Reflection Pond (4 page)

“Um,” Callie said, spitting out a mouthful of Willow’s hair. “You have?”

Willow leaned back, keeping hold of Callie’s shoulders. “You are going to love it here. The food, the dancing,” Willow gave a longing sigh, “the
boys.
It’s like…like, a dream come true. Like winning the life lottery or suddenly learning you’re rich. Except better.” She squeezed Callie’s shoulders and widened her eyes, serious. “You’ll see,” she promised. “By tomorrow, you’ll forget all about the human world.”

CHAPTER TWO

What is your problem, Rowan?” Ash demanded. “You don’t have to act like that.”

They were in the middle of Rowan’s cottage. Rowan stood in the front corner, rifling through his collection of weapons. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that Ash had sat on the edge of the handmade table and propped his feet on a chair.
It was the stance he took whenever he wanted to lecture Rowan, which happened frequently enough.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rowan said, finding his heaviest quarterstaff and testing the weight.
It was the one he used when he needed to exhaust himself, usually whenever he had too much anger to keep inside.

“The girl, Rowan.
The girl is gorgeous. She clearly belongs here.”

Rowan propped the staff on his shoulder but didn’t turn to face Ash. “If you hadn’t noticed, everyone here is gorgeous. It
’s called glamour
.
You should try it sometime.”

“Callie is one of us—family—isn’t that the point?” Ash said, unaffected by Rowan’s meanness.

“Callie,” Rowan said, letting the name settle like melted candy on his tongue. It fit her.
“Family,”
he scoffed, finally turning. Ash was the closest thing Rowan had to family, and half the time he wasn’t even sure Ash
liked
him.

Ash eased off the table and crossed his arms. “Why are you being like this? Is it because she wasn’t brought back by trackers?”

Rowan sighed and stalked to the door.

“What is it then? Why don’t you just tell me why you’re acting like such an ass?” Ash followed him into the approaching twilight, shutting the door behind them.

Rowan whirled, quarterstaff in front of him, inches from Ash’s face. “I’m not acting
.
I
am
an ass.” He backed away from Ash and crouched into an attack position. Then he let his mind go blank.

***

Music and voices from the ballroom traveled up the stairs and rumbled through the floor, giving a lively heartbeat to the palace. Rowan had trained, showered, and dressed for the party, dreading it the entire time. He remembered his welcome ceremony clearly—the lights, the music, the mystery of the oblivion that followed. He’d been terrified, sure, but curiosity and the strong desire to finally have a home won out over everything. Rowan had jumped headfirst into this new life, fully expecting it to fit like a well-tailored suit.

He’d never been more wrong.

He looked like them, wore his glamour just as well, but he’d spent enough time in
Eirensae
to know that he didn’t belong here. His missing imprint reminded everyone around him daily. He’d tried so hard he’d nearly lost himself. Effort didn’t give him a free pass to the in-crowd. You could only get that with an amulet and an imprint. Skills were meaningless, desire useless, even dumb luck wouldn’t help him.

His time filtered down like sand in an hourglass, and far more sand filled the bottom of the glass than what remained in the top.

He paused, hand on the doorknob, ready to enter without knocking. He sighed and knocked politely, pushing the door open only when he didn’t get a response. His heart rate quickened as he scanned the room and found it empty.

She’d left—he couldn’t understand why that bothered him so much. It wasn’t as though they knew each other, or even that he liked her. Maybe it irritated him that she’d taken her discomfort with her, and he’d thoroughly enjoyed her discomfort.

A soft cry drew his gaze to the open window. Bone-white fingers clutched the edge. He found himself leaning out the window, meeting Callie’s wide eyes as she dangled above a two-story drop.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said, voice bored. “You’ll probably break your ankle.” He knew what Callie saw as she looked up at him; a guy in black jeans and a black t-shirt, a bad boy who didn’t belong and didn’t care. He’d cultivated that image so carefully that sometimes even he believed it. He’d turned so many people away with his hostility that they’d stopped trying to befriend him. Rowan preferred it that way, no obligations, no expectations.

“Not that you care,” Callie said. Her fingers curled into the wood and tried to find purchase.

“I’ve seen open fractures, you know, where the bone rips through the skin.” He shuddered. “Nasty.”

“You’re not helping,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Oh, sorry.
Would you prefer I help the process along, throw you out the window and lament over your corpse? Wax poetic about how your life ended so soon and so tragically? It’s a bit dramatic though, falling to your death just to evade a party. Rude, too, if you ask me, considering all of this is to welcome you back to your rightful home and all that bullshit.”

Callie groaned. Tension leaked into her words. “I didn’t ask for a party. I didn’t ask for any of this. I just want to go home.”

“What’s your master plan here?” A pause. He used the break to inspect his nails. “Have you considered how you’re going to get back through the pond? I suggest
go go gadget arms
or
abracadabra.
” He held up a finger. “I know. Click your heels.” Rowan frowned as though deep in thought. “Wait—that might not work considering we don’t wear shoes.”

“Maybe I’ll just die and save myself the trouble.”

“Well, good luck with that.” Rowan turned away as though to leave. He never would’ve let her fall—that’s what he told himself—but she pissed him off
so much.
When her hand slipped and she screamed, he was there in an instant, fingers curled around her wrist, adrenaline thundering through his veins.

She swung beneath him like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. Despite the strain on his muscles, he couldn’t resist getting in one more jab.

“Last chance to change your mind. I mean, if I were in this situation, I’d clearly pick the fall. Parties are such a yawn around here, with all the drinking and debauchery.” He nodded to the city behind her before leaning on the ledge as though the extra weight was nothing to him. His shoulder ached and the window ledge bit painfully into the back of his arm.

To Callie’s credit, she scowled. Rowan towed her upward and they crashed onto the carpet. She stumbled to her feet and smoothed the hem of her skirt over the pale curve of her legs.

“Should I thank you, or would that expand your already enormous ego?” She frowned at the angry scrapes on her arms as Rowan stood.

“I think you’re insulting me. I should’ve let you fall.” He went to the window and slammed it shut. Locks were unnecessary in the city, so he pulled the curtains with finality.

“Guess so.” She turned away, but not before he saw the tears in her eyes.

He was being an ass. Ash was sure to have a lecture waiting.

“What are you really doing here? It’s obvious you don’t want me here just as much as I don’t want to be here,” she said quietly.

He heard what she wasn’t saying.
What am
I
really doing here?
He wished he had an answer, but Rowan didn’t even know why he was in
Eirensae.

“I’m here to escort you to the ceremony, of course. I
always
choose debauchery over death. It’s my basic nature. Remember that.”
Still
being an ass. If there was a switch to turn it off, Rowan sure hadn’t located it.

Callie huffed and pulled her gown off the hanger. It was the shimmering blue of a sunlit ocean and matched the blooms still pinned in the waving fall of her hair despite her recent suspension from the window. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Her shoulders quaked as she gave him her back. “This has been really great,” she said, voice hitching. “I mean—look at this,” she shook the dress, “I’ve never seen anything so pretty. I don’t even know what to think. I just—I don’t understand how I got here, or
why
I’m here. Or why you hate me so much. Everyone keeps acting like they know me, but they don’t. And most of all, I’m scared, okay? I’m scared.” Her shoulders quivered again.

He hoped he hadn’t made her cry. There was nothing worse than making a girl cry. He stepped closer, hand hovering uncertain between them.

Surprise lit Callie’s face when she turned. Rowan was close enough to draw her into his arms if he wished. Instead, he caught her wrists. The dress slithered to pool at their feet. The scrapes on her elbows were shallow, rug burns more than cuts. To Rowan, they were badges that ate away his insides.

“What do you want?” she growled, cheeks flushing pink.

Rowan almost smiled. He deserved her animosity, probably much more than she was giving. She tried to pull out of his grasp, but he held firm, turning her arms over, careful to keep his fingers gentle.

He took one of her arms in both of his hands. Healing energy pulsed at his core, fathomless and dark. He closed his eyes. Rowan’s power was like a sixth sense to him. Just as one didn’t have to think to smell or hear or see, Rowan didn’t have to think to heal. It simply happened. He felt energy charge his fingers and disperse into Callie’s skin, warming his hands and her arm. With it came the knowledge that she’d fallen against the carpet and scraped her elbows. It was always that way, the simple revelation of what or who caused the injury—even if he hadn’t witnessed it. He saw other
things too—injuries that weren’t visible, things she’d hidden deep within herself. They clawed at his energy and Rowan struggled to keep his face blank against the debilitating pain. There was darkness in Callie, and darkness was something he understood.

When he completed one arm, he healed the second. Callie remained silent the entire time. She
twisted her arms the second he finished and inspected her newly pink elbows.

“We’re not all bad,” Rowan said, turning away. “Get dressed.” He headed out the door before she could respond.

***

“This is crazy,” Callie said, swiveling her arms one way and then the other as though the wounds might reappear. Who were these people—
what
were they?

The injuries were gone. An unblemished expanse of skin covered Callie’s arms, interrupted by a few stubborn freckles and faint scars. She ran her fingertips over her elbows, impressed. Rowan’s touch lingered there, warm and tingling, like static electricity waiting to discharge.

Callie thought of her foster mother’s cancer and the chemo that ate away her insides. The agony that seeped into the walls of her house, bitter with the scent of impending death.

Rowan had healed Callie with a touch.
Without medicine.

Without pain.

Curiosity rose inside of her.

Callie picked up the discarded gown on the floor.
One night,
she promised herself. She could play the role, buy into whatever crazy thing they wanted her to believe, and then she’d sneak away.
And go back to your awesome life?
her mind whispered.

“One night,” she said.

Callie undressed and stepped into the silken fabric. It hugged her skin.
The tailor is good,
she thought, distracted by the reflection in the mirror. The color, ocean blue, brought out the highlights in her eyes, which were rimmed perfectly with kohl, the expert work of Willow. The girl staring from the mirror looked dark and mysterious,
radiant.
Callie’s heart hammered against her ribs.

Magical.

She chuckled away the errant thought.

She must be crazy, going through with this party. Callie pressed her fingertips to the mirror, half expecting her hand to disappear through it as she saw in the movies. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe she’d fallen asleep in Nate’s bed and created another reality so she wouldn’t have to face the real one.

When she was little, back before she’d realized that the world was an awful, cruel place, Callie had dreamed that her mother was a princess. She’d drawn pictures of castles sparkling with jewels and white knights on horses. She convinced herself that one d
ay a carriage would come for her and she’d never look back. Then she’d been placed with the Johnson’s and Callie had lost all hope.

And maybe she was crazy, but was it so wrong of her to be curious?
To ask,
what if?
She glanced again at her reflection. They’d pinned flowers in her hair and covered her eyelids with glitter. Maybe she wanted this.

Maybe this was the most excited she’d been.