Logan leans in just enough to make my breath catch. “She believes that with the combination of your lightning and my abilities, we can survive the surrounding seas.”
Part of me wants to demand more answers about what else he’s been keeping from me, what other secrets are buried under that careful mask of his.
But I’m too exhausted. And right now, the practical matters more than the emotional.
“So, we find these boats and sail through deadly waters.” I force myself to focus, even though this all sounds more hypothetical thanreal.“But why do we need to go far? Once we’re off the island, can’t we just fire travel somewhere safe?”
“No.” Logan shakes his head. “The Lost Islands exist in a pocket dimension.”
I blink at him. “A what?”
“A pocket dimension,” he repeats, shifting to face me more fully. “The island chain where Blaze Academy is located isn’t in the mortal realm or the mystical realm. It exists in a separate dimensional space, connected to both realms through specific anchor points. Fire travel works on each islandinthe Lost Islands, but we can’t fire travel from island to island, or out of this dimension as a whole.”
“So until we reach one of those anchor points, we’re trapped in this pocket dimension.” The realization settles into my chest, and a draft rolls through the tunnel, cold enough to give me goosebumps.
“Yes.”
“Do you know where the anchor points are?”
“We’ll find them once we’re off this island.” His grip on my hand tightens.
“That’s a no.” I study his face, waiting for the answer I know is coming.
He goes still.
Never a good sign.
“Logan.” I squeeze his hand, and he relaxes into me slightly. “If you don’t know where the anchor points are, do you at least know what’s out there in general?”
He meets my eyes, and his face is the kind of blank that’s worse than fear, because it means he’s decided not to feel what comes next.
“Have you ever readThe Odyssey?”
The question catches me so off guard I actually laugh. “Homer? Odysseus trying to get home after the Trojan War?”
“Yes.”
“Ninth grade English.” I frown at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Do you remember what happened to him on his journey?”
“He encountered a bunch of monsters. The Cyclops, the sirens, Scylla and—” I stop. “No. You’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”
His expression doesn’t change.
My heart’s pounding so hard it’s trying to beat out of my chest, and I wrap my arms around myself as another cold draft passes through the tunnel.
“Those monsters are real,” he says exactly what I feared. “And they’re waiting for us in the surrounding seas.”
EVIE
Kieran’s roommaterializes in a flash of orange flame.
His thermal residue is everywhere, and it’s like reading a map of his private life in infrared. The heat on his bed is imprinted deep and layered from hours of restless turning. The chair where he sits and sharpens his blades radiates a focused, sustained warmth that suggests he sits there for a long time, motionless, lost in the meditative rhythm of steel on stone. There are fingerprints on the violin case, which means he played it recently. Then there’s that trail from the bed to the window, where he must stand and look out at the academy grounds in the dark.
He is, unfortunately, not here.
On his desk, however, are the books from the Ember Archives.
