She grimaces, shutting her eyes tightly. Yes, they would have been here. She would have been here. But you let her die.
Mortas reopens her eyes. “I will have fun, thank you.” She turns her back and begins walking with the other students to the security checkpoint. Her father stands speechless, his arms outstretched in disbelief. Then, resignation sets in, as he slowly lowers them back to his sides. Mortas doesn't look back, her brown backpack bouncing with her gait. Her eyes are burning like crackling embers. She disappears from her father's view, her dark hood passing around the corner.
***
Dinner was served half an hour ago, but Mortas hasn’t touched her food. She sits gazing blankly at the dingy monitor, aimlessly flipping through movies: The Notebook, The Croods, Twilight.
The titles are an iridescent blur of pixels as she mindlessly hammers at the little remote. Ferula shakes her arm, but to no avail. He does it again, even more concerned. Eventually, she takes off the headphones.
“What?” Her voice is sluggish, like water dripping from a cracked ceiling. Her eyes are hollow. In general, she has a haggard look to her, something Ferula would never associate with Mortas.
“Nothing,” Ferula says, “just making sure you’re okay.”
She mumbles something unintelligible and then puts her headphones back on. An hour later, when the food is collected, Mortas hasn't even unwrapped the foil. The flight attendant sniffs disapprovingly but doesn't say anything. Sometime later, Mortas dozes off, her shoulders hunched and weary. Ferula looks uneasily at her snoring face and removes her headphones, stuffing them into the shabby seat pocket. Finally, Ferula dozes off too.
***
“Did we have to dress up as flight attendants? This glamor really doesn’t suit me.”
“Sorem, we already agreed, being passengers attracts far too much attention. And we’ve already done it.”
“But this is different!”
“You just don’t like the hat.”
“It is certainly a contributing factor.”
“You can be so shallow sometimes.”
“You tell me that the next time you insist on dry cleaning our clothes between missions.”
***
Mortas wakes up shivering, with the chill of the cheap seats permeating through her bones. Ferula has been awake for hours and is drinking a cup of hot coffee when she comes to.
“Would you like some, miss?” A smiling attendant beams down at her, holding a steaming pitcher in one hand, and a plastic cup in the other. Are her eyes … silver? Mortas leans forward, her brows furrowing. But no, they’re a flat brown. It must have been the light.
“I would love a cup, thank you.”
“Sugar?”
“Yes, and plenty of cream.” Mortas eagerly slurps up the tawny liquid, letting out a sigh of contentment. The caffeine works wonders on her slumped form and soon she is sitting upright, smiling, and finger combing her hair. However, she remains reticent. Ferula pretends not to notice, and chats (rather one-sidedly) with her, doing his best to avoid talking about family and home.
***
The group finally exits the plane at around 8:30 a.m. local time. They lazily weave their way through the crowd, following the teal signs to the baggage claim area. The unfamiliar words and smells of hundreds of passengers induce a sensory overload in Ferula, and he finds his head spinning. Mortas, on the other hand, remains reticent, her face nearly motionless.
After some waiting around, everyone has gathered their things, and they head out to the arrivals lobby. There, a smiling woman with caramel-colored hair greets them with a boxy sign. It reads “Welcome to Ankara!” Mortas nearly bumps into her, but Ferula pulls her out of the way just in time.
“Watch where you’re going,” he admonishes. She nods placidly, but her eyes are glazed over. He keeps close to her as the woman leads them out to the curbside towards the bus. Letting her wander in front of a speeding taxi would not end well.
The bus is a giant Greyhound, with a large gleaming windshield. The students file inside, taking advantage of the spacious vehicle. Ferula pushes a near-comatose Mortas into a seat and takes the aisle seat next to her. She’s still completely out of it. The engine roars to life as the bus begins to glide forward. No one notices the bus driver tip the mirror slightly, just enough so that he can see Ferula and Mortas.
“Seriously, what’s bugging you?” Ferula has a guess about what the answer is, but hopes he’s wrong.
“We’re here for two weeks, Ferula. I won’t be able to talk to them at all.”
“Couldn’t you work out some kind of graveyard Skype with your dad or something?”
“He wouldn’t understand.”
“Besides, you said goodbye, didn’t you?”
“I hate goodbyes.”
Ferula looks at her, scandalized. Considering the way she treated her dad, why is she surprised? What about the living? “You shouldn't be so obsessed with communicating with the dead. It’s not healthy.”
Mortas is livid. “You wouldn’t be saying that if your mom died!”
“I’m just saying ….”
“No, you’re just being tactless, dung head.” She steps over Ferula and into a seat a few rows up. Over the twelve-hour bus ride, Ferula attempts to talk to Mortas several times. She pointedly ignores him and turns a blind eye.
Hunched in his seat, Ferula curses himself for his stupidity. Unbeknownst to him, his fingers are flaming as he wrings his hands in frustration. Crimson sparks dance across his fingertips, scorching the floral seat fabric.
Looking in his mirror, the bus driver notices and grins. Soon it will be time.
13
date night turning deadly, why being single is right for you
Callida walks gaily in the sunlight, the Duomo towering behind her. Hordes of tourists flow past, eager for a glimpse of the intricate façade. The street smells like sherbet and sweat. Mopeds of all shapes and sizes are found in the streets, almost like little metal dogs.
A carriage full of sunburnt sightseers rolls past, the horse's hooves clattering on the cobblestones. She always loves coming to the city with all the smells, the people, and just the faintest whiff of possibility in the air. That's another thing that she loves about the city: the essence of freedom is in the worn down bricks of every back alley.
She turns left and heads down a wide street lined with shops—various knock-off stores and high-end showrooms alike with the occasional gelato shops. Callida peruses the stores, frowning in frustration. What to get for Marianna? It's just my luck that the only family get together we have is on her birthday. I haven't seen her in five years! Shoes? A cardigan? A phone case? The glossy storefronts are endless. She wanders, flicking through multitudes of racks and shelves. What could possibly be more aggravating than shopping for a faceless name?
“Hey, Callida! Long time no see,” a voice calls. Derek? She spins around, her wavy hair trailing about her. She spots a slim, fair-haired boy, wearing gray Vans and a black hoodie. A grin cracks on her face and she runs to embrace her old friend.
“It’s great to see you!” You’ve grown taller. Were your eyes always so striking? She looks up at the crystal pools as they reflect the fluorescent lights.
“What brings you to the city?” he asks. She snaps out of her reverie, blinking away her thoughts.
“Birthday present shopping. Mom and Dad are busy at home packing.”
“You want help?”
“Boy, do I ever!” she grins as they leave the shop, her arm linked in his. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. She laughs as Derek points out a gaggle of customers swarming a designer shop. She can never understand people’s fascination with clothes.
Derek allows a small grin to creep up his face. He had missed Callida’s sarcastic no-nonsense attitude. Going to school on the other side of town meant they didn’t get to see much of each other. She hasn’t grown much, he notices as they meander down the street, chatting amiably.
Callida had al
ways been the short one. She still has her acid tongue and her cherry-red lips and her long hair rolling down her back in flowing loops. He barely listens to her, but just takes in her being. They eventually pop into a snack shop and buy some gelato cones. Callida, of course, gets gelato in her hair and has to rush back for a napkin. She did that when she was little too. Some things never change.
***
“Sorem, we’re supposed to be incognito. That parasol makes you look like a peacock.”
“I’m sorry, brother dearest, but I don’t want to tan, it’s not right for my complexion.”
“Never mind. Are the kids asleep?”
“If that tonic in their tea was strong enough.”
“You did what!”
“You were the one who wanted the both of us to check out this girl.”
“You’re a nutcase.”
“Well, you’re a nutcase’s sister. How’s that?”
***
The sun is beginning to set behind the Ponte Vecchio as Callida and Derek exit the restaurant. Callida carries a single shopping bag.
“Thanks for the dinner, Derek!”
“Anything for a good friend.” They walk in silence for a few more blocks, their hands nearly brushing. “I should probably head back home. Do you need a ride?”
“Nah, I’ll just catch a cab. But thank you.” She envelops him in one last hug, then skips off, a spring in her step. Derek heads back towards the bridge, feeling light as a feather.
The nightlife of the city begins its revival as Callida takes one last stroll. Shops are closing and windows are being illuminated. The last of the tourists are being shooed out of the Duomo as music spills out of diners and bars and out onto the streets, filling the air with an oddly pleasing dissonance.
It grows darker as she traipses past various neon signs. Just two more blocks, then I’ll catch a cab. Promise. She ducks into a side street. The sounds of drunken partying stream out onto the cobblestones. Glitzy banners beckon people in for draft beer and exquisite wine.
She ends up strolling past a tacky bar. It's clearly a tourist hub, and everyone is drunk. One beefy man hobbles out, beer in hand, and tries to convince her to join their drunken carousing. She politely declines and backs away, but he is persistent.
“Don't be afraid, girly. Just come in for a few drinks.” He looms over her, his jowls swinging and stinking of liquor. His friend, carrying a bottle of whiskey also tries to cajole her.
“Ain’t nobody gonna hurt ya. We just want ya to join us.” The man cracks a toothy grin, his mouth full of yellow gems.
“I told you no!” Callida yells defiantly. She slides into a wide stance, her eyes going back and forth between the two. Tension clots the air. If you were listening closely, you could hear the crickets. Then, slowly, as if just coming to their senses, the men begin to plod forward, patting their bottles menacingly.
***
“You still haven’t explained what’s going on,” Luna mumbles sleepily. “Why are we here on a rooftop of all places?”
“I’m sorry, but I just found this girl, I don’t want to lose her.” Sorem shivers nervously. “I may need your help when we must swoop.”
“Swoop?”
***
Adrenaline. There is no other way to describe the buzz flowing through Callida’s veins. Mechanically, as if drilled into her head, she does the sequence. The one she never learned.
Duck.
The bottle goes sailing over her head.
Move the glass.
The other man bellows as his ankles are lacerated.
Down low kick.
Beer belly is down for the count.
Aim for the gut!
Whiskey never sees the punch till he's rolling on the ground.
The tourists run off, convincing other customers to flee the area. The restaurant staff even begin shuttering their windows, expecting trouble. Trouble comes mere moments later as a great glow begins to swirl around Callida. It gets smaller and smaller until, in a great burst, an arrow materializes in her hand. It has silver and golden swirls on it, with olive branch designs of the fletching. A shimmering owl insignia is stamped on the arrowhead. Callida is flabbergasted and just stares mutely at the object in her hand. This gives her little time to react to the black mist now forming a ring around her.
***
“We have to go now!” Sorem urges, her face contorted with worry.
“What’s happening to her?” Luna asks.
“There’s no time. They’re coming.”
***
Callida shrieks as she notices the mist condensing into little toad-like creatures with horns and glowing eyes. They trail onyx vapor and display their curved teeth. Callida tries to summon her courage from before, but falters, her hands trembling.
“Callida, hold still!” Callida looks up in confusion, trying to discern the source of the voice. Sliding down the curved awning are two women, bedecked with silver attire. One could be sixteen or thirty, the other, probably not much older than Callida. They did get one thing right: Callida has no intention of moving.
“Sorem, what do we do about those things?”
“They’re called Nakiste. You ensnare them with your moonlight. I'll open a portal.” Luna’s eyes widen at Sorem’s disturbing calm. “Well, don't just stand there!”
With shaky movements, Luna grasps at the beams of light. They congeal into silvery strands. Feeling rather ridiculous, she uses her energy to throw the ropes at the Nakiste. She is breathing hard as some unlucky Nakiste struggle against her cordage.
Meanwhile, Sorem is lifting Callida to safety via a bubble of light. Callida pounds on the surface of the orb, terrified that she appears to be floating ten feet above the ground, a sea of darkness at her feet. Callida and Sorem land haphazardly on the awning and Callida and Luna exchange equally horrified glances.
“Go, go, go!” Sorem shrieks, shoving them through the shrinking portal. She titters about the timidness of youth as the two girls against her grip, a swirling gamut of colors coalescing about her palms.
14
how to make friends, involving a bitter old man and sugar packets
The cool mountain air is refreshing after the six-hour bus ride. It almost masks the smell of incarceration. It’s a shame, really. It looks like such a nice place. But I won’t be staying long, that’s how it always is.
Armifer grunts as he wrenches the door open, the iron bolts rough beneath his hands. Peals of laughter echo in the stone corridors. Cheerfulness. He spits, trying to remove the foul taste from his mouth. A bubbly redhead skips over to him, beaming. Armifer looks her up and down. Her chartreuse blazer sears his retinas.
“Are you new here?” She sticks out a perfectly manicured hand. “My name’s Sarah.”
Armifer crosses his arms. “I’m looking for an Eric Berger.” He says stiffly.
She withdraws her hand, a sour look on her face. “His office is just down the hall and across the courtyard. There’s a big sign. You can’t miss it.” Armifer nods distractedly. “I can show you if you like!”
“I can manage,” he says gruffly and brushes past her, shoving her beckoning arms away. Messenger bags and backpacks litter the floor. He nearly trips several times as he walks. Something crunches beneath his feet. Sugar packets? Whatever.
He enters the courtyard to find a rambunctious crowd. Of course I have to go to school with a bunch of idiots, he thinks as he swings his gaze around. He pushes through the throng, less than eager to get to his destination.
The windows are shuttered in the headmaster’s office, not that Armifer is disappointed. A gilded panel reads “Sir Eric’s Office” in crystalline lettering. Everything is so swanky. He turns on his heel and sniffs angrily. Trust my parents to not organize anything.
Armifer ducks into a nearby hallway to get away from the ruckus and ends up colliding with a foreign figure. “Watch it, filth!” he snarls, nostrils flaring.
“Just chill, broski.” A pair of twinkling blue
eyes lifts to meet his own cerulean pools. “I don’t recognize you. You a newbie?”
The very question makes Armifer’s face blaze with fury, but the boy appears unruffled. “What’s it to you?”
“I’m Nuntios,” the boy says calmly as if he had not heard Armifer’s remark.
“That’s nice,” Armifer mumbles, trying to walk past Nuntios. Nuntios holds out an arm to stop him.
“You need help finding your room? I can talk to Sir Eric for you if you like. He’s such a pain in the—”
“I can manage myself, thanks.”
“Okay,” Nuntios says. “But if you need a hand just ask. This school isn’t always kind.”
Armifer is puzzled by the sudden gray pallor that crosses Nuntios’s face. It leaves as quickly as it came, so he doesn't say anything. Nuntios takes off at a brisk trot, leaving Armifer to turn the other way and continue trudging down the hall.
Armifer soon gets lost in the labyrinthine corridors. Flickering light shines down from the wall sconces. As his combat boots clack against the marble floor, nothing stirs. It is drafty and Armifer shivers, tightening his leather jacket. At every corner, there is another right, another left, and he walks on. Surely there is someone in this massive place. But all is quiet.
Armifer takes another right and connects with something solid.
“Clumsy, stupid boy!”
And I spoke too soon.
The man is middle-aged, with an over-gelled comb-over and mint pinstripe suit. At least, it was mint until Armifer wrinkled it. “I will not stand for such impertinence!”
Is he going to burst a blood vessel? Armifer contains his inner mirth.
“And why are you not in uniform?”
“Maybe ’cause I just got here.” Armifer knows he will regret those words as soon they leave his mouth. But when has that stopped him? He keeps a straight face as the man grows livid.
“My name is Sir Eric Berger! I am your headmaster, and I demand your respect!”
Who does this guy think he is? I mean other than the headmaster, of course.
Looking ruffled, Sir Eric straightens his collar haughtily. “Might I enquire as to your name, miscreant?”
The Rise of the Fourteen Page 9