He hurls another knife—no, he’s tossed two. They whir, slicing through the oppressive air with livid speed. My heartbeat punches inside my throat. Don’t flinch. Don’t move. Don’t—
A quiet heat slides across my left shoulder. The sting roars to life. I yank off the blindfold and clamp my hand over the burning wound.
“You cut her!” Cole is at my side in a flash.
A spreading red stain leaks through the tan sweater and onto my fingers. The knife should have only grazed me. Why is there so much blood?
Gray leans against the table, casually spinning a knife. “The Blight moved.”
We both know that’s a lie. Trembles snake up my arms. The knives are less than ten feet away. My drumming pulse roars in my ears, blocking all sound. One solid cut. That’s all it will take to inflict pain and erase that haughty glint in his eye. I lean forward ready to strike.
That’s when I see his lip quirk with a stifled smirk. He’s prodding me. Wanting me to lash out so I’ll give him a reason to kill me. His taunting brows lift slightly.
“Gray is too good to have missed—even with two knives. I must have moved.” I speak every syllable into the hollow cavern of his eyes. “It’s stopped bleeding,” I lie. The wound throbs, ten times worse than before. Blood, now cold, wets my fingers. “You only grazed the skin. Keep going.”
“Don’t,” Cole mumbles with a warning undertone.
Gray stabs the knife into the table. “You’re done.”
“Thought so.” I take the blindfold from Cole, wadding it in my fist, and march over to the weapons.
I turn to Gray. “Oh, on that last throw, one knife landed on the wall and hit the bottom red circle on my right. The brass blade that cut me, the one with the opal handle, is on the left side of the mat, about two feet from where I was standing.” Maybe I shouldn’t have spilled everything I know, but I couldn’t help myself, and Gray’s shocked expression is so worth it. “Lucky guess.” I shrug and toss the blindfold at him.
The weapons glisten before me. Some knives are smaller than the palm of my hand, others are paper-thin swords, but each blade is Paradise Steel, perfectly polished and engraved with the ivy pattern. I reach for a knife with a curved blade.
Gray grabs my injured shoulder. “You’re not touching a weapon.”
Volcanic fire explodes through me, but I wrestle the urge to strike back. “We made a deal.”
“That’s right,” Cole says. “You said—”
“I said she’s done.”
My breath is shallow and quick. “I kept my part.”
“Paradise Steel can’t cut the Awakened. It only harms Sage’s army.” Gray’s words grind into a slow powder against my ear. “If it senses the Current, it repels from Awakened like a polarized magnet.” He squeezes my shoulder and spins me around. A breath’s span lies between us. Pupils blacker than tar. “It’s now crystal clear what you are.”
“Cool it, Gray.” Cole’s voice is low.
Gray shoves me hard. My back and my head slam into the metal door, knocking the wind out of me. I suck in a quick breath, preparing for another attack.
But Gray turns on Cole instead. “Who do you think you are?”
“Come on man, I’m just saying, be cool—”
Gray spins him into a chokehold. But not for long.
I blink, and somehow Cole has slipped free, only to sweep Gray’s leg and bring him flat on his backside, right in front of me.
I’m stunned. So is Gray.
Before Gray springs to his feet, Cole has my hand and is dragging me out of the training room. My feet scramble to stay beneath me as I stumble onto the dirt path. The door slams behind us, followed by the hard click of a lock.
I clamp pressure on my pulsing wound.
Cole eyes my shoulder. “Have Lina look at that cut.”
“It’s fine,” I brush off his concern. “But I need to work with a weapon. Can you get me back in there?”
“After what just happened?” Cole leads me away from the building. “No way! I’m already gonna pay for that move I pulled.”
I shove a low-hanging branch out of my face. Yellow leaves fall to the ground. “I don’t mean now.”
“Still can’t happen. Gray’s got the place under lockdown twenty-four seven.”
I pin Cole against a nearby tree. He’ll probably use one of those crazy martial arts moves on me, but that’s a chance I’ll take. “Then take me somewhere else. Let me practice with the knife you stole, the one tucked in the hem of your pants, or I’ll tell Foster about it.”
His mouth gapes. “How’d you know about—”
“You’re not as sly as you think.”
“If you tell on me, I swear . . .”
I grip a fistful of his shirt. Inches separate the balmy air between us. “Train me, and I won’t say a word.”
Cole swallows but doesn’t fight me off. “If you rat on me—”
“Despite what Gray thinks of me, I’m not a rat.” I loosen my grip.
Cole hesitates and then says with a faint smirk, “You’re more like a fox.”
I let go and punch his shoulder. “Shut up.”
He grins, then it evaporates. “You didn’t move. He was testing the Steel on you.”
“I know.” I lift my elbow. The crimson splotch burns with the ferocity of a thousand hornet stings. “Could’ve been worse.” At least I still have an arm.
“Yeah, well, I hate blood.” Cole shoves his hat down low. “And you need a Healer.”
“Healers only cause more pain.” Blood drips down my arm, pooling into a fat drop on my knuckle and then plops into the dirt.
“Gray cut you with his Steel.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Cuts from his knife don’t heal on their own. Without a Healer’s help, you’ll bleed out, no matter how small the cut. Keep pressure on it.” Cole puts his hand over my blood-speckled one and escorts me through the woods.
With every step, the wound burns deeper in my skin. So does my conviction that no matter how well I follow Alliance rules, Gray will surely find a way to kill me.
The slash on my arm is determined proof.
We arrive at the kitchen. My fingers are seeping with blood as I continue to smother the pulsing cut with steady pressure. Harper is mashing up herbs on the counter, releasing a pungent vapor cloud that smells worse than rotting potatoes.
“What now?” She fans out the air.
“Training.” Cole chokes on a cough. “It was Gray’s knife.”
Harper glances at me sharply and purses her lips. She guides me to the barstool, even though I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own.
I wait for Cole to toss a flirty comment at Harper while she washes her hands, but he’s looking at the back door. “Where’s Lina?”
“I’ve got this.” Harper pulls out a spray bottle from her kit.
“You sure? ’Cause it won’t heal—”
“On its own. I’m aware.” Harper shoots him an irritated glare. “Now wait outside.”
Cole’s eyes linger on me, on the cut, but with the shade of that hat, I can’t read what he’s thinking. “Yeah, sure . . .” His silhouette turns fuzzy.
“Go.” She points to the dining room.
“Sure thing, Miss Bossy Pants.” Cole walks out but doesn’t go far. Instead, he leans his back against the dining room threshold, waiting.
My helium-head floats, too light for my body. I’m tired of getting cut, burned, bruised, and knocked down. Tired of all this pain mimicking my visions, reminding me of the unrelenting torture waiting to resurface.
Harper pulls my sweater over my head, peeling away the bloodied fabric that sticks to my skin, and studies the wound with focused concentration. “I can’t believe that jerk cut you.”
“It was Gray.” Blood slowly streams from the wound, zigzagging down my arm.
“I know.” She douses a cloth in antiseptic. “He might be totally gorgeous, but he’s a complete dirtbag.”
I manage a
weak smile.
After applying her torture spray and flattening a large gauze strip to my shoulder that makes the wound appear worse than it is, Harper makes me guzzle a tepid glass of green juice that tastes of fizzy bananas.
“Here.” She takes off her navy sweater, leaving her in a tank top. “Wear this to keep warm. I’ll find a way to fix yours.”
“Thanks.” I feel like an invalid as she guides my arms through the sleeves. Her sweater is snug and much warmer than mine.
As she cleans up the supplies, Devon walks through the back door holding a bushel of wildflowers and greenery. “Lina kept up with my garden while I was gone. Look at this. I brought you—” His pleased expression falls. “Did something happen?”
“Everything’s fine.” Harper touches his arm as she takes the cuttings. “Devon, these are amazing. Oh, wait, you’ve got something . . .” She wipes a smudge of dirt from his face with her thumb.
“I’m leaving.” I slink off the barstool, suddenly feeling like I’m intruding. “Thanks, Harper.” She’s so focused on Devon I doubt she heard me.
I walk into the dining room, adjusting the sweater as I go. Cole waits by a basket of wrapped sandwiches. The way he looks me over shoots flushing warmth across my face. I walk off before he can notice.
The floor creaks as I cross through the quiet War Room. The painting of the girl in the blue dress is tucked in the corner. No one is around. I inch closer. The girl, about my age, is bathed in soft light as she sits on a burgundy stool. She’s taking dictation from an older man sitting in a chair with a blanket draped over his lap. He’s wearing a white shirt and black tunic, looking a lot like a Puritan.
“You into Delacroix?” Cole asks from behind me.
I’m almost afraid to ask. “Into what?”
“The artist.” Cole gestures at the painting with a wrapped sandwich. “I’ve seen better.” He rips the sandwich in half, wax paper and all, and offers me some.
“Thanks.” I take a bite of the warm baguette, pressed with some kind of thin meat, mustard, pickles, and melted Swiss. Flavors I never put together, but somehow they make my stomach happy. “What do you know about this painting?”
Cole has already downed his entire sandwich. He wads the paper in a tight ball and aims for the wastebasket. “I’d get with her.” The trash bounces off the rim.
“Can you be serious for once?” I take another bite, starved.
Cole swipes the wadded paper off the floor and chucks it in the trash. “Maybe I’m not the problem. Maybe you need to learn how to lighten up.”
The savory bite lands hard as I swallow. I know he stood up for me against Gray. And he brought me food, but I’ve just had a knife thrown at me. Not only that, I’ve got less than two days to stay behind the Wall, and I haven’t found anything to offer the Alliance. I don’t have time to lighten up. I stare at the sandwich now squashed in my fist, proof that he’s partly right. “Thanks.” I hold up the sandwich. “I haven’t eaten and think I’m just cranky.”
“Yeah, you are.” His expression softens. “I get it. You’re into the serious type. Fine, I can do serious.” He stands to his full height, folds his hands in front of him a lot like Foster, and says with a precise accent, “It’s a neoclassical piece by the French artist, Ferdinand-Eugène-Victor Delacroix, better known for his Romantic paintings. Tell me what you see.”
Is he messing with me again?
“Go on.” He gestures at the painting.
I suppress a smile and examine the artwork, absorbing every detail. “The man is blind, because he’s painted with his eyes closed. And the girl . . . she’s figured something out. Something only she knows, because the older girl in the shadows is oblivious, bored, or both. But the girl in blue . . .” Bathed in a caramel light, she should be the focus, but there’s something else. The girl leans forward, eager to capture the man’s every word. “The girl has a connection to the blind man because the way light falls between them. I think he’s transferring something.” I straighten my spine. “He’s a Seer, isn’t he?”
Cole elbows me. “Bingo, Blighty. The painting is called Milton Dictating Paradise Lost to His Daughters.”
I look again. Wrestling darkness looms behind the girl and collides with the light. “She’s a Blight, a half-breed. The look on her face, she’s discovering it for the first time. And maybe. . .” I study Milton. The light. The shadows. Every brush stroke clarifies the truth.
Milton is a Blight.
Certainty surges through me. Why didn’t you reveal this to me earlier, Milton? Why wait until now?
His answer is a whisper in my head.
For how shall I relate
To human sense the invisible exploits
Of warring spirits . . .
How last unfold
The secrets of another world perhaps
Not lawful to reveal?
Not lawful because you’re an outlaw to the Alliance, just like me. Except you’ve done a better job of hiding it. It’s taken Delacroix for me to see the shamed look on your face as you turn away from the girl, knowing what she is. Knowing what you are too.
No wonder Foster said no one could detect any insight about the war in your poem. Only a Blight like me can read what you’ve hidden in the verses.
Cole lifts his hat. “She’s a Blight? Huh. Didn’t notice that before.” He studies the painting, scanning back and forth as though mapping it to something else.
“Come on.” I take his hand and drag him to the library. Excitement charges each step. “I’ve got work to do.”
“That’s the latest one.” Maddox places a drawing from his sketchbook on Foster’s desk as I burst through the open doors with Cole in tow.
“Foster.” I cringe at my casualness. “I mean, Lieutenant.”
Maddox’s magnetic smile falls as soon as he sees my hand in Cole’s.
“Miss Marlowe.” Foster’s voice lilts as he straightens an unruly stack of papers, tapping them on his desk until aligned. “Is there a viable explanation for your delayed return?”
I quickly drop Cole’s hand. “It’s Milton. I need to read through Paradise Lost. Please.”
Maddox’s eyes question me as I approach.
“I’m positive there’s an answer in the poem,” I say, answering Maddox more than Foster.
“You shall begin by reviewing artwork and providing insights on what you discover, as originally agreed.” Foster walks to the coffee table and motions to five perfect towers of books that will take anyone an eternity to review. “Begin here.”
Foster mentioned the poem didn’t reveal anything, but maybe he doesn’t know Milton is a Blight. “But—”
His lips twitch with irritation. “I applaud your zeal, however with less than twenty-four hours until your departure, the six hours and twelve minutes it will take to read over ten thousand lines of blank verse, previously scrutinized, does not constitute the most effective use of time.”
“Milton is a Blight,” I blurt. “It’s written in the painting. The Delacroix.”
Foster raises his brow a millimeter. Thoughts churn deep inside his eyes as he considers and processes my statement. He’s probably cross-referencing my discovery against the library of facts crammed inside his perfectly groomed head.
Without a word, he walks to the fireplace and removes a black hardback book from the shelf and hands it to me. “Advise me on anything you glean. In the meantime . . .” He picks up a heavy book and gives it to Cole. “Sort works for her analysis. Begin with neoclassical and Romantic selections, please.”
Cole groans quietly as he skims the pages. I thought Foster would be pleased, maybe even a little excited at my news, but then again, it’s hard to tell.
Regardless, I finally have a copy of the poem. Electricity buzzes through me as I settle into the corner of the couch with Milton, a welcomed weight in my hands. Cole plops down next to me.
As Maddox sorts through his sketchbook, I tune everyone out and open to the first line, determined to find M
ilton’s message.
Of man’s first disobedience and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world and all our woe,
With loss of Eden . . .
“What about this one?” Cole wags a book in my face. “Cot’s The Storm.”
The picture kicks up thoughts of Mark, the Dissenter, back at the gallery, and how he watched me read the painting, luring me to bring Mom’s drawings. Drawings I had no clue would point to this other world. I take in the glossy picture. Without the wispy brushstrokes, the image doesn’t translate the same.
I try anyway.
The girl glances over her shoulder with that determined look on her face, ready to face what pursues her head on. The irony of what I’m reading isn’t lost on me. But I don’t look anything like the girl. The boy, however, with his disheveled black hair, smitten grin, completely entranced by the girl . . . I glance at Cole. My face flushes. Maddox notices.
“Nothing.” I shove the book away and lift Milton in front of my face.
Cole studies the picture. “Really?”
“Lieutenant.” Devon enters with phone in hand. “I’ve got Gladys on the line. Lines are spotty, and it’s hard to hear, but Cera can speak with her mom.”
I dump Milton and leap to my feet. I fumble for the phone, pressing it tight against my ear. “Gladys?” My voice echoes back. I pace the three steps behind the couch. Turn. Pace again.
A silent delay and then, “Darling?” Her voice is muffled and sounds caged in a tin can. “Your mama’s here . . . better . . .”
Echoing silence.
Then a faint, broken, “Go on and . . . I’ll hold it . . .”
Static fuzz drowns her out.
“Gladys?” My question ricochets back at me. “Mom? Can you hear me?” My desperate echo mocks me.
“Cera?” Noise rumbles in the background.
“Mom?”
A high-pitched static cuts the line. Then silence.
Gravity binds my lungs and lodges in my throat. That was Mom. It was her voice. I heard her say my name. I blink back tears of frustration. “Can we try again?”
Realms of Light (The Colliding Line Book 2) Page 7
