Thirty-Nine
I knowit’s not possible, since they’re all the same image, but every version of Donovan looks more pissed off than the next. “What did you do?” he growls.
“Me?” I’m half-tempted to shatter one of these mirrors and impale him with a shard. “If you recall, I was trying to find a way for us to cooperate. Which is more than I can say for some?—”
“Shhh!” He holds a finger to his lips.
“Did you just shush me?” Now, each of the hundred Runes looks as enraged as he does, my eyes wide with fury and my arms folded across my chest. “Who do you think you?—”
“Shhh!” he says again, and this time he points.
It’s a struggle to keep my eyes on Actual Donovan, rather than his myriad of reflections, but I manage it, following his finger to its inevitable conclusion: a stone that’s popped up from the floor, containing a small speaker, as well as a tiny pad and pencil. A quiet stream of static issues from the speaker, interrupted by a series of beeps. It pauses, then starts up all over again.
“Um,” I say, “what the hell is that supposed to be?”
Donovan doesn’t answer me. Instead, he edges closer, peering down at the speaker as it starts its little ditty all over again. His eyebrows are knitted, like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “No way,” he breathes, and damn if he isn’t smiling…not a lot, but still. The corners of his mouth quirk up the tiniest bit, the way they do when he’s amused but trying not to show it. “I think it’s Morse Code. I learned it in Scouts.”
My mouth falls open, and around us, a hundred Runes’ mouths do the same. “You’re kidding me.”
“No. Listen!” He gestures at the speaker. “It’s not random. There’s a rhythm to it. I’ve been listening to it over and over, and I think…” He kneels, grabbing for the pad and pencil. His dark head bends as he scribbles furiously, tilting his head as the beeps do their thing. Then he shoves the pad at me with a triumphant smile.
I glance down at it, hoping for answers. Instead, I see this:
.-- . .-.. -.-. --- -- . / - --- / - .... . / .... .- .-.. .-.. / --- ..-. / -- .. .-. .-. --- .-. ... .-.-.-
Donovan’s looking at me expectantly, his sapphire eyes alight with excitement. I never thought I’d see him look at me that way again: with true happiness, like there’s no place he’d rather be. My gut twists, and I have to clear my throat twice before I can speak.
“What does it say?”
He takes the pad back from me and translates: “Welcome to the Hall of Mirrors.”
The speaker starts up again, emitting a different set of rhythmic beeps and pauses. Donovan sinks to the stones, braces the pad on his leg, and scribbles some more. I sit down next to him, peering over his shoulder, but it’s pointless: all I can make out is a series of meaningless dashes, dots, and slashes as his hand flies over the paper with lightning speed.
There’s something alluring about the purity of his concentration, the way everything in the world disappears for him except what he’s focused on. It’s almost…gravitational, as if being around him holds the scattered pieces of myself together. I glance away, but that’s no help: everywhere I look, there he is, a hundred Donovans with his dark hair falling over his face and his mouth quirking up as he scribbles and his attention hyper-focused on the page.
This is a freaking nightmare.
All I want is to reach for him, to brush his hair out of his eyes and tell him how sorry I am. To explain everything, even though I know he won’t believe me. Instead, I wrap my arms around my knees and grip my wrists tight.Don’t do it,I tell myself.He doesn’t want you anymore, and that’s a good thing. Just get through this, and do what you came here to do.
I bite my lip and close my eyes. Behind my lids, the echo of the flames from the fire pits flickers. The air fills with the crackle of burning wood, that interminable beeping, and Donovan’s running commentary. “I think…” he mutters. “Maybe…” He huffs with frustration, and I picture him running his hand through his hair, the way I’ve seen him do so many times. But then his breathing evens out. “Okay!” he says, sounding triumphant. “Got it.”
Blinking my eyes open, I find him smiling at me, a disarming grin that cracks me wide open. “Here,” he says, shoving the pad back at me. I take it and read aloud:
“I am a test of communication, a challenge of reflection. Two must stand and face each other’s direction. They must follow the path, or face fire’s wrath. Their eyes must not waver, their focus must be true. For if they break contact, they’ll begin anew.”
Oh, fabulous. “A riddle?” I say, frowning down at it.
Donovan shrugs, the light of discovery fading from his eyes. “I guess. The sooner we solve it, the sooner we’re out of here.”
“Right,” I say, trying to sound as businesslike as possible. I scramble to my feet, and he follows, standing opposite me.Two must stand and face each other’s direction,after all.
He’s just inches away, his vanilla-and-cedar scent filling the space between us. But he’s also everywhere. He’s all I can see. My voice is breathy when I say, “But what path?”
As if my words have summoned them, some of the stones beyond the speaker begin to glow, as if lit from within. The glowing stones are set in an irregular pattern—two to the right, then nothing, then three to the left. I watch, brows drawing down in puzzlement, as the stones between the glowing ones fall away, replaced by honest-to-God streams of bubbling lava.
“There’s your answer,” Donovan says, one dark brow rising. “Man, I hope Smashbox has solid liability insurance. Because if that shit is real, and I burn so much as my pinky toe, I plan to sue the bejesus out of them.”
I shake my head, my hair flying. I came here to avenge my parents’ murder, not get barbecued. “This is crazy. I can’t…I don’t…”
