Free Dawnkeepers by Jessica Andersen

others raising their hands in supplication. All of them faced the throne at the far end.

    Overhead, the archway and the stalactites themselves were carved with rippling patterns of feathers and scales and that same wavy motif, which gave the impression of wind, or the gods, or both. Some the rippling lines were painted with brilliant reds and blues, vibrant yellows and purples, oranges and greens, the hues shining impossibly true in the amber torchlight.

    Drawn by the captured motion of the carvings, Alexis walked along the narrow stone ledge that ran around the pool, moving toward the throne. As she passed, her shadow danced in the flickering torchlight, making the carvings seem to come alive, to reach for her. She thought she heard them whisper her name in the soft rippling noise coming from the water.

    They didn’t whisper, “Alexis,” though. They said something else, something that called to her, made her feel as though she were a stranger to herself. Indeed, she was wearing a stranger’s clothes—not the jeans and shirt she’d put on in place of her ruined suit back at Skywatch, but combat wear of stretchy black-on-black that molded itself to her figure and moved with her.

    She had seen this before, she realized suddenly. This was what she remembered when she awoke sobbing softly, hearing her mother’s voice. In the dreams, she hadn’t been sure if she was her mother or herself, or someone else entirely. Only now, unlike in the dreams, her senses were heightened rather than dulled by the mists of her subconscious. The crunch of limestone gravel beneath her feet was very loud, the alkaline smell of the water very sharp, and the prickle of moisture on her skin—from the air, from her pores—left her nerve endings acutely sensitized.

    And as she walked to the throne, she knew she was alone, yet not alone. He was here, too—the lover of her dreams, the one who was Nate yet not, the one who loved her like he had, but didn’t break her heart. That was how she had always known it was a dream before. Now, though, she wasn’t sure what to call it. She’d touched the statuette and been transported into a dark, formless corner of the barrier, yet now she was back on earth—she knew it from the taste of the air, and the strong sense of being underground.

    When she reached the end of the arcade, the pathway curved and widened, forming a platform in front of the throne. There, in the center of the flat space, she saw shadowy footprints in the dust, human and barefooted, standing facing the throne.

    Almost without conscious volition, acting as she had done in the dream, she toed off her shoes and stepped into the footprints. They fit perfectly, as they had in her fantasies. The certainty that she had been in this chamber before, that she’d done this before, was overwhelming, as was the knowledge that the moment she blooded herself, placed her hands on the altar, and said his name, he would be there with her.

    The certainty—and the nerves—had her hesitating. Then, knowing she didn’t have a choice, not really, she pulled a ceremonial knife she didn’t recognize from a weapons belt she didn’t remember putting on, and drew the blade sharply across her palm. She hissed against the pain as blood flowed, dark crimson in the amber torchlight. Then she reversed hands and cut her other palm. Her bloodied fingers slipped on the haft of the knife as she set it aside.

    “Gods,” she whispered, hope and fear spiraling up within her, “help me to be worthy.”

    Izzy had raised her on stories of the Nightkeepers and the heroic warrior-priestess Gray-Smoke, who had been adviser to the king. As a child, Alexis had wished Gray-Smoke was real, wished the Nightkeepers were real. It hadn’t been until the previous year, when the barrier came back online and Strike recalled the Nightkeepers, that Izzy had revealed that not only had Gray-Smoke been a real person, she’d been Alexis’s mother. Ever since then, Alexis