by Lucy Auburn
He takes half my fingers off along with the treat, leaving me with a slimy hand to wipe off on the back of my shirt with a grimace, but at least he's starting to get the hang of this a little more. My Emotional Affinity only goes so far—I can't force him to do things, just nudge him by sharing my emotional state with him and encouraging him to go along. If I'm going to get him to be reliable, I need the old standby that has worked on dogs for millennia: tasty, tasty snacks.
Killer gamely goes along with me down the hallway towards Covington's room, his feet matching pace with mine. Students stream past us, most going towards their dorm rooms, thankfully no longer seeming to notice or care much about the rangy tan mutt trotting among them. A few give him little looks or reach down for brief pats, but he stays on mission, more comfortable walking alongside me than being given constant attention from strangers.
There's something interesting about using his eyes full-time. When I use my own, people know that I'm looking at them, but with Killer they seem to forget. I catch the occasional curious glance my way, heads dipping down to murmur things. It makes a spot between my shoulder blades itch, and I wonder what they're saying.
I'm the Brutus in their midst.
The special one.
But even I was no match for the actual Brutus, a man who was wearing my father's face and body. He got away from me, and nearly took Wyatt from me too. And we know he'll come back, whether the Shadow Fold has been hunting him or not.
We're just sitting here in the moment between the present and a coming disaster, twiddling our thumbs until the inevitable happens.
I shake off the thought as I reach Covington's office and knock on his door, trying not to let it get to me. I've been getting used to the stares and whispers for a while now—before this, after all, I was the infamous Ellen Arizona, murderer and dangerous psychopath. Being the special one at killer school is nothing in comparison. It's Brutus plaguing my thoughts more than anything, and once I figure out how to take care of the bastard, everything will be right as rain—whatever that means.
"Come in."
Stepping into Covington's office, I'm struck by how quickly he's managed to put his own touches on the office. There's a world map with photographs pinned to it of various landscapes without people in them—a strange way to commemorate travels. A bookshelf fulled with odds and ends, as well as a few books, but mostly small statues, photos and paintings, even tiny antique silverware sets and ivory combs. It's like a miniature museum, and a morbid part of me wonders if he bought the items to remember places he's traveled to, or if they all represent Marks he's killed.
Sometimes it's easy to forget that the people all around me are killers, each and every one of them in their own different way. Covington looks like the kind of man who would censor his curse words even if he spilled scalding water on himself. Instead he's the kind who gets inside people's heads and orders them to walk to their own deaths.
"You wanted to meet with me?"
"Yes, take a seat—not on the leather ottoman, that's an antique." Bemused, I sit down on the generic office chair he seems to have dragged in here from some other room, which is the only mass-produced item around. "I wanted to talk to you about your powers, Ellen. You showed great promise today. I think that with the right training and tools at your disposal, you could be a valuable asset to the Shadow Fold team hunting down Brutus. If you're interested, I'd like to make you a consultant."
I blink at him. "Is that even possible? I'm nowhere near graduating, after all."
"I've looked over your files. You've successfully hunted down a Mark. And I saw you in battle—I know you have courage and conviction in the face of overwhelming odds." Just when he's making me feel good, he finishes with a, "And to be blunt, we can't really afford to be picky right now."
Well, that's one way to deflate the balloon that is my rapidly growing ego. It's not really something I can say no to though—especially when I was planning on hunting the bastard down anyway. Doing it with Professor Covington's help, and maybe even getting an inside look at what the Shadow Fold does in, well, the shadows, is too big of an opportunity to pass up.
"When do we start?"
"Now. I want you to practice your foresight with your Emotional Affinity Conduit, Mason Kincaide. I'll tag team with Instructor Abarra—if we work together, you can train most days of the week, in addition to your current class load."
Great, just great. As if I didn't already have enough on my plate.
I'm going to eat all the cheesy puffs. Just as soon as I find them.
Full of manufactured cheese and puffed-up carbs, thanks to Killer's ingenious nose finding Eve's snack supply hiding place even when I couldn't, I head towards training with a bounce in my step. I'm finally being useful, I have something to look forward to, and best of all, Eve is out of town so she won't be able to murder me for eating her snacks. It's a win-win-lose, the loser being Eve.
And Mason and I are finally in a good place. At least, I think we are. We both agree that there's something between us, but we're letting things flow naturally. He's giving me space, and I'm... considering closing that space completely.
In the meantime, though, there's the future to concern myself with. If I can see when and where that shithead Brutus is up to stuff, and use Shadow Fold resources to look into the pentagram, I can finally put the fucker six feet under. His crusty old girlfriend will go with him, too. All I have to do is see—and for the first time in a while, I'm fully confident that I can.
I just hope I don't accidentally see another apocalypse.
Instructor Abarra is waiting for me in the training room. She looks a little worse for the wear; all the university staff have been running themselves ragged working security, training students for another attack, and going out on assignments they barely tell us anything about at all. But she snaps to attention when Killer and I enter the room, and I can tell she could easily throw me over her shoulder and pin me on the ground if she wanted to. The woman is nothing if not formidable.
"Good, you're here," she says, like I'm fifteen minutes late instead of four minutes early. "Where's Mason?"
"Right here." The intrepid, braided, brawny boy of mine walks in behind me, a whiff of shea butter and coconut-scented shampoo trailing in his wake. "I heard we're practicing Ellen's foresight."
"Yes, that's the plan, with the ultimate goal of tracking Marcus Junius Brutus's movements and anticipating his next attack."
She motions for us to enter the room, and we do so side by side, every hair on my arm standing on end from Mason's proximity. Glancing at him sideways from Killer's eyes, I wonder for a moment why I suddenly feel nervous around him again. It isn't until I realize something has shifted inside me—something undeniably warm and eager to fall into his arms—that I realize it's because the wall I put up between us to protect myself has begun to crumble.
I told him that I needed time and space. I was right. Now that I've had enough to want to be with him without reservation, though, I find myself acting like a twelve-year-old standing next to her crush on Valentine's Day.
Thankfully I'm able to hide my expression from him, because I've been staring at him through my seeing eye dog's line of sight this whole time. Rubbing my arms, I stand with him in the middle of the training room, both of us facing towards the targets on the opposite wall.
Abarra paces in front of us, Killer tracking her motion with no small amount of nervousness. I reach down to soothe him with gentle pats along his head and shoulders, and he leans against me, his weight and warmth such a comfort that I start to wonder who's soothing who.
"Alright, so the key here is to focus your Mental Affinity, which thus far has proven to be... difficult." That's an understatement, and you can hear the frustration in the instructor's voice as she says it. "Hopefully, Ellen, now that you've come into your weakness, your powers will prove easier to guide in the right direction. Remember: don't overthink it. Just like you aim your Physical Affinity at targets, aim your
foresight in a certain direction. Mason will help you by augmenting your powers—and taking note of what you both observe so it can be recorded in detail."
"Got it," I tell her. "Should I just... think about Brutus? Or something?" I don't know how to do that without trembling in rage at what he's taken from me, but at least it'll be easier than not thinking about him.
"No, for now I want you to focus on little things. But let's concentrate on people, not events—your professors, other students, even celebrities. If you can learn how to focus your powers on individuals and foresee their next actions, maybe that'll give us a fighting chance."
Somehow I doubt being able to tell what movie a B-list actress is going to star in next will prove to be a useful ability, but at least looking into their futures won't show me things I never wanted to see. My ultimate fear of my Mental Affinity has always revolved around finding things out that would be better off discovered when they happen and not before. Knowing terrible things is only helpful if I see enough to be able to stop them from happening.
Mason's hand floats towards mine, his fingers skimming against my skin and bringing with them the bright white light of my own sight flooding to me. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be," I tell him, squashing the two nervous snakes in my belly, one for him and one for the future. "Let's look into Instructor Abarra's future first, shall we?"
"I don't think that's necessary." She frowns in my direction and crosses her arms. I have to admit, I haven't missed being able to feel the full force of people's disapproval when they stare me down directly. "Perhaps you might consider a fellow student's future instead—"
"It's just so much easier when the individual I'm focusing on is nearby," I lie to her, because I'm enjoying getting to push her buttons. She's always been so inscrutable. This, at least, seems to be getting a reaction out of her. "I promise I won't try to see anything dangerous or... private."
Her frown deepens, like it hadn't even occurred to her that I might observe one of her secrets by using my powers. But she must know she can't stop me from looking towards her future—now or later—so she just sighs and says, "If it helps."
The tone she uses suggests this isn't the first time a student's powers have had inconvenient and unpleasant side affects for her. No doubt the telepaths and ghost-obsessed in our ranks find little ways to make her life hard. I'll try to keep my promise though—no doubt whatever I see will be mundane, anyway, given how often my Mental Affinity misfires. I'll probably see her sigh at me five minutes from now, or fall asleep in her office.
Mason squeezes my hand encouragingly. "Ready?"
"Let's do this thing."
I let Grayson's mind-clearing exercise take hold. Empty white room. Big, stupid-looking bell. Claaaaaaaang. The echoes of its peals clear out my mind, and with only the empty target wall to focus on, my vision begins to shift as if I'm watching a movie projected through my mind and out into the world. It's out of focus, though, just swimming colors and moving smears. There's nothing for my Affinity to zero in on until I fill my mind with a target.
I think of Instructor Abarra: tall, long hair, dark skin tone, perpetually annoyed with me, muscular enough that I don't want to annoy her too much, and always willing to go the extra mile to teach a student how to use their Affinities. Really, she's a saint. A scary saint, but saintly nonetheless.
The movie being projected in front of me shifts and takes shape. An invisible camera focuses. A brand new scene comes to life in front of my eyes—and Mason's, through our undeniable connection, his ability to create illusions joining with my ability to see the future. Something even more spectacular than my own normal, daily sight takes shape in front of us, the colors vivid and vibrant, every bit of it as clear and in-focus as a high definition movie on a beautifully big screen.
There's a park full of blossoming trees, their delicate flower petals dropping to the ground as a gentle breeze stirs the wind. The sun hangs in a clear blue sky with wisps of white clouds lazily moving through it. People stroll to and fro, children play tag, and dogs chase tennis balls. In the distance, a lake reflects the blue of the sky, and tiny boats skim across still water.
Beneath the branches of one of the trees is a park bench wide enough for two. A woman sits on it; something about her draws my focus, like an invisible hand turning my chin in her direction. It takes me a long moment to recognize Instructor Abarra.
Her hair is as white as the wisps of clouds overhead.
And instead of a form-fitting dark training uniform with belts and sheaths crossing her hips and shoulders, she's wearing a long, bright blue dress with a simple A-line skirt. Her eyes are clear, but the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes speak to a life that's been lived; a life nearing its end, peaceful or otherwise.
Despite her age and the relaxation of her outfit, she's still formidable. The shoulders beneath her capped sleeves are strong; the arms that hold a book in front of her toned and well-muscled. And while she's softer around the middle, I'm still quite confident she could, and would, kick my ass.
As if sensing the train of my thoughts, she looks up from her book and directly at me.
Our gazes meet, and for a moment I find myself thinking she can see me. I scramble for something to say, wondering if this breaks the laws of physics. But then a new figure moves into view, passing through me and into the scene, and her eyes focus on the woman approaching her, a gentle smile on her face.
"Molly, my girl." Standing, Abarra sets aside her book and opens her arms wide; the woman, a little boy in a T-shirt and jeans at her hip, greets the hug warmly. "And Jack. How was school today?"
I miss most of his mumbled response, except for one stark word: grandma.
The vision melts all at once, pushing out of focus then slowly wiping away. Whatever my Affinity wanted me to see about the future, it considers itself done. And I don't even know why it picked this particular scene.
Looking over at Mason, I can see he's just as baffled; he shrugs in my direction. Abarra is watching both of us, and I know she'll be able to tell we saw something. But whatever that scene was, it didn't seem private or particularly revelatory—just a mundane moment in the personal life of a woman I'm only now starting to picture outside of this school's walls.
Feeling a little embarrassed that it never occurred to me she might have a family, I tell Abarra, "We saw you at a park in the... somewhat distant future. With your daughter Molly." I decide to leave out the grandson Jack, since I have no idea if my visions might influence the future. "You seemed happy."
Abarra is staring at me with a strange expression on her face. I wonder if she's disappointed—maybe she was expecting me to see the winning lottery numbers. I've tried that one. It hasn't worked so far. If it does, I'm also going to look into the future to see how the stock market shakes out in the next ten years. Maybe I can be the first lucky idiot to become a billionaire.
"How did you know her name is Molly?" Abarra asks, her voice a little off like something is wrong. "I never told you that."
Mason is the one who explains, "We saw it. You said her name. It was sometime in the future—you were older."
"Oh." Emotions slide across her face so quickly that I don't get the chance to identify them, but I feel like I'm watching something intensely private occur in front of me and wish that I could look away from it. "Where was this park? Were there any details? Anything else you can tell me?"
I lick my desperately dry lips, wishing now that I'd steered my powers into the near future so I could've avoided this conversation entirely. "I'm not sure. There was a lake, and a park bench... it could've been anywhere. But you seemed, uh, happy, if that helps. So at least we know that Brutus won't kill you."
She says quietly, "Assuming that the future you see is immutable, which it very well might not be. But at least we know that your powers work." Clearing her throat, she tells me, "Time to start aiming your focus towards our enemies."
Gladly. At least if I see Brutus get up to something, I won
't have this awkward conversation about it afterwards. I can just tell Abarra, Covington, and the Shadow Fold where to find the guy—hopefully in such a way that they're forced to bring me along to help kill him.
Something occurs to me, though. "How should I focus on him? When I looked into your future, I pictured, well, you. But Brutus isn't exactly using his own face or body. Do I imagine Carter, or my father, or like... a man in a toga with a big Roman nose?"
"I haven't the faintest fucking clue," Instructor Abarra says, sounding thoroughly done with me and all my ensuing bullshit. "Why not try all three, see if something sticks. We're all walking around blind right now."
She doesn't seem to get the irony of her words, though a little dark part of my heart has to laugh at them. Thinking about my blindness gives me a new perspective, though. All this time I've been focusing on my vision—or lack thereof—when it comes to seeing the future: worrying that my weakness would prevent it from working, observing what I saw first, and using my other senses second.
But there's more to what makes Brutus Brutus than just the face he's wearing. Otherwise he wouldn't be an immortal asshole. He has a certain air to him, an arrogance you'd expect from a man who's been around that long and done so much to stay alive. That body language went with him when he jumped into Carter's body and disappeared. I can't forget the way he looked as he did it, or how instantly the face of the lightning-bearer student changed from terror to menace.
In fact, when I think of Brutus, I don't think of my father's face or Carter's at all. Instead I think of that shadowy figure I saw standing over my mother's body. I think of how he turned to fog, and all I wanted to do was wring his neck.
He isn't a man to me. Just a feeling of dark, black hatred deep inside my heart.
That, and he kind of smells like old onions.
"I think I know what to do," I tell Mason, appreciating the steady warmth and comfort of his hand on mine. "Let's give it a shot."
"I believe in you," he tells me, and there's so much sincerity in his words that I actually start to believe in myself too.