Page 25 of Of Monsters Of Kings

How surprising to be given a choice. Then again, Will Be, Has Been, and Is had often given me a choice in matters, nearly always. “Why should I?”

He fell mute. “I’m unsure of what to say, and words are very important in moments like these. Your lack of possibilities unnerve me, so I’d like to consider my speech ahead of time.”

That was wise of any person, and I commended him for it, though the mention of my lacking possibilities did seem to convey that I might not have a future and would soon die. After all, when Hotel Vitale became impossible, Kingsie closed it. So hopefully Is didn’t consider his words for too long, or I might miss them. Or did Is mean that my options in life were limited? In which case, I already knew that.

I should remind myself that while Hotel Vitale had closed, the place was now my home… so maybe possibilities and impossibilities weren’t concrete notions. “When you are ready to say something, you know where I’ll be. I will not see Kingsie again.”

Is blew out a breath. “I’m sorry for that. He will want to witness this for himself, but I’ll say goodnight for now.”

“Goodnight, Is. Good luck with your words.”

“Good luck…”

I wanted to ask with what, but I could sense he was gone already, the shadows now empty. He sure moved fast.

I walked past Mother’s grave to my room. The temptation to peer into the mirror and decipher what Is had seen did niggle, but I gave the curiosity a good shove, certain that I wanted no part in more oddity. Just to be sure, I hung a pillowcase over the small mirror in the room, taking care not to look at my reflection. Then I did the same on the bathroom mirror.

My chest loosened. “There now.”

This dirt had to go, my skin was on fire. I reached into the shower cubicle to turn on the water. When steam filled the bathroom, I peeled off the guest’s borrowed dress and tossed the mud-coated garment in the far corner. I’d need to handwash that and see if it was salvageable. Allowing a resource to get ruined in such a manner didn’t sit right.

Stepping into the shower, I groaned at the warmth. Maybe nothing could warm me ever again, but the water did its best. Mud formed on my skin, and dirty water filled the tub. I scrubbed at my face, accidentally thinking of the lack of scratches and healed collarbone for a few seconds before I remembered not to. Then I rinsed my hair, holding it off my neck as I rubbed mud off my shoulders and back. I released my hair and worked at my arms next.

I…

I held my arm in front of my face, staring at the jagged black lines across my wrist and at the base of each finger and thumb. The ugly lines were bumpy and crisscrossed. One cut across my elbow, too, beneath the joint. I moved to rub away the black, only to find similar lines on my other arm.

My breath quickened as the strange black lines fled my mind.

Because my skin didn’t match. I didn’t know how else to say it. My skin was different tones. Each of my fingers, hands, both forearms and above the elbow… the skin tones were all different. My right pointer finger was tan, and my left pointer finger was porcelain.

“What,” I whispered.

My right forearm was freckled, and my left hand had scars I didn’t have yesterday or three weeks ago.

I thudded against the shower wall, then ripped the soap from the holder and scrubbed at the black lines and skin between. My mind squeezed and shimmered. I shrieked as the soap suds uncovered more and more black lines instead of achieving the opposite. All over my stomach, all over my legs and kneecaps and toes.

More mismatched skin.

None of it mine.

I sank to the bottom of the shower tub to let tears join the water. Each and every one of the black lines stood stark against my skin, some bleeding from my attempts to be rid of the ugly slashes. But I couldn’t any more than I could pull off my arm.

Because the black lines were stitches.

Chapter Seven

Breaking free of the cave, no longer brave,

They stared at a new, foreign age.

Ipounded my fist on the wall of Kingsie’s apartment building. I was surprised a mad dash through the city had led me here. I hadn’t paid close attention to the route on either previous visit. My frenzied knocks were abrasive to the ears in the deepest dark of night. I didn’t care.

I didn’t care that Kingsie’s apartment door had transformed into an enormous and ornate gateway, nor that a heavy and rusted portcullis barred my way, nor that the two twisted beast statues had quadrupled in size and towered over me.

No one answered my knocks though. That I cared about.

“Kindly open.” I kicked the portcullis and—thankfully for the sake of my toes—encountered thin air when the portcullis started to lift.

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