by Elle Park
"What the hell is going on?" Nolan wails, his voice strained and raspy. He's kneeling on the floor, clutching at his sides like his life depends on it.
Looking at him now, that might really be the case.
His body is a mess—and not because of icing or confetti or pizza grease. Various shades of dark splotches mar what I can see of his arms and legs, and ruby blossoms soak the thin cotton of his t-shirt, the pigmented streaks wrapping around his limbs like red, sticky vines. It doesn't take me long to realize his collection of injuries is almost identical to what I experienced—what I thought I experienced—mere minutes ago.
"Calm down, you are not being possessed by a demon," Henry says, keeping him down with a hand on his shoulder.
"You can never be sure," his eyes dart around the room with agitated vigilance, "if I start barking, just throw salt at me—grated Himalayan, not course sea salt. Don't want to scratch my face."
Of course, his body is heavily bruised, severely battered and bleeding excessively, yet his main concern is protecting his face.
"It's not a demon—it's Kaia."
"What about me?" I mutter distractedly, still shocked by the gruesome sight in front of me.
"Kaia's the demon?"
"Your wounds formed just as she was breaking down, and they stopped worsening just as you stopped using your orb on her," Henry says slowly. "I doubt that is a coincidence."
"What are you trying to say?" I ask, a sense of dread washing over me.
Nolan is zoned out again, his gory state forgotten for the time being. "Kaia's the demon?" He repeats, leaving me to wonder if his head was hurt, too.
"No," Henry says, subtly shaking his head. "I think we now know what type of orb she has—or, at least, what it can do."
"Okay, right, yeah," he nods, "you should expand on that little tidbit—for Kaia's sake, of course, because I already know what you're talking about, obviously." Poking at the bruises on his arms, he frowns. "Why are these still here?" He peels off his shirt and, sure enough, there are thin slashes decorating his torso like tiger stripes.
Even Henry appears disconcerted. "This is unusual," he inspects the lesions with prodding fingers, "but, then again, everything about this situation is unusual." Turning away from us, he fetches the first-aid kit that they used earlier. As soon as he slabs the thick salve onto Nolan's broken and discolored skin, the wounds very gradually begin to heal. "Interesting."
"Hey," he whispers not so quietly and tugs on Henry's sleeve not so subtly, "grab the salt—we'll throw it at her when she's not looking. Maybe some red beans, too... I heard—"
"I can hear you, you know."
His gasp is followed by a few forced, awkward chuckles. "I was just joking," he insists, smiling uncomfortably. "Friends joke around... we are friends, aren't we?"
Ignoring him, I turn to Henry. "If what I'm thinking is the same thing as what you're implying..." I shake my head. "How is this even possible?"
"Regarding this matter, Nolan probably knows more than I do."
At the mention of his name, he pipes up. "Of course, I know." He finally stands, happy to leave his soiled shirt on the floor. "Just so we're on the same page, what is it I know, again?" He looks between us, still unsure as to what we're talking about. "Come on, guys. What is it? What's the problem?"
"The problem is that one minute, I was covered in blood and bruises, and the next, you were and I wasn't." Taking a silent breath, I loosen my clenched jaw. "Can you think of why that is?"
With a blank expression, he begins walking in a circle. "I might have a theory," he says in what he probably thinks is an ominous tone. "But I need to make a few calls if we want to make sure I'm right—I mean, I obviously am, but I like saying 'I told you so' whenever I can, which, let's face it, happens pretty damn often, but I never get tire—"
"We get it," I snap, cutting him off. "Just tell us about this supposed theory."
"Elementary, dear Kaia," he says, still a little put-off by my interruption. "You have a crazy, weird, voodoo orb thing going on. Not exactly sure how it works—yet—but I believe you somehow physically reflect the attack of an orb." He pauses to type something on his phone. "Yours wasn't doing anything because it had nothing to mirror until now."
"Okay," I manage to say calmly. "Who do you need to call?"
"Our test subjects."
CHAPTER TWENTY
NOT EVEN HALF an hour passes before the doorbell rings. As usual, Henry is the one to open the door, immediately stepping aside to make room for our visitors.
Our test subjects, I assume.
The pair of strangers both have tan skin, with the girl's just a few shades lighter than the boy's warm, caramel tone. They even have the same black hair and dark eyes, but the similarities seem to end there. Whereas he's tall and lanky, she's short and toned. And while he has a light coat draped over his sweater and chinos, she's dressed almost entirely in smooth, black leather, with only the gray of her tank and the spikes on her boots adding a minimal pop of color.
"Where's the fire?" The girl asks, blowing bubbles with her pink chewing gum and popping them with a snap of her teeth.
Nolan scrunches his face. "What fire?"
"It's an expression," the boy says, rolling his eyes. Unlike Nolan, his accent doesn't sound like it was inspired by American parodies of British dramas. Maybe that explains the flat cap.
"An expression? You mean, like—"
"I mean, what's the big emergency?" Her jaw is clenched, and as if sensing the fact that she won't like his answer, the heat in her glare intensifies with each word that comes out of her mouth. "You freaking hung up without elaborating, then you turned your phone off before I could call back. So, you better tell me where the damn fire is, or else you'll be the first thing I burn down in this freaking junk yard you call a house."
"A threat and an insult all in one breath," Nolan says, pouting. "I mean, a junk yard, really? It's more of a treasure cove, I'd say."
"Why are we here? Three seconds."
"Why the rush? Didn't anyone ever tell you to stop and smell the bushes?"
"The roses," the boy corrects with a sigh. "Stop and smell the roses.'"
"Right," Nolan drawls slowly, "I was just testing you."
"Perhaps you should tell them why their presence was required on such short notice," Henry suggests quietly, standing a little off to the side—just enough to not be caught in the impending slaughter.
"Thank you," the two strangers say.
"You see, Mali? Aggression, hostility, violence and verbal-and-or-physical assault may put an end to your problems, but simple manners will solve them. Now, please do keep that in mind for the..." he pauses, stopping himself from saying something he apparently shouldn't, "next thirty seconds—don't want you to scare off my new apprentice." Loudly clearing his throat before the girl can make a said verbal-and-or-physical assault, he flashes his signature toothy grin. "Kaia," he hooks his arm around my shoulders, "meet Malaya Raxon and Ducky Patel—my groupies from The Academy."
They both ignore the groupies statement.
"So, this is the new toy I've been hearing about," Malaya says, her gaze one of mild interest.
"Don't mind her," the boy snatches my hand, an inch away from pecking it when Nolan slaps his outstretched lips, "she doesn't know how to speak to a lady," he says, winking. "It's Donald, by the way."
"Anyway, I doubt you called us over just for an introduction."
"About that..."
"We need you to use your orbs on her," Henry says.
"Why?" They ask in unison, their brows furrowing at the unusual request.
"You'll see. Now," Nolan claps his hands together, only to wince at the pain, "who wants to go first?"
No one is quick to react, narrowed eyes suspiciously flitting between myself and Nolan. Then Donald clears his throat as he picks invisible flecks of dust off his pristine knit cardigan.
He sighs. "I always was a curious boy."
"Very well, Ducky,
she's all yours—you know what I mean," he adds quickly, frantically meeting my unaffected gaze. After making sure I wasn't offended, he turns back to his new, posh lab rat. "Go slow."
Before I can get a chance to guess what sort of orb Donald has, I can already feel the answer spreading across my body. It begins with a familiar, numbing tingle just at the base of my fingertips, as if I fell asleep with my head resting on my hands. I shake my wrists—or, at least, I try to. After a few vigorous attempts, I'm able to move my hands, but the action is shallow and heavy and barely noticeable, like the twitch of a coma patient—it's definitely something, but not nearly enough.
My arms are next, then my legs. The paralysis is gradual but quick, and I doubt a full five minutes have passed when my limbs become dead weight. Soon enough, only my pulse and my breaths lubricate the concrete settling in between my flesh, the rise and fall of my chest unable to catch up to the fluttering disk at my throat.
I watch from my prone position as Donald cracks his neck, stiffly rotating his shoulders with a puzzled frown. He stomps his foot, lifting it just a couple inches from the floor, only for it to land with a deep thud. The more prominent his scowl becomes, the more feeling returns to my body. It doesn't take long for our situations to become reversed, his immobile frame tense and seething as I'm abruptly freed from the invisible chains that held me prisoner.
"What the bloody hell is the meaning of this?" he demands, clenching his jaw as he struggles to move.
"Relax," Nolan pats Donald on the back, nearly knocking him over in the process, "you'll be fine... I think."
"You think? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Okay, what did you do?" Malaya crosses her arms, her tone accusatory as she stares expectantly at Nolan.
"The only thing I'm guilty of is being right," he says, grinning smugly.
"Your theory was correct." Henry nods, observing Donald like one would a painting in a prestigious museum.
Nolan shrugs, his lips stretching even further at the comment. "I told you so."
"Yes, brilliant, you're a real corker," Donald grates his teeth, "now get my face off your bloody carpet!"
It turns out, Donald can't be helped by the magical salve—not when the problem that needs fixing is of the internal sort. Fortunately for him, an injection of some bubbling, purple liquid seems to do the trick. It takes several minutes—which is longer than anyone expected, apparently—for the paralysis to slowly but surely wear off, and as soon as it does, he stomps his way to the front door without so much as a word. To be fair, he turns around before he even touches the handle, upset that no one bothered to try and stop him, but his point is made and Nolan apologizes. Sort of. Well, technically, he says something along the lines of "how cool was that?" But Donald seems to know that that's about as good as he's going to get.
At the insistence of both our most recent victim and a visibly frustrated Malaya, Nolan goes on to explain his theory and the origin story of not only our acquaintance, but practically my whole life. He's more focused on details than actual events—especially when they have to do with him—but eventually, he talks his way to our current predicament. Despite his unnecessarily long report, the duo remains unconvinced—not so much of me and my... unique abilities, but of allowing themselves to be used as guinea pigs in an experiment conducted by our very own mad scientist.
I really can't blame them—and neither can Nolan.
But that doesn't stop him from trying to change their minds.
The negotiations don't take too long. His speech is fast-paced and oddly eloquent, composed of perfectly formed sentences of what I'd call absolute nonsense, but nonsense happens to be his forte. He resembles a veteran conman, saying just the right words to get them to buy whatever he's selling. Regardless of all his talk, though, the tipping point occurs in the form of outright bribes: a newly released dagger for Malaya, and some sort of favor that has to do with Donald's job as a recruiter.
"All right, let's get this over with," she says, pocketing her new weapon with care. "It can't be as bad as Ducky made it look—he's always been a snobby wimp."
"I beg your pardon? A snobby—"
"Shush."
It starts with just the slightest breeze tousling the strands of my hair, breathing against my skin as if in a gentle caress. The pleasant sensation doesn't last long, though, and unlike the mindful consideration of Donald, I'm not given a progressive warning of what's about to come.
Once again, I'm down on my knees. This time, however, it's not against my will. Digging my fingers into the plush carpet, I can only hope the soft fabric is more durable than it feels, as it is the only thing physically keeping me grounded right now.
The light breeze was, quite literally, the calm before the storm.
It's a scene of not just damage but destruction.
I'm now in dangerous proximity to a full-blown tornado, and the countless objects it has devoured only serve to make the funnel shaped vortex that much more daunting. Everything is being ripped, sucked and torn away. My skin is rippling, my bones are trembling, and it's a wonder my hair is still attached to my scalp.
The wind is so powerful that my eyes and ears are closing in on themselves, rendering them useless as I blindly endure the manufactured disaster. My muscles are quaking from the exertion, and the blood in my limbs are losing circulation. Even so, I don't dare let go.
And yet, I'm flying—with tufts of carpet in my still curled fists.
My movements are weightless but forceful, probably resembling a starved, unstable vorak mid-air. Then, like waking from a falling dream, I find myself back on the ground, lying on my front, panting and drenched in sweat, but most importantly, safe.
I should know by now that nothing good ever lasts long.
Once again, the house is being controlled by an uncontrollable wind, creating a turbulent storm that seems to have no end. Chaos has taken over, and the same objects that were spinning in a perfect cyclone are now soaring and crashing in absolute disorder, forcing us to duck and dodge with desperate vigor.
Yes, us.
"Oh, shit!"
"Bloody hell!"
"This is troublesome."
"Aha!" Just before a fire extinguisher can break Nolan's teeth, it drops—right onto his toes. "Ow!"
The mayhem that was above us is now a minefield at our feet. What matters, though, is that everything—including the air—has gone still. And quiet. No more fearful cries or distraught screams, no more violent collisions and near-misses. Nothing but the sound of our own tired, relieved breaths.
"Phew," Nolan swipes at his brow, "good thing that happened before the Cage Match."
"Cage Match? You can't be serious," Donald says, disbelief painted on his face and dripping from his words.
Malaya agrees. "There's no way she can participate—not after that."
"We are indeed stuck in a less than ideal situation," Henry says, though he appears to be talking more to himself than anyone else.
"Where there's a will, there's a way," Nolan declares, eyes closed and chin raised as though basking beneath a tropical sun.
"Famous last words of every fool who didn't know when to quit," Malaya mutters.
He sighs, and even the universal note of breath sounds condescending when leaving his lips. "Really, why is everyone so grouchy?" He shakes his head, leveling us all with a stare that is practically attached with an audio file of "you poor, poor minions—whatever am I going to do with you?" And I have no doubt it would be delivered in one of his ridiculous accents. "Relax, guys. Have you forgotten who I am? I'm Nolan Dra—" He scowls when Donald cuts him off by mimicking his trademark line with a high pitched tone. Clearing his throat aggressively, he continues. "What I was going to say," he pauses, silently begging for no one to interrupt, "is that I've got it covered. I have a plan," he says, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
"This is where you elaborate on said plan," I say, too drained and frustrated and impatient to simply wait, knowing he wo
uld make us do exactly that until someone pleads for insight on his impeccable brilliance.
"We teach you how to control your newfound sorcery."
Someone please tell me he is kidding.
"That's it? That's your great plan?"
Malaya scoffs. "Well, that's disappointing—but not surprising, coming from you."
"So, what—just carry on with the Cage Match and risk exposing myself in front of The Union?" My voice is smooth and level, not betraying the volatile waves coursing through me. "If they're as powerful and dangerous as you make them seem, I don't want to be anywhere near them, and I sure as hell won't get involved for the mere sake of your entertainment."
Nolan gasps, clutching his chest in mock hurt. "Entertai—" he shakes his head ruefully, "do you really think so little of me?"
"Yes," three voices chime in my stead.
He dismisses them with an impatient wave of his hand. "This is an opportunity," he insists. "All we have to do is show them that you're normal, and we'll have them off our backs before they can even think to pounce. What better time to do that than when everybody who matters is present?"
"And if it goes wrong, everyone who matters will know what she really is," Donald says.
"Yes, very good, Ducky," he rolls his eyes until they flutter white, "which is exactly why we'll make sure it goes right."
"And how are we supposed to do that?" I ask, exasperated. "It took months for everyone at The Academy to gain control over their orbs—I have less than three days. Not to mention, mine is on the previously undiscovered and currently undetermined end of the spectrum."
