Jamyria: The Entering (The Jamyria Series Book 1) (26 page)

The three of them look to each other in confusion.

“What sort of power is that?” says the long-haired boy.

“The kind you do not get in Jamyria,” Freya returns.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Without a Plan

Falling to her knees, Freya rights unbroken goblets, carefully lining them up like emerald glass soldiers, and collects the silver nearest her, coupling them in a linear pattern.

Cameron gapes, Ian’s brow is knitted together, and Margo cannot help but to say, “Excuse me? Did you say your power isn’t from this world?”

Her gash is completely healed over. Not only that, but her insides are intact. She was a goner. Saul had ripped through organs, and now all that remains is a ragged pink line the size of a finger.

Freya’s hand freezes on a teetering glass. It rocks dangerously before she forces it flat on its bottom. “Your tone suggests you believe yours is.”

Affronted, Margo says, “Where else would it…?” But the answer to her question suddenly forms on its own accord. If her power were from Jamyria, the world would cease to exist.

“Man created this synthetic universe with a mark,” responds Freya. “The Queen received her power from her father, or so they say. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re one of a kind.”

Her eyes rake over Margo, who is lightheaded from the shortage of blood.

“Well,” she continues, “whether it’s the Queen’s original mark or not, it was received before the inception of this world. Otherwise, how would the world come to be?”

“You can’t create a penny without first getting a mark,” Margo mumbles to herself.

A smile spreads across Freya’s ghostly face. “Exactly.”

The way Freya drew out the second syllable of that word sparks Margo. “American?” she asks her.

Freya’s eyes light up. She abandons her strewn table settings. “Yes, Oregon!” she sings. “Entered in ninety-four! You, too? Are you American?”

“Tennessee.” Margo tries to say the word with enthusiasm, but the room spins. She props herself on her elbows. Cameron is immediately at her side.

“You should lie down.”

“No, what she really needs it a bath,” says Freya disapprovingly. “She’s covered in blood! In fact, all three of you need cleaning up. And you!” she addresses Axton who starts. “The stains on this table, handle them!”

He grunts in acceptance.

Pulling Margo’s arm over her shoulder, Freya helps her to the washroom and draws her a bath. She sets Margo down on a bench while the tub fills. It is a quaint room with glass floor tiles the color of the sunset. She sprinkles soap flakes into the warm water and shuts off the tap. Margo can’t help but to wonder where the people of this world get the items in their homes.

She barely has the strength to hold her head up, but when Freya reaches to pull Margo’s shirt over her head Margo cringes away.

“I’m...sorry.” Freya’s brow furrows. “I didn’t mean to scare you. If you’re shy, I can look away. But I’m not leaving. With your luck you might pass out in the water, and then where will be? Fifty more years because the New Mark drowned in my bath tub.”

Margo waits for her to turn her back before undressing. “I’m not shy,” she defends. “Someone just tried…” But she can’t form the words. Nothing happened in the forest with Saul, yet she feels as if everything changed in the moment he tried to claim her.

“Tried to what?” presses Freya. “Did someone do something to you?”

Margo’s head shakes. “Not exactly.” But the tears begin to flow. She slips into the water in attempt to hide the sounds of her sobs.

“Who are those boys you travel with?”

“Friends,” she simply says.

The water quickly turns red, but Margo pays it no mind. Being stripped of the grime of dirt and the stickiness of blood is such a luxury. The woman, Freya, stays in the corner of the room, nestled upon the bench.

“Are you marked?” Margo eventually asks.

Freya goes against her promise and glances up at her.

“No, my gift is different.”

“Hmm…” Margo stares at the ceiling. “Well, is it like a mark? Are there more of you?”

Four short footsteps and Freya kneels next to the side of the tub. “I’m sure you know more about your gift than I do mine. I was abandoned because of it…. No one was around to tell me anything.”

Her eyes like glass watered, and she reaches out for Margo. Her fingertips brush at her neck, and Margo feels t
he pull of mending tissue again. An image flashes in her mind as quickly as the Crewman had swung his blade at her throat.

“Thank you.” It is the only thing she can say.

Freya looks sadly at Margo’s face. “You can’t stay here, my American friend.”

She nods in agreement, remembering the burning scene of the Witch’s house. Margo wouldn’t let that happen to these kind people, too.

“But you must eat,” says Freya. She shuts her eyes as if at war with herself until finally: “And sleep. Just one night, alright?”

Margo frowns into the water wishing she had the courage to say ‘no,’ wishing there was somewhere else for her to go so she wouldn’t have to rely on others who are no doubt in danger because of her.

She hadn’t properly seen the boys until she came staggering out of the bathroom wearing a fresh shirt of Freya’s. A four-inch gash runs the length of Cameron’s left cheek; it has since bruised a sickly purple color. He flexes his right hand, one finger remaining fixed as if it’s been jammed. Ian fidgets with his nose that is clearly broken, both eyes black because of it. And the two of them are covered in dry, flaky blood.

Before Margo can speak, Freya walks ahead of her into the sitting room and clamps Ian’s nose hard. He squeals in response.

“Well you don’t want it fixed in the wrong position, do you?” Freya complains before crossing over to Cameron.

He backs away, hands up defensively.

“Er…. I don’t mind healing the way nature intended, really.”

Freya’s lips twists. She rests her hand on Cameron’s cheek, and then snaps his finger back into place. He wails in pain which sends Margo on edge, but he looks as good as new only now he has a scar on his face that she finds shockingly handsome.

Panting, Cameron says, “Okay, I won’t lie and say that was my favorite thing in the world, but it’s still pretty cool. Yeah, Ian?”

“Will you please not lump me into your category?” he moans, hand still rubbing his pointy nose.

“Right, now,” says Freya with her hands on her hips. “Hurry with the table, Ax. I believe our guests would prefer to leave blood off the breakfast menu. You two,” she points to the Cameron and Ian, “take turns in the bath; I don’t want to have to re-clean anything because you’ve leaned against it or brushed up on it. Margo, please, sit. I’m ordering you to rest because you look awful and have a lot of blood to create.”

She hands Margo a purple fruit and resets the table just as Axton finishes cleaning it.

Light trickles through a gap in the curtain. Deep heavy breaths, the rise and fall of his chest, arms wrapped around her. Comfort. Margo lies burrowed in Cameron’s chest until the visions of the morning’s battle flood her mind again. Peeling herself away, she sits in the middle of the sitting room, trembling. Did she really incapacitate a man and murder another? She shudders.

A nest of blankets is all that remains of Ian’s corner. In the armchair next to his bedding is the collection of Margo’s things he retrieved after the attack — her bag, jacket, and sword.

Margo soundlessly walks through the empty room and finds him sitting on the porch looking into the trees, rain still falling heavily.

He’s always staring at something,
she notes as she takes a seat next to him.

“Surprised you’re up,” he says without taking his eyes off the forest.

“I’m feeling better. A full meal always helps.”

His eyes flicker to her and back. “Pluriberry?”

He offers her a stem with berries the size of juniper berries; they are bright magenta and darken to an eggplant color as they reach the tip. She plucks a few.

“They remind me of my feather, the way they change colors.”

“Clarxen feather,” he states.

“Yes, that.”

She awkwardly fidgets with the too-long sleeves of the shirt Freya gave her. She doesn’t like resting. Not after having pushed forward to a goal for so many days. And after all they went through, she doesn’t feel much closer to getting out of this world than before.

Destroy it,
the Witch said of the globe.

It was a small consolation, but Margo didn’t know how she was supposed to get into the castle without getting caught. Visiting the Witch only left her more frustrated than ever.

“Where are the others?” Margo asks.

Ian’s lips quirk. “Keeping their daughter company in her room.”

“Daughter?” Her eyebrows shoot up.

“Yeah, her name’s Eleanor. Tiny little thing.” A full smile spreads across his lips. “Guess they didn’t want her mixing with the mess we’ve brought.”

Nodding, she says, “That’s understandable.”

In fact, she understands better than ever after the morning’s events.

“Can you…?” she begins.

Ian turns curiously, giving Margo the courage to continue.

“Can you fill me in on what happened? You know, after I….”

Without any other prompt, Ian dives into the full story. “When Cameron fell, you lost it.” He says it almost accusingly. “You lost your focus and just stood there. And that man —”

“Saul….”

“Yes, him. Saul stabbed you, and you went down. I was already rushing over to help Cameron — and barely got over to him in time — when I saw it happen. Cameron got up just then, and he saved you.”

Margo’s eyes widen. “
He
saved me?” she whispers. “I thought he was…. When I saw him fall, I really thought it was over. All I wanted was for you to survive.”

Her face warms as she admits this aloud.

“Did you kill him? Saul?”

Ian shakes his head. “You were our focus. We did all we could to fight them off, but once they saw that you were…. Well, at least it looked like you were dead. They took off, and all we cared about was getting you out of there.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks suddenly.

She peeks up at him feeling childish. Ian is reluctant to nod.

Margo speaks too quickly as she tells him about what happened to her in the woods. How afraid of Saul she was. How she felt overpowered by herself. How words fell from her lips without her say so. How she fought more gracefully than she was capable. When she finished telling him, Ian’s brow furrows in deep thought.

“And you’re sure you weren’t seeing the details of the world more crisply?”

“I told you, it wasn’t like when you dropped me on the way down from the Water Forest. This was completely out of my control.” Her brow wrinkles.
“Have you ever heard of a mark doing that before?”

“Never.” His cheek twitches and lips tighten into a line.

Margo’s eyes narrow. “You’re lying.”

A dark smile flits across his face. “I’m not as quick to share all my secrets,” he says behind a curtain of black hair.

Margo folds her arms over her stomach, thinking about all she has kept secret from them since her entering. The death of her sister in the forefront of her mind. Kylie was keen on secrets, too. And as she watches Ian stare into the depths of the forest, the thrumming of rain on puddles in the background, she can clearly see what draws her to this boy. Rough around the edges, insightful, a bit mysterious….

“You remind me of someone,” she murmurs, staring longingly at his profile.

He turns, the humor in his face vanishing. “Funny. I could say the same about you….”

Margo bites her bottom lip as he again faces the trees. He takes a sip from his goblet. She wonders what the story of this boy is. What’s he thinking when he stares off into space? What brought him to this point in Jamyria? Why is he helping her? Putting her trust in him still doesn’t feel like the smart thing to do, but she is happy around him. Why is that…?

“That’s one secret….” he says.

“Will there be others?”

His jet eyes lock with hers in surprise, perhaps because she didn’t ask him to elaborate on who she reminds him of. “We’ll see. Maybe another day.”

Cameron leans in the kitchen doorframe grinning. “Glad to see you up,” he says.

Margo smiles in response as she and Ian walk back into the house.

Ian drops into one of the dining chairs. Freya pours him more wine and swats at his hand when he reaches prematurely for a dinner roll in the center of the table.

Ian is still cursing loudly when Cameron steals Margo into the kitchen and away from prying eyes. Warmth fills her middle.

“You know,” he says, still grinning. “I haven’t given up yet.”

“Given up?” Her breath catches having nearly forgotten about their conversation just before the attack. At the time, the words were on the brink flowing from her lips, but now she isn’t sure how to tell him that her sister is gone, that one of his best friends is dead.

He stares knowingly, and instead of continuing their conversation, he says, “Our conversation last summer.”