Arcane

by Elle Park

  Because I think I already do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE NIGHT IS spent tossing and turning, but when I head downstairs the next morning, I feel more alert than tired. I assume it has something to do with the constant kicks to my gut—the very same ones that occur every time I think about how today might unfold.

  "Good morning, Kaia," Henry greets from the bottom of the stairs, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

  I nod, offering a quick smile. "Were you working on something?"

  Tucking the patterned cloth in the pocket of his blazer, he sighs. "Yes, I was cleaning," he says, swinging his arm toward the left side of the room. "Can you tell?"

  I quickly glance at the indicated area, noting absolutely no difference from last night—a few toys or figures may or may not be missing, but I doubt I'd be able to point out which ones. "Sure," I hum, "it looks... less cluttered."

  "Yes, I think so, too," he agrees, scanning his work.

  "Hey, where are my Marvel figures?" Nolan says to no one in particular, holding a half-eaten hash-brown in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. "I could've sworn they were under the desk, behind Mr. Ducky and beside my mini gum-ball ma—"

  "I moved them into the storage room," Henry says, swiftly cutting him off.

  "You what?" His voice is alarmingly loud, but it sounds more like a screeching whine than an angry exclamation. "Those are all limited edition—they deserve better than to be put into storage," he says with disgust.

  "They were collecting dust and taking up unnecessary space."

  "No, they gave the room a vintage feel."

  "If by vintage, you mean messy and unappealing, then, yes, I suppose so."

  Their banter is familiar by now, but the dynamics of their relationship never cease to amaze me. More specifically, Henry, period, never ceases to amaze me.

  Nolan huffs and pouts, then swiftly changes the topic—something he does whenever he's losing an argument. "What's taking the food so long?"

  "We ordered approximately three minutes ago."

  "That's it?" He groans loudly, curling his spine and hugging his stomach. "Feels like three hours."

  Once the table is set and everyone has taken a seat on the floor, I munch on a slice of toast before voicing the question I've been asking myself all night.

  "What happens now?" I say it so quietly that, for a second, I'm sure only I could have heard it.

  Evidently, Nolan can hear just fine over his noisy chewing.

  "For now, we eat," he declares. "I doubt you'll be moving up the ladder anytime soon, what with everything that happened during the match. I mean, technically, you didn't lose, but no one's going to see you as a winner, thanks to your impeccable acting—you know, before you weren't acting," he says, flicking his head to give me a pointed look. "Which means, we'll have to lay low, kill a few voraks here and there, and continue the ruse until... well, until something changes." He smiles, pleased with his report.

  "What are you talking about? You're the one who insisted I be promoted," I say, resisting the urge to wring his neck. There is a child here, after all.

  He slows his chews as he goes over my words. "When did that happen? Are you sure you heard me right? Are you sure it was me who said it? It wouldn't be the first time your ears went wonky."

  "You said I'm to start my new position as an operative today," I say, frustrated with his ever selective memory. "You even threatened to object to their objections." At his blank look, I add, "Taco Tuesday?"

  He gasps, his mouth forming a perfect circle as recognition sparks in his frosty blues. "Right, right. I remember—but they probably don't. They're old," he says, his frown clearing just as quickly as it appeared.

  Before I can even begin to point out the flaws in his logic, I'm interrupted by the sound of a clear ping.

  Using a grease-free pinkie to turn on his phone, Nolan's eyes narrow at the small screen. "I swear I heard my phone go off," he mutters. "Maybe your wonky ears are rubbing off on me."

  "Perhaps it's Kaia's," Henry says.

  "But I was talking about Kaia's."

  "Not her ears—her phone."

  If anything, Nolan's brows only furrow deeper. "Who would message her?"

  Brushing off the unintentional dig at my non-existent social life, I reach for my own phone. Sure enough, when I turn on the screen, a small, red dot is glued to the upper right corner of one of the icons, the spot of color bright and blaring against the backdrop of black and white—ominous, almost. It's not like I've never gotten a text before, but this device still doesn't feel like mine, which makes me feel like a snooping impostor. Plus, I have no idea who would even have my new number, let alone actually contact me.

  With a hesitant tap, the application instantly opens to a somewhat familiar display. Unsurprisingly, there's only one message. "Congratulations, you have been promoted to the position of Operative. To confirm, press and hold the home-button until the device restarts." As I read the text aloud, my words grow further apart and my voice becomes wary and unsure. "I guess they're not as old as you thought."

  Nolan hums, cracking his neck from side to side. "Restart it."

  "Do we want me to be an operative or not?"

  "We don't."

  "Then, shouldn't I not confirm?"

  "Chill, sweets. I've got this," he says, walking toward me. "Now, restart your phone."

  With little options available, I do as he says, reluctantly leaving my suspicions to simmer—no doubt, they'll boil over in a few minutes or so.

  It takes mere seconds for the device to turn back on, and when it does, I notice there are several more applications than before. Following Nolan's instructions, I tap the one with a white plus-sign drawn in the middle of the square.

  Instantly, a new window opens to reveal the universal symbols of a phone and a message. Nolan prompts me to push the former, and as soon as I do, the display changes once again. At the bottom is a panel of buttons, and it—along with the three white dots currently flickering from the center of the screen—stands out against the all black background.

  A soft click is heard after three rings, and the dots are now green and unblinking. "Yes," a crisp voice answers.

  Nolan uses my finger to turn on the speaker, then motions for me to talk. "My name is Kaia Riley," I manage to utter, not entirely sure of what to say. "I received a message informing me of my promotion to Operative." Whatever the hell that means.

  "Yes," he repeats. Given his bored tone, I wouldn't be surprised if he had his legs crossed atop a desk right now, eyes closed as he smothers impending yawns. "I will send the information you need for your first job. As your handler, I—"

  "Lee?" As soon as Nolan utters the name, the other end of the line falls silent.

  A pause stretches for a few uncertain seconds. "Drake?" The man finally responds, confusion laced around that one word.

  "Lee! How are you, buddy? It's been what—five years?"

  "One."

  "Really? Huh," he rubs his chin thoughtfully, "are you sure? One year? That's it?"

  The man expels a tired sigh, and I conjure the image of his shoulders slumping as he loosens his tie—though, he could be stark naked for all I know. "What are you doing, Drake?"

  "What do you mean? I'm catching up with an old friend, of course. Why? You want to meet up? I'd have to check my schedule, but I think I can make time for—"

  "I mean, what are you doing with a rookie tracker?"

  "Well, she has just been made an operative—or so I hear, at least. Actually, about that," he drawls casually, "I think there's been some sort of mix-up. You see, she isn't qualified for a promotion."

  Again, silence falls for two steady beats. "Is her name Kaia Riley?"

  "Yes."

  "Did she participate in the Cage Match?"

  "Yeah."

  "Is this her phone?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Then I can confirm the validity of her change in status as affirmati
ve."

  "But, Lee—"

  "Look," the voice interrupts, "if you have a problem, take it up with Drexel. He assigned her to me, and I'm to assign her with tedious jobs—which makes sense, considering you have something to do with her. I'm assuming that's also why he said orientation was unnecessary. Now, unlike you, I have actual work to do." With that, another click fills the air as the application closes, flashing back to the main screen.

  The three of us stare dumbly at the phone, each lost in thought until Henry breaks the trance. "This is unfortunate," he says flatly. "It appears Frederick Drexel's antagonism toward you has now extended to Kaia, too—or perhaps he knows you will be accompanying her on her assignments."

  "Frederick Drexel? The old man in The Union?" I say, remembering him from the Cage Match.

  "Yes, one of its oldest members, too," Henry replies. "He is in charge of The Corporation's employees, but it is rare for him to personally oversee or authorize assignments of this level—unless he has a personal motive, that is. In this case, that motive is likely him," he says, directing a pointed look at an apparently dumbfounded Nolan. "He never liked Nolan—barely tolerated him, actually—but the incident at the Cage Match has, understandably, struck a nerve." With a slight tilt of his head, he elaborates. "His scout was your opponent. For the boy he hand-picked to go down like that... well, I would imagine it embarrassed him, to say the least. His name now bears a smear—a reminder of the unfortunate incident—that people will not be so keen to forget. And for a man who places the utmost importance on pride, it is expected of him to not take this matter lightly."

  "Seriously, Hen, where do you get all this dirt from? Is it Milo? Ducky?" Nolan asks, sounding surprised, impressed and disgruntled all at once. "Is there a gossip-mill I'm not a part of?" He looks appalled at the mere thought. "If there is, I want in—I'll even go through a hazing if that's what it takes," he declares haughtily, completely serious.

  "I have my sources."

  "So, I'm caught in the middle of your family feud," I say, pressure mounting in the crevices of my skull. "Is there any way to get me out?"

  "For the time being, I would say that is a difficult prospect," Henry says. "It would be rather questionable if Nolan were to demand they reverse the promotion he so vehemently insisted on. And, needless to say, the last thing we want to do is raise questions."

  "Then, for the time being, we'll just have to go through with it." Nolan grins as if all is well, and I'm not sure whether to feel worried or relieved at the sight. "How tedious can her jobs get?"

  Right on cue, my phone pings again.

  "Is it from Lee?" Nolan asks, scooting over to my side to steal a glance at the screen.

  Instead of waiting for a reply, he makes me open the application I only first used just minutes ago. This time, though, I don't tap the phone button, instead taking a hint from the red dot notifying me of a message. A chat-room instantly pops up and fills the display, where bubbles of texts are already waiting to be read.

  "Harry Jones." I begin reciting the provided information, skimming over his age, address and employer. "Whistle-blower. Twenty-four hours."

  At the bottom, there's a photo of a man—taken for some form of identification, I'd guess—with his dark hair slicked neatly to the side. There are only a few visible wrinkles—mostly around his eyes—and he holds a curious gaze that makes him look younger than his forty-two years.

  "Twenty-four hours," Nolan scoffs, waving his hand lazily, "plenty of time to do what we have to do."

  "And what exactly do we have to do?"

  "Well," he walks over to the chute, tapping his finger against the steel surface, "if he's labeled as a whistle-blower, then that means he has more than just information—he has evidence. It's our job to retrieve that evidence."

  "Why does The Union care about one whistle-blower?"

  "We don't. But there is someone—or someones—who does, and that person—or people—is willing to pay a certain price for our services. That's what we care about."

  How could I have forgotten? It's all about money, power and influence, and how they're used to keep the world spinning in The Union's favor. It makes me wonder just what else they do and how far they go to maintain their god-like status. There must be thousands of assets enslaved to their control, each boasting tight collars and short leashes, and all too eager to lap at the hand that feeds them. As far as The Union is concerned, that's probably all we are: dogs too scared to bark and too smart to bite.

  And I have no doubt in my mind that if we dare bare our teeth, we'll lose our heads before we can even make it to their feet.

  Henry clears his throat. "If you are done eating, I would suggest you two get an early start."

  Chomping on a strip of bacon, Nolan raises his finger before washing everything down with audible gulps of juice. "That's very considerate of you, Hen. I'll just have a few more bites of this and that, and then we'll be on our way." As he extends his arm to grab a muffin, Henry swipes the entire box up and out of his reach. "Hey!"

  "Really, you would not know subtlety if it hit you in the face."

  "But you said if I was done eating—"

  "Procrastination never ends well for anyone," Henry says flatly. "If you do not want it to be the end for Kaia, I would advise you take a more proactive approach from now on."

  Nolan gasps, springing to his feet. "Of course, I don't want it to be the—really, Henry, how can you even—proactive," he scoffs, "please—proactive is my middle name. I'm thinking we should get an early start. Shall we, Kiki?" Without waiting for my response, he strides past me and out the door.

  Henry and I exchange a knowing glance before we both turn our backs to each other—him, to clean up the remnants of Nolan's feast, and me, to do a job I have no idea how to do.

  When I step outside, Nolan's already leaning against the side of a Zinger, which means our destination—wherever that is—is not within a short, walking distance—though, as far as he's concerned, anywhere beyond the walls of his house is usually considered not within walking distance.

  "Come on, partner," he shouts unnecessarily, waving his hands for me to hurry up and join him.

  I eye him warily as he slides in beside me. "So, is this Jones guy in New York right now?"

  "Nope, he's at home—which is right where we're going to find him."

  "You do know he lives in London, England."

  "Yep."

  "We're going to London, England?" When he just nods, I shake my head. "I don't have my passport on me."

  He chuckles, condescendingly patting my shoulder. "Relax, babe. When have I ever let you down?"

  His assurances are not comforting in the slightest.

  When it comes to Nolan and his surprise reveals, I've learned that patience is virtue. I need to wait and watch as everything unfolds in due time. So, instead of listing times and dates and engaging in an argument that he will believe to be nothing more than jests and banter, I shut my mouth. And it stays shut even as we stride past familiar buildings and businesses, down familiar streets, into a familiar entryway, and in front of a familiar building.

  The endless panels of mirrored glass immediately remind me of all that exists on the other side. This is the place that hides an entire academy and a lavish ballroom, where supernatural beings train to kill and manipulate, and where a select few are put on display as a means to promote power for the already powerful.

  "Ah, Mr. Drake, Miss Kaia," Edward greets, tipping his hat in a friendly gesture. "What brings you to The Liberty, today?"

  "Eddie," Nolan exclaims, hugging the older man in greeting. "I'm taking her on a field trip."

  "I see," he smiles, a knowing spark in his eyes, "well, I hope you both have a pleasant time."

  Inside, the hotel appears even busier than when we were here last. The lines are longer, more of the leather seats are occupied, and most of the guests—at least, the ones visible in the lobby—seem to be comprised of individuals on business, rather than families
on vacation—probably because it's now well into the new school year. The busy crowd makes it easier for us to approach the elevators discreetly—though, I seem to be the only one concerned with keeping a low profile.

  After making room for a small group of people to walk out, we step into the elevator, quickly trailed by an elderly couple. They're all too happy to strike up a conversation that will last for only the few long seconds that we share a contained space, speaking rapidly about where they're from—coincidentally, England, albeit Brighton—why they're here—a gift from their children for their fortieth wedding anniversary—and how they plan to watch a Broadway show for every day that they're in the city. They haven't noticed that we've yet to press a button, but they certainly don't seem to mind as we accompany them to their floor, the soft ding prompting their reluctant exit.

  Just as the doors begin to close, the woman manages to squeeze in a few last words. "Have a nice honeymoon, you little lovebirds," she says, a knowing grin on her face as she and her husband wave at us once more.

  Before I can even think to retort, Nolan's pulling me into his side. "We will," he yells.

  Where they got the idea that we're in a romantic relationship, let alone married, I have no clue—though, I do get the feeling that Nolan might have spun another tale as I pretended to listen. Regardless of why or how we've been viewed as a couple, he's already planning how many children we'll have and what their names will be, and he's going on about whether a boy or a girl is better to have as the first-born—a girl, apparently—when the doors slide apart. I was so busy trying to block his voice from my ears, that I didn't even notice when he'd pressed a button. And it's only when I look at the side panel that I realize we're in the basement.

  "Let's go, dear," he ushers me out, "our train will be here any second."

  What should have been—and probably would have been to the oblivious guests of this hotel—an ordinary, underground garage, is now a subway terminal of some sort. Surprisingly, the space has not expanded to that of a football field, but rather it seems to have shrunk. The dark walls and concrete floor almost make it feel like we're in a polished cave or tunnel—albeit a modernly reconstructed one with recessed lighting. The room is long and narrow, split almost exactly down the center to allow for a steel track on the left side and an elevated platform on the right. Interestingly, the latter is clearly limited by the far wall, only spanning about ten meters lengthwise, but the tracks run through a separate, seemingly endless tunnel of its own, making it virtually impossible to measure.