See These Bones

by Chris Tullbane

  By seven, I was all cried out. At eighteen, I could barely remember what it was like. I hadn’t cried when they dug me out of the remnants of the Control class building, peeling me off of Vibe, who I’d shielded from some of the blast. Hadn’t cried when they’d started treating my burns, when they’d ended up just slathering on ointments and wrapping me in bandages because Shane was right and some things really were beyond our school Healers’ abilities. Hadn’t even cried when I pulled myself off the med ward gurney and made the long, painful journey out to the clearing for Shane’s funeral. Hadn’t cried then, and wasn’t going to cry now either.

  That didn’t mean I was happy or anything, standing there and looking at Shane’s empty fucking casket. All it meant was that my eyes were dry. Conspicuously so.

  As if I didn’t already stand out enough.

  I’d heard the whispers when I arrived. Twenty first-years in proper mourning colors, and here comes the Crow, wearing yet another pair of grey school sweats over his bandages. Asshole didn’t bother to dress up for his own friend’s funeral. Even Wormhole had given me a look halfway between outrage and dismay.

  Wasn’t like I had anything else to wear. Wasn’t like I had any intention of telling them that either. They could go on assuming whatever the fuck they wanted.

  Sometimes, I wonder how much shit I might’ve avoided if I hadn’t been so concerned with my own pride.

  It wasn’t just first-years in the clearing, of course. Standing just past the casket was a row of faculty—Gabriella Stein conspicuous in her absence. And in front of his staff was the man himself, Jonathan Bard.

  When I’d first met Bard outside his office, the dean had looked barely twenty—indistinguishable from any other graduate student at the Academy. Behind his desk, he’d looked closer to mid-thirties, baby face tempered by the mantle of authority.

  Today, he looked almost as old as Amos, empty eyes fixed on the equally empty box in front of him.

  “I met Shane when he was twelve,” he finally said, his legendary voice scratched and worn. “He was in the hospital with his parents. Not because he was sick, but because other people were, and he wanted to help. His powers were barely active back then but he spent every weekend at L.A. General, doing what he could. Listening. Talking. Showing people that they weren’t alone.” He shook his head. “When his parents introduced us, he told me ‘I’m going to make places like this unnecessary.’ Just those words, from a twelve year old who looked even younger than his age, but I believed him. More importantly, I believed he would try. Not for glory. Not for endorsements, or money, or fame, but because he saw suffering and wanted to fix it. That’s who Shane was. The man you called Unicorn.”

  Bard cleared his throat.

  “During Orientation, I told you all that nobody makes it out of the Cape business alive. Over the past two decades, I’ve buried far too many former students. But they were all former students. The Academy is meant to be a place of safety, where you encounter nothing scarier than Nikolai’s training sessions, or one of Amos’ infamous pop quizzes. This is where you have the freedom to learn what it is to be a Cape without worrying that you’ll pay that price prematurely. Yet here we are. Shane Stevenson is dead, and his dream is dead with him. That means we failed him. This school failed him. I failed him.” He scanned the crowd of silent first-years, his gaze touching on each of us.

  “Each of you is more than the power you’ve been gifted. You are young men and women, with hopes and dreams, fears and ambitions. You matter as individuals. Unicorn was a once-in-a-generation talent, but I urge you to remember who he was instead of what. There will be other Healers. There will be people similarly dedicated to removing suffering from the world. There will never be another Shane. Remember him. Honor him. In your own ways, try to emulate him.” For the first time, Bard motioned to the faculty members behind him. “Your teachers will be having a remembrance ceremony tonight at Amos’ house, here on campus. You are all welcome to attend. In the meantime, we will leave you to say your farewells in peace. Please use this time and space to honor his memory.”

  It was a good thought. Respectful. Appropriate.

  Guess it won’t shock any of you to hear that it all went to hell.

  Or that I was at the center of the chaos, as fucking usual.

  CHAPTER 38

  I don’t like graveyards. That’s a weird thing for a Crow to say, but it’s true. Never have, and probably never will. The clearing behind Bard’s office wasn’t a graveyard, the casket wasn’t really a coffin, and Shane’s body sure as hell wasn’t anywhere inside of it, but even so, a part of me was back in the cemetery where Mom had been buried.

  I looked down at the empty box and couldn’t find any words to say.

  I was the tenth or so first-year to visit the casket, but the others had gone in groups of two or three, clutching each other, crying, maybe even whispering some sort of goodbye or farewell, as if the little ginger was there and could hear them.

  I was by myself, still dry-eyed, still silent, doing my best to ignore the eyes I could feel on me. Maybe if I’d had something to say, or if the weather had been shit, or if the other first-years hadn’t happened to go still and quiet at that exact same moment, I wouldn’t have heard her.

  “It should have been him instead.”

  The words were whispered, but that whisper carried through the still air.

  Olympia.

  Two guesses who she was talking about.

  I don’t do grief well, but anger? Anger is my fucking kingdom. I spun away from Unicorn’s empty coffin, and found her standing fifteen feet back with London, her silver eyes going wide with the realization that I’d heard.

  “What did you say?”

  Nine times out of ten, Olympia would’ve flinched just from me speaking to her. She’d have run away, I’d have felt like some sort of monster, and the standard cycle of Lightbringer-Crow bullshit would have kept on swirling.

  This time, however, her eyes hardened, and her spine went stiff. “I said it should have been you. Shane is dead, Ishmae may have burned herself out, but somehow, we’re still stuck with you.”

  “What the fuck is your problem?” I took two steps toward her, and this time, she did flinch. “Since the day I arrived, you’ve been pissing yourself every time we were even in the same room. Did we know each other in a past life or something? Or did your parents just not love you enough?”

  She went bone-white, all the blood draining from her face, spun on one heeled foot, and fled the clearing. Just like that, the natural order of things had been restored.

  Or it would’ve been, if London hadn’t stepped forward instead. Like Olympia, she was all in black. Unlike Olympia, there was no fear whatsoever in her eyes.

  “Fuck you, you asshole!”

  “Your Lightbringer friend just told me she wished I had died, and I’m the asshole?”

  “The asshole who brought up her family!”

  What the hell did that even mean?

  “Spectra’s family were killed in Reno,” said Santiago, strategically located near London, per usual. “Both parents and a little sister. Any surprise she’s scared of Crows?”

  “In Reno…” I scowled. “I’m not Crimson Death, for fuck’s sake!”

  “Are you sure about that?” Caleb left the crowd of first-years to meet me in the middle of the clearing. “The Academy’s been here for eighteen years, and they’ve never had a student die. You show up, and just like that, we lose our Healer, and maybe even our High-Four.” He sneered, playing to the crowd. “Only thing I can’t figure out is how you did it.”

  For just one moment, everything was silent; a handful of first-years watching Caleb and I with wide eyes, Supersonic’s sneer faltering as if he was only now realizing that he’d just accused me of murder.

  In that moment, anything was possible. I could’ve swallowed my anger and walked away. I could’ve let someone—anyone—come to my defense. Hell, I could’ve even waited to see if Caleb would pull h
is head out of his own ass and apologize.

  But the fucker had just accused me of murdering my friend. I leaned into that silence, met his blue eyes with mine, and bared my teeth. “Keep fucking with me and I promise you’ll find out.”

  •—•—•

  To hear Nikolai tell it, few Powers are more irritating in a fight than Flyboys and Jitterbugs. Their abilities mean they can come from almost anywhere, reach you before you know it, and be gone again before you can respond. Death by a thousand paper cuts.

  But Nikolai was talking about veterans. Someone like Caleb—still a semester away from learning how to use his power in a fight—was entirely too predictable.

  Doesn’t matter how fast someone is going, even someone calling himself Supersonic, if they’re traveling in a straight line. I didn’t have to see him move to anticipate where he’d be, to slide out of his path and drive my knee into his midsection.

  Flyboys and Jitterbugs are more durable than normal people. They have to be or their powers would kill them. But that’s a long fucking way from the invulnerability of a Titan or even a Stalwart, and nobody is built to handle the air being blasted from their lungs.

  Caleb went face-down and I was right on top of him, that same knee now planted in his back. I grabbed a handful of spiky black hair with one hand and pulled his head back and off the grass. Of its own accord, my other hand curled into a fist, and I drove it down toward the other first-year’s head.

  One thing I’d learned at Mama Rawlins’ was how to throw a punch, but Nikolai’s classes had taught me so much more—how to cork-screw my hips to increase the power of short strikes, how to add my own weight to downward blows, how to punch an inch or two through my target. I added every bit of what I’d learned to that punch.

  That’s probably not the sort of thing a Cape should admit to. Probably shouldn’t tell you about the savage glee I felt either, as my fist shot downward. All I knew was that I’d lost my friend, and this asshole had picked the wrong fucking day to mess with me.

  I know, I know; I’ve been saying that sort of shit for hours now, practically since the story began. I’ve been building up the tension and the angst and the fury and now that the moment I finally do something has arrived, here I am, talking again!

  Get to the blood already, am I right?

  Wish I could. Problem is, my whip-fast punch only made it about three inches before it stopped cold, an iron hand locked about my wrist. And before I could try one of those fancy escapes Nikolai had taught us, I was being pulled off of Caleb and tossed eight feet across the clearing.

  So much for the bandages the Healers had wrapped my arm and back in. I could feel burnt skin tear as I hit, feel blisters pop, pus suddenly wet against the fire of my raw, still-forming layers of new skin. Not even the realization that my other hand held a clump of black hair, torn from Caleb’s scalp, could outweigh that sudden rush of pain.

  Paladin was there by the time I’d managed to stagger to my feet. Because of course it was Paladin who had stopped me. He slid past my punch—a punch that tore even more skin on my back—and got right up in my face. His blue eyes were blazing like tiny stars, but his voice was soft, the words meant only for me.

  “Enough! I’m not letting either of you turn this memorial into a brawl.”

  Over Matthew’s shoulder, I saw Caleb rolling to his feet, but Orca was there to stop him. Flyboys and Jitterbugs are a pain in the ass to fight, no doubt, but in the realm of close combat, nothing compares to a Stalwart. Other Powers have them beat on individual metrics—Titans are stronger, Jitterbugs are faster—but nobody blends everything together into badass quite like a Stalwart.

  There’s a reason Paladin—the real Paladin, not Matthew-fucking-Strich—had been one of my favorite Capes growing up. I had as much chance of getting past Matthew and Orca as Prince did of sprinting a five-minute mile. Shit just wasn’t going to happen.

  “He started it,” I said instead, like a child.

  “Maybe so… but you can finish it right now, by letting this go.” His eyes bored into mine. “You didn’t kill Unicorn and Caleb knows it. You’re not going to kill Caleb, and you know that. Do you think this is what Shane would’ve wanted?”

  “What the fuck do you know about Shane—?”

  “Look around you, you jerk! Think about someone other than yourself for once in your life,” he hissed. “We all knew Unicorn. We all liked him, Caleb included. You’re not the only person who just lost a friend.”

  Against my better judgement, I took Paladin’s advice and scanned the crowd. Wormhole was still weeping, clinging to Silt, who’d taken a step or two in my direction. Olympia was long gone, of course, but everyone else was still there. Most were watching the drama unfold with undisguised horror, but some of the class remained isolated in their own personal misery. Winter’s long nose was bright red, dripping rivers of snot that mirrored the tears still streaming down her face. Tessa was kneeling in the grass, heedless of the stains it would leave on her ankle-length dress, her eyes closed and her hands clasped in front of her as her lips moved soundlessly through another prayer. Even Santiago—the always-slick, always-presentable El Bosque—was white-faced and red-eyed, holding onto London as much for his comfort as for hers.

  Matthew was right. For all that Bard had said about Unicorn, maybe the biggest testament to the little ginger’s character was that he’d somehow managed to befriend us all.

  But that was the only thing Matthew was right about. Truth is, I didn’t get the chance to finish anything. I was still looking at the circle of grieving first-years when I heard Orca cry out. I spun to see her stumble backwards. She came back to her feet in a smooth backwards somersault, but by then it was too late.

  Rookie Jitterbugs are predictable. But that only matters if you’re in a position to use that predictability against them.

  Flat-footed and partially restrained, I never saw the punch that dropped me.

  CHAPTER 39

  There were times in that first year where the medical ward felt more like home than my actual dorm room. I sure as shit spent enough time there. Once again, I found myself waking up on a hard metal gurney, swaddled in bandages.

  For a second, I wondered if the whole funeral had been a dream.

  That question answered itself when I opened my eyes and saw Dean Bard seated in a chair next to me. He was still wearing the suit from Shane’s service, and looked tired, old, and more than a little bit angry.

  “You should see the other guy,” I told him, wincing with each word. My jaw felt like it had been pounded with a sledgehammer. Given that I’d clearly been healed, Caleb’s punch must have initially broken it.

  “I did see the other guy, while you were being treated. Now it’s your turn.”

  I’d never had a father figure in my life, since my biological dad was a murdering asshole monster and Mama Rawlins’ wrinkled old booty call didn’t want anything to do with us kids. Bard didn’t qualify either, but there was something in the way he was looking at me—half-disappointed, half-resigned—that made me feel like a little boy being called to task.

  Given what life as a little boy had been like, I can’t say I enjoyed the feeling.

  “You know Caleb started it, right? I didn’t even punch him.”

  “Only because Mr. Strich was there to stop you.”

  “That’s one way to look at it, I guess.” I shrugged. They’d done what they could to fix my back again, but the new skin was tight under the many layers of fresh bandages. “Still, Supersonic attacked me. I just defended myself.”

  Bard’s face hardened. When he finally spoke, there was nothing smooth about the words that came out. “I have multiple witnesses who will testify that you threatened Caleb’s life. I have just as many who say that he blindsided you while Matthew was playing peacemaker. Truth be told, I don’t particularly care about the details.”

  “Then what do you care about?” I shot back.

  “Your future at my institution. I have neither the
time nor the inclination to coddle you as if you were a child. You can either grow the fuck up or get the fuck out of my school.”

  I met the dean’s cold-eyed glare with one of my own. “I’m betting Caleb didn’t get that same ultimatum…”

  “A bet you would lose. As I said, I saw him already.”

  “Oh.” The thing about healing is that it takes a lot of its energy from the patient. I was exhausted, and that was making it hard to hold onto my anger. “So what did he say?”

  “That is between Mr. Mikkazi and myself. At the moment, I am more interested in your response.”

  I turned my gaze to the ceiling. “You know I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “Yes.”

  Bard could do more with a single word than most people could do with a monologue. I sighed.

  “I wasn’t trying to pick a fight. But Shane is… was… my friend. I’ll be damned if I let anyone, from Caleb to Dominion himself, blame me for his death.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Or are you one of those people who think it was my fault?”

  “I think there is ample blame to go around, but none of it falls upon you or Kayleigh Watai.”

  “Who then?”

  “Ms. Stein for presenting the Maze to you first-years and then inadequately securing it. Ishmae for thinking that being a High-Four meant the rules did not apply to her. And last but not least, Shane himself.”

  That got my attention in a hurry. “Shane? How was any of this his fault?”

  “He repeated young Ms. Naser’s mistake. He overestimated his own training and proceeded recklessly. As great as his loss is, we are incredibly lucky that his actions didn’t cause even more widespread tragedy.”

  My knuckles were white as I gripped the side of the metal gurney. “So all that crap you were saying about Shane earlier—”

  “Was true,” Bard finished, “if incomplete. Shane was a first-year. For all his power, he was still largely untrained. His decision to heal Ishmae rather than wait for assistance cost him his life. Even worse, it cost the world multiple decades of benefit from his gift.”