Dear Jericho, 

Before you died, I had only lost three orbs. After you died, I grew neglectful.

My current count is up to nine. I've lost nine Orbs during my years as a Settler. Six in the time you've been gone; one for each month I spent without you by my side. 

Nine innocent lives torn apart by Shades I was unable to return to the Void before they wrecked their demonic havoc on the Peripherals. It sounds like a large number when you think of it in terms of statistics—in a group of ten people, nine of them have the possibility of having their mind destroyed from the inside out. 

Then again, statistics has never been my best subject. You know that. I imagine you're rolling your eyes right now.

"Nine out of ten would be the equivalent to ninety percent, Vera," you would say. "You are far better than a ten percent success rate." 

Am I, though? 

Still, in all actuality, losing only nine somehow makes me the current runner-up for the best track record within the Halls. Regardless, their faces will burden me from time to time—some wrinkled with age, others smooth and unlined—haunting the blank moments of my day.

They remind me of all I have to lose if I fail.

You had only ever lost three: your mother, your father, and your brother.

Somehow, your three have always seemed far worse than my nine.

O * O * O

"Jamison Clancy Miles."

I've repeated the name for days now; muttering it underneath my breath while I brush my teeth, churning the name through my thoughts as I slug through pre-calculus homework. I don't know why I do it. Every time the name burns itself into my brain, it makes me jumpy, causing me to develop a nervous tick of tracing the slight pale band my Settler's ring has left in its wake.

It gives me regret.

Stupid, I chide myself as I slide my feet into a pair of leather sandals. So stupid. It feels childish now, the tantrum I threw in the Orbs Hall in front of Eleanor—probably my one true friend I still have there—chucking my ring as far from me as I could get it to go. To be honest, I had been aiming for Eleanor's face. Now, I'm glad it didn't hit her, but it is a little worrisome that my aim was so terrible.

"Jamison Clancy Miles."

Without the ring around my finger, I'm blind to the Shades corrupting my Providence. Those demonic bastards will remain invisible to me. I imagine they would laugh about it if they carried the slightest humorous bone in their warped bodies. Most frustratingly, I can't even get my ring back. The Orbs Hall is now unattainable, just beyond my ringless hand's reach; unless I get summoned by Serah Mallory, Old Man Ewan, or some other uppity Seers, I'm stuck in the Peripherals.

Just like I wanted.

I'm not quite sure I thought that through.

Funny how Jamison Clancy Miles was nothing more to me than another burning name until I learned that it had Jase's face.

My heart thumps unsteadily. Is this how I treated all those others on my ring? As just another job to be carried out instead of an actual life? I think about how I made up lives for all those names without realizing they already had one. I grit down on my teeth, forcing my breaths to saw in and out until I feel my blood boil back to normal.

Focus.

Jase's name appeared on my ring multiple times before I tossed it; I can't help but wonder what demon has stalked him all this time. My father's many-eyed Occuli? A useless Drude? Another Obake stealing a cute cheerleader's face? The thought frightens me; my throat threatens to close, an anaphylaxis shock against my panic, as I picture burning tattoos, talons like dragons, hissing threats of stinking garbage following Jase around.

Taunting him.

Forcing his Orb closer to the Void.

I tell myself that's why I'm going to this Start-of-the-Year Bash. To make amends. I throw a crocheted lavender cover-up over my swimsuit.

"I'll keep an eye on you," I vow to the reflection in my mirror.

The girl with tired blue eyes stares back at me; she looks a little doubtful. I screw up my face in determination. "I will."

Because even though I don't have my ring and can't see the demons, it doesn't mean that I don't know what to watch for. Demonic presence sucks the very will from a person, and I'm lucky that Jase exudes so much life. Energy. A wild, careless joy.

It should be easy to see the signs.

I turn off the freeway and onto a back road that twists and turns lazily past rows upon rows of rolled up hay barrels. White picket fences laced with mesh wiring keep the cattle and herds of horses from entering the road. The greenery is rather peaceful. I unroll the windows, taking a deep breath of the freshly rained pastures. It reminds me of the scent that follows Jase, and I frown to myself.

I wish I wasn't so foolish; Jericho would call me brash.

Always so keen to be foolhardy, Vera.

When I pull onto a dirt road that leads to Jase's house, the lowing of calves drifts through my open windows. My chest constricts. Jase already sits on the stoop of his front porch, toeing his lacrosse team's next defensive play into the dirt. The modest house behind him is made of white wood paneling, weathered columns holding up the roof's overhang above the front door. Beyond the house I can make out a red barn splashed against the blue horizon, complete with the quintessential metal, spiked-wheeled wheelbarrow that reminds me of The Wizard of Oz. I find it otherworldly, beautiful, like it's a land apart from this one, as unique as the Orbs Hall.

Jase's head shoots up when he hears my tires crunch on his gravel driveway. With a sweet grin, he bounds down the final step of his front porch. Before I can pull up on the emergency brake, he throws open my door.

He laughs.

"What?" I shut off the ignition and slip my keys into my bag.

He shakes his head, his brown hair floppier than usual like the warmth of the sun melted it. It falls across his tanned forehead when he leans into the driver's seat. "All observe the rare Los Angeles species of human thrown into a habitat out of its element," he announces grandly in a televised, fake Australian accent, eyes gleaming with the joke. "How will she react, this angel of the city?"

I shake my head at him and glance at his collarbone. "I believe it's the City of Angels."

He shrugs. "Heaven, indeed."

Because he wears a thin, white t-shirt, his bronze chain is just visible around his neck. I see a small lump against his breastbone beneath the cotton. It pokes out against the material like a hidden jewel.

I clear my throat and push past him to get out of my car. "Keep saying nonsense like that, and I can promise she won't react pleasantly." His energy is infectious; I can't keep from grinning. I look away to observe the severe lack of cars parked in his yard. "Where is everyone?"

"I've lied, Guinevere."

I roll my eyes. "For the last time, it's Guin—"

He waves that off with a smirk and leads me towards his front porch. When his back leans against the rickety railing, it groans under his weight. "I've lied, Cali Girl," he repeats with a smug shine to his expression.

"Oh." I squint up at him against the sun. "There's no party, is there? Is this one of those initiation rituals to induct new kids into Battlefield's fold? I bet there's cow blood I'm meant to drink."

Jase chuckles. "Oh, there's definitely a party," he affirms, unraveling my crossed arms and pulling me up the steps, "no cow's blood, unfortunately, but it doesn't start for another thirty minutes."

"So, why am I here?" Though I'm normally sure-footed, I stumble up the steps after him, unsure of his endgame. "Are you about to take me out back and use me as target practice since I showed you up in gym?"

"You did not show me up."

My tongue clucks at him. "Oh, so you're delusional, then? Perhaps that explains why you also can't read clocks."

He places a wounded hand against his chest. "Feisty, Guinevere."

"Guin."

He places a hand on the doorknob of his screened-in front door and looks at me over one of his broad shoulders. "If you're ready to play nicely, come on in." His honeyed eyes flicker with joy over his own cunning ploy. "Private tours are my specialty—" He tugs me into the air conditioned hallway of his house before I consent to such a thing—"You could use some practice. I've seen you on shift at Battlefield's museum, City Angel."

I huff. "It's Guin—"

It smells like baked goods inside, fresh bread warming in the oven, a scent that makes me think of home. Not my home. A home. An antique coat rack stands on spindly, iron legs at the base of a solid, wooden staircase. Jase takes the tote bag from my shoulder and hangs it up on one of the pegs, already moving again as he whisks me further into the rooms of his home. It's so unlike the open, spacious, unboxed atmosphere of my house that I can't help but stare at the endearing clutter of a lived-in space.

Jase stops in the middle of a narrow hallway, gesturing widely at the pale yellow sunshine painted walls. "These are vintage photographs of our lands," he explains grandly. He catches my gaze and points one out. His lips twitch, always on the move, and I watch them, mesmerized by his energy. 

No Shades around him here, it seems.

"These acres have been in the Miles family for centuries. They were first tilled by a former slave who took over the small plantation during reconstruction after the Civil War."

"History buff, huh?" I ask.

Jase grins a little sheepishly. "I'm taking it you're not."

I shrug because I'm not really sure what I truly am in this Peripheral world. What do I actually enjoy? It's true, I guess, that I never bothered with human history, more interested in the events of the Orbs Hall and the history that the Settlers carved out for us. Until Jericho. Until he informed me of the Legend of the Lost Key. Of Abaddon, and Heaven's gate. Of a Confederate battle ground and the Void that awaits a key to unlock it all.

"History can lie," I reply. "It's written by the victors."

"But that's what makes it so interesting," Jase counters. "You have to read between the lines to find the truth."

Find the truth. Vera. I shake my head and move on to a colored photograph, crossing my arms to hide the rising goosebumps; I glance at Jase. This photo appears more recent because a small, brown haired boy with a mischievous half-smile looks out at me from where he sits upon a speckled mare's back.

"And what truths can be read from this one?"

"That I've always been adorable," he quips, "and surprisingly good at riding bareback."

I continue to play along. "And this one?" I motion towards another photo with a younger-looking Jase and a tall, African American man. I remember what Annabelle told me about his adopted family. Though Jase's skin is tanned a slight bronze color from working on his family's farm, his dad is the color of melted chocolate.

And he clearly taught his flashing, winning smile to his son.

A lopsided smirk lights up Jase's already bright features. "I really missed out on the beauty genes of the family. I may look tan now, but trust me: it takes at lease three, painful, aloe-ridden sunburns each year to get me to this state."

I smile at the picture. "It must be nice."

He quirks a look at me. "What?"

"Having a family."

Holy hell. Why did I say that? Silence threatens the easy rapport between us. Awkwardly, I laugh it off. I distract us both by finding one more. "This one seems illuminating."

A humble shadow of the barnyard, which stands to the left of his house today, sits near the corner of the photo nearly dropping off the edge. The main portrait focuses around a lonely looking calf; it lays in the yellow, grassy pasture and chomps on bits of brittle hay. Jase inspects the picture with an air of thoughtful interest.

"Aw, yes, this one reveals the bond between a farmer and his loving bull. Man and dog countrified."

The amused cough of laughter betrays the rolling of my eyes, and I'm about to turn away to follow Jase into the kitchen when something catches my eye. Curious, I step closer towards the cow photograph. My gaze is drawn to the top right-hand corner where the edge of the barn meets the end of the photo. Except the edge ripples, like the ancient camera had captured the wavering heat waves caused by the sun on hot pavement. Except there isn't pavement. Not in the picture. And it moves.

An itch begins near the base of spine, and I sway on my feet as the memory blurs around me.

The portal doors are more like a ripple--

My fingers clench inwards as my breath hitches on a gasp.

Imagine a hot summer's day when the heat causes the tar of the road to roll like a wave. That's how you find a Void Portal--

There can't be a portal. Not here.

--they're rips in the air, mostly found on old historical sites where something horrific happened.

I blink sharply and spin away, pushing Jericho's words from my head. 

"Ridiculous," I mutter under my breath but something forces me to pause in my hasty retribution. 

The words the Obake claimed rush back to me: the explanation for Jericho's death, the duress that would awaken my portal sight. No. I've never even seen—it wouldn't be here of all places—I mean, what horrific event could have possibly happened on this lazy farm? Heart hammering, I muster my resolve and stare at the photograph again; the edge still ripples, a wave of the air that indicates something more.

I startle when Jase sticks his head out from around the kitchen corner, a loaf of sweet bread in his hands. "An art connoisseur, then?" he questions, watching me watch the photograph.

Numbly, I shake my head, swallowing the panic as I turn to face him. Jase simply grins wider even when I fail to respond. "I'll figure you out soon enough, Guinevere," he says. "Mark my words."

My brain's on a boat cast out at sea. I have to place a hand on the wall to steady myself. "No—" The word bursts out of me—"You won't."

"Mistake number two, Archer Girl." 

It's a new voice that has joined us; one that is, unfortunately, annoyingly familiar. The screened door clatters shut on its hinges to help punctuate his next words. "You just issued him a challenge, and Jase never backs down." Alden approaches us, thick arms crossed over his chest. He leans against the wall of photographs, right in between the one of the barnyard and a dog barking up a split tree. "Strike three, and you're out, Archer Girl."

Jase snorts in amusement. I get the feeling Alden's sudden appearances aren't uncommon. "What was her first mistake, then?"

Alden shrugs, nudging me in the shoulder with his fist. "Beating you at archery." He turns to Jase with an exaggerated huff, which gives me some time to collect myself. "So, my invite to the tailgate got lost in the mail, eh, Clancy?"

"It can't get lost if it was never sent." Jase winks at me as I numbly follow the two boys, who still bicker back and forth, into the kitchen.

The foreboding feeling of a crippled spider creeps down my neck. Shivers erupt down my arms. Jase looks at me once more—a single, sun-kissed eyebrow raised at my raging mood swings, no doubt—before shoving a bowl of tortilla chips into Alden's arms. "Well, now that you're here, you can help set up, at least. Take those out to the pool."

"Do you have queso for these?"

Jase tosses a glass container full of yellow goop across the table; Alden catches it with his free hand. "It better not be gone by the time I get out there!"

"Then you better be quick, Clancy."

I'm struck by the normalcy of the conversation; I can't picture a demon's presence here. Maybe my assumptions are wrong. Maybe I've simply grown into a paranoid teenage girl who lets fear control her actions. I clutch at my empty ring finger, see the name that has circled it, look over at a smirking Jase, think of the portal that may be hidden on this property—I bite the inside of my cheek and chance a glance at Jase's collarbone The bronze chain from my dream is still there, peeking out from the hem of his tee-shirt. My fists grip the edges of my cover-up like it can strangle my rising sense of dread.

One thing I am certain of, however.

I need answers, so I'm going to have to find a way to rid Jase of that shirt. 

- - -

However will Guin get Jase's shirt off him, you may be asking...Well, tune in next time!