A Girl in Black and White (Alyria 2)

Closing my eyes, I felt the hot, burning sensation in my palms—the feeling I got when I could fast-travel. I should take the offer because once it was gone, I couldn’t get it back. It came when it wanted, and I’d never been able to perfect the gift. I closed my eyes, about to accept it, but then, something clicked loud inside me: I wasn’t her, the farm girl. Not anymore. I didn’t need to run like her. And I wouldn’t.

With a shallow breath, I opened my eyes.

As if on cue, the burn dissipated until there was only a tell-tale ache in my palms. A sour taste of regret rushed through me, giving me the impression I’d made the wrong choice.

I made my bed . . . now I have to lie in it.

Maxim had promised he wouldn’t tell him . . . the lying liar. And when I said I needed a new path, this hadn’t been the one I was talking about. Anticipation rolled through me in hot and cold waves, bringing goose bumps to my skin.

Ping, ping.

Cold drops dripped from the sky onto my arms, making gentle pinging noises as they hit my cuff. The rain fell in an oddly-timed rhythm, while dark clouds rolled across the sky, consuming the moon until there was no silver light left.

The apprehension in my stomach twisted, tingling, and I knew—as the sun is bright—that I was causing the changes in the weather. It hadn’t been something I could do before—well, not in the current state I was in.

“Impressive.” The single word was flat, rough.

My heart faltered, and I closed my eyes. Hearing his voice for the first time in so long was nostalgic. Terrifying, yet somehow alluring. The deep timbre ghosted down my back.

I hadn’t been putting on a show on purpose, and he might have known that, but I was too proud to admit it. “It was too bright a night. Hurt my eyes.” I swallowed, congratulating myself for keeping my voice so even and indifferent.

“And here I thought witches danced under the moon’s light.” The voice was so close behind me, too close. A few feet, maybe. Every rough word was a heated awareness against my back.

“Naked,” I supplied, blinking the rain off my eyelashes as another random bit dripped from the sky. “After supping on a pot of children stew.” The breeze blew my hair, tickling the back of my bare shoulder blades—and every inch of my skin felt alive as if one touch would singe me. “He promised not to tell you,” I said quietly.

It took a moment before he responded. “There’s something you should know about Maxim. Don’t ever make deals with him.”

I slipped my finger back in the net, barely noticing my actions, but trying to remain in control of the situation. I could have laughed. Rain fell aimlessly from the sky, the moon was gone, and I didn’t have a clue how to fix what I’d done.

A butterfly landed on my finger, a brave one indeed. I tilted my head, blinking as I regarded it. Not now. My breathing was labored, the feeling in my stomach rivaling the hundreds of butterflies encased in this net.

I couldn’t blame what I saw on the dark night because I already knew that wasn’t the case: the butterfly on my finger lacked any color. It was black and white—duller somehow than all its surroundings.

“It calls to you often, does it not?”

He could see it too? I thought this dark and uncertain part of my life was only a product of my mind, but now that I knew things were changing around me that others could see, it sent a rush of uncertainty through me. And then my chest filled with frustration that he was here, witnessing this.

“I’ve no idea what you mean.” But I did. I knew. My stomach twisted, but I turned the butterfly on my finger indifferently, ignoring the slight cold sweat on my skin. I’d randomly seen things like this, in black and white, as if from a different world: books, paintings, vases—anything and everything throughout my normal routine during the day, but I dismissed them. Refused to acknowledge them, and I didn’t want someone—especially Weston—to come back and make me aware of it. I was happy in my ignorance.

“You never were a good liar,” he said. “Interesting place, the Shadows.”

I shooed the butterfly away and clenched the net in my hand. Anger rushed to the surface. He just had to say it. The Shadows of Dawn. A dark, dreary, and colorless place. It had its own society filled to the brim with the darkest of souls; but when the magic was sealed, it became closed off from the rest of the world. Nobody could leave, and if you ever chose to enter, you became a nobody.

I didn’t know why the Shadows had haunted me ever since I’d woken on the beach—no, scratch that. I knew, I only pretended I didn’t. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.

I swallowed down my apprehension. Who was he to come back into my life after a year, and put himself deep into my issues without even a hello?

The anger heating beneath my skin gave me the courage to turn around; but then, it quickly evaporated, coming back down in warm raindrops on my head.

We stood there for a moment, only taking each other in for the first time in what felt like a long time. I thought there couldn’t be a way to forget how he looked. How could I? His likeness hung on every corner.

Sure, I remembered the basic structure of him: his square jawline; his hooded, strong gaze that would stop anyone sane in their tracks; his full lips that always seemed to be indifferent or in a slight frown, but rarely seen in a smile—if so, it was usually due to arrogance or amused deception.

But what I’d forgotten wasn’t that; it was the real-life bre

adth of his shoulders, the power under his skin, and the control in his stance. The effect was captivating. Breath catching. And utterly destructive. It had always been so for me.

It had led me right to my death.