Conjured

“Come on, new girl,” Topher said. “Prove you won’t be the next to die.” His hands were ashen. White-hot sparks burned on his fingertips. He picked up one of the metal chairs, and electricity danced over it. Fangs wide, Victoria sprang onto the couch, aiming for Eve, as Topher threw the electrified chair at her.

She veered to the side, and the chair crashed into the mirror.

The mirror shattered.

Eve swept her arm over her head and then out, and the shards flew through the air like knives toward Aidan, Topher, and Victoria. As they broke from the wall, the remaining bits of the mirror fell away to reveal a hole in the wall. Eve glimpsed Malcolm and Lou standing on the other side, watching them from a room beyond. Malcolm’s fists were clenched, and he was glaring at Lou. A one-way mirror, she thought.

And then the inevitable vision claimed her, and she collapsed.

* * *

I touch the stripes of moonlight that crisscross my skin. Silver, dark, silver, dark.

The box tilts, and I slide to the side. I brace myself but it’s not enough, as the box shifts the opposite way and then back again. My flesh feels tender from banging against the walls, and I wrap my arms around my chest and curl tighter into a ball.

Sometime later it stops, and I lie still. I smell burned popcorn and urine. Outside, I hear the tinny music of the carnival. And then voices.

“She’s broken.” A woman’s voice.

“She’s perfect.” A man.

And then I am outside the box—the box is the size of my palm, and I am restored to my true size. I feel dirt and patches of grass under my back. Neon lights blink above me, words that I can’t read because they are reversed and twisted. They blink out and don’t return. It’s black. After a while, I see stars.

I watch the stars and then realize they are on a string. They’re not stars at all. They’re boxes dangling from a silk ribbon, like charms on a necklace. Inside them, I see faces, shrunken within their tiny cages. I reach out my hand toward them, and they scream.

“Shut her up,” a voice says. The same man? Maybe. Maybe not.

A hand clamps over my mouth, and I realize that I am the one who is screaming. My throat aches, and I fall silent. The hand is gnarled and soft like a slice of withered fruit. It smells sour. I know this smell. I relax against the hand.

“Once upon a time,” the Storyteller whispers in my ear, “a man wanted the stars. And he wanted them with such an awful want that it ate him from the inside.”

With her hand on my mouth, I watch the magic boxes swing back and forth. The boxes are decorated with jewels. Sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. Each edge is gilded in silver, and each clasp is unique—on one, the clasp is curved in the shape of a cat; on another, it’s split into branches of a tree. Within the boxes are eyes. Blue eyes, brown eyes, black eyes, cat’s eyes, red eyes, all watching as the Storyteller lifts me into her arms.