If mood was visible, Emily was the brightest one in the train that morning, with a beam of light over her head, spewing gold glitters that staled everything else in the gray, metallic tube speeding down the tracks.

Sitting across the human, Isla's eye twitched at the terrible sight. Wrapped in a stylish black coat with a thick apricot scarf around her chin, Emily tugged her lip between her teeth, smile escaping as she tapped on her phone.

Boyfriend.

No. Janet, best friend.

It was not just Emily's mood that bothered Isla. It was the woman's future. Her eyes flickered back to the group of singing humans at the end of the train. Someone hopped on earlier and started singing about healing the world.

The ignorant fools.

She did not hate that they were happy. She hated that not one soul was feeling as miserable as she was, blind to what she could see from one head to another, how their fates were tied together.

Disaster.

If there was anyone to blame, it would be the woman sitting across from her—Emily. Human, naive, Emily. And maybe Cris, her secretary.

They could have flown to her great-grandfather's estate, but all private Opulent planes were banned in Vestian air since yesterday following the arrest of five Opulents in a commercial flight after they illegally carried vials of their own blood. It was not unheard of for Opulents to carry drops of their own powerful blood, but it was criminal inside a Vesta. As if the blood would work in their pathetic, powerless grounds.

When she complained about the train ride, Cris had said, "Unless you're willing to leave your weapons behind, we can fly in a commercial human-manufactured metal box."

The weight in her midriff was growing heavy, stretching her insides. Like accidentally eating soup from a vampire's kitchen, but worse. Her gloved hands were shaking. The inspirational, hopeful singing was pushing the heaviness up her throat. She wanted to throw up. The heat and tangy taste of blood in her tongue melted the bitter taste of her morning coffee.

It was a lonely struggle of seeing, feeling, tasting.

And dreading.

She stood. From the corner of her eye, her fifteen-year-old secretary looked up from the copy of the lyrics he accepted earlier, a lock of his brushed up black hair hovering over his forehead. His gaze followed her across the aisle to human Emily. The three guards they were traveling with, dressed in black suits and strategically scattered nearby, like spies in a terrible action movie who get killed before the big fight, became slightly more alert.

"Congratulations," Isla said, sitting close to the woman, voice deeper than that of a typical twenty-three-year-old.

The dislike was instant in the woman's head. Emily was not pleased to find a young woman dressed in an elegant moss green dress with sheer sleeves. Isla recognized the white tea scent of her own hair as it registered in Emily's brain, and she could also sniff the hint of envy playing around the woman's thoughts. And now, realizing Isla was sitting too close, Emily was also thinking her space was being violated.

But Isla was planning something more than that.

Emily's light brown eyes measured Isla up and down as she slid away, her perfectly trimmed eyebrows fused.

A bead of sweat formed on Isla's temple. The hairs on the back of her neck perked up as the train continued its fast approach to their death. She crossed her leg over the other, back straight, shoulder stiff.

Anytime now, she thought, turning her head to stare at Emily until she trapped the woman's eyes. "Congratulations," she said without a smile. "Your boyfriend Timmy is proposing tonight."

Fear registered in Emily's eyes. In her head, there was more for Isla to read: Panic. Confusion. Was she facing a witch? No, not a witch. Opulent.

Sudden realization clicked in Emily's thoughts and her face hardened. She looked away, head bent on her phone, her easiest escape; her regret echoed back to Isla. Shouldn't have taken a train outside a Vesta, Emily thought before she murmured, "I don't talk to your kind."

This human deserved to suffer, but Isla regretfully needed to save this woman's life by ruining her future. "You'll say yes to him in the hospital tonight."

Emily's hand froze around her phone, her unspoken question stronger than the scowl she threw.

"After the accident." She could see her teenage secretary looking at them from across the aisle. People were still singing at the end of their carriage, the melody a constant ache in her gut, the out-of-sync singing a terrible, beleaguering nuisance.

Not far from Cris was a girl, human, red long hair and freckles, eyes wide at Isla, curious but afraid. The girl was schooled well by the mother traveling with her, the one currently reading a copy of the Daily Vestian, probably reading the news on the five Opulents caught smuggling blood inside in a human plane. The girl's head was full of curious thoughts, remembering her mother's words about the Opulents. They are products of sin, darling. The bad angels kissed the gods and they bore them Opulents. But we don't have to fear them.

Why, Mama?

We have our Vestas. And they're Cursed.

Cursed?

Yes. Their punishment for being children of sin.

My friend says Opulents have wings.

She's wrong. Opulent's don't have wings.

But—

They're powers from the devil. Don't fear, darling. Opulents feed on it like the others. Now hush. No more.

She smiled at the memory, at the innocent, curious thoughts. The girl flinched, her wide eyes somehow amazed. Isla knew how this girl would die, the screeching sound of steel ringing in her head.

She turned to Emily again. "Something terrible is going to happen and we'll all die in this train. We, meaning me included. Except you."

Emily's face blanched.

"Terrible, isn't it? Unacceptable, even. To die among wretched humans..." she said, clucking her tongue. "Such disgrace."

She gave Emily a pitiful smile. She was the strongest link in the train.

"You will have a good marriage, but only for a while," she said as she pulled at her silk glove, hands shaking.

"What are you talking about?" Emily asked, leaning away from Isla as the train carriage swayed. If mood was visible, Emily's was disappearing, the gold glitters landing gray like charred paper around her.

Without warning, Isla's cold, clammy palm closed over Emily's bare hand, and instantly the angry and fearful eyes turned white as Isla showed Emily her memories from last night.

Her boyfriend Timmy making love to her; the ring inside the velvet box she found hidden in the cupboard; she stepping out of the Vesta to ride the train, sharing her profound excitement with her best friend Janet.

Then Isla showed her what would happen next.

The singing in the train ending. Black and yellow blasting down the length of the train carriage; bodies thrust around. Scorching heat and wretched cries. Death everywhere.

Total silence.

Isla with twisted limbs and lifeless icy blue eyes staring straight at her; the red-head girl taking her last breath while encased in her mother's arms; she, Emily, moaning and coughing, the tassels of her apricot scarf singed.

Then darkness.

Isla smiled, grip tighter around Emily's shaking hand. "Now, the good part."

Emily opening her eyes to the bright light of the hospital. Timmy crying beside her bed with relief, asking her to marry him because he could not bear to lose her; she saying yes as she choked in tears.

"Do you like it?" Isla asked and Emily, eyes still white, nodded slowly, tears streaming down her eyes. "Of course, you do, you selfish creature. Do you want to see more?"

Emily nodded and Isla gave her a gift—a look far into her future.

Emily cleaning the cupboards, dark brown hair unwashed for days; her hands had become portly and rough. Kids running around screaming; smears of food and poop indistinguishable on the walls; she opening a door to Timmy naked in bed with her best friend Janet. Divorce. Drugs. A child in prison. Suicide.

A certain miserable life.

Isla lifted her hand. Emily blinked, light brown eyes filling with confusion, panic, and misery. Isla's gaze was on her glove as she slipped it back on. She did not have to see the woman's face. Her goal was achieved.

Emily's light was as dim as her new future. The gold glitters were now ashes falling around her, becoming one with the seat and floor where they landed.

Looking up, Isla met her secretary's gaze. When she turned to Emily, tears were streaming down the woman's eyes, phone forgotten on the floor between her feet. Her future was murky, but Isla could no longer see a Timmy or a Janet. The universe had tilted and righted itself in a new axis. Emily's new fate conspired with everyone else's in the train.

The song was ending, and their death was no longer a thing of the future.

Emily looked like compact ash wrapped in a scarf. Her question persisted like vermin. Will I be happy? But she did not voice it. She hated the thought of having to ask an Opulent.

"W-who are you?" Emily choked out as Isla stood.

"Isla Develler."

Emily scrambled away. If she was afraid earlier, she was frightened now.

Isla ignored Emily, blocking the woman's thoughts completely as her secretary rose to join her by the door, followed by the three guards.

She glanced at the red-haired girl again, but the child ducked under her mother's arm, behind the Daily Vestian. Isla's eyes flickered to the top left corner of the page facing her.

March 24, 2020.

She frowned just as they came to a jostling stop. Stepping off the train, her eyes quickly scanned the underground station before everyone else filed out: red brick walls with sticky residue of posters that caught grime and filth over the years; the cement ground had marks of wheels and shoes that hinted frightened and skidding footsteps.

She found another human holding a copy of the Daily Vestian.

March 24, 2020.

But there was no time to ask. The traffic of humans, and their distinct smell of warm blood and sweat overpowered her, pushing her to where Cris waited at the bottom of the stairs that led to the bristling morning city streets. Commuters circled them in a hurry to climb and reach the top, scrambling not because they were running late, but because they were desperate to return to safety.

Precisely twenty steps away was a Vesta.

That meant no reading thoughts, memories, and future.

No wings.

Just more humans.

***

After the Goddess of the Hearth gifted the Vestas to the humans hundreds of centuries ago, they still held strong. The humans were kept safe in their many patches of land, and London was just one many around the world. Like wastelands, no magic could spark in a Vesta.

Isla looked out the tinted window of the car. Holding umbrellas under a gloomy spring drizzle, the Vestians roamed under skyscrapers, thick electrical wires and dangling street signs, footsteps light and certain. Ladies in tight, bright dresses and heels strutted down the sidewalk, their faces heavily painted, eyes darkly lined; men, in coats and boots rushed along, oblivious, lost in their own thoughts and worries; bystanders with placards of services lined against soot-covered brick walls. And children were everywhere, with rucksacks, running after one another, some in dirtier clothes looking ten times their age, dying each day of hard labor. Beyond, upward, in the skyscrapers, the elite. Never seen on the streets, too high and mighty even for their own kind.

It was a picture of a contrasting, beautiful, miserable existence.

"Centuries after the war and they're the victorious ones."

"Victorious?" Cris absently asked, bent on his phone, scrolling down endless messages. "Who? Humans?" He scoffed. "Their fear traps them in their Vestas. They're the losers."

He may be right. They deserved the fear. Their Vestas were protecting them, also killing them. They'd step out the borders now and again, but mostly only for a few minutes of train ride. For these humans, stepping out meant a world of unknown danger. And that was where she was eager to get to.

Into an Erebus.

Isla studied Cris, head bent on his phone. He looked like any typical teen with his black leather backpack, but the boy dressed like an old Opulent cursed in a teenage boy's body—plaid shirt, brown pants, and suspenders.

She frowned.

That morning, he walked into a room looking older and much taller than she last remembered, but he dismissed it by saying he must have finally gotten his Curse. It may have been a joke, but it could also be true. And if it was, she would need a replacement soon. All recorded Opulents who got the Curse of the same nature only lived two years.

Driving through the last remaining miles of London, she said goodbye to the enormous billboard of a man in a tuxedo sitting on a stool, his eyes closed while he sang. His shadowed face had been everywhere, spotlighted above dark, moldy buildings.

The name Luke Edner, in bold and giant letters, hovered over his head. Half of his face was good-looking enough for human standard. Manly with sharp, clean-shaven jaw; classy with his tuxedo; thick brows. The hand holding the microphone had veins popping out; and the way he sat on that stool elongated his leg.

But he was purely human, and Isla Develler never took an interest in human men. Her boyfriend Axon, a demigod, would ruin this Luke Edner's career with a snap of his godly fingers.

Many demigods had long surpassed the humans in the entertainment world because, apparently, humans had always had godly fantasies. They circled back to where they began thousands of years ago—worshiping the gods. Clearly, they had not learned their lessons from the War of Grace.

But this Edner human survived, even collecting Opulent fanatics, Isla's sister included.

Humans did not deserve to be worshiped. They had always been the worshipers, weren't they? They would kneel before anything that was beautiful, living or not. They worshiped their phones simply because it cost more than the last one.

But Isla could not just take her sister away from her odd fascination. It was how Lola survived the loss years ago. First, it was with a metallic vampire band. Then, just recently, it was this Luke Edner.

She looked at the rearview mirror and found the human driver staring at her before quickly diverting his gaze. He should be used to taking other creatures for a ride. But maybe he was not used to someone like her.

"D-Develler?" he had stuttered earlier when they had to show him their identification cards, a protocol imposed by London upon every non-human creature for safety reasons.

There was a reason the Devellers had been the reigning rulers of the Opulents for centuries. Their powers—their wings as they called them—were with their minds. But like all Opulents, they were Cursed. Nearly every Opulent she knew had gotten their Curse.

Except her.

Isla began to relax when they crossed the last border and entered an Erebus. The smoke of pollution slowly clearing the farther they went.

Erebi were the only place left for the Opulents after the war. A dark gray void fogged the battlegrounds smeared with god and angel blood. It took centuries for the void to clear. But the spirits of the snow that hovered in midair when the Spell of Thousands was cast still lingered, floating and glowing like tiny orbs. Sometimes, when blown by the wind, they sang faint melodies that reached the ears.

Isla opened the window. The chilly air swept in, whispered memories of winter past. The smell of fresh grass veiled the magical things that may or may not be present there, beyond, or beneath. The tiny winter glowing orbs hovered in the air like fog.

There was no sign of anyone within a mile, but who could tell? They were in an Erebus. It may no longer be as dark and filled with despair as what the god they named it after personified, but it could be, depending on who or what was in the path.

Mystical dangers hid behind vast fields that was just waking up from the winter months. There was magic and power here. Wonder. Forgotten and sleeping chaos.

As they traveled on, the view outside the window showed more signs that the Erebus was occupied. There were small villages that may or may not inhabited. They may be owned by fellow Opulents; or minor or orphaned demigods. In rare cases, humans, too.

The only certain thing was that an Erebus was almost always free of gods and angels. The former would visit now and then, but they would always return to their realms. The latter, however, had been absent since the War of Grace ended thousands of centuries ago. It was as if the angels had completely abandoned the world after they took part in the Spell of Thousands. But the old gods and spirits still lingered, ever present, older than time itself.

***

The emperor lived in a countryside villa three Vestas after London where a human emperor once lived. It took a lot of mettle for a human to erect a home outside a Vesta, but it was not unheard of. The rascals would hunt exotic creatures they could sell back home or to whoever would want them because they had almost squeezed their own lands of resources.

White columns lined the facade of the Emperor House. Isla looked up, trying to remember when she last saw it. Was it two years ago? She couldn't remember.

She didn't live with Ivor, but her sister did. Lola remained with the old Opulent while Isla moved everywhere after the Academy to complete missions for the empire.

The butler welcomed her into the estate. The scent of pine wood and cigar smoke carried a wistful feeling. The walls were now free of the colorful drawings Isla and Lola scribbled on them when they were children.

She could not see memories of inanimate things like Lola could. The ones playing in her head were her own. The laughter of children under ten, their muffled running steps along the many carpeted corridors, the naughty whispered chuckles under the covers during the night.

"There you are!" A chirpy voice cried from the top of the stairs.

Lola was dressed in a light blue denim jumper with the cuffs folded above her ankles, a brown shirt underneath, and a pair of brown leather desert shoes. Her shoulder-length lavender hair bounded with her steps and changed into the color of mustard sauce when she landed in front of Isla. Her golden-brown eyes filled with excitement and hinted wickedness. "Happy birthday!" her sister greeted as her hair turned silver.

"I like this color," Isla said.

"I'll try my best to keep it," she turned to Cris. "How are you doing, kid?"

"I'm not a kid," Isla's secretary replied, walking past them.

"You are a kid," the women chorused. "You're fifteen!" Isla added the same time Lola said, "Seventeen's still a kid!"

Isla blinked at Lola. Her sister raised her brows in question. "What?"

"You said he's seventeen."

"No, I didn't."

Isla looked at her sister, brows fused. "Well?"

Lola's smile was frozen on her lips as she blinked at Isla once, then twice.

She could easily search her sister's thoughts now and get an answer fast, but she did not. Lola was the only one she always chose not to read because she promised. "You told me to rush here. Is Ivor dying?"

Lola's face lit up with understanding. The she rolled her eyes. "He always says he's dying."

"Then he's not?"

Lola's chuckle echoed down the hall. "Of course, he is. We just don't know when!"

"Then why am I here?"

"Don't worry, it's not to celebrate your birthday. He called you for something really important." She tugged Isla toward the library.

"What's this about, Lola?"

Her sister let out a nervous laugh. Then, without answering, said, "The old man's waiting."

***

Isla sat across her great-grandfather with a cup of tea. Lola had disappeared to the kitchen to finish baking her cake.

Ivor's white hair reflected his face, brittle and wrinkled. The large lumps under his murky blue eyes made Isla think he'd been depriving himself of sleep, hoping it would kill him. She had seen photos and paintings of him when he was younger, and compared to then, he was now a living corpse.

She wanted him to die—he deserved to die. She was ready to rule, but without a Curse, the empire was hesitant because the nature of her Curse could either make or break her way to the throne.

There were Opulents waiting for her Curse, hoping it would be bad enough, all of them eager for a chance to kick her out. Her cousin, Rowan, was the most ambitious contender. But there were others. Eight Senators, in fact, all from powerful Opulent families, all pining for power.

"You're still alive," Isla said. "I'm disappointed."

Even the echo of his laughter was slow to reach her ears. "Not now, but I can feel it will be soon." Portraits of deceased Devellers surrounded them, all gawking at Ivor, their faces telling him they needed him in the afterlife. He looked on at Cris, eyeing the teen with a mild smile.

Ivor always had a soft spot for wingless Opulents like Cris. Waifs as they called them, they were the Opulents who suffered the most after the Spell of Thousands. They were the ones who were stripped of their powers. Versants, like the Devellers, were the lucky ones.

Isla's wings were known to her since she could remember. Lola's too. Unfortunately for Cris, ever since they found him outside the Develler doors as an infant wrapped in a thick blanket in a storm, he had shown no ability save for his immense stoic mien.

He could pass as human anytime, except that his blood was the same color as theirs—blue. Glowing blue. Tasty, too, as the vampires would claim.

She saw the look Ivor threw Cris. Was it pity? Concern? She could not tell.

Then she stiffened, because suddenly she could read Ivor's thoughts. He had always been so powerful and it was almost impossible to get through him. She saw an image of a woman with long wavy black hair walking away, her back turned to Ivor.

Her great-grandfather caught her eye and then...nothing. His thoughts were guarded again. "I don't appreciate you using your wings on me, child."

"And I'm afraid you're getting weaker because I can."

He sighed and another memory slipped:

She saw herself through Ivor's eyes; facing a group of people. They were around a long table surrounded by Versants.

There was one problem with that memory. She recognized the Versants, but couldn't remember that particular moment.

Her frown deepened, confused and bothered that he could not guard his thoughts. "When did that happen?"

She caught the look he stole Cris. Her secretary sighed, pocketing his phone, a sign that he was about to deal with something important.

"What's happening?" she asked, gaze hard on Ivor. "Cris, when did I have that meeting with the Senators?"

When Cris was ten, he made Isla grace a contract which protected his thoughts from her. Even if she wanted to look into his head, her body would not allow it. Without Cris' consent, Isla could never penetrate him.

There had been many times in the past where she regretted ever gracing a contract with her secretary. This moment was one of those.

"You had a few meetings with the Senators. Which one are you talking about?"

Her eyes slanted to Cris, narrowing by the second. "The one I don't remember having."

Cris stiffly walked toward her, sharing a look with Ivor. With a nod, he dismissed the guards by the door who dutifully exited the room. "Two years ago," he answered. "You were twenty-three in that memory, Isla."

She scoffed, feeling incredulous, but the knot in her belly tightened. "I just turned twenty—"

"Five," interrupted Cris. "You're twenty-five."

The copy of the Daily Vestian in the train flashed in her mind.

March 24, 2020.

Ivor was looking at her with the same look he threw Cris earlier—pity and concern.

"Isla, two years ago, you had your Curse," Cris said, voice serious but practiced. As if he'd had this conversation too many times before. "You got a bad one, Isla. And it's something we've never seen before." Cris, who was always eager to deliver the bad news, continued. "Your Curse is a frozen memory."