by Nya Jade
While a speechless Hayley nodded vigorously, Phoebe grabbed her backpack. She felt inside for her Privaque and pulled it out.
“What’s that?” Hayley asked, watching as Phoebe attached the silver clip to her shirt.
Phoebe exhaled, then said, “It’s a Privaque.”
“A what?”
Back on her beanbag, Phoebe took a deep breath, then explained all about the Privaque and the Blackcoat meeting she’d had the morning after the attack.
“Christ,” said Hayley, rigid, blinking rapidly in shock after Phoebe finished. She drew her knees to her chest and rocked herself back and forth for a moment. “And they couldn’t say which one of you it’s about?”
Phoebe shook her head.
Hayley stared at her hip-hop shrine, thinking. And by the expression working its way across her face, Phoebe could tell that Hayley knew something.
“Well, it turns out that my dad isn’t crazy after all,” Hayley said finally. Those were not the words Phoebe expected.
“Huh?”
“My dad,” Hayley said, inching her beanbag closer, “is what most folks call a conspiracy nut. For years he’s been saying that there are secrets—prophecies—that the Royal Court doesn’t want us to know about. He thinks they’ve been skillfully covered up by the higher-ups by referring to them as stories and myths until everyone basically feels silly even talking about them in a serious tone of voice.
“He recently started reading some new blog that talks about that sort of stuff, and it’s been driving my mom nuts how obsessed he is with it. But I actually think I’ve heard him go off about the Year of Four before. . . .”
Phoebe looked at Hayley nervously. “You can’t tell him about this. Please.” For a moment, she felt a jolt of panic, and began to reconsider her decision to trust Hayley so quickly.
“Of course not,” Hayley said automatically. “The last thing I need is for him to feel vindicated and talk my ear off. Wow, Blackcoats on campus . . .” her voice trailed off as she considered the weight of that. “Are they super rigid and intense?”
Phoebe nodded vigorously, thinking of Afua.
“Do you know why they’re called Blackcoats, by the way?”
“No,” Phoebe said, realizing for the first time that she hadn’t even considered it.
“My dad says it’s because way back in the day, when they killed a Vigo, they presented the Royal Court with its black coat. Crazy huh?”
“Completely.” Phoebe stretched her legs out and found herself staring at the textured ceiling as they eased into a long silence. The quiet suited her fine; she was finally content in the relief of having confided in Hayley. The din of dorm activity out in the halls provided a lulling soundtrack.
“By the way,” Hayley said, after a few minutes. “Don’t think for one second you’re getting away with not telling me about your car ride with Colten.”
Phoebe sat up in surprise. “How’d you know?”
“I overheard two girls talking about some redhead they saw getting into his car Friday night. What business do I have becoming a spy if I can’t figure that out,” Hayley said with a deadly serious drawn face, at which Phoebe gave a loud snort of laughter.
“Tell me everything!” Hayley commanded.
Phoebe stretched her legs out and began her story.
Less than a minute into it, Hayley cut her off, howling with laughter. “You hit—hit him?” she said, gasping for air and tearing up. “Talk about knocking him off his feet!”
“God.” Phoebe raked fingers through her hair. “I felt so bad. I still feel bad.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Hayley said, wiping at a rogue tear. “Go on.”
“We had an awkward moment and I blurted that he should study with me.”
“Ballsy. I like it.”
Phoebe grinned. “When we got upstairs it was closing time. He waited for me to get my stuff and then offered to drive me home.” Phoebe fiddled with her fingers before confessing sheepishly, “I sort of turned him down—at first.”
Out of nowhere, a wet face cloth hit Phoebe in the chin and she blinked, shocked. There was a moment of confusion until Phoebe’s eyes fell on Hayley’s outstretched hands.
Phoebe said, disbelief coloring her tone, “Did you just—?”
“Yes.” Hayley’s smile was wicked, unrepentant. “I did that on behalf of every girl who would die for a ride from Colten Chase! Oooh,” she said, waggling a finger at Phoebe and starting to get worked up. “It was that stupid Dish cover, wasn’t it?”
“No!” Phoebe said, feeling defensive. “It was ’cause I hadn’t showered in two days.”
Hayley rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t matter if it’d been a week. You get in the car and roll the windows down!” The dramatic craziness in Hayley’s voice was clear. Phoebe laughed and continued her story.
“Anyway,” she said. “He walked me to the door and asked me to have lunch with him—”
Hayley’s high pitch squeal cut Phoebe off. “He asked you out?!” she said, thumping the sides of her beanbag with her fists. “You’re officially the luckiest girl on this campus. Scratch that. The world!”
NINE
When Monday morning arrived with cold winds and even colder rain, Phoebe was more than happy to be Below. She met Mariko, Lewis, and Scott for their first academic boot camp in a classroom that had been arranged with four tables, each set with balloon-filled baskets and several stainless steel bowls that contained what appeared to be dirt.
“Didn’t know we were having a party,” Scott said, picking up a balloon and flicking it to Lewis who slapped it back.
Both Yelena and Deborah-Anna walked into the class then, and without preamble, Yelena’s Russian lilt filled the room. “Please take your seats.”
As they sat, Deborah-Anna handed each of them a small bottle filled with pills. “Take one of these before we get started,” she said. “And continue to take one daily to help support your burgeoning elemental power.”
Phoebe glanced down at the bottle. It was labeled: “Chewable MultiEarthamins.”
“I’ve never heard of these,” Mariko said, shrugging out of her Green Lane navy blazer. She twisted off her bottle cap and shook a greenish brown pill into her hand.
Lewis was the first to take one, and Phoebe watched, intrigued, as his face twisted in distaste as he chewed. “It tastes like dirt,” he said, brushing a few dreadlocks out of his face.
Phoebe laughed until the taste of the pill in her mouth began to register. Lewis was right. Dirt.
“Once you come into your full elemental powers, your training at the Campus Below will teach you to use them beyond what average Shapers can accomplish,” Yelena said, pacing up and down, her hazel eyes fixed unblinkingly on them. “But, like the headmaster said, you haven’t had a chance to exercise what little powers you do have. So today we start with the basics of air control.”
“With balloons?” Mariko asked.
Ignoring Mariko’s skeptical expression, Yelena continued. “If you leave a balloon alone it deflates over time because air permeates through its pores. Today you’ll practice using your powers to speed up deflation by drawing the air out.”
Yelena grabbed a white balloon from Phoebe’s basket, balanced it in her palm, and the group watched as the balloon shriveled into nothing within seconds. Then, just as quickly, it re-inflated again. “Pushing air back in is a lesson for another time. Now, pick up a balloon and begin.”
Phoebe raised a tentative hand. “How exactly do we do it?”
“Visualize”—Yelena tapped a finger to her head—“connecting to the air in the balloon. You will feel a tingle in your palms when it is working.”
Phoebe picked up a balloon, turning it over in both hands, contemplating it seriously. It had absolutely no effect. Yelena had made it look easy, but it wasn’t; all she’d managed to do in ten minutes was give herself a headache from sheer concentration.
Beside Phoebe, Lewis was off to a great start with two balloons already deflate
d. Mariko leaned toward him, impressed with the ease at which this new skill came to Lewis. The moment Lewis saw Mariko flash him a rare smile, he accidentally burst the balloon in his hand with a loud pop, and Mariko immediately resumed her studious expression.
Phoebe peered to her right in time to see Scott pinch the end of his balloon and poke the end of an unraveled paper clip through it. Amazingly, none of the Blackcoats seemed to catch this. Phoebe stared at him, disbelief coloring her face. For a moment their eyes met, and Scott winked and jerked his head toward Phoebe’s own full basket, then returned his attention to his now shriveling balloon.
After half an hour of focused concentration with no luck, Phoebe was happy to hear that they were moving on to the next task.
“The three bowls in front of you contain the main soil types: sand, silt, and clay,” Deborah-Anna said, moving from her position by the wall. “Before you can begin to manipulate living things like trees or inanimate objects made from earth materials, you have to connect with the basic foundation: soil.” As she spoke, she dipped her finger in a bowl of sand. When she lifted it, a thin column of sand suspended in the air, as though magnetically attracted to Deborah-Anna’s fingers. “Immerse your hands in each bowl and try to feel the connection.”
Phoebe’s fingertips had just started tingling in her bowl of sand when next to her Scott pushed his chair back in frustration.
“Is there a problem, Cadet?” Yelena asked, folding her arms.
“This”—Scott gestured at the balloons and the bowls—“is a waste of time. Vigos have put a price on our heads and we’re here playing child’s games. You should be teaching us to fight. Physically. You’re Blackcoats, after all—”
A loud whooshing sound swallowed the rest of Scott’s sentence as an explosion of wind filled the room, blasting the balloons from the tables, and smashing the bowls to the floor with a metallic clatter. Scott flew across the room and slammed violently against the back wall, pinned a foot above the ground by a gray mist that encased his entire body. Phoebe drew in a shuddering breath and brushed away the sand that had gotten into her eyes and mouth. She had never seen anyone thrown so fast. Mariko and Lewis sat perfectly still, stunned at the sight of Yelena; silvery vapors hung in the air over her hands, and her expression radiated lethal anger.
“When you cheat by piercing balloons, Cadet, you waste my time,” Yelena said, her accent thicker under duress. She moved her hands as if passing an invisible ball between her palms, and Scott’s body mimicked the back and forth motion.
“Vigos have superhuman strength and agility that is superior to our own. Harnessing our power over the elements is our only tactical advantage. If you do not learn basic control, you will not be able to fight them!”
“Stand down, Yelena,” Deborah-Anna said, finally intervening. “I believe”—Deborah-Anna’s eyes turned to Scott—“Cadet Roland has gotten the point.” She spoke calmly as though Scott had merely been made to sit in the corner. “Isn’t that right, Cadet?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Scott said from his misty cocoon, sounding remorseful, if not feeble.
Yelena, whose mood did not seem improved by this, lowered her hands. The silver vapors disappeared and Scott crumpled down to the floor, his eyes still shocked and uniform disheveled. The bell rang just as he got to his feet and began inspecting himself for injuries. After reminding them to take their MultiEarthamins daily, Deborah-Anna dismissed the class with the exception of Scott. Phoebe took one step outside of the classroom and glanced back cautiously. Yelena handed Scott a broom, indicating the sand, clay, and silt that was everywhere.
When Phoebe walked into her Understanding Vigos class, whispers broke out at every table and heads turned. After several cadets had shot her awe-filled glances, Phoebe remembered what Scott had said about her newfound fame. Apparently, the weekend had done nothing to diminish the aura of mystique around the attack. She made for a seat at the rear of the class, and began pulling books out of her bag to avoid catching anyone’s eye.
A few moments later, Phoebe felt a hand clap her on the shoulder and a girl say in a perky voice, “I just wanted to let you know I think you rock.”
Soon seats were abandoned as people rushed toward Phoebe, reaching out hands. Phoebe didn’t know what to say. She felt her cheeks burning from everyone staring at her.
“Unbelievable,” a boy said, grabbing her hand between both of his and pumping it hard.
“I can’t imagine two Vigos at once.”
“You’re such a bad ass.”
One cadet asked, “Was there a lot of blood—” just as Scott, who had slipped onto the seat next to Phoebe, said with feigned adoration and a cocky tilt of his head, “Can I have your autograph?”
“That’s enough!” A woman’s voice rang across the room. Phoebe looked over her shoulder. A berobed Montclaire stood in the doorway. She swept the room with such an intense glare that an instant rush of movement erupted as the students hustled back to their seats.
Montclaire raised her voice above the clamor, “Yes, we have a resident hero, and yes, that is quite exciting, but show-and-tell is now over.” Hearing the word “hero” bothered Phoebe, but she shoved her discomfort aside and continued watching Montclaire’s movements, confused. According to her schedule, a Professor Jones taught this class.
“I am Montclaire. Not Professor Montclaire or Mrs. Montclaire. Just Montclaire. Professor Jones is out for an undetermined amount of time tending to a family matter, and I will be filling in for her,” she said, arriving at the front of the room. Montclaire crossed behind the desk and began rummaging through a drawer for something. Scott leaned in toward Phoebe and whispered, “Wasn’t I right about your fans? I can still offer my protection services if you want.” His eyes glittered with humor.
Phoebe play-slugged Scott’s arm. “How are you even here already?” she said under her breath, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “Shouldn’t you still be cleaning?”
“I’ve got some serious broom skills, Pope,” Scott said, running a hand over the scars on his neck. Phoebe turned her skeptical look at him, and he explained, “My mom’s a wood turner. As a kid I earned extra cash sweeping her workshop. That clean up job back there was nothing compared to her mess. And can you believe,” Scott said, knitting his brow in frustration, “Yelena wasn’t impressed with my speed? She took it as cockiness. Now I’m stuck doing campus clean up jobs at her beck and call.”
Phoebe looked quickly back to Montclaire who was now searching through shelves in a side closet, then asked in a low voice, “Why’d you provoke her like that?”
“How was I supposed to know she’d go mental?” Scott said, opening a notebook. “I was just trying to make a point.”
“So was she.”
Scott leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, point taken: Blondie is unstable—”
Montclaire’s voice suddenly rose, cutting Scott off. “We’re all set now,” she said, waving a touch screen remote control in her hand. “In this class, you will study all things Vigo: their physiology, their political hierarchy, and their socialization. All of this is important for the analysis and dissemination of intelligence information,” she said crisply. “You need to understand the capabilities and limitations of the enemy in order to plan and act accordingly. So, let’s meet the star of our class.”
Montclaire pressed a button on the remote and a low buzz sounded from the front of the room; two center floor panels slid back into the wall. A rectangular glass tank rose slowly and smoothly from the large opening. When it had fully emerged, a horrified silence fell.
Phoebe stiffened. Next to her, Scott let out a long, soft whistle. “That’s sick and twisted,” he said quietly.
It is, thought Phoebe, staring ahead. An enormous Tiger stood on the tank’s floor in a mid-stride pose Phoebe was quite sure must be the work of a skilled taxidermist. Its sharp, barbed spikes looked tarnished, yet not any less dangerous. Large empty eyes seemed to take each of them in, all in turn, as if it were deter
mining who to sink its yellowed corkscrew canines into first.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said the girl seated on the other side of Scott, moments before her body went limp. Scott, reacting rapidly, grabbed the girl around the waist, and lay her gently on the ground. Montclaire called for silence over the outbreak of chattering from the class.
“Good show of reflexes, Cadet,” she said, smiling her approval at Scott. “Now, if you would, please carry the young lady to the hospital wing.”
Scott picked up the ashen-faced girl and pulled one of her arms around his shoulders, but not before leaning into Phoebe and whispering, “If this is too much too soon, fake a faint to get out of it.” He wore a rare serious expression.
Phoebe read concern in Scott’s eyes. “I’m okay,” she mouthed, surprised, her gaze briefly straying to a plaque at the top of the tank that read VIGO MALE. Scott’s eyes widened as they fell on the white-knuckled grip Phoebe held on the edge of her seat, which wobbled slightly from her fingers’ tension. He gave her a look that seemed to convey, if you say so, and carried the girl off.
“You must have strong constitutions if you plan on fighting Vigos one day,” Montclaire was saying. Phoebe shook herself to attention, and focused on the gaunt woman who moved in a slow circle around the tank, taking stock of the beast inside. “If this dead Vigo is affecting you”—she tapped the tank with an index finger—“then allow me to sign your dismissal papers and send you off to another career.”
At that, Phoebe and her fellow cadets uncoiled their slumped postures, raised their chins and gave Montclaire their rapt attention. The threat in Montclaire’s demeanor had been clear; she wasn’t bluffing, and the air seethed with nervous tension. No one wanted to be sent home. The shame of it would be too great.
“Now—I understand you had summer reading, so let’s see what you’ve managed to retain.” She tapped the remote against her right leg and continued to circle the tank. “What are the four fundamental differences between us and our guest?”