~ Sylas ~

The interior of the shop is dark. Neither Lyssa nor the shop attendant look up at the sound of the chimes, and I stand in the shadows, unnoticed. Either they're too absorbed in their own business, or Aurelio's tincture is still working, making me easy to overlook.

After a moment's hesitation, I approach, my heart beating against my ribs and sweat dampening my skin. I haven't seen my sister in three months. I've been worried sick over her. And she looks...

Well, she looks happy.

She stands before a three-sided mirror, twirling the skirts of the loose, flowing dress while the shop assistant showers her with praise. She makes half-hearted efforts to deflect the compliments, but there's no denying facts: she's gorgeous, and she knows it.

Her hair looks like she just came from a salon, and perfect red nails tip her slim, pale hands. Ruby droplets sparkle at her ears, and something tells me they're the real thing: no rhinestones for Marcus Spellwrights's girl.

The sales attendant hands her a necklace—a gaudy thing that's not at all her style, but which goes with the dress—and she takes it with the grace of a princess doing a peasant a favor, and fastens it about her neck. My eyes are drawn to the fourth finger of her left hand, where a slim gold band set with a large stone catches the light. Once again, I'm quite certain this is no cubic zirconia.

Knowing Marcus, 'blood diamond' seems more likely.

Everything about Lyssa screams high-end, and she wears it well. As I watch her admire her reflection, I understand that this is precisely what she's always wanted: to be here, or someplace like it, trying on ridiculously over-priced clothing without having to care what it costs, or how she'll pay for it.

For her sake, I wish it was real. I wish Marcus really loved her, and a life of luxury and lavish parties, adventure and carefree affluence, lay just beyond the glittering horizon of her wedding day.

Instead, I know that Marcus plans to make that life a short one, and has no intention of fulfilling the promises he's made.

I just wish I didn't have to be the pin the pops her bubble of Spell-induced delusion.

Approaching, I call her name.

"Lyssa."

My voice is a whispery, dry thing—the voice of a ghost easily lost in the rustle of dead leaves.

She looks up, meeting my eyes in the mirror over her shoulder, and frowns.

I realize she doesn't recognize me, with my mousy brown hair and fake glasses, and my cheap, drab clothes.

Then her eyes go wide and she gasps, dropping the necklace she was handing back to the sales associate as she spins.

"Oh my gods... Sylas!?"

I nod and step towards her, and then she's in my arms as we catch one another in a crushing embrace.

A moment later she pushes me away again, holding me at arm's length as she studies me with wide, incredulous eyes, and a rush of questions escape her mouth like startled birds.

"My gods, Sylas, it's really you!" she breathes. "Where have you been? Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

I glance at the shop attendant, but he's retreated behind the sales counter and seems to be paying us no mind, though he's clearly put out by the interruption of such a promising sale. Still, it's best not to assume anything is as it seems in Harbor City.

"Are you here alone?" I ask, glancing back towards the door. There's a slight tremble in my voice, the rough shake of adrenaline mixed with hope and fear.

"Yes! Well, Marcus is down the block at a meeting. We were going to dinner after, but now—! Oh, Sylas, I'm so glad you're safe, and Marcus will be so relieved!"

Yeah, I bet.

"Is there somewhere we can talk?" I ask, still glancing around the little shop.

Lyssa's eyes go wide again as she seems to read my thoughts. She nods and pulls me with her towards the back of the store, where a few small changing rooms occupy an alcove in one corner.

"Come see the things I've picked out!" she says, leading me by the hand and speaking loudly so the sales assistant hears. "This place really is wonderful. I'm going to tell all my friends."

The shop attendant—whom I gather may, in fact, own the place—glances up at that, and then returns to his inventory checklist, or whatever it is he's doing. He seems pleased; word of mouth is the best kind of advertising, after all, and especially so if it reaches the sort of people Lyssa Lovecraft is liable to know.

She pulls me into the changing room nearest the back, closes the door, and hangs a little piece of crocheted lace over the knob, chanting a quick spell of secrecy under her breath.

"Let what we say remain within,
And those without shall pay no heed;
For though the walls and door be thin,
They grant the secrecy we need."

She takes a breath, relieved as the threads of web-like lace glow with the faint trace of activated magic.

Then she pulls me into another hug.

"Oh my gods, oh my gods, Sylas!" she repeats breathlessly. "Where have you been? And how on earth did you escape?"

She pushes me away again, holding me at arm's length as her eyes search mine.

"Escape?" I blink at her. "Escape from what?"

"From that psycho, Jaxon, obviously!" she exclaims, and then her brows twist with renewed emotion, and she pulls me back into her arms, holding on tight. "That night, when we were supposed to join you, Marcus realized the truth just in time, and luckily, he was able to Spell that creepy assassin girl and get us somewhere safe. He told the Inquisitors everything, but by the time they tracked down that awful little house, you were gone. And then, after a few weeks, they said that if he hadn't let you go, it meant he'd probably already ki—" She cuts herself off and takes a shuddering breath. "Oh, Sylas—you don't know how worried I've been!"

If it's anything like how worried I've been for her, I have a pretty good idea, but I don't say as much. It feels like my brain is one of Professor Edwards's strange machines, and it just jammed its gears.

Nothing she's saying makes sense; I take a breath and try to unscramble my thoughts.

Marcus must have spun it that way, I reason—that Jaxon was behind everything, while he (Marcus) was just an innocent dupe, manipulated by powers beyond his control. The 'creepy assassin girl,' would be Yumi, who was supposed to bring him and Lyssa to Nic's house. As for the Inquisitors...

Marcus must have had them in his pocket all along; magic doesn't work on them.

As for why she'd believed it all, and how she'd managed to plan a wedding while thinking I was dead, the only explanation is that Marcus still has her under a powerful spell.

"Gods, I can't imagine what you've been through," Lyssa goes on, releasing me and raising one hand to touch the side of my face. "It must have been so awful. But you're safe now. Marcus and I will take of you, and once you tell them where that psycho's hiding, the Inquisitors will take care of him."

That gets the gears going again, and I blink and shake my head, reaching to grasp her hands.

"You've got it wrong, Lyss," I say, and then bite my lip.

My words had little effect the last time I'd tried to convince her that Marcus was a scheming weasel, and now, after so much time, he likely has his claws in deeper still. I have to choose my words with care.

"Marcus had it wrong, Lyss," I say. "Jaxon didn't kidnap me, and he hasn't been using me against my will. He's been keeping me safe."

Her brows pinch and her eyes fill with emotion—though pity is not the emotion I was hoping to see.

She presses my hand and leans to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, taking in my strange appearance with care as she does.

"Where have you been, anyway?" she asks softly. "And why do you look like this?"

I swallow, suddenly conscious I have to be careful of my answer. Lyssa is my sister, and I love her, but as I look at her, I understand what Jaxon has been telling me all along. From the rubies at her ears, to the money in her purse, to the diamond on her finger, she's 'bought' Marcus's lies, quite literally. And while I've always considered Lyssa to be open-minded and accepting, no one likes to be wrong—especially about something so personal.

So, with chosen words and a few digressions, I tell her—more or less—the truth: that Jaxon and I had fled with Nic and Yumi—who is not an assassin—and that we've been trying to discover who was really behind the murder of Edie and Linus Spellwright, and to prevent what they might be planning next.

She listens, her expressions shifting like the shadows of clouds across an open plain. Finally, as I reach the end of my recitation (having left out anything to do with Aurelio, the college, or the Devil's Song), her eyes are dark and wet with tears, and she reaches to embrace me once again.

"Gods, Sylas—I am so sorry. I've been so blind. And Marcus—!" She grasps my arm tight, almost hurting me. "But now that you've explained, it all makes perfect sense! But what should I do!?"

I'm not entirely convinced she believes me, but she sounds on the verge of panic, and when she reaches for me again, I reciprocate once more, drawing her against me in a half-desperate hug.

"Come with me," I say, taking a gamble. "Come with me, and I'll bring you somewhere safe. Jaxon will tell you more, and then you can decide what's best."

She nods and sniffs against my shoulder, and relief floods my body like sunlight. A feeling of calm washes over me: a certainty that I'm right where I need to be, that I'm doing the right thing, and that everything will be perfectly all right.

"Okay," she says, releasing me. "Wait here a sec while I get my things. Then we'll slip out the back."

She leaves me, and I sit for a moment, content to wait, and wondering at myself absently. I wish Jaxon could see me now—so calm and collected—not at all like my usual, panic-prone self.

The thought seems to echo in my skull: not at all like myself.

She wouldn't, another voice argues, mild and soothing. She's just going to get her things, and then she'll be back, and we'll...

I don't actually remember seeing a back exit, now that I think about it—though surely there is one. A fire escape, right? And Lyssa wouldn't...

It wouldn't hurt to check, my anxious, inner mind insists. It wouldn't hurt to know for sure.

It takes a great effort of will—like getting out of bed too early on a dark morning, on a day I'm not looking forward to—but I manage to reach behind me and check the back pocket of my jeans.

My fingers close on something thin and soft, and I pull it out reluctantly, and discover I was wrong, after all: it does hurt to know for sure.

It's a little piece of round, crocheted lace, like a spider's web—like the one still hanging from the latch on the door. I can almost see the magic glittering like dewdrops on the strands. It's a spell of complacency—a strong one, too. Someone with this spell on them would do anything the Crafter asked—including happily dig their own grave and lie down in it—all the while convinced that everything is fine, like that cartoon dog in the old meme.

Spells that take away another's will like that are illegal, and for good reason.

I know what I have to do, but it's like knowing I need to smash my own hand with a hammer, and I don't want to.

Because breaking this spell means facing reality; and the reality is that my sister just used an illegal curse on me.

Shutting my eyes, I take a breath and try to ground myself. I can hear her talking to the shop owner, telling him something about her friend in the back, who needs help, and how she's calling someone. Luckily, the secrecy spell only goes one way, and doesn't block sounds from beyond the changing room—only any protest I might make from within.

Summoning every ounce of will of I have, I focus on the spiderweb of lace in my hand. I see the magic woven into its design, pick out the thread that connects it all, and pull.

The spell falls apart and I draw another, sharper breath.

And it hurts. Not because of the effort it took, or of how tired I am, but because of what it means.

The enthralled cannot, by turn, enthrall.

Lyssa isn't Spelled; she's fully aware, and she's made her choice.

And now I've literally got to run.