Demon and the Fox - 13. A Storm is Coming

Hell and Purgatory had one thing in common: you could lose track of time completely. No daytime or nighttime. No morning, no afternoon. You never knew how much time had passed. A minute, an hour, a day, or a week. It could drive you crazy.

Nick wondered how long it had been for Sasha down there on Earth since their reunion in that stall below Raven’s night club. What Sasha had been doing while Nick got his strength back and started training with Cyan and Jun for the next Reaper tournaments.

Jun performed a roundhouse kick, aiming for Nick’s arm. She got his wrist, making him drop his sword.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” Jun told him.

They stood in the middle of a patch of white sand the size of a tennis court. The sand felt soft under Nick’s boots as he went to pick his sword up. An obsidian-colored blade with an engraved red snake curling around the hilt. Cyan had gone and snatched it back from Nick’s apartment; he knew this sword was important to Nick. This was the sword he had killed Liv with.

“Come on,” Jun said, “try again.” She held up her dao sword; a single-edged Chinese sword that was slightly curved and reminded Nick of a sabre.

She wore tiny black sneakers, camo pants and a green crop top that revealed rock-hard abs. Atop her head was a black beanie, with her wavy black hair spilling out and falling on her shoulders. She looked like a hip hop dancer.

A wrought-iron fence was erected around the wide expanse of sand, and at its entrance hung a sign that read: Cyan’s special training facility.

Cyan was looking at them from the other side of the fence. Well, no. He wasn’t looking right now. He was reading a book, actually.

Nick knew better than to divert his attention from Jun—or he should have known better.

She slashed the air with her sword horizontally and he barely dodged it. The tip of her sword cut open the black shirt that Cyan had lent him earlier. When she tried again, he held up his sword to block hers. The blades collided with a metallic sound, piercing the silence.

Thick forests surrounded them for miles. Cyan’s training grounds looked like some deforestation crew had come to clear the trees from this particular area. Everything was oddly quiet, as it often was in Hell; no birds, no little animals. Nothing.

Jun’s dao swept the air in a new angle and Nick lifted up his black sword to block. But he miscalculated the strength behind her attack and he lost his balance. He staggered back and almost fell, but caught himself in time for her next strike. His boots were filling up with sand, and beads of sweat trickled down his temple.

Her style was fearless; all offense, no defense. She was fast and her feet were light. All Nick could do was duck and evade, block and jump back in retreat until she had him trapped in the fence’s corner. The edge of her sword grazed his neck.

“And,” she said, “I win.”

“You win.” Nick echoed. “Again.”

Jun stepped back, sheathing her sword in the leather strap tied to her back. She looked up at Nick. Her slanted brown eyes were circled with thick kohl.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself kid.”

She had a Chinese accent, but it was faint.

“Although,” she added, “I’ll admit I have my doubts whether or not you can win your way up in the tournament.”

Jun had agreed to sign him up in the tournament at the last minute. She was one of the judges.

“But hey,” she said, “I couldn’t say no to you, considering the circumstances. I wouldn’t want Malachy to take over my body.” She made a face.

“Not helping,” Nick told her.

She looked down at her wrist. She had this bracelet thingy that shone blue when Raven needed her—like right now. From what Nick gathered, Raven and Jun were running some kind of political campaign together. Nick wasn’t interested in Hell politics though, because he didn’t intend on sticking around here too long.

Cyan had crossed over the fence and he was joining them, his boots stirring the white sand. He’d left his book behind. Instead he held up his sword; a long, heavy-looking sword, golden at the hilt and with inlaid stars across the metallic blade. Cyan had told Nick this was his new favorite, and he was using it for their training sessions.

“My turn?” asked Cyan as he reached the corner where they stood. Then he saw Jun’s shining bracelet, and stopped short. “My, my. Mister President needs his first lady. Quick, you must hurry to his side, darling.”

Jun ignored Cyan’s jest. She just deployed her wings; now Nick saw how the crop top was convenient. Her sword was secured in its sheath in between her wings. They were spread out, large and black like most dark angels.

She gazed at Nick. “I don’t know if I’ll see you again before the tournament, kid. If I don’t, remember I’m rooting for you.”

Nick flinched. “Does it start very soon?”

Jun nodded. “There’s a storm coming. Don’t disappoint me. You better show up. I’ll be wearing your colors.”

And then she kicked herself off the ground, her massive wings flapping the air. The next instant she was gone; a black shape swallowed by the black sky. Nick shook his head; he could never get used to that. People flying off like that.

Cyan was dusting himself off. His blue eyes met Nick’s.

“Shall we?” Cyan raised his sword.

“Wait. What the hell was she talking about? A storm coming?”

She may have been right: Nick noticed the air felt misty and colder than usual. The rising wind shook the tall black trees all around Cyan’s huge sand park. But that did not explain what an incoming storm had to do with anything.

“I’ll tell you as we spar,” said Cyan with a wink.

He stepped all the way back to the middle of their training area, his long blonde ponytail bouncing behind him. Nick followed him. As soon as they reached the center, their swords clashed high up in the air. Then Cyan brought his blade down and Nick stepped one foot back so he could twist his torso and block. He tried to keep his knees bent and his feet light, always ready for Cyan’s next move. Nick was still mostly defending himself, but sparring with Cyan was easier. It had more of a rhythm, almost like a dance.

“The Higher Demons that organize the tournaments,” Cyan said, “trigger a storm to announce the beginning.”

Cyan’s sword found an opening in Nick’s defense. But Nick shifted just in time and instead of stabbing him, the tip of the long blade slipped in between his arm and chest. Cyan didn’t comment, but the corner of his lips twitched into a smile as he pulled back.

Their blades clashed in the air again, steel against steel—silver against black.

“All the contestants must present themselves at the tournament,” Cyan explained, “and when the storm ends, the fights officially start.”

Nick attempted to slash at Cyan’s waist. But Cyan jumped back, lightning fast, and Nick missed.

“What about wearing my colors? What did she mean by that?” Nick asked.

“The spectators can wear the same color outfit as the contestant they’re rooting for. Or they can use flags to show their support.”

As they kept fighting, Nick thought he saw an opening and went for it, but again his blade slashed at nothing as Cyan rolled over in the sand and leaped back up in one graceful motion. Nick was ready and their blades met again.

Cyan’s tight black clothes were covered in white sand. Nick was in a similar predicament.

“Well,” Nick replied, “since I’m borrowing your clothes at the moment, and you only own black clothes…”

“I’m afraid black might already be taken.” Cyan didn’t offer a solution, though.

They set their focus on training after that, the only sounds being their blades colliding endlessly, their breathing and their boots stomping the ground as they bounced back and forth.

The absence of any concept of time was the only similarity between Hell and Purgatory. Here Nick could heal. He could be strong. And there might not be a sun, but at least he wasn’t in a cage. He could breathe; he was free.

With Cyan they trained until the wind got so strong that they could barely stand without being swept away. The sand was getting into Nick’s eyes.

“Let’s head back to base.” Cyan shouted to be heard over the wind.

He meant his crypt. They pushed open the fence’s door and walked to the forest side by side. The bare winter trees didn’t offer much protection from the wind. Nick shivered.

“Is it the storm already?” he asked to Cyan.

He shook his head. “This madness,” Cyan waved his hand about, “usually lasts for a bit. HDs revel in creating an ominous ambiance and dragging it out forever. Silly bastards.”

The violent wind rattled the tree branches as they made their way through the forest. It was dark but as always Nick could still see his surroundings; the sinewy black wood of the tree trunks, the bumpy roots in the ground, Cyan’s agile stride and his pale strands of hair that got whipped by the wind in all directions. Nick had come to the conclusion that you came to Hell equipped with night vision.

“HDs?” Nick shouted.

“Higher Demons,” Cyan shouted back.

Right. Nick looked up at the sky. It was an angry dark gray color as it loomed over the wretched forest.

“Have you been to those tournaments before?” Nick asked.

Cyan sliced off branches from their path with his sword; they were taking a shortcut to his crypt. There wasn’t much of a path to begin with.

“I have. Once. Long time ago.”

He seemed to slice at the twisted black branches with renewed passion.

“How was it?”

“Awful. I fought in them.”

Cyan was being terribly blunt with his answers. That was not normal.

“Did you win?” Nick assumed Cyan had won, since he’d become a Reaper.

But he said, “I did not.”

“And you became a Reaper anyway?”

Nick followed close behind Cyan as they leaped down a tiny hill. The ground was full of dried up brown leaves that crunched loudly underfoot. Nick thought that was sad; brown leaves. ‘All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray.' California Dreaming popped into his head. They must have visited Hell before writing that song.

“Sometimes,” Cyan said, “who wins and who loses does not matter.”

“Then what’s the point?” Nick asked as he slithered his way past the thick trees that still separated them from Cyan’s home.

“Don’t ask me,” said Cyan.

But he asked anyway. “What’s the point of fighting each other with swords? I don’t see you fighting people with a sword when you’re out there being a Reaper.”

“It’s so old-fashioned,” Cyan conceded. “The HDs trying to get some bloody entertainment. Pun intended. Don’t try to make sense of it Nicky. Nothing makes sense here, or haven’t you noticed yet?”

“I noticed.” Nick pushed the hair away from his eyes. This wind. And Cyan’s annoying ponytail kept whipping in Nick’s face, too. He couldn’t wait to be inside.

Cyan added, “I’ve been invited to assist the tournaments before, but I never did. It’ll be my first time going since I fought there myself.”

Nick glimpsed Cyan’s crypt behind the trees. Its entrance was an arched stone door with an engraved skull head in its center. The first time he’d come here, Nick had expected Cyan to recite some kind of magic phrase, or press his palm to the skull head in order to open the door. But no, there was a tiny panel and you had to punch in a security code to get in. Cyan sheathed his sword at his belt, the protruding golden hilt making for the only touch of color in his get-up.

As Cyan reached up with a hand to enter the digits, he glared at Nick so he wouldn’t look. Nick rolled his eyes and looked away.

The door clicked open and Cyan ushered Nick inside the vaulted entrance. They closed the heavy door together with effort; the wind came from the opposite direction.

When they could finally rest in the welcome silence, Nick asked, “How will I know when the tournaments start?”

“You’ll know,” was all Cyan said.

Cyan bent over and picked up the tiny flashlight he always left somewhere around here. He switched it on. The bluish white glow of the flashlight revealed the dark staircase that led deep underground. Nick felt the familiar unease in his chest, but the claustrophobia was nowhere near as bad here as it had been in Purgatory. He breathed in and out, and he was okay. He followed Cyan down the gloomy stairs.

The flashlight came from the real world, just like a bunch of other things in Cyan’s home. When people lost something down there in the real world and thought, well, hey, it’s gotta be somewhere, they weren’t necessarily right. A Reaper might have snatched it and brought it back to his crypt in Hell.

They descended into a vast underground chamber with arched ceilings and stone columns. With the flashlight, Nick could discern the outlines of the handcrafted black wood furniture; desks, chairs, benches of all sizes. But Cyan put down the flashlight and instead drew out a pack of matches from a drawer. He busied himself with lighting the array of candles littering almost every piece of furniture in his crypt.

Cyan always did this; he liked his place warm and bright. Nick wasn’t complaining. After the cold darkness of Purgatory, this place was a haven. Cyan’s candles were of all shapes and colors, and their smells were sweet, varying from peach and green apple to hazelnut and chocolate. Nick flicked off the flashlight after Cyan lit enough candles to cast a soft golden glow across the place. He knew Cyan liked to save the battery.

Nick really liked Cyan’s home. Dark red Turkish rugs covered the floors, and furry black blankets draped the chairs and benches—fake fur, Cyan had assured him. Still soft, though, Nick thought as he let himself fall into one of the chairs. He clutched the blanket in his lap as he sat back, the wooden chair legs creaking under his weight. Nick looked up. Running along the walls were shelves lined with more books than he could count. Old and new—mostly old. Right now Cyan walked past his rows of books and instead stood in front of his vanity-type desk. He had a black framed mirror and hair products and nail polish and eyeliners and everything.

Cyan took the hair elastic off and tossed it onto the vanity. The fingerless gloves also came off. Then Cyan ran a hand through his tangled hair and grimaced when his fingers got stuck in a knot. He turned to look at Nick across the room.

“Do you feel like drinking?” asked Cyan. “I feel like drinking.”

Cyan always felt like drinking.

Nick said, “Sure, why not.”

He watched as Cyan gave up on detangling his hair and instead stalked over to his mini bar. The top shelf had all Cyan’s favorites: golden rum, orange-flavored cognac, champagne, and red wine. A lot of red wine. Cyan had told Nick that was what the dark red carpets were for. If he got drunk and spilled his wine all over, no one would ever know.

“I don’t like your training facility.” Nick scratched his arm through his black sleeve. “I feel like I have sand on every inch of my skin.”

Standing behind his polished wood mini bar, Cyan produced two crystal glasses and poured red wine in them generously.

Cyan came to give Nick his glass of wine before seating himself on a nearby chaise longue. Then Cyan folded his arm under his head and relaxed.

“Cheers, mate.”

They tasted the wine.

“Red zinfandel,” Cyan said as he studied Nick’s reaction.

Nick said, “Not too bad.”

It was sweet and strong; not his favorite thing to drink normally, but he felt like he needed it right now.

With Cyan they sat in the middle of the room, their sheathed swords resting on the floor. Nick gazed across the room at the deep alcove where Cyan stacked the rest of his weapons. An impressive collection of finely made swords and daggers—and also a few scythes—gazed back at Nick in the candle light.

“I just realized,” Cyan sighed, “I lost my book.”

“What book?”

“The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I’m re-reading classics,” Cyan explained with a wave of his hand. “Just so people think I’m smart. But still. Oh, well. I must have left it next to my training grounds’ fence. But with this wind…”

Cyan shrugged helplessly, and gulped down a sip of wine. Nick frowned. He clutched his glass, but he couldn’t drink. Something was stuck in his throat.

“What’s wrong?” Cyan asked, crossing his booted legs on his chaise longue. “It’s just a book, mate. Don’t worry about it. Though your concern for my loss touches me.”

“No, I was thinking about Shay.” Nick closed his eyes for a moment, and he saw a flash of pale amber eyes and copper hair. And the hint of a smile. Even after being hurt by Lance, Shay would smile at Nick like everything was okay.

“Shay?”

Nick’s eyes snapped open and met Cyan’s questioning blue stare.

“In Purgatory, Shay and I would talk a lot. We had nothing better to do, I guess. I mean, when you’re stuck in a cell with someone for three weeks… You just made me think of him, because…” Nick let out a soft laugh. “This one time Shay told me he used to be Will Shakespeare’s spirit guide. They were close friends, and Shay would help him write his plays.”

“Amusing story.” Cyan tilted his head, blonde hair spilling over his shoulder. “Doesn’t explain why you look like you’re about to cry.”

“Raven didn’t tell you, did he?” asked Nick.

“Tell me what?”

There was a silence. With all this focus on resting and healing his body, and then jumping right into training for the tournament, Nick hadn’t had much time to talk to his friend. But talking about this was difficult. About Purgatory, and Shay.

Nick could hear the almost imperceptible whoosh of the candles’ flames all around the room.

“Raven didn’t, um…” Nick’s voice trembled slightly. He took a sip of wine, as though it would give him courage. “He didn’t go to Purgatory to get me out. He went to get Shay. But Shay made a deal with Lance—the guard torturing him.” Nick’s hand clutched at the soft furry blanket in his lap. He wished Koda were with him right now. But the husky had stayed with Raven. Nick went on, “They were sending me to the fire, Cy.” He looked up, saw Cyan wince. “But Shay made a deal: Lance saved me from… from that. And Raven got me out. In exchange, Shay stayed behind. He sacrificed himself for me. And I just left him there. I can’t believe I just left him there.”

“Listen, mate, that ain’t your fault. Shay made up his mind, and—”

“I know,” Nick cut in, “I know, Cy. But nothing you say will make me feel better. I’ll still feel like an asshole. There’s nothing you can say.”

Cyan sat back, drinking his wine. They lapsed into silence.

Nick thought he heard a crackling noise behind him, and he turned his head, startled. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Might have just been one of the candles. Nick eyed Cyan’s massive dresser with black clothes spilling from its drawers. And next to the dresser another alcove, this one filled with heaping piles of black and white blankets and pillows. That was where Cyan slept. He’d piled up another stack of blankets next to the alcove for Nick.

The most interesting part of Cyan’s crypt, in Nick’s opinion, was in the corner, right next to where Cyan slept. There was a stash of paintings behind a blank canvas and a stool holding Cyan’s brushes and colors. The paintings were piled up messily, almost all the way up to the arched ceiling, and Nick couldn’t see what they depicted. But Nick liked that they were there. He liked that even in the afterlife, Cyan had a creative outlet. It brought a wave of comfort that washed away the unsettling feeling of being stuck in Hell, if only a little. If there were still souls that felt compelled to create, then it couldn’t be that bad.

“Why don’t you hang some of your paintings on the walls?” Nick asked, swerving his gaze back to Cyan.

He scratched his blonde head with black fingernails. “I love to paint, and I love my paintings, when I am painting them. But when they’re finished,” Cyan made a little smile, “I don’t like them no more.”

“Why not?”

“Do you like your stories when they’re finished?”

Nick looked down at his wine. “I don’t know. I feel like they’re never really finished. Like they’re never good enough.”

Cyan just smiled. They both drank some more wine. Cyan was almost finished with his, and Nick wasn’t too far behind. Without a word, Cyan uncrossed his legs and hopped to his feet. He got the bottle and came back to sit with Nick.

“I hope Malachy isn’t reading my stories,” Nick said distastefully as Cyan filled up their wine glasses, almost to the brim.

Nick had to be careful not to spill any wine as he brought the glass to his lips. No wonder Cyan wanted dark red rugs.

Cyan laid the bottle on the floor, next to their swords. He looked up at Nick.

“A deranged demon possesses your body and that’s what you’re worried about? Him reading your silly little stories?”

“Shut up,” Nick snapped. But then he bit his lip. “You’re right, though. What do you think he’s doing? I mean, the last time he possessed someone…” Nick almost choked on his wine. “Oh shit. What if he makes Hazel Snow pregnant? Oh, God. What if I get my body back, but then I have to be some werewolf kid’s dad for the rest of my life?”

Cyan laughed. He laughed really hard, too, throwing his head back and spilling some drops of wine in the process.

Nick glared. “You think this is funny.”

“No, no, I don’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” But he was still laughing.

And Nick laughed, too. He had no god damn idea why, but he was laughing. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe Cyan’s laughter was contagious. But it took them a while to stop, and Cyan was wiping under his eyes by the time he’d calmed down.

“That felt good,” said Cyan.

Nick nodded, drinking some more wine. “I like that we can get drunk even after we die. I mean, how awesome is that?”

“Pretty freaking awesome.” Cyan tried to do an American accent, but failed miserably, and that made Nick laugh some more.

But then Cyan sat up straight. “Nicky. There’s something I wanted to ask you. I couldn’t help but notice the lack of any special abilities during training.”

“What special abilities?” Nick asked.

“Bending reality. You used to be brilliant at it. That stunt you pulled with Liv, during the battle…” Cyan looked down at Nick’s sword on the floor, and Nick followed his gaze. He remembered how the delicate red snake around the hilt had come to life to jump and strangle Liv as Nick stabbed her heart. He shuddered.

Before Cyan could go on, Nick said, “Yeah, but, that was Malachy.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I heard his voice in my head telling me to take more power, and I did.” Nick remembered how he had felt such a rush of adrenaline on the battlefield, and how time had seemed to slow down all around him. How Liv’s brothers—or fake brothers—had suddenly become clumsy and how he could see their next moves coming miles away. “We clearly had some kind of connection,” Nick said. “I don’t think I could’ve done it without Malachy.”

“You don’t know until you try,” Cyan countered, raising his glass to his lips.

Nick stared. “If I try to use those powers, and it works, then that means it wasn’t Malachy. It was all me. And that scares me.”

“Fear is the mind-killer, Nicky.”

“You don’t get it. Sure, it felt great to be faster and stronger.” Nick felt a thrill just thinking about it, but at the same time he felt shaky. “But I wasn’t myself, Cy. I became someone else. When I killed Liv… The way I killed her. Heartless. Cold. I didn’t think twice. I stooped to her level, Cy.”

“So? You did what needed to be done. For all those people she brainwashed. For Sasha. You freed them all. They were lost without you.”

Nick drained half his glass of wine in one go. He didn’t care if the taste was not great. He put his glass on the floor next to the bottle and leaped off his chair, draping the blanket over its back. Then Nick stalked past the alcove with all the blankets and went to stand next to the canvas. He crossed his arms, considering the towering piles of paintings.

“What are you doing?” Cyan said. “Nicky. Don’t.”

“I want to see your paintings. What’s the last one you did?”

Without waiting for an answer, Nick stepped closer to the nearest pile and stood on the tip of his toes. With his arms up in the air, he was just tall enough to reach the highest painting with his fingertips.

Nick heard Cyan setting his glass down and jumping to his feet.

“I’m serious, Nicky. Don’t. You know what I was just thinking? That we should get some sleep.” There was an urgency to his tone, but Nick ignored it.

“Thought you wanted to get drunk,” Nick said and he pulled down the painting before Cyan could stop him.

Nick froze as he saw that it was a portrait. Of Sasha. Sasha smiling, lying on his stomach in his bed, leaning on his elbows and looking to the side, his legs tangled in the turquoise-colored covers. All the details were perfect; the almond-shaped eyes, the tousled hair, the golden skin, the way his hip bone stuck out, even the little things like the mole on his back and that new piercing in his left ear.

Sasha was completely naked on the painting. It was a beautiful piece. Too beautiful.

Nick dropped it and stepped back, looking at Cyan.

“What is this?”

“Nicky, I—”

“And stop calling me that.”

Cyan swallowed hard. “I felt so guilty, but I didn’t want to tell you. It would’ve been selfish of me to tell you just because I felt guilty.”

“Tell me what.”

Nick hated Cyan’s incapacity to be blunt now more than ever before. Nick couldn’t stop thinking of Sasha. How Sasha had curled up against him on that couch when he’d gotten back from Purgatory, how upset Sasha was about everything, how he lashed out at Cyan.

“I know you don’t need this right now,” Cyan was saying, tucking his hair behind his ears, “you need to focus on the tournament. To get stronger so you can get your body back. Besides, it’s really not that big of a deal, and I wasn’t sure if Sasha ever wanted you to know, and I felt it was not my place to—”

“You slept with him,” said Nick.

Cyan didn’t deny it. Nick felt something rip inside him. The air being sucked out of his lungs. He wanted to reach for the nearest desk and throw all those candles to the floor and set Cyan’s stupid Turkish rugs on fire. He wanted to punch Cyan in the face, to throw him across the room, to hurt him.

But Nick didn’t move. “I was gone three weeks. Three weeks! And you hooked up with my boyfriend. Some friend.”

“I didn’t know.” Cyan pressed a hand to his own chest, like he was finding it hard to breathe. “I didn’t know you were gone, all right? I thought you were alive and well, and dating that werewolf girl.”

Cyan’s words felt like a slap across the face. “What a joke. How could you not know that wasn’t me? I fucking hate werewolves. Don’t you know me at all?”

“Please stop shouting,” said Cyan with a weak gesture of his hand.

“I’m not shouting!” But he was. Of course he was. “How could you think I dumped Sasha? You knew how much I—” The words were stuck in his throat. “You saw how messed up I was when Liv took him from me. You were there.”

“Malachy made a pretty convincing act, all right?” Cyan shouted back. He sounded like he was in physical pain. That didn’t make Nick feel any better, though. Cyan said, “I went to talk to you, after the battle. You said you held up your end of the bargain when you helped me win my fight. And I should leave you alone, give you a chance at the normal life you deserved. You said we would always be friends, and I could come to you if I ever sought your help again, but that you needed your space.”

“But that wasn’t me!”

“Yes, I know that now.” Cyan held his arms tightly, like he was cold.

Nick’s heart sank as he realized he couldn’t even hate Cyan. He couldn’t bring himself to. From the first time he’d met Cyan, he thought he could recognize something familiar whenever he looked into his eyes. Something Nick knew all too well from years of being juggled from one foster home to the next as a child. Loneliness. Something Cyan always tried to hide with humor and careless wit—defense mechanisms.

All that stuff Malachy had said to Cyan while pretending to be Nick, about needing space and wanting to be left alone, must have hurt Cyan’s feelings. Whether Cyan admitted it or not.

And now here they were. And as spacious as Cyan’s crypt may be, Nick felt it was far too small for the both of them to coexist in right now.

Nick tore his gaze away from Cyan and went for the stairs, resisting the urge to kick Cyan’s painting out of the way. That would have been childish of him, and besides, that painting was beautiful. Nick just wished Cyan had painted a different person. Any other person.

“Where are you going?” Cyan called.

“Out.” Nick didn’t turn to look at him as he started to clamber up the stairs.

“There’s a storm out.”

“I don’t care.”

Nick climbed his way up the stone steps, further and further away from the candle lights. And if Cyan said anything else, his voice was lost in the distance. Nick ran up the last set of stairs and pushed his way through the darkness until he felt the door against his palms. Breathing hard—claustrophobia was always at its worst when he was alone—he shouldered the door open and fell out in a blanket of dried brown leaves. The door clicked shut behind him and Nick looked over his shoulder. The skull head engraved in the stone stared back at Nick as he was reminded that he didn’t know Cyan’s code to get back inside.

The wind rose violently, stirring the leaves. They flew up and whipped at Nick’s face.

Nick staggered up and looked into the depths of the forest, with its endless black trees. It was like staring into an abyss.

Where are you going?

Nick didn’t know. But he started to walk anyway. Crooked branches whipped at him as the forest got thicker and swallowed him up. There were no animals. No birds. No insects. This world was not real—could not be real.

And the never ending question: How come the pain felt so real if nothing else was?