[Phoebe Pope 01.0] The Year of Four

by Nya Jade

  Professor Yori held the door open and Phoebe watched as everyone but Afua exited the room. At the headmaster’s questioning gaze Afua said, “I’d like to ask Cadet Pope a few more questions.” Professor Yori moved toward a chair amiably, but Afua added firmly, “I’d like to do so alone.”

  The headmaster appeared distinctly rankled. “Why?”

  “Because I’d like to.” Afua’s lips became a thin line.

  “By all means,” Professor Yori said with a hint of resignation and smoothed the front of his robes before giving Afua a stiff nod and striding toward the door. He paused, hand on the knob, and glanced back at Phoebe. “Be sure to get plenty of rest this weekend.”

  Phoebe inhaled and sat straight against the headboard. She struggled to control her nerves. What more could the Blackcoat want from her?

  “Please feel free to help yourself to some flowers,” Phoebe joked nervously, after the door had closed behind the headmaster.

  “You doubt my assessment of what happened out there,” Afua said, dismissing Phoebe’s comment. She moved around the table of flowers, pausing a moment to read one of the cards. “Why?” Phoebe jerked an eyebrow, but before she could ask what had given Afua that impression, the Blackcoat answered, “You had a telling look. So, please, enlighten me.”

  Phoebe glanced down at her arm before meeting Afua’s eyes again. Sometime during the meeting, the thing that had been nagging her at the back of her mind had come to the forefront. She chose her words carefully. “My memory’s a bit hazy—” Phoebe swallowed hard. “But it seemed like the first Vigo was surprised to see the second one.”

  “How so?”

  “After they fought, it backed away in a strange way—eyes slit, tail down, ears—”

  “Ears twisted?” Afua said.

  Phoebe nodded. She must have given Afua a particularly confused look because the Blackcoat said, “All Tigers have white spots on the backside of their ears. It’s a sign of submission when the spots are twisted to face an aggressor. Vigos do that when they relinquish a kill to a Tiger that’s not a member of their pack.”

  “So there was more than one triad at the game?” Phoebe said, guessing.

  “Perhaps.” Afua crossed over to the bedside and Phoebe struggled to keep her composure. The Blackcoat had an aura about her that seethed with power. She had a raw intensity that had even staggered a decorated former SIS agent like Professor Yori. Indicating Phoebe’s right arm, Afua said, “May I?”

  Phoebe nodded and extended her arm, her hand visibly shaking. Afua examined the wound in silence. She narrowed her eyes. “Your scar pattern is inconsistent with a kill bite,” she said.

  Though Afua’s face remained inscrutable, Phoebe had picked up a note of shock, even astonishment in her voice.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “These”—Afua ran a finger along the tender scars—“were made by incisors only. They would be sandwiched between two larger marks had the canines been lowered during the bite.” Phoebe shuddered; canines delivered the venom that was lethal to Shapers.

  “Alexori issued a catch not a kill command,” Afua said, mainly to herself. Then, to Phoebe, “It seems, for reasons we need to find out, the Padrone wants to extract you Hyphas alive.”

  That possibility did very little to make Phoebe any less terrified.

  Afua released Phoebe’s arm. “Hazy or not, Cadet, the smallest detail can be crucial to an investigation. You’ll need to learn to speak up when you know something.”

  Phoebe met Afua’s eyes, surprised. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Afua gave a curt nod and swept out of the room.

  Alone, Phoebe released the tension her body had been holding. She kicked her covers aside, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and gazed dully at her toes. Everything she’d heard finally began to crash down upon her in full force. It didn’t seem fair. Vigos killed her father and now they wanted her too. Alive or dead, she wasn’t sure which would be worse. A chill crept into her bones. Phoebe picked up the clothes the nurse had laid on the bed: sweatpants, t-shirt, hooded sweatshirt—all with the scent of the previous night laundered away. If only soap and bleach could do the same for the thoughts in her mind. Phoebe scrambled into her clothes, pulled her hoodie over her tangled mass of hair and left the clinic. Before she could really try to shove her memory of the attack aside and attempt to resume her life, strange as it had suddenly become, Phoebe had one important stop she needed to make first.

  SEVEN

  In the daytime, the chapel was quite gorgeous. Sunlight splintered through stained glass windows, casting patterns of jewel-bright colors against otherwise pale walls. Phoebe moved in and out of the blinding light as she walked down the aisle, her hands deep in her sweatshirt pockets. She had called out a few times for Gabe when she first entered the heavy doors with no response from the old custodian.

  Ascending the short flight of steps to the altar, Phoebe circled the pulpit, noticing for the first time the small images of moons carved into the stone. Now that she thought about it, every narthyx point she’d used so far had similar markings. She had turned to leave when Phoebe noticed a door on the back wall standing slightly ajar and caught a glimpse of light inside that seemed to be rippling.

  “Hello?” she said, walking toward the back wall. “Gabe?” As Phoebe reached for the handle, a sudden gust of wind slammed the door shut, making her jump backward. She turned and looked carefully in all directions. The tall form of Gabe swept down the aisle toward the pulpit and she heard his voice call out sharply, “That is a restricted room!”

  Phoebe lowered her hood, and Gabe’s somewhat hard expression relaxed when he took in her face. “Phoebe,” he said, blue eyes glittering. “It’s nice to see you up and about, lass, but you shouldn’t be snooping around.”

  Phoebe went red with shame. “The door was open”—Gabe frowned—“and I thought it was your office,” Phoebe said, swallowing a lump in her throat. Gabe strode up the steps to the altar, pulling a set of keys from his robes, and locked the door before saying to Phoebe, “This way to my office.”

  Phoebe followed him two doors down to a small room with wood paneled walls, a desk, and two well-worn armchairs. Gabe closed the door and turned to look at Phoebe.

  “Please sit,” he said. “Care for some tea?” Phoebe shook her head and backed into a chair while Gabe grabbed a thermos from his desk and poured its steaming liquid into a mug. “How’s the arm?”

  “Fine.” Her arm wasn’t exactly fine; it still throbbed a bit, but it was nothing he needed to concern himself with.

  Gabe’s face brightened. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Phoebe said. “I wanted to thank you for giving me that shot.” Even though Phoebe now knew it hadn’t been a kill bite, no one had known that at the time. She was immensely grateful to Gabe for having been there with the antidote.

  Gabe furrowed his brow, sinking into a chair across from Phoebe’s. “We custodians are trained first responders,” he said. “I only regret not getting there sooner. It was a brave thing you did, staying with that girl.”

  Preferring not to respond to that comment, Phoebe twisted her hands in her lap. She scanned the quaint office, her eyes lingering on his sparsely decorated desk. Next to a clock adorned with moon faces, sat a red, wood-framed picture of a girl astride a motorcycle. Her shoulder-length black hair looked windblown and wild. Phoebe gazed at the girl’s smiling face with interest.

  “That’s my daughter Becka back when she was just a bit older than you are now,” Gabe said, answering Phoebe’s unspoken question.

  “Does she live nearby?”

  Gabe, whose face had gone somber at the question, rose from the chair and approached the desk. He picked up the picture and held it up to the light. “She used to be close enough for me to see her every day,” he said, his eyes pained.

  “Where did she move to?”

  “She didn’t.” After a long pause, the custodian choked on hi
s next words. “Vigos took her from me.”

  Phoebe dropped her eyes, horrified. “I’m—I’m so sorry for your loss. I didn’t know.” She brought her elbows to her knees and bowed her head into her hands, for suddenly her entire body ached. Thoughts of her father raced through her mind, and she inhaled deeply to stop the moisture in her eyes from pooling into tears.

  Gabe put the picture down, gave Phoebe a melancholy smile, and returned to his seat. “You know as well as anyone that people mean no harm when asking about our loved ones,” he said softly. “I appreciate your asking.”

  There was a knock on the door, and a male student with tousled sandy hair entered. He nodded at Phoebe once, then handed Gabe a folded note. “I’m afraid,” Gabe said, reading the note and crushing it in his hand, “that I have to cut your visit short. I’m needed elsewhere.” Gabe walked Phoebe to the door and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I hope you’ll be by again now that you know where my office is,” he said.

  Phoebe nodded and left Gabe’s office. The custodian possessed a gentleness about him that she liked. And as much as she was sorry for his loss, she couldn’t help taking some small comfort in knowing that there was someone nearby who really understood what it meant to have a Vigo take a loved one away.

  Phoebe didn’t know exactly how long she’d been following the winding stone trail that took her farther and farther away from the campus buildings, but when the scent of damp earth filled her nostrils, she wasn’t surprised to see where she’d ended up. For as long as Phoebe could remember, she’d had a sort of unconscious compulsion to seek out bodies of water in times of disquiet. Tilting her head to one side, she stared at the imposing building before her. The Green Lane boathouse and its stately stone and brick had a majestic presence on the shore of the campus lake.

  Phoebe entered the ground level, noting its stone floor unusually patterned with manhole-sized black and silver polka dots, and marched up spiral stairs to a spacious clubroom. Fancy glass doors led to a balcony that overlooked the lake, and Phoebe soon found herself there, leaning over the railing. It was a rare day when she didn’t take a picture of something, so when the sinking sun’s rays reflected against the water’s surface like diamonds scattered on black glass, Phoebe felt her neck itch for the weight of the camera she didn’t have on hand. Darkness came quickly thereafter, and with it, a cold mist that blew over the lake. The chill penetrated Phoebe’s layers, finally prompting her to leave.

  Phoebe stepped back from the railing just as a boy’s voice said, “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Gorgeous.”

  Startled, she jumped, finding herself face-to-face with an even more surprised-looking Scott who had paused in midstride.

  “Well, this is embarrassing,” he said, scrubbing a hand over the side of his neck. “I thought you were—”

  “—someone else,” Phoebe finished for him. “Don’t worry I won’t be in your way. I was just leaving, anyway.” She took a couple steps forward but Scott blocked her way.

  “Wait,” he said, as she tried to sidestep him. “I’m glad I’ve run into you. I’ve been looking for you,” he added hastily, seeing the look on her face.

  Phoebe tilted her head as she took in Scott’s appearance. He wore a Brazil soccer jacket over a pair of dark jeans. Scott watched Phoebe curiously, and she realized that her scrutiny could easily be construed as her checking him out.

  “Well,” Phoebe said, dropping her gaze. “You’ve found me.”

  “I want to apologize for what I said earlier—about you making us look bad,” Scott said, rushing his words as though he thought Phoebe would leave if he didn’t make his point fast. “I mean . . . we’re all in this together.” He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and kicked the ground.

  Phoebe shrugged, looked briefly up at the stars and said, “Actually, I thought you were joking. I mean, I’m sure you were just trying to lighten up the situation.”

  “No,” Scott said. “I’m an ass.” That earned him a look of surprise. “But once you get to know me”—he met Phoebe’s eyes and grinned—“you’ll see that I’m at least a charming one.”

  Phoebe couldn’t help but laugh, and it felt rather good. Relaxing a bit, she backed up several steps, stopping when she came up against the railing’s metal balusters. She then turned to face the lake. “‘Charming ass’ is an oxymoron,” she said in all seriousness.

  “Yes it is,” Scott mused. “That’s what makes me a conflicted guy,” he said with a short, self-deprecating laugh. Phoebe snickered a bit more, which seemed to please Scott who leaned on the railing beside her. “Care for a smoke?” He patted his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  “No, thanks; I’m good,” Phoebe said, watching him shake one out for himself.

  Scott tapped the cigarette against his bottom lip and gave her an amused look. “You know it won’t kill you, right?”

  Phoebe smiled, but said nothing. Thanks to the wonder of Shaper genetics, she knew, any lung damage caused by smoking would be minimal. But she’d tried smoking once—an experience that had involved coughing and near vomiting—and it was something she didn’t care to relive.

  “So, what are you doing up here?” Scott held a lighter beneath his cigarette, cupping his hands around the flame to protect it from a sudden breeze. “Hiding from your fans?”

  Phoebe glanced up at him and narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t know?” Scott’s tone held a hint of surprise. “You’re all anyone’s talking about Below. Folks want a glimpse of the girl who fought off two Vigos while protecting a fellow cadet—”

  Phoebe interrupted him, exasperated. “That’s not what happened!”

  “Hey man”—Scott held up his hands in a defensive gesture as he blew a stream of smoke toward the lake—“I’m just reporting what I hear.”

  “Sorry,” sighed Phoebe, realizing how harsh her tone had been. But she hated attention, and she could barely stand the thought of people giving it to her based on a misunderstanding. Phoebe stared thoughtfully at the moon over the lake. Perhaps Scott was exaggerating to get a rise out of her.

  “So they think you’re a badass,” Scott said, dragging Phoebe from her thoughts. “Let ’em. There are worse reps to have. But”—he leaned closer to her—“if you need help keeping love-struck stalkers away, I’ve got your back.”

  At that, Phoebe snorted. Scott had choked a bit on a drag when saying “love-struck stalkers,” making it that much sillier. “I think I’ll be okay,” she said.

  “Scott?” said a girl’s sunny voice at the same time Phoebe felt the skin-tingle of cold energy.

  Phoebe and Scott looked up together and both stared at a tall brunette dressed in a gray fur-lined coat, who stepped onto the balcony. She wore an eager smile, which vanished the instant she noticed Phoebe. She looked alternately at both of them, giving Phoebe the are-you-a-threat once-over.

  “I think ‘Gorgeous’ just arrived,” Phoebe muttered teasingly, but only so Scott could hear her. Then, realizing her presence created an awkward situation, Phoebe gathered herself and started to leave. In the quickest of movements, Scott caught her hand.

  “We cool, Pope?” he said in a whisper. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his foot. Phoebe stared at him, not expecting to see his face take on the nervous look he now wore. When she nodded in answer, Phoebe could have sworn she’d heard Scott release a relieved breath. It gave her a sense that he wasn’t as cocky as he came across. Scott let go of her hand just as the girl reached them. Pulling her hood over her head, Phoebe left Scott to the task of explaining himself.

  When Phoebe finally pushed open her dorm room door, she found Cyn sitting on the edge of their small sofa, pulling a pair of furry black boots over black jeans.

  “God, you look awful,” Cyn said by way of greeting. “That stomach flu must have worked a number on you—you’re not contagious, are you?”

  Phoebe stood confused for a moment,
then, remembering Professor Yori had said that officials Above would be told that she’d had the stomach flu, said, “No, I’m all good.”

  Phoebe padded across the hardwood floor to her side of the room, sank down onto her bed, and hugged a pillow. Cyn fixed her with a gaze—one that was mildly suspicious at first. She began to frown and then stopped when she became aware of what her features were doing.

  Cyn said, her tone all business, “Two things you should know. First, someone dropped a bag of—um dead leaves for you.” When she stood and crossed to her desk, Phoebe saw that Cyn was wearing an obnoxiously bright pink shirt underneath her denim jacket. Written across the chest in a large stylized font were the letters CC.

  “Do your friends think it’s funny to send you trash?” Cyn extended a small paper bag to Phoebe who took it with a curious smirk and didn’t respond. Instead, her eyes zeroed in on a large maple leaf pinned to the bag’s handle. Phoebe bit back a grin when she saw that the leaf had been coded with a message. It read:

  “Had class code ‘Get Well’ messages to you. Tell me how they did. Rest up. Prof. Elmore.”

  Phoebe peered into the bag and saw a good stack of leaves in various stages of coded decay. Only the weight of Cyn’s stare kept her from pulling them out to read.

  “So what’s the other thing I should know?” Phoebe asked cheerfully, putting the bag aside.

  Cyn looked between Phoebe and the bag as if waiting for Phoebe to explain its significance. When Phoebe didn’t, she said with a hint of annoyance in her voice, “I’m writing a seven-part feature on important Green Lane graduates in the arts and this,”—she handed Phoebe a sheet of paper—“is the schedule for when the alumni will be on campus for you to shoot portraits. Since you missed today’s meeting, I thought I’d be a great roommate and bring you your assignment.”

  “Thanks.” Phoebe ran her eyes down the list and raised an eyebrow. “Don Beil, the first chair violinist for the Boston Symphony, went to Green Lane?”

  “Yup,” Cyn said proudly as though they were related. “And I got him to agree to be a part of this feature. By the way, he can only meet at the crack of dawn. That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”