“I picked up my end of the chest. Bee stared at the spot where the cacique had been standing, then grabbed the other handle. With the chest swaying between us, we emerged out of the cave onto a beach. The sky was as gray as northern slate, and the sea was a churning boil of smoke. Currents and swells roiled the surface, and wind kicked up spills of mist like choppy waves. Whitecaps flicked into existence and vanished. The strand that ought to have been sand was red coals and smoking ...ash. Only the sandals Vai had gifted me with protected my feet, for although common sense told me the leather ought to be burning, it did not. Bee wore boots. Rory sat in the cave mouth, ears flat, not coming out. “I can see why it’s called the Great Smoke.” Bee wiped her eyes. “Do you think that could be the mist I walk through when I dream?” I smacked my lips. “I hope your dreams don’t taste as nasty as this air does.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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