The Hidden (Shadowed Wings #1)(9)
“I want her doused in the tears of clarity and anything else we have that will combat any of the old magics. Let’s make sure we’re not up against any unforeseen variables, and then we’ll see what her truth really looks like.”
Ryn storms out, his order hanging in the air, and all but the dark-haired woman follow him. We watch each other for a moment before she steps out from behind the heavy wood table and makes her way slowly toward me. I tense as she approaches, and her critical eyes roam over every sheet clad inch of me.
“If you think I’m going to let you scrub me down, you’ve got another thing coming,” I warn her. She just stares at me for a couple of awkward seconds before she gives me a slight nod.
“Follow me, please,” she tells me, and she starts walking toward the door.
She’s taller than me by probably six inches and thicker in every way. She’s not as big as the males that were at the table, but she’s massive by human standards. She’s the biggest woman I’ve ever encountered, and she moves with a grace that stuns me. I can’t take my eyes off of her as she practically floats over the ground. Even just her hands swaying at her sides as she walks reminds me of the time I saw this beautiful hula dance at school.
I gasp, surprised, when my wings are suddenly pulled into my back. I spin like a dog chasing its tail as I try to deduce what made them snap out and then disappear just as mysteriously. My guide doesn’t even pause, and I have to shove my curiosity away and rush to catch up.
I follow her through more winding hallways until I find myself back in the room with the balcony and large bed that’s missing a yellow sheet. She walks right past everything and through another doorway that looked like it was just part of the wall. I walk closer to where she disappeared through, wondering if it’s some kind of magic, but as I get closer, I realize that the back part of the entryway blends really well and makes it look like a solid wall when it’s actually recessed.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I step through the hidden doorway and into a massive bathroom.
“Loa,” she answers simply, not looking at me. She pulls a lever, and steaming water pours from the ceiling into a huge empty bath that’s been dug into the floor of the room.
A large window-like cutout on the back wall allows natural light to illuminate the stone room, and I take it all in. Steam, and a deep musky scent I can’t place, start to fill the space. It coaxes out some of the tension that’s locking up my muscles, and I exhale a small sigh of relief. Loa presses another lever, but I don’t notice what it does as I catch the reflection of her back in the large veined mirror she just walked in front of. She steps back to the large tub that’s still filling, and I’m left staring at a shell-shocked stranger.
I know the reflection is mine because it’s wrapped up in a butter-yellow sheet. It also mirrors my movements exactly when I bring my hand up and run it over my hair. I’m stunned beyond words to find that my dark brown tresses have somehow been stripped of all color. I walk closer to the mirror and reach over my shoulder to grab the tail of the tight braid I always wear when I ride my motorcycle. It’s looser and a bit disheveled, but the braid is hanging in there through all the shit that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. Crap, has it even been twenty-four hours, or has it been longer? I run my fingers through the end of the braid and try to work the tangles out that are keeping it from unraveling.
What the hell?
The ends of my hair are completely white, and it darkens to the faintest of grays at my roots. I stare at the wavy kink left behind by the braid and don’t even know what to think. I pull my eyes from my ghostly tresses and freeze when my gaze lands on light purple irises instead of the dark brown I’ve spent my life looking into. I poke at my cheek just to be sure that this is, in fact, me. The stranger in the mirror does the same. The tan skin tone I’ve always had is reflected back at me. My eyebrows are still dark, and long black lashes continue to frame my eyes, but my new white hair and lavender stare make me look so completely alien.
I turn to Loa. “What happened?” I ask, holding out a chunk of my now pigment challenged tresses. She looks at me like she doesn’t understand the question. “My hair and eyes used to be dark like yours,” I explain, but she just looks even more confused. A flash of my mother’s ring, cracked and crumbling on my hand, streaks through my mind, and a growl of frustration bubbles up in my chest.
A woman walks into the bathroom at that moment and goes still. Our eyes lock onto each other in the mirror, and she stares at me open-mouthed.
“Tysa, lift your jaw off the ground and bring me the tears of clarity, verity moss, and a bottle of crushed pietersite,” Loa commands.
Tysa gives a small curtsey and rushes out of the room. Loa turns back to me, and her dark judgmental gaze runs over my white hair.
“Whatever magic you were using to change your appearance must have worn off,” she accuses, her nose scrunched up like she’s smelled something foul.
I open my mouth to argue that it wasn’t magic, but I pause. Shit, was it magic? Did the ring keep me from knowing what I was and also mask what I really looked like? Have I been this purple-eyed, milky-haired, gryphon girl inside this whole time? I’ve been so irritated that my gran kept all of this from me that I haven’t spent much time focusing on the why of it all. I turn away from Loa and take in my reflection again. My coloring is incredibly unusual, and I would have stuck out like a sore thumb back home.