Bright orange flames blazed to life around Andrew, and he put his hand up to block the harsh glare. The heat burned his skin, but it was the brilliance that hurt him the most. The fire cut through the black pitch like a knife; squinting into the light, Andrew saw her standing there, beautiful and terrible at the same time.
She glared at him. Once upon a time, she had only smiles for him, but now her anger was as commonplace as the darkness in which he existed.
“Tell me about the prophecy,” she snarled, fangs protruding from her upper lip.
“What prophecy?”
“Don’t play games with me!” She stepped further into his space, and Andrew pulled back as far as he could. “I want to know how the prophecy is fulfilling itself. Tell me how Olin protected it from the Curse of Broken Words.”
Andrew stared at her even though the heat and the darkness stung his eyes. Olin was a name he thought he should know, but he didn’t. And the only prophecies he knew were the ones from the old stories.
“I’ve been most patient with you, Andrew. I’ve offered you everything you’ve ever wanted.” She waved her hand, and suddenly the darkness around him dissipated. In its place was a warm kitchen with a batch of cookies sitting on a cooling rack, a vase of flowers on the counter, and at the sink stood a woman washing dishes. She turned and smiled at him, dark bangs falling across her forehead.
“Mom?” Andrew’s voice caught in his throat. It had been so long since he’d seen her. Someone told him long ago that she had died, but if that was possible, then how was she here?
“Hurry, Sweetheart,” she said with a smile. “Or you’ll be late for the family reunion.”
“Mom, I—” Words failed him, but the tears did not. Suddenly, she was gone, swallowed up by the darkness.
Giselle knelt in front of him and traced one of his cheeks with her fingernail. “Tears of joy, I wonder, or of sorrow?” Suddenly, she clawed his cheek, cutting him. The wound burned as it bled.
Andrew grabbed at his torn flesh. He knew better than to cry. Crying only brought punishment.
“Now tell me what I want to know,” she hissed, “and you can be on your way to that family reunion. Mother and son reunited— a story for the ages. What’ll it be?”
“I don’t—I don’t know anything about a prophecy.”
“Really.” Giselle stood and looked down at him. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t know anything about the Sterling One, either.”
Andrew shook his head.
With a sigh, she turned away from him. He could see her red flesh was marred blue with a recent injury. Who would want to hurt her?
“I offer you the world, Andrew, and ask so little of you in return. If you would be free, all you have to do is tell me about the prophecy.” She glanced at him, her dark eyes balls of molten lava. Try as he might, Andrew could conjure no knowledge of a prophecy about any Sterling people. He tried to focus on the name Olin, but his injured cheek throbbed and nothing came to mind except pain.
“How disappointing,” Giselle said through gritted teeth. Her clawed hand slashed out at him, and a moment later Andrew felt as though his flesh was being ripped away from his body. His screams were swallowed up by the ebony vacuum.
And then it was over.
Gasping for air, his face wet with tears of pain, Andrew rolled over on the floor and pushed himself up. Giselle had left his cage, and she had taken the bright orange flames with her.
Gingerly, he felt his face and his arms. His flesh was still intact; so was the lingering pain. He tried to stop the tears from sliding down his cheeks, but they were beyond his control at the moment.
“Tell me,” he heard Giselle say, and when he peeked open his eyes, he saw those fire flames surrounding another cage not too far down from where he sat. In the cage with her was a girl Andrew’s age. He couldn’t see much of her other than her pixie haircut. He could hear her though, as clearly as if she was talking directly to him.
“I don’t know how he stopped the Curse of Broken Words,” the girl was saying, “but the prophecy has to do with a human child whose broken spirit still has faith.”
“Give me the words,” Giselle demanded, but her voice had a softer quality to it than when she had been talking to Andrew.
The girl was silent for a moment. “Though they walk with spirits broken, innocence is their grounding token.” She paused again. “Pure of soul and pure of mind, to Olin’s own they will bind…and within themselves hold the key of ancient magic within the tree. So say those with fates unfurling as the children whose hearts are sterling.”
Giselle’s eyes flashed in the darkness. “And this Sterling One would be…?”
“I don’t know, but he does.” The girl pointed at Andrew. He winced as though she’d slapped him. “It’s a friend of his…and the Secret Keeper Wil Johnson.”
Andrew saw Giselle’s eyes burn with flash fire once more. “Well done, Secret Keeper.”
“Please…may I go there now?” the girl begged. “Just for a few minutes?” Andrew half-expected Giselle to pummel her with balls of fire; instead, she reached down and stroked the face of the girl at her feet.
“You have served me well, Daisy. Continue to do so, and all you desire will be yours. Until then, I believe you have earned a few minutes respite.”
As Andrew watched, Daisy’s cage transformed from a block of fire and pitch to a shimmering sheen through which he could not see. Giselle stepped out of it and glanced at him.
“This could’ve been you, Andrew. I do hate that you refuse me time and time again. Still, it shall be much more fun when you and Wil are reunited. Now I will give you one chance to save yourself another round of punishment. What’s his name?”
Andrew cowered in his cage, his eyes on the ball of lava in her hand. It was only a name. He didn’t know anything else, but he did remember that. They had been friends once, all of them. He remembered that, too. Would it be so bad to say the name?
The ball of lava began to drip down from her hand and flow towards his cage. Already he could feel the heat burning at his flesh.
He wasn’t hurting anybody. He wasn’t. And if he said it, she wouldn’t hurt him. She might even reward him.
He pulled his feet away from where the lava threatened to scorch him. Closing his eyes against the bright yellow orange, he prepared himself for pain.
“Scott Jenkins,” he whispered.
He did not burn.