Realms of Light (The Colliding Line Book 2)

by Rhoads, Sandra Fernandez

  Yeah, well, I’m not doing so great in Gray’s hands at the moment, Pop.

  “Blights are known enemies to the Alliance, Edward.” I bristle at the condescending way Gray talks to Pop. “Luring Awakened, divulging secrets, potentially giving Sage access to our power. How did you get this one in the Garden?”

  “She ain’t no enemy, Grayson James. The girl’s just feisty, untrained, and careless.”

  While it’s probably true, that’s not the glowing support I was hoping for. I can’t stay quiet any longer. “Then train me,” I say. “All I want is to save lives. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you destroy Sage and win the war. Unless he’s stopped, more innocent people will die.” My horrifying visions will continue, and Mom and I will never be safe.

  “Hmph.” Pop flares his nostrils, probably unhappy that I used the word “destroy,” but it’s the truth. “And the gate let this one through ’cause she’s underage—not yet seventeen. Awakened at age seven.”

  Lieutenant Foster perks at the news of my unusual Awakening. He walks my way with the poised stride of a swordsman stepping out of an old-time movie. Every hair on his head is plastered down in proper submission. He smells of starched linen—and looks just as uptight. Other than a small quirk of his eyebrow, I can’t read anything from his blank expression. “Is she a seeing child?”

  “She is a Seer, yes,” Devon says.

  Pop feels his way along the back of the chairs and around the table. “There’s only been one other Blight born with her peculiar combination of Bents. Seer and Guardian.”

  Gray inspects his Paradise Steel. Blood from the fight smears his fist. “And that one Blight caused extensive damage,” he quickly points out as he walks to a drink cart in the far corner of the room.

  “Did some harm to the gate, that’s known.” Pop stops near a set of wingback chairs not far from the fire. “Sage took a hit himself in that battle.”

  “But the blast didn’t destroy him.” Gray picks up a cloth napkin and polishes the Steel, with a death glare pinned on me. “Because of that incident, Council requires eliminations of all Blights for our safety. We can’t risk a recurrence.”

  “Panicked thinking can create a greater hell than what we want to avoid,” Pop says.

  Gray stands in front of a vast painting and spins the weapon the same way Maddox does a pencil. The taunting blade glistens with each rotation. “That one Blight almost destroyed us. What guarantee do we have that this one won’t finish the job?”

  I protest, “I only want to destroy the Legions, Cormorants, and Sage.” And at this moment, possibly Gray.

  Gray tucks his weapon away. “Sage is indestructible.”

  No. That can’t be true.

  Gray notices my expression. “You heard me right. The Alliance has one responsibility: to keep Sage from annihilating us and our source of power.” He dips the cloth into a water glass and meticulously wipes Maddox’s blood from his hands. “Doesn’t matter if you consciously choose to help Sage or not, dissension is in your blood. A Blight can give Sage the power to wipe us out. One almost did.”

  Maddox steps forward, shielding me from the heat of Gray’s glare. “Everyone claims Sage is indestructible because of what happened in the Renaissance. But if a Blight could help Sage, why couldn’t one help us?”

  “I can’t believe we’re having this discussion.” Gray turns to Lieutenant Foster and tosses the blood-smeared napkin on the cart. “Our code requires termination. Blights have always been a threat to our power and our people.”

  Maddox is relentless. “Sage hasn’t had any influence on her.”

  “That’s right,” Devon vouches for me. “Her mother kept her hidden all these years. Maddox found her before Sage did—before she turned seventeen.”

  “She lure you too, Lassiter?” Gray scowls. “What do you think will happen after we’ve trained her, told her Alliance secrets? She’ll turn against us. That’s what.”

  “Outside these walls,” Devon warns him, “Sage will get a hold of her. That is guaranteed. His getting a hold of her seems more of a threat than her being in the Garden.”

  Gray’s eyes flash. “Our only responsibility is protecting our power. What proof do we have that Sage hasn’t been influencing her? You think it’s a coincidence that she was found before she’s fully manifested all her powers? She may not tell you Sage is behind this, but I’m certain he is.”

  “Maddox Alexander.” Lieutenant Foster’s voice, stripped of emotion, cuts through the rising tension. “I understand you were responsible for acquiring the Blight.”

  Acquiring. What an impersonal word, as if I’m not even human. Despite the tense words swirling in the air and the mauling pain in my leg, I gently take Pop’s elbow to guide him to the chair he seems to be searching for with his cane.

  Gray glares at me and doesn’t let Maddox respond to the lieutenant. “He was turning her in so I can arrange proper termination.”

  “Ain’t no need for termination!” Pop pounds his cane on the wood floor with a hard thunk. Even the small crystals on the giant chandelier tremble. “The boy’s done right, keeping her out of Sage’s hands. She ain’t had no influence from the enemy. Talk to her, you’ll see. She wants nothing more than to help the Alliance. Ain’t that right, Honey?”

  Once again, all eyes fall on me. Heat crawls under my skin. Whether it’s from being put on the spot or the lapping flames in the nearby fire, I don’t know. All I know is that this is my one chance to prove I’m not a threat. And stay alive.

  I tuck my hair behind my ear and glance around at everything in the room, focusing on nothing in particular. “I only came here because I want to help end the battle with Sage. For good.” I try to stand tall. “The Legions travel in a mist only I can see. They attack by sound and hiss like bees when they approach. And the Cormorants? I’m not sure how many, but I’ve seen at least three. They hunt by sight and smell, and I can detect their shriek before any Awakened can. Equip me. I won’t turn against you. All I want is to make sure that no one else dies because of Sage and his horrible creatures.”

  Honestly, I really don’t know if I have any ability to help the Alliance destroy Sage. But if I do, then all the running, the fear, and maybe even the excruciating visions, might finally end. “And I’d like to call my mom. Please.”

  The final syllable of my strained plea bounces back as the room turns uncomfortably quiet. I fix my stare on the desperate flames as they reach for an escape they’ll never find.

  Too many seconds pass. No one says a word. My breath turns shaky as a grandfather clock ticks away the silence. What more can I say?

  Finally, Lieutenant Foster speaks. “Do you believe you are strong enough to suppress any Dissenting powers and avoid the fate of the last Blight?”

  I stand perfectly still, hoping my knees won’t crumble. “Besides commanding creatures, I’m not really sure what Dissenting powers are. But I won’t be anything like my father. I don’t want to be. I guess I was hoping that, with your help, maybe for the first time ever, my curse—my visions—could become a gift.”

  “Much better seems this vision, and more hope.” Milton’s verse whispers inside my head, a welcome affirmation that I’m on the right path.

  As the sun breaks through the clouds, brightening the room, I find the strength to look up. “I only want to help you stop—” My gaze lands on the colossal painting across the room. With Gray out of the way, I have a clear shot of the whole canvas.

  The tiny figure at the bottom of the painting . . .

  I’ve seen this piece before. A man clambers over a ledge, struggling to find a foothold on the side of a craggy cliff, straining with all his might to find the source of a sacred waterfall. My breath is like charged air before a storm. “Is that a Mad Martin?”

  Lieutenant Foster’s one eyebrow almost reaches the ceiling. “A John Martin, yes,” his tone corrective. “Are you familiar with Sadak in Search of the Waters of Oblivion?” His deep-set eyes probe for answers: p
rocessing, deliberating, and searching all at once. “How is it that you know this painting?”

  Why can’t I keep my mouth shut the way Devon told me to? Lieutenant Foster isn’t physically intimidating, but it’s clear he’s a Caretaker, and he already knows the answer. He’s just testing me for the truth.

  I choose my words carefully. Honestly. “My mom had art books on Romantic painters.”

  “Were you instructed to study paintings in those books?”

  “Not study. She’d have me look through pictures and make up stories about what I saw.” My gaze returns to the reddish hues in the painting. “This piece stood out because of the glowing water in the wellspring. Or maybe it’s a lake. I told her the light poured out from underneath, from another world, and flowed into the abyss.”

  “From underneath?” Foster questions. “Explain why you thought so.”

  My childish story suddenly feels inadequate. I’m not an art expert like Mom. I don’t have a good answer, only an honest one. “Since the sky was red with flames, or molten lava, the cream-colored light in the water couldn’t be a reflection. The bright light had to come from somewhere else.”

  “Look into the clear / Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky,” Milton prompts me. By “another sky,” Milton do you mean . . .

  “Maybe even another realm?” I say, taking Milton’s lead. “I’ve always felt there was something hopeful, maybe even powerful, about the quiet water and how it streams into the world.”

  Milton must have been right because Foster motions to the artwork, inviting me closer. “Tell me the rest of the story and what you saw.”

  I hobble across the room, ignoring Gray’s watchful glare as I pass the conference table. The daunting canvas looms right in front of me, highlighting how small I am, not unlike the tiny man in the painting.

  I take in the angry shadows fighting the wispy strokes of light. “In my story, the man was sneaking to the water source while war raged all around him. In the distance misty shadows of monsters surround him, but he was determined. And the reddish rocks, the ones jutting around the water, those were the skull of a fallen beast. A sign of his victory and—” I stand frozen, seeing the painting clearly for the first time. It’s as if my eyes have sharpened. Colors turn brighter. Lines cleaner. “The shadows are Legions. And the fallen beast is a bird with giant shoulders. That’s a Cormorant.”

  Lieutenant Foster is watching me closely. “Not rocks?”

  “Martin painted them to look like rocks, but they’re not. Look.” I point them out, shaking inside. “It’s not the gorilla-like creature. Martin painted that beast, on the right side of the canvas. Over here.”

  “Show me.” Maddox’s encouraging tone helps settle my nerves. At least one person believes me. I find him standing behind me, Devon at his side. Pop is still seated in the chair, and Gray stands across the room alone, while someone quickly slips past the screen door, patrolling the outside.

  “Yes, look.” I return to the painting. “The cheekbones, the nose and that beady eye—that’s the horrible beast. He doesn’t see the man reaching the waters because he’s too focused on the fallen creature in the background. And that gorilla-like thing? It’s the worst of all.” My pulse breaks into an all-out gallop as the message becomes clear. “This isn’t a lone trek to find sacred waters. Martin painted a battle scene for that water source.”

  Another canvas hanging on the wall near the doorway catches my eye. One of a girl wearing a blue dress. Before I can pull any details, Lieutenant Foster steps in front of me. “Sergeant Carver,” he commands evenly, “escort Miss Marlowe to my library. Have her wait there until further notice and then return immediately.”

  “I’ll arrange a more secure location,” Gray says.

  “My library will do for now, thank you.” Foster’s face is unreadable. No glint in his eyes, no warmth in his expression, but no hate or anger either. His deadpan expression is just that, blank. Stoic.

  “Am I wrong?”

  Before I can read Maddox for the answer, Gray grabs my arm. “Move it.”

  I tear away. “I swear, if you touch me again—”

  “You’ll what?” Gray reaches for the pocket where his knife probably hides.

  Pop clears his throat, sending me a signal, one I know. Don’t get hotheaded. I back away before I say something I’ll regret. As I do, Maddox shields me from Gray.

  Gray shoots him a weighted look. “Don’t be a traitor.”

  “She needs a Guardian.”

  “Blights don’t get Guardians.”

  “That is quite enough,” Lieutenant Foster snaps at them.

  “Grayson James,” Pop calls from the chair. “Leave the boy be. There’s no threat of him breakin’ code. I’ve been teaching him to intercept her visions. That’s the only connection between those two. Nothing more.”

  Leave it to Pop to call things out like a slap in the face. But at least it explains Maddox’s overprotective attitude.

  Pop points a boney finger in my direction. “And don’t you worry about her, neither. She’s smart and won’t do anything to detract from her own preparation.” Pop is only half right, but I get his message loud and clear.

  Gray walks me out of the room, keeping his hands to himself, thankfully.

  As soon as we turn a corner, he gets in my face. “Nice try. But reading one painting won’t save a monster disguised in skin.” Cold hate drips off every word.

  He shoves me into a room and slams the wooden door.

  I’m locked behind a set of thick library doors, waiting for a verdict on my life. As muffled voices carry from the other side, I take in my holding cell. It’s a dank room that smells of expensive leather and musky paper. An imposing desk swallows the nook in front of bay windows, while all around me shelved walls are crammed with old copies of art history, poetry, physics, botany, and archeology—caged voices shouting to be heard.

  Coming here is proving to be a mistake. I had hoped that the Alliance would give me a chance to show that I’m on their side. But clearly luck isn’t tipping in my direction.

  What now? Make a run for it?

  I can’t escape out the library doors, but there’s a glass door that leads to a courtyard. If I found my way out I could . . . go where? Back to Mom? She’s healing at Hesperian with Gladys. And she needs to heal. Whatever Blades are with her will simply drag me back here—or worse. Not to mention the possibility of Sage finding me first. And he’d most likely torture me into doing his malicious will.

  No, running doesn’t do any good. It never has. Not that I’d get very far with a wounded leg screaming at me.

  As difficult as it is for me to trust others, my best option is to stay put and hope that Devon, Pop, and Maddox will win Lieutenant Foster over somehow. Then I can prove there’s not a drop of my father’s blood luring me toward Sage. If not . . .

  I lower myself on the couch near the hollow fireplace and rub my hands over my face. When I close my eyes, the image of the Legion resurrects in my mind. Its vile sallow skin and stench of sulfur. Those cavernous holes for eyes, and the raspy sounds pushing through its neck as if trying to speak. I can almost feel the tendril of smoke tracing an outline around my collarbone. . . I shudder.

  Despite Gray’s comment, that beast is the monster. Not me.

  A soft thunk comes from the window behind the desk. That warning flare sizzles through me. The same one I had before I met Gray. The first time I ignored it and was caught off guard. That won’t happen again.

  The glass rattles as it slides open. I sneak into a crevice not far from the fireplace where two angled bookshelves meet. Whoever chooses to come in through a window can’t be up to any good. I press my back into the bookcase, hiding in the shadow of a colossal globe perched on a stand. The African continent points to the ceiling, while my side of the world is shadowed in darkness.

  In case it’s another belligerent Blade like Gray, I slide a fireplace poker from the carrel and stare at the window. I don’t dare blink.
Or breathe.

  A guy with disheveled hair the same color as his jet-black boots slips through the window, landing somewhere behind the desk. Silent. I force my breath steady.

  After a thousand frantic heartbeats, the guy rises. He’s dressed in all black. Tall. Lanky. He puts on a fedora the shade of rich mocha and then walks around the desk, dusting off his button-down with refined precision. He trips right in front of me. Nervous laughter bubbles into my throat. I choke it down.

  “Stupid rug.” He kicks the culprit and then stills. He’s either listening, or he sees me out of the corner of his eye. But maybe not.

  He quickly rummages through a stack of messy papers on the coffee table, carefully watching the doors.

  If he’s stealing, maybe I could prove my loyalty by confronting him and turning him in. He might be stronger than me, but if he tries anything, I can call out for Maddox and Devon, who are across the hall.

  I step out of the shadows, weapon in hand. “Stop right there.”

  He spins around. “Whoa, easy there.” Unruly locks poke out from under the hat, which he lowers even more. I can’t read the Current in his eyes to tell if he’s Awakened; they’re shaded under the rim. He isn’t as tall as Maddox but is around the same age. “Where’d you come from?” His baritone voice drips with a smile.

  The warning flare subsides, but I keep the pointed weapon steady between us anyhow. “Not through a window.”

  “What’s fun about busting through a door and letting Foster find me?” He runs a finger along the globe, spinning the world so quickly the colors blur.

  “So you climbed through the window of his library? That’s brilliant.” I shouldn’t be so sarcastic when I’m not sure what this guy is capable of, but I’m exhausted, starving, and my wounded leg is throbbing. Plus, he doesn’t read as a threat.

  This fedora guy stops the globe with a tattooed ring finger. “You must not know the guy. Be warned: he’s always telling you what you should and shouldn’t do, talks about triggers, and tries stuffing your head with things you don’t care to know.” When he steps closer, I get a whiff of smoky wildfire and hair gel, although I still can’t get a good look at his eyes. “What’s your name?” He flicks the collar of my shirt. He’s either really bad at flirting, or he’s checking for a Dissenter mark.