by Elle Park
In the midst of busy roads and rushing people, I'm afforded a unique sense of privacy. I can move about unnoticed, free to watch, observe, and analyze the potential victims of my venom-induced bullets—bodies I'll have to hope crumble into ash instead of a puddle of flesh and blood.
It's during my casual spying that I notice a young man and woman walking out of a small pub—a little odd at this time of day, but I won't question it. She's wearing a cropped sweater, a denim skirt that just barely hugs her thighs, and dark, suede, knee-length boots. The guy, at least, appears a little warmer in a fleece jacket and heavy boots.
It's not their attire that catches my attention, though.
The girl's eyes are glazed and brimming with obvious lust, and yet, her presumed companion doesn't appear nearly as affected. His smiles are wooden and his eyes are vacant, and while his intense, probing stare has her biting her lip and batting her lashes, I get the feeling he's hungry for something entirely different from what she's offering.
So, I have my vorak—I think. He might simply be a run-of-the-mill predator—of the human kind—but I'm going to have to go with my instincts. Now I just have to figure out a way to kill him without drawing any attention, as I doubt people would be willing to dismiss the sight of a man turning to ash.
Unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of lounging around while I construct an immaculate, genius plan, because my target is already on the move.
I'll have to make this up as I go.
Their pace isn't rushed, though—almost slow, really—so I don't have too much of a hard time tailing them through the congested streets, past cafe's and restaurants, and into a residential area that, on any other day, I'd prefer to stay out of.
Looking at the ancient apartments that are probably better off being abolished, I can't help but regret not turning right when I had the chance. If I was going to end up in someone's neighborhood anyway, I might as well have chosen the safer option. Here, shattered glass and burnt cigarettes litter the broken pavements, and I don't even want to know what the slimy mess three feet away from me is.
The pair is now heading for a four-story complex, and I know that once they're inside, there's no way I'll be able to accomplish the hit. Even now, I have no idea how I'm supposed to separate the two—not when the girl is clinging to him like her life depends on it.
If only she knew.
Seeing that they're about thirty seconds away from entering the building, I surprise myself by palming a sizable fragment of the dirty glass, squeezing until I feel its sharp splinters digging into my soft flesh. Quickly, I hide in the crevice between two brick walls, and as I drop the shard to the ground, I notice my cuts have already healed. It doesn't matter, though, because my skin is now wet and dribbling with blood—a small amount that, hopefully, will be enough. Then, with the anticipation that my prey, the predator, will succumb to its instincts, I wait.
Confirmation comes through the woman's bewildered voice.
"Hey, where are you going?" I hear her shout. When he doesn't reply, her disbelief morphs into anger. "You know what? Go screw yourself."
Before he even comes fully into view, my gun is aimed and ready to shoot—and, like striking a well preserved match, he burns the second I release the trigger.
Well, that was easy.
No longer having a target to follow, it becomes clear that I actually have no idea where I am or how to find my way back. More importantly, I only now realize that Lacey hasn't told us how we're supposed to get back to The Academy at all, nor did she mention how long this supposed field trip is meant to last.
It turns out, I don't have to figure anything out just yet, because a group of boys are standing in front of me.
Watching me.
Kill like everyone is watching.
Is that what happened? Did they see me? Judging by the looks on their faces—eyes glinting and lips curling—I don't think they did. And I would ask myself if they appear to be voraks, but their boisterous chatter and taunting comments toward me suggest otherwise—which also happens to answer my next question of what exactly they want from me.
When I attempt to step around them, they, of course, block my way. They take lazy steps forward, forcing me to back myself further into the makeshift lane. Aware that I am close to being cornered into a dead-end—which will really do me no favors—I stop moving. And, whether by surprise or curiosity, they do, too.
They don't stay still for long, though, and when one of them reaches out to grab my arm, I react on instinct, flipping him over. He crashes to the ground with a sharp gasp—probably from the air I knocked out of his lungs—and grumbles a string of profanities as he tries to get back up. But before I can face his wrath, my attention is diverted to one of the other boys—specifically, to the familiar flash of silver.
With his arm bent and stretched out in front of him, he holds the knife in an obviously threatening way. I'm assuming this is the part where most people would cry or scream or shake in fear. And, some months ago, I was that person—but things are different now. I'm different now. So, when he thrusts his weapon forward, I don't hesitate to catch the blade with my bare hand.
All three of them gape in shock as I clench my fist even tighter, allowing a fresh coat of blood to drench the dried layer from earlier. Their moment of uncertainty is all the opportunity I need to wrench the knife from his grasp. Instantly, I spin it around until I'm holding the handle and, not wanting them to see my miraculously sealed gash, I don't dare loosen my grip.
Our positions have reversed in a matter of seconds, and I must say, I'm liking the change. "If you don't want me to really make use of your toy—which is now mine, by the way—I suggest you go on your way and pretend this never happened."
Stumbling over their feet like newborn giraffes, they nearly run over themselves as they make a hasty retreat. And as I finally allow the knife to fall, I fall with it—only to land somewhere I would've never thought possible.
Then things begin to make sense.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MY EYES SNAP open, which means they must have been closed.
I'm lying in a training pod, which means I must have never left.
None of it was real.
You have to relax. None of this is real.
That's what Nolan said to me in the cafeteria that day as he tried to make me realize that the blazing inferno I was sure I saw, felt and heard was not raging in the stark white room, but rather burning the walls of my own mind.
So, that's what he was trying to tell me.
Released from the pod for the second time today—or, technically, I guess it would be the first—I step out into the familiar room, where Nolan is already waiting for me.
"Come here, you," he chimes, hugging me to his chest, "I missed you. Did you miss me?"
"How can you miss someone who never left?" I say, easily escaping his hold. Ignoring his pout, I focus on Lacey and, specifically, the names she is currently calling out.
"All right, I get it. You're upset because I couldn't let you in on the secret," he says, sighing. "But, I swear, Lacey was practically breathing down my neck—the woman does not understand the concept of personal space, I tell you."
I can't tell if this is his attempt of a self-deprecating joke.
Knowing him, it's probably not.
"... The six of you are being transferred. You may leave right away."
Transferred?
"Don't worry, she didn't call your name," Nolan chirps from beside me. "You did good, Kiki."
I notice only five recruits are making their way to the doors.
"There must be some mistake," a boy—Hipster Boy—says, crossing his arms in defiance. "I didn't do anything wrong."
Lacey arches her brow, visibly unimpressed. "The only mistake here, Mr. Daley, is the one you made."
"No, I didn't—"
"You used your orb."
"You said we could—"
"I said, you may use your orb if the situation calls for
it—those were my exact words, were they not?"
"Yes, and the situation did—"
"No, it didn't," she cuts him off yet again, and I can almost hear her blood begin to sizzle. "You could have fought your way out, talked your way out, or even ran your way out, but instead, you chose to use your orb. If you were in a controlled situation, then there would be no problem. Witnesses, however, are a game changer, and with social media, it's game over." Glaring at him, her voice grows a little louder and her tone even harder. "You failed to realize that a pair of teens was just around the corner, filming you in all of your three minutes of glory. It's game over for you, Acker. Now," she points to the wall of doors, "you are dismissed."
Unable to refute, he speeds through his walk of shame, head bowed and tail tucked between his legs like a sad, scolded puppy.
"Maybe he needs new glasses, because he should have seen that coming from a mile away," Nolan says with a snort.
"As for the rest of you," Lacey continues, clearing her throat, "congratulations—you are now officially trackers. The sooner you get changed, the sooner you may leave. You'll notice your belongings have all remained untouched."
True to her word, I find that my clothes, my phone and my wallet—which holds just my ID and my debit card—are still on the shelf, folded and piled exactly as I put it. But there's also a pair of dark jeans and a leather jacket—not unlike the ones I wore during the field trip—and for a moment, I wonder about their presence. Then I remember that a considerable amount of time has passed, and that mere shorts and a tee probably won't do anymore.
As soon as we're all back in the room, she speaks again.
"Your recruiters are waiting on the other side of these doors. They will show you how to use your equipment, explain to you the protocol you must follow, and teach you everything else you might need to know."
"So... this is it?" someone asks.
"This is it," she confirms, flashing a rare smile. I can't help but feel uneasy at the sight because it usually means we won't like what she says next. "Sink or swim—you're leaving the kiddie pool now."
Well, that explains the smile.
"You heard her, kid. Let's go," Nolan says, towing me toward the steel elevator only Lacey has been seen using. Instead of a call button, though, there is a small, square screen. He presses his hand flat against the surface, and almost instantly, the lift slides open.
"Why aren't we using the doors?" I ask once we step inside.
Instead of the usual panel of buttons, there is a large touchscreen displaying an impressive variety of tabs to choose from. He snaps his gaze to me before tapping one of the more larger icons—an obvious one that has the word LOBBY printed on it in bold letters.
"She said the doors will lead them to their recruiters. Well, I'm your recruiter," he replies slowly, as if speaking to a toddler. "I guess you didn't hear her, huh? Do you get your ears cleaned regularly? I can introduce you to someone, if you want. Oh, wait, can you hear me right now? What am I saying? Does my voice sound—" At the moment, his voice sounds like a hammer to my head, but the opening elevator thankfully silences him. For now.
As expected, we're back in The Liberty. And as we make our way through the lobby, I can see that everything is the same as it was when I first walked through its entrance.
Everything but the people are devoid of color, the spotless floor still glistens beneath the cold, bright lights, and not a single piece of furniture has been moved out of place. And yet, it feels different. There's a sense of distant familiarity—as if it used to be a place I knew well but, for whatever reason, haven't visited in years.
Up until recently, this hotel was just that—a hotel. Now I know about the impossible secrets that hide behind the many doors in this building—the secrets that I am now a part of. A simple press of the palm is all it takes to access a whole new dimension, to enter the isolated world that exists within the one I thought I knew.
Still, everything here is the same.
It's me who has changed.
I've seen too much, I've done too much, and I know too much to ever go back to being the person I once was. As hard as I might try to erase the past few months from my mind, it's just not possible for me to simply bury my head in the sand. No matter how much I try and deny it, doors are no longer mere doors and people are no longer mere humans. For God's sake, I now drink blood on a daily basis.
The revelations have not gotten any easier to absorb, but with tangible evidence proving the impossible to be not only possible but very much real, I'm left with no choice but to accept that this is my world, this is my life, and this is who I am.
That doesn't change the fact that I've yet to find out what I am.
But do I really want to?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"WELCOME BACK."
Henry is standing at the foot of the staircase, armed with a striped party horn and a bright pink cone hat.
The house looks as though it snowed confetti, rainbow bits moving with our steps and scattering around like ants afraid to be squashed. Helium balloons dangle from the high ceiling, and streamers line the walls in sloppy curves, held together only with short sticks of tape.
"Whose birthday is it?" I ask, nodding at the colorful banners that clearly spell HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
"No one's. This was all Nolan could find at the store."
"That's where you're wrong, Henny, my boy. Every day is somebody's birthday."
Brushing out the confetti he decided to sprinkle above my head, I raise my brows in a skeptical arch. "And that's your excuse for all of... this?"
"It's not an excuse if it's a reason. And the reason for all of this," he waves at the many, many decorations, "is your graduation."
"That was three months ago," Henry points out.
He rolls his eyes. "Not that one, silly goose. Today's one. And you only graduate from The Academy once—hence, the cause for celebration. Am I right, or am I right?"
High school. Graduation. Three months.
July, August, September...
"What's today's date?" I ask, dreading to hear the answer I think I already know.
“The first of October—why?" A pause. "Hey, what do you know? It's the start of a new month! Yet another reason to celebrate, if you ask me."
October.
How could I have let this happen?
I was finally, finally done with high school and the people in it. I was going to spend the summer working full-time at the diner, earning and saving whatever I could to fund the beginning of my own life. Then, come Fall, I was going to go off to college, where I would, as usual, pretend to be someone I'm not so that I could later become whoever I decided to be.
I was supposed to do a lot of things.
But it's been three months.
And what have I done? What am I doing?
When I don't say anything, Nolan cranes his neck to assess my face. "Kaia? Sweets?" Frowning at my blank gaze, he turns to Henry. "You think she's one of those weird people who sleeps with their eyes open?"
"You sleep with your eyes open."
Blatantly ignoring him, Nolan leans into me, his lips almost brushing the shell of my ear. "Listen to my voice," he whispers. "When I snap my fingers, you will wake up, and you will call me Lord Drake." Squeezing his eyes shut like a child making a wish, he clicks his thumb and middle finger together, watching me expectantly. After his fifth try, his brows furrow in puzzlement. "I think she's broken," he says, examining me from a rather intimate distance.
I shake my head. I'd roll my eyes, too, but in my current state of numb awareness, I think I'd pass out if I tried. "I'm not asleep," I say, ducking away from his probing blue orbs.
"Really? Sure looked like it." He pouts. "What a bummer."
Henry is wearing his usual mask of apathy, but I almost think I hear a hint of concern in his voice when he asks, "Is something wrong?"
I nearly laugh.
What isn't wrong?
"I was just... thinking," I say ins
tead, unable to stop a small sigh from tumbling past my lips.
"Uh-oh," Nolan groans, "nothing good ever comes from thinking... unless it was about me. Were you thinking about me? That would explain the dazed look—I've seen it a million times."
"I have no money, I have no job, and I've already screwed up with school." This time, I do laugh, and I can admit it sounds just slightly hysterical. "I had a plan, and it failed before it even began."
And all it took was a rare, unexpected, deadly miscalculation—a sense of moral obligation toward a boy that, turns out, was actually a monster that tried to eat me alive.
They both frown—which, for Henry, is just a slight twitch of his brow.
"But you do have money, and you do have a job," Nolan says slowly, looking genuinely confused. "As for school," he shrugs, "I really don't see what the big fuss is about, but if it makes you feel any better, you're on The Drake Leave—don't worry, I called it in myself."
"The Drake Leave? That's not even a thing."
"It is if you're rich and powerful like me," he replies smugly, cracking his knuckles leisurely. His smile falters when he sees the scowl on my face. "What? Aren't you happy? Is it the diploma that you want? Because I can make you an alumni member within a day. Who actually wants to spend years in a classroom?" He shudders, his features scrunched in disdain. "I mean, it's basically—"
"Speaking of phone," Henry interjects, effectively changing the subject, "did you give Kaia hers?"
"Nope, I was waiting for you to remind me—you're a little late, by the way," he says, peering at his bare wrist to check his invisible watch. Then, rummaging through the back pocket of his jeans, he grumbles, "No wonder my butt hurt in the car... Here," he extends his arm toward me, holding his palm open, "Merry Christmas—or do you celebrate Hanukkah? I don't discriminate."
"It's October."
"Nice going, Henry. We're three months away, and you're already killing the holiday spirit." He clucks his tongue, shaking his head ruefully.
