The Reverians Series Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

  “That will work,” I say, bringing the crystal glass to my lips again.

  “And then Damien might suspect you’ve been drinking or doing drugs with Middlings,” she says, as though offering a hypothetical course of events.

  I pause. Think it over and then bring the glass back close to my lips. If that’s all my father suspects and I still get dismissed from injections then it’s not so bad. “Yeah, but that would still work for my purposes.”

  “Or…” Tutu draws out the word, hinging my attention on it, “he might think it was Giorgio’s cooking and terminate him.” She shrugs, her face giving a comical “who knows what will happen” expression.

  A frustrated sigh falls out of me as I slam the glass on the marble countertop. “Well, I don’t want to risk that.”

  “No, I suspected you wouldn’t,” she says, taking in a long breath like she’s enjoying this revolting moment.

  I turn and stare at my tutu. “You know why I was going to the trouble?”

  “I do.” She’s rubbing the raccoon head that is the handle on her cane.

  “And I was able to avoid my first injection in years this morning,” I say.

  “Congratulations.”

  “I was hoping to keep it going.”

  “I see that.”

  My tutu and I have always spoken in abbreviated sentences, never needing to say more than the bare minimum. We’re quite efficient.

  Tutu and I both watch wordlessly as Nona licks the spoon from the peanut butter jar and takes careful bites of it, chewing and swallowing, her mouth slowly getting stuck together in places. Finally Tutu says, “May I suggest a strategy that is mysterious and also not easily traceable?”

  I angle my head sideways, staring at her with interest. “Go on.”

  She scuttles forward. Extends her hand and gives me an encouraging look. Funny how this ninety-nine-year-old woman sometimes reminds me of the fairies in classical lore. She’s small and unsuspecting. And most people walk away from an encounter with her not realizing they’ve been “handled” until she disappears into the mist…or the eastern wing of our house, as it were for her.

  I extend my hand under hers. She opens her fingers and something light touches my palm. When she pulls her hand away I spy a medium-sized capsule, gray and oblong, resting on the creases of my palm.

  “Now, go ahead and take that if you dare,” she says. “You’ll have only one symptom, and alone it will be a conundrum, but enough to keep you home for the day.”

  I eye the pill in my hand. It’s about the size of the immune booster I’m used to swallowing. If I thought I had a chance to consider whether to take it or not it’s defeated by the urgent manner in which Nona presses a freshly made glass of water into my hand.

  “Go on, Em,” she urges, giving Tutu an excited smile.

  I return it with my own nervous one and pop the pill into my mouth, swallowing it down with three large gulps of water.

  “Good choice,” Tutu says, turning on her heels and shuffling back to the kitchen door. “I’ll call the labs and tell them you’ve got a fever.” She pauses at the door. Hardly turns to swivel her head over her shoulder. “Oh, and you may want to strip off that blazer and most of your other attire. You’re about to be roasting.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Well, well, well,” I say, looking Zack up and down. “I bet now that you’ve gotten a look at yourself in a tuxedo, you’re not going back to suits. And I also bet that getup is really uncomfortable and you love every minute of it.”

  He scowls at me. “I don’t like being uncomfortable. I only like looking my best.”

  “Is that why you hang out with me? Because I make you look better with my slouchy dress?” Zack actually looks quite handsome in the black tuxedo, but I wouldn’t dare tell him that.

  He ignores me and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, careful not to wrinkle his jacket. It isn’t my bed. The sheets on this guest bed are musty, most likely because we never have guests. Dee kicked me out of our room as soon as word spread that I was sick. Fevers are my new favorite thing. They get me out of gift-numbing injections and away from my demon sister. If I didn’t feel like my brain was currently frying from the heat then I’d want to keep the fever going.

  “How did you get yourself sick?” Zack asks, looking sincerely concerned.

  I give Zack a sly smile. “An ‘ancient artifact’ knew an old trick too strong to best the defenses of immune boosters.”

  “Wait,” he says, looking startled. “You made yourself this way? Oh, Em.” He shakes his head, eyes closed.

  “I had a good reason,” I say, pushing my covers down low, although Dr. Jahn told me people with fevers were apparently supposed to sweat them out. It’s my first. Tutu called the doctor at once and she rushed over. Dr. Jahn confirmed I had a 103 fever, no other symptoms, and it was probably just my body fighting off a virus which would pass in a day. From over the doctor’s shoulder I watched Tutu’s face grow with a mischievous pride at the news.

  I’d been laid up in the unused bed most of the day with nothing to entertain me except a pile of books. Having Zack here is a real treat, especially because I can tell he’s dreading the summer solstice ball with my sister. I love to tease him when he’s already feeling defeated. It’s our thing. And the fact that I know he doesn’t want to be her escort to the ball makes the whole thing much easier to digest. He leans forward, voice low, a worried look on his face. “Do tell me, why would you want to be sick?”

  “It’s the injections,” I say in a whisper. “But if I tell you what Rogue told me you have to be careful, especially around my father, who’s a vulture at stealing thoughts.”

  “Wait, you saw Rogue? When?” As I suspected, he looks upset. Left out.

  “I ran into him, so to speak,” I say, pushing the covers off entirely and curling my legs up underneath me.

  He nods, this explanation seeming to make him feel slightly better. He flicks his eyes to the open door and then back to me. “Gods, I want to see him again,” he whispers.

  “I know, it felt good, didn’t it?”

  “No, it felt weird, like a ghost came back to life. I still don’t believe he’s alive, that’s why I want to see him again,” he says, sitting farther on my bed, taking up the place where my feet were a minute ago.

  “Oh, that’s why,” I say dully.

  “Em, of course I’ve missed him. I just think we need to be careful. He’s obviously in trouble.”

  “I agree, which is why we’re going to figure out why and help him.”

  “Em, I’m not—”

  “And I’m in trouble too, Zack.”

  He stops, examines me. Nods his head reluctantly. Rogue and my problems have always seemed to weigh heavier on Zack than us. “Yes, I’ll help.”

  “Of course you will,” I say, pushing him with my toe. “You’re Zack Conerly, and saving misfits is what you do when you’re not training to run this ‘empire,’” I say, impersonating the President’s commanding tone.

  He rolls his striking blue eyes, but still lets loose the tiniest of smiles.

  “Meet me tomorrow afternoon in our old camp area before I have to go to the labs,” I say.

  “No, but you’re sick. How can you go to the labs?”

  “It will only last twenty-four hours,” I say, pouting my lip.

  “You’re the only person in Austin Valley who wants to be sick,” he says.

  “If you knew why then you’d understand. You’ll find out tomorrow, I promise.”

  “Okay,” he says, resignation in his eyes.

  “All right, you better get out of here before Dee lights your coattails on fire.”

  “Do I look all right?” he says, sitting up tall in his tuxedo, smoothing down his jacket.

  “Just about.” I push forward on the bed and lean over to straighten his bowtie a little. “Now you’re perfect.”

  A smile reaches all the way to his eyes. “Thanks, Em.”

  A cough echoes fr
om the doorway. My father’s way of commanding attention. Zack stands at once but doesn’t give the same flustered response that I do. He holds my father’s piercing stare. Smiles at him. “Good evening, Chief Fuller,” Zack says, bowing his head slightly.

  “Hello, Father,” I say, fury flaring across my chest at the sight of one of the thieves who has stolen my gift. I’m careful to corral my thoughts back to the mundane so I don’t give my father any information.

  “Mr. Conerly, do you think it is a good idea to expose yourself to Em when she’s in such a mysteriously sickly state?” My father wears a tuxedo too, a burgundy rose pinned to his left lapel. It gives him some much needed color, makes him almost seem soft.

  “Chief Fuller, I understand your concern but my immune booster has never failed,” Zack says.

  “Yes, mine either. Strange this has happened to you, Em,” he says, now studying me. “It’s probably those Middling farmers you choose to congregate with.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right, Father.”

  “Well, Mr. Conerly, you shouldn’t keep my daughter Dee waiting,” my father says, angling sideways, showing Zack the path he intends him to take now.

  “I hope I have not made her wait at all. I was merely checking on this misfit,” he says, ruffling my hair in that way like I’m his little sister.

  My father shakes his head at me, disapproval evident in his look. “Get better, Em,” he says like it’s an order. “I want you back to normal routine immediately.”

  “Farewell. I hope you have a nice night,” I say to the pair as they leave.

  “I’m sure we will,” my father says without another look.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I tuck my head into the sitting room, thinking the guest I was told to meet with is a mistake. Browsing a map of Austin Valley on the wall, Ren stands with his hands behind his back. He’s wearing another odd suit, this one grayish silver, not tightly tailored like the ones men wear in Austin Valley. “Hello, Ren,” I say to get his attention.

  He turns, looking irritated. Nods. “Hi,” he says without inflection.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, taking a few steps into the room. “I have to meet with you today? But I have a fever.” I slept fitfully the whole night, but that was fine because when I awoke I still had a fever, although it had come down.

  “I have a fever,” Ren says in a high-pitched squeal, mocking me. “And I have an ingrown toenail, but you don’t see me being a loaf.”

  “It’s just that we weren’t scheduled to meet until next week.”

  “That’s right. Very good with keeping up with your own schedule, but it’s changed. Damien, your father, has requested you have a midweek evaluation.”

  “Because I’m sick…” I say mostly to myself.

  “I don’t believe being sick will make a lick of difference. You’ll probably still flunk my assessment,” Ren says, removing that small box device from his inside pocket.

  “Right,” I say, aware Ren is doing something at the drawing desk in the corner but unfocused on it. I ruminate and fume on how my father is continuously trying to oppress me to ensure that I don’t become a problem for him. How can such a powerful man be so scared of those much younger than him? And why? What do he and the President fear we’re going to do if we rebel?

  Ren steps back from the desk and turns to me. “All right, I want you to focus on the contents of the drawer inside this desk. I’ve inserted objects you’re unfamiliar with. Can you sense what they are?”

  I lower my chin until it’s close to an inch off my chest, stare at the drawer like it’s possible to see through the wood. Again and again I wait for something to spontaneously spring to my mind, an epiphany of sorts. Nothing happens. Luckily Ren isn’t watching my face grow redder from intense concentration; he’s eyeing the device in his hand.

  “I don’t know,” I finally say.

  Ren doesn’t give a response. He takes a step and removes an object from the drawer. I’ve never seen it before. It’s a gold coin and on it is a woman’s profile, a crown atop her head.

  “Take this,” he says, depositing the coin into my hand. “Now tell me if you sense emotions, ideas, or anything of relevance from it. Anything at all?”

  I clench the coin between my fingers and palm; it grows warm and sweaty in my feverish hands. I feel the contours of the figure on the coin, but that’s the only sense I get from it.

  “Well?” he finally says, breaking into my meandering thoughts.

  “Nothing,” I say, opening my hands and looking more closely at the coin. “What is this?”

  He rolls his eyes and grabs it from my hand. “Crikey! It’s a pound. You’re more sheltered than I thought.”

  “You have no idea,” I say.

  Ren looks at the device briefly before slipping it back in his pocket. “I’m sure you’re baiting me, hoping I’ll ask in a sympathetic voice how you are sheltered. I won’t. I don’t care. I’m not your shrink, I’m the guy who was hired to report on how defunct you are within our race.”

  “I didn’t want you to ask,” I say, responding in a common voice, one I don’t usually use with people of higher status. “I’m more or less letting internal banter slip out of my head. Let’s say it’s due to the fever.”

  “Or maybe you’re going crazy,” Ren says with a grin, looking entertained. “It does run in the family, you know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Tell me, does your mother still only have that lame gift where she reads fortunes in tea leaves or whatever it is?”

  “She’s clairvoyant too,” I say.

  Ren doesn’t respond, instead eyeing the carpet, something working in his brain.

  “What’s your gift?” I ask, not caring if I’m interrupting his thoughts.

  He lifts his gaze to me, a clever look in his green eyes. “I have many.”

  “What are they? Can you show me?” I ask, strangely excited by the prospect.

  “I’m not a circus act,” he says, sounding offended. “And I could show you but one of them might kill you, and you probably don’t want that, do you?”

  I shake my head. “Are you clairvoyant, like my mother?”

  “No,” he says, leaning against the desk. “What I can do makes her gifts look as lame as balancing a spoon on your nose.”

  “Oh, gifts that are fantastic and lethal, huh? Now I definitely don’t want to know. Don’t tell me. Seriously,” I say.

  Ren pushes off the desk and yawns. “So you may be interested to know your frequency actually measures up perfectly with a Dream Traveler’s now, one who’s performing using a cognitive skill.”

  “What?” I say, struck by the abrupt delivery. “Like a gift? I’m showing signs of a gift?”

  “No, gosh, why doesn’t anyone ever listen? Your frequency is matching up with that of someone demonstrating a gift. Maybe you’re going to get yours, or maybe it’s just a fluke. And maybe the fever has helped you.”

  “Oh, it has…” I say, threading my fingertips together, satisfaction rising in my chest.

  “Whatever,” Ren says, turning to leave.

  “Wait!” I say when he’s at the door.

  He turns and gives me an impatient stare. “Make it good.”

  “You can’t report this finding,” I say.

  He scrunches up his eyebrows and then turns and faces me directly. “I do believe you’ve gone completely batty from this so-called fever. Did you not hear me the first ten times I told you this was my job?”

  “But they can’t know that I’m getting close to my gift.” My eyes dart to the clock on the wall. I have roughly two hours until I’ll be called in for injections since my fever is below midgrade. If I’m close enough to normal then they’ll dose me and this will all be over. All I have is this time to try and figure out who I am.

  Ren studies me with a strange determination. “You know you and I aren’t pals or buddies, right? I’m not here to help you. I was hired to report if anything surfaced, not to lose
brain cells listening to you spew banter from your sheltered brain.”

  “Right,” I say, nodding. “We aren’t pals. And you should do your job. Just don’t report this for a couple of hours. It won’t make any difference to you and it will make all the difference to me.” Because as soon as they know I’m close to getting my gift they’ll intervene and I can’t have that when I’ve come this close.

  “I don’t do favors,” he says.

  “Right, only those who need things do favors,” I say, spewing one of my father’s famous lines. “And you obviously don’t need anything from me.”

  “Right you are, missy,” Ren says, and then he flicks his eyes up over my shoulder. “What do you want?”

  I turn to find my mother with her hands pinned on her hips, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I want a report. Has my daughter made any progress? Shown any signs of not being a complete shame to her family?”

  I seethe, my head suddenly burning hotter. She dares to call me a shame when she’s made me this? Maybe she isn’t privy to what the injections do to me. Maybe… It’s a hope, but one I have little faith in. My mother has always looked at me like I’m an old piece of furniture in need of replacing.

  “I don’t believe I report to you, Lyza,” Ren says, crossing his arms.

  “Don’t play games with me,” my mother says, her voice climbing. “She’s my daughter. Tell me what I want to know.”

  A slow smile stretches across Ren’s face. “I’m not playing games, but I think we both know if I wanted to I could play some nice ones on you. Just like old times, remember, Lyzie?”

  “Don’t threaten me with your mind control and hypnotism. I’m not a child you can bully,” my mother says.

  “Your gift is hypnotism?” I ask Ren, astonishment making my features go wide.

  “Shut up, Em. This conversation doesn’t involve you,” my mother says, narrowing her eyes at me.

  My eyes jerk to the floor. My hands squeeze together. “Yes, Mother,” I say, hating being scolded in front of Ren.

  Ren clicks his tongue three times in disapproval. “Telling your daughter to shut up. That’s not very nice.”