Such a Daring Endeavor

by Cortney Pearson

  She panicked when he first pulled her away from that shed, prying at his hold on her wrists, fighting to get back, but it’s gotten easier since he began carrying her. His boots thunk heavily on the boardwalk, and he ducks into the shadow of small stands every few feet to check for soldiers, to check for anyone who might care about a man carrying a lost maiden wizard in his arms.

  “So you’re from where?” Ren asks, his voice showing no sign of strain beneath her weight. She’s much lighter than he expected. That must be all those years of living half-starved in a boat shed, though from the sound of things, she hasn’t lived there the whole time.

  Jomeini’s grip on Ren’s shoulders tightens. She trembles in his arms, wincing as though he has knives instead of hands at her back and beneath her knees.

  “What is it?”

  “Take me back,” she says.

  He tightens his hold. “You’re doing great. My friends will have their van at the end of the boardwalk—we’ll get you away. They’re Black Vault gatekeepers, they’ll have something that can help you—”

  “I can’t leave. Can’t leave.” Her fingers dig through her hair and she fights against him like a trapped badger, her body flailing.

  Ren’s arms tighten, but she flops, going board-stiff and then completely limp and back again so that Ren nearly drops her.

  “Hey,” he says in frustration. “Hang in there.” He dips to hug around her waist, but she hits him, thrashing and punching his shoulders with more force than he thought possible.

  Up ahead, at the end of the boardwalk, a familiar van pulls up and the passenger door window rolls down. Micro glares out.

  “Help me!” says Ren, but Jomeini writhes, kicking him near enough to the crotch that he buckles over, and she slips from his grasp.

  “No!” he cries, bolting after her.

  Two figures dash out from behind a silver stand selling some type of cinnamon rolls, and Ren raises his fists in automatic defense when the smaller of the two barrels into him and throws her arms around his waist.

  “Ambry?” he says in shock.

  “Ren!”

  “How did you get out of there?” he demands, pulling her back to get a good look. Both of them are covered in slime and straw from the dungeon floor. Blood gels the side of Ambry’s head and around her neck. Dried dark spots mat down Talon’s pant legs and his torn shirt. At least he’s walking now.

  “You okay?” Ren asks, but Talon’s attention is on the horizon.

  Jomeini is nearly back to the shed, and from this point on the sand he can clearly see the boat, see a body slumped over in the sand.

  “Is that—?” Ren asks, but Talon’s face deepens into a scowl. He breaks for the boat, for the two old men circling one another, for the small, dark-haired girl banking toward them as though a single runner in a race only she can win.

  To Ren’s surprise, Dircey and Micro trace after them, looking formidable in the heat of the day. Dircey’s knife is in her hand, and Micro’s thick torso and arms are a threat all on their own. The five of them cross the sand to the older men.

  Talon takes in the sight of Shasa’s prostrate body on the sand and, with a snarl, stalks straight to Craven. Jomeini rushes to stand between the two, looking so childlike it’s almost laughable.

  Almost.

  “What have you done to her?” Talon demands.

  Craven, of all things, grins at Talon. “She did as she was told.”

  Voices call across the breeze. Ren and Dircey follow the sound, glancing back across the sand at the soldiers circling the van. The descending sand shields them for now, but it won’t be long before the Arcs spot them. Dircey pulls Ren’s elbow, tugging him down so he meets the agitation in her eyes.

  “We can’t stay here,” she says in her scratchy voice. “I don’t know what you have going on, but if you’re coming with us, you’ve got to come now. Otherwise, we leave you here.”

  Ren opens his mouth to reply when Talon reels back and punches Craven in the face. Jomeini pushes against Talon, and it’s clear he’s trying not to shove her out of the way. “Then undo it,” Talon demands, threatening the older man with a finger in his direction. “If you ordered her to do something to herself, undo it.”

  Despite the blood on his face, Craven cackles from his lower vantage point on the sand. “Too late,” he says.

  Talon kneels on the sand and punches Craven again. Over and over. “I never wanted to kill you, old man. Looks like you’ve helped me think otherwise.”

  Ren darts forward, unsure how to stop Talon, to get his attention. Soldiers swarm around the van, and Micro and Dircey are trotting back to it to ward them off as a second van pulls up beside it. Vreck. Once they get there, the Black Vaulters will leave. Then they’ll have no way out of the city.

  Ren pulls the knife he nabbed while in the boat shed, ready to use it in any way he can. To threaten them, maybe, get them to see reason. Solomus crouches on the sand, nursing a wound in his side; Jomeini keeps fighting to get to Craven and Talon, but Ambry is holding her down, she and the wizard both attempting to keep her out of the battle.

  And Shasa.

  He barely knows her, yet the thought of someone so strong, someone so fearless being gone, is almost unbearable. He should have stayed with her. He should have helped.

  He approaches Talon, ready to shove him if necessary. “We’ve got to go now!” Ren calls.

  Talon eyes the knife and snatches it from Ren’s hands. “Then there’s only one way to solve this,” Talon says. He whips the knife around his hand, catching the handle, and stabs the blade straight into Craven’s chest.

  ***

  One hand on his injured side, Solomus releases a gasp. The blade sinks straight through Craven. Finally. Solomus himself tried to end his life, not figuring the other man would have conditioned Jomeini to step in, and the resulting scars on Jomeini’s cheek torment him even in sleep. Never had he imagined that his own bleakfire would injure her instead of his foe.

  But now Craven is dead. Which means Jomeini is her own person once more.

  The thought brings tears to the wizard’s eyes. It’s ironic, really, that the curse he struck so conclusively those years ago didn’t apply to him. Jomeini lifts her head to the sky, exulting in the freedom coursing through her, and Solomus takes a step in her direction, wincing at the pain.

  Commotion catches his eye. He wipes away a tear and glances toward the boardwalk. A handful of soldiers are breaking away from the others at the white vans parked beyond a stand selling knives, beads, and jewelry. They’re heading for the shed.

  Indecision tears through him. He looks at Jomeini once more, then the shed. Craven wouldn’t have left the books somewhere else, would he?

  The Great History was the only copy of its kind left. Aside from Jomeini’s disappearance, it was the hardest for Solomus to accept when he returned home to find his granddaughter gone and his bookshelves raided.

  Shasa lies dead on the sand. Talon and the others flock to Jomeini. Soon the soldiers will discover them on the sand—Solomus doesn’t have time to waste.

  Nattie Wilde told him of a girl who would be born, a girl who could restore things. Solomus didn’t want to believe then. He was the one who cast the spell. It should be he who undid it. He studied The Great History for further insight, for a sign, for anything to help him. Before he left Jomeini, he was trying to contact Nattie and the other Firsts and was unsuccessful.

  But ever since he met Ambry Csille, something about her struck him as different. The fact that she has both her emotions and magic, that she Torrented so late, that she befriended sirens, not to mention the way Jomeini’s tears acted in regard to the girl.

  Answers are in that book. And he has to get it.

  With a fleeting glance and a wave at Jomeini that he prays she’ll understand, he makes his way for the shed.

  ***

  Jomeini startles at the sensation.

  It’s warm and brewing, hot cider, a rush of winter, both blisterin
g and cold spinning in her bones, flooding through as blood gushes from the wound in Craven’s chest. His gnarled hands quiver around the laceration, and he sags to the ground at a strange angle. And as the life drains from him, the magic he stole from her siphons back into its rightful place.

  Jomeini gasps. Blood routes in her veins, reviving her, making her spin and soar at once. Nothing, not the sunshine she basked in earlier, or the feel of the wind, of the satisfaction of a full stomach has ever been as substantial as this. She has been found.

  She wants to cry, to sing and dance, to thanks the stars. She thinks of girls in movies who kiss the nearest boy for no other reason than to celebrate the arrival of a moment. It always seemed silly to her, but now, now she glances around for someone to embrace and share in the pure euphoria pouring through her. She can’t be the only one feeling this. Everyone has to know how amazing this is.

  Craven is dead, and what is rightfully hers has been returned. Nothing could upset her now. Nothing. The blue sky that seemed endless and daunting, now gleams full of hope.

  “Grandfather?” she says, searching the shore. “Baba?”

  But her grandfather isn’t there, ready to envelop her and offer the comfort she needs. Instead, his hunched form she knows so well, a figure she’s imagined countless times coming to her rescue, shambles toward the shed where she was hiding. Away from where she stands.

  “I’m here!” she cries. “Baba, I’m here!”

  Solomus glances over his shoulder, the silver strands of his hair tied behind his head. His brows lift, and he squints before waving a shaky hand at her and continuing on his way. Away from her.

  Each of his steps drains something out of her. Nothing works, not her mouth, or her feet, not with this tremor rupturing through her frame. Her body tenses. Baba is walking away. Shasa is dead on the sand. And it’s all because of him.

  Arthur Craven. The man who tricked her. The man who stole her.

  Anger flashes through her at once, anger teeming as memories of what Craven has put her through, at what she’s lost, all pile in at once. Her legs cramping from being shoved in the crawlspace under his apartment when she wouldn’t See for him. His rough hands slapping her cheeks when she would explain why she hadn’t Seen for him. Hours and days and weeks and months of isolation stripping parts of her away bit by bit until she was nothing more than a reed.

  “Come on,” says Talon, resting a hand on Ambry’s shoulder before offering a hand to Jomeini.

  Talon is my friend, she reminds herself. Talon freed her, just as he promised he would. But Jomeini doesn’t take his hand. She’s quaking, a plate of earth ready to shift from beneath its oppressor and shake the ground in the process.

  Talon blinks, giving her a reassuring smile, but if anything her anger deepens. An emotion so on-hand she could live off of it. It’s not the first time she’s felt so irate. But the magic coursing through her fuels a once-broken engine.

  Flames ignite along her arms and travel to her hands, fiery orange and tinged with specks of silver stardust. Talon and the others duck away from her, some diving down to the sand. The light is blinding. It fills her vision, and she shrieks, spiraling it toward Craven’s lifeless body.

  Heat spires across the sand, twirling through it, and Talon and the others stagger back once more as Craven’s body burns to a crisp. Simultaneously, the metal enclosing Jomeini’s throat unlatches, dropping with a thump.

  Jomeini’s shoulders heave. Breath inflates her lungs with more life than she’s ever felt. His body is black, his arms charred and cradled to his chest, his mouth gaping in a macabre, silent scream. A lump on the sand.

  That was deliberate. That was her choice, not his. Retribution for all those nights shoved in a crawl space while Craven waited for her to have a vision for him. The hunger gnawing at her stomach like a rat, the way her legs cramped from not being able to extend. Fear, panic, paranoia, they all become a kaleidoscope of images shifting in her brain, never fading, just changing, but all present.

  She blinks as the exhilaration fades. The waves come into view. The sand caves around her bare feet, filtering through her toes. Heat slams into her cheeks and a breeze flags through her hair.

  Every eye is on her, including the attention of the soldiers patrolling the boardwalk. The men in khaki file through the sand, leaving the white vans and making straight for her.

  Anger reignites once more, and the flames sprout of their own accord, licking along her skin, testing the particles in the air. She directs her hands at the soldiers. They thrust backward, flinging through the air at the force of her power.

  Talon pushes up from the sand, his brows gathered in concern; Ambry Csille and her brother stare in open shock. The two others’ eyes boggle wide. Shasa’s body rests feet away. Sand feathers her cheeks. Her hair splays out, a colored, beautiful contrast to Craven’s pathetic remains.

  “Come on,” Talon says again once the heat leaves her. The energy, the frustration, the hate, it all cools to a simmer, and she jerks back at his touch. She glances for her grandfather, only to find him returning from the boat shed with a book in his hand. He’s frozen on the sand, staring at her in dismay.

  “Jo?” Talon says.

  Talon, kind, thoughtful Talon; Talon who resented Shasa but came to visit them anyway, Talon who swore he would free them, finally did it. This time her hand is steady as she slides it into his.

  “It’s back,” she says, a thick stream burning her bones as if saying hello. “It’s back.”

  “Apparently so,” says Talon, disconcerted, glancing back at Craven, now blackened and brittle. He pats her hand, urging her to move faster past the lifeless soldiers in the sand.

  Jomeini tugs him back. “We can’t leave her here,” she says, gesturing to Shasa.

  “We won’t,” says Talon, clearly torn between helping Jomeini and going back for his betrothed.

  “I’ve got her,” says Ren, the kind blond man who helped her escape. He jogs across the sand and bends to scoop Shasa’s limp body from the sand. His sister trails behind the group of them, meeting up with Solomus, whose slow hobbles finally join them as well.

  Grandfather takes her from Talon’s warm, strong arm. His is weak and shaky in comparison.

  Bitterness elbows in, ramming its way into her chest at the touch from this old man who raised her. Jomeini slides her hand out of his grasp and forces her gaze ahead. She doesn’t want to hear what he’ll say. She used her bleakfire strictly against every way he ever taught her. She hears his voice even now.

  Control, Jo. It’s all about control.

  She was in control, all right. And she did…that.

  And the worst part is she felt good doing it.

  “Baba,” she says, not sure what will come now.

  “I never should have left you,” Grandfather says, hushing her. “I should have brought you with me.”

  “It’s done,” says Jomeini with so much animosity it makes Talon’s eyes narrow. “Did you find what you went after?”

  She isn’t sure which instance she’s talking about. How he left her to go to that shed and come back with some random book? Or when he left her three years ago, without telling her why.

  Grandfather blinks in confusion, a hint of pain passing over his eyes. He clutches the book to his chest with his free hand. “Yes. I did.”

  A girl with silver hair and thick-rimmed glasses makes wide, windmilling gestures with her arms, hurrying them along. “Let’s go, let’s go!” she says, darting around to open the back hatch of the second of the two vans Ren had tried to get Jomeini to earlier.

  “Good,” says Jomeini, though it doesn’t sound that way at all.

  Talon looks as though he’s ready to stumble from exhaustion, but he helps Ren and me lift Shasa’s limp body into the van. His shirt, vest, and pants are torn and filthy, and I can’t tell whether the dismal smell of waste is wafting from him or me. Despite Miles Odis’s healing, Talon can barely walk and looks worse than I’ve ever seen him; wor
se even than he looked after being weakened from the siren’s spell.

  Jomeini sits beside her grandfather on a large supply trunk near the front of the truck’s cargo hatch, which is separated from the driver by a wall of metal indented with a single window. The wizard frames a book under his arm; he hunches over more than usual in order to shuffle to the back to be with her.

  I can only imagine what they must be feeling right now. Solomus’s head is lowered, and he lifts a tentative arm around his granddaughter, whose eyes shift before she leans into the embrace.

  I glance away, toward Talon. His absent gaze is pinned to Shasa’s lifeless body on the vanbed’s black liner.

  So much loss. So much death. Shasa. The sounds of Craven’s body burning, of his cries, of Jomeini’s tortured shriek as she released the fire, they’re all permanently planted in my mind, playing through on repeat.

  Talon presses his palms to his knees, trying to force his body upright. But his hands slip, and he nearly collapses forward.

  Bent over, I weave through the collection of trunks and sit by him. To thank him, to apologize. The same urge I got in the dungeon to comfort him swells up, and just like before, I hold myself back.

  Shasa’s eyes are closed. Her head lolls as we drive slowly through streets, her hand sliding from its place on her chest.

  A hollowness fills me. Shasa and I had our fair share of disagreements. But I never would have wished this on her. I never would have thought she would die.

  As if Talon has the same thought, his subdued eyes catch mine.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  It takes ages for him to answer. He blinks at me in that mask of his, an expression put on to hide whatever else he’s really feeling.

  “If only we’d gotten out there sooner. I could have saved her, I could have stopped him. I—I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” I say. “You did all you could.”

  Talon’s shoulders quake with repressed emotion. “She asked me to free them a long time ago,” he says. “I never wanted to kill Craven, though. That felt too much like murder to me. But I also never thought he would kill her.” His voice cracks, and the pain in it kinks into my heart. I place a hand on his arm, wishing I knew what to say.