The Cerulean (Untitled Duology, #1)(118)
Stalactites stretched out in both directions, surrounding the tether and beyond, sticking out from the underbelly of her City like icy candles.
And inside each one was a Cerulean.
Leela went from circle to circle, reading every name, gazing down at woman after woman curled in silent agony. But none of them was Sera.
Exhausted and overwhelmed, she sat back on her heels. The moonstone’s red-hot heart glowed at her, but she found no comfort in its beat. This strange place contained more questions than answers.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she whispered to it, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how to help these Cerulean or what the High Priestess is doing with them. I just . . . I wanted my friend back.”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She had been wrong. Sera wasn’t here—she probably wasn’t even alive. It was a fool’s hope, and Leela felt her body sag as she stood to leave. It would be unwise to linger, lest the High Priestess return.
She walked past the large pool and the tether began to sing, a single beautiful strain more delicate than a violin. The music stopped her in her tracks as if compelling her, and her eyes were drawn to the pool’s clear depths, to the shapes of Kaolin and Pelago far below. Then the water rippled and another vision surfaced, stronger and clearer than any of the others, swallowing her up. She could feel her feet on the cold ground, and yet it was as if she had been transported to an entirely unfamiliar place.
She was on a ship, thick masts with sails hanging from them, billowing in the wind—Leela did not know how she knew this, never having seen a ship before, but she did, as certainly as she knew her green mother’s laugh or the colors of a minstrel flower. She stood on its prow, wind whipping through her hair, as waves crashed against the hull, sending up salty sprays and a bitter tang. Above her, the stars were nothing more than tiny pinpricks of light, so much farther away than she was used to.
Suddenly, another heart began to beat inside her chest, a pulse she was so very, very familiar with because it was the only one she had ever felt besides her mothers’. It was a pulse she would have known anywhere.
It was Sera’s heart.
For a half second that seemed to last an eternity, she caught a glimpse of her friend, her hair done up strangely, her eyes lifted toward the night sky. Sera’s face was filled with hope, her irises brighter than Leela had ever seen them, and as she gazed at the stars she whispered, “I’m coming.”
Then the vision vanished, the pool becoming clear again, and Leela fell to her hands and knees, gasping for breath. All the pieces felt like they were falling into place. Those strange rooms and people these visions had shown her . . . they were from the planet.
Leela felt dizzy and pressed her forehead to the cold ground. If what she had just seen was true—and she was far past the point of doubting herself in the face of such overwhelming power—then Sera was alive. But she would not be found in this cold underbelly of her City, or floating in the wide expanse of space.
She was on the planet. Somehow, some way, she had survived the fall.
Shaking, Leela rose to her feet, her heart pounding forcefully as if it had absorbed Sera’s beat into its own rhythm. The fiery orb inside the moonstone pulsed along with her two heartbeats, connecting Leela with the very roots of the City that she loved so dearly. She felt a determination set in, a conviction as cold and strong as the columns surrounding her.
Whatever the High Priestess’s schemes, she had not managed to kill Sera.
And Leela was going to find a way to bring her home.
Acknowledgments
This book challenged me in ways I could never have begun to guess when I started writing it. It broke me down and built me back up again, and I am beyond proud of what it became over that process. But, of course, books are not written in vacuums, and this one would never have been what it is without the help and support of some truly incredible people.
Karen Chaplin, editor extraordinaire, thank you for guiding me through yet another book and for suggesting the idea of restructuring, even though it made my brain want to explode. You always know exactly how to steer my stories so that they are the best they can possibly be, and I’m eternally grateful for that. Rosemary Brosnan, thank you for believing in yet another one of my weird, wild fantasy tales, and for being so wonderfully supportive. Bria Ragin, your insights and keen eye for trimming the fat on this book were invaluable. To my copyeditor, Valerie Shea, and production editor, Alexandra Rakaczki, you guys were so thorough and amazing. I could not have asked for a better team to keep an eye on every detail, especially the timelines, which I am just the worst at. David Curtis and Craig Shields, I have no words to adequately express how in love I am with this cover. I am in awe of your talent, and thank you for wrapping my words in a package more stunning than I could have ever imagined. Huge thanks to the entire sales team, especially Andrea Pappenheimer; to the amazing marketing duo of Bess Braswell and Sabrina Abballe; and for the fabulous publicity skills of Olivia Russo.
Charlie Olsen, you are the best agent an author could ever hope for, and I’m endlessly grateful for everything you do. I raise a mug of the Green Dragon’s finest ale to you, sir. Thanks and hugs to Lyndsey Blessing for handling all things international.
I would not be able to complete a draft, much less revise and revise and revise, without the help of my incredible friends and beta readers. Caela Carter, thank you for handling my panic attacks with such patience and for reminding me that no, it is not actually possible to write one million words in two days. Alyson Gerber and Corey Ann Haydu, thank you for your wisdom and support and for always answering my frantic texts with calm reminders that everything is okay. Jess Verdi, I don’t know how I would ever write a book without you. Thank you for your endless insights, your shoulder to cry on, and your unflinching belief that I can actually do this. Compel.