Little Spark

Epilogue: Phoenix

Ever since I woke up in my bed four days ago—after being passed out for two, from what I understand—I've had trouble sleeping.

It turns out Mauro's finger marks had another surely unintended consequence: three days following the incident, shortly after waking up, those marks got to tingling, and the next thing I knew, I was connected to Mauro and could hear everything he was hearing, almost like a supernatural walkie-talkie. I couldn't see anything, but based on what I could hear, Oskur's furious. He lost three years' worth of work and a part of his house, he said. He has no idea how it happened, he said. As far as he knew, he was the only person in the world that was aware of the vault, he said. There was no electricity inside so the fire should have been impossible, he said.

When Pol came over and told me his side of the vault experience, I shouted a silent thank you to the Silhouetted Woman, our Clairvo-Shadow insider that saved our lives and helped us to victory by speaking into both of our heads. If she wouldn't have told him to light the fire, glow as brightly as he could to resist me, and tackle me into our combined shadows on the wall behind me, if she wouldn't have insisted that I think of my closet at just the right moment, we either would have burned to death, or have been caught in the vault when Oskur shifted in mere seconds after we got out.

Because everything in there was paper and the vault itself was basically made of kindling, he couldn't stop the blaze. Mass initiation thwarted. At least for the time being.

But still, I don't sleep well.

Sometimes I dream about the mysterious fire that took out most of the east wing of Oskur Shetani's manor in New Orleans—New Orleans! (Turns out the newspaper from dad's chair did have a hint for us)—and I remember our victory.

Sometimes, in the really dark times, when the sliver of Pitch that lives in me has its way, I give in to the rage, and I dream of vengeance. I hold a knife to the throat of the boy who broke my heart, and I press down just enough to break the skin. He stares at me, his color-shifting green eyes wide with a fear, and as his blood runs down the knife, I feel invincible.

But sometimes, the dreams are nice. I dream about my better times with Reign. These dreams usually include lots of laugher, full frontal embraces, witty banter, and glowy kisses....

"Bliss—"

The whisper filters through the thick fog surrounding this one good dream and unravels it, thread by thread. No more laugher. No more embraces. No more witty banter or glowy kisses; the glowy kisses are something I will likely never experience again.

I don't want to wake up. Waking up means remembering, and I don't want to remember anything. I think of my mom's smiling face and imagine I'm back with her in our little shotgun house in butt-crack nowhere Virginia.

"Bliss... Bliss, wake up... I have to tell you something—"

Mom's image fades, and I remember. Reign and Celia at the fountain. Reign's harsh words in the boiler room. Reign and Celia at the accident scene. Reign and Celia at school. Reign and Celia. Reign and Celia. Reign and Celia.

I squeeze my eyelids tighter and try to force myself back into unconsciousness. I see his green eyes twinkle; I hear his overly loud laugh; I feel his heart beating against my cheek; I taste his lips; his pine-coffee-ember scents tickles my nose.

"BLISS—Wake up!" The shaking begins. I groan.

I turn my head slightly and peek out of one eye, shoving back the dark shape blocking my view of the clock: 04:37AM.

"Ruby Aurora Thrill," I croak, throwing an arm over my face, "it's four thirty in the freaking morning—"

"Oooh, you said 'freaking'! You're not supposed to say that word." She shakes her head with her eyes wide.