Kill Your Darlings

Chapter 2

My eyelids flutter, and disappointment fills me. I’m awake, which means I must face reality in all its ugly glory. Not that I was particularly enjoying my nightmare by its violent end, but in truth, I’d prefer that to my monotonous routine.

Drag myself from bed. Burn a pot of coffee. Stare at my iPhone for ten hours to distract myself from manuscript revisions. Berate myself for being a miserable, lazy failure.

“She’s coming ’round. We caught the poison early, thank Ohra. Treated the wound with mugwort before closing her up, so she’s good as new. She should be on bed rest for a day or two, but she’ll make a full recovery.”

I feel my brows contract. Whose voice is that? I live alone.

“Thank you, Healer Farrow. We’ll take it from here.” There’s another voice, familiar yet not—is that Eric? It can’t be. I haven’t seen Eric for months, since I lack the energy and desire to leave my apartment. I also suck at keeping in touch. Our correspondence these days consists of messaging each other depressing memes and talking s**t about the G Train.

“Kyla?” That same gentle voice coaxes me from the nebulous place between sleep and wakefulness. My eyes c***k open.

Impossible, I think, though my heart leaps. The poisoned blade didn’t send me spiraling back to reality. I’m still dreaming.

Impossible“Asher,” I whisper.

Asher’s guileless chestnut eyes widen in relief. He bears an uncanny resemblance to my real-life best friend, Eric Samuel. Asher was based on Eric, so this makes sense. His suntanned skin, coiffed brown hair, and gold-rimmed glasses are all wonderfully familiar. Even the pitch of his low tenor is the same.

A large, white-scaled head crowds in, nudging Asher aside. It’s more equine than crocodilian, complete with pointed horse-like ears on either side of his cranial horns—yet the visage is infinitely more elegant than that of any banal Earth creature.

“Why didn’t you wield to defend yourself?” growls Cendrion.

He’s not large by draconic standards—eight feet from talon to shoulder, with another four feet of neck—but he’s formidable. His fangs, each as long as my thumb, glisten in a silent snarl. Anyone else would recoil from the reaction, but not me. I’ve loved dragons since I was a kid. When my debut novel hit the New York Times Bestsellers list, I became known as Earth’s Foremost Dragon Authority.

“I can’t wield,” I reply without thinking.

“Pretty sure you can,” drawls another voice. Rexa plunks herself down on the side of my cot, jostling my achy frame. The hem of her dark green cloak, which she wears to cover her natural form, trails across the trodden ground of the medical tent.

Wishing to steer the conversation away from myself, I look at Cendrion. “How’s your wound?” I ask. Since the tent isn’t tall enough to accommodate him, the hind half of his body sticks out through the canvas flaps across from me. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

He blows a dismissive snort through his nostrils. “It was barely a scratch.”

“A poisoned scratch—”

poisoned“The healers patched me up, same as you,” he interrupts. “Not even a scar to show for it.”

My eyes widen, and I raise a hand to my chest. Smooth skin greets my fingers as they roam beneath my shirt collar.

“Wow,” I murmur. “That’s amazing.” It’s one thing to write about the healers’ skill with lifemagic, manipulating body processes to aid and speed recovery; it’s quite another to benefit from that skill. An injury that might have taken months to heal on Earth has taken mere hours on Solera.

Rexa leans in and knocks her scaly knuckles against my head. “What’s with you today? Did that poison give you amnesia?”

I shrug. The acerbic stench of Healer Farrow’s mugwort poultice is making my head spin. My brain’s working at half-speed. No, that’s not right—it’s working at triple speed, but I have too many trains of thought, and they’re all on a collision course.

tripleAsher glances at Valen, who stands by the tent flap. “Should we bring the healer back?”

“No, I’m fine.” The last thing I want is for some doctor to come poking around and ruin my dream.

Unless it’s not a dream.

Unless it’s not a dream.A tingling frisson suffuses me. That, of course, is my go-to fantasy: being transported into a world of magic. I’ve spent years, decades, wishing to stumble into the realm I love. I begged the universe to whisk me away from my wretched reality and bring me somewhere better. Somewhere I could be happy.

decadesWhile I may be unhinged, I’m not quite insane. I know such things aren’t possible. Still, my delusions have never been this deliciously, all-consumingly real.

Why not enjoy it while it lasts? Stabbing aside, this is what I’ve always wanted. Besides, it’s not like I need to wake up to do anything, apart from revisions (and I’m mentally incapable of addressing those).

doThat knowledge churns my stomach with guilt, but I can’t force ideas to come when my brain refuses to cooperate. The revisions will have to wait. Sleeping the day away and luxuriating in my favorite fantasies is a far more tantalizing prospect.

“If Lord Zalor sent an assassin, that means he’s rattled,” Valen’s saying in the background. “We should build on the momentum of our victory. Once Kyla recovers, we can start the march to Torvel and—”

“Oh no.” I sit bolt upright. “Going to Torvel is a bad idea.”

Valen hooks one quizzical brow. “You were singing the praises of this plan yesterday. Why the change of heart?”

“I… have insider information. You have to scrap it.”

“This is Kyla Starblade, right?” says Rexa. “Not some doppelgänger Zalor’s planted to bring our army down from the inside?”

isHer dry tone is at odds with the crease of tension on her brow. Her full lips are pressed in a thin line; her amber eyes are tight. A bubble of fondness swells within me. That familiar expression comes from my cousin Lindsay, who was the closest thing I had to a sister. She was the blueprint for Rexa’s character.

The bubble wavers, threatening to pop. I’m not a doppelgänger, but neither am I the hero my characters trust and love. If they knew the real me—if they knew what I’m planning to do, what I’ve already done—they wouldn’t be so accommodating.

My lips twist. “So, uh, there’s some stuff I should tell you about the war. First off, I’m no longer able to wield.”

“This isn’t a laughing matter,” Cendrion growls. “If we lose you, we lose everything.”

Unease trickles through my bemused euphoria. If I’m stuck in Kyla’s place, unable to wield her power, the world of Solera is doomed.

Roleplaying is fun, but it’s time for a reality check. Lucid dreaming prepared me for this. I use several techniques to identify dreams, but the simplest is the Hand Test. Holding my left palm flat, I attempt to push my right pointer finger through it. In a dream, focusing on this desire allows my finger to pass through my hand.

My palm, however, remains unyielding. With a focused scowl, I poke my left hand aggressively, achieving nothing except making myself sore.

“Kyla?” Asher’s voice pierces my concentration, and I twitch. In my peripheral vision, I’m dimly aware of my characters exchanging worried glances.

Tensing, I pinch myself like a cliché cartoon. Digging fingernails into flesh, I squeeze hard enough to draw a ruby droplet on my left wrist. Waves of adrenaline pulse through my gut in protest of the pain, yet I remain asleep.

Or rather, awake.

A chill creeps up my spine. Whether this is a dream or a tequila-addled hallucination, my actions have consequences. “It’s not a joke,” I whisper shakily. “I have no magic.”

“Do you mind explaining yourself?” says Asher.

“It’s going to sound crazy.”

“This whole day has been crazy,” says Rexa. “Try us.”

I’m sitting on the thinnest of fences, unable to decide what I believe. If this isn’t real, then nothing I do matters. I can linger guilt-free, playing this game as long as my subconscious allows. I’ll wake from this beautiful nightmare eventually, safe and sad in my proper body.

But on the off chance this is real…

isI fidget with my blanket, running the coarse fabric between my thumbs. Written words flow from me with the grace of petals on a river, but spoken words always cause problems. Either I say too much, or I say the wrong thing, or I get flustered and can’t explain myself. As such, I’ve developed the cunning strategy of avoiding conversations whenever possible.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I can avoid this one.

“Okay.” I proceed with the air of someone shifting their weight onto thin ice, delicate and cautious. “In this world, everyone is born with the ability to wield magic. You—we call our magicsources by different names in different countries, but it’s universally acknowledged to be one’s soul.”

weTo the Solerans, this is like explaining that two and two make four. But I’m not trying to explain it to them, I’m trying to reason it out for myself. If this is real—and I’m treating it like it is, for everyone’s sake—how the hell did I get here?

And why did it happen?

There’s always a why in fiction. That’s the difference between fiction and reality: fiction has to make sense. Suffering serves a purpose in stories, advancing the character or the plot. On Earth, suffering is meaningless. There is no point, no greater goal. Life grinds you down until you’re a paltry echo of who you used to be.

why“Kyla?”

Another prompt snaps me out of my thought spiral. Everyone’s staring at me.

“Imagine there was another world.” My voice is slow, uncertain. “A parallel universe, if you will.”

Asher scrunches his nose, the same way Eric does. “A what-now?”

“Some scholars believe that every time a choice is made, the universe splits,” says Valen. “Infinite parallel universes exist in quantum-magical superposition, each one different because the people within them made different choices.”

A predictable flutter ripples through my chest. I love it when he talks science. “I’ve heard that theory, but this is something else.”

“You’re referring to a universe outside our own?”

Thank the gods of Solera I made this man a genius. Deficient though I am in conversational skill, he’s caught my meaning. “Yes. A universe where people aren’t born with magic.”

Valen’s eyes narrow. “They’re soulless?”

“No—well, I don’t know.” Souls are a much more nebulous concept on Earth. Here, they’re scientific fact. A soul is the immaterial part of a Soleran that’s pure energy. It’s this energy that connects every living thing, enabling them to harness and wield subatomic elemental power.

“Let’s say the people in that other universe do have souls, but those souls are different,” I continue. “And let’s also say they can interact with your universe.”

Rexa’s expression darkens. “I think you mean our universe.”

ourI ignore her pointed correction. “So, in some weird, magical, quantum-sciencey way—action at distance, or whatever—someone in that parallel universe could make things happen here. Sometimes good things, but, uh… mostly bad things.”

“Kyla,” Cendrion rumbles. I wince at the name. “I can’t help but wonder where you’re going with this.”

I suppress a chuckle. I’ve always been an over-writer. Nasty habit. My editor and I have spectacular fights about this problem.

“Imagine there’s a human in that universe who’s a parallel version of Kyla. She knows everything Kyla knows—in fact, she knows everything about your world, from the natural laws of science to what you’re thinking right now.”

worldAsher and Rexa exchange another dubious look. Cendrion’s bat-like wings stir at his sides. Valen’s face is a mask, but a storm rages in his cloud-gray eyes.

They’re all ridiculously easy to read.

“You.” I point to Rexa. “You think this is a load of mumbo-jumbo. We’re trying to win the most important war in the history of Solera, and I’m wasting time acting like a lunatic while Zalor’s out there murdering people.”

She folds her lizard-like arms. “Doesn’t take a telepath to figure that one out, Kyla.”

That name again. It’s a knife between my ribs. I feel like I’m lying to them, though I’m doing my utmost to give them a truth they’ll be able to stomach.

“You,” I say to Cendrion, “think I’m cracking under pressure. You worry the war’s taken its toll on me, because you know what happens when you dwell too long in darkness.”

Cendrion’s pupils narrow to slivers. An unamused growl reverberates through his barrel chest.

Pursing my lips, I face Valen. “You’re worried too, because you know science supports what I’m saying. If that other universe can interact with yours, interfere with yours, you know how dangerous that could be. And you know I’d never lie to you.”

interfereThat’s true for Kyla, but it’s just as true for me. I wouldn’t lie to my darlings. I wouldn’t hurt them.

I ignore the voice whispering in the back of my mind, reminding me I’ve already hurt them irreparably.

“And you.” Last but not least, I raise my hand to Asher: a peace offering and a plea. “You’re the kindest person in this world. You give people chances, even when they don’t deserve them. You’d hear what I have to say and you wouldn’t be afraid, because no matter what kind of ridiculous trouble I get us into, I always get us out of it.”

Asher takes my hand, and sorrow nips at me. I can’t remember the last time I held the hand of my real best friend. On Earth, I’m not this open, honest, or gentle. I’ve isolated myself; my heart has become malnourished from lack of human touch.

“I could do with a little less trouble,” he admits, “but you’ve never failed us yet.”

A smile brushes my lips. Good old Asher.

“You trust me?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“And you wouldn’t hurt me?”

He squeezes my fingers in reassurance. “Never.”

“None of you would,” I press, looking around the tent.

“We’d never hurt Kyla Starblade.” Valen’s tone is blood-chilling. “But you’re not Kyla Starblade, are you?”

Goosebumps undulate across my skin.

“No, I’m not,” I admit through a mouth that’s gone dry. “I’m her creator.”