by Elle Park
"Sweets, everything is undiscovered and undetermined until it's discovered and determined."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"And it's not like a training pod will do her any good," Donald says.
"Then it's a good thing we don't have access to one anyway," Nolan chirps.
"We must also take her official records into consideration," Henry muses, rubbing his chin. "She is expected to possess a fire orb."
"A fire orb? That's the best you came up with?" Malaya scoffs.
"Oh, yeah, forgot about that," Nolan admits, pursing his lips in thought. "How about we get—"
"No," Henry cuts him off.
"You don't even know what I was going to—"
"You were going to suggest we find someone with a fire orb and dress her up to look like Kaia."
"Okay, now that's just scary."
"Bloody ridiculous is what you mean," Donald says.
"Oh, well. We'll just have to stick with Plan A..." He frowns. "I really don't get why you all bother to pretend to consider other options when it's obvious my way is always the high lane."
"Highway," Malaya rolls her eyes, "it's my way or the highway."
"A little conceited of you, Laya.” He arches his brow, narrowed eyes directed at the fuming girl. "Anyway," he turns back to us, the smile back on his face, "we're just going to have to stick with training the old-fashioned way. And not to worry, Kiki—everyone has agreed to stay until we're successful. Isn't that right, guys?"
"You do remember that we, unlike you, have to actually work for a living," Donald says, slowly inching away from our makeshift circle.
Malaya doesn't make the same attempt of subtlety. "I'm leaving," she says, her steps fast and sure. I'm surprised when Nolan makes no attempt—verbal or physical—to stop her. When she tugs at the door, though, I think I know why he was feeling so confident. "What the—since when do you lock your door?"
"Oh, did I not mention?" he asks innocently. "The Drake Manor is on lock-down for the next..." he looks up at the ceiling, muttering numbers beneath his breath, "until Saturday morning."
God help me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"LET ME OUT of here!" Nolan wails, banging on the front door in a desperate, frantic rhythm.
It hasn't even been a full day since we've been stuck in his self-administered lock-down, but it only took about six hours for him to get cabin fever. Of course, he was all for it, at first. While the rest of us were subjected to the repetitive, back-and-forth cycle of both mental and physical disturbances, he was happy to laze around on the sidelines and observe the spectacular progress we weren't making. Then the yawns came, followed by glazing eyes, restless pacing and now, futile escape attempts.
"Unlock the door, Henry, or I'll jump out the window with a note saying you killed me," Nolan says, doing his best to sound threatening as he digs his heels into the carpet, twisting and pulling on the doorknob until it pops out, the sudden lack of resistance throwing him to the ground with a loud thud.
"One—we do not have any windows, and two—falling out of a plane would not kill you, let alone jumping out of a two-story house," he says, his apathetic brow dropping back into place. "And you seem to have forgotten the lock-down can only be lifted on its own—a technical detail that you personally asked Milo to enforce." He turns his head, directing his next words to the rest of us. "He knew he would get bored."
"I'm too smart for my own good," Nolan mutters bitterly, sprawled out on his stomach with his cheek squished against the floor.
"And too daft for our own good," Donald mutters rather loudly.
"Daft? Is that British for dashing?" Nolan perks up, grinning. "I do feel sorry for you lesser beings, but what can I say? Life just isn't fair—I mean, look at me. I've been blessed in every possible way, and yet, instead of living my best life, I have to battle my crippling guilt day by day, night by night... praying to the gods so that you—"
"This is a dumb waste of time." Malaya slides her back down the side of the couch, stretching her legs out in front of her. "There's no way she'll be ready in time for the Cage Match," she says, her knuckles paling as she nearly rips her hair out.
"Sorry, love," Donald shrugs at me, "but I'm going to have to agree."
"Actually, there has been progress—subtle, but progress nonetheless." At our blank looks, Henry elaborates. "I have been timing her orb's reactions, and keeping in mind the minor discrepancies of intensity, it now takes almost three minutes for her body to retaliate." He pauses. "Perhaps she is getting used to your attacks—similar to someone growing immune to a particular virus."
"Eureka!" Nolan jumps up, the light-bulb in his head brightening his blue eyes. "She's not getting used to our attacks—she's getting used to us," he says excitedly, arms flailing around as he tries to make his point.
"What's the difference?" Malaya asks, unimpressed with his theory.
He taps his head with an impatient finger. "It's her mind," he explains, words tumbling out like an intimate trail of dominoes. "She knows we're not an actual threat, so her body's instinct to defend itself isn't as impulsive as it was before. That's why the reaction time is slower, and it's also how we know there's potential for control. God, I am a genius."
As much as he has a history of being ridiculous, nonsensical, and borderline insane, what he's saying actually makes sense. And from the thoughtful expressions around me, as well as the cogs I can practically hear shifting into gear, I'm not the only one who thinks so.
A short, contemplative silence blankets the room, broken only by the slight pants escaping Nolan's grinning lips. His expectant gaze bounces from face to face like a dog waiting for a treat, and, given a few more seconds, I imagine his tongue would roll down with a whine. Fortunately, his ears perk at the closest thing to "good boy" he'll ever hear us say.
"That does seem to be the most likely case," Henry agrees.
"Fair enough," Donald nods, chewing the inside of his cheek, "but the problem lies in the fact that she's still reacting at all—a couple minutes delayed or not."
"Her only option is to surrender before she can react," Malaya adds.
"And whatever progress I've made is only a result of my subconscious—not my own will. I can't keep letting my reaction control me," I say, resisting the urge to sigh. "I need to be able to control my reaction."
"Defense as offense," Nolan says, ruffling my already tousled hair. "That is exactly what we are going to teach you, dear pupil."
"By Saturday?" Malaya scoffs. "Good luck with that."
He releases an airy chuckle. "Please—luck is for the inadequate. Now, Sweets," he looks at me seriously, "there are a few different ways to defend yourself—all fine and all—but as to which option is best," he shrugs, "well, that just depends on the person," he says, staring at me as if what he just said is the answer to all my questions.
At the following stretch of silence, Henry provides a verbal nudge. "You should probably tell her about those options."
"Oh, right," he hums, "right, right, right." Through my peripheral, I can see shaking heads and rolling eyes, but I keep my own gaze firmly on Nolan, observing the way his thoughts mold his features. So far, I'm not liking what I see. "To put it simply, you either fight it, ignore it, or accept it."
I nod slowly. "Am I supposed to know what that means?"
After a few seconds of an impromptu staring contest, he finally blinks. "I'm not used to teaching people things," he confesses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "There was never a point, you see—I was too advanced for anyone to follow. No need to feel bad, though, it's definitely not just you. And I must admit," he raises a hand over his heart, "I am the one mostly at fault, but I assure you, I am sentenced to a lifelong punishment," he says, shaking his head contritely. "The burdens of talent, beauty and intelligence take their toll on me, but I must rise above—"
"Yeah, yeah, we bloody well get it," Donald cuts in, waving his hand in annoyance.
I'm surpr
ised they let his monologue go on for this long.
"I was just trying to help her feel better," he sniffs, "honestly, Donald, you have no compassion. Stiff Brits are what they call you, if I'm not mistaken—and we all know I'm never mistaken—but I'm willing to give you a chance to redeem yourself," he says, taking a deep breath. "You can explain to our dear, helpless Kaia over here about the method that you personally use," he finally finishes, his eyes closed shut as he nods with finality.
"Well, this Stiff Brit is no fool. I know what you're doing." His scowl deepens. "You just can't be bothered to explain it yourself—lazy, as per usual."
"Me? Lazy? Now, Ducky, if you say that so convincingly, people might actually believe you. Anyone who knows me, knows that I'm—"
"For God's sake," Malaya shouts, throwing her arms up with an exasperated flail. Calming her bubbling anger, she shakes her head before directing her attention to me. "If you fight it, like us, that means you're on active defense; you have to block your opponent's attempts of attack." After a brief pause and a quick exhale, she continues. "You have to be able to visualize it—imagine your body physically shielding itself."
"Unfortunately, it's easier said than done," Donald blurts.
"It's also the most reliable method to use," she says, countering his interruption.
Not knowing how to respond, I clear my throat. "And the other two?"
"By ignoring, you transport your mind to a safer place—you know, the tactic often used by torture victims to distract themselves from the pain." Resting her elbow against her bent knee, she uses her palm to cradle her cheek. "And the last one isn't really a method at all. Accepting it means you're using offense as defense—the opposite of what we're trying to get you to do."
"And worst case scenario for any daemon."
"You all use the first one?" I ask, still trying to absorb the new information.
"We sure do," Nolan says, digging his fingers into a dusty packet of roasted peanuts—the same dusty packet I'm sure I saw on my first day in the house... where it was lying on the floor, next to a stack of comics.
"And fighting it is the most difficult method?"
"Well, one of the reasons why some people—not me, of course—find it hard is because they don't have enough control over their orbs to attack and defend at the same time," he explains. "Luckily for you, defense is all you need to focus on for now."
"So, I should be using the first method, too," I say, the statement coming out more like a question.
"Yes, because while blocking the attack of an orb, we have the option to fight back if necessary—something that the ignoring method doesn't allow," Donald says. "And considering what your orb can do, it would be smart to learn how to actively control it instead of just trying to prevent it from activating."
"If that's even possible," Malaya says dryly.
Nolan claps enthusiastically, beaming like a proud mom. "Very good, Ducky. Here, you deserve a treat." He tosses a single peanut toward Donald, only for it to bounce off his polished shoes. "A simple 'no, thank you' would've worked," he mumbles, picking up the rejected snack and popping it into his own mouth. "What?" He shrugs. "Five-second rule."
Just before the friends can get into another meaningless argument, Henry speaks up. "We should not allow any more time to go to waste."
"Right as always—as expected from the ward of Nolan Drake."
Donald shakes his head and turns to meet my gaze. "Ready to begin, love?" At my nod, he taps his temple with two crooked fingers. "As Malaya said, the key is to visualize. Try to picture a physical barrier. It doesn't matter what it looks like or how it feels. Whether it's clothes, a shield or a suit of armor, you just have to find what works for you."
"It has to be able to block any attempts to screw with your mind," Malaya adds.
Right. Easy.
Following their vague instructions, images flicker through my mind as I try to create this supposed barrier. As Donald suggested, I test shields of different shapes and sizes, clothes fit for fictional superheroes, and even translucent forcefields that glow in every color of the rainbow. None of them last long enough for me to forget that they're nothing but mere figments of my imagination.
I take a long, deep breath to try and clear my mind, hoping the blank slate will help me manifest something that actually works. Out of the blue, a memory pops up and possesses my mental canvas. I'm not sure why I suddenly decided to remember this, but whatever the reason, the sight of Nolan's gloves is sharp and vivid.
Taking the random shot of inspiration, I invent a glossy black material, one that stretches over my entire body and molds to it like a second skin. I make it tight but breathable, smooth but tough. Keeping my eyes closed for a few moments, I make sure I have a firm hold on my newest creation lest it decides to vanish with the darkness.
Slowly, I begin to let the light back in, opening my eyes to the world outside my mind. The faces I've been blocking out are now staring at me with expressions that range from curiosity, shock and excitement. Instead of studying them further, though, I look down at my arms, my chest, my legs, checking to see whether my efforts were worthwhile or worthless. To both my surprise and satisfaction, the full-body suit is still clearly in tact.
"I think I did it," I say, my words immediately breaking them out of their trance.
"Yeah, you did," Nolan shouts, clapping his hands together like a hungry seal. What I just barely accomplished is hardly anything remarkable, so I'm not sure what has him bouncing on the balls of his feet. "What did I tell you guys? I'm a genius, that's what."
"I was already using my orb on you," Malaya explains, apparently noticing my confusion. "Your defense worked."
"I must say, you did it much faster than I expected," Donald says, observing me with something akin to wonder.
Henry nods. "Yes, your progress is quite encouraging."
"We should try it again," I say, a little disappointed in myself for sounding more suggestive than decisive. I need to try it again, but these aren't my friends—they're Nolan's. They're here for him, not me. I'm in no position to ask for any favors, and I have no right to expect them to oblige. My only option is to accept whatever help they offer. Beggars can't be choosers, after all. "It could've been a fluke," I add, mostly because I'm almost certain that that's what happened.
"You heard the girl," Nolan says, a contemplative finger resting on his chin. "Let's switch things up—Ducky, give her a go." He abruptly slaps his pouting mouth, turning to me with panicked blues. "Again, you know what I mean."
Standing several feet in front of me, Donald clears his throat, furrowing his brows as he burns holes in my face. I close my eyes, trying to maintain my pace and the stability of my new shield. A few seconds—or minutes, for all I know—pass when I chance a peek, directing him with a fleeting glance. I barely have time to blink before the tips of my fingers go numb, the dull sensation rapidly spreading over my palms. It's both familiar and distracting, and although I'm still picturing myself in my custom-made bodysuit, its effects have either drastically diminished or vanished altogether, because now there's a tell-tale tingle creeping up my arms and down my legs.
"Give me the shot," Donald blurts frantically. "Give me the bloody shot!"
Nolan sighs. "Henry, you know what to do." Instead of approaching the first-aid kit, the younger boy goes behind Donald and slowly lowers him to the floor.
"What are you doing?" Donald shouts incredulously. Evidently, he's not suffering a total-body paralysis, as he cranes his neck to glare at Nolan. "Did you not hear me when I said to give me the bloody shot?"
"There's no more in the kit," Nolan says, shrugging. "But we have some stocked somewhere. Henry will find it... probably." Grabbing a blanket off the couch, he lays it over his helpless friend, covering him from head to toe. "There, nice and cozy."
"I'm paralyzed, not dead," he snaps, the cotton throw muffling his irritation.
Nolan flicks his fingers—a motion Donald can't see, anyway. Stepping
over the human log, ignoring the loud protests and threats that follow, he makes his way in front of me, crouching just slightly until our faces are level with each other.
"You were doing fine until you weren't," he says, clasping my shoulders in a firm grip. "If you want to win a race, don't check to see how your competitors are doing—focus on yourself.”
"Think of your barrier as another form of your weapon. It needs to become an extension of you that you can control as easily as any other part of your body. Hands are useless if you can't bend your fingers." Malaya is now sitting on the arm of the couch, her ankles crossed and bobbing rhythmically. "Once it becomes ingrained in your subconscious—which can take anywhere from weeks to years—you won't have to actively defend yourself anymore."
"But I don't have that kind of time."
"We're trying to give you a chance, not a miracle. You just need to keep your barrier in place until the match is over—which, if all goes well, could end in a matter of minutes." She pauses, propping her fist beneath her jaw. “Though, I guess the same could be said if it all goes to shit, too."
"You know what they say—try, try, try until you get it right, right right." Nolan seems to be in the habit of using the word they as his version of the royal we. "Which is why she needs you, Laya—at least, until Ducky becomes of use again," he chirps, ignoring the smothered grumbles from his immobile friend.
What I'm curious to know is why he himself is so reluctant to participate.
He's a guy with a bursting ego and a love for showcasing his vanity. I would've expected him to be an eager volunteer and hog all of our training sessions like a drunk at karaoke, but it's clear that, for whatever reason, he's trying to avoid using his orb.
And for all their muttered complaints, neither Malaya nor Donald have even once insisted—or even lightly suggested—that he take part in any of our training sessions. I doubt it's because they didn't notice his lack of involvement or his obvious use of avoidance and deflections. By now, it's all too clear that he's hiding something, and I can only assume his friends aren't asking questions because they already know the answer—which makes me wonder why Henry, who knows everything from the affairs of The Union to what Nolan dreamed about the night before, seems to be in the dark right alongside me.