While it’s true that my body may not outlast this heat, no matter what, my soul wil live on.
Like the snake that hangs from the cord at my neck—each life feeds into the next.
And the moment I acknowledge that, accept it for a fact, a soft spring rain begins to fal and I jump to my feet, smiling, laughing, as I tilt my head back. Opening my mouth as wide as it wil go, encouraging a smal pool of water to col ect on my tongue. Aware of the sand fading beneath me as my toes curl into a lovely expanse of flowers and grass that springs up to replace it. Aware of my skin healing, regenerating, as one sun sparks and fades and burns itself out, while the other one dims into a warm, forgiving, life-sustaining glow.
I spread my arms wide and twirl in the field, skipping, and leaping, and dancing in a rain that, having healed me, is now reduced to a light, shimmering drizzle.
I did it! I can’t help but smile triumphantly. I won! I outsmarted the river—remembered the one thing that matters most—with a little help from my friends, of course!
Friends.
I stop, my breath coming ragged, too quick, as I gaze al around, my joy vanishing the moment I realize two truths I’ve forgotten ’til now:
—I’m not like my friends. My body’s immortal, my soul is not.
—Damen’s not here. Which means he forgot. Couldn’t hold on to the memories. Al owed the river to get the best of him.
And, having traded the soul’s immortality for physical immortality there’s only one place left to find him.
Trapped inside the Shadowland.
twenty-four
Though I’ve been there before, three times at last count, I have no idea how to find it. No idea where it actual y exists, or how to locate it on a map.
My first visit was via the experience Damen shared with me in his head. The second was when I telepathical y showed Roman the place where Drina’s soul went. And the third was when Haven kil ed me, sent me to that horrible abyss for what felt like forever but was probably only a matter of minutes.
That’s how the Shadowland works.
But it’s not like I ever made the trip by foot. It’s not like I ever set out to find the physical manifestation of it.
So, hoping for answers, I fal back on al that I’ve learned, the things Ava taught me. And instead of al owing my mind to run amok with questions and thoughts that only result in creating panic and uncertainty while never actual y arriving anywhere helpful or good, I choose to focus on the silence within. Trusting it to guide me, to lead me, to see that I arrive in the place I’m most meant to be.
Determined to fol ow my gut, my heart, my intuition, the hidden truth resting inside—I blaze my own trail, led solely by my own instincts, but when it feels like the trek is taking too long, I dec
ide to speed it up a bit and manifest a partner.
Riding my mount for as far as she’l go, I slide off her back the second she halts just shy of the perimeter, the place where the grass turns to mud, where the trees are al burned out and barren despite the constant deluge of rain that never ceases to fal . It’s exactly like I first thought, this horrible place real y is Summerland’s yin—its shadow self—its opposite side—providing a clear demarcation between the two worlds—one light, one dark—leaving me with no doubt in my mind that it marks the entrance to the Shadowland.
I tap my horse on her rear, urging her to head for greener pastures, as I glance al around, hoping to find Lotus, or maybe even a guide of some kind, but realizing I’m al on my own I trudge deep into the muck. Trudge past what feels like mind-numbing miles of bleak, dreary, desolate, drenched, and soggy landscape, wondering if there wil ever come a point where it turns into something else, stops looking the same. That point coming much sooner than imagined when I stumble upon a scene so drastical y different, I stop, swipe a hand over my eyes, and blink a few times to make sure I’m not hal ucinating, that I real y am seeing what I think I’m seeing. And even then, I stil have my doubts.
I creep forward, my head swiveling as my eyes strive to take it al in. It’s surreal, surely a crazy mirage of my own mental making. And yet, no matter how many times I blink, no matter how long I hold my breath and stare, it refuses to yield in any way until I’ve no choice but to accept the fact that the scene that lies before me is not only real, but an exact replica of the one in my dream.
The dream I was sure Riley had sent me.
The dream I had again very recently.
The dream I was sure had been merely symbolic, something I was meant to take my time pondering, analyzing, dissecting, until I could final y break it down into manageable bits that actual y meant something.
Never once thinking I was supposed to take it literal y.
Never once thinking that an entire landscape of rectangular blocks—a maze of glass prisons—could real y exist.
I take a deep breath, take a few cautious steps, and squinch up my gaze. Peering at a crowd of tormented souls, knowing exactly how they feel having been there myself.
Alone.
Isolated.