Sabine inches closer. “In this round, the one who draws first blood will win.”
Emma’s jaw is tight. Is it set with anger? Determination? I wish I could read her mind as I stare at her fist clenching and unclenching. I think of Imani and look at the rest of my family, bound and chained, knowing their safety is in my hands. And with that, my nightmare begins.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVEMalcolm DavenportGRAND BELLE ISLAND, 1860
“Let the games begin,” Sabine calls out. She chants and traces patterns in the air with her finger. A shadow appears at the rear of the chessboard-tiled floor. It morphs into a massive mirror in a golden frame intricately carved with moons and stars. As she continues to chant, pink jasmine blooms, along with vines that climb around the frame of the mirror. Flowers blossom, and in the center of each is a miniature golden chess piece—a king, a knight, or a bishop. Stars twinkle on the mirror’s glass, and my and Emma’s reflections shimmer inside.
The sky-blue walls with fluffy clouds mock us as the statues of slave children stand witness, frozen in horror. Sabine paces in front of our families like an overseer minding a cotton field. Her smile looks like a slice in a mother’s throat as my family struggles, grunts, and cries against the thick metallic gold bands that imprison them in chairs.
Sabine looks up at the gold photo frames around the room. “We’ll be tuned in from here,” she says. White noise fills the room, drowning out the sounds of our families. Static buzzes and fills the picture frames. Then theygo silent, now sharing the same reflection of us that’s in the massive mirror framed by gold and vines. The reflection in the big mirror morphs, melting into a vision of a path. That same path fills each frame, like a movie showing on multiple television screens.
“Go on now,” Sabine says. “Put on a good show for us.”
She points, motioning for us to enter the massive mirror. The faces of our families, who remain captive in their high-backed chairs, radiate fear and sorrow. Jayla’s eyes are wild and terrified behind her cracked frames, and she fights against her bonds like she wants to save me, join me, or maybe just claw Sabine’s eyes out. My ma’s honey-brown skin is red from struggling against the gold cuffs binding her. And Big-Mama and my wonderful, cranky Pop-Pop stare desperately, their eyes pleading for rescue. My heart pumps an unspoken vow to save them all—and to kill Sabine.
As we turn and walk toward the frame, I look back and find the same fear and helplessness on the faces of Emma’s family. Emma’s eyes are sad and full too. Emma’s grandmother Clair’s silver bob is matted and wild, but her eyes are fierce. Emma’s dad struggles to get free. I can feel his desperation to reach his daughter from across the room. Her sobbing mother stares helplessly at Emma. She’s probably asking herself if this is the last time she’ll see her daughter alive. I wonder if she thinks she deserves to lose a child because she murdered my brother.
Seeing Isabel Baldwin sob makes something shift inside me. My broken heart forgives her, knowing that none of the trauma and pain between our families is our fault. It’s all because of this stupid curse. The only thing that matters now is saving the family we have left.
Emma’s tears leave wet paths on her cheeks. She blows her mother a kiss, trying to look brave, but her fingertips quake.
“Hurry on now,” Sabine coos, clapping long clawlike nails.
I inhale, puff out my chest, and try to look brave and calm for Emma and my family. But fear rips me up inside. I exhale a trembling breath and hold Emma’s shaky hand in mine. I look at Sabine defiantly and whisper, “No matter what, I love you, Star.”
“I love you too,” Emma whimpers.
Her fingernails dig into the back of my hand as we walk into the mirror together.
Everything blurs and swirls silver. A tornado of wind snatches us, spinning us in circles before tossing us into a twisted maze. My mouth drops open as I take it all in. Above us, a canopy of purple orchids, ruby-red roses, and glowing lilies casts a surreal light, turning the deadly path into a twisted wonderland. The towering walls of the maze are mirrors that shimmer like liquid silver, reflecting our every move.
Emma touches one of the mirrors, her fingers rippling the cool surface like a river. Her whisper echoes. “Be careful. My grandmother’s books say beauty is a threat in the Tether.”
We stroll along the rocky, twisting pathways of the maze. My chest tightens with nerves. I walk a little ahead of Emma, ready to battle any threat before it reaches her. My eyes dart, searching for signs of danger. My stomach drops. An ax materializes and swings from above, flying toward Emma’s head.
“Look out!” I shout.
I slam her to the ground just before her head is sliced open. More axes appear, flying toward us. One comes close enough to graze my cheek as I bend backward like Neo inThe Matrixto avoid being beheaded. We dodge, bob, and weave, our feet constantly shuffling to adjust to the uneven ground. Emma and I move fast and in sync, trying desperately not to be diced like tomatoes. The walls reflect our struggle and frightened faces. Our reflections melt into strange images of us wearing tight black catsuits with an eerie green glow. Their eyes are static-filled. Our doubles point and wave as I stumble, trying to dodge another ax. I yelp in shock.
“Oh, God!” Emma shouts, her face more relieved than scared of our weird reflections. A circle in the middle of one of the mirrored walls waves and ripples, and a sparkle like an icicle pierces through the center of the waves.
No. It’s a piece of metal. Growing larger. My heart thumps. I grab Emma and pull her close. Emerging from the mirrored wall is the barrel of a gun.
“Get down!” I yell, pushing Emma to the ground. Darts with bright blue feathers shoot toward us. I dive, feeling a breeze as they whiz less thanan inch above our heads. When the darts finally stop, we scramble to our feet and dash through the maze.
We jump, duck, and pivot to evade deadly blades swinging down from above and springing up from the ground. Emma’s yellow cotton nightgown is torn and caked in mud. It flails like a flag as her trembling body dashes forward. She rolls her head to avoid a flying dagger that nearly chops off her nose. Her curls bounce wildly around her beautiful but frantic brown face. Her wide doe eyes dart everywhere.
“Malcolm, watch out!” Emma shouts.
She points to a silver flash hurtling at us. Reflexes from years of battle training kick in. My heart thuds. I yank Emma, pull her to my chest, and drop so my body shields hers. She grunts at the impact, of landing on rocks or my weight crashing over her. Silver blades and fear thicken the air.
When the coast is clear, we rise.
“Stay close,” I say, panting.
Emma’s hands tremble as she reaches out and strokes my cheek. “You okay?”
I nod, but the sudden lack of attacks scares me. It feels like something worse is coming. But other than a few scattered daggers and stones on the path ahead, I don’t see any immediate threats.
