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Paragon

Page 37

by Rowan Rook


  Shakaya looked at Anson as he approached, then after what could have been a moment of hesitation, pulled something from her pocket and held it out for him.

  Anson blinked, bewildered, before realizing what was twined around her fingers. A familiar red ribbon. His eyes widened.

  Shakaya looked away. "I noticed this in one of the Academy's dumpsters, along with your bag and the rest of your clothes. Keep an eye on it, because I won't bring it back to you again." Her voice was as monotone as ever, but a suggestion of red stained her cheeks...perhaps from memories of the last time she'd returned the ribbon.

  Anson gawked at the memento. He wouldn't have thought she'd pay it a second glance anymore, but for the ribbon to survive the attack, she must have kept it close for quite a while. When he reached out to take it, their fingers touched for a second too long.

  Shakaya was the first to pull her hand away.

  Anson flushed, returning the familiar ribbon to its place in his hair. This time, he'd truly thought it gone for good. He smiled. "Thank you."

  Ah! For the briefest instant—within the blink of an eye—Shakaya had smiled, too. Perhaps there was still a part of her, however small, that didn't hate him as much as she liked to think she did.

  Blaker got to his feet after a wary glance at the soldier. "If I can have my turn away, then, I'll go prepare us a late dinner. Or an early breakfast, I suppose."

  Shakaya spun to face him. "Where do you—"

  "Just to the kitchen. I've got everything I need here to cook up something real nice." He offered the soldier a smile of his own. "You can have some too, of course. Don't fret."

  Shakaya narrowed her eyes, but didn't object. She gestured for Anson to follow her to the dining table, where she could keep an eye on both of her captives.

  Anson obediently sat across from her while they waited for Blaker to finish their meal. Blaker worked as though nothing was wrong, dusting off old supplies and lighting up the stove as if he were casually treating houseguests to a holiday dinner. The scent wafting from the kitchen was delightful—a promise of the first real food Anson had eaten in weeks.

  The silence, however, was suffocating. He found himself looking at his twined thumbs, away from Shakaya's gaze. All she did was watch him, solemn. The relentlessness of it was beginning to drive him mad. He straightened, moving his nervous fingers into his lap. "Shakaya...what is that you're doing?"

  Shakaya offered a disinterested tilt of her head. At first, Anson thought she wasn't going to answer. "I believe I've made it clear. I'm following through with Rickard's orders and ensuring the Butterfly's goals are achieved."

  Anson's eyes narrowed. "Rickard. You could leave her. You're not bound to any of this."

  Nothing changed on Shakaya's face. "I'm continuing of my own will."

  "Why?" Anson shook his head. He hadn't forgotten Jeriko's words about the woman who'd played them both as puppets. "She was lying to you. To both of us! So why would you trust her now?"

  "The Medium..." Shakaya mouthed, uncertainty passing over her face.

  Tingles rose the hair on Anson's neck. "What's that?"

  Shakaya scoffed, her confidence returning. "Rickard is a liar. There can be no more mistake about that. She's finally offered me evidence of the truth, however. She plans to follow through, so I will, too."

  Worry knotted Anson's hands into fists. According to Jeriko, Rickard had promised Shakaya that she'd destroy the Lyrum species and betray their Butterfly division, but the Vice Overseer had been confident that was also a lie. So then...what did she mean? "What's the Medium?" he pressed.

  "It's nothing that concerns you," Shakaya growled, even as her fingers traced the edge of the table.

  She's right. You're not a researcher anymore. You don't need to understand everything. All you need to do is play your part.

  Dread churned Anson's stomach. "But I—"

  "You know as much as you need to, Lyrum!" Shakaya sharpened her voice and her glare. "Follow orders and stop trying to think."

  Her aura was so intense that Anson sunk back into silence. Was there still something he didn't understand? He scoffed internally. Of secrets, it seemed there was no end.

  The clock hanging from the wall counted out the seconds.

  This time, it was Shakaya who broke the silence. "I found this, too." She took something else from her pockets—a notebook—and slid it across the table.

  Anson gawked at the journal where he'd written so many names. Unidentifiable stains marred the cover from its stint in the Academy's trash, but when he carefully pried apart the sticky pages, its contents remained readable. A crease he hadn't put there marked the entry where he'd written the names of Shakaya's parents.

  Shakaya didn't quite look at him. "When you promised to bring them back, did you mean it?"

  Anson stuttered. He bit his lip, but nodded.

  Shakaya met his gaze and held it for a long while.

  "Who's ready to eat?" Blaker approached with platefuls of food cradled in his arms. "I know I am, so take what you want before it's gone." He set the bowls down on the table. It was an almost unsettling amount of food—a rainbow of vegetables, spiced bread, and what appeared to be some form of meat, all surely from frozen stock or cans. It wasn't a meal Anson would have chosen, but compared to the trash the Academy's prisoners were fed, the scent was divine.

  The tension between the soldier and the former scientist flickered a few seconds longer, but dissipated into a much more tolerable unease when the older man took a seat at the table.

  Shakaya frowned. "I suppose it doesn't matter anymore." She dug a fork into the meat.

  Anson was still for another moment, discontent. He hadn't wanted the conversation to end so suddenly, but with Blaker between them, it was clearly finished.

  ...What an awkward dinner this was. Suppressing a sigh, Anson filled his plate with the first real meal he'd tasted in he hardly knew how long.

  Ƹ̴Ӂ̴Ʒ

  Rickard considered what shade of blue to use for the flowers. She finally selected a deep indigo. A calm shade that maintained a hint of wonder.

  She smiled. She hoped that description would fit her Auratessa, too.

  With Lyrum and Otherlings stricken from the world, there would no longer be a need for war. Humans could live in peace as their truest selves. They could form families and a comfortable society, their roles guided only by the natural divisions of gender and ability and intelligence. They could focus on science and art and love. It would be a smaller world, yes, but the simplicity would only serve to highlight what mattered. An elegant word. A world where everything moved exactly as it was supposed to, all brush strokes contributing to a beautiful painting.

  She stood back to examine the finished paintings lining the wall of the art studio tucked into her office. The images of tame green hills enchanted with plumes of carefully cultivated color, clean silver cities pushing progress onward, Human families with proper mothers and fathers.

  No one who doesn't play their part. Everyone always just the right shade, never contrasting too much with the background.

  No one, except, that was, for her.

  This is my role. She smiled, despite trying to convince herself that she was less excited about being Auratessa's future Monarch, of sorts, than she was. I have to do this, because no one else will. It's for Auratessa. Not for me.

  She unclenched her fists, despite also trying to convince herself that she was less angry than she was.

  Auratessa should be thankful I don't burn it all down instead.

  Letting out a breath, exhaling the poison in her insides with it, she returned to her last, unfinished painting.

  This one was a picture of the Rinvale Islands. She'd only been there once before to investigate the area, but she'd committed all of its details to memory. Now, all her model needed was its actors.

  Her heart pulsed, fluttering between dread and anticipation.

  Oh please, she prayed not to the Author, but the air, please don't let
this all be for nothing.

  She dabbed her brush in water, plucked it in black paint, then started painting the Editor, as she had done so many times before. He stood in the center of the island, just as he would when the Draft began. Soon, very soon now. She had received word from Shakaya earlier that night that the Editor was still alive. That meant it was time. Her painted dreams would finally become reality. She could only hope they matched the beauty she strived to capture on canvas.

  She finished up the details on the Editor, after a state of working flow that might have lasted a few minutes or an hour. A trance away from time. A reprieve. She didn't even have to think too hard about what she was creating—it emerged naturally from her mind, her wishes. She was so well-practiced at painting the Editor's image that she didn't even need to sketch it first, but this time, there was one difference—she left off the features of his face.

  An emptiness threatened her own heart as she stared at him.

  ...Why did her throat feel so tight?

  "I hope a part of you will understand," she whispered to the image.

  Her receiver buzzed. "Just checking for updates." Jeriko's voice buzzed through the speakers. "Has Anson been persuaded? Are we clear to head to the cabin?"

  Rickard set down her brush and held her receiver close. "If he hasn't yet, he will be."

  My daughter better finish her damn job.

  "If you say so."

  Rickard gritted her teeth at the doubt in his voice.

  "Aydel, myself, and several other Butterflies will meet with him and Ms. Johanne as soon as we can gather everyone together and arrange a boat. We will make our way to the islands immediately after we pick them up. You'd best come with us."

  "I have business to attend to at the Academy. Go on without me."

  Jeriko's voice crackled with confusion. "But you're the Overseer. Surely—"

  "I cannot abandon my Academy and my city when it needs me," Rickard insisted. "I trust you to do all that needs to be done."

  Jeriko paused too long before answering. "Very well then, my Overseer."

  The receiver went silent. Rickard switched it to its listen-only mode. She would need to eavesdrop to determine the best time to start her own journey to the islands.

  Rickard looked back at her painting. It wouldn't feel right unless she finished it. The last pieces needed to come together, just as they would in the real world soon.

  She moved on from the Editor's image and started painting her daughter's.

  She lay on the ground, near the Editor's feet. Her eyes were closed, her arms splayed as if reaching for something they would never reach, at all. Her mouth hung open just slightly—not in a scream, but in a question she had perhaps never had the chance to ask. She wasn't bleeding—she could have been asleep—but the lack of tension in a body that held such an intense soul suggested she would never get up again.

  Rickard stared at the image. She didn't want to. She didn't want to finish it, either, but she didn't have the option to look away. If she dealt with the pain now, it would be easier to withstand when it was soon made of flesh and bone and blood instead of pigment.

  Too soon, maybe, she thought, then frowned.

  No, it had already taken too long.

  It's time.

  She quieted her mind, submerging herself in her bittersweet visions and capturing them on canvas in something like a prayer. When she was done, she stepped back and studied her handiwork.

  Her gaze landed on the Editor's blank face.

  Be glad your life meant something, my Editor. You'll have at least that dream. You shouldn't hate me.

  Then she looked at the too-still image of her daughter.

  Rickard gasped when a tear dripped from her cheek.

  She tried again to smile, searching for the warmth beneath the sorrow—searching for the steel, too. She wiped at her eyes with her color-stained sleeve. She didn't mind the paint left behind on her face—white smearings from Shakaya's coat. It was all part of the life of an Artist.

  "Thank you, dear," she said to the image of the person she would never speak those words to, "for everything." She closed her eyes to keep the tears from coming back. "I love you."

  It's time.

  After all, there was no better feeling than finishing a painting. Soon, she hoped that moment would come for her as Auratessa's new Artist.

  It's time.

  Chapter Thirty: Blood

  The window above the dining table shattered. The plates Blaker had been carrying back to the kitchen slipped from his startled fingers and clattered into pieces against the floor. Anson and Shakaya ducked beneath the table while Blaker clumsily dived down to join them a few seconds later. Angry shouts bled through the cabin's walls from outside.

  Anson's heart crawled into his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but a glare from Shakaya silenced him.

  "Stay here," she ordered in a whisper, then slunk toward the broken window. She peered through, relying on the wall for cover. Disgust paled her face. "Dorzin Rita."

  Anson's jaw dropped.

  "We aren't ready for them." Despite the worry in her words, Shakaya's countenance was calm when she rejoined him. "Still, there's only a small group with Rita, about three or four."

  Blaker's wide eyes found Anson's. "These are the people who...?"

  Anson nodded gravely. Throughout the weeks of imprisonment, he'd told Blaker plenty about...everything. The Butterflies, the Councilors, the Author. Yet he'd never expected his new friend to become so terribly involved in his messes.

  Shakaya turned toward him and pulled a handgun—similar to the weapon she'd once forced him to carry—and extra bullets from her bag. She held them out for him.

  For a while, Anson simply stared at the gun. When he took it and slipped the bullets into his pockets, he nodded to show that he understood. Now that he had the chance, the Butterfly still wanted him to collect the fourth Inkwell. He would need to be the one to kill Rita.

  "Stay here until I call for you," Shakaya ordered. She slunk closer to the door, then thrust it open and disappeared outside. The door slammed shut behind her.

  Anson bit his lip, then crouched low and creeped toward the broken window. His trembling fingers switched off the gun's safety.

  Blaker's brow creased with worry. "What're you doing? She said—"

  "She's outnumbered." Anson peered over the window's jagged edges. "I can at least provide support." He was no soldier, but he was no longer the helpless coward he'd been before departing the Academy and boarding the train. The last few months hadn't offered him that luxury.

  Don't get sentimental. It doesn't matter what happens to her. What matters is staying alive after all of the work I've put into you! Focus on Rita! I'm craving another Inkwell.

  Outside, Shakaya faced off against an ice generator—albeit one clearly not as skilled as Aydel—while a second Lyrum ran to the other's aid. A third remained focused on the broken window, bow in hand. With a jolt, it spotted Anson and fired.

  Anson suppressed a shout and ducked before the projectile flew through the window and bit into the kitchen walls.

  "Lord!" Blaker scrunched down until his belly scraped the floor.

  In a single motion, Anson raised himself up and fired a shot. It connected with the other Lyrum's shoulder. Gaining a second more to aim, Anson aligned the gun with the archer's head and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit. A fresh pang of guilt recoiled through him, but the arrows stopped coming.

  A screech shook the cabin from above.

  Anson crouched down. Rita. The shapeshifter was nowhere to be seen, but wingbeats rumbled like drums.

  "Look out!" Blaker lunged forward and shoved Anson away from the window.

  Anson realized why an instant too late.

  A monstrous talon reached through the broken glass.

  Blaker screamed, his head seized in its grip.

  Anson ignited flames, singeing Rita's legs, the world smearing with his pounding heart.

  Rita
screeched, slamming Blaker against the broken window. Jagged glass sunk into the back of his neck. Blood dripped down the wall. When Rita let go, Blaker slid into the scarlet puddle on the floor.

  Anson gaped, holding his breath while he waited for Blaker to move. Seconds spilled by. Blaker didn't move.

  An avian screech pulled Anson back to the present. He reached out, but the Councilor had already retreated beyond the boundaries of his fire. He ran to the broken window and shot bullets toward the sky. The sound of wingbeats faded away.

  Anson hissed back a curse and kneeled by his friend. "Blaker!"

  Blaker answered with a cough. A trickle of crimson escaped from between his lips. Anson's stomach curled.

  Sparing another glance at the window, Anson grabbed Blaker's shirt and tried to pull him toward the nearest bedroom. He needed to move his companion somewhere safer. But Blaker's collapsed body wouldn't budge. He pulled and shoved, but the weight was too much for his Lyrum muscles to manage. Anson swallowed a cry of frustration. He couldn't move him. He wasn't strong enough. "Why?" He asked, panting with exhaustion as much as fear. "Why do that?"

  Blaker managed something like a laugh. "Call it instinct...I guess."

  Abandoning his futile quest for safety, Anson studied Blaker's wounds. Talon marks dug into his skull, spilling blood like juice from an overripe fruit crushed by eager fingers. He looked away to hold back the bile. He was afraid to lift Blaker's injured head to look at the gash on the back of his neck, but judging from the location and the blood still pooling beneath him...

  Where was his damned storage box? Shakaya had confiscated it from him when she'd taken them hostage. He was about to search for it when Blaker's body convulsed.

  Blaker's limbs flailed as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Anson leaned closer, ignoring the kicks to his chest and the stink of urine, trying to stop his friend from doing even more damage to himself but still not strong enough.

 

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