Knocking makes me shudder, but it’s not the door. No one is here to shake me out of my confused state. No one is here to hear the thoughts in my mind or read the expressions on my face, overstepping private boundaries. No one is here to overextend my personal limits by rushing in to soothe away all my emotions before they rocket out of control. No one is here to talk me out of absolute insanity. I asked them not to be. For once, they listened. The rapping comes from my knees crashing together with enough force my bones might crumble into a pile on the floor.

What I see in the mirror terrifies me. I don’t look anything like the Sheyla I once knew. Old Sheyla is gone. I’m not inclined to mourn her, exactly, but that doesn’t make the loss less impactful. Change comes with repercussions and at least some fear. In my case, I’m stuck in the absorption phase of my monumental maturity acquisition. I can explore my feelings and determine whether they’re real or not. That should be a bright side. Too bad it feels in every way like a dim side.

I vaccinated Derry, quite probably immunized him if his resistance to my emotional manipulation is any indication. Since the reversion, we haven’t connected as he thought we would. This new connection, or lack thereof, is an entirely human one. Any erected bridges will be confidence fortified, free of reasonable doubt our feelings are real. There are no magical illusions, only the truth of what we have the potential to be.

That was the star epiphany I settled on in my blessedly long shower. It was a far stretch from my typical ten-minute allowance at home.

Stepping into the hallway is like walking into a carnival funhouse. The walls are lined from ceiling to floor with mirrors. I miss Tally. She’d love seeing so much of herself. Every angle is covered. Most distorted.

“Where are we again?” I whisper as we start up the hall. Derry was waiting as promised.

“Buenos Aires. Hotel Looking Glass.”

“The mirrors serve the purpose of what?”

“Matthew is complicated.”

Real helpful, Sledge. “Where are Ryan and Mel?”

His brow furrows.

“Kiley and Declan?”

His furrow deepens.

“If you draw your brow any closer, it’ll stick that way.”

“Kiley is already in Matthew’s room with Barry.”

“Ryan and Mel?” I ask expectantly.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“How was your shower? Come to any conclusions?” he cautiously diverts.

“Don’t start,” I warn.

He spins me to face him. Watching Derry kiss me, while he kisses me, knots my stomach in the best way. Is it creepy peeping if you’re peeping on yourself? A welcome burn sparks in my cheeks. Sadly, standing in the open hallway with people passing us isn’t the proper venue for reciprocation. Nor would I put up a fuss to halt his unsolicited advance with strangers hovering. Point to you, Derry Connell, though winning by dubious consent isn’t a victory I’d be proud of.

“I’m still mad.”

He smiles. “I’m fine with that.”

“I still don’t want to talk it out.”

He smiles even wider. “I’m fine with that, too.”

I scoff.

“Mad is manageable. Indifference would’ve destroyed me.”

He’s right. I’m not indifferent. Relief. I feel it, and it isn’t coming from Derry. For once, it’s mine. That’s good news. Hot even.

“What’s the deal with the brow draw?”

“Matthew is complicated,” he repeats.

“Well, uncomplicate it. Tell me what I’m in for.”

“Matthew doesn’t think very highly of Solathairs.”

“Is Dreyna not a Solathair?”

“She is.” He runs a hand through his bronze waves. They’re unrulier than normal. More relief. I’m not the only one plagued by defiant hair in this humid climate. “It’s a messy situation.”

“That’s doubly so reason for you to tell me what I’m getting into.”

“She converted Matthew.”

“Matthew isn’t head of the cheer committee?”

“He isn’t on the committee, period.”

“Awesome.” I don’t like where the conversation is going. “So, Matthew isn’t a fan of what he is, therefore, he isn’t a fan of the person who made him what he is. Why is she here?”

“She feeds him.”

“I thought that was dangerous, and no one had done it before.”

He sighs. “As I said, it’s complicated.”

“What’s his power?”

“He can slow down our energy absorption. The water element acts as a depletion decelerator. We don’t burn through it so fast. We can go years without replenishing.”

“Why would he hate that? Sounds pretty helpful to people like you.” I frown. “To people like you used to be.”

“Helping people is his perpetual penance.”

“He hates Dreyna for converting him and himself for needing her? You’re honestly excited to see the guy? Why?”

He vies for captain of the broken record club. “It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t sound complicated. It sounds like a whiney brat complaining about his situation, hating the person who put him in it, and keeping her around so he can make her miserable in solidarity,” I rant. “If he doesn’t think highly of Solathairs and hates what he is, why are we here? Why would we subject ourselves to that? Why should she?”

“She feels responsible.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re not supposed to bite the hand that feeds you.”

“Agreed.”

“Let me guess, if you don’t tolerate his poor attitude, he won’t help you.”

“It’s more than submission, Sweetheart.” He takes hold of my hand. I let him. “There’s history here.”

“I’d be finding someone new to help me.” I shrug. “My tolerance as of late for pushy jerks is sorely lacking.”

“Imagine being forced to need the one person you loathe second most to yourself. They’re tethered in spite of those feelings. He needs her to keep helping people, yet he hates her. He probably hates himself extra hard for hating her.”

“You were excited because you believe I can change that.” His juvenile glee from earlier finally makes sense. “Okay, tell me a story about the mirrors. Why would he want to see himself every second if he hates himself that much?”

“I wish to be reminded of the monster I am,” claims a thickly accented voice. “Not for a minute should I forget.”