Page 97 of Serpent & Saviors

What were they talking about?

“Yes. We’ve been searching, and everything leads to nothing. It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. You have to admit; we’re not making any progress on our own.”

“Damn it,” Isabella cursed. “You know how I feel about this. I’m not ready. It hasn’t been that long and maybe—”

“Maybe what? We can’t keep doing the same thing, Bellaruso. Posting ads for a piano teacher got us nowhere. Neither did the one riddle ad mentioning summer and the seahorse. How many hours have we spent scrolling social media, only to come up empty? How many yearbooks—”

Freezing in place, my heart slammed against my ribs, a wild, frantic beating as if it were desperate to break free. All the blood in my veins turned electric, surging hot and fast, making my fingers tingle and my knees weak. The air around me thinned.

They were talking about me. Then Isabella spoke.

“I can’t speak the words.” The confession was whispered sadly and so softly that I almost didn’t catch it. But Andrew did. That and the fear lacing her voice.

“But I could. I’m strong enough. I’ll do the talking at first. I even asked Marcel point-blank last week if I told him something private would he tell anyone and he said by law he can’t. Not to mention he wouldn’t. Let’s start with him today, please.”

I was struggling to come to terms with this turn of events. After all this time, eleven long years of silence—of distance, of thinking they were a memory. And they were looking for me.

A warmth bloomed inside my chest. Not only had they been searching for me, but Kinsley was trying hard to convince Isabella. A sharp, dizzy wave of emotions hit. Disbelief, hope, fear. It was too intense, like standing in the sun after being buried in darkness. My breath came in short, uneven bursts. I couldn’t take another moment, and Andrew propelled me forward.

“Whoa, pump your brakes. Wait…” Isabella said as I pushed through the door.

She jumped up. Her mouth fell open, and I stared at a young woman I thought I’d never see again—to the very girl I was writing to just a little earlier today. The sharp sting of tears pricked my eyes, and I swallowed hard against the lump forming in my throat. I’d created this moment, this fantasy, in so many different ways over the years. But nothing could have prepared me for the raw, aching reality of seeing her.

Autumn, or well…Isabella.

Her voice had cut off mid-sentence as her gazed locked onto mine. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. She wasn’t a child anymore. The little girl I remembered—broken, silent—was still there, lingering in the shape of her face, in the familiar shade of her striking blue eyes. Sebastian’s eyes. I had thought they looked familiar.

Time had carved a woman, refining her into something stronger. Her dark hair was pulled up in a bun of sorts; a few strands framed her beautiful face. She was dressed in ripped jeans, well-worn and frayed in places. It was paired with a black printed T-shirt that clung to her.

My eyes darted downward. Her hands. They were charcoal-stained. The sight of them nearly undid me. Emotion swelled thick in my chest, but words wouldn’t form. I stared, drinking her in, as if I could somehow reclaim all the lost years just by memorizing every detail of the woman she had become.

Isabella’s hand shot out, smacking Kinsley on the leg. She was holding her phone and deeply engrossed in whatever was on the screen. Her thumbs moved fast over the keyboard.

Mischa.

I gulped. She looked so much like she had. It left me disoriented, as if she’d slipped through time. So small and still so damned delicate, like the porcelain dolls the Mask’s son kept. But that wasn’t entirely true. She’d grown, filled out. Her frame was no longer that of a fragile, haunted child but that of a woman who had survived.

She wore a baby pink coverall dress, short and playful, paired with a crop top with a flash of skin showing on the sides. Her legs, still as short as could be but nowhere near as thin, were covered in thigh-highs.

Sitting there, she looked as if she’d not grown a single inch. Her rich brown hair was half up, half down and caught the light ethereally. But it was her feet. Her toes pointed and flexed, delicate and precise, moving as if she were practicing dance steps in her head—lost in some rhythm only she could hear.

It was such an intensely Mischa thing to do that my throat tightened. How many times had I fixated on her feet as a child and seen her do this same thing? Always dancing. Even if only in her mind.

“Kinsley,” Isabella breathed, her voice held a note of question.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him over text, silly.” She still hadn’t looked up.

A resounding smack filled the quiet room as Isabella had had enough of her not paying attention, and her hand connected once more.

“Ouch,” Kinsley exclaimed, rubbing her leg.

She glanced up at Isabella with those wide grayish eyes, and I gasped. Isabella blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a trance.

“Oh my God,” she breathed.

Shock rocked me where I stood. My hand trembled as I raised it to my heart. My fingers touched the buttons on the dress I was wearing, as if that could steady the storm inside. Tears burned my eyes, blurring the edges of the moment, making it feel surreal. Had I stepped out of time once more?

Kinsley stood, dropping her phone. Confusion knitted her features, and the color drained from her face. In slow motion, her hand shot out. Her delicate pinkie looped around Isabella’s in that silent, sacred gesture.