by Elle Park
In the center of the room, the two boys are sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket, a sizable spread of fruit and pastries splayed out between them. I notice both their eyes are trained on the massive theater screen, but instead of the colorfully dotted map, they're watching the news.
"Ah, she emerges," Nolan exclaims with a sloppy French accent. Patting the spot beside him, he waves me over. "What will the madame have today? A baguette, perhaps? Oh, and you must try the pain au chocolat—it's Pierre's specialty."
Instead of replying, I grab the first pastry I see—partly because I am genuinely hungry, but mostly to keep him from rambling descriptions of everything on the menu.
"What do you think? Delectable, isn't it?"
Pretending to mull it over, I lazily lick my lips before finally giving him an answer. "It's good, I guess," I say with a non-committal shrug.
His features go slack, stunned at my lack of enthusiasm. It takes a few moments of silent gaping before he manages to speak. "Good," he repeats, voice dripping with disbelief. "That's all you have to say? Good? Not even Pierre's scorned lover would reduce his talents to good."
Although I am slightly amused at the offense he has clearly taken, my critique of food has always been limited to edible or non-edible. Whether it's canned soup or authentic, handmade dumplings, they're literally just a source of energy to me. I grew up with the mindset of eating for survival, not taste or pleasure. Yeah, Anna kept me from starving as a child, but after Jack died and Manny took over, I no longer had even her meager efforts to depend on. I never blamed her, though. How could I expect her to take care of me when she couldn't even take care of herself?
"What's wrong with good?" I ask, quirking a brow.
"Aside from the fact that it's the most boring adjective you could have used? Really, it breaks my heart. I realize you are not used to eating such delicacies, but—" He lets out a sudden bark of laughter as his head snaps to the side. "Get a load of this," he points to the large screen, "Senator Bird goes cuckoo."
Following his gaze, I spot the owner of the familiar name.
Senator Bird, whose features just so happen to resemble those of a stocky eagle, is the only nominee that has a legitimate chance of beating President Milton in the upcoming election—or, at least, had a legitimate chance. Judging by the footage playing on the screen right now, he'll be considered lucky if the political society is the only one he's exiled from.
Apparently, the senator was waiting to pick up his eight-year-old son from school—most likely a publicity stunt—when he suddenly began to strip his clothes with desperate urgency. Wearing only his socks and underwear, he proceeded to scratch almost every inch of his skin until it was raw and red, blood oozing from some particularly nasty abrasions.
Of course, this being the technologically advanced world we live in, the videos were posted, shared, and viewed tens of thousands of times before he even made it to the hospital. Everyone is going crazy with speculation, with some saying it's a mental breakdown and others claiming he's a long-time drug addict.
I'm surprised an official statement hasn't been released yet. By now, the Republican Party should be doing everything they can to distance themselves from their formerly beloved nominee.
As if on cue, the anchorman receives word of an update.
Christopher Bird is now not only a former nominee, but also a former senator.
"Evidently, The Union has decided to keep Albert Milton as an asset," Henry says, speaking for the first time since I came downstairs.
Chewing on a croissant, Nolan hums. "Greedy, sleazy, and shady," he licks the crumbs off each finger he counts, "he's a bad guy, but a good puppet. The lesser beings might see him as the leader of the free world, but Albie Minion never would've become POTUS if we didn't decide to use him. We know it, he knows it, and if he wants to keep his butt parked in the Oval Office, he better not forget it." Smirking, he taps his fingers together like a cliche cartoon villain. And, for a split second, I imagine Henry as the cliche fluffy cat.
Mentally shaking off that image, I ask the first question that comes to mind. "What's The Union?"
"It is a select council of only the most powerful figures in The Corporation—currently seven members in total, including Nolan. Most are daemons, but there is also one velmon," Henry says, as if reading lines from a book. "They have influence over every part of the world and absolute control over most, and it is them that allow the different species to co-exist as we do today."
"What he said," Nolan agrees.
"You're in The Union?" I manage not to sputter.
He smirks. "I told you before I was rich and powerful, did I not? And I'll have you know—" The notification of a delivery sounds throughout the house, cutting off whatever he was about to say. "Is that more food? You know me so well Hen—"
"I have not ordered anything else," Henry says, getting up to check the chute. Within a few moments, he's already back and handing Nolan a small, black envelope. I notice it has a deep red seal on it, stamped with a design of thorned vines tangled around a single teardrop. "It is official correspondence from The Union."
"What do those old bats want from me now?" Nolan grumbles, ripping open the envelope with about as much grace as an angry gorilla. Scanning the white card stock, he frowns. "Huh."
"What does it say?" Henry asks.
"Apparently, Kaia's participating in the Cage Match."
I can’t find a single positive way of interpreting that statement.
"What is this Cage Match? And why am I involved in something I don't even know about?"
"On the first Saturday of every month, The Union hosts a gala where only the most wealthy and influential people are invited to attend. That is where the Cage Match takes place. Participants are comprised of the top ten recruits—six daemons and four maevons. As a result of them and their abilities being put on display, The Union has a chance to scout potential assets, and the guests are able to pay their way toward a potential contract—which, due to its exclusivity, is not so easy to accomplish outside of the gala. As far as incentive goes for the participants, the winning daemons and the chosen maevons are immediately promoted to the position of Operative."
"What he said."
"That doesn't answer my question," I say, putting everything Henry just said on the back-burner. "Why me?"
"Yes, that is the part that is unusual. Contenders are selected based on their training records, but Milo made sure yours would not attract any attention. The only other way to be chosen is if a member of The Union personally nominates you."
"The old geezers rarely—if ever—care to do that, though, which explains why my spidey senses are tingling."
"Do you have anyone in mind?" Henry asks, a thoughtful look on his face.
"A few," he says with a shrug, pulling tufts of grass out and blowing them in the air. "But it can be any one of them, really." He frowns. "I swear, sometimes it feels like they're all against me—why they would be, I have no clue. I've never met anyone more lovable than me."
"Do you think whoever nominated me found out about my... situation?"
He shakes his head. "Nope. At this point, there's nothing to find out."
"They may find out too much if we do not first," Henry says, turning to me with the slightest dent between his brows. "If you go in with no knowledge of how to use your orb, then you will be exposed in front of the exact people we have been trying to hide you from. And they will want to know what made you," he turns to Nolan, "recruit her in the first place, not to mention why you shadowed her at The Academy. And the fact that she lives with us will only further fuel their assumptions."
Nolan is blinking slowly, staring at Henry with awe. "Wow, you're really on a roll, Hen," he says, beaming. "I think this is the most I've ever heard you talk. I must say, I am pleasantly surprised. Pleasantly surprised, indeed."
Of course, it isn't a conversation with Nolan if he doesn't go off topic.
"Don't I have the option to refuse? To
forfeit my nomination?"
"Oh, Kaia. You're adorable." He chuckles, patting my head. "One does not just bail on a Cage Match with a doctor's note—one does not bail at all, actually."
"What other choice do we have?" I grit, frustrated with his nonchalance.
"That's the thing—you don't have a choice. You never do with The Union. Not really. But do not fret, my friend. You know what they say—whack the knee until it jerks."
I have literally never heard that before in my life.
"This is the first I have heard of it," Henry says, equally unimpressed.
Ignoring the jab, he slicks his hair away from his face, only for it to flop back to its original style. "Doctor Bond is back, lady and gentleboy."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"THINK FAST!"
I instinctively duck, the flying rubber ball just barely grazing my hair. "I think it's clear this isn't working," I say, blocking another one with my wrist.
"Are you sure?" He twirls a ball on the tip of his pinkie, spinning it in place. "You don't see anything? Hen, you feel anything?"
We've been doing this for hours. According to Nolan—who is losing what little credibility he had by the minute—our orbs tend to be triggered when we're under some form of attack, acting as an instinctive defense mechanism. This theory conveniently allows him to chuck a variety of objects at me, from stuffed animals and sports equipment, to rolls of toilet-paper and candy bars—some, just empty wrappers.
"Other than disappointment, no," Henry answers, both face and tone deadpan.
"All right, okay, I know what we're doing wrong," he flings the ball over his shoulder, "this is child's play. We need to step it up."
"And it took you two hours to realize this?"
"Well, I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," he says vaguely, not meeting my eyes.
"By this, you mean..." I wait for him to elaborate, watching as he wades his way through the hoards of junk, stubbing his toe three times before he makes it to the far wall. As soon as he presses a palm against the white surface, I already know that it's going to open up and reveal something I probably won't like. Not even a second later, a considerable section of the wall slides apart, exposing a well-equipped arsenal. It's stacked with shelves of a wide range of weapons, resembling a miniature version of the one at The Academy.
"I'm going to have to shoot you."
"That's not happening."
It's especially not happening if he's planning to use the rocket-sized weapon currently in his hands.
Sensing my trepidation-bordering-hostility, he replaces the intimidating gun with a simple pistol. "Come on, it's not like your body won't heal itself in, like, a minute." Taking a step toward me, he raises his arms in a surrendering gesture. "Okay, two, tops."
"You shoot yourself first, then we'll talk," I say evenly, crossing my arms.
"Completely unnecessary," he moves closer to Henry, "back me up, Jimster."
Jimster?
"I think it is only fair you give her a demonstration."
"You know what, fine. Fine. Some butler I have," he mutters, aiming the gun at his leg. Squeezing his eyes shut, he sucks in a wheezing breath before exhaling sharply only moments later. "All right, someone's going to have to do it for me."
I look to Henry, only to find him shaking his head. "As much as I might enjoy the experience, I believe you deserve to have it today."
I would refuse, but the past few hours are still too fresh a memory in my mind. Nodding, I grab the gun from Nolan's waiting hand, aiming it at his thigh. "Do you want me to do a countdown or something?"
"Yeah," he breathes, "go on one."
"Three... one." I pull the trigger and hear before I see the bullet rip through his flesh.
"Ow," he yells, attempting to stem the blood with his palm, "I told you to go on one!"
"I did," I reply, absently noting his slow-to-heal injury. Well over a minute goes by, but the crimson liquid continues to gush out, flowing past the guard of his fingers and down the length of his jeans. "Why hasn’t it healed yet?”
"Because that was a venom-infused bullet," Henry says, walking toward him with a first-aid kit in hand.
"What? I opened the wrong arsenal? Why couldn't you tell me that before I was shot in the leg?" Nolan cries, his expression one of despair.
"I thought the sight would amuse me. It did."
He's curled up on the ground, gripping his thigh hard enough for the skin of his knuckles to turn white. "I'm bleeding out. I'm dying. I love you guys." Coughing, his voice grows weak and scratchy. "If this is it... if I am to meet my fate here on this fluffy floor... delete my browsing history." And with that final request, he shuts his eyes.
"You are breathing quite loudly for a dead person," Henry says, rubbing in a small amount of salve—the same one that was once used on Nolan's neck—over the bloody bullet wound.
He abruptly jumps to his feet, nearly knocking over Henry in the process. "Yeah, well," he clears his throat, "I'm a fighter, not a goner. No bullet is enough to take Nolan Drake out—certainly not in his own house."
"What was that about deleting your browsing history?" I hum, enjoying the way his show of confidence falters. "I wonder what you've been searching for those to be your final words."
"Anyway," he wipes the remaining wetness from his hands onto the now ruined denim, "it's your turn, Kiki. No more trying to change the subject."
"Okay."
"Okay? Okay, as in, you'll let me shoot you?"
"No," I shake my head, "okay, as in, I won't try to change the subject."
"But you said you'd let me shoot you if I got shot first," he whines, frowning.
"Actually, I said we'd talk. We're talking."
"I'm afraid talking won't solve anything, my dear Kaia."
"Throwing random objects at me didn't work, and shooting me in the leg won't work, either."
"How can you be sure? No offense, babe, but I think doctor—that's me—knows best."
"I spent almost all of my time at The Academy fighting for my life. If a physical attack was enough to trigger my orb, it would have happened already."
"Come to think of it," Henry tilts his head, eyeing Nolan oddly, "we just wasted over two hours of our already limited time. Attacking her with an orb is practically guaranteed to trigger a response—you know that."
"How convenient of you to forget that little detail," I say, arching a brow. He must really like throwing things at me. Scrubbing a hand through my hair, I sigh. "Okay, let's just get this over with. You can use your orb, right?"
"Nope."
"What do you mean? You're a daemon," I point out, confused by his shifty behavior.
"So he says, but I have never seen him use his orb."
"I haven't had a reason to," Nolan defends quickly.
"Well, now you do."
We're standing in a sloppy triangle, watching Nolan as he strokes the back of his neck, his lip jutting out and brows pinched with thought. After a few tense moments, his shoulders slump, and he releases a heavy sigh.
"Okay, fine, but I want it down on record that The Great Nolan Drake has voiced his reluctance of doing what he is about to do, and that he is only going to do what he is about to do because Henry Jimin Han and Kaia Sweets Riley have strong-armed him under his own roof, inside his own home, where he so graciously welcomed them with love and warmth and generosity."
Although he's trying to act like his usual light-hearted self, there’s an extra layer added to the ice in his eyes; they're flashing and swirling with emotions that I can only glimpse and not catch, like dolphins skipping across the ocean surface. His efforts fall short, and his performance feels off. Even his endless rambling seems like nothing but a stalling tactic.
Not yet sure what to make of my observations, I choose to ignore them—for now. "If you've said everything you wanted to say, it's time you actually do what you said you would do."
"Right, okay," he gulps a lungful of air, "but if this doesn't work, I deserv
e zero blame... and if this does work, then I'm taking all the credit. Capisce? Good."
I don't reply, instead taking the time to study his face. It's still his eyes, his nose and his lips that I'm seeing, but without his toothy grin and crinkling laugh lines, it's like I'm staring at a completely different person. I should feel relieved that his dramatics have been put on pause, and yet, his neutral mask is more unsettling than anything. Looking at me expectantly, I try to decipher his subtle wince when a sudden pain catches me off guard.
The sensation is mild but sharp, similar to a strong pinch or the snap of a thick rubber band. Originating at the center of my right bicep, it travels in seemingly random jolts across the span of my body, making it impossible for me to guess where it will go next. I'm given a brief reprieve when the sparks of discomfort fizzle and fade, but what was nothing more than fleeting stings abruptly returns with triple the force.
Beads of sweat trickle down my scalp as I try to squeeze air past the erratic drum thrashing for attention inside my chest. I'm being punched and kicked by an invisible force, each impact leaving a lingering pain that I can feel brewing beneath the surface. It's as if my skin is ripening before my eyes, blooming and spoiling like trampled fruit. My cramping muscles are being squeezed and clenched, the stress trying to escape through constant spasms.
The unexplainable onslaughts escalate further, alternating between dull and harsh, burning and throbbing. I register a rush of familiar voices in the background, but the sound is muffled by roaring waves crashing within the canals of my ears. Bright crimson blood is spilling over my blemished flesh in angry gushes and gentle droplets, and the more I wipe at the hot slime, the more it spreads and smears with sinister vigor.
And then it's gone.
I'm no longer drowning in the dark depths of a raging ocean. Somehow, I've been pulled to the surface in one swift swoop, and the only tangible evidence of my physical exhaustion is the chilled sweat still damp beneath my shirt and on the back of my neck. The splatter of bruises has vanished, and the wet, scarlet film has evaporated. Warm and smooth like liquid honey, my skin is clean and free from violent markings. My body is not tense or stiff or curling into itself, but rather drained and boneless, as if I just sprinted through a full marathon. With my breaths steadying and my heart-rate slowing, I'm finally able to interpret the voices that I heard while I was down under.
