“No!”I shout, hating the fact that I can’t get to her and help because I’m ducking a blade that keeps soaring toward my own temple.
Emma rolls over, grabbing a rock from the ground. With a desperate cry, she hurls it at my double’s head. The rock misses its target but strikes a mirror behind him. The mirror shatters with a loud explosion, sending glittering shards everywhere as the trapped reflections inside let out pained cries. In the chaos, Emma scrambles up and grabs a chunk of glass, and with a battle cry, she charges. She drives the sharp end of the shard into my evil double’s shoulder. He screams, and a searing pain shoots through my own shoulder as a matching gash appears on me.
“Emma!” I gasp, clutching my bloody shoulder. Both Emmas look at me, their eyes emotionless. All around us, the mirrors in the maze shatter, revealing the twisted reality behind the illusion—slave statues, our bound families, and Sabine’s punishment room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXMalcolm DavenportGRAND BELLE ISLAND, 1860
I wince, my shoulder burning, and Sabine smiles. “What an exciting show!” She claps. “Emma has won round one.” Sabine strolls across the checkerboard floor to the statue of a slave girl. “But”—Sabine tsks—“you broke the rules. You tried to help each other.”
Sabine chants and traces the curved cheek of the slave girl statue. The statue’s eyes are wide, like Imani’s. Worry stabs my heart when I think of my little sister. Where is she? Is the witch making her and Demetri play twisted games right now too? The statue’s short braids are white as salt above her small ashen face, little mouth stretched in an eternal scream. Her expression is frozen in terror, but the statue’s wide eyes seem to search the room wildly, like living flames that flicker inside a skull-shaped rock.
Sabine lifts her palms and chants louder. I get the feeling you get in a movie when you know the killer is in the room but you’re not sure when they’ll strike. My belly is tight. My eyes burn, and the room becomes a thick fuzzy haze, swirling with energy, as Sabine blows into her fist. A puff of blue smoke bursts out of her clenched hand, clouding the slave statue infront of her. The smoke coils and curls into bright blue flames that climb the statue.
“STOP!” I yell.
Sapphire flames grip the statue’s little body. The girl’s wide eyes are pained, frantically darting around now.
“Please!” Emma yells.
“Leave her alone!” I demand. I try to move to help her, but my feet are glued to the checkered tile.
“No!” I hear Emma’s panicked cries as she tugs at her legs with her hands, struggling to reach the burning statue, but Sabine has nailed her feet too.
Sabine laughs. “Patience, children.”
My mouth hangs wide. I’m stunned when the witch’s blue flame burns away the stone and ash. In the statue’s place stands a young girl with smooth brown skin, wide curious eyes, and perfect coils braided into cornrows. She looks down at her tattered brown dress.
It’s a real child. Not a slave statue. A real girl enslaved and frozen by Sabine’s magic.
Sabine coos, looking at the girl. “Hello, Liza. You know what you must do.”
Liza looks up at me with scared, mournful eyes. “Sorry,” she says. She winces at the blood on my shoulder. Her small hand shakes as she gently pushes it against my oozing wound. When she finishes, her fingertips are stained red and three drops of blood fall from them onto the checkered floor.
Sabine walks to Liza and licks the blood off her little fingers. It’s so gross that Emma heaves, trying not to vomit.
When Liza’s hand is clean, Sabine gives us a wicked grin. “Real power is in the blood,” she says.
Shivers dart through me. Ravens have gathered on the skinny branch of a tree outside the window, and I watch as the cotton fabric of Sabine’s dress ruffles and moves at her touch, transforming into a heart-shaped bodice made from ravens’ feathers. The wrinkles around Sabine’s eyes smooth and soften. The bottom of her dress blossoms into an elegantupside-down tulip. Sabine shakes her head, and the messy red bun crowning it falls into curling chocolate spirals that bounce around her face.
“Men once tried to rule me,” Sabine says. The lines around her mouth soften too; her face is no longer middle-aged but barely twenty. “To toy with me… But not now. NowIam the master of my own games.”
Emma gasps. “The blood—it fuels her!”
She’s right. Sabine profits from the Tether. She feeds on our struggle and division to maintain her immortality and lifestyle. And to give her a sick sense of control that she probably didn’t think she had before she became magical.
Sabine’s voice oozes honey and venom. “Blood? My Tether will make sure more spills. Mark my words: If no one is deliberately injured in the next round…”
Sabine snaps her fingers, and freezing air spins inside the room. It whips the bottom of Emma’s yellow nightgown and makes her curls fly wildly. Liza screams as dust spins in circles on the checkerboard floor, making a sand-colored funnel cloud that grows and thickens. It swirls and chases Liza, who screams, pumping her arms and legs, trying to outrun it.
I flail and struggle until my feet are no longer stuck to the tiles. I dash forward to help Liza, but the wind slams me to the floor.
Emma falls down hard next to me after attempting the same. She lies moaning on her side, her hair spread out like snake tails. Groaning, I twist, trying to roll to my side. I push myself to my knees as the current of air pushes down on me, trying to shove me down again. It takes all my might to stand, but I’m on my feet in the relentless wind.
I fight to take a step forward, but the funnel cloud moves with an unnatural speed, encircling Liza and swallowing her. The blue walls and gold frames blur in the corner of my eye as I squirm and fight to move forward. My mind rings with one thought: Freedom. Or death.
I look at my family bound to chairs across the room, at my ma’s hair blowing in her face, her eyes full of pain, and at Big-Mama’s tears rolling over the gold band strapped over her mouth. My stomach lurches. Big-Mama don’t cry easy.
Then I turn and see Emma’s devastated face as she attempts to crawl to me, only to be slapped down by the wind again.
