by Mary Fan
The ground shook. Flynn gripped the back of the seat in front of him, his pulse pounding. Wraiths had telekinetic abilities and, if they wanted, could crush the vehicle with him in it. There’d be nothing he could do to fight back. Hating his own helplessness, he watched the scene from the window and hoped desperately to glimpse gold-clad Sentinels coming to the rescue.
Outside, a wraith grabbed a woman by the shoulders and pulled her close. Its red gaze locked onto her eyes. She appeared frozen in a silent scream, her face glowing yellow, her skin rapidly aging. It wouldn’t be long before all that was left of her was a pile of bone dust. Flynn shuddered but couldn’t look away.
A blast of silver pellets tore through the wraith. The spirit released the woman and let out a high, ear-shattering screech. Flynn cringed. The woman crumpled to the ground, the glow fading, her face returning to its original youth. He glanced around for the source of the blast and to his relief, found several Defenders, identifiable by their gold armbands, rushing onto the scene with their spirit-repelling weapons.
Blackness covered the window. A wraith’s red eyes met his, its wide, lipless mouth opening to reveal a flaming inferno behind its skeletal grin. Flynn jumped back in his seat. Screams rang out around him, but he was frozen, barely able to register what he was facing. The wraith’s enormous black wings stretched behind it, blocking everything from view, and the vehicle began to tremble. The spirit reached through the glass with its dead-looking hands as if to grab him. Flynn snapped out of his paralysis and scrambled to his feet.
He’d just made it into the aisle when the sharp crackle of pellets hitting glass filled his ears. The wraith screeched, the sound vibrating in his bones, but continued to reach forward. Flynn trembled. Those gray, lifeless hands were coming for him.
More silver pellets tore through the wraith’s translucent body, and it let out another screech, dissolving into wisps of black smoke. The vehicle stopped shaking. Flynn, suddenly realizing that he’d stopped breathing somewhere in his terror, exhaled with momentary relief.
“Get these kids outta here!” The Defender’s voice sounded muted outside the window, but it must have gotten the driver’s attention because the vehicle abruptly zoomed forward.
Flynn stumbled back into his seat then spun to look at the spot where he’d last seen the wraith. It was materializing again a few feet behind the Defender. The man kept firing, but the spirit dodged his blasts and caught the man by the shoulders. The Defender’s face glowed yellow, and Flynn felt his own go cold with horror. He wanted to jump out of the vehicle and help, but seconds later, the man dissolved into dust.
Anger surged through his veins. Without magical backup, the other Defenders were goners too. Silver would hold the spirits off, but only spells could banish wraiths. Even then, it took a powerful kind of magic few Enchanters possessed.
“Where the hell are the Sentinels?” he wondered aloud.
“They’re on their way.” Behind him, Kylie’s voice quivered. “They must be.”
Flynn twisted to face her. “I’m sure you’re right.” He tried to sound calm, though his heart still trembled. He wasn’t the only one who’d been shaken; the other Secondstringers looked as terrified as he felt.
Brax alone appeared unruffled. He held Kylie close in a protective embrace. But fury simmered behind his eyes, belying his otherwise placid expression. “Something’s up with the Underworld. Wraiths, fangbeasts—these monsters are showing up for the first time in decades.”
“It’s more than ‘something.’” Flynn couldn’t shake the image of that Defender’s death from his mind. He kept seeing that man dissolve into dust. “The supernaturals are killing people right here in the Capital, and Williams said the last time fangbeast numbers multiplied so quickly, the Lord was weeks from rising. Do you know what that means?”
“Means we’re all screwed if you’re right.” Brax’s tone was casual, but there was tension behind it. “But what the hell can we do?”
Surprised by his friend’s fatalistic attitude, Flynn started to speak but stopped when he realized he didn’t have anything to say. What could he do? If he tried to spread the word, he’d find himself black-bagged by sunrise, and no one would believe him anyway. Anger simmered in his veins.
“The Triumvirate will keep us safe,” Kylie said, as if trying to reassure herself. “Did you see how quickly the Defenders arrived? Whatever’s going on, the Triumvirate will put a stop to it.”
Flynn shook his head. He’d believed that once, that as terrible as life was under the Triumvirate, it was still life. But now, monsters were getting into the Capital, the Academy, even. The Triumvirate was all that stood between the supernaturals and the people, but if they were failing… What was left to believe in?
We shouldn’t have to choose between one hell and another. He wished he could speak the words out loud, but if the wrong person overheard him, it could mean the end for him. In fact, he’d probably already said too much.
So he just said, “Everything’s gonna be okay, Kylie.”
Kylie shrank into Brax’s embrace. “I’m pathetic. If I were a Defender, I’d be out there fighting those wraiths. How can I ever hope to do that if I’m afraid of everything?”
Flynn tried to give her an encouraging smile. “I’ve heard it said that the best Defenders were once the most frightened Cadets and that their fear was what drove them to work harder, practice more. I’ll bet that’s true, and that you’ll turn out to be even better than the Firedragon.”
Kylie’s lips quirked. “Thanks, Flynn.”
She glanced up at Brax and said something inaudible, and the two began talking in the kind of hushed tone lovers used when speaking only to each other.
Flynn turned away, still tense from the wraith attack. Whether or not it had anything to do with the Lord of the Underworld, one thing was certain: The supernaturals were growing more dangerous. But the Triumvirate would never admit that; it would make them look weak.
“I heard a rumor that the perimeter can’t keep out the supernaturals anymore.” A girl’s voice carried over the chatter on the bus.
Flynn looked over the seat to see who was talking but couldn’t tell which direction the voice had come from.
“That’s treason!” came a second girl’s voice, hushed with shock and fear. “You can’t say things like that!”
Flynn grimaced. Don’t talk about this. Don’t talk about that. Don’t speak. Don’t think. Saying anything that disagreed with the government’s official stand was considered treason, even if it was true, and the official stance was that the Capital’s perimeter couldn’t be penetrated. But it had been—twice during this day alone. The government couldn’t get away with denying the truth forever when people were getting killed.
They have no right to keep us from knowing what’s going on with the Underworld. Flynn clenched his fists. They have no right to do a lot of things.
Something snapped. Years of pent-up frustration finally overflowed, and it was no longer enough to keep his head down and try to accept the way things were. The Triumvirate had pushed him around for too long, and he needed to fight back.
His mind went back to his plan to seek the Sentinel’s report and the truth it contained—about his mother, about the anarchists, and maybe even about the Lord of the Underworld. The Triumvirate should never have hidden those things from him in the first place, and his anger blew away any thought of caution. Yes, it was worth risking everything because now, it was about more than finding the truth about Vivian Nightsider. It was about defying a system that treated him like garbage.
Perhaps he couldn’t bring down the government, but at the very least, he could uncover some of their secrets—secrets he had every right to know. He wouldn’t let fear get in the way again. Breaking into Everett’s office to get a name was a tiny, insignificant act in the grand scheme of things, but it was still something, and if there existed t
he slightest possibility that it could lead to something bigger, he had to know.
Someone had to force the Triumvirate to tell the truth. Doing nothing was no longer an option, and he couldn’t allow himself to turn into one of those contented idiots who never questioned anything. He’d rather go to the mines knowing he’d at least tried to fight back.
Chapter 4
The Essence Plot
Flynn raced down the Academy’s stone corridor, pushing a metal cleaner’s cart he’d swiped from a storage closet. Having to sit through a day of classes and then complete a shift in the cafeteria had been torturous, but skipping would only have gotten him locked up in detention and set his plans back further. He finally had a few hours to himself, and he wasn’t about to waste them.
The one good thing about coming straight from work was that he’d been able to grab that cart, so if anyone asked what he was doing in the Scholars’ library, he could say he was on janitorial duty. But if they witnessed him going through the books, his whole plan would be ruined. Worse, he could be arrested for breaking the laws banning Norms from using magic. He reminded himself that no one would be in the library right after the Day of Glory, since the teachers never assigned homework the week preceding the holiday.
If he was right about what he’d overheard Williams say, borrowing an essence could get a person past whatever enchantments protected Everett’s office. He could do this. He just needed to find the right kind of hocus-pocus. So he’d go to the library, learn what exactly “borrowing an essence” meant, and figure out how to use that to hoodwink Everett’s guard spells into letting him in. No matter how complicated it was, he’d figure it out. It didn’t take any magical abilities to mix up a bunch of ingredients for a potion or to use magical widgets, which only required the right words to activate. Spells were another matter, though. As a Norm, Flynn was physically incapable of using such powers, and if one was needed, he was screwed. But he’d only worry about that roadblock if he came to it.
The grand marble archway to the Scholars’ Wing yawned ahead. Flynn swung through it so quickly, the cart threatened to escape his control. Firming up his grip, he entered another stone hallway. Lanterns with black metal bars holding glass panels hovered near the ceiling. Each reminded him of a small house with pyramid for a roof. Though the sun had not yet gone down outside the wide windows, the lanterns glowed with white light.
The library’s tall, arched doorway rose from the granite floor to the vaulted ceiling. Out of breath, Flynn slowed to a walk. Two thick mahogany doors stood open, each decorated with twisted carvings of vines with books growing out of them like flowers. Inside, multicolored tomes, many of which were festooned with gilt lettering, filled high ebony bookshelves. The marble floor gleamed under the light of floating wrought-iron lanterns, and elegant paintings in elaborate silver frames adorned the walls. It was an awe-inspiring sight and so different from the plain, low-ceilinged room full of tattered books that served as the Secondstringers’ library. He wondered how the two could be part of the same institution.
Not seeing anyone inside, Flynn entered through the archway, and the cart bounced over the threshold.
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen a guy look so eager to scrub desks.”
Flynn whirled. Brax leaned against one of the bookshelves with his arms crossed. “Brax! What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” Brax pushed off the shelf. “Here’s the thing. I know you. You wouldn’t give up so easily on anything, let alone a mission to uncover the truth or whatever you were going on about. So you going quiet yesterday must’ve meant you were already scheming and didn’t want me to know. I figured, if you’re so determined to do something nuts, I might as well give you a hand. Just don’t tell Kylie, okay? She’d kill us both.”
Flynn shook his head. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Too late. I’m already trespassing on the Scholars’ turf, aren’t I?” Brax angled his mouth. “I scoped out the place, and it’s empty, so we’re free to read whatever we want. You’re not getting rid of me, so you might as well let me in on your evil plans.”
“If I get caught, things won’t end well for me. I’ve decided it’s worth the risk, but it’s my problem, not yours.”
Brax let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Flynn, how long have we known each other? Your problems are my problems. Besides, I love any excuse to break the rules. It’s getting caught I take issue with, but with two of us, we can watch each other’s backs. Me being here doubles your chances of succeeding, so quit trying to shoo me away so we can get started already.”
Flynn shook his head again. “I shouldn’t have asked you and Kylie in the first place. I—”
“Okay, how about this?” Brax interrupted. “It’s not about you or your tragic backstory. It’s about the Lord of the Underworld. You said yesterday that he could rise again, and seeing those wraiths told me the rumors of supernaturals getting scarier are more than just rumors. That’s everyone’s business, including mine. You think Low Voice could be connected to the Lord? Well, I want to know, too, so even if you don’t want to team up, you can’t stop me from going off on my own.”
Flynn considered arguing further but realized there would be no point. Brax was right. If something about Low Voice could reveal the truth behind the Lord, Brax deserved to know as much as Flynn did. But Flynn knew that wasn’t why his friend had come. This wasn’t the first time Brax had helped Flynn without being asked then acted like it was no big deal. He was just that kind of guy. An awkward mix of gratitude and defeat swirled in Flynn’s chest. “Um… Thanks.”
“No problem.” Brax glanced at the cart. “So I take it we’re pretending to be on cleaning duty while snooping through the Scholars’ books?”
“Yeah. First things first. I need to figure out what an essence is.”
Brax looked around the cavernous library. “Where do we begin?”
“Good question.” Flynn knew from having been assigned to clean the library before that the place didn’t have a regular card catalog like the Secondstringers’ did. Instead, an enchanted catalog stood along one wall, stretching toward the ceiling with its blue-and-white marbled drawers. Scholars would walk up to it, wave their wands, and name a title or subject. The catalog would respond by opening its drawers, and hazy images of books would fly out, presenting themselves to the student. The student would then tap one with their wand, and the book image would fly into the shelves, leading the student to the corresponding tome. Unfortunately, as a Norm, Flynn could wave a wand all he wanted, and not one of the square drawers would respond to his requests. Not that he wanted to try stealing a wand from an Enchanter anyway. That would certainly get him jailed.
So he was stuck doing things the hard way. He approached the shelves, and his head hurt just thinking about going through them. The Scholars’ books were enormous—and not just your average thousand-page tome enormous. Some of those things looked more like building materials than leather-bound stacks of paper. Flynn now understood why one of the first things the Scholars were taught was how to shrink things, which he knew about from having swept up many miniscule pencils and erasers from the Beginner Enchantments classroom.
Each of the titles on the spines appeared to have been written by someone who had confused scribbles for text. Some of those loop-de-loops looked more like twisted strings than actual words.
“Why do they always have to make it fancy?” Flynn grumbled. “Does using illegible letters make it extra magic?”
“Of course it does.” Brax spoke in a mockingly pretentious tone. “Writing one can actually read is for those ungifted peons, the Norms.”
Flynn snickered. “All right, how hard can it be to look up one little word?”
Mind-numbingly hard, it turned out. After hours of grabbing promising-looking titles off the shelves, flipping through them, and shoving them back in frustration, Flynn began wonderi
ng how the Scholars managed to learn anything.
The minutes stretched into hours and the hours, it seemed, into approximately sixteen million years.
Flynn stared at the latest volume he’d grabbed, leaning his elbows on the long, marble-topped table. Though he tried to stay focused, his head was too tired to absorb the words. The sun had disappeared outside the large, rectangular window to his left, and the dark sky pressed harshly against the glass panes.
“Found it!” Brax exclaimed suddenly. “Check it out.”
Thank God. My brain was about to melt. Flynn stood and approached. “What’s it say?”
“According to this, every person has a spiritual aura of sorts floating around them. They call it an ‘essence.’ You know how sometimes you sense someone’s presence after they’ve left? That’s their essence lingering. Or how something that meant a lot to a person takes on extra value even when it’s passed to someone else? That’s their essence attached to the object. Leave it to the Enchanters to make it all hokey.” Brax rolled his eyes. “I always thought that was just sentiment.”
Flynn leaned down and glanced over the passage, reading over Brax’s shoulder. “So to trick the door, we’ve gotta make the potion described here then steal something that belongs to someone with access to the office. The more precious something is to a person, the stronger their essence clings to it, and the more easily the essence is borrowed.” He tried to think of something Everett would value then grimaced. “As far as I know, the only things Everett values are his wand and his ego.”
Brax let out a slight laugh. “True that.”
“What’s this potion we have to make?”
Brax turned the page, revealing a section describing the potion itself. The more Flynn read, the more his heart sank. Not only did the potion involve rare ingredients he wouldn’t be able to get his hands on—including a razorbird feather left out under a solar eclipse—but it required an enchantment to activate.
