Paragon

by Rowan Rook

  They'd...known?

  "At our request, he kept the discovery a secret from the other Councilors while we decided if we could make use of the boy or not. But when a certain girl from the colony came to the Council with the situation, we had no more time to debate on whether and how to act. We decided to gamble. We told Mayver to wait until the boy had been observed studying safety away from home, then have the family house burned down, supposedly as punishment for his heresy."

  Anson's legs threatened to crumble beneath him.

  They had told Mayver to give the order?

  "Sure enough, the grief and the guilt provoked desires for change in an already unusual mind. He grew to hate this world—to crave something better—and became an almost definite candidate for the next Editor. We were fortunate. He went to the Academy on his own—or perhaps under the Author's influence—where our Human Overseer was able to keep a close eye on him. What Rickard later reported to us about the boy's behavior made us certain that everything had gone according to plan. We'd successfully located the next Editor before the transformation even took place. We'd won our bet." He looked away. "We sacrificed the boy and his family to make that happen. We ruined his life."

  Anson was silent for a long while. Everything seemed distant, as if he were dreaming again and was falling backward, away from the world. This couldn't be real.

  The Butterflies...were the ones who...?

  It was Aydel he looked to when he returned to his senses. "Delly... Is that... Is it true?"

  Please, everything in him begged, let it all be one more lie!

  Shame dimmed his sister's eyes. "It's...what I've been told, as well. Mayver offered to take me to the Butterfly afterward. I was supposedly dead. I couldn't remain in the colony."

  Anson managed to shake his head. Not only had she reported his heresy and forced their family's killers into action—she'd joined them, dedicated her life to them, risen up their ranks. "How could you? How could you, when they—"

  "What difference does it make? What's done is done. The Butterflies might have been the ones who took our family away, but they did it because of you, and they're the only hope I—we—ever had of getting them back!" Aydel leaned in close, her breath hot on his face. "I won't let their deaths mean nothing. I want you to finish this! I want you to bring them back!"

  Anson could scream all he wanted. He could let the fire boiling his insides take control of his voice, but what good would words do now?

  "I'm sorry, though I know that will never be enough." All of the strength was gone from Jeriko's voice, "We need you. If you stop now, it will all have been for nothing."

  Anson shot the Butterflies a final glare before charging past them, grabbing his bag, and throwing himself beyond the safety of the carriage and into the autumn night.

  He was done.

  He pictured the carriage bursting into flames behind him and gestured with his arms. With a flash of red light, heat washed over his back. He heard the startled shouts and tasted the first trails of smoke as he ran.

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Empty Creatures

  Anson raced through nameless Havventhale wilds, fighting for breath, his muscles aching but electric, not daring to look back for fear that he might see Aydel or Jeriko or royal soldiers hunting him down. For fear that if he allowed himself even a moment to think, he might again hear a voice that wasn't his own inside his head. The thing—the Author—had been quiet so far, but he was defying it—how long would it remain silent? That thought was perhaps the most frightening of all. His body no longer felt like his. Something else was there, and no matter how far or how fast he fled, he wouldn't be able to escape it. Each step was strange now, his limbs tense with shivers of violation he couldn't shake off.

  How much of his life had the being crouched at the back of his consciousness controlled? What decisions had been his, and which had it guided him into? How much of his personality was his own, and how much of it had it sculpted? Where did he end and it begin?

  He had heard its voice several times now, but throughout the years, he'd noticed nothing. Perhaps even his own ambitions had never belonged to him. He'd been coerced into having them for the sake of everyone else who had wanted them with their own will. Everyone who had seen fit to use him as a puppet, a tool. They'd killed his family. And he'd been desperate and cruel enough to play the part they cast for him.

  Who was he? What did he even want, anymore?

  One thing was certain. He was making this decision on his own. Not under orders from the Head Scientist, not because a certain soldier suggested it, not because the people who had sacrificed his family expressly to hurt him wanted it, and certainly not because a voice was whispering the desire in his head.

  He was defying them all. He was leaving and never looking back. He was done being a marionette.

  And so he ran, tripping over roots and scraping against branches and still refusing to stop.

  A blade whirled after him, shimmering silver in the moonlight.

  Anson leaped sideways, his legs tangling and sending him to the ground.

  The blade stirred up his hair in its wake and plunged into a tree in front of him. Silence followed the crash. Disturbed autumn leaves drifted down in an early demise.

  Anson couldn't get up. His lungs refused to let in air. His heart raced. His body wouldn't cooperate. Exhaustion had grabbed hold of him as soon as he'd stopped moving. All he could do was stare up at the blade that had nearly hit him. His eyes opened wide.

  It was a familiar chakram.

  Anson forced himself to look back.

  Sure enough, a woman with tan hair and a white coat stood behind him, her face as stoic as ever. She stepped past him and yanked her blade from the tree before glowering down at him through narrowed blue eyes.

  For a few beats, Anson only stared. It felt like ages ago that he'd last seen her, even while it had only been a matter of days. She looked just the same. A sad amazement prickled behind his eyes and inside his chest. "Shakaya."

  Shakaya's lips stayed firm, prolonging the uncomfortable hush.

  Anson squirmed beneath her glare, unsure how to react. Why the Hell was she there? He managed a moment of hope that she might wish to talk. That she might be willing to accept an apology. That they might be able to salvage their decade-long relationship and go back to the life they'd had. Through all of his fear, an urge to run to her washed through him. He wanted to disappear into her arms. To feel her lips on his, to hide away at the Academy, to pretend he'd never encountered the Butterflies—to pretend he knew nothing.

  But his heart sunk beneath the chill of her aura. Her eyes glistened with an enmity he'd seen plenty of times before, yet never directed at him.

  Anson's throat tightened, but he forced himself to smile. "I have to admit, I never thought I'd see you again."

  Shakaya's voice was its familiar monotone, "Go back."

  ...Go back? His pulse panged. Did she already know he'd abandoned the Butterflies? Had she been watching him?

  The moonlight caught the silver pin on her chest as she stepped forward. It was the first time he'd seen her wear it. After the fiasco on the ship, he'd assumed she'd left the Butterfly, but it seemed she'd had a change of heart. That didn't bode well for him.

  Anson put on a brave face and staggered to his feet. "No. The Butterfly was responsible for the fire that killed my family."

  A flicker of confusion passed through her eyes. Ah...so she hadn't known that bit, at least.

  Shakaya dismissed any doubt with a simple breath, as she always did. "You would abandon everything now? You would take so many lives and make so many promises and walk away?"

  "I'm sorry." Anson hung his head. "It was all a mistake. All only a terrible mistake..."

  What might have been disappointment swept her face before she painted over it with her usual frown. "I see. I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything more from a Lyrum. After all, you can't feel anything, so it would be impossible for you to understand."
>
  "That's not it! That isn't..." Anson forced himself to look at her, but an unexpected bullet of anger shot through him when he met her scornful gaze. "You're blinding yourself! If I felt nothing, why would I do something as foolish as this? What would I gain by leaving the Butterfly after so much work, after losing everything? You're right—it's not the logical choice." He managed a crooked smile. "I'm weak, I'm terrible, but if you're going to hate me, at least hate me for the right reasons!"

  Nothing changed on Shakaya's face. "I won't pretend to understand how a Lyrum's mind works, but I do know that no matter what character you play, you don't have a Human heart." She tightened her grip on her chakram. "You won't deceive me again."

  "You're deceiving yourself." Anson narrowed his eyes. "A part you knows that, doesn't it? You're better than this."

  He wasn't going to get through to her. She wouldn't let go of the only thing that gave her purpose—she wouldn't surrender her beloved hate. A shame. She could be so much more than she was. So much more than he was.

  "Better?" She scoffed, but for the first time, she looked away. "If that's what you think, you don't understand me anymore than I understood you."

  "Shakaya, please!" Anson pleaded. "I don't know what the others told you to make you stay, but whatever they promised you, it's another lie. All the Butterfly does is lie!"

  "All the more reason you belong with them," a smoldering rage hid in her cold voice.

  "I'm sorry." The tears he held back stung his eyes. "I've always been sorry. But you deceived me, too! All along, you were one of the Butterflies! You even knew about...about the Author, didn't you?"

  Shakaya's lips hinted at a proud, poisonous smile that would have gone undetected by anyone but him. "Perhaps the Butterfly truly is where I'm meant to be."

  His old friend hadn't realized he wasn't Human, but even still, she'd known more about him than he had himself. She was a member of the congregation that had chosen him as their sacrifice while he remained blissfully ignorant of their existence. All that time, when he'd felt ashamed of his secrets, hers had been just as ugly.

  Anson shook his head. "I'm through being a puppet for them! For Rickard and the thing in my head!" His hands balled into fists. "I'm making this decision on my own. I'm not going back!"

  Shakaya answered with a sour laugh. "Puppet? You think you're a puppet? I've danced on strings since the day I first came to the Academy." Her eyes bore into his. "You used me, too."

  Sharp sorrow sunk into Anson's stomach. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. "And you did the same to me."

  Silence.

  "We are alike, aren't we?" She let out a bitter grin. "Empty, emotionless creatures who lie and are lied to."

  Like everyone else, she'd projected her own goals onto him. Like everyone else, he'd taken advantage of her. She'd used him as an object to create her own happiness, to fill her own void. He'd used her for protection, to ease his own guilt. A parasitic relationship. And yet...

  "Shakaya..." Anson forced himself to look at her, at her familiar face. "I cared for you more than I ever cared for anyone else. I still do. I never meant to—"

  "Enough!" Shakaya spat. "You're a sick, shameless thing, Lyrum."

  Another hush electrified the air between them.

  She ran her fingers along her blade. "You have two options. You can return to Jeriko and seek out Dorzin Rita for a final Inkwell. Or I can kill you and force the Author into a new host."

  Anson's eyes widened. "What?"

  Would she...really do that?

  "All I have is a couple of months! Why can't you all just let me be?"

  A smirk grew from Shakaya's sad smile. "I still want my revenge, Anson Anwell."

  Revenge? Even after everything? After ten years of crying on his shoulder and sitting across from each other at the cafeteria? After sharing their lives at the school so completely? After stealing a kiss from him in the dim dust of the Hazza inn? After making impossible promises at the edge of Riksharre's woods? After dreaming together at the sight of Havventhale in the distance? After relying on each other for so long? Even if it was parasitic, they were still partners. Perhaps that made his betrayal worse. If she truly believed he had felt nothing—had been only pretending—for all of that time, then...

  For Shakaya, hate was stronger than love, and love could seed the strongest hate.

  "If you take my life, you'll take my Inkwells!" Anson swallowed a nervous lump. "You'll be a target for the next Editor!"

  "Who's to say I mind? What do I have left?" Shakaya stepped closer. "What have I ever had?"

  Anson's brown eyes stayed level with blue, even as his shaking legs tried to back away.

  Shakaya laughed. "Who knows? I may just become the next Editor, myself! There are plenty of things I'd burn." She angled her chakram for his neck, both her blade and her voice laced with venom. "What will it be?"

  Anson closed his eyes. "I'm sorry..."

  A blast of heat erupted between them, forcing her away with a startled gasp.

  "But I'm not going back!" He fled blindly into the brush.

  Shakaya's boots pounded after him seconds later.

  What the Hell was he going to do? She was far more persistent than he'd ever been. There was no way she'd simply let him go. But even if he managed to resist, how was he supposed to fight? He refused to return to the Butterfly as much as he refused to take her life.

  The chakram rushed closer, signaled by its telltale whir. Anson barely ducked before it split the air above his head.

  ...He wasn't sure that sentiment was mutual.

  Anson set the brush behind him ablaze without turning around, praying it might afford him a few precious seconds. What he needed was some way to debilitate her—some way to escape. His flames were chaotic and awkward—either entirely ineffectual or dangerously deadly—and he still lacked precise control. He'd already taken one life accidentally. Physical combat was not an option, and with a Human opponent, never would be. His thoughts turned to the gun at his belt. Shakaya still wore the Academy's metal armor, but for ease of movement, only leather covered her joints. Could he shoot her without killing her?

  Another whir chased after him, and this time, he wasn't fast enough.

  Agony ripped through his right side. He hissed, crumbling to the ground as his hands flew to the source of the pain. The chakram landed a few feet away, stained with fresh crimson.

  Anson breathed in moans, struggling to raise a palm. It was covered in blood. He forced himself to look at the wound through the eyes of a researcher rather than those of panicked prey. He'd been hit, but it wasn't as bad as it looked—just a graze. But it stung like Hell. Heat spread from the gash and left a chill in its wake. It almost felt like a burn.

  Shit. The realization sunk into his stomach like lead. He'd been infected. The toxin concealed inside her chakram...

  Shakaya laughed without humor as she strode toward him. "Did you forget that I'm trained for this?" She bent down and fetched her blade. "What makes you think you can escape when I've slain so many Lyrum? You aren't any different."

  Anson found himself reaching for his gun. He moved slowly, concealing his hand beneath the torn shreds of his shirt.

  Shakaya loomed over him, white-knuckling the chakram aimed at his throat. "I'll ask you again. Will you go back to Jeriko?"

  A bullet fired. It barely missed her legs, but it was enough to make her stumble.

  Anson gritted his teeth and yanked himself up through the pain. He angled the gun toward his childhood friend. "No."

  An electric hush made the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end as Shakaya raised her chakram.

  They both stood with their weapons ready, each waiting for the other to make the next move.

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  Shakaya watched the Editor fight to keep its wrists from shaking, sucking in deep breaths and steadying its gun with its free hand. It was going to try for her knee again. Pathetic. Who did it think it was fooling?

  S
he stayed perfectly still, her eyes narrowed and her chakram raised. The Lyrum was no soldier. It would be the one to surrender to the pressure first.

  The Editor's fingers tensed on the trigger, starting to squeeze.

  Shakaya leaped to the left with one foot and propelled herself toward the Editor with the other, her blade outstretched. It would be so simple to go for its gut, its ribs, its neck. Lyrum broke easily—as easily as a butterfly beneath a boot. But...

  The Editor's brown eyes caught hers, seeming to slow down time. During battle, she'd never actually met a Lyrum's gaze. She could swear she still saw familiar tints of fear and sorrow, maybe even more. Maybe even a sense of the soul she'd once believed existed.

  She clenched her chakram so tightly she nearly drew her own blood.

  Was it all in her head? Or had the Editor simply become a fantastic actor after so many years of practice?

  Either way, the Lyrum in front of her... It was only a Lyrum—only an Anwell—but it was also the same being that had sat beside her so many times. She knew those eyes.

  Damn it.

  She sliced her chakram across its shoulder. She couldn't kill it. Not unless those eyes changed.

  Show me who you really are!

  The Lyrum stumbled away with a pained hiss and summoned a wall of flames between them.

  Shakaya leaped back, the heat blackening the hem of her white coat. Did it really think it could stop her? If she hadn't been holding back, it would already be dead. She threw the chakram through the fire.

  The Editor shouted as the blade grazed its arm, nearly dropping its gun. It chewed its lip to hold in cries as the toxin spread further through its body, its good hand uselessly gripping the wound.