War of the Networks

by Katie Cross

  “My thoughts are not my own anymore,” I said bitterly. “Mabel sorted through all of them. She knows everything about me, I think.”

  Isadora’s eyes narrowed. “You have done the same to her on some level recently, haven’t you?”

  I swallowed and nodded. “I didn’t plan it,” I said. “It just kind of happened. Both times. The pull of her mind was … strong.”

  “You may have had such a strong connection with Mabel in the cave because you’re both very powerful witches. You perhaps more so than Mabel.”

  My eyes popped wide open. “What? I’m not stronger than her. She’s the Almorran Master. She helped resurrect a dark, ancient magic. I—”

  “Power is more than just the ability to do magic,” she said. “Your natural talents—and extensive training—have kept you alive so far. I call that powerful.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  She smiled. “Don’t disregard who you are—the lines of your family are strong, Bianca. Powerful magic has run through your blood for decades. I knew that the moment I met you.”

  “I don’t know my family. Except for Papa, they’re all gone.”

  “Not all.”

  “What do y—”

  “It’s not for me to tell,” she said, and though my curiosity urged me to press for details, I knew she’d say no more. She drew in a shaky breath, her eyes half closing. She didn’t have much time. I didn’t want to waste it bugging her with questions she wouldn’t answer.

  “You interviewed Mabel, right?” I asked, leaning forward and wrapping my arms around my knees. “She attended Miss Mabel’s School for Girls, which means you must have put her there.”

  “I did. She grew up at the school, but that didn’t guarantee her admission. May privately tutored Mabel until I interviewed her.”

  “What was the interview like?”

  “Come,” she said, beckoning me closer. “And I’ll show you.”

  She put her soft, wrinkled hands on either side of my face. The effort seemed to exhaust her, so I moved in as close as possible. Her hands trembled against my skin.

  “We Watchers have been feared for many centuries because of what we see and what we can do with that information. But what I’ve found through the years is that it’s not so much the possibilities I see that empower me but the details I remember.”

  She closed her eyes, and so did I. Instead of darkness, I saw Mabel’s old office at Miss Mabel’s School for Girls. When I jerked back in surprise, Isadora held me firm in her grasp.

  “Be calm,” she said. “I cannot see into your head. I am simply giving you the chance to see a memory in mine. Parts of what you see will be blurry, but disregard them. My powers as a Watcher cannot be accessed or shared in any form. What you see is the memory I keep; it is true in its entirety. Pay attention.”

  I relaxed. Unlike Mabel’s memories, Isadora’s felt calm.

  It began with Isadora sitting in a familiar office—what would eventually become Mabel’s office. The lackluster decorations—gray drapes, a single wooden chair, and no paintings on the walls—meant it was May’s office, not Mabel’s. Every detail of the memory felt crisp with color and precision, right down to the scratches on the bottom of the desk and the dust motes floating in a sunbeam.

  Mabel sat across from Isadora in a wooden chair. “This school means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Mabel?” Isadora asked, beginning the interview. Isadora’s mind moved quickly, in a blur I couldn’t distinguish, the way she’d warned me. A thought or two trailed out of the madness, running through my mind in Isadora’s voice, which wasn’t quite as creaky back then.

  Very serious for such a young girl. Not much levity in her future.

  Mabel’s face didn’t betray much, even as a young woman. The same glistening gold hair, like threads of sunshine, fell on her shoulders. Her features were softer, younger, less defined, but she still carried herself with an air of confidence far beyond her age. Looking at her in a less powerful state made me uncomfortable. I wanted to pull away from the memory, but I didn’t understand why.

  “No,” Mabel said. Her voice rang clear, almost innocent, without the coy undertones that colored it now. “It’s not the school I care about.”

  There’s no indication in her future that she cares about anything, Isadora thought in surprise. Nothing consistent moves through her paths. Her personality is difficult to decipher; I’m not sure she even knows who she is.

  Isadora’s thoughts shifted in the memory, moving forward into another great blur of color. Her future is decidedly set around the school, Isadora thought. Differing faces, seasons, and times but a sense of attachment that can’t be denied.

  “And you don’t care much to make friends,” Isadora said. Mabel hadn’t moved.

  “No,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t need friends.”

  “Everyone needs friends.”

  Mabel didn’t even flinch. “I’m not everyone.”

  She’s a lonely child. The loneliest I’ve ever met. She must suppress her emotions, pretend they don’t exist through indifference. Perhaps being with other girls her age could change that. Or it may make it worse.

  “You’re very beautiful,” Isadora said. “Is that important to you?”

  “No.”

  “What is important to you?”

  Mabel paused to think, showing her first sign of interest in the interview. Her emotions move so quickly, Isadora thought. There are so many. The greatest of which I can sense is anger. No, not anger. Rage. A penchant for choosing the darkness. I see very little light in her future.

  “Justice,” Mabel finally said.

  “Justice?” A queer response. “Why justice?”

  Mabel shifted, looking uncomfortable for the first time. “Because it proves there is balance in the world. For all the bad that happens, justice provides a path of retribution. Redemption, if you will.”

  Odd, Isadora thought. Such an abstract idea for a young girl. She’s very intelligent. Her grandmother’s school could continue to foster such difficult lines of reasoning.

  “Interesting,” Isadora murmured.

  Mabel waited, staring at Isadora with an unnaturally steady gaze, her hands folded in her lap, her back straight. Her perfect features and impeccable manners lent a tense air to the room. Isadora’s mind spun into another wild blur, leaving the room in silence.

  She will almost always choose the darker path in the future, Isadora thought. Even when an option for good presents itself. She seems to find comfort in anger.

  Isadora shifted in her seat, staring at Mabel, who seemed unbothered by the direct attention.

  There’s much I cannot see, Isadora thought. I don’t know what that means. So many stops, so many blocks in her future that I cannot move around. So much frustration. Where does her path lead? There is so little happiness, so much loneliness.

  But there’s a chance. There’s a small chance she could make friends. She could choose to be happy. Surrounding her with other girls could lead to competition, of course. She may feel even lonelier. But if there’s even a possibility for such a lost child to find her way to light and good, I must give her the opportunity.

  Isadora broke the silence. “You hold on to your emotions with uncanny strength, Mabel. And you have a self-confidence that borders on arrogance. Although you act indifferent, I can sense that you care about many things.”

  Mabel’s thin fingers curled into a fist on top of her dress. The cheap fabric rustled with the movement.

  “You also have a habit of nurturing your anger,” Isadora said. Her brow furrowed. “I cannot understand why.”

  A question lingered in Isadora’s statement, but Mabel made no response. Although I knew it was a memory, my heart pounded. Isadora waited, feeling the situation out, but Mabel offered no answer.

  “You are admitted to Miss Mabel’s School for Girls,” Isadora finally said with a weak note of fatigue in her voice. “I feel it could
be a good opportunity for you.”

  Mabel’s lips curled into a cold, distant smile. She inclined her head, her blonde hair swaying. For the first time since the interview started, she looked pleased.

  The memory faded when Isadora pulled her hands away. Her peaked, ashen face fell back onto the pillow with a sigh. I shook my head, blinking.

  “Are you all right, Isadora?”

  She gave me a weak smile. “Just tired. That required more energy than I remembered. Of course, I’m quite old now. It was much easier to do when I was young.”

  I processed the memory in silence. “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “Everything you observed about her is consistent with what I know from her mind. Angry. Distant. Selfish.”

  Isadora peered deep into my eyes. “And what do you think of your deeper understanding of your greatest enemy?”

  I swallowed, afraid to say what had burdened me for months. “I’m surprised,” I said. “She wasn’t born horrible and evil. I guess I’d always assumed she had been.”

  Isadora shook her head. “No one is born bad, Bianca. They arrive there through complicated paths.”

  I fiddled with a loose thread in the blanket. But why did Mabel have to take the path that killed members of my family? And why do I have to understand her at such a deep level? One that makes me feel a traitorous sense of pity. My deep-rooted hatred and newfound compassion for Mabel tangled themselves again. Only this time, I didn’t know which one was stronger.

  “Mabel and I connected a second time,” I said. “In the Northern Network.”

  “It was different this time, wasn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “A second connection with such a powerful magic would likely produce something deeper. I’m going to guess you saw more than last time.”

  “Yes.”

  “And?” she asked. “What did you see?”

  I related Mabel’s memories in full. Isadora listened quietly until I finished.

  “It’s as I suspected,” she said. Her brow furrowed. “I find it interesting that Mabel replicated her own first challenge when you signed up for the Competition. The challenges are supposed to be new every year. I’m willing to bet she saw something in you that piqued her curiosity. Perhaps she was testing you, seeing what you’d do under similar circumstances.”

  “I won,” I said. “She didn’t.”

  Isadora nodded. “But she could have if May hadn’t gotten in her way. Have you ever thought about the similarities between you and Mabel? Both of you were only children. Both raised by women. Both largely without father figures on a day-to-day basis—although Derek arguably was as good a father as his job allowed him to be. Both of you are extremely intelligent and capable with magic. You have a natural determination to succeed.”

  Isadora’s running list thickened the knot in my throat. I hadn’t analyzed Mabel and myself on such a level, although I wasn’t surprised. Likely I’d already sensed some of our similarities but didn’t want to admit it.

  “One thing, however, separates you and Mabel,” Isadora continued. “You always choose the light. Again and again. While Mabel, in her unloved, vulnerable state, more often sought the darkness. I’m willing to bet that she saw in you what she could have been if she’d chosen differently or if life had given her different circumstances.”

  “That explains why she hates me.”

  Isadora nodded. “Part of the reason. Remember, Mabel was an intense young girl when I first met her. After a time, she didn’t just choose the darkness. She pursued it. I don’t think she feels the need to have a reason to hate anyone.”

  “Well, she found the darkness.”

  Isadora nodded. “Yes. And the darkness found her.”

  “What did you see when you looked into my mind?” I asked, unable to bear another moment discussing Mabel.

  Isadora smiled, dispelling some of the tension. “Nothing that will surprise you,” she said. “I saw a pair of smiling gray eyes and a cottage with a little herb garden. I saw trees and branches and Derek and bare feet running down a trail.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes. Could there be any better representation of my soul than Papa, Letum Wood, and Mama’s eyes? Isadora covered the backs of my hands with her wrinkled fingers. Her touch left a chill on my skin, but her eyes peered into mine with deep, searching intent. A bluish tinge lingered around her lips.

  “You were stronger than Mabel had been when I interviewed you for the Network School, but in a different way,” she said with strained breaths. “That’s why I worried for you. I didn’t know if you’d fight the grief or embrace it like Mabel. You have the ability—and you choose—to love, which explains your tendency toward self-sacrifice and loyalty. It’s something Mabel has never understood, but it is one of your greatest strengths.”

  A single tear slid down my cheek. “Strength or no, it doesn’t matter. She’s threatening to destroy everything. It’s too late.”

  “I don’t believe in too late. I believe in the inherent power of goodness over evil. Fate—”

  “Often takes her own course,” I finished for her, and we both smiled.

  “In the end, Mabel was a child,” Isadora said. “Any girl or woman forced to live under the circumstances that she endured could not emerge unscathed. Her life was a perfect storm. She had powerful blood, a poor environment, and the inclination to choose darkness over light. Underneath all the bad decisions she’s made is a girl who’s not so different from the rest of us.”

  “She’s a witch.”

  “A witch who ached for love,” Isadora said. “And never received it.”

  “Is it possible to feel compassion for someone who has caused me so much pain?” I asked, wiping away a tear.

  “Yes, it is. And it demonstrates the differences between you and Mabel to a sharp degree.”

  “I feel such sadness for her.”

  “As do I.”

  Speaking with Isadora relieved a heavy weight from my chest, and I breathed a bit easier. While I hadn’t truly sorted out how I felt about Mabel, I no longer feared my pity.

  Isadora released a rattling, strained breath. “No matter how dark the night,” she whispered, “morning always comes. And deep inside of you, greater than all the sadness and pain, is a girl who loves the light.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed. She turned her head toward her sister. Sanna’s shoulders moved with her shallow, infrequent breaths.

  “My time here is done, Bianca,” Isadora said with a note of relief, as if she’d been waiting. I cupped her cold hand in both of mine.

  “Are you afraid?” I asked.

  “No. Death is something to respect, not fear. There are witches waiting for me. Witches I love very much. I’ve … I’ve missed my father and mother for a long time. I … look forward to seeing them and Maximillion again.”

  Maximillion? I supposed I hadn’t known Isadora as well as I’d thought. She had a story, a history, just like anyone else. Being present to close the final chapter of her impressive tale felt like a great honor.

  “And Sanna?”

  “She’ll be along,” Isadora said with a sigh. “She never did do things well without me there to supervise, you know. I was always … always the responsible one.”

  Her breathing faded into a staggered rhythm with long gaps between each breath. Every now and then she’d murmur quietly, as if she spoke to someone I couldn’t see. Her twitchy movements slowed until her breath ceased and her hand grew limp. I detected a glimmer of light in her eyes at the moment when our world made way for another.

  “Oh, Papa,” she whispered, slipping away with a peaceful smile on her face.

  “Sister,” Sanna said, twining her quivering hand through Isadora’s. “I … I see you again.”

  Sanna pulled in one last ragged breath and settled into the same eternal slumber. Outside, the red dragon let out a keening wail. Dust rained from the ceiling.

  My heart ached with the familiar pain of loss, only this time it was sweet,
not frightening. I thought of Isadora’s words.

  Death is something to respect, not fear.

  For as little as I knew about death, I imagined something wonderful must lurk behind this life, waiting to welcome us into a better world, if both the sisterwitches died with such fearlessness.

  “Merry part, my friend,” I whispered, my eyes glimmering as I placed Isadora’s hand on her chest. “How I shall miss you.”

  We laid Isadora and Sanna to rest outside Sanna’s small cottage the next day.

  Papa allowed only a few witches to know of Isadora’s rescue and passing. Leda, Stella, Tiberius, Camille, and a few trustworthy Council Members came, all wearing white.

  “Let Mabel think we still have her,” Papa said when I asked him about it over breakfast. “She doesn’t need to know her advantage.”

  Dragons ringed the outer meadow, hiding in shadows. The red dragon took Sanna’s death the hardest. She lay in front of the cottage door, snorting fire and keening deep in her throat. I watched the skies but saw no sign of the blue dragon. Perhaps he slinked among the trees with the rest, mourning in solidarity with the great beasts of the forest. The other dragons circled the castle, flying wide over Chatham City, their yellow eyes narrowed and black scales glinting in the hot sunlight. The rapid approach of the West made them nervous. Losing their Master made them furious.

  Nicolas had already stepped into the role of Dragonmaster with confidence and ease. Considering how little time he’d had to learn from Sanna—just over a year, really—he exuded remarkable certainty.

  “It doesn’t seem fair,” Leda said. We stood side by side, staring at the two mounds of fresh dirt hiding the sisterwitches. No mourner chanted the final farewell. No headstones marked the graves. Such an unobtrusive end to lives so filled with purpose. Stella stood in the middle of the small circle we’d made around the graves and spoke about Sanna. Stella was the only witch who could kindly summarize the brawny old woman’s brazen personality.

  A pervasive kind of numbness had taken over my heart. I’d been through this scenario so many times now, with so many people I cared about, that it seemed like an old, rote memory I kept reliving. At least Isadora left Antebellum yearning for the other side.