by Nya Jade
Phoebe closed her eyes and tried to think of the best way she could tell Colten that she wouldn’t be able to go. All she could manage was a muffled, “I can’t.”
Across from her, Colten wore an expression that hovered somewhere between confusion and disappointment. “Can’t or don’t want to?” he said, scuffing the floor with his bare feet.
Phoebe’s voice came out a bit hoarse. “Can’t.” She lowered her eyes, and said it again, even softer. “Can’t.” Phoebe desperately wished she could have a normal life, or alternately, any kind of life that would allow her to do something like attend a movie premiere with the world’s biggest teen movie star. But that wasn’t possible, and suddenly, filled with the silence of the moment, the room felt crowded.
As hard as it was for Phoebe to believe, Colten looked genuinely let down, which made her feel that much worse. He shrugged his shoulders and pulled his baseball cap low over his face, obscuring his eyes. “I thought it was worth asking,” he said distantly.
There were so many things Phoebe was feeling at that moment that she couldn’t say out loud. And she hated how Colten could be connected to her life but at the same time be disconnected from it. Frantically, she searched her brain for something else she could say. Something that might prevent Colten from thinking that she had no interest in him.
“I’m a minor,” she blurted.
Colten looked up. “Huh?”
Phoebe cleared her throat to give her time to gather her thoughts. “Green Lane policy requires parents or legal guardians to consent to off campus field trips. The um”—Phoebe cleared her throat again—“premiere would count as a ‘field trip’.”
Colten spoke, confusion in his voice. “And you don’t think your grandfather would approve?”
Phoebe paused, surprised that Colten had remembered that it was just her and her grandfather; she’d mentioned it a while ago. “He’d approve.” She smiled to lighten the mood. “It’s just that he’s on an around-the-world trip and getting in touch is hard.”
Colten eyed her silently and Phoebe couldn’t discern from his expression whether or not he believed her. As a Green Lane student, her excuse was valid. But it was her Shaper life that dictated everything.
“Well, my manager wants all premiere details confirmed soon,” Colten said finally as Phoebe opened the door. “So if you reach him in the next day or so let me know . . .”
Phoebe wished Colten hadn’t sounded so hopeful. It only made closing the door and walking away that much harder.
EIGHTEEN
Skylights set in a vaulted ceiling drenched the photo studio in a soft, buttery radiance, throwing dancing light beams upon portraits hung around the spacious room. Phoebe was sitting on a stool, in front of a faux ocean backdrop, staring at the black shelves that covered a cement textured wall. It was filled with an assortment of equipment: lenses, digital flash cards, props, tripods, monopods. She idly fingered her cell phone screen, contemplating what she wanted to use in this morning’s assignment.
Phoebe’s phone buzzed. She glanced down at the all-caps text and grinned. It said:
“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?”
It was quickly followed by:
“DID YOU GET MY TEXT LAST NIGHT???”
Phoebe sighed and punched in Hayley’s number. She did not doubt that Hayley was exploding for want of details about her co-study date with Colten. She’d avoided discussing her debacle long enough.
“You said what?!” Hayley’s voice blared, minutes into their conversation.
“I knew you were going to react this way,” Phoebe said, swiveling on the stool.
“Is that why you ignored my texts last night—wait,” Hayley said, interrupting herself. “Is that why you’re not at breakfast? You’re avoiding me?”
Phoebe indulged in a guilty grin. It wasn’t only her pint-sized friend she’d been avoiding this morning. Colton was also on her ‘must avoid’ list. She hadn’t recovered from the awkward end to their night. “I’m shooting an assignment soon,” Phoebe said truthfully.
“You’re my girl and all,” Hayley continued. “And I say this from a place of deep love. But you’re truly demented!”
Phoebe took mild offense. “Ouch,” she said, her feeling ringing clear in her tone.
“Relax,” Hayley said at once. “I said it came from a place of love. Look, I’m just frustrated for you. I mean, the hottest hottie tries to kiss you and you go with, ‘Is this what the script—”’
Phoebe groaned. “You don’t have to repeat it!”
“Oh, it bears repeating,” Hayley said playfully. “In fact, I think I’ll text you those words once a day. As far as I’m concerned, he’s sending you all the signals and you just . . .” Hayley trailed off as if she’d taken a big bite of something.
Phoebe played with the pleats in her blue skirt, absorbing what Hayley had said. Then she mumbled, “Haven’t you considered that this could just be a game for him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he’s Colten Chase. I could just be the girl-of-the-moment. Something to amuse him until he gets bored,” Phoebe said, finally expressing her pent-up reservations about Colten. “It’s hard to figure out if he’s being genuine or if he’s being—”
“Smooth Mr. Hollywood?” Hayley finished.
“Exactly. Why bother getting emotionally invested just for him to get bored?”
Hayley gave a dramatic sigh as if everything she’d been arguing up to this point had just been negated by Phoebe’s concern.
Phoebe glanced up at a wall clock and hopped to her feet. She placed the phone on the stool and put it on speaker. “How nice of you to actually care about his intentions,” Hayley’s tinny voice said. “If it were me, I’d jump the guy’s bones for some serious bragging rights!”
“Seriously?” Phoebe said, arranging light stands around a red velvet armchair she’d placed in the middle of the room.
Hayley giggled helplessly. “Who am I kidding?” she said. “I’d analyze the hell out of it, too.”
Phoebe released a breath, relieved. She flicked a switch on the wall and watched as the skylights darkened, blocking out the sun.
“Are you Phoebe Pope?”
Phoebe spun toward the voice. A gray-haired black man stood before her, leaning on a gold-knobbed cane and dressed in a pinstriped suit that made him look as if he were from nobility.
“Yes,” Phoebe answered, praying that Hayley had heard the man’s tenor voice and had the good sense to hold her tongue. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Goulde.”
Delicate wrinkles framed the man’s kind eyes as he smiled. “I’m a bit early, dear,” he said warmly, as if reading Phoebe’s mind. “But at my age, I try to give myself enough of a head start to get places on time.” He laughed and took an arthritic step into the studio. Phoebe rushed forward to assist him. He waved her off, saying, “I’ll manage fine. Just show me where to go.”
As the famed, Julliard-trained pianist walked over to the plush armchair, Phoebe excused herself and made a swift return to the stool. She took her phone off speaker.
“I gotta go,” she said to Hayley in a rushed whisper.
“Okay. See you in—”
“Oh,” Phoebe quickly added. “Remind me to tell you about Colten’s premiere.”
Hayley’s voice shot up to its highest octave. “What about it?”
Watching Mr. Goulde ease himself slowly into the chair, Phoebe said, “He invited me to go, but—”
Hayley cut her off with a deafening squeal that Phoebe immediately silenced by hanging up. She could only imagine Hayley hyperventilating in the dining hall. It was too bad that she’d have to break the sobering news to her later.
Headmaster Yori was quiet, frowning slightly from behind his desk. Phoebe had just informed him of her suspicion of the traitor’s identity, and now she sat nervous, gripping her hands tightly in her lap.
“May I ask how you’ve come to this conclusion?” Professor Yori said, curiosity in his cautious voi
ce. He leaned forward expectantly.
Phoebe shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “It’s just a gut feeling I have,” she said, watching his eyebrows lift. Gut feeling? That sounded ridiculous, even to her. But keeping that promise to her father was important to her, almost as though it was a way for her to hold on to him. “Also,” Phoebe added, fumbling for supporting information. “I think she knew that there were Blackcoats on campus before Afua told the faculty. She all but asked me after the attack. And I saw her have some kind of argument with Deborah-Anna.”
“Ah, I see.” Professor Yori brought his hands together and sank back in his chair, and Phoebe could tell he was deep in thought. “I know that this must be a stressful and confusing time for you, Cadet Pope,” he said, sighing heavily. “And it doesn’t help that the notion of a traitor amongst us has been put in your head. But I’m sure you see how difficult it would be for me take your gut feeling and your other ideas outside of this room. Especially in the absence of proof . . .” he let his voice trail, picked up a water pitcher from his desk, and walked over to his book shelf.
“Not to mention that Montclaire is a highly decorated Blackcoat sworn to a lifetime of loyalty—”
“But she hasn’t been brought into the loop,” Phoebe said, almost at once.
“That’s because retired Blackcoats are not brought into active cases.”
“Well—maybe—” Phoebe said, grasping for words. “Maybe it’s because she’s retired.”
“Is there a point you’re trying to make, Cadet?” Professor Yori said, with a slight challenge in his voice.
Phoebe reddened. She wasn’t making any sense. What was her point? “Maybe now her loyalty isn’t as—”
“—strong?” Professor Yori finished. He watered a lovely white orchid plant that sat on his shelf and went back to his desk. “Blackcoats sacrifice a lot in the name of loyalty. When chosen for the service of the Crowns they relinquish their family name, using only their first names—Montclaire, Afua. . . . They do this to protect loved ones so that if they are ever caught, Vigos can’t round up their family and use them as leverage or bargaining chips. As Vigos are well known to do. . . .” Phoebe gaped at Professor Yori. “So you see, Cadet,” he said, his voice suddenly severe, “I know for a fact that Montclaire’s loyalty is immutable. It transcends work, love, . . . and unless you can give me proof stronger than that. . . .” He rose to his feet and Phoebe, who understood this to mean that their meeting was over, did the same.
A thought hit Phoebe just as Professor Yori opened his door. “Sir, Montclaire is still relatively young. Is there a reason why she retired so early?”
“Said she found a new calling to teach others what she knows,” Professor Yori said. “And when Professor Jones abruptly left town, Montclaire was available to teach her class.” From the look on the headmaster’s face, it felt to Phoebe that there was something that he was not saying. But brushing that aside, she headed for her next class, wishing she had never opened her mouth. Had she really thought he would simply take her word for it?
In the week after the kidnappings, Phoebe and Scott continued to meet the Blackcoats for their academic boot camp sessions. But with no Mariko frowning at a puppy-eyed Lewis, the atmosphere—which had never been upbeat to begin with—was even more subdued. It didn’t help that Phoebe showed no significant progress, managing only to deflate one balloon, which, when compared with Scott’s zero, was a success.
When Phoebe walked in for a new Thursday session, she found Scott hunched over the table, the hood of his USA soccer jersey pulled over his head.
“Hey. You awake?” she said, poking him in the shoulder.
“I am now,” Scott groaned.
“Late night?” Phoebe said, shrugging out of her wool overcoat.
“You could say that,” he said, turning his head. Phoebe saw that there were rings underneath his eyes.
“Well, snap out of it, Cadet!” she said, imitating Yelena’s accent.
Scott laughed and leaned back in his chair. “So . . . Pope,” he said, lowering his hood and surveying her with interest. “You and Colten Chase, huh?” His words hung between them, his tone neither question nor statement.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes at him. “Where’s that coming from?”
Scott shrugged. “I hear things and I’m a bit surprised. You don’t strike me as a celebrity chaser.”
“I’m not,” Phoebe snapped. “We hang out.”
“Hey man,” Scott said, picking up a balloon from his basket and spinning it on a finger. “I’m not trying to push any buttons.” Then, softening his tone, “Just be careful, okay?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Phoebe knotted her fingers together.
“Look,” Scott said, leaning closer to her, his tone serious now. “A guy like that can get any girl he wants and—”
Phoebe tensed, her face a crimson-tinged mask. “I’m not good enough?”
“You’re too good for him, Pope.” Scott drummed his fingers on the table. “Look. You’re my main girl and I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” The sincerity in his voice calmed Phoebe.
“I appreciate the concern,” she said, relaxing her features. “But I’m all good.”
“I have a one toe policy, by the way,” Scott said.
Phoebe made a face. “What’s that?”
Scott spoke, his voice low. “That pretty boy steps one toe out of line and I’ll bring him a world of hurt—”
“Hey now,” Phoebe said, laughing. “How ’bout we discuss your love life for a . . .” she let her voice trail as Afua swept into the room with Yelena and Deborah-Anna.
“Cadet Pope,” Afua said. “Today you’re with me.”
Phoebe stood and exchanged confused glances with Scott.
“And me?” Scott asked.
Yelena said, “You stay here and focus on deflating balloons.”
As Phoebe left the room, she could see Scott staring after them with a look that mingled curiosity and irritation.
Phoebe followed Afua to the athletic wing. They entered a long paneled hallway with only two doors, one on either side of them. Lighted signs above the door frames identified the rooms as Combat I and Combat II. Afua led Phoebe into Combat II—the only one without a red “in use” light on.
Phoebe’s mouth fell open as she took in the large, hexagonal-shaped room whose walls were made of honeycomb shelves bearing diamond-tipped weapons—knives, daggers, arrows, throwing stars—all glittering so brightly, they washed the hardwood floor with multicolored light. As though in a trance, Phoebe began to walk toward them when Afua’s voice stopped her.
“Those are for you to wear,” the Blackcoat said, indicating a set of clothes on a steel table next to a long, thin duffel bag. She then pointed Phoebe in the direction of an adjacent changing room. Phoebe removed her uniform, dressed quickly, and returned to the main floor wearing a brown linen short-sleeve top and pants similar to those Afua now had on.
“I suggest you stretch your muscles before we begin,” Afua said. She removed four javelin-like sticks from the duffel bag. Beautifully carved, two were adorned with a spiral yellow pattern while the others were red.
Bending to stretch her hamstrings, Phoebe eyed Afua nervously. “What are we doing?”
“You and I are fighting.”
Phoebe jerked her head up, unsure if Afua was serious. But at the sight of Afua placing two of the sticks at her feet, Phoebe knew that she was.
Phoebe shivered. She had never in her life been in a physical fight and the thought of her first one being with a Blackcoat, even a Blackcoat hired to protect her, was frightening. Phoebe waited for an explanation as to why she and Afua were fighting, and when none came, she said, “We’re fighting with these?”
“Yes. We’ll be engaging in Zulu Stick Fighting,” Afua said, walking across to the table to grab the remaining two sticks. “It’s an ancient martial art form that is mainly ceremonial today, but it was once used in warfare training for sharpening off
ensive and defensive skills.” Phoebe’s eyes remained riveted on Afua who expertly maneuvered the sticks with her hands as if in a swift, fluid dance with an invisible opponent. “I use it as a warm up exercise for my unit.” Great, Phoebe thought, what they use for warm up would most likely kill me. Afua gradually became a blur of furious movement, with her final steps landing her squarely in front of Phoebe, who sat in a split stretch, mouth agape.
“Pick up your red stick with your right hand,” Afua instructed. Phoebe did as she was told and stood up. Afua continued. “This is your offensive weapon called the Induku. You use it to strike your opponent.” Afua demonstrated by simulating striking jabs at Phoebe who flinched back.
“This one, the Ubhoko,” Afua said, pointing to the yellow stick that Phoebe picked up, “is for defense. You hold it in your left hand. Practiced wrist movements will help you use it to block your opponent’s attacks.
“The bottom tips of these sticks are usually sharp, and in real battle can be used to severely injure your opponent. For our purposes, so that you don’t accidentally impale yourself, I’ve dulled the ends.”
Phoebe spared a moment to feel the bottom of her sticks, confirming this fact. She sighed in resigned embarrassment; it was true, she probably would hurt herself.
Afua stepped into the area of combat—a large black circle in the center of the room—and beckoned Phoebe to follow.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” Phoebe said, nervously entering the ring.
Ignoring the comment, Afua bowed and assumed a menacing attack stance. “It’s kill or be killed,” she said. “Ready?”
Phoebe wasn’t ready. Who was ever ready for a guaranteed beating? But she knew whether she liked it or not, this fight was happening. Forcing herself to take a breath, she bowed, then said, “I guess I’m re—” A sharp pain shooting up Phoebe’s right bicep cut her off; Afua had struck with cobra speed.
Afua narrowed her eyes at Phoebe, an expression completely devoid of sympathy. Phoebe bit back her pain. Determined to save face, she charged forward. Afua pivoted to the left with balletic grace, her swift counterstrike hitting Phoebe on the hip. Tears welled into Phoebe’s eyes.