Chapter 123
I wake to the gentle rocking of a boat and the faint hum of its engine beneath me.
My head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, and every muscle in my body aches like I’ve been tossed into a blender. The room around me is dimly lit, sterile, and achingly familiar. It doesn’t take long for the memories to flood back. I’ve been here before—on a ship just like this. My heart stutters as I sit up, suddenly fully alert.
I glance down at myself, and dread curls in my stomach. I’m dressed in a linen top and shorts that aren’t mine. The blood, sweat, and soot from the bungalow fire are gone. Someone has bathed me, cleaned me, changed me. The very thought makes my skin crawl.
“Enigma,” I hiss through clenched teeth, the word as sharp as glass in my mouth. I clutch the edge of the cot I’m lying on, fighting the surge of humiliation and fury rising in my chest. This is Lily St. Cloud’s work—I know it. She would go to these lengths, stripping me of my autonomy and dignity just to remind me how powerless I am.
Except I’m not powerless anymore.
“Not this time,” I whisper, the electricity sparking faintly at my fingertips a comforting reminder of what I’ve become. “You don’t get to win. Not anymore.”
I glance around the small cabin. There’s a single metal door at the far end, locked, of course. A porthole on the opposite wall lets in a slice of pale sunlight, the view of endless ocean making my stomach churn. The déjà vu is almost suffocating. I take a deep breath and force myself to focus. I’ve been in worse situations. I’ve survived worse.
First, I need to get out of here.
The door is solid, but the lock isn’t anything special. I rummage through the small cabin, finding a few bobby pins and hair ties in the drawer of a desk bolted to the wall. It takes a few tries, but eventually, I hear the satisfying click of the lock releasing.
“Too easy,” I mutter, pushing the door open cautiously.
I push the door open cautiously, peering into the dimly lit hallway. There's no one in sight, but I can hear distant voices and footsteps echoing through the metal walls. I slip out of the cabin quickly, making sure to close the door silently behind me.
Now that I'm out of my immediate prison, I need to figure out where I am and how to escape this ship. As quietly as I can, I make my way down the hallway, trying to stay out of sight of the crew members bustling about their duties.
The first thing I notice is how normal everything looks. The crew members I glimpse through open doorways don’t look like Enigma operatives—they’re not clad in tactical gear or armed to the teeth. They look like ordinary people. Like Will and the other student researchers Stan had sacrificed on the Enigma altar back at the facility.
But there’s something off about them.
I pause at the edge of the hallway, watching two crew members talking in low voices. Their movements are too smooth, too synchronized, like they’re separate bodies sharing a single mind. One of them turns slightly, and I catch a glimpse of his eyes. They’re too bright in this lighting, too golden, almost glowing.
I shudder and move on.
The déjà vu is stronger now, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. This ship, these people—they’re wrong in ways I can’t fully articulate, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve stepped into a nightmare I’ve already lived through once.
I turn a corner, my bare feet silent on the metal floor, when something catches my eye - a map posted on one of the walls. I hurry over to it, scanning for any indication of our location or where we might be headed.
My heart sinks when I see that we're thousands of miles away from land. “Shit,” I hiss beneath my breath. I need to find Wa—
A massive hand clamps down on my shoulder.
Fear locks my throat as I spin around, coming face-to-face with a man who looks like he was sculpted from raw stone. He’s huge, easily towering over me by a foot, with jet-black hair and honey-colored eyes that burn with contempt. Bandages crisscross his face and hands, evidence of some recent injury.
“I knew we should have left you in that hut to burn,” he growls, his voice as rough as gravel.
I try to wrench free, but his grip is iron. His gaze rakes over me, and the disgust on his face makes me feel small, insignificant.
“This?” he snarls, his voice dripping with derision. “This is the heir to the Twilight?”
Before I can react, a crystal-clear voice cuts through the tension like a blade.
“Yes, Khale,” the voice says, calm and measured. “This is Phoebe. My granddaughter.”
I turn toward the voice, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst from my chest. Standing just a few feet away is a woman who looks like she’s walked straight out of the Atlantean dream I had.
She’s tall and regal, her silver-streaked hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Her eyes—violet and piercing—are unmistakable.
“Grandmother?” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the roar of my own heartbeat.
Anthozoa smiles faintly, but there’s no warmth in it. Only calculation.
“Hello, Phoebe, darling.”
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