her grandmother had given her. She ignored the neatly arranged makeu

movements. She was searching for the one thing that matte

er

elicate chain. It was Victorian, intricately carved with faded floral patter

during a desperate escape, she had encountered bandits; a sharp blade sliced

ld not wait until her dying breath

r of eyebrow scissors on the vanity. She reached for th

taple on the edge of the old cigar box. A sharp

f blood welled up on the

ould even th

y in the center of the

the silver as if the metal were a sponge. The tarni

nd sudden, radiated from t

ugh heat haze. A powerful, silent force tugged at her from within, a

lved into a blur

disoriented, lasted only a second. Then h

silence w

n into a misty, undefined horizon. There were no walls, no ceiling, just an endless expanse of neutr

. The legen

her secret weapon. Her ark. In the last life she had stumbled through the apocalypse with nothing but the clothes on her back and a locket she

er nightstand. The pulling sensation returned, and in the blink of an eye, she was back, standing in front

against her ribs.

d with dozens of palettes and brushes, easily weighing twenty pounds. She wrapped her

grasp. Her hand was sudde

aky breath an

nd with a solid, reassuring w

lanced at the digital clock on her nightstand. The nu

ozen inside

e of a physical blow. Hot food would stay hot forever. F

nion for five years began to recede, replaced by a surge of intoxicating pow

ed money. A lot of it. And she needed to get out of Seattle, out of this city destined to be

ew, decisive energy, throwing in her passport, her birth certificate, a stash of emergency c

p. People were jogging, walking their dogs, lining up at coffee shops. They were living in a world that

esire to be a savior. She couldn't save them all. S

ave her grandparents.

his manipulative father, pay for th

nto shadow. The world outside, with its false pea

ld was just