I wished I were a great songwriter, and somehow with that driving desire came the overwhelming feeling that I wasn’t good. That I never would be. To date, my best song was about how I could hear my dad’s voice in my head. How it confused me. Told me I was wrong. Which explained why I couldn’t play it for him—especially because my dad wasn’t a bad guy. He was preoccupied and obsessive, but he wasn’t cruel.
The dad voice in my head, however…that guy was after me. He was the one who told me I wasn’t going to break out from my family’s shadow. He was the one who reminded me that all this fantasy crap was my own personal, and yet somehow universal, nightmare.
The chords I’d been strumming died away. How thick were the trailer walls anyway? Someone might hear. Looking around, my eyes caught on a movie poster that Ryder must have just hung up over his bed. A huge lightning bolt split a dark picture: Sevyn’s angry, powerful face on one half and Evyn’s fire-lit expression on the other. I could barely recognize Shoshanna and Julian in those images—the emotion was too strong. Too dire.
“Fantasy,” I cursed.
Eamon/Nolan didn’t make the poster. Did that bother him? My eyes trailed the silver Elementia title treatment, followed by Based on the novels by M. E. Thorne.
“How’d you do it?” I asked the dead air in the trailer. “How’d you write your heart into those books and then share them with everyone?”
No answer.
I’d be the shadow of the shadow of M. E. Thorne, and with the advent of this stupid movie, that shadow would be more like a permanent gloom. I nestled my face into the curve of Annie’s side. You should give up, Dad said on cue. Think about how happy I’d be if you became a literature professor.
When Eamon rushed into the trailer, I tossed my guitar on the bed and started yelling. “What’s wrong with you? You can’t just burst in here!”
“He’s gone.”
“What?”
“Ryder. He was with me one second. Then he was gone.”
IN WHICH I SPROUT GRAY (OR GREY) HAIR
Eamon and I jumped in a production van and raced down the narrowest road in the world. Seriously, Siberian summer mud roads have nothing on the Aran Islands—which was actually what I was thinking about because I couldn’t let myself imagine Ryder wandering off a cliff or being taken by… No way. That guy would be living in an institution in New Jersey for two more years.
“Sorry, sorry,” Eamon said for the twelfth time. “I don’t know—”
“Stop saying you’re sorry. I’m not mad at you.”
“You’re not?”
“This is my fault. Ryder is swift and impulsive and my responsibility.” The words tasted sour, and my eyes watered. “I should have gone with you.”
“The whole crew stopped to look for him. They’ll have found him by the time we arrive.” He paused. “He’s probably wandered off, Iris. I’m sure of it.”
I closed my eyes. “I know.”
You don’t, my dad’s voice thundered.
The sun was setting when we arrived at the random, gorgeous field that had become a graveyard of film equipment. The crew was spread out as far as I could see. “You know him best,” Eamon said. “Where would he go?”
I scanned the green fields, piled rock walls, and the glittering edge of the ocean. The sunset was so beautiful it felt sarcastic. “Over there.” I pointed to a stone barn in the distance.
“That far?” Eamon asked, but then he shook his head. “Right, we go.”
We ran, weaving around boulders and stone walls, until my breath burned in my chest. The structure I’d seen wasn’t a barn after all, but a small stone house left over from another century. The roof was missing, and trees grew tall inside. “Ryder!”
No answer. I walked all the way around, finding the only doorway bricked up and the window ledges out of reach. “They don’t want tourists messing around in there,” Eamon noted.
“What if he climbed through a window and hit his head?” I took a deep breath. “Ryder!”
“How could he get up there? You can barely reach the ledge.”
“Eamon. He climbs the two-story banister at home like a spider.”
“All right,” he said, walking to the nearest window. “I’ll give you a boost.” Eamon linked his hands, and I stepped in them, using his shoulders to balance. I peered inside at nothing but overgrown grass before Eamon grunted and wobbled. We fell in a heap, and I sort of flattened his face with my boobs. He sat up with a wild expression, pressing his hair back with both hands.
“Not there?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Let’s see if anyone else found anything.”
We tried to jog back, but we were both sweaty and out of breath. Our pace slowed, and I growled, “I knew this country was too dangerous. Did you ever read Angela’s Ashes? Every kid dies in that book!”
Eamon laughed, a quick, deep sound. “You are so ridiculous it’s adorable. This is an island that barely boasts electricity. What harm could come to him?”
“What harm? This island is currently full of fantasy whack jobs. You guys believe in elves and controlling the elements with your hands. And you think my brother and I are extra special because of our dead grandma! One of you probably stole him to drink his blood.”
“Drink his blood?” Eamon asked, stunned. “You call us fanatical, but you have the most overactive imagination of anyone!”
“It’s happened before!”
Dead silence, and then Eamon said, “What do you mean?”
“His name is Felix Moss, and when he was twenty-four, he heard M. E. Thorne’s voice in his head, telling him to abduct her grandchild and drink his blood like the characters in Elementia. I wish he’d found me first, but he found Ryder, who was only six! He dragged him into a van, and I ran…I ran…”
I couldn’t take one more step. I started to hyperventilate.
“We’ll find
