Prologue: The Last Time "Reagan" Cried

Reagan eased the closet door open, holding his breath as though this would prevent the hinges from making a sound. He stepped over the pale silver threads of his tethers, meant to keep his toys within reach of the toy box in his bedroom, and nestled into the back of the closet. His father’s old cloak, one Reagan never saw him use, fell upon Reagan’s head, and the little boy grinned, delighting in how well he was hidden.

From beyond the closet wall, Liam continued counting. “Eight… Nine…” He had a youthfully high pitch to his voice, being a few months younger than Reagan, who had just turned eight.

Reagan suppressed a giggle as he heard Liam say, “Ready or not, here I come!” He wiggled deeper into the closet, pulling the cloak tight around him. To his dismay, the cloak turned translucent, with only the occasional seam floating in his field of vision.

Before Reagan could look for another article of clothing with which to conceal himself, a loud bang echoed through the house. He flinched and clapped his hands over his mouth, hoping he hadn’t given himself away. A chill ran down his spine, and his heart beat so loud he worried Liam would hear it.

“Reagan?” Liam called out. His voice shook, but it was farther from the closet than before, and Reagan strained to hear it. “Was that yo-”

The end of Liam’s question was drowned out by a scream. Short. Loud. Abruptly cut off.

Reagan froze, his entire body turning cold and numb. That sounded like Mother. He couldn’t feel the cloak on his back, the floor beneath his feet. The closet walls closed in around him. He couldn’t breathe.

With eyes shut tight, Reagan squeezed himself tighter into the corner, pushing against the floor with sweaty, slippery feet. Ice pulsed through his veins, and he shivered.

No matter how hard he pressed his hands against his ears, he couldn’t shut out the shouting voices, none of which he recognized, and the echoing thuds. Whether the floor shook or he did, Reagan couldn’t tell.

I don’t want to play this game anymore, he thought. His lungs screamed for air, but he couldn’t open his mouth.

Light burst into the closet as the door wrenched open, and Reagan opened his eyes to see a man he didn’t recognize. The man almost touched the ceiling, dressed all in black. A dark cloth covered the lower half of his face. Above it, his grey eyes pierced through the tight space.

Reagan’s heart stopped in his chest. He stared, wide-eyed, unable to break eye contact. The air burned in his lungs, but he couldn’t let it out.

Seconds stretched out between the two, filling the empty space and stealing the air away, and when Reagan felt like he was about to burst, the man finally disappeared. “All clear,” he said to someone Reagan couldn’t see. His shadow disappeared from the entrance of the closet door.

The silence was more unsettling than the stomping. It wriggled into the tight space, wrapping around Reagan tighter than the cloak. He squirmed, shivering, and peeled himself away from the wall.

“Liam?” he asked in a whisper. His breath made the cloak rustle, but he saw no other movement, heard no other sound. With careful steps, he picked his way past the other clothes and poked his head out of the closet. “Liam?”

Toys lay scattered across the floor of the playroom, their tethers leading to the overturned chest in the corner. Reagan’s wooden carriage set was pushed against the wall, the horse’s leads broken into small pieces and one of the wheels trapped under the box seat.

Liam looked like a ragdoll, laying still on the ornate red and gold rug. His dark hair splayed across his forehead, his blue eyes cracked open with a glassy look in them. A red trickle traced a line from the corner of his mouth down to the carpet, where a larger stain was spreading out from beneath him.

“Liam?” Reagan said, his voice cracking. A shaking step forward took him as close to Liam as he could bear to be. His vision blurred, his breath hitched.

Liam didn’t move.

“Liam?” A whisper, a prayer. Another step forward.

Still nothing.

Reagan dropped to his knees. Something wet soaked into the fabric of his slacks as he knelt on the carpet. “Liam?” His lips moved, but no sound came out.

With a shaking hand, he reached for his friend. Liam’s arm was limp. Reagan lifted it and watched it flop down. He rolled Liam onto his back, saw the blood soaking his chest. “Liam, wake up,” he said, but even as the words came out, he knew they were futile.

He placed his hands on Liam’s motionless chest and recited the only healing spell he knew, the one his mother used the last time he’d scraped his knee. Heat spread through his hands and up his arms. A silvery glow peeked through his fingers.

“Liam?”

As the spell faded, Liam remained motionless beneath it. He didn’t close his eyes. His chest didn’t rise or fall with the breaths he didn’t take.

“Please wake up.”

Glassy eyes looked up at the ceiling, but Liam didn’t move. Tears dropped onto his motionless face. Reagan hadn’t realized he was crying.

“Mother!” he called out. “Liam’s hurt!” He tried the spell again, waiting for his mother to walk into the room and fix Liam. She always fixes everything, he reassured himself as the spell faded for a second time and still nothing changed. She can help him.

But his mother didn’t come through the door. The hallway beyond the playroom remained silent, devoid of her footsteps.

“Mother?” Reagan stood, pulling the cloak tight around his shoulders as he shivered. The floor beneath him tilted, and his vision went white but he managed to stay standing.

He stumbled out of the playroom, leaning into the hallway wall. It felt warm.

A rush of hot air scorched Reagan as he pushed through the foyer doors. He coughed, pressing the cloak over his mouth. Black smoke stung his eyes and burned his throat.

Flames crept across the floors and up the walls, licking the ceiling, and barred him from entering the room. The couch his mother loved, the coffee table with his father’s journals, the portraits on the wall -- everything was a mess of red, black, orange, and blue.

Reagan stumbled back. He tripped over the soot stained edge of the hallway runner and crawled backward into the wall. In the swirling smoke, he saw his mother, motionless on the ground, her hair spread out beneath the coffee table, being kissed by the flames.

He didn’t have to call her name to know she wouldn’t respond.

Coughing, stumbling, Reagan made his way back to the playroom, leaning into the door to shut it. Liam still lay on the floor, unmoving. The healing spells hadn’t changed a thing.

Smoke spilled into the room, chasing Reagan. The flames wouldn’t be far behind.

I can’t leave him here… Reagan thought. He could barely see his friend through the tears streaming down his face.

He tried the only other spell he knew, the tethering spell he used on his toys to prevent losing them. Heat gathered in his fingertips as touched Liam’s hand, pulling a silver thread from Liam to himself.

Standing, Reagan stumbled weakly to the window. The glass was cold against his forehead, but he couldn’t let himself linger.

Flames crackled along the doorframe, crawling into the room, reaching for Reagan. He stuffed more of the cloak into his mouth and pushed against the window.

Locked.

The latch was hidden behind the swirling smoke. Even standing on his toes, Reagan’s fingers fell short of it by mere centimeters. He banged on the glass but it had no give.

“Climb on the toy chest,” said a voice from behind him.

Reagan didn’t have a moment to feel relief from hearing Liam’s voice. His body moved on its own, pulling his toy chest to the space beneath the window. The wood bowed as he climbed on it.

His lungs burned and his chest ached from coughing. He couldn’t see the edge of the window through the swirling smoke, couldn’t see the latch as he reached for it. A small, pale hand reached forward and guided him.

Reagan fumbled with the metal lock. One try. Two. His sweaty fingers slipped on the latch, his other hand slipped on the glass. He almost fell.

“Hurry,” Liam’s voice said, desperate. Reagan turned but couldn’t see him in the smoke.

Another try, and the latch clicked. The window opened, fresh air rushed in, and Reagan tumbled, rolling into the grass. The cloak clung to him like a second skin, but he lacked the energy to pull it off.

As his consciousness faded, he looked toward the flaming skeleton of his home and saw no sign of Liam in the smoke.