The Essence (The Pledge 2)

He was right, of course, even though it annoyed her to admit it. He was her friend; he always had been. Even when they’d been small and she’d competed with him for Charlie’s attention, trying to shut him out, to make Charlie choose which friend she liked best, Aron or Brook. But Charlie had never chosen, and Aron had always been there, doggedly pursuing the two girls, never complaining when he was the third wheel. He never worried that his friendship wasn’t as valuable as Brook’s, or that he wasn’t as important.

Brook wished she’d been half as sure of herself back then. Her stomach burned as she thought of all the times she’d convinced Charlie to ditch Aron, to go out without him, or to lie to him about where they were going.

Especially now, as he sat with her, his silent presence assuring her that he’d always be there for her.

The train shuddered, rocking violently, and the liquid sloshed over the sides of the mug, spilling onto Brooklynn’s lap.

“Damn,” she cursed, jumping up.

“Here.” Aron took the mug from her and set it on the other side of the bench. “Are you okay?”

She looked at the mess on her pants, splotchy and wet. “It’s fine. It’s not really that hot. Just . . . wet.”

Aron grinned. “Do you want me to get you some more?”

She shook her head, her eyes lifting hesitantly to his. “No. But thank you”—a small smile drifted over her lips as she tried out his name . . . his real name—“Aron.”

He smiled back, his head bobbing in rhythm with the uneven motion of the train. “I like that. Does that mean I’m not ‘Midget’ anymore?”

Brook’s eyebrows lifted and she exhaled loudly as she sat back down. “I’m not sure you’ve been a Midget for a while now. I was probably the last one to notice it.”

“Hmm,” Aron uttered, his head still nodding thoughtfully. And after a moment, he said. “You know you have to sleep sometime, Brook. You won’t do Charlie any good if you’re exhausted.”

“I will,” she finally answered when it felt like too much time had passed. “Eventually, I will.”

viii

I didn’t mind the train; I found the pitching and swaying motions comforting, if a little jarring. Besides, there were a thousand other things plaguing my thoughts, seeping into my consciousness and keeping me from sleep.

I wondered where Angelina and my parents were right now, at this very moment. I wondered if they were as bothered by our separation as I was. If their hearts felt sick and hollow at our being forced apart. I hoped with everything I had that they were safe in their remote sanctuary, and that they were being well cared for.

I worried, too, over Ludania. About those who would do her harm, putting their own needs above the safety and welfare of their countrymen. Namely, Brooklynn’s father and his followers.

And I thought about the summit. About the queens I would meet, and the lessons that had been cut short by our premature departure from the palace.

I closed my eyes, letting the worry rattle around in my brain as I listened to the metallic rasp of the iron wheels against the rails. My mind drifted and I speculated over whether he would be there, at the summit. . . . Niko Bartolo. Niko, and his golden eyes.

I jerked suddenly, blinking hard and startling myself. Where had a thought like that come from? Why had I even thought of him at all?

Taking a breath, I rolled onto my side and stared at the wall. I felt as if he’d snuck inside my head while no one was looking.

Only that wasn’t entirely true, was it? I sat up then, yanking back the covers and throwing my legs over the side of my mattress. I knew what it was as I glanced down at myself. My skin was a mere glimmer of what it had been just days ago, after Angelina had tried to chase Sabara away once more. It wasn’t my thought at all; it had come from someone else.

Sabara.

But why?

I shook my head. It didn’t matter, I could feel her in there, inside me, her Essence moving and shifting. Her grip tightened like a garrote around my neck, crushing my windpipe. Crushing me.

I’m stronger than her, I told myself. I am a warrior.

But I wasn’t. And Niko Bartolo was still there, anchored in my thoughts.

All because of her.

As soon as I admitted as much, her hold loosened. I waited until my breathing stabilized and my heart rate returned to something close to normal. Eventually, the savage birds that beat their wings wildly in the pit of my stomach subsided, settling once more.

“Who is he?” I finally managed, my throat feeling scored by the talons of a million razor-sharp claws.

The train continued on, lurching at odd intervals, and I joggled with it, letting it rock me as I concentrated on summoning her, concentrated on forcing her to listen to me, in the same way she’d done to me so many times before.

But there was no response. Just the sound of my tremulous breaths and the increasing darkness as my skin continued to dim.

And a yearning I didn’t understand.

Angry black tides came rushing toward me, washing over my lips, my nose, covering my head. They choked me.

“You don’t deserve to be here,” a voice whispered, undulating like the surf. And, for some reason, I believed the voice, allowing myself to submit to it, giving in to the churning waters. Letting them suck me under. Letting them drown me.

And then I was floating, drifting somewhere beneath the surface. I didn’t breathe—I couldn’t. But I was still there. Somehow, still alive.