by Lynette Noni
At least, I convince myself that’s the reason I feel tears coming. Not because he’s just shown me a glimpse of the Ward I remember. The Ward I miss.
“Why don’t we just —” My voice comes out hoarse, so I clear it and try again. “Let’s just — let’s just get back to training.”
I watch as he visibly relaxes, a short nod of agreement all he offers me. The transformation of his features is instant, with all signs of emotion gone and his walls firmly in place once more. It makes me wonder if I imagined his outburst. If I read more into it than what it actually was. If it, like everything else with him seems to be, was an act.
With a sigh, I return my attention to the ground, and piece by piece I focus on building the haystack Ward directed me to create earlier. I put aside our discussion and lose myself in the task, moving the golden straw into position with my words and imagination. Only when I’m done do I turn to Ward again.
I’m not surprised when I can’t read his face. I can’t ever seem to read his face anymore.
When he continues to just look at me, I wave my hands, a gesture that appears to startle him, as if he hadn’t realized he was staring at me.
“Good job,” he says, taking in the haystack that I shaped roughly into the form of the Eiffel Tower. If you squint, tilt your head and turn all the lights off.
“One more activity, then we’ll call it quits for the day.”
My shoulders slump, but I show no other resistance — even as I ignore the pounding across my forehead that has yet to ease.
“You’ve been handling things well lately, so I thought we’d try something different this afternoon, out in the main room again,” Ward says, moving toward me.
Without being told, I banish my sad attempt at recreating the iconic French landmark and turn my focus back to him, wary but also curious about what he might have in store for me next.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ward asks me to hold out my hand, so I tentatively do so, and he places something in my palm. It’s not heavy, nor is it light. What it is, is invisible.
I ignore the tingles that wash over my skin as he uses his fingers to wrap mine around the object, then squeezes them until whatever I hold is secure in my hand.
“Um,” I say as he puts three deliberate steps of distance between us, “do you want to maybe explain?” I wave the invisible object I can feel but not see.
“The first day you were brought down here, there was a paintball skirmish going on outside.”
I remember that. The memory is vividly burned into my brain.
Reading my face, Ward continues, “You’re currently holding an unloaded paintball gun.”
“It’s invisible.”
Sadly, those are the exact words that come out of my mouth, which is why I find Ward’s response to be generous.
“Very astute, Jane.”
I can practically hear his unspoken “dumb-ass” tagged on the end.
“The weapon you’re holding has been cloaked by a Speaker to make it invisible, but nothing more.”
I automatically think of Jet and her ability, wondering who in Lengard has a similar power.
“The weapons your opponents will be using are also invisible, but they’re infused to generate and release paintballs at the Spoken word ‘bang.’”
His use of the word “infused” calls to mind Pandora’s transferring ability and the objects I have hidden in my wardrobe. Three days. I still have time. “My opponents?”
“You can’t play skirmish with only one person, Jane.”
Ward’s dry response irks me, but I’m guessing I’ll find out for myself soon enough.
“If my gun isn’t loaded like theirs, how am I supposed to shoot anyone?”
He peers at me for a long moment before inhaling and looking upward, staring at the ceiling as if seeking divine patience. “You’re a Creator, Jane. Use your imagination.”
Oh. Right.
Ward shakes his head and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a strip of blue material and throws it to me. I catch it with my free hand.
“Your task is simple,” he says.
As he speaks, I wedge my invisible gun between my knees so I can tie the makeshift armband around my left bicep. When I’m unable to manage such a coordinated feat on my own, Ward sighs heavily and strides forward to secure it in place for me.
“I’m listening,” I say as he retreats once more. I attempt to figure out if, after reclaiming my gun, I’m holding it the right way or at risk of shooting myself in the face.
“I don’t care if you’re on the winning team or the losing one, just as long as you maintain control of your ability,” Ward tells me. “All you have to do is create paint, using the same ‘bang’ word as everyone else so no one realizes your gun isn’t infused like the guns of the others. Think you can do that?”
“I’m assuming if I can’t, you’ll protect them from me?”
“That’s not the point,” he argues.
“But it’s still a point,” I say. When his eyes narrow, I roll mine in return and confirm, “Yes, Ward. I think I can keep enough control to create a little bit of paint. But just to be sure …”
I can’t ignore the opportunity he’s presented me, so I raise my hand, tug on what I think is the trigger — not that it matters, since the gun isn’t really loaded — and say, “Bang!”
A flash of light appears with my Spoken word and, at seeing the results of my command, I have to lift my free hand to cover my mouth, holding back laughter.
“You, uh, didn’t think to protect yourself?” I ask Ward, my voice bubbling with humor as I take in his rainbow-splattered chest.
I’m half expecting him to yell at me, so it comes as a surprise when his eyes brighten and his lips twitch before he shuts down his expression.
“You didn’t lose control, so there was no reason for me to intervene,” he responds. “Plus, from this you can now tell if you need more or less creativity with your intent. I suggest you visualize a touch less paint next time.” His mouth quirks as he adds, “And you could probably leave out the glitter.”
So I may have let my imagination go a little wild. But it was worth it just to witness his lighthearted reaction. It’s been so long since —
I stop my train of thought before it gets away from me.
“And remember, you’re on the blue team, which means —”
I raise my gun and shoot him again before he can finish, this time swapping out the rainbow with plain blue splatters. “Blue paint only. No glitter. Got it.”
“For the record, it’s not pleasant being shot at close range, imaginary paintballs or not,” Ward says, rubbing a hand against his chest and smearing the paint there. “And while I know you kept your impact soft since my ribs aren’t crushed right now, feel free not to do that again.”
I’m not proud of my lack of sympathy, but … I did get to shoot Ward. And see him splattered with rainbow glitter. It was worth the minor bruises he can easily ask Cami to heal later.
Before I can muster a response — or attempt some kind of contrition — the door opens, and Enzo walks in.
“We’re all ready out there,” he says. “Just waiting on you two.”
Ward turns to him. “Thanks, Enz. We’re coming now.”
Enzo’s face breaks into a brilliant smile when he sees Ward’s torso, and he looks at me. “Getting in a few practice shots?”
“Can you blame me?” I say, though with a whispered word, I vanish the paint from Ward’s chest before anyone else can question the source of the rainbow glitter.
Enzo barks out a laugh. “Glad you’re on my team, JD. We’ll put you to good use.”
Cami, Keeda and Crew are all waiting for us outside the Karoel room, and I can just make out the blurred image of Sneak, as well. With Ward and Enzo, that makes seven of us in total. Three of us wear blue armbands: Enzo, Crew and me; while Ward, Cami, Sneak and Keeda are all wearing green. I have to do a double take when the green team walk away and hud
dle to discuss strategy, knowing what I now do of the tragic event that made them all orphans.
“Yo, JD, you feel like adding anything here?”
Enzo’s question makes me focus on my team again. Four against three doesn’t seem like fair odds, but then I remember that I’m a Creator, Enzo has military training and Crew is … aggressive. It should even out the playing field, especially since I assume neither Cami nor Sneak will be particularly ruthless. Keeda, however, is no pushover, and I’m certain she and Ward will present the biggest threats.
Being careful with every word I say, I share my thoughts with Enzo and Crew — leaving out the part about me being a Creator — and when I’m done, Enzo nods with approval.
“Nice deductive reasoning,” he praises.
Ever the pessimist, Crew tugs his eyebrow piercing and says, “Let’s hope your aim is as good as your judgment.”
“Want to try me?” I challenge, pushing the imaginary safety off my gun.
Crew’s surly attitude dissolves into a grin, and I understand why when Enzo says, “There’s, uh, no safety on paintball guns.”
Heat touches my cheeks, but I’m saved from having to respond when the green team return.
“Are you done discussing how you’ll lick your wounds after we beat you?” Keeda asks.
“We thought it was more important to be realistic,” Crew shoots back.
“Shut it, Slayer boy,” she says. “Your team is going down.”
As if those words hold magical properties, I take my lead off the others, and we all scatter, running to find shelter behind the pillars of the room as the skirmish begins in earnest.
It takes the length of three heartbeats for me to realize that I’m going to pay immensely for shooting Ward earlier — twice. And I know this because in that short amount of time, he’s already shot me — twice.
And it hurts. Enough that I want to exact retribution.
So with a war cry that mingles with those from my allies and enemies, I throw myself into the skirmish, shooting left, right and center.
And I miss, left, right and center.
Part of that is because the green team have clearly done this numerous times before, and they’re frighteningly quick to duck and dodge my attacks. But most of that is because I’m so acutely wary of my intent. While outwardly I only have to say the word “bang,” in the back of my mind I have to focus on at least four different things all at once: shooting a paint pellet from the nozzle of my invisible gun; making it burst with the same shade of blue produced by the rest of my team’s weapons; being sure it doesn’t have too much or too little pressure to differentiate it from the shots the rest of them are firing; and aiming the line of fire at a specific target.
Skirmish is challenging enough without having to concentrate on all those things at once, let alone while doing them and making sure I don’t lose control of my intent. Without the dampening effects of the Karoel, there’s nothing pushing against me to limit my power, so I have to keep a tight rein on my words — something that I struggle with at the best of times.
Five minutes in and I realize I need a new plan. I haven’t managed to hit anyone yet, but I’ve taken a number of paintballs to my torso and limbs, smearing me in green. My teammates are starting to notice how little I’m helping, whereas Ward, Cami, Keeda and Sneak work together like a well-oiled machine. I wonder how many times they’ve played this game over the years, and I sullenly acknowledge that their close history gives their team another advantage that I hadn’t considered earlier.
But … observing the way they carry out their attacks gives me an idea.
I’ve been so focused on creating paintballs that shoot from my gun that I haven’t stopped to consider that the normal rules don’t apply to me. The others are all limited to using the physical ammo infused into their weapons. But I’m creating my own — and the paint doesn’t need to come directly from my gun.
Gleeful at my out-of-the-box thinking, I wait until I have a clear line of sight at Keeda, who is engaged in a fight against Crew. Then I raise my weapon vaguely in her direction and say, “Bang!”
It doesn’t matter if my gun’s aim is true or not, because my aim is. I could have been facing my weapon to the ceiling and still splattered the paint across her thigh, just as long as my intent was on the result I was after and not the complex process of making it happen.
And suddenly, it’s like something clicks in my brain.
For so much of my training with Ward I’ve been focusing on how to make my ability work, all the little things I’ve had to concentrate on with my intent. Really, it’s much simpler than that. I don’t need to focus on the how; I only need to focus on the what. On the actual result. Just like my first day with him when I said “cat,” and a cat appeared. I don’t know where Schrödinger came from — whether he was someone’s pet or a stray, or whether he didn’t exist at all until I created him. All I did was call him into being, and he came.
With a smile stretching across my face, I raise my eyes around the room as I realize I can do this. I can keep control because I only have to focus on one thing. Not my aim, not my ammo creation, not my pressure … just my targets. And with an elated feeling, I take off again, shooting left, right and center once more.
This time I hit Cami, Keeda and Sneak, one after the other. Blue paint bursts onto their clothes, and I run and duck and hide as they retaliate. I can’t resist the temptation when I see Ward across the room in a skirmish with Enzo, and while I know he’s too far for anyone else to target, I don’t have the limitations of a normal gun. So I sneakily whisper, “Bang!” while he’s hiding around a pillar with no weapons trained on him, not even mine. His body gives a jerk when my light hits him and blue smears him, and he looks around in puzzlement at his lack of enemies in range before he glances farther across the room in realization.
I give a cheery wave. He never said I couldn’t cheat, just that he wanted me to keep control.
And right now, I feel more in control than I’ve ever been. It’s exhilarating. Breathtaking. Empowering … Intoxicating.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t last.
As the time flies by with me running and laughing and shooting — and, admittedly, being shot — I start to grow tired. Physically, yes, but also mentally. It becomes difficult to keep my concentration, my aim going wide more often than not, or just not resulting in paint at all. The light stops bursting from me consistently, and the effects of my ability become scattered, to the point that I’m once again a liability to my team rather than an asset.
I’m beginning to become legitimately concerned, when Ward calls a halt to the skirmish.
The match is declared a tie — despite objections from both teams — and everyone disperses to go clean up, leaving me alone with Ward again. I follow him back into the Karoel room and don’t hesitate to ask what’s wrong with me, explaining how I was doing so well and then … not.
His answer surprises me.
“You got tired, Jane. Plain and simple. It’s harder to do anything when you’re tired — Speaking included.”
I almost want to laugh at how normal it makes me feel, to have a weakness that is so commonly shared by everyone in the world.
“It’s not a good thing,” Ward says, reading my expression.
I shrug, aware that he’s probably right, but still pleased.
“You need to take this seriously,” he says. “Fatigue makes you lose concentration — which means you, especially, become more dangerous than normal. Sometimes, like today, your ability will stop working consistently. Other times your intent could become muddled, producing unwanted and potentially disastrous results. You need to recall the signs and keep them in mind for the future.” He looks intently into my eyes. “You know how they say not to drive a vehicle while tired? The same goes for you and Speaking. Be alert to your body and recognize when you need to avoid using your ability altogether.”
I give him the nod he expects.
“Good,” he say
s. “Then on that note, we’re done for the day. You did well — even if you cheated.”
I wish his praise didn’t make me feel so warm, but it does.
“You say I cheated. I say I used my imagination.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
By the time Ward escorts me back up to my suite, my headache has returned with a vengeance. Even after Cami heals me, I’m so exhausted from the strain of the past few hours that I drop right off to sleep without eating dinner.
The next day passes in a similar manner, without the skirmish action but with the addition of a few nagging worries. I wonder when, how and even if I should try to verify Kael’s story. It’s not like I don’t believe him. His story was so complex and full of detail that I’m sure some of it has to be right — or at least based on some form of the truth. But no, my hesitation is because I know that if I do find evidence to corroborate his tale, there will be no coming back from it. And what will I do then? Prison or haven, Lengard is my home. And if Kael is right — that will change everything.
To avoid planning my infiltration of Falon’s office, after I finish training for the day I crash on the couch for a movie night with Cami. Keeda shows up carrying two bags stuffed to the brim with junk food, and we welcome her with open arms. We laugh and chat — or they chat, since I’m still not confident enough away from the Karoel or Ward to join in — and we have a perfectly relaxing night.
I need a night without responsibilities. And I take it.
But the next day is harder. Because today is the final day Pandora’s gloves and glasses will work, so I actually have to make a choice.
It’s quite simple, really.
Do something … or don’t.
Investigate … or ignore.
Summon courage … or submit to fear.
While I try to create a miniature landscape in the training room, with a forest-bordered river and a snow-dusted mountain range half the height of my body, I’m distracted. Enough that I make fresh snow fall from invisible clouds above us, rather than have the snow already stuck to the peaks of the chair-sized Alps. Ward isn’t impressed, so I quickly vanish the icy flakes now covering us both and construct a miniature ski village at the base of the mountains, chairlift included. All the while, my mind is repeating a litany: Go, don’t go. Do it, don’t do it. Go, don’t go. Do it, don’t do it.
