The wail of the siren cut through the unnatural silence of my apartment like a knife. It was a harsh, grating sound, growing rapidly louder, closer. And that faint smell of smoke? It wasn't my burnt toast from earlier. This was real smoke, the kind that meant something was actually on fire, and not in a magical, accidentally-exploded-lamp kind of way.
"It seems," Violet said, her voice grim, her sapphire eyes narrowed, "that it just might." She wasn't talking about my bad birthday. She was talking about the smoke. The sirens. The "others" who wanted to twist the Voice. My stomach dropped.
"Great. Just fantastic," I muttered, pushing myself away from the wall. "So, my magical coming-out party has attracted the attention of… who exactly? The fire department? Or, you know, evil magic people?" My sarcasm was a flimsy shield, barely holding back the rising tide of pure, unadulterated terror.
Violet didn't dignify my question with a direct answer. Instead, her gaze swept over the ruined apartment, a flicker of something unreadable in her sapphire eyes. "We don't have time for explanations here. Your awakening was a beacon, Cassandra. A very bright, very loud beacon. They will be here soon. We need to cross."
"Cross where?" I asked, my voice a little too high. "To the neighbor's apartment? Because I'm pretty sure Mrs. Gable is going to have a heart attack when she sees me."
"To Elara," Violet stated simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "The veil is thin tonight, thanks to your… exuberance. It will be easier."
My mind reeled. Elara. The mystical realm. The place I'd only ever read about in dusty old folklore books, dismissed as quaint fairytales. Now, it was apparently my escape route. My new reality.
"Wait, wait, wait," I stammered, holding up a hand. "Just… hold on a second. I can't just leave. I have… I have a life here! My job, my plants, my ridiculously expensive coffee machine that I haven't even finished paying off! And my… my therapist! I was supposed to see her next week!" The words tumbled out, a desperate attempt to cling to the familiar, the mundane, before it was ripped away.