Devon redials but can’t get through. “Storms have been taking down some of the lines in East Ridge. And cells are spotty inside the Garden. I’ll try later.”
“Storms? Or Legions?” I can’t hide the panic. My voice rises. “I’ve seen the way Legions travel in a cloud. She’s not safe until she’s here, with me.”
Maddox touches my arm. “Kellan. Tanji,” he reminds me. “They’ll keep her safe. Gladys will make sure of it.” I wish his confidence could dismantle the fear wreaking havoc in my heart.
“Maddox Alexander, you are excused.” Foster’s tone is clipped.
Devon puts a hand on Maddox’s shoulder. “Come on.”
“I’ll find a way,” Maddox assures me. His eyes are sealed with a promise as Devon ushers him out of the room.
“Sure thing, surfer boy.” Cole throws a dismissive wave over his head as he reclines on the couch.
“Colton.” Foster hands him another book. “Continue.”
“Sir.” Cole grumbles but sits up and fans the pages.
Mom is with Gladys. They’re safe. It sounded as if Gladys said she was better. But that noise . . . What if Devon can’t get through? What if—
“Miss Marlowe.” Foster’s tone is a gentle but stern reminder to focus. “Your mother is protected and cared for. However, our time is limited.” His words bring some comfort but don’t erase the unsettling feeling. As he starts a fire to warm the chill taking over the room, I force myself to return to the poem, hoping that Mom is getting better. Stronger.
I lean over the back of the couch to pick up the poem, and glance over Cole’s shoulder as he sifts through a book. “Wait.” I put a hand out. “Go back.”
He flips a page. “This one?” Cole holds up Sadak in Search of the Waters of Oblivion, the same painting hanging in the War Room.
“Yes. That’s the Well—or at least a hint of it.” The glowing water is like a lake, that much is clear, but . . . “How can you destroy a lake?”
“Find the source and damage or pollute it.” Cole tips his head back and briefly looks at me from under the rim of his hat. Seeing his eyes in the light for the first time catches me off guard. They’re striking emerald green with sleepy black lashes. A million fizzy bubbles flit inside my stomach. He looks back at the book. “If the source is tainted, the whole stream goes bad.”
I force the fluttery feeling aside and take the book to study the picture more closely. “What’s the source? In the painting the light in the water looks as if it comes from underneath, but the way Martin painted those two rocks, it’s as if they’re pointing to something over the water. Look.” I show Cole the picture.
“There’s nothing there,” he says.
“Lieutenant,” I say as Foster adjusts the logs in the fire. “Is it possible Martin didn’t transcribe the entire vision? Pop said Blights would only have a piece or two, not the whole picture.” A thought occurs to me. “Would I see anything? I mean, as a Blight, could I see the source if I went and looked at the Well?”
Foster halts for a moment. “It’s highly unlikely. The only way to fully see the Well is by unlocking the third realm where it dwells.”
Cole sits up. “If it’s unlocked, then you’d have your answer.”
Foster bristles. “While opening the realm would provide the answers we seek, doing so would no longer keep the portal secure. If Sage and his army were to obtain access, they could eradicate our power. Unlocking the third realm, Mr. Tripton, is strictly forbidden.”
“But wouldn’t direct access to the source strengthen our powers?” Cole asks. “Maybe even give us what we need to defeat Sage?”
“While it is possible that a mainline infusion of the Current would significantly strengthen our abilities, the risk of whether that power will be enough to overtake the enemy remains uncertain. It is a risk the Alliance will never take.” Foster stokes the fire. “Miss Marlowe has the capacity to connect the realms once her powers are fully manifested. The last one, the one we call a Destroyer—a Blight with her particular combination of Bents—nearly did.”
Milton taps inside my head: “Destroyers rightlier called and plagues of men.” Then he adds, “Made to destroy.”
I’m a plague to the Alliance, that’s for sure. Which is why they want me out of the Garden the sunset before my birthday. I pick up the copy of the poem, searching for the verse, hoping to read a less daunting meaning than what Milton is suggesting.
Cole stands with a stretch. “Maybe so, but it’s still not clear how she can connect the realms.”
Foster hesitates but then says, “By utilizing fully manifested powers from both sides, Awakened and Dissenting, within close proximity of the Well.” Our eyes meet with mutual understanding. He’s equipping me with this knowledge, trusting I won’t betray him.
I won’t. But something doesn’t sit right. “If I’m that much of a threat, and in the Garden nonetheless, then why keep me alive?”
Foster’s eyes soften as he looks at me, even though, as usual, his face is empty of emotion. “Every life has equal value, Miss Marlowe. Even Blights. Perhaps one day we can all agree.”
Cole messes with the chess table. “The way I see it. You can probably solve what no one else has been able to. For the first time, the Alliance will have a chance to control the game, and Sage won’t know what hit him.” He uncovers the black king in his palm. “Am I right?” Cole asks Foster. “If she finds the answer that can take down Sage, then we can all exhale, and I can spring outta here.”
“Destruction is not our objective. However . . .” I swear there’s a glimmer of hope in Foster’s eyes as he says, “If there is evidence supporting a clear plan for Sage’s demise, Global Council would be terribly remiss to not consider it as an option when they return.”
Cole reaches out and picks up another book, quickly flipping through the pages. “Come on, Blighty. Get to work.”
Cole, Foster, and I are up well into the night. Lina brings in dinner as we barricade ourselves in the library. Pop comes in to listen as Cole sifts through art books, holding up pictures for me to read while I continue to scour the poem. All while Foster takes notes.
“What about this one?” Cole holds Fuseli’s The Nightmare in front of me.
That picture gives me the creeps. The woman seems soulless, sprawled on the bed in her white gown while an ape-like demon perches on top of her, scowling at his intruding audience—me. Those bulging eyes . . . I’m sure it’s the gorilla-like creature from my visions.
An icy chill snakes through me. “This is Sage.” I point to the demon. “He’s siphoning the Current.” The woman’s face, the listless hands, that delicate nose, something about it reminds me of . . . “Can I call my mom again?” I know it’s not her in the picture. Looks nothing like her, but for some reason, an anxious fear suddenly takes over.
Pop tucks his blanket around his knees. “Devon’s workin’ on getting through. He’ll let you know when he does. Now focus.” He waves a finger in my direction. “Try readin’ that one again.”
Cole holds out the book. Despite the brooding weight pinned on my chest, I look again. The sneering creature is taunting the viewer to stop him. “The red curtains are a stage, a setup, and the horse peeking through with eyes of white fire could be another creature,” I say. “Or maybe Sage’s accomplice. Or something else entirely. It’s not clear on the page, maybe if I saw it firsthand.”
Foster takes furious notes. Outside the bay window, night descends. Tiny lights of what looks to be fireflies, dance in the underbrush, igniting the forest with the same flickers of beckoning light I saw in the treetops.
A thousand marbles feel dropped inside my stomach. I trust Foster. And Devon. I believe they’re telling the truth about Mom’s safety. So why can’t I shake this unsettled feeling? I work hard to squelch the sensation and scour more artwork.
Hours pass.
The fire dies.
We’re down to the last pile of books. Harper escorted Pop out of the room hours ago. O
nly Foster, Cole, and I remain.
Foster rubs his hand from all the note-taking. But as far as I can tell, nothing shouts out a conclusive answer. Either about the Well’s transfer or Sage. Still, I keep going, skimming Paradise Lost while glancing at artwork: Blake, Girodet-Trioson, Doré, Martin, Delacroix, Gericault.
My eyes burn, and my head is foggy, but I’m determined to find a solution that will help defeat Sage—or protect the Alliance. And maybe absolve my mother and me.
Foster rubs the space between his eyebrows and checks his watch. “I think it best if we stop here for tonight.”
I sit up. “No,” I argue, “I can keep going.”
Cole is sprawled on the couch next to me, asleep.
“Providing our mind and our bodies with proper rest is imperative for clarity.” Foster removes Milton from my listless hands, setting it aside. “You’ve interpreted a remarkable amount of classical work in a short period of time. More than I anticipated. Quite exceptional, in fact.” His gentle eyes hold the same expression my father had the first time I read a book aloud. “I suggest you rest.”
“I don’t need rest. I’m out by sunset tomorrow, and I haven’t found the answer.”
“If left unchecked, unbridled tenacity can destroy you in the process.” Foster’s words sound born from experience. “We shall resume in the morning.” A deep sadness shadows his eyes as he looks at Cole, hat covering his face. “Hendrick Colton,” he says with a gentle nudge.
“I’m up.” Cole stretches. “I was just thinking with my eyes closed.”
Foster’s stoic expression returns. “Escort Miss Marlowe to her room.”
“Sure thing.” But I doubt Cole is fully awake.
I tuck Milton under my arm and head to the door. “Good night, Lieutenant.”
Foster, seeming indifferent to his own need for sleep, nods as he cleans up his desk and adjusts the silver picture frame.
I step into the cool night. Blades walk the grounds. Crumbling gravel grinds under their steel-toed boots, disturbing the quiet as Cole and I walk to the east corridor in tired silence. He stops at my door and leans against the stucco wall under the gas lamp. The soft glow accents his jawline and full lips. “See you in the morning, unless . . .”
“Go.” I point down the walkway.
He shrugs with that signature smirk. I doubt he means it. He didn’t try anything on our way to the training room. In fact, he brought Gray to the ground right in front of me.
“Cole?”
He turns to go. “I know. I know. I’m leaving.”
“Thank you.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Yeah, whatever, Blighty.” Through the unsteady flickers of light, I catch his smile. Not that expected smirk, but a genuine, boyish smile that wakes a rowdy whirlwind inside my stomach. Cole pulls his hat down and walks away, still grinning. “And get some rest. You look like crap.”
After shutting the door, I check the room to be sure I’m alone. I don’t bother undressing. I plop onto bed, and despite Foster’s advice, I settle in to read Paradise Lost.
“Like those Hesperian gardens famed of old, / Fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales, / Thrice happy isles, but who dwelt happy there . . .”
Hesperian. The name brings up a hollow ache for Gladys. Juniper. Tanji. Kellan. And Rhys. Maybe one day I’ll return. A buoyant hope lifts the weighted feeling about my mother. I imagine her resting in Harper’s room at Hesperian with Gladys watching over her. The sounds of the frothing milk and chatty voices lulling her to sleep, knowing we’ll see each other soon.
I flop my head on the pillow. Paper crinkles. It carries a scent of rain. Like Maddox. He left me a note? No. It’s a drawing. The five cords knotted together, the same one that was tacked on his wall in Hesperian when I first met him. The one he kept trying to hide. At the bottom he’s neatly written “Together.”
The twisted cords are braided tight, stronger than the single strand straining to pull free. This might be his way of telling me what he couldn’t say earlier—that he has a team ready. Maybe the group from Hesperian. My spirit rises. But I still have to do my part and find a solid answer, a clear solution that will help win the war. And I have less than a day to do it.
Footsteps sound outside my door again. I bolster the chair under the knob and then quickly crawl back into bed. I tuck the drawing next to my pillow and listen for anyone still lurking near my room. Hearing nothing, I settle in to read.
Then my fingers clench.
Tremors coil through my arms.
Stabbing heat streaks down my legs.
Oh no. I drop the book. That familiar but unwelcome wrenching pain from an oncoming vision spirals down my back. I grip the sheets. Crushing pressure rips down my spine. I lie on my back with eyes closed and exhale slow and deep. Don’t fight it. Don’t grasp the images. Do what Pop said. Let them come.
Heated pain slashes down my back. I writhe and smother my face in the suffocating pillow. The paper crinkles. Maddox’s scent lingers. I inhale and focus on him and not the unbearable spinal contraction. On his turbulent cerulean eyes. On the way his hand feels in mine. On the way he smiles when I walk into the room.
I exhale.
The pain subsides.
Silver fog swirls, clouding my sight. The hazy vision lies just behind the frosty veil. I don’t wrestle to see. I wait.
Wrenching pressure kneads down my back. Hot tears drip down my cheek, wetting my ear. Another pang compresses each vertebra, every nerve screaming for release, but deep twisting pain kicks me into silence. Then the wispy fog billows.
A handheld lantern shines
A ray of caramel light beams
A narrow path illuminates through the dark
The taunting fog dances in front of the vision. My body shakes. Don’t fight it.
White smoke billows
Strong hands press on an exposed spine
Lips drip with burning fire
Fading bodies writhe
I’m seized with an overwhelming sense to hide. Not fear. Not panic. But terrifying relentless shame. Consuming guilt.
A streak of red light flashes
A heart-shaped stone
Everything fades black.
Intense grief radiates, a deep regret. Not with impending death, but something else entirely. Pop was right. This one vision is different. And the vivid images were sharper, the feelings more intense. I close my eyes and try to interpret, recalling the first thing that comes to mind: lips. They dripped with fire. Luring. Dangerous.
Maddox’s stormy eyes are all I see.
And the exposed spine? Heat invades my face. I melted under his kiss. Then he called it a mistake. Maybe it was, because now a horrible thought overtakes me: what if this time, I’m the threat in the vision, the creature luring Maddox away? If that’s so, then this nightmare vision confirms Gray’s suspicion. And now he’ll have a solid case against me.
Something softly thunks outside the door. Panic seizes me as I blindly search for the wastebasket by the bed. My fingers grasp the edge. I pull it close, lean over, and wretch. But no one enters.
I flop on the bed, blinded by the silver haze, lie still, and wait. Shame creeps along my skin, wrapping tight around my throat as I think on the vision—on Maddox. Then Cole’s dangling smirk gets in the way. I push thoughts of him aside and try to focus on the vision.
After who knows how long, the wispy haze disappears. I sit up, finally able to see with an insatiable drive to find Maddox. A desperate draw to be near him, which must be an effect of the vision because, according to Gray, Maddox isn’t harnessed to me anymore. I’ll be assigned someone new. They’ll draw out the vision. Then everyone will see.
And know the truth.
A lingering headache ebbs and flows as morning light brightens the cloudy window above the threshold. Someone beats my door with an impatient knock.
“Coming.” I stagger through the room, brushing my teeth, throwing on clean clothes. I twist my hair in a flimsy knot. I w
ould slide Gladys’s hairpin behind my ear, but last time I did that, I lost it. Instead, I safely tuck it in my pocket. After several more savage beatings that rattle the glass, I emerge with Milton in hand.
The grumpy Blade that spied on Maddox and me in the dining room escorts me to the library in suspicious silence. He’s bound to report my delay to Gray. Guilty heat covers me despite the crisp morning air. Regardless of the shame, I’ll confess the vision to Foster first.
Grumpy dumps me at the library, even though no one is there when I arrive. He must not know because he leaves me at the courtyard door and walks away. Art books sprawl on the coffee table the same way we left them during our late-night marathon session. Foster’s desk is neatly straightened. Only the picture frame is out of line.
I adjust it for him, taking a quick peek. A woman with shiny strawberry hair draped over her left shoulder crinkles her nose with a modest grin. Her forehead rests by the ear of a frowning toddler with his arms crossed over a crumpled school uniform. The boy looks like a mini-Foster, minus the mustache. But the plastered hair is the same.
It’s hard to imagine Foster with a family. Or maybe he doesn’t have one anymore.
Voices collide with clanking breakfast dishes. I tuck Milton under my arm and, despite Gray’s threat on my life, search for Maddox. As I cut through the War Room, I glance out the screen door. Pop sits alone, rocking in a chair. A few gray birds with spotted wings flutter at his feet.
“Had another one, Honey?” He rolls a seed between his fingers. “Come, sit with me.”
I’m still amazed at how Pop knows it’s me. But I don’t have time to sit around. It’s my final morning in the Garden. I’m saddled with the crushing weight of deciphering messages, finding answers, and staying alive. But if Pop can help . . .
“I did.” I walk out and sit in the chair next to him, tucking Milton beside me. “The first part was exactly the same as before, with the lantern. But then . . . it wasn’t like the others.” I feel the heat climb up my neck. “The danger felt . . .”
Realms of Light (The Colliding Line Book 2) Page 8
