Arcane

by Elle Park

  The sleeves of her top are now rolled up. Bruises mar her skin in irregular patterns, but before I can even begin to count them, she lifts the hem of her shirt until I'm forced to stare at the mottled skin of her stomach, her ribs.

  If this girl is the same little girl that I remember, then I know exactly who hurt her.

  What did she do this time? Bang her body against the corner of a wall? Run herself into the edge of a table? Jump off the bed? Tumble down the stairs? Hit herself with cups and bottles after getting tired of using her weak, little fists?

  Did she drink her uncle's warm, leftover beer, believing it would make her as powerful as it seemed to make him? And when he slapped her rapidly swelling cheek with his rough, calloused hand, did she, even with her eyes squeezed shut and her heart beating out of her chest, wish for him to become more angry, more powerful, so that this time, he may leave a mark?

  How many times? How many times did it take to stain herself with evidence of her suffering? Did she cry? Maybe during the first few attempts. After all, she didn't do it for the pain—she felt enough of that already. If she did feel anything while watching the bruises bloom, it must have been hope—hope that the world would see her for the tormented child that she really is—hope that it would have a reason to help her, to save her—hope that someone would ask her, like the nice lady walking her dog once asked her aunt, if she was all right.

  How hopeless did she feel when no one saw, when no one noticed—or worse, when they did, and she went ignored? How hopeless did she feel each time her aunt bathed her—when she would only be quietly berated as she was scrubbed harder and harder, as if the raw, heated tint would somehow erase the blue, brown and purple? How hopeless did she feel when she couldn't muster up the courage to do as she's doing now, exposing her hurt and her pain, and taking it upon herself to make someone see, to ask, to listen, to pay attention and just do something?

  What is it she's feeling now as she stands before me, waiting for me to let her be the child she never could be?

  Before the thought even fully registers, the little girl disappears, and I feel a sudden pang of grief—for what or for whom, I don't know, but it's there, and it's real, and it stays even after she's gone.

  But then she comes back—and she has grown.

  It's actually rather unsettling to be staring at myself like this—and it's downright disturbing to see myself transform into something so sinister. As soon as our eyes meet, hers become engulfed in a bulging black. Her equally dark tongue drops as she opens her mouth, and I hear the low wheeze that, to me, is worse than nails on a chalkboard.

  Did the monster consume her, or did she become the monster?

  Does it matter how I became what I am, or simply that I am?

  I barely have time to flinch before I'm thrown to the ground, blood flying through the air as if a guy just got his jaw bashed in and decided to spit in my direction. There's something blocking my windpipes, and I know I need to clear it, to dislodge the growing lump if I want to breathe. And it's not even her that's suffocating me—not directly. It's my own fear, my panic, shoving its fist down my throat and reaching in to crush my lungs with one tight grip.

  But my fear can't be real, because none of this is real.

  No matter how many times I repeat this mantra, though, I can't seem to fool myself—which is unfortunate because she's looming over me now, growing bigger as the distance between us shrinks, her teeth bared and ready to maul me until I, too, become one with its force.

  "Stop," I say, just as a warm string of slobber hits my cheek, burning its tracks into my skin. But the command comes out weak and small—exactly how I feel, at the moment—and we're almost face to face. And I don't want to do this anymore. I don't think I can do this anymore. "Stop."

  And just like that, she disappears.

  Still shot full of adrenaline, I scramble my way up and into the nearest corner. My nerves are jittery, and I try to conceal the shaking by digging the heels of my palms against the sockets of my eyes. I realize just how lightheaded I feel—probably due to my momentary inability to breathe—and I blindly reach out to steady myself. I don't need to stretch far for my hands to meet glass, but they don't help as much as I hoped, my sweat leaving me with little to no grip.

  "Well, that was freaky." Nolan's brows are raised and well hidden behind his floppy hair. His gaze slowly shifts from side to side, as if this is another awkward situation he loves to make more awkward. "Why couldn't we see whatever she was seeing? Seriously, Kaia," he directs to me, "you pretty much crashed, and for all I know, it could've been a Viking's sneeze that knocked you down." He pauses, apparently thinking over his theory to himself. "Was it a Viking's sneeze that knocked you down? If so, what was it like? And don't spare me any details—you know, like, was the air hot or cold? What did it smell like? Oh, wait, let me guess..."

  Too polite to tell him to just shut up, Arturo loudly clears his throat. "As I told you before, Nolan, I used a fear orb. We couldn't see anything because she conjured the hallucination, herself."

  Regardless of what that says about me, at least I'm the only one to know about it. That's a little relieving, I think.

  Arturo continues, but not without some hesitation. "Kaia, why don't you come out for a bit? It goes against protocol, but I'm sure a few minutes won't hurt—just while I explain the results. You must be feeling more than a little claustrophobic by now."

  I guess I'm more out of it than I thought, because I don't register what he's saying until the door of my cube opens. I don't waste any time walking out, though.

  "Saint Art breaking the rules?" Nolan snorts. "That's a first."

  He shakes his head, amused but exasperated. "Take a look at the monitor, please." All three heads swivel to the large screen, two of us ignorant as to why we're staring at an image of a brain. "As we confirmed earlier, Kaia has the ability to physically reflect the mental attack of an orb. We've witnessed the damage she inflicted on the dummy, but as you can see, she wasn't able to bring her fearful hallucination to life. That does not mean she was rendered powerless," he says, flashing a wide grin. Several sections of the brain are flickering with bright neon colors, but with a single tap, it vanishes to show some sort of moving picture of magnified cells. "According to my data, she manipulated the neurons themselves, and they have yet to revert to their original state. What this means is that even if her orb stops its defensive assault, her opponents would continue to face the appropriate hallucinations until their brain function returns to normal, which could take anywhere from one minute to indefinitely—I'd need to collect more data to come to an informed conclusion."

  "How, though?" Nolan blurts, his eyes thoughtful as he strokes his chin.

  "Pardon?"

  "How is she able to do this—any of this?

  "Well, I do have—" He catches his almost-slip, using his hands to literally block the words from coming out of his mouth. "You'll hear it in the presence of The Union."

  "Oh, come on, I am The Union."

  "You are part of The Union, not The Union."

  "Oh, come on, you already told us this much—"

  "Yes, and that is already too much."

  "Arturo Jr. Gonzalez, I refuse to wait that long—"

  "Nolan, you'll hear it in less than five minutes."

  Before he has a chance to protest any further, Arturo shoos him out of the room with a stern look that wouldn't intimidate a four-year-old. Then he turns to me with an apologetic smile, and I re-enter the cube without needing to be told. In the time it takes to blink six times, my world flashes from the lab, to an all-encompassing white, and, finally, back in front of those who will decide my fate.

  And I'm not feeling so lucky.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  IT'S AS THOUGH I'm invisible.

  As soon as I recognized where I was—and whom I was with—I thought for sure that I would be openly stared at, forced to suffer through their silent taunts as I wait for my verdict.

  They'
re not staring.

  Neither are they silent.

  "We do not believe in coincidence," Frederick all but shouts, the corners of his nose lifting as he sneers. "Especially when it concerns the deaths of two daemons."

  "Why don't we just kill her and get this over with?"

  "Now, now," Alan says, smiling at Lei as if he didn't just suggest they murder me. "Let us first hear what Arturo has to say before we make any final decisions."

  "Yes, he should be here any second now," the giant agrees, his fingers loosely knit together on the edge of the table.

  As if on cue, the door at the front of the room opens, but it's not the dark haired scientist that appears. Nolan casually strides in, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans.

  The conversation—or argument—has abruptly paused, everyone a little caught off guard at the newest person to join them. They probably didn't expect him back so soon—he did say he'd be in the cafeteria, after all.

  "What?" Nolan asks warily as he takes a seat. "Oh, man," he groans, "don't tell me I missed show-and-tell."

  "Not to worry, Nolan. You haven't missed a thing."

  It's the man of the hour himself.

  "Finally," Octavia mutters, crossing her legs as she leans into her chair. "How does it take so long to examine one girl?"

  "I apologize for keeping you all waiting," Arturo says, his spine stiff as he comes to a stand beside my cube.

  "Never mind that," Frederick impatiently waves, "tell us what you've found."

  "Right, of course, sir."

  There's a screen mounted at the back of the room—right where the door used to be. It's currently split into two sections, each displaying a different feed. On the left, there is a video of me looking like I belong in a psychiatric ward, hugging myself as I writhe on the clean, bloodless floor. Streaming on the right side, is footage of the mannequin sprouting color in the most sinister of ways. Ironically, the more it deteriorates and approaches a virtual death, the more alive it looks.

  "What the hell are we looking at?" Lei asks, the dragon on his head hunching forward with the movement of his brows.

  Arturo goes on to repeat everything Nolan and I already heard back in his lab, though he uses more detailed and technical descriptions this time. Every few minutes, the videos change and new images pop up, and everyone is so focused on watching the screen, that they don't seem to notice me watching them.

  They're all sitting on the edge of their seats, too engrossed in the presentation to argue with each other or make additional comments about terminating my life—for now, at least. In this situation, though, I truly think I'd prefer that they do. It's not that I enjoy hearing things of that nature—especially when they concern me—but at least it would give me some more insight as to what they're thinking.

  Unsurprisingly, there are two people at the table who are radiating hostility. The cause of their current temperament seems to be different, though. Actually, they're just entirely different in general, I think. Frederick is uptight; Lei is aggressive. Frederick's face is pinched; Lei's face is creased. Frederick's posture is straight and stiff; Lei's posture is flexed and curled.

  Although they are probably my worst chance of surviving this—whatever this is—unscathed, it's not them I'm most worried about right now. Rather, it's everyone else: Alan, the giant, Octavia and Stoic Man. They don't appear antagonistic—the opposite, if anything. And that's what's disconcerting. I don't know what to make of their subdued expressions.

  Every so often, they—everyone minus Nolan and Stoic Man—will mumble and mutter under their breath, crossing and uncrossing their arms as they do so. Depending on the remark and how loudly it's said, Arturo either subtly flinches before making a comment of his own, or he continues talking as if he didn't hear it in the first place. Periodically, whether he's interrupted—both intentionally and unintentionally—or not, he visibly swallows a lump of nerves, licking his lips and peering down at his tablet whenever the gaze of his bosses becomes too much.

  I can tell the presentation is coming to an end. The large screen is showing the same neurons we were shown back in the lab and, naturally, everyone is looking more or less horrified. Well, not everyone. Octavia seems delighted, really, and I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or not.

  Then there's the boy I've been expertly ignoring.

  Nolan is acting as if he's fully invested in what Arturo has to say, but I doubt he's fooling anyone. He's certainly not fooling me. Although I've been pretending otherwise, I don't miss the way he glances at me every few minutes, staring until I purposely shift my head in his direction. Thankfully, I'm not the only one in the room to occupy his attention.

  I'm aware that, like me, he is studying the other members of The Union. He's trying to be inconspicuous about it, but I think the only reason he hasn't been caught yet is because they're too distracted to notice—or too distracted to care. Either way, he's far from sly. And I don't know what he sees, but from my point of view, it's becoming increasingly difficult to feel hopeful.

  "Thus, I am able to conclude that she did indeed cause the death of her opponent during the Cage Match."

  I don't know exactly how long he's been talking, but for the first time in a while, my ears register Arturo's voice. His words are followed with a few seconds of stunned silence, but that's all it takes for everyone to simultaneously speak up. It's clear that they each want to be heard, but I doubt they can even hear themselves.

  "Please, one at a time, if you will."

  Frederick is, of course, first in line.

  "She is a ticking time-bomb—one that we would be fools not to defuse immediately." For what it's worth, no one makes a show of agreeing with him—neither do they disagree, but I'll take what I can get.

  The loud eye-roll from Octavia is encouraging.

  "Come on, Freddie, it's never good to rush," Nolan interjects. "Don't you know that the turtle won the race?" His analogy barely makes any sense, but at least it's annoying enough to direct some of Frederick's anger to him instead of me.

  Sensing the trouble his son is about to be in, Alan clears his throat. "She's just a child. We must at least try to consider other options."

  "We take care of our people," the giant says, sounding like a parent scolding his kid. "And though she is undoubtedly unique, she is still one of us."

  "Yes, Zion," Frederick hisses, smacking his fist against the table. "We take care of our people. And after seeing what she is capable of—what she has done—even you must admit that she is most certainly not one of us."

  "Actually, that brings me to the next finding in my report," Arturo, who was quiet for most of the arguments, cuts in meekly. "The death of Mr. Daley, like that of Mr. Keefe, was also caused by Miss Riley."

  Alan quirks a brow. "His wounds were made by a vorak, were they not?"

  "Yes, the report does indicate so," he replies, eyes darting around nervously.

  "So? Which is it?" Lei has been keeping his thoughts mostly to himself, occasionally cracking his knuckles and consistently tapping his fingers against the table. I'm surprised he didn't make a dent in the wood yet. "Out with it already," he snaps, apparently fed up with the lack of progress.

  Frankly, so am I.

  "Well, technically, it was Ms. Riley that killed Mr. Daley."

  "We're talking in circles!" Frederick's patience is running thin, and Arturo practically withers under his glare.

  Nolan chuckles. "What are you trying to say, Arty? No need to be nervous—we're all on the same side here."

  That, I'm not so sure of.

  "Right, well," he visibly gulps, "I can confirm Miss Riley is definitely a daemon—I ran the test three times to be sure—but, um, that's not all she is."

  "No kidding," Octavia says, her head bobbing with a snort.

  "Would you care to elaborate, Arturo?" The giant, Zion, suggests gently.

  He releases a shaky breath before nodding, bracing himself for his own words.

  "It is my b
elief that she is becoming a vorak."

  Me? A vorak?

  This has to be some kind of joke.

  "Is this your idea of a joke, Mr. Gonzalez?"

  For once, Frederick and I are on the same page.

  "No, sir, I wouldn't dare."

  Lei scoffs. "If she was becoming a vorak, she'd already be one by now."

  "It's not that we don't trust your opinion..." Alan says, slowly uncurling his fingers and sliding them into his pant pockets.

  "We just think your opinion is stupid," Octavia drawls.

  "At the very least, there would be visible signs of her dying," Lei adds, his arms crossed over his chest.

  "I understand this is hard to believe—I could hardly believe it myself—but that is the theory my data points to."

  "Arturo, buddy, you think outside of the box—I'll give you that—but sometimes, the answer's inside," Nolan says, looking less amused than he sounds. "As in, this time. Right now. Like, when you say she—"

  "Yes, we get it, Mr. Drake," Frederick interjects. "But for the first—and most probably, the last—time, I agree with you," he says begrudgingly.

  "I knew we were friends, Ricky—"

  "It is Mr. Drexel to you, Mr. Drake. And we are most certainly not friends."

  "A damn broken record," Octavia mutters, though she's not the only one who seems tired of this overused script—that includes me, and I've only seen the two interact for less than a full day.

  "Arturo," Zion gruffly clears his throat, "forgive us for being so skeptical, but you must understand that what you are suggesting is not an easy concept to grasp."

  "I appreciate that you may have questions that I'm not yet able to answer, but I wouldn't ask you to believe in something that I don't believe, myself." There's a desperate hitch in his tone, and he looks almost pleading.

  "Do you have any evidence to support your theory?"