There’s no answer. There’s no way to know what I’m walking into.
“Fuck,” I grunt and shake out my arms, jumping up and down as if that will loosen me up for whatever I’m about to walk into. “Your ass better be over there, Doxxie.”
Gritting my teeth, I step through the open doorway.
CHAPTER7
VESPER
Iexpect more pain, but apparently the worst part has already happened. Once I step through the door, blackness encompasses me for one beat, two, three, and then I step out on the other side into a world I could have never imagined.
“What—” I gasp, my legs going weak as I get a good look at the scene before me.
My eyes roll around, trying to take it all in but it’s nearly impossible when there’s so much to look at. Red. Where has all the red gone? There is so much color, it’s overwhelming, and I find myself stumbling forward on a raised platform as if I can touch it. Before I can fully absorb what I’m looking at, a sharp pain in my arm has me shrieking again in surprise. I look down at my forearm, where my scar used to be, and claw at the piece of silver metal suddenly embedded in my skin. It’s in the shape of a teardrop, my skin puckered up around the metal like it’s been there forever. My legs weaken and I drop to my knees, trying to gasp through the final remnants of my pain. Panic takes over, and I reach toward my arm, prepared to claw this new thing out of me. Nothing?—
“You good?”
I jerk and leap to my feet, my hand going to my hip where my knife usually sits in my pocket. It’s empty and I look down in confusion, looking for my prized knife.
“Relax,” Locke says, holding up his hands. “Just me.” When I don’t say anything immediately, his brows shoot up. “Locke, remember? From the line? I told you?—”
“I remember,” I grunt, cutting him off as I try to figure out what the fuck is going on.
He’s watching me carefully as I try to gather my senses. As I stare at him, he dusts his trousers off and looks around us at the vibrant colors I’d been agape at, reminding me what I haven’t yet absorbed.
“Are those . . .” I start, swallowing. I’m almost afraid to say the word.
“Trees,” Locke nods. “Lots of them. I think this is . . . I’ve seen the word somewhere before.” He taps his chin. “A forest? Yeah, I think that’s the word.”
“A forest,” I repeat. “Of trees.”
In Dross, the only trees that can grow are usually small and weak. It takes meticulous care to get a tree to grow, let along to bear fruit. But these trees are massive, so tall, their tops disappear above us and form a tight canopy. The leaves move gently with wind I can’t yet feel, and light shines through the leaves in bright streaks.
“It’s not . . . it’s not all red,” I croak.
My eyes ache with the onslaught of color. Back home, it’s all washed in the color of the dwarf star. Here, the light is bright and pristine and painfully bright. The trees shield us from the worst of it, thankfully. My eyes are watering with what’s breaking through already. I keep having to close my eyes to ease the ache that’s suddenly filtering in. My head even starts to hurt with it; the color is so intense.
“Seems so,” Locke says, far less concerned with the color than I seem to be.
“Dox, do you see—” I choke off, remembering the Harrow Gate and the guard shoving me through. I whirl, searching for my friend and finding nothing but the small platform I stand on. The door is there, closed solidly behind me. I leap to my feet and reach for the door handle. When I try to open it, it’s locked tight. No matter how hard I pull, it doesn’t budge. I spin again, but the only person I find is still Locke standing in the foliage at my feet. Foliage! Plants! “Dox!” I scream, turning in circles as if she’s playing some sort of joke and will suddenly reveal herself at my panic. “Dox!!”
Locke watches me carefully, his brows raised as I turn frantic and start yanking on the door more aggressively. The harder I yank, the more I feel a tingle in my arms. It grows from a nuisance to full blown pain until I scream as I continue trying to yank the door open and go back the way I came.
No matter how hard I pull, the door doesn’t budge.
“I would not recommend that, player two million, six hundred and one thousand, three hundred and thirty-three. Only Tier Fives can traverse backwards through the Harrow Gate when it is open—as you well know—and you are not yet a Tier One.”
I whirl. “Who said that?” I snarl.
Locke holds up his hands in innocence. “You should probably chill out?—”
“Don’t tell me to chill out!” I spit. I reach for my blade at my hip again on instinct, but still find it empty. Of course, it didn’t magically appear in the last few minutes.
“Cradle weapons cannot be brought into the Harrow,” the voice informs me. “Don’t worry though. Any weapon you find here will be infinitely better.”
“Who’s speaking?” I snarl. “Show yourself!”
“That would be impossible, Wastrel,” the voice answers. “I am in your head.”
