Page 28 of What Is Dark Within Me

Aleja wasn’t sure she wanted to understand. What she wanted was to kick Nicolas’s legs out from under him and watch him tumble down the stairs. She wanted to leave this realm and never come back, though the halls were lined with paintings she would have once given anything to study.

But she did none of those things, as she trudged up the spiral stairs behind him, trying to shake the red glow from her hands. She had asked for this, once. She had begged for this, and in a twist of fate, the villain in all her childhood nightmares was now her best hope for finding her missing friend.

The spiral staircase continued up and up, but she didn’t tire and the dull ache in her ribs faded. Was this what being an Otherlander was like, she wondered? Not merely immortal, but full of raw power and boundless magic.

She would miss it once Nicolas’s power disentangled from her own.

There you go. That’s how you need to be thinking. Use this gift while you can, said her voice.

“Here,” he said, as they came to a large, arched door embellished with carvings of stars and a crescent moon. Aleja tried not to look back the way they’d come. She wasn’t a fan of heights, and if she had to guess, the tower they’d climbed was at least nine stories high.

“There’s something I should warn you about first—” he began, but the fire he’d stoked within her during their last conversation was still raging, and Aleja didn’t want to hear his voice any more than she had to.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said.

His eyes bore into hers, but she was done shrinking away from him. If they were bound, she was safe, and as for what came after… she would figure that out once they found Violet.

Nicolas shrugged and pushed open the door.

* * *

A leaf brushedacross Aleja’s face as she followed Nicolas into what she first thought was an inexplicably placed greenhouse. As they’d climbed the stairs, the air had felt relatively fresh, carrying a hint of paint thinner, lantern oil, and the tang of magic. But the first breath she took once through the door made her clear her throat from the sudden spike in humidity.

It reminded her of her family’s Miami estate; the slightly herbal scent of the morning glory vines, freshly cut grass, ocean water, and the ozone of a brewing storm—though the last was so like the smell of magic, she could barely tell the difference. They walked a few feet before Aleja looked up and saw a swathe of blue sky peeking through the foliage.

“Wait. This isn’t a greenhouse, is it?”

“No. It’s a dream.”

“What doesthatmean?”

Densely packed palm trees opened into a proper trail. To her left was a house so covered by climbing vines that she almost didn’t notice it until she was close enough to touch one of the cloudy windows. It was distantly familiar, like something she had seen in a photograph. Beneath the shroud of plants was a hint of art nouveau architecture. A flourish of water lilies was carved into the stone above the main entrance.

Aleja started when Nicolas knocked. “If she’s not here, she’ll be at the fort on the beach. Let’s wait a moment.”

“Who are we looking for?” she asked. “Another of the Dark Saints?”

Nicolas bit his lip as he examined the black nails of his right hand. “No. The Saints aren’t the only ones who live in the Hiding Place. I know you’re upset with me right now, but I really should warn you—”

The door creaked open, pushing the vines to create curtains that fell symmetrically to either side. A new scent joined the crisp greenness of the jungle. It was perfume—rich and old-fashioned, with hints of clove, coriander, and black pepper. A scent that was achingly familiar.

She glimpsed a woman in a black dress with gray ruffles along the collar. The woman’s back was turned, and her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun held in place by a pin shaped like a coiled snake.

Aleja was twelve years old when the woman in front of her was taken by the Knowing One, but she’d visited her dreams so many times that Aleja wondered if she was still tucked into the bed upstairs.

“Abuela?” she whispered.

Catalina shuffled forward a few steps. The entrance hall was as overwhelmed with foliage as the exterior of the house. Plants draped sleepily over antique furniture. A painting of a matador was so beset by creeping vines that the bullfighter and his opponent were safeguarded from each other by cushions of green.

“Oh,” Catalina said, her voice as soft as Aleja’s. She turned, revealing her lined face, her high cheekbones, and the lovely black eyes that had once made every artist in Seville beg her to sit in their studios. “I’m sorry. Nicolas visits me often, but I didn’t realize you were with him.”

It was too much, all at once. Aleja had started—or ended—her day falling down a cliff that should have killed her, then woken up in another realm to a Dark Saint feeding her French cheese. Now, she was standing in a dream at the top of a tower, trying not to burst into tears at the sight of a grandmother she hadn’t seen in the physical world since she was a kid.

“Visits you?” Aleja said. It seemed the easiest thing to latch on to, and she’d nearly forgotten Nicolas was in the room. He’d stepped away from their reunion to examine a silver candlestick shaped like a goat dancing on his hind legs. Aleja recognized it as one of the treasures that had followed their family from Spain as they spread across the world.

Catalina brushed a few fallen hibiscus petals off the couch and motioned for Aleja to sit next to her. The couch cushions were as plush and pink as the furniture in Agnes Flanders’s house. “Nic! Did you not explain a thing to this poor girl? I’d hoped there was enough respect between us that you wouldn’t string one of my grandchildren along.”

Aleja didn’t know what to say. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly as she sat.

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