by Nya Jade
“Is that a matter of opinion?” Colten said with a smirk.
Phoebe laughed, remembering. “I concede. It’s fact.”
“The trick,” Colten said, flashing a victorious smile, “is to marinade the tofu overnight. You also don’t want to over-caramelize your onions.”
As Colten doled out more cooking advice, Phoebe wolfed down her food without a care for etiquette. Colten watched her, openly entertained. Minutes later, he said, his tone suddenly serious, “Can I ask a personal question?”
Phoebe raised her eyes from her plate. “Sure,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.
“I know you live with your grandfather when he’s in the country,” he said cautiously. “What happened to your folks?” Phoebe stared at him, suddenly moist-eyed and nervous. She hadn’t been expecting that question. “It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it,” he said, noticing the change in her demeanor.
Phoebe shook her head. “It’s okay.” She took a breath. “My father and I were in a car accident at the beginning of the summer,” she said, telling the version of her story all humans got. “I survived. He didn’t.”
“I’m so sorry—”
“Please,” Phoebe interrupted, her voice slightly strained. “Let me continue or I might not be able to finish.” Colten nodded, his eyes warm as he watched her. “I don’t know my mother. A few days after I was born, she simply left. No letter explaining why. No one has heard from her since. And when I say no one,” Phoebe said, her voice lower, but just as bitter. “That includes her own father. It broke him. He moved us in with him to help my father raise me and also to be near a part of his daughter.”
Colten reached out a tentative hand and touched Phoebe’s arm. “Damn. That’s heavy,” he said, his voice thick. “I’m sorry.” Phoebe could tell that Colten was unsure of what else to say, and she tried to show through her expression that he’d said enough. He removed his hand from her arm and gazed past her, thinking.
“I never knew my mother either,” he said, returning his emerald eyes to hers, a tinge of vulnerability in his voice. Colten ran both of his hands through his hair. “She died when I was born,” he explained. “There’s a sense of loss. Like I wonder what could have been. But there’s not that ache you get from loving someone and then losing them—” Colten stopped. “I’m sorry, Phoebe. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
Phoebe spoke at once. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, keeping her voice even. Colten’s disclosure had sent a jolt through her. She immediately felt a strong sense of kinship. A part of her recognized that they were bonding over the most intense absence in her life, something she had never been able to fully share with anyone else, even her father. She shoved it away. “Do you know anything about her?”
A hesitant smile touched Colten’s lips. “Yeah. She was an actress.”
“No way!”
“No one famous,” Colten said. “She was just getting started.”
“Was she in anything you’ve seen?” Phoebe couldn’t believe how much Colten’s face lit up at her question.
“It took me some time, but I managed to track down the one movie she did.” He sounded proud. “It’s a b-grade campy flick. But it’s fun to see her.”
Phoebe loved seeing the glow in Colten’s eyes, a vulnerable softness in his expression. “I’d love to see it sometime,” she said. There was a brief silence where Phoebe saw a dark mood flit across Colten’s face. Quickly she said, “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”
Colten’s features relaxed. “I’d love to show you some day. About tomorrow,” he said, changing subjects. “I can pick you up around two o’clock, if you don’t mind missing a few afternoon classes.”
Phoebe held back on a sigh. Up until that point, she hadn’t been thinking of the sting. She’d been swept away by the dinner’s intimate atmosphere. Feelings swirled inside her—feelings she’d never dared to entertain before. Not once had she thought to run through the things Afua had been going over with her: don’t make eye contact with any of the Blackcoats while on the red carpet; focus her attention on Colten; breathe easy to keep her posture relaxed; don’t search the faces of the crowd; act as though it’s not a sting. She’d laughed at that last point even though it wasn’t funny.
Phoebe bit her lip. “Actually,” she said slowly. “There’s a midterm I have to take then, so I’ll just meet you at the hotel in the early evening.” That was part of the Blackcoat plan. They wanted as much control over Phoebe’s movements as possible and would be escorting her personally to Colten’s hotel.
Colten reached across the table for her hands. “Whatever you’re comfortable with is cool,” he said.
Frankly, Phoebe wasn’t comfortable with any of it, and if Colten hadn’t gleaned this from her sudden unease, then surely he’d realize something was wrong from the hot moisture beading in her palms. A hammering at the door broke the silence.
“That’s my cue that this little arrangement is over,” Colten said. He stood up and offered Phoebe a hand.
“What do you mean?”
“I pulled a couple strings to have a lady in my room outside of co-study hours,” he explained, smiling conspiratorially. “Don’t want to push my luck.”
Colten pulled Phoebe unresisting to her feet and walked her to the door. She leaned her back against it and said, “Thank you for dinner. Everything was great.” If Colten heard the wavering note in Phoebe’s voice he didn’t show it. He closed the gap between them and Phoebe had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. This was it. This was their “do over.” She held her breath as Colten stroked her cheek with careful fingers.
“I’m glad you liked it,” he said, his eyes gleaming.
Phoebe’s thumping hearts almost drowned out his words. Smiling, Colten lowered his head and gave her a soft, brief kiss on the tip of her nose.
“See you at the hotel,” he whispered as he took a step back.
That’s it? Phoebe’s mind screamed. She was a little crestfallen. Still, Phoebe couldn’t budge, her breath escaping as a slow hiss. She had to admit that Colten’s innocent kiss had packed enough force to pin her to the door.
“See you at the hotel,” she echoed before slipping out.
By bedtime, Phoebe was a mass of nerves. And although she knew that her strength and reflexes had grown considerably over a series of stick fighting sessions with Afua, Phoebe was feeling less sure that she had the courage she needed to be Vigo bait. The idea of exposing herself to such great danger was proving to be a bit too much. Almost every evening, Phoebe would resolve to tell the Blackcoats she couldn’t go through with it, but then the eyes of the Vigo astride her father’s broken body would come back to her in her sleep, and by morning, her resolve would return.
By late morning the next day, Phoebe knew that all the faculty Below had received and read the email containing the list of the day’s student absences. And because hers was a half-day absence, she was around in the morning to receive the curious glances and knowing smiles from Professors when she walked past them in the halls. A few, including Montclaire, couldn’t help but comment.
“I hope those of us who will be busy playing celebrity for the night will find time to study for tomorrow’s exam,” she declared at the end of class to a room full of knowing faces. Phoebe ducked her head and bit back a scowl; she had to keep reminding herself that Montclaire had ample reason to dislike her. After all, even though she still didn’t know why that feeling of hate had emanated from Montclaire in the teacher’s lounge, Phoebe still didn’t really have any proof or justification to call her a traitor.
That afternoon, when Phoebe met Afua for their last fighting session, she was surprised to find the Blackcoat seated behind a long trestle table that had been placed in the center of the combat room. Instead of the normal linen workout outfit, Afua was dressed in black pants and a matching form-fitting blazer. Phoebe’s eyes were drawn like magnets to the elaborately embroidered royal crest on the right-hand side breast pocket: a
gold lion circled by seven purple crowns.
Afua was sorting through a pile of red folders, but looked up as the door swung closed behind Phoebe. “Please have a seat, Cadet,” she said, gesturing at the chair across from her.
Phoebe sat down, tense, remaining silent as Afua slid all of the folders but one to the end of the table and looked up.
“Why are you here, Cadet?” she said, surveying Phoebe.
Phoebe said, “I thought we were meeting for one last session before tonight.”
“Yes. Fair enough. But what I meant was, why did you enroll at the Campus Below?”
“To gain physical toughness—”
“I’m not asking you to recite the enrollment oath.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say,” said Phoebe, who began to feel thoroughly flustered and nervous.
Afua removed an elastic band from around her wrist and used it to tie her hair back. “Everyone has a story behind why they choose to become an agent,” she said. “Some are truly born for service. Others are pushed into it by life forces. I want to know what put you on this path.”
Phoebe looked at her lap. She had not expected this line of questioning. In fact she was certain that the Blackcoat had done a background check on her so Phoebe was not at all sure what kind of answer would satisfy Afua’s curiosity. Twice she opened her mouth to speak, but unable to meet Afua’s gaze either time, she said nothing.
Afua picked up the folder in front of her, lifted the cover and read, “Candidate: Phoebe Elisabeth Pope.” Phoebe looked up. “Age: 16. Projected time of conversion: first full moon after December 14th. Admission Status: candidate has declined offer. Notes: several follow up calls made to candidate with no success. Update: candidate has petitioned for last minute enrollment citing Legacy Courtesy. Ruling: permission granted.”
Afua stared over the top of the folder at Phoebe who was twisting her hands in her lap. “It’s clear that being here was not your original plan,” she said. “And given the date you filed your petition, I’d say that your decision to enroll has to do with your father’s—”
“Legacy,” Phoebe said quickly, splotches of color appearing in her neck and creeping up her face. “I came here to follow in his footsteps.”
“We both know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
Phoebe couldn’t help the tightness in her voice when she spoke. “If you know why I’m here,” she said, “then why ask?”
Afua narrowed her dark eyes and leaned forward. “Because me knowing and you coming to terms with it are two different things, Cadet,” she said in an intense voice that goaded a now emotional Phoebe into saying, “I don’t know!”
Afua remained unmoved. “I’ll ask it again. Why are you here, Cadet?”
An overwhelming sense of frustration engulfed Phoebe. “I don’t know,” she repeated through clenched teeth as intense emotions roiled within her.
“I will ask one last—”
“Fine!” Phoebe blurted. “Redemption! I’m here for redemption. I—I just left him there. . . . I left him to the Vigos. God, what do you want from me?” Phoebe’s voice trembled and then failed.
For a fleeting moment, Afua’s face seemed to soften. But then, leaning back, the Blackcoat pressed the tips of her slender fingers together and looked at Phoebe over them with an unfaltering gaze. Phoebe, who had to grit her teeth to keep from crying, lowered her eyes to her shaky hands.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Afua said matter-of-factly and without emotion.
Phoebe snapped her head up so fast that strands of her hair whipped into her eyes. She glared at Afua for a second, and with tears rolling down her cheeks, said almost indignantly, “You don’t know what happened. It was my fault.” All the pain Phoebe had felt that night came rushing back, a burning, helpless feeling that threatened to suffocate her.
“What could you have done, Cadet?” Afua said.
Phoebe choked on a breath. Afua’s voice had gotten significantly louder and sharper.
“Answer me,” the Blackcoat pressed. “What could you have done? Fight them? With what skill? What power? Is that what your father would have wanted? Wouldn’t his sacrifice have been wasted if you had been killed, too? Answer me, Cadet!”
Phoebe stared at Afua, her vision blurred by tears. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I can’t hear you, Cadet!”
“Yes!” Phoebe yelled, almost jumping out of her seat. “His sacrifice would—would have been wasted.”
Afua stared at Phoebe, eyes still blazing. “It’s a harsh reality of the field, Cadet. Agents face those kinds of tough decisions. And from what I know, your father was among the best SIS has ever produced. If he was willing to make such a sacrifice for a fellow agent, you better believe he would do it for his only child.” Afua reached behind her chair and brought her hand forward with a tattered leather-bound book, which she slid across the table to Phoebe.
Phoebe dropped her gaze to the book, let out a breath, and bit down on her trembling lip. Feeling as if her insides were draining to the floor, Phoebe ran a finger over the faded title, An American Dictionary of the English Language.
“How—Where?”
“It was taken from the scene of your accident,” Afua explained quietly. “Whenever an SIS agent is abducted or killed, SIS goes through any personal effects found near or at the scene in case that agent was able to leave a message or a clue behind that can help with the investigation.”
As if she hadn’t heard a word Afua said, Phoebe whispered, “That is a first edition copy of the dictionary Webster published in 1828. I saw an ad online that it was going up for auction at an antique store, and I convinced my father that we should go and bid. He was excited to add something that rare to our collection. Minutes after we left the store, we sensed the Vigos. If we’d stayed at home . . .”
“Your father left a message inside the dictionary,” Afua said, and Phoebe felt the wind go out of her. A new rush of tears started easing their way down her stricken face. She looked at Afua with disbelief, but her face was composed. She was simply stating a fact.
Hands shaking, Phoebe opened the thick, battered cover to the first page. The words hastily scrawled there were barely legible. Her father’s handwriting said: “my phoebe LOS12.”
Suddenly the room seemed colder to Phoebe. These were her father’s last written words. Words she did not understand.
“I may be wrong,” Afua said, “but I believe your father wrote that knowing the dictionary would eventually be returned to you. Do you know what it means?”
Phoebe wiped at her tears, still feeling completely overwhelmed and confused. “No,” she said. To Phoebe’s relief, Afua did not push the matter. “Why did you get it? Why was it given to you?”
“There isn’t time to get into the details at this moment,” Afua said.
And as if on cue, Yelena entered the gym. “Are you ready?” she asked Afua without looking at Phoebe.
“Yes,” Afua said.
“We’re done?” Phoebe asked, confused. “What about our last session?”
“We just had it,” Afua said. “One of the toughest fights you can find yourself in is the one that goes on in your head. And that can be detrimental to the one on the field.” When Phoebe stared at her uncomprehending, she added, “You need a clear mind for what you’re about to do tonight and that means understanding that the enemy isn’t you. You didn’t kill your father. So focus your fight on the enemy that did.”
At the sound of heavy footsteps echoing loudly in the hallway, Afua rose from her chair and gathered up her folders. Phoebe stood up as well, wobbling on her feet as she considered what Afua had just said. It was a lot to swallow.
“One more thing,” Afua said. She slipped her hand into an inside pocket of her blazer and retrieved a flat, red, velvet-covered box, which she handed to Phoebe. “This is for you.”
Phoebe opened the box: inside was a luminescent golden-brown stone encircled by a narrow band of silver. Tea
rdrop in shape, it hung from a length of black silk. Phoebe held the necklace in her palm.
“It’s a tiger’s eye,” Afua said.
“What?!” Phoebe squealed, shocked, dropping the pendant; Afua caught it just before it hit the table.
“Tiger’s eye is a gemstone,” Afua said, handing the necklace back to Phoebe who couldn’t help feeling foolish. “It offers protection to the wearer. Roman soldiers wore them in battle, and so do we.” Afua tugged on the gold chain around her neck to reveal the lustrous stone concealed beneath her top.
“Tiger’s eyes providing protection from Tigers,” Phoebe thought aloud. “Ironic.”
Afua almost smiled. “Carry it with you tonight,” she said in a tone that conveyed it as more of an order than a request.
Phoebe turned the pendant over in her hand; she saw that the other side had a flashing grayish-blue hue to it. Before she could ask Afua why that was, the door opened and Yelena and Deborah-Anna walked in, followed by fifty civilian-dressed men and women; some looked quite young, others slightly older. The group filed past Phoebe and with mesmerizing martial efficiency, they arranged themselves in five evenly spaced lines and crossed their arms in an X over their chests in formal salute. All eyes were on Afua who strode around the table toward where Yelena and Deborah-Anna stood before the group.
“At ease, agents,” Afua said.
The men and women dropped their arms to their sides. Phoebe stared at them blankly. She was only dimly aware of Afua handing each agent a folder. A gut-churning thought had seized control of her mind: this sting was happening. Of course, she had been preparing with Afua for two weeks, but there was something about seeing all of these agents tasked with her safety that made the sting all the more real and terrifying. There were so many of them. All this concern for her safety was a humbling reminder of how seriously everyone was taking this prophecy. Perhaps she and the other Hyphas were truly that important.
Phoebe didn’t know how long she’d been standing in a daze when Yelena’s sharp voice ringing in her ear made her look up. “We’ll come for you at six, Cadet,” she said, staring at Phoebe in a way that suggested she’d been repeating herself.