by Elle Park
I still don't know what to say or how to respond to Nolan's brazen revelations, so I don't. I do, however, take the proffered items with a firm grip and, with a quick glance, I can see that it's just a phone and a bank card—both black, glossy and sleek.
"What is this?" I ask, hoping for an explanation.
"Your money and your job," Nolan drawls, as if it should be obvious.
"I already have a card, and I already have a phone."
"Well, actually, I closed your accounts. So, really, you did have a card, and you did have a phone. But now, thanks to me, you have both—except they're better. You're welcome."
"How did you—where is my phone?" I say to no one in particular, frowning when my pockets come up empty.
"I threw it away."
His casual demeanor makes me wonder if I even heard him right. "When did you even take it? It was still in my back pocket when we were leaving The Liberty."
"I know it was—terrible place to keep a phone, by the way. It's a good thing I picked it off you before anyone else could. I bet they would have looked through your phone like starved raccoons in a trash can—total invasion of privacy, but I'm telling you, someone would have done it. And who knows what sort of information they would have gotten from your text messages to Piper, Max, Melanie and Rachel?" He glares at me for some unknown reason, and his voice grows dark when he speaks his next words. "Absolutely nothing. Nothing! Your texts were about as dry as the scales on the back of Jenkins' hands. Is that how all girls talk to each other? Does it make you happy to have shattered one of my fantasies? Does it, Kaia? Does it?"
"You went through my phone," I state impassively. I'm not even surprised, really. If he can access my accounts without my authorization—and terminate them, no less—then getting past my phone's lock screen is probably the equivalent of a monkey peeling a banana.
"Like I said," he shrugs, "someone would have done it—might as well be me."
"He has an excuse for everything. For your sake, it is best to just excuse him." Henry advises in his deadpan tone, evidently sensing my growing incredulity. Then he turns to Nolan. "Show her how to use the phone. I will go get the food." He's small and fragile, yet even his retreating form has a heaviness to it.
"Right, right. The phone... Okay, let's get this over with." Nolan sighs heavily.
You'd think he was asked to scrub the toilet.
"No password?" I ask, surprised to see that a device from The Corporation is without protection. I'm even more surprised when I notice the background of my main screen. It's a photo of myself and Nolan—a photo we never actually took. "You photo-shopped yourself into a picture from my graduation?"
"It can only unlock with your fingerprint, and it will only respond with your touch," he replies, lazily waving a hand from his new position on the floor. He's lying on the confetti-covered ground as if it's a memory-foam mattress. "And I didn't photo-shop the picture—Milo did. I just told him to." A pause. "How come you don't use any social media? You're the only one your friends couldn't tag in their posts. And why were there only pictures of you from the ceremony?" Another pause. "Please don't tell me you only attended the ceremony. Who graduates from high-school and doesn't go to the party?"
"Me," I say dryly, though I know his question was redundant. "Now, are you going to tell me what all of these apps are for?"
There is a plethora of unfamiliar icons dominating the screen, each bordered in black and displaying a different symbol in the middle. Some of the labels read BANK, SHOP, SOS, and TRACK—and that's just naming a few.
Apparently, The Corporation has its own secret telecommunications network, and everything I do with this phone goes under the radar from the rest of the world—which is convenient, to say the least, considering all that I can do with it. According to Nolan, this particular device has been installed with every resource a tracker could possibly need.
"Open the app called track," he instructs as he devours his second slice of triple-chocolate ice-cream cake.
The three of us are sitting cross-legged on the ground, confetti sticking to our socks and prickling the thin strip of skin at our ankles. We're using plastic cutlery and eating off paper plates—Nolan insists it's part of the full party experience—and Henry is tasked with checking on the chute every few minutes, returning each time to add to our growing spread of food. We haven't touched any of it yet, though, because Nolan claims we need to finish the whole cake before it melts. At the rate he's going, it won't take more than a few minutes.
Doing as he says, I tap the icon with the picture of a compass on it, instantly overwhelmed by the sight that follows. I'm staring at a map that is pinned by countless red dots, slightly less blue dots, and a single bold black dot. And they only spread apart when I pinch at the display, local street names becoming clearer the more I zoom in.
"Okay, what exactly am I looking at?"
"Voraks are red, trackers are blue, and don't forget the black dot that's you," he says, smiling a toothy grin. "God, I'm a born poet." He sighs happily, cupping his cheeks with both hands—one of which is still holding his fork. His plate, I notice, is by his feet and licked clean.
"There are this many?" I frown, studying the crimson specks as they disappear and reappear like an advanced game of whack-a-mole
"Those are just the ones infesting the city." Henry hands us each a small box of stir-fry before thumbing through their tablet. "These are the real numbers," he says, pointing to the theater screen I was beginning to think was just for decoration.
The massive monitor turns on to reveal an outline of the world map, the white lines thin but clear against the black canvas. Just like the image from my phone, the continents are jam-packed with dots—some more so than others. There is an obvious difference, though. Instead of just red and blue, there are now green and yellow spots, too.
"The green are potential recruits, and the yellow are recruiters," Henry says before I can ask. "We've filtered out any other registered maevons, velmons and daemons, and as you can see, North America and Eastern Asia are the areas currently most populated by voraks."
"And what are you—a tracker or a recruiter?" I ask Nolan, not at all surprised to see him stuffing dumplings down his throat. "Or is there something else you do?" From what I know so far, it makes sense for him to be a tracker, but he never actually outright confirmed anything.
"I do this and that, here and there." Nolan purses his lips and rubs his chin. "I just do what I want, when I want, really. Carpet dime and all that."
Carpet di—
"He means Carpe Diem." Judging by his subtle exasperation, I assume having to correct Nolan is a common occurrence for Henry.
"I said that, didn't I?"
"No."
"Great. Well, now that that's settled," he curls up on the ground, using the rainbow shreds to create a makeshift blanket for himself, "I think it's time for a nap." His eyes are already closed by the time he rests his head on his hands.
"Saying he has a flexible sleeping schedule would be an understatement," Henry says, brushing off the few bits of confetti that stuck to his pants. "Shadowing you at The Academy has been taking a toll on him. I am sure he will be down for at least a few hours."
Nodding, I start to stand—and almost fall right back down when my gaze flits to Nolan's face.
"He really does sleep with his eyes open," I muse, unsettled by the way his unblinking blues stare right through me. His mouth is hanging open, too, and I'm not sure if that makes the sight more or less creepy.
"It takes some getting used to," Henry says, clearly from experience. "You should get some rest, too. He said something about taking you out on a night excursion." It's gone so quick that I could have imagined it, but I'm convinced it was pity that weighed down his dark lashes.
I'm starting to feel sorry for myself, too, because when it comes to Nolan, night excursion can mean anything from a trip to the grocery store, to robbing a gas station in the middle of nowhere.
"Great
."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"COULDN'T THIS HAVE waited until morning?"
After tossing around in bed for a few hours, too paranoid that Nolan would suddenly burst in while I was sleeping, I allowed myself the luxury of thinking he would sleep through the night or, at the very least, forget about his plans altogether. It was nine p.m. by the time I went in the bath, the heat of the water turning my skin a pleasant shade of pink. Loose tendrils of hair were sticking to my temples and down the nape of my neck, and it felt like the world had stopped just for me.
Then the door opened and, like a strong gust of wind, reality swooshed in.
More accurately, it barged in wearing a blindfold and yelling, "I swear, I knocked!"
"Why would we do that?" He gives me a look that I can only describe as mildly insulting. "Night is the best time to seize the day. Plus, it's prime feeding time for voraks."
"It's also prime sleeping time for people."
"Sleep is overrated," he scoffs, locking our arms together as we cross the street.
"Says the person who was knocked out for five hours," I say, unhooking his hold. Then I motion to my eyes. "Nice trick, by the way."
"Look," he tries to deflect, "a bus stop."
I raise my brows. "That's the best you can do?"
"Look, that guy might die tonight."
He juts his shoulder as if in half-shrug, arm flapping to the side and elbow pointing in the direction of a long line of people. They're standing in front of a club, girls dressed in tight skirts and dresses, guys in snug V-necks and button downs, and all mingling amongst themselves with both excitement and impatience, fingers tapping and bodies swaying to the deep, fast rhythm thumping from inside the building.
"Who?" I ask, frowning as he continues moving forward with easy strides.
"The one who looks like a quarterback on prom night," he says, and I quickly spot the guy trying to flirt with a short brunette—a vorak.
"Okay, and aren't we supposed to stop that from happening?"
"There's already a tracker here—a rookie," he sighs, "so obvious."
I don't know what he means by obvious because I, for one, can't tell whom he's talking about. Instead of pondering the matter, though, I rush my steps to match his pace, moving on and away from the strangers and their fate. "Where exactly are we going?"
He stops in his tracks, spinning to face me. "Why are you asking me? Weren't you leading the way?"
"What could have possibly made you think that?"
"I thought you were doing one of those reverse tailing things—you know, like, driving in front of a car so that the person you're tailing doesn't think that they're being tailed." With every word he says, I can see his mind going blank, brows furrowing and eyes glazing as he zones out to the sound of his own nonsense.
"You were the one walking in front of me," I say slowly, the statement booming inside my head but somehow coming out low and dark.
"Oh, right. Well, it doesn't matter who was leading," he waves dismissively, "gender equality, am I right?"
"No," I shake my head, "no, that doesn't even—no. Let's just head back," I say, already turning around, only for my wrist to be caught in his grip. "What're you do—"
"We're here," he nods, spreading his arms out, "I told you I knew where I was going."
It was already dark enough as is, thanks to the late hour, but now we don't even have streetlights. Instead, I have to rely on the glow of the moon to get a sense of our surroundings. Judging by the grimy walls and narrow path, we seem to be in a back alley of some sort, the unlit area completely deserted—and based on my past experiences, it's for good reason.
How many creepy alleys does New York have?
A hell of a lot, apparently.
"Should I be worried?" I ask, unable to ignore the crime-scene vibes.
"Don't be ridiculous, there aren't any mosquitoes in the middle of fall," he whispers. That wasn't even close to what I was referring to, but I don't bother correcting him. Some things are just more trouble than they're worth. "Get down," he palms the crown of my head, pushing me into a crouch, "watch and learn, little cricket—that's you, by the way, you're the little cri—"
"I get it," I say, cutting him off. "What is it I'm supposed to watch?"
"A vorak, duh. Wait for it," he presses a finger to my lips, "four, three, two, one." After a few seconds of zero activity, he tries again. "Five... four..." Footsteps. Neither of us miss the distinct noise of grass being crushed, the steady, dull crunch prompting Nolan to squish the rest of the numbers into one breath. "Three-two-one." Jumping up from behind the dumpster, he holds out his phone and uses it as a flashlight. "Aha!"
Someone screams.
"What the hell, man?"
That doesn't sound right.
Stepping out of my hiding spot, I see that Nolan is standing with his arms raised in a surrendering gesture, and a couple is standing against the wall a few feet away from him. They don't look happy.
"Oops. Sorry, guys. Don't mind me—just waiting for a friend."
I clear my throat.
"Hey, there she is," he wraps an arm around my shoulders, "were you here this whole time, babe?" He turns back to them. "She likes surprising me."
After sending us a glare and a few choice words, they go back the way they came, presumably to search for an alley that's not occupied by two lurking weirdos.
"I think it's safe to say they weren't voraks," I say, dryly.
"Of course, they weren't. I was just testing you."
"Sure you were."
"Not everyone who slips into a dark, dirty alley at night is a vorak, Kaia. I thought you should see for yourself. Experience, you know. That is the best way to learn, am I right, or am I—aha!" He twists away from me, pointing at something to the side. "I knew it. I'm always right."
A girl has seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and I can just make out the contours of her face, the smooth features bland but oddly familiar. It takes only a few moments for me to recognize her as the brunette—the vorak—from outside the club. And noting her lack of company, I can't help but wonder what happened to the quarterback on prom night.
"Damn rookie," Nolan grumbles. He saunters toward her, motioning for me to do the same. "All right, Sweets, time to cut the ribbon."
"Cut the ribbon?"
He sighs, giving the vorak a "forgive her, she's slow" look. "You know, those ribbons they cut at, like, opening ceremonies and whatnot. Well, this is your opening ceremony—your official debut as a tracker. Cut the ribbon."
Getting the point, I waste no more time activating my gun. But just as I level my aim, the sound of someone approaching has me tearing my gaze from my target and toward the source of that familiar crunch. And it's when I locate the new face that things start to go wrong.
Because it's not a new face at all.
My hands form fists on their own volition, fingers curling until the trigger goes off.
Thanks to my unsuccessful shot, the vorak has gone from a reserved girl to a feral beast, its need to survive overpowering the instinct to blend in. Nolan mutters something unintelligible from beside me, and I can tell from my peripheral vision that he's already wrist-deep in his victim's chest. Meanwhile, I can't seem to tear my gaze from the person standing at the foot of the lane.
"Anna?" I croak, the familiar name feeling foreign on my tongue.
When was the last time I actually spoke to her?
Of course, the one person who rarely ever leaves her house just so happens to walk by when I'm in the middle of executing a blood-sucking monster. I know I should probably question what she's doing out here in the first place, but I'm too preoccupied by the fact that she just saw what she wasn't supposed to see—and I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to convince her otherwise. Hopefully, she won't develop a sudden interest in me or feel the need to pry.
She's already enough out of character as is.
"Um, hate to break it to you," Nolan pulls out his phone again, and
it's then that I notice the brunette has been eliminated, "but that's not your aunt."
The bright light illuminates her face, and I try not to frown as I look her over. Wispy, dull hair, sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, pale skin that resembles a crinkled sheet of foil... Yeah, it's Anna. I'm surprised to see that she's not sporting any cuts or bruises, though—none that I can see, anyway. And what's with her clothes? She's wearing an outfit that is clearly from a larger man's closet, but the dark, suede jacket and clean, scuff-free shoes are a dead giveaway that they don't belong to Manny.
If I didn’t know her any better, I might think that she finally left him.
“It's her," I say under my breath, baffled by how calm the both of them are. By now, she should have been freaking out and shooting questions, and he should have been spitting lies and spinning stories. And yet, neither of them are doing either of those things. Nolan is studying my aunt, my aunt is studying me, and as the seconds pass in tense silence, I wait for the other shoe to drop.
I wasn't prepared for it to hit me in the face.
"Your aunt is dead."
"What do you mean—"
"Dead as in dead. Killed by a vorak. That," he points at Anna, "is the vorak."
Fueled by his revelation, I practically burn holes through her face as I try to find whatever it is he has already found. And when my eyes zero in on her own, I know I've found it.
One of the first things I learned to read as a child were her eyes; I now see that the hazel orbs aren't glazed and lost like they usually are, but completely blank. There is nothing there.
She isn't there.
I thought I saw change when I looked at Anna, but I realize I wasn't looking at her at all.
"You want me to take care of this one, Sweets? We can push your debut to, like, five minutes later when we find a vorak that doesn't look like the last living relative you had," he says, his gloves already blooming and taking shape.
For a split second, I'm actually tempted to accept his offer.
"No," I shake my head, "I'll do it."