Chapter 20

”The behavior of artificial magic within human hosts differs from the natural manifestation of magic in fae hosts… The artificial magic appears to demand less maintenance; however, constraints emerge as power levels escalate.”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

FANTASIA

Godric leads me to an elevator that takes us up ten floors. When the doors open, the hallway we enter is dimly lit. The worn carpet has a mix of geometric patterns and stains. I wrinkle my nose as the scent of mildew and dust invades my nostrils.

“Where the hell are we?” I whisper, not wanting to raise my voice and shatter the eerie silence. Archer said this was his mother’s old apartment, but this place is hauntingly empty. Not a soul to be found.

The only reply I receive is the groaning of old pipes. Godric gestures for me to follow him further down the hallway. I hesitate, glancing around at the rows of doors before shuffling after him.

At the end of the hallway, he stops, and we enter one of the rooms. Inside, he flicks on a light, and I glance around, taking in the sight of a cluttered but clean apartment not much different from my own.

Books are scattered on every surface—the coffee table, the two-person dining table, the long counter that separates the living room and kitchen.

The fridge is covered in papers and pictures. I stride toward it, viewing the various images of Archer at all ages. Many of the images have Godric, Sofia, and the dark-haired woman I saw before—his mother—in them.

Godric remains near the door, fiddling on his phone. After about twenty minutes of perusing the photos and books in tense silence, I turn to him.

“We grew up here,” he finally says, shoving his phone into his pocket. His face is rigidly impassive, as if he’s suppressing his emotions. “My parents left when I was young, so Archer’s family looked after me.”

It doesn’t feel appropriate to ask where his parents went, so I nod, offering him what I hope is a sympathetic look.

“We both loved Sofia,” he says as he pulls a photo off the fridge. Longing fills his eyes as he stares at the image. “In different ways.”

The door creaks open, and Archer steps inside the apartment. His hair is even messier than usual, and his shirt is rumpled. Frowning, I scrutinize his unbuttoned jeans.

“You left us for a quickie?” I say, narrowing my eyes. It was meant to come out as a joke. There’s no way I believe Archer would hold my hand one minute, then leave me to spend time with someone else…

Right?

A sharp, annoying pain pierces my stomach.

Archer gives me a tight-lipped look as if to say, “Really?”

My eyes travel downward, to his unlaced boots, covered in dirt.

He glances down, then quickly slides his boots off.

“Where were you?” I ask.

“The Underground.” He brushes past me, into one of the rooms beyond the kitchen. “I’m changing really quick. Then we can go.”

Okaaaaay.

I raise a questioning brow at Godric, but he turns away from me, striding to the window and focusing his attention outside.

Whatever Archer was up to, it doesn’t concern me, so I plop onto the sagging sofa and browse through more of the books on the coffee table.

The Lost History of Silver City

What Lies Beyond the Wilds

The Science Behind Magic

“Interesting reads,” I mutter.

There’s no dust or grime in the apartment, and it smells like dried herbs, which leads me to believe that Archer spends more time here than he does his house in Sweetcreek. It would explain why his house is so bare and empty.

I have plenty of stuff,he said.

A thin, unlabeled leather spine peeks out from a stack of books on the coffee table. A weird sense of familiarity crawls up my spine.

I glance over my shoulder. Godric is still at the window, his back to me. Quietly, I slip the thin book out from the stack and examine the cover.

Everything around me fades away.

I go still, blinking a few times, as if that will clear away the image before. My veins go cold, and an uncanny feeling swallows me whole.

It looks identical to the journal I left in Godric’s car. I flick through the pages, immediately recognizing the handwriting.

Dad’s.

Unlike the journal I have, which is filled with scientific speculation, words of wisdom, and rational advice, this one is filled with formulas, scribbles of nonsensical numbers, random words, and tons of scratched-out bits.

Without hesitation, I stuff the journal under my shirt, jumping to my feet. I turn, bumping into Godric’s broad chest.

“Gods!” I scream, almost losing my balance.

“No—just Godric.” He backs away, not bothering to steady me, his brow furrowing. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I say. “I just…need a minute.”

Without waiting for him to respond, I bolt out the apartment door.

“Where are you going?” his voice carries down the hallway.

I run until I hit the elevator, then start jamming my finger into the button rapidly.

Nothing happens.

“Fuck,” I say. Pulling the journal out of my shirt so I can continue running, I turn and locate the stairwell. “Double fuck!”

I burst through the storm door, taking the stairs two and three at a time. My lungs threaten to explode as I spiral downward. When I finally hit the first floor, I double over, catching my breath.

Attempting to quiet my sharp gasps, I listen carefully. The stairwell is silent.

Either they’re not following me, or they somehow got the elevator to work and are already waiting in the lobby. I’ve been a fool to trust Archer. What was I thinking? He has one of my dad’s journals.

He knows who my dad is. How could he not? The title page literally says “Dr. Claude Foster” in big letters. And I’ve mentioned my dad was a faeologist.

Like Archer said before, there is no such thing as a coincidence.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

Sucking in another big breath, I grip the journal and bolt from the stairwell, rocketing straight for the lobby door and out onto the street.

I glance around, ensuring I’m in the clear before rounding the corner into the alley.

Archer knocked me out once before; I wouldn’t put it past him to do it again. When I reach Godric’s SUV, I yank on the door handle. To my dismay, it’s locked.

Cursing under my breath, I kick the tire angrily. My foot bounces off the rubber, making my toes throb with pain.

I’ll have to leave the other journal.

“Tasia,” Archer says from behind me. “What’s wrong?”

“Stay the fuck away from me,” I say, turning to face him. The alley is dim, save for a little yellow light seeping in from the streetlight, and it’s blocked in on three sides. A dead end. The only way out is the way I came in—past Archer.

“I never meant to keep it from you,” he says. His voice is strained, a little desperate even.

For a moment, he sounds so broken that I give him the benefit of the doubt. He has his own abilities—he’s never kept that a secret from me—so what if my dad experimented on him, too?

Maybe his possession of my dad’s journal isn’t nefarious at all…

“You knew who I was,” I say, taking a gamble to try and uncover his intentions. “When you met me.”

“Yes—no.” He takes a few hesitant steps toward me. I stay rooted in place, to make it clear I’m not afraid of him. “Not at first. I found out shortly after we met.”

“You knew my dad?”

“No. I knew of your dad.” He glances over his shoulder, toward the street, then back to me. “Can we please go inside and talk? I wanted to tell you…but it’s not safe out here.”

“Why do you have his journal?” I ask, my voice breaking.

“Let’s go inside.”

“No!” I find my voice this time, saying louder, “Tell me why, Archer.”

“Because your dad is the one who created dreamdust.”

If I thought my heart had been ripped in half before, it’s absolutely obliterated by this damning statement. I almost lose my grip on the journal, but then I squeeze it tighter, until my fingers ache enough to distract me from the emotional pain.

“No he didn’t,” I whisper. “Why would you say that?”

“Tasia…” Archer steps toward me. “Please listen to me.” When I hear how sincere, how sorrowful his expression is, the truth sinks in. “He was the original designer of the drug.”

“Is that why he was killed?” My mind races with possibilities and explanations. No. It doesn’t make sense. “He worked for the city. The city funded his studies…”

“I don’t have answers for his—”

“Then why do you have this?” I wave the journal in Archer’s face.

“Because I wanted to find a cure, Tasia. My sister was hooked. No one had answers. I couldn’t fix it—even with my abilities.” Turning away, he runs a hand over his face and walks in a small circle. “I thought if I found who created the drug, I could find an antidote.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Archer stops pacing. He faces me. He throws his hands up in defeat.

“I found more questions than answers.”

“That’s why you’re so upset about the drug being back…” Pieces start to come together, filling the gaps in my mind.

“We thought we got rid of it all. Claude was—he was unable to make more. I had his only journals.”

“Except one,” I add, gesturing toward the car where my dad’s other journal—the one with information about my magic—sits.

Archer goes silent, glancing away and scratching the back of his neck—something he does when he’s nervous or uncomfortable, I’ve noticed.

“Wait,” I say, my rage building. “Is this why you got close to me? To take the journal? Search for answers?”

“No—” He groans. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” After a few seconds of silence, he sighs. “I’m the one who brought that journal to you after I found it.” He says it so quietly that I almost convince myself he didn’t say it all.

The journal did show up randomly one day at my foster home—two years after my parents’ deaths. I assumed my dad had left it for me but that I’d somehow overlooked it in my grief. I thought it was his way of explaining everything, making it easier for me to live with what he’d done to me. I was young, so I never questioned how or why. I even speculated that it might’ve appeared by magic, like what he’d infused me with.

“It showed up two years after his death,” I say stupidly. I was ten.

“I was sixteen,” he says. “Young and reckless. I broke into his lab—stole his work. His research didn’t help me find an antidote to the dust. I still lost my sister that year.”

The air drains from my lungs as I process this new information. “I’m sorry, Archer.” A few beats pass. “Why did you bring that journal to me? Specifically?” I whisper.

“Because…the first page said: ‘To my Fantastic Fantasia—’”

“‘—everything begins with a…dream,’” I finish. The air whooshes out of my lungs as that dedication takes on new meaning.

“It wasn’t too difficult to figure out who Fantasia was.”

But I still don’t understand why Dad would have dedicated his soul-shade research to me. Why he would have injected me so young. Why he seemed to anticipate his impending death. Nothing makes sense.

“Do you think—”

A white light from behind Archer blinds me. I flinch, putting my hands up and squinting. Two pairs of metallic boots make their way into sight. The light is too bright to allow me to look directly at them, but there’s no mistaking the Silver Scouts.

Time slows. I forget how to breathe.

“Fantasia Foster, AR 362, under direct order of the High Chancellor, you’re under arrest.”