Raging Light

by Kyla Stone

  Gabriel wrapped the knife Cleo had given him yesterday afternoon in a soft cloth and placed it carefully in his pack. “It has a nice, even weight,” she’d told him in the hospital with a wry smile. “Good for throwing.”

  She’d been discharged yesterday after a minor surgery to repair the bullet damage to her intestinal wall and stomach muscles. Because she hadn’t actually thrown the knife at Sloane, the Council had shown mercy, choosing to look the other way this once. After all, in that moment, everyone in the Sanctuary had wanted to kill Sloane.

  “I’m glad you aren’t dead,” Gabriel said.

  Cleo winced as she eased into a sitting position on the hospital bed, her hand pressed to the white bandage wrapped around her midsection. She’d refused to wear a medical gown, and was dressed in one of her favorite black, tight-fitting outfits Theo had brought for her. “I’m too stubborn to die.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So is she,” Celeste chirped from her chair beside Cleo. She was curled up with a cashmere blanket, her right hand placed beneath a small whirring machine set on the table next to the bed. Tiny jets sprayed a perfect manicure in glossy pomegranate-red. Electric candles and incense sticks cluttered the table. The scent of toasted cinnamon and vanilla filled the room.

  “Good to see you, Celeste,” Gabriel said. She fluttered her eyelashes at him, but her grin was full and genuine.

  “She refuses to give me a moment of peace,” Cleo grumbled. “She and Theo are driving me insane.”

  Celeste lifted one elegant shoulder and shifted her beaming smile to Cleo. “You know you love it.”

  Cleo bit her bottom lip and frowned, embarrassed. But she gave no harsh retort. When she glanced at Celeste, the hard planes of her face softened somehow.

  Celeste slipped her hand from the manicure machine, gracefully unfolded her long limbs, and stood. She was still wearing those white stiletto boots that made her taller than Gabriel. “I’m starving. I’ll go order something decent, not that hospital printed crap.” She blew on her fingernails as she sashayed out of the room. She paused in the doorway and winked at Cleo. “Remember what we talked about. No violence until you’ve fully recovered.”

  Gabriel watched her go before turning back to Cleo. “She’s good for you.”

  Cleo grunted. After a moment, she said, “I don’t know how to do this, any of it.” She gestured helplessly in the air, as if encompassing Celeste, Gabriel, all of mankind.

  “You’ll get it.”

  “I don’t know if I can.” Cleo pushed her braids over her shoulder and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. She looked down at the tiled floor for a moment. Her fingers clenched the thin sheets. There was something in her face—a rawness he hadn’t seen before. “What am I going to do?” she asked bitterly. “There’s no place for me. I was made for war, not for peace.”

  “You can make a place,” Gabriel said. “You’re a warrior, but you’re also a human being. You alone get to choose how you build the rest of your life. With hatred and bitterness and violence, or with something else. I chose something else. So can you.”

  She looked at him again with an edge in her expression. It wasn’t so much hostile as haunted. A hint of vulnerability flashed in those dark eyes.

  The puckered flesh of her scar, ridged and wrinkled and shiny, pulled at the undamaged skin around her left eye and tugged down the corner of her mouth. Maybe that was why she scowled so much. People assumed she did anyway; she might as well make it true. But it didn’t have to be that way anymore.

  “Besides,” he said, “this peace doesn’t mean the end of conflict or threat. The world is still dangerous. Outside these walls, things are still broken and chaotic. The Pyros are out there. The Sanctuary still needs protectors.

  “But you have to decide what you’re going to fight for. For life, for hope, for good, or for vengeance and destruction. No one can make that choice for you. No one can take it from you. It’s yours to make.”

  She gave a short, sharp nod. The corner of her mouth twitched, as if she wanted to smile at him but wasn’t ready yet. But she would be.

  Cleo had a long road ahead of her. But she would find her way.

  So would Gabriel.

  “I don’t understand,” Micah said now, staring at him in frustration, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He shoved them back into place with a frown. “We’ve finally found a home. How can you leave?”

  Gabriel smiled ruefully. “Home isn’t a place.” He stood and faced Micah. An unruly wave of hair spilled over his forehead. His face was leaner, Gabriel realized. His cheeks weren’t as full or boyish. His brother was as tall as he was now, broad-shouldered and strong. In these last six months, his little brother had become a man almost without Gabriel noticing. He looked like the man he was—strong, capable, brave. Gabriel tapped his brother’s chest with his finger. “It’s here. It’s with the people you love.”

  “Here is where we are.”

  Gabriel swallowed again, shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Micah’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “What about Amelia?”

  Gabriel managed a pained smile. It hurt. It hurt all the way through him. But he was no stranger to pain. He would get through it. “You’re a better person than I’ll ever be, Micah. I know you’ll take care of her. And she’ll take care of you.” He shrugged, hiding the hurt. “What more could I ask from the two people I love most in the world?”

  Micah gaped at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I need time.” He would never harbor jealousy or resentment against Micah. He knew his brother loved Amelia, and that she loved him. He’d seen it on her face when she’d regained consciousness after her seizure. It was Micah she looked for first.

  Gabriel loved them both. How could he not want joy and happiness for them?

  But another part of him was heartbroken. He would get over her, someday. But he needed time. He needed space. He needed something more.

  He shoved his hand in his pocket and closed his fist around Nadira’s blue cloth. “I need a purpose.”

  Micah frowned, still not understanding. “What do you mean?”

  Yesterday, Gabriel had met with Senator López. He had gone before the Council and explained everything he’d done—the good and the bad, everything. He was waiting for their response.

  “You should probably put me in prison,” Gabriel had said to López as they strolled through the gardens in one of the biodomes behind city hall.

  López raised his thick, silver eyebrows. “Probably?”

  With a pang, he thought of how Jericho had sworn to bring him to justice. “I know what I did. Everything I’ve done since—it doesn’t make up for my part in the Grand Voyager. I know that.”

  “Justice can be a funny thing,” López said. “It can mean different things to different people. Not the term itself, but in how it should be meted out.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “There’s so much work to be done, here and everywhere. We have people to save. A civilization to rebuild. It seems such a shame to lock up a contributing citizen when we have so few. Especially one who has proven himself to be exemplary.”

  Shame ate at him. “I am not, sir. I assure you—”

  “Don’t forget,” López said sternly. “I was there. Do not undermine the gravity of my words with excuses.”

  Gabriel’s cheeks reddened. He felt like a chastised child. “Of course, sir.”

  López folded his hands behind his back and turned to face him. “The Council asked me to relay our decision. We sentence you to nine years, to be completed by your thirtieth birthday.”

  Gabriel’s heart sank, but he nodded. He was willing to take full responsibility, to make amends, no matter the cost.

  “The sentence is to be carried out as the Sanctuary Council sees fit. However, the Council has requested your input in this decision.”

  Gabriel jerked his head up, confused. “Sir?”

  “H
ow would you choose to spend those nine years, Gabriel? How best do you think you might contribute to the rebuilding of society, to remaking this world into a better place for everyone?”

  Gabriel hadn’t been able to keep the grin off his face. He had known exactly what he wanted to do. What Nadira would have wanted him to do.

  Now, Gabriel knelt and unpacked an insulated medical case from his backpack. He opened it and showed Micah the rows of sealed vials. Half of them were sealed with blue lids, the other half, red. “The vaccine for the uninfected. The cure for the infected.”

  Micah stared down at them. He adjusted his glasses, blinking rapidly. “You’re going out into the world. You’re going to find survivors. To give them the cure.”

  Gabriel fought the growing lump in his throat. This wouldn’t be easy. But it was the right thing to do. It was redemption. “I need to do this.”

  Micah nodded, finally understanding. “You’ll come back.”

  “I’ll always come back.” He hadn’t been separated from his brother for more than a few days since Micah had been born, except for his short jaunt on the Grand Voyager before Micah joined him. “Maybe one of these times, when you get bored of this place, you can come with me.”

  “I will,” Micah said.

  Gabriel pulled his brother into a tight embrace. “Just us,” he whispered.

  When Micah smiled, it was through bittersweet tears. “Always.”

  38

  Amelia

  “Can we talk?” Gabriel asked.

  Amelia sat on the top step of the capitol’s marble staircase, staring out at the lush green of Unity Square. It was the first week of March, and the snow had mostly melted. A few children chased each other around the manicured hedges rimming the perimeter.

  It was hard to believe that only a few weeks ago, the snow and grass were stained red with the blood of resistance fighters and Coalition soldiers alike. Hard to believe that she and Gabriel had stood here at gunpoint while President Sloane screamed for their heads.

  Harder still to believe that it was finally over.

  Her gaze lifted to the ramparts atop the plasma wall in the far distance. She still hadn’t forced herself to step foot on the spot where Silas had given his life. Soon. But not yet.

  “He died a hero,” Gabriel said gruffly.

  She nodded, unable to reply.

  “I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” he said after a moment.

  Her gaze snapped to his, her heart in her throat. She didn’t want to say goodbye to him, not ever. But she had no right to say that. “Gabriel—”

  “I’m not asking you to say anything in return. I just need you to know that I love you.”

  Love was a thing with many sides, as deep as the ocean and as faceted as a diamond. Love could hurt. It could cut.

  Sometimes, it was toxic. And sometimes, you could love someone and know in your deepest heart that that love wasn’t the best thing for you, that you were meant for something else.

  You could love someone and still not choose them.

  Looking up at him, Amelia realized the truth. She couldn’t choose him. Because she was stronger now. And sometimes, part of all that was knowing better than your feelings.

  Gabriel had made some of those scars on her heart. There were some things even forgiveness couldn’t overcome.

  It was all complex and complicated. But she knew—in some deep, still place inside of her—that to go back to him would be a betrayal of her own self.

  And that was something she could not do.

  “I know,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me. I can see it in your eyes.”

  She didn’t apologize. She had nothing to apologize for.

  It saddened her all the same to see the pain in his eyes, the pain reflected in her own heart, to recognize everything that could have been, but wasn’t, could never be.

  But she was okay with that.

  “I will never stop loving you,” he said in a husky voice. “But Micah is good for you. He’s better for you.”

  Her chest filled with a rush of warmth. She still cared deeply for him. She always would. Friendship was another form of love. Not a lesser form, but different. It was just as real, just as powerful. “I never thought you’d change. But you proved me wrong. You’re a good man, Gabriel.”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “Friends?”

  She smiled back. “We already are.”

  After dinner that evening, Amelia took a walk around the square. She wore a pair of comfortable jeans and a T-shirt. The air still had a bite to it, especially at night, but she welcomed the chilly breeze on her bare skin. It woke up her senses, started to make her feel alive again.

  Though curfew had officially been abolished, most people were still inside by the time the stars winked into existence. A dog barked somewhere, insects buzzed, and some small creature rustled the hedge beside her. Mostly, it was quiet out here.

  The moon was a sliver of silver in the indigo sky, the stars sparkling like glitter. They were so bright, so close she could almost reach out and touch them. She needed this. Her broken heart needed this, needed to know there was still beauty in the world, waiting for her to find it.

  She’d only gone a fourth of the way when Micah found her. “I have something for you,” he said, his expression hesitant. He hid something behind his back.

  Amelia turned to face him. She could still make out his familiar features in the gathering twilight. Around the perimeter of the square, the cozy glow of lit windows radiated through the night. The mountains were the barest shadows, reduced to immense shapes blotting out sections of the sky.

  He held it out to her. It was a thin print book—Suzuki for Beginners, Book One emblazoned on the front. She couldn’t breathe for a moment for the grief pounding through her, endless as waves against the shore. “I told you, Micah. I—I can’t play.”

  His smile faltered, but only slightly. He didn’t drop his hands. “There’s a woman here who works with the hydroponic farms. Her name is Daisy Bradshaw. She’s about seventy now. She used to play the violin. Thirty years ago, she played with the Chicago Symphony.”

  Amelia stared at him, still not sure she understood.

  “When she retired, she taught students whose parents wanted them to learn real music, real passion. She said she can work with you, to find a way to play, even with the tremors. It won’t be perfect, but it will be something. She’ll teach you from the beginning. Note by note.”

  She bowed her head. She looked at her fingers, at the permanent indentations, a reminder of a lifetime dedicated to a song she could no longer play. Her fingers looked fine until she tried to use them. She curled her fingers into fists as that strange tremor pulsed through her hands. A deep, overwhelming sense of loss cascaded through her.

  Micah took a step toward her. His eyes were so full of hope and eager determination that she thought her heart would crack into even more pieces. “Your music is in your heart, your head, your soul. You can find your way back.”

  “Do you think it’s possible?” she whispered.

  “I do. You can. We can. Note by note. Step by step. Brick by brick. It’s how we learn to walk, to trust, to love. It’s how we rebuild the world.”

  Her cheeks were wet. She didn’t know when that had happened. “Thank you.”

  Twilight faded into night. The Sanctuary’s automated lampposts switched on, bathing them both in a soft yellow haze. Micah stood motionless, the book in one hand, the other half-raised, inches from her face. She felt the distance between their skin like static electricity.

  “I told you once I wouldn’t touch you without your permission, do you remember?”

  “That was before Sweet Creek farm,” she said, “before everything.”

  “I love you,” he blurted. “I’ve been wanting to tell you but I didn’t think—I would never hurt Gabriel, but he said—he told me I should, that he wanted us to be together, if that’s what you wanted…”

  She sta
red at him, unable for a moment to speak. Her heart was thudding in her ears, her throat, the tips of her fingers.

  He was still sweet, steady, reliable Micah, the rock she could always turn to and depend on, but suddenly he was more. His eyes were warm and dark, fringed with long lashes, his mouth slightly parted as he watched her. His unruly hair curled over his ears. His skin was a flawless bronze in the soft lamplight.

  Her heart filled with so many emotions she could barely sort through them all: Warmth, gratitude, affection, longing. Love.

  It had taken time to figure out just what kind of love it was, a precious friendship deepening into something else, something more. During the time they’d been separated these last several weeks, she’d missed him with every cell in her body.

  She did love him. All this time, she’d loved him. So many other things had gotten in the way—trying to stay alive, for one—but beneath it all, like a steady heartbeat, she’d loved him.

  Maybe sometimes it took an absence for a heart to realize the shape of the thing it was missing.

  “I’ve wanted to tell you,” he said softly, his voice thick, “so many times.”

  A shadow of that old fear whispered through her. She stiffened. “I’m not whole,” she said. “Some things are still so hard. I’m broken, damaged. I’m not perfect. I’m not—”

  “There’s a Leonard Cohen poem,” Micah said. “‘There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.’”

  Micah understood her. He’d always understood. He understood her pain, her fear, but also her strength, her music, her passion. And because he understood, he’d waited.

  Because he’d never tried to take this choice—or any choice—away from her.

  He shifted anxiously. “I never wanted you to feel—”

  She arched onto her tiptoes and kissed him.