by Mary Fan
“What do you mean?”
“Brax was black-bagged too.” Her voice trembled. “You both disappeared. I want to hope, but knowing the Triumvirate, he’s probably dead.”
“Calhoun!” Flynn stormed down the hallway, yelling as loudly as he could. He wanted to make sure Calhoun could hear him if he was at the Citadel and maybe even if he was out on some mission. “CALHOUN!”
He approached the open door of Calhoun’s office. A hand grasped his shoulder. Startled, he spun and met the old man’s angry eyes.
“Kid, what the devil are you bellowing about?”
“You lied.” Flynn spoke through gritted teeth. “You told me Brax was safe, that the Triumvirate let him go—and you made Kylie lie, too! How could you?”
“Because you’re a flaming idiot, that’s why!” Calhoun grabbed Flynn by the arm and dragged him into the office.
“Let me go!” Flynn twisted out of Calhoun’s grasp.
Calhoun closed the door behind him. “Look, I know you’re mad about the whole Brax thing, but I had my reasons for not telling you. You’re a reckless hothead, and you would’ve gone running right back to the Capital to look for him.”
“Damn right! Is this how you keep people around? By lying?” Heat churned in his blood. “You tell me you keep secrets because it’s your nature or some bull, but I guess you do it for the same reason the Triumvirate does—to manipulate people. No wonder Aurelia left—and I’m going too.” He took a step toward the door.
“Oh, no you won’t.” Calhoun grabbed him by the collar and yanked him away from the door. Flynn stumbled into the edge of the desk. Anger contorted Calhoun’s lined face into a threatening scowl, and for a moment, Flynn thought the old man was going to strangle him.
Calhoun’s face fell into an apologetic look, and he released Flynn. “I must ask for your forgiveness. I didn’t mean to scare you, kid, and I certainly shouldn’t have shoved you. But do you understand what’s at stake? We need you, more than we need anyone else, and if you leave, you take the future of the Rising with you.” He sighed. “When you’re in the business of underground revolutions, you keep everything a secret, even from the people you trust. As Storm proved all those years ago, you can be wrong about anyone. But you’ve got a point. Time for me to come clean.”
Though Flynn still seethed, saying he’d abandon the Rising had been a bit rash. He certainly hadn’t meant it. He nodded, deciding to hear the old man out.
Calhoun took a seat in the chair behind his desk. “Believe it or not, your friend’s been on my mind lately. I don’t know how much Varela told you, but the reason Williams brought her here was because she was one wrong move from getting black-bagged herself. She was poking around the Bureau of Security, trying to find out what happened to you and your friend, and she was getting on the Sentinels’ nerves. They would’ve disappeared her just for being a thorn in their side, so Williams stepped in. It never sat right with either of us that we left Braxton Aiza behind when we busted you out, but as much as I wish we could, we can’t save everyone. We barely made it out of the Capital with you. Williams did some digging, and he found out that your friend’s being held in the Palace of Concord’s detainment center. Actually, ‘dungeon’ would be a better word.”
“He’s alive?” Despite what Calhoun said about coming clean, Flynn wasn’t sure if he could believe him.
“I have no reason to lie anymore.” Calhoun opened one of his desk drawers, pulled out a crinkled gray newspaper, and tossed it onto the desk. “Open it. Page you want is right in the center.”
Flynn narrowed his eyes and picked up the paper. Glancing across its front page and the Triumvirate propaganda splashed across it—stories of heroic Sentinels rescuing Norms from specters and whatnot—made him realize just how isolated he’d been at the Citadel. Hardly any news from the Triumvirate reached the Rising’s hideout except via word-of-mouth. He opened to the center page. On the left side, a picture of Brax stared defiantly from the paper, his hazel eyes glittering uncharacteristically. Gone was the carefree guy Flynn knew so well. His black hair, usually tightly cropped against his scalp, had grown out and formed an unruly dome over his head, and his mahogany cheeks were more sunken in than Flynn remembered. The image must have been taken some time after his capture. A headline splashed across the top: “Dangerous Anarchist Braxton Aiza Sentenced to Death.”
A sliver of ice sliced Flynn’s insides. Not only had his friend been held prisoner for the past several months, but the Triumvirate was on the verge of killing him. A surge of hatred inundated his senses, though he wasn’t sure if it was at the government or at himself. The whole time he’d been messing around with the Risers, the person who’d followed him into danger had been suffering—and he’d done nothing about it. He glared at Calhoun. “How could you keep this from me?”
“It’s a trap. The Triumvirate’s trying to use your friend to flush you out of hiding, and by the way you’ve been acting, it would’ve worked.” Calhoun nodded at the paper. “They’ve been printing that headline about once a week since your so-called attack on Everett’s office. This paper is from a few days ago. If you were to line it up with the ones that came before it, you’d see that they keep pushing back the execution date. Ruthless as the Triumvirate is, they care more about getting you, the Untouchable One, than offing one teenage miscreant. If I’d told you what was going on, I’d have been playing into their hands.”
Flynn clenched his fist around the paper’s edge. While he could understand Calhoun’s reasoning, he still didn’t like it. He opened his mouth to speak.
Calhoun held up a hand. “I know what you’re about to say. ‘I’m going to save him.’ Noble, but shortsighted. Think, Nightsider! How are you going to break into the Palace of Concord alone? Maybe enchantments won’t stop you, but bullets can. Now before you add the oh-so-heroic ‘or I’ll die trying,’ let me remind you that once we take down the Triumvirs, freeing the unjustly imprisoned, including your friend, will be first on our to-do list. You should know that after what we did with those arrested at our rally.”
The old man had a point. Gritting his teeth, Flynn scanned the article. It painted Brax as a violent criminal who’d attacked a school out of misguided rage. The whole thing reeked of lies. No guards had been present at Everett’s office, let alone died. And Brax was four years shy of the age stated in his profile. Whoever was behind the propaganda must have justified Brax’s impending execution by making the attack sound worse than it actually was. As for the age—even law-abiding citizens wouldn’t like seeing a kid put to death, and the Triumvirate probably didn’t want anything tarnishing their image.
I’m sorry, Brax. This is all my fault. He looked at Calhoun but didn’t say anything.
Calhoun met his gaze. “Believe me, if I had a way to get your friend out, I would’ve told you he was imprisoned a long time ago. But since he’s being kept in the Palace of Concord, your best chance—no, your only chance—of freeing him is to stick to our plan to topple the Triumvirs.”
“You should have been straight with me to begin with.” Flynn inhaled deeply, as if that could blow out the anger in his chest. But though he hated that Calhoun had lied, the leader had a point. There was no way Flynn could break into the Palace of Concord without the Rising behind him. “How much longer before we storm the Palace?”
“Not long.” Calhoun’s eyes gleamed. “We found Storm’s hideout.”
“What?” Flynn blinked at the unexpected news. “When?”
“Report came in a few hours ago. I was going to wait until all the details had been hammered out before looping you in, but then you went haywire on me. Figure I might as well tell you while I’ve got you here.”
“Where is it?”
“Little town called Ember, a middle-of-nowhere farming community. As expected, it’s covered in all kinds of devilry. Dangerous stuff, but that wouldn’t stop you now, would it?” Calhoun
curved his lips. “Ready to get the Orb and kick off the revolution?”
Flynn widened his eyes, the full impact of Calhoun’s words settling into his mind. After months of wondering when the world would change, it was time to begin. And Flynn would finally get to see what kind of secret would spur the people to turn against their government. “So… this is it, then.”
“Exactly. As soon as everyone hears what the first White Triumvir said before he died, there will be no stopping us.” Calhoun’s eyes glinted.
“How’re you planning to get the word out?”
“Let me show you.” Calhoun ran his finger along the edge of his desk. “Open.”
A square section in the middle of the desk retracted. A white sphere floated up from the resulting hole, hovering in a cloud of gold mist. Sparks of color—reds, yellows, greens, blues—flashed beneath its smooth surface. An Eye Stone—like the one Gold Triumvir Salvator had used to broadcast his Day of Glory speech to the entire nation. Flynn stared in disbelief. “How’d you get that?”
“Stole it from Storm shortly after he formed the Defiants. That’s why he had to break into the Academy on the Day of Glory. He no longer had a way to broadcast his little speeches. This stone’s been here for years, waiting for a message. So what do you say, kid? Ready to bring the Rising the catalyst to revolution?”
Flynn nodded, his previous rage swept away by excitement. He couldn’t change the past, but he sure as hell could influence the future, and now, it seemed he could both bring down the Triumvirate and free Brax sooner than he’d hoped. “What’s the plan?”
Calhoun put his elbows on his desk. “Ember’s perimeter is impenetrable unless you’re on Storm’s good side… or Untouchable. It also makes the town invisible and undetectable by magical means, so to the rest of us, it might as well not exist. Of course, that also means we won’t be able to give you any backup.”
“So you want me to walk into the hideout of a dark-magic-wielding murderer and steal something that’ll change the fate of the nation—alone.” An incredulous laugh escaped Flynn. “No big deal…”
Calhoun lifted his brows. “You up for it, kid?”
“Of course.” There was no room for doubt, no room for fear. This was why the Rising had recruited him in the first place—because he could break into places no one else could. And this was why he’d joined the Rising to begin with—to ignite a revolution. “How did you find the hideout?”
“We tracked one of his followers. Wish we could have undone Storm’s brainwashing as well, but that was beyond the team’s abilities.” Calhoun sighed. “Go on, now. I’ve told you all I can, and I’ll be sure to tell you more once I know.”
Flynn sensed that he’d exceeded his daily question-asking budget, and he had all the answers he needed for now anyway. He left the office with renewed energy buzzing in his veins.
Chapter 26
The Hideout
Calhoun had wasted no time in ordering the mission to Storm’s hideout, a four-hour drive away. Since Flynn couldn’t be goldlighted, he’d spent those hours cramped into one of the Rising’s magically shielded black vehicles with Nossiter, who’d insisted on driving.
Having finally arrived at his destination, Flynn emerged and stretched, only able to see the woods around him by the vehicle’s dim headlights. Spending all that time in virtual silence—Nossiter wasn’t exactly the chatty type—had put his head into a fog.
He slammed the door shut. The brown bag on his shoulder slipped, and he caught it in the crook of his elbow. Mud covered the vehicle’s black exterior, and pale scratches streaked its sides. In fact, the vehicle hardly looked black anymore. Not surprising, considering the last half hour of the journey had consisted of weaving through the forest, trying to spot the small, glowing yellow markers the Riser scouts, who’d been the ones who found Storm’s hideout, had left on the trees.
Glimpsing a flash of gold light, he turned. Calhoun and Williams stood a few yards away.
Flynn glanced doubtfully at the dark forest. Only trees and fallen branches lay in every direction. As far as he could tell, he was standing in the middle of nowhere. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“Positive.” Calhoun approached one of the trees, glanced up and down the trunk, and slammed his hand against it. He cupped his hand and pulled it back, staring at something in his palm.
Flynn looked closer. A small, grayish spider crawled across Calhoun’s palm. “What’s that for?”
“One sec.” Calhoun strode up to a small, glowing X on one of the trees. Unlike the other markers, this one was red. Beyond it, a barely perceptible veil of gray mist wafted through the air. He flung the spider into the mist. It burst into flame, and Flynn grimaced. A moment later, the small fire flickered out, leaving behind only a tiny spattering of ash. “That’s Ember’s perimeter. See now why you’re the only one who can enter?”
“Yeah.” Flynn tentatively reached into the mist. It felt cool against his skin, which was kind of funny, considering it had just incinerated something. His hand touched something smooth and crisp—probably a leaf, but his eyes glimpsed only air. “I see how this works. The mist both guards and hides the town.”
“Exactly. Now, if you run into trouble while you’re in there, get the hell out, you understand? We’ll wait here. If anything happens, get yourself back to this spot, and we’ll take care of the Defiants.”
“Okay.” Taking that as his cue to go, Flynn started forward.
Calhoun grabbed his shoulder. “Remember what your mom said. The cause matters more than revenge. If you see Storm, for God’s sake, walk away.” He released him.
Flynn nodded. Mom’s words had looped around his skull nonstop during the trip to Ember, and he had every intention of heeding them. As much as he wanted to rid the world of Storm, too much was at stake for him to worry about revenge. Killing Storm would mean nothing if it cost the Rising their victory. But walking away wouldn’t be easy.
Flynn stepped into the mist, which smelled vaguely of smoke even though it felt cold. For a moment, his vision filled with pale swaths of silver. It cleared, and he found himself at the edge of a cornfield. Dark stalks towered over him, and wide, flat leaves formed a dense tangle. He glanced back. A faint, glowing line of white streaked the ground, running along the edge of the forest. I guess that’s where the enchantment begins.
Though the moon was full and the sky clear, the pale light was barely enough to illuminate the stalks a few feet in front of him. The town must be ahead. Man, I hope I don’t get lost. Heart pounding, Flynn advanced into the shadows. Whispers of caution warned him to turn back. This was crazy. Untouchable or not, he was totally alone, going up against a powerful man with the force of the Underworld and scores of followers behind him. If they found him, he’d hardly stand a chance in a fight.
But there was no turning back now.
Weaving through the tall stalks was no fun, especially since the leaves kept smacking him in the face. But at least Storm’s perimeter meant no supernatural dangers lingered in the dark. After crossing half a mile of cornfield, Flynn emerged and glimpsed a cluster of abodes. That had to be Ember, a dense village of low wooden buildings.
As far as he could tell, there wasn’t much in Ember other than narrow, muddy alleys and one-story houses built close enough together that you could stick your hand out the window of one, reach across the alley, and shake hands with your neighbor. Judging by the sounds of grunting and mooing—and the smell—many of the buildings were barns.
Flynn took a moment to bend three of the cornstalks, marking his entryway into the village. Unsure of where to go, he wandered into the alleys. The Orb had to be around somewhere. Too bad the Riser scouts hadn’t been able to find anything specific about its location. Only a handful of faint streetlamps illuminated Ember, and most corners were dark. The village was said to have been destroyed by monster attacks years ago, but the number
of muttered voices—plus the smell—told him that there was plenty of life here. Flynn guessed that the villagers let Storm use this place as his hidey-hole in exchange for protection from the supernatural. Like what the Triumvirs do with the rest of the country. Looks like the Defiants have more things in common with the Triumvirate than hating the Rising.
Whoever had designed Ember must have been high on paint. The houses were arranged in a manner so haphazard that Flynn was sure he could toss a handful of pebbles on the ground and have them come out in a more orderly arrangement. He got a petty sense of satisfaction at the thought of Storm living in this grimy excuse for a village, with its cramped spaces and dirtiness. And did I mention the smell?
Minutes ticked by. Although Flynn looked through every window and pressed his ear against every door, he hadn’t found anything in his hour or so of searching. Plus, the village’s confusing mess of alleys made it difficult for him to keep track of where he was. It was frustrating as hell.
He rounded a corner. The edge of the cornfield lay at the end of the alley, past two houses. A horse-shaped ornament hung on the door of the house closer to him. Recognizing it, Flynn cursed. He’d gone in a circle. He looked around for a moment before running back the way he’d come. The small bag on his shoulder bounced against his back.
Just then, he caught a hint of someone’s voice rumbling through the silence. Probably another farmer grumbling about livestock or something. In case it turned out to be someone important, he decided to go check it out.
Careful to stay in the shadows, he followed the sound of the voice. He peered around a corner and found himself facing a wide cemetery covered in old, cracked tombstones. The moon made their rough edges appear to glow with an unearthly silvery light, and black shadows crossed them where names had once been engraved.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure in a long black coat stood amid the stones, holding a black wand over a grave marked with intricate, glowing green symbols drawn in the dirt. Though Flynn had only seen the man in person once before, he would never forget that powerful face and those intense black eyes.