Page 88 of Angel of Water & Shadow

Loosening my shoulders, I flipped the article over, ready to sort it, when every inch of me tensed. Hundreds of sketches littered the page. There wasn’t a blank space left.

Circles, droplets, swirls, and flames. And four-pointed stars, clustered around them.

Jolting off the floor, I sprinted down the hall to my dad’s den, the flimsy page crumpling in my death grip. As I flung open the door, shafts of tinted light from the stained-glass window cast the ordinarily brown room into a prism of color. I marched across the beige carpet, sharp prods of unease cauterizing my stomach. I’d stood in front of this window millions of times, as I did now, but somehow, this felt like my first. How severely misguided my brain must have been to think these were just simple knights, winged beings, and beasts cut into the glass.

They were the four horsemen of the apocalypse, clashing with their female equivalents: the four archangels guarding the earth. Gaia’s keen stare, chiseled into chartreuse flames, ensnared me even though it was only a weak imitation of the real thing. Her lips were carved into a knowing smile, and I swore the image of her winked as my eyes trailed from her porcelain hands set atop her full hips to her platinum locks braided atop her head like a halo. Wisps of long, black threads of hair from the angel next to her flowed into her frame, as if caught in an immortal breeze. Fei’s cunning amber gaze bored into me like two brilliant, violent suns, the freckles on her wide cheekbones and her ivory oval face illuminated by their permanent glow. Her outstretched slender arms brushed the angel beside her. Akosua’s thick twists of brown hair tousled over her body, which seemed to be built for slaying monsters, as if her sable, steepled palms could birth a spark quicker than a match. Her smile was like smoke—it reached her crimson, kindled eyes, igniting a fire in me—one I didn’t know if I wanted to put out or let burn.

My blood froze when I reached the Angel of Water. Because…it was me.

Me with cerulean flames for eyes. I blinked. Aside from their hair and skin tones, all four angels became faceless, nameless, generic—as they’d always been to me. Was this what Ryder meant about truly seeing?

A glare from outside illuminated the glyphs in the center of their green, yellow, red, and blue robes—the symbols I’d seen drawn on the back of the article by my dad: earth, air, fire, and water.

My hand floated to the place where my necklace usually rested, the urge superseding the facts. Anger engulfed me. I curled my fingers and closed my eyes to try and contain the wrath—but those elemental symbols just burned into the darkness behind my lids.

My dad knew.

No matter how badly I wanted to unsee that repeated pattern, to chalk it up to doodles or coincidence. No matter my desire to pretend he hadn’t kept me isolated from my own source of power and let me mistake magic for madness. No matter my utter desperation to think he hadn’t lied to me my whole life—he knew.

He fucking knew.

My exhale dragged as I opened my eyes and ripped the article to shreds. Tears burned my eyes as I mentally sorted through truth and lies. I couldn’t even think straight, the raw pain razing my insides and turning into white-hot fury.

A violent fire hose of energy thrashed beneath my skin, fighting for me to release it. My gaze swiveled from the wall-to-wall bookcases to the opened French doors that led to the living room. I’d wipe out this entire condo—every stupid photo, keepsake, surfboard, I didn’t care.

I needed a conduit for my anger.

Remnants of the paper flittered to my sides, shining so bright in the rays funneling in through the windows that it looked like they had caught fire. A torn piece with a cluster of numbers landed on the crease between my knees, the scribble stealing my attention.

36.951696, -122.026677

63.568315, -19.608209 (near)

26.0 ??

34?

My blip in concentration diluted the brewing power within me, and a guttural, ragged gasp of agony escaped. The pain lodged itself in my veins like cracks in a vase. If I didn’t do something, it’d spread and settle in the deepest parts of my soul and break me beyond repair.

Untucking my legs, I kneeled up to standing and went to grab my phone from the kitchen. I set the scrap of paper on the table, unlocked the screen, and input the first line of numbers into the browsers search bar. I reviewed the results without so much as blinking, without even a hint of surprise.

How could it be anything but the coordinates of the Santa Cruz Lighthouse?

As I stared at the map, the marker centered on the coastal point’s green, the memories started to flood me. My wet hair cascading down my back as I rested my bare skin against the brick and listened to the drumbeats of the ocean. Lying on its slick grass, using the dandelions to point out faces and shapes in the clouds with Javi. Gripping the iron railing when my senses couldn’t process the sounds of the world and the competing words of the Voices. A subtle flux of power tickling my skin anytime I drew near.

A faint trace of that power seemed to rush through my veins right now.

It wasn’t just a lighthouse—just a watchtower. It was sacred, something that called to me like a pulse in my chest.

I shook my head, a gruff blow of air slipping past my lips. I was done believing any of this was coincidence. I was enraged, but more importantly, I was empowered.

Hands and breaths steady, I opened my messages to see an unread one from Javi.

The heavy chains of regret tightened around my heart. It was rare for us to go a couple hours without texting, but we hadn’t spoken since boba. Days. It’d been days. How could I let that happen?

My thumb hovered over the screen, and for a moment, I imagined responding—spending the rest of the day in a makeshift fort made out of driftwood we’d found at the beach, perfectly safe, where everything made sense and magic only existed in stories. But this was no longer a story. This was my life.

And for once, I was going to claim it.

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