by Lila Felix
He would kill the Resin on the cusp of them being redeemed.
“I thought I left you in the Fray.”
He scoffed. “Please, I’m not an idiot. It didn’t take me very long to get out and even less time to figure out where you’d be. But by the time I got to North Dakota, the Scooby Gang had already met with the Synod. Too bad they didn’t take care of you better. I’d have what I want and the misfits would be out of the way. I told them to get rid of you, but as usual they are a front—completely effing useless.”
The words tumbled from my mouth, “A front? Wait… what did you do in North Dakota? What did you do to them?”
“No! No more questions, o mighty one. You take me to Paraiso. Take me now,” he yelled.
From the corner of my eye, I watched my brother. He had a major flaw—probably one that no one else knew about.
“Sanctum, why do you want to go there? Huh? You think if the Synod have access to the Almighty’s army that they will have anything to do with you anymore? That’s what you are to them, right? Their strong arm? The brawn to their brains?”
My questions weren’t working and neither was my diversion.
I relented, only because of the metal. Okay, okay, I can take you there but you have to allow them to flash out of here.”
He cackled. “Always the hero, huh?”
Colby shivered as she answered. “Always.”
“Fine. Go. But do it now.”
Colby turned to me, the expression on her face a chasm of fear and doubt. She didn’t want to leave me but she wanted the rest of our friends safe. I understood the dilemma, but if the woman would trust me this once, she would know to listen to me from then on.
“Go, Querida. Scatter to the wind.”
“I…” She stuttered.
“Go!” I screamed and the volume was foreign in my ears.
She bounded the few steps to Collin, grabbed him around the waist. Sway enfolded her hand in Chance’s and Ari looked back at me over her shoulder with a wink. At least someone knew that I was capable of handling this. Golden, silver, and red lightning flashes—they were all gone.
Sanctum growled, “Now take me there. Show me the path.”
He had to be taken to Paraiso to know the way. There weren’t exactly any Instagram pictures of the place lying around. And he wasn’t me.
I stalled. “You have to go to the Fray first. It’s the only way.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
We flashed to the Fray. It was almost too much to ignore the pleadings of the lost—but I had to. And before Sanctum could get his bearings, I flashed to Colby, safe and sound in Fiji. I didn’t even know if my plan was going to work. It had to work—at least temporarily.
She screamed in a frantic panic. “Shit. What the hell is he thinking? And who was stupid enough to give Sanctum a gun?”
I grabbed her shoulder to try and stabilize her. “I don’t know. And I don’t know how long my ruse is going to hold up. But I’ve learned that his skills are shady at best. He can flash, but it takes him twice as long. He can seek, but only vaguely. That’s why it took him so long to get out of the Fray—he didn’t know where to find me. I’m betting on his snail pace to get me through this one so we can buy some time. We may have to move around a lot.”
She smiled, coming back to herself again. “Moving around a lot is my favorite thing to do. But how did you lose him?”
“He’s in the Fray—with my shadow.”
Colby looked around. “What do we do now?”
“We go back to Nebraska—restore the Resin there. I’ll keep flashing my shadow around. I’m hoping he won’t figure it out. When he does—I don’t know yet.”
She looked out over the ocean and the wind whipped her hair around in a salted frenzy.
“When he—when he had that gun to my head I heard her voice.” I grabbed her waist and hoisted her against me—the only place I knew was completely safe.
I harshly whispered, “Who?”
“She told me the truth. She finally, for once in her life—or death—told me the truth straight up.”
I wrapped my hands around her face letting my thumbs caress the words from her lips. “What truth? Who?”
Tears ran down her face as the wind dried them as fast as they came.
“Her voice was in my ears like she stood right next to me. I could feel the softness of her hands. I could smell her perfume. I thought her hair touched my neck.” She put a hand up to her neck to remember. “It was him. All of it was him.”
My eyes bulged in aggravation. She wasn’t making any sense.
“Colby—come on, Querida—speak to me.”
Her eyes finally lost their glassiness and finally focused on me. She was so far gone, I thought I’d lost her.
“Sanctum—he wants the army. He wants the glory. He wants them all dead. He wants us all dead. And…”
I was still processing everything else she said but from the loss of color in her face, I knew that whatever else this person had said to her was the worst of it all.
“Rebekah—he did it.” Her eyes grew round and wide and she choked on the words. “Sanctum killed Rebekah. We’ve had it all wrong.”
I’ve lost them. I watched Theo ignore me for almost a full day before I figured out that the thing in front of me wasn’t even my brother.
It was his effing shadow.
He’d bested me again.
Getting out of the Fray wasn’t exactly impossible but every time I left and came back, the threshold took its toll on me. A corner of my power was shaved off each time I came here, and there was just so much I was willing to risk.
That was why I had to use the gun on her.
My constant struggle to wear her down was wearing off.
She wasn’t responding to the pain and anguish I sent her.
In fact, Colby was thriving in spite of it.
And as soon as the Synod found out what she could do, they’d be done with me.
As much as I hated to admit it, I needed the women. There was no way the people would listen to me. I needed them to be my voice.
My front.
There were no more demons to bring below, so my only point in being here had just evaded me.
I groaned with the flash back to Thailand. Pema was waiting for me.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” she said, grabbing onto me like a leach.
I pried her hands from my waist and patted her porcupine head. “Yeah. I had things to take care of.”
“There’s been something I wanted to tell you.” She ducked her head.
Moving to the other side of the room, I dismissed her with a wave of my hand. She was a pest, but I kept her around for the information feed. She knew more about being the Eidolon than even Theo did and everything I knew about being me was from finding out more about him.
“What is it?” I said, changing my mind. She might have some good information.
“Well, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we could be sealed like Theo and Colby.”
Not this shit again.
“Look, Pema. I’ve told you this before. You knew getting involved with me meant that there wouldn’t ever be a sealing or a dress or any of that bullshit. I’m not Theo and you are certainly not Colby.”
Ah, damn it. I made her cry again.
“Well, I’m pregnant whether I am as wonderful as Colby or not.”
Dropping the glass I’d picked up, I froze.
“It’s impossible. I can’t. They told me that I can’t. They told me!” I got louder with every word.
“Here. See for yourself.”
She flung a pregnancy test onto the counter in a plastic bag. She was pregnant.
They lied to me.
The mother f—… he lied to me! Sanctum himself lied to me.
“Torrent?”
I bit back at her. “Don’t call me that. I am Sanctum.”
She came closer and trailed her hand up my arm. “You are not Sanctum. I think even you forget that
sometimes. We all have our uses in this world. Sanctum uses you for how you can get to Theo. Theo uses Colby as a crutch. You use me for information and…other things. We all get used.”
I hung onto her sentences. They were all the truth. I was nothing more than a lackey.
I didn’t know why I had the powers I did, but I’d been convinced they were for his use—for Sanctum’s use.
Maybe I was meant for something else.
“No. I am Sanctum. And Theo is the Eidolon. And Colby is a dead woman walking.”
First and foremost, I’d like to thank the Almighty for giving me the words and the courage to write. The ideas never cease, the pages always turn, and the characters never shut up.
To my husband and children who’ve grown accustomed to my writerly ways, I love you all to pieces and couldn’t do what I do without your love and support.
To the Clean Teen team: Rebecca, Marya, Courtney, and Melanie. I couldn’t have conjured a better publisher. There is never a time when you don’t respond to my insanity or fail to encourage me. You are the best publishing team in the world, hands down.
To the Clean Teen editors, Kelly and Cynthia. I don’t know how you put up with my words, but you do. And I thank you.
The Rink Rats stand alone as the most kick ass street team ever. You tell me when I mess up and never fail to tell me when I’ve done well. There are days when I just go back, read all of our crazy discussions, and laugh. Love y’all.
Lila Felix is full of antics and stories. She refused to go to Kindergarten after the teacher made her take a nap on the first day. She staged her first protest in middle school. She almost flunked out of her first semester at Pepperdine University because she was enthralled with their library and frequently was locked in. Now her husband and three children have to put up with her rebel nature in Louisiana where her days are filled with cypress trees, crawfish, and of course her books and writing. She writes about the ordinary rebels who fall extraordinarily in wild, true love.
www.lilafelix.com
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Check out the book America is talking about. If you have one diverse novel you plan to read in 2016, Nora and Kettle by Lauren Nicolle Taylor is it. “Lyrically written, this powerful and at times painful read captures the reader and does not let go. Told in alternating chapters from the two characters’ perspectives, their respective narratives cross and intertwine, drawing Nora and Kettle closer until they finally unite. Parallels to Peter Pan and Wendy provide motif and depth without overwhelming the reader. Firmly rooted in the history of internment camps and racial prejudice, this remarkable novel educates subtly while focusing on themes of home, acceptance, courage, and the danger of secrets.” ~ Starred Review from Booklist Magazine.
1. WINGS
NORA
If I had wings, they would be black, thin, and feathered. Not a flat color… but iridescent. Shining with hues of purple, green, and blue. Catching the light with the barest fingertips. And when I needed, I could fold into the darkest shadows and hide.
This time between the dark and the dawn is mine.
I roll from my bed and slip quietly across the floor, avoiding the creaks in a shadowy dance no one will ever see. My ears tune to the nonexistent noises around me and I sigh, ghostlike, with relief. Because in this time, he sleeps.
A snap of a memory flashes through my mind and body as I feel the sharp, short cracks delivered this time. This time.
I ease the dresser drawer out, holding my breath as tiny splinters catch the sides, and reach underneath the lace and silk to the boys’ pants hidden beneath. Quickly, I slide them on, my bruises objecting as I bend to fasten them. Tucking the ends of my nightdress into the waist, I pad to the window.
Across from our brownstone, one light shines dimly through a dirty window. Someone leaving for or returning from a shift; a refrigerator light; something simple and easy. I crinkle my nose and think, Of all the hundreds of people who live in that apartment building, how is it that only one solitary light shines? I quirk my lips into an unsure smile, a new split stinging as it stretches apart. This is why it is my time.
Bending and flexing my legs, I take a deep breath and push the window ajar. It protests, groaning as I push my torso out and use my back to push it up. Settling on the windowsill, I close it down, pulling a small comb from my pocket and wedging it in the gap so I can get back in.
Perched like a bat ready to launch into the night, my eyes dart to the corner of the building, to the rickety fire escape that would be much easier to climb. A car light bends over the gaps in the iron and fans out like the punch in a comic book. Wham! I snigger to myself, the laugh seeming foreign, jarring. I’m not supposed to laugh. I’m a sad girl, with a sad life.
But it is my life, and tonight… I’m going to fly.
I face my window and grasp the drainpipe that runs the length of the building. Staring up at the sky for a moment, I search out my destination. The one error in the building, which grates on him, invites me. One beam they forgot to trim sits out from the wall like a pirate ship plank. I dig my bare toes into the worn spaces between the bricks and climb.
I’m a shadow taped to the wall, scaling the pipe in solid but fast movements. Breathing hard and forgetting everything. The sky and the stars hang around just for me. They cling to the fading darkness, and I let them spark my senses. The night air closes in like the wings of a crow, folding over, protecting and gifting me something I lack. I pass the window of our sleeping neighbors and shake my head. They won’t hear me.
I breathe in deeply. Car exhaust films the air but it lightens, sweetens, as I climb. Overhead, the plank casts a cool shadow over the building, lengthening as the moon starts to dip away and the sun coaxes the sky into pinks and oranges. My time is only minutes. My mind is only on the hands pulling me up and the legs stabilizing me.
I dig my toes into the brackets holding the pipe. It cuts in, but my skin is toughening through scars crisscrossing over other scars. I throw my head back, my hair wisping and sticking to my cheeks. Sweat makes my grip slippery. It takes more concentration, more strength to hold on, but that’s why I like it. This risk sends flickers through my heart; pinprick lights like the points of a star. It keeps something beating that could be dead, should be dead. But I can’t let it.
I won’t.
The pipe trembles under my weight, the screws wriggle in their brackets, and I hold tighter. Moving faster up, up, up, until I reach the beam. I link my hands together around the plank, the dry wood soaking up some of my sweat.
This part, the upside-down part… I love.
I hug the beam and creep my feet up the wall until I can wrap my legs around it, swinging like a raccoon on a telephone wire. My head drops down and I stare out at the inverted city, the skyscrapers hanging from the earth like stalactites, dripping their lights into the clouds and piercing the sky. One shake and the people would spill from their locked-in positions, sprinkling like pepper into the atmosphere.
Just float away.
Light as air… I want to be a speck carried by the wind.
My hair swings in coils and clumps on either side of my eyes, and my head starts to beat like a drum full of water from too much blood. I work my way around until I’m right way up, lying stomach to beam.
I push back to sitting, my legs dangling, my chest filled to bursting with cleaner air, the flames of sunrise singeing the top of my head.
If I had wings… They’d need to be strong enough…
Closing my eyes as the round edge of the sun pokes above the horizon, I spread my arms wide. I let the small breeze flutter under my limbs, cool my skin, and free my hair.
If I had wings, I could fly.
2. ACCIDENTS
&nbs
p; NORA
Paths are usually stamped-out, well-defined things. They’re like that for a reason. They point toward a way through. They are hope in a lost place.
My path is patchy, indeterminate, and young. Thousands of feet have not walked this path. Although, sadly, I know some have.
The sun splits the willowy curtains into strands of green and cream, dancing over each other with the breeze. Groggily, I blink and watch the delicate performance, unwilling to move and waiting for the pain to set in. Branches tap out a Morse-code message on the window. I flinch, mistaking it for sharp knuckles rapping on my door. A dull ache courses through my stomach and pins itself to my back, wishing me good morning.
I carefully straighten under the covers, pointing my toes and testing my limbs. I’m okay. These wounds are ordinary. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.
Through the narrow crack of my bedroom door sails the ordinary clatter of the morning—spoons rattling in empty bowls as they are thrown in the sink and a copper kettle whistling, high-pitched and impatient. That new Perry Como song plays on the radio, my mother’s humming sounding like nails on a chalkboard in my sore head. I wait. Sure enough, halfway through the song, his controlled, sharp-as-icepicks footsteps cross the kitchen and the radio squeals across the bands to classical music. I clasp my head with both hands at the squeal and then the twanging violins.
I want to sleep. I need to sleep. I won’t get to sleep.
“Nora!” my mother screams, matching the sound of the kettle with its impatient trill. Her loud voice pushes its way between the fingers holding my head together and vibrates inside my skull. “I need you downstairs and ready for school in five minutes!” I can almost see her pointing sharply at the tiles as if I should materialize that instant right where she’s indicating.
I release my hands from my ears and lay them in my lap, palms upward. Everything I do is slow because my body is trying to avoid the pain. I want to tell it not to bother, swallowing dryly at the state of my wrists. Fingernail impressions separate the thin veins that run across my pale skin. I pull the sleeves of my nightdress down and tie the ribbons tightly over the marks.
