Wicked Glory

by Gladden, DelSheree

  No, really? I keep my sarcastic comments to myself for once. Suppressing the eye roll is a little more of a challenge. “This new training,” I say slowly, “what will it do for me? I know it’s not just about learning control anymore.”

  David looks at me appraisingly, like he might a monkey who just learned to speak. That brings back my desire to kick him, really hard. I don’t know why he thinks I’m so stupid. Just because my school disciplinary record looks more like a rap sheet doesn’t actually mean I’m a delinquent.

  “Are you aware of my private company?” David asks.

  “You have a private company? I thought bossing all the Godlings around was your job.”

  Bristling, just a little, David squares his shoulders. “Serving as the leader of the Godlings is only one of my responsibilities.”

  “What does your company do?” I ask.

  “We provide security for private companies working in militarized areas.”

  I frown at that. Doesn’t really seem like the kind of work David would be into, but okay. I’m sure he’s never the guy out in the desert scoping the surrounding area for explosives or enemy soldiers. His shoes would get too dusty in all that sand.

  “Many of the Godlings who train at the compound apply for positions in my company.”

  Acting has never been my strongest area, but I don’t have to fake a skeptical expression. “You want me to become a soldier for you?” I shake my head. “I want to be a dancer, David, not some gun-toting G.I Jane.”

  “There are many types of positions in my company,” he responds, “and it is because of your dancing that I think you would be a valuable member of my team.”

  “What?” I ask in genuine surprise. “You’ve never seen me dance.”

  David’s expression softens, which is actually pretty freakin’ creepy. When one corner of his mouth turns up, I am seconds away from bolting. His voice breaking the sudden quiet startles me, but his words root me to the bench.

  “I have seen you dance, on several occasions.” His eyes move from whatever he was staring at, down to meet mine. “You are a beautiful dancer. Everything I have been trying to teach you is right there in your dancing. Control, precision, strength, accuracy, focus. There are few things in this world that can hold my attention so completely, but your dancing is everything a Godling should be. You just have to make the same connection in your training as you have in your dancing. When you do…”

  Did David just pay me a compliment? Like real, honest-to-goodness praise? When did he see me dance? He enjoyed it? I honestly can’t even begin to comprehend whether that is a good thing or a bad thing. And why does his approval of my dancing make me feel so weird? People tell me all the time how much they enjoy my dancing, but it’s never felt so… fulfilling. I can’t stand David. I hate everything he stands for. He terrifies me. Yet, I find myself craving his approval, needing it.

  My voice is trembling when I finally manage to say, “If I… if I can make the same connection in my training, what would that mean for me?”

  “What do you think it would mean?”

  A million thoughts run through my mind all at once. It would mean going with David when Grandma dies. It could mean losing Ketchup. It might mean being away from Zander and Oscar. It would mean becoming a Godling. Another thought hits me, and I stumble over it. “It would mean… knowing who and what I really am.”

  “Is that something you want?” David asks, his tone soft and dangerous.

  Swallowing hard, I say, “Yes.”

  “Then let’s not focus so much on what positions you may be offered in a few years. Focus on discovering the truth about yourself.”

  “What if I don’t like what I find out?”

  David’s eyes flash with something feral. My whole body tenses, but I wait for him to respond, needing to hear the answer while fearing it at the same time.

  “I promise,” David says. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  He stands a moment later, waiting for me to do the same. I push myself up slowly. The lingering pain in my arms has mostly been taken care of by my ability to heal. It’s David’s answer that leaves me feeling weak. What if he’s right?

  “Now,” David says, “why don’t I prove to you that I know what I’m doing when it comes to your training?”

  Glad for the change of topics, even if it does mean I’m about to be put through the ringer again, I shrug. “Go ahead and try.”

  Instead of my snarkiness irritating him, he actually seems amused this time. He walks over to a black case he set on the back porch when we first came out, but never opened. Picking it up now, he brings it over to me. Two quick motions unlatch the case, and he lifts the lid to reveal a row of throwing knives. I gape up at him in disbelief.

  “You’re giving me a knife?”

  He laughs. He actually laughs at me. “Yes, I’m sure that’s quite shocking as I’m sure you’ve imagined lodging one of these into my eye on more than one occasion, but I’m willing to take the risk.”

  His eye, his heart, his back… I’ve imagined all kinds of places I’d like to stick a knife in David. As I reach forward and touch the cold steel, I’m not filled with a sense of vengeance so much as I am with excitement. “What do you want me do with it?”

  “Hit the target, if you can,” David says. His condescending tone doesn’t improve his chances of not getting a blade in his thigh.

  “What target?”

  David gestures behind me at the man-shaped sparring dummy that was installed months ago. Zander and I use it to practice patterns and forms on for combat. “Won’t that damage it?”

  Giving me an exasperated look, David shoves me around so I am facing the dummy. “If it would, I wouldn’t be asking you to impale it with knives.”

  Scrunching up my face in annoyance, I shoot him a dirty look before turning my attention to the knives in my hand. All four are identical in size and weight, so I simply pick one and hand the others back to David. My fingers tighten around the handle, but David stops me right away.

  “That’s not how you hold a throwing knife.”

  He doesn’t explain further before snatching the knife out of my hand and flipping it around, so the blade is resting in my palm instead. Won’t it cut me this way? I’d ask, but it’ll only get me a snotty response. David continues to manhandle me anyway, until he has my fingers wrapped around the blade as if I were holding a hammer. I can feel the edges of the blade digging into my skin slightly, but not badly enough to cut me. I’m not sure what to do next.

  I nearly jump out of my skin when David is suddenly behind me, grabbing my arm and walking me through the proper throwing motion. He has to repeat himself at least five times before I catch onto what he’s saying and manage an appropriate response. When he finally steps backs, he has me repeat the motion several times without actually throwing the knife. After a few attempts, he must think I’ve gotten it down well enough, because he backs off a little further. Out of my line of sight, I’m sure.

  “Now, close your eyes.”

  Spinning to face him, I say, “What?”

  “Close your eyes.” David stares at me, waiting, but I’m not about to close my eyes when David has three knives in his hand. Looking rather exasperated, David continues. “Hitting the target with your eyes open is child’s play for a Godling. It proves nothing other than you can maintain your arm in the proper position throughout the throw. Any human can do that. You can do more, Vanessa. Close your eyes. Use the energy you just stored up while holding the plank position. Heighten your senses, find the target, and throw the knife.”

  Those last few words were biting, making me flinch. I showed him I could do more than he expected with the planks. He fully expects me to live up to that same standard now, but I have no idea what I’m doing. Even still, I close my eyes before he decides to take out his frustration on me. I have to try. I have to convince him I’m worth the effort, or I’ll never get the information the Eroi want. Whatever that might be.


  For a long moment, I simply stand there. I stored up plenty of energy during those blasted plank exercises, and I know how to use it to boost my senses thanks to Chris’s training, but I have no idea how that’s supposed to help me find the target! It’s not like the yellowing rubber smells like cheese or puts off any kind of noticeable vibrations or heat. What does David expect me to do?

  I feel like I stand there forever. It’s not until a particularly cool breeze blows across my skin that an idea finally occurs to me. The wind touches everything. The dummy may not have a noticeable scent, but I guarantee you it doesn’t smell like the lilacs in the corner do in early spring. When I hit the dummy, it usually creaks. On some miniscule level, it must do the same when a gust of wind slips over it. What seemed like the height of stupidity a moment ago now makes me grin.

  One at a time, I shut down my other senses, choosing just one to focus on like Chris taught me. I start with the wind hitting my body. I’m a good fifteen feet away from the target, but after several minutes, I can feel a spot where the wind isn’t hitting my body in the same way. It’s at more of an angle than the other breezes, as if it got knocked off course by something. I note the sensation and adjust for distance and direction of the wind to get an estimation of where the dummy is in reference to my body.

  I still need more, though, so I switch to smell. The lilacs nearly overpower everything else when they’re in bloom, but it’s still too early for them. The new blades of grass trying to peek through all the crispy remnants of winter and the tiny buds on the trees are subtle, but there all the same. I focus on finding not where they originate from, but where they stop. I hit a dead spot roughly where I estimated the dummy to be after feeling the wind. A faint rubbery smell tainted with sweat makes me wrinkle my nose, but confirms my guess.

  Even though I feel confident that I know where to throw without adding any more sensory information, I still test out my ability to hear the small movements of the dummy. It proves harder than the others did. The dummy is so heavy, and the wind fairly mild for once, that I don’t hear the familiar creaking. I do hear the bird behind me hopping through the dry grass and two dried out daisy stalks clicking against each other.

  Feeling rather pleased with myself even without hearing the dummy move around, I tamp down my senses and focus. My grip on the blade slipped from what David showed me earlier, but it seems a simple thing to correct myself. I bring my arm up, wrist locked, shoulder back. My lungs expand slowly. Taking in a steadying breath, I hold it for just a moment. I have to prove myself to David, but even more… I think it’s time to prove to myself that I can do this. Not just throwing the knife, but everything else. I can do this.

  Releasing my breath, my arm flings the blade forward, letting it slip from my fingers too quickly to think twice about it. The dull thwack of the knife connecting with its target is incredibly satisfying. When I finally open my eyes, I don’t look to see the knife embedded in the dummy, because I know it’s already there. Instead, I look to David. The heat behind his pleased expression is borderline scary, because I’m marching right toward whatever plans he’s laid for me. But that was the point of all of this.

  Suddenly, I doubt the Eroi can protect me against this man. What I don’t doubt, though, is that David won’t let me go without a fight. I go cold as I realize that’s not as frightening of a thought as it was an hour ago.

  Chapter Eleven: Versions

  (Zander)

  I flip another page in the book Isolde gave me and stop cold. The words are familiar, but they aren’t right. They shouldn’t be here. I read them again, but only end up more confused than ever.

  “Annabelle, where’s the printout of the Godling Promise?”

  “Um, I think it’s under the blue book on the coffee table, in the binder,” she says without looking up from her own work. She’s too absorbed in one of the other books from Isolde to wonder why I need it.

  I have what I need in hand a minute later and flip to the text I was looking for. Reading the words of the promise Annabelle showed me the first day I was at the compound, I feel like scratching my head. Just to be sure I’m not missing something, I read it again.

  When our battle with the Eroi began centuries ago, the leaders of the Godlings consulted the great Seer, Egidio. Egidio promised the leaders that when the Godlings had gained sufficient knowledge and power, a gift would be given. The gift would come in the form of a Godling blessed with the power to reclaim lost purpose and harness the true potential of the Hunger. This gift will be the downfall of those who choose to abuse power and cause harm. When this gift is given, the Eroi will be destroyed.

  It’s still exactly as I remember it, but the Eroi text has me stumped. “Annabelle, come look at this,” I say. She mumbles something to indicate she’ll be right there, but I’ve grown impatient. “Annabelle, I need you to read this and tell me what you think.”

  This time, she looks away from her reading and frowns. My tone was enough to alert her that this is more than just some interesting tidbit of new information. She abandons her books and slides over next to me on the couch. “What’s wrong?”

  I push the Eroi text toward her and tell her to read it out loud. She gives me a questioning look, but doesn’t argue. She only gets a few words in before her own confusion sets in.

  When the battle between the Eroi and our enemies, the Godlings, began centuries ago, our leaders consulted the great Prophet, Egidio. Egidio promised the leaders that when we had proven ourselves worthy, a gift would be given. The gift would come in the form of a Richiamos child blessed with the power to reclaim lost purpose and end the threat of the Godlings’ Hunger. This gift will be the downfall of those who choose to abuse power and cause harm. When this gift is given, our enemy will be destroyed.

  “What on earth?” Annabelle demands as soon as she finishes reading it. “Where did they get this? How did they get a copy of the promise?”

  “It’s different than the promise. It’s not the same as the one the Godlings have.”

  Annabelle shakes her head. “They stole it somehow and changed it enough that it sounded like it applied to them.”

  “Why would they do that?” I ask. “What purpose would it serve? And how would they get a copy. You told me yourself that the books containing the promise are never allowed to leave the compound. Why keep it so similar? Why not just make up a whole new version?”

  As confused as I am, Annabelle’s shoulders drop. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “They call Egidio a prophet instead of seer, but I guess that makes sense since they were so connected to the Catholic Church at that time. They thought they were hunting demons back then, so of course they could ask a priest or whatever.”

  “But they didn’t get this from some Catholic prophet. They stole it from us!”

  Not that I don’t understand her indignation at thinking the Eroi stole something that she considers sacred, but I don’t have the same connection to the promise she does. I try to choose my words carefully. “Annabelle, I don’t think they stole it from the Godlings. If they had gained that kind of access, they wouldn’t need Van and me to gather up scraps of information for them. If they had gotten inside a Godling compound, they wouldn’t have walked away from the opportunity to kill every last one of them. They wouldn’t need a Richiamos. Those in the compound have already declared what they are. The Eroi wouldn’t let them live.”

  “But…” She trails off as she tries to justify all the thoughts running around in her head right now. She won’t be able to. I already know that. I can’t either, and I have less baggage attached to all of this than she does. She wants to believe in seers, visions, and some kind of divine purpose. I just want to keep my sister alive.

  An idea hits me a moment later, and I start packing up both versions of the promise. Annabelle is startled out of her stupor by my haste. “Where are you going?”

  “To see Oscar. Maybe he can help?”

  “Why would Oscar know anyth
ing about this?” Annabelle asks.

  “Remember his friend Emily, the one who was dating a Godling for a while before someone murdered him?”

  Annabelle’s lips press together in thought. “His name was Paolo, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, and he was really religious.” Shoving a few things in a messenger bag, I sling it across my shoulder. “We haven’t been able to determine which group killed him and which one was trying to teach him, but I’m pretty sure at this point that he was interacting with the Eroi and the Godlings before he died. If he ever mentioned anything about a prophet, it could help us figure this and a few other things out.”

  Nodding, Annabelle stands. She seems intent on coming with me, but I stop her quickly. “Annabelle, Oscar’s not going to talk to me if you’re there.”

  To her credit, she doesn’t argue. I’ve explained Oscar’s rigid sense of right and wrong, and how he feels about people when they let him down or put his family in danger. She did both. Her reception would not be a pleasant one. “Of course,” she says. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ll just keep working on these books.”

  Slipping my hand behind her neck, I pull her close to me. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

  She nods and smiles, though it’s dimmer than usual. “I hope he’s able to help.”

  “Me too,” I say before pulling away. If he can’t, the alternative is asking Isolde or Ivy, and I’d rather not have to do that.

  ***

  As I walk toward the visitation room where Oscar is waiting for me, I catalogue everything he needs to be updated on. Van’s new training tops the list, but so does this business with the promise. I honestly don’t know if Oscar will remember anything useful. Talking about Emily and Paolo is unpleasant for him. He’ll suffer through it if he thinks it will help Van, though.

  I pull the door open and, for a moment, it startles me again to see him sitting freely in the chair on the far side of the table. He’s been allowed to sit unrestricted for the last few weeks, but after more than a year of showing up to see him chained to the table, it still catches me off guard. Shaking it off, I step into the room. I’m nearly to the table when Oscar stands. My slowing in response seems to annoy him, but I can’t help it.