(Continues from Recall’s Not a Ride in Paradise’s Circus)
I’m out of my depth,
out of my league,
stepping on speaking hens
who prophesy doom.
Okay maybe not, but it sounded good rattling around my head where a clue should be. But alas, it’s not. Fiona regarded me with her ice-chip eyes and they demanded speech.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” She snapped her fingers and I took another spin on memory’s merry-go-round.
Blink. Grip the reins. Squeeze through the thighs, hold to the saddle!
The wind whips a black mane. Muscles bunch and release launching us down an ice-rimmed slope. I have to reach the border. The enemy comes.
Blink. Blood drenches the ground dying the snow red. Fiona’s leaning over me, her frosted locks cascade over her shoulder. My hand grips a hilt. There’s something I need to do.
“You can’t die. Someone has to survive, carry this with them.” Fiona’s brow puckers and she mutters under her breath. Her eyes gray, clouding with magic until with one last guttural word, she unleashes the storm building within her. Magic lashes out, flinging tentacles at me and wrapping me up. I’m dragged across snow towards a woman-shaped hole in reality where Fiona stood a moment before.
Blink. I’m belly crawling over cobbles. Everything’s fading away–my memories, my identity–everything save the dagger trailing me. I know it’s important.
Polished black loafers step into my sightline. My eyes tracked up gray slacks, sliding further north until my fading sight fixed on a face–Jason.
“Things getting any clearer yet?” Fiona asked. Her voice dragged invisible fingers over the memory ruffling it. My mind was a mirror, and she projected the reflections.
“Not exactly.” I rubbed my forehead. My brain churned with half-formed ideas and speculation until I swatted them aside. I was no Ren Fair reject.
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