[Phoebe Pope 01.0] The Year of Four

by Nya Jade

  “Meet the rest of the cubs,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. He gestured at three women and a man who had just emerged from the side hallway. Phoebe stared at the new arrivals and swallowed. “You seriously think you can take on all seven of us single-handed?” Scott made a show of sniffing the air. Sweat rolled down Phoebe’s back. She understood his message. No smoke. No fire. “I think I’m going to call your bluff, cousin,” he said, smiling a smile so evil that it sliced across both of Phoebe’s hearts.

  Phoebe dug her fingernails into her palms, channeling her fear into physical pain. She’d lost her leverage. Besides, there was no way she could fight seven Vigos. Before Phoebe could blink, Scott leaped away from the cubs and raced toward her. In a matter of seconds he’d plunged his heavy boot into her chest with the force of a swung bat. Phoebe flew backward, bouncing off a side wall to the ground. She rolled over twice and sat up, gagging and coughing up dry air. Breathless with pain, her mind burned with the fact that her weakened body was no match for Scott.

  Phoebe picked herself up painfully, placing a hand on the wall for balance as Scott started toward her again.

  “So where’s the fire, Pope? he said, pausing inches from her face, his voice crisp with acidic revulsion. “I was hoping for a good pyro show.”

  Terror-stricken, Phoebe simultaneously spat in Scott’s face and swung an arm at him. To her surprise, he did not deflect the blow that struck his chest. Instead, his hand reached for his face and touched the saliva trailing down his right cheek.

  Their eyes locked.

  “Not cool,” Scott said, his eyes wide in lethal hatred. “Not cool at all,” he repeated, spinning Phoebe by the shoulder and slamming her face against the wall so hard that blood poured out of her nose. She could feel her lips begin to swell.

  “I’ve tried to keep our relationship in mind when dealing with you,” he said, breathing heavily in her ear, his elbow rammed into the back of her neck. “But now you’ve gone and ruined that show of courtesy.”

  Phoebe gave a muffled response.

  “What did you say?” Scott yanked Phoebe by her hair, pulling her face from the wall.

  “I said.” Phoebe spat blood onto the floor and wiped at her nose. “That you can kiss my Hypha ass.” Her voice was hoarse but she’d laced it with as much venom as she could muster.

  “You really don’t want to live, do you?” Scott said, his eyes glaring, his voice full of contempt.

  “I thought that wasn’t up to you,” Phoebe spat back, finding vicious satisfaction in the flush rapidly rising in Scott’s face.

  “No. It isn’t,” he said, his voice quietly dangerous. “But how much you suffer is.” Scott gripped the collar of Phoebe’s blood-stained shirt and pulled her across the foyer to where the cubs stood watching by the staircase. Twisting, turning, and with fitful jerks, Phoebe struggled to break free, hindering Scott’s progress. A hundred feet from the cubs, Scott crashed his knee up into Phoebe’s ribcage, forcing her back down to the cold, marble floor. Paralyzing pain swept through her and she coughed uncontrollably.

  Scott drew out an ottoman from the living room and sat down as Phoebe dragged herself backward with all of her strength, still coughing from the blow. He glanced at her, and then said to the cubs, boredom in his voice, “Have at her. And when you’re done take her back upstairs.” Scott’s command had the effect of a sharp whip jolting the cubs into action. Grins spread across their faces as they moved as one line toward Phoebe. To her surprise, they moved slowly, taunting her with each step forward.

  With a surge of adrenaline, Phoebe rose to her feet. Panic assaulted her chest like a physical pain. Panic is both an enemy and a friend, Phoebe thought, suddenly recalling Afua’s words from an earlier time. But how to befriend this torturous emotion was the question. In a moment of insight, Phoebe remembered the night of the soccer game; a night when she had pushed the mood of multiple people at once. Could she do on purpose what had happened by accident? Phoebe realized that for once in her life she’d have to stop fighting her emotions and surrender herself to them. Give them release.

  Phoebe was only vaguely aware of her surroundings now; an emotional tempest had taken over her. Guided by an instinct beyond her understanding, she smashed her palms together. A scream exploded from Phoebe’s chest and she felt waves of electric energy pulsing out from her.

  The cubs lurched to a halt ten feet away from Phoebe; it was as though they’d slammed into an invisible wall, their faces contorted with panic, their bodies convulsing from it. They moved about in confusion, colliding with one another. Drained, Phoebe’s shoulders slumped as Scott shot to his feet. His eyes darted between her and the disoriented cubs.

  “What—what the hell did you—” Scott’s words ended when an arrow struck him just below the ribs. Stunned, he went motionless. Then, sagging to one knee, he stared dumbly at the arrow as if in disbelief; a ring of blood grew out from the embedded shaft like an unfurling crimson rose. Scott looked up, and Phoebe followed his burning gaze, looking for the archer; a shadowy silhouette darted across one of the high windows.

  An instant later, cries of pain erupted from the cubs as a fusillade of arrows riddled them. One by one they fell over dead. Phoebe gasped at Scott’s labored attempt to rise to his feet. Another arrow plunged into his chest, ending his effort. He crumpled face forward on the ground, blood spreading like a small carpet underneath him. Her whole body trembling, Phoebe stared at the bloodied Vigos lying several feet away from her. She couldn’t believe her nightmare had come to an end.

  The front door crashed open and Phoebe spun to face it. Afua walked in, her bow in hand, an arrow nocked in its bowstring. A midnight blue lion and a gray-spotted white leopard followed in her wake, their strides long and powerful, their flashing eyes staring about. Afua surveyed the scene, her gaze roaming over Scott and the cubs before meeting Phoebe’s.

  “It’s a good thing you helped me dust off my archery skills, Cadet,” she said, removing the arrow from the bow and returning it to her thigh quiver. “Came in handy.”

  Phoebe stood motionless, barely registering Afua’s words or the fact that the two great cats behind the Blackcoat had converted into Yelena and Deborah-Anna. Suddenly, Phoebe had a constricted sensation in her throat. Scott had jumped to his feet and wrapped an arm around her neck. Phoebe gasped in fear.

  “I’m walking out of here,” Scott hissed, his ragged voice just above a whisper.

  Surprise flickered briefly across Afua’s face before her steely self-control returned “Not happening,” she said, nocking an arrow to her bow and taking a step forward.

  “Try and stop me and I’ll shed prophecy blood,” Scott said, breathing heavily. His arm tightened around Phoebe’s neck. Phoebe found herself digging her fingernails into his forearm, but it was no use.

  When Afua took another step forward, Scott pulled a thin dagger from his boot with his free hand. He pressed its smooth, cold blade against Phoebe’s skin.

  “I’ll do it,” Scott said.

  Phoebe had no doubt that he would. Her lips trembled in fear, but Afua gave her a reassuring look before nodding in Yelena and Deborah-Anna’s direction. Phoebe watched apprehensively as the two Blackcoats began rubbing their palms together. Scott’s gaze shot to them and he gave a deranged laugh. “Whatever you do to me will kill her, too,” he said, watching thick silver ribbons of mist coil around their hands and slither to the ground ominously. He took a step back, pulling Phoebe along with him.

  A whooshing roar filled the foyer as the mist billowed between Yelena and Deborah-Anna, becoming two luminous towers of swirling air. With a snap of their wrists, the Blackcoats pushed their respective five-foot rotating columns toward each other, merging them into a bigger, more violent vortex.

  “I said I’d kill her!” Scott yelled, pressing the blade even harder against Phoebe’s throat. Something warm trickled down her neck. Phoebe couldn’t help herself. She started hyperventilating. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

 
“Stay calm,” Afua said with a pointed look at Phoebe. “He won’t kill you. You’re his only leverage here so stay calm.”

  Stay calm? Phoebe’s mind screamed. How in the hell am I supposed to do that?!

  With sharp flick of their outstretched palms, Yelena and Deborah-Anna sent the whirlwind on a rapid collision course with Phoebe and Scott. Phoebe watched the advancing cyclone with disbelief. Were the Blackcoats really prepared to sacrifice her life in their effort to kill Scott?

  “You’re insane—” he started. The powerful winds swept up Phoebe and Scott and lifted them ten feet in the air as if they were specks of pollen. Phoebe tried to keep her eyes open even though they stung from the wind ripping every bit of moisture out of them. If I don’t vomit now, it will be a miracle, Phoebe found herself thinking desperately, while Scott yelled obscenities only she could hear.

  The whirlwind’s wild rotational force intensified. After a nausea-inducing minute, which felt like an eternity to Phoebe, Scott’s grip on her neck began to loosen. It was as though strong, icy, invisible fingers were prying their bodies apart. They spun faster and faster, and faster still, the wind turning them head over heels.

  Scott’s hold broke. Afua converted into a golden falcon and shot upward, scooping Phoebe, who had been ejected from the whirlwind, under her massive wing. Phoebe took several gulping breaths. It had been a drill the last time she’d been caught by an enormous bird. Now, tucked between Afua’s golden chest and wing, she didn’t want to leave the protective hold.

  Afua landed and Phoebe felt her feet touch the ground. She expected to be dizzy, but she was not. She ran a finger along her neck; the thin wound had started healing. Phoebe released a long exhale as Afua spread her lustrous wings before returning to human form.

  “Bring him down, Yelena,” she commanded, sending Phoebe’s gaze up to Scott who still remained in the whirlwind. He was spinning horizontally now, mouth wide open, hair blown into his eyes.

  Phoebe asked, “How is he still in there when I got tossed out?”

  “Yelena kept a wind hold on him—” Afua broke off. Scott’s arms and legs were jerking about. Then he stopped moving; his body hung limp.

  “Now!” Afua added, a note of urgency in her tone.

  The wailing winds calmed to a soft whir. Scott was floating downward. Phoebe watched as Yelena moved her hands in front of her chest in an alternating fashion; it looked as though the Blackcoat was tugging at a length of rope that only she could see. When the winds dissipated and Scott lay on the ground, it was clear that he was dead.

  Afua swore under her breath.

  “He was as good as dead when your arrows went through him,” Yelena said matter-of-factly, a mild defensive edge to her voice.

  “I know,” Afua said. “But when he sprung up again, I was hoping he’d last long enough for us to question him.”

  Phoebe was staring at the arrows embedded in Scott’s chest when, suddenly, the entire house shook. A deafening explosion of glass followed as a tornado of falcons, hawks, and eagles rushed in from the windows overhead. Phoebe flung her arms up to shield her face from the sharp fragments raining down in all directions. She felt pin pricks of pain as smaller shards lodged into her skin. A swirling sea of gleaming feathers surrounded Phoebe as the birds, landing as one, encircled her. With their chests puffed up, they lifted and lowered their immense wings in a graceful, almost choreographed motion that belied their shrill battle cries. A wall of wings had formed around Phoebe.

  “Break formation,” Afua said, her voice, cutting through the noise. “She’s fine.”

  At those words, bright light pulsed all around Phoebe like giant flashbulbs as one by one the birds changed forms. Phoebe shivered in place. Tears filled her eyes. It was over. As Afua shouted, “Sweep the entire place for anything or anyone that will help lead us to Alexori,” and agents dispersed throughout the house, one thought broke Phoebe from her daze. Colten.

  Phoebe glanced over her shoulder at the mansion whose beautiful exterior had encased terror and fear. She was happy to be leaving. As she walked toward the van waiting to take her back to campus, she inhaled deeply, still unable to detect Colten. When Phoebe had finally been able to make her way up to the room where she’d left him, she’d found the French doors open, the curtains swaying inward, and Colten gone. And as much as she worried about his physical state, at that moment, Phoebe had felt relief in equal measure; Colten’s presence was one less thing for her to have to explain. And his absence also meant that he hadn’t succumbed to his mito withdrawal.

  The wind had grown colder with the dawn, and so when Phoebe climbed into the van, the warmth that met her was almost as welcome as what she saw inside. Leaning against the left side, Mariko sat with her head pillowed on Lewis’s shoulder, her hand laced with his, both of their eyes closed. Phoebe could only imagine the kind of bond that must have formed between them through their shared ordeal. She smiled softly at their slack faces, contented. In the row behind them, a woman with wild black hair sat staring back at Phoebe, tiredly. Something in the shape of her eyes caused Phoebe’s hearts to plummet. And as Phoebe imagined the woman years younger, she came to realize who the real traitor was. The thought of it stung her, causing her hands to clench into fists. Phoebe ached so much for it not to be true that she almost didn’t notice the raven-haired boy at the back, gazing blankly out of the window.

  THIRTY

  Phoebe sat in the back of the chapel, pouring over everything she’d learned in the van ride to campus. At first, she had been entirely shocked to find out that Gabe’s daughter was still alive. Especially considering how the custodian had told her, “Vigos took her from me.” But then Phoebe realized that she’d automatically assumed that Gabe’s daughter had been killed. Even more surprising was the fact that his daughter was Professor Jones, the Understanding Vigos instructor who was believed to be tending to an urgent family matter. “She used to be close enough for me to see her every day,” Gabe had said. Phoebe still couldn’t believe it.

  Now, Phoebe found herself gripping the edge of the pew, watching the bittersweet reunion between father and daughter. Tears were flowing and desperate hugs and kisses being exchanged under careful Blackcoat watch.

  Phoebe wasn’t quite sure why she had come. Perhaps to witness the truth for herself? Or maybe to torture herself. After all, the scene before her eyes reflected a private pain, an unspoken wish she could never realize herself. She froze as Gabe was carted off by a couple of Blackcoats, his sobbing daughter trailing after them. His eyes met Phoebe’s only briefly as he passed and he stopped, said something to a Blackcoat who looked over at Phoebe and nodded. Next thing Phoebe knew, Gabe was seated next to her.

  “She’s the only family I’ve got,” he said quietly with a hint of desperation as he stared down at his bound hands. Phoebe didn’t say anything. “They took her and told me to disable one narthyx entry if I had any hope of seeing her alive.”

  “The one to the Above library.”

  Gabe nodded miserably.

  “It was the next one scheduled for maintenance, so I knew it wouldn’t raise eyebrows if the sensors and cameras were down for a few days. But they wanted more time. When I refused, I received a picture of my daughter, with a message that her freedom would require some sort of big distraction.”

  “The drill was your idea?”

  Gabe squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “It was an easy sell to Professor Yori. He was already on edge because of the soccer game attack and there hadn’t been a drill in a while.” The old man sighed heavily. “I was told that an inside man would contact me with further instructions when the time was right. I was shocked when I was approached by Cadet Roland.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Phoebe’s voice was low and held a scathing edge. She felt for him, but was wracked with resentment for her pain, for Mariko and Lewis. How could he just give them up—the very kids he was there to protect?

  “He gave me a sob story about Vigos kidnapping his parent
s. He had pictures like mine. Pictures of his loved ones in chains. As far as I was concerned, we were in the same boat. Together we came up with a plan. He would isolate Mariko and Lewis, and I would get them ready for pick up.”

  “Pick up?” Phoebe turned the words over in her mouth, hating their business-like tone.

  “There were three large trunks stored in the library narthyx. After the drill, I transported Mariko and Lewis—who Scott had rendered unconscious in a classroom—and put them each in a trunk.”

  “Then what?” Phoebe said, feeling her anger sizzle.

  “I erased the footage from the Eye.”

  “I meant, what did you do with them?” she gritted her teeth.

  “Nothing,” Gabe said. “I was told a courier would pick them up, which actually surprised me because there were no labels of any kind on the trunks—nothing to indicate where they were going.”

  Concierge Courier, Phoebe thought, remembering the guy who had asked for directions to the library. Could I have inadvertently aided in the kidnappings? Phoebe’s stomach churned at the thought.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” Gabe said, softly. “I had no idea this involved you. At least not until they brought you to the Eye. And by then I was in too deep.”

  “Would it have mattered if you’d known?” she lowered her eyes, unable to look at him; the feeling of camaraderie she had felt for Gabe fell through her fingers like sand.

  Gabe was silent. And in that silence, Phoebe knew his answer.

  “I guess I don’t understand,” Phoebe said slowly. “Why didn’t you tell Professor Yori or the Blackcoats about your daughter. You had resources to help find her.”