by Ashia Monet
Cordelia stares at him, then scoffs. She isn’t looking for a compromise. She’s looking for power over the group. She’s looking to win.
But this isn’t that type of situation, and it never has been, so she has no choice but to relent.
The air stings with the aftermath of a disagreement that is not quite over. Even Antonio can’t break the silence that falls as they search for a hotel.
Blythe worries that they won’t be able to book a room since they’re under eighteen. Cordelia, however, snatches up her phone.
“I’ll get us a room,” she says. They are the last words she speaks for the rest of the night.
Their hotel room comes with two full beds and—the part Blythe is most excited for—a bathroom with a fully working shower.
Cordelia resigns herself to one of the beds, back to the others to shut out the world. Blythe didn’t have time for her attitude earlier and she certainly doesn’t have time for it now.
Blythe inspects her wounds in the shower. With each passing day, her body takes more of a beating. At this rate, by the time they reach Electric City, she’ll be missing a limb.
Being in the shower always causes her mind to wander. Memories of the day morph into memories of her family. Her mother, her father, Lily, Lena.
She spent today relaxing. But what if that was a mistake? What if, tomorrow morning, she wakes up to news that Electric City has been attacked again, and that there is no hope this time?
She doesn’t know what else to do. She’s trying her best, pushing herself as far as she can.
But what if her best isn’t enough?
She doesn’t want to be the girl who cries in a bathroom alone. She doesn’t want to be the girl who cries at all. But once she’s changed into her pajamas—ones that remind her of home—she can’t take it anymore.
She rushes out of the bathroom, through the dark room where the Guardians lay sleeping, and straight into the night. She sits on the stairs, brings her knees to her chest, and cries.
The first few teardrops only pave the way for more. She is trying to make all the right decisions, to be strong, to keep the Guardians together when she can barely keep herself together.
But there is a murderous spirit lingering near their group and a woman who summons monsters and terrorizes Blythe with photos implying the death of her family.
No amount of strength can carry all of this.
Something clicks behind her. The door is easing open. She can’t let anyone see her like this. She absolutely can’t.
Blythe rushes to wipe away her tears, but they are only replaced by more, and quieting her sobs results in hiccups.
Someone sits down beside her. They smell like the ocean.
“I don’t know why you’re crying,” Antonio whispers. “But I don’t think I need to.”
Blythe can’t look at him. She hates when people see her cry. “I’m sorry, Antonio,” she whispers. “I just…I’m sorry…”
“Hey, hey, don’t be sorry,” he says. “You should never be sorry for crying. I cry. All of the other Guardians cry. Everyone cries. Especially when monsters are trying to kill them.” He places a warm hand on top of hers and squeezes tight. “It just sucks to cry by yourself.”
Blythe takes in a shaky breath. “There’s so much we didn’t tell you, and I’m sorry,” she chokes out. “I was going to but we never had the time—Whiteclaw was at your house and then we were in the Tempore and I should have told you today but I just—”
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not mad. Look!”
He’s taken his topknot out, and with the front of his hair brushing his cheeks, he looks much younger. He smiles, his pure, perfect smile, and there’s that dimple.
“See?” he says. “S’all good. You guys had a lot on your plate, I get it.”
Blythe wipes her eyes. Well, there’s no time like the present. “My family got kidnapped by the Trident Republic. A guy named Whiteclaw destroyed my family’s café, took them and…and attacked my friend. It happened right in front of me. But I couldn’t even do anything. I was too weak to even do anything.”
Antonio’s brow pinches, but he lets her continue. “I want to get them back. But it’s not even a want, I…I need to,” Blythe takes in an uneven breath. “But I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do. I thought I needed to take a break today, but what if that was wrong? The plan was to get the Guardians’ help, but I never even asked you if you would help. I don’t know what I’m doing at all. And that—that lady in the Tempore says my family could be killed and I wouldn’t even be able to do anything about it?! And we can’t find Storm and I just…” she hides her face in her hands as the tears bubble up again. “I don’t know what to do…”
Antonio wraps his arms around her and holds her tight. She hadn’t meant to say so much, to dump her problems on him like this.
He stays with her as she cries, until she has gone still and the only sounds she makes are raspy breaths.
“I’m really close to my mom,” Antonio says. “All of my family, really. We sleep over at each other’s houses, my cousins go to school with me, and sometimes we even share birthday parties.”
“But…” his voice trails off. “If someone kidnapped them, especially my mom, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d probably just...run to my grandma’s house and cry. Or beg for someone to help me. But look at you. I mean, so what if you took a day to recharge? You’re out here. You’re crossing the country, getting all of us together so you can make it to Electric City and find your family.”
He pulls her back, holding her at arm’s length, making her look straight into his eyes. “You’re more capable than you think you are. And you can do this. And if you can’t, well, you’re getting us for a reason. I guess all I’m saying is…you’re doing everything that you can. And it’ll be enough. You’re enough. And where you fall flat, we’ll pick you up again. Okay?”
Blythe’s eyes are burning with tears again, but for a different reason this time: gratitude. “Thanks, Antonio,” she whispers. “Really.”
He beams. “No problem. And, by the way, I will help you get to Electric City.”
Blythe laughs, wiping her eyes. Antonio said he had a seagull’s wings, but Blythe is certain this boy is simply a walking angel.
“Whenever I’m sad, my mom makes me something to eat, like cookies and coffee,” Antonio continues. “But we don’t have any food right now. And I ate all the cookies from earlier.”
Blythe sniffles. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”
“Thoughts don’t taste as good as cookies.”
Blythe chuckles. Antonio asks if she’ll come back in to sleep, but she thinks the night air will be good for her, at least for a bit longer.
When the door clicks shut behind Antonio, Blythe is left with a night sky full of stars and a head full of memories that don’t hurt as much.
She is going to make it to Electric City—and she has people who will keep her safe, who will help her, who won’t let her fail. And that knowledge sits warm and soft in her chest.
After a while, her phone buzzes. It’s Jamie.
Everything still ok?
Even back home, there is someone looking out for her. Blythe truly is a very, very lucky girl.
She tries to text back, but the screen goes black. A red battery sign flashes at her.
Blythe sighs. Back inside, Daniel and Antonio are on their bed; Antonio has fallen back to sleep in remarkable time. Daniel faces the wall again, wide awake.
“Hey Cords,” Blythe begins. “Can I borrow your charger…”
Blythe’s voice trails off. The bed is empty.
Cordelia is gone.
Fourteen
“Daniel?”
“Huh?”
“Where’s Cordelia?”
Daniel rolls over, slightly concerned. “I-I thought she was out with you.”
Blythe curses under her breath. Of course Cordelia would do this. God only knows what she decided to leave for. Monster
s and the Trident Republic be damned—the only thing that girl cares about is being right and making a point.
If Blythe waits for Cordelia to return, she may be waiting for the rest of her life. There are too many people out for Guardian blood.
“Daniel, can you call her?” Blythe asks.
He sits up and takes his phone from the nightstand. “How do I do that?” he asks the screen.
Blythe does it for him, but the phone rings with no answer. “I’m gonna go look for her,” Blythe decides.
“S-Should we all come?” Daniel stammers.
They could help, but if this is just a false alarm, there’s no use in getting everyone up and out of bed.
“I’ll make sure she’s not just throwing a hissy fit or something,” Blythe says. “Can I take your phone with me? Mine’s is dead.”
“Of course. I wasn’t using it.”
Blythe puts her clothes on over her pajamas and throws her hockey stick on her back. “If I need you I’ll call Ant,” she says as she leaves.
Daniel’s face is flushed. “O-Okay. B-Be safe.”
Outside, the only light comes from streetlights and the occasional passing car.
The silence is what gets to Blythe the most; she is completely alone as she travels these dark streets.
Blythe tries calling Cordelia again with no luck. Cordelia could’ve just stormed off in bratty huff—but something terrible could have happened.
How is Blythe supposed to find a girl who has either gotten in trouble or simply doesn’t want to be found?
Blythe’s not too keen on walking around alone at night. She doesn’t know this city at all—but neither does Cordelia. And Cordelia is definitely smart enough to know that.
Would she really run off for no reason?
Daniel’s phone vibrates. Blythe is hopeful—at first. It’s a text from Cordelia: no words—just a location.
Blythe stares at the red pin on the pastel map. This is either Cordelia being petty, or reason for Blythe to be very, very worried.
Blythe follows the GPS down street after street. There’s a corner store here, a gas station there, a mini deserted plaza of no name stores.
The closer she gets, the colder her blood runs. The streets are becoming darker and quieter. The world seems dead.
You’ve arrived at your destination, the GPS reads. Blythe’s breath hitches. The place in front of her is a decrepit auto repair garage, locked and barred with a “sorry, we’re closed!” sign hanging from the doorknob. Light echoes through the smeared windows.
Nothing about this place screams safe. It looks like a serial killer’s den. And Cordelia is in there.
Blythe refuses to call Daniel and Antonio. For what? To put all four of them in danger? And Blythe’s not completely defenseless, something she remembers whenever she has to shift the hockey stick’s weight on her back.
Blythe creeps up to the window. The door lies to her left, but it’s shut and seems to be sealed with putty. Whatever is smeared across the glass, oil or thick grime, obscures her vision.
She makes out a group of men inside, wearing all-black. That’s the dress code of the Erasers—but these people aren’t in suits.
The door slams open. Light explodes into the night. Beefy fingers snatch Blythe’s collar and yank her backward.
“Eh, Rocco!” the person shouts. “Here’s another one!”
The attacker drags her inside like a lifeless sack; her body slips over the floor too quickly for her to stop. She reaches for chairs and passing countertops, tries to dig her heels downward to stop the momentum, but the grip on her shirt is like a vice.
Everything happens too quickly. Her body trembles as the attacker drops her against cement. A new pair of hands wrestle her hockey stick off of her body. She’s lost her only weapon.
Something slams into her back, pinning her flat. Someone’s boot is on her back. The dark filth in cold floor crushes her cheek. It reeks of motor oil.
“Well shit,” says a familiar voice. “Look who it is.”
The boot eases up just a bit, enough for Blythe to lift her head and scan the room. There are at least twelve guys encircling her at a distance, men with shaved heads, tattoo sleeves, full beards, cold eyes.
They sit atop dusty cars or lean against the walls. Two are posted at both doorways Blythe can spot. Some of them have guns holstered at their hips.
Cold recognition shivers through Blythe. These are the people she stole the shard from. The biker gang from Washington.
And they’re all looking at her.
To the right, sitting on a metal table coated with black grease, is Cordelia. Her hands are held behind her back.
Blythe tries to echo her thoughts as loudly as possible, not breaking her gaze on the other girl.
Are you okay?! She asks. Are you okay?
There is no response but the unchanging, pleading expression widening Cordelia’s eyes. She can’t hear Blythe.
It probably has something to do with the metal chain around her neck—specifically, the stone hanging from it, glowing with a magical pulse.
Beside Cordelia is a familiar face indeed—Rocco, the leader of the group, black boots crossed, one hand in the pocket of his black jeans and the other holding Cordelia’s phone.
He looks down at Blythe. “Didn’t know we’d end up luring you here,” he says. “But I ain’t gonna complain.”
His boots crunch against the concrete as he ambles toward her. Blythe resists the urge to shut her eyes as he kneels, bringing his dark gaze inches from her face. “Thought you were clever, hmm? With your damn Home Alone sparklers and shit.”
He drags her to her feet with a grip like iron. “The Trident Republic can track their shard, you dumb bitch,” he spits. “We were gonna find you eventually. It was only a matter of time before you fucked up.”
Keeping her expression blank becomes a balancing act Blythe doesn’t quite succeed in. That must be how woman in the Tempore found them—all she had to do was follow the location of the shard straight to them.
“Do you know who we are?” Rocco asks.
“No,” Blythe snaps. She steels her breathing, swallowing her fear. “And I really couldn’t care less.”
Rocco twists her arm behind her back. There’s a weird, sickening noise. It comes from Blythe’s own shoulder. Pain shoots down her arm, searing and sharp.
She cries out through clenched teeth—the pain reverberates through every organ in her body. She has never broken a bone, not once in her whole life. The tears threatening to run down her face are thick and hot.
The look in Rocco’s unblinking eyes is scarily impassive. “I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you. Especially since your friend already gave us what we want.”
An unseen hand passes Rocco a heavy beanie. Blythe’s beanie. She presses her lips together to keep from begging him not to touch it, pleading, even as he reaches inside—
It feels like her mind tears in half, straight down the middle. Through the endless white noise blaring in her mind and the sound of her own screams comes Rocco’s throaty voice. “The fuck?”
The other bikers suddenly come alive. “Wait…who are these kids?”
“Oh shit, Rocco, the last people they used that shard on were the—”
“We’re not supposed to messin’ with the Guardians...”
“Shut up!” Rocco shouts. “They ain’t Guardians. They’re a bunch of annoying ass kids. And we’re gonna treat ‘em like it.”
The words come right beside her ear, sharp and hard. “You’re gonna remember who the fuck we are because we’re the last faces you’ll ever see.”
Disembodied noises in her mind leave no room for thought. There is only the endless, vast expanse of broken sound and distorted broken fragments, and, somewhere beneath it, the creeping fear that she will exist in this agony forever.
Until, suddenly, it stops. Blythe’s mind falls silent. Her senses reopen to the world, but it takes her a moment to return to the present—to remem
ber where she is, who she is. She blinks her eyes open to find the garage in chaos.
Rocco has risen to his feet, shouting. “What the fuck is that?!”
A different voice. “Shit. It’s that girl on that bike.”
Rocco grunts. “You gotta be shittin’ me. Hawk, Skip, grab the Asian chick and the shard!”
He snatches Blythe to her feet. Her legs wobble, her arm burns, something warm trickles down onto her lip.
She barely hears his words. “You’re gonna come with us, because we ain’t done yet—”
An orange blur slams him into the ground.
“She’s in here!” someone screams.
Blythe backs away, but the blur is already gone. The men are in a frenzy: black leather jackets shoot past Blythe’s vision as they run, like a scattering wolf pack.
Through the chaos of bodies and movement, two Black Jackets usher Cordelia through an open doorway and into the night.
Blythe can’t let them get far.
Gunfire bursts in the air. Blythe doesn’t think—instinct takes over and she ducks behind a nearby car. The Black Jackets fire at the orange blur—their bullets sail right past it.
It darts around the room with precision and intelligence. Every man it passes collapses like he’s been struck. They drop like flies, one instantly after the other, too fast for Blythe to fully see, until the garage is silent and littered with bodies. But not a single drop of blood has spilled.
The blur stops. And it is no longer a blur, but a girl.
An orange Harlequin mask covers her face. She’s Black, pear shaped and athletically muscular. Her dark hair is parted into twin braids down her back, and her scuffed rollerblades should make her extremely tall, but she looks to be Blythe’s height.
Blythe holds her breath as the girl reaches down to take the beanie from Rocco’s limp hand.
“That’s mine,” Blythe blurts.
The girl seems to study her for a moment. She peeks into the beanie, pauses for a second, and tosses it to Blythe with disinterest.
Blythe can feel the girl’s gaze as she awkwardly maneuvers her good arm to tuck it into her pocket.