Destination Unknown (Lumen Academy Book 1)

by Penelope Wright

  Darius stands in stony silence, his arms folded across his chest.

  Mona softens her tone. “How often has avoiding risk worked out for you?”

  Their eyes meet and sparks fly between them, a thousand unspoken words hanging in the air. Darius twists the thick gold band on his ring finger around three times. Finally, he sighs. “I have a Canceler with a two-hour success window.”

  Mona gasps and her hand flies to cover her mouth. “Who?”

  “Don’t ask me questions you know I won’t answer. But given that I have some wiggle room here, I’m willing to make a deal with you.”

  Mona curls her lip with distaste. If what Darius says is true about his extended range Canceler, he could intercept Heidi anywhere in the hours before she entered the meditation studio, and there’d be nothing she could do to stop it. “What’s your offer?”

  “I have an acolyte in the Middle East who’s gone a bit rogue. I’ve been looking for an opportunity to reel him back into line or let him go. This may be a blessing in disguise. I’ll send him in to retrieve her, and if he recovers the girl, he’s back in the fold. However, if they’re caught, I Cancel her and wash my hands of my troublesome acolyte. Two birds, one stone.”

  Mona stares levelly at Darius, considering his offer. “Do I have your word on this, Darius?”

  He extends his hand, palm out, his pinkie and ring finger crossed, his index and middle fingers in a V. “If I have yours.”

  After another full minute of thinking, Mona pulls her hand from behind her back, makes the same sign, and nods curtly. “Fine. Contact the acolyte. Make it happen.”

  Darius presses his lips together, his expression smug. “Why don’t you make the call? Less likely to attract unwanted attention from any of the other factions if you pretend it’s a family matter.”

  Mona’s hand flies to her hair. She twists a curl worriedly around her finger. “Marston?” she whispers. “I thought he was in Montana.”

  Darius’s lips stretch into a thin line. “You thought wrong. Call your nephew.”

  6

  Marston

  As a rule, I avoid mirrors. I didn’t ask to become a Seer and I don’t want the honor. But every once in a while, the urge to See hits me so strong, I can’t deny the vision.

  I’m in a public market in Marrakesh when the vibrations start. I ignore them at first, but they grow in intensity until I feel like the thinnest string on a guitar tuned an octave too high, and I can’t stand it anymore. I duck behind a stall, pull out a pocket mirror, and flip it open.

  I straighten my shoulders and stare unflinchingly at the reflective glass in front of me. I’m not scared. I know what can happen to Seers, but I won’t let it happen to me.

  Standing there in front of the mirror, I glare at my own reflection, my green eyes narrowed, my dirty blond hair a little more disheveled than usual, the collar of my hyper-color shirt askew. My shirt is a royal blue right now. Depending on what my vision reveals, I may have to add a drop of activator chemical to change its color.

  Some visions take more time to materialize than others, but this one happens immediately, without the momentary shimmer of expectation that I’ve grown used to. The mirror abruptly bulges outward, then sucks in, swirling into a vortex with a spot in the center, like a lens a director would look through to film a movie. I press the pocket mirror to my eye and proceed to watch a warbly version of what might be future events.

  Aunt Mona and Darius, my de facto boss, are standing in a small room, screaming at each other. Why?

  My vision switches gears and now I see myself, which isn’t a surprise. I often play a starring role in my own visions. My satellite phone trills. Odd. I rarely get calls anymore. If someone has something important to say, they’ll pay a Minder to get close to me and plant the thoughts inside my brain. In my vision, I pick my sat phone up in my left hand and tap on it with my right index finger. Then a third hand reaches across my forehead and rubs my temple. I don’t have three hands, so I mentally discard that image. Extraneous visionary detail. I concentrate on what matters. Who’s calling? I peer intently at my vision, but it’s too warbly to make out the sat phone’s digital readout screen. I’m distracted as my pants peel away from my body and float off like a magic carpet. That’s also impossible. Ignore. Distantly, as if through a long, rusty pipe half full of water, I hear Darius’s voice. What is he saying? I can’t make it out. But from his tone and the look on my own face, it’s important. Maybe his call is the reason why he and Mona are yelling at each other.

  My vision switches back to Darius and Mona. He’s waving his hands in the air and she’s shaking her finger in his face. Suddenly, her eyes bug out comically, she rakes her fingernails down her cheeks, and her head explodes.

  I wince involuntarily, even though I know that didn’t really happen. She’s just furious. It’s a visionary metaphor. I squint my eye and press the mirror even harder to my face, but I feel a sharp pull on my torso, as if I have a small hook attached to my spine and someone has tugged on it, and I know that’s it. I jerk back from the lens vortex before it swirls shut. I grab my sat phone out of my inside jacket pocket. I need to call Darius. I don’t know how far in the future that vision occurs, but it isn’t much. The clothing I was wearing in the vision is the same that I have on now. Maybe I can head off whatever blowup is brewing between him and my aunt.

  My sat phone has a special low-glare digital screen that won’t act as a mirror unless I hold it at a precise, awkward angle to the light. I usually feel a vision coming on, but I know I’m prone to unexpected ones catching me by surprise – all Seers are. Will Darius already know what he needs me for? Or am I too early? Only one way to find out.

  I tap in Darius’s number.

  7

  The Studio

  “I’m not sending Marston into The Citadel; you must be insane. I will not make that call.” Mona’s voice is a whisper, but her tone makes it sound like a scream.

  “Then you are the one backing out on our deal. You know what that means.”

  A vibrating sound buzzes from the inside pocket of Darius’s jacket and he pulls his sat phone out, a broad grin cracking his face.

  Mona’s face turns ashy.

  Darius presses the button to answer the call. “Hello, Marston. I was just talking about you. Is this a secure line?”

  The response must be “yes,” because Darius smiles thinly at Mona, then depresses a button to activate speaker mode.

  “What’s going on?” Marston’s voice is tinny, carried across thousands of miles of international lines.

  “We have a situation, and you’re the only one who can assist us.”

  Mona glares at Darius, but she doesn’t contradict him.

  “What’s the mission?” Marston says.

  “You don’t know already? I thought you fancied yourself a Seer now,” Darius replies, and the look on his face proves that he’s only saying that to needle Marston.

  Mona raises an eyebrow, confused by the exchange.

  Marston’s voice is still distorted by the long distance, but his irritation is clear when he responds. “Dammit, Darius. I can’t help my visions. But I’m not one of them. I’m a Jumper. I’m loyal, and I wish you’d take my word for it.”

  Mona inhales sharply.

  It’s obviously loud enough for Marston to hear her gasp, even over the distorted connection. “Is Mona with you?” he demands.

  “Yes. It’s me, honey. Aunt Mona.”

  The line goes dead so long, she’s certain Marston has been disconnected, but then he finally speaks. “Hello, Mona. It’s been too long. I guess you’ve figured out I’ve had some developments in my life that I need to tell you about. Preferably in person.”

  Mona swallows. “Of course.”

  Apparently done playing games, Darius jumps back into the conversation. “Your aunt had an incident earlier with a novice, and she’s in a sticky situation.”

  “The novice or my aunt?”

  “Oh, why not
both?” Darius says airily. “We need the girl extracted.”

  “And it’s got to be fast,” Mona interjects.

  “Where is she?”

  “Region Four. Old Saudi Arabia,” Darius says.

  “Damn. I’m in Region Three. Are you sure there isn’t anyone closer?”

  “You’re the one I want for the job, Marston. What with the family connections and all.”

  Marston spends a second or two absorbing that. “Understood,” he says. “Old Saudi will take me three Jumps, with five-minute recharges in between each hop, so I can be there in roughly twenty minutes of travel. How close is my final destination to The Region Four Citadel?”

  “Quite.” Darius smiles coldly at Mona. “Quite close indeed.”

  “Give me her exact coordinates.”

  “At last check, she was in what we believe is the bedroom of the maharaja.”

  Across the lines, Mona and Darius can hear Marston suck air through his teeth.

  “What happened to her partner?” he says in a low voice, barely audible over the connection.

  “She’s flying solo,” Mona says, and she hopes that Marston will be able to figure out what happened. He should know enough about her work to make some good assumptions. Plus, she called him “honey” when she greeted him, their code for “something’s off,” so he already knows to keep his wits about him.

  “Good god,” Marston says.

  “Yes, it’s very unfortunate indeed,” Darius says mildly. “I need her collected and returned immediately, or she’ll be Canceled. Your aunt vehemently disagrees with the idea of a Cancellation in this case.”

  “Why?”

  “Mona has her reasons.”

  Mona intensifies her glare and grinds her toes into the thick carpeting of the soundproof room.

  “Acknowledged,” Marston says. “Give me the details on the target.”

  Mona exhales a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, but she isn’t sure whether she’s relieved or more scared than ever. Marston is a good operative. Great, actually. If anyone can handle this, it’s him. The trouble is, Mona doesn’t actually believe anyone can handle this. It’s The Citadel, where the maharaja rules with an iron fist, using his Seers to root out opposition and potential dissenters, often before they, themselves, even know they plan to be disloyal. How it is that the maharaja has never turned his blazing eye to her, she can only guess. Her warding skills are superb, yes, but how long could she expect to hold against the eye of The Citadel? And now, to unintentionally send a girl from her studio directly into their midst? Her stomach turns and she feels tears well in her eyes. She’s going to lose them both to this mistake. The innocent girl she accidentally sent zipping around the globe – and her nephew.

  “Marston—” she says, her voice plaintive and agonized, but Darius holds up a hand and cuts her off.

  “Her name is Heidi Rivers,” Darius says.

  “And?” Marston adds from the other end of the connection. “What are her vitals? How did she Jump to her exact location inside The Citadel? Their warding should have bounced her off the exterior walls. I need more to go on than what you’re giving me.”

  “She’s seventeen years old, with chin-length light brown hair,” Mona says. “She’s dressed in work gray. She’ll be barefoot.” Mona knows that doesn’t even scratch the surface of what Marston is asking for, but she can’t give him more details over the satellite phone. “That’s all I have, honey,” she says, using the code word again. Marston will know to accept her words at face value and find out the full story later.

  The hesitation in Marston’s voice tells Mona he understands. “She…should be easy to spot among the Seers and Minders,” Marston says. “That’s all I have to go on?

  “We don’t have any more than that. She’s not one of us.” Darius locks eyes with Mona.

  She scowls at Darius. “At least not yet,” she adds, but Darius has already clicked the button on the side of the satellite phone to end the call.

  Mona waits five seconds after the connection ends, then she bursts. “My nephew is a dual talent? How dare you keep that to yourself?”

  Darius throws his hands in the air. “A dual talent? There’s no such thing.”

  “A gray girl just Jumped halfway around the world while lavender suppressed!” Mona yells. “How do we know anything anymore?”

  “There are no dual talents,” Darius reiterates. “None. And I find it mighty presumptuous of your nephew to pretend to be some sort of new God. Not that the Seers would want him. They’d kill Marston before they’d accept a Jumper as their king.”

  Mona groans and clutches her curly hair at her temples. “Oh my god, I feel like my head is going to explode.”

  8

  Heidi

  I run as hard as I ever have in my life. Panic seems to spur me to new heights. Society views running with contempt, of course, so it’s not like I have a lot of practice at this, but then again, I’ve never had a horde of quasi-zombies chasing after me. They certainly don’t seem concerned about social standards because they’re fast. I zoom down the labyrinthine, endless hallways faster than I ever knew I could.

  I try to stay quiet as I flee, but I can’t prevent my feet from making light slapping sounds no matter how lightly I try to step, and my breathing has turned to a ragged pant.

  I can’t find a way out of this place. There’s a loud babble of pursuit behind me, but when I throw a quick glance over my shoulder, the hoard of people who chased me from that room with the staticky screen aren’t visible, so they must be a turn or two back. I keep expecting to turn a corner and find that a Jumper has teleported to get ahead of me and strung a net across the hall or something, but all I find is long hallway after endless long hallway, all of them leading to – it appears – nothing. This place is palatial; whoever lives here clearly has money. It’s not like they can’t afford the service. Why haven’t they sent a Jumper?

  It doesn’t really matter, though, because I know my luck will run out eventually. Even without a Jumper to head me off, sooner or later I’ll make a turn, end up doubling back on myself, and run right into the horde. I have to hide. But how can I conceal myself in these huge, open white hallways? It’s not like I can masquerade as a potted plant in my gray work clothes.

  A potted plant… The palms! They’re in huge terracotta pots dotting the hallways. It’s a ludicrous idea, but I have no other option. I skid to a halt beside a waist-high one. I go loose with relief when I see that the large pots are mostly decorative. The actual tree grows out of a smaller pot placed inside the large fancy one. Without a second thought, I hike a leg over the lip of the terracotta pot and tumble in. I coil my body around the smaller inner pot, hugging it for dear life. Seconds later, the pot shakes with the rattle of hundreds of feet thundering past. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and hold my breath.

  After a few harrowing moments, the noise abates, and the hallway settles back into silence. But I’m paralyzed. Sure, I’m hidden. For now. But how am I supposed to know when it’s safe to come out?

  What am I thinking? It’ll never be safe to come out. Chanting minions, check. Labyrinth-style compound, check. Trafficked gray girl running for her life? Check, check, check. I’m not stupid. I woke up in bed with a man three times my age. I’m obviously not here as a domestic or I would have woken up in the kitchen. He probably paid a lot for me.

  And what was that word the horde yelled in unison when I disturbed them? It wasn’t English, that was for sure. Where am I? And how did I get here? I don’t remember a thing after walking into the meditation studio with Clarissa. No…that’s not true. As I gingerly probe my recent memories, recollections reveal themselves like old, dogeared playing cards being flipped over one by one.

  There I am, walking through the door with Clarissa. Flip. I’m taking off my shoes by a row of cubbies. Flip. I’m lying on the floor, my arms at my sides.

  My next memories are the most confusing ones. I can hear the sounds of Mona’s di
fferent sized bowls in my memory, so strongly, it almost feels like I’m hearing the tones right now, but I know I’m not. This hallway I’m presently hiding in is perfectly silent. But in my mind’s eye, I’m surrounded by tones so varied, it’s like they’re living brushes of color swirling around me. I know that lying there, back at the meditation studio, I thought about John, but for the first time, instead of feeling like a pathetic loser or a victim, I felt powerful. I was able to banish him from my mind, and somehow, despite my low station and his betrayal, I came out the winner.

  And then things got really crazy. I remember myself swirling up, up, up, riding on whirls of color until I was pressed against the ceiling with my body still below me on the floor and Mona’s voice in my brain.

  That’s right! Mona’s a Minder. I shiver inside my plant pot. She’s far away now. She must be. There’s no way she can get inside my mind anymore.

  I go back to my memories. I swear, I watched Mona from somewhere outside my body, because I can see her bending over me, putting a dot of oil on my forehead, and then what did she say? Something about being flat?

  Was the oil on my forehead the drug? Like, chloroform? Isn’t that what they use in old pre-Lumen-ascension novels to make people pass out? But no, now I remember inhaling and smelling lavender. Could it have been lavender-scented chloroform, maybe? But that doesn’t make sense. Why would they make a scented archaic knockout drug? It’s not like they’re trying to compete with other modern stun-drug manufacturers on attractive scents. Okay, I’m obsessing over the lavender. Maybe because I hate that scent so much and everyone else in the world seems to love it.

  What happened next? Well, next, I woke up in bed lying next to a creepy guy with an extremely unfortunate mustache, I got lost in a labyrinth and chased by zombies, and now I’m curled in a ball hugging a completely unsympathetic and somewhat scratchy plant.