Luminous Part 28

"So did I," she admitted.

Crow feathers ruffled. "As if," he said. "If any of us survived, he could not empty the Flow. He would have failed. I was hoping that you would find it sooner; I had only the one door."

She smiled, but the room settled into an awkward silence. She picked at the pilling, wondering if she'd be picking the same piece of fluff forever.

"Are there any others?" Joseph Crow asked.

Consuela shook her head, plucking a pilly bit free. "No."

Joseph Crow flexed his wings, flapping them a little as he repositioned his feet on the post. "There will be, soon enough. So I'd appreciate your help."

Consuela nodded. "What can I do?"

"I need you to gather the white sage and clear away a bit of the fire for me. Once I transform back into human, I can begin rebuilding." Joseph Crow flexed a claw. "As I said, beaks and claws are no good at pulling sage. They are tough, woody plants."

"Sure," Consuela said. "Although it might be easier with a pair of scissors." But the mention of scissors brought a nightmare chill-running and fear and Tender. And V. She glanced at her door with trepidation.

The crow c.o.c.ked its head. "What's the matter?"

"That door," Consuela said, pointing at it accusingly. "I can get out through the windows in skins, or through the mirrors with V, I can even get back, through the Flow and in dreams, but I can't go through that door like this . . ." She touched her face, her soft skin, feeling her every vulnerability. "I think Tender did something to it."

Joseph Crow flew over, landing on the carpet. He hopped two-footed around the base of the door, peering under and pecking it. He fluttered back to face her.

"Have you tried it?" he asked.

Consuela shrugged. "I've been afraid to," she admitted.

"How many doors remain closed to us because we've been afraid?" he mocked. Tipping his head back as if swallowing a worm, Joseph Crow flew to her desk chair to be at eye level as he spoke.

"What do you want?" he asked.

What do I want? It was no small question. I want to be safe. To be real. To be alive. To go home.

"You know." Joseph Crow said. "As well as you know yourself." The crow winked a beady black eye.

Know thyself.

"V was your angel," he said. "He spoke your truth. Did you hear him?"

Consuela nodded. "I did." I always heard him.

"You don't need me-you don't need anyone. You can do this. You can do anything."

She blinked, a hairbreadth from understanding, a guess on the tips of her lips.

Satisfied, Joseph Crow turned and readied himself for flight. She remembered the feeling: bunching her legs, tucking her wings.

"Do not forget to come by and pick the sage," he said, lifting a claw. "I'll be stuck like this until you do." He waved a wing and cast one quick look out the window. "We'll be waiting for you, Consuela Chavez, here in the Flow."

He flapped out of her room, the movement filling her mind with the empathic memory of feathered flight. She watched him disappear into the unzipped sky.

Consuela stood by the window and placed a hand against her chest, her fingers brushing the topaz cross. Whose heart beats here? She remembered once wondering and glanced at the door, knowing the answer all along: Mine.

She left the window open. Walked tentatively to her door. Remembering Grandma Celina, she grasped the handle. Stared at her hand-her hand, fingernails, cuticles, crinkles, and all. Skin and blood and bone, all her.

My skin is mine.

My skin is me.

This is my self-and I know myself.

That is my one thing.

Me. My skin. Myself.

The last piece slid into place: I can cross over.

Consuela turned the handle, afraid to look, but then she saw it: hardwood floors, cream-colored walls, the worn, Indonesian runner, and the framed family portrait at the end of the hall.

She took one look back into her phantom bedroom, growing dim, and stepped out into her life in a brilliant burst of light.

chapter seventeen.

"I believe that myths, like every living thing, are born, degenerate and die. I also believe that myths come back to life."

-OCTAVIO PAZ.

It was the first time she'd been out on her own since the coma. Consuela's parents had been overprotective and jumpy since the brain tumor had been detected, but it was benign, so their panic was slowly easing off with time. Save for some slight nerve damage in her left hand, Consuela was fine, but her falling unconscious in the bathtub had done nothing for their willingness to leave her alone.

After some shameless begging and a talk with Consuela's physical therapist, her parents had agreed to give back some of her lost independence as well as her credit card. This solo shopping trip was a precious gift of trust. Baby steps, the outpatient counselor a.s.sured her. Baby steps. Consuela still had to take the bus to school and the mall, her driver's license suspended until the doctors could prove that she wouldn't black out at the wheel.

Consuela knew that wouldn't happen, but couldn't share why. Unless she removed her skin, she'd remain part of this world. In the meantime, she'd have to suck up the bus rides and the every-twenty-minute parental check-in texts. As annoying as it was, it felt good to be home and loved.

That's why she could never tell her parents that when the tug of need was strong, she'd curl up in her closet and remove her skin so that she could go rescue some faraway stranger and slip back into her room, hoping that her lifeless body would go unnoticed until she returned. It was risky, but it was the best she could do. Consuela belonged to both worlds now, and she had responsibilities in each.

A skin of autumn leaves, another of ash, and a third, glittering one of spider silk hung in her closet. She'd kept the original skin of fire that crackled in its garment bag, and she'd undone the skin of b.u.t.terflies so that they'd soared out of her window in a calliope of wings. It amazed her that no one in the real world saw these things. She, herself, couldn't see them unless she returned to her self as Bones.

Consuela. Bones. Angel Bones.

She smiled down as she made her way down the clothing aisles, riffling her fingers through the long rows of jeans. She felt the ones she was wearing rode too low on her hips; that fashion was so over. One cannot live on impossible skins alone!

Draping two pairs over her left arm, Consuela headed for the dressing rooms. She'd eventually find something that fit. They were just clothes. This was just skin. Today was just one day of her life, which was so much bigger than now. Consuela liked knowing exactly why she was here, what she was here for, and that no one else knew her secret double life. She could be a Guardian Angel with the benefit of coming home for dinner.

Consuela shut herself into the narrow stall and began unb.u.t.toning, but stopped and stared at the mirror. Her pulse fluttered. Thought she saw something there . . .

She placed her hand on the cool gla.s.s, twisting it at the wrist to cover the image of her own eyes.

"No peeking," she whispered.

His reflection smiled back.

Acknowledgments.

There is not enough chocolate in the world to thank everyone who helped make this book possible. Thanks to my editor, Julie Strauss-Gabel, who made the stars align, and to my agent, Michael Bourret, for heaps of sanity and sage advice. I am fortunate to have an incredible crew at Dutton, including Lisa Yoskowitz, Liza Kaplan, Emily Romero, Anna Jarzab, and Christina McTighe. Special thanks goes to Jeanine Henderson and Alberto Seveso for my beautiful cover and Rosanne Lauer and the copyedit team for making the words inside beautiful, too.

Before it ever got to Dutton, this story went through amazing critique partners, Susan VanHecke, Gayle Jacobsen-Huset, Robin Prehn, Kaelyn Porter, and Debbie Smart, as well as Angela Frazier, Maurissa Guibord, and Amy Henry, (with extra appreciation to Debi Faulkner, Jody Mugele, and Rusty for the scary early Tender, and to Jennifer Carson, Adrian Croft, and Deirdre Mundy for the scarier later version of same). Huge thanks to friends with red pens: Jenny & Matt Bannock, Jeremy Bernstein, and Michel Owen Miller who were there when it was barely skin and bones. And I would have never made it without my online writer communities including the Debs, the Tenners, the Elevensies, #kidlitchat, #YAlitchat, The Enchanted Inkpot, SCBWI, and the Blueboarders-especially those who appeared in real life: Sarah Jae-Jones and the Gothic Girls. You are all worth my weight in Lindt.

For lifelong encouragement, thanks to Mom, Dad, Corrie and Adam, Marilyn, Harold, David, Shari, and my "dojo family": there is no way I could have ever had the guts to pursue my dream without you. To long-time friends Jennifer Bagdade, Steve Deasy, and Ranjan Srivastava, there aren't enough words (which is really saying something)! For inspirational teachers: Mr. Haberland, Mr. La.r.s.en, and Mr. Philyaw; Grandma, Grandpa, Bubbe, and Papa who always believed in what I was meant to do-you were right. As always.

Finally, a heart full of thanks to my Better-Than-Boy friend, Jonathan, without whom my dream would have stayed nicely tucked into a drawer, and to my darling children who forgave Mommy's "one-more-minutes" and gave me hugs and kisses anyway. To you, the reader, who is holding this book, and to G-d for granting me this gift and this day: Thank you.