Afraid of my own darkness, I fiddle with the miniature silver clock on the necklace Grace gave me.
What was wrong with Malcolm’s eyes in that vision—did the curse cause it? Did the Tether have something to do with it? And why would I stab a boy so beautiful? Did our plan fail? Were we in the Tether?
“We can’t let fear decide how we move,” Malcolm says. “We gotta be ready for whatever happens and confront problems together if we want this plan to work.”
“Agreed,” I reply, but my hand is shaking. His hand cradles mine on the table again. And I try to forget the image in the tea. We have the power to change that future. I feel pain radiating through my chest at the thought of harming Malcolm. He’s so warm, and he does so much for others. It would be a crime to rob the world of a boy like that. My tea is broken; that vision was flawed. “We’ll stick together,” I promise.
A casual brush of Malcolm’s hand while he’s reaching for a napkin sparks a bomb inside me, igniting a battle that makes my hands tingle with magic, desire, and thedesireto break his fingers. A toxic brew of emotions is slowly ripping me apart inside. The way he looks at me with those hazel eyes fills me with a warmth that makes me feel cherished and damned.
Shit. Maybe my defense against the curse could slip. I could kill Malcolm. Even the thought is terrifying, the curse’s power is unpredictable and relentless. I feel its dark tendrils tightening around my soul. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to breathe slowly, deeply, until the dangerous urge fades to a whisper. I must stay in control, not just for me, but for us. I have to keep myself together so I can work with Malcolm to free our families.
With closed eyes, I reach for my tea, silently pleading,Pleeease show me a better future.I look at my pink-tiled mug again, steam swirling inside it like grasping spirits. Inside, I see blood splattered on a checkered floor andblood oozing from Sabine’s laughing lips. My heart sinks. That witch is still a part of my future.
I continue to toy with Grace’s necklace. If only I had the power to wish her alive again. But my magic isn’t strong enough. If I could see her one more time—not an illusion or a trick, but myrealsister. So I could hold her, talk to her, ask her about the Tether, the way Malcolm did with Billy. And just maybe there was something she knew that wasn’t in her diary, something that could help us. And I could help her. I could save her, and she could save me.
Malcolm’s smile looks pained as he leans back, putting space between us. I can’t shake off the uneasy feeling that he’s hiding something from me. Maybe the bloodlust bothers him too. But with my deadly urges and my secrets, I’m in no position to judge. “I gotta see Grace,” I blurt. “Come with me. Maybe she knows something that can help us.”
Malcolm pauses, shifting uncomfortably. “You sure you’re ready?”
I nod. “Memories from the week she died are a fuzzy haze. I need new ones. And I need to warn Grace.”
“A haze?” He studies me. “Does it hurt to try to remember it?”
How does he know? My brows shoot up as I nod. “I get massive headaches.”
His eyes look worried. “Any other symptoms?”
“Sometimes I get queasy when I try to remember. I had a real bad fall, so I guess the injury still bugs me.”
“Are you sure? It sounds like a memory wipe.”
My blood runs cold. “Is that even possible?” My breath is shaky. “It couldn’t have happened to me. The only people I was with after Grace died were…”My family.Could they have? Did they? No… That’s too awful to say, let alone believe.
But what if he’s right? I need to go to the past and find out more. “Come with me, Malcolm. Please.”
“Okay.” His smile is a promise and a warning at once. We lace our fingers. Together, we exit the soda shop, both hoping to stop the death and doom the future holds with this new journey through time.
CHAPTER EIGHTEENEmma BaldwinBROOKLYN, 1880
The sun dips below the horizon, and lamps pop on with glowing white light. Brooklyn Heights shines, gleaming on the cobblestone streets as houses glow, stretched out before the dimming sky. I coil down, crouching behind trimmed hedges next to a tree with roots that twist like ropes. Malcolm’s brown skin is darkened by the blue-gray shadows from the elegant brownstones. His hazel eyes look brown in the dark, his strong jawline tight, and his crooked smile is missing. I look at the mahogany door and its glinting gold 3006. The numbers shift magically to bloody red and then frost into a shimmering white ice—frozen. Like Grace’s hopes for a college education and the chance to be a doctor. Like her future.
“Emma,” Malcolm whispers as the city hums in the background. “Nobody has come out in hours.” His clenched fists and white knuckles show his anxiety. Of course he’s nervous. If any of my family members recognize him, his blood could be streaming down the street. But he’s still here. For me.
“You sure Grace is coming?” he whispers, his voice barely audible above the distant horse hooves on the streets.
“Yes.” I tuck a stray curl behind my ear. Squirming closer to the scratchy bush, I stare at the two Eastern redbud trees on the right side of the stairs. Their flowers drip petals on the concrete steps like blood.
Malcolm shivers, and I wonder if it’s from the cold, or if he’s battling dark urges as we wait. He reaches for my hand. Instead of giving it to him, I force a reassuring smile. I guess it works, because he looks away and stares at my front door. I wanted to hold his hand, to comfort him, but I was afraid. If his touch sparked my bloodlust here, who’s to say I wouldn’t drag him in the house and present him to my family so he could be ripped apart limb by flawless limb. And I don’t want to hurt the only person standing by me in the fight to end this war, all the killing. I shake the thoughts off. I need to focus on what’s important. Grace.
“I remember this day.” My voice trembles. “She’ll be here.”
My fingers graze the delicate silk of my skirt, and the material shifts and elongates into a dress that blends into the vibrant greens and yellows of the flower bed by our stairs, just below the red door. But as I think about Grace’s coming death, a fiery red hue blooms across the fabric, matching the burning ache in my heart. Grace’s necklace burns like a bonfire on my neck, beckoning my sister to return to me.
The door creaks open, and my heart jumps. A funnel of light pours out the door, and a small female silhouette stands in it, putting a shawl over her shoulders.
Her form sparks a longing that has me still and entranced. I know that silhouette, those graceful movements. It’s Grace. It’s really, truly her. Not an illusion or spell. It’s my sister, alive and perfect. My soul feels lighter. I remember how she moves, the arch of her eyebrow, her smile, and every bit of our past, except the week that she died. It’s strange. Could Malcolm be right? Was my mind magically erased?
Now she’s here. Gracie’s shadow is on the porch; she’s backlit by the inside of the house. She closes the door and walks down the stairs in the dusky evening. I can’t breathe. Can’t move, joy chilling me like fresh snow. She steps under a streetlamp, and her smile melts me.
