Chapter 1
Life on a Leash
Just outside of time and space, in a small corner of a magically constructed and brilliantly lavish mansion, Josephina Espinosa sat with her knees pulled to her chest, arms folded on top, and head rested between.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She barely breathed as she listened to the silence of the room—the deafening, overwhelming silence. The lack of sound was louder than any scream of rage or sob of loss that she could hope make. It was a void filled with hurt and heartache that nothing, not even the members of the Society, could bridge.
The recreation room seemed to cling to its lost occupant just as fiercely, the scent memory of Nico soaked into the walls, the floor—the last remnants of their Italian painter. There were the smoky echoes of the fire that had crackled in the hearth she’d leaned on while he’d painted, and where she’d kept her vigil since he’d died. There was the warm, earthy, almost mineral aroma of his oil paints, now dried and cracked on his palette. Then there was the sweet roasted edge of espresso stained on the inside of a forgotten cup.
Jo flipped her wrist, looking at the dull illumination of the hours she’d amassed since joining the Society. Nico had deserved more time, but all that was left of it now was the cracked face of a watch.
So Jo sat, just trying to breathe, to imprint his memory on her mind and lungs. She would not forget. She couldn’t let herself forget. No matter what happened, she would remember Nico and his sacrifice. Her heart would cling to his memory as the room clung to his scent.
But the anger that simmered in her stomach stewed over another memory: the fact that Pan had taken him from them in the most heartless way possible.
Jo remembered that fact with vivid precision. She remembered it when she finally left Nico’s memorial, and remembered still all the way back to her room. She remembered it as she lay in her bed, alone, and succumbed to the memory in vivid, waking dreams of squeezing the rainbow-haired woman until she popped and oozed all her secrets.
The next day, Jo repeated the process: rouse from a restless few hours of non-sleep, sit amidst the memories of Nico, return to her room to stare at the ceiling and fantasize over candy-colored revenge. Because she did not want to let herself come anywhere close to sleep.
The last time sleep had come, even if it had been forced upon her in a cataclysmic magical shift, Nico had been taken from them. Before then, it was the start of that impossible wish, when Snow had rewound time itself. The world now felt all too fragile—close her eyes for longer than a blink and she couldn’t be sure what state it would be in when she opened them again.
So she didn’t close her eyes. She went about her business with all the precision of a shampoo bottle: lather, rinse, repeat. All but forgetting that there were other members in the Society, others who were hurting just as bad, if not worse, than she.
On the third day, Jo roused from her muddled thoughts and dark delights, and headed down the long hall to the Four-Way, and then to the common room—a slight deviation to the routine.
The sun had just crested over the mountains beyond the pool when Jo entered, casting first light on both her and the man straight out of the 1920s. He leaned against the counter, one hand flipping his nickel absently as he nibbled on a piece of toast, eyes pointed at the TV as it ran quietly on the other side of the room.
It was the news in Japan and, as it had been for nearly a week now, all was blindingly, annoyingly well.
“Morning,” Jo mumbled, crossing over to go about making herself a cup of coffee, even if it seemed unnaturally cruel to have such a simple luxury right now.
Wayne tensed at her proximity. Perhaps she had been wrong to venture onto common ground, and the time for the Society’s seclusion was not yet over. Whileshedidn’t immediately snap at him or feel the overwhelming desire to shove him aside (a small victory compared to her mood a few days ago), she didn’t get the sense that the feeling was mutual.
“Nice of you to show your face,” Wayne mumbled. Jo tried to keep herself from snapping. He’d known Nico longer than she had—they all had. It’d take the rest of the Society more time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She grabbed the coffee pot a little too roughly, brown liquid sloshing about to the point of nearly spilling out. The action helped keep her hands busy, which also helped prevent her from actually striking the man. Even improved, her mental state was still fragile at best; this was not the time to test her mood.
“You’ve been holed up in the rec room for days now.”
“So?”
Wane shrugged.
Jo should’ve stopped there. “Has there been a wish?”
“No.”
“Did you need me?”
“Need you? Who would need you?” he fired back, not even looking at her.
“The hell does that mean?” Jo abandoned the coffee, leaning against the counter.
“You’re trouble.” Wayne finished his toast and wiped his hands on his trousers.
Jo narrowed her eyes. “If I recall correctly, you like my trouble.”
“When it’s not getting one of the team killed.” He finally looked at her.
