this... This is humiliating.

She takes another breath, shooting more glass through her system.

Deep in the water's shadows, she begins to see a light. A dim, gray-colored light. As it strengthens, so does the pain. The light means it's over in all the movies she's seen, but for some reason, Margo always thought death would be much simpler and without so much pain. But this stretches on until the light surrounds her completely. It has to end soon!

A five-pointed figure falls upon her eyes. Slowly, a gentle current from the dark object rolls off her cheeks, the light broken up in contrasting rays. It gently touches her face at the bridge of her nose. There is no more pain.

A hand , she realizes before surrendering. She shuts her eyes knowing that it's over.

*

Her lungs rasp as they fill with smoke. Seeing, too, is difficult as it grows thicker along the road. Her eyes sting in protest.

She wishes to lie down. She wishes to disappear. To reverse the last twenty minutes and still be heading home talking to her sister, arguing even if it means a better alternative to this unsightly night. But she can't. She can't even find the will to look away from the scene laid out in front of her.

The man in the faded red t-shirt skids to a stop as he reaches the car. He gives an unsuccessful attempt to fan away the smoke before searching for a way of entry. Bending over the flashy Mustang that hit Margo's side, now a totaled mess of scrap metal, he peers in the window. The seconds tick by like hours. The ache of waiting overcomes the pain of her crippled arm. She would sacrifice her  heart if it means the survival of her family.

Finally, his head reappears, but Margo isn't prepared for the mortified expression he wears. Her body numbs, and she can't help but think the words: which one?

S he kicks herself immediately. They're both fine. They have to be. The Grisbys are fighters. There's never a burden they can't surpass. Haven't they struggled together as a family the entirety of her life?

The man pulls himself through the window Margo must have climbed out of. She wouldn't know; her body acted on its own accord. He disappears for another twelve heartbeats, and then emerges dragging her mother out behind him.

A knot of tension releases from Margo's back. Though disoriented, her mom is alive. Her head falls back as he cradles her in his arms, and she loses consciousness. People shout as he staggers away with her limp body, but Margo can no longer hear them. The only thing she's aware of is her mother.

He drops her to the ground next to Margo, panting. "You good?" he asks her, turning away immediately for  phrasing that question so carelessly. How can she be 'good?' Her mother's alive, yes, but unconscious while Kylie is... Where is she? "Look after her... Keep her breathing. Lot of...smoke..." He coughs, hardly able to breathe himself.

Rising to go back to the cars once more, Margo notices him sway as if he can barely carry himself. She doesn't see how he can possibly manage to carry her sister.

Her eyes follow him all the way to her sister's side of the car where he pulls himself onto the hood of the black SUV. He curses, falling back to the pavement and patting his hands on his pants violently as if he's been attacked by a swarm of bees.

The black SUV ignites, the flicker of flames slowly licking at the car. This time Margo hears the screams of the people in the streets. Dozens leave their cars behind and run to the safety of the nearby fields.

The man reaches through the broken window grasping toward the front seat.

"What are you doing?" It isn't the voice of Margo's rescuer but another man from the streets. He doesn't dare get any closer to the cars. "That's gasoline. Get away from there!"

Margo clasps her face with her hand when she spots the orange flickering reflection under the man in the faded shirt's feet. Gasoline, pools of it.

He curses again, reaching further into the car  until the hot metal hood s ears his skin. He snarls in response.

"Get back!" the other shouts. He signals for everyone near the vehicles to evacuate. Sirens blare in the background. But they're too far off.

He can't 'get back,' not with her sister still stranded  in side the car. His strained face is proof that he is indeed giving up, though. Margo's eyes widen knowingly. Tears spring to life without her permission, streaking lines through the grime on her cheeks.

The man leaves Kylie behind, weaving through the scattered cars, now assisting the panicking people flooding through the streets. The sirens pierce through the shouts cutting through Margo's heart like a white-hot knife.

Margo pushes off the ground and runs back toward the burning cars.

*

Death is free of pain, a weightless void of thick, yet breathable air. Margo's legs and arms are spread out around her as if she is a floating dandelion seedling awaiting the chance to be born into a new life. Maybe a second chance is what she needs; she has failed her first.

A pair of whispers caress her ears. Her eyes gently crack to see herself surrounded by indigo night. The air is heavy and thick to breathe, but it tastes as pure as the cleanest air of the Real World. The nearest tree is black and squishy looking, a school of fish swimming through its branches.

So death has not yet found her. But something stranger has....

The whispers grow more urgent; it requires much strain to hear through the murkiness of the water. A lantern is hung in a nearby tree, catching every floating speck in its rays, and beyond it are two boys whispering. No, arguing. Their voices are muffled, but a few words ("turn her in", "arms", and "seems lost") are enough to clue Margo in on what they're discussing: her marks.

Pop ! Water suddenly rushes deep into her ear canal, flooding every nook and crevice. In that moment each of the boy's word becomes clear as ice.

"Well, what do you suggest we do with her?" says one of the boys in a hushed growl.

"I'm not sure, but —"

"But  what ?" he barks.

A pause. "We can't just leave her here."

"When are we ever supposed to leave someone unattended?" This one has a bit of an accent, and an attitude that doesn't match his boyish face. He has smooth, creamy skin and dark hair that would have grazed his shoulders had it not been swept away in the current. The outraged look on his face hides any sign that he's attractive. But he  is attractive, Margo notes before quickly looking away.

"My point is," the other continues. He has dark skin and long hair twisted into locks. She can't make much else out since he's floating furthest from the lantern. " I'm not going to be the one to turn the Marked One in. That's suicide for us all."

"What's suicide is having to face the Queen after setting her free. Trust me."

" Look !" the other shouts. "I have a promised mate to think about. It's dangerous to let the Mark go, yes, but I gave her my word I'd do anything I could to get her out of this place!"

The younger one softens at these words but doesn't speak.

"I can't break that promise," the dark one whispers.

His expression is black, but the younger one doesn't protest. "She'll kill us both."

"I know...."

Their sudden silence is ominous. The Water Forest is dangerous. Cameron is dead right about that. The Queen, being killed — two terrifying phrases wrapped up in one conversation. Margo has to get out of there. Fast.

Slowly, she pulls her arms closer to her chest, as if to cover the truth of her identity that has already been exposed. In unison, they whirl around to face her. The roll of current from their movement slaps Margo in just a fraction of a second, sending her flying into the trunk of a tree which stirs up a cloud of black muck.

She gasps, losing all the water in her lungs from the blow. A black silhouette towers over her. She clutches the pinch in her chest when a second whirl smacks her back into the tree and holds her steady there.

"Don't even think about moving." The voice comes from the shadows of his face, sharp as needles. Margo cowers against the tree.

"That's enough." The darker one holds the lantern out allowing the light to hit his face. He has a scar under his right eye and a hook piercing his septum. "We won't hurt you if we don't have to."

"We don't know that yet," the boyish one growls.

"Give it a rest!" The darker one swims closer lowering the light. Margo's eyes drop to his lower half. "I'm Derek," he says calmly. "And you can ignore the jerk." He nods in the other's direction.

"It's  Ian ."

"What's your name?" says Derek.

"Margo Grisby," she says automatically. Her head is too busy spinning as she takes in the man in front of her. His caramel skin travels down past his chest and slowly shifts to dark green scales. Where his spine meets his tail, a sharp fin juts out. His tail is nothing like the interpretations Margo's seen but more flexible like an eel's. "You're a...mermaid?" she blurts.

"Does he look like a girl to you?" Ian barks, muscles tensed. Margo notices he doesn't have a tail but legs wrapped tightly in seaweed.

"We're  Sirens ." Derek doesn't seem as offended as Ian. "Some of us more transformed than others," he adds smugly.

A quiet  tsk comes from Ian's direction.

Margo gulps a mouthful of water, recalling her first thought. "How can I breathe?"

"We did a partial transformation," Derek explains. "Not sure how permanent your stay in the Water Forest would be."

"Why are you here anyway?" Ian huffs. She finds it odd for him to ask this considering they're the ones taking her hostage. But before Margo can answer he cuts her off again. "And how did you manage to get caught up in the forest?"

"Cut it out, already!" Derek turns back to Margo. "Where are you heading? We'll be happy to guide the New Mark as best as we can."

The two of them are like yin and yang. One hot-tempered and spewing over, the other exuding kindness. Both are overwhelming under the circumstances.

"My friend and I are heading for the Witch. He said the Water Forest wasn't out here the last time he traveled through."

Derek nods knowingly. "We were ordered to extend it just four months ago."

"Bloody job that was," Ian puts in.

"But we can lead you through, no problem. It's a straight shot."

Margo is shaking her head. "My friend's still back there."

Ian rolls his eyes impatiently.

"We can change him, too. This is the fastest way to the other side," Derek urges.

Margo remembers Cameron's warning about the Water Forest. She's certain he won't be willing to come inside, no matter how kind this Derek guy is. He'd rather take the long way around the strange sea than go through it. "I think we'll take our chances."

"Suit yourself." Derek shrugs.

Ian is silent, the gentle current swirling his long hair around his face. "Your promised mate..." he says to his comrade. "She would want us to do whatever it takes for freedom, wouldn't she?"

Derek stares into the dark waters as if longing to see further into its depths. It's the same saddened expression as Janie's when she told Margo of their imprisonment in Jamyria. "You'll go for me?"

A smile plays at the corner of Ian's lips. "Do you even have to ask?"

Derek slaps him on the shoulder, exchanging a brief but meaningful look. Margo is confused by the change in conversation. They speak almost as if they've forgotten she's there.

"Go home to your mate," says Ian suddenly. "Swim her away from here as fast as you can. They'll know."

"'Course they will," Derek snorts humorlessly. He turns to Margo and points at her chest. "We're risking everything for you."

She nods nervously, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt to keep it from floating up.

" You're the New Mark?" Ian says it as if he just realized how absurd she is.

"You see the marks, don't you?" she retorts.

A crooked smile spreads across his face.

"Then why don't you keep stupid comments to yourself and just let me figure out what I'm supposed to do in this place." Margo doesn't know what made her say this. The boy is speaking out of line. He doesn't even know her. How dare he judge her?

Derek burst out into laughter. "Well, you'll have your hands full with this one, Ian. Sounds like I shouldn't worry too much about you being too hard on her."

"A firecracker." Ian laughs, too, slipping his arms around Margo's waist.

She cringes at his touch. "What do you think you're doing? Don't touch me!" Margo tries to push away in protest, but he easily cradles her closer like she's nothing more than a kitten pawing at his chest. She thinks about pulling at his hair but doesn't get the chance.

"See you around," he says, nodding in Derek's direction. A whirl of branches shoot by within inches from them. The sudden speed sends Margo's stomach to her feet as they ascend toward the top of the trees, bubbles spinning wildly past. The sea shifts from ink black to indigo and finally to its extraordinarily clear turquoise. Sunlight greets them like diamonds glittering atop the water's surface.

They break through with a wave as high as the cliffs of the Central City are deep. A thousand droplets splash down across the sea. None hit Margo or Ian's head. She wonders why.

"Oh," Margo splutters. "You're a fast swimmer."

Ian releases her with a smirk just as the shouts start. Dangling from one of the treetops is a worried Cameron. He swings precariously from branch to branch trying to get as close as possible to where Margo is. She dog-paddles carefully in his direction, embarrassed that this is the only swim technique she's mastered after Ian's display of aquatic talent.

"Grab my hand," Cameron shouts. He reaches down for her and tugs her up onto the tree with him. After a welcoming hug, he shakes her by the shoulders. "What were you  thinking going in there?" His concerned expression shifts from worry to frustration, and, after he sees the boy in the water, anger.

The sea suddenly swells up like an anthill with Ian at its peak. It maneuvers onto a branch before spilling away. When the water below finally levels out, Ian is standing on the dripping limb across from Margo.

"I've got her now," Cameron says sharply. "I'm sure you have a puddle to splash around in or something."

"Er, this is Ian." Margo isn't sure why Cameron is being so cold. "He saved my life."

"Ian?" He sounds like he's asking himself more than her.

"Yeah, there was this girl — I swear she looked like she really needed help — so I reached in and —"

"I told you to stay away from this place. You had me worried!" Margo can't tell if he's mad at her or happy she's alive. Even though he's shouting, he still holds her in his arms.

"But it's okay — she swam off, and Ian saved me." She shivers as she remembers her eyes, black as coal with the intent to kill. "That girl was...frightening."

"Oh, you mean that  Water Spirit ?" Ian interrupts. "Nasty creatures, they are..."

Mouth hung wide in annoyance, Cameron splutters, "When — how did he — where — who is he?!"

"Ian Tanner,  Siren ," says Ian with a tad too much confidence.

Cameron merely looks at Ian's outstretched hand, and through gritted teeth says, "Like I said, I'll take her from here." He pulls Margo by the arm, climbing back toward the trunk of the tree.

Margo plants her feet. "He saved me, Cam. Why are you treating him like a criminal or something?"

"You should've stayed away from the  Water Forest . The people inside it are dangerous." The look in his eyes proves that he believes the words he speaks, but Margo feels that he's wrong. They did just help her to the surface, not to mention brought her back to life when she was on the verge of death.

"Well, I'm not inside it anymore, am I?" Ian retaliates. "Shall we get going then?"

"Not going to happen!" Cameron spins around to face him so fast Margo almost loses her balance on the limb.

"And how do you plan on getting the Marked One to the Witch with the Water Forest in your way?"

Cameron's furious eyes meet Margo. "You told him where we're going?"

"I didn't know it was a secret!"

" You're a secret, Margo! You're the New Mark, remember?"

"Of course I remember!" Margo snaps. "How could I ever forget when everyone keeps constantly reminding me?"

"I can get you through the Water Forest." Ian smugly crosses his arms.

"Like I'd take her back in there?" Cameron spits. "That's the most dangerous part of Jamyria, next to the Queen's castle."

"Not in it.  Through it." A devious smile spreads across Ian's face. "Well, under it to be exact."

Cameron's eyes suddenly light up against his will. "You can create a bubble?"

"I  am a  Siren ." Ian winks at Margo on the sly.

"Yeah, but only the most skilled are able to use a technique like that."

Ian sighs dramatically. "Well, count me in that category."

"Not just a  Siren , but a dangerously strong one." Cameron shakes his head. "You sure know how to pick a rescuer."

Margo opens her mouth to answer, but Ian cuts her off.

"You got a problem with power?" He cocks his head to the side. "Because you're traveling around with someone with more than anyone I've ever seen before." Suddenly he leaps across to the limb Cameron and Margo are on, which shakes under the added weight. "Yeah, I've got power, just like every other  Siren down there."

"That's exactly why I don't trust you." Cameron leans in toward him.

"Aren't you being a bit hypocritical?" Ian steps forward, too.

"No one invited you to come along. Now get lost." Cameron shoves Ian's chest.

"Guys!" Awkwardly maneuvering around Cameron, Margo is able to wedge herself between the boys. "Can we talk about this on lower ground?" She turns back to the edge of the wall, a sheer cliff of water. They have to be close to  ten stories up.

"Fine, but Ian stays behind." Cameron says, stubbornly clenching his jaw muscles.

She catches his shoulder as he turns away and melts into his body. Wrapping her arms around his chest, she breathes in his scent. "Cam, just moments ago I was certain I'd never see your face again." He tenses in her embrace. "But because of Ian, I did. He helped bring me back to life, and now he wants to help us again. We've hit a wall in our travels, literally, and he showed up willing to guide us past it. Why wouldn't we take his offer?"

Cameron doesn't speak. He just stands there, grasping each of her words. Ian waits the silence out, too. Finally, Cameron pulls his head back up and says, "He's only going to help us through. Nothing else."

He pulls away from Margo's arms, and disappears over the edge of the water.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen: Strength Lacking

It is a risky feat to cling tightly to slippery branches while the spray of the sea hits their faces. They lower themselves one branch at a time on the massive tree half-engulfed in the Water Forest, the billowing wall casting glittery splotches of light upon the leaves.

The boy from the water has yet to speak another word. He silently swings effortlessly and with more grace than both Margo and Cameron combined. Cameron finds this quite bothersome, but bites his tongue respecting Margo's decision to allow Ian to stay.

In unison, they clamber as far away from the water, as their branches allow before bowing against the weight, when a shift in the wind sends the water creeping precariously close, nearly pulling them back inside its glistening depths. Ian explains how the trees are a part of the Water Forest itself allowing them to flow in and out at will, unlike people or objects that may get caught up in its current. Once taken in, the only escape from the water is through the surface — which, he remarks, can have risks of its own.

Margo releases a tight breath as the water slowly takes its original form. An inch at a time, the tree is released into open air, and they are able to maneuver back to sturdier limbs.

The branch she wraps her hand around oozes black grime between her fingers. Margo makes a face at the cold, mushy texture beneath her palm. She's certain the tree picked up more slimy materials during the last wave but thinks little of it. She lowers her leg to the branch below, but when her foot catches on the now algae-covered limb, it slips and gravity overtakes her. For a second, all she can imagine are the dozens of branches below meeting her body. But the fall is short-lived. Her breath escapes her before she can let out a yelp. Fabric pulls taut across her chest, stretching to the point of creating an audible pop.

Margo rocks gently, hanging perilously by the thin cotton of her blouse. A few loose strands of hair  dangle wetly before her line of sight, and she turns ever so slightly to see the boy who has silently caught hold of  her —  one fist gripping the fabric of the back of her shirt dangling Margo like a grocery sack, the other holding tight to a branch and supporting both of their weight.

"Twice." The lone word is all she can whisper. Ian has managed to save her life twice within the hour.

Cameron calls out for her and appears somewhat relieved to have allowed Ian to stay. "Be careful," he pleads. "And watch where you put your feet."

"You have got to be the clumsiest of all Marks to have ever existed," Ian barks. The short and cunning statement stops her short. "How long has it been since you  got those things, anyway?"

A second pop sounds as a seam in her shirt nearly bursts.

"My marks?" Margo wishes he would put her down. "Four days."

She feels the fabric pull as his fist tightens. Is he angry with her? Ian exhales. "And you plan to escape this world in your condition? Clumsy as you are? Trapped in the Water Forest. Nearly plummeting to your death." His laugh is empty.

"Please," Margo whispers. "I — I don't like heights!"

"Oh?" The fabric slips ever so slightly. "Well then, I think it's about time we break you of that."

"What  are you  —" Cameron shouts from above.

But it's too late. Ian gives her a hard sway and releases her into the air. Margo is weightless, spinning head over foot between trees. Everything stills; all is silent but for the scream that escapes her lips. The world whirls violently around her as she flips through the air. She claws for a rescuing hand that will not appear.

Her breathing slows, as does the spinning around her. The wind, the waves. The droplets of sea spray pass as if they are translucent, beady planets floating in orbit. She catches her reflection in each bead. The Jamyrian wonderland reveals itself . T he world has been hidden under a layer of deadened skin, and as the snake leaves behind a dull coat, every aspect shines anew. A sharpness floods her vision, capturing every detail in an instance. Every crackled design of each leaf. The gritty texture of bark. Wisps of clouds overhead. Every bead of water on her slick skin is a protuberance. The sounds of the forest intensify, from robust tenors to trilling sopranos. She's certain her hearing range has greatened as well.

To have thought the colors were vivid before nearly brings her to laughter.

A branch nears, moving slower than any other passing object. While contemplating why this is, Margo's hand outstretches before she can will it to do so, grasping tightly to the slow-moving branch. Her legs and body keep moving toward the ground, but her grip proves strong, completely halting her fall in a sickening jerk.

Once she stops swaying back and forth, Margo lets go of the branch and drops to the limb below with ease.

She reels her head back to gaze at the boys overhead, realizing just how far she's fallen. Cameron, who notices she's safe, gives Ian a piece of his mind on the matter. She wishes he would be quiet and understand the revelation she's having. Like the snow melting into this vivacious land, she is changing into something greater.

Margo meets Ian's dark expression. He stares knowingly as Cameron continues to shout obscenities in his face, but rather than arguing back, he steps suddenly out into the open air, just barely missing Cameron's shoulder who is standing two limbs directly beneath him, landing on the branch next to Margo.

She recognizes the focus in his eyes as something similar to her personal revelation. Can he be marked, too? She doubts he can conceal a mark while wearing barely more than a few seaweeds wrappings around his legs. And he certainly doesn't look like one of the Queen's Crew. " W ho are you?" she whispers.

"Someone who's taken an interest in Marks over time." He leans in until she can feel his breath on her forehead. "You see, I'm anxious to find the way out of here."

"Isn't that  my job?"

The smirk returns but for only a second. He takes a few steps back, and looks longingly into the Water Forest. "Trust me, I have more at stake."

The wall of water sways in the shifting winds. Though neither move, Margo's sharper senses have already planned her route of escape were the waves to overtake them. The path is quite obvious now that —

" IAN !" Cameron rages. He swings down between the two of them, causing Margo's focus to quiver. "I wasn't finished with you yet! What do you think you're doing to her? She could have been killed! Are you gonna keep staring in the water like an idiot?!"

"Cameron,  shhh !" Margo shouts, pressing her fingers against her temples. The finer details of the world around her blur in and out.

"You lost it," Ian states.

"Lost it?" asks Cameron too forcefully. "Lost what?! What did you do?!"

"Ahh, Cam!" she groans, annoyed he won't be quiet. The clarity dissipates, leaving the world a foggy blur of oversaturated colors once more. Has it always been so hard to see? She drops her hands. "It's gone...."

"Didn't expect it to  last this early on," says Ian, dropping to the branch below. "Just wanted you to get a glimpse at what being a Mark means."

The towering wall no longer glistens its rippled reflections upon the forest as dusk approaches. The trio meander through the tangling of greenery back to where Margo left Faux hours  earlier to  find that, thankfully, she hadn't wandered off . She cannot help but wonder how Ian knew to activate those sharper senses. She wishes they'd lasted but is thankful to have experienced it. If anything, it means she only has more to practice.

"Guess I really messed the day up," says Margo once they reached Faux. "We were supposed meet the Witch by nightfall...."

" You didn't put the Water Forest there," Cameron reminds her with a little too much edge to his voice. Though Margo tried her best to explain what happened, Cameron has yet to forgive Ian for the earlier incident.

"You say that like it's my doing," Ian snaps.

"Not you specifically. But your kind did."

"My kind? Believe what you want, but the Queen asked us to move it there. We only did what we were told."

"The Queen?" Margo asks nervously. She recalls Ian talking with that other  Siren , Derek, about the Queen but didn't imagine him to have any direct contact with her.

" Sirens work for her," says Cameron. "That's why we shouldn't trust him."

"Hold it!" Ian holds his hands up in defense. "Yeah, we work for her, but it's not like we're her Crew or anything. We were sucked into this position just like you were sucked into this world. I can't help it if you're too ignorant to understand that."

"We just need to get through the water and get out of here." Cameron says.

"He saw my marks and saved my life," Margo says firmly. "I trust him."

He stares down at her, unable to speak.

"What happened to you trusting in my trust?" she asks him. "You said, when we left, that you trusted my decision as the Marked One."

"I never — That was before he threw you." But he's unable to conjure a good argument. "Oh, alright. Fine, Margo."

"I don't want you two bickering either." She points between the two of them.

"Nothing to worry about," Ian says before turning to Cameron. "Think of this as a business transaction. I help you through, and then we part ways. Done deal."

"Well, what are you getting out of this?" Cameron mumbles.

"Never mind that," he says.

"We can stay in that clearing tonight," says Margo in attempt to change the subject. "But it's still a little light out. I feel bad for the waste."

Cameron turns back  suddenly wearing a grin on his face. "I had something in mind."

She is placed feet apart in a loosened stance in front of Cameron.

Ian rests against a nearby tree, helping himself to a sizable portion of citrosea, now fully clothed seeing as Cameron found it unfit for him to travel in such minimal coverings. Cameron willingly offered him his spare clothes; though, he didn't have any extra shoes. Ian waved the matter off, stating he prefers to feel the earth as he traverses anyway. He kindly thanked him for his generosity, and the two haven't spoken since.

"Fists near your face. Stay relaxed." Cameron demonstrates as he speaks to Margo. "Now, try to take me out."

Staring at him with uncertainty, Margo doesn't wish to hurt him and feels rather intimidated. Her tiny fists suddenly feel awkward and bulky atop her skinny wrists.

"Don't chicken out on me, Margo. This is part of being marked."

"Expected to fight?" she scoffs. "Why can't I simply find an escape with wit?"

Cameron's fists tighten in front of his face. "Because wit gets you killed unless you know how to defend yourself."

Margo dramatically drops her shoulders before taking her position again. "Fine, Cam." She focuses, wishing to recall the sharpness from her earlier freefall. "So do you want me to just punch you, or to actually take you out?"

A grin spreads across his face. "Let's just see what happens, okay?"

He acts as if those were not two completely separate aspects. She shrugs the thought away and no longer hesitates. Her feet carry her to him no longer afraid. The attack is no more real than this world and simply practice for what lies ahead. And he's strong; he'll surely block her.

Her back folds over — Ian perks up, spilling his lap-full of citrosea upon the ground — and in a flash twists her body in a whirlwind. Completing the spin, her leg outstretches from above, clocking Cameron directly across the cheekbone. Her boot meets his skin with a sickening sound. A trail of blood litters the air and a cloud of dirt disperses as he hits the ground.

Margo drops to her knees, calling out for Cameron who sits up after a moment and speaks in a slurred manner. "Wow, you've really got a kick in you. Have you been working out?" He rubs his cheek and spits blood.

"Does working on your grandparent's farm count?" She laughs only once she's certain he's alright.

Cameron's brow furrows. "What are you doing working for them?"

"Er, part time job." It almost sounds like a question, but he responds with only a nod before carefully rising.

"Well, I have to say, that was an impressive maneuver. Let's try it again."

Ian clears his throat halting their lesson. "This is utterly unrealistic. I'm stepping in for a moment, if you don't mind."

Cameron plants his feet. "Actually, I do mind."

"Thanks, but I'm more comfortable working with Cameron," Margo says timidly.

"Well, we wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable in the midst of a battle." Ian crosses his arms and steps between them. "And in a battle, the Queen's Crew won't stand there and let you whack them till they fall over. They're going to fight back. And, no offense," he speaks to Cameron, "but I don't think you have the guts to attack her back in these...exercises." He says the  word 'exercises' as if it isn't the appropriate label for what Margo and Cameron are conducting.

"I'm not going to let you fight her!"

"Are  you going to fight her?" Ian's voice is smoothly cruel, yet convincing.

"Maybe we could try it, and just see where it goes," says Margo.

Hands in tight fists at his side, Cameron simply storms off to the edge of their little clearing to await a chance to fulfill his promise to Nick. To him, it's no longer worth the argument with her.

"Alright." Ian speaks only to Margo and is obviously enjoying himself, a rakish smile in place. "Attack me."

Standing before him, Margo calculates ways to take him down. It's the first time she's noticed it: Ian, though only half a foot taller than  miniature Margo, is quite menacing. Rather skinny himself, he's taken the build of a runner: thin but every ounce of his being pure muscle. His wispy hair flutters in the wind in a rugged way.

The smirk returns. "Come on, Mark, I'm waiting."

Her annoyance resurfaces. "Do you even remember my name?"

He watches the crinkle in her brow for a moment before answering. "Margo Grisby."

"First and last. Impressive." She crouches slightly lower. "I'm going to attack you now."

"That is the point, my lady. On with it."

She charges toward him, clearing the distance between them in an instant. Ian stands completely unmoved, waiting.

Reeling her arm back for the punch, Margo recalls what Cameron said about her powerful kick and shifts her weight at the last second, lowering her fist and kicking out her leg. It's aiming straight between Ian's eyes, there's no doubt about it, but just before impact, he calmly pulls his head to the side, ducking easily out of the way.

Leg flying into open air, confusion spreads across Margo face.

As her body passes him, his arm stretches in front of him effortlessly, and before Margo can even react she feels the blow from the back of his hand. Her body arcs away from him without much balance, the leg she kicked has yet to reach the ground. The forest is a blur of green as he spins her around, and then a second blow meets the back of her neck.

The dirt ground approaches; she cringes. Pain lurches at her shoulder, a wrenching pull against her arm.

"Gotcha," he says coolly.

She doesn't hit the ground. All she can do is breathe heavily, and stare at the soil no more than three inches from the tip of her nose. The pain in her shoulder strengthens as Ian pulls her to her feet; she staggers to a standing position. A second arm grabs her by the waist.

"Alright, agreed," Cameron says to Ian. "She needs a bit of help. But you could have gone easier on her second try."

Ian releases her wrist, easing her straining ligaments, and stares down at her quizzically. "She's weaker than I imagined."

"I can hear you, you know?" Margo glares up at him from between strands of wavy  hair .

"You know what you did wrong?" he asks. "You used the same move twice. Too predictable."

Cameron settles back in the shade, too tired to butt in, or perhaps he's beginning to agree with the  Siren .

"Obviously, you have more lower strength than upper," Ian continues. "So that will work to your advantage. Most of the Queen's Crew use their upper bodies to do all of the work, so it'll be a surprise to see someone pull these impressive kicks on them. Now," he loosens his shoulders up and crouches, "Try to attack again."

This time Margo holds her own against him for a total of four seconds. Before she can even draw back her fist, she's pinned to the ground, fully wedged between Ian and the dirt.

"This isn't working," he says. He pushes himself to his knees and helps Margo up. "To be honest, you have no form whatsoever."

"Isn't that the point of this practice?" Margo mouths.

"Right. Well, then, we'd better take another step back and go over some basic techniques."

There are more possible ways to kick than Margo had ever known, along with basic self-defense techniques. For example, if an attacker comes up from behind, she can thrust her elbow back at him popping him in the eye. Or if she's in a tight bind, she can kick her leg straight up while twisting her body weight knocking him in the cheek. And when all else fails, hit him in the groin. Margo teases, asking if they need to practice that one; they both cringe at the idea.

Once she's successfully gotten the hang of the basics, she moves on to practicing attacks again. Every time she comes at Ian, he wins the fight, if it can even be labeled as a fight. He pins her to the ground without any harm, but with enough force to allow her to feel the effects of a real fight. Cameron watches from the edge of the woods with eager eyes, forcing himself to stay out of the way.

Ian's grip forces her against a tree in a throbbing crunch, the rough bark cutting into her skin, when a sudden thought fills her mind. "But what if —" Margo begins but shuts her mouth, too frightened to even know the answer.

"What?" they both ask in unison.

Ian loosens his grip, and Cameron emerges from the trees with a worrisome face.

Her insecurities return. These practices are most likely a useless attempt to ease her mind against the Queen, but her gut tells her she's already fighting a lost battle. "When they attack... Won't it be with guns?"

Cameron relaxes.

"There are no guns in Jamyria," says Ian straightforwardly.

"The Queen is from a different time than us," explains Cameron. "If they come armed, it'll be with swords, not guns."

"They  will come armed." Ian has a sure look on his face.

"They only might." Cameron is obviously trying to sugarcoat their predicament, but the truth is what Margo needs in a time like this. What good will a shield do on the matter? "There's nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about?" she questions, suddenly infuriated. "What do you expect us to do if they  do come armed? Even if it's just with swords."

"We fight," Ian says boldly. The two of them turn to find a fierce look on his face. "We'll fight one off until we retrieve his sword. It won't be an easy feat, but it can be done. And then we'll fight the others on equal ground."

"Wait a minute!" Cameron shouts. "Now you're a part of the 'we?' You're just here to get us through the Water Forest. A business transaction, remember? That's it."

"And you expect me to just go prancing back into the water when I'm finished? I'm done serving the Queen. Besides, you two are starting to grow on me." He grins. "And from the looks of it, Margo won't be properly trained by sunset."

"They're like parasites, these  Sirens ," Cameron complains. "Sure, stick around, eat our food!"

Ian steps forward, his face suddenly the same as it was when he vowed to Derek that he'd help Margo. "I will fight with the Marked One until I die or am freed from this place, whichever may come first." Perhaps it's the accent, but he has sureness in his tenor, an air of nobility. And then, he does something so unexpected Margo's cheeks warm. Ian bows before her, his hair swinging in front of his lowered face like a curtain enveloping him. It is brief, and when he rises, he smiles.

Margo looks back at him, speechless. Never has anyone bowed to her. She isn't sure she'd ever seen anyone bow, other than on television. The move leaves even Cameron without any other protests.

"It's getting late ," Cameron says after an awkward lull. " Better start settling in, get some  food."

"One more go?"  Margo asks them both.

"Ahh," Cameron whines, heading over to where Faux rests.

Ian steps back in front of her. "You ready?"

Margo lifts her fists, analyzing his position. He stands loosely with his hands barely blocking his face, smirk still in place, feet in no distinct stance. Completely out of focus. Probably expecting this to be as easy as the other times.

Margo races forward, the smile on his face only irritating her more, fuel to the fire. He grabs her by the shoulders twisting her toward a tree to pin her against it. But he broke his first rule: he used the same maneuver twice. Instead of allowing him to force her shoulder against the bark again, she kicks her leg at the tree and uses it as leverage to pop her other leg up into the air and over him, somehow locking his head between her knees. It takes all the strength in her to twist her body while in midair and against his grip, but she's able to bring him down.

His body crashes to the ground with an  oomph . Her leg absorbs the fall, too.

But her job isn't over yet. She scrambles around with him, gaining some control of his hands, the shock of her advance having not yet worn off. She grabs a fistful of his hair and shoves his face toward the dirt, freezing not more than an inch above ground.

"Gotcha," she says. Now who's smirking?

Ian growls, beneath her weight.

Cameron runs up to them, pulling her into his arms while shouting praise.

"Wow," says Ian, still lying on the ground.

Cameron squeezes her tighter, when Ian suddenly shoots upright looking into the forest. Faux, too, has sensed something's presence. Margo's head whips toward whatever had disturbed the trees. But there is nothing but silence. Still, Margo freezes awaiting danger. The beating of her heart quickens.

"Well, Margo," Ian whispers, quietly jumping to his feet. "We're going to celebrate tonight!"

He slithers  away ,  not making a sound as he disappears into the trees.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: Ian's Insight

"I still don't trust him," Cameron says.

The forest darkens as the two hurry to gather wood before night can overtake them.

"You seemed to be getting along better with him."

"He's a  Siren , Margo. They're bred to protect, to fight. They serve only the Queen."

"But he said that —"

"I know what he said!" Cameron barks. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "But that doesn't mean he's telling the truth. It's very possible that he's working for the Queen, spying on us. He could lead us right into an ambush. He could make the bubble collapse while we're under it — who knows! There's a hundred ways for him to get rid of us."

"I still don't even know what a bubble is, but I trust him. I heard them talking down there, and they wanted to help —"

"Wait." Cameron places his hand to Margo's lips. "Another one saw you?"

"Yeah, but he was even nicer than Ian."

He stares absently into the woods. "This is bad, Margo. Tell me everything that happened when you were in there."

She doesn't hesitate and tells him exactly what took place leading up to the moment that she and Ian broke through surface of the water when they met Cameron in the treetops. Cameron remains silent, nodding frequently, until she finishes.

"This is bad..." he finally repeats. "The other one could be in there warning the Queen  that Ian has you."

"No, he's not," says Margo firmly. She plants her feet and glares at him.

"We should get your bed ready," says Cameron. "I don't think I'll be sleeping with him around."

Margo makes a face. "You can't be serious! You're just not going to sleep while he's here? He didn't sound like he was going anywhere anytime soon, so I think you should just accept the fact that he's not going to hurt us."

"You don't know that," he mutters.

"What do you think he heard, anyway?" she asks looking out in the direction Ian headed. She bends to collect the branches she dropped.

"Who knows? Those freaks have good hearing. Could've been anything."

"Well, where do  you think he is?"

"Margo, I don't know that boy at all, so how would I know where he went?"

A hard crease forms between Cameron's eyes before he turns to head back toward their camp.

"Don't be so angry," she whispers. "You'll force away needed help."

"If only you'd been here longer, you'd understand...."

"What have they done that's so bad, then? Stop avoiding the truth and tell me!"

Cameron whirls around furiously. "Have you already forgotten what they did to you? Ian might have saved you, but what about that Water Spirit? What do you think her intentions of bringing you in there were? She either wanted you dead or to become one of them. Or maybe she saw your marks and was trying to get you turned into the Queen since the Water Forest leads straight to the castle." Margo's eyebrows stretch wide in shock. "From the looks of it, she wanted you dead. That's the thing with them. It's like...like they're bitter because of what they are. They want to doom others to their fate, bring as many down with them as they can.... So don't act like you don't know what's 'so bad about them' anymore!"

Once he finishes, Margo is too frightened to speak. She waits, eyes still wide, until his jaw unclenches and his breathing slows, letting the rise and fall of his chest resume its normal pattern.

"But not Ian," she says calmly. "No, he isn't like them."

"Geez," she hears from behind he r . "If you're going to talk about me, at least have the dignity to do it behind my back."

"Ian! You're alright!" she shouts, leaping excitedly into his direction.

"'Course I am."

Cameron's face remains unchanged, though his body once again tenses. "I was just filling Margo in on the purpose of the  Sirens ."

Ian shrugs. "I could've done that. We're transformed into these freaks and told to serve the Queen — and only the Queen — by protecting the Water Forest. Well, guarding it really. You see, the Water Forest is basically a  barrier around certain parts of the castle. If anyone gets in, we're to either turn them into one of us or let them die — whichever of the two punishments suits the crime. Your punishment should have been the latter. Lucky for you, we want out of this hellhole as much as you. Oh, and we're not supposed to leave the water. Ever. Basically, I'm going against everything I've ever been told by just stepping out of the Water Forest, but more than that," his eyes narrow, "you are the number one rule, and I'm breaking it."

Margo stares back at him, still absorbing the fact that she had been so close to the Queen's castle only hours ago.

"You think that's going to win us over?" Cameron asks. "Because you're supposedly breaking a rule?"

"If he wanted me dead, he would have let me drown."

"Unless the Queen wants you alive," Cameron states.

"She wouldn't...would she?" It seems much simpler to just put a hit out for the New Mark. But Margo recalls something Janie had said: the Queen wanted to finish Nick off herself .

"You'll find any excuse to turn her against me, huh?" says Ian. "Do you want to know the truth?"

Cameron snorts.

Margo is torn. What if the Queen does want her alive? And if Cameron's right, she could be putting both of their lives in jeopardy.

"Of course, I want to get out of here," says Ian, "but, call me 'one of little faith,' if you wish, but I don't see how someone so small can conquer the Queen and her entire Crew."

The comment strikes Margo, pulling her from her reverie. Did she hear him correctly? She's defending him, and yet he repays her with an insult?

"Do you even know what you're doing? Or how you're supposed to do it?" Ian continues. "Just going to wing it with this one here?" he nods in Cameron's direction. "Good luck with that."

Anger pulses through Margo' s veins. She  hates that his words are true.

"I think it's time you went your own way," Cameron says.

Ian shrugs. "Whatever. Enjoy getting around the Water Forest. It's about a two day journey that way." He turns back toward the forest with his arm outstretched in the direction to travel. He stops and turns back, red in the face. "By the way, I just caught a deer...by hand. Hope you enjoy it." His shoulders slump over as he continues on.

"Yeah, whatever, water boy!" Cameron shouts after him.

As he walks away through the trees, Margo remembers his  pained face on the way down from the Water Forest. What can torment him so? "Wait," she calls.

"What are you doing?" Cameron whispers, catching her by the elbow. "We finally got rid of the third wheel."

"We can't just send him off like that. Not after one fight."

"Sure we can."

"Is that really what this is about: jealousy?" Margo can't help but to laugh. "Ian, you can stay."

He stops and looks back in surprise. "You don't have to do that, you know? Most people don't like me."

"Well, can you at least try to keep the obnoxiousness to a minimum?"

"No guarantees."

Margo smiles. "So there are real animals here, too? Not just made up ones like shikas?"

The boys can only laugh, and Margo is thrilled to supply them something to agree on.

They drop armfuls of firewood when they reach their camp. Draped over a fallen tree is a ten-point buck. Faux turns away from the tree she's picking fruit off to greet them with her strange whimpering call.

The boys clean the animal while Margo is on fire-starting duty. It takes nearly twice as long for her to get a light as it did Cameron. More humor is found in that for some reason.

O nce it comes to life, they finish preparing the meat. Cameron carefully skims his knife beneath the skin until the muscles are completely bare, and they place the meat on a flat stone in the center of the fire, serving as a sort of skillet. Ian finds some green shrub to go with the meat which he roasts on the open flames. The warm aroma twists the hollow ache in Margo's stomach.

"It's hot," Cameron warns as he plops a piece of the shoulder onto her plate. The heat goes unnoticed, though. She devours it.

Margo forgot how much she loves venison. She last had it when Owen still lived at home. He used to bring home a buck or two during deer season.

"I know you're not in the mood," says Cameron, setting his empty plate aside, "But I think it's best you practice using your power some more."

Before Margo can speak, Ian cuts her off. "I suppose you're going to teach her how to use it? Do you have any form of power in you?" He rises to his feet and circles the fire to where they're seated, his bone of meat dangling at his side.

"Well, no, but —"

"Do you plan on guessing how it works, then?"

"Nick explained most of —"

"Margo,  Sirens have power, so I would suggest learning from someone who actually knows what they're doing."

"Well, Nick asked Cameron to teach me," she responds lamely. Although, Ian's offer makes more sense.

"He's right," Cameron says so quietly Margo isn't sure whether she actually heard it.

"She needs to learn fast, mate. And no offense, but it'll come faster from someone who knows what it feels like — even if I only know how to move water. It's better than nothing."

"And this bubble you create ought to be interesting. She needs to see how intense this power can be," Cameron adds, looking up.

"Yeah," he agrees.

"Wait, so now you want him to help?" Margo asks in confusion.

"I know what I'm doing," Ian says. "But I think it'd be best if we practiced after we're through the Water Forest. I need to save up my energy for the bubble."

Cameron nods. "Margo, you might as well get your rest, too. You've already been through enough today."

Ian takes one of the mats and a blanket, while Margo very willingly offers to share Cameron's. Having a stomach full of meat rather than just fruit is pleasing, and they begin to  drift  off . Cameron wraps his arm around Margo who looks up at him hoping to catch his eyes once more. But he was wrong about something else: he won't stay awake to keep watch over Ian, for he is already asleep.

*

What is left for her to dream? She'd rather lay awake than have to face what is sure to come next. It's been months since this series of dreams has haunted her, and yet on they play sequentially, carefully recalling every detail she longs to forget.

Just know that —

That what? Kylie's last words have hung in the air since. Her inexplicable calm, the change in her expression...what made her speak this broken sentence?

Margo sits up on her mat and silently slips out of the covers, unable to let it consume anymore this night. There's barely a hint of fire remaining but enough light to make her way to a nearby tree which she props up against.

Cameron asked her to save her energy for tomorrow, but if he only knew the images she sees each time she shuts her eyes, those graphic displays ingrained in her lids, he would be sitting right next to her trying to keep her awake. How will she ever overcome this? With a sigh, she lifts her hand, facing it palm side up, and pictures every detail on a penny.

After  a couple of hours of practice pass, Margo exclaims, "I can't do it!" in an agitated whisper and throws her lump of copper into the embers. "It's just getting worse."

What's left of the fire pops and hisses a few sparks into the air at her disturbance, before dying back down into a pile of glowing fragments.

"You know," Ian whispers back. Margo starts, unaware that either of the boys  was awake. "They say all marks contain different powers. That when even the same mark the Queen bears is dispersed among her Crew, different — talents, I suppose you could call them — these talents emerge.  Like a fingerprint, each mark is unique. " A soothing cadence moves his words. "But also, when the same mark is shared, it latches to the individual who bears it in its own way, ending with unique results."

Margo stares into the glowing flecks of orange on his eyes as they reflect the dying embers. His familiarity with marks takes her aback. The way he explains them with such ease yet with complexity makes her, again, question whether he's had experience with them himself.

"I'm betting your mark is different than Nick's," he continues. "He's so used to teaching the people of that town how to create things that he's stuck in his ways, not even considering the possibility that you might not learn in the same way."

Margo is shaking her head choosing to ignore that she isn't Nick's first student. "He said I caught on quickly. So this must be my...talent."

"You're lacking, Margo. You're not good at this. At all."

The words sting, no doubt. But Margo isn't sure whether to be offended at them or appreciative in his honesty. It's just like their fighting practice. This boy, though abrasive, speaks without edits.

"Nick said I was doing well. But... Oh, what would a mermaid know about it anyway?" she mutters much too silent for a human to hear, and it is too dark for lips to be read.

But Ian is no mere human.

"Stick your hand out and see," he challenges.

Margo's embarrassment hides any reason to hold back. She places her hand out as if to create another penny-like structure unsure if she's humoring him or truly handing her trust over to him .

"Now," he continues. "You understand the flow of its energy more than anything, am I right?"

She nods, surprised he can pick up so quickly.

"Focus on that alone. Not any pennies. Not an object at all. Let the energy flow." It only takes her a moment now to pull the source to her fingertips, and Ian somehow recognizes this. "Good, now gently release it."

A ball of light breaks through the pores of her skin, hovering above her palm. It quivers and bends like a floating, glowing amoeba emitting its blue light.

"Wow," she sighs. "How did you know to...? Ian, this is amazing."

The blue light on Ian's smug face casts eerie shadows, a menacing grin. But Margo is too excited to notice.

"Is this my...power?" she asks slowly reaching her left fingertips to the ball of energy. A violent spark ignites, the crack of a cannon bellows. The hand she uses to touch the light  is thrust away. The surge shudders down her left arm and through her body, an electric current rushing her veins. The light disperses above the campfire in a whirlwind of power, showering them with what seems to be more of the electric sparks, but wind up harmless as they bounce off of the three of their sheltered heads as softly as feathers.

The light pulsates around them a few times until it burns out, dissipating into the night. The glow of the embers and danc ing stars overhead are once again the only  ligh t .

"What. Did. You. Do?" Cameron shouts at Ian, having awakened to this wild burst of power.

"That girl...." Ian sounds near astonished, pointing at shivering Margo. "Her mark is unreal! I mean, obviously she needs to learn how to control it, but  wow ! It's really something."

Margo stares into the embers clutching her ribs, hurled over and slightly rocking.  What just happened? That tiny bit of power magnified into a blazing beast. She's certain the boys couldn't tell what truly happened when her fingers met the source. Her arm was sent backward, repelled really. Is that my 'talent'? Shocking the mess out of people, including myself?

*

"Dear Nick," she reads aloud. "We've come across a snag in our journey and are no longer able to keep Faux with us. We're sending her back to you hoping she makes it there without harm. Sorry this is brief. I know you'll understand. Take care, M and C."

She folds up the simple letter and pins it to the leather of Faux's reign who looks back in understanding. It's impossible for her to continue travel considering how skittish she is around the Water Forest.

"She'll be fine," Cameron assures her. "They're smart animals." He pats Faux gently on the nose and says, "Okay, girl. Go on. Back to the Central City, back to Nick."

She whines, but still obeys, turning and slowly heading back through the trees. The white beauty disappears into the neon forest.

"I wish we could have told Nick more," says Margo.

"He'll understand. Better to be brief than to risk any word getting to the wrong person." Cameron frowns down at her. He seems to be keeping an even closer eye on Margo since her power lost control the night before.

"Ready?" asks Ian.

They make their way back to the edge of the water which ripples before them like turquoise silk. The sky above them is clearer than the prior day, causing the water to glow even more vividly.

"This will take all of my concentration," Ian warns them, the water's filtered light bouncing off his cheek. "It'll be both physically and mentally tiring on my behalf. Imagine, Margo, using the same concentration it takes to create a penny for the entirety of a day, only far greater."

She nods in silence.

"Alright!" Ian says as if pumping himself up. "Here we go!"

Stepping right up to the water's edge, Ian holds his hand inches from its surface, his reflection mimicking his every move. Cameron scoots Margo forward so they are standing only a few feet behind. Ian's palm emits a white glow, and the surface of the water ripples and bubbles as if it is boiling. The moving water illuminates, growing a brighter blue until it's almost as white as the glow of his hand.

In a grand movement, he circles his working hand over his head, pulling an immense wave of water with it and creating a small cove into the Water Forest. The water hovers several feet overhead completely in his control other than a few escaping droplets and a whirl of mist.

"Come on," he says in a strained voice.

They scurry into the cove. The ground beneath is of a different texture than that outside the water. It is mushy, slick, and covered in  scum . Seaweed now lays prostrate and blackened tree trunks are exposed to warm air.

Realizing it will be some time before seeing sunlight again, Margo turns back and swears she catches sight of Faux watching as they disappear into the water. Ian drops his hand and a wave of water crashes down, sealing off their entryway. The forest shimmers behind the clear drape. Before the water above can flood their opening, Ian pushes his other hand in front to stabilize the bubble. Mist gathers on Margo's face from the sea spray which she tries blinking away. The only light comes from Ian's working hands, interrupting the black sea ahead.

"Now what?" Margo asks over the rushing sound of water.

"We walk," says Cameron dragging Margo closer to Ian once more. Without warning, Ian pushes his hands in a circular pattern causing the underwater bubble to shift in accord. A wave of water swirls overhead once more before spilling behind. It takes Ian the next half hour to find his rhythm in the circular, fluid motion of his power, and in little time they find the path they had been travelling on from the Central City. They scurry down at a grueling speed. Clams retreat into their shells and fish flop about desperately as Ian exposes them, though no sea creature suffers as much as he. His dark hair is plastered to his face and neck, whether due to mist or  sweat , Margo is not sure.

"Is he going to make it?" she whispers.

"A little more trust would be appreciated," Ian snaps.

Cameron frowns down at her.

Being under the Water Forest reminds Margo of yesterday's mishap. How scary it had been being taken by that creature. How frightening to think the panic in Cameron's face might have been her last memory of him. How the burn in her nose as she gave into the water still lingers....

Margo looks down upon her arm. She told Cameron it was nothing, but the piercings and scratches running down her forearm are just another reminder of how very close she was to losing her life yesterday. Another reminder of the seriousness of who she is in this world. There is a light to the story, though: Ian, Derek. Without them, she would have died. She can only hope that Cameron might see that someday.

The glowing foam of waves covers all access to the world above, making it impossible to view. She may never know what happened to him, where the other boy who helped save her ended up....

*

Yesterday

He's three hours late. Three hours past his usual overtime, if that's where he truly is.

Pacing is nearly impossible in the tiny room, but she manages all the same, fluttering back and forth while creating a miniature cyclone behind her every turn. It is times such as these when she feels the claustrophobia of living inside the dark metal box she's grown to call home. The walls are near black, the only light from the overhanging lanterns, which filters down in a greenish tint.

The noises from neighbors in the adjacent homes are hardly enough of a distraction on this worrisome night. She can imagine what they must think of the racket she creates. In every 'pace,' the current whirls the articles hanging above — lanterns, the market's catch, shells, and other trinkets her promised mate has collected over the years — creating a wind chime effect.

It's possible, she considers, that he's working a double shift and not just overtime. That isn't unheard of after the coming of a new enterer. It was only a few days ago when the sea's surface froze. The Queen is  can be overly cautious upon a new arrival.

There is a clanging knock against the metal of her door.

Her teal-colored tail automatically whips her in the direction of the sound, sending her across the room in seconds. She stops abruptly at the door, letting the deep red locks of her hair continue to spread in all directions around her pale face. She is considered one of the more privileged  Sirens having gone through the full transformation into a mermaid.

The door grinds heavily as she pulls it open, a lovely sound after the hours of waiting for his return, but she's surprised to face three other Guards of the Water Forest whom she does not recognize — two of them  mermen , one an unfinished  Siren .

"What's...going on? Where's my mate?" she asks nervously and in fear of something horrible having happened to him. However, they show no signs of remorse. On the contrary, the faces of the  mermen are unemotional, the other eager and leering greedily.

"The Queen would like a word," says the unfinished one. "Men."

Upon this simple command, the two mermen draw their spears and in seconds have the blades pressed against her neck. Her heartbeat quickens, but she remains silent. She understands how these men operate — her mate  is one of these men. Any sign of weakness and they will  extort it .

"I suggest you keep up," orders the unfinished one. Clearly he's the ringleader of the charade.

This is bad , she thinks. The Queen has never called her down to the castle before . The only people she's known who were called had in some way betrayed her Majesty, and those usually never return to their homes....

They swim through the city. Metal homes stacked upon one another nearly to the surface create rounded buildings like underwater skyscrapers. The dotted white lights from within windows light their way between the buildings. The eyes of the other merpeople and waterfolk follow her as she is escorted away from the city and into the short stretch of woods which leads to the foot of Mountain Jeidone. She knows the way well; there is no reason for them to lead her in such a cruel manner. She wishes they would ease their blades up a little, at least give her more than three inches of leeway.

They follow the narrow tunnel carved through the side of the mountain. The cave is lit by waterproof torches. Finally, they enter the underbelly of the castle's dungeons. The lighted stone room overhead comes into view. They escort her to the surface, and lower their blades only upon breaking through the water. The cool air hits her face, a feeling she has not experienced in a long time.

"Been gettin' into trouble, have yeh?" asks a man with a raspy voice from behind her. She turns to see two of the Queen's Crew, apparently awaiting her arrival.

She bites her lip, still not understanding what's happening.

"We'll take her from here." Two men reach down and pull her from the water by her elbows. She turns back to the others who hover below the surface, glaring.

The land guards don't seem to understand the urgency of having a  Siren out in open air. Water trickles down her tail, each drop painful to lose. The air against her skin as he carries her through the stone halls feels as though it will crack her scales and split her tail in two.

After several minutes' walk, they enter a barren room but for a narrow glass-covered tub in its center and a tall machine in the corner. It is a boxy machine much like a complex photo booth covered with wires and mechanisms. The Crewman who isn't carrying her cranks a set of gears on the side of the tub to loosen its glass top. She's dropped in without a word and soaks up the much needed saturation of the water. They silently tighten the glass back in place and leave the room. She feels the vibration of the door slamming shut and knows she is alone.

"Are you ready to talk?" says a smooth voice so magnificent the mermaid cannot help but think it a lovely dream. It's been several hours since she was taken in. She stretches her face up to the glass to see what she can from the limitation of the tub.  Not a dream, she thinks as the person speaking comes into view,  a nightmare .

A Crew Member steps up to unlock the glass top. He pulls her out and drops her onto the stone floor without bothering to be gentle.

Standing in front of the mermaid is the Queen of Jamyria, more graceful than any other being she's ever laid eyes on. She wears her usual silk dress — today a deep scarlet — with matching garnets and onyx garnishing her neck and fingers. She moves in a fluid motion as she steps forward.

"Don't be rude," she says to the Crew Member.

Though reluctant, he obeys her order and struts over to the door where he turns a small knob next to the frame. A light mist begins to fall from the ceiling collecting on every surface in the room. The Queen remains dry.

"Now, Seora," she says to the mermaid. "Tell me everything."

She wishes to run, but her fins render her useless. Drops of dew form on her skin and scales. "I...don't know what you want me to say," says Seora.

"I'm sure we can come up with a way to make you talk." The Queen smiles, seeming to like this idea. The Crew Member shuffles his feet and stands a little straighter, agreeing silently. Seora understands why he is there now. One word, and it's over for her.

"Please," she says. "Tell me what you need to know."

The Queen kneels down to her level. "Where is he?" she simply says.

Panic rushes through her. This is about her mate? "Where is who?"

As if struck by a cobra, the Queen slaps her hard across the cheek, leaving the sting of needles on her skin. "You know exactly who. The New Mark —  where is he ?"

Seora pauses, even more confused. Her eyes dart between the Queen and her Crew Member, unsure of how to process this.

"The Marked One?" she finally splutters. The Queen raises her hand again, but Seora cringes and cries. "I — I know nothing of the Marked One! I didn't even know he was here, it's not yet been fifty years!"

"You know exactly where he is! Now tell me, before I have you killed," shrieks the Queen.

"How could I know?" she screams. "I know nothing of him!"

"We have evidence that your mate helped him. A witness..."

"Derek?" she asks panicking again. "I haven't seen Derek since yesterday morning. I was worried when he didn't come home, but I assumed he was taking a double shift...or overtime. I don't know — I just...he never came home...."

The Queen frowns. "Either you're telling the truth, or you're covering for him. We'll get what we need, though. You will stay here, and we'll show you what real pain is. Eventually, you'll talk. Or else he'll come looking for his mate, and we'll get our answers." She turns to leave the room. "And then we'll kill you both."

The Crewman by her side picks Seora back up but as he  lowers her into the tub she calls, "Your majesty."

The Queen turns back at the door. "Yes?" She smiles, thrilled to have won so easily.

"You will fall." Seora's voice has darkened. "If the era of the New Mark has begun, I will fight until you are dead, or until I have been killed. As a mermaid, I might have been expected to serve you, but I will fight for the New Mark...not you. And one day...you  will fall."

The Queen smiles and laughs cruelly. "You will die in that tub."

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: Cleanse

A black smudge of slime covers Margo's backside. The path changed from the soggy dirt road to slick rocky terrain when the three of them began their slow ascent up the foothills of Mount Myriam. Nearly eleven hours into their journey and Ian still pulls the water in a rhythmic fashion over their heads and down behind them, Cameron and Margo scuttling along at his heels.

On occasion, Margo glances down at the brown etching in her inner arms. She cannot help but wonder how much stronger her own gift of power is. She also fears the strength of the  Queen , aware that she has full control over her mark as does her Crew in its entirety.

For what feels like the hundredth time, Margo's stomach twists, letting out a desperate groan. The underwater hike is draining, but to do so without a single bit of nutrition is beginning to take its toll. They refrain from eating for Ian's sake. He refused taking even a single bite in fear of losing control of the bubble, so it's hardly fair for the others to eat under the circumstances.

The skin under Ian's eyes has grayed, and his lighted hands gradually fade over the afternoon. The whirling mist plasters his hair to his forehead and neck.

"Look!" Margo shouts, her voice echoing in the chamber.

The water before them is no longer the ink black they have grown accustomed to but a deep indigo. The end of the dark chasm nears.

At this sight, Ian's circular motion grows fiercer. The glow of his palms returns to its fullest, and Margo and Cameron's pace quickens in order to keep up.

Sunlight filters through the upcoming water twinkling the surface, and at last they reach the edge. Ian delicately raises the fine liquid sheet creating a suspended archway to allow their exit. He drapes the curtain of water behind them, smoothing it away as if the surface was never disturbed.

Passing the boys, Margo leans her head back to  feel the heat of the sun upon her skin. The sweet Jamyrian air creates a warm ambiance which she welcomes after their cold, dark descent.

Ian staggers away from the water, nearly falling to the ground. Margo barely catches him in time. She steadies him in a droopy standing position, his eyes unfocused and cheeks turning faint green.

"Cam, your pack," Margo says urgently. "Get him something to eat."

"Water," Ian breaths in a scratchy voice.

Cameron fumbles through his bag just as Ian falls to the ground, pulling Margo down with him. She holds him upright in a sitting position as best as she can where Cameron rushes over with a canteen. In less than a minute, Ian had drained it in its entirety.

"Some food," she says. "He must be starving after —"

"No, we have to...move away from here," Ian pants. "Too close. The bubble...it might attract attention. We have to keep going."

"Come on," says Cameron pulling Ian by his other arm. Together they lift him to his feet. "He's right. It's not safe here."

Though his feet drag behind him, Ian attempts to walk between the two of them. Margo selfishly misses Faux for such occasions. It is difficult travelling uphill whilst supporting a boy of solid muscle, especially through the ever-thickening pathway.

No more than half a mile later, Margo turns back to find the Water Forest completely obscured by trees. She suggests they set up camp, and both boys agree they are fairly safe within the confines of the forest, though they tread several hundred feet off the path just to be safe.

Together, they prop Ian up against a tree covered in wart-like knots. Margo wastes no time distributing rations of venison and citrosea. "Eat," she tells Ian and shoves his portion in his hands. "You look awful."

He needs no further instructions and devours his food in minutes. He helps himself to seconds. Margo spares Ian worried glances between chews.

"To be honest," says Ian once he has the energy. "I didn't think I'd make there for a second."

Margo's brows stretch wide; Cameron makes a sort of grimace. They both think the same thing: they weren't sure he'd make it either.

"Ah, don't give me that look! We made it, didn't we?"

The three burst into laughter and delve into reimagined stories of their journey, told with bounds of hyperbole. Soon the day grows darker until the sky fills with scattering stars. The subtle light shimmers through the trees, and the fire crackles with sparks that dance into the air.

"You two know a lot about each other considering you just entered the other day," says Ian after Cameron recalls the night Margo drove the Hederman's four wheeler into the creek.

"Actually," Margo says between laughs. "We knew each other before we entered."

Ian's face darkens, the shadows casting eerily across his cheeks.

"Yeah," says Cameron, oblivious to any change in Ian's behavior.

"Peculiar" is his only response, and on they carry tales of the present world and the real one they left behind — common treasures from home they no longer take for granted, sharing thoughts of escape, and plans to cherish life once they return home, for it can easily be stolen in an instant — until eventually they fade away into dreamless sleep.

The ever-clear sky paints a turquoise background beyond the lime treetops, not a wisp of a cloud in sight. It is Margo's sixth day in Jamyria and not a raindrop has presented itself in the midst of the jungle in which they travel. Much like the rainforests of the Real World, she imagines vast amounts of water are needed in order to sustain it. But this is an alternate world, one that defies nature.

Their journey has led them around the foot of Mount Myriam and on a steady descent. The trees thin and in their place are interwoven shrubs which Margo stomps through, taking the lead on the hike. Cameron swings his machete when trudging through the now non-existent path. Ian — who is more attentive having had a good night's rest and more than his share of venison — keeps close to their heels.

"Do you hear that?" Ian suddenly says.

Cameron halts mid-swing, and Margo freezes. She strains her ears to no avail.

"Come on," he shouts in excitement. "Let's go for a swim!" And with that he marches through the weeds ahead of them, pulling his shirt over his head.

"Where is he off to?" Margo asks, her brow wrinkling up in confusion.

"Probably heard the river. It should be coming up." Cameron beams, delighted their hike is nearing its end.

"I don't hear anything...."

"That's 'cause you're not a  Siren ," says Cameron with a bit of edge in his voice. He draws back a cluster of branches to allow Margo to pass. "A swim does sound nice."

Another several minutes pass before Margo and Cameron hear the bubbling of the stream. The river is nestled cozily between the overhanging trees and a bluff of rough, rust-colored rock. A deep water hole darkens a part of the river into a murky teal.

Ian dangles from a tree's overhanging branches and plummets into the water. The wave he creates showers Cameron and Margo; Ian finds this amusing.

In a swift movement, Cameron pulls his shirt over his head and kicks off his shoes. "Coming?" He smirks and dives head first into the water hole.

Desperate to escape the sticky clinginess of her jeans, Margo wastes no time undressing to her tee shirt and underwear. The sun burns her skin but she welcomes the cool breeze. She ties her hair back in a knot.

"More marks?" Ian is staring at the back of her neck from the middle of the stream.

Margo nods, too hot to take on another conversation about her marks. She glides into the river, the cool water sloshing up to her waist, and wades over to where Cameron stands.

The shock of cold water on Margo's back startles her as Ian falls from above into a cannonball. Annoyed and hair now soaked through, she turns to tell him off in time to see him disappear beneath the surface. She worries for a split second when he doesn't resurface, but then remembers his ability as a  Siren .

Suddenly she remembers something.

Margo slips under the water so quickly it startles Cameron. And she's right: she, too, can still breathe underwater. Her vision is also crisper, even though the creek is murkier than the Water Forest had been. Her lungs no longer require air, which she finds means she doesn't float back to the surface as she had before.

Ian catches her eye several yards across the gritty water hole. He smiles letting a stream of bubbles escape his lips.

Something grabs her by the shoulder pulling her backwards into the water. Panic overtakes her, the memory of the orange-headed girl flickers. Pulling her deep into the water, leaving her for dead or enslavement....

She breaks through the surface of the water to find herself in Cameron's arms. "MARGO! Are you alright?!" he shouts urgently.

"Calm down," Ian says, emerging from the water.

"I'm fine," she says. "I just remembered that I could still breathe underwater. Wanted to test it out."

The worried look on his face fades. "Oh...right."

"I guess this means I'm a  Siren , too," she says smugly.

"I suppose it does," Ian says. "But you're still an amateur. I mean, you can breathe and hear underwater, but those are about the only water senses you have. Of course, these gifts are irrelevant for a New Mark who can do practically anything...."

Margo isn't sure how to respond to this. What more could she possibly need from the marks she bears? Cameron merely squeezes her hand. "Well, excuse me for being a lady, but I'm going to go wash up."

Dropping Cameron's hand, she wades away from the boys and attempts to relax a bit on the slope of the river. She rubs handfuls of sandy gravel on her skin to loosen up the dirt and grime and lets the current wash it away. She does the same to her scalp; though, washing the smaller pebbles out of her hair proves more difficult.

She scrubs her inner arms harder than necessary, as if her marks will somehow fade away. To her disappointment, they stand out as contrasting against her skin as ever. What scares her most is the desire she can sense building within since her fall down the side of the Water Forest. Ian awakened a monster within her that craves to grow its strength. She wonders absentmindedly if this is how the Queen became the woman she is today, if this — she holds out her hand — is how she came to the point of sacrificing lives to consume more energy.

Liquid energy pulls from her markings, dragging itself to the center of her palm. It flows quite easily. She remembers Ian's instructions to release the energy in her palm; she can feel it hover inches above her skin. Picturing the details of the penny, she imagines reshaping the ball of energy into what she desires. A smooth, flat circle of copper appears in her palm.

"Yes!" she whispers to herself. She does not wish for the boys to know what she is up to just yet. She glances up to find them taking turns jumping from the edge of the cliff, her eyes lingering on Cameron's glistening skin.

The second shape she creates is perfectly round but lacks the features that make up a penny, though it does show faint etching on one of its sides.

Margo concentrates harder and tries again. Then again. And again. She tosses each piece of copper on the shore — which begins to collect quite a shimmering pile of mistakes — when finally, she holds between her index finger and thumb an exact replica of Abraham Lincoln's face.

"YES!" she cries so loudly that Cameron starts.

"What?" they say in unison, Cameron on the other side's shore and Ian hurtling himself over the bluff.

"I made a penny!"

"Excellent!" Cameron says as he rushes to her side to observe. He takes it from her hand. "This is really close. It's missing the date and part of the back but, really, it's impressive!"

"Not bad for a newbie," Ian simply states.

Margo blushes at their praise.

"Pretty soon," Ian continues, "you'll even be able to do this!"

With the wave of a hand, a thick stream of water spirals over his head and wraps around like cyclones. Amazed, Margo drops the penny on the shore. The water suddenly parts exposing the rocky riverbed below, and with a twist of the wrist, Ian manipulates the suspended liquid into sheer panels creating a dancing maze of water.  Cameron pulls Margo into the dry stream, the water rushing around their heads.  They weave in and out of Ian's display as he carefully manipulates it at will, Margo's trilling laugh echoing off the bluff.

Cameron takes Margo by the arm, pulling her close to him. She bounces off his chest and the warmth within her returns. The water around them slows, wrapping a circle around the two. He moves in carefully, his lips barely parted. And when they press against hers, Margo cannot hide her excitement. A thousand thoughts rush through her and just as quickly disappear as Cameron holds her face close to his, gently guiding her lips with his. Kissing Cameron is so natural that Margo wonders how it could have ever made her nervous. His skin is slick against hers. She stretches up on her toes in order to wrap her arms around his neck.

The water falls slow like rain pelting to the ground, its soft trickling the only sound as the riverbed refills. They pull apart to stare at each other, standing waist deep in the now still river.

Ian sits upon the edge of the shore now fully clothed.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen: The Feather of a Clarxen

"I'm growing rather tired of these visits. The dungeon floor soils the hems of my dresses. Dreadful, simply dreadful..." says the Queen whilst shaking her billowing hair. "All you have to do — all you have to say — is where your mate has swum off to."

"You might as well just kill me," Seora repeats. Her face is inches beneath the surface of the water, her dark tail curled up against her chest. The water is tainted in blood.

"Sit up!" the Queen orders jerking Seora upright by her hair. "Do you know what this is?" She gestures to the machine in the corner of the room that resembles a photo booth.

Seora bites her lower lip, fearing to speak the lie aloud. Instead she simply shakes her head.

"This machine is powered by my mark. Hook her up," she orders the Crew Member. She smiles her darkly beautiful smile. "Set it at ten."

Seora works at keeping her face impassive. Whatever it is about to do, ten sounds like a high level. The Crewman shuffles around her basin clamping a set of clips on the metal parts of the tub.

"Every ten minutes that passes without the answers I desire, an electric pulse with shock your tub. It will be... unbearable. " Gliding up to the tub, the Queen places her lace-covered hands on the edge and leans in toward Seora. "Now, you have the option of enduring the pain and dying a slow, excruciating death, or you may tell me where Derek is. If you fail to divulge, I will set it for every five minutes, and then one. I can only hope you will not disappoint me any more than you already have."

Seora glares back at her muttering, "This will never work," but the Queen has already flipped the stiff breaker on. The Crew Member secures the glass lid over the tub.

Ten minutes until the torture begins.

"I knew you'd be difficult from the day you fell into the water," says the Queen. "But rest assured, I will break you of your Northern tendencies."

"I didn't want to be in the water." Seora's voice catches. "I didn't want to become one of these creatures."

"But you did. And you will always be one of them. Might I remind you that it was your choice to enter the Water Forest." In a grand sweep the Queen spins away on her heel, kicking the train of her dress behind her. "Farewell, Seora. Until we meet again...."

The tinkling of her Majesty's footsteps is broken by the deafening sound of Seora's screams as the machine comes to life. The Queen's scowl rearranges into a cold grin as she glides down the corridors.

The sound of the mermaid's torture echoes through the stone chambers, down the darkest dungeon where it meets the water's edge. It pulsates through the sea and extends deep into the waters. Her scream passes the underwater city's occupants one by one. Each  Siren whose sensitive ears it touches turns in response, though none are certain where it comes from. Some faces hold shock or fear, others anger, as they already have heard the rumors of the underwater traitor.

The sound travels past the small city, beyond the outer trees, to a black and murky alcove where not even the darkest of fish swim. The only light glints off a lone merman's eyes as he starts to ascend from the bushes.

His dark skin melts back into the shadows knowing he cannot attend to his promised mate's plea.

*

Ian swings the machete vigorously with a grunt, slicing clean through thick brush. His mood turned foul since their swim. Margo recounts their afternoon trying to clue in on what could have caused this shift in attitude but she can hardly recall anything with the thoughts of her first kiss with Cameron so fresh on her mind. The image keeps popping up in her head as sharp as it had been in the moment. She finds herself blushing often and giggling at his forced chivalry.

Cameron either doesn't recognize Ian's sudden anger or refuses to acknowledge it. He is so wrapped up in Margo he doesn't offer much assistance on path-clearing duty other than holding Margo's hand while climbing over rocks or pulling back branches for her to duck under. Every once in a while, he accidentally brushes his hand against her back or walks so close she can feel his breath on her skin. She finds that she likes having a part of him always near her.

Ian stops his wild swinging suddenly to wipe away a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"We're almost there," he says. "You smell that?"

"Smoke," Margo states. The aroma of a nearby fire saturates the wind. "A chimney?"

"Let's hope," says Ian. He resumes slashing the greenery.

A colorful flock of birds flutter overhead. Margo has heard many sounds in the forest but until now has yet to see any of the hidden creatures. They light the sky with a rainbow of colors but fly with urgency as if fleeing from something.

Light trickles through the upcoming vines. Splotches of color dance on the forest floor reminding Margo of her last moments in the Real World when she found that brilliant bird. Something screams inside her to warn Ian to stop just as he cuts through the final shrubs and steps through the opening into an open field.

Cameron's excited words are lost as he pulls Margo into the sun. Ian's hand flies out in warning. It is not the Witch they have found.

The petite girl stands several yards ahead of them. She is almost identical to Margo's miniscule size, yet she is quite terrifying. Dark hair frames her perfect,  tan face, brushing to her waist. Eyes vivid blue. Skin darkened from the sun. As beautiful as she is, there is something slightly off-putting about her.

Cameron's grip tightens on Margo's hand.

The girl's face is wild and slightly inhumane. Her eyes dance shiftily between the three of them as if attempting to determine which is the biggest threat.

Her eyes, Margo realizes, are too bright. Like the world around them, they seem artificial and enhanced. Her focus too sharp.

They suddenly halt their shifty behavior. The bright blue of her irises twists like smoke clouding them over until they are completely black. The dark, beady eyes stare strangely focused on Ian.

Her lips pull back over her teeth and a guttural growl seeps through. Cameron and Ian both react on instinct, shoving Margo behind them. The sudden movement throws her off balance, and her hands awkwardly fly out to catch herself.

The girl's glare snaps away from Ian and to Margo's exposed marks. Her eyes widen greedily, again shifting into a golden hue. She's found what she is looking for.

Her back hunches in preparation to lunge, calf muscles tighten ready to coil. That's when Margo notices the serpentine mark winding down the side of her right thigh.

Margo curses, having finally realized who is before them. " There are only a few who have seen her in person and can live to tell about it. " That's what Cameron had said.

Just then, a faint voice calls out in a foreign language from the depths of the forest. The girl's eyes change back to the strange, glowing blue as she whips her head toward the sound. She clenches her jaw.

The shouts fade away. Margo strains her ears but the chirps and tweets of the woods overpower all other sounds.

Slowly, the girl turns back toward Margo — her target, her prey — eyes slowly lightening into a crystal blue as if only to frighten her more. She leans in again, ready to lunge. Cameron shifts his body between Margo and the girl.

"You have to go!" Ian suddenly barks. He glares darkly at the wild girl.

The foreign calling breaks out again in the distance. The girl hisses, eyes  shifting back to a ferocious black. She creeps forward a few more steps. The look on her face nearly satisfied, her target in reach, but her internal conflict holds her back from attack.

"NOW!" Ian shouts.

She howls an animalistic scream that twists Margo's stomach. The girl spins toward the voice in the forest and in a matter of seconds disappears into the trees, her dark hair streaming behind her like dancing  silk .

" Go !" Cameron jerks Margo by the elbow pulling her across the field. Ian sprints ahead and hacks even fiercer at the greenery blocking their path. They tear through the vines and shrubs as fast as they can, hoping the girl wouldn't return with a change of heart.

"Was that — was that the Beast?" Margo cries.

"Yes," Cameron answers shortly. He forces her through an opening.

"What was that shouting?" she asks.

They both automatically look to Ian who remains silent. Margo can't help but wonder how a boy who spent his Jamyrian life in the Water Forest could know so much about the Beast.

"We have to be close!" says Cameron. "I thought that field was it, so we can't be far!"

Margo forces her way through a tangling of greenery, disturbing a colony of purple and green beetles that scuttle up the trunk of a large tree. She falls into another open area, bracing herself for what might lie ahead.

This clearing is much different. It is the largest amount of open land they've seen in some time stretching at least fifty yards in diameter. A quaint hut made of dark wood is nestled in the center. A stream winds along the opposite edge of the forest. Bounds of  dried plants lean against the side of the hut. Strange tree carvings and sculptures litter the yard — that's what it feels like now: a yard.

They hadn't just smelled a chimney. A bonfire is ablaze on a sand-covered area, and kneeling next to the fire is who Margo assumes to be the Witch. Once she catches sight of them on her land, she rises to her feet.

She has to be in her mid-twenties or so and wears a magenta freeform skirt that ripples in the light breeze. Her upper body is covered in an assortment of brightly colored sashes that wrap around her torso at random. She is embellished in all sorts of bells and bangles, beads and jewelry, and jingling bones. A golden hoop pierces her nose.

Of all the oddities that make up the Witch, it is her long blonde hair that sticks out the most. It is worn in dreadlocks and tied to the underside of her locks are three feathers. They are tucked below her right ear, sticking out so the fiery orange is still visible enough to make contact with the sun and reflect its glistening light.

The Witch's face is calm and expectant. Her outfit jingles with every step as she walks forward to greet them. "Welcome, Cameron," she says. Her raspy voice has an unfamiliar accent. "You bring dee Mark to see me."

There is no need for a response to this statement, but still he nods apprehensively. "We need your help."

"I knew of your arrival," she says without acknowledging his words, "years ago. I roughly calculated dis day when the last Mark entered. See, what I did was...count. I count dis way:" — she holds her fingers up to demonstrate — "one, two, three, four; two, two, three, four; three, two, three, four.... For entire day, I count. Sixty seconds a minute. Sixty minutes an hour. Twenty-four hours a day — and I see dat it doesn't add up! Da sun, da moon — it doesn't add. So I multiply and add and...calculate, until I knew when you're coming. Around dis many days, da New Mark will arrive. And, knowing Nick, he would one day send 'im — or her — to me." Her smile is eerie accompanied with the wild look in her eyes. " Dat is how I know."

Margo looks to Ian, unsure of how to respond. This woman seems, not dangerous, but unstable.

"Come. You must be hungry?" she asks. "I have prepared stew for you."

"The Beast is not far," Cameron says.

This seems to have surprised this so-called future-seeing witch. "Da Beast?"

"Does she normally roam this far north?" Cameron asks.

But before the Witch can respond, Ian interjects. "Never."

All three pairs of eyes turn to him.

"You seem to know a lot about her," says Cameron.

"Do I?" His face still holds its antagonistic glare.

Cameron's face isn't far off. "Care to share?"

"There isn't anything to share," he snaps. "Anyone who lives in Jamyria would know about the Beast."

"True," agrees Cameron. "But you didn't live in Jamyria. You lived in the Water Forest."

They lock eyes. Ian's glare slightly molds into fear.

"Enough," interrupts the Witch. "We must get inside. Now."

Slowly, they break their stances and follow the Witch inside her home, which is even more peculiar than the outside. The walls are made of wood and are covered in odds and ends from twine to masks to baskets of fruits. There's only one room and one of the four walls is covered in shelves from the ceiling to the floor. All sorts of bottles filled with twigs and spices and herbs are scattered randomly across the shelves.

The other side of the room has a fireplace with a large caldron in its center. And directly in front of them is a narrow bed that also serves as a couch.

"D'you like some stew?" the Witch asks pushing everyone to the other side of the room, so she can make her way to the fireplace.

"Yes, please," says Margo quickly. Margo's trust runs thin but so does her appetite.

They soon all have sizable helping of the thick stew and eat in silence even though they know there is much to discuss. The Witch never takes her eyes off Margo, which makes her feel uncomfortable.

"I have something for you," she says, putting her dish aside. "Something I acquired many years ago."

She crosses over to her wall of shelves and rummages through her things. She takes all of the bottles and herbs off one of the thicker shelves, placing them on the shelf below. Once completely cleared, she slowly slides the shelf itself off the wall with a horrible screeching sound. Hidden in  its interior  is a box attached to the wall; the shelf is merely a shell.

Inside the fixed box, the Witch pulls out a curved, sheathed sword.

"For dee Marked One," she says handing it Margo. "A sword worthy of a strong woman's control."

Margo reaches for the blade awkwardly. It's lighter than expected, yet sturdy.

"Take it out," she orders.

The arced blade glistens in the firelight as Margo slowly pulls it by its hilt. Long, lean, simple, and without any flaws — the blade is absolutely stunning. Nearly ten inches from the tip a short point juts out from the blade, angling downward.

"What's this?" she asks, gesturing to the tiny point.

"It does more damage," explains Cameron, "when you pull it back out."

"Oh...." The gift suddenly feels heavy. Margo silently sheaths the sword with a frown.

"Dese are yours," the Witch continues and withdraws two smaller, curved blades. She holds them out handle first for Ian to accept. "For dee swift and agile, for da boy with da strength of two. I gather you will find dem familiar." She looks knowingly at him while he pulls them from her grip.

Though slightly apprehensive, Ian cannot help but to smile as he takes the dual blades.

"And to dee protector of 'er heart," she says. She pulls from the hidden shelf the longest of the four swords. This sword's appearance is more medieval than the others. It has a bejeweled T-shaped guard and a leather-bound hilt which Cameron grasps valiantly. He stares at its pointed tip before giving it a swooping twirl and sheathing it.

"Daggers for you three, as well." The Witch places three blades the length in Margo's forearm on the small table.

"This is...very kind," says Cameron. His face grows softer. "If I've ever offended you in the past, I am sorry."

"Let dere be no worries," the Witch simply says.

"I could question how you got these," Ian gestures to the armory laid out before them. "But what I'm more curious about are those feathers. How is it you have three?"

"Ah! Dee feather of da clarxen," she says gesturing to shimmering feather nestled in her hair. "Given to those who can handle power. Da clarxen select only dose who are worthy to carry a feather for protection. It is a rarity to be given one. Dese two," she points to the smaller, less flamboyant feathers, "are from his underside. Less powerful but still dangerous, terribly dangerous. Da bigger feathers, like dis, are absolutely lethal."

"I have one," Margo says without thinking. The words fall from her lips before she grasps the Witch's words.  Lethal ?

They all look anxiously to Margo.

"You never showed me that?" Cameron says at the same time Ian says, "I'll believe that when I see it."

"Show us," the Witch says more calmly.

"I — uh — well, it's back at my home." She can picture exactly where she left it: inside her work coat, tossed over the footboard of her bed.

The Witch's eyes widen. Cameron and Ian exchanged a worried glance.

"You mean it was in the Real World?" Cameron asks Margo, though he looks to the Witch for an answer.

"Yeah, I found the feather before I even saw the globe. Then, it was the bird that led me to the globe later in the day." She suddenly feels foolish having never shared the information before.

Nobody spoke a word, each consumed by their own thoughts.

"Dis could be disastrous," the Witch finally says

"Yes," agree the boys.

"If dat feather were to fall into dee wrong hands... If someone were to accidentally..." The Witch stops and shakes the thought away. "As you can see, I never leave mine lying around. Dey should not be taken lightly."

"I didn't know," Margo cries.

"If it fell in da wrong hands..." the Witch repeats to herself, still shaking her head.

"What could happen?" Margo whispers.

"Depending on its size and da strength of dee bird it came from, it could do anything from take out a building to a city." Her face remains serious.

"So they say..." Ian says unconvinced.

"You wish to find out?" the Witch warns. "You may not have a home to return to."

A shiver breaks through Margo as she processes this.

The Witch walks out of her tiny home muttering, "It seems dis time dee clarxen have made a tremendous mistake."

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: Under the Lighted Tree

The sun sets behind the southern trees, painting golden shimmers across the water's surface. The man's footsteps sink into the muddy bank. Kneeling down at the edge of the winding river, he runs his grimy fingers over the rocky shore; pebbles slip through them. Something is out of place here. Something different....

The river stones shuffles behind him as one of his men approaches. "What is it, Saul?"

"Something strange," is his only reply.

Between two fingers, Saul grasps a flat, metallic rock. He studies it with care, flipping it over once or twice. Copper, he realizes, and a vicious grin spreads across his face.

He scans the grounds to find another copper round tucked away in the bed of rocks which leads to a spot further down the shore where a collection of them are scattered.

"So you've found him, Nick Thomas," he nearly whispers. Saul reaches to scratch the back of his head, where a thin layer of dirty blonde hair covers the circular marking on his scalp.

"Sir...?" another one of his men asks in confusion.

He rises to his feet. "Gentlemen, I believe the Marked One is near."

*

Somehow her heart kept beating. Like how a body can still function without its brain. Your body continues to work, but your soul moves on. Margo did not wish to move on.

Gravel digs into her thighs and blisters pucker her face, but she refuses to move away from the fire. Refuses to move on. How much easier everything would be if she could simply deny the one muscle from contracting: her heart. And as she watches the flames lick the inside of Kylie's door, Margo knows she would stop it were she capable.

Of the three cars that collided, all but one person escaped. Margo screws up her face as the tears finally come.

Why Kylie?

Someone relocates Margo again; who it was, she'll never know. And what feels like hours later, the flames are diminished leaving behind the skeletons of three smoldering cars.

Margo winces. She is shaken by her broken side. "Hey, kid!"

She finds the officer's face. Something in her expression causes him to postpone his questioning. He calls over a nurse instead, leaving Margo to go  talk to the man who originally rescued her.

A slew of noises flood the street making it is nearly impossible to hear their conversation, but Margo strains her ears, hardly acknowledging the nurse who is prodding at her arm. Between the man's stony face and the few words she picks up, Margo wishes she hadn't listened.

"Already dead," he says. "Couldn't  get her out."

The officer nods at him and places a kind hand on his shoulder. Margo leans over and vomits.

The nurse's words do not reach her.

She is mildly aware of her mother's unconscious form being carted off into the ambulance.

"I think your humerus is broken," the nurse says. "And definitely your clavicle." He presses lightly on Margo's chest.

He misreads her vacant expression. "Your upper arm and collarbone, I should say," he adds, turning to his things. "Hold still for a bit."

The pain is excruciating, a hot knife under her skin, but Margo pulls herself to her feet and leaves the nurse behind, ignoring his protests.

She is not certain why she is walking over to him, why she is doing what she is about to do, but she has to see for herself. With a steadying breath, she taps the officer's pudgy shoulder. The bulky sheet in the middle of the street screams for her to run away. But Margo owes it to her sister to be brave.

He turns back in surprise as the question burning inside Margo escapes her lips in the most surreal of moments.

"Are you sure about this?" he had asked her. "Are you sure...?"

*

Margo sits upright in a flash. Embers are all that remains of the fire. Nothing has changed — the four of them are still crowded within the Witch's tiny hut, she on her narrow bed with Margo, Cameron, and Ian squeezed tight on the floor.

She slaps a hand on her clammy forehead.

"You always wake up," says a voice that gives her a start.

She looks down at the boys to find Cameron staring up at her.

"There's always something on my mind," she whispers. Kylie's chain feels as if it's digging in the back of her neck. She is thankful to have awoken before recalling the image of her corpse. The wishbone charm imprints on her thumb. The same charm she retrieved from Kylie's blackened, shriveled wrist. It was the only surviving totem from her bracelet, the others no more than melted, indistinguishable lumps. Kylie used to call it her lucky day charm.

"So talk about it," says Cameron. Careful not to disturb Ian, he sits up next to her.

She shakes her head, willing away her sister's face.

"I sometimes forget that you've only been here a few days."

"Six to be exact," she reminds him.

He scrunches his face in concentration for a moment before saying, "How easily do you think you can sneak out of here?"

"Easily." She grins.

Cameron lights a lantern once on the other side of the front door. "I was hoping to show you something since we're so close. It's better to see at night." He holds out a hand for her to take. "I hope you don't mind getting your feet wet."

Margo accepts his hand, eying him suspiciously. "What, is this a date or something?" She imagines a Jamyrian date in the middle of the woods.

"Well, yeah...I guess it is," he muses.

They make their way to the tiny creek that runs along the edge of the trees and step into the shallow waters. It flows no higher than their knees, but the water is shockingly cold. Margo shivers.

Cameron says, "Hold on," and leaves Margo chattering in the water. He splashes back to the Witch's field and runs out of sight. He is only gone for a moment, and when he returns he is holding the jacket Nick had given Margo before they left on their journey. She smiles appreciatively as he helps slip it on her arms.

On they walk through the dark, tree-lined waters. The faint glow of the lantern casts golden shadows through the black forest. The scattering stars overhead reflect off the stream. Oddly beautiful as ever, nighttime in Jamyria is Margo's favorite.

A burst of green color erupts in Margo's pathway. She nearly falls into the icy water.

"Careful," says Cameron, and when Margo sloshes away, adds, "It's just a neonink."

The form before her dances in the wind. It is transparent and nothing more than a collection of gas glowing in the night. A second comes to life, this one in brilliant orange. It swirls around the first.

"They're completely harmless," he continues. "More of a pain than anything. Careful not to touch — they cling to you for days if you walk into one by accident."

They carry on for another sloshy mile, dodging neoninks every so often. The creatures seem attracted to their presence seeing as they light themselves as Cameron and Margo's approach. They glow in every imaginable color, bringing new life to the night.

The leaves ahead glow in bright emeralds and their path is suddenly cut off by draping vines.

"We're here," says Cameron with a grin. He draws back the vines, allowing Margo to pass under.

They face a short, fat tree hidden under thousands of yellow lights. These lights are different from the neoninks; they are individual glowing beads rather than freeform spritz. They shimmer in dazzling movements.

"Oh, Cam, I love fireflies!" Margo breathes. "Just like when we used to sit at the pond. They're beautiful!"

He pulls her from the stream and heads closer to the illuminated tree. Cameron leads her to a fallen tree covered in soft moss where they both sit, eyes not parting from the spectacle.

"When I entered," he reminisces, "I ended up here."

Margo looks into his clear eyes.

"Your run in with the Witch...?" she asks, beginning to put everything together.

He nods. "That's right. She thought I was one of them — one of the Queen's Crew. She came after me with a crossbow. I eventually convinced her, but she told me to leave her territory. That's how I ended up in the Central City. Well, the gist of it anyway."

Margo shivers again. The thought of someone trying to hurt Cameron gives her chills. She subconsciously scoots closer to him. He smiles and wraps his arm around Margo, pulling her in tighter.

"You want to know why I really brought you here?" he says in her ear.

Margo looks up nervously and  nods her head.

Bouncing to his feet, he extends his free arm, pulling Margo along with him as h e moves closer to the lighted tree. A cluster of light falls down to him like illuminated dandelion seeds.

"Look," he says holding out his glowing hand.

The trio twirls about in his palm, but when Margo looks even closer, she realizes they are not fireflies after all. Excitement flutters her stomach. They're illuminated people — fairies.

"Oh my gosh! Those are fairies!" she shouts. "THERE ARE FAIRIES HERE?!"

" Shhh !" he says. Then he whispers, "Tiny ears."

The ladies in his palm cover their ears with a clear look of pain on their miniature features.

Margo claps her hands over her mouth, a flush of heat filling her cheeks.

"I wanted you to see another good thing about Jamyria before we leave."

One of the fairies flies up and hovers inches before Margo's face. She is exquisitely beautiful to look at, not much bigger than the tip of her thumb. She doesn't appear to be wearing any clothing, but her light is so intense the finer details of her bodies are unclear. Her frail wings are transparent with web-like delicateness.

"They're beautiful," she whispers.

The one examining Margo drifts back to Cameron's hand with her sisters. They whisper among themselves moving in dance-like rhythms.

"You remember the girl I told you about?" Cameron says to the little ladies.

All three of their faces brighten.

"Margo?" one of them says in a voice quieter than a whisper.

"Yes," Cameron breathes. "This is Margo."

The excitement intensifies as Margo realizes these fairies recognize her not as the New Mark but as herself. Because Cameron must have spoken of her. Her spirit warms.

Suddenly, more fairies fall from the tree shimmering all around. Their whispers blend into a sound like wind between the reeds. Cameron's hand frees as the fairies twirl up to join the others dancing in the air above.

Carefully, he brushes Margo's hair from her eyes. His hand lingers on the back of her neck. The light from the stars and fairies  shimmers on his skin  in white and gold specks. His thumb traces the lines of her neck. The electrostatic power within charges at the touch of his smooth lips as they press against hers. Margo's hands creep up his arms, feeling out each muscle, trying to memorize everything about him as if this dream might suddenly be snatched from her.

He smiles down at her oddly. "You're braver than I gave you credit for."

Margo blinks unsure she heard him right.

"You mean, you're not going to argue about how I should stay and that I'm too weak for whatever lies ahead in this world?"

He shakes his head in disbelief, though the smile does not leave his lips. "It's true, I don't want this for you. It's dangerous and seeing you fight, even if it's just for practice, scares me. You're small and have the appearance of someone who needs protection. But that was never you, was it? No, you've always had a fighting spirit. You and Kylie both." Margo fights back the urge to wince at her sister's name. "It isn't fair for them to expect this of you. But you can be stubborn enough that, well, you might be able to see this thing through to the end."

"You're afraid, aren't you?" Margo asks in a quiet voice.

His lips slightly part at the words, but no sound come out. He simply stares off in space as a single fairy makes her way down from the others and floats in front of his face. "Yes, I'm afraid," he eventually says.

Margo leans in so that her lips are next to his ear. "You have to be brave, too."

His tone changes. "There's more to it than bravery, love."

Margo sits down next to him in the soft grass and points her finger out to the lone fairy. She lands on the tip of her index finger and stands gracefully, stretching her tiny arms above her head.

"I have you and Ian, you have me and Ian, and Ian has the two of us." The fairy propels herself into the sky. "Let's take it one day at a time, and promise to protect each other until the end."

He does not speak.

"Call me 'love' again," she whispers, crouching down in front of him.

"I'll be with you through all of this, love." His voice is soothing. "Until the end."

The walk back to the Witch's house seems much quicker. Margo wraps herself tightly in her coat. Her eyes grow heavy and she longs to slip back under her blanket and into a deep sleep. She was not prepared, however, to be greeted by the emblazoned bonfire.

"Guess we weren't as sneaky as we hoped," Cameron mutters.

They slosh their way out of the creek and cross the field.

"There you are!" Ian shouts furiously. "Where have you been? We were about to start up a search party."

Cameron holds up his hands defensively. "I was just showing Margo the fairies."

The Witch stands calmly at the threshold of her house.

"The fairies?" Ian says. He sounds as if something is lodged in the back of his throat. "You risk taking her out in the woods with the Beast wandering around, for  fairies ?"

"As you can see," says Margo, "nothing happened."

Ian eyes her skeptically. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," Cameron confirms.

"I don't get you two sometimes...." Ian mumbles. He shakes his head at the ground.

"What are you doing up anyway?" Cameron asks.

"I had a vision dee girl stormed off," the Witch speaks up. "I awoke to find you missing, and asked Ian if he knew where you'd gone off to."

Ian's jaw clenches. "Just don't wander off anymore."

"We're fine," Margo repeats, taking a step closer.

The stars still swim in the purple sky above. It is too early to be considered morning, but late enough not necessarily go back to sleep. And with the others alert, it seems Margo and Cameron aren't going to get the additional sleep they desperately need. The Witch returns inside to reheat the prior night's stew while the three of them gather around the bonfire.

"Don't worry about them," Cameron whispers.

Margo forces a smile, secretly  hating that their first date ended so abruptly.

Ian keeps his back to them, facing out into the black forest as if searching for something. His two swords are already strapped to his back in a crisscross. Muscles tense. He remains still, fists clenched at his sides as he watches the night woods.

"What's up with him?" Margo asks. "Another deer?"

Cameron pulls Margo toward the house. "Don't know," he says, though he doesn't seem to really be focusing on her.

Margo's stomach twists, letting out another growl.

"Go eat," he orders.

She stares at him, worried by his and Ian's behavior.

"We'll be there in a sec," he assures her. "I just want to have a talk with him first."

Margo pauses. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?"

His jaw clenches. "Of course."

* * *

Chapter Nineteen: Destiny Despised

"Can you help me?" It is the first time Margo has been alone with the Witch, so she takes advantage of the opportunity.

"I can try my best," she says, her accent thick as ever.

"We came here for guidance. I'm the New Mark, yeah, but have no idea what I'm expected to do. And so far no one can tell me where to even start. I'm just expected to figure out how to...save the world"

"Dee task is difficult. Your marks," she says holding out her hand.

Margo holds out her arms as she once had what seemed like ages ago for Nick. The Witch places her hands above her marks with her fingers moving like dancing spider's legs up and down her arms. Margo isn't quite sure what she's doing, but hopes she's searching out the meaning of them.

"Marks are tricky things," she finally says. "Each original is different, each unique. Like a fingerprint, your mark is your own. But," she pauses placing her rough hand on Margo's left arm, "if you wish, you may leave your 'fingerprint' on anything you desire."

Margo slides her arm out from the Witch's hand, unsure how to react.

"I'm not looking to pass my mark on. I just want to get us out of here...."

"And so you shall, Margo Grisby. With dee right direction, you shall...."

Margo had hoped to have been shown that direction, but first.... "Nick said you could translate these marks."

The Witch's eyes dart between the marks and Margo's face. "Nick said dat, did he?" Her lips crack as quiet laughter breaks through. "Translate an ancient script like dis, without da proper research available? I never could depict dee meaning of his marks. So why would he assume I could do so with yours?" The last question sounds directed to herself.

"So this trip was a waste, then?" Margo snorts.

"If it's translation you seek, yes."

The short statement stings. They'd traveled so far, fought through so much to make it here, and to find out it was for nothing...

"But," she continues, "what you need more dan translation is direction."

She immediately captured Margo's attention again.

"Translating da marks will do little when it comes to escaping Jamyria, I can almost guarantee dat. It's a nudge in dee right direction you need." The frustration builds as Margo remembers Nick saying the exact same thing when he sent them to the Witch. And to discover he knew the marks couldn't be translated all along....

"What do I have to do?" Margo asks through gritted teeth.

"Begin in dee castle. From da things I've studied of dis world, everything seems to fall back to the main globe — dee Queen's larger one. It brings da people on dee outside into dis world. Destroy it."

"Where in the castle is it?" Margo asks, relieved to gain some momentum in the conversation.

"Always by her side. Always..."

Cameron and Ian suddenly sling open the door laughing together. Margo's spirit lifts as Cameron crosses over to sit next to her. She doesn't ask what happened with Ian, who helps himself to more stew. It feels like a group of friends gathered around a dinner table again. The Witch remains silent in the corner, simply watching their interactions, until after some time she stands and clears her throat.

"I have important messages to share." She crosses the room to stand before the fire. "Dese messages are from my sightings. Things you must always hold close to dee heart. Remember dem, recite dem, and do not ignore dem — it may cost you your life."

The three of them glance between each other.

"Ian," she says placing her tan hand upon his shoulder. "Hold on to what you lose."

His eyes narrow. "If I lose it, how will I hold onto it?"

"Cameron," she continues without acknowledging Ian's question. Her face grows cold as her green eyes lock with Cameron's. "Abandon love, so dat you can bite your tongue."

Margo feels a shiver roll down her back. Did this woman just tell Cameron to break up with her?

"And, Margo, trust who shouldn't be dere for you to trust." She takes her seat once more and repeats, "Remember dem, do not ignore dem."

The words flood her mind: abandon love, trust who she shouldn't, what's lost....

"I see your future, Mark," she continues. "Your path is painted in blood. And you hold dee paintbrush on your hip." She gestures to the sword Margo now wears. "I see death caused by you. Much death, I might add. But it's all right, yes, dose who die will be al right . She is stronger dan you realize, Cameron. Many will stand in her way, and all of dem will fall."

"You — I'm not — I'm not some murderer!" Margo splutters.

"Not yet," the Witch provokes. "Dis world is your happy place now, but you are da new leader. And you will lead us to massacre. Many will die. Even some you love." Her smile turns wicked.

"That's enough." Ian's voice is firm.

Margo hadn't realized she was digging her nails into her palms until she relaxes her hands. Some she loves will die...? Her eyes dart to Cameron once more.

The Witch leans away, a cocky expression upon her face. "For now you are a happy girl floating along in dis world. Isn't dat right?"

"What...are you talking about?"

"Dey want you to help dem escape, but for you, Margo Grisby, dis is your escape. Tell me, what do you run from in da Real World. What makes you love dis world more dan dat one?"

"I —"

"You are hiding from something, am I right? What do you hide?"

Margo looks at Cameron for help until it is too much to bear. Nick was wrong; this woman doesn't care about them. He knowingly sent them to disaster.

"I quit," Margo says suddenly, jumping to her feet. She grabs her  bag and begins stuffing belongings back in it.

The Witch laughs. "You cannot escape who you are. It doesn't work dat way. Isn't dat right, Ian?"

His jaw clenches.

"Do you know what I think?" says Margo, shaking Cameron's hand off her shoulder. "I think you're a crazy lady who's been alone in the middle of the forest for too long. You're insane, and when you finally do get out of this world, you'll be locked away for the rest of your life — immortality or not!"

The Witch's face warms slightly. She looks as if she pities Margo. "Dis is your destiny, child," she simply states.

Margo nearly loses her step.

"Ah, I see.... You've lost your light. It has burned out."

She places a hand on Margo's. A burst of memories flash through her mind. Kylie...

"I am truly sorry to see dis. But I think it's time you realize dat you don't need a light anymore. Not when dere is already so much light within yourself."

Margo snatches her hand away and opens her mouth to retort, but she realizes it isn't worth the fight. "I have to get out of here," she mumbles. "I have to leave."

She slings her bag over her shoulder and disappears behind the door.

"Margo, wait!" Cameron shouts following after her.

The sounds of his pleas fade leaving nothing but the quiet of Ian and the Witch's breathing.

"Well," the Witch says. She groans as she lowers herself in her seat. "What are you gonna do?"

The corner of Ian's lip pulls up. "Lead them to the castle, of course."

"Very good, yes."

*

"Margo!" shouts Cameron. "Margo, stop! Just stop for a minute!"

Her chest has a stitch. The woods thin half a mile south of where they met the Beast the day before. She slows her pace, eyes darting about the perimeter and freeze. For a split second she swears she sees the silhouette of a person. Or is it a trick of the early morning light? The stars have settled, and her eyes are still adjusting after the disappearance of the pulsing light.

The sound of shuffling gravel gives her a start. Cameron skids to a stop behind her. She blinks hard and the shape is no longer there.

"Can we talk about —"

"Give it a rest, man!" Ian apparently has caught up with them.

For some reason, Cameron obeys, and they follow her in silence.

Margo wanders off the path, traveling in no particular direction. Neither of the boys oppose, allowing her work through whatever sort of episode she is having. The longer she trudges through the forest in silence, the worse she feels.

I see death caused by you...

Those wretched words ring in Margo's head. Her cheeks darken in rage.

On the other hand, she worries that the loved one who dies will be Cameron. And if that's the case, how can she continue to allow him to be around her? How will she be able to ditch him if she needs to? She cannot live through that torment again.

How did she know about my light, about Kylie?  Margo's expression turns black.

They approach an opening, one she recognizes. The bubbling brook spills into the swimming hole they  swam in yesterday. Her feet sink into the ground, leaving muddy footprints behind. She follows the shore in the direction away from the Witch. The further they travel, the hillier the grounds become — small bluffs form along the stream, which Margo clambers atop, the boys still in tow.

Her steps slow as she focuses her attention on the dark water below. Though the stars have hidden themselves as morning nears, the sun has yet to rise. Without its synthetic light, the forest almost shares the hues of the Real World.

The Real World.  Margo blinks back hot tears. How could the Witch accuse her of not wanting to return? It's true, there are things she would rather not face that haunt her still, but that doesn't mean she's hiding from them...does it?

"What's going on, Margo?" Cameron seems to have taken advantage of her slowing down. "Why are you running away, saying you want to quit?"

Margo resumes her pace and treks down the bluff's slope. "I'm not running away...."

"Well, what do you call this?!" says Cameron. She hears him slide down behind her as she hikes up the next hill. "You're not really hiding anything, are you?"

She shakes her head.

"Hey — STOP!"

Margo freezes on the peak of the hilltop. For the first time since she ran off, she acknowledges Cameron and looks down at him. His face is red, eyes puffy .

"You — you make me feel so stupid!" He grinds his teeth together. "This whole time.... I've asked you over and over if you were alright, because something has been off about you. Something's different. I thought it was this place, but it's not, is it? So tell me... . What is it really? What are you keeping from me?"

Her lips part. She catches Ian's neutral gaze from behind Cameron.

"So much has happened since your last visit," she whispers, and she can no longer face him. "Something bad happened, Cam."

She turns to hike on, descending down the other side of the slope. The words are so close now; she knows they will flow from her easily as long as she doesn't look at him. "Everything sort of fell apart after you left."

Margo freezes mid-step.

He blended in so well with the scenery that Margo hadn't at first noticed the man she faces who looks down upon her. He is tall and lanky, yet muscular, with a low buzz cut. Crew Member. He licks his lips as he eyes Margo.

She lets out a raw scream and stumbles backwards, slipping in the mud. His eyes rake over her.

She hears them rushing in, Cameron and Ian, but she cannot tear her eyes from this man. His skin is tan, blending beautifully with his muddy brown eyes and sandy blond hair that she wishes to run her hands in. She longs to touch him, to take in his every detail. His angular cheekbones and full lips, his taut muscles....

Margo blinks hard, casting away the faux desire.  Is this a sick trick from the mark that is surely on the back of his head?  She forces herself awake, just as she had when the globe drew her in.

More men suddenly emerge from behind trees; they approach Cameron and Ian as the first man grasps Margo by wrists. She struggles against his pull and he belts out a twisted laugh. "Find all the men  of the group and kill  them," he yells as he pulls Margo into the trees.

She jerks her arms to try and hit him but cannot break his grip. She aims her knee for his groin instead, but he predicts her move and stomps on her other foot. Margo screams in pain which only sets him off more. He shoves her up against a tree, the bark digging into her jacket.

"You go straight for a low blow," he growls and presses his knee into her inner thigh to pin her to the tree. He grabs her cheeks and squeezes so tightly her eyes water. His rough tongue licks the side of her  face leaving behind the stale stench of his saliva. Then he shakes her head so hard her brain rattles.

"Look at them," he says gruffly in her ear, forcing her gaze upon the boys. "Desperately trying to survive. It's futile." He breathes in her scent. "What's your name? Come on, don't be shy...."

She catches a glimpse of  Cameron , sword raised, struggling against a Crewman. "M-Margo."

"Good. That wasn't so hard, now, was it? My name is Saul. We're going to get well acquainted, you and me." His breath tickles her ear. She cringes. " Hold still. I don't want to kill you. It doesn't have to be that way. You just do as you're told.  Cooperate . Your fate will be decided once I'm through with you."

A tear rolls down her cheek. She tries to wriggle herself free again, but he digs his knee harder into her thigh. She lets out another scream.

"MARGO, WAIT!" It is Ian's voice who screams out for her. He seems to be holding his own against the pair he is up against.

"Impatient, are we?" Saul laughs. He releases her face from his grip and finds Kylie's charm. "I might take that as a souvenir."

His smile is irksome. He drops the charm, its weight pounding against Margo's chest, and slips his hand down to the button of her jeans. She looks away. Tears flood over as she realizes this is it: he would do what he wishes and leave her to die. His fingers slip behind the button, rough on her soft skin.

"And to think," he purrs, his lips closing in on hers, "all because you got entangled with the Marked One."

As his lips hover she realizes he doesn't know who she is. He assumes one of the boys is the New Mark. He grips the top of her jeans and pulls her to him forcing his lips on hers.

Something inside her snaps, a flood of fiery hot liquid rushes through her. His head is suddenly flying toward an adjacent tree —  BAM ! He collides with the trunk.

"What the hell?!" He rises to a standing position, gripping the side of his face that gushes blood.

The words are not her own, but they flee from Margo's lips faster than she can recount them. "The one you seek is me. I am the New Mark."

"But you're —"

"Female. Yes, that's right."

He stares at her for a brief moment, the energy within her violently swirling. It is not its usual tingling, but a vibration beating her from within, on the cusp of exploding. Longing to be released, longing to kill this man before her. Blood, more of his blood must be spilled. Paint the land with it, for he is deserving of death.

"The New Mark is here! The girl!" he yells, petering away from her. "Kill her!"

"Oho!" the voice within Margo speaks. "Afraid of facing the consequences of your actions? Coward!" The energy boils under her skin, her vision red with bloodlust. "Afraid you will meet your fate?"

Her eyes scan the forest in less than a second. Three with Ian, Cameron against one, two more closing in on Margo. Including Saul there is a total of seven Crewmen. Her sword hisses as it unsheathes.

"That sword," whispers Saul. "Where did you get it?"

But he does not wait for an answer. He conjures his own blade, creating it from thin air, whipping it over his head. He strikes down on Margo; she raises her sword to block.

"WHOOOO! YEAH!" Ian shouts at the sight of her.

She bounces away from Saul. Her Mark must be glowing wildly. She yanks off her bag and jacket, tossing them aside. She stares down upon her markings but finds the same brown scar tissue as always. Touching the back of her neck, she feels warmth.

Why are they the only ones lit up?

A sword slashes through the air. She barely dodges, suffering only a small nick on her throat. It stings, the blood trickling down her neck. She regains her grip on her sword, stepping lithely and twirling between the two crewmen. Saul retreats into the safety of the trees allowing the others to do the messy job of killing his victim. He no longer wears the lustful smile, but a scowl, his upper lip trembling with rage.

Cameron is nearby. She sees him gaining momentum against his Crewman, who creates bounds of  chain from nothing, shooting them at Cameron so as to ensnare him, but Cameron strikes away before any of them can enclose him. He is only facing one opponent, but this man uses his power more than any of the others they fight.

A scream propels one of Margo's  foe ;: he charges at her, sword low to the ground to strike upward. But before he can raise his blade, Margo's power overtakes her. With invisible speed, she steps onto the back of his blade, cutting it so far into the ground he lurches back. She kicks off of the hilt, kneeing him across the jaw. He staggers away before crumpling to the ground with a crunch.

In the middle of the stream stands Ian, three men surrounding him. A jet of water whips out from around his back, and strikes one of them, pulling him underwater before the Crewman can react. His other opponents warily fall back a step.

Suddenly a collection of water rises out of the stream. Ian holds his hand out controlling the suspended orb, which holds the Crewman trapped within. The man pushes his palms against the inside edges of the water. The surface fluctuates against his touch but does not give. Light pulsates from his palms in a desperate attempt to break through the surface.

It will not work, Margo thinks, recalling the Water Forest.  The interior is impenetrable.

Realizing this, he ceases and, instead, buries his face in his hands.

"Smart move," says Ian from the ankle-deep water below, "becoming one of us. Not a desirable creature of this world, but you choose life over glamour. How resourceful."

The other two Crewmen raise their swords as a dozen jets of water erupt from behind Ian's back and turn on them.

An unfamiliar smile plays at Margo's lips. Her back curls before launching herself toward the boulder on which stands her second opponent who has backed away after watching her demolish his comrade. Instead of raising his sword, he outstretches a hand. A swirl of light gathers before his palm like a spinning miniature Milky Way and then —

BOOM !

It explodes in a stream of energy, aiming for Margo's heart.

She doesn't think, just reacts. Her free hand reaches out as if to catch the light; she swirls her hand over her head, redirecting the blast of power in its wake. It bends four times at sharp angles before striking its creator through the chest. He splutters and gurgles before dropping to his knees. The light diminishes, revealing a gaping hole in his chest. His body folds in half.

A streak of red liquid suddenly  catches the morning light in the distance and falls like crimson rain. It hits the earth before Cameron does, his head bending away from his body in an unnatural way. The rocks beneath him crunch, his bloodied face bouncing off the ground.

Margo's step falters, and she is suddenly losing her grip, losing the pulsating energy, the inexplicable strength. The Crewman approaches Cameron, having finally succumbed, with a cold smirk on his lips. He flicks the short blade in his grip, shaking it clean.

Margo takes a shaky step toward him, her blade suddenly trembling.

A rough hand clenches her shoulder and her gut rips open. Saul's sword pierces through her abdomen carving through her insides until it wrenches out her back. He glares down at her with a look of disappointment.

"I told you, Margo." His voice fades in and out. "It didn't have to be this...."

Her vision blurs, hearing dulls, and her back bends in half. The blade pulls out from her stomach just as sharply as going in. Her body hits the  boulder below her with a painful jolt.

She lies on the stone ground, incarnadine and cold, as the remaining bits of life escape her. Her body numbs and an unnatural chill fills her being. Death, she finds, is not so difficult after all.

The bluish gray light of the morning washes over Saul's silhouette as he steps over Margo. His sword dangles precariously above her nose, her own blood dotting her face as it drops from its tip.

"Just tell me one thing.... You claim to be the New Mark. Is it true? Are you actually the original?"

Margo glances at Ian who faces his last enemy with new rage. By denying her identity she might be able to swindle her way out of death even if barely just. But there is little she can do to guarantee Ian's survival after tonight. So she says, "I am."

"Such a shame, such a waste." He rears back his blade to strike.

Darkness overtakes her, though she is certain she sees a figure jump over her as the last bit of light fades and her mind escapes her.

* * *

Chapter Twenty: The After

Her eyes crack. The blur of a figure lurks over her. Pale skin with white-blond hair cut bluntly at her shoulders. White walls. Everything a frosty haze of white.

Frightened, Margo squeezes her eyes tight. A dream. It must be a dream. But it feels like reality.

She opens her eyes again. Kylie is kneeling over her, the white surroundings gone. She is still in the middle of the forest where she and the boys fought. It is now eerily empty and all is still: the leaves that rustled, the light breeze, the glittering stream — all of it frozen.

"Hey, sis," Kylie says with a sad smile. "You shouldn't be here."

Margo kicks to a sitting position and scrambles away from the imposter.

The pseudo-Kylie closes her eyes, a familiar crease forming between her brows in annoyance. "Why did you let him do that to you? You were on the verge of winning. Why'd you have to get yourself —"

Kylie forces her lips together, peridot eyes hard and locked on Margo's.

"Who...? Who are you?" says Margo in a panic. "You aren't my sister! You can't be! My sister's —"

"Dead." The word rings.

Margo rises to a standing position, tripping over her feet as she shuffles further away from the fake Kylie.

"Are you Saul?" she cries. "Are you playing another trick on my eyes?"

The girl before her moans. "Arrrgh, Margo, I'm your sister!" She moves closer. "I played Titania in  A Midsummer Night's Dream . I stopped Michael Peters from making fun of you more times than I can count. You told me you loved that boy out there who's dying a month before I was killed —" Margo cringes. "I drove the Hederman's insane and stole enough apples to start my own pie factory. I'm your sister!"

"So you're a ghost, then?" Margo barks.

"No — I'm not a ghost, I'm just...." She pauses. "I'm here, and I want to help you. But you have to stop being your stubborn self and  listen to me."

Margo stares at her angrily. This surely is, if not her sister, a good imitator; she has her hot-temper down. Then her words hit Margo: if Kylie is not a ghost, then Margo must, too, be dead. She inhales a deep, shaky breath as this sinks in.

"You were just starting to understand your mark," Kylie says unexpectedly. "So you can't give up so easily. Those people out there — Cameron, even Ian — they all need their New Mark. They all need you."

"How do you even know any of this?"

Kylie shakes her head hard. "None of that matters. Listen, you have to go back there and save them."

"You said I 'gave up.' But that's not true — I was injured bad, and I don't think I made it, Kylie." Tears suddenly spill down her cheeks.

Her sister places her hand on Margo's shoulders. "You are not so far lost, sis. Use your mark to pull yourself back."

"Were you sad?" Her voice is but a shaky whisper. "When you died?"

Taken aback, Kylie turns her gaze to the stream and shuffles her feet. "Yes and no," she eventually says. "It was my time, in a sense...."

"No! It wasn't! You were sixteen — my age! We're both kids, and this shouldn't happen to us. Life shouldn't be taken away so easily!"

Kylie's smile warms. "You're right. That's why I need you to take yours back. Please."

Though a part of Margo wishes to lose herself in her sister's arms and follow her into the afterlife, there is another part of her that is terrified of doing so and wants to listen to Kylie's orders. She does not wish to die, not yet.

"I'll miss you, though," Margo sniffs. "You have no idea."

The hand on Margo's shoulder slips to her neck in a warm embrace. "This will not be easy, little sis. I will always be there for you. I'm closer than you realize; remember that when you think of me. Now, find the pain within you. Do not continue to block it out or ignore it. Let it intensify and wash over you."

With all the energy Margo can muster, she lets the pain in her stomach flood her. It is fiery hot and rips through her abdomen like a white-hot poker.

Splotches of light bleed over her vision as the pressure squeezes her into oblivion, but the last words Margo hears are enough to take away all the  pain .

"Just know that I love you...."

*

Shomari paces vehemently behind the globe at which the Queen stares without breaking her focus. The Queen pays him no mind. It is the image of the battle inside the globe that worries her, though she cannot yet see the one she fears.... But once the Marked One ceases to  exist his corpse will appear o n the battlefield.

"Saul," huffs Shomari from behind his hood. "Why did you send, of all people,  Saul ?"

"You  are aware of what happened the last time I sent you to kill a Mark?" she murmurs.

Shomari's pacing misses a beat. He resumes as if he hadn't faltered.

Approaching the Queen's right hand, Belitza — with her bare head concealed in the hood of her cloak — offers a flute of champagne and says, "I think it appropriate to proceed with the celebrations. I've no doubt Saul will be able to dispose of the New Mark."

A cruel smile plays at her Majesty's lips but quickly vanishes.

Hello, child , a voice from within whispers.

The Queen splutters and coughs out her drink. Belitza ignores this, her eyes cutting across to the battlefield on the globe, which Saul has just disappeared on having approached the Marked One.  The brawl overall is hard to keep up with since original marks are naturally cloaked on her Majesty's globe.

Cheh-heh-heh-heh!  The voice laughs mockingly.  You feebly try to suppress me when you should simply admit that you are, child, on the brink of insanity.

I am not insane.  The Queen replies indignantly.  You are a mere hindrance when you make these sudden appearances. Enjoy your voice while you can, for you will be silenced in due time.

Ohh, such sudden confidence. But I assure you, a voice inside your mind does not bode well for the sane. You are fooling yourself, child.  The whisperer cackles again.

The Queen ignores him.

"And how can we be sure Saul is capable of finishing the task?" she asks aloud.

"There is much at stake for him," Belitza replies. "He has ill-advised hopes of replacing the third noble."

"Ill-advised, indeed," huffs the Queen, offended at the idea of him taking the place of her once favorite subordinate. "No matter. We shall see what's to become of him after he has slaughtered the Mark."

A silent, melodramatic sigh.  You are in many ways just like me,  the voice within her says viciously.

I am nothing that you are, she spits back.  Nor do I seek to be.

All within the room — Shomari, Belitza, the dozens of Crewmen lining the walls — are oblivious to her internal conversation.

You are willing to go to any length to obtain what you desire. Willing to bid unnecessary killings. Willing to sever your soul to claim your prize.  That is why you are like me, Zelly.

"DO NOT CALL ME THAT!" The Queen's outburst causes her to slosh champagne over her dress and suddenly the attention of every nervous Crewman in her throne room is on her. She turns back to the globe as if nothing occurred.

"Er, it is all thanks to that anonymous Siren," Belitza continues. "Otherwise it would have taken weeks to locate him."

"Y-yes," replies the Queen, recalling the tip they received about a bubble travelling beneath the surface of the Water Forest.

Look how they see you. As a fool! Manic! They do not respect you. They do not put trust in you. The day will come, child, when they turn on you. Mark my word — Ohh, look who's joined us....

A faint image grows in the center of the forest. The men fighting around what must be the Mark grow visible. Two of the Marked One's followers stand in front of the still-blurry corpse, valiantly fighting off the remaining Crewmen. The New Mark's body gradually solidifies in the center of the globe.

"This is it...." the Queen says more to herself. "Now perish!"

Shomari joins her side. Belitza further straightens her already rigid posture. There isn't a soul in the room without muscles tense, breath held. All is silent as they await the face of their most recent threat.

Ah... That is him? Quite young from the looks of it. A gruesome killing, fitting of the crime.

The body rests, bloodied and crumpled, on the ground, and as it grows more pronounced, so do the prominent curves. A mass of light brown hair fans out around the soft, heart-shaped face.

Female? But that — that cannot be! She's an abomination, she is!

"It's a...woman...." breathes Shomari.

The rustling and whispers within the throne room intensify as everyone mulls this over. Never did they expect to look for a marked woman.... How unnatural....

The Queen rests her glass on her shoulder, a stream of bubbles trickling to the champagne's surface. Her eyes narrow as she takes in the female form. The face defines itself as her life slips away.

"No. It's a  girl ," says the Queen in astonishment.

Do NOT ignore me when I speak to you, Zelly. No matter what sort of state I am in, do not —

The voice within is suddenly silenced as the girl in the globe, once again, disappears.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One: Not of This World

She is blind and deaf and numb. No feeling reaches her, nor light or sound. It is with great effort that Margo pulls her mind back to consciousness.

Just know that I love you....

Her face pops in and out of focus. Honey blond hair, peridot eyes, quizzical smile.  Go back to the pain , she said. The words ring in Margo's ears on a continuous loop.

Go back....

She wishes to go back but to her sister, to Kylie. Margo can still feel her breath, smell the vanilla scented lotion on her skin. She was real, and she was here.

The tingling in her body creeps away from her fingertips, relieving the cold pit in Margo's center. As her senses slowly return, Margo feels as if she's resting between two swaying branches.

The stark blackness is suddenly interrupted. Body convulsing, she breathes in a ragged drag of air through raw lungs. The searing pain in her left side smothers all other senses, and she writhes.

"Hey, hey,  hey !" Cameron's arms cradle her tighter to avoid dropping her to the ground. "Margo, are you with me?"

The blood-curdling scream is coming from her own mouth, but Margo cannot control it. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!

But she has to control it. She has to endure the pain a little longer....

"W-where...?" Margo croaks.

"Back to the Witch," Cameron answers before she can finish.

She settles into his arms, working to not kick unnecessarily. Fresh, warm liquid gushes from her side. Every part of her is sticky with blood. Margo pulls her head upward — which manages to further tear open her abdomen — in attempt to evaluate the damage, but a hand presses down on her forehead, forcing her to rest on Cameron's shoulder. The world spins around her.

"Don't look," warns Ian. Margo hadn't noticed him running alongside Cameron. She also hadn't realized that rain pelts down.

"The Witch?" Margo groans. "But...we're...."

"Shush! We have to go back." Cameron pants. His chest rises and falls roughly under her cheek.

His rhythm lulls her. The blackness slowly overtaking, luring her to its comfort. Her arms fall limp, bouncing with his every stride. The numbness creeps up her fingertips again.

"No, Margo!" Cameron shouts in her face causing her eyes to blink open. The pain engulfs her side. "Don't give in! I can't lose you."

His pace quickens.

Margo clings to these words, which she realizes have meaning to her, too. She cannot lose him, either. Not after having lost her sister for a second time. She must focus, must remember, must hold onto him....

Her eyes shut tight.

"Margo!" he yells.

"Thinking of you...." she whispers.

He falls silent. The only sound is the pounding of his feet below, and Ian keeping pace at his side. Margo buries her face in his soaked shirt. She imagines the two of them in a happier place: standing waist-deep in the Hederman's stream, his smile stretched wide, tan face framed with chocolate hair. The taste of his tongue against hers, the softness of his lips pressing against the contours of her jaw — anything to keep her mind busy.

"Almost there!" Cameron shouts.

The smell of the Witch's bonfire wafts as they grow near. The scent has intensified since they left. Bursting through the trees and into the clearing, Margo's face drops in terror at the sight ahead of them. The contents of the house are scattered across the lawn, and the small home is so engulfed in flames that it still burns violently in the heavy rains.

"Go!" says Ian urgently. "They can't be far!"

They double back running along the overgrown path. The sharp sting of branches hits Margo's arms; they are heading onto rougher terrain. On they press through overtly scratchy vines. When finally they break through the thicket and into a sparsely wooded area, Ian speaks up.

"We have to rest, man," he shouts over the now shattering rain.

Margo slips down in Cameron's arms. His chest muffles his tiresome reply. How long has he been carrying her?

Almost immediately he drops to the ground cradling Margo in his chest, rocking slowly. Ian paces the small area, muscles tight and alert.

"What did you do?" says Cameron sharply toward Ian.

Ian turns, infuriated. "What did  I do?"

His cold eyes drop to Margo, who flinches painfully in response.

"How dare you look at her like that?!" The movement of Cameron's booming voice tears her side again. "How dare you blame her?!"

"It isn't her. It's what she is."

" What she is? She never chose to be this!"

"Did I say that?" Ian shouts back. "She's marked. As in, a walking target. She might as well have a bull's eye attached to her forehead. It was only a matter of time before our luck caught up with us."

"What are you talking about?" asks Cameron, abashed. "We were careful."

"Really? Frolicking off into the wood to visit the fairies? Creating bubbles on the Queen's turf? The two of you on your little love-fest? I'm interested in seeing what  not careful entails."

"That...doesn't mean that's how they found us..." Cameron splutters.

"You're careless! You should have never left with her!"

Cameron is yelling again. "She would have wound up dead the first night!"

"No," says Ian coldly. "She would have just become a Water Spirit."

Cameron's muscles tighten, and he fights back the urge to spring due to Margo's condition. "You —"

"Guys, please stop yelling." Margo sucks in a painful breath.

Ian nods, carefully calming himself before dropping to his knees. "What now? She looks awful."

"Would you just be quiet?" Cameron strokes Margo's cheek. She shakes under his touch but cannot push aside the pain.

"I'm simply stating the obvious. Question is: what do we do next? The Witch — the only one who might have been able to stitch up those wounds — is out. So what now?"

Cameron's face wrinkles in thought. His eyes suddenly widen. "Fairies!"

Ian stares blankly at him.

"Take her." Cameron carefully rolls Margo into Ian's accepting arms. Her side splits, even with his attempted ease.

Ian doesn't speak. He simply falls into step behind Cameron, who hacks through the oncoming thick brush until they meet the familiar stream, set down about a four-foot drop. They jump with a showering splash. Ian moves spryly on the balls of his feet and hardly causes an increase in Margo's torment.

"They aren't far," Cameron says. "They can help, I know it."

A groan slips through Margo's lips.

"Hold on, Margo." Ian tries his best to calm her.

She looks up into his ink black eyes, which truly looked saddened by her condition.

"I don't want you to die." His simple, matter-of-fact statement reminds her of Kylie's last words again. She can bear this pain if it means surviving for these boys.

The grand tree of the fairies' lair comes into view, just as stunning as the night before. Perhaps because the rain darkens the air enough to still see the thousands of lights in its leaves. Cameron sloshes his way ahead.

"Fairies! Please, help!" he cries. "It's Margo."

A hundred glowing specks flit forward between falling pellets of rain. A group circle around Margo's abdomen in a dizzying spiral of light.

Then they scatter with purpose. Between the trees, a lighted line of fairies hover silently. A pathway....

"Let's go," says Cameron, leading them to the first dot of light that passes over their heads.

*

In a rocking chair on the front porch, sits a rugged-looking man with a short, scruffy beard. He whittles while rocking back and forth in the creaky chair. It is early morning on Day Seven and the rain pours in full. Between cuts he glances east where he can see smoke rising several miles in the distance. It worries him, seeing what appears to be the aftermath of a battle so near his family. The man, who is called Axton, pops a pluriberry into his mouth before busying himself once more.

A fleck of golden light catches his attention. A lone fairy. He doesn't much care for these creatures; they feel invasive. It flutters gracefully between raindrops.

Suddenly a dozen or so more flicker to life forming a line. Axton drops his whittling as he jolts to his feet. Blinking hard as if to cast them away, he stands staring into the soft grayish morning light. The lights shimmer back at him mockingly.

He stumbles into the house and frantically shouts, "Fairies! They've strung a line! It's leading someone directly to us!"

A woman from inside shouts endless profanities in response, followed by a clanging of stoneware. The man posts up on the porch, bolts the front door, and retrieves his whittling knife.

Urgent voices chatter through the trees before he can actually see them — two young men and a limp girl in the taller of the two's arms. Bleeding and near death. Both boys are soaked to the bone in both rain and her blood;  they must have taken turns carrying and nursing her. Her arms dangle in a corpse-like manner.

They look up, noticing the man or perhaps his quaint home. The smaller one runs ahead, his eyes sporting dark shadows and his long hair clinging wetly to his neck.

"We need your help!" he says. "She's — she's dying! Please, she doesn't have much time!"

Axton's eyes narrow, grip tightening on the blade concealed by his thigh. "How do you know of this place? What brings you here?"

"What brings us here?" the boy repeats aghast. "The girl! Look! Look at her!" He gestures to her just as the other boy catches up.

"Save her! Please save her!" he begs.

"How could I possibly save her? What makes you assume I —" His voice catches in his throat, for the etching on her dangling arms has just come into view. "Blasted fairies. Inside at once...."

He unbolts the door and ushers them in as the taller boy sings his gratitude. The room is plastered a pale shade of gray, warm wooden beams exposed on the ceiling and a table in the center of the room fully set for a party of ten. Seated at the latter is a translucent-skinned lady wrapped in a crocheted shawl the color of mulberries. She bounces to her feet at once.

"Who are these people?" she shouts. "Out! OUT!"

She catches sight of Margo and backs away, dark  hands folded upon her chest.

"Ready the table," says Axton as he holds the door ajar for the three strangers.

"Ready the...? Are you out of your mind?! Get them out! GET THEM OUT!" she shouts. "This way," he tells the boys. "Freya, get a move on! The table! Ready the table!"

With a grumble, she begins transferring goblets to the open shelves two at a time so as not to break them.

"For the love of God, Freya! MOVE!" Axton shoves everything from the table to the floor in two quick sweeps — silver, dishes, goblets, even the cloth itself.

"My things, my things!" Freya grasps h er black curls, knotting them up in her fists.

The boys quickly lay the girl flat on the wooden surface. Her face is colorless and eyes distant. The boy who carried her brushes her long bangs from her clammy face and presses his lips upon her forehead. The other boy cuts away her shirt, revealing the ragged puncture in her stomach.

"Her organs are severely damaged," the long-haired boy says factually. "And she doesn't have much blood left. She will need to sustain what remains."

"Freya," says Axton. "You have to do it!"

She backs away shaking her head. "My house, this mess. St-stuff is everywhere!"

He crosses over to her and gives her shoulders a hard shake. "Don't worry about that now. This girl needs you."

"No.... No, no, no,  no !" Her hands twitch uncontrollably. Eyes darting about the floor. "You know I can't do that!"

"Her arms, Freya, look at them! She's marked."

"That changes nothing."

"Don't you want the best for yourself? If not for yourself then for your —"

She claps her hand upon his lips. "Do NOT say it!"

She crosses over to the table and bends down. The girl leans into Freya, possibly already feeling her soothing effects. Her golden eyes meet Freya's ice blues. "If you tell anyone about this," Freya says so quietly only the girl can hear, "I will cut out your tongue."

The girl's eyes widen slightly but she nods.

Freya plunges three fingers deep into the wounds. The boys shout protests, but Axton holds them back. The girl does not cringe away, but instead finds relief. Slowly, the wound knits itself back together. Freya inches her fingers out until nothing remains but a soft pink scar.

Instantly the marked girl sits up, though it is slow moving.

"Unfortunately, there will always be a scar. I cannot repair others as perfectly as I can myself." She gestures to her  flawless caramel complexion . "And the blood cannot be replaced. You'll have to wait for your body to create more."

The three of them look to each other in confusion.

"What sort of power is that?" says the long-haired boy.

"The kind you do not get in Jamyria," Freya returns.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two: Without a Plan

Falling to her knees, Freya rights unbroken goblets, carefully lining them up like emerald glass soldiers, and collects the silver nearest her, coupling them in a linear pattern.

Cameron gapes, Ian's brow is knitted together, and Margo cannot help but to say, "Excuse me? Did you say your power isn't from this world?"

Her gash is completely healed over. Not only that, but her insides are intact. She was a goner. Saul had ripped through organs, and now all that remains is a ragged pink line the size of a finger.

Freya's hand freezes on a teetering glass. It rocks dangerously before she forces it flat on its bottom. "Your tone suggests you believe yours is."

Affronted, Margo says, "Where else would it...?" But the answer to her question suddenly forms on its own accord. If her power were from Jamyria, the world would cease to exist.

"Man created this synthetic universe with a mark," responds Freya. "The Queen received her power from her father, or so they say. I'm beginning to wonder if you're one of a kind."

Her eyes rake over Margo, who is lightheaded from the shortage of blood.

"Well," she continues, "whether it's the Queen's original mark or not, it was received before the inception of this world. Otherwise, how would the world come to be?"

"You can't create a penny without first getting a mark," Margo mumbles to herself.

A smile spreads across Freya's ghostly face. "Exactly."

The way Freya drew out the second syllable of that word sparks Margo. "American?" she asks her.

Freya's eyes light up. She abandons her strewn table settings. "Yes, Oregon!" she sings. "Entered in ninety-four! You, too? Are you American?"

"Tennessee." Margo tries to say the word with enthusiasm, but the room spins. She props herself on her elbows. Cameron is immediately at her side.

"You should lie down."

"No, what she really needs it a bath," says Freya disapprovingly. "She's covered in blood! In fact, all three of you need cleaning up. And you!" she addresses Axton who starts. "The stains on this table, handle them!"

He grunts in acceptance.

Pulling Margo's arm over her shoulder, Freya helps her to the washroom and draws her a bath. She sets Margo down on a bench while the tub fills. It is a quaint room with glass floor tiles the color of the sunset. She sprinkles soap flakes into the warm water and shuts off the tap. Margo can't help but to wonder where the people of this world get the items in their homes.

She barely has the strength to hold her head up, but when Freya reaches to pull Margo's shirt over her head Margo cringes away.

"I'm...sorry." Freya's brow furrows. "I didn't mean to scare you. If you're shy, I can look away. But I'm not leaving. With your luck you might pass out in the water, and then where will be? Fifty more years because the New Mark drowned in my bathtub."

Margo waits for her to turn her back before undressing. "I'm not shy," she defends. "Someone just tried..." But she can't form the words. Nothing happened in the forest with Saul, yet she feels as if everything changed in the moment he tried to claim her.

"Tried to what?" presses Freya. "Did someone do something to you?"

Margo's head shakes. "Not exactly." But the tears begin to flow. She slips into the water in attempt to hide the sounds of her sobs.

"Who are those boys you travel with?"

"Friends," she simply says.

The water quickly turns red, but Margo pays it no mind. Being stripped of the grime of dirt and the stickiness of blood is such a luxury. The woman, Freya, stays in the corner of the room, nestled upon the bench.

"Are you marked?" Margo eventually asks.

Freya goes against her promise and glances up at her.

"No, my gift is different."

"Hmm..." Margo stares at the ceiling. "Well, is it like a mark? Are there more of you?"

Four short footsteps and Freya kneels next to the side of the tub. "I'm sure you know more about your gift than I do mine. I was abandoned because of it.... No one was around to tell me anything."

Her eyes like glass watered, and she reaches out for Margo. Her fingertips brush at her neck, and Margo feels t he pull of mending tissue again. An image flashes in her mind as quickly as the Crewman had swung his blade at her throat.

"Thank you." It is the only thing she can say.

Freya looks sadly at Margo's face. "You can't stay here, my American friend."

She nods in agreement, remembering the burning scene of the Witch's house. Margo wouldn't let that happen to these kind people, too.

"But you must eat," says Freya. She shuts her eyes as if at war with herself until finally: "And sleep. Just one night, alright?"

Margo frowns into the water wishing she had the courage to say 'no,' wishing there was somewhere else for her to go so she wouldn't have to rely on others who are no doubt in danger because of her.

She hadn't properly seen the boys until she came staggering out of the bathroom wearing a fresh shirt of Freya's. A four-inch gash runs the length of Cameron's left cheek; it has since bruised a sickly purple color. He flexes his right hand, one finger remaining fixed as if it's been jammed. Ian fidgets with his nose that is clearly broken, both eyes black because of it. And the two of them are covered in dry, flaky blood.

Before Margo can speak, Freya walks ahead of her into the sitting room and clamps Ian's nose hard. He squeals in response.

"Well you don't want it fixed in the wrong position, do you?" Freya complains before crossing over to Cameron.

He backs away, hands up defensively.

"Er.... I don't mind healing the way nature intended, really."

Freya's lips twists. She rests her hand on Cameron's cheek, and then snaps his finger back into place. He wails in pain which sends Margo on edge, but he looks as good as new only now he has a scar on his face that she finds shockingly handsome.

Panting, Cameron says, "Okay, I won't lie and say that was my favorite thing in the world, but it's still pretty cool. Yeah, Ian?"

"Will you please not lump me into your category?" he moans, hand still rubbing his pointy nose.

"Right, now," says Freya with her hands on her hips. "Hurry with the table, Ax. I believe our guests would prefer to leave blood off the breakfast menu. You two," she points to the Cameron and Ian, "take turns in the bath; I don't want to have to re-clean anything because you've leaned against it or brushed up on it. Margo, please, sit. I'm ordering you to rest because you look awful and have a lot of blood to create."

She hands Margo a purple fruit and resets the table just as Axton finishes cleaning it.

Light trickles through a gap in the curtain. Deep heavy breaths, the rise and fall of his chest, arms wrapped around her. Comfort. Margo lies burrowed in Cameron's chest until the visions of the morning's battle flood her mind again. Peeling herself away, she sits in the middle of the room, trembling. Did she really incapacitate a man and murder another? She shudders.

A nest of blankets is all that remains of Ian's corner. In the armchair next to his bedding is the collection of Margo's things he retrieved after the attack — her bag, jacket, and sword.

Margo soundlessly walks through the empty room and finds him sitting on the porch looking into the trees, rain still falling heavily.

He's always staring at something, she notes as she takes a seat next to him.

"Surprised you're up," he says without taking his eyes off the forest.

"I'm feeling better. A full meal always helps."

His eyes flicker to her and back. "Pluriberry?"

He offers her a stem with berries the size of juniper berries; they are bright  fuschia and darken to an eggplant color as they reach the tip. She plucks a few.

"They remind me of my feather, the way they change colors."

"Clarxen feather," he states.

"Yes, that."

She awkwardly fidgets with the too-long  sleeves of the shirt Freya gave her. She doesn't like resting. Not after having pushed forward to a goal for so many days. And after all they went through, she doesn't feel much closer to getting out of this world than before.

Destroy it, the Witch said of the globe.

It was a small consolation, but Margo didn't know how she was supposed to get into the castle without getting caught. Visiting the Witch only left her more frustrated than ever.

"Where are the others?" Margo asks.

Ian's lips quirk. "Keeping their daughter company in her room."

"Daughter?" Her eyebrows shoot up.

"Yeah, her name's  El lie . Tiny little thing." A full smile spreads across his lips. "Guess they didn't want her mixing with the mess we've brought."

Nodding, she says, "That's understandable."

In fact, she understands better than ever after the morning's events.

"Can you...?" she begins.

Ian turns curiously, giving Margo the courage to continue.

"Can you fill me in on what happened? You know, after I...."

Without any other prompt, Ian dives into the full story. "When Cameron fell, you lost it." He says it almost accusingly. "You lost your focus and just stood there. And that man —"

"Saul...."

"Yes, him. Saul stabbed you, and you went down. I was already rushing over to help Cameron — and barely got over to him in time — when I saw it happen. Cameron got up just then, and he saved you."

Margo's eyes widen. " He saved me?" she whispers. "I thought he was.... When I saw him fall, I really thought it was over. All I wanted was for you to survive."

Her face warms as she admits this aloud.

"Did you kill him? Saul?"

Ian shakes his head. "You were our focus. We did all we could to fight them off, but once they saw that you were.... Well, at least it looked like you were dead. They took off, and all we cared about was getting you out of there."

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asks suddenly.

She peeks up at him feeling childish. Ian is reluctant to nod.

Margo speaks too quickly as she tells him about what happened to her in the woods. How afraid of Saul she was. How she felt overpowered by herself. How words fell from her lips without her say so. How she fought more gracefully than she was capable. When she finished telling him, Ian's brow furrows in deep thought.

"And you're sure you weren't seeing the details of the world more crisply?"

"I told you, it wasn't like when you dropped me on the way down from the Water Forest. This was completely out of my control." Her brow wrinkles.  "Have you ever heard of a mark doing that before?"

"Never." His cheek twitches and lips tighten into a line.

Margo's eyes narrow. "You're lying."

A dark smile flits across his face. "I'm not as quick to share all my secrets," he says behind a curtain of black hair.

Margo folds her arms over her stomach, thinking about all she has kept secret from them since her entering. The death of her sister in the forefront of her mind. Kylie was keen on secrets, too. And as she watches Ian stare into the depths of the forest, the thrumming of rain on puddles in the background, she can clearly see what draws her to this boy. Rough around the edges, insightful, a bit mysterious....

"You remind me of someone," she murmurs, staring longingly at his profile.

He turns, the humor in his face vanishing. "Funny. I could say the same about you...."

Margo bites her bottom lip as he again faces the trees. He takes a sip from his goblet. She wonders what the story of this boy is. What's he thinking when he stares off into space? What brought him to this point in Jamyria? Why is he helping her? Putting her trust in him still doesn't feel like the smart thing to do, but she is happy around him. Why is that...?

"That's one secret...." he says.

"Will there be others?"

His jet eyes lock with hers in surprise, perhaps because she didn't ask him to elaborate on who she reminds him of. "We'll see. Maybe another day."

Cameron leans in the kitchen  door frame grinning. "Glad to see you up," he says.

Margo smiles in response as she and Ian walk back into the house.

Ian drops into one of the dining chairs. Freya pours him more wine and swats at his hand when he reaches prematurely for a dinner roll in the center of the table.

Ian is cursing loudly when Cameron steals Margo into the kitchen and away from prying eyes. Warmth fills her middle.

"You know," he says, still grinning. "I haven't given up yet."

"Given up?" Her breath catches having nearly forgotten about their conversation just before the attack. At the time, the words were on the  brink of flowing from her lips, but now she isn't sure how to tell him that her sister is gone, that one of his best friends is dead.

He stares knowingly, and instead of continuing their conversation, he says, "Our conversation last summer."

She relaxes and gratefully says, " Two summers ago."

"How about a deal, then? I'll admit that I loved you," Cameron moves so close she can feel his breath on her nose. Her heart stutters. "And you admit that you loved me."

Margo's eyes dart between his own blues and his lips. "I think you just did."

His smile broadens. "And? What about you?"

She thinks back a thousand years ago, to the day atop the Ferris wheel, the day she wished to reciprocate his spoken feelings. Kylie's words ring through her head.  What if, God forbid, something were to happen?

"Yes," she whispers before reasoning can sink in. "I did."

"And," his hand finds her neck, Margo closing her eyes at his touch. "And what about now?"

"I still feel the same," she breathes.

And his lips are suddenly pressing into hers. It is unlike the stolen kiss from Saul. He is  tender , and she wants him. Her fingers knot in his hair as the kiss grows wilder. Everything is perfect. She wishes nothing will change, but  —

But the Witch's words pound in the back of her skull.  Dey want you to help dem escape, but for you, Margo Grisby, dis is your escape.

Dere is already so much light in yourself....

"Shikas," she says suddenly, his lips still pulling against hers.

Cameron stares at her for a moment. "Sorry...what?"

"Shikas," Margo repeats. Pulling him back into the sitting room, a look of determination in her brow. "We need shikas. We have to leave tonight."

"Tonight?" Axton interjects. "It's Day Seven. It wouldn't be wise to go tonight."

"Day Seven?" Margo purses her lips.

"Last day of the Jamyrian week, the day of Rain," Ian explains.

"You need your rest, Margo," says Freya. "I can heal you, but I —"

"Can't bring back the blood, I know." Margo tries to conceal her annoyance. "We have to go. The Witch's home.... I won't let that happen here, too. We have to leave right away."

"But we don't know where we're going, remember?" says Ian. "We never even got a chance to ask the Witch what we were supposed to do."

"I did," says Margo with a smug air. "We have to go to the castle and find the main globe. She told me to destroy it."

"Wait," Cameron says. "The castle? As in, the Queen's castle?"

"Is there more than one?" Margo asks curiously. "Whichever one has the globe."

"Oh, there's only one," Cameron  laughs darkly. "I just don't see how that's going to be any safer than what happened this morning."

"I didn't say it was safer," Margo barks.

Ian drops his gaze to his feet.

"And besides," she continues. "I told you from the beginning that you didn't have to come with me. You decided to come, so back me up. Or else I'm going to do this alone."

Cameron takes a step back as if her words had reopened his wounds.

"The Witch is dead, Cam. She died telling me this, and I won't be able to live with myself if the same thing happens here."

"So we leave tonight." Ian nods in acceptance.

"We have four shikas," says Freya. "Take what you need. Anything for the Marked One."

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three: Storm the Castle

The forest blends into a blur of teal green while the glittering stars light their way. As the moon peaks, the trickling rain abruptly stops. Day Seven ends and the First Day begins. Droplets cling to every surface and softly reflect the shimmering moonlight. And when the night finally comes to a close, morning mist greets them before the sun.

The ground sloshes under the shikas' forked hooves as they press forth with vigor. Riding at a gallop is both exhilarating and terrifying. They weave between trees  in accelerated movements that are blind to human eyes.

Margo recognizes the sacrifice giving up three shikas had been for Freya and Ax. She will be forever grateful.

"If there ever comes a fight, we will be there," Axton had said.

Margo clasped hands with him in thanks.

Freya had squeezed her daughter — whose cherub face resembled her mother's but for her light brown eyes — tightly in her arms as if regretting his promise. Her face, however, looked determined to be a part of the change that brought freedom to the little girl she held.

She nodded once at Margo and repeated herself. "Anything for the Marked One."

The wishbone charm bounces wildly off Margo's chest. The steady rhythm of the animals threatens to put her to sleep. She shakes herself into alertness.

"Let's slow up," says Cameron having taken notice to this. "These guys need a rest."

Unable to find the resolve to argue, Margo tugs at the reins until the midnight shika she rides eases into a walking pace.

Ian kicks off his animal completely, dropping to the ground with a groan.

"We're not stopping," she says firmly, angling her shika so that she can face him.

"Ah, come on. We've been riding all night. Besides, look at yourself! Your eyes are all baggy."

Frowning, she says, "How am I supposed to see the bags under my own eyes?"

A hand encloses around her wrist. Cameron is standing alongside her. "A little sleep will do us all some good. We're in no state to infiltrate the castle."

Margo kicks off the animal wordlessly and trudges over to a tree which she settles against. "One hour," she grumbles.

"Why are you in such a rush all of the sudden, anyway?" asks Ian.

She flicks away a winged bug that landed on her knee. Ian cringes away from it. The man who takes on three Crewmen, afraid of bugs.

"Because I'm done hiding."

She has no watch and no alarm, but Margo is certain they slept for more than one hour. Worst of all, she is the last awake and a smear of sickly sweet mud clings to the side of her face.

By mid-afternoon, the forest has grown into darker shades. The further west they ride, the more normal the trees are: leaves of hunter green with a faint bluish hue sprout from thin, dark trunks. Foothills grow into verdant mountains that soar into the turquoise sky.

They come upon a line of tall grass, stretching on in either direction, dotted with purple flowers whose petals are so iridescent they glow in the sunlight. Wrapping up and over the mountain and deep into the valley, the row of grass quivers in the breeze. It stands no taller than Margo's knees.

"We're not far from the castle," Ian tells them. "Keep your eyes open. This marks her territory."

"How do you know so much about this land?" Margo asks, hardly masking her suspicion.

Cameron eyes Ian carefully.

"I've been here much longer than you," he replies. "I practically grew up in  this world , remember?"

She frowns and tries imagining what it would be like spending your childhood in a false reality. Never smelling the fresh air of the Real World. Unable to grasp the advancements of humankind after a lifetime without such luxuries. Not knowing your parents....

"I'm sorry...."

"Don't be." Ian flicks his reins lightly. "It's all I remember. But from what I hear, life is better on the other side."

Margo smiles. "I'm glad I called for you to come back."

Ian looks back to her.

"When you caught that deer... After you saved me from the water. I'm glad you stayed with us."

Staring at his hands, his grip tightens on the reins without a word. He quickens his pace seemingly as anxious as Margo.

Though no castle is visible, it's clear they are heading toward the highest mountain. It looms over the other hilltops. And at long last, the forest breaks. Lying ahead is a stretch of flat, rocky surface. There is a crunch under Margo's feet as she drops to the ground from her shika. She stands up on her toes to give the animal a nuzzle behind its pointed ear.

"You were great. Go now, back home." Cameron pats his golden shika on the nose before sending it away. He has a deeper connection with the animals, having tended to them during his stay.

His stay.

She has thus far half-heartedly sought for an escape, and it is the first time Margo thought of this world as temporary. If everything goes as smoothly as planned, they will reach the globe, drive her blade into it, and be back in the Real World by nightfall.

"Let's get this over with." Ian inches his way to the edge of the forest.

Margo feels very exposed after having been under the canopy of the oversized forest. Ian leads the way toward the mountain whose foot rests at the opposite end of the stone floor. But there is still no sign of the castle.

"Ian," Margo whispers, because whispering now seems appropriate. "Where is it?"

"This is it," Cameron answers. "It's daytime, so it's not as obvious."

Her hand finds the handle of her sword. "Shouldn't it be more visible during the day?"

"Look." Ian's arm is extended and pointing to a peak slightly to the left. A single black tower juts out above the mountain.

"That's it?" Margo expected something grander. Not such a slender spectacle. "The Queen lives in there?"

"No, that's the lookout tower. The castle is in there." This time Ian points ahead.

"The mountain?"

"It's hollowed out. As Cameron said, it's more obvious at night because there are windows carved in its sides, and the lanterns light up the night sky. Still, it's camouflaged pretty well."

"Have you been in there before?" Margo asks, her nerves suddenly jittering beneath her skin.

Ian hesitates. "No.... But I've seen pictures. Hmm.... I'm trying to remember the layout. I know the globe is in the throne room."

She looks to Cameron.

"It's true," he says. "There are dozens of sketches out there of the castle's  insides , many drawn by Nick himself."

"Won't they see us coming if we keep walking in broad daylight like this?" Margo asks. She recalls Janie's story of Nick entering the castle.

A short laugh. "Cocky attitudes pay the price," says Ian, spreading his arms wide and adding more swagger to his gait.

"Will you take it down a notch and follow your own advice?" She scowls.

"Just focus on finding an entrance and let's get moving," says Cameron.

Margo understands his words, though. The mountain is gargantuan and their bland clothing blends in, so it would be hard to spot them. It takes twenty minutes to reach the base of the mountain, where they find slight protection behind boulders strewn alongside the slope.

"How far?" she whispers.

"'Bout a quarter  mile hike up. Then, it starts shaping out more like walls. We won't be able to climb it, so we'll sneak into a window."

Cameron nods in agreement, though there is a coldness to his gaze.

The rocks slide beneath their feet threatening to claim them; it would be a long, jagged fall . They ascend silently, but for the  click - clacks of the shuffling stones.

The walls of the castle are made of stone much like the wall surrounding the Central City, though it is covered in moss and other green growths to camouflage it in the distance. Pressing her hand on its rough surface, Margo is surprised to see how thorough the Queen's design is. She fooled her, at least.

They skim the wall in search of a window — which is nothing more than a hole carved into the wall leading into a hallway. The interior gleams in the unexpected luxury of a five-star hotel. Ian is the first to drop inside. With a quick glance both directions, he signals for the other two to follow suit.

The most dangerous part of Jamyria is surprisingly lux.

Nodding toward the left, Cameron takes the lead. The carpet beneath their feet is a striking red after being surrounded by the stretch of gray outside. The outer wall is the same gray stone while the inner is bedecked in gold wallpaper decorated with unlit lanterns made of scrolling iron.

A short hallway on their right. They peek around the corner to find it deserted before turning and continuing on.

"The throne room  can't be far," Cameron says.

"Wait," Margo whispers, at the sudden discovery. "If we're going to the throne room that means...."

"The Queen will be there, yes." Ian's eyes narrow.

"Perfect," she mutters. Fear thickens like honey. It is just as the Witch told her:  Always at her side. So why is it such a shock?

"We can hide out until the Queen leaves," Cameron says, but Ian is shaking his head.

"She practically lives in there. Besides, in the off-chance she decides to leave, someone will stay behind, meaning it'll never be completely deserted. And what if, in the meantime, someone finds us? I doubt there are any decent hiding places along these halls."

Cameron and Margo exchange a nervous look, and she knows exactly what he is thinking: Ian knows too much about this castle.

"Maybe this is a bad idea," she says, planting her feet. "This seems to be happening so fast."

"Are you serious?" Cameron whispers. "After all that? We're here, Margo, we can't just back out!"

"Sure we can!" She takes a step back. "Let's think up a new plan and come back in the morning —"

But before she can finish her thought, a flash of orange light shoots between the two of them forcing them apart. A man, tall as Saul and twice as thick, swirls his arm over his head, conjuring a second burst.

Cameron grabs her by the arm and shouts, " Come on !"

The second blast ignites, aiming to hit Margo square in the back. Ian steps, with milliseconds to spare, between her and the flare, his hands outstretched to deflect it. She screams knowing he will be disintegrated, knowing his hands will surely be gone.

Staggering away, somehow still alive, he yells. "Do something!"

It takes a moment for her to realize he's talking to her. The Mark. The one with power.

A third light sparks.

What had she done when Saul threatened her? She tries to understand where that strength came from. There isn't a way for her to do it. She can't remember! But —

She holds out both palms, breathes deeply. Focus on her energy, just like Ian taught her around the fire. Let's it hover in front of her palm.

The orange flash approaches, but it is nothing compared to the energy that erupts from her palm: hot, feral, and uncontrollable. It scorches the room with a jet of white, hitting the Crewman dead on. He collapses to the ground. Cameron and Ian both ricochet against the walls on either side of the  hallway , which is now stripped of its gold paper.

"S-sorry!"

"Never mind!" Cameron shouts as he gets to his feet. "He's down! Let's go."

Ian's face contorts. He eyes Margo for longer than they can afford after the ruckus she caused. He lets out a long breath. "You need to follow me. Now."

Three doors down, he pushes through. A stone spiral staircase winds both up and down . T hey hurry down to the floor below. The doors above burst open just as Cameron shoves her through the doors leading into a corridor.

"Where are we going?" she shouts, no longer trying to hide their appearance.

"Throne room," says Ian breathlessly. There is a new kind of fear in his dark eyes, which causes her to hiccup and doubt everything they are doing.

The mountain is more labyrinth than castle. Ian leads them down countless turns, confusing Margo's senses. The sounds of Crewmen grow in the distance behind them. They will not be able to outrun them for long!

The hallway opens into a circular foyer, and they are faced with a set of golden doors. Wildly they swing open, crashing into the walls and sending a thunderous echo throughout the room. Every inch before her is made entirely of white stone, smoothed to a glossy finish with touches of soft gray veins in its surface. The walls are lined with crimson drapes puddling to the floor and staggered with curling iron sconces, each alight with brilliant white flames. A spherical piece of glass glints in a corner. A striking tiger skin parts the room at its center leading straight to a half a dozen Jamyrian Guards who surround a short set of black stairs.

Atop the stairs, sitting in a silver filigree throne, is the most breathtaking woman Margo has ever seen. With piles of dark curls spilling down her shoulders and skin of ivory, the woman is the epitome of perfection. Wrapped in lavender silk which falls to her feet like a purple waterfall. Hair adorned with a crown made of raw amethyst crystals jutting up through tendrils like stalactites. Her lips are blush. Her eyes are haunting.

They consume Margo's soul.

Words escape her. She cannot disconnect her eyes from this woman. She cannot speak. Cannot move. Cannot fight. This woman before her... She simply stares at Margo and renders her useless.

A whimper escapes her lips.

Cameron shuffles his feet. Ian draws his weapons to fight, but Margo knows it is too late. Too late. She has brought them to their deaths. Where has her level head gone? She is always the one to think things through. Always the one to be cautious. This idea is so... So Kylie.

"Your name, child?"  Her voice is as sharp as glass, an echo of hatred in the cold room.

But Margo cannot, nor does she want to, respond. Her knees simply shake as her hold tightens on her sword.

How could she have ever thought the Queen could possibly be good? That she brought people in to share her magnificent land rather than to imprison them?

"Shaken to the point she can no longer recall her own name." The Queen belts a laugh. It is awful sounding, cruel and spiteful. "Well since you can no longer remember who you are, I suppose I must continue addressing you as 'child.' You are, I must admit, an interesting Mark. There is no doubt about that." She rises to her feet. Her guards shift their weight, awaiting her orders. "But a Mark, nonetheless. And Marks must be dealt with."

She takes a step down the staircase. Margo trembles.

"Easy there," whispers Ian.

Cameron simply gulps, as if in the same sort of trance.

The Queen's laugh returns, though a softer maniacal version. "It's a pity, really. You are but a child who has been cast a sour fate. But you," she points a labradorite-adorned finger at Margo, "are a threat to everything I have created. Everything I am. And you will  not ruin everything that is mine." She takes a breath, which fails to calm herself. "Did you assume that because you outsmarted a few of my weaker guards you can prance in here unannounced as if you rule this world? You have fooled yourself, child.  I am the God of this world. You are a fool for coming here. And a fool for this delusion that possessed you into believing you can defeat me." The Queen outstretches her right palm, which Margo can now see is littered with the same circular  markings as the guards they fought the day before — over twice as many as are etched into their scalps. They stretch beyond her palm to the tips of her fingers and  partially up her forearm. But there is no time to study them. They soon glow more vivid than Margo has ever witnessed a mark to glow. Greater than Nick's. Even greater than her own explosive tendencies. She braces herself for an impact that is sure to come.

There is a disturbance behind the Queen. A towering man pulls his way out from the dark curtain behind the throne, clothed in black and standing a good three heads taller than Margo. His skin is dark and warm with eyes lined in black as if missing sleep.  He wears a twisted expression.

"Your Majesty," he says in a rough yet soothing voice. It almost sounds like he is reminding her of something. He places a thick hand on hers.

She turns to him, and though she looks as if she wishes to slash open his face, she orders, "Destroy the Mark. Capture the boys."

Margo's stomach wrenches as the dark man leaps from atop the stairs, his thick body dropping dow n like  lead, the whole room trembling. He reaches inside the shadows of his coat to retrieve his weapon.

Cameron comes to. "The mission, Margo. All that matters now is the mission."

Bile rises in her throat. She understands. They cannot possibly win this battle. They cannot win, unless she can fulfill the Witch's order. Her eyes skirt to the corner of the room.

"Do not think you are suddenly privileged, Shomari." The Queen's voice splits the room again. "Your post."

The dark man, Shomari, straightens up with a growl. His hand falls to his side, clenched in a fist. But suddenly, Margo can no longer see his face as the other guards have made their move.

"Figure out something," says Ian. "Fast."

She is the first to unsheathe her sword, readying it on point. The Queen smirks in response and settles into her seat with hands in claws over the arms of her throne.

Metal slides against her blade — she has blocked his hit at a bad angle.  Swoosh ! Her grip doesn't falter as she slings her sword behind her, the Crewman barely losing his stride. Cameron's foot collides with his face.

A glint of light in the corner: a reflection.

White flashes across her vision, pain throbs behind her ear. She falls to the ground painfully as something hit her head. A man cackles down at her from above. Her eyes crack and in the direction of the spherical shape she sees the gold base.

Rolling over onto her back, she lays spread eagle. Wrapped in fabric from his throat to his palms, the man sneers. Doubling her energy, she separates it from both palms in an explosion. But the Crewman dives out of the way in time. The room rattles and a defiant scream sounds from the dais.

Scrambling to her feet, Margo runs past Cameron, who plunges his sword into the forearm of a writhing foe, to the alcove where the globe rests.

A second blast from her palms as another approaches. She doesn't falter.

The doors fling open behind them, more Crewmen spilling in. At least a dozen. It has to be now, or it's over!

A wicked smile spreads across the Queen's face.

She runs straight to it, charging her  power in her palm. And releases it at the globe —

The room crackles like heat lightning. The Queen's face contorts into fear. The globe gathers the energy forming an electric current around it, but instead of breaking, the power reflects off of the glass. The room surges. Vibrations hit Margo.

The arm of the man who hit her earlier flies by; she barely dodges in time. He howls in excitement, the rush of the fight fueling him. Another blow to the head. This time she doesn't fall, but can feel the blood rushing down from her scalp to her cheek. In the seconds it took for her to shake off the impact, his hands are binding hers.

He rams her into something hard holding her there, and suddenly  she is picturing Saul , and she is in the woods pressed up against the tree. Her eyes squeeze tight, shak ing the memory away . Energy pulses through her — she must mimic the power she had before. Even if it means losing herself to her mark. Cameron. Ian. They couldn't die because of her rash decision to confront the Queen.

Energy rushes out, glowing so brightly it burns through her eyelids. Scrambling against his binding arms, Margo tries to break free. But for some reason she is incapable of separating from him.

Then his screams overpower everything else.

It is a torturous scream, wild and out of control. An instant later and the pain hits her, too. Like flames licking at her body, burning her to the core. It comes on so strongly that Margo cannot help but to writhe against it.

What's happening?  She understands there are many things this power is capable of, though she is master of no such things. Especially not torture. It seems her latest trick has backfired upon herself.

He trembles, grip tightening on her wrist and waist. Margo's nails dig into his skin. Neither fight each other, but rather try to stay alive.

She can't stop it. She pushes against him again, but no relief comes.

A cool breeze rushes over them, and everything is pitch black. The Crewman releases her leaving her alone in darkness. The torches must have been blown out during her attack.

Shuffling her feet around on the stone ground, Margo feels out for the wall and nearly trips over what feels like a curb. At any moment the dozens of Guardsmen around her would surely strike. She reaches for the sword that is not on her hip. She panics when she realizes it's missing and that she probably dropped it during the torture. She braces herself for the coming fight.

The ground trembles beneath her feet as if a stampede is charging toward them. A light suddenly whips around the corner, a hand on Margo's cheek, and her body is plastered against the wall. But it is too tight a fit! She is dragged into the wall,  somehow melding into the stone.

A train roars past blaring a series of screeches from its track. Margo's face remains pressed into the wall but she is able to see what is happening. The rush of wind beats against her cheek. A shrill scream escapes. And then, the train rides off into the darkness, the thunderous sounds fading away.

Panting and shaking, Margo is pulled out of the wall and becomes whole again. She scrambles away from the Crewman.

"Stay back!" she warns, rummaging through her bag. She cannot make any sense of this. Her fingers feel around the inside of her bag until at last she feels the small metal tube attached to a ring and clicks the little keychain flashlight on to find his face.

"Whoa! Easy there," he says protecting his eyes from the light.

She swallows hard, standing in the dark tunnel.

"Who are you? No... It doesn't matter." She shakes her head, baffled. "Did you just save me?"

"I think  you saved me," he muses.

The way he quirks his brow is unsettling. He couldn't possibly mean that...?

Pressing her back into the wall, Margo feels around her bag for her cell phone. "Stay back," she warns.

"Whatever you say, doll."

"Found it!" she says, pushing aside his remark. She presses the power button of the side of her phone and waits for it to turn completely on. And there it is: though faint, her phone shows that it has service.

"We're back?" she whispers to herself. "Back in the Real World?"

The Crewman whistles. "Looks different from when I was last here. All this fuss over getting home from you occupants.... I almost prefer the Queen's place."

"Will you shut it?!"

Margo holds his glare, which he can't see because she still has her light trained on his eyes.

A light! Beyond the curve of the tunnel, she can make out a faint glow. The irony of that sentence gives her chills, but she begins walking toward the light all the same, the noisy Crewman on her heel.

A million thoughts race through her head. Firstly, why are she and this man the only two in this train tunnel? Her gut tells her there was no finality in whatever act caused them to escape. Which brings her to the next question she's almost afraid to ask: what happened to Cameron and Ian?

She misses a step. The Crewman reaches out for her arm, catching her fall. She carries on without a word.

"I'm Luka, by the way." He stretches out a hand, and then slowly pulls it away after receiving Margo's cold glare.

Why a tunnel? Of all places, why would they end up here?

She clicks off the flashlight when they reach the lighted part of the tunnel. The tracks curve to the left after another minute's walk and were soon joined by a second track on the other side of a concrete barrier. Faint yellow lights line the walls.

"I think it's a subway," Margo says.

"Come again?"

She rolls her eyes. It's hard to accept that someone so lethal in that world can be so  clueless in this one.

"Not going to give me your name, are you?" Luka asks.

Her lips in a tight line, she turns away curtly. "Margo."

"Ahh, Margo... The New Mark. First to ever leave Jamyria." His eyes meet hers. "Her Majesty's going to be very upset with you."

The blood drains from her cheeks thinking of Cameron.

Light floods ahead of them from an open space. The Crewman pushes Margo on top of a ledge when she is unable to pull herself up; she thanks him begrudgingly. As casually as possible, they walk away from the track they just scrambled out of and into the station. No one notices them.

Margo sits down on the first bench she sees, without another glance at Luka, wondering what she could have possibly done, and if she'd really destroyed Jamyria.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Acceptance

A knee cuts into the back of Cameron's neck making it impossible to breathe. His legs flail out behind him but are unable to catch hold of anything. It's over. They lost. From the moment Margo disappeared, he knew there was nothing left.

The Crewman shifts his weight barely allowing him to suck in a breath of air before his back buckles from a painful blow.

"There's no need for anymore." The voice is ice splitting the heat of battle. Such a half-hearted command, yet so final. The man pulls Cameron to his knees, holding him by the wrists to prevent him from lashing out any further. But Cameron is out of strength both physically and emotionally.

They took her away from him. Margo has vanished, and it's his fault for going along with her stupid idea of destroying that globe. He recalls the Queen's smirk as Margo tried splitting it open. She couldn't even leave a scratch.

Head dangling, Cameron turns his face to see his ally held captive, as well. Ian stands between two Crewmen, arms at his sides. They flank him, faces hard but wearing a slight look of confusion.

What has Ian done now?

"Working with the Marked One is a serious offense." The Queen breaks the silence, her voice as cold as the white marble room. Three staccato footsteps let Cameron know she is approaching, but he cannot take his eyes off of Ian.

Can't the Guard see he is the stronger of the two? When they fought in the woods, the Crewmen tripled up on Ian from the moment they'd crossed blades. Now they stand almost casually around him. Why is that?

"A crime equal to death. Of course, if I killed everyone who wished to escape my world or chose to associate themselves with the Marked One, my work would continually suffer." Nails dig into Cameron's scalp, and his eyes are suddenly boring into the Queen's ferocious greys. "Your name, boy?"

Every cell in his body is deadened. His usual annoyance with anyone working for the Queen fades as he stares into the face of every Jamyrian's fears. A single breath and his life is over. "Cameron," he splutters.

"You have failed your Queen gravely."

A ragged, fearful gasp falls from his lips.

She releases her marked fist, letting his head fall limp again. "And you." Cameron catches sight of her smoky lavender dress trailing behind like a silvery waterfall as she crosses over to Ian. "You had better explain yourself quickly, Ian Tanner."

She knows his name.

It is the same smile he wears when joking with Margo. The same smile that sickens Cameron every time Ian talks his way out a lie. But he is certain that this time when he wears his annoying crooked smirk, Ian Tanner is not lying.

"I only did what you asked of your Crew, Your Majesty. I brought the Marked One to you."

The pulling of ligaments shoots fire through Cameron's arms. He wasn't even aware he lunged for Ian until the Crewman pulls against him. "You bastard! Margo trusted you."

He tries to break away again, but this time the pain sends him to his knees.

"You led her straight to the Queen!"

Ian belts out in laughter. "And she was stupid enough to walk right into the castle, too."

He lunges again, and this time the fire hit his face. A light as bright as the globe washes over him. When he cracks open his eyelids, he finds himself looking up to Ian's back and lying in a warm, sticky liquid.

"...seems I played my part well," Ian is saying.

"Yes." The Queen sits perched on her throne, fingers interlocked and her chin resting upon her hands. "You won't ever let me doubt you again." It is more a statement than a question.

"You know where my heart is, Your Majesty." Ian bows.

"No..." Cameron moans.

"For ridding Jamyria of the New Mark, you may walk the land once again." The Queen's lips pull into a beautiful smile.

"No more water?" His tone sounds surprised.

She shakes her head. "Take him to his quarters to tidy up," she says to her Crew. "Show him your highest respect."

Ian bows for a second time before turning to leave and patting another Crewman on the back as if they are old pals.

Cameron thrusts himself forward, an arm wrapping around him like a rock. "You killed her, Ian. You took Margo away from me!"

"Killed her?" Eyes black as onyx meet Cameron's glare. "Hardly."

A sudden jolt of hope floods Cameron. Not dead? Could that mean that...? No, that would be impossible.

But not for a Mark.

"Oh, Ian." Voice once again thick as ice, the Queen stops him just as his hand encircles the golden doorknob. His back tenses before he turns back. "I do hope you are telling me the truth, and that you have no further attachment to your friend here. If there is anything you wish to tell me, speak now."

Cameron shakes at the fierceness in her words, but Ian simply looks down at him in disgust. "He is no friend of mine. Do what you please to him."

The door closes, echoing through the Queen's chambers.

*

They aren't coming. Margo and the Crewman had been sitting on the bench for over an hour watching the changing crowd before them. If Cameron or Ian had been freed, they surely would have come by now.

"You don't even know what you did, do you?" Luka breaks the silence.

Margo perks up slightly, then drops her chin back to her knees.

"I had you. You're not a very good fighter, you know. I rammed you into the globe because it was the closest thing I could pin you against; you wouldn't stop wiggling. Then your mark lit up, and I figured you would try to take me down. But I felt the globe, just like when I entered. Only it felt like fire this time, not ice."

She buries her face in the crook of her elbow. "So I ran? Subconsciously, I ran."

Luka remains silent.

"My mark does this thing," she tries to explain, "where it acts on its own. Like it's keeping me safe."

He lets out a sound of understanding. "So that's how you picked off Saul... And that idiot thought he could be a Noble." He chuckles.

"Aren't you going to try to kill me, or something?" she mumbles, her mouth still buried in the fabric of her shirt.

He pauses, considering. "Nah, what difference would that make? Jamyria's done for us. Now we're onto better things. Although, I still don't understand what makes this stone  box of a world so special."

Margo sits up slowly, too tired to be annoyed. "We're at a subway station. Underground transportation; meaning, we're underground. You don't know  anything about the Real World, do you?"

Tenderly touching the gash across her forehead, Margo thinks about Freya and selfishly wishes she could borrow her gift. Guilt washes over her. Freya would trade her gift in an instant if it meant she could be sitting where Margo sits.

It isn't fair! Her fist knots her hair. For eight days, she fought for escape. Not for herself, but for Cameron. And all she's accomplished is saving her own neck and betraying the boy she loves and the boy she befriended. It isn't fair that she's returned empty-handed. Or that the only two to escape are herself — the one sent to save the others of the world and had doubts about finding an escape to begin with — and a Crewman — who aided in the world's corruption. And what was it worth?  Nothing .

Well, not nothing.

As Luka said, she's the first to ever leave Jamyria. In a sense, she's accomplished what she  set out to do, partially. She has discovered an exit.

She shuts her eyes as a tear slips out. The shadows of two  very different faces are burned under her lids. The boy she's befriended and grown to love over the past few days as if he were her own brother. And the boy whose love will never be able to escape her no matter how many worlds away.

Two people with whom she cannot live without. "I have to get back into Jamyria."

It is, or so it has been said, her destiny.

* * *

COMING SOON:

Jamyria: The Acceptance

The second book of the Jamyria Series

Jamyria: The Delivery

The third book of the Jamyria Series

Jamyria: The Inception

The fourth book of the Jamyria Series

Jamyria: The Resurrected

The fifth book of the Jamyria Series

* * *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

I live on the outskirts of Austin, Texas — the Live Music Capital of the World, filled with a diverse group of people, more allergens than imaginable, and wildflowers galore — with my husband and best friend, Jason, and two silly kids, Myra and Jaden.

Jamyria: The Entering came to me as a recurring nightmare. I found that making up happy endings to the nightmare helped suppress it, but the more lucid my dreams became, the more I longed to continue them. Odd and unnerving as they were, I was intrigued by the nightmare. I began writing the dreams in the form of a screenplay. But soon lines and scenes expanded into prose and diction, ending in the first draft of  Jamyria: The Entering .

Tidwell Hollow is a special place. It is home to Margo Grisby in " The Jamyria Series ." Growing up my parents owned a farm in St. Joseph, Tennessee, a plot of land off a dirt road. The area had been dubbed Tidwell Hollow by the locals. There was a creek to play in, a pond big enough to canoe on and fish in, wildlife ranging from deer to river otters to copperheads, an Indian mound, a huge cave in the side of the neighbor's mountain (which was more of a small hill), woods to get lost in, a huge red barn, and a tree that was home to dozens of owls. Here we found bliss.

* * *

Copyright © 2015 by Madeline Meekins

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Edition, 2015

ISBN  978-1-943847-27-3

www.MadelineMeekins.com
  1. 1 Within Gold and Glass

