Flashback (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 7)

by Shannon Messenger

  Tiergan looked like he wished he’d arrived ten minutes later—or had waited in the hall—as Sophie and Fitz gagged their way through their medicine and Elwin wrapped up all the foamy ooze.

  “So, what brings you to our smelly little corner of the school?” Sophie asked when she’d finished her last elixir.

  “That hurts, Foster,” Keefe jumped in. “Have you already forgotten about Operation: Privacy Invasion?”

  She had, actually. And a different kind of queasiness settled in.

  “Do you really think we’ll be able to trigger Keefe’s erased memories?” she asked Tiergan.

  “Ordinarily, I’d be skeptical,” he said, smoothing the edges of his simple gray cloak. “But you’ve always had a gift for making the impossible possible, so I guess we’ll find out—assuming you’re still up for it.”

  “We are,” Keefe said, glancing at Fitz and Sophie. “Right?”

  “I’m in,” Fitz immediately agreed.

  “I can handle it,” Keefe promised yet again when Sophie hesitated.

  She had a horrible feeling he couldn’t. But she still asked Tiergan, “Okay, how do we do this?”

  TWENTY

  THE FIRST STEP,” TIERGAN SAID, turning to Keefe, “is that I need you to promise me you’ll stop after every breakthrough, no matter how insignificant that breakthrough may be, and give your mind time to adjust—and I’m not talking about emotional adjustment. You’re going to need time for that as well, but I’m speaking from a much more practical standpoint. Everything you learn will cause mental ripples as your mind makes space to fit the new information in among everything else. So you need time to let any revelations settle, and let your brain work through the small ramifications of each new memory—not just for your sanity, but because it may lead to further discovery.”

  “And you two,” Elwin jumped in, “need to be careful. I know I don’t need to remind you about the echoes—but keep in mind how close you both are to being able to go home, and remember that pushing too hard could set you back.”

  “This is a gradual process,” Tiergan told them. “Even if you were at the peak of your strength, there’s no way you’re going to uncover everything you’re looking for in one go. So plan on pacing yourselves. The most effective way to search memories is by sifting, not digging, so subtlety should be the theme of your approach.”

  “Okay, are we done with all the ‘be careful’ speeches?” Keefe asked. “Because I don’t know about you guys, but I’m super ready for some heart-crushing humiliation. And for lots of Fitzphie eye staring.”

  “I’m still not sure what Fitzphie is supposed to mean,” Tiergan said, “and I don’t want to know,” he added when Ro opened her mouth to tell him. “But there’s no need for this process to be embarrassing. You can mask any memories you don’t want anyone seeing.”

  “Won’t that kind of mess with the whole ‘finding my mom’s dirty secrets’ process?” Keefe asked.

  “Why would it?” Tiergan countered. “You’re searching for things you don’t remember—not things you do. And the memories will still be there either way. You’ll just be flagging them, so to speak, marking them to make it clear you’d prefer they stay away.”

  “So . . . it’s kind of like putting a big sign on anything super embarrassing that says, HEY GUYS—OVER HERE, BUT ALSO DON’T LOOK, OKAY? ” Keefe clarified.

  Tiergan sighed. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Yes, it does require any Telepaths to respect the boundary you’ve set. But since Sophie and Fitz are your friends, I’m assuming they won’t have a problem respecting your boundaries.”

  “Of course not,” Sophie promised.

  Fitz shrugged. “Pretty sure I’m better off not knowing what you’re hiding.”

  Keefe smirked. “Yeah . . . probably. But is this going to be some huge process that requires weeks of practice and reading boring books and—”

  “It’s a simple visualization exercise,” Tiergan interrupted. “It should only take a few minutes, and it’ll hold for at least a couple of days.”

  “Then what happens?” Fitz asked.

  “Then the masking fades, the same way time always dulls our memories. But by then I’ll have showed him how to do it, and he can prepare his mind anytime he wants.”

  “Question,” Ro said. “Does this mean I’m going to have to stand here while you stare at each other and do boring elf-y mind things? Because I’m already kind of maxed out, just from this conversation.”

  Elwin laughed. “How about instead you leave them to work and help me make the serum Sophie will soak her arm in tomorrow? It has pooka pus.”

  “Now we’re talking!” Ro said.

  Sophie scowled. “I swear, I’m starting to hate elvin medicine almost as much as human medicine.”

  “Well, I’m loving it,” Ro told her, hooking her arm through Elwin’s and leading him toward his office. “Bring on the pus!”

  “On that note,” Tiergan said, turning to Keefe, “ready to learn how to mask your memories?”

  “Bring it on.” But he flinched as Tiergan reached for his temples. “Right. Sorry. I always forget how grabby you Telepaths are.”

  Tiergan placed two fingers against each of Keefe’s temples. “I’m going to say the instructions out loud. That way Sophie and Fitz will know how to walk you through this if you need a refresher. And now I want you to close your eyes and imagine that you’ve just discovered an empty box hidden in the center of your mind. Picture it any size and shape—but it must have a color. And it usually works best if you give it a color you’re connected to in some way. Don’t tell me what color you pick—”

  “Can’t you see it?” Keefe asked.

  “I’m not reading your mind. Why do you think I haven’t asked your permission to enter your consciousness?”

  “I guess that’s a good question,” Keefe told him. “But a better one might be: Then why are you touching my face?”

  “To make the process feel more tangible for you. Can you see the box?”

  “Yeah. It’s a big square box. And it’s—”

  “Don’t tell me the color!” Tiergan reminded him. “We’ll use that to determine if the masking worked. But before we do that, I need you to imagine yourself dragging all the memories you’d rather keep hidden into that mental box—and really make yourself believe those moments are truly solid pieces you’re picking up and putting into that designated space.”

  Keefe’s eyebrows crunched together. “Not gonna lie. This feels super pointless.”

  “It’s hard to understand the workings of an ability that’s not your own,” Tiergan told him.

  “Uh, I can feel Foster’s confusion wafting my way, so I’m not the only one.”

  “Well, you’ll all see soon enough. Trust the process—and let me know when you’re ready.”

  His eyebrows pressed even closer together. “Okay. I guess the imaginary pieces of memory are all in the imaginary box now, and it totally feels like I actually did a thing and not just stood here feeling ridiculous.”

  Tiergan smiled. “Excellent. Now picture yourself sealing that box as tight as you can.”

  Keefe nodded. “Now what?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s it?” Keefe repeated as Tiergan dropped his hands and stepped back.

  “Should be—but we still have to test it.” Tiergan steered Keefe into the narrow space between Fitz’s and Sophie’s cots. “Do they have permission to enter your mind?”

  “Um . . . sure.” But he still flinched when Fitz sat up and reached for his forehead. “Sorry. Reflex.”

  Sophie kept her good hand in her lap. “It’s probably better not to bring enhancing into this, right?”

  “Agreed,” Tiergan said.

  She closed her eyes.

  “So . . . are they just supposed to stay away from the big box o’ secrets?” Keefe asked.

  “It was never about the box, Keefe,” Tiergan told him.

  “Oh!” Sophie breat
hed. “It was about the color!”

  “The box was gold, wasn’t it?” Fitz asked.

  Keefe nodded. “Do I want to know why you guys are grinning like that?”

  “Because some of your memories are gilded now,” Sophie told him. “It’s like . . . standing in the middle of thousands of holographs, and some of them have been tinted gold.”

  “Exactly,” Tiergan said. “And now you and Fitz know to look past all of those.”

  “Dude, you masked a lot of memories,” Fitz noted.

  “Well, it’s also deceptive,” Tiergan warned, “because he’s brought everything he’d like to keep private to the forefront of his mind. So you’re seeing them all in one mental space—which is another advantage to this process. Once you push deeper into his consciousness, you’ll see very little gold.”

  “So . . . should we do that?” Sophie asked.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Me neither,” Keefe said.

  But his voice sounded fragile somehow. And when Sophie peeked at his expression, he had everything squeezed tight, like he was bracing for impact.

  “We don’t have to—”

  “Yes, Foster,” he interrupted. “We do. You know we do.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “But then I need you to do one thing.”

  She held out her left arm, shaking her makeshift bracelet covered in pins. “Take Krakie for backup.”

  Something flickered across his expression—an emotion Sophie doubted even an Empath could translate. And he nodded, unpinning the tiny kraken and fastening it to his cape.

  “Okay,” he told her, clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders. “For real this time. Let’s find what my mom hid.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE GILDED MEMORIES CALLED TO Sophie, like warm sunlight streaming through wide-open windows, daring her to see where they led—and that was before she saw a fleeting glimpse of herself.

  She hadn’t meant to peek—and only caught the briefest flash as she struggled to disregard anything with a golden sheen. But it was enough to tell her the memory was recent.

  In fact, she was pretty sure it was from the day she’d opened her Level Three finals presents and found the incredible drawings Keefe had done for her. But she’d lived that moment with him—so why didn’t he want her to see his memory of it?

  It’s hard to ignore the gold, huh? Fitz transmitted, his crisp voice saving her from taking a longer look.

  Yeah, she admitted, feeling shame burn across her consciousness.

  Keefe deserved as much privacy as they could give him.

  But that didn’t stop the curiosity from itching, itching, itching.

  I always forget how vivid his mind is, she thought, forcing herself to focus on the broader mental landscape—a dense whirl of flashing memories, laced with a soundtrack of blaring voices. Keefe’s photographic memory retained every detail, sound, and thought, forming a storm of color and noise. It’s . . . disorienting.

  It is, Fitz agreed. Though it’s still way less intense than yours.

  Her heart stalled at that.

  She’d never given any thought to what her headspace must look or feel like, since it wasn’t something she could experience.

  So do my memories look like this? she asked, imagining a similar whirlwind churning with all of her secrets.

  Sorta. Everything’s dimmed because of your blocking. And the memories flicker way faster, so I can’t tell what I’m looking at unless I’m focusing really hard—and even then, you keep a bunch of mental paths closed off.

  He didn’t say “from me.” But she could feel those unsaid words.

  Your memories spread out more too, he added. It’s like . . . staring at the horizon. I can’t actually see where your consciousness ends—and I seriously don’t get how you have that much information in your head.

  Photographic memory, she reminded him. Plus seven years of hearing the thoughts of everyone around me.

  True. And all the stuff the Black Swan planted.

  She squirmed at the reminder.

  It’d been so long since she’d had any of those extra memories trigger that she sometimes forgot Mr. Forkle had spent years filling her head with facts and secrets while she slept, in order to prepare her for her role as the moonlark.

  In some ways, it was a relief not having to constantly analyze whether a scrap of memory was hers, or if she’d pulled a crucial detail from those murky reserves. But it also meant that the current struggle had strayed so far from anything the Black Swan had anticipated that she was pretty much on her own.

  So how should we do this? Fitz asked. I’m guessing we’ll want to focus on memories with Keefe’s mom in them.

  Yeah, we probably should’ve told Keefe to think about her before we dived in, so those would already be at the front of his mind.

  I can do that now if you want, Keefe offered, nearly giving them each a heart attack.

  You can hear us? Fitz asked.

  Yep. AND feel what you’re feeling. So we’re all learning fun new stuff about each other today!

  Great. Fitz had heaped plenty of sarcasm onto that transmission.

  Can you try concentrating on your mom? Sophie asked, attempting to keep the conversation on track.

  The scenery shifted, with some memories shuffling back and others rolling forward until they were surrounded by nothing but flickers of Lady Gisela’s face.

  I’m going to have nightmares about this forever, Fitz thought with a shudder.

  Sophie nodded. Same.

  Lady Gisela had blond hair like her son, and there were definite similarities between their features. But she was so cold and stern and immaculate that she looked like she might crack if she flashed a real smile or let a hair slip from her intricate updos.

  Good old Mom, Keefe thought as Lady Gisela’s sharp voice echoed around them. The words mostly blurred together, but Sophie caught a few:

  “Legacy.”

  “Disappointment.”

  “Stubborn.”

  “Foolish.”

  “Waste.”

  Ready to take a journey into my awesome childhood? Keefe asked as more memories flooded in, piling on top of each other and forming a tunnel that spiraled down, down, down into the dark.

  Are you? Sophie countered.

  YEP! Like I said, it’s gonna be a party! Just don’t make it a pity party, okay?

  Is that why some of these memories are gold? Fitz asked, trying to keep his concentration away from a gilded flicker right below them. You think they’ll make us feel sorry for you?

  No Those ones are just . . . distracting.

  Sophie wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but she could’ve sworn she’d caught a glimpse of her face again and shifted her focus to the nearest memory so she wouldn’t be tempted.

  Her stomach soured as she took in the scene replaying around her: Keefe’s mom wearing a stiff green gown—the color the elves wore when they were going to their version of a funeral.

  Lady Gisela stood beside Keefe’s enormous canopy bed, watching as he tried to muffle his sobs with his pillow—and she didn’t once try to hug him or take his hand or provide any sort of comfort.

  Eventually, Keefe wiped his nose and choked out, “What do you want?”

  And she smiled—smiled—and told him she needed him to take a sedative so his crying wouldn’t bother his father.

  I mean it, Foster, Keefe said as Sophie sucked in a breath. I can feel that rising sympathy—and I appreciate it. But I don’t need it.

  Sympathy’s not pity, she argued.

  It’s close enough. So how about you focus on all that fury I can feel boiling underneath? It’s always fun when you get feisty.

  When she didn’t agree he added, That memory happened after your planting—think about that My mom knew you were still alive as she watched me break down like that.

  Anger burned through Sophie’s veins, but it cooled just as quickly, tempered by sorrow that came with knowi
ng he’d been crying because of her.

  But then she remembered something Lady Gisela had told her during one of the horrible conversations they’d had through Keefe’s old Imparter: She’d made Keefe take that sedative not to silence his sobbing, but because she needed to steal some of his blood.

  THERE’S the rage I was looking for, Keefe said as Sophie’s whole body shook. Hold tight to that!

  She tried.

  But the more memories she studied, the more her heart broke for him.

  She skimmed as much as she could, but some flashes demanded attention. Like the loud argument in Keefe’s too-fancy bedroom, where Lord Cassius loomed over a younger, scrawnier version of his son and shouted, “Alden is not your father!”

  “I wish he was!” Keefe snapped back, tearing off his blue Level Two cape and flinging it across the room.

  “Well,” Lord Cassius said, smoothing his slicked blond hair and glancing at Keefe’s mother, who stood off to the side studying her son through narrowed eyes. “I suppose that makes us even, since I much prefer Alden’s sons. But since I’m stuck with this”—he gestured to Keefe from head to toe and crinkled his nose—“I’m not going to let you ruin our family!”

  Keefe smirked, and Sophie could feel something inside him shift as he said, “Good luck with that.”

  It was as if he’d decided right then and there that he was going to do everything in his power to humiliate his father. And Lord Cassius must’ve felt that resolve, because he hurled the goblet he’d been holding, splattering Keefe’s feet with fizzleberry wine as it shattered against the floor.

  “Clean that up!” Lord Cassius ordered. “And plan on spending your entire break making up for your lack of dedication. I’ll have your first study assignments sent to you in the morning.”

  “Running off to Atlantis again?” Lady Gisela asked as Lord Cassius stalked toward the staircase.

  “Don’t start with me,” he told her. “And don’t wait up.”

  Her eyes flashed and she lifted her chin, keeping her head high until he was gone

  “Well,” she told Keefe. “Sounds like you have some work to do.”