The Violet Hour (23 page)

TRAPPED

The soft murmur of voices lifted me, layer by layer, out of my thousand-year slumber. They came sharply into focus against a background of thrashing drumbeats and urgent guitar chords.

“Bad Religion won’t bring anyone out of a coma,” Dora’s voice said.

“How do you know?” Adam countered. “It’s her favorite band.”

“Because first of all, it’s not 1986. And second of all, don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate, considering the whole crazy religious thing she barely survived?”

Adam sighed. “I’m running out of ideas. It’s been three weeks.”

The squeak of chair legs across linoleum caused my eyelids to flutter.

“Crisscross applesauce, did you see that?” Dora’s voice moved closer.

“See what?” Adam’s voice perked up.

A sliver of bright white light invaded my cranium.

“There! Her eyes moved!” Dora yelled. “Stubin! Stubin, get the doctor!”

A gentle hand rested on my shoulder.

“Harlow?” Adam’s whisper was full of expectation.

I pried my eyes open a tiny bit farther, enough to see two blurry faces hovering over me—the outline of Dora’s pointy glasses, Adam’s hair adorably messy and pointing eighteen directions at once. He was wearing a hospital gown, and when he leaned over I could see that his chest was wrapped in gauze, three inches thick. But he looked generally okay. An overwhelming sense of relief came over me, as did the creeping tentacles of a murderous migraine. I tried to move my lips to speak, but it felt like I had a mouth full of glue.

“It’s okay, baby. Don’t try to say anything just yet,” Adam said, smoothing his hand over my hair. Baby. I’d never heard anything so comforting in my entire life.

He leaned into my hair. “I love you, Harlow. I need you. Come back to me.”

I faded back out of consciousness, floating away on a cloud of comfort.

The steady beep of the heart monitor called me back, this time with force. The room was dark, and it felt like a ball-peen hammer was being repeatedly pummeled into my skull. I turned my head a few inches, and Adam came into focus. He was sleeping, his face smooshed against a beige armchair, a green hoodie pulled up over his head, dark lashes brushing against his cheeks.

Without even realizing I was doing it, I sat up. Fingers that felt foreign removed the oxygen tube from my nose. My scraggly fingernails scraped at the clear tape connecting the IV to a vein in the top of my hand, but it was like my skin was made of clay. The needle slipped out. It was practically an out-of-body experience, my limbs seeming to float through the air without my command.

I turned the palm of my hand over, noticing that the knife wound had healed so completely there was no sign of it. There was no sign of the initiate ring that should have been around my finger, either. My heart clenched at the thought that I might have lost the last thing my father ever gave me. It was strange; I must have been out a very long time.

My legs felt like they were disconnected from my body, yet I somehow managed to drop them over the side of the bed. The only place I wanted to be was curled up in Adam’s lap, and there were only a few feet between us. I tried to call his name, but no sound came out. After who-knew-how-much time spent unconscious, it would probably take a little work to get my vocal chords back in working order. My legs took their first tentative steps, wobbling toward their goal. Just a few more steps and I’d be tilting into the warmth of Adam’s arms. At least my body could feel my intent, even if my mind felt disconnected from it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a mirror hanging on the wall. The image reflected back stopped me short. I was an absolute mess—there were dark half-moons under my eyes, my skin was chalky, and my hair hung limp and stringy. My hand moved to my face, gingerly pressing at my hollowed cheeks. It felt like I’d been shot full of Novocain—there was no sensation whatsoever.

But none of it mattered when Adam stirred and his eyes opened. He bolted upright and jumped to his feet, reaching out to steady me.

“Oh my god, Harlow! What are you doing? Are you okay?”

I nodded, a tear slipping down my cheek. That was funny—I hadn’t even felt the emotion taking hold of me.

Adam pulled me close. I joyfully anticipated the laundry detergent smell of his hoodie mingling with his soapy boy smell. But there was nothing. Maybe my sense of smell was off—an after-effect of being out for so long? I rested my cheek against his shoulder, allowing myself to just feel his arms around me and take it all in.

“Are we in Twin Falls?” I whispered.

That was weird. I hadn’t even been trying to say anything, much less that. The drugs in this place must be pretty mega.

“Yeah. The compound hospital. You’re safe now,” he said.

“I thought you were dead. That knife went right into your heart,” I responded.

“It missed by an inch, actually. I was in the hospital for a few days after I carried you out, but I’m gonna be fine,” he assured me. “We’re just so lucky you found me in the chaos, and remembered how to get back out before you lost consciousness.”

It was a miracle. I had absolutely no memory of leaving the temple—I must have been operating on pure instinct. It was more good fortune than someone could hope to have in an entire lifetime.

“I want to get to work as quickly as possible. The Fellowship needs its leader,” my voice said.

My heartbeat quickened. That wasn’t what I wanted to say.

“Hey, you need time to recover. The doctors think the coma was a reaction to extreme shock—I’m not going to let that happen again.”

“What about the Ministry?” I asked.

Adam smiled, his dimple flashing. “Everybody understands, and they’re completely behind you. VisionCrest will be here when you’re ready.”

You’re right
, I thought.

“No,” my voice said. My head tilted up. “Not later. Now.”

Something was very wrong. My eyes locked on the image of the girl in the mirror. A sly half smile lifted the corner of her lips.

“Okay. We’ll figure something out, but you need to go slow,” Adam said.

“What happened to Isiris?” my voice asked. My hand slid across Adam’s shoulders, clearly visible in the mirror.

“You have nothing to worry about. It was complete chaos in there, but I caught a glimpse of her as we left. One of the horde threw her from the altar—she was completely knocked out by the fall,” he said.

My last memory from the temple came rushing back. The moment before everything went black. Me, vaulting through the air, floating as if weightless, then smashing into unconsciousness. I suddenly knew what had happened.

It wasn’t me that Adam had rescued from the temple.

“Isiris is trapped in her house of a thousand doors, exactly where she belongs. And she’s never getting out,” he murmured, leaning in closer.

I wanted to grab him, scream at him, tell him he had it all wrong.

“What about the Resistance?” my voice asked instead.

“They sent a delegation to bring Dora and Stubin home. They’re here, ready to meet with you as soon as you’re up for it.”

“Oh, I’m up for it,” my voice said. “I’m looking forward to extending my gratitude for all they did to subvert Isiris.”

In the mirror, my pinky and ring finger curved down, making Isiris’s three-fingered symbol.

Now there was no doubt.

I knew why I couldn’t feel anything, control my limbs, or say what I wanted. It wasn’t Harlow who had made it back from the temple. It was Isiris. Now I was the one trapped, while Isiris was loose upon the world. And everyone believed she was me—including the boy I loved.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the nightmare to end.

When I opened them again, everything was blotted out by the blinding glare of an artificial sun, somewhere far above me. A thousand doors flew open. The sound of beating wings filled the air.

It was the Violet Hour once again.

Acknowledgments

Darling reader. Thanks for coming to my acknowledgements party—you’re the guest of honor! Let me show you around …

Behind that velvet rope is the VIP section. My incredibly supportive and uber-talented husband Reid is easy to spot—he’s the one sporting a halo. Without him, none of this would be happening. Next to him is my bombshell mother, Marsha, who used to tell me as a teen that I’d become a writer while I rolled my eyes at her. I only hope to be half as beautiful as she is, inside and out. That’s my dad, Lonnie—he’s where I get my funny, and my ability to shove ten pounds of sugar into a five-pound bag. Next to them are my parents-in-law, JP and Roseann—they supplied the champagne that fueled many drafts of
The Violet Hour
. Never underestimate the power of a 1990 Krug.

See that group of incredibly literary-looking folk holding court by the ice sculpture? Right in the center is my inimitable, sassy, wish-upon-a-star agent Jennifer Laughran. Still can’t believe she picked me; I’m so lucky that she did. Next to her is the Flux crew (dream team alert!): insightful, delightful story editor Brian Farrey-Latz, eagle-eyed production editor Sandy Sullivan, creeptastic cover designer Lisa Novak, and PR guru extraordinaire Mallory Hayes. Allow me to just say—what the Flux?

Who are the gorgeous creatures dipping strawberries into the chocolate fountain, you ask? Why, my critique partners present and past (YA, That’s Why! represent): Ingrid Paulson, Martha White, Heidi Kling, Veronica Wolff, Mary Kole, and Alie Slavin—they made me and TVH so much more. Next to them, Jean from JeanBookNerd.com, who is a promotional wiz and absolute darling—her tireless efforts on behalf of TVH are something I could never repay. The little pixie she’s talking to is Jessica Richey—my trusted beta reader.

Do you like the music? It’s a mix of all the kickass bands that inspired TVH: Bad Religion, Minor Threat, Descendents, Dead Kennedys, Sex Pistols. Also Silversun Pickups, Warpaint, Metric, The xx, St. Vincent, The Hundred in the Hands, and The Naked and Famous.

Over by the bar, having the absolute most fun, are my lifelong friends—I am super grateful to all of them but most especially Michelle, Beth & Niemo, Sonia, Kris, and Jess & Cass. We’ll probably be living in a retirement home in Boulder together one day, still throwing parties. The other pretty ladies are Kate (who took my fab author photos), Stephanie (who did my styling), and Kim (who insisted I read
Twilight
and started me on this whole crazy adventure in the first place). Oh, and did I mention my husband Reid? Yeah, I know I did. But he’s the alpha and the omega.

The party’s winding down now. There are so many people here I didn’t get a chance to introduce you to, but there’s always next time. Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate you. You will always be my guest of honor. XOX.

Photo by Kate Davis

About the Author

Whitney A. Miller lives in San Francisco with her husband and a struggling houseplant. She’s summited Mt. Kilimanjaro, ridden the Trans-Siberian rails, bicycled through Vietnam, done the splits on the Great Wall of China, and evaded the boat police in Venice. Still, her best international adventures take place on the page. Visit her online at WhitneyAMiller.com.