Lacria flinches, involuntarily, and bumps into Terrance. “Sorry,” she mumbles.
As Demetri begins spewing curses (in all manner of languages), Terrance puts a comforting hand on the small of her back. His touch is subtle; had she not been so on edge, she might have missed the sensation. The warmth of his hand soothes her. She leans into the gesture, making their shoulders brush.
“Earlier, I just wanted to apologize, you know, for getting you in trouble.” Terrance's voice is barely audible as a riled Demetri desecrates a potted plant.
“No need to,” she replies. “Thank you for doing it.”
Sorem has begun ranting about childhood embarrassments while a distressed Demetri attempts to cover his ears in vain.
Lacria places a delicate pale hand on Terrance’s shoulder. “Are we cool now?” He sees a flicker of uncertainty in her eye.
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t remove her hand as the fight continues, and Terrance can’t help but smile. He’s glad to have regained her trust, but he also can’t deny the unmistakable heat rising in his cheeks.
Amidst all the chaos, Nuptia goes mostly unnoticed, merely a frightened creature in the background. One person does notice her, however. Even as the altercation comes to a close, Ámpelos curls his lip appreciatively, wondering about the newest enigma to enter the sanctuary.
Nuptia is certainly a jarring addition. If anyone tries to speak to her, she crosses herself and pointedly refuses to reply. While she goes to training, she practices on her own or with a dummy, never with an actual person. She even refuses to have a proper room. Her worldly possessions reside upon a stone bench in the foyer where she sleeps every night. So, breakfast, usually uneventful, had changed dramatically over the past week or so, and today was not different.
“Good morning, Nuptia,” Callida says cheerfully as the Mexican girl walks through the dining room door. Even Callida’s nauseatingly chipper tone is not enticing enough to start conversation and Nuptia sits down quietly, a stony glare set on her face.
Nuntios and Armifer are chatting next to her. Ámpelos soon comes to take the seat on her other side. Nuptia sighs and begins to try to force down a piece of toast. I can’t trust these, these … sinners. I must live amongst them. I see no plan that Dios could have for me.
Nuntios roughly elbows Armifer. ‘Be polite,’ he mouths to his friend.
“Would you like some jam?” Armifer asks in the most cordial tone he can muster. Nuptia nods cautiously. “She can understand English?” Armifer asks Nuntios in a whisper. Nuntios gestures to the flower tattoo at the base of his throat. “Oh right.”
Armifer hands Nuptia a glass jar of nectarine jam. Their fingers brush for a moment, as he hands her the jar. Nuptia stiffens and shudders at his touch. Armifer raises his brow at her, then turns back to his conversation. Ámpelos passes her a napkin. She flinches as it brushes against her skin.
Nuptia begins shaking, her mind racing. One of them touched me. A … demon touched me. I have to get out of here to somewhere God can help me. Nuptia slides off her seat and begins to run, squeezing past Ámpelos’s pulled out chair. She ends up tripping on the edge of the carpet. The room spins before her eyes—the long table with all its wooden chairs—the glass chandelier—the beige area rug. The rug she is falling towards. She braces herself for the fall. Instead, she is caught by a strong pair of arms.
“Are you alright?” Ámpelos asks, his eyes full of concern.
“Fine, thanks,” Nuptia says, clearly flustered.
“It looks like we know what his type is,” Armifer says to Nuntios, laughing at Ámpelos’s attempt at chivalry.
“What about your type?” Nuntios says suggestively, giving his friend a knowing look. Armifer’s cheeks redden a bit, and he begins concentrating intensely on the plate of eggs in front of him, trying to ignore the warmth of Nuntios’s knee touching his beneath the breakfast table.
32
dealing with a prat in order to save the world
“Listen up kids.”
Sorem laughs as her brother hopelessly tries to gain command of the chaotic dining room. Nuntios and Armifer are having a food fight, Nuptia is yelling at Ámpelos (again), and Anima and Faber have divided the rest into teams for a heated debate on whether or not the ending of Champion was good. “Oi! Listen up!” The room suddenly falls quiet, except the dripping of splotches of jam on a far wall. Sorem gives her brother a smug look.
In return, he blows a raspberry and continues with his speech. “There’s one last mahi we have to retrieve, but we need all of you to help us.”
“Ugh, there’s more of you,” Nuptia says. She instantly claps her hand over her mouth as the room dissolves into snickers. I just said that out loud, didn’t I?
Ámpelos slyly puts an arm on the back of Nuptia’s chair and whispers “This my girl” to the rest of the room.
Nuptia, upon hearing the comment, indignantly exclaims, “I am not his girlfriend!”
Demetri sighs exasperatedly as the room dissolves into titters once more. “So much for briefing them on the mission,” he says to his sister. Together they make swirling motions with their hands, conjuring a large portal beneath the dining room rug.
“Bon Voyage,” Demetri calls as the squabbling gang falls through the floor, table, breakfast, and all. Demetri and Sorem jump through the portal after the screaming teenagers, laughing with wicked glee.
***
The table lands with a bang on a grassy hill. All are rocketed out of their seats into the meadow, except Nuntios, who has somehow landed on the table, his head in a plate of eggs.
“Bloody hell,” Luna says as she brushes dirt off her pants.
“I’ll say,” Callida adds. She turns to face a smirking Demetri and Sorem, who have just landed neatly on top of a nearby horse cart. “Don't you think that people are going to notice that a table of breakfast has just appeared in the middle of the French countryside?” She asks sharply.
“How do you know it’s the French countryside?” Faber snarks.
Callida rolls her eyes and launches into a full explanation. “Well, that sign over there is in French,” she says pointing at a rusty signpost. “Those are snow drop flowers, common in the countryside of southern France,” she says pointing at clumps of white blossoms scattered about the hillside. “And they,” she states, gesturing at Demetri and Sorem, “have been studying up on French maps, so it's a reasonable assumption we're in the French countryside.” She has a smug look on her face as she receives a number of surprised stares.
“You know what,” Faber says, “do you have to be such a smartass all the time?”
“At least I actually have enough smarts to be a smartass,” she says with a disdainful huff. Faber hisses through his teeth in frustration.
“Burn.” Nuntios whispers to Armifer.
A sharp cough interrupts their exchange. A thoroughly ruffled Sorem has stepped down from the horse cart and now addresses the group from a clump of tall grasses. “We have a goal to accomplish if you’re not all too busy squabbling.” Sorem haughtily turns her head and makes her way down to a nearby dirt road. “We keep walking until we reach a bakery.”
Demetri brings up the rear, ignoring the confused looks of the kids.
“A bakery?” Callida whispers. Faber simply shrugs his shoulders and together the group moves down the path. “Sometimes I wonder if they tell us half of the stuff they know,” she mutters.
Eventually, the group enters the town, and Sorem wastes no time in directing them down specific back streets. “We’re here!” she says brightly as the group approaches the blackened shell of a building.
“We’re here?” Nuntios asks, an eyebrow raised.
The gang cautiously enters the building, very aware of the wreckage. The bakery stinks of various rotting food items and the entire top floor has been roped off with caution tape (probably due to the collapsed roof). Charred thatch decorates the surrounding street like a dark moat, and the whole place has an eerie
feel to it. And Sorem wants them to repair it.
“And you think we can do that?” Anima asks sharply, eyeing the decaying building. “It’s not my prima magic,” she adds with a mocking tone. Sorem recalls the scene in the training room and curses her past self.
“We,” she says, gesturing at herself and Demetri, “will help you, provided you don’t snap at us the entire time. We need this place to be spic and span by the time Erus gets here. If, and only if, we can accomplish that do we have any hope of getting him to come to the sanctuary.” She looks around at the circle of determined faces. “Are you ready?”
“We better start work then,” Lacria says and makes her way up the stairs and into the rubble.
***
Erus walks down the main cobblestone street in silence. His golden eyes shift from side to side, his unease clear. Only a few days ago, he would have strutted jauntily down this street, commanding the walkway with ease, but no more. His jacket is wrinkled, and his trousers have suspicious stains on them. There are dark circles beneath his aureate eyes, and his jet-black hair could do with a good comb. He has a cold beauty to him as he continues down the street, oblivious to the life around him.
He’s going back to the bakery today, the first time since the incident just to fetch a few things before repair work begins on the house. Ever since Mémé had to be hospitalized after the fire, the Babineaux family has been living on futons in Mémé’s hospital room.
At least the health care is nearly free, Erus thinks. The repairs will cost a fortune, not to mention the cleanup. He continues trudging down to the familiar side street that opens up to the bakery, a weight on his shoulders. It’s so hard to try and help this family when I’m so scared myself.
He has not forgotten how the lightning froze in the air above him. He has not forgotten how he came face to face with death itself. He has, however, apparently forgotten the way to the bakery. No, it’s definitely this street. He backtracks slightly. No, that’s definitely my house.
The bakery is as good as new. The collapsed roof has been reconstructed, the shattered windows repaired, and the open sign has been polished. Erus enters cautiously. The bell even rings as I walk in, he thinks. He marvels at the freshly scrubbed floor and the gleaming countertop.
“Who did this?” he wonders aloud. He did not expect to find his little kingdom so well repaired.
“We did,” a voice says flatly. Luna emerges from behind the front counter, her mixed companions trailing behind her. Erus is shocked by the appearance of the strangers and fights to regain his composure.
“And you are?”
“We are the eleven mahi who seek our twelfth member,” Anima says. Her voice is servile sounding and quavers slightly. It would not have been amiss had she curtsied and said “Mi lord.” Callida elbows her sharply in the ribs.
“Why are you so timid?” she hisses. “We’re trying to impress this kid.”
“I don't know,” Anima whispers back. “He just feels so … intense.”
Callida nods in agreement. “I feel it too.”
Before confronting Erus, Sorem had warned them about this. Pure, raw, power is his prima magic. He can charm and manipulate. He can command you with his mind by simply looking at you. It will take all of your strength to resist his ways. As Anima and Callida look around at their compatriots, they see quivering lips and ashen faces. All, however, except for Luna.
“What are you doing here?” Erus asks. He is greeted with silence. “I want to know what a bunch of strangers are doing traipsing about my home!” His voice rises in a fiery crescendo, flaring with anger. Most of the group has shrunk back against the counter, but Luna stands her ground.
“Who do you think you are?” Luna asks, her head cocked to one side. “We just spent a good chunk of time on your bloody bread box so, God help me, I’m not going to sit here and listen to you asking impertinent questions in your damnably prissy French!” Erus is shocked into silence, his eyes flashing in disbelief. Ámpelos on the other hand, nods in appreciation of Luna’s outburst.
“How dare you speak to me like that,” Erus snarls, “in my own bakery.”
“At least, I don’t abandon old ladies in the hospital.” Luna retorts.
Erus freezes. How could she possibly know about Mémé? And how dare she say that I would … that I would abandon her! My own grandmother! “I never did that!” Erus has made his way across the room, and he stands mere inches from Luna’s face, shouting at her. “How dare you accuse me of such!”
“Prove it,” Luna says coolly, in a voice lined with acid.
Erus has no response to that and his cheeks begin to flame. He opens his mouth as if to attempt to say something more, but he is stopped. A golden bolt of light hits him from behind, and he keels over, eyes still glazed with rage. Everyone turns to look in the direction the beam came from and find themselves gazing at a sheepish Arden.
“What?” he says pointedly, “none of you had a clear plan.”
“And this was your idea of a clear plan?” Lacria asks sharply. Lacria and Terrance grab Erus’s feet, and Armifer and Nuntios grab his shoulders.
Besides, Arden thinks, no one gets that close to my sister. Nobody. He brings up the rear as the rest of the group files out of the bakery, closing the door behind them.
33
the gang attempts to reenact fight club
“You are so bad at this,” Callida says, half laughing, as she takes Faber’s second bishop. “It’s upsetting.” She leans back into the plush chair, snickering.
“Not everyone is as smart as you,” he retorts.
“Too true,” she replies smugly, tucking a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. The pair had begun playing chess in the drawing room while the group waited for Erus to wake up. Since then, they had played five games, all of which Callida had won (rather easily). “Checkmate.” Callida knocks over Faber's king with a dramatic flourish and then proceeds to reset the board.
“I don’t get it,” Faber states, “I had all of my strongest pieces out. How did you get to my king so easily?” His incredulity is only too apparent.
“You gotta use tactics. You can’t just have your queen run amok across the board and expect to win.” Her tone is matter of fact with maybe the barest trace of pity. “You have to treat every piece equally, except for your king of course.”
“Smells like communism,” Faber quips.
Callida looks up to see Faber grinning cheekily, his eyes sparkling. If she feels a faint tickling of butterflies in her stomach, she doesn't show it. Instead, she gives him a hard look.
“Not amused, chess girl?”
“I give up!” she says throwing her hands up in frustration. “It is physically impossible for you to learn chess.”
“You just have to give me more tips, that’s all,” Faber urges.
“Alright,” Callida says grudgingly. She points at the board. “What would your first move be?”
Faber pushes a white pawn forward one square.
“Not bad,” Callida says, nodding thoughtfully.
“It’s not good though, is it.”
“No, not really.”
“What then?”
“Move your pawn out two squares,” Callida says impatiently. “If you want to control the game, control the center of the board.” She reaches out to nudge his pawn a space forward.
“I got it.” They grasp for the piece at the same time, and their fingers brush. “Sorry,” Faber mumbles. Callida is grateful for her deep tan that conceals the blood she is sure is rushing to her cheeks. She withdraws her hand and vigorously finger combs a strand of hair, avoiding eye contact. Faber grimaces. Awkward. She’s clearly uncomfortable around me. He chews his lip nervously. And maybe I don’t know how I feel around her. His murky thoughts are interrupted when a grinning Demetri bursts into the room.
“What's the deal, Demetri?” Callida asks, eager to change the subject of the unspoken conversation.
“Erus has agreed to join us.”<
br />
“That’s great!” Faber chimes with strained enthusiasm.
“But …,” Demetri pauses, “there is a catch.”
“Of course there is,” Callida says sourly.
“He wants to fight each of you in a magical duel.”
***
Callida and Faber enter the training room to join a line of stony faces. Looking down the line, Callida can see that everyone else is also fed up with Erus’s snootiness. But he is dangerous, she admits in her head. When I tried to give him the finger, he nearly made me prostrate on the floor in front of him. She relishes the idea of going head to head with him in single combat.
Sorem stands at the far end of the room, commanding the space with an aura of privilege. Erus stands beside her, looking equally dominant. Erus wears a smug grin on his face while Sorem wears a pained grimace. Let’s get this over with, she thinks to herself.
“Erus,” she says sharply, “the first opponent you will face is Arden.” Arden steps forward into the sparring ring. He wears a mask of determination to hide the fact that his knees feel as if they will give way at any moment. “His prima magic is light manipulation. His gift is music.”
Erus sizes up the blond. Ppth. Bronzed skin like that. American to boot. Must be shallow. I can take him. Erus smirks at his inner thought.
“You may begin.” Sorem steps back into the doorway, and the fight commences.
The fight is over before it properly starts. The first minutes are spent in the typical circling, evasive movements. Erus saunters around the ring with an easy grace. Arden can feel invisible hands trying to force him to bow. But he refuses to submit. Every step feels leaden and heavy, but he will not give up.
I have not forgotten how you were with my sister. He looks out to the side briefly and sees that Luna’s eyes are filled with concern. But are they for me, or for Erus? She was the only one who got him to talk.
Seething with new anger, Arden concentrates on the blue light from the flickering torches on the walls. He spreads his hands out and allows the light to flow to him, collecting it in his palms. He pushes the aurora outward, and the glow hits Erus in a concentrated beam, blasting the French boy backward into one of the waterfalls lining the room.
The Rise of the Fourteen Page 18