“Yes, Mére.” he repeats, taking her words in stride.
“And I need you to fetch some things from the village today.”
“Yes, Mé —”
“Some flowers for table vases would be nice. Méme might be grateful for some yarn or … a newspaper. Oh, and we need some more sea salt. We’re out.”
“Yes, Mére.” Erus grabs his jacket, hastily thrown over a chair the night before, and shrugs it on. His mother hands him a wad of euros as he exits the shop.
“Thank you,” she whispers to his retreating form. She shakes off her sentimentality and quickly loses herself in the warm atmosphere of dough and sugar.
If Erus is bothered by the cold, he certainly doesn't show it. Most others are shivering, even those with thick jackets, but he shoulders on. The sea salt sits in a pocket. The newspaper rests in another. One last stop.
He shoulders the door open and enters the flower shop. He looks through the rows of fragrant frivolities and eventually comes across a lone bouquet of pale snowdrops, just beginning to bud. He smiles in spite of himself, grabs the bunch of flowers, and heads to the cashier.
“Excuse me,” he asks sharply.
A sour-faced girl looks up from her magazine behind the desk. “What do you want?” she asks, looking him up and down scornfully.
Erus rolls his eyes. “I would like to purchase some flowers,” he says forcefully, putting the bundle on the table, “sooner rather than later.”
“Really?” she asks. “I thought you came here looking for toothpicks.”
Erus gives her a harsh look, and a faint glow begins to build, starting at his heart and traveling down his limbs until it covers his entire body. “I would like some flowers,” he says, gesturing to the bundle again. “How much are they?”
The girl shrinks back a little. “Eight euros,” she mumbles.
Erus’s lip curls in distaste. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“Eight euros,” she says again, a bit more firmly.
Erus hisses against his teeth. “Too much,” he admonishes.
A shadow of doubt crosses the girl’s face. “But —”
An icy stare silences her.
“—five euros,” she whispers.
With a thin smile, Erus passes her the bank note. As he exits the shop, the bell on the door tinkles harshly, making the girl flinch. With a shudder, she retreats behind the desk, more than ready to continue reading her magazine.
Erus returns to the bakery. He gives Mére the fruits of his labors, then goes upstairs, breathing a sigh of relief as he shuts the bedroom door behind him. Using his “ability” can take a lot of energy out of him, and soon Erus snores peacefully on his bed. His mother checks in on him before dinner but decides not to disturb him, so Erus sleeps through to nightfall.
The sky had darkened many hours ago, but when Erus slides out of bed, there is something different, even though it is still nighttime. The sky is not the silky indigo he is used to. The night closes in on him as he leans out the window.
The air is thick, muggy almost. There is hardly a star in the sky. He stares into the abyss above him in confusion. Obviously, there’s some explanation. I shouldn’t worry. Nothing’s going on. When the darkness descends to the top of the high steeple, he realizes that the celestial murk is a cloud. Thick and swollen. The clouds shouldn’t be coming this low even if—his thoughts are cut off by the low rumble of thunder, followed promptly by a pair of screams. Erus runs down the hall as fast as he can.
“Clemance, Laurent, there’s nothing to be scared o—” A brilliant streak of lightning flashes, eliciting a jump of surprise from Erus. There is no reason to be surprised. My brother and sister should know that. We have thunderstorms all the ti—. The thunder rumbles once more, and the lightning crashes soon after. Is it moving closer?
Erus throws the door open and lurches into the room. Two frightened children are huddled beneath the sheets, shaking in fear. Erus puts a comforting arm on the quaking bundle, murmuring soothing words to it. “There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s alright.”
Clemance sits bolt upright, her eyes wide with horror. “It’s coming.”
Erus looks at his little sister in confusion but understands her a moment later. The booms of thunder sound like massive gongs in the night. Then the lightning strikes. It seems to shake the very foundations of the house. There is a shriek and a sound of shattering glass. Before Erus can get up, his grandmother rushes in, her stringy white hair in a frizzy ponytail, her nightgown crinkled by shaking sweaty fingers.
She only whispers one word. “Fire.”
Before he is even aware of what he’s doing, Erus races towards the smell of smoke. The roof? He makes his way towards the shattered window and catches a glimpse of a flickering flame. Stepping gingerly over the broken glass, he pirouettes over the sill and onto the small garden terrace.
Barely big enough for two flowerpots, the terrace tests Erus’s balance. He reaches up for the gutter and hoists himself onto the roof, ignoring the welts on his hands. The fire, only moments ago a mere light, is on its way to bonfire-dom, making quick work of the roof thatch.
Looking about wildly for a blanket or something, Erus decides to take off his nightshirt and attempts to smother the flame. The hungry orange tongues only eat up his shirt, but Erus has other things to worry about. The thunder rumbles again and time seems to slow down. He can see the spark of lightning as it starts, the beam of light traveling towards him. The rain begins, and he can see the drops falling, making speckles across his vision.
He stands frozen on the rooftop, his life flashing before his eyes. As the light travels closer, he thinks of what might happen to him. Will it hurt? Will I feel anything? Will it end quickly?
The glittering shaft hits him square in the chest. He can feel the electricity coursing through his body, obliterating his innards, boiling his blood. He closes his dying eyes and thinks of Mémé and Mére and Clemance and Laurent. He sees their happy faces burning, burning in the imminent conflagration. I will not let them die.
With a ferocious roar, he screams at the heavens, spreading his arms wide in rage. He can feel voltage leaving his body, seeping out of the very pores in his skin. With a massive crackling noise, the pent-up heat flows out of his palms in a million rays of light, dartling the gloomy empyrean.
28
surviving a small town and battling a faceless evil, all in a day’s work
Faber weaves his way through the warren-like passages that are the water town of Nanxun. The stony gray walls all look the same to him as he ducks through archways. If it weren’t for the shop signs, he would be lost. It’s like a Venice in China.
His chest puffs up, his stride lengthened by his inner self-encouragement. To his right, a man hacks and coughs, spitting a glob of saliva at Faber's feet. Although, somewhat less glamorous for sure. He shudders in disgust. It’s a nice town to wander, though, with all of the passages and alleys. Mother would never approve, of course, but it's her fault I'm here, isn't it? He grimaces at the thought. He can’t even picture her face now, only remember her touch: firm, yet warm.
Even the mere thought of his mother induces enough guilt that Faber begins tracing his steps back home or, rather, his aunt and uncle’s home. In their cozy two-story house, the smell of fish from the boats is quite pungent. But, if you burn enough incense, it will go away for a few minutes.
He’s just walking down the final street when he sees something glinting. He moves towards the source of light. A few doors down, stands a short, olive-skinned girl with long wavy hair, speaking in rapid-fire Mandarin with an innkeeper. The only anomaly is the emerald sparks cascading off her skin.
The second thing Faber notices about her is the bag slung over her shoulder. Shaped like an elongated quiver, the sheer size should surely be weighing her down. However, despite her small stature, she stands proudly, handling the satchel with ease. He also marvels at her speech. She looks foreign, but her accent is flawless. Then, with an eleg
ant flip of her glittering hair, she’s gone.
With no other motivation than extreme curiosity (mixed with some innate stupidity), Faber follows the girl. There is very little cover on these narrow streets, and he’s grateful that she doesn’t turn around. She eventually ducks into the doorway of a funky-smelling shop. In the heat of the moment, Faber follows her in, not even bothering to read the sign (in Chinese of course).
Inside, she has already had a brief conversation with a tall, dark-haired man and proceeds to take a seat on the tatty floor cushions as the man disappears into another room.
“What is this place?” Faber wonders aloud.
“It's a silk-producing shop,” the girl replies in a matter-of-fact tone. Noticing his confusion, she explains, “I'm a weaver, and I've come to learn more deeply about my material of study.” Faber nods, but his look remains blank. “Callida Interlengi,” she says hastily, sticking a hand out.
Faber shakes it uneasily, aware her hands are still sparking. “Faber Wilson,” he chokes out, the words sticking in his throat.
“Okay, I have to tell you something.”
Why do I have a bad feeling about this?
“When I was sent here, I was meant to bring you back to the Sanctuary!”
“The what?”
“Don’t speak,” she says calmly, as if barely acknowledging the interruption. “Faber, you are part of a group of twelve people meant to restore the gift to the world. The gift is the ancient magical force that maintains balance.” She pauses (probably for dramatic effect) then continues. “And you are one of its keepers. You need to be taken somewhere the guardians can protect you. It’s not safe for you to just prance about wherever you like.”
“First off, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Second, I am perfectly capable of handling myself.”
“Is that why your mom shipped you out here?” A brief flicker of regret runs through her eyes, freezing her facial expression. Dammit, I wasn’t supposed to say that.
“How would you know that?”
Callida sits quietly, staring at the floor.
“How could you possibly know that my mom sent me out here for my safety?”
Callida huffs impatiently. “Look, you’re a special kid. You have powers that have not existed for thousands of years. I think you’re kind of missing the point. I’m supposed to take you to where you can be trained.”
“Magic doesn’t exist, stupid,” Faber snaps. “Who gave you the power to tell me what I can and can’t do?”
Callida growls in frustration, her hand retracting into a claw. She sends a shower of green flames at a nearby vase, shattering it with an incredible explosion, and leaves in a flurry, muttering to herself as she goes.
“I told Demetri and Sorem I’m not good at being tactful. I told them that maybe I should have back up on this mission, but nooo, that is just too much to ask.”
Meanwhile, the store proprietor re-enters the room to find a shell-shocked Faber and a very broken vase. Taking one look at the man and the mess of shards upon the floor, Faber rushes out and runs all the rest of the way to the house, not looking back once.
***
“Hey! Leave her alone!”
He holds his hands up, bracing for the coming impact. What must have once been a large golden band on his finger is now a glob of molten metal, blistering the calloused skin of the Colossus.
***
“Move, boy!” A rather pushy woman who is eager to get on her boat shoves Faber out of his dreamscape. He has been sitting on the bridge for hours, thinking about what Callida said, what happened on the bus, even why his mother sent him away. Melting rings and olive sparks dance through his head against the backdrop of fishing boats and marsh birds. Way too much weird stuff has happened lately.
He flicks a glob of black crud stuck to the railing and watches it sink into the water. But at least Callida has an explanation. He rubs his palms together anxiously. Her story is cracked, though. He picks at a nail, ignoring the pain in his cuticles. But what little boy never wanted adventure?
He remembers the concern and urgency in her face. The exasperation when he wouldn’t listen. She meant something, whoever she is. He has no time to think, however. A shrill scream echoes through the commons, piercing the air and, across many building tops, he can just make out an aura of olive flame. Callida! He breaks into a run, sprinting through a back alley.
The scene he encounters upon arriving at the side street to rescue her is more alarming than he could have imagined. A faceless mist strikes at Callida. It is constantly in motion as a black haze with knives that simply dart out from the mass, unexpectedly and without warning. Callida wields a broadsword against the hazy attacker.
She parries and swipes and sometimes simply leaps aside to avoid a deep belly shank. The sweat already dripping from her face is a telltale sign: she cannot win this fight. She knows this, but it will not stop her all the same. She notices Faber pressed up against the wall.
“Faber!” Clang clash crash. “Get out of here! Find the guardians. They’ll get you somewhere safe!” Smack crack thwack. “It’s not safe for you here.” The steel rings and rings, like church bells.
“What about you?” he yells over the cacophony.
“Just leave!” she shrieks. A knife has caught her blade. She presses hard, but the steel fog pushes her to the ground. Gently and tenderly yes, but with the clear indication that she must die.
“Callida!” Faber screeches. He remembers the warmth that coursed through him, the day he melted the ring. It’s time for that to come again. He rushes forward in a blind charge, not having a plan. He comes into the fray and grasps the blades of the warring forces, the steel shifting in his hands. The metal is fiery beneath his touch.
The two enemies split apart, flung backward by the sizzling of their weapons, now liquid. Before Faber can react to Callida’s crumpled form or the parallel cuts on his palms from the blades, a firm arm wraps itself around his torso and pulls him into a tunnel filled with intense light. Faber doesn't even have time to question before he blacks out, leaving Naxun as quickly as he came.
29
why family reunions are terrible, and how to sneak away with your friends after
In truth, Armifer was glad to be gone. He had been looking forward to the holiday break for some time. Yes, it did mean spending time with his heinous family, but at least the walls of his home would not remind him of Nuntios.
Nuntios.
Ever since the incident in the hall, Armifer had been haunted by memories of the fair-haired trickster. He would wake up at night in a cold sweat over and over, after countless dreams of seeing Nuntios’s limp body being carried away. Armifer is never able to do anything in his dreams. It was the same feeling of helplessness every time. To top it off, everyone blamed Armifer for what happened. Sir Eric never openly accused him of murder, but whispers of foul play had followed Armifer through the halls.
So, he was glad to leave that behind him, but he soon realizes his new fate may not be much better. The first face to greet him is that of his cousin Adrienn. Adrienn, being a whiny temper-tantrum-prone nineteen year old, is probably one of the things Armifer despises the most (that and biting into a raisin cookie thinking that it’s a chocolate chip cookie).
“Hey, cousin!” she embraces him with one of her bone-crushing hugs that smell like false sincerity and cheap perfume. “So glad to see you back from your exile!” She receives a harsh elbow in the ribs from a woman beside her, presumably Armifer’s aunt Flóra. Well, she’s gotten fat.
“She meant to say boarding school, nephew,” Flóra says impatiently. “Now, we need to get going! There's lots of traffic and the flight was late.” She gives him an accusatory glare as if it was his fault that the plane wasn't on time.
As they walk towards the car park, his aunt continues the stream of misconstrued faults while his cousin regurgitates more sugary fluff as if she actually cares. Armifer twists the leather bracelet on his left wrist, trying
to block out their words with his fidget. There is already a worn spot from previous visits. It’s time to make it bigger.
At some point during the car ride, the nauseous talk of his aunt and cousin get to Armifer. He tries to keep down his rage, but it fizzles up, burning inside him.
“Shut up! Just shut up, will you!” he yells, unable to take it anymore. He feels a ripple of energy reverberate through the car, a physical release of dammed-up resentments. His aunt slams on the brakes, alarmed, yet too calm for her own good.
“You know what young man?” she says shrilly. “You better behave this holiday. You know why?” Armifer shakes his head, but judging by her wicked grin, it isn’t good. “Because your mother and I made a deal.” She pauses dramatically, savoring her power. A deal? “Any infractions, damaged property, whatever, and you're done. We'll put you in a hospital ward.”
At this point Armifer is bristling with anger, barely resisting the urge to leap out of his seat and throttle her. “That’s where they put psychopaths, isn’t it?” Fire bubbles in Armifer’s core, threatening to consume him in blind anger. He breathes deeply, releasing some of his pent up steam. “So, watch yourself,” she says with a smirk.
Armifer’s hand curls into a claw and he breathes again, closing his eyes this time. “Yes, Aunt Flóra.”
“Good boy,” she says with a smile. Armifer’s head slumps back onto the headrest, his entire body filling with a sickly, syrupy dread.
From the first moment, he walked through the door to his family home it had been unbearable. There was the constant beration, the endless stream of strange faces, and the musty smelling embraces were suffocating.
The subtle yet persistent avoidance of his presence had been killing him. Sometimes when he went into a room, a sudden hush would fall, as if he was a rabid dog that needed to be regarded with caution. Even his parents were no better. The kids were worse. But, worst of all, however, was the laughter, the sweet laughter of children that reminded him of a happier time of pranks and scams.
The Rise of the Fourteen Page 16