Alone.
I can’t believe they’ve given me my own space. I look for cameras, sure that someone is watching me. The space isn’t much different from a small hotel room. With a private bathroom, it’s decorated with antique furniture that smells of polished lacquer and is nicer than any place I’ve ever had. Cotton pajamas and a neat pile of fresh clothes sit on the full-sized bed: a beige sweater and Blade-like cargo pants.
I fidget with the wire thread on my left wrist. I don’t wear jewelry. Besides the hairpin Gladys gave me, I’ve never had any.
I take the silver pin out of my pocket and run my finger over the white flower. The petals curve inward, similar to the ones in the arbor. The metal heats my fingers. I could be imagining the warmth, but regardless, the feeling kicks up an ache for Hesperian, Gladys, and how safe life felt inside those walls.
I prep for bed in the bathroom and then tuck the wastebasket near the nightstand in case Pop is right and another vision strikes. Then I wiggle under the covers and turn off the lamp.
Strange sounds swing through the dark. A pipe gurgles with running water. Voices murmur, followed by a burst of harsh laughter.
The coils squeak as I roll to face the door. This is supposed to be a haven, but feels nothing of the kind. My mind is restless, far from sleep. I want to sneak out, find Maddox and ask him the ocean of questions crashing inside my brain.
As I get up, steady footsteps stop outside my door. I quietly jam a chair under the doorknob before crawling back under the blanket. I lie still, listening for the slightest click of the lock. It never comes.
I let my body sink into the mattress as a solemn cello sings through the walls. Alone, a prisoner in the dark, my thoughts turn to Mom. Hoping her fever broke and she’s conscious again. That she’ll be with me soon. I try closing my eyes but the Legions’ gaunt faces are all I can see. Beasts once human. Dissenters, like my father.
I flip on my back. I can’t believe the Alliance won’t fight, and I know I can’t do it on my own, even though I can control both Cormorants and Legions. Except now the Alliance says I can’t.
I stare at the dark ceiling as a relentless gnawing chews the lining of my stomach. Maybe it’s hunger. Or maybe it’s because what I thought was a gift that saved lives is really a forbidden power, a Dissenting one. One that confirms my connection to Sage.
But I’m nothing like him.
No matter what it takes, I’ll find a way to fit in with the Alliance and overcome the odds against me. I have to.
I can’t let more people die.
I’m back on the library couch the next morning with my leg almost fully healed. Pop is seated in the same chair as yesterday. A tray of flaky croissants sits on the coffee table where Foster pours himself a steaming tea into a delicate cup.
A cloudy sky looms through the hazy bay windows. Flowers droop with wet petals waiting for the sun. No one speaks about yesterday’s attack, but tension hides in the harsh whispers and alert glances.
I’m told a plan to bring Mom to the Garden is underway, but reports of Legions drifting nearby and others hovering too close to Hesperian will cause a delay. I’m unsettled, frustrated, and panicked at the news, but I cram the emotions down.
Foster, wearing a similar outfit with a navy sweater instead of green, sits down. “Miss Marlowe, the information I am about to present is sensitive in nature. Revealing this knowledge to someone such as yourself poses a great risk to the Alliance. However, after yesterday’s attack, I believe this knowledge could prove a greater benefit than the potential risk. Additionally, Edward attests to your allegiance and openly declares complete faith in your alignment with the Alliance. He willingly agrees to shoulder the responsibility for any infraction. Do you understand?” He takes a long sip of tea, as if letting the weight of his words sink in.
Pop put himself on the line for me? The reflection of the window dances on his dark glasses. The tremor in his hands is lessened as they rest on his lap. I don’t understand why he has so much faith in me. I almost wish he didn’t. But something in me wants to prove him right to the Alliance. Prove that he’s not senile the way Gray said, and that he still has value even though he no longer has visions.
I knit my fingers together. “I understand.”
“Very well.” Foster gives a curt nod and sets down his teacup. “The Current, as you know, powers our Bents and comes from a source we call the Empyrean Well. However, the source is somewhat of a mystery. To date, all information we possess about the Well is derived solely from visions transcribed into writings and artwork gathered over hundreds of years, similar to the way you deciphered the battle in John Martin’s painting. However no one has ever seen the Well outright.”
As he takes another sip of tea, I ask a careful question. “If no one has seen it, then how did Martin know what to paint?”
“Martin’s depiction most likely came from a vision. No one can see the Well clearly because it exists in a realm of its own. A third realm. In the same way Commons cannot see the Legions or Cormorants, neither can we see the true nature of the Well. It reveals itself though visions, but only in snippets, as a means of protection. Only select individuals, Seers, are given insight, which we carefully piece together, hoping to form a complete picture.”
“Like broken pieces of a mosaic.” The same way visions appear in my head.
“Perhaps,” Foster agrees. “We believe the Well to be a portal of sorts, a puncture in the universe created when Sage was evicted from another world. The portal is one-way only and has no reentry, but it allows an essence of that world to flow into ours. We also surmise that Sage is after the Well’s total destruction. As long as the doorway is open, and the Well supplies our power, his control over this world is limited.”
“Milton wrote about it,” I say, savoring the thrill of so much information. “It had something to do with the archfiend hating the constant reminder of what he lost.” I scan the shelves. “Do you have a copy of Paradise Lost?” It’s been so long since I’ve held the words. Part of me feels missing. “There’s a verse about how he fell . . .”
I must have woken Milton from hibernation because he decides to bust in and help me out:
How I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere,
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down.
That’s the exact verse I was thinking of. My pulse is charging. “I think the Well reminds Sage of this other place. Now that I know this war between Sage and the Awakened exists, maybe I can read through the poem again for information about the battle.”
“Each generation passes on what they’ve discovered,” Foster says, “including the inspection of every line of the poem, as well as commentaries and scholars. We haven’t gleaned adequate insight that pertains to the protection of the Well, or an effective strategy to end the war, for that matter, but I shall provide you with a copy to review.” Foster’s emphasis on the word protection isn’t lost on me.
“But what if I could find an answer that shows how?”
Pop clears his throat. I’m going to find him a throat lozenge so he’ll cut that out. I know what he means, but still.
“The answer we are asking you to find pertains to the Well.” Lieutenant Foster is adamant. “Over the course of history, the Well has transferred several times. Some postulate the location changes when threatened, but that theory has not been proven. A more likely conclusion is that the Well is seasonal, shifting whenever it has reached maturation for a particular location. We believe this to be true by monitoring sparks of creative energy in various places around the world, historically: Greek theater, Egyptian architecture, Italian Renaissance. Creative epicenters tend to be one trend showing where the Well has previously dwelt. However, to date, there is no knowledge regarding future shifts.”
“You think it’s about to change location?”
“Whether it be a day away or several years is uncertain. Ho
wever, when in transfer, the Circuit Wall may become more susceptible to attack since most of the energy is used for transfer, rather than complete protection.” Foster leans forward. “Global leaders will be returning tomorrow. Providing them with knowledge of an impending transfer would prove a tremendous value to the Alliance and our duty of protection.”
“I see.” Reading the artwork and finding the information they need about the transfer is what will keep me alive. But if the Well is about to shift and it’s more vulnerable when it does, that also means the Alliance will never agree to fight. They’ll let Sage terrorize the Awakened for who knows how long, all in the name of preservation. The book-crammed walls close in on me, and the air turns too thick to breathe. I sit back, sickened.
The library door bursts open, hitting the wall near the chess table.
“Hey, Pops.” Cole saunters in the room. He’s wearing the same dark clothes and sweat-stained fedora as yesterday.
Pop shakes a finger at him. “Don’t you be waltzing in here late like you don’t care nothing about being a Blade.”
Cole lifts his hands in defense. “Whoa. And a good morning to you too. I only came in to spring Blighty outta here. Gray’s request.” He swipes a chocolate-filled croissant off of the table. “She good to go, or what?”
“Go where, exactly?” Foster asks.
“Training room,” Cole replies with his mouth full. “Gray wants to work with her.”
Foster considers the request, expressionless. Then he nods. “Remain with her at all times.”
I jump off the couch. “Do I get to use weapons?”
“Yep,” Cole says. “Time to put your hands on some sweet metal, Blighty.”
Pop frowns and fidgets in his seat. “Have respect. Those weapons ain’t regular knives.” I’m not sure if Pop was talking to Cole or the both of us.
“Don’t worry, Pops.” Cole hangs his arm around my neck. “I’ll have Blighty back in an hour.” He flashes a wicked grin and whispers in my ear, “Unless you want to make out.”
Ugh. I push him away.
“Mr. Tripton.” Foster’s corrective tone slaps across the room. “Rules apply to you, as well.”
“Yeah, sure,” Cole mumbles, but he lets go of me anyway.
The last thing I want is to be near Gray, but if it means training with a knife and learning how to fight, then I’ll do it.
Cole leads me on a rocky path through tangled woods until we come to a cinderblock building hidden deep within the Garden. He heaves open the solid metal door and steps inside. I enter right behind, squinting at the fluorescent light, hoping to find Maddox.
The space is lined with cedar walls. No windows. A black gym mat covers the floor. The air is filled with a strong woodsy scent that most likely comes from the splintery crates stacked to the twenty-foot ceiling along the sidewall. Maddox is nowhere in sight. Gray, however, is shirtless, hanging near the back wall. He’s literally hanging in the air, holding himself six feet off the ground with arms outstretched between two metal poles. A large purple bruise is stamped on his side. I hope that was payback from Maddox.
Gray flicks a glance at us. Instead of letting go, he holds longer, counting the seconds through gritted teeth. His arms tremble but don’t give way. “Thirty-eight . . . and thirty-nine.” He springs effortlessly onto the mat and rolls his shoulders, massaging them out. He swaggers our way as if his body, shining with sweat and completely ripped, should impress me. Nothing crammed with that much arrogance ever could.
I look around, setting my sight on the knife marks that nick small painted circles on the wall. Probably targets of some sort. Over my shoulder, the wall by the door is laden with an assortment of antique weapons: thin curved swords, clubs, and strange sticks with menacing spiked balls on chains.
“Your turn, Tripton.”
“No, thanks.” Cole wanders over to the table sorted with glistening knives. “But I’ll toss a few of these babies.” I bet he will. It’s probably how he stole one in the first place.
Gray stands too close in front of me, taunting me to look at him. “Tripton, get out and leave us alone.”
Cole picks up a knife, inspecting the thin blade. “Foster gave me orders to stay.”
“Then put that down and make yourself invisible while I play a game with the Blight.” Gray’s voice is a dangerous calm. A metallic scent mixed with sweat radiates from his skin. Standing less than an arm’s length away, he makes it impossible for me to look at anything but him—or the floor. But I’m not a coward.
“I’m here to train. Not play games.” Currents collide as we lock eyes. Bucking. Wrestling. Fighting for control. But I hold steady.
So does Gray. “You’re not doing a thing until I see how much you know.”
Clinking metal chimes through the smothering air. “Hey, did you forge a new weapon?” Cole asks. “Haven’t seen this one before.”
Gray charges at him. “I said hands off the Steel!” He grabs Cole’s wrist, then takes the weapon out of his hand. “Now disappear.”
Cole backs away, lifting his hands in defense. “Chill. I’m out of your way.”
Gray snatches a strip of fabric from the wall and wads it in his fist. “Put this on.” He tosses it at me. I unravel the fabric. Binding? Or a blindfold? Heated panic replaces every drop of my blood. I search for Cole out of the corner of my eye, hoping to read his expression the way I can with Maddox, but he’s abandoned me.
“What’s this for?” My casual tone belies the terror pulsing under my skin.
Gray twirls a knife. His mouth curves with an offhanded grin. “Tie that over your eyes, and stand in the middle of the room.”
This can’t be good.
I steady my breath and grow roots on the wobbly mat. “Then what?”
“I toss a weapon anywhere in the room. You tell me where it lands.” His unnerving smile flickers, then fades.
My palms feel spongy. Simultaneously hot and cold. And the beige sweater is suddenly too warm. “I just stand here, blindfolded, and tell you what you’ve hit?” I take a quick inventory of the colored circles on the cedar wall and memorize the pattern.
The hearty knife in Gray’s hand glistens as he tilts the blade. “That’s right.”
“Then I train with a knife.”
He mocks me with a hard laugh. “Is that what you think?”
“If she gets more than half right,” Cole’s voice drifts down, “why not let her toss a few, see her potential?” Cole is sitting on the highest crate near the ceiling, legs dangling over the side. How did he scale up so fast—and quiet?
“She’d have to get a hundred percent right,” Gray sneers. “Tripton, get down here. Make sure she can’t see.”
Cole navigates his descent down the rickety crates with intense concentration and perfect balance. It’s only when Gray barks, “Faster!” that Cole missteps but still manages to gracefully leap to the ground in perfect silence.
Cole comes behind me and ties the blindfold. “Whatever you do, don’t move.” His whisper tangles in my hair.
I swallow and nod slightly.
The black fabric holds my eyes shut. I hate not seeing. I hated it when Mom played a similar game with me when I was ten. She’d make me close my eyes while she tossed things around the room. Car keys, coasters, pencils. I quickly learned it was anything within arm’s reach. Before I could open my eyes, I’d have to call out where it landed and what she threw. I always thought she made up that game because we couldn’t afford toys. Now I know it was her way of training me without my knowing. But this is a completely different game.
Letting Gray toss knives while I stand blindfolded is a horrible idea. My feet twitch, urging me to run. But I lock myself in place, determined.
Cole’s stealthy footsteps move away from me. He stops near the weapons table. I exhale and keep my hands loose at my side. Stay calm. Listen close.
Gray paces with light footsteps. Left then right.
Metal slides off the table, followed by a qui
et thud. He’s changed knives. Now he’s pacing again. Left, then right again. The air whirls where he stands. Might be him spinning the knife. Then everything’s eerily quiet. He’s standing across the room, somewhere in front of me. Sweat beads on my forehead, dripping into the blindfold. I force myself not to sway on this unstable mat.
Angry air whips past my right ear. My pulse pounds as heat flares through me. Then a hard thunk stabs the wall behind me. Cole’s gulp is audible.
I’m certain Gray pulled the knife from the corner of the table, the one with the thin blade, and threw it past my right ear, and it landed in the circle. I have the answer ready, but uneasiness stops me. If I let on too much, Gray will know I’ve been trained. And he’ll probably use it against me somehow.
“I think whatever you threw landed on the wall behind me. . . maybe about level with my head?” The circle is faded green, but I withhold that fact as well.
I pull off the blindfold. Gray stands frowning a good distance away, where I thought he’d be. Cole leans against the table, gnawing his nails. The knife from the corner of the table is missing. I glance at the wall. I’m right.
Gray prowls suspiciously. “Lucky guess.” I stifle a shiver as he pulls the knife from the wall and walks back to the table. “Do it again.”
“Maybe you should do something else.” Cole rubs his fingers over his lips. “Have her stab the punching bag. Test her the way you do with us. That toss was a little too close.”
“Shut it, Tripton. If you can’t handle the training, then get out.”
“It’s fine.” I’m not fine. I’m trembling inside. But I hope he can’t tell. “We made a deal. Let’s keep going.”
Cole folds his arms and plants himself by the door. I’m relieved. Who knows what Gray might try if we were left alone?
Gray reties the cloth, way too tight, but I don’t flinch.
Six times I get it right. Each time Gray barks at me to do it again. Each time the knife carves closer to my skin. Gray circles all the way around me, barefoot and quiet. Fabric puddles on the mat with a soft tumble. It’s landed somewhere on my right. Gray might be trying to throw me off by tossing things on the ground, but his footsteps stick to the foam floor, stopping somewhere in front of me.
Realms of Light (The Colliding Line Book 2) Page 6
