“First, because I don’t speak Italian,” he answered, confirming her suspicions that he was as foreign as she was. “And second, because wait is no Italian word as far as I’m concerned. Now, to the original question.”
“Most likely the same reason you are. There’s people who want that actress inside for her powers, and we aren’t going to let that happen. We’re here to stop it.”
“Why shouldn’t I believe that you are one of them?” he asked. “You seemed to be waiting here for her to leave.”
“As if you weren’t. Maybe you’re the one who wanted to scoop her up.” Then she took a stab in the dark, a hopeful guess to throw him off guard. “Those tattoos don’t exactly make you look like the average citizen. And we’re a long way from the Amazon, aren’t we, for one of the Litious?”
She felt him stiffen and prepared herself to launch into the air, but then the point off the knife angled just under her chin, turning her face upwards.
“Who are you and how do you know about the Litious?” he demanded.
“A friend,” said Arial, suddenly relieved that she had not displayed her Flying abilities. The Litious, the tribe that Zeke had shown them deep in the Amazon, was a village Lacit had destroyed on his rampage through the jungle. Zeke described them as zealots who had separated themselves from Specials by deserting society entirely, choosing instead to live as hermits. Arial had arrived just in time to see the last member of the tribe perish from her wounds, but she’d said her son had escaped. Were there others as well?
“I came to their aid, and them to mine. We were there after the Litious were attacked and heard Freja’s last words,” she said, and took a risk with her next few words. “After those damn Specials left. But I thought they had all been destroyed.”
The boy released her, though he kept his knife drawn, and she took her first look at his face from up close. He was older than her, but not by much, though the hard lines of his scowl added to his years. His hair was dark and cut short, accented by sideburns that crawled down to his earlobes in the beginnings of what would soon be a beard. Below that, she could just make out the beginnings of a tattoo that yearned to surpass his collar, folding neatly for now just beneath the cloth.
“If you had been there when the Specials arrived, what would you have done?” he asked, and she felt pinned down by the intensity of his stare.
“I would have fought,” she said, the words coming naturally, since they represented the truth.
“You probably would have died, along with the rest of them,” he said, and she swept her hair from her eyes as she answered.
“Would have brought some of them with me too, then.”
Just then, Arial felt the ground shift—a tremor that coursed underneath her, a wave that bucked the concrete. She steadied herself, resisting the urge to leap into the air, extending a hand out to catch the boy, who had tripped over the curb, keeping him from falling flat on his back.
He cast an eye back towards the opera house as another tremor rocked them, his expression souring. Then, as the side of the theater cracked, and the screams escaped from inside, he turned to leave down the alleyway.
“You’re coming with me,” he said, and though he didn’t brandish the knife, Arial knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. “I’m not sure what to do with you, but our leader will know. It will be for him to decide. Now we need to move quickly.”
Arial paused, turning back towards the theater, remembering SC’s plan. What was more important, adhering to the scheme or investigating a third piece of the puzzle surrounding the Silver Tongues? And what about the screams that poured forth from the theater itself, of people that might need saving?
“Aren’t we going to help them?” she asked as doubt flickered across his face.
“Them?” he asked, gesturing towards the theater. “They’re just Specials. They would never help us.”
“What about Francesca? If this is an attack, are you just going to let them steal her?”
“That’s exactly why we need to go. This situation requires more than me. I won’t be strong enough to handle it.”
She hesitated, and again saw doubt flicker across his face. His fingers tightened on the knife, and both their eyes flicked towards it.
“I can’t let you leave,” he stated simply, letting the blade carry the implication.
She was far enough away now that she could escape through flight, and short of throwing the knife, which she could outpace, he posed no threat. But by letting him escape, she lost a lead, a clue that she might not be able to pick up again.
I’m not strong enough, he had said. Implying that he had powers, something the Litious considered sacrilegious. Inside, Arial felt her curiosity growing, outweighing apprehension. Slugger would be able to tail Francesca. SC would have everything under control. This was an opportunity.
Then she turned, following him out of the alleyway, leaving SC with the others behind.
Chapter 27
Arial
Arial had forgotten how much she hated running.
Not because of the burning in her calves or the stitch that ran up her side as they hit a half mile at sprinting speed, her captor glued to her side. No, she hated running because it was so slow.
It felt as if she had been watching the intersection ahead for minutes when they finally reached it, the concrete crawling by under her feet. Had she been flying, the distance would have passed in an instant as the wind whipped through her hair, cooling her down as opposed to the heat from the day that still radiated up from the ground and brought sweat beads into her eyes. Most frustrating was how her captor was faster than her, his breathing coming regular, seeming to always be one step ahead no matter her speed. He’d know the truth, if he could only see her fly.
She supposed he was faster than her just as she was his prisoner, in name alone.
Sirens passed them traveling the opposite direction, and her captor simply ran past them, unlike SC, who would immediately have ducked into an alleyway. Meaning that whoever he was, he wasn’t wanted by the authorities. Not here, at least. She chanced a glance behind her, watching as the cars traveled towards the theater, another tremor shaking under her feet. At this distance, she could barely feel it—but if that was a Special causing the quake, they had to be incredibly powerful for the waves to reach this distance.
They turned right, heading down an alley packed with bars, chairs, and tables littering a street too skinny for cars to travel. A restaurant owner stood outside, leaning on a chalk sign advertising specials for that day, and he nodded at her captor as he stopped. He sipped on something dark, raising his eyebrows at Arial but allowing her to pass as they entered, heading past the regular patrons as they sidled behind the counter. One tried to wave her captor down, pointing at her empty glass, but was ignored as her captor pulled up a wooden hatch at the far end, exposing a stone staircase traveling underground.
Alarm bells flared in her mind as he pointed for Arial to descend, and she peered forwards, seeing yellow illumination bouncing off the wall far below. If this was a trap, following him underground meant no escape—her flight powers would be useless down there. She swallowed, hesitating as he pointed again, his motion urgent, exposing the tattoo that pulled at her curiosity one more.
She moved forwards, her tennis shoes squeaking on stone worn smooth by countless years of use. He followed, and the door shut behind her, though with some small amount of relief, she heard no latch. So long as she could beat him back up the stairs, she could escape.
Rows of wine bottles rose around her as she entered the cellar, chilled by the cool, damp air, their labels visible from the lone light bulb hanging from a wire in the center of the room. The shelving had been pushed aside, nudged against the block stone walls to make room for six cots that barely fit in the remaining space. Four of them were taken, the blankets moving slowly up and down in rhythm with their snores, while a fifth person occupied the table at the far end of the room, writing into a notebook. He l
ooked up as they approached, taking her in with an eerie calmness as if he were accustomed to strangers barging into his makeshift home.
She recognized him from Lucio’s footage—the same man who had stopped Lacit cold, the unforgettable tattoos covering every inch of his body. Sitting so still at the table, he seemed out of place, as if his body belonged in the same swirling motion in its ink, the muscles in his arms itching to fight.
“Matteo,” he said, a Brazilian accent thick on his tongue as he addressed her captor. “What have you brought us?”
“News!” Matteo responded, stirring those on the cots. “There’s been a disturbance at the opera house. Something is underway. Might be what we expected!”
“Up!” commanded the leader, and those sleeping immediately rose, though he had spoken the word no more loudly than casual conversation. They were already half dressed, and as they slipped on shoes or buttoned their shirts, Arial could see the same tattoos covering portions of their bodies. Some bore them on their arms and hands, others on their legs, one with the swirls starting to creep across his forehead though present nowhere else. But none of them wore the same amount as the leader, who slowly capped his pen, his attention never wavering from Arial.
“And what else have you brought us?” he asked, and standing, his shadow falling long upon the wall.
“She said she knows the Litious!” Matteo exclaimed. “That she was there when your village was attacked. She recognized the tattoos and said we share the same enemy.”
“Did she now?” the leader asked, and his stare bore into her as she shifted under his scrutiny. Technically, nothing Matteo said had been a lie, but there was plenty of truth he had left out as well. “Only Specials were there when my village was attacked.”
“I arrived after,” Arial said. “What they did, it was horrendous. A massacre. I wanted to help, but I couldn’t. There wasn’t anything I could do.” She felt true tears coming to her eyes as she remembered the scene, the blood, the burnt homes, the dead. “But we spoke with the survivor, a woman named Freja.”
“Survivor?” he asked, and though his voice was unchanging, she saw his eyes turn hard. “I buried Freja. She was no survivor.”
“She died in my friend’s arms,” Arial said, feeling Matteo approach from behind her, her mind on the knife he still held. “A man named Zeke brought us to her, before we knew about the attack, we needed her aid. She said, she said…” Arial racked her brain for the last words of Freja then spoke them one more. “She said he unlocked the cage.”
At that, the leader blinked, the greatest show of emotion she had seen in the moments since they had met. Behind her, she heard Matteo draw a sharp breath, and those getting dressed paused halfway through their preparations. Then she barged forwards, sensing the sudden shift in the room, taking yet another gamble since she had met Matteo.
“I’ve come here to join you,” she said. “We are up against the same evil. Zeke will vouch for me, if you can contact him.”
“Can you fight? We are many things, but peaceful is not yet one of them,” the leader asked, tilting his head to regard her in a new light. Her hopes surged, and she raised her chin as she responded.
“Absolutely.”
“What is your name?”
“Arial,” she said, knowing that if he checked with Zeke, she’d have to use her real one.
“Arial, I am Divi. You’ll need a weapon if we are to fight Specials. We keep our stores in that closet there, behind the brooms—they are hidden in case we are found out. Take your pick and know this excursion the first test of your loyalty. Hurry. We leave in thirty seconds. This could be our perfect moment to strike.”
Without another word of encouragement, Arial followed his gesture to a door at the back of the cellar, the thick wood heavy as she pulled it open. Inside, it was dark, and unlike the rest of the cellar, the air was uncomfortably hot and humid. Her eyes adjusted, and she could just make out the brooms he had mentioned—behind them, there were shapes that she couldn’t recognize, which must be the weapons. She stepped inside, her hand closing around one of them, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion when fabric met her touch. Mop heads, she realized, the dirty moisture rubbing off her hands as she bent forwards, searching behind them for the weapons.
But then there was darkness as the light behind her closed off, and the door snapped shut. She whipped around, her mouth opening in horror just as she heard the click of a lock.
Chapter 28
Arial
Arial gasped, the thin, hot air lacking the substance to clear her mind, clutching her hand against her chest. She lay spread on her back on the stone floor of the closet, the stones below only incrementally cooler than the air above her, her hair spread out as far from her body as possible. Never before had she wished for it to be cut short, as it now trapped the heat in, intensifying her insufferable condition. Sweat soaked through her shirt, pooling around her, squelching whenever she moved.
Over the past two hours, she’d inspected the interior of the closet, searching for anything she could use to try and break free. Already she had broken one of the broomsticks over the thick door, her hands blistered from the vibrations that had traveled up the shaft with each hit, succeeding only in leaving shallow divots in the wood. Besides cleaning equipment, no tools were in the room, and she’d already tried attacking the screws holding the door hinges in place with her fingernails, succeeding only in breaking one off. And the only other object in the room nestled up against the back wall, a small flickering flame visible at its base, and the focus of her hatred.
The water heater was old and inefficient, seeming to give off more heat than it transferred to the liquid in its tank. The outside was scorching hot, nearly burning her hand when she’d first touched it, and copper pipes ran to and from the metallic cylinder. She could smell the gas in one of them, but in the darkness, couldn’t figure out if there was a way to shut it off—her hands felt a valve with the lever broken at the base, and whenever she tried to turn it, the piping jiggled dangerously near the heater, threatening to rip free. If she pulled it loose and the room filled with gas, she’d be dead in minutes through suffocation or explosion.
As she sweated on the floor, it seemed like a more and more attractive option.
She could hear someone outside her door, likely a guard they had left behind, his shadow passing under the crack as he paced the room. No matter how loud she yelled or slammed her fists against the door, he refused to answer. And with him outside, she dared not attempt the most obvious solution to her predicament.
The closet was constructed from the same stone as the rest of the cellar, but far above, she could see a crack of light. The ceiling was high, and she guessed it to be fifteen feet, too far and too dark for her to tell where it originated. From her angle, it looked too small for her to exit, but as a headache from dehydration set in, she stared upwards, trying to discern how she could use it. Could it be a vent for her to breathe cool air through? A window? Even if she couldn’t escape, could she call for help—or would the same bar owner that let them down only warn the Litious that she was trying to escape?
With her flight, traveling up to see it would be simple as simple as pacing the closet. But with the guard left behind, she dared not try, remembering the Litious’ stance on Specials.
In the jungle, anyone who trespassed onto their grounds with powers was killed immediately, subject to poison darts and knives. It was their religion, their doctrine, and Zeke had assured her they would complete the task with joy rather than remorse. To them, killing a Special was removing evil from the world.
If Arial made her powers known, she would be welcoming death at the hands of zealots. In the close confines of the closet, she’d be unable to escape if they came for her. Here, in her misery, slowly losing moisture, she was trapped.
Her vision swam as she stared up at the light, debating if it was worth the risk. Her eyelids fluttered, drowsiness overcoming her as she turned to look at the flickering pilot f
lame of the water heater. With ebbing strength, she edged closer to the door crack, where fresh air trickled underneath. Not only was it cool, but it carried oxygen—and she feared between her and the flame, there would soon be none left.
She licked her dry lips, her attention turning to the mops she had mistaken for weapons. They were moist, but filthy from cleaning the floor of the bar above. But in the past few minutes, their water grew more and more tempting.
Shaking her head, she pushed away the thought. She needed something to focus on, something to take her mind off the torture. Sitting up, she ran her fingers along the floor, searching until they closed around the broken broom handle. The piece she found was as long as her forearm, the edge already jagged from where it had broken. But she’d need something better than jagged. She’d need sharp.
She dragged the point along the ground, grating it on the rough stone, turning it after every fifteen strokes. Slowly, the edges of the wood sanded away, sharpening like a pencil, and she pricked her finger against the point, testing it. After a half hour of effort, it came back bloody, and she sucked on the cut, grateful for even that small amount of moisture.
Soon, her blood would not be alone on the broomstick turned stake. Divi had told her she would find weapons in the closet. And as she waited, the makeshift short spear clutched tight in her hand, her eyes watching for approaching shadows under the door crack, she made his lie into her truth.
Chapter 29
“Home,” announced Francesca to the chauffeur as they pulled out of the opera house square and onto the main street, then spoke to me. “I’ve moved since you last visited. You’re going to love my new place.”
Bumper to bumper traffic awaited, subjecting Francesca to the passing tourists who quickly recognized her in the backseat. For the time being, she was busy waving and smiling to them as she passed, posing for pictures as they walked alongside the car. And while she was distracted, I scanned the crowd, searching for any clues about what had happened.
Titan Song (Star Child: Places of Power Book 3) Page 10