“You need to fix your stance,” I say as the man who fell gets back up. He and his partner turn to me with startled looks. “You fell because your feet are too far apart. You can’t balance like that in a fight. Look, like this.”
I sink into a crouch, my feet shoulder-width apart, fists raised in front of me. I nod for him to do the same.
He glances at his partner and hesitates, but the woman shrugs and copies me. After a few seconds, the man does the same.
“Good,” I say. “Be careful where you put your weight. You’re leaning too far forward.” I move his shoulders back and rap his lower back. “Keep it straight.” After I adjust the woman’s stance, I say, “There. Now try it again.”
The man lunges forward with a punch that almost makes me groan. The woman dodges it easily, but the way she moves is so stiff that if he’d been fast enough to throw another hit, she would’ve taken it.
“Stop. You have to lead with your arm, not with your fist. That’s where your actual strength is.” I make sure they’re both watching as I demonstrate with a few punches. “See? My arm controls the direction and force. I’m not just flinging my fist out hoping it’ll hit something.” I jerk my chin at the woman. “And when you dodge, you can’t hesitate about it. You don’t have time to think in a real fight—you move, and you try to do it as naturally and smoothly as walking. Try it again.”
I keep running them through the practice, stopping them to give advice when I need to. Honestly, though, what they need are drills. They don’t even know the basics, and they’re trying to fight. It’s like trying to drive a byc when you don’t know the controls. This is as good as pointless. Just who’s teaching them?
A bunch of the people sparring around us start to come over and practice with the original pair as I go through demonstrations. Eventually, I stop the matches altogether and do actually start drilling them. Proper stance, ways to punch, effective ways to dodge. More and more people begin to drift over until one of the “teachers” stomps over with his face screwed up.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “We’re practicing fighting here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed,” I say. “Your practice needed improvement.”
His face turns red. “Who are you? Who authorized you as an instructor?”
The giant group I’ve accumulated stops practicing their punches. I don’t need Jay’s gift to pick up on their unease as they probably realize they’ve never seen me before. Shit. I was trying not to get caught wandering around on my own, and instead I openly give myself away. Great job, Al.
I’m about to tell him I’m a new member who couldn’t just stand aside watching such a pathetic display when someone says from behind me, “I did.”
Everyone turns to the speaker. He’s a man in maybe his mid-twenties, with midnight-black skin and a close-shaven head. He’s huge and muscular—probably solid in a fight. He watches me curiously from where he leans against the wall by the entranceway. My heart pounds, but he just smiles.
“T-Trist, sir,” the teacher says. He fumbles to get the words out, but the newcomer doesn’t seem to notice.
“I thought we could use assistance,” the stranger says. “We still need much work, do we not? I asked our new friend to observe and help. She is a very skilled fighter, you see.” He beckons me over to join him, still smiling. “Excuse us while I ask her thoughts.”
“Of course, sir. Very well, sir.” The teacher glances at all the people still watching. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get back to practicing what the new instructor has taught you.”
I don’t usually follow strangers, but this one did just save me and it’s not like I want to stick around here, so I go with the new guy. We don’t go far. Once we’re in the hall, far enough away from the training room to be out of earshot, he stops.
“You are Al, correct?” he says. “I do not believe we’ve met before. I am Tristao Clemente—but please, call me Trist.”
I keep my eyes trained on his hands in case he makes any sudden moves. “How do you know who I am?”
“Ah, Lai has told us much about you,” Clemente says. “Determined, strong, just.” His smile grows a little wider. “Headstrong and willful. But a good friend and teammate.”
Lai said all that about me? The praise—or mostly praise—makes my chest feel light. Until I remember our last conversation and how she slammed the door on her way out. My heart sinks even lower than before. All those things she said must’ve been before Paul’s death. Before we ended up in this mess. Of course.
“Yeah, well, she hasn’t mentioned you to me at all,” I say. “Or anything about this place, in fact.”
“She protects the Order as if it were her own life,” Clemente says. There’s a knowing look in his eye like he can see inside my head, which makes me scowl. “She means well by keeping everything secret. But she is very prickly now, yes? Last time we lost someone, she pulled away from us then, too. It is her way. Please forgive her that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some years ago, we lost a good friend.” For the first time, the light in his eyes dims. He looks to the ground, but only for a few seconds. “To Lai, he was a very important friend. After he died, she was mean for some time. When she feels pain, she lashes out.” His fire returns a little, and he winks at me like we’re sharing some important secret. “But do not tell her I said so. She will become angry—actually angry.” And then he laughs.
I watch him closely. I can’t decide what to make of him. He seems well intentioned enough, I guess. And he did save my skin back there in the training room. But why’s he telling me all this about Lai? Why’s he trying to cover for her?
“You guys must be pretty good friends,” I finally say. “She’s lucky to have you.”
“And she you,” Clemente says. When I start to protest, he says, “Maybe she has not told you, but she loves her friendship with you. I have talked with her since you started fighting. I can tell she is not happy like this. I hope you two will fix your friendship soon, but Lai is stubborn. It might take time.”
I don’t know how to answer. I don’t even know this guy, and he’s vouching for my friendship—or what remains of it—with Lai. He talks about it so easily. Like Lai wasn’t keeping a million secrets from me. Like she didn’t betray my trust a thousand times over. Like I didn’t cause the death of her friend.
I don’t know what he wants me to say.
Clemente shakes his head. “But this is not the reason I wanted to talk with you.”
“You wanted to talk with me?” Now my confusion gives way to curiosity. What could he possibly want with me of all people?
“Yes,” Clemente says. “Lai has said you are maybe the strongest fighter in Central. So I wanted to ask—would you help the Order with its training?”
Pushing aside my sudden happiness at the fact that Lai, a hell of a fighter herself, said I might be the strongest in Central, I say, “Wait, what?”
Clemente gestures with one hand to the training room behind us. “You can see, can you not? We have started teaching our members to fight recently, but we are weak. Undisciplined. Inexperienced. Those of us who know how to fight are busy running the Order. We cannot take the time to train other members.” Now he gestures to me. “But you? You are skilled. You know how to win. If you are willing, would you help us?”
“What does the Order even need trained fighters for? Aren’t you guys a peace group?”
“Ah,” Clemente says softly. “That we are. But if we wish for peace, we may need to join the war. If the military cannot defeat the rebels, maybe we can help. But only if we have capable fighters.”
The idea of it is absurd. Me, teaching a bunch of strangers how to fight? From the basics, no less. It sounds like a pain.
But when I think of the sorry excuse for fighters I saw just a few minutes ago, I get what Clemente’s saying. If the Order does plan on joining this war, they’re not going to survive like that. They might as well be dead
already unless someone who knows what they’re doing helps them. And as much as I hate to admit it, a part of me was weirdly happy training those guys. Satisfied in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
I’ve spent the last week on the run and stuck in a dead-end chase to find info that’s already long gone. I’ve been lied to, stabbed in the back, and told to just wait around and not get in the way.
A spark ignites in my chest as the idea of training these wannabe fighters grows on me. I could actually be doing something and helping people—and not because Lai told me to. By my own choice.
I meet Clemente’s eyes. “I’ll do it.”
* * *
Clemente fills me in on the details of how the training works now, I offer my suggestions for changes, and we agree to meet up tomorrow and start with everyone. He offers to show me the way to my room, but I’m not ready to go back yet, and the thought of being there when Lai returns is irritating, so I turn him down and keep wandering around.
After probably an hour of walking, I think I’m actually kind of starting to get the hang of this place. Things aren’t really as random as they seem, and when I run my hands over the walls, I feel symbols and arrows etched into them. They must be some kind of coded directions. I can’t figure out the symbols’ exact meanings, but I’m able to remember them and follow them to their destinations. Three swirls, a triangle, and a square lead to some kind of market. Two circles, two squares, and a triangle to an infirmary. A square, two swirls, and a circle take me to a big room with a bunch of tables.
It’s like a puzzle. I’m sure Jay’ll have a field day figuring this place out, but I get bored of it quickly. What I want isn’t to memorize my way around this place. I want to do something. I want to get out there and show the rebels and the Council and everyone else what’s what. I want to stop being on the run. I want to find my brother and kill him for sure this time.
I stop at what looks like a dead end and sit on my heels. I don’t know how to get back. I don’t really care that I don’t know, but it’s annoying that I don’t, if only because it’s like proving Lai was right. And I can’t think of anything more irritating right now.
But the halls are suffocatingly quiet. It makes me want to break something just to hear the noise. The silence feels the same as when I walked into my childhood living room to find blood splattered across the walls and my brother hunched over the bodies of our parents. The instant my entire reality was quietly ripped into shreds.
I bury my face in my arms. Idiot. It’s been nine years already. Why are you getting this upset over something that happened so long ago? Besides, I’m going to kill my brother and get justice for our parents and closure for myself. I just have to keep pushing forward. Then everything will be right again. Then everything will be okay.
Footsteps echo down the hall. I look up to see Lai standing behind me. Her eyes are beyond tired in the dim light as she holds a hand out to me. “Let’s go back, Al.”
5
ERIK
SAYING GOODBYE TO everyone was harder than I thought it’d be. I figured I’d be glad to finally escape our dead-end situation, cramped apartment, and the constant tension of the team, but as soon as I’m on my own, I wish I was back with them. I’m getting soft.
It doesn’t take long to find a deserted side street that’ll do the job. I don’t exactly want anyone catching me doing what I’m about to do—not that I think anyone would be strolling by at this hour. But just in case.
I adjust the backpack slung over my shoulder, weighed down by a couple sketchbooks, a few sets of clothes, and some of the leftover food. I tell myself it’s because the weight lies unevenly, but honestly, I’m just procrastinating. I was all for going back to the rebels when we were just talking about it, but now that the moment is actually here, my hands shake with nerves. Once I do this, there’s no backing out. A one-way ticket if ever there was one.
But waiting around here isn’t going to change anything. I made my choice.
I pull a silver chain out of my pocket. A pure black crystal glitters on the end of it.
At our meeting with the rebels, Ellis said to “look close to home” for a way to contact her. I didn’t give it a whole lot of thought at the time. But a few nights ago, when I was flipping through my old sketchbook she gave me at that meeting, I found this necklace taped into the back. There was no note, no explanation, but I knew what it was immediately. Ellis’s power crystal.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell the others about it—not that my silence stopped Lai from digging around in my thoughts and finding out. She probably knew as soon as I found it. Then again, she did do me a favor by telling me all about Ellis’s gift of controlling shadows. Ellis can travel through them, send shadow butterflies as messengers that only their intended receiver can see and hear, and use those same butterflies to observe people through their shadows. But that last one can only happen with the knowledge and permission of the person being watched.
My fingers close around her power crystal. Deep breaths. It’ll be fine. I can do this.
Power crystals don’t work unless you’re touching them and you want to use their power. One out of two down, but it takes a couple more calming breaths before I manage to call out to the power—not exactly sure what’ll happen when I do.
The shadows around me shift and surge, and it takes all my willpower not to step back out of their way as they detach from the ground and walls to engulf me. I expect to feel pain or be unable to breathe, like if a wave of water crashed over me, but I don’t feel anything. When I blink, I’m in a dimly lit room that is definitely not some back alley of Sector Eight.
Another few blinks and the room starts to come into focus around me. Or maybe my eyes just adjust to the half-light. It looks like an office. There’s one door and a window that’s pitch black on the other side. Mismatched furniture takes up most of the space. The air smells damp and heavy with—what, incense? I realize the room is so dark because the only light is from the candles scattered around it. Wax drips down them to pool in shallow bowls set on the dark wooden furniture. Mahogany? I stare at the main desk. The design, the feel of it …
“Do you remember, Erik?” a voice asks behind me. I whip around. No one was in the room a few seconds ago, but now, Ellis stands between me and the door. Behind her is Cal, along with the pale-eyed girl with the ice gift and the vicious rebel I fought on our team’s second mission. Joan and Devin, I think. “You made all the furniture in this room.”
It takes everything in me not to back away. My heart races like crazy. This is really happening. I’m here with the rebels.
I force my face and voice to be calm. “I can’t say I remember, but I do recognize my own work when I see it.”
Disappointment falls over Ellis’s face, but it’s quickly replaced by excitement as she claps her hands together. “So, you decided to come back? I knew you would.”
Cal looks just as happy as Ellis—maybe even more—but Joan watches me with narrowed eyes. Devin outright scowls.
“It’s hardly surprising after we dealt Sector Two such thorough losses,” Joan says. Her pale blue eyes gleam in the candlelight. A single braid of dark brown hair hangs over one shoulder, but pieces stick out like she made it in a hurry. When I look at her more closely, I realize the edges of her eyes are red. Her dark tan skin seems to have taken on a more sickly hue since the last time I saw her, too. Or maybe it’s just the candlelight.
She turns to Ellis. “Are you sure we can trust him? Seems to me like he’s just running to us with his tail between his legs now that the military’s turned on him.”
“For once, I agree with her,” Devin snarls. “He’s just a coward. We don’t need him.”
My irritation flicks on, and that emotion I don’t hide. “I’m sorry my timing isn’t exactly trustworthy to you, but it’s not like I’ve had a whole lot of time to think things over since you nearly killed me and my teammates. Things have been a little busy.”
“I didn’t re
alize one needed time to know where their loyalties lie,” Joan says.
“Oh, Joan, you’re starting to sound like Devin,” Ellis teases. Devin’s eyes flick to her like he doesn’t know whether to take that as an insult or a compliment. Joan scowls darkly at the comparison. I can’t blame her. From what I remember of Devin, he’s crazy for violence. Not someone any sane person would want to be compared to.
Ellis turns to face me again. Long blond hair tumbles past her shoulders, over plain black clothes that seem to be the color of choice around here. They’re stark against her pale skin. “He was lied to for months by the military, and then we suddenly sprung the truth on him. I’m sure it took time to process.”
“I’m sure being branded a traitor didn’t hurt, either,” Joan mutters.
Cal doesn’t look like he even heard their conversation. He grins from ear to ear. “You really decided to come back to us, Erik?”
“I wouldn’t have come here with all my stuff otherwise,” I say. Joan and Devin are throwing me off, but as distrustful of me as they are, neither of them actually seems suspicious of me being a spy. That, at least, calms my racing heart a little.
“Excellent!” Ellis says with another clap of her hands. “Oh, it’s so good to have you back, Erik! You have no idea how much we’ve missed you.”
Her excitement catches me off guard. It feels weirdly genuine. Is she just that good at faking, or is it real? Is it possible we all really were good friends? That they cared about me—that I cared about them? I mean, a part of me must have known we were, with all the effort they put into seeing me and trying to convince me to come back. But it’s still hard to wrap my head around.
That’s why I’m here, I remind myself. I’m going to learn the truth for myself. I’m finally going to find what I’ve been searching for these past several months.
I must not be hiding my surprise at Ellis’s reaction that well, because her smile wavers. “Well, you don’t remember us, of course. Not yet. But don’t worry, Erik. We’ll remind you.”
An Outcast and an Ally Page 6
