Don’t even think it.
Jo shoved it into her pocket, looking back to the door. Lessening the Severity of Exchange was a team effort. She was sure Eslar had other members of the Society moving in their own ways, doing what they could here and there, still casing the police station and diverting their attention from the Bone Carver. Snow would make the final jump to a new timeline, smoothing out the kinks that made the impossible, possible.
It wasn’t down to her to do everything. She couldn’t. So why did it feel like she had to?
Because what she wasreallyworking on was far more important. The sooner she finished playing her part for the wish, the sooner she could divert all of her attention to figuring out how to bring about an end to the Society. That was what really mattered, because that would be the only thing that could save them.
Taking a deep breath in through her nose, Jo imagined where she wanted to be. She pictured the Bone Carver’s house clear in her mind. His modest porch, the little welcome mat in front of his door, the matte pastel of the paint on the walls that led up the stairs to his room.
“Let’s get this over with, then,” Jo whispered, mostly to herself. Magic surged through her and her hand fell to the keypad. She stroked in a series of numbers—not even knowing what she hit—and felt the Door throw itself open.
The brisk winter air was almost enough to take her breath away as Jo stepped through the Door. Itwasactually enough to take her footing—causing her to stumble, nearly losing her balance as she stepped out what would’ve been the front door of the house across the street from the Bone Carver. Not exactly where she’d been intending.
Jo spun in place, as if she could levy some strongly placed words against the Door for such a delivery, but it was already gone. A cheerful wreath of pine boughs greeted her and anyone else who was to come up the stairs of the little picturesque New England home. A shiver ripped through her, bringing Jo’s hands up to grab her arms, rubbing up and down.
The cold bit right through her hoodie, almost mocking the thin fabric. She turned again, looking out into the street. Looking for help and answers that weren’t there.
Twisting her wrist, Jo checked her bio band, confirming what she already knew to be true—she was clocked out of time. Which meant there should be no possible way she felt the cold. She was supposed to be a specter, protected by the veil that stood between herself and reality.
Jo gritted her almost-chattering teeth. It didn’t really matter if she felt cold or not—her comfort didn’t affect her mission. And that was all that mattered right now.
Fumbling with the USB in her pocket, Jo made her way across the street. Just like with Wayne, she ascended the stairs to the porch and held out her hand in front of the Bone Carver’s front door. It took an agonizing moment, but eventually the Door appeared before her.
“We’ll do this just like last time,” she commanded firmly, clearly picturing walking through the front door and ending up on the other side.
The numbers on the pin pad sharpened into focus—albeit a slightly hazy focus—but focus nonetheless. Jo took a deep breath and willed her fingers to move. Her hands were trembling, from cold or from nerves, and utterly protested her commands.
Jo watched her fingers as though they weren’t even connected to her body. It seemed like someone else’s hands, someone else’s nerves. There was something in her pulling the ropes holding her together hair-thin, and the longer she was in reality, the weaker it all became.
The first number depressed. Then the second. And then the third. Jo felt her magic interacting with the Door, coaxing it to take her where she wanted to go—not just where it wanted to show her or thought she meant. Her aura of magic stretched beyond her, wrapping around the paint-flaked posts of the porch and seeping through the house’s front windows. The Door was an immovable force, a sort of dark matter that she couldn’t see through or interact with on a magical level. But she had to. Shewould.
As if on magical tip-toes, Jo pushed forward, just a little more, fighting for the last numbers.
“Come on. . . ” she pleaded, feeling like she was mentally pounding her fist against a wall of bulletproof glass. Each reach deep into her magic was another desperate strike, until—
One of the taught reins on her magic snapped, the glass shattering beneath her fists. The world tipped, feeling suddenly off balance. It was as if she’d pushed too far and broken an illusion she hadn’t even realized was there. A typhoon was suddenly raging within her, trying to rip her to shreds. It felt impossible to contain, despite how Jo furiously reeled it in. She could have sworn she saw rippling tendrils of pure energy coming off of her in waves.
In a frantic attempt to regain control of the quickly spiraling situation, Jo pushed a button on the pin pad—any button. It may have been all the buttons. In her mad dash for the handle of the Door she may have slapped her palm across the pad. Sparks crackled, not unlike they had with the monitor, wrapping around her hand, arcing to the Door.
She stepped through hastily and felt the unnerving sensation of being ripped across reality a second time.
Breathless, the Door deposited Jo into a bar. Judging from the thick Southern lilts, it was somewhere in the United Federation of North America—yet another corner of the continent she’d never dreamt of stepping foot in. Men and women danced, others congregated around the bar; the crowd was densest around monitors projecting the match of two ride-on robots in a ring somewhere.
Mission.
Jo turned, daring to hold out her hand. The Door appeared—not with a slow fade into existence as it had all times before. But with a sort of crackle, like ice breaking off a wall.
She pressed some numbers into the pin pad, hoping for more instinct than magic. While there was no more magic lightning netting her fingers, the Door didn’t exactly do her any favors. It groaned on its hinges as it opened, ringing in her ears and pulling her through almost violently. All at once, it left Jo dizzy and disoriented in yet another new place.
A familiar scent tickled her nose, adding to the odd juxtaposition of familiar and foreign. The aroma of spices intermingled with the crisp chill of the wind, the earthy scent of poblano peppers about to be made intochile rellenos. It overwhelmed her senses into hyperfocus, easing Jo into her surroundings as the delicious smell wafted past.
The market was bustling, upbeat music filtering from a radio above one of the booths. The words were unfamiliar, a tongue her mother had been fluent in but had never truly passed down to Jo, but she almost recognized the tune. And that, somehow, allowed her to finally recognize where she was.
Though she hadn’t been to visit since herabuela’s funeral, it felt as though she was with Jo now, holding her hand in a warm and wrinkled grip as she led her down streets filled with colorful houses and even more colorful people. This was the Juarez Jo had explored with childlike awe; this was the city with beautiful music and delicious food that onlyabuelaknew how to replicate once they were all back home in The Lone Star Republic. This was Chihuahua, and it felt so much like home in that moment that Jo thought she might cry.
Jo’s eyes fluttered closed, breathing in the scents and sounds so familiar and unfamiliar all once. It felt likepastel de tres lecheson her birthday, or her grandmother’s soft voice singingA La Nanita Nanaevery Christmas Eve. It was like a far-away dream, one that Jo would wake from the moment she opened her eyes. Her family, her mortal family. Somewhere, across time, she’d had another family.
Her hand flew up to her face, covering half of it. With one eye, she saw the present. The energy of the market filled with vibrant pieces of art and towering piles of fruits and vegetables, the colorful dresses that her mother used to make her wear when she was little before Jo began demanding to wear jeans.
