Then he gestured back to the room behind her, where the boiler still raged, and heat still poured from the doorway.
“Option two is to accept the teachings of pain, to embrace your freedom. To earn your tattoos as you ascend beyond your physical self. To become a novice, a disciple, among us. To make the powerful powerless and rebuild this world anew by leveling the towers of the masters. I warn you—this is a hard path. Harder than anything you have ever done. But such is the path to true enlightenment.”
Arial paused, her mouth turning dry again, Matteo and the others waiting expectantly. Half of her screamed to flee, to rush out like a tornado, to return to SC with the limited knowledge she had. But should she leave, they would likely move before she could return. And she’d have no greater advantage than when she had first spotted Matteo from the theater rooftop.
Besides, once they trusted her, she could run at any point. She could fly—and no one could take that away.
“I choose pain,” she said, her voice hard, the decision final. The leader gestured to the room behind her, and she stepped back inside, shaking as she remembered the first experience.
“You chose well,” he said, nodding. “We will make you into something beyond your imagination. Embrace the pain, Arial—it is hardest at the beginning. You must learn to surmount your body’s resistance, to ascend beyond them.”
Then he turned to Matteo as the others looked towards her. Four, she counted, though she knew there were likely more. And as she moved backwards, she caught an emotion on their expressions—perhaps it was how they leaned forwards just slightly, or how their stares fell longingly on the room behind her. Jealousy.
“Matteo, prepare a conference with Zeke. We’ll need to confirm her words before giving her the first blessings. Ardwin, you know how to work the boiler—increase it from low setting to medium.”
Then his fingers closed over the door.
“Enjoy the night,” he said as Arial’s heart started to beat faster. “Embrace the pain.”
With a click, the door shut once more, and she was left again in darkness.
Chapter 40
Arial
“Keep up,” snapped Matteo as Arial followed behind him, a stitch forming rapidly in her side. Already she regretted drinking nearly the entire pitcher of water he’d left out with her, along with a single stale biscuit that she’d had to completely submerge to be chewable. The mix of caloric deficiency, dehydration, and a severe lack of sleep all contributed her now deadweight status on Matteo, whose constant reprimands were the only reason she kept moving at a pace mildly resembling a jog.
She’d spent the entire night before in the boiler room, and to her horror, Divi had not been bluffing when he’d stated to turn up the heat. The small enclosure had become even more stifling, but knowing that the door in front of her was unlocked, and that she would be released made the experience more bearable. That small measure of control pushed the hours by quicker, and even allowed her into short, fitful bouts of sleep, interrupted by panicked checks to make sure the door was still unlocked.
But even with control, Arial knew that she couldn’t open the door to retrieve water or decrease her body temperature in the cool cellar. And she knew the implication that Divi had made when instructing to adjust the boiler room to medium—that there was a high setting, one that she had yet to experience. One that would make her current experiences look like a warm spring day.
Divi had left her with her homemade spike when she retreated, almost like a souvenir or a prized memento. He pushed it into her hand as if it should be treasured, like a parent hanging up their child’s A+ spelling test on the fridge or scrapbooking their first steps. Only once during the night had Arial taken up her weapon once more, when she heard Matteo calling for Divi.
“Divi,” he had said, his voice muffled by the door as Arial pressed up against it, her ear to the heavy wood. “It’s Zeke. He’s leaving on an expedition within the hour. He’s saying there are no updates for you—still no reports of survivors from the village, and he has confirmed from the body count that there are no captives. The number of skulls are exactly as you said—the entire village, minus your own. Was there anything else you needed to talk to him about?”
“Good news from a tragedy, hope from the ashes,” intoned Divi. “Yes, we still need to know his connection to our new recruit. Ask for her background.”
Arial bit her lip as she heard Matteo trudge back upstairs, presumably using the bar phone to contact Zeke, who would not be aware of her current situation. In a moment, he returned with the response.
“Zeke says that she was with him when he arrived at the remains of the village, that she was with him when he found your mother. She tried to save her, but they were powerless by the time they arrived. It was too late. Apparently, she and her crew were part of a film documentary studying insects in the Amazon, that had hired on Zeke as a guide. Until they got pulled into the battle you described with the Worldwalkers, where you fought against the enemy. The greater of the two evils.”
Arial allowed herself a sigh of relief, muttering a thanks to Zeke. He had been the one to inform them of the Litious’ zealous aversion to all powers, where they killed any Special that walked into the sacred grounds of their hermitage. And just as he was hiding his own powers from the Litious, he now hid hers.
“Ask Zeke why she is here,” Divi commanded. “I find it suspicious that she found us this far from the Amazon. A coincidence like this borders on the impossible.”
Moments later, Matteo returned back with news.
“Zeke states that he gave her information on where to find us. After witnessing the massacre, she turned supportive to our cause. Apparently, she’s a runaway—born to Special parents, but not one herself. Zeke said she spoke on her father’s disdain, that he wished to disown her, though she returned to them after she split. However, it appears he was mistaken.”
“Special heritage,” mused Divi, the words coming slow as Arial cringed behind her father’s description. A lie on the surface by Zeke, but one that still held true in her heart. “She would know the ways of a Special, would be able to walk among them, blend with them. Maybe even gain their sympathy. Most useful, Matteo, an interesting find. You have done well, and you will be rewarded.”
“But how will she be marked?” Matteo asked, but Divi scoffed.
“These marks are symbolic. There are other ways to become marked, ways that others cannot see.”
Their discussion came to a close, and Arial thought back to the false background that Zeke had provided her. As the hours wore on, she practiced inventing new fillers to the gaps in his story, making sure she would be ready for any sort of inquisition that would come in the morning. But that proved unnecessary when Matteo awoke her at dawn, the blast of cool air immediately alerting her senses.
“Come,” he said, rolling down his sleeves to cover his tattoos and thrusting dark clothes into her arms. “Divi says you are to shadow me today. We have an assignment—watch, and keep up.”
And now as they ran through the streets, to Arial, the latter was the troubling part.
Chapter 41
Arial
“I saw your scooter and cars when we left,” Arial panted as Matteo came to a stop. “Why don’t we use them? Too cheap for gas, or are you afraid of the cops?”
By her best estimate, they had run four miles in just under a half hour. On a normal day, that would have been exhausting. In her current state, it was debilitating.
“Those are easy and comfortable,” Matteo answered, as if stating an obvious fact. “They do not have the opportunity for pain.”
“Opportunity,” Arial echoed, barely able to slow her breathing and still clutching at her side.
“Through pain we grow,” he said simply, running his fingers along his swirling tattoos. “Divi will teach you, you will soon understand.”
Embrace the pain, Arial thought. It seemed something that they believed, something they practiced, not simply a
ritual they pushed her to complete in order to join as she first expected. It extended beyond some form of hazing.
You will be rewarded, Arial remembered Divi saying, and the words sent a shiver through her. What, exactly, would the Litious consider a reward?
The house they stood before now was enormous—even larger than her own, and certainly far older. The flowerbeds taking residence on both sides of the drive required more maintenance than her entire yard, the pool in the back peeked out from both sides of the mansion, and the garage hosted no less than eight slips. Two guards manned a security gate out front, the only breach in a wrought-iron fence that encircled the property, complete with spikes to dissuade any intruders with a layer of blood-red rust at their tips.
“The owner of the house is wealthy beyond imagination,” said Matteo. “But not for something he earned. From something he is. Do you know what that is?”
“I’m assuming a Special?” Arial said. “Must be something rare, I would think.”
“He’s a Taster, the strongest in all Italy. With his seal of approval on a product, a brand can go from unheard of to an international sensation overnight. It’s said he can tell if olive oil was picked by farmers wearing rubber soles instead of leather, or the species of bee that live closest to a vineyard in his wine. To most people, such precision has no effect on their lives—they’re simply willing to take his word for it, to let him make the decision for them on the quality of their food. And it’s known if you anger him, then your food will never receive his stamp—but he’ll say he tastes notes of cow dung in the product. His entire ability could be based on a lie, and none would know the wiser. He brings no benefit to society whatsoever.”
“If he’s so useless, then why are we here instead of ignoring him?” asked Arial. “Let the rich play their games instead of bothering us.”
“For dinner,” continued Matteo, his expression darkening. “He makes a sauce from squeezing the juices of fourteen high end steaks, then has the remains incinerated, claiming he can taste if the poor try them after himself. Those that work in his kitchens have their hands cleaned with lye and acid to remove impurities, strong enough to leave scarring after years of use. And he opts to have his house and grounds maintained only by Regulars, claiming that elbow grease works better than powers, yet pays them below minimum wage despite his own wealth. Just last week, one of his workers suffered heat stroke. The week before that, he kicked another down the stairs when she left a wet mark on his hardwood flooring.”
“So he abuses his powers,” Arial said, searching the windows for the man. “And we’re here to correct that.”
“Powers cannot be abused. They are an abuse,” corrected Matteo. “The gross gulf in status that powers provide can only corrupt. Powers are an imbalance that divides, and will always divide.”
“I’ve lived among them; they aren’t all bad,” Arial said, while Matteo stared straight ahead, his expression unchanging. “Some of them are even good! What about the ones that defended the Worldwalkers in the Amazon?”
“Just like they defended the Litious? Of course Specials defend Specials, but since when would they defend a Regular?”
“That’s not fair,” she answered, squinting at him. “They didn’t even have a chance to defend them.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he responded, his jaw tight, his voice turning to a snarl. “Without Specials, there was no one to save them from—wait for it—Specials. Seems like there would be a much easier way to resolve this, a single root cause to remove entirely!”
Arial’s voice caught in her throat for a second, lost at her own reply, but Matteo forged ahead, the snarl turning to cold steel.
“For every Special, there are ten Regulars left without a leg up in life, hard-working Regulars. At any instant, their life could be upturned, at any time, they could displaced. They are disposable—worse than that, they aren’t even picked up to be disposed. They are silent, hiding beneath the surface, trampled down.” He clenched his fist, his eyes turning to fire as the door to the mansion cracked open. “Name one time that you’ve seen a Special use their power for a Regular. Name one time that a Vibrant has grown wheat to fill stomachs, that a Furnace has baked their bread, that any of them have bent to serve? Never. Any good works they disguise as for society are for Specials. They’re for their own, and they don’t give a damn about anyone else. They can’t; they don’t have the capacity.”
Matteo spat on the ground, then started moving forwards towards the gate, taking quick strides just short of a jog.
“Regulars bear Specials on their backs every day. It’s time for that to change.”
Chapter 42
Arial
The car frame sank two inches when Ignacio levered himself into the back seat, fanning himself with the menu of the restaurant he was to be visiting in a half hour. The Sour Grappa, with their fresh new dish—a dessert, a fresh take on gelato, where the flavors were braided in a strand down the plate at varying thicknesses. Desserts, of course, were not Ignacio’s style—too often, they were overpowered by a single ingredient, by vanilla or sugar or cocoa that defined the dish, shoving away any other flavors before they had a chance to breathe depth into the concoction. They were the fast food of cuisine.
But this new dish—he had been assured twice by his agent it would be worth his efforts, and one particular line stood out to him. One he read now on the menu, which advertised the dessert in cursive much like its braids, with a list of intertwined flavors.
“The Infinite Knot is crafted from a dozen base flavors, each precisely pipetted into varying proportions along its length for a new effect at each bite. At one end, the braid resembles a strawberry shortcake, but with each bite that subtly morphs—until by the end of the braid, the experience has completely transformed to that of a Beef Wellington through a spectrum of several different exquisite tastes. What is truly unique about the Infinite Knot is that the same flavors are present throughout the length—only their proportions change, suggesting many combinations from one essence.”
To Ignacio, it sounded more like a gimmick than innovation, and he found the menu far more useful as a fan than a source of information. Already, the point where his fingers met the page had soaked through with sweat, and as his car started to move, the air conditioning was just starting to blow cool. His driver should have known he was coming, should have had the car ready. And brought by the heat were the tastes born in the air—with each breath, the salt of the driver’s sweat pounded down upon his taste buds, the chemicals used to treat his leather seats became volatile and spewed upwards, and the carpet of the front seat released particles of the forty-year-old whiskey he’d spilled over a month ago. He could even taste the inks on the menu as the paper grew more wet, mingling with the thin plastic lamination on the inside of his driver’s coffee cup. Ignacio, of course, would never use a paper cup—his were crystal, specially manufactured to be inert, and removed each day to be etched with acid to remove impurities.
He’d fire the driver, Ignacio decided. The plastic cup was too much. He could have forgiven it without the heat, but now the aftertaste would stay with him the remainder of the weekend. And he’d have a word with the contractor agency—this was his fourth driver this year, and simply unacceptable. He’d asked for Regulars because they were easier to instruct, but even these seemed to be incompetent.
Of course, he could always order more.
As his car approached the gate, the cast iron creaked open, his guards nodding him past. They, of course, were not Regulars—out of his entire staff, those were the ones he would splurge upon. There were plenty who would pay dearly for Ignacio the Taster’s tongue, simply to bury the scathing reviews that he had left them.
So when the attack came before his car left the property, when he should have been at the height of his protection, panic washed over Ignacio as his two guards fell.
The first, Lolice, brought the metal of the fence around him to life, drawing forth the cast iron like dark
serpents that struck at the two figures rushing towards the car. Twenty spear-like rods leapt forwards, embedding themselves into the gravel with enough force to send the rocks flying upwards to crack his windshield. But the lead figure dodged left, then right, the missiles missing him by a fraction of an inch as he advanced on Lolice. With a flash of silver, he swiped across Lolice’s gut, and the remaining metallic strands fell to the earth as Lolice clutched his hands over his shirt.
Nala had not been watching idly as Lolice fell, and launched her own attack, the sunlight from above bending and concentrating into a single ray before her. Rocks flared bright red as the beam traveled over them, leaving a magma trail that the lead figure threw Lolice into, breaking Nala’s concentration for a split second as he fell across the superheated path. She faltered, and that was all the time the figure needed to slash at her with his knife—not catching her across the gut like Lolice, but a deep gouge in her shoulder to forearm that spouted blood to sizzle on the ground below. Instead of fighting, Nala fled —her powers were near useless at close quarters, and she defended Ignacio for the padding he lent her wallet, not what he contributed to her moral duty.
“Drive,” Ignacio shouted in Italian as the two fell in a matter of seconds. But the gate was not yet fully open, and the two figures already reached his window, the lead smashing it in with the butt of his knife before they could move. And Ignacio tasted them before he saw them. Or rather, tasted what they carried.
A gallon of rotten fish and spoiled milk sloshed over him, settling into every fold of his shirt, seeping into his skin, mingling with his sweat to form a film over his body. He retched, tasting it with an acuity beyond the comprehension of most, the sensation a thousand times more powerful than any other man. It was as if he was the concoction, the barrier between him and the vulgarity completely disappearing. And through the shards of glass that remained of his window, the figure spoke, his knife flashing out once more.
Titan Song Page 15
