Unlocked 8.5 (Keeper of the Lost Cities)

by Shannon Messenger

  He probably should’ve clung to some of the images his mind had been replaying in case they turned out to be important. But hopefully they were tucked away in his photographic memory, because the only thing he could think about after his vision came into focus was “Where’s Sophie? Is she okay?”

  According to Elwin, she’d been sitting by his side in the Healing Center for days and had only gone home a few hours earlier because Fitz had convinced her to get a little sleep.

  Keefe might’ve gotten choked up hearing that—but he’d pretended to cough to make sure no one noticed.

  Then he’d gone through a list with Fitz name by name, checking that all the other people he cared about had made it out of Loamnore without any injuries. And Fitz had assured him that everyone was good. Even Shady McSilverbangs was back living at Tiergan’s house again—not that Keefe necessarily counted Tam as a friend. But he was glad to hear that Tammy Boy hadn’t officially turned into an enemy, either—mostly because the guy could do some seriously scary stuff when he put his mind to it.

  Now if only Keefe could get Elwin to stop with All the Pointless Tests Ever.

  It’d also be awesome if Fitz would quit staring at him like he was expecting him to sprout wings and a tail and morph into a gorgodon.

  Keefe could practically feel the worry rippling off both of them in prickly little waves.

  Actually…

  Nope.

  He had to be imagining that.

  The only emotions he could feel automatically were Sophie’s—well, and the alicorns’. And humans’. With everyone else, he had to try in order to take a reading. He also usually needed physical contact, unless Sophie was enhancing him. And most of the time he had to guess what people were feeling, since a lot of moods felt the same without context.

  And thank goodness his empathy worked that way, because Foster’s feelings were more than enough for him to handle—not that he didn’t love catching glimpses of the real Miss F, instead of the brave face she tried to put on for everybody.

  But being around Sophie could be intense. Particularly when she was worried about something.

  It also wasn’t a whole lot of fun when her heart got all pitter-pattery—though that might be changing.

  Foster hadn’t told him anything for certain, but he’d sure felt a whole lot of heartache when he’d asked what was going on between her and the Fitzster. She also hadn’t corrected him when he’d said he was sorry—which he shouldn’t be happy about.

  He absolutely, one hundred percent, should not be glad that someone he cared about was experiencing any kind of emotional pain—two someones, actually.

  But… if he was honest… he wasn’t necessarily sad.

  He glanced at his best friend, knowing it definitely wasn’t the right time to grill him about troubles in Fitzphieland—and even if it was, that was the kind of conversation he should stay far, far away from for lots of practical, let’s-not-turn-this-into-a-huge-mess-of-drama reasons.

  But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from blurting out, “I’m surprised Foster isn’t here by now. I figured you’d do that Team-Cognates-Forever! thing and telepathically tell her it’s time to come yell at me for breaking my promises to stay away from Loamnore.”

  “Actually, I did,” Fitz said, fidgeting with the end of his tunic. “I’m sure she’ll be here any second.”

  And WHAM!

  A giant gut-punch of feelings hit Keefe out of nowhere.

  Sadness.

  Nervousness.

  Regret.

  Loneliness.

  Plus, a hefty dash of anger.

  And as much as Keefe didn’t want anything to be different after… everything… he had to admit that the emotions weren’t his.

  He could feel them zinging through the air.

  Coming straight from Fitz.

  “Sooooooo, how’s the nausea?” Elwin asked, raising one of his eyebrows as he snapped his fingers and surrounded Keefe with a bubble of purple light. “Hmm, I guess I should also be asking how the headache’s going—and think very carefully about how you answer. Remember: I can see your cells right now. So there’s no use pretending that everything’s normal. I know you want that to be true—and believe me, I wish it were. But what happened to you isn’t something you can just pretend away. That’s why I need you to be honest with me, so I can figure out the best means to help you. We’re in this together, and I promise, I’m going to do everything in my power to get you through it. I just need you to cooperate.”

  He held Keefe’s stare as something heavy crashed against Keefe’s senses.

  Concern.

  Usually a tough emotion to recognize, because it felt like a bunch of different things. But Keefe didn’t even have to try to translate the feeling—which made him want to curl into a little ball and pull the blankets over his head.

  Instead, he leaned back against his pillow and propped up his feet.

  If he was going to have to deal with… whatever this was, he wanted to figure it out on his own, without people fussing over him and asking all kinds of personal questions—or freaking out about what it all might mean.

  So he twisted his lips into what he hoped was a convincing smirk and told Elwin, “I appreciate the pep talk, Dr. Worries-Too-Much. But really, I’m fine. I mean, yeah, I’m a little queasy, and I have a slight headache—but wouldn’t you, if you hadn’t eaten in two days? Or has it been three?”

  Elwin sighed. “Actually, it’s probably closer to four at this point.”

  “Okay, four,” Keefe corrected, trying hard not to wince.

  But almost four days unconscious in the Healing Center?

  That was a Foster-Level of almost dying!

  He’d have to make sure he returned the favor the next time he saw Mom of the Year.

  Or finish her off entirely.

  In the meantime, he needed to convince Elwin to let him go home, because he really wanted to talk to his dad—which kinda felt like proof that his mom actually had broken his brain.

  But… his dad was an Empath. So maybe Lord Jerkface would know what was happening with Keefe’s ability—especially since he’d also been a part of the creepy experiment in the beginning.

  Keefe was trying not to think about that.

  He was trying not to think about lots of things.

  He just needed answers—even if he despised where they’d be coming from and dreaded the horrible bargains he’d have to make with Lord Jerkface to get them.

  And the sooner he got those answers, the better. So he was careful to keep his voice perky as he told Elwin, “No wonder I have a headache! I mean seriously, what’s a guy gotta do to get a meal around here? You’d think the near-death experience would count for at least a few snacks or something. Guess I’ll just have to head home and see what weird food Daddy Dearest is making for dinner. He thinks he’s some sort of culinary genius, but trust me, he’s not.”

  Elwin crossed his arms. “Okay. If that’s how you want to play this, I can have Fitz head to the Mentors’ cafeteria and get you some butterblasts. I know how much you love those.”

  Keefe did love butterblasts.

  But the thought of all that rich, sweet goo made his stomach turn a few backflips, and he had to lock his jaw to stop himself from hurling all over the blankets.

  “That’s what I thought,” Elwin said, shaking his head. “You’re not fooling anyone, Keefe. So how about we try this again? On a scale of one to ten, how bad are the nausea and the headache?”

  “A two,” Keefe tried—but even he didn’t believe himself.

  Time to switch to his ultimate defense mechanism.

  “Okay, fine, maybe a four—but that’s still not a big deal! And if you don’t believe me, check out Bullhorn over there.” He nudged his chin toward the purple-eyed banshee curled up in the corner. “He’s so not interested in me right now. In fact, I swear, if he could talk, he’d be like”—he shifted his voice down a couple of octaves and added a hint of rasp as he said—“yo, d
udes, this guy is super boring—get him out of my Healing Center so I can get back to snoring!”

  “That’s what you think a banshee would sound like?” Fitz asked, exactly the way Keefe hoped he would.

  Humor made the perfect distraction.

  “Hey, not everyone can have the fancy Vacker accent,” Keefe said, switching to an impersonation of Fitz’s crisp voice. “But you can’t stop us from trying.”

  He nailed the intonations so perfectly that it almost felt…

  Wrong.

  He’d done hundreds of awesome impressions over the years. But this…

  This was something else.

  This felt like he’d channeled some sort of deeper instinct as he’d said the words.

  Almost like—

  NOPE!

  He definitely wasn’t going to let his mind go there—because there was no way that was possible.

  None.

  Less than none.

  Negative infinity!

  “Care to explain what just made you grind your teeth and turn so pale?” Elwin asked, snapping his fingers and switching to a bright orange light that felt like it was shredding Keefe’s skull.

  “If you must know,” Keefe said, clearing his throat to make sure his voice sounded like him again, “I’m bummed that no one noticed the awesome rhyme I just pulled off. The Black Swan could learn a thing or two from me if they ever go back to the whole mysterious-notes strategy—anyone else miss those days? All the suspense! All the intrigue! All the—”

  “Nice try,” Elwin cut in, “but you’re not going to distract me.” He adjusted his glasses and narrowed his eyes as the light around Keefe flared brighter. “Based on what I’m seeing, your nausea has to be at least an eight. And I’d put the headache at a nine.”

  Keefe would’ve put them both at a ten.

  Maybe an eleven.

  But if he admitted that, he’d never get out of the Healing Center.

  “Even if you’re right,” he argued, “and I’m not saying you are—you’re missing my point, which was that Bullhorn’s not even a tiny bit worried about me. And overreacting is pretty much what banshees live for. So whatever you think you’re seeing is just… a misunderstanding.”

  That’s all it was, he told himself.

  It had to be.

  But to be safe, he was never going to impersonate anyone ever again.

  He also wished he could block the stinging waves of worry that were now slamming into him from both Elwin and Fitz.

  And there was a new emotion scraping the edge of his senses, coming from someone who must’ve been somewhere behind him. He realized it was impatience right as a much-too-familiar voice called out, “Our pretty little Blondie needs to get back here. She’s the only one who can make Lord Funkyhair cooperate.”

  Keefe had been hoping to avoid that voice for at least a couple more hours.

  Or days.

  Maybe a year or two.

  But sadly, he turned, and there was Ro, leaning against the doorway to the Healing Center.

  She gave a mocking wave before reaching up to adjust one of her choppy pigtails, which she must’ve dyed again, because her hair was now the same vivid red that she’d painted her claws.

  It looked like fresh-spilled blood. And her pointy-toothed smile promised lots of gleeful revenge. But Keefe could feel all of Ro’s emotions whirling toward him like spinning daggers.

  Anger.

  Annoyance.

  A tiny wisp of relief—which freaked him out more than the others.

  Any goodwill Ro might be feeling toward him had to be buried deep.

  “All right, you can drop the tough-guy act,” Ro told him, stalking closer. “You’re way too sweaty and shaky right now to pull it off. Plus, you’ve got this frantic look in your eyes, like a trapped baby bunny. So it’s time to come clean to the nice elf-y doctor and let him give you a bunch of his weirdo medicines, okay? He’s also more than welcome to subject you to any and all treatments that involve melting off your skin.”

  “Counteroffer,” Keefe said, throwing back his covers. “I go home and—”

  “Nope!” Ro shoved him back onto the cot and reached into her breastplate, pulling out a tiny glass vial that looked like it was filled with curdled snot. “If you insist on being difficult, we can try this another way: I was planning to use this for your first punishment—and you should note my use of the word ‘first’ there, Funkyhair, because believe me, I have big plans for you. But I’ll happily change things up and force a few of these amoebas down your throat right now if—”

  “No amoebas!” Elwin interrupted, snatching the vial out of Ro’s hand with some fairly impressive reflexes.

  “You’re cute if you think I’m not going to steal that back in about three seconds,” Ro warned. “And I’m sure I’ll break a loooooooot of things in the process.”

  “And you’re cute if you think I don’t have an elixir that’ll knock you out with a tiny whiff,” Elwin countered, patting the satchel slung across his shoulder.

  Ro cocked her head to study him. “Not sure I believe you.”

  “You should, since it’ll also make you lose control of your bladder,” he warned.

  “Yeah, I’m going to need a vial of whatever that is,” Keefe chimed in when Ro backed away from Elwin.

  “Not going to happen.” Elwin stuffed the vial he’d confiscated from Ro into his satchel and latched it closed. “I’ll give this back to you later—well, depending on what it is. But in the meantime, I need you to promise me that you’ll lay off the microbial punishments. I can’t have you giving Keefe anything that could mess with my readings until he’s back to normal.”

  Keefe knew that was his cue to insist that he already was back to normal. But…

  A few weeks free from Ro’s nasty microbes was kinda worth staying silent.

  Ro heaved a giant sigh. “Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. I suppose I can see the logic behind that. How about a good old-fashioned death threat, then?”

  Elwin blocked her from unsheathing one of the knives strapped to her waist. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Keefe’s ready to start cooperating now, isn’t he?”

  Keefe tapped his chin. “That doesn’t sound like me.…”

  “It doesn’t,” Ro agreed, wrenching out of Elwin’s grip—but Elwin caught her wrist and twisted her arm away from her weapons with a move that made Keefe wonder if Foxfire’s physician had gotten some battle training.

  “Sooner or later Keefe’s going to realize that fighting my help only makes everything worse,” Elwin assured Ro as he let her go, “including these symptoms he’s trying to pretend aren’t there.” He turned to Keefe. “Your nausea and headache won’t go away on their own, no matter how hard you try to ignore them. In fact, they’re going to get progressively worse. So why don’t you tell me what I need to know so I can get you some medicine before you pass out or throw up all over my nice, clean Healing Center?”

  “See, but a vomit-fest sounds kind of awesome, doesn’t it? Oooh! You guys could join in! Who’s with me?” He held up his hand for a high five, but everyone left him hanging. “Boo, you’re no fun. Seriously, I’m fi—”

  “If you say ‘fine’ one more time,” Ro interrupted, “I’ll grusom-daj your scrawny butt into submission!”

  Keefe smirked. “Bring it on, Princess. I’m—”

  “Enough!” Elwin dragged his palms down his face. “Once again, Ro, I can’t let you do anything that might affect Keefe’s recovery—but don’t look so smug there, Keefe. I have plenty of ways to make your life very unpleasant if you insist on being so stubborn.”

  Ro jumped up and down, clapping. “Please tell me they involve ooze!”

  “Ooze sounds good to me,” Keefe assured her. “But I’ll take mine to go. That way I can ruin my dad’s fancy rugs. Or maybe—”

  “Ugh, just stop!” Fitz snapped, and Keefe assumed he was talking to Ro, since the ogre princess was blocking Keefe from getting up again. But apparently Fitz had zero BFF lo
yalty, because he turned to Elwin and said, “Keefe’s freaking out right now because he can read all of our emotions without trying to—and without needing any kind of enhancing or contact. And I guess he’s translating them way easier than he usually does too. He also ranked his headache and nausea at a ten or an eleven.”

  Keefe blinked. “You—”

  “Yeah,” Fitz cut him off. “I read your thoughts without your permission. I’m sorry. But we both know you were never going to tell us what’s really going on—and Elwin needs to know, so…”

  He shrugged like it wasn’t that big of a deal—but Keefe could feel Fitz’s sour guilt swirling through the air.

  Good.

  Fitz sighed. “Come on, don’t look at me like that. You think I wanted to hear what you’re thinking?”

  “Are you still listening?” Keefe asked, trying not to wonder how long Fitz had been eavesdropping—or what else he might have heard—as he let his mind flood with an abundance of particularly creative insults.

  Fitz tore a hand through his boringly perfect hair. “I get why you’re mad. But I’m only trying to help. I know what you’re going through—”

  “Right—you totally know what it’s like to have your mom do deadly experiments on you,” Keefe muttered. “I must’ve forgotten that part of the Vacker history.”

  “Maybe not,” Fitz conceded, “but I do know what it’s like to have a traitor in the family. And I also remember how scary it is to wake up in one of these cots after being brutally attacked—just like I know how hard it is to talk about what’s wrong, because it feels like you’re admitting that the Neverseen beat you. But they only win if you keep pretending everything’s normal, because you end up making the damage permanent.”

  “I’m not damaged—”

  “You’re right. That’s the wrong word.” Fitz blew out a breath. “Look, all I’m trying to say is that I wouldn’t be walking right now if I hadn’t let Elwin help me. I probably wouldn’t even be alive. So I want to make sure you get the help you need—and you do need it, Keefe. No matter what you want to believe. But accepting help doesn’t make you weak. It just means you’re taking care of yourself.”