Arcane

by Elle Park

  My gun is still sitting snug in the cradle of my palm, and as it ascends from the side of my thigh to the spot above her heart, I tighten my grip in an effort to steady the sudden tremors. Oddly enough, I feel a strong urge to fire round after round into any other part of her body, hoping for the sinister creature to destroy its own disguise and reveal itself for what it is. Although not exactly rational, I know it would make it a lot easier for me to do what I have to do.

  Then again, I'm not used to easy.

  Rather abruptly—if Nolan's gasp is of any indication—I pull the trigger, my eyes never leaving the mask of my aunt until it, too, crumbles. The ash falls and blends into the night, and I observe the remains as though they really did belong to Anna.

  "I wonder why I wasn't updated," Nolan mumbles to himself, flinching at the sound of a possessed child loudly giggling—why this is his choice of ringtone, I don't want to know. "Speak of the devil..." He brings his phone to his ear. "Talk to me, Sticky." After a few hums and grumbled replies, he ends the call.

  "Is there something I should know?"

  "Anna was out running an errand for her boyfriend," he says, scratching the side of his neck. "My guy, Sticky, was tailing Manny, and Sticky's guy, Pete, was following your aunt. She happened to take a stop near an elementary school, and someone happened to report Pete for suspicious behavior." He rolls his eyes. "By the time he cleared up the whole misunderstanding, your aunt was already gone. Our janitors took care of her... body."

  Janitors? I file that bit of information to the back of my mind and pretend I didn't hear his obvious hesitance to say the word body. Instead, I ask the question that will bring the least amount of turmoil to my already frazzled brain.

  "Why were they being watched in the first place?"

  "I needed to know if they were going to do something about your disappearing act—they didn't, by the way." He offers a sympathetic shrug. "But speaking of disappearing act, Mano's under the impression that your aunt ran away."

  "If Manny really believes that, he's even dumber than I thought," I say, shaking my head.

  Anna was an animal trapped in his zoo. If she were to ever be released back into the wild, she wouldn't have survived—and she knew it.

  "Well, then, you overestimated him. And according to Sticky, he isn't happy. And you know what he does when he's not happy: make sure no one is happy. No need to worry, though. I already have a plan in motion." He tilts his head as he studies my eyes. "You okay, Sweets?"

  As terrible as it might sound, I'm really not sad. Having to shoot a clone copy of my aunt was unsettling, yes, but it was necessary. And as for the news of her death... Well, we were little more than strangers to each other, and after spending so many years living separate lives, it has come to the point where the end of her life has little to no impact on the wellbeing of mine.

  That doesn't mean I'm completely indifferent, though, because I do feel something. I'm just not sure what that something is. Hollow? Somber? A sense of bittersweet finality? There's no doubt in my mind that what remained of my roots was toxic to my potential, but now that they've been severed entirely, I've been gifted with a liberating burden. I'm free to go wherever I want, but I no longer have a place to return to.

  I am now, in almost every sense of the word, truly alone.

  "You're not alone," Nolan coos, hugging me into his side, "you have me—and probably Henry. Don't take my word for it, though. I can never really tell what goes on in that boy's mind." He pauses. "Maybe I should buy him a pocket square. Or a pair of those patterned socks he likes. Don't ask me why, but he goes crazy for those kinds of things."

  "Let's go," I say, wanting nothing more than to go back to the house. I'm about to step away from him when, unsurprisingly, his voice stops me.

  "Kaia, Kaia, Kaia. What did I say about keeping things in your back pocket?" Before I can realize what he's doing, he's already holding my phone up and in my face. "Unlock," he orders simply—except, instead of waiting for me to do it myself, he tangles his fingers with mine and presses my thumb against the sensor.

  Not sure where he's going with this, I watch, bewildered, as he then uses my thumb to open an app called EJECT. Like popping a tape from a VCR, something slides out the side of my phone—a silver, square disk that he, rather unceremoniously, drops to the ground.

  "What is that?" I ask quietly, my eyes trained on the space between our feet.

  The disk has expanded into the shape and size of a Rubik's Cube, effortlessly sucking up the crumbly remains like a high-power vacuum. It only takes a moment for the dark flecks to disappear, after which the object promptly compresses back to its original state. Interestingly, the surrounding dirt and grass doesn't seem to have been disturbed or swallowed.

  Inserting it back into the slit in my phone, he returns the device to my pocket—the very pocket he advised me from using. "A cartridge. It's used to store the ash until we can get it processed. Then the extracted venom is used to make stuff at The Factory," he explains, a hand on my back as we make our way out of the alley.

  "Such as?"

  "Weapons, salves, tonics, alcohol... among other things."

  "I see." I'll have to ask about the other things some other day. I still have a long line of questions that I'm not sure will ever be answered. "How did you know the vorak was going to show up?"

  "The tracker showed a few in the area," he explains, scratching his ear. "They usually find their prey in more populated places, but they only go in for the kill when they're alone or attacked. Plus, they all become hobos sooner or later, so dark, creepy alleys are often where they make their nests. Now, walk faster. I know just the right thing that will cheer you up."

  "Going to bed will cheer me up."

  I don't mention the fact that there's nothing to cheer me up from.

  "Trust me, babe, you're going to love this."

  On our way to the secret destination, Nolan insists we eliminate any and all voraks that we come across. Apparently, the more we kill, the better my surprise will be. I don't know how long we actually walk, but two voraks later, we finally come to a stop.

  "You know, I'm not religious," I say, taking in our surroundings.

  We're standing in front of a church that, while not extravagant, is obviously well maintained. The exterior is an off-white, with the roof painted a color that exists somewhere between blue and gray—my assessment of the colors might be completely off, though, as the one lone streetlight isn't nearly enough to compete with the night sky of the city. Trimmed bushes border the walls, and a large sign labeled Holy Catholic Church sticks out of the neatly manicured lawn. Cozy and quaint, it fits in with the humble neighborhood of old, modest apartment buildings.

  "Oh, me neither," he chuckles, thumbing through his phone distractedly, "unless it's me we're worshiping."

  He reads out his texts as he types them in, so I know we're waiting for someone called Father Kane. I can't be sure of what exactly the priest is saying, but Nolan's responses tell me he doesn't want to be here any more than I do. I would think his reluctance—and that's putting it mildly—is a little unusual considering his occupation, but then again, it is pretty late.

  We haven't waited more than five minutes when a man walks out from a complex across the street, making his way toward us with aggravated steps. I'm assuming this is the Father Kane that Nolan forcibly summoned, but I'm having trouble matching him with the conventional image of a priest—and it's not due to the limited lighting.

  Either he's immune to the cold or he just doesn't care, because his outfit consists of nothing but black shoes, black pants, and a black short-sleeved v-neck. With the zero effort he put into being visible, I might have not even noticed him if not for his alabaster skin. As he gets closer, I can see that his eyes are a dull blue, and his dark orange hair is almost as scruffy as his trimmed beard. Something about his aura screams ultimate bad-boy, which makes me all the more curious as to how his chosen profession came to be. And if the glower on his face is
anything to go by, his mood is just as dark as the vibe he emits.

  He opens his mouth to say something, but Nolan beats him to it.

  "Father Kane, thank you for coming."

  Serious and polite? Something's up.

  "Well, you—"

  "Father Kane," he directs both of their attention to me, "I've brought a friend."

  It's then that the priest finally seems to notice my presence, and his expression calms so abruptly that I can't help but wonder if I imagined his earlier scowl.

  I know I didn't.

  "Of course. Axel Kane," he introduces himself, extending his hand and shaking mine.

  "Kaia," I say simply, wary of his complete one-eighty.

  He nods, eyeing me intently before turning back to Nolan. "And what brings you here at this late, late hour?" I'm definitely not imagining the tick in his jaw.

  "I think it's best we take this inside."

  "Very well," he says, looking about as suspicious as I feel. Producing a set of keys, he deftly unlocks the door, gesturing for us to go in first.

  The interior is more or less what I expected: eggshell-white walls, a high, arched ceiling, wooden beams that match both the rustic paneling of the floor and the several rows of benches. A round stained-glass window is carved within the far back wall, and below it is a molded figure of Jesus hanging from the cross. Placed near the center of the room is a small podium, and off to the side stands a set of confessionals—which is where Nolan immediately leads me to.

  "You brought me here for a confession?" Does he think I'm feeling guilty for killing the vorak that looked like Anna? That the whole experience has left me traumatized? Is it forgiveness or guidance that he thinks I need from a god I don't believe in? "What's next—a session with a therapist?" I'm teetering between irritation and confusion, but my dry tone doesn't betray either.

  Ignoring me, he tosses his phone to Axel before wrapping an arm around my shoulder and smiling widely. "Take a picture of us, will you, Father?" Nolan asks, not moving from his pose. "This is a big moment for her."

  He catches the device with one hand, and after flitting his scrutinizing gaze between both our faces, probably trying to discern if this is some sort of prank—I, myself, have yet to reach a conclusion—he taps the small screen without actually looking at it.

  "Is she here for a confession, Nolan?"

  "I am pleasantly surprised, Father Kane," he nods, studying the photo with narrowed eyes, "you've captured our relationship perfectly. I'll have to get Henry to put this in the scrapbook I haven't told him to make yet. Look at how cute we are, Kiki," he says, practically shoving the phone in my face, only to pocket it before I can get more than a blurry glance. "Don't worry, I'll send it to you—we can have matching wallpapers. Now, in we go."

  Ignoring the muttered curses of the questionable priest, he nudges me into one of the booths. We're cramped inside the closed stall, Nolan's chest just barely grazing my back. Our combined body heat makes the air even more stuffy, and we're drenched in almost complete darkness, supplied with only enough light to make out our shadowed features. Suddenly, he leans over me, his cheek grazing my temple as he grabs my hand and presses it against the back wall. The familiar blue glow is gone within a couple of seconds, and a section of the wooden surface breaks apart, revealing a hollow, square-shaped compartment.

  "Cartridge," he says, holding out his open palm.

  Nodding, I pass him the ejected disk, watching as he sticks it to the floor of the mini vault. It expands into a cube that fits perfectly inside the compartment, and I notice a green dot blinking from the middle of the square surface. A short moment later, the flashing stops and the device flattens. As soon as Nolan retrieves it, the wall restores itself to its original state, the vault once again hidden from sight.

  Light floods in as the door is pushed open, but it quickly dims once we reach the brooding figure, an unmistakable gloom seeping from his every pore.

  "You woke me up in the middle of the goddamn night, just so you can process a cartridge? Where's the emergency you sent me sixteen texts about? What the hell happened to the life-or-death situation? And why didn't you tell me she was a tracker? You're making me work after hours, goddammit."

  His glare is enough to burn through skin, and his questions are shot like polished bullets—though, neither are able to pierce his target.

  Slowly, deliberately, Nolan blinks, apparently confused by the sudden hostility. "But it was an emergency. Kaia here was feeling blue, so I just knew I had to show her green." He widens his eyes in a show of innocence, peeking up at Axel from beneath his long lashes. "And Father Kane is just so much nicer to me than Axel Kane."

  In response to his excuses, Axel grumbles a string of profanities that even I'm a little uncomfortable hearing inside a church. He's mostly talking to himself, though, so I decide to ignore him.

  Until he does something... strange.

  The pads of his index and middle fingers are pressed against his pursed lips, and he moves them down and away as he exhales, then back up to his mouth as he inhales.

  "Something you picked up from therapy, Axe?"

  "I'm a priest, not a patient," he says, his eye twitching aggressively. "Taint my image? Bullshit. Every saint has a vice. And who is he to tell me I can't smoke—God?" With a final puff, he tosses the imaginary cigarette to the ground, even going through the motions of stomping on it.

  "You've been a priest for almost half a century," Nolan points out. Half a century? He can't be serious. Axel doesn't look a day over thirty-five. "If you hate it so much, why haven't you requested a transfer? We both know you would get the OK. You could go anywhere, be anyone, do anything."

  "I'm paid well because they know I hate this job almost as much as I love money."

  "So, you're doing it for the money?"

  "That is what I just said."

  "Because money makes you happy, right? It makes everything better, right?"

  "Preach."

  Nolan finally turns to me, a triumphant grin stretching his cheeks. "And that is exactly why I brought you here, Sweets. Here," he hands me my phone that, once again, he has managed to take unnoticed, "look at your bank account."

  My new bank, Prime Capital, is one of the biggest—if not the biggest—in the world, boasting an impressive clientele that ranges from dirt-poor students to billionaire businessmen. It also happens to belong to The Corporation. Apparently, manipulating records is a piece of cake, and money laundering is their primary service offered to those involved in organized crime, white-collar crime, the murder-for-hire industry, any and all illegal dealers—either private or institutional—and anyone who can afford it, really.

  In addition to all of that, I learned that Nolan has held up his end of the deal by depositing a lump sum of what he thinks he owes into my account. He technically didn't have to do that because, technically, he only promised to pay me for every day that I stay at the house, and technically, I spent the entirety of the past three months at The Academy.

  I didn't correct him, though.

  I'm sure that my balance hasn't changed within the span of a few hours—especially considering I haven't made any payments of my own—so I'm unsure as to why he wants me to check it again. Intrigued, I tap the appropriate icon, and having expected a specific set of numbers, I'm surprised to see that the figure on the bottom line has actually increased by a couple hundred dollars.

  "Pretty sweet, huh, Sweets?" I didn't think it was possible, but his smile has grown even wider. "You still get a set salary, but the commission is a nice bonus, no?"

  "I get money every time I kill a vorak?"

  He nods—and if he had a tail, it would be wagging. "It depends on the amount of venom that's extracted, though. Every vorak is different, but you'll usually get about fifty to one hundred dollars a pop."

  "And my veins will pop if you two don't leave in the next thirty seconds," Axel warns, already waiting by the door. "I already spend my days in church—I'm not spending
the night in here, too."

  "Sure thing, brother." Just as we stride past him, Nolan pauses to pat him on the shoulder. "And get some sleep, will you, Axe? You're looking a bit tired."

  Pretending not to feel the heat of his glare, we go back on our way. And it's only when we enter the brighter and louder parts of the city that I finally speak up.

  "That was interesting."

  What I'm referring to, I'm not entirely sure. The vorak hunt? The Anna situation? Axel and the church and the secrets behind both fronts? I just... don't know. Every time I get a piece of information, it turns out to only be the tip of the iceberg. And while I'm not naive enough to think I'll learn the true extent of everything, I'm starting to realize that I may not learn the true extent of anything.

  "You'll get used to it," he says, shrugging. "The world runs on facades and depends on appearances. Nothing is ever as it seems, but always as it's meant to be seen." Despite his casual tone, the shadow that crosses his face is not a trick of the dark or the passing neon lights. Am I finally seeing a chink in his armor? A crack in his mask? "But you're in a whole new league now, and if you haven't already realized," his lips curve in a brief, mirthless twitch, "we own this world."

  I don't reply.

  I'm surrounded by towering skyscrapers that probably swarm with clients of Prime Capital, and I'm spotting strangers on the street as they walk, talk, drink and eat, knowing that one or some or all of them could be just like me, part of a corporation that's bigger than the world I used to think was the world. And as I contemplate the accumulated knowledge of the past three months and speculate about all that continues to remain a mystery, I know with unexplainable certainty that Nolan's admission is not a mere tip of the iceberg.

  It is the iceberg.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, I walk downstairs and into a modified version of Paris, France. The floor has been replaced with manicured grass and smooth concrete, and standing at the far left side is a downsized—but still huge and impressive—version of the Eiffel Tower. A crisp, blue sky has replaced the tall ceiling, but even the cool, fresh air isn't enough to clear my boggled mind. I guess I shouldn't be as surprised as I am, considering it was Seoul just a few months ago, but after living at The Academy for about a full season, I somehow forgot all about this particular feature of the house.