“Hurry!” Malcolm yells.
The image above the keyboard changes once more, revealing a snippet from a genealogy forum discussing complex family history.
“The Blanchard family tree converges with the Davenport line in the 1700s. Venus Davenport was a biracial slave rumored to be the plantation owner’s child. Archibald Blanchard’s French bride, Sabine, was believed to have tormented Venus, who later disappeared. Some think Venus was killed by Sabine; others believe she ran away or was sold to another plantation by her father. There are also rumors that Venus remained trapped on Grand Belle Island until her death. Slave anthologies and witness accounts also hint at a legacy of witchcraft, mysterious abilities, and horrors on the Blanchard plantation at Grand Belle Island, suggesting a family rooted in magic, mystery, and blood.”
I tremble as I tie my sneakers. “Venus couldn’t have been sold, killed,andcaptured. So I guess there’s some fact and fiction in the legends.”
Despite the contradictions, I’m still shaken by Sabine’s legacy of magic and darkness. Invisible projectors flicker on, and holograms displaying 3D images and daguerreotypes of Venus Davenport float above the keyboard. I remember seeing her image before, her light brown skin, curly hair, searching hazel eyes, but it’s only now that I notice that her bright crooked smile is just like Malcolm’s. Her image is trimmed in an oval of metallic gold that glimmers in the light like an image reflected on water.
“Look, Malcolm,” I say. He peeks over his shoulder as he shoves some spell books into a bag. “She’s one of your ancestors,” I add.
“Cool. Grab what you need, Emma. We need to move. Now. We can talk when we get where we are going.”
“There’s more about Sabine,” I say. “History has painted her as both victim and villain.”
I shove some clothes into Malcolm’s bag before noticing a cone of light glowing on the bed. My heart races at the sight of the golden mailbox. Jayla must’ve written back. Malcolm opens the box.
A delicate pink-winged fairy dressed in a shimmering gold gown and with flowing pink curls glides toward Malcolm. In her tiny hand, she holds a glowing letter that grows and glows brighter as she approaches him. Her wings droop sadly as she gives him his mail. Malcolm’s face twists with horror as he reads it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He gives me the letter. My eyes scan the note, and my blood goes cold.
Malcolm. I said you were being stupid! The witch discovered your plans, and now Imani and Demetri are Tethered too! This is the price of you abandoning your family.
—Jayla
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURMalcolm DavenportBROOKLYN, 1985
In a panic, Emma and I burst out of the hotel, frantically speeding through time. It feels like the shadow of death is closing in on our families, and we’re not sure how to defeat it. Running off to battle Sabine without a true plan would leave us dead or captured, but we have to do something to protect our siblings.
We lock ourselves in a roadside motel in Brooklyn in 1985, blocking the windows with blankets to keep the ravens from seeing us. We read spell books and talk, going over what we know, again and again, and prepare for the battle to come. Then, figuring out what supplies we need to gather, we make a desperate plan to return home in the morning, hoping our families can help. Hoping they’ll want to. We study and we plan until our minds are weary. But even as sleep claims our bodies, we dread the sunrise.
Molten lava boils in my veins. Pain radiates through me. I grit my teeth and try to push it away, but the hurt don’t stop. The golden threads that wove themselves into my ankle have become hot iron brands searing deeper intomy raw, torn flesh. I’m yanked out of my sleep and into a world of scorching agony. Grunting, I roll my head to the right and see Emma.
Her eyes are wild with terror as she squirms on the bed across from me, clawing at her ankle. She lets out a blood-curdling scream. A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead, and tears stream down her cheeks.
The world around me spins and twists in dizzying waves, the gray walls melting into a swirling mix of shadows and inky black. Bursting sounds fizz in my ears, like bubbles of water popping, followed by crashing waves. A glimmer of gold flickers in front of my eyes, before darkness creeps along the corners of my vision. The world gets darker and darker before it slides into a blurry, hazy black.
I hear Emma’s desperate sobs echo above the ocean waves. My frozen lips struggle to call for her, to at least say something, anything, to comfort her. I try to suck in a few breaths, but my lungs can’t snatch air. My throat constricts.
My arms and legs are heavy with exhaustion and shrieking with pain, but I force myself to roll over. I try to inch toward her voice. To help her, fight for her, take her in my arms, to dosomething, even as I fear that I am dying. But each movement is a battle against piercing torture. So I don’t know how I’ll force my achy arms to hold her and protect her from whatever darkness she’s facing. Still, I try. Damn, I try. I just can’t move. I’m helpless, useless, sagging on the sheets, trapped inside my body.
With an agonized grunt and a frustrated teardrop, my body gives out, and my eyes close.
When my lashes part, I gasp in shock. The crack in the plaster ceiling is gone, and the bed I was lying in is replaced by dimly lit, muddy ground. I blink in disbelief, looking for the hotel walls but seeing only sugarcane in the distance instead. The hotel is gone. Cold raindrops patter against my face from the charcoal clouds above.
Panicked, I look for Emma, and breathe a sigh of relief.Thank God, we’re still together.We’re sprawled side by side in the mud, like brown snow angels wearing thin cotton pajamas. I sit up, startled, as thunder rumbles overhead and echoes through the darkness.
“Emma,” I pant. She’s lying still, her eyes glassy and dazed. I don’t think she hears me.
My skin is fried at the ankle, but the rain brings some cool relief. Lightning flashes in a pissed-off sky. Icy waves of nausea wash over me. I grip my belly, feeling seasick. An amber glow surrounds a miniature replica of a slave ship. It’s crudely constructed out of twigs and mud. The ship bobs, floating on a puddle of mud beside us. The ship has a flag made from the same golden threads that form the Tether on my ankle. A tiny overseer doll stands on the deck, his hand raised high as he swings a whip at the miniature brown figurines of kneeling, chained slaves. Bile bubbles up in the back of my disgusted throat.
Emma sputters. “H-how? How did we get here?” Her wide eyes look at me, afraid of the answer.
I take a deep breath, trying to get my head together. We gotta get home… but how? I push myself to my feet and shift my weight to block the toy slave ship from Emma’s view. My heart beats like a stampede of freaked-out horses as I scan our surroundings, but I don’t want to frighten Emma more. I’m searching for a way out of this nightmare. My toes wriggle in the thick, cold mud. I check the pocket of my pajama pants. But my lighter isn’t here, and we don’t have Emma’s Bentley. None of the books I read gave me a spell to help us time-travel or change locations. All we got is each other.
“Malcolm?” Emma trembles.
