Page 18 of Siege of Shadows

“Raise the transducer frequency to twenty megahertz. Beginning...”

“... cognitive penetration successful...”

“... and eliminate the artifacts from the cylithium return signal...”

The voices weaved in and out, lyrics to an eerily pleasant song. Peaceful.

“Raise the frequency higher,” someone said. Director Chafik, maybe. His voice was much deeper than the doctor’s, a milky murmur that matched the steady rhythm of my calm breaths. “We have to allow Natalya to get to the brink. She’ll survive.”

Survive. I rolled the syllables along my tongue without ever parting my lips. Sur... vive...

Survive... survive...

Live... I want to live...

I want to live, Maia.

It was dark. In my T-shirt and jean shorts, I lay on a ground I couldn’t see because the darkness had cloaked everything.

This wasn’t what scrying looked like. There was a right way and a wrong way to scry, typically. Belle had explained it before. There was a difference between using the front door and being dragged in through the back window. When Saul had first kissed me in New York, that sudden, shocking contact weakened the already penetrable barrier between my consciousness and Natalya’s, the last fire Effigy to die before me. Even now if I wasn’t careful, I’d see her memories in my dreams, but this left me vulnerable. True scrying required meditation and concentration. It was different from just slipping into her memories. It was a controlled experience.

This was neither. I didn’t knowwhatthis was, couldn’t fathom why the darkness had drained away until I was back outside the Marrakesh facility. Our Sect van was still parked outside. The sun was still blazing hot. Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I shifted my gaze to the sparse row of palm trees by the guard towers, their long, stiff leaves stretching into the sky.

“Maia.”

My body warmed at the sound of his voice, soft, deep, and darkly sweet. He stepped out of the driver’s seat and shut the door behind him, the wind tousling his black hair, which had grown a little since the last time I’d seen him.

“Rhys.” My arms were useless at my sides, the blood thumping in my body as I drank in the sight of his lean body dressed in the black suit typical for Sect agents to wear when not on the battlefield. A strange look for him; in the short time I’d known him, he’d worn mostly faded, worn-out jeans, baseball jackets, and, the first time we’d met, a bow tie.

“Oh good, you’re here.” He smiled as he straightened his pin-striped tie and walked up to me. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do forages.”

Wait. I’d had this dream before.

Many times. In many surprising locations.

I’d been having them since I’d first met him in La Charte’s hotel lobby. The contents were embarrassing to admit, but since I’d had this dream before, I wasn’t surprised when he wrapped his toned arms around me and drew me closer.

Stupid. What was I doing? I shouldn’t be doing this. Not when he—

He kissed me. Long. Deep. Yeah. That was how the dream went.

Strange how you could become attached to someone so quickly. But then so much had happened while we were fighting together... while he was silently protecting me, keeping me steady each step I took down this painful path. A sinfully handsome boy who cared about some geeky shut-in with self-esteem issues. I guess I was bound to get attached.

But as he pressed his chest against mine, his fingers sliding down my back and curling roughly against the base of my neck, my heart was aching with dread as much as longing. A chill slid up my spine, my arms stiff against my hips. But as I felt the moistness of his lips, I wondered if I had the strength to ask him that awful question. The one that had kept me up so many nights. The one I didn’t dare utter.

Don’t be afraid, Maia. Go ahead. Ask him.

Her voice caused me to rip myself away from Rhys’s lips, my fingers curling into fists by instinct. Fear pulsated through me as Natalya’s voice echoed in my mind.

With a sharp breath, I whipped around.

She stood behind the black gates, graveyard still, as the gentle breeze died around her.

“Natalya.” I’d spoken the word so quietly, I couldn’t be sure if I’d mouthed it instead. Her short, black hair cropped to her skull, the straight nose and haunting, piercing gaze of her brown eyes. It was unmistakable. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Isn’t this a dream? Or am I really scrying?”

Your dreams... my memories. My memories... your dreams...

The breeze ruffled my hair. I could feel its caress whistling past my ears, but the hem of Natalya’s white dress, cut just over her knees, did not so much as flutter. I was scrying, wasn’t I? Or was I dreaming? Were our consciousnesses that inextricably linked that it didn’t matter anymore?

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