Nil on Fire (2 page)

His body turned slightly north, he stood, looking toward the place where others once gathered. His thoughts were clear, organized. Most centered on people he had left behind, on statements he wished he had made, but a few thoughts lodged here, concerning his own safety and well-being.

He was not afraid.

His swift and selfless reaction pleased the island. The island needed this one, like it had needed the one before. But then, it had failed.

It would not fail again.

The price was too great.

*   *   *

Hafthor stood in a semi-crouch, unaware anyone—or anything—was watching him. To his left, the ocean stretched without end into a cerulean sky; he found no hint of Icelandic gray among the rich blue. Over the water, the sun shone brightly, free of clouds, its rays warming his bare shoulders, the salty breeze brushing his skin without bite. He wiggled his toes. Beneath his feet, the coarse black sand churned cool under the top layer of warmth. To his right, lush palm trees stretched tall, surrounded by spindly trees he'd never before seen. Clumps of shrubs huddled against the sand line, forming the island's first line of defense.

He peered more closely at the foliage. A kangaroo regarded him with curiosity, arms high and still. Like the animal, Hafthor didn't move; instead he stared at a spot just past the kangaroo. A few meters inside the tree line, something linear stood out: a makeshift shelter, a triangular shape too symmetrical to be natural. He moved toward the trees, still on the sand but close enough to startle the kangaroo. The animal hopped away, retreating into the tangle of green.

Upon inspection, the shelter appeared old. Abandoned.

Unwelcoming.

No
, he thought.

He would not hide, not here. Not until he understood where he was and why he was here. He would seek help, and this shelter offered none. He had nothing—and no one—but himself, but it was enough.
As long as you know who you are, you can never be lost
, his father would say. He touched the tattoo on his shoulder, summoning courage.

I am Hafþór
, he thought. He had no one to rely on but himself—and so he would.

Dropping his hand, he backed away from the shelter and carefully looked around.

In the distance, a black cliff rose toward the sky. It matched the cliff at his back, the pair bracketing the beach where he stood.

He scrutinized the cliff to the north, arms crossed but relaxed.

Then, like the barest brush of a silken feather, Hafthor felt a gentle push at his back, the island breeze urging him forward. He didn't know he was being guided, or that it drained the island's precious reserves to do so.

North
, he thought.
I will go north.

And so he did.

*   *   *

Farther north, at the edge of Nil City, Paulo stood before the Wall, feeling very much alone. There was no one else in the City, just ghosts. He stared at the names belonging to people who had once cared for him, who had kept him alive and safe when he couldn't care for himself. Names like Skye, and Rives, and Dex. He stared at Skye's name, grateful for her friendship, saddened that he'd let her down, even though he still didn't understand why. Slowly, he raised his knife and methodically carved a check. One for Skye, then one for Rives. Then another check, and another. Jillian. Brittney. Zane. One mark at a time, he completed the story of the people who had been here before him, of people he'd outlasted, people with seasons served fully and people with seasons cut short. He saved Dex's cross for last. That mark would not be forgotten, or forgiven.

On his life, he vowed it would not happen again.

He would not let the island take another.

He stepped back, satisfied. Before him, a few spaces glared back, still empty, spaces he'd chosen not to fill because they belonged to people he'd never met, with fates he didn't know. A few names seemed conspicuously absent: names like Rika, and Maaka. If their names were here, Paulo would have given them a check, for he knew their fate. He knew they'd survived. But they'd chosen to make their way alone, to not join the City, and Paulo would honor their choice.

His choice would be different.

He walked over to the last name, Brittney, no longer seeing her name or her check; he was intent on the empty space below. A blank slate, a new chapter. Lifting his knife to the Wall, Paulo carefully carved five letters:
P-A-U-L-O
.

The time to survive alone was over.

The ghost of a smile crossed his lips because right now, he
was
alone. He was a City of one—and possibly an island of one as well. Oddly enough, in the weeks since Skye had left, Paulo hadn't seen another living person; he'd only seen animals. Wild animals falling out of equally wild gates, docile animals falling prey to the deadly. He had the strangest sense the island was waiting … for something, perhaps even some
one
. Or perhaps Skye's theory had been correct: that without people, the island's strength was compromised. Weakened.

But he was here.

So life continued. The
island
continued, and with its existence came the cold truth: Paulo would not be alone for long. It was only a matter of time. For all he knew, he already had company.

Turning away from the Wall, Paulo faced the City, then looked back at Mount Nil.

I am here
, he thought, standing still, and straight.
I am no longer afraid. When the time comes, I will meet those you send and we will fight.

That is
my
choice.

And then he got to work.

 

CHAPTER

5

NIL

NOON

Each noon brought the promise of fresh blood and pride and
power.
The island's appetite had grown insatiable. Once it had sampled the incredible might of life and death on a grand scale, and it thirsted to do so again. It ached for more; it
needed
it.

And it would have it, soon.

Today's prize would be tomorrow's power.

Coated in blood that was not her own, this female radiated vitality and fury in equal amounts, the electria coursing through her body so ferociously that the gate required minimal strength to open; the island simply used hers.

Took it, used it, reveled in it.

Delicious.

She didn't cower when the gate took her; instead she reflexively lifted her knife with one blood-splattered hand, thrusting the wet blade toward the iridescent wall as it rushed to devour her. Her slashing movement had been instinctive, her natural response being to save herself, even if it meant harming others.

The warm blood coating her weapon testified to that.

The island had wisely left the other human behind, closing the gate with force, preserving its power, and hers. Once it had allowed two humans through simultaneously, but the split in focus between the two had been disastrous. The island could not transfer both, and had lost immense amounts of energy attempting to do so, but the true cost of that unfortunate transfer had been the loss of both prizes. Both humans had been lost between, and with them, their electria: power the island craved. Power the island needed. That day, the island had learned the necessity of restraint, and the power of balance: one gate, one human. One transfer at a time.

The island would not make the same mistake twice.

It had learned that from the humans too. Mistakes were not to be repeated. They were to be prevented. And remedied.

And this female would be key to correcting the island's last mistake.

This one was lethal. Angry.

Absolutely perfect.

Even when she lost feeling in her physical form as she traveled between worlds, this one fought the transfer with all she had left, revealing a depth of resilience and resistance greater than anticipated, a welcome surprise.

Better still, in the crucial seconds during transfer—in those precious moments when her unconscious mind lay raw and exposed—the island discovered that she would fight until her time's end, honing the innate strength she already possessed. And the island would let her. The island would provide ample opportunities for growth, and would force her to become as powerful as she could possibly be—but it mattered little, because in those same precious moments, the island had already chosen her fate.

The fight would be delightful.

Time to wake.

*   *   *

Carmen woke, instantly on guard.

She hopped to a crouch, feeling naked without her knife. Then again, she
was
naked, which made the loss of her only means of protection that much worse. Around her, tunnels of water snaked through the rock; the ocean crashed close enough to hear even though she couldn't see it.

What in the world
? she thought.

Still crouched, she turned slowly, feeling the cool sea breeze brush her skin, the constant stickiness of Colombia conspicuously absent. She completed a full rotation, absorbing her quiet surroundings, the lack of people, of anything remotely familiar. In the distance she was fairly certain a zebra stood at attention, watching something. Maybe her.

She'd never seen a zebra before, except in books. She'd never been to a zoo. She'd never needed to go; her father had simply brought the animals to her. A petting zoo, he'd called it.

She had no interest in petting a zebra.

And if it threatened her, she'd kill it.

Where am I?
she wondered, taking stock of her surroundings carefully. A spike of fear reared its head; she crushed it instantly, without hesitation. She had no time for fear, or the vulnerability it brought.

Standing slowly, Carmen backtracked, replaying the last memories she had.

Ice.

Heat.

Pain.

Not all the pain was hers. At that, she smiled.

The last thing she clearly remembered was surprising Carlos, an older boy who thought himself more attractive than he was in every sense of the word. He'd thought he'd surprise
her
. He'd thought he'd corner her in private, and teach her a lesson. He hadn't liked her repeated refusals, and he'd liked her mockery even less. But he hadn't expected her skill, or her speed. And there was no way he could have known that her father had trained her himself—to
protect
herself—especially from boys like Carlos who refused to take no for an answer. In the end, it was Carlos who'd learned a lesson. The slice down his cheek would leave a scar.

She had been the stronger one when it counted most.

Father would be proud
, she thought, lifting her chin. Only he wasn't here, and she'd no idea where
here
was.

But there was one thing she knew in the depths of her soul: she was Carmen Medina, youngest daughter of Juan Felipe Medina, the owner of the largest construction company in Bogota and a self-made man who'd risen to wealth and power one smart move at a time. She had his genes, his ruthlessness, his cunning.

She might be alone here, but she wasn't afraid.

She wanted answers. She wanted clothes. But more than anything else, she wanted a weapon.

*   *   *

A weapon, the female wanted. The island would see that she found one.

It had let her acclimate long enough.

Summoning heat and air, the island pushed at the female's back. The island wanted blood, and when it was time, this female would spill it.

Until then, the island would play elsewhere.

Turning inward, the island reached for the seam. The island found it easily, focusing on the invisible wedge left behind, a weak point preventing the seam from closing completely, a remnant of the past that had grown over time. With calculated precision, the island leaned on the wedge, widening the rift between worlds: a razor-thin gap that should not be open, not now. Not after the crucial hour.

But it was. Open and unguarded.

Under the island's pressure, the seam expanded a mere fraction. A surge of power rolled through the island in a delicious ripple. Through the seam, the island sought the one who had escaped, one it had desperately wanted to keep: the female, Skye. If it couldn't have her, it would break her.

It was almost time.

 

CHAPTER

6

SKYE

JUNE 2, LATE MORNING

Holy crap.
The darkness.
It's gaining strength, feeding itself, pulling power from a place I can't see, from I place I haven't dared look.

But when I woke from my last nightmare, I
knew
: I need to confront the darkness,
now
, before it's too late. Because as the darkness grows stronger, I'm growing weaker, probably because I don't sleep—at least not well. Sleep is a full-on war, waged in the dark. Waged
with
the dark. Something has to give, and I don't want it to be me.

If the darkness wins, I'll lose.

I'll lose
me
.

I'll be gone, lost to the infinite blackness, to the darkness
between
—like Sy, like others I never met. Now I know that the Wall wasn't always true. That a check didn't always mean that person made it back, or made it
through
; it just meant that person caught a gate. Sy was proof of that.

So many things we thought were true on Nil were wrong, or at least not completely right.

But me, I'm still desperate for the truth. About Nil's past, about why Paulo stayed. About what lives in the darkness. Maybe my curiosity is genetic, like my recklessness, because now I can't help wondering what will happen if I turn
toward
the dark, rather than away from it. Maybe if I reach into the darkness on my terms, maybe I'll see what's calling me, and why. And then I can beat whatever it is, because I'll finally know what I'm up against.