Knight. A flattened bag of chips. And a red stone from Shelly, the sea

oracle of Central Park.

I don’t know what the stone does, but it was enough to raise the

stakes of our poker game, which means it has to do something. I hold

it in my palm and envision the source of its magic. Before I can stop

myself, I imagine Gwen saying that magic is gradual and not instant. I

roll my eyes at no one, and because the red stone does absolutely

nothing, I throw it back into my bag. I readjust my harness, the wet

leather cold on my skin.

I take a precarious step on the grass, hoping it doesn’t give

beneath me. The ground is solid, the grass dewy, like it rained not

too long ago though there isn’t a single cloud in the sky.

I wait for the call of birds, the whisper of insects, the rustle

of hooves behind bushes. Something, anything that would let me know I

am not alone in this place.

But I am alone, with only the trail ahead of me, a clear dirt path

leading inland.

With every step I take, I wish for the familiar sound of Brooklyn

sirens-the ambulance kind, not the magical kind-blaring down Surf

Avenue.

I use my dagger to hack off a branch. In two strikes, the wood

breaks and falls at my feet. Shimmering liquid seeps from the wound

like honey. I let it fall on my open palm and it spills until the bark

starts to heal itself, and slowly, the limb shows the tiniest sign of

growth.

The branch at my feet has lost the color of the tree it was a part

of. The leaves wither instantly and I slice off the bark so it feels

like I’m holding a super long bone. A smile pulls at my mouth when I

think of what my friends back home would say of my oversized staff.

Then I keep walking, periodically hitting my staff between bushes to

check for wildlife or anything else that might be looming in the

shadows.

I walk.

And walk.

And wait.

And think. Maybe I should go back and search for my friends. Maybe

I’m on the wrong island shrouded by magical mist. What if Kai and

Brendan are still out there? No, they’d want me to keep going. What if

Arion is dead and washed away to surf and tiny bits of flesh? Why

don’t we leave our whole selves behind? Why do we become nothing?

My head snaps up when I hear the rush of water. There’s a

waterfall nearby and waterfalls mean rivers. So then where the hell is

the River Clan?

The waterfall is a spill of sunset colors. I scoop some water in

my hands. It smells of the most intangible things, like dreams and

promises. My tongue is as dry as bricks, and my throat raw and

scratched. I drink the water in my palms. I fill up my bottle for

later. I stick my head right into the waterfall, the weight of it

pushing down and beating over my head. I let myself sink down on the

slick boulders, and when I move my hands to push my hair back, I’m

surprised at the stubble and remember that it’s gone.

When my skin begins to feel numb, I make my way back to my

backpack and freeze. I can feel something or someone watching me. I

hold out my dagger and wade toward the bank. A panic floods me when I

start wondering what kind of creatures live on this plane. I’ve seen

shapeshifters and dragons and manic, crazy-ass split-tailed mermaids,

so why not a ten-headed bear with a unicorn horn?

“I know you’re there,” I say.

Then I notice the strange ripples on the bank. Tiny frog-like

creatures tinkle like glass when they hop. One of them breaks from the

pack and lands in the water in front of me. I scoop it up. Its strange

rubbery skin tickles. It stares at me, like it wonders who I am and

what I’m doing here. I can see its insides, the tiny heart and lungs,

and whatever fly it just ate. It ribbits then jumps back into the

water. So much for my multiheaded unicorn bear.

But there’s still a lot of land that I haven’t seen and I don’t

know what’s waiting for me there. For all I know, I’m not headed in

the right direction. For all I know, everyone I know is dead and I’m

never going to find the River Clan or get out of this place. My watch

is dead at 11:53 a.m. and the white sun and purple moon haven’t moved

an inch, but it’s still getting dark. Maybe there’s a dimmer switch

somewhere.

When I realize I’m talking to myself, a wet splash catches my

attention. A fish, long and large like salmon but with rainbow-colored

scales, floats on the stream. Bubbles trail out of its gaping mouth.

The eye is the size of a quarter. It’s dead. It had to come from up

there in the waterfall because it surely didn’t fall from the nearby

trees.

“Great,” I say, holding it across my palms. “I’m making the fish

suicidal.”

This is so fucked up but I’m hungry. I should have eaten when Blue

offered, and the guilt is a knot in my stomach.

I pick a spot inside the first line of trees where the spray from

the waterfall doesn’t hit and a row of boulders make a natural

fortress. Inside this forest, I stand and look up at the canopy. The

trees go up for what feels like miles, hiding the bipolar sky.

Okay, you got this. For a fire, you need some wood. I didn’t come

all this way to freeze and starve to death on an island outside of

time. The leaves are still damp, which will prove the most difficult.

I lay my fish on a flat stone the size of a dinner plate. A real

merman would sink his teeth into the fish, but I’ve never been a fan

of sushi. I gather large rocks and make a ring around my pile of

sticks.

I stare at my fish.

I stare at my rocks.

I have this sinking feeling of inadequacy.

And then I grab my scepter and hold it by the hilt, pointing it at

my unlit fire pit. I search for the spark, the power, the thing that

has made me special for the last couple of days, and it isn’t there.

When Kai said unstable, I didn’t think that would apply to my big,

ancient weapon. It was working just fine when I fought with Kurt-

“Why are you doing this to me now?” I ask it.

Then I throw it on the ground.

I grab my backpack and fling it away from me, the contents

spilling over fallen leaves and wet moss.

I take a swing at the tree.

What the fuck has this tree ever done to me?

Nothing.

But I hit it again. It hurts like hell. But this is the kind of

pain that I can take. I hit it again and picture Kurt’s face. Nieve.

Archer.

Warm blood trickles down my hand and wraps around my wrist. I

picture my grandfather, the king-his face that looks just like mine.

My eyes. My mother’s eyes. Everything he told me was a lie. He didn’t

choose me because he wanted to. He chose me because he couldn’t choose

Kurt. Instead, he made Kurt my guardian. Some guardian he turned out

to be.

I’m spent. And I can’t feel my hand. The tree is untouched,

unhurt. The bark is red with my blood.

I can’t uncurl my fingers. Shaking, I go back to the water and

wash my wound.

I go back to my camp and retrieve my things. I hold the red stone,

wondering why Shelly would want me to have this. She must have known I

would need it. I rub it, feeling stupid at the thought that it’ll

produce a genie. Instead of a cloud of smoke that grants me wishes, I

feel its heat. I strike it against a stone on my fire pit and there it

is-the spark. I strike it again, and the spark turns into a flame.

My non-cut-up, non-bruised good hand is on fire.

I drop the flaming stone into the fire pit and make a second trip