Such A Secret Place (Stolen Tears Book 1)

by Cortney Pearson

  “This place isn’t called Black Vault for nothing, Gwynn.”

  “So how was it? Did you really, you know, sink into your dreams or whatever?”

  I’ve never dreamed about the stars or being in space. That I can remember, anyway. “No. But I think I lived part of Ice-Cream-Head Girl’s,” I say, indicating the swirly-haired girl we just passed.

  Gwynn peers back at the small group, and a dainty smile stretches across her face. “If we have time, maybe we could try it out. For real. I bet it’s awesome.”

  A weird strumming is going on in my veins, as if they’re trying to shake off the effects. I shake my head. “No thanks. I never want to feel this again.”

  We pass a man with one eye—the other looking as though it was recently gouged out. My stomach turns. He cradles a glass traveling case filled with random items. Animal skulls, jars with steam leaking from the corks, strange tools that I don’t want to know about. He bares two rotted teeth and hunches over his case of wares.

  “Take a pill,” Gwynn says under her breath at the guy. “We didn’t want your stuff anyway.”

  “Are you sure she’s here?” I gaze around the people, but I don’t recognize anyone.

  “Let’s ask somebody.”

  She pulls me toward the dimly lit bar. In the shadows beside it sit two men. One holds his arm out toward a nymph half his size with a silver pencil in her hand. I nearly smack into Gwynn, I stop so fast. A nymph is here. Aside from my neighbors, the Hollys, I’ve never seen another nymph. I thought they didn’t like humans.

  I can’t help staring at her tiny features and the thin pulsing wings between her shoulder blades. The closer I look, her clothes blend in, morphing with colors of black and gray so that her head and neon purple hair almost seem freestanding. Mrs. Holly's clothes certainly don’t do that.

  The nymph's eyes zone in on the crook of the man's arm, and her tiny hand grazes the pencil over his skin with concentration. The ink leaves glitzy traces of silver in the shape of a spider web. The man sits back with a distant look on his greasy face.

  “Excuse me,” Gwynn says. “We’re looking for—”

  “Wait your turn,” says the nymph, not looking at us. Tattoos snake every inch of her skin. “And make sure I’ve got the kind of ink you want in you. My supply is short tonight.”

  My interest sparks. A magitat—maybe that would give me some magic. I’ve heard the effects aren’t long lasting, but I wonder what kinds she has. The line doesn’t look too long; maybe I could—

  Gwynn lugs me toward the bar, her eyes scanning the floor. The music escalates into gnashing, strangulated guitar riffs, and people begin crashing harder in the room’s center. A couple makes out beneath the stairs, their arms and legs tangled together.

  I stare at them, as do several others. In fact, they’re starting to draw a crowd. People rarely display affection in public—how can they show something they don’t feel? These two must be really high off something tonight.

  “I want that,” Gwynn says. I’m pretty sure she’s not talking about the kissing.

  I huff and turn away, growing more irritated by the second. At this rate we’ll never find the gypsy. I’m more sensitive to scents now, too, thanks to my secondhand spurt of reveweed, and my stomach churns.

  “That Isabel lady’s not here. I bet she left. This was all for nothing.” The nastiest feeling clogs beneath my sternum. I just want to get out of here.

  But Gwynn’s shaking her head, her tuft-of-a-bun bouncing around. Her eyes hold determination, and she scuffles through the crowd, dodging in and out between dancers and people sitting at booths. I work to keep up with her.

  Someone rams into my shoulder, and then I’m ping-ponged between people. A face-full of shoulders here, the taste of body odor there. Marbles dribble around my head. I claw my way through the crowd, shoving them back.

  I can’t see Gwynn anywhere.

  Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I’m lightheaded. A couple passes me and gives me questioning looks. I don’t care if I look panicked. Where’s Gwynn?

  In the far corner of the room, a trace of pink captures my eye. A pink hoodie and white-blonde hair bouncing in a loose bun. Gwynn kneels in front of a tall woman beside a large wooden case. I make my way toward them.

  Thick black makeup traces around the woman’s eyes. She smiles down at a man groveling on his knees in front of her, obviously begging for something. She pats his cheeks with a ringed hand, dislodging her dark curls, and turns to a locked wooden box with several hinges lining the front of it.

  She offers him a hand-sized bag that writhes as if a small animal is inside it. The man’s face lights up, and he hands over what can only be money.

  “Are you sure about this?” I ask Gwynn over the roaring music. I wonder if she realizes I wasn't there the whole time. “We don’t even know if they’ll work.”

  It’s a risk we both said we’re willing to take, but I can’t help trying to stop her. Once she gets her tears, she’s leaving. I hate to admit it, but I don’t want to lose my best friend.

  “They’ll work,” Gwynn says, not looking at me. “They’ll at least get me out of my house.”

  “But—you could do something better with that money.” I point to the small purse around her shoulder. “You could move out and get your own place.”

  “I know this will work, Ambry,” Gwynn says, her eyes glimmering in the dim light. She looks down. “It has to.”

  I don’t blame her. And I don’t know what to say.

  “If I moved out, he could still find me. These, though,” she inclines her head toward the gypsy woman, “with these tears I’ll be stronger.” Fire glints in her gaze. “I want to feel. Not just after a dream. But always. Maybe I’ll become a different person. Have a different life!” And she turns back to the woman.

  What can I say? Whether I believe they’ll work or not, Gwynn has to hope for something.

  The man scrambles from Isabel’s side, and the gypsy pockets his payment. Slowly, her eyes lift to me. Her thin lips spread into a toothy smile.

  “You’ve come,” she says, her features relaxing.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve never met the woman. I dart glances all around me, as if these hobnobbers can answer why she’s acting like she knows me. I wonder if she has some type of foreshadowing magic, but as far as I know, only wizards can see the future. And they’re all dead.

  The incense isn’t as strong in this corner of the warehouse or whatever we’re in, and I breathe in a flowery, powdery smell, like baby’s breath. The gypsy snags my hand with her too-soft skin and leads me to where the man had knelt.

  Gwynn’s mouth drops as if to say, “Hey!”

  “No, you don’t understand.” I move for Gwynn to take my place, though it’s like ripping myself away from the sunlight after living in perpetual darkness. But Gwynn needs this more than I do. “My friend. Talk to her first.”

  The gypsy cocks an eyebrow, tilting her face. “Very well,” she says, casting Gwynn a fake-looking smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wondered about your, um, I mean, do you have some—”

  Isabel waves a crooked, ringed hand in Gwynn’s face, spreading more of the overpowering baby’s breath smell. “Don’t trouble yourself, dearie. I know what you want.”

  Sure she does. And then her glance veers back to me in a pointed way. What did she do that for?

  “I’m not sure you could afford it,” Isabel says.

  “But I can,” Gwynn argues. She shovels out a wad of notes from her purse all mashed together like cabbage. Isabel’s mouth curls, and her eyes widen with hunger.

  My gut sinks. I only have about sixty moyen left after paying for the ID. How much are these tears going to cost?

  “So it seems. Very well, then. Which would you have?”

  “Do you have any of love? Or happiness, maybe?” Gwynn asks.

  “Those are the steepest. You should know that those from sadness or pain are just as powerful.”

&n
bsp; “I’ve had enough sadness and pain."

  The gypsy inclines her head as if acknowledging the fact and turns away from us toward the box. I chew the inside of my lip. I’ll get my turn.

  She drags out drawers that before were hidden from sight, and within one drawer she removes a second, drawing it out completely and presenting it to Gwynn.

  The small drawer lights Gwynn’s soft features with a blue glow. Gwynn’s attention is pinned to the tiny jars in the back three sections. They shine as if each holds a single blue light inside it.

  A hum spills out from the jars, thrumming, creeping its way to my ears until it blocks every other sound but the beating in my chest. My heartbeat cranks faster, pulsing at the sides of my neck. The whirring seeps through, vibrating in my skull. It draws on my saliva until I can taste the hum, until it holds every sense I possess so it’s all I see, breathe, feel.

  The droning spreads to my fingers and raises my hand, hones it in toward the jars—or more importantly, toward the one in the corner with the twisted neck like blown glass. Gwynn’s fingers creep toward them as well, but that doesn’t matter.

  The purr, the pulsing—it’s for me.

  The drawer is snatched from Gwynn and gets slammed shut, sending a slap to my subconscious. The dark ambience of the room bursts back through, making me aware of everything else again. My widened eyes meet the gypsy’s, who leers.

  I clear my throat, trying to regain my bearings. “What kind are these?” I ask. I’m not sure she told the truth when she mentioned it before.

  Isabel winks and points to the drawer as she slides it open again. “All of happiness, of course. None for love, those are rare. Most people don’t give those up. Even if I do get them, they are the first to go.”

  I have a hard time following the gypsy. The humming jar begins calling to me again, buzzing through me to my core, and I have to force myself not to stare at it.

  I want them.

  I want them in my hand. They’re mine. How much can they be? If I don’t have enough maybe I’ll ask Gwynn to lend me some money. She worked at a farmer’s market for two whole summers.

  Gwynn’s eyelids are closed, her chest rising and falling. Her quivering hand hovers. Stops. Her fingers close around a jar—praise angels it’s not the one I want. I jerk my hand back to my lap to keep from reaching for them again, too.

  “Forgetting something?” the gypsy asks.

  Gwynn shakes herself with a wilted smile. “Oh, right. Sorry. How much?”

  Probably something she should have asked before now. But I can’t help my own building curiosity.

  “Two,” says Isabel.

  Two moyen? That’s it? I feel like fluttering my lips. I figured they would be pricey. Isabel herself said they would be. Why so little?

  Gwynn again plucks the cabbage roll of notes from her purse and dislodges hundreds, counting until she has a stack. She hands them to the gypsy, who gives her the same patronizing smile she gave the man before us.

  “Two thousand moyen? You said they’d be expensive, but I didn’t think—”

  “Will you shut up, Ambry? I know what I’m doing.” Gwynn plucks out the jar she nearly grabbed earlier, and again I flush with relief that it’s not the one I want. The one that crooned through me.

  The jar illuminates her face with its pale hue, bouncing blue light into the gleam in her eyes. From across the room, the glow also points out another pair of eyes, and I know Gwynn and I aren’t the only ones admiring the jar filled with glistening, blue-tinted tears.

  I work to keep track of those eyes, to see who they belong to, but whoever it is disappears among the bustle of vendors and dancers. Though it came from across the room, that glance unsettles me; it rouses a warning in my gut. The warning prods, slathering my joints with unease. I can’t tell why, but we need to get out of here, and quick.

  But I can’t just leave. Now that Gwynn has her tears, it’s my turn. My heart pumps with anticipation.

  No more being stuck with the twelve-year-olds. No more looks from teachers when I can’t complete assignments the way my classmates can. No more watching Gwynn, Ren, or my parents use their magic-powered devices, heal people, cook things. With these tears I’ll feel more than just vapor in my bones. I will have magic.

  But two thousand moyen? There’s no way.

  “Swallow them and see where they take you,” Isabel says to Gwynn, revealing again her rotted teeth. “Now what can I get for you?” She turns to me, gesturing to the open drawer. Or rather, to the two remaining jars in the drawer.

  For a minute that pull is back, the pulsing hum seeping into my pores, luring me to grab a jar of tears and run for it. But it’s not strong enough to make me want to beg my friend for a few thousand moyen. I’ll never be able to pay her back. I have to face it. I can’t afford them.

  I guess I can find my magic some other way. Or maybe I’m doomed to freakdom after all.

  That uneasy sensation nags, becomes a sour burble in the pit of my stomach. We need to get out of here. I know it the way a person knows to run when a match gets dropped near a line of black powder.

  I turn, but I’m disoriented. Since losing Gwynn and getting bungled in the mosh pit, I’m not exactly sure where we are—or where the stairs are.

  “Put those away,” I tell Gwynn, searching the dark corners and unstable light. “It’s time to go.”

  “But didn’t you want to buy some?”

  Isabel, who turned away from us, perks up and smiles in my direction. Gwynn’s question sinks into my gut like a rock. Of course I do. But how can I?

  I yank Gwynn toward the vigorous, pulsing disarray of dancing and strobe lights. “Come on. We need to find the stairs.”

  Screams hit the air, stopping me in my tracks. Men in khaki uniforms with short sleeves and cargo pants pour in, filling the stairwell. I hold my breath, unsure of what to do. The music screeches to a stop, and people scurry, spreading dread—no doubt fueled by the drugs and wares they’ve gotten tonight. Fear-glazed whispers tack onto the air, words like, “How?” and “No!”

  The Arc at the top of the stairs blocks our only way out. He holds his hand up, palm forward.

  The skin of his hand is purple as if it’s been dipped in amethyst ink. That color has more sticking power than any tattoo, and it holds more sway over any Itharian than—well, maybe not as much as the Xian claw swinging at the soldier’s belt.

  Even over the disturbed crowd, I swear I can hear the click click of the nails on the skeletal, three-pronged tool.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” says the Arc. His voice hollows out the room. He’s blond, compact and stocky. “We’re looking for one item in particular, and if you can direct me to the gypsy, we’ll be out of your way.”

  Murmurs spread faster than a bad rumor. I don’t believe him for a second. We all know we’re someplace we shouldn’t be. The objects here were banned years ago by these tyrants. Once they get what they want, we’re all toast.

  People may not be able to feel much since the wizard’s spell, but one thing we don’t want is our magic taken from us. Sometimes magic is all the emotion a person has—not that I know personally. I’ve just seen the light in people’s eyes. Kids at school who are normally comatose until they lift objects or cultivate plants, or even something do as simple as powering their auds to answer messages. A spark ignites, and they look more alive than I’ve ever seen them.

  The bouncer steps in front of the Arc, meeting him eye to eye, crossing bulging arms over his massive, black-shirted chest. A thick, silver bracelet glints on his left wrist. “She ain’t here. I suggest you clear out.”

  The Arc scans the muscular bouncer. He seems to chew his tongue beneath his cheek, and he fingers the Xian claw at his belt.

  “Your metal fingers don’t scare me,” the bouncer goes on, turning his wrist so the thick bracelet flashes. A talisman for protection. “And it looks like you’re outnumbered.” He gestures to the rest of us, huddled on the stairs or in clumps down here below.
Some people act panicked, but others stand around, emotionless, clearly not grasping the situation. “Let’s not make this messy.”

  Gwynn keeps tossing glances at me as if asking what we should do. I force myself to focus, to figure it out, but the Arc and the bouncer are blocking the only exit I know of.

  “Forget this,” says a boy a few feet from us wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves torn at the seams and neon exercise bands around his wrists. People in our immediate vicinity turn their attention to him, expectation riding on their faces. I recognize him as one of the guys waiting in line for a magitat. “I’m not just gonna stand here.”

  He shoves his way through and holds his hand out to the wall behind the bar. Electricity surges along his arm, vibrating the air. Blazing silver spirals beam from the fresh tattoo he probably just got, and with an overwhelming blow that flurries against my face and through my hair, the wall blasts open. Chunks of wood tinkle on top of the resulting debris.

  Cold air rushes in. People scream like squealing tires and scramble for the newly made exit. More Arcs nose in, some through the door and others at the new hole in the wall. Streams of magic ignite: silver for an Itharians, purple for the Arcs’ tainted, stolen magic.

  The magic knocks people to the floor or flings them into the air. Men and women in brown uniforms grab people left and right, but it takes time to do the Xian on a single person, so others climb over them toward the door or the gape, stomping their way through. Everyone else merely stands there, waiting to get caught.

  “Come on,” I mutter at them. “Move!”

  Another person has the guts to kick a Xian out of an Arcaian woman’s grip. I gasp when I realize who it is.

  “Ren!”

  “Get out of here!” he yells and bolts for the door.

  My eyes dart around the room. Isabel seems frozen in a panic, unsure of what to do. The Arc made it clear who they’re after, and she’s making it clear she needs some help. I head toward her as she scrambles around, stuffing things into the drawers of her case.