by India Arden
The gate buzzed open, and I started off toward it.
“Not that way,” the Rebel whispered urgently, and the van rolled forward and stopped just a few yards away. The back doors popped open, framing a pale guy dressed all in black. Messy black hair, fingerless black gloves, chipped black nail polish, faded black jeans, and scuffed black combat boots. If he was the Coroner, they’d been recruiting from Goth Night at the local dance club.
“Who wants to ride on the gurney?” he said dryly.
The Rebel in red leather hopped into the back and hauled me up beside him. He wedged into the back of the van on one side of the gurney, me the other, while the goth crawled over the stretcher toward the front. It was a tight squeeze. The first Rebel slammed the doors shut behind us. “Go,” he snapped to the goth guy. “Go.”
“If we peel off into the night, we’ll only draw attention we don’t need.” The goth climbed behind the wheel and rolled up the semi-circular drive toward the building, then kept on going, until he’d cruised right past. “What’s the whole point of scoring an official vehicle if you can’t take your own sweet time as you wander away?” In no hurry whatsoever, he drove back around, then rolled out the gate—just before it trundled closed.
My heart was still pounding so hard, I wondered if I’d end up on that gurney myself. I could still taste the adrenaline like a mouthful of dimes, and now that I was no longer standing on them, my bare feet stung from dozens of cuts.
“Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your new friend?” the driver called over his shoulder. I could only catch a glimpse of the rearview from where I sat, but he sounded entirely deadpan—until I met his eyes in the mirror and caught the subtlest glint of playfulness behind all the eyeliner.
But the other Rebel was in no mood to joke around. “No names. Just drop her off somewhere safe.”
“Barefoot,” the driver said. “Scorched. In the scraps of a burned dress. Really?”
The guy in red leather looked at me as if he hadn’t really noticed the state I was in. And maybe he hadn’t. He’d been too focused on sneaking us both out of there. “I’m sure she’s got friends who can help her out. Right?”
I met his eyes defiantly and opened my mouth to say of course I do—and then closed it again. Not only did I have no phone, no credit cards, no cash, and no shoes…but no friends.
Everyone I knew was back at the estate. The compound. And none of them could be trusted.
I dropped my gaze to the floor.
Once we’d coasted the rest of the way down the long drive, the driver turned onto the road and eased into a normal driving speed. He glanced back at the other guy in the rearview and said, “I know a place where we can score a pair of women’s shoes.”
“Not an option.”
“Pretty sure there’d be plenty to choose from,” the driver said, even though it was clear they weren’t arguing about shoes. Not really.
“You’re too trusting.”
“Not at all. You’ll note there are no windows in back. I shut the slider, and there’s no way to know where we’re going. Unless her internal GPS is unnaturally developed, it’s not as if she can track the location.”
The location of…the Rebel headquarters? Some things, you’re better off not knowing. “Actually…I changed my mind. Just drop me off anywhere.”
“Fine,” said the Rebel in red leather—not to me, but to the driver. And he didn’t sound very happy about it.
The goth gave me one last enigmatic look through the rearview mirror, then pulled the pass-through shut.
12
Never in my life had I needed to do without. And now I had nothing. Nothing except…the Arcanum.
If that’s what was even in the bottle.
Blaze had booby-trapped the extractor with some kind of crazy heat-spell. What if he’d set me up to lose everything I ever knew to steal a few drams of tap water? The stainless steel container was stoppered tightly. As I prodded at the seal to determine how it closed, the Rebel said, “Don’t. You’ll spill it.”
He was right, of course. If it was Arcanum, it might be crawling up the sides. But he hadn’t spent long days servicing The Great Machine—I had. I was the expert. And when he reached through the legs of the gurney and said, “Hand it over,” I couldn’t help but scoff. Yes, he’d put out the fire that left my dress hanging by a few scorched threads. And, yes, he’d stopped my brother from turning me into a pile of ash. But that didn’t give him a right to the Arcanum.
“Or what? You’ll blow up another bridge?”
“The Fourth Street Bridge was structurally unsound—and it’s cheaper to pay off an inspector than to repair it. Now there’s no choice but to rebuild.”
“Maybe inspectors can be bought or sold,” I informed him. “But this is Arcanum. It’s sacred. I’m not going to just hand it over because you said so. Men train their whole lives to receive it.”
“Men picked from a specific pool of candidates—families with old money. There’s no merit involved. It has nothing to do with being fit for the position, only wealth, and power, and greed. That’s all it boils down to.”
Maybe the current Aspirants were horrible—but I couldn’t shake the certainty that you don’t just traipse in off the street and demand the essence of magic for yourself simply because you can. “You’re not qualified,” I said.
“Don’t be so sure. It’s the information age.”
“You’re bluffing,” I snapped, but even as I said it, I wondered how far the Rebels’ “intel” might reach. All it would take was a staff member with a chip on his shoulder and a smartphone. Maybe someone who’d seen an innocent kid take a vial of chemicals to the face. But before I could demand to know where he’d found his so-called information, the Coroner’s van rolled to a halt, and the engine cut.
“What you did back there was brave,” the Rebel said. “But everyone has a right to Transfigure. Not just a chosen few. The Arcanum is distilled from the whole of the physical world, a world in which we all contribute.”
Maybe. Once. But this particular batch had been sucked out of an old man’s belly. Before I could say something I’d surely regret, the back door swung open and the goth guy gave us both an assessing look. “So, Mr. Cloak-and-Dagger. Do you propose we put a bag over her head?”
He was being sarcastic. Unfortunately, Red Leather Rebel took the suggestion seriously. He glanced around the back of the van and grabbed a white paper surgical mask from a bank of supplies. “Put this on,” he told me, “and cover your eyes with it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped.
“There’s broken glass sticking out of her foot,” the goth said, and reached in to hoist me out of the van. I wasn’t exactly much help, clutching the Arcanum to my ruined dress for all I was worth. He wasn’t a massive guy, but I’m fairly petite, and he was sturdy enough. He managed. “Take it from me,” he murmured into my hair. “It’s easiest for everyone when you humor him. He’s more stubborn than the last mule in Stubbornville. Turn your face toward my shoulder and pretend not to look.”
Everything in me wanted to fight. I’d fought too hard and come too far to simply acquiesce. And yet…accompanied by the first glimpse of tenderness I’d seen since my mother plummeted off the clocktower? My heart melted.
Just a little. But enough for me to give in and do what he suggested.
There was that smell again, in the crook of his shoulder—the scent of maleness. Tinged with patchouli this time, instead of leather, but it sent the same unwelcome shiver of anticipation down my spine. I tucked my chin, hoping to ignore it, but it was impossible. He clasped me against his chest more firmly as he lugged me up a flight of stairs—metal, by the sound of his boots—and my senses were buried in that earthy man-smell.
How sad, that my existence was so solitary, it only took the whiff of a guy’s neck to disable all coherent thought. It wasn’t as if an edgy guy like him would ever go for a pragmatic worker bee like me anyhow. Guys like that were into leather bras, not
leather work aprons.
The auburn-haired Rebel fell into step beside Goth Boy, and told him, “The Transfiguration already went down—but it wasn’t Water, like we thought. It was Fire.”
I groaned.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Goth Boy said. A door opened, and he called out, “Hey, kids, we’re home,” and then told me, “You can look now.”
He set me down on a couch and I tried to get my bearings, but even though I’d been given permission to look, I had no clue what I was looking at. The room was big, but nothing like the grand, wood-paneled halls in the estate, or even the vast underground chamber where the Arcanum distilled. It was square and industrial. Concrete, linoleum, cheap paneling and corrugated metal. Shelves upon shelves of stuff—random stuff, from kiddie pools to curtain rods to a row of identical lamps.
Trying to make sense of where I was, I spotted a bin full of bagged merchandise. The plastic bags bore a familiar logo: Lerman’s Department Store, a Corona institution. It was all over the news a few years ago when it closed, and again when rioters mostly destroyed what was left of it. We must’ve been in back. Us, and decades’ worth of returned merchandise.
And we weren’t alone—there were two more guys in the room, men about my age. Both rough around the edges, with long brown hair. One wore his hair stick straight and shoulder-length beneath a narrow-brimmed plaid fedora. He was adorkable, in a wide-eyed, boyish sort of way, but his build was muscular and solid. He was on his feet, vibrating with energy like he’d had way too much caffeine.
The other guy hadn’t bothered to get up. He was stretched across a crate topped by a lawn chair cushion. He held a book in his hand—a poetry chapbook—with one long finger marking his page. His chestnut hair was longer, wavy, sun-kissed around the tips and mostly pulled back into a loose man-bun. He needed a shave—or maybe it was a half-hearted attempt at a beard. But beneath the unkempt stubble, he was startlingly handsome, with eyes so striking, I could see their vibrant blue from across the room. Where the fedora guy was amped up, he was practically languid.
Man-Bun set the chapbook aside. “I wasn’t even banking on you guys coming back. And now you’ve brought a friend. The plot thickens.” He glanced at my ruined dress. “I’ll find her something to wear that’s not disintegrating.” He turned toward the towering shelves of stuff and began rummaging through huge plastic return bins.
“What’s your name?” Mr. Caffeine asked me.
“Don’t introduce yourself,” snapped Red Leather…while Goth Boy rolled his eyes and walked off. “It’s too dangerous. Once we find her some clothes and bandage her up, we drop her off in a safe place, and that’s that.”
He held out his hand for the Arcanum and I clutched it to my chest tighter.
“Don’t make me force you,” he said.
Man-Bun said, “Whoa. Is that any way to treat a lady?”
“Don’t you know who we’re dealing with? It’s Torch’s daughter.”
There was an intake of breath all around.
“My name is Aurora. And what about the part where I helped you? Have you already forgotten that?”
“I’m grateful. But you’re from the House of Fire, and we won’t keep standing by helplessly while your people bleed society dry to fund their lavish lifestyles and do nothing to keep up their end of the bargain. We refuse to perpetuate the widening gap between the rich and poor. The Arcanum belongs to the people.”
“Last time I checked, I was a person, too.”
Man-Bun tossed a gray T-shirt my way, but he wasn’t going to trick me into letting go of the Arcanum. I allowed the shirt to land in a wad on my lap and clutched the bottle even tighter. He shrugged and turned back to the bins.
Goth Boy came back in carrying a…punch bowl? Cut crystal, with a heavy, fluted base—filled with soapy water, not peach bellini. He crouched by the foot of the sofa, pulled out a pair of tweezers, picked a glass shard from the sole of my foot. I winced.
Mr. Caffeine was pacing in a tight circle, stealing quick glances at me, then looking away. He jabbed at the air in front of him as if he could write himself a secret message with his index finger. And then he announced, “If she’s Fire’s daughter, and she helped you, that means their structure is destabilizing.” He looked right at me. “Why?”
“None of your business,” I said. They’d already painted a pretty grim picture of my family. I didn’t want to think about what I’d seen my brother do.
But Red Leather had no such qualms. “They’ve figured out a way to accelerate the distilling process. We missed the Transfiguration…” his cheeks blazed. “But there’s more Arcanum.”
Man-Bun tossed a pair of black yoga pants on top of the gray T-shirt I was ignoring, and he let out a low whistle. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
Goth boy plucked another shard of glass from my foot.
Mr. Caffeine cocked his head, puzzled. “But I don’t get it. Why Fire? I thought Water was the one who’s dying.”
I pressed my lips together stubbornly. Man-Bun came back with several bras, dropped them on my lap, and said, “Truth has a way of coming to light. Might as well earn a few points by telling us what you know.”
It was tempting to prove I could be just as stubborn as the ringleader. But I considered the heap of clothes, and the way Goth Boy was now bathing my stinging foot. They might not trust me, but they were showing me kindness anyway. I swallowed my pride and dismay, and said, “Blaze isn’t the only new Master who Transfigured tonight.”
The guys went silent—all but Mr. Caffeine, who looked like he was doing calculus in his head. “Well, that can’t work. A tetrad has four members, and you’ve got six?”
“They,” I corrected him. “And there’s only five. Fathom’s dead.”
Man-Bun dropped a pack of underwear on the clothes-heap, and said, “It’s not a more-the-merrier situation. Four elements, one Master each. So, who’s redundant now?”
I blanched, and whispered, “My father.”
Mr. Caffeine sketched out a few more air-notes, then said, “He won’t be redundant for long. By how much did they shorten the distillation process?”
I shuddered. “It’s pretty much…immediate.”
“I can’t even begin to project the ramifications. We’d been hoping to add a people’s representative to the current Master Tetrad. But are you saying that multiple tetrads are possible?”
“Not…exactly.” From the source, derived. “Arcanum needs to come from somewhere. You can’t just create it.”
“Obviously.”
“The invention doesn’t distill Arcanum from the environment. It extracts it from another Master.” And once Blaze got the machine up and running again, its most logical target would be my dad.
Goth Boy finished winding gauze around my foot. He taped off the dressing, then straightened up and brushed off his knees. “I need to return the coroner’s van before anyone at the office notices it’s gone.”
My heart gave a flutter of protest—he was the only one I really trusted—but when he attempted to catch my eye, I turned my head and looked pointedly at the couch cushion. It was faded, matted with age. I must have expected him to at least try and coax a goodbye out of me, because I was surprised when he didn’t. Combat boots scraped at old linoleum as he gave up, way too easily, and walked off.
I told myself I was most definitely not blinking back tears.
Goth Boy might’ve been able to abandon me without a second glance, but the ringleader was still way too interested. He nudged the other guys out of the way and crouched down beside my head. “Listen to me,” he said. “The people who’ve been controlling the Arcanum—I know you see them as your family, your friends. But look at it objectively, and you’ll know they’re dangerous men.”
An image of Blake boiling another kid’s eye in its socket sprang to mind.
The Rebel went on. “They’ve laid sanctions on the population so thick, the soil is dead, the air is thin. People can barely breathe anymore, let al
one thrive.”
My father would say people should stop complaining and work smarter, not harder.
My father had also done nothing when Blaze’s lap dog hauled me away.
The ringleader lowered his voice, and with sudden intimacy, said, “Aurora.” I didn’t want to look at him, but I couldn’t help myself—and found his amber eyes shining with intensity. “You have the power to make a difference. It’s right there, in your hand. We’ve dedicated our lives toward positive change. Someone needs to stand up to your brother—let it be us. Help us…to help everyone.” He held out a hand. His knuckles were blackened and blistered where he’d punched out Blaze to stop him from lighting me up like a bonfire. “Maybe you can’t use the Arcanum yourself, but you can do the next best thing, and surrender it to someone who’ll do some good with it. Give it to us, and you’re giving people everywhere a chance at the lives they deserve.”
If I were the type of person who was good at putting a spin on my own actions, I’d buy into the whole idea of giving up the Arcanum for the good of society. But the fact was, I’d never been particularly altruistic. But I’d always been practical…and I was well aware that enabling my brother as long as I had was the reason Fathom was now dead. Maybe the Rebels blew up bridges, but Blaze was poising himself to burn the city to the ground.
I held the Rebel’s gaze for a long moment, wondering what he saw in me when we locked eyes—if he thought I truly bought into his zealous rhetoric, or that he’d managed to charm me with his chiseled jaw and flashing eyes. Maybe the reasons didn’t much matter.
Only that I decided to surrender the Arcanum.
The Rebel took the decanter gently from my hands. “You won’t regret this,” he said, in his gravelly voice, then turned to the other two guys and said, “Put her somewhere safe while we figure out if this is the real deal.”
Not regret it?
Too late. I already did.
13
The Rebels weren’t heartless enough to make me walk on my cut foot, but none of them offered to carry me. Which was fine. I didn’t want any of them touching me, other than the goth…and, frankly, I wasn’t too keen on him anymore either, leaving me like he had.