by India Arden
For just a moment, I saw a glimpse of the child my brother used to be. Too smart for his own good, always, but on rare occasion, haunted by the fear that maybe he’d acted without a key piece of knowledge…and maybe his machinations would come tumbling down around him.
Maybe, this time, they’d take him down with them.
The look was fleeting. And soon it was gone. In its place, a look of startlement, a flicker of shock…and then he threw his head back, and inhaled.
The sound fluted through his throat, forming a chord of more than one single note, like a discordant train whistle. I sensed the power gathering all around him, like a barometric shift before a storm, but so sudden it made my eardrums flex. And I could taste the power gathering.
Blake’s back arched, and the horrific wailing stopped. The pressure in the room shifted. He sagged, hands on knees. And for a fraction of a second, I allowed myself to hope that maybe it hadn’t worked—maybe I hadn’t felt what I just felt—and the three of them would realize they just murdered an old man for nothing. But then that burned-hair smell that had haunted me ever since my classmate got cooked began to tickle at my nostrils, and I realized that Blake’s cashmere shirt was smoldering. He straightened. Tiny motes of fire glittered on his chest, only briefly. But as soon as I could make out the shape of them, they consumed his shirt as the Transfiguration took hold. The center of his shirt turned to ash and fell away, revealing a glowing red sigil. Diamonds within diamonds.
Fire.
My brother looked down at the glowing sigil in awe and satisfaction, drew in a deep breath, and declared, “I…am…Blaze.”
10
Like any newly Transfigured Aspirant, Blaze was exhausted and wobbly after his transformation. Gus and Chad rushed to his side—once they were sure nobody was about to disintegrate—and started doting over him like a pair of old ladies.
The whole thing was overwhelming. Not just the physicality of what had just happened, but so many other implications, too. Magical. Political. Moral.
If there was one silver lining, it was that the guys were all distracted. With Blaze as a newly Transfigured Arcane Master, I had ceased to be of any interest. He clutched the remaining Arcanum to his chest with one hand and the extractor with the other. His toadies helped him out of the room, and locked it behind them without another word to me.
Tears stung my eyes. Not sadness—frustration. I stomped my feet, then realized I was still wearing those ridiculous red pumps. I tore one off and flung it across the room. Juvenile, but so what? It wasn’t as if there was anyone there to see me. I pitched the other one after it and felt better. But only slightly.
What I wanted to do was rant and scream and have my father come fix everything. Dad would never hear me, though. And worse, even if he did, he wouldn’t limp this far on his gouty foot. Especially in sight of the Ambassador from God-Knows-Where.
No one would come for me. I’d need to save myself.
I tried the door. Locked. I tried the windows. Sections opened for ventilation, but they were too narrow to squeeze through. Built to keep potential troublemakers out, but just as effective at keeping me in. Pounding on the glass with a lead counterweight didn’t get me so much as a faint spiderweb crack. Just a chip. I kept pounding away at it anyhow. It seemed more likely to break than the big steel door.
It might have been louder, had I been hammering at the stainless steel work tables and not the maddeningly unbreakable window. But it was loud enough to cover the sound of a ventilation grate coming free on the ceiling behind me.
“Hey, lady. Quiet down.”
I jumped and gave a little shriek at the sound of another voice—and spun around to find a guy in a leather jacket dangling from the industrial air vent.
“It’s okay.” His voice had grit to it, but he used it gently, like he was talking to a skittish colt. “I’ll get you out of here. But you need to stay calm.”
He was roughly my age, with undercut hair the color of toasted cinnamon and a slightly darker beard scruff. His look was classic thug: biker jacket, ribbed tank top, torn jeans and scuffed work boots. But the jacket, instead of the usual black, was a deep burgundy-brown. No jewelry, no tattoos—that striking oxblood jacket was his only conceit.
And it looked good on him. Really good.
He dropped to the steel work table with a loud thunk, flexing his knees, then hopped easily to the floor. Way more athletic than my brother or his friends, who’d still be up there whining for someone to get them a step-stool. Then again, that wouldn’t matter once they could control the elements with their minds.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“It’s best if you don’t….” His eyes fell to my chest. I wondered how anyone could check out my body at a time like this, when I realized my cleavage wasn’t the thing he was ogling. It was my mother’s garnet necklace. He worked his chiseled jaw a few times, then muttered, “House of Fire.”
The concern drained from his expression, leaving a look of distaste behind—not unlike the look my father had given me just before Chad hauled me away.
Coldly, the guy in the leather jacket said, “Is locking each other up something you people do for fun?”
I didn’t dignify that with a response.
Corona was home to plenty of dangerous riffraff, but someone motivated enough to actually break into the estate could only be one of the Rebels. They’re more persistent than cockroaches, my father always said. Fueled by the poverty of their own making and blinded by their ignorant ideals.
“Get me out of here and I’ll see that there’s a reward in it for you.” Most people liked being rewarded. That’s why they call it a reward. But the offer just seemed to annoy him, so I added, “And I’ll make sure I don’t tip off security the second I see you leave.”
“You’ve been pounding on that window for nearly half an hour and no one’s come to help you. You’re in no position to make demands.”
I crossed my arms. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the only one stuck in this room.”
He gestured toward the steel slab of a door. “I can have that open in ten seconds flat. But it won’t do me much good if you start screaming.”
“Who’s currently screaming?” I said acidly. “No one—certainly not me. I’m not afraid of you.”
His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped. “Maybe you should be.”
A tiny thrill rippled through me. I immediately quelled it.
“Look,” he said, “I’m not playing games here. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut and take me to the distilling chamber.”
“What could you possibly want all the way down there?” Only one thing. “If you’re looking for the Arcanum,” I informed him loftily, “it’s long gone. The Transfiguration happened this afternoon.”
“You’re lying,” he growled. “I have solid intel that the ceremony is tomorrow.”
Intel? Apparently, some of the staff wasn’t quite as loyal as my father seemed to think. “They moved it up. The ceremony’s over.”
He staggered back as if he’d been sucker-punched. “No. It can’t be.”
If he wanted the Arcanum that desperately, I realized, maybe I could use it to my advantage—and hopefully take down my brother in the process. My own father might not want my information, but this Rebel would. And he was enough of a daredevil to do something with it. “The dose that’s been gathering for the past twenty years might be gone…but I know where to get more.”
11
When the Rebel said he could open the door in ten seconds flat? It was no exaggeration. He sized up the lock, pulled a couple of fine metal tools from his jacket, and worked open the deadbolt in as little time it would take someone to locate their key, stick it in the lock and turn it.
Before he let me out into the hall, he paused in the doorway and said in his gravelly voice, “If you’re thinking about sounding an alarm, you might want to reconsider, for the sake of your tribe. Back me into a corner, and I wi
ll fight. But no one needs to get hurt.”
I had no idea what he had planned for the Arcanum. Destroy it. Consume it. Auction it off to the highest bidder. All I knew was that the two remaining Aspirants were the last people in the world who deserved to Transfigure. “You can stop threatening me,” I said. “I’m helping you. But I’ve got my own reasons. Understand?”
He stared down at me, searching my eyes, then nodded when he decided to throw in our lots together. “Understood.”
Where to begin? My brother would be exhausted, no question, from all that Arcane energy tearing through his body. Where would he go? His chambers. And no way would he let the Arcanum out of his sight, so that’s where he’d keep it.
Obviously, no one would question my presence in our residential wing. But getting there through the crowd—me barefoot, with a Rebel in jeans and leather—would undoubtedly flag someone’s attention.
We crept out of the lab. I took stock of the hallway, and yes…the servants’ passages extended even this far. We slipped inside. The Rebel’s closeness tickled my senses in the narrow confines of the hidden hallway, and I caught the scent of smoke clinging to his leather jacket. I told myself to stop being ridiculous. Yes, I’d been practically cloistered with a bunch of Aspirant-wannabes my whole life, obedient boys who looked away whenever I entered the room, and techs who wouldn’t give me the time of day. But it didn’t mean I had to fall for the first guy who’d actually meet my eyes. Especially since he looked at me like he wished I was anyone other than me.
I found the doorway to my brother’s suite and pressed my ear against the door. Nothing. The Rebel’s presence pressed in on me. I grabbed him by the jacket—the leather creaked—and pulled him even closer to whisper in his ear.
The smell of him was intoxicating. Maleness and leather, underlaid with the hint of a long-ago bonfire. I swayed briefly, then pulled myself together and said, “I’ll do this myself. Less chance of waking him up.”
His dark eyebrows drew down and he gave me a look that was meant to be stern. But in that look, I saw vulnerability, too. Because it would be so easy for me to go out there, rouse my brother, and turn him in. Maybe that’s what most sisters would do. But I was done making excuses for Blake. Family ties meant nothing, and all bets were off.
In a move that surprised us both, I touched the Rebel’s jaw—the bristle of his stubble grazed my fingertips—and murmured, “I’ve got this.”
We both stilled, and his amber eyes darkened. “Be careful.”
I wasn’t sure if he was concerned for my safety or warning me not to betray him. I chose to take it on face value, nodded, and with excruciating care, eased open the door.
I know how my brother usually sleeps—in silk pajamas, bedclothes tucked neatly around him, with a glass of water on the nightstand and a white noise machine lulling him into dreamland.
I hardly recognized the guy splayed across his bed. Shirtless, muscled, with the fire sigil glowing gently over his solar plexus. The scholarly Blake was gone, and some badass called Blaze had taken his place.
Luckily, Blaze had been ridden hard by the Arcana and needed time to recover, or I’d be in some serious trouble.
I crept into the room, bare feet silent on carpet. No water on the bedside table. Just the metal decanter.
My heart hammered so hard in my chest I could feel it reverberating in my eardrums. My adrenaline was so high, I tasted metal. And still, I inched forward with excruciating care. Step by painful step.
I rounded the bed, and my bare toes brushed up against something—something hard. I looked down. The extractor. I recoiled, and my skin crawled at the mere thought of touching the machine. I spent my life handling all those components, but now that I saw what it was capable of, it felt foreign and dangerous.
I stared down at the extractor, then looked at the stolen Arcanum, and then my brother with his glowing sigil. Yes, I could simply take the Arcanum. But there were three old Masters left—including Dad. If I absconded with that decanter, Blaze could make more.
From the source, derived.
With all that source at his disposal, it made no sense to steal the Arcanum and leave the extractor behind. I braced myself and picked up the machine. It was heavy—heavier than I’d thought. Heavy, and hard, and cold.
But only for a moment.
The metal quickly warmed. And then, it heated—unbearably. Startled, I let go. By the time the extractor hit the carpet, the grip was glowing red.
Blaze’s eyes shot open, and he sat up with a triumphant bark—figuring he’d trapped one of his shady co-conspirators—but when he saw it was me, he did a double-take. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped.
“I smelled something burning,” I lied, but he didn’t buy it. I’d been caught red-handed. Literally. And the pain of my burnt palms was enough to make tears sting my eyes.
“You should’ve left this alone, Aurora.” His eyes paled, as if the irises were lit from within, and I felt a shift in the air of a brewing storm. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and made a grab for my throat. I pulled away, but not fast enough. Our mother’s necklace snapped, scattering garnets like spilled blood. Stunned, I scrambled back, away from him.
But we didn’t need to be physically touching for him to hurt me.
He held out his hand—palm forward, as if to stop me—and a surge of energy burst forth. I steeled myself as it hit, but still, the burning-hair smell that had haunted me all these years came rushing back. Only, it wasn’t my classmate. It was me.
My vision went white and my mind blanked as I prepared to go up like a Roman candle. But instead, something whacked me in the chest: a leather jacket.
Blaze was on his feet now, rearing back to deliver another fire-blast, but the Rebel was quick. He spun around and cold-cocked my brother. The crack of knuckles on jaw was sharp and loud. Blaze might be able to shoot fire, but he’d never been a brawler. Fistfights were for common folk, and why stoop to punching someone when you could burn out their eyeball with a well-aimed vial of chemicals?
Before the Arcanum, Blake would’ve gone down like a bag of sand. Now, the Arcane energy gave him strength. Instead of crumpling in a heap, he only staggered back—but the pause was enough. I made a grab for the extractor, but Blaze had done something to the machine, something with his power, and whatever metal I touched immediately glowed red.
If I couldn’t steal the thing, I realized, I’d have to destroy it. Normally, I’d aim a good stomp at the most delicate components—but not with bare feet on red-hot metal.
A thwack sounded as the Rebel got in another solid punch, but now the sheets had caught fire, and a smoke detector started to shrill. I tried to whack some parts off with the Rebel’s jacket, but it was no use. Then I spotted some silicone tubing on the extractor and tore it free. Not much of a sabotage, but it was better than nothing. I grabbed the Arcanum as the Rebel landed a solid uppercut to Blaze’s gut—right in the sigil—and both of them staggered back while the air pressure spiked.
“Come on,” I yelled over the alarm, and snagged the Rebel by the arm. I could tell he wanted to stay and finish what he’d started—namely, pounding Blaze into a senseless heap—but his knuckles were scorched and blackened, and any second now, security would pour in. They wouldn’t be armed with an unwieldy new Arcane power, either. They’d have guns.
No need for quiet now, not with the smoke alarms covering the sound of our retreat. I pounded down the main hall, directly through the estate. The main door was closest, but it would be filled with panicked visitors, and I didn’t trust that we’d slip out in the chaos. We veered to a side door instead, where deliveries were dropped off and the staff came and went. As we spilled out into the vestibule, a pair of security guys in suits turned, startled, but they didn’t go for their guns. Who knows what we looked like to them? Yes, there I was, dragging along a grubby guy in jeans, and the front of my red dress was scorched black. “There’s a fire,” I said urgently. “In Blake’s quarter
s.”
The guards exchanged an uneasy look. In the distance, the smoke alarm continued to shrill.
“Don’t just stand there,” I ordered. “Go help my brother.”
The reminder that I was Fire’s daughter did the trick. The guards lumbered off toward my family’s wing, leaving us to walk calmly out the door.
I handed the Rebel back his jacket. The lining was pretty scorched. He slipped it on and said, “You’re been a great help to the cause,” then held out his hand.
At first, I thought he was offering me a handshake—my blistered palms hurt—but then I realized he expected me to hand over the bottle.
I backed up a few steps. “Wait a minute. This whole time, you were just using me to get the Arcanum?”
“Sure. That was my plan. To count on your own people to lock you up so I could come and let you out, then convince you to lead me to the prize—which wasn’t even the original Arcanum, but some new batch that shouldn’t technically exist. Look, I helped you, you helped me, we helped each other, and we both came out ahead.”
“If this is what you call ahead, I’d hate to fall behind. I can’t go back. My brother saw me. You might be able to get away with a sucker-punch, but not me.”
“Where I’m going, it’s not safe for you to follow.” He glanced back over his shoulder. The hubbub inside the building was getting louder. He pulled me off the sidewalk to flank the high security walls and draw us both into shadow. “I’ll get you out of the compound…” The compound? “…put some distance between you and this place, but then you’re on your own.”
He pulled out an ancient smartphone with a cracked screen, shot off a quick text, then took off toward the side gate in a stealthy crouch. I followed. Just as we got to the gate—an impregnable barrier with an electronic lock, a van pulled up to the security intercom and announced, “Coroner’s office.”
Had Fathom died mere hours ago? So much had transpired since then, it seemed like another lifetime.
