by Laury Falter
“Isadora,” Jameson called out, the urgency in his voice conveying just how much he cared for her.
“Don’t shout,” she whispered weakly. “I’m right here.”
Jameson began chuckling through his nose.
I sat back, exhausted but feeling the reward of accomplishing something I was beginning to think was impossible.
“What…” I said, catching my breath. “What…just happened? I…heard her voice through you.”
Jameson, his energy spent enough to make him bent at the waist and prop his hands on his knees, looked up at me. “As I channeled your power into her, she channeled her voice back through me. It happens…just not often.”
“Channelers have that aptitude,” said Isadora, her skin tone already returning to its natural color. She hadn’t sat up yet, still biding her time until her recovery was entirely complete. “Not all of them use it. It can be intimidating…accessing our abilities to their capacity.” As she spoke, she focused in on me and I knew she was referring to my backing away just a moment ago. “When we realize our gifts are there for a purpose, a means to an end, it alleviates inhibitions.”
This was the most I’d ever heard Isadora say and I understood why. She was trying to counsel me to unleash my power, to trust my judgment and use it when it is needed.
It turned out to be good advice because after we helped Isadora to her feet and, at her insistence, allowed her to accompany us to the remaining shacks I witnessed just how ill the rest of the village had become. Her boat, being much quieter than Jameson’s, gave us a well-rounded picture of it.
Whereas before, the swamp had a peaceful silence to it, now screams echoed across the water every few minutes, a sign of another person falling ill. These were the sounds of La Terreur and they mixed with the patter of rain against the water’s surface and the shacks’ wooden roofs, making a once mysterious and intriguing place feel gloomy, repressed. The windows of more and more houses darkened as those inside became too sick to light another candle when the others extinguished. There was no more laughter and the music had been silenced.
We worked as fast as we could, healing entire households at times. But I had no idea how deep into the swamp the village ran. There were so many more to go. Even as night came and we headed farther in, I began to wonder if Jameson and I would ever see the end.
Each stop tested my will power as I felt the strain of using my energy in such a concentrated amount so continuously. Around midnight, Jameson recognized it in me, too.
I found him assessing me, an apprehensive frown visible in the dim light of the swamp as we made our way to the next shack. He placed a hand on my knee, which should have tested my resolve to keep our distance. It didn’t. I allowed him to keep it there, wanted it, really. It was intimate and despite what I’d learned about my father and his family there was no denying the feeling in my heart.
“You look…tired,” he said.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“I mean it, Jocelyn. Maybe we should take a break.”
“No,” I replied flatly. “There’s no time for one.” I thought of all the people we’d seen tonight, which numbered over a hundred, and wished I’d arrived sooner. Each of them looked on the verge of death, the memory of their drawn faces and feeble bodies like a stamp in the back of my mind. No, I would not rest. Something in my response told Jameson not to persist. He didn’t but he didn’t back down either.
A few seconds later, I felt my lungs expand deeper and my back straighten farther. The grogginess behind my eyelids dissipated and my muscles throughout my body flexed vigorously. A surge of energy had suddenly entered my body but there was no explanation for it until my gaze landed on Jameson’s hand. He was channeling again.
I met his eyes and he shrugged. “Thought it would help.”
“It did,” I replied and he started to remove his hand. By pure impulse, I dropped my hand over his, ending his attempt.
The move shocked me as much as it did him. But having no objective in mind, I simply stared ahead, again fully aware of his attentiveness to me. Without having to be told, I knew he was smiling, content, accepting what he could for the moment because neither of us knew what might happen tomorrow.
Jameson’s additional energy helped me last through the rest of the night and into the next day. At that point, hours began blurring together. What might have distinguished one shack from the rest no longer penetrated the haziness in my mind and my limbs began to feel awkward, like cooked noodles hanging from my torso. Jameson didn’t look much better so that, ironically, our glimpses at each other conveyed that we were both now more concerned for the other than for ourselves.
Isadora, having been revived when our energies were at their highest and thus made a full recovery, was now the one at the boat’s helm. It had turned night again when her faint French accent penetrated my surreal state.
“Last one.”
My eyes drew open to find the largest dwelling yet. It appeared to be ten structures connected to walkways between them.
This is going to take the last of my energy, I thought.
Still, I was able, with Jameson’s assistance, to pull myself up.
“How many live here?”
“This is an outpost,” explained Jameson. “It’s not a home. Those in the village stay here while taking turns acting as watch guards for the perimeters.”
“Guarding them from what?”
“The ministry.”
I didn’t ask any more questions after that but I did make certain the red cloth was still wrapped around the bracelet carrying my family stone.
The outpost was designed to be utilitarian. Bins of supplies and the lack of comfortable furniture easily conveyed it. Floor rugs served as beds and crates became chairs and tables. This was a place without frills.
Conventional weapons also hung from the walls, sad tools that I now knew would be ineffective if used against more mystical defenses.
Apparently, they selected only the stockiest men to be watch guards because all ten of the men still at the outpost were a foot taller than me. And with my height, that’s saying something.
Only one of them had been stricken with La Terreur. He laid on his side, curled into a ball, his skin the same sickening green hue, and perspiring despite the chill in the air.
Isadora stepped inside first and named each of the men for us, although I couldn’t commit most to memory. Then she addressed them. “We’ve brought the healer.”
“Jocelyn,” said Jameson. “Her name is Jocelyn.”
“Thank you for coming,” said one of the men, sitting legs apart on a crate facing the man who was ill. It looked like he’d been there a while.
“How long has he been sick?” I asked, already squatting at the man’s side.
“A day,” said Alexander, the man Isadora stood beside. His voice was gruff, and with his massive body, he reminded me of a titan.
“His name is Aurelius?” I asked, placing my hand on the man’s arm.
I was surprised when one of the men confirmed it, not believing I had the attentiveness still in me. This was a good sign. It meant there was still energy left to heal the man.
“Aurelius,” I whispered into his ear. “You’re going to feel a jolt.” I had learned several attempts back that giving them fair warning calmed us both.
Jameson, who had been at my side since we’d entered, was preparing to drop to his knees where he would help channel his energy. But he never got the chance.
Aurelius began thrashing.
His limbs flailed, his eyes rolled back, his body arched, writhing maniacally.
Suddenly, bodies were surrounding us, holding Aurelius down, taking the strength of every one of the men to do it. I did my best to help, settling my hands on him and pressing the weight of my body down. Still, his arms swung in all directions, his fingers clawing against the pain.
Gradually, over the period of several seconds, the violent shudder seized and, finally, Aurelius went limp.
I took in a breath and let it out with a relieved laugh.
That was when I noticed no one else was reacting. Only me because I hadn’t seen it yet.
Every eye was now on my wrist, the one where I wore my mother’s bracelet. The red cloth I’d used to hide it was gone, clutched between Aurelius’s fingers.
During his thrashing, he’d revealed what we’d kept so well hidden from every other prisoner in the village.
“You’ve allowed a Weatherford here?” Alexander’s voice boomed inside the narrow walls, shaking the wooden structure with its force. His eyes were wide, incensed, as they moved between Isadora and Jameson.
Looking around, I saw the irate faces of ten strangers and I knew what was coming.
Jameson saw it before me and was prepared when the fists began to fly.
Ducking and finding cover would have been a wise choice but logic was Jameson’s trait, which I was sure he used to deduce that winning a brawl with ten stout men was going to leave him bloodied. This dawned on me too, even as I saw Jameson deftly maneuver around flying fists to take down three of the men. By the time I was able to conjure the last of my energy inside me, a fourth had collapsed in a pile on the floor. Then, just as the rest surrounded him, their feet left the ground.
Their arms and legs swung with precision but found nothing to land on as I levitated them a foot above the ground. Jameson, stunned, stepped back, his fists falling to his sides.
I still had my hands on Aurelius but could feel the energy in me slipping away.
I was running out of time.
Summoning the last of my energy, splitting it between keeping the men in the air and healing Aurelius, I opened my mouth and released a scream that rattled my eardrums.
Then I was falling back, my body crumpling like a rag doll against the hard wooden floor.
The sharp screech of my family stone as it slammed down and dragged along the planks…Aurelius’s eyes fluttering open…Jameson’s determined expression hovering above me…The blurred outline of the men as they advanced behind him.
These were the last things I saw before I disappeared into exhaustion.
18 MISLED
Something was on fire.
The pungent aroma of burning wood and the flicker of light beyond my eyelids told me so.
I was about to dart up when Jameson’s voice reached my ears. It was calm, thoughtful. Not the kind I would expect when defending us against ten mammoth men.
“Her family should know where she is.”
“In time, they will learn,” said Isadora unconcerned.
For a moment, I wondered where exactly I was. The ground my body now lay on was not the hard, rutted planks making up the floor of the village shacks. It was soft and bumpy and when my fingers moved against it I felt the distinct, crisp surface of cotton. Outside, rain softly pattered the roof above and dripped down the storm drain in a quiet, steady stream. These sounds, along with the crackling fire and the groan of the floorboards, made me think that we were back at Isadora’s home.
I’d been preparing to sit up when her next statement caught me off guard. In fact, I froze listening to it.
“She’ll need to recover fully now that her secret is out.” I read between the lines and knew she was suggesting I was at risk.
“You mean now that others know she’s The Relicuum?” Jameson mused. His voice grew more distinct so I thought he might have turned to look at me, check on me.
“The one who can pick up other’s residue…” Isadora reflected. “Generations have waited for her.”
“I remember reading about her when I was a kid.”
“We all do,” said Isadora wistfully. There was a shuffling and she changed the course of the conversation to something I wasn’t expecting. “That kind of power invites its own brand of danger. Not here, but…out there.” And I knew she meant beyond the village.
“You’re right. Before it was only you, me, and, I would bet, her family who knew.”
“And now the men at the outpost know,” Isadora mentioned.
“That’s right. And that’s one too many people.” Jameson sighed warily.
“It’s only a matter of time before the rest of our world discovers who she is,” warned Isadora.
He agreed with her. “I think that time has already come.” I listened as he drew in a deep, concerned breath.
After a long silence Jameson made a declaration that sent tickling warmth through my chest. “I’m going to keep her safe, Isadora. Whatever it takes.”
She chuckled lightly and then asked with bemused curiosity, “Well now…When did a Caldwell start to care for the needs of a Weatherford?”
Jameson laughed quietly through his nose.
“You fought hard to protect her,” Isadora pointed out. “I’ve never seen one man handle ten guards on his own…not even a Vire.”
“Well, it’s a good thing they understand now she’s not a risk to them. It’ll keep her safe when she visits here at least.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Isadora said in a maternal way and I knew then that was exactly what she was to Jameson. A surrogate mother. And just as a mother would, she didn’t allow the conversation to end until she was finished. Persisting, she asked, “Does Jocelyn know?”
“Know what?” asked Jameson tightly. “That she’s a Weatherford and they don’t associate with Caldwells?”
“That’s not what I’m referring to.”
He went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “That no one wants us to be together? That there are those, our families specifically, who will do anything to keep us apart?” His voice turned bitter then. “Yes, she understands all that.”
“I meant-”
“I know what you’re referring to,” he stated, irritated.
“Then answer my question.”
When he didn’t, she demanded, “Does she know how much you care for her?”
“What does it matter? She’s stubborn, Isadora. She makes up her mind and then commits to it.”
I should have been insulted but coming from Jameson I knew that should be taken as a compliment.
“Hmm,” mused Isadora.
“What?”
“I know someone else with that very same trait.” She chuckled under her breath. “It’s no wonder you’ve found each other. You’ve been looking for one another all along. No one else would do.”
When I didn’t hear him deny her observation my heart skipped a beat.
“Is she worth the danger?” asked Isadora, not in warning but to test him.
“Isadora…” he drew in a deep, troubled breath. My heart leapt at Jameson’s next statement, meant only for Isadora’s ears. “I’m in love with her. Everything is worth it.”
I’m in love with her echoed in my thoughts. Jameson is in love with me. Then happiness on a level I never knew possible overwhelmed me. Tickling warmth was sent through my chest and my body felt so light I had to move my hand against the sheet to make certain I wasn’t levitating. Beneath the sheets, I felt my lips curve in to a smile, unable to contain it.
“Have you told her?” Isadora asked gently.
“No,” he said plainly. “There’s no reason to. It won’t change her mind.”
“Why?” she retorted.
“She’ll never see passed our history.”
“What history?”
His feet scuffed across the floor before he answered. Then, as if he were at a last resort to convince Isadora she were wrong, he pronounced, “My family killed her father.”
Isadora didn’t immediately respond and I wanted so desperately to open my eyes, to watch this conversation playing out, to confirm I wasn’t in the middle of some surreal dream. Only as the conversation went on did I know for certain I was not in a dream state. This was reality - because it made me sick to my stomach.
“Maybe it would help if the two of you were to learn the truth…” suggested Isadora.
“About what?”
“Her father’s deat
h.”
There was a pause and during that time I imagined Jameson’s eyes widening and the contour of his jaw tightening. The very subject was a tense one and from the sounds of it Jameson didn’t know the entirety of it.
“Do you recall me once telling you the ministry punished me, all of us here, in fact, for the very same reason?”
He answered suspiciously, “Because you were all guilty of the same thing. You have information that The Sevens want to hide.”
My muscles stiffened at that news. These people, the ones sent here by my mother’s employer, the ones Jameson and I have been helping were committed for crimes of knowledge. They were imprisoned while Vires were free to commit crimes against those they were there to protect. The idea of it left me enflamed. Then Isadora admitted to something and the opposite affect took place. I went cold.
“My transgression,” said Isadora patiently, “was witnessing her father’s death.”
“You were there?” Jameson asked, his voice rising uneasily. “How could you have been there?” Clearly, the idea that she may have crossed paths with my parents had never occurred to him before.
“I was their friend…”
Those words stunned me, making me wish I could move and plug my ears. Every bit of information I was learning about my mother was negative, devastating. I wanted to sit up and tell them that this was not the person I know. She’s kind and caring, a bit strict…but with loving intentions. I couldn’t. My muscles wouldn’t move.
“Her mother was your friend and she sent you here?” Jameson said disgusted, voicing the same issue I had.
“She didn’t work for the ministry then,” said Isadora offhandedly. “Her mother and father - They were young, innocent. They knew nothing about the evils of our world even though they’d both grown up in it. Both were sheltered. They learned, in a very difficult way, who not to trust. That night, as a typical family taking their usual stroll around our streets, they came for her. The abduction was planned but not well enough. Jocelyn’s father, Nicolas, picked her up, defending against them as her mother, Isabella, ran for my house. When we reached them, the attackers had fled and Nicolas, still clutching Jocelyn, was taking his last breath. With it, he told us who they’d been - ‘Vires’.”