“Concentrate,” Lady Gisela said as they stepped into the starstone’s glow and let the cold rush sweep them away.

The memory shifted then—picking up after the leap, at a gleaming silver door surrounded by shadows and snow. Elvin runes had been carved into the metal, forming words that looked like gibberish to Sophie.

“Where are we?” Keefe asked as an icy breeze prickled his ears. He dropped his mom’s hand and pulled his arms against his chest, trying to preserve what little warmth he could.

“It doesn’t matter yet,” Lady Gisela told him. “Someday this place will be the solution our world needs. But for the moment, we’re just here for security. Better keep your hands out of those sleeves. It’ll be easier if your fingers go numb.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see. And relax,” she added, tapping the frown on his lips. “It’ll be over fast.”

“What will?”

“So many questions. Don’t you trust me?”

Keefe nodded, but his eyes were focused on the way she was holding her hairpin—more like a dagger than a fashion accessory. It drew his attention to the fact that the pin had a long, twisted stem with a needle-sharp point.

“Oh please,” she said as Keefe flinched back a step. “Did I raise you to be a coward?”

“No,” Keefe mumbled.

“Then give me your hand.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to ensure your legacy. And that kind of gift comes with a price. Now. Give. Me. Your. Hand.”

“What if I don’t want a legacy?”

“Everyone wants a legacy. Or would you rather prove that your father’s right about you?”

The words lit a fire inside him, a burning need to meet the challenge.

“Good boy,” she said as Keefe held out his shaky left hand. “Though clearly we’re going to have to work on toughening you up.”

“I’m tough.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The words echoed around Keefe’s mind as his mom uncurled his fingers. Sophie could see how much he wanted to pull away. But his mom’s insults had done their job. He wanted to please her more than he wanted to stop her. So he held perfectly still as she pressed the point of the hairpin against the soft pad of his thumb, lingering only a second before she sliced a thick cut from the joint to the tip.

Keefe gritted his teeth through the pain as warm red pooled from the gash.

“Let it bleed for a second,” she told him. “I want a pure sample.”

All Keefe could do was nod. Wooziness was setting in—he’d never seen so much blood before. And the nerves around the cut stung like he’d touched acid.

“I know what you’re thinking,” his mom said. “You’re wondering why I can’t just use your DNA, like we do for everything else.”

The elves normally found anything that drew blood to be barbaric.

“Blood is our life force,” Lady Gisela told him. “The deepest essence of our being. Without it, our bodies would grow still and cold. And therein lies the power. Anyone can offer up their DNA—it doesn’t take guts to lick a sensor. But to paint it with blood? Now that’s something special. Don’t you feel powerful?”

All Keefe felt was hurt. And confused. And he couldn’t put a finger on the other emotion, but Sophie could.

He felt betrayed.

He didn’t say that, though. He nodded like the brave, obedient son he knew his mom wanted him to be, letting her pull him closer to the door.

“Last step,” Lady Gisela said, stretching his hand toward a clear rectangle set into the metal, right next to the handle.

Sophie expected the door to swing open as Keefe smeared his blood across the smooth panel. But a metallic click echoed through the dark instead.

A lock clicking into place.

Lady Gisela stepped back, shaking her hair out of her eyes. “Finally done.”

The blood on the panel steamed, filling the air with the unsettling scent of barbeque as the red turned to ash and then crumbled away, leaving no trace.

“This is your future, Keefe,” his mother told him, stretching her arms wide and gazing at the door with obvious awe. “Your legacy. Safe and secure. Until our world is ready to change.”

“Change to what?” Keefe asked, cradling his wounded thumb, which was still streaming red down his wrist.

Of course his mother hadn’t thought to bring him a bandage.

She didn’t answer him either.

She just grabbed his elbow and held her hairpin up to the midnight sky, leaping them both back to Keefe’s room.

“Starstones,” she told him, twisting her hair back into its sleek style and pinning it in place, “always remember the path back to where they’ve been. You’ll need to know that someday.”

Keefe didn’t care about someday.

He cared about now.

And now . . . his hand really hurt.

And his limbs ached from the cold. And his stomach was queasy with fear and pain.

All he wanted to do was curl up under the covers in a little ball and cry.

“So ungrateful,” his mom said as she watched him stumble toward his bed. “And so melodramatic. But I suppose that’s to be expected, given your age. Give me that cloak before you sit.”

Keefe tossed it to her, kicking off his boots, too. He left a bloody handprint on his blanket as he pulled the covers tightly around his neck.

Lady Gisela crinkled her nose. “I’ll have to find an ointment to stop that—and something to clean up that stain before your father notices.”

“Whatever,” Keefe mumbled, keeping his wounded hand tight to his chest.

He squeezed his eyes shut as his mom pulled out a silver Imparter.

The last thing he remembered was her brushing his hair off his forehead and whispering, “Don’t worry, Keefe. The Washer will be here soon.”

FORTY-TWO

SOPHIE DROPPED HER hands from Keefe’s temples, severing their mental connection. But the horrible scenes kept replaying in her mind.

“Keefe, I . . .”

There were no words.

She threw her arms around his shoulders, hugging him as tight as she could. Maybe if she never let go, she could hold the broken pieces together.

“I’m pretty sure you just ruined your shoes in a huge puddle of selkie skin,” Keefe told her.