The boy made a sound of surprise. “You can hear the wind?”
The solange-eyed man shook his head. “No. It’s more . . . I can see it.” He tapped the skin underneath his navy and silver eye. “I can see all sorts of things. I don’t hear it with my ears—I hear it with my eyes. Does that make sense?”
“No,” the boy said, putting his elbows on the table and leaning his chin on his hands.
“I can see it now. It’s here. Not surprising. It’s almost always with you.”
The boy pressed his lips together, hiding a smile. “What does it look like? I always thought it was invisible.”
The solange-eyed man’s cosmic eye pulsed, and the lightning skittered across his iris. He stared at a spot before a long line of wooden cupboards. “It’s barely here now. Just the faintest breath, a few particles floating like dust motes. But usually . . .” He turned to frown pensively at the boy. “It looks like the sun glinting off the iridescent edge of a pigeon’s wing. Or . . . hmm . . . like the rainbowed edge of a glittering opal. Or . . . a wavy, multi-hued mirage swirling, fading in and out, circling, and . . . it’s beautiful, but it doesn’t stay the same. It’s always changing. It’s usually transparent, unless it’s with you. Then it’s more vibrant. Solid. It’s . . .” The solange-eyed one shrugged and then asked, “That’s not what you were expecting?”
The boy swallowed and looked down at his hands. “No. I wasn’t expecting anything. Thank you for lunch.”
The solange-eyed one pushed the dish of baked apples toward the boy. But he shook his head.
“No, thank you. I’ve decided you were right. You can learn a lot in a meal. I want you to know I’ll support you. When the Clarks and the Bards challenge you, I’ll stand with you. On one condition.”
The solange-eyed one stilled. “What’s your condition?”
The air in the kitchen thickened, and the heat from the stove pressed against the two men.
The boy leaned forward. “Let me into your mind.”
“No.”
The boy shrugged. “Then good luck.” He nodded to the window and the black clouds piling over the fortress. “Something’s coming, and my guess is, it’s coming for you.”
The solange-eyed man didn’t turn to look out the window. He didn’t need to. Everyone could feel the press of the atmosphere. Instead, he reached forward and sent his finger over the silver handle of his butter knife.
“Does she trust you?” he asked.
The boy nodded.
“Why? You’ve failed her. Your dad put in her Hell Gate. You let her become a mine. You?—”
“When I was four years old, I realized the sister I loved was a mirror. Worse, she was an evil, sociopathic, malevolent mirror who wanted me to die. My parents had good intentions, but their actions bred unforeseen consequences. My dad thought my sister would be safe in Hell Gate. There were unforeseen consequences?—”
“Don’t tell me torture and death?—”
The boy hit his fist against the table. The silverware jumped, and the plates rattled. “You think I don’t realize? You think I didn’t spend the next eighteen years . . .” He looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. The boy never lost his temper. He was almost always polite. When he looked at the solange-eyed man, the flush in his cheeks was gone, and his expression was calm. “She trusts me. You should too. My whole life, I’ve been fighting to keep her alive—not because of some pact my dad made to save the world, but because she’s my sister, and . . . she’s here.” He tapped his chest. “So if you don’t agree, fine. I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing. It’s my responsibility to see that she lives until the end. It was Wolf’s job to see that you made it, and now, I guess it’s Darin’s.” The boy shrugged. “Thanks again for lunch. I’ll see myself out.”
“Wait.”
The boy stopped, halfway out of his chair. At the solange-eyed man’s expression, he sat back down.
“All right.”
“All right you’ll let me inside your mind?”
“Yes. As long as you leave it as it was. No altering. No erasing. No twisting or turning.”
The boy smiled and showed his teeth. “I’m just going to look.”
“Fine.”
The boy struck before the solange-eyed man had finished the word. His hand shot forward, and the solange-eyed man slumped in his chair. His body spasmed, and his muscles went taut. His back arched, and the tendons in his neck tightened. He gasped and then held his breath.
Most men screamed. The trickster always did. The musician too. Many creatures collapsed or wept at the boy’s intrusion.
