by Anna Vera
“But there was a problem,” he adds at last. “The energy we discovered thirty years ago is rare and finite—which we weren’t aware of, at first.”
He pauses, then, addresses me. “Do you know, Eos, what energy we’re talking about?”
My mind leaps yet again to Nova, her final words about her ability to see auras—soul energy—in everybody except the few who were our mentors, and everything falls together.
My voice is a croak. “Human souls.”
“The more we fed, the more Mutes were born. They were a side effect we didn’t expect—a side effect which began killing off the very populace we required to survive. Who knew that a soul’s energy was finite? Who knew we weren’t killing people, but leaving them soulless, bloodthirsty husks of who they once were?
“That is why we created specimens—hybrids whose human genetics prevented them from feeding on energy, and thus didn’t endanger the people in close proximity to them.” Pavo arches a brow cleverly, wetting his lips. “But they also required abilities to give them an upper hand against the soulless monsters they were created to destroy.”
“My ability to Scry—does that mean I feed off people?”
“No,” Pavo discounts straightway. “Not unless you harvest their energy intentionally, no.”
“And if I do?”
“You’ll adopt powers unfathomable,” he says wickedly, and nods at Rion and Jac. “If you are truly on my side, Eos, I’m afraid you’re going to have to prove it.”
“You—you’re asking—?”
“Take a soul,” he says, gesticulating casually. “Or choose to deny my offer, take the side of my sister, and I’ll kill everybody here regardless of what you do.”
“Everybody,” he adds suddenly, “except you, of course.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say loudly, eyeing my league before dropping to my knees beside Rion and looking at Mia, who’s right beside him.
She’s still alive, but barely. Her previously bronzed face is as colorless as a daisy, lips stained a pastel blue, as though she’s just kissed a summertime sky.
What do I do, what do I do, what do I do . . .
Mia nods subtly, eyes gesturing at the space of her chest.
At her heart.
Take me, she says. I’m dying anyway. Take what’s left.
I can’t do that to you, Mia . . .
You have no choice.
“Hesitating isn’t a sign of confidence, Eos,” Pavo prompts ominously from my left—too far away to realize that Mia’s still alive and breathing. “Take my side, and I’ll have mercy on your comrades, erasing their memory instead of killing them.”
Beside her, Rion exhales sleepily, yet pained—the way he looks when he’s having a nightmare. Mia’s hand finds mine and squeezes softly, encouragingly.
I nod at her. Tears sour, corrosive in my eyes, as I agree to the only option I’ve got to save everybody else.
Okay, Mia. You’re right.
Rion’s forearm is as hot as a fever. I grip it, looking over my shoulder at Pavo. “I’ll take this soul.”
“It’s a strong one,” he replies approvingly.
“I agree,” I say, placing my other hand on Mia’s, making sure to keep it hidden, out of sight. I feel the pull of their souls at the same time, bleeding into my palms without coercion.
But when Rion’s soul surges, I push it back, letting Mia’s trickle in slowly. I gain control faster than expected, staunching the flow of Rion’s soul and drinking in Mia’s.
I see flashes of her life before my eyes. A periwinkle horizon capped in an inky black. A harrowing cacophony of shrieking in the distance, trailing behind her, and yet she’s begging to go back to where she’s come from.
“No,” a woman snaps—hair silver, eyes a dull gray, like an overcast morning. “They’re gone, Mia!”
I realize it’s spring, years ago—but not many.
They are surrounded by rich greenery, a landscape rioting with bright wildflowers and looming ponderosas coated in pale moss, their bases haloed with shoots of mushrooms.
The woman grips Mia’s arm, dragging her haphazardly out of the forest and onto a highway. “They must be near,” she says as she surveys the road, speaking to herself. “Why else would the whole quarantine flip overnight?”
“My parents haven’t flipped!” Mia cries, trying again to rip her arm free of the woman’s hold and run back. “They could be waiting for me, Mabel!”
Mabel.
The woman—who must be Mabel Faye—traipses up the stretch of the highway, refusing to relinquish Mia’s arm, while keeping a close eye on the highway signs.
“Kipling,” she mutters, spotting a sign hanging just a few yards away from them. “That’s the meeting place—if anybody is to survive, they will find us in Kipling, Mia.”
“What’s that?” Mia asks, her weeping ceasing temporarily as they turn a corner and face a recently wrecked car—its hood a series of wrinkles, folded against a rock wall.
The driver is unrecognizable, face destroyed by the impact of the crash: a bloody pulp resting against the steering wheel.
“Look—over there,” Mabel says, releasing Mia to sprint to the side of the road where a boy lies inertly. “He’s got a pulse but he’s barely breathing.”
Mia blinks away her tears. “I—I can help him.”
“Your parents,” Mabel says while ripping off the cleanest parts of her shirt to dress the wound. “They were doctors, were they not, Mia?”
Mia nods, gritting her teeth. I know, somehow, that she’s desperate to correct Mabel: My parents are doctors, Mabel—not were doctors. We can’t know for sure that they’re dead, that they’ve flipped with the rest of the quarantine . . .
The memory hastens. A car skids to a stop beside them on the highway, driven by a woman with the most incredible, thick magenta hair and bright gemstone eyes.
The woman holds a fingertip to her temple.
Mabel nods appreciatively—a gesture suggesting they not only know each other, but know each other well—and helps gather the boy into Mia’s lap, who watches him as they drive to the hospital.
They recognize the injury. They see he’s military.
Mabel’s lips stiffen, recognizing the boy. “Rion,” she says in a voice hushed. “He’s a pilot—our best.”
“He’s lost too much blood. I think he’s going to die.”
“Hold still, Mia,” Mabel says, draping a hand over the girl’s shoulder while eyeing the woman in the front seat; the pair has a wordless dialogue, make an agreement.
Mia’s shoulder tingles. A rush of warmth, pulled from her very core, unspools and gathers at Mabel’s touch—she begins feeling herself get weaker, falling ill.
“That’s enough,” the driver says abruptly.
Mabel retracts her hand—a glow to her skin unnoticed if it weren’t for the fact that I’m already seeking it out, already partly aware of what’s taking place.
Mabel closes her eyes and exhales, resting her hand on the worst of Rion’s arms. I see the color of her skin fading. The cuts begin stitching themselves back together, a miraculous sight that knocks the breath out of Mia’s lungs.
Mabel’s face ages—withering and wrinkled—turning to face the girl sitting beside her. “See? I knew you’d save his life.”
And then, as though unplugged, the memory goes black right before my eyes and I’m yanked back to reality. My hand is clasped around Mia’s, but hers is limp.
She’s not holding it back.
She’s dead.
A cry escapes my lips, mournful and anguished.
Mia’s eyes are ringed in a fan of black lashes, her pupils big and dilated, fixed on the black sky. I notice her eyes are jaundiced slightly and a bubble of blood leaking between the edges of her two perfect lips, and wonder if she would’ve flipped
if—
If she didn’t die before she had a chance to.
Her cold hand is cupped in my own.
I can’t let go.
I can’t let go.
For the first time, I realize the legitimacy of Rion’s guilt.
Mia was gutted by Pavo—she was dying a slow and painful death in the snow, and would’ve died no matter what. And yet I’m technically her cause of death.
I took her soul.
A surge of warmth pools at the base of my spine, and my skin glows golden, and I know I’ve done it.
“Well done, Eos.” Pavo approaches, clapping slowly, ready to investigate Rion—who, possessed by the spell he’s under, writhes in agony.
Confirming he’s alive.
Pavo’s nostrils flare with fury.
I feel my feet yanked off balance. I’m dragged mercilessly over the icy snow, propelled by that incredible, invisible force so often used by Pavo to control others.
When I face him, he’s glaring at me in open threat.
“You’ve forfeited their lives,” he snarls, throwing up a palm to harvest Rion and Jac’s souls before my eyes, to kill my league members—everybody I love.
I feel my fingertips tingle, a power surging forth, pushing up against the underside of my skin, begging for release. The fight isn’t over yet—it’s only just begun, Pavo.
Pavo’s hands raise; everybody, including my league, begins to writhe violently in unison. Merope screams. Cyb’s voice is a choked cry. Tears roll down the sides of Lios’s cheeks as he stares blankly at the night sky, at a slow-crawling dawn.
Jac starts vomiting blood.
Rion rolls on his side, gasping for air.
And Apollo—Apollo.
He stands beside Pavo, his posture a soft cower, but his eyes as sharp as a knife’s edge.
“STOP,” I say, yelling over the surge of cries. “You’re going to stop this now, Pavo, or I swear I’ll—”
Pavo raises Merope in the air, employing one of his many skillset abilities—an arsenal he can tap in full, after having taken the souls of so many people. Every quarantine flipped at the same time, on the same night, three days ago . . .
That was Pavo.
He’s been fueling himself for right now. For this fight.
To fight me.
I feel as though I’ve just tripped off the edge of a cliff—that dizzying, gravity-less corkscrew. Pavo snaps his fingers and her paralysis is lifted fully, allowing her beautiful violet eyes to regard mine with panicked clarity.
My fingers fold into fists. “RELEASE HER.”
Merope writhes, trying to free herself, but her efforts only further infuriate Pavo. “You can’t simply wiggle away, Poplar!”
“Eos,” she gasps, falling limp, giving up.
Giving up.
No, no, you’re not giving up. Not yet.
My fingertips burn, a surge of violent power building like the boom of thunder before it crashes. For the first time, I let it loose fully, I free it.
I beg it to make up for lost time.
Pavo’s hand reaches forth, forming a strangely remote grip on my best friend’s throat—choking her from afar, causing her perfect face to bloat and fade to a sickly indigo.
Merope droops—suffocating.
And finally, I free my power. I feel it rip through the course of my whole body like an electrical current—feel it begin as spark and swell into an explosion, which drags itself joltingly through my every fiber. I feel as though I’ve exploded with it.
There’s a loud crack! and Pavo falls, neck left bent at a truly ugly angle, lying lifeless in the snow.
27
i’m left standing, gaping and breathless, with the sickening crunch of Pavo’s every broken vertebrae still ringing through my grip the way it might if I’d snapped his neck physically.
With my bare hands.
The others rise slowly, coherency refining with every gasp of freezing winter air. Jac wipes blood off his chin, glaring at the residue left behind on his sleeve.
“Holy shit,” he croaks, crying in full. “Holy shit, holy shit.”
“We’ve got to leave.” Apollo eyes the ring of the Elite still at a distance, holding back the Muted. “While we still can, before they realize what—”
“Silas!?” Jac cries, eyes eerily transfixed. “Mia!?”
“What’re you talking about?” Rion staggers forth, his hair sticking to the band of glistening sweat at his temples. “Why are you shouting their—”
Jac folds over himself, clutching his stomach as though he’s about to be violently sick.
Rion reels, colliding into a tree. “What—happened?”
I feel the burn of their gaze reach my periphery, but I can’t look away from Silas and Mia.
They were friends.
They were friends who came to save our lives.
Apollo grips my arm, dragging me up only for my knees to give away, buckling. I crash back down, slinking forward so my hands brace the ground, skidding harshly over ice.
Merope’s at my side at once. “Eos,” she cries, tears trailing down her dirty cheeks. “Eos, tell me you’re okay!”
Okay.
The word’s the antithesis of what I am, a polar opposite.
But I’m alive.
“Apollo’s right—let’s go while we can.” My legs feel almost as though they aren’t there as I stand only to stumble, ramming into the arms of a tree.
Lios ventures forth, offering an arm, which I accept.
“We aren’t leaving them!” Jac decries, the sclera of his eyes so wrought with bloodshot they’re barely visible. “The second we leave, the Muted will devour their—”
“We don’t have a choice.” Rion’s voice is raw—his eyes just as webbed with bloodshot—exuding a degree of emotion he’s not prone to showcasing.
I look back at Mia’s body, a shell spilling innards.
We can’t take her.
Jac draws the same conclusion, throat bobbing as he gulps away the influx of tears. He looks exclusively at Rion, the pair making a devastating agreement. Leave them.
Leave them behind for the Muted.
Leave them because we must.
Wordlessly, they head for the car. We follow, my balance restored by Lios’s strong arm. Merope and Cyb drape arms over my shoulders, crying softly.
Apollo’s the only one who’s staying objective—and I guess, after a lifetime of brutality that began with the death of his whole family before his very eyes, it makes sense.
We pile inside the destroyed vehicle, windows like toothy mouths exhaling stale, wintery breaths.
Rion takes the wheel. “We aren’t going to PIO Morse.”
Apollo sits, accepting the role of copilot. “You want to go back to the quarantine?”
“Not all of us.” Rion’s eyes deliberately don’t meet mine in the rearview mirror, despite my looking. “We’re going to split up as soon as it’s safe—Cyb, Merope, Lios and Eos will seek cover elsewhere, while the rest of us fight.”
“Like hell,” I bark.
“If they get their hands on you—”
“What am I supposed to do?” I lodge myself in the gap set between the front seats. Rion keeps his eyes on the road. “Hide in the forest until the apocalypse is over?”
“Rion’s right.” Apollo’s black eyes find mine. “Let us fight this war for as long as we can. The last thing we need is for you to fall into their custody.”
“Have all of you forgotten I just killed a Borealian?”
“You actually . . . didn’t kill him.” Apollo’s correction is met with a stunned silence. “You only deterred him, Eos. You forget that he’s soulless, a being that feeds off energy. It’s going to take a lot more to truly kill a pureblood Boreal—”
My hand aut
onomously finds his face, striking it hard.
Apollo recoils, furious. “What the hell?”
“Why didn’t you say something earlier? If I knew he wasn’t actually dead, I would’ve—I don’t know—tried to decapitate him or something, at least!”
Apollo rubs his cheek testily. The car moves faster, alerting the group of Elite specimens to our departure. We all wait with bated breath, expecting chaos.
But we don’t get it.
The Elite fall back slowly, allowing the Muted to flood into place like the lap of high tide. From a distance, I see the bodies of our friends—mangled, a heap of meat.
But I don’t see Pavo’s.
“He’s gone,” I say breathily.
“I told you they aren’t so easy to kill. I’m not even sure that decapitation would do it, Eos.” Apollo yanks his eyes back to the road before us, which we slip off and into the forest. “There were times when I thought . . . Well, it’s strange . . .”
“Thought what?”
“That maybe the Borealians could shapeshift.”
“Are you serious?” Cyb asks.
“Mabel ingests as little energy as possible, keeping her diet strictly to solar energy—but when she’s running low, you can see it in her physical appearance.”
“Like, she ages?” I ask abruptly, thinking of Mia’s memory.
“That’s only part of it—aging.” Apollo shakes his head in resignation, at a loss. I’m eager for him to explain, but we’re all distracted when Rion parks the car, killing the engine.
We look at each other, confused.
Lios asks, “Where . . . are we?”
Jac pops open the car door, leaping out. “The safe-house.”
I follow in Jac’s wake, stepping out into the dewy daylight of a full-fledged dawn. I feel the last two days weigh at my muscles and eyelids for the first time, exhaustion and hunger rolling into the space adrenaline previously occupied.
After digging at the base of a tree, Rion eventually extracts a dirty key, which he uses to unlock a well camouflaged trapdoor under a carpet of pine needles.
The door rips open, burping a cloud of dust.
Rion’s the first to go inside, treading down a flight of steps narrow and twisted, going underground.
