by Mary Fan
This is all my fault. Guilt pierced his chest. Because of him, Brax might be dying.
A patrolman rushed into the office, and the firelight glinted off the gold piping on his black uniform. Flynn’s heart seized. He was in the middle of a powerful Sentinel’s burning office. They’d think he set off the explosion on purpose. The man held up his gun and aimed it at Flynn.
“Hands in the—” The man coughed, choking on the smoke, but kept his weapon steady. “Hands in the air!”
“It… It was an accident.” Flynn held up his hands.
Several other patrolmen ran through the door, all holding black guns. Though the smoke made them gag, that didn’t stop them from aiming at Flynn. He breathed hard, trying not to panic. Even his worst fears hadn’t prepared him for this scenario, and his throat was so tight, he couldn’t speak—not that he would have known what to say. His mind didn’t seem capable of processing everything that was going on around him. The explosion, Brax being hurt, the patrolmen ready to gun him down—it was all happening too fast.
“Move aside!” Everett burst past the patrolmen, looking around his blackened office—the still-burning fire on the desk and shelves, the shattered window and broken objects—with an expression of shock and rage. He scowled at Flynn. “What did you do?” He choked on the last word, covered his mouth, and coughed. “What… What did you use?”
“I-I don’t know!” Flynn managed. His gaze fell on his unconscious friend, and the fist around his throat disintegrated. “Brax was trying to stop me! He had nothing to do with this, I swear!”
Everett, still covering his face, approached his desk. He picked up one of the skull-shaped candles, which apparently hadn’t been harmed by the explosion. “Why were you lighting the Nether Candles? Who were you summoning?”
“No one—I didn’t know what they were.” Even to his own ears, Flynn’s protests sounded like pathetic lies. But that didn’t matter, as long as they believed what he said about Brax. “It was my fault! Brax only came to stop me!”
A flash of gold and Professor Williams appeared in the office. “Everett! What happened?” He covered his nose and mouth, looking around in bewilderment. “Who did this?”
“A couple of homegrown anarchists,” Everett spat. “Take them away!”
“It was only me!” Flynn repeated. “It wasn’t Brax’s fault! It was all me!” He continued yelling as a patrolman approached him, repeatedly insisting that it had been his stupid idea to break into the office and that Brax had been about to sound the alarm. Seeing the threatening barrels of multiple guns aimed at him, he didn’t dare struggle as the patrolman cuffed his hands behind his back.
A thick hood was shoved onto Flynn’s head, and in that moment, he knew that the worst had come to pass. Because of the explosion, everything had gone to hell. He wouldn’t just be sent to the mines for breaking in. They would accuse him of deliberately blowing up a Sentinel’s office, a crime undoubtedly considered terrorism.
Which meant they would kill him.
Flynn struggled uselessly as someone dragged him forward. His mind whirled, too frenzied with confusion and fear to form any thoughts. He couldn’t see anything through the black bag over his head. The person holding his arm forced him down onto a hard chair. His whole body quaked. He was likely facing his last moments alive.
The bag was torn off his head. Flynn squinted against the brightness of a white spotlight.
A scowling patrolman towered over him, aiming a gun at his chest. “Stay put.”
Cold clenched Flynn’s stomach. He glanced around the small, windowless concrete cell. In the distance, someone’s agonized screams tore through the walls, and the unearthly howl of a bloodwolf rang out. A shiver ran through him. Rumor had it that the Triumvirate used creatures of the Underworld during interrogations, but he’d never imagined he would find out firsthand whether or not it was true.
The screaming ceased, and a heavy silence descended. Flynn didn’t want to imagine the sharp teeth of a bloodwolf tearing into someone’s skin or the creature’s red tongue lapping up the blood that spilled out, but the images invaded his mind against his will.
Everett called me an anarchist… There was only one fate for those considered enemies of the state. He tried telling himself to stay calm, but it was useless. Being black-bagged was different from an ordinary arrest. It meant you were going to disappear. It meant this was the end.
If he were lucky, he’d die quickly. He wanted to hold on to some shred of hope that maybe things weren’t as bad as he thought, but the cries he’d heard—and their sudden silencing—had snuffed out any glimmer he might have been able to conjure. His fate would likely be the same.
A flash of gold shone through the dark. The glaring light silhouetted the Sentinel—it had to be a Sentinel—who appeared. Only that special class of Enchanters was allowed to hold law enforcement positions such as interrogators and executioners. Other than that, all Flynn could tell about the woman was that she was tall and thin.
“Flynn Valerius Nightsider.” A snarling female voice cut through the silence. “Fourth Year Secondstringer at the Academy of Supernatural Defense and a mediocre student at best. Tell me, how does a lowly little runt like you break into one of the most secure offices in the Triumvirate?”
Flynn opened his mouth to speak, but the clenching in his stomach had moved up to his throat, and no sound came out. He cursed himself. He wanted to go down in defiance, to utter some biting statement that would stay with his killers after his death. But the fear was too much, and he was paralyzed.
“I’ve been sent to elicit the truth from you, and nothing you do can protect your secrets from me.” The woman’s voice was low and threatening, like a roll of thunder. “Who sent you? The Defiants? The Rising?”
“N-No one,” Flynn managed to stammer, but his voice was barely more than a whisper. He didn’t even know who the Rising was.
“Do you really expect me to believe that a pair of worthless Norms such as yourself and Braxton Aiza could have penetrated the Academy’s defenses without help?” The interrogator’s voice lifted with a hint of a laugh.
At the mention of Brax, Flynn shot forward in his seat. “Brax wasn’t a part of this! He figured out what I was planning, and he followed me to stop me! He was about to sound the alarm!”
The interrogator laced her thin fingers together. “So you’ve said.”
She doesn’t believe me. Flynn needed to drive his words home, to protect his friend at all costs. He started to get up. “I swear—”
A powerful hand grabbed his shoulder. The patrolman, who Flynn had forgotten about, shoved him down and slammed him against the back of the chair.
“I said, stay put.”
Flynn found himself staring down the barrel of the patrolman’s gun. The impact against the chair’s metal back seemed to have knocked the words as well as the wind out of him, and a strange, cold heat engulfed him.
The interrogator remained motionless. Flynn could sense the woman’s eyes boring into his, even though he couldn’t see them in the darkness.
“You’re Tydeus Storm’s insider.” From the way the interrogator spoke, that statement was as sure as fact.
Flynn’s mind balked at the accusation. He recalled with fury what he’d just learned about Storm—that he’d been Vivian Nightsider’s friend and that he’d betrayed and murdered her after she’d tried to stop him. He would rather die than have anything to do with that evil man, who had corrupted the cause of freedom as much as the Triumvirate had corrupted the idea of security.
He wanted to protest the interrogator’s accusation at the top of his lungs, but his mouth seemed incapable of forming words. He shook his head rapidly, struggling to find his voice again.
The interrogator took a step forward, but shadows still obscured her face. “What did you do with the Orb?”
The Orb? Flynn blinked. Wha
t the hell is that?
“Do you even realize how important the Orb is?” The interrogator’s voice rose. “If that information gets out, irreparable harm will be done to our great nation, and I will not let that happen.”
A flicker of curiosity kindled in Flynn’s mind. The Orb had to contain an important secret… Whatever it was, he wished he had been the one to take it if doing so could strike a blow against the Triumvirate. Then at least he could die for a cause greater than himself.
He suddenly recalled the footsteps he’d heard on his way to Everett’s office and, putting that together with the interrogator’s words, came to a realization: that must have been Storm’s insider, not some Scholar, as he had assumed. Storm’s insider was in Everett’s office right before me and Brax—and now, they think I’m the one working with the anarchists.
“There was someone in Everett’s office before me.” Flynn’s voice finally returned. “I—”
The interrogator cut him off with a harsh laugh. “Save your excuses. I already know what happened. All I need from you are the how and the why. Did you mean to cause the detonation, or were you hoping to sabotage Everett’s office and murder him the next time he came?”
“I-I didn’t know what I was doing.” Flynn wished he had a better explanation, but stupid as his words sounded, they were true. “I only lit the candles because my flashlight broke—the pieces are probably still in the stairwell of the Scholars’ Wing.”
“Indeed.” The interrogator’s voice dripped with disgust. “We detected Connor Salvator’s essence in the office and found the remnants of an essence-borrowing potion by Everett’s door. You were trying to frame the Gold Triumvir’s son for your crimes, weren’t you?”
“No! I only tricked the door into thinking I was him so it would let me in.”
“Connor Salvator doesn’t have access to that office.” The interrogator spoke with menacing satisfaction, as though she’d caught Flynn in a lie.
“What?” But the essence borrowing worked… The interrogator had to be lying, playing some kind of mind game—probably a tactic meant to confuse Flynn and get him to confess. Flynn was sure nothing he said would save him, but he refused to admit to anything that wasn’t true.
He almost wished the interrogator would give him a truth serum. Illicitly accessing a Sentinel’s report couldn’t be as bad as being considered an enemy of the state. He drew a deep breath. “This is the truth. I stole Connor’s notebook and his essence-borrowing potion so I could break into Everett’s office. I wanted to know what really happened on the Day of Glory. I didn’t even know Tydeus Storm existed before tonight, and I heard someone else in the Scholars’ Wing before I reached Everett’s office. That’s who you should be looking for. I didn’t know lighting those candles would cause the explosion, and Brax was only there because he was trying to stop me.”
Flynn fixed his gaze on the interrogator’s shadowy face, relieved that he’d at least managed to tell his story. He waited uncomfortably for a response, wondering if there was something else he could say.
An eerie hiss cut through the silence.
When the interrogator finally spoke, it was with a malice that sent a chill down Flynn’s spine. “I’ve tried being nice, but your reluctance to cooperate leaves me no choice.”
She stepped into the light, and Flynn was finally able to make out a face—that of a sharp-jawed woman with a chalky complexion and pitiless black eyes. A small white snake with long fangs protruding from its mouth was wrapped around her narrow forearm. Flynn wondered whether it had been there the entire time, invisible in the shadows, or if the interrogator had just summoned it. He recognized the creature as a fleshsnake and knew better than to underestimate it because of its small size. With the power of its jaws and speed of its movements, it could reduce a person to pile of bones in minutes.
The interrogator held her long black wand near the creature’s triangular head, which swayed from side to side in fluid movements. The snake’s eyes were closed. The interrogator had to be controlling it with magic, and only dark magic could control the supernaturals. Tydeus Storm and his followers weren’t the only ones who drew power from the Underworld, it seemed. That the Triumvirate used the same evil forces they condemned others for sent a bolt of anger through Flynn, but his fear overwhelmed it.
He shuddered. This was it. He was about to find out what it was like to be torn apart by a fleshsnake. But he didn’t want to remain a trembling coward. He wanted to go down fighting, even though he didn’t stand a chance, and he hated the part of himself that kept him paralyzed and stammering. He wouldn’t become the screaming, panicking victim. Jaw set, he locked his gaze onto the interrogator’s in a defiant stare.
The woman curled her mouth into a cruel sneer. “It’s a fine skill, being able to elicit the most screams without accidentally killing the subject.” She held up the snake. “I’ll start with one of my favorites: the fleshsnake. With my special coaching, this little beauty will peel the skin from your bones, slowly, as one would peel an orange.” She laughed and flicked her wand.
The fleshsnake turned to Flynn and opened its eyes, which glowed red. It stretched its mouth into a fang-lined yawn large enough to swallow someone’s head and shot at Flynn.
Flynn jumped, slamming into the back of the chair. It teetered and would have fallen backward if the patrolman hadn’t caught it and shoved it back in place. The fleshsnake withdrew. The interrogator flicked her wand again, and the creature’s mouth snapped shut. Its eyes lost their glow and closed, and it once again swayed its head as though in a trance.
Flynn clenched his fists, trying to keep from shaking. He kept his expression firm, refusing to let his terror show on his face and give the interrogator that satisfaction.
The interrogator leaned down. “So, kid, if you value your hide, tell me everything, and make sure it’s all true.”
Flynn gritted his teeth. “I already did.”
Before he could continue, the door flew open.
“Zachar!” A man marched into the room. “Stand down! I come with a message from the Office of the Gold Triumvir.”
Recognizing the voice as Williams’s, Flynn tried to glimpse him in the shadows. What was a teacher doing in the depths of the Triumvirate’s dungeons? Is he here to help me?
The flicker of hope glowed, and he watched anxiously as the interrogator, whose name was apparently Zachar, strode to the professor.
“What do you mean?” Zachar demanded. “I was told—”
“The orders have changed.” Williams’s voice was firm. “Flynn Nightsider is a special case.”
What does that mean? The only thing Flynn could think of was that “special case” had something to do with the fact that he was sixteen and therefore legally a child. The flicker of hope brightened. Even though Flynn didn’t really know Williams, he clung to the chance that the professor could help him somehow. He kept his eyes on the pair by the door, trying to see their actions through the blinding spotlight. Williams appeared to be holding a tablet—Flynn guessed it was the message he’d mentioned—and Zachar appeared to be reading it.
The interrogator spun back to Flynn with a scowl. “It’s your lucky day, kid.” She disappeared in a flash of light.
Flynn let out a shaky breath, but knew better than to think the danger was over. The patrolman’s gun remained aimed at his head, and for all Flynn knew, something worse could be coming. Williams approached, his expression tense, but there was something sympathetic about his tilted, brown eyes.
“Professor, please…” Flynn began, but trailed off. He’s just a teacher—not even in the Sentinel caste. What could he do?
Williams’s expression softened. “Calm down, Flynn. Zachar won’t be returning, and I certainly won’t harm you. Tell me, what did the office look like when you entered? Was the window open? Were the shelves in disarray?”
Flynn shook his head. For a
moment, he wondered why Williams was asking these questions then realized he might have believed what Flynn said about someone else being in the office. “Everything looked normal. I heard someone in the hallway before I got there, but they ran away, and I didn’t get a look.”
“I see. And you say you borrowed Connor Salvator’s essence, thinking it would allow you access to the office?”
“Yes.”
“Just to be clear, it was you who did the borrowing, not your friend?”
“Brax had nothing to do with it.” Flynn didn’t care how many times he’d have to repeat himself. If he was going down, at the very least, he could try to keep Brax out of it. Brax, you’d better stick with my story if they ask.
Williams furrowed his brow. “Damn you, Storm.” He straightened and turned to the patrolman. “Flynn Nightsider is to be taken to the Palace of Concord in the morning. You are no longer needed here.”
The patrolman nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The Palace of Concord—that was where prisoners were sent to be executed. All the cold of all the ice in the world seemed to pierce Flynn’s chest as the meaning of that sank in. Even though he wouldn’t be skinned by a fleshsnake tonight, he was still doomed to die—possibly in a more gruesome manner than he’d thought. The brief respite he’d found in the interrogator’s departure was over, and part of him resented Williams for giving him false hope. Why would the Triumvirate send orders to stop the interrogator, only to kill Flynn later? At this point, the best he could hope for was that he’d be dealt a nice, clean bullet to the head. Better than getting ripped to shreds by a monster.
Seeing the professor turn to leave, he jumped up. “Professor, wait!”
Before he could say anything more, Williams vanished in a flash. The patrolman left and slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Flynn alone in the cell.
Leaning back against the cold wall of the cell, he stared at the ground in disbelief. He’d probably be dead by this time tomorrow. That thought didn’t carry the weight it should have. He’d apparently used up his supply of fear, and only dullness remained. He closed his eyes. At least his mind was still his own. They could take his freedom, even take his life, but they couldn’t take away who he was.
