[Phoebe Pope 01.0] The Year of Four
Page 37
“I will be when I see you tonight,” he said. “I miss you.”
“Miss you, too.” Phoebe had been counting down the days until December 7. After the fiasco of his movie premiere, they’d agreed to spend a few weeks apart to sell the press and the students of Green Lane Academy on the idea that they’d broken up. The decision had been mutual and it had worked. The magazines had forgotten about Phoebe, instead linking Colten to another bombshell co-star. But in fact, they still planned to be together—only in secret.
“Why are you up?” Phoebe asked. “Isn’t it, like, three A.M. over there?”
“I’ve been doing phone interviews with press in Tokyo,” Colten said. “And I’m in Boston. Got in a day early.”
Phoebe dug her nails into her palm. “In your suite?”
“Yes—everything okay?” Colten said, lowering his voice. “You sound a little—”
“I’m fine,” Phoebe said. “Just thought you were still in LA yesterday.”
“I would’ve called last night but . . . Hey, I’ve gotta go,” he said. “Nicole is giving me the ‘wrap things up’ signal. See you tonight?”
“Our place?”
“Yes. Can’t wait.”
Phoebe hung up and struggled to collect her thoughts. Colten had been in Boston last night. This placed her dream in the realm of possibility. Something like dread stole her breath. Had a new emerging power somehow connected her to Colten? Or had it been a premonition of some coming danger?
Phoebe stood. Her head was throbbing. The cold morning, redolent of pine and wet leaves, soothed her when she stepped outside. Overhead, the sky remained a dark, velvet blanket, as though the sun had refused to awaken from a glorious slumber. Phoebe envied it. She zipped up her jacket, inhaled and brushed loose strands of hair out of her eyes. Phoebe was sure her long red hair, with its prominent white streak, looked disheveled but she’d deal with it later.
“Early morning?” Phoebe turned right as the tall, fine-boned woman stood from her perch on the top step.
Phoebe nodded to the Blackcoat in respect. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“I see,” said Yelena, a soft Russian lilt in her voice. “Heading to the boathouse?”
“Not sure,” Phoebe said. She often sought the campus lake in moments of disquiet—not that Yelena knew the reason—but today she wanted something else.
Phoebe hung her camera around her neck and walked down the steps. As she followed a winding trail toward a copse of trees, the campus deserted so early in the morning, she relished the idea of solitude. But the thought was soon ruined by a crackling noise behind her. Phoebe glanced over her shoulder and found the Blackcoat several paces back. She sighed. It was hard to find inspiration in her photography these days with a member of the elite Royal Security Corps as a constant shadow. Even if that guard looked young enough to pass for a classmate.
“You really don’t have to follow me,” Phoebe said.
“It’s required until all the new sensors are in place . . .”
“But I’m not going out that far,” Phoebe said.
“. . . and the corresponding cameras are fully integrated with the Eye. Should be done tomorrow.”
Phoebe let resignation roll over her. To be fair, Yelena only tailed her this closely when she chose a location other than the boathouse. Phoebe knew her excursions to the more remote parts of the sprawling campus made her more difficult to follow. But these were the areas her feet carried her to, where she found the stillness that prompted her creativity.
Not that it mattered this morning, her strange dream having hijacked her mind. Phoebe needed to talk about it, to figure out if any part of what she’d seen was true, but the one person she could have this conversation with would be busy until the evening.
The leaves at Phoebe’s feet swirled in a strong gust of wind. But the morning, like the fall, was unusually warm, so the chill did not permeate her bones. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder at Yelena, looked forward again, and then stopped walking. Phoebe listened to the wild thumping of her hearts as she considered the question she wanted to ask. Perhaps it was a foolish thing to do, but by the time Yelena reached her, Phoebe could no longer contain her burning curiosity.
“Ma’am?” Phoebe asked.
“Yes, Cadet?”
“Does the name Mercury mean anything to you?” said Phoebe, with a half glance at Yelena.
Her mouth dropped slightly open. “Where did you hear this name?” said Yelena once she’d recovered her composure.
“I think I heard her name at the crèche,” Phoebe said, feeling the lie in her words. “Some things are coming back to me.”
Yelena raised an eyebrow. “Mercury is a female?”
“I think so.” Phoebe didn’t meet Yelena’s eyes. “Is Mercury supposed to be male?”
“There’s little intel on Mercury,” Yelena said, and added, seriously, “because there are never loose ends. I’m surprised local Vigos have discovered the assassin is a woman.”
“So she’s definitely Vigo?”
“Yes,” Yelena said. “And there are high-profile Vigo assassinations credited to Mercury. So—”
“They want to know her identity too,” Phoebe finished, her mind spinning.
“Yes.”
“Who does she work for?”
“We don’t know. Mercury is an equal opportunity assassin. Vigos, Shapers, humans—the patterns and motives have been hard to pin down. Think,” Yelena said, her blue eyes fixed on Phoebe’s. “Did you hear anything else?”
“No,” Phoebe said. Feeling guilty that this conversation was based on fabrication—especially since Yelena was just trying to protect their fellow Shapers—she added, “Sorry. My time at the crèche was hazy. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s important that you did,” Yelena said. She waved at a distant jogger, who veered off his path and ran toward them. “If what you say is true, I must add it to our Blackcoat Intelligence Report immediately. We believe Mercury is the assassin who killed the king.”
Phoebe was startled by this, and for a second felt numb. She didn’t follow royal life or politics like her friend Hayley Corman did, but everyone remembered the stunning announcement of the king’s death years ago. The incident had kept her father busy for months. He and other Shaper Intelligence Service agents had been pulled off of their assignments to assist in combing through all available intel. The SIS believed that a lone assassin had bested the royal guards and killed the monarch in his private chambers. The follow-up questions on the tip of Phoebe’s lips dissolved when the jogger arrived.
“This is Agent Rodriguez,” Yelena said. “He was one of the local agents on your red carpet security detail and we’ve pulled him again for campus work. He’ll cover you from this point.”
Agent Rodriguez nodded at Phoebe and Yelena in turn. When Yelena returned the gesture, he drew himself up proudly, standing at attention. He was sweating, his long brown hair lying wet against his forehead.
“Why do I need a replacement guard?” Phoebe asked.
“Because I need to report this new information, and you cannot be left on your own,” said Yelena. To Agent Rodriguez, she said, “This one likes to wander. Keep close.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Agent Rodriguez, wiping his brow on his sleeve.
Phoebe’s gaze tracked the Blackcoat as she strode off down the path back toward the dorms. A heavy dread settled in the pit of her stomach. Blackcoat Intelligence Reports? The king’s assassination? Had it been wise to mention Mercury to Yelena? A BIR would soon be updated with intel she’d gleaned from a dream. Then again, Yelena had just told her that a Vigo named Mercury did exist—a fact Phoebe found troubling in itself. She’d have to bring all this up with Colten. Only he could confirm her dream as truth.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes the time and support of a small village of enthusiasts to get a novel published. First off, I must give love and thanks to my husband, Al, who read every single version of this book, and without whom Phoebe Pope’s adventure would never have made it out of my head; my family and my in-laws, for cheering me on. And to Mrs. Coon, my high school English teacher, who asked my fifteen-year-old self to consider the idea of one day becoming a writer.
Thanks to Jenn for our Inner Sunset critique sessions over crepes and coffee. To Sam and Hayley for giving my story-telling imagination a workout when you were young kids. Big warm hugs to my early draft readers: Mom, Al, Mrs. Coon, Afua, Nancy, Jenn and Ernest.
In addition, I’d like to thank the professionals who brought technical and creative expertise to this novel: for editing, Jaimee Garbacik; for copyediting, Carin Siegfried; for cover art, Damonza.com; and for illustrations, Coby L. Cyr.
And to the global village of readers, thank you for choosing to spend your time with my novel.