Such A Secret Place (Stolen Tears Book 1)

by Cortney Pearson

  “Ren!”

  He pulls me into a tight hug, and for a moment I lose myself. The hug swirls clear into my chest, making me feel deceptively warm and safe though I know deep-down, nothing is.

  “You—you’re different,” I say, stepping back. His hair is completely shaved except for two segments in the front, each about an inch long and dyed orange. It looks like he has horns. He tosses an arm like a limp plant stem over my shoulder and together we face Gwynn, who smiles over our reunion.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were in town?” I ask him.

  "I had no way to contact you other than Mom’s aud, and I wasn’t about to send her a message.” He holds out his hands to scribble in mid-air. “Please tell Ambry I’m a member of Black Vault now and to meet me at midnight so I can give her an ID.” He clucks his tongue. “Probably wouldn’t have gone across very well, even with Mom being all un-emotional.”

  Despite my relief at seeing him, the teeniest bit of betrayal filters back in. How can I not have known this? That he’s feeling more than ever, that he’s not going to school, but instead involved in such a discreet operation?

  “Speaking of being un-emotional,” I say, “how come you aren’t?”

  He hikes his collar up to his ears and smirks at me. “Just because you’re my sister doesn’t mean I'll tell you everything.”

  “It’s because of Black Vault, isn’t it? They did something to you. How long have you been a gatekeeper?”

  “Long enough,” he says, scanning the fog.

  “Why didn’t you tell me from the start? You could have written a letter.”

  “Yeah, and risk the paper being intercepted? Gwynn messaged me earlier, and then again after her dream. She mentioned you wanted to go, so I decided to come clean. I couldn’t come visit—I don’t want Mom and Dad knowing I’m in town.”

  “Do they know?” I ask. “About this?”

  “What do you think?” he says, deepening his glare. “You’d better not say a word.”

  “Like I would.”

  “Look,” says Gwynn. “Can you guys hash this out later?” She bites her lip and glances around.

  I slam my eyes shut. Hash it out later, sure. My brother is a gatekeeper. Here I thought he was busy with his pledgeschool studies, preparing for a career in engineering the devices we channel magic into. He could be hanged for this. Or imprisoned, enslaved, the list could go on. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. But she’s right—now is not the time.

  “What do we need to get in?” I ask.

  Ren digs two black slivers of plastic from his pocket and fans them out at Gwynn before smirking at me. “Not sure they’ll even work for the magicless.”

  “Give me that.” I reach for the black slips of plastic, thinking of my jobless existence and my meager allowance, and how badly I want to smack my brother in the face.

  He tugs the IDs back.

  “Sorry, sis, no family discounts, or it’s my neck on the line.”

  I fold my arms. “How much?”

  “Thirty moyen,” Ren says as Gwynn removes a moyen note from her pocket.

  Thirty? I stare at him, but his I’m joking smirk isn’t on his face.

  “By the angels,” I grumble, rifling a thirty from my own pocket. I’ll barely have enough to buy anything once we actually get there.

  Ren keeps Gwynn’s fingers in his and places a small rectangular piece of plastic in her hand, then in mine. It’s icy against my palm and looks like a laminated black playing card.

  “But it’s blank,” I say.

  “So it is,” Ren says, his head high, his arms folded. “You’ve got to claim it.”

  In my head, Ren is the brother who used to tow me around with him to friends’ houses, the brother who always defended me whenever anyone felt enough to tease me about my lack of magic. But he hardens his eyes at me, and I see the way others probably see him. Intimidating. Dangerous, even.

  “Just hold it tightly in your hand and say your name,” Ren goes on.

  Gwynn sticks out her chin. “Gwynndol Hawkes.” Seconds later her face twists in confused pain, and she squeaks a cry.

  “Quiet!” Ren grips her arm, shooting his glance all around us. There's nothing in the fog but the outlines of buildings and the few vehicles parked here and there.

  He seems less tense after his scan of the street. My pulse still ticks, but I’m not as tense, either. If Gwynn can handle claiming the card, however painful it is, so can I.

  I steady my jaw. The four corners of plastic stickle into the pads of my palm. I open my mouth.

  “I thought it came from over here,” says a low voice. My eyes widen, my gaze aligning with Ren's. Through the lifting fog, two khaki-uniformed bodies head straight for us.

  ***

  Ren hooks my elbow, dragging Gwynn and me from the square to where a boy’s tall silhouette emerges from the shadowed alleyway.

  Gwynn opens her mouth as if to scream, but he cups a hand over her mouth and she falls silent.

  It takes a minute to recognize Devin, the neighbor kid I’ve known since we were all as short as grass. I suspect he’s been skulking in the alley this whole time, ready to back Ren should the need arise.

  Gwynn’s hands quiver, her widened eyes glazed with terror. The soldiers stand at the entrance to Vander’s ice cream shop, but they still haven’t spotted us.

  “This way,” says Ren, wrenching me to the right harder than necessary. The ID slips from my fingers and hits the ground with a soft snap.

  “Ren, my ID!” I search the ground, but the plastic card blends with the pavement. I can’t see it anywhere.

  “Leave it,” his whispers into my ear. “You didn’t claim it.”

  But I need it! What am I supposed to do, let Gwynn go into Black Vault alone?

  “Don’t you have another one?”

  “Shh.” Ren’s hand grows hot, and the air around us wavers. A fluctuating golden line encircles us. The hollow sounds of early morning become muffled, and the thick taste of fog turns musty in our magical cage.

  Before I can question what’s happening, the soldier closes in, sniffing the air like a dog. His menacing eyes search, staring past us, determined to fish us out.

  The Xian claw at his belt gives off several nerve-racking clicks. I itch to move, to back away, but I clench my fists and force myself to stay rooted.

  My thoughts blank out like they did earlier when I was cornered by the soldier with the goatee. I feel the imprint of his claw, poised and ready to dig into my leg, and I clench, sweat dripping down my back. Ren’s grip badgers my elbow like a blood bear’s clenching jowls. I can tell he’s barely breathing either.

  The soldier’s nose tips the edge of the golden outline. My heart pounds, numbing me over. The soldier’s eyes roam, veering up and sideways before he scowls, unsatisfied, and backs away.

  His retreating steps release the tension, allowing me to relax. I exchange a panicked look with Gwynn, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. At least it wasn’t her stepdad.

  The soldier scuttles back through the thinning fog, pausing at the edge of the street.

  “Hey, Max,” he calls, bending toward the pavement.

  “Find something?” comes another voice.

  “Looks like one of them illegal IDs.”

  Ren stiffens and gives a noisy exhale. He leans toward me. “Stick with Devin. He’ll get you where you need to go.”

  Then he lets me go, releasing the golden outline, and tiptoes through the dissipating fog.

  Squaring my jaw, I march forward with every intention of joining him. But Devin is at my side, a finger at his lips.

  “This way,” he whispers.

  “But—” I point in the direction Ren went.

  “He’ll be fine. Come on.”

  Devin turns, no doubt expecting me to follow. I dodge past him. He grunts, reaches, but I shake free of his grasp and break for it. That’s my brother—I can’t just abandon him.

  Grunts hit my ears th
e closer I get to the street, followed by the shattering of glass.

  Ren.

  I sprint to the corner just in time to see wisps of silver streak from my brother’s hands as he repairs the ice cream shop’s window. Blood smears down his ear, and our nosy Arc lies lifeless on the sidewalk at his feet.

  “What did you do to him?” I ask, staring down at the body.

  “Vreck it, Ambry! I told you to go with Devin!”

  “But you—”

  Ren shoves me back. “This is no joy-ride. You could die out here tonight, don’t you get that?”

  “That’s why I followed you! To make sure you wouldn’t get hurt.”

  Ren rests his hands on his hips. I can practically hear the eye roll. “This is what I do, Ambry. I get people to Black Vault. Whatever it takes.”

  “Since when?” I fold my arms.

  “Look.” He takes my elbow again, once more directing me back to the alley where Devin and Gwynn wait. Gwynn stands in Devin’s shadow. Fear glazes over her eyes, and her lower jaw trembles. “We have more IDs to pass out. There’s the door.” He points. “Second building in, third door down. You’re on your own from here.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “I need an ID!” I whisper through my teeth.

  Ren grunts and then digs something from a pocket of his trench coat. “Don’t lose it this time.” He slams it into my hand. The plastic gives my palm a cold kiss.

  “You might want to hurry and claim that,” Devin adds. His voice is an odd contrast to Ren’s.

  I lock in a glare at my brother, not sure exactly what he did to that Arc. Violence is pretty much non-existent in Itharia. People don’t feel what they should—and if they did, they wouldn’t dare stand up to our captors. How can Ren feel enough to hurt not just anyone, but an Arcaian soldier?

  With the card in place—and throwing all the questions I want to pelt at Ren aside—I squeeze and say my name as softly as I can.

  “Ambry Csille.” Please let this work. Please let this work.

  The plastic grows claws, stabbing ice into my skin and drawing out heat as it draws blood. I gasp as the sensation shoots up to my elbow and down my fingertips, all at once. My teeth grind together, and my sinuses tingle. The odd transfer knocks my head back.

  Blood snakes along the four corners of my palm. The edges of the ID are no longer black, but a vivid scarlet. Translucent, silvery writing reflects in the darkness and scrawls my personal information across the plastic surface.

  “Gimme your hands,” says Devin. I hesitate, but after Gwynn holds her slashed palm out, I do the same.

  Devin’s warm hand engulfs mine, and after silver streaks circle his arms like clear bracelets, a cooling salve sinks into the cuts, stemming the pain. When he releases my palm, the cuts are gone. I wonder when he learned healing. They haven’t let me advance to that class in pre-col.

  Ren pulls me aside. A bruise buds around his left eye. “I’m serious. You guys are on your own from here. It might be a while until I see you. Don’t get in too much trouble,” he adds with a smirk, and then surprises me with a hug.

  He pulls away and turns to Gwynn, cupping her jaw. “I’ll see you later,” he tells her, hesitating for the slightest moment before pressing his lips to hers.

  Though her eyes stay open, her brows shoot up. I can tell it’s as much of a bombshell to her as it is to me. He lingers, holding her, and then he and Devin disappear into the fog before Gwynn and I can say another word.

  I stare off down the alleyway, completely flabbergasted. Ren is a gatekeeper. He possibly killed a soldier. And he’s got feelings for my best friend.

  “Whoa,” Gwynn says, blinking long lashes in his direction. She pauses as if thinking it over, then squeezes her shoulders up in a tense, excited shrug.

  I like this new, more expressive side of her, but I hardly know what to say. It’s weird to see Gwynn liking a boy. Most relationships and marriages are arranged.

  “Is that the first time he…”

  “Yeah,” she says breathily, still staring after Ren.

  “Does he know you plan on leaving Cadehtraen once you get these tears?”

  Gwynn shrugs again in response.

  We twist through the looming brick buildings. The smell of garbage is rank, a mixture of spoiled milk, dirty socks, and rotten potatoes. It’s like someone takes a mop-broom, sweeps down the center of the alleyway, and leaves whatever residual garbage that got pushed aside behind.

  I replay Ren’s instructions in my head once more, counting each door we pass and finally stopping at the third one. Fist unsteady, I hammer twice on the metal.

  The door clangs open. Dim, changing light peeks out along with the drone of drums. A flowery-smoky stream of incense hits my lungs.

  Gwynn inches forward, but a brusque, muscled guy with rings lining his right brow like a shower curtain rod blocks her way.

  He juts out his beefy chin. “Got something ta show me?” His voice is scratchy. The bulging muscles in his arms expand.

  I throw one last glance behind me, but the empty, mist-laced alley stretches on. In an unsteady movement, I hold out my ID. Gwynn’s slim hand joins mine. The bouncer eyes them and signals before stepping back.

  My shoe meets the metal landing, and heat swelters around me. I take in a rickety breath. We made it. Praise angels, we made it.

  “The vendors ‘re only gonna be here for ‘nother hour or so,” says the bouncer, shutting out the cold fog. “So whatever yer ‘ere for, yeh’d better find Isabel fast.”

  “Thanks,” Gwynn tells the bouncer, though her grin is directed at me. Tears must be a top item on the menu tonight, since the bouncer automatically assumes we’re here to see her. Supposing Isabel is the gypsy, that is.

  I don’t return Gwynn’s smile, but press my lips together and step into the haze of muted light and incense. A slow melody floods my ears. It’s emotive and poignant, not like anything I’ve ever heard before, and I feel myself loosening, giving in to the relaxed beat. Since music is tied almost directly to emotion, the song is probably something recorded before the wizard’s spell.

  People loll along the metal staircase leading down from the door, a few holding cups in their hands. Most stare blankly ahead or keep their heads down.

  A few bodies move below, swaying their hips, swinging slender limbs, displaying bare, sweat-glittered skin. Those who aren’t dancing are lined up against the walls, waiting their turns at the different venues.

  I shouldn’t be so surprised to see this many people here. I bet most of them have dreamed recently, and what the wares give them here they can’t get anywhere else. Those dreams drive people to act out in ways they wouldn’t otherwise.

  It’s not like I’ve had any heart-jogging dreams lately—or ever. Even the dream where I slid off the road and plowed into a massive bank of snow, wedging my vehicle in tight enough that I felt the pillowing claustrophobia, the crippling panic that was powerful enough to shake me from sleep covered in a sheen of sweat didn’t change the way I felt later that day. I don’t get what makes me so different. Why I’ve always felt those things.

  “Do you really think there’s a war coming?” says a girl we pass on the stairs. My hand tightens around the rusted steel banister, and I stare down at the dancing bodies below. Stuttering beats knock at my ears, and I struggle to hear the rest of their conversation.

  “There was another raid last week,” says another casual voice, as if they’re discussing an upcoming test at school.

  “That’s why so many people are disappearing?” the girl asks.

  Gwynn is at the base of the stairs. Her head rises up toward me, her eyes shine, and she motions for me to follow.

  “Let’s go find her,” Gwynn says, putting a sweaty palm in my hand. It takes a minute before I remember who she’s talking about.

  My skin grows hot as we meet with the crowd bumping in time to the faster song. Energy pours off them in waves, girls toss their hair, s
weat sticks to boys’ necks. Gwynn and I weave our way around the moving, perspiring bodies toward the back end of the huge, high-ceilinged room.

  “What other stuff besides tears do you think they sell here?” she says loudly.

  “Who knows?” I say. “Drugs. Magical objects, probably.”

  In the shadows sits a group of people passing around a long, wooden pipe with a boat carved on clouds at one end. A girl with blue-swirled blonde hair like ice cream tips the boat to her lips and inhales. Smoke clouds over her eyes, and she grunts.

  Her eyes roll into her head, and she slams back into her seat as if shoved. Sparkle-infested smoke leaks from her mouth in a steady stream. The sparkles dance their short lives and disappear.

  Gwynn leads me in their group’s direction, and I tread past just as another stream of sparkling smoke puffs out. A whiff of raspberry stings my nose. My breath comes to life and snatches the remaining smoke, gulping it down into my lungs as if obsessed. My nostrils fizzle—the fizzling explodes in my veins.

  My brain fills with cotton, and suddenly nothing is holding me up, yet I’m floating, weightless amid the inky openness of space. With one sure movement I drift between stars—blasted balls of energy, shards of light shooting from every side. Disbelief racks my hazy brain, and I guide a finger toward a glistening ball when the back of my head seems to fall off.

  The high deflates. The sweat and incense-filled room comes back into view, shadowed crowds of people and moshing bodies, and the light-lined bar in the upper right-hand corner. My nostrils singe, my veins sting. I double over and clutch my wobbling head. Ugh.

  Gwynn stares at me. “What was that?”

  I cradle my head. Something is in there, stomping its tiny feet against the inside of my skull.

  “I’m not sure,” I say, gulping, “but I think I just had my first taste of reveweed.”

  “No way. That stuff’s illegal.”

  I raise my eyebrow, clutching the rough, concrete wall for support. What does she think the rest of the stuff here is? No wonder people are flocking to get the dream drug. They’ll probably do anything to revive the feelings fading from their dreams.