Nightfall

by Shannon Messenger

  “We haven’t been letting time pass,” Keefe snapped. “We’ve been working on it every day.”

  “Not hard enough. Read the journals—you’ll find a whole other kind of motivation. Or, if you’d rather keep trusting the Black Swan, I’d recommend demanding they share what they clearly haven’t bothered mentioning. I’m sure they’re around there somewhere. Probably eavesdropping right now. And once you have a proper understanding of exactly what’s at stake, I’d recommend you start using your brains and track down Nightfall. Don’t hail me again until you do.”

  The Imparter went silent.

  “Gotta love my mom’s pep talks,” Keefe muttered, wiping his bloody finger on his dark cape.

  “I’m assuming you heard that,” Sophie called to Mr. Forkle. “Care to explain?”

  “Any details I haven’t shared have been to spare you unnecessary worry,” he called back, then shuffled slowly into the room.

  The others followed, and Sophie was glad to see that Grady and Edaline looked as confused as she felt. So did Alden and Della.

  Even Bronte.

  “I don’t need you sparing me—”

  “Yes, Miss Foster. You do. We all know this threat is deeply personal to you—and that every day it’s a struggle for you not to give in to your panic. There’s no reason to add to this extra burden.”

  “Keefe’s mom sure made it sound like there is,” Linh noted.

  “Lady Gisela is simply casting the doubt on me so you won’t focus on how supremely unhelpful she’s being,” Mr. Forkle insisted.

  “Or you’re both just super annoying,” Tam countered.

  “If you won’t tell me, give me the journals,” Sophie added.

  Mr. Forkle folded his hands. “I don’t have them with me.”

  “Then go get them,” Biana told him. “We’ll wait.”

  Sophie stood. “Or I could push into your mind and find it myself.”

  “I’ll help,” Fitz offered, moving to stand next to her. “Remember how well that worked during our Cognate training?”

  “See? That’s why I heart these kids,” Ro said. “They don’t just make threats—they mean them.”

  Mr. Forkle reached up to rub his temples. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  Everyone shook their heads.

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling, muttering something none of them could catch before he told them, “Then I’m going to need to sit. We’re all going to need to sit.”

  He made his way over to one of the empty chairs, taking longer than normal to get himself situated.

  “Done stalling?” Sophie asked.

  “Not quite.” His voice filled her mind. This is an elvin secret The only way I can share it is if you all promise not to repeat it to the other species.

  “Whoa, why did every elf in the room just flinch?” Ro asked.

  “Pretty sure they’re communicating telepathically,” Grizel told her. “And I take it that means we don’t get to hear this mysterious secret?”

  “Not until we verify that the journals are accurate,” Mr. Forkle told her. “And even then . . . this one is tricky.”

  “See, it’s things like this that are why my dad doesn’t trust the elves,” Ro noted.

  “If he’d like to share everything he’s keeping from us about your people, tell him to set up a meeting,” Bronte countered.

  Ro responded with a gesture that probably wasn’t meant to be polite.

  “Secrets hinder our ability to protect you,” Sandor added.

  “And yet, sometimes they’re necessary,” Mr. Forkle said. “I still maintain that it would be best if none of you burden yourselves with this information. But . . . it seems your minds are made up.”

  “They are.” Sophie sank back onto the stair, and Keefe and Fitz took the spots on either side of her, each grabbing one of her gloved hands.

  Mr. Forkle closed his eyes.

  The thing you need to understand, he transmitted, is that Vespera had a very specific vision for Nightfall—one that’s every bit as shameful as it is disturbing. And we don’t know the extent to which she carried it out—nor whether she’s still holding to the same plan at the moment. So what you’re insisting I tell you will sound horrifying—but that doesn’t mean all of it happened, or that it’s happening again.

  Sophie tightened her grip on Fitz’s and Keefe’s hands. That’s fine. I can handle it.

  I truly hope you can, Miss Foster. Because Nightfall was built for . . .

  She could feel his mind struggling to find some way of softening what he was about to say.

  Eventually, he simply told her. Human experimentation.

  Sixty-nine

  SOPHIE WAS GOING to vomit. Right in the middle of her living room.

  Her mouth watered and her stomach heaved—but before she lost it completely, a pure white breeze whisked across her consciousness. She hadn’t felt Keefe remove her glove, but she was grateful for the bright, soothing tendrils that swept away the mounting darkness.

  It gave her the courage to ask, What kind of experiments was Vespera doing?

  Most of the details weren’t provided, Mr. Forkle told her. And the few that I’ve found are nothing like the horrors you’re currently imagining.

  If that’s true, why didn’t you tell me about this sooner? Sophie argued.

  Because I know how hard you’ve struggled with thoughts of what your parents might be enduring, and I feared you would see this as confirmation.

  Isn’t it?

  No. The word was adamant—almost an order, commanding her to accept it.

  And she tried to.

  But she couldn’t.

  Why was Vespera experimenting on humans? Fitz asked, tightening his hold on her other hand.

  Mr. Forkle rubbed his temples again—harder that time. According to her journals, she was striving to understand how humans could commit such terrible atrocities without shattering their sanity. She believed that if we—as a species—didn’t find a way to harness that same level of ruthlessness, that it was only a matter of time before humans would take over as the dominant species on our planet.

  A collective shudder rippled through their group.

  Did the experiments have anything to do with sedatives? Alden asked.

  You’re wondering if the soporidine could be related? Mr. Forkle guessed. I wondered the same thing, but the research seemed to involve studying her subjects’ active choices.

  A fresh wave of nausea hit Sophie hard. So . . . my parents are definitely awake for what they’re going through.

  Not necessarily, Mr. Forkle insisted. We don’t know anything for certain.

  And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Sophie snapped back. We don’t know anything.

  They still had no idea what the Neverseen were planning with the soporidine, or where to find her family, or—

  “Breathe, Foster,” Keefe whispered. “You have to keep breathing.”

  She hadn’t realized she’d stopped.

  “Yeah, I’m not loving how pale you’re all getting,” Ro noted.

  “Me either,” Sandor agreed.

  “Have you told us everything?” Bronte asked.

  Mr. Forkle shook his head. And all the bodyguards grumbled when he closed his eyes and switched back to transmitting.

  There’s the timeline to consider, he informed them silently. The runic alphabet used in these journals—as well as subtle references in numerous passages—suggests that all of this was occurring before the sinking of Atlantis. And over the last few weeks, I’ve been conducting my own research. And I’ve found a number of missing persons reports long buried in our ancient archives—filed by humans living in Atlantis.

  The color drained from Bronte’s face.

  Alden didn’t look much better when he asked, Any record of how the Council responded?

  I suspect the majority of the information exists only in Fintan’s cache, Mr. Forkle told him. But . . . from what I can tell, the Councillors wrote ev
erything off as a misunderstanding.

  Sounds familiar, Alden said, his teal eyes colder than usual as they flicked to Bronte.

  Bronte looked away.

  Were any of the missing humans found? Fitz asked.

  Mr. Forkle ran a hand down his face. If they were, there’s no record of it. But . . . I can’t imagine Vespera would’ve let them go. Even if she wiped their minds, their sudden reappearance would be evidence of her crimes.

  So she killed them, Sophie said.

  Something black and cold churned inside her, and Keefe scooted closer, sending new tendrils of that soft glowing breeze to push the darkness back.

  It’s possible the deaths were natural occurrences, Mr. Forkle reminded all of them. Human life spans are fleeting Vespera might’ve simply kept them imprisoned until their days ended.

  How is that better? Sophie asked.

  No one had an answer.

  How many humans went missing? Fitz asked.

  The records I found were vague. But it seems safe to assume there were hundreds.

  Bronte swore under his breath.

  “Oh good,” Ro said. “Now the Councillor is swearing. Totally seems like something your bodyguards should be kept in the dark about.”

  Bronte shook his head, his voice a hoarse whisper as he told her, “This can never be shared.”

  So you see the connection too, then? Mr. Forkle asked.

  All of the adults nodded.

  I don’t, Sophie hated to admit.

  Alden moved to the windows, staring into the distance. It’s the timing.

  Are we supposed to know what that means? Fitz asked.

  Consider what we teach about Atlantis in elvin history, Mr. Forkle told them. How the greedy, spiteful humans planned a war against our innocent ancestors because they feared the elves’ natural abilities and craved more power.

  But if Vespera was capturing humans and experimenting on them—and the Council refused to investigate what was happening, Alden added, the humans would’ve had good reason to want to overthrow that authority.

  “Still breathing there, Foster?” Keefe asked.

  She tried.

  But all of this was too hard—too huge. And it wasn’t just about Atlantis.

  The elves didn’t simply sink their shimmering city under the ocean. They terminated all of their treaties.

  From that point on, humans were no longer counted as an “intelligent species”—no longer allowed to know the true realities of the world around them.

  And all of this time, it was the elves’ crimes that had caused it.

  And the monster who’d committed those crimes was free—and she had Sophie’s parents . . .

  She pulled away from Fitz and Keefe, curling her arms around herself, trying to hold it together.

  “This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Mr. Forkle mumbled.

  “Secrets are why we’re in this mess!” Sophie snapped. “If the Council hadn’t erased Vespera from their minds and locked everything away in a cache, we could’ve found Nightfall by now!”

  “She’s not wrong,” Ro noted.

  “Even if she isn’t,” Bronte told her, “we can’t change what’s been done.”

  Sophie knew he was talking about the past, but she couldn’t help wondering if the words also applied to her parents.

  What if everything they were enduring was too much—even for the Washers?

  Arms wrapped around her—so many that she wondered if everyone in the room was trying to hug her at once.

  But even with that support—even with a windstorm of Keefe’s mental breezes—nothing could stop the gaping hole from tearing open inside her.

  She’d fought so long, so hard to keep control—to keep perspective—to resist falling into the Neverseen’s schemes.

  But she couldn’t stop imagining her parents in that ancient, wicked place.

  “Tell me we have a plan to find them,” she begged.

  Each silent second that followed widened that guttural hole, and Sophie sank into it—felt part of herself disappear into that dark void.

  She sank further still when they started talking about searching Atlantis, and doing research, and hacking caches, and creating a cure for the soporidine in Alvar, and meeting with Fallon Vacker and the Lumenaria guards.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to hear, but she couldn’t listen to the same worthless assurances—couldn’t pretend that they stood a chance of working.

  “I’m sorry,” she rasped, pulling free of the smothering embrace and fleeing upstairs.

  Shouts followed her, but she slammed the door—shut them out—burrowed under the covers, clutching Ella.

  She waited for the tears to come. But she was too numb. Too lost in that hollow emptiness that now lived inside her, swallowing up everything else.

  Sleep wouldn’t find her either—but she couldn’t get up. Couldn’t open her eyes. Couldn’t respond when her parents came in to check on her.

  “I shouldn’t have told you,” a familiar voice whispered sometime later, and the pain in the words finally got to her.

  She peeled back her covers and found daylight—and Magnate Leto—and realized . . .

  School.

  She’d missed school.

  “If my brother had been here,” Magnate Leto said, sinking onto the farthest corner of her bed, “I suspect he would’ve talked me out of sharing. He was always better at knowing your limits. But now there’s only me and . . . I made the wrong choice.”

  Sophie focused on the crystal stars dangling over her bed. “Hiding it from me doesn’t change anything.”

  “It changes you,” he said. “It keeps you fighting. Keeps you steady. Keeps you from becoming this.”

  She could see it then—the worry in his eyes mixed with the utter doubt in himself. And she knew if she didn’t fix it, things would go back to the way they used to be, when the Black Swan tried to shelter her with riddles and vague notes.

  So she dragged herself out of bed, heading for her stack of untouched homework.

  “I’m better now,” she told him. “I just need to stay busy.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  Neither did Grady or Edaline, who were lurking in the doorway, watching her as if she were some spooked animal.

  She asked for breakfast to ease their worries—or was it lunch? It could’ve even been dinner for all she knew—and when Edaline conjured up plates of food, she forced herself to eat every bite.

  Fitz dropped by to check on her that night, and she tried to give him a real smile—tried to blush for his newest gift. But her heart didn’t even flutter when he hugged her and promised everything would be all right.

  Going back to school was absolute misery, but she made herself do it—made herself go through the motions. She had to convince all the nervous eyes watching her that she was okay, so they’d keep including her in their nightly updates—even if there was never any good news.

  So she endured the endless pattern: sessions, homework, research, checking on her sister, bedtime, repeat. Even though it felt like she was drowning.

  Her friends tried so hard to help her—especially Keefe. He was constantly teasing and pushing her, trying to drag out the slightest hint of a real emotion. But she didn’t have the energy. It took every ounce of her strength to pull herself out of bed every day, to eat whatever food was placed in front of her, to answer questions when people asked her, and not constantly obsess about how many days were slipping away—or what that meant.

  And then somehow it was finals, and she fumbled through her exams, not caring if she passed or failed. What did any of it matter, when the Neverseen were winning—and would keep winning until they unleashed their next horrible plan?

  Her friends tried to draw her into the celebrations afterward—tried to show her all the finals traditions she’d missed the year before because of her kidnapping. But she couldn’t pay attention to any of it. There seemed to be games and prizes. She definitely felt lo
ts of laughter tickling her ears. And there were piles and piles of presents.

  Grady and Edaline found her in the cafeteria, staring at her unopened gifts, and wrapped her in a crushing hug to congratulate her on moving to Level Four. Their smiles were wide and proud—begging her to be excited.

  “Can we go home now?” Sophie asked instead.

  Their smiles fell.

  She’d been trying not to notice how shadowed their eyes had become—trying not to admit that this time she was the source of that grief and worry.

  “Never mind,” she said. “We can stay a little longer.”

  “No, kiddo.” Grady kissed the top of her head. “We can go home. Need help packing up your presents?”

  “And don’t forget to clean out your locker,” Edaline added.

  The halls were empty when Sandor led her back to the Level Three atrium—everyone too busy celebrating to gather used notebooks and scattered pens. She shoved whatever she could fit into her satchel and tossed the rest before handing the heavy bag over to Sandor.

  “You look terrible,” an oily voice said behind her.

  Sophie glanced over her shoulder and found Keefe’s father standing there in an extravagant silver cloak.

  “Mind you, my son doesn’t look much better,” Lord Cassius added, stepping to the side to reveal a slump-shouldered Keefe. “If Foxfire didn’t require a parent or guardian to collect exam grades, I doubt he would’ve acknowledged my existence at all.”

  “I wouldn’t have,” Keefe mumbled.

  “Ooh, fun! Is it time to dredge up the daddy issues?” Ro asked, striding out of the shadows. “Why do I never have snacks when I need them?”

  Lord Cassius clicked his tongue, smoothing his always immaculate blond hair. “If my son has any issues, they’re entirely his own. I’m simply waiting for him to realize he’s pushing the wrong parent away.”

  “And I’m waiting for him to realize that neither of his parents deserve him!” Sophie snapped, slamming her locker shut.

  The clang of metal tingled through her.

  Anger.

  The feeling was a revelation—and not just for her.

  “There’s the Foster we all know and love,” Keefe said, offering a grin that had a whole lot of relief mixed in. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”