Kiss Kiss

by Various Authors

  “Well, I thought long and hard about this, but I wanted to discuss it with you first,” she says as though she’s going to present an offer.

  “And what’s that, exactly?”

  “It would be so easy to run tell Bishop what I saw between you and Turner, but where would be the fun in that?” she considers with a malicious chuckle.

  “I don’t know what you think you saw but nothing happened.”

  “I know what I saw, and when I investigated further, Bishop informed me that you spent that evening with your aunt. So I think he’d be surprised to learn the truth. Don’t you?”

  “What do you want?” My cool facade’s crumbling fast.

  “You know what I want.”

  “I already told you, I don’t know anything about your stupid rock.”

  “I understand,” she says with fake sympathy, “but you will. And more importantly, you’ll find it, or I’ll tell Bishop the truth.” Her voice sings with evil excitement.

  “I don’t even know what the thing looks like.”

  “We’ll chat later.” She walks away, waving over her shoulder and disappears.

  Bishop appears next to me and crouches down to open the box I pulled from the shelves.

  “What was that about?” he asks, as he pops the latch and raises the lid.

  “Nothing, you know how she is. Blah, blah, blah, where’s my crystal?” I say, hoping to appear unfazed.

  “Right. Are you sure you don’t want me to say anything?”

  I crouch next to him. “Positive. There’s nothing I can do any—”

  A forceful explosion rips through the air, tossing Bishop and me across the room. We crash into a shelf of relics and fall into a heap on the dusty floor.

  ::23::

  An Attack

  Shelves collapse over us. Clay pots, glass miniatures, and thousand-year-old relics smash, shattering on the floor. Bishop wraps his arms around my body and drags me away from the debris. Thick green smoke with the smell of rotting garbage makes visibility difficult. Students scream in the distance. Shocked and confused, I don’t understand what’s happening.

  I lift myself, pulling away from Bishop, but there’s nowhere to go. We’re stuck underneath a wooden teepee made of archive shelving.

  “We need to get out of here!” I’m forced to yell because of the din that surrounds us. People are screaming, some in pain. Others add to the cacophony with grunts, thuds, and crashes. The sounds of combat.

  “You’re hurt,” Bishop says. I look down. Blood soaks through my sleeve. Now that I see it, pain shoots through my arm. Bishop props me against the wall, rips off a piece of his shirt, and wraps it around my wound, tying the fabric in a tight knot.

  “We need to keep pressure on it.” He squeezes.

  “It’s nothing, really, we need to help!”

  The screaming and sounds of fighting continue. We hear shouting, as more people arrive, hopefully the Society Security, the ones sent to protect us. Bishop and I push the bookshelves, attempting to lift them, but they won’t budge, not one inch.

  “Over there!” I point to a small opening. “I think we can crawl through.” I scramble on hands and knees, ignoring the pain.

  I crawl through the newly made tunnel of shelves that runs along the outer walls of the Relic Archives. Near the end, I squeeze through a smaller opening, scraping my bad arm on the edge of a shelf, and pull myself into the open air. The putrid smoke has cleared somewhat, allowing more visibility. We’re at the back of the archives, far from the fighting.

  I race to the combat zone and immediately collide with a foul-smelling man, whom I can only presume is a member of the Underground. He takes a quick whack at me with his club, engaging me in battle. I land a few decent blows before Bishop hurls me out of the way, taking my place.

  Atticus flies across the room, landing nearby. A woman covered in tattoos and piercings jumps him and pounds his head. I leap with a running start and launch my feet at her body. Upon impact, she soars through the air.

  Like a cat, she lands on her feet. She turns her attention to me, leaving Atticus out of harm’s way. She attacks, lodging her shoulder into my stomach, ramming me until my back crashes against the wall. The impact knocks the air out of me. Her hands clench my neck and squeeze. I kick and thrash, doing anything I can to push her away, but my vision begins to blur.

  I stab my thumbs into her eyes. She falters, and then I jab a knee into her rib cage. She steps away, screaming in pain, and I slam my elbow into her chest for another blow. This sends her back a few paces, but she’s the resilient type. Even though her eyes are bleeding, she charges again.

  Punch. Jab. Kick. Spin. My fist shatters her face several times. And then, when I momentarily have the upper hand, I consider her weakness. It’s staring me in the face, literally shining. I grab the chain connected from her nose to her earring and rip it from her skin.

  She screams in hideous pain, simultaneously grabbing her head and ear. One last swift kick sends her hurling across the room. She plunges back, smashing her head onto the rubble. Her lifeless body dangles over a shelf.

  When I spin to see how I can help the next person, I notice Ms. Swift standing in the war zone, machete in hand, smiling. She’s seen what I can do and now, I realize, so has Bishop. The adrenaline that’s been surging through my veins while fighting turns heavy like a drug. The high crashes into a depressing low. I turn, searching for Bishop, immediately wanting to explain myself.

  The foul-smelling man clenches Bishop in a headlock; I hurdle over debris to come to his aid. Angry, I throw my knee into the man’s lower back. There’s a sickly crack of his spine. The man folds in half backward before he hits the ground. Bishop rolls away and leaps to his feet, safe. I run to him and throw my arms around his shoulders, but the moment is short. He jolts, then pulls himself away and jerks his head from side to side, scanning the rubble.

  “Sam!” Bishop screams. He takes off looking for her, searching for her familiar mind.

  The smoke has completely cleared, and I can see that the fighting has mostly stopped. Society guards have overwhelmed the surviving Underground stragglers and work to restrain them. Students lie scattered around the floor, some moaning. With so many bodies, I don’t even know what to do first.

  I panic.

  I run to the person lying closest to me. Atticus. I hadn’t noticed how bad his injuries were before, but now I see. He’s bruised and bloody, barely alive. Scarlett lays nearby, a lump on the ground. She’s still breathing, but her arm is mangled and broken. Agnes rushes to their aid, but she can barely contain her tears.

  The room becomes crowded as teachers and school medics stream in, ready to help.

  In the distance, Bishop lifts Sam upright. I breathe in relief, happy for her safety.

  “Sera,” a weak, but familiar, voice says. My eyes search for Macey. Her bloody hand reaches for me.

  “Mace!” I climb over mounds of debris, making my way to her.

  Her lower body is pinned under a large bookcase. I strain to lift it, but it’s too heavy.

  “Bishop!” I yell. “Help, someone!” Several hands come to my aid, and together we lift the massive shelf. I let them hold the considerable weight momentarily while I crouch down to pull her out from the rubble.

  “Does anything hurt?” I lean down to her and stroke her hair to keep her calm as I quickly try to assess her injuries.

  “Think I’m okay, but Quinn. His leg is stuck under a rock, over there somewhere.” She points.

  I jump over her and yell his name.

  A cracked voice croaks from behind a pile of debris.

  “Quinn?”

  I rush to him and lean into a rock that once lined the wall, pushing it off his leg with all my weight. Quinn screams in horrific pain. A Society medic arrives and immediately kneels down to help him. I step out of the way and turn to scan the room for others needing help.

  My heart races when I see Turner. He’s wounded, sitting propped up in the cor
ner with Sam just arriving to help him. I rush to him and drop to my knees. There’s a bloody gash in his shirt, several inches long.

  “You weren’t even in this class. How did you get hurt?” When I lift his shirt, I see his skin is a gnarled, bloody mess.

  He and Sam exchange a look that I can’t make sense of. I gently touch the wounded area and Turner screams. “Sam, go find help,” I say. She nods and scampers away.

  “Well? Why are you here?” I shrug out of my vest, then bundle the fabric, pressing it firmly over his wound to stem the blood loss.

  “To protect,” he moans.

  Bishop appears. “Sera, go have the school nurse look at your arm. I’ll take care of Turner.” He lifts me up and pushes me aside.

  “I’m fine!” I glance down at my arm. It’s worse than before. Blood drains from my face, sending cold chills racing down my back. My body temperature drops, causing gray dots to multiply before my eyes. Finally, my world turns to dark silence.

  ::24::

  Aftermath

  I wake in a makeshift hospital. At least fifty temporary cots line a hallway of the Academy. I look down. My arm is clean and bandaged. Sam sits at the end of the cot, rolling her long braid between her fingers.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.” I sit up, still feeling woozy.

  “You blacked out, probably from shock.”

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet skimming the floor.

  “Is everyone all right?” Visions of several injured students, Macey, Quinn, Atticus, and Turner, flash through my mind.

  “They’ll be fine,” she assures me. “You should lay back down and rest.”

  I look around, too angry to relax.

  Nearby, Terease stands at a hole in the wall the size of a small car. Stones crumble at its edges as though it were blasted through with explosives. The mound of debris behind it used to be someone’s apartment.

  Because I can’t contain my anger, I stand and stomp toward Terease. She’s speaking with a Society soldier. “Why did the Underground do this?” I interrupt.

  “That’s none of your concern,” Terease snaps.

  “Look around you! My friends are hurt. It concerns all of us! I think it’s time you really start explaining what’s going on!” I yell.

  She narrows her eyes, holding her usual air of superiority, giving herself several seconds before she responds. “Yes, you’re right. I suppose it’s time to stop sheltering all of you. We’ll make arrangements for an assembly as soon as we’re organized and secure.”

  Shocked at Terease’s willingness to agree, I only nod. I had prepared myself mentally for an argument. Disregarding me, she returns to her conversation with the soldier. Sam grabs my shoulders and guides me back to the cot.

  “Just rest a little longer,” she urges.

  I do as she says and rest with my eyes shut, pretending to sleep. When I sense Sam leave, I sit up again and scan the students sleeping on nearby cots. None of them are my close friends, and none are Turner.

  I stand and explore the halls, assessing the devastation. Most of it appears internal. The Underground ransacked the school looking for something. With the amount of damage, I realize the fighting must have gone on well before they found their way to the Relic Archives. We just never heard the commotion so deep underground.

  Society soldiers guard every exit. They’ve sent more since the attack. I manage to find a window to peek out. Hundreds of people mill around the courtyard. Most of them appear to be reporters, police officers, or emergency personnel.

  Mr. Evanston, the headmaster of the Academy, stands outside giving some kind of media conference—damage control. Who knows what lies he’s telling the Normals to cover up an attack of this magnitude. How will they keep the Feds from investigating? The Society probably has people on the inside there, too. Wanderer double agents, just to smooth over incidents like this—scary, but probably true.

  After a while, I find Bishop sitting on the floor, shoulders slumped, leaning heavily against the wall behind him. He’s staring blankly at a painting in the main atrium. I drop to the floor beside him, cuddling into his side, and he pulls me close. Students shuffle past, some covered in stone dust and with minor injuries that have been attended to; others are in better shape, but wear the same dazed expression. Like me, they’re probably struggling to find answers to the purpose of this chaos and destruction. Why? Why would the Underground do this? We’re just a school, nothing in the grand scheme of things. What were they looking for?

  “How are you feeling?” Bishop gently runs his fingers around the edge of my tangled hair.

  “Not great,” I admit with a sigh.

  “Sam told me you were resting.”

  “Too upset.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he mumbles.

  “How’s Turner?”

  He stiffens slightly at Turner’s name. “At the hospital, getting stitched up and pumped full of antibiotics, but he’ll be fine. Our father’s traveling from London to be with him.”

  “And everyone else?”

  “Quinn, Scarlett, and Atticus are at the Normals’ hospital, as well. Their injuries were too severe to treat here. But everyone will be okay. The Society soldiers fought off most of the attack until the Underground snuck into the archives. That’s where most of the students were hurt.” He pauses thoughtfully. “You fought very well,” he says softly and looks away.

  “Yeah,” I mumble. I hide my eyes in the curve of his neck. I hadn’t thought my actions through; I just jumped in to help. He knows now, finally, that I’m a good fighter. After all, he’s seen me in action.

  “I’m glad,” he says and kisses my forehead. He gives me a weary hug and says no more. But I know he’s hurt. Not in the way a Normal’s pride would be, but only in the way a Protector can be. Still, I always underestimate his selflessness. He just lets his troubled feelings go—for me. Everything he does is for me.

  He’s too good for me because, even now, I can’t bring myself to tell him about my mom, to tell him she’s alive, and that I want to go back and kick Cece’s butt to save her. With this attack, my resolve is even stronger.

  ::25::

  Two Hearts

  For the second night in a row, I’m thrust out of a restless sleep. A sheen of chilly sweat encases my body. The hair at the nape of my neck is soaked and coiled around my shoulder and onto my back. The contrapulator, sensing my elevated heart rate, turns off, and I remove the attached headphones from my ears.

  Sitting up, I squint at the antique clock—just past three in the morning. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying as I have many times before to rub the thoughts of the attack and every other problem I’ve created for myself out of my head. But they’re lodged there, tormenting me.

  Before I can allow the memories to encroach further, I roll out of bed and change my clothes. Sam and Bishop are asleep in their rooms when I slip out the front door. There’s only one place that can alleviate the nightmares. The only place I feel stronger and in control—the defense training room.

  •

  I pace the room, lunging and swiping a sword through the air while the hologram machine counts down, starting from five. When the electrical current flutters, stimulating a solid mass into being, I’m hoping to fight something mean and nasty to get my mind off things. But I quickly realize that Turner’s changed all my training holograms—not just the new ones. I should have expected it. I huff in annoyance and collapse to the floor, frustrated.

  Hologram Turner turns and smiles. He strolls forward and sits on the floor in front of me. In real life, he’s in the hospital, the gash in his abdomen too serious for him to be released yet.

  “I thought you might drop in here again.” He smirks.

  “Yes, but I didn’t know I’d be forced to face you every time. Where are my old training holograms?”

  “Gone. I needed to make sure I had a chance to apologize.” He plays with his cuff, acting more vulnerable tha
n I’ve ever seen him. Maybe Hologram Turner is better than the real thing.

  “So I’m supposed to accept an apology from a hologram?” I snort.

  “It’s still me.” He looks up from under his dark lashes.

  “I can’t wait to hear this, go ahead.” I gesture to him, playing along.

  He pauses, considering his words. “How can you blame me—for wanting to be near you—for wanting to love you? Is that such a crime?” he asks seriously.

  I look around, uncomfortable. He’s so much freer with his emotions, so eager to get them off his chest. Unlike Bishop, who took months to tell me he loved me, Turner says the words easily but with the same conviction. “That’s a strange apology.”

  “Well, it’s the truth. I guess it’s not really an apology. How can I apologize for loving you?” he asks, holding my gaze with his.

  I sigh heavily and drop my shoulders, finding myself feeling sorry for him. “I’m sorry. It just can’t be.” Sam’s right. I need to stay away from him.

  “You realize,” he pauses, “it won’t change the way I feel. I can’t change it.”

  “Find someone else,” I blurt.

  “It would only mask the truth.”

  “So then, what? What do you suggest?”

  “I suggest nothing.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes as he says softly, “I’m with you, or I’m nothing.”

  Just as I reach out to comfort him, he says, more firmly, “You win.”

  My fingers sizzle with the electricity of the fleeting hologram. His mass shimmers, sparkling in air, and Hologram Turner disappears.

  All alone, I scream from sadness and frustration. I’m hurting someone and there’s nothing I can do about it. In fact, Turner’s letting me hurt him, and I don’t even understand why.

  I clench my fists until my nails cut into my palms.

  “Volta Swift!” I scream.

  “Volta Swift,” the hologram machine repeats calmly. “Locating routines now.” The machine scrolls. “Hologram—number—fifty—requires no weapons—hologram starts in—thirty seconds. Safe words are—‘you win.’”