“Rhys?” I ran to my brother’s room to find his bed perfectly made—nothing out of place. My mother’s room looked much the same.
I glanced at the clock on her nightstand and my heart stuttered. I’d been MIA for over ten hours now. They were probably worried sick about me.
My phone. I ran back to the living room, frantically digging through my bag. As soon as I turned it on, it vibrated. I had messages.
My hands trembled as I dialed voice mail.
“Ashlyn”—my mother’s voice was low and urgent, making my hair stand on end—“the time has come for you to let me go, but I will never truly be gone. I will always be a part of you.” The way her voice wavered nearly gutted me. “On the summer solstice, your father and I will walk the corn for the last time. We’ve been chosen as Katia’s and Alonso’s vessels. This is my fate.” She let out a short ragged breath. “Take care of your brother, as he will take care of you. I didn’t leave you unprotected. You’ll know wh—” A horrible screeching noise interrupted her, cutting off the call.
“Mom?” I whispered into the receiver as the phone slipped out of my sweaty hands, crashing to the hardwood floor. If she’d gone back to Quivira, where was Rhys? Fighting back the tears, I slumped to the ground trying to piece my phone back together, when I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure near the terrace.
I crawled toward it. Staring back at me was the dead girl, the black silk ribbon billowing from her neck. Reaching out for her, my hand grazed the glass, and it dawned on me. I was looking at my own reflection.
Cautiously, I reached up to my throat and felt the shock of silk.
I untied the bow and slipped it from my neck. Although the long black strand looked refined and delicate, it had a significant weight to it, a heft of durability. This was proof that she was real, that it really happened, but as I studied the palm of my hand where the wound should’ve been, I felt crazy all over again. The ribbon seemed to coil around my fingers like it belonged there.
What the hell’s happening to me?
I crammed the black strand into my pocket and went to the kitchen to splash cold water on my face.
A glint of gold caught my attention. There on the kitchen table lay an open stainless-steel briefcase, filled to the brim with gold ingots nestled between stacks of cash and a few documents.
I picked up one of the small gold bricks, and a strange vertigo gripped me. A tingling sensation pulsed beneath the surface of my skin. The ingot morphed into the golden blade that Katia had used to cut my hand. “Oh God.” I tried to drop it, pry my fingers loose, but I only seemed to clasp it tighter.
A wave rose up inside of me. I struggled to hang on to the present, but I could feel the past crushing me from the inside out.
? ? ?
As I lead the Larkin girl and Mendoza boy through the corn to the sacred circle, I sense their bond . . . their connection. They’re deeply in love. The girl is beautiful, with long chestnut hair, eyes like shaded moss. The boy has Alonso’s handsome fine-boned features and lean build. The girl holds out her hand to me—the promise of freedom trembling in her veins. I use my golden blade to slice through her skin and then my own. Our palms meet. I feel her life unfold in my bloodstream like a poem. Every dream she’s ever had, every fear she’s ever known. Just when I begin to give up hope, a tingling warmth explodes deep inside of me, deeper than anything I’ve ever felt before.
Tears spring to my eyes as I embrace her. “Nina,” I whisper. “A vessel at last.”
? ? ?
The memory receded, leaving me in confusion and despair.
My hands shook as I dropped the gold ingot to the table.
The young girl from the vision was my mother, Nina. I’d never felt her presence so intensely, so intimately. And the boy must’ve been my father, Thomas. The resemblance to Rhys was undeniable.
I wasn’t exactly sure what it meant to be a vessel, but I knew it couldn’t be good.
A faint fluttering, scraping sound came from my mother’s studio. Staring up the wrought-iron spiral staircase, a feeling of dread settled in the pit of my stomach. I crept up the stairs and opened the steel door. The dank smell of mold and perfume overwhelmed me. But it went deeper than that. Beneath the mandarin-inspired perfume was the metallic scent of the soil in which the fruit had grown. The salt breeze seemed to wrap around the sweetness of the pulp. I could even smell the sweat that came from the workers who harvested them. Burrowed deeper was the sinister gamy odor of rot and algae.
My nose was never this good before. My mother always told me the Larkin women had exceptional olfactory skills—it must be another side effect of being a conduit.