“I assume you’re wondering why we held you in that horrible chamber for so long,” Danny said, his vision focused on Shards. “Naturally, Zach wanted to let you go, or at least place you in a more humane condition, but I’m not so naïve. With an Affinity like yours, you would have found a way to squeeze out of our normal cells… Now, though, everything is different. Hastings is, unfortunately, dead, and Naretha—”
“Hastings is dead? How? When—”
“Don’t interrupt me.” Danny’s face was eerily rigid when he glared up at her. Blinking once, she pressed her lips together and restrained the numerous questions on her tongue. “Hastings’s death was, frankly, very political and far too complicated for you to understand. It shouldn’t matter to you, anyway; you didn’t care about him until I told you he was your cousin five minutes ago.”
Though Maddy’s lips parted, she couldn’t think of an adequate response.
“As I was saying, Naretha is no longer in Angor’s captivity—one, because Angor is no longer in charge of Periculand; and two, because a few of your little friends broke her out of prison and, I assume, are bringing her here to exchange for you. So, at this point, I don’t really care if you escape. You’re no longer a bargaining chip.”
“But…won’t you need me to get, um, your girlfriend back from my friends?”
Danny waved his tattooed hand dismissively. “You should know I don’t play fair. A trade sounds too boring. Besides, what reason would you have to go back to Periculand now? Your friends will be here, and if you go back there, the Reggs will suspect you conspired with us ‘terrorists’ and throw you into another prison. No, Madella, your future is here. Call it fate, destiny, chance—something brought you here, and now you have two choices. Either join us in our quest to eradicate the Reggs and gain our deserved freedom, or…go sit in that cell, manacled to that uncomfortable table.”
“For…forever?”
“Until your friends arrive. The least we can do for a fellow Affinity is give you the opportunity to die amongst friends.” His eyes blazed brighter than before—not like a fire necessarily, but like a cataclysmic explosion pouring from his irises. He seemed to know the answer, but still he asked, “Which will you choose?”
“I’m pretty sure this is illegal,” Adara Stromer said as her vision flew from her cellmate to her friends on the other side of the electric bars.
Tray Stark seemed unperturbed by her statement, his brown eyes narrowed without sympathy. She wasn’t sure where he’d acquired his suit, but its fanciness didn’t hide any of his nerdiness. Lined up beside him, Lavisa Dispus picked at a scab on her hand, Ackerly Terrier’s earthy green eyes winced behind his glasses, Hartman Corvis bounced with jittery nerves that made his freckles vibrate, and Eliana Mensen glared at Adara’s cellmate with the same enmity she felt.
Upon awakening a few minutes ago covered in a thick layer of soot, Adara had found the primaries standing outside her cell in Periculand’s police station. All five wore black mourning clothes for the upcoming funeral—Hastings Lanio’s funeral.
“Mitt,” Adara prompted now, her focus shifting to the police officer leaning in the entrance of the corridor. His arms were crossed and his silver irises glimmered as he watched her. “This is illegal, isn’t it?”
Sighing, Mitt stood straight and took a few steps closer to the cell’s bars. “Probably,” he admitted, “but I was instructed to place both of you in this cell by the Rosses.”
“Freakin’ Reggs,” Adara muttered, bitterly recalling the two Regular ambassadors who had apparently taken over Periculand after the former principal attempted to assassinate them. Angor Periculy’s mind control hadn’t worked on Hastings, though, and now the young boy was dead while his murderer sat ten feet away from her. “They can’t place an innocent underage girl in a holding cell with a murdering psychopath.”
“I have murdered no one,” Angor insisted, thin hands folded peacefully in his lap. He lounged in the other corner on a metal table identical to hers, wearing the same parchment-colored outfit. The rings of exhaustion under his eyes were darker than his pink hair, giving him a gaunt, powerless appearance.
Adara felt no pity for him—not when he had caused the death of poor Hastings. Her insides blazed with rage at the thought. She wanted to erupt in flames again—to finish what she’d started when she’d tried to climb over Angor’s desk and set his flesh on fire—but the idea of that fire froze her to the core.
“You murdered Hastings!” Eliana exclaimed when Adara said nothing. The mind reader’s voice reached an unexpected volume, and her bright blue eyes were full of zeal as she took a step toward the bars. “You wanted him to kill the Reggs and he wouldn’t, so he had to kill himself. He became a martyr because of you, you sick, deranged monster.”
Mitt cleared his throat, and Tray gingerly placed his hand on Eliana’s shoulder in an attempt to calm her. She shoved him off and hugged herself, blinking back the wetness in her eyes as she stared at the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just… This is just…wrong.”
“You’re correct, Miss Mensen,” Angor spoke up, swinging his long legs over the side of the metal bed as he stood. “This is all very wrong. Hastings was a pure soul—one who wanted to do good but was plagued with an Affinity for evil…”
“He wasn’t,” Eliana snarled, her venomous eyes darting to meet his. “He didn’t only know how to burst blood vessels; he knew how to heal them as well. He could have helped people, but now he never will because he’s dead. He shouldn’t have had to die.”
“I agree,” Angor said, his voice emotionless even as tears spilled down the girl’s cheeks. “Hastings never wanted to harm anyone, and that was what killed him in the end.”
“You—”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Angor interjected, causing an immediate uproar from all the students. Until now, they’d been quiet, but Adara recognized the hatred they radiated, akin to her own. He shook his head as they refuted his claim and hastily amended, “I do blame myself for putting Hastings in that situation. Had I not asked him to attend that meeting, he may still be alive.”
“If you hadn’t asked him to murder the Reggs, he would still be alive,” Lavisa corrected, picking her scabs with more vigor.
“I never asked him to kill—”
“You forced him to,” Tray spat. “You forced him with your Affinity.”
“I forced Hastings to do nothing,” Angor stressed with a hint of agitation. “I only asked him to save this town. I asked him to become our weapon against the Wackos if the time came. He was reluctant, but he agreed that, if the Reggs insisted every Affinity in this town go to war, he would kill the Wackos single-handedly to save Periculand. But then someone—I’m still not sure who—used their mind controlling ability to manipulate him into becoming a murderer.”
“Don’t say someone as if it wasn’t you,” Adara snapped.
“It wasn’t me. I don’t have a mind controlling Affinity,” the man persisted. “If I did, do you think I would be trapped in this cell right now? Of course not. I would have convinced everyone in my office yesterday that I wasn’t the one to murder Hastings.”
“Isn’t that what you’re trying to do now?” Hartman asked, orange eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Am I succeeding?” Angor countered. “If I had a mind controlling Affinity, you would believe me—I could easily make you believe me—but you don’t, and that in itself should be enough to prove I am not what you think I am.”
“Let’s say you don’t have a mind controlling Affinity,” Tray suggested diplomatically. “Let’s pretend you didn’t try to convince Hastings to kill the Reggs. Who did try to make him kill them? And what is your Affinity?”
Angor exhaled a dramatic sigh, bringing his fingers to his chin as he began to pace the cell bare-footed. When he approached Adara’s bed, she emitted a growl that he ignored as he spun to walk the other way. “I don’t…know. Olalla wouldn’t and couldn’t have, for that
matter. Her Affinity is for peace; if anything, her presence probably made the entire situation better than it should have been. The Rosses were the targets, and…and I was the only other person there, so it does make sense that you blame me… I suppose it could have been one of you, but none of you have a mind controlling Affinity, nor would you, at such a young age, have the ability to compel someone as mentally skilled as Hastings. It must have been someone who wasn’t there.”
“This is ridiculous,” Tray fumed, motioning exasperatedly toward Angor. “Is he seriously trying to convince us he isn’t guilty?”
“You were the one who proposed the idea,” Lavisa reminded him dryly.
“Is…is there anyone in this town who does have a mind controlling Affinity?” Ackerly asked. “Hastings was acting a little weird even before he went to your office. We—we were out in the gardens and he suddenly stood like he was in a trance.”
“I’m sure he could have possessed Hastings from that distance.” Eliana jabbed her finger in Angor’s direction. “He has a strong mind; I can feel it.”
The principal paused his strides, pivoting his calculating gaze toward the blue-haired girl on the other side of the bars. “Ah, yes, mind reader. You should be able to read the truth in my brain, should you not?”
“I’m…not that strong,” she admitted feebly, shuffling where she stood. “There’s…a wall around your mind, and I can’t penetrate it.”
“Hm, I do feel that, as well.” His eyes squinted as he rubbed his temples. “But it’s not a wall I forged… Strange. I’ve always been skilled at combatting mind readers, but I want you to read my thoughts and still you can’t. Mind readers… Aethelred! Yes, yes.” He halted and looked up at the five primaries with feverish eyes. “Aethelred is one of the few in this town who know my Affinity, and he knows it’s not mind controlling. Speak with him—he will get to the truth of this. Bring him here, if you must. Let him delve into my past, and then, Miss Mensen, you can look into his brain—”
“If your Affinity isn’t mind controlling, what is it?” Tray repeated.
“I have no idea,” Angor said, his brow creased worriedly. “It’s as if a hand has reached into my mind and stolen all evidence of it. There is a blank spot—a black hole…”
The primaries stared at him, uncertain and skeptical, but then Mitt cleared his throat, cutting through the tension.
“You should get going,” he advised. “The funeral will start any minute.”
“Oh, yes,” Angor said, breaking out of his reverie. “I would like to pay my respects—”
“Not you,” Mitt warned as the principal took a step closer to the humming bars. “Or you,” he added to Adara when she shifted. “You’re confined to this cell until further notice. The Rosses will come soon to determine what to do with you—both of you.”
Adara huffed a caustic laugh but produced no snide comment as he opened the door to the main office. With an almost apologetic glance in her direction, he led the other five primaries out of the jail.
All of her friends avoided her eyes, except Ackerly, who grimaced as if it physically pained him to leave her. “We’ll be back to visit,” he assured her before disappearing through the threshold.
Her hands clenched into fists when the door closed, but other than that she didn’t move. Of course he would abandon her—of course they all would. Everyone always found a way to leave.
Sighing, Angor resumed his lounging position on the other side of the cell. “This is quite the predicament for both of us. I do believe I would care more about our current situation if Hastings were alive, though. The fact that he is dead…has hollowed me.”
“Shut up,” she said with an eye roll. “You may have come close to convincing them, but I’m not so easily fooled. You put on a good act, but you’re the king here. Why would you care about one measly peasant who failed to do your dirty work?”
“I thought it was obvious. Did my son not resemble me?”
Adara blinked slowly as her head rotated to face him. The gleam in his pink eyes was eerily curious—and honest. “Did what?”
“Did Hastings not resemble me? Our skin tones were different, yes, but he inherited the darker hues from his mother. I liked to believe we had a similar jaw shape, at least—”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Hastings,” Angor said. “I’m talking about my son.”
2
The Future and The Past
November weather didn’t normally inspire much creativity in Eliana, but the pale gray clouds casting gloomy light over the field fit her mood perfectly. She wished she could be at her desk, painting this sullen scene rather than standing amidst it. Hastings would have mentally mocked her if he’d discovered her creating something so dismal, but now he wasn’t here to share his cynical thoughts—to grumble about the frivolity of Periculand’s citizens as they gathered in this park to mourn a boy they’d never known.
The town’s park, situated across the street from the hospital, was a vast plot of land outlined with barren trees and scattered with picnic tables. A small playground was stationed at the center, but no one played today; any children present huddled by their parents, sniffling over the fresh mound of dirt that was Hastings’s grave.
Their grief was shallow. It infuriated Eliana that they could all look so solemn over the death of Periculand’s “martyr” when, on the inside, they were only concerned about themselves.
Who will protect Periculand now?
Who will take charge of this town? Will it affect us?
When will all this fuss be over so I can go back to the lounge and play video games?
That last thought belonged to Dave Byle, the acid-spitter, and Eliana almost marched over to him and drove her pointed heel into his groin as soon as the thought hit her consciousness. She’d never been inherently aggressive, but part of her wanted to attack all of these people, if only so she could have a few moments to respect Hastings without their incessant internal ramblings.
Instead, she stood at a distance, staring at the white marble headstone through bleary eyes. She and the other primaries had stopped by on their way to the police station to look at it this morning, and the image of his epitaph was so ingrained in her brain that she didn’t have to see the words to know what it said.
Hastings Salvator Lanio
March 14, 2001 – November 9, 2016
BELOVED FRIEND, HEROIC MARTYR
He hadn’t had any friends—she had been his only friend. The other sobbing students were just trying to get attention. All the people speaking over his grave thought more about the consequences of his death than the fact that he was gone—that he had been murdered, forced to become a martyr.
She hated that word, martyr. It immortalized him as this deity—turned him into a hero they could all pretend they had always been fond of. His sacrifice should not have been forgotten, but neither should his life, his kind soul, his desire to be good. All of that was irrelevant to these people, though; the only part of his existence that mattered to them was the moment he ceased to exist. She really, really hated that.
There was one other headstone beside his, dedicated to an Affinity named Bertha Hopkins who had died of old age only a year ago. Her mound was already flattened and overgrown with brittle grass. Eliana wondered how long it would take for nature to erase Hastings’s mound—how long it would take for the memory of him to fade from this town.
As if the ground had read her thoughts, a few small flowers began to bud out of the earth at her feet, sprouting from green stems into orange and yellow petals.
“Asclepias curassavica,” Ackerly’s nasally voice said as he appeared beside her. She should have mentally felt his consciousness nearing, but she was too distracted and numb to concentrate on anything specific. “They’re sometimes called bloodflower. Thought it would be fitting, considering…” He glanced at her through the lenses of his glasses and grimaced. “They’ll die in a few minutes, I think. They’re
native to the tropics…”
“They’re beautiful,” she said, meaning to sound grateful but mostly sounding empty. “It makes sense that they’ll die soon. Hastings…died before he should have. Angor shriveled the life from him like the cold will shrivel the life from this bloodflower. They would have lived long, beautiful lives if they hadn’t been planted in a cruel, selfish place—”
“I…didn’t really mean for it to be so metaphorical.” The way she scowled at the flowers must have unsettled him, because Ackerly cautiously added, “I’m really sorry about Hastings. None of us knew him as well as you, but…we liked him, and it’s not fair—what Angor did to him, I mean.”
“It just…disgusts me that he denies it. What could his Affinity be if it’s not mind control? And who else would want to kill those Reggs as much as he does?” Eliana’s vision slid across the crowd of gathered mourners to where the Rosses stood, shaking hands and bowing their heads somberly, as though they’d known the deceased personally. Her jaw tightened.
“You look like you want to kill them,” Ackerly noted awkwardly.
“They should be the dead ones, not Hastings. They should be…” She shook her head, clearing her racing thoughts. “This is the way he would have wanted it. He…he would have rather died than have killed someone else.”
“Like he killed his mom…”
She nodded once, reading his mind and seeing how he’d discovered that specific fact in Fraco’s files. “This is the way he would have wanted to go—saving people. But…it still aches to know he’s gone…that he’ll never get to heal people like he wanted.”
“Whoever did this will pay. Tray will make sure of it.”
Following the boy’s green gaze, Eliana found the Stark twins conversing with Aethelred near one of the picnic tables. Abandoning the dying bloodflower, she slunk closer to them, hearing their conversation not audibly but through their thoughts.
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