by Nya Jade
“Convince her,” the man’s growling voice commanded again.
“Please, Phoebe,” Mariko cried in clear terror. “Tell them whatever they want to know!”
“I don’t—” A few more slaps in rapid succession clenched Phoebe’s gut. “Where are you?” she yelled.
“First—” Mariko was cut off with a static click.
Alexori’s lethal voice returned. “Since that didn’t seem to loosen your tongue, let’s have you listen to something new. Perhaps this will move you.”
A speaker crackled behind Phoebe. “Don’t give them what they want, Pope,” Scott’s voice blared. “You hear me! Don’t—” Phoebe heard the crack of a whip in motion. Leather on flesh. Scott’s howl amplified around her.
“Scott!” Tears streamed down Phoebe’s face. With the effort of a full body motion, she thrashed in her seat, scooting it forward, her head moving wildly about. “Scott!”
Another crack of the whip. Scott screamed again.
“This is madness. Make it stop!” Phoebe yelled at the top of her lungs. Never in her life had she heard a scream like the one that had erupted from Scott’s throat.
“You’re the one in control here, Phoebe,” Alexori said in the darkness. “It’s all music to my ears, so I can do this all night. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll make it stop.”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” Phoebe said, her voice rising in exasperation despite her sickening fear.
“Curiously, there’s a disturbing Vigo body count that seems to be linked to you,” Alexori said. “Allow me to give you the highlight reel. We had you at the soccer game until there was interference. The members of that triad were each stalked and killed. We had eyes on you at the red carpet, and they later turned up dead. Earlier this evening, two of my finest managed to track you to an abandoned warehouse—I think you get the picture. Someone in my organization must be behind it. No Blackcoat could have such success.”
“What gives you that idea?” Phoebe said mockingly.
“How I know what I know is no concern of yours. I must know who the traitor is. My patience draws to an end, ragazza.” The words were spoken in quiet fury. “Perhaps you’d like to hear from Lewis next? I understand his lung power is impressive—him being a singer and all.”
Phoebe couldn’t bear to hear any more screaming, but she had no idea how to make it stop without sending them all to their deaths. Giving up what Alexori wanted would only make it easier for him to dispense with them all. “I have nothing to tell you,” she blurted. And her desperation overruling caution, Phoebe added sarcastically, “It’s not my fault if you don’t have control over your organization!”
Suddenly, a bright light flashed on. Delivered from darkness, Phoebe saw that she faced a thick, glass wall. Behind it, a heavy-shouldered man with dark, wavy hair sat in an armchair, stroking the white silk tie that hung over the white shirt he wore under his finely-tailored white suit. Next to him, a side table held a silver tray containing a decanter of brandy and a short glass.
Phoebe dug her fingernails into her palms, unable to keep her eyes off the deep, rope-like scar that ran along the length of his forehead, marring his sharp, impossibly handsome face. And as Phoebe’s gaze moved to his unusual eyes—pale blue irises that seemed almost colorless—she unconsciously began to shake. An aura of danger hung about the man in front of her, an aura that was intensely magnified by the silence.
Alexori reached for the decanter and poured himself a drink. Revolving his glass slowly, he sat forward in the chair, his thick arms straining the sleeves of his jacket.
“You should know, ragazza,” he said, his voice slippery and just a touch shrill, “that I don’t take kindly to insult.” The Padrone breathed deeply, then added crisply, “I have killed people for much lesser insults than yours.” He paused and took a few swallows from his glass, his eyes never once leaving Phoebe’s face. “Unfortunately, I have to let this one slide since there are people way above me whose interests lie in keeping you alive. For now.”
Alexori leaned back in the chair, gripping the empty brandy glass tighter in his hand as if in an effort to control himself. Phoebe knew he was talking about the Anzaini. Her shaking worsened. Alexori noticed. His thin lips formed a sinister half-smile just before his hand crushed the brandy glass into small shards—it seemed as though his fingers had done it of their own volition. Phoebe choked on a gasp, her tired eyes widening. She saw no sign of blood as the glass particles seeped through Alexori’s fingers and onto the silver tray. It was as if his hand was made of granite. Without another word spoken between them, the light went out, returning Phoebe to a darkness filled with the echo of her own heavy breathing.
The beep of a security code unlocked a door behind Phoebe and heavy footsteps stomped toward her. As strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders, Phoebe felt the sharp prick of a needle in her left arm. Unconsciousness rushed in, but not before she heard Alexori say to someone, “I’ll be back by morning. I trust you’ll have gotten results by then.”
Phoebe woke to pain and the sound of voices above her. Dark figures encased in white lab coats weaved in and out of focus. Hands wrote furious notes on clipboards. Pain surged within Phoebe from a source she couldn’t identify. A scream tore from her chest and she dimly heard someone suggest lowering the voltage. A rough voice barked instructions to increase it instead. The pain burgeoned to an unfathomable point, then ceased with unconsciousness.
Phoebe woke again without the foggiest idea how much time had passed. She quickly took stock of the room, aware of the restraints that bound her to a narrow raised bed. Fifty or so wires covered her chest. She twisted her head to the left, following the silvery trail they made across a hardwood floor and up to a black machine with a panel of blinking LED lights and buttons. A glass cylindrical tube rose from the center of the machine’s steel top up through a hole in the ceiling. Phoebe pulled her eyes away from the machine and looked around, taking in her surroundings. It was a large bedroom, empty but for two armchairs at the end of the bed. On a far wall, diaphanous drapes revealed French doors behind them.
Phoebe began struggling against her bonds. The sound of a key turning made her pause. When the door opened, Phoebe lifted her head and saw Scott walk in. Though his soccer jersey was torn in several places, he didn’t appear gravely hurt. Relief rocketed through Phoebe.
“You’re okay,” she said, choking up. “How’d you get away? Nevermind. Tell me later.”
Scott pressed the door closed with his back and spoke quietly. “Nice to see you too, Pope.”
“Can you unchain me?” she asked, hope and desperation in her voice.
In answer, Scott raised a hand to show a ring of keys dangling from his index finger. Phoebe exhaled and relaxed somewhat. She had many questions, but there would be time for that. But then, just as Scott began to walk toward her, he changed direction and headed for the left wall.
As Phoebe twisted to look at him, her eyes narrowed with confusion. “What are you doing?”
Scott turned to face Phoebe with a blank expression and continued walking backward toward the machine. “I wish I could let you go Pope, but I can’t.”
Phoebe stared at him, puzzled. “What do you mean, you can’t?” she asked slowly. Somewhere in her mind a sickening thought began to form, but she dismissed it at once. They were a team.
Scott’s eyes began to flash, his face stripped of his signature teasing look. He now appeared almost unrecognizable, and eerily sinister as he began to speak low and seriously. “I went through a lot of trouble to get you here and”—he drummed his fingers on the top of the machine—“this thing hasn’t done what it’s supposed to do yet.”
Phoebe glanced from the machine back to Scott in abject horror. Before she could process what he’d said, he inserted a key into a hole at its side and turned it. A shaft of blinding light flared in the glass tube half a second before a sharp heat seared through Phoebe. In reflex, her upper body snapped up, then f
ell back, her scream echoing off the bedroom walls.
“You truly are a sight to behold, Pope,” Scott said, sarcasm and awe competing in his voice. He gestured at her. “Look at yourself.”
Painfully, Phoebe raised her head and looked down at her body. Sparks of brilliant light seemed to shoot out from every one of her sweat-slicked pores, encasing her in a powdery, gold halo. Phoebe stared in wonder. She was a star in the dimly lit room. For a brief moment she didn’t feel the spasm of pain in her chest or her arms and legs bucking against the pressure of her restraints. Then the hypnotizing awe splintered into terror. Was she about to explode into iridescent pieces?
“You—?” Phoebe said without breathing, turning her attention to Scott.
A flicker of apology crossed his face, a scant trace of the friend she knew. Then he smiled a sickening smile. “Yes, me.”
“Traitor . . .” Phoebe choked, briefly closing her eyes, then opening them to release hot tears that spilled down the side of her face and into her ears. That burning suspicion within her, the one she’d suppressed on reflex, had exploded into undeniable fact: Scott was under the employ of Vigos.
“Traitor,” repeated Scott, as if trying the word on for size; his eyes seemed to dance at hearing himself say it. “I guess that depends on who you’re asking.”
Phoebe could barely breathe from the pain. Grappling for understanding, she asked, “What—what did they p—promise you to b—betray?”
“Alpha of my own pack, if you must know,” Scott answered, his lips curling into a sneer as he savored the intense distress his words had caused Phoebe. “You see,” he added, mock-conversationally, “I hate being Beta to an Alpha that lacks imagination and drive. I need to break from his suffocating shadow. To emerge a warrior. When this opportunity came along, I seized it.”
Phoebe stared at him, terror in the shimmer of her eyes. “You’re a—” Phoebe stopped herself, unwilling to believe it.
“I think Vigo is the word you’re looking for.” Scott scrubbed a hand over the side of his neck. “Removing my marks was a small sacrifice, but I’ll get them redone when I have the Alpha one added.”
Suddenly, Phoebe’s pain receded. She fixed her watery gaze on the machine. Scott had turned the key counterclockwise. “It’s been recommended,” he said, sounding rather put out, “that we take breaks between jolts since killing you now would defeat our purposes.”
Phoebe wasn’t listening. Spared from the mind-blistering pain for the moment, she began thinking many hurried thoughts. In all her time with Scott she had only sensed the warm physical energy of a Shaper. Even now, he radiated warmth. Phoebe’s breaths came faster as a new and frightening possibility snaked its way to the front of her mind: Colten had been wrong. He wasn’t the only born Vigo. Scott could also manipulate his physical energy.
“You filthy cretin . . .” she said, bringing her attention back to his smug face.
“Are we resorting to name calling, Pope? I thought we had a better relationship than that.” Scott walked to the French doors and stared out into the night.
“Lies,” Phoebe said hoarsely, watching his face in the white glow of moonlight that filtered through the curtains.
“I prefer artistic deception,” Scott said vacantly, still looking outside.
“So how did you do it?” Keep talking, she thought, Stay the hell away from that key.
Scott whipped his head toward her, grinning. “Do what? Get you?”
“I mean how did you get past the Vigo sensors?” Phoebe clarified, though she was quite confident that she already knew. However, hearing Scott say it would make it real.
“Let’s just call it a special talent of mine, which unfortunately, is not part of today’s lesson plan.” Now Scott’s grin widened. “But speaking of lesson plans,” he said, glancing down at his watch, “I have to thank you for helping me fit in a bit more than I would have, Below.”
“What are you talking about?” Phoebe spat, fighting against the new surge of tears burning behind her eyes; she hated showing how scared and helpless she felt.
“If you hadn’t struggled as much as you did during that sorry academic boot camp, then my lack of skill would have been more apparent.” Scott tilted his head toward her, sniggering at her discomfort.
Because Vigos can’t wield elements, Phoebe thought.
“I failed to accomplish even one simple task, but the Blackcoats didn’t think twice about it.” Scott laughed. “I was just a Hypha struggling to connect with his elements. . . .” Scott shook his head with a “tsk” and sidled around Phoebe, pausing to run a finger over her bite marks.
Phoebe stiffened. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice roughened like never before, sandpaper grit rubbing between her syllables. Even Scott cocked his head at her tone.
“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said, making his way back to the machine. “It’s not as if you did it on purpose. I mean you were actually so bad I started to think you were a Vigo too.”
“Wait!” Phoebe shouted, her voice on the edge of desperation as Scott reached for the key. “Why shoot Katie Banks with an arrow? She wasn’t Hypha.”
Scott paused, puzzled, then smiled with dawning comprehension. “Oh. Was that her name? She was incidental. Something to create chaos so that we could grab at least one of you without anyone noticing.” A frowning pause. “My plans got screwy after that when it turned out that the mentors were actually Blackcoats sent to protect us.” He rolled his eyes.
“Don’t you dare say ‘us,”’ Phoebe growled, furious.
Suddenly Scott was crouching near Phoebe’s head, a nasty grin on his face. He traced a finger along her chin and his voice rumbled. “Trust me, it gave me no pleasure to be lumped among you Shapers. To play my part as a Hypha. It was torture. But,” he said, speaking softer now, his voice tinged with regret. “Shaper or not, there’s something pleasant about you. It’s almost magnetic. I couldn’t help myself even though I hated myself for wanting . . . wanting just a little taste—” Scott leaned toward Phoebe until their lips were almost touching. Then, he stopped, stood up, and shook himself. “But in the end I had to focus, Pope. Keep my eye on the goal and get to work faking my own kidnapping.”
Phoebe couldn’t stop her next words from tumbling from her mouth with bitter distaste. “So what did you do for mito?”
“I found a source I could tap.” Scott moistened his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. A dark laugh burst out of him at seeing the horror of comprehension on Phoebe’s face.
“Gorgeous,” she said barely above a whisper.
“I only took what I needed from her, not that any minor damage would’ve been noticed, considering I chose someone who was already—let’s say, dim.” He gave a short laugh and walked back to the machine, grinning again as he turned the key. “Our little break is over.”
The white-hot heat pounded through Phoebe and once again her glowing body lit up the room. An explosion of colors danced before her eyes and her back arched from the excruciating impact of the current. This time, if possible, felt much worse, as her muscles already ached intensely. When Scott returned to Phoebe’s side, he studied her twitching body dispassionately.
“I—I told Alexori,” Phoebe said between strained breaths, “that I don’t know anything.”
“I believe you, Pope,” Scott said with a shrug. “Any doubts I had were erased at seeing your reaction to my staged whipping. I knew you would’ve broken then if you had something of value to say.” Scott lowered his face to her ear. “Between you and me,” he said with a confidential tone. “I tried to tell Alexori that no Vigo would be insane enough to cross him, but he wanted to question you himself. I suppose he hasn’t remained Padrone without being a little paranoid.” Scott rose to his full height. “But that’s not what this is about.”
“What—then?” Phoebe closed her eyes, the pain inhibiting clear thought.
“Shhh. Don’t fight it.” Scott moved to the foot of the bed and grazed the back of his hand
along Phoebe’s leg. “The sooner you surrender to the energy, the sooner your second heart awakens and the sooner the pain will stop.”
Phoebe’s eyes flashed open. “C—conversion?” she said, watching a grin spread on Scott’s face, her mind racing, wondering if forcing that was even possible.
“Yes, Pope. Some of the brightest minds in physics helped to—well they were forced to—create what we’re calling an artificial Utaviium. That”—Scott proudly swept his hands toward the glass tube—“is where we store the lightning we’ve been collecting. The lightning that’s now running through you. We couldn’t wait for you to naturally come into your powers. And it’s easier to control you this way.”
Phoebe panted, feeling as though her body was going boneless. “W—why didn’t you steal—”
“Steal the Utaviium?” Scott laughed. “I guess I should expect such a naive question from a Hypha. Vigos can’t touch Utaviium, Pope. It won’t kill us, but it will come close. Your Utaviiumsmiths made sure of it. But we digress.”
“Machine—won’t—work . . .”
“You see, Pope, once conversion happens,” Scott continued, as if he had not heard Phoebe, “we can harvest your mito.”
A choked laugh came from Phoebe’s throat.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re wasting your time,” she gasped through the pain, “Shapers don’t have mito.”
Something like excitement flashed behind Scott’s eyes. “That’s correct. Shapers don’t have mito but Hyphas do. You have it from your human side.”
Phoebe’s chest iced over, the truth more electric than the current running through her. She did have mito; somehow, the thought had never once crossed her mind.
“You have a large supply in humans,” Phoebe said warily, not believing she was saying it. “So why—”
“Your mito?” Scott finished, his voice high, sounding like a petulant child.
“Yes,” Phoebe said, watching him closely. “Why my mito and what are you going to do with it?”
