by Elle Park
"You need to relax," Nolan says, mistaking my subtle frown as a show of tense frustration. He's lying on his side, elbow propped and hand cradling his head. A chocolate milkshake is sitting just below his chin, and all he has to do is jut his lip out to clasp the tip of the plastic straw between his teeth. He goes on to drink the creamy contents through a long, continuous slurp until the Styrofoam cup is finally empty and his mouth is free to comment. "Breathe in, breathe out." He sets an example by following his own instructions, inhaling and exhaling as he twirls his finger like a lazy conductor. "You are your shield, your shield is you."
Tuning out his impersonation of a hippie yoga instructor, I concentrate on regaining my pace. I can feel my heart-rate begin to slow, matching the steady rhythm of my breaths as I allow my blackened vision to drown out my surroundings and the people in it. The illusionary isolation helps to sharpen my focus, and I take the time to think about what it is I'm supposed to do.
Following my own interpretation of his advice, I mentally go over the details of my still unfamiliar bodysuit, hoping that they'll engrave themselves into the deep recesses of my mind. There are no zippers, no buttons. It's tighter than before, the material knitting into my flesh and becoming one with my skin.
I'm not sure if this is the workings of my mind or my orb, but my breaths are coming out just slightly more shallow than before, and my movements feel slightly stiff and restricted, like I'm wearing a snug corset with a mesh fabric wrapped taut around my body. It's not anything I can't get used to, though—rather, it's more like stretching out a new pair of jeans. Except, no longer is it a simple article of clothing. Now, it's a part of me that is as essential as the brain in my head and the heart in my chest. I tell myself I can't be without it and that, hopefully, I won't ever have to.
"Open your eyes, Kaia."
Like snapping awake from a spell of hypnosis, I find myself responding to his command. They're all staring at me, watching me. When Donald regained his mobility, I have no idea, but he's standing along with the rest of them, waiting for something to happen—or, more accurately, waiting for me to do something.
"Now keep them open."
I distinctly remember him telling me not to check on how my opponent is doing, but I let his previous comment drop—it would be hard to win a race when running blind, after all. Settling my gaze on Malaya, I try not to let any confusion regarding her behavior muddle with my defense.
She's chewing another stick—or, from what I can tell, a good few sticks—of gum, languidly blowing bubbles as big as her face. She's not even really looking at me—not like before, at least.
"Great job, everybody," Nolan claps, "now, who's hungry for Italian? I haven't had Freddy's meat lasagna in too long—and don't even get me started on his garlic bread," he says, already heading to the chute. "No words," he sighs wistfully, "no words." Well, that would be a first. "Come on, Kiki. You probably burned about a psychic's exam worth of calories today."
"You mean, a physics exam," Henry corrects, though it goes ignored.
Nolan waves his hand almost erratically, motioning for me to join him and the others. Everyone else is already up and following, so I don't think much of it as I trail the huddled group. I only take a few steps, though, before Donald loudly whistles.
"She did it," he says, looking strangely impressed.
"Of course, she did." The corners of Nolan's lips practically reach the lobes of his ears as he grabs my hand, forcing a high-five. "What can I say? I'm a fantastic teacher."
"Please," Malaya scoffs, "the only thing you did was lock us all in here... Actually, you didn't even do that—Milo did."
"See what happens when we work together? Progress, that's what," Nolan says, his smile not faltering in the slightest as he dismisses her remark.
"This is promising," Henry adds thoughtfully.
"Can someone tell me what's going on?" I ask, not particularly pleased with being the ignorant subject of their conversation.
"Ducky here used his orb on you just now," Nolan explains.
"You blocked my attack without even being aware of it."
"I can't believe I'm saying this," Malaya tilts her head as she searches my face, "but you might actually have a chance."
"Too bad you'll be labeled a loser." Nolan sighs. "Then I'll be labeled the guy who recruited a loser." He sighs again. "Well, at least I'll still be good looking."
"I'd call not having a target on my head a win," I say, dryly.
I'd rather be the subject of gossip than of persecution, especially when I know it won't be pitchforks they'll be chasing me with. They’re not ignorant villagers who'll run around and yell obscenities, ready to throw stones at me or set my body on fire. From what I've gathered so far, The Union has the entire world at their disposal. They could probably have an entire city wiped out with a mere blink of their eyes or a twitch of their fingers.
"Touchy," Nolan chimes as he thumbs the screen of his tablet.
"I wouldn't call her touchy," Donald says.
Henry clears his throat. "He means touché."
"Tomato, tomato—speaking of, I was serious about the Italian."
"Well, we should probably keep the break short," Donald says, straightening his sweater as he takes a seat on the couch. "We have to make sure Kaia can keep this up until tomorrow."
"Yes," Henry agrees, "there is no time to waste."
The Cage Match is already tomorrow—less than twenty-four hours away. It's like they expect me to fly when I've only just realized I have wings. I don't know how long it'll go on for or, more importantly, how long I'll be able to last, but it'll have to be enough to convince The Union that I'm not a hazard to whatever system of power or beliefs they've long since established. I can't even begin to imagine how they'd deal with a perceived threat, but I'm not in any hurry to find out.
I hope I never do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
"SO, YOU READY or what?" Nolan asks as we step into the elevator, acting his usual happy-go-lucky self. I was expecting him to push the button for the eleventh floor, but it's the twelfth that lights up. I don't question it, though, knowing that whatever answers I want will be revealed within a few minutes.
I focus on the small screen in front of us, my heart-rate rising with each floor we pass. "And if I'm not?" It's a question I've been asking myself for the past couple days, the thought ringing especially louder whenever I failed to maintain my barrier.
A robotic voice announced the end of the lock-down this morning, but even after it did, both Malaya and Donald decided to stay and train with me until the minute Nolan and I had to leave. It might have been the pressure of the clock that created a sort of camaraderie between us, but it was strengthened even further when I realized—and they somehow forgot to mention—that regardless of whether my shield is in place, it's possible for it to be broken through and broken down, rendering me completely vulnerable to my attacker. Of course, Nolan attempted to sugarcoat the potential complication by using the words not impossible, but we all knew that meant something along the lines of highly possible, very likely, and probably inevitable.
"Oh, I was just asking to be polite," he replies easily, whistling his own version of elevator music. "You don't really have an option—and by that, I mean, you don't have an option."
"I got it the first time," I say, my breath hitching at the sound of a ding. He curls his arm over my shoulders, and I let him walk us out, as I'm not confident I would've moved on my own. The only way I would've done so willingly is if it were the lobby we were entering.
Just like my first time here, we come to a stand in front of the closest available door. As he places his hand flat against the dark surface, I almost find myself hoping for some sort of glitch. Unfortunately, we hear the soft click almost instantly—not to mention the blue glow clearly bordering his pressed palm. Reluctantly following his lead, I find myself surprised by the sight we step into, but not because of the usual reason.
It's the colors that
have me taken aback. I was expecting another glossy set of shades, but I'm instead surrounded by rich pigments of creams and golds. Champagne walls, marble pillars rooted in milky flooring, and an arched ceiling etched with intricate designs are bathed in the warm lighting of heavy but delicate crystal chandeliers.
There are a good number of people here—not nearly enough to make the room feel crowded, but enough to fill the air with unintelligible chatter and well-timed laughter. Everyone is dressed to the nines, with men in dark tuxedos and women in lavish gowns. A few servers clothed in all white are busy floating around with trays of bubbling liquid, waiting on standby to immediately replace any empty flutes. For the most part, appearances wise, this is nothing more than an extravagant yet ordinary social gathering—aside from the obvious anomaly, that is.
Familiar glass cubes, identical to the ones back at The Academy, are splayed out strategically around the room, allowing a generous amount of space for people to freely walk around and observe the scenes unfolding within. It's evident that they're accustomed to—or at least, somewhat informed of—both the sight and concept of supernatural beings, as they don't gasp or yelp, but rather nod and hum.
We've barely moved an inch since stepping into the room, but thanks to the unique display cases, proximity isn't necessary to get a clear view in this exhibit. The walls of every cube are full-sized screens, and each of them are showing different angles of the ongoing spectacle within its enclosure—which, from what I can see, is a fight between a single maevon and an army of voraks—though, only one side is really struggling.
The voraks, despite their best efforts of securing their next meal, are now just mindless predators being killed by their ruthless prey. Dressed in their familiar black outfits and armed with their familiar black daggers, the maevons flash amongst the rapidly shrinking troops, the trails of ash the only visible evidence of their imperceptible movements.
"The opening act," Nolan says, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. At my raised brow, he flinches before quickly masking his features, only to flinch again at the loud crinkling coming from the packet gripped between his fingers. It's when he pulls out a set of disposable chopsticks, though, that I really give him a questioning look. "What?" He, too, raises a brow at me. "This clearly isn't the place to get orange fingers, Kaia."
It's also clearly not the place to eat Cheetos—with chopsticks, no less—but I refrain from commenting. Ignoring the sound of munching by my ear, I resume my observation of the opening act.
Wading their way through the charcoal fields, it doesn't take long for all of the voraks to be eliminated, the flimsy remains immediately getting sucked into the vents beneath the floors. One by one, the walls of the cubes sink into the ground, leaving only a small, square platform for each maevon to stand on.
They look like statues, unmoving, their hands clasped behind their backs. Considering they just went on a vigorous hunting spree, they certainly don't look it. Their skin is matte, and they're not even slightly out of breath—it almost seems like they're not breathing at all, actually. I'm about to ask Nolan for some details regarding maevons, their bodies, and the specific jobs they're assigned, but am interrupted by the sound of a delicate bell.
"Bidding will now commence," a voice that's somehow both slimy and gritty booms through the air, instantly gaining everyone's attention. At the far end of the room, a short stage seems to have appeared out of nowhere. A spindly man stands in the center of the stage and behind a narrow, glass podium. He's wearing a navy pinstriped suit, and the darkness of his skin makes the whites of his eyes and teeth nearly blinding. "As usual, the starting price is an easy two-fifty." After a quick glance at the guests, he clears his throat before flashing a wide, unnatural smile. "We will begin with Lot-1."
As soon as the words leave his mouth, the room dims, and a spotlight shines on one of the maevons. Hanging from the ceiling above the stage is a wide screen split in half, with one side showing the maevon's blank face, and the other displaying a blinking number. Except, I soon realize that the number isn't blinking, but rather changing—growing, really. In a matter of seconds, it reaches half a million, and it only climbs higher as the relatively silent crowd—save for a few low murmurs—is spurred and goaded by the enthusiastic auctioneer. It finally reaches a plateau at eight-hundred-fifty-thousand, and after a quick bang of the gavel, they move on to the next lot.
Absorbing the initial shock, I snap my head toward Nolan. "Seriously? Almost a million dollars just to... hire one of us?" I'm whispering, but the disbelief is heard loud and clear even to my own ears.
He scoffs. "This is just to get first dibs on negotiating a contract—and it's nothing compared to what they'll pay for a daemon. Besides," he shrugs, "a million dollars is all but loose change to the people here."
"What do they expect us to do? Assassinate world leaders?"
"The service we provide is limited only by the price they're willing to pay," he says vaguely, not quite meeting my eyes.
His answer, of course, sparks my curiosity even more, but just as I'm about to press for more information, I notice someone creeping up behind him. The lighting is too dark to clearly make out any features, but as I try to decide on whether I should alert Nolan, the man lifts a finger to his lips, requesting my silence.
He pounces, practically tackling his unsuspecting victim. Nolan yelps before clenching his jaw, a spark of irritation igniting his eyes to an electric blue.
"Father," he grits out slowly, spinning on his heels to confront the man. Father? Now that he's closer, I'm able to see the resemblance—a very eerie, uncanny resemblance, considering they look less than two decades apart. "I was wondering when you'd show up," he mutters, a clear frown on his face.
The man is more traditionally masculine compared to his son. He's taller, his shoulders are wider and his body is more obviously muscular. His nose and jaw are strong and sharp. All in all, there are more than a few differences. But he has the same chocolate brown hair, and their eyes are nearly identical—his just a few shades off.
I notice another similarity when the man smiles, his grin wide and youthful. "And I was wondering if you'd ever show up," he replies easily, hugging his son into his side. "In fact, I can't remember the last time you did." His lips jut out just a fraction, and I just barely stop myself from gaping. I've seen this pout one too many times.
"Well, I'm here now, aren't I?" Nolan grumbles, brushing invisible dirt off his shoulders.
"Indeed, you are, son—and I can see why." I didn't think it was possible, but his smile grows even wider. "You must be the infamous recruit I've been hearing so much about. I'm Alan, Nolan's dad," he says, reaching out to grab my hand, placing a harmless peck just below my knuckles. Turning back to Nolan—whose arms are crossed like a petulant child—he says the thing that I've been conveniently forgetting. "Although, I am wondering why she isn't in her cube," he swirls his drink, "she is a participant in the Cage Match, is she not?"
Somehow, the event I spent the past few days preparing for has managed to slip my mind in the past few minutes. A mere moment ago, my body was relaxed and my mind was busy observing the auction, distracting me from the reason why we're here in the first place. And now, already, my heart-rate is elevating to an unsteady beat, and I'm doing all I can to not let my nerves show.
"Just showing her some of what we do."
"As you should," he nods, "but the match is going to start any minute now," he says, gesturing toward the single remaining lot. "It was a pleasure to meet a friend of my son—he doesn't have very many of those," he loudly whispers, winking at me with twinkling eyes. With one last bear hug to a reluctant Nolan, as well as some banter about phone calls and visits, he finally walks away.
Nolan sighs heavily, knocking every last bit of air from his lungs. "All right, let's go." Nudging me back toward the door we entered through, we're once again in the hotel hallway. "Place your hand on the door," he says.
Confused, I gently furrow my eyebrows
. "Why did we come out if we're just going to go back in?"
He shakes his head. "The ballroom was only unlocked because of me," he explains. "Come on, we're on a tight schedule."
Following his order, I'm about to step into the open doorway when I notice he's still rooted in place. "Aren't you coming with me?" I ask, keeping my voice level.
"Afraid not, cupcake. Not to worry, though—I pulled some strings," he says, winking. With that vague statement, he urges me to go, shooing at me with impatience. When I do, I turn around to find him still standing there as the door closes.
Once again, I'm stuck in a box of white. It's not small enough to make me feel claustrophobic, but it's exponentially less spacious than the cubes at The Academy. Sitting on the chair stationed in the middle of the room, all I can hear are my own shallow breaths, and I can almost see my reflection in the surface of the gleaming walls. It feels weird in here, as if I'm completely blocked off from the rest of the world, hiding inside a pocket dimension where not even time can reach me.
It doesn't stay that way for long, though. After a few minutes—no more than ten, I'd guess—my cube begins rising in a smooth ascent. I almost don't catch it at first, but like peeling paint, the white of the walls rolls down to reveal untarnished glass, until the only opaque surfaces that remain are above my head and below my feet.
I'm in the ballroom again. The lighting is back to being warm and bright, illuminating the faces of the guests whose eyes are zeroed in on me—well, me and the other person stuck in this makeshift box. An identical cube is adjoined with my own, and sitting in it is a boy who seems maybe a year or two younger than me.
With pale, freckled skin and a scruffy mop of light blond hair, none of his features particularly stand out. He's burning a hole in my forehead right now, but I can tell he's nervous by the way he keeps licking his lips and swallowing dry gulps of air. His baby-face is emphasized when the glass wall separating us from each other slides into the ground, prompting his eyes to widen a fraction.