by Laura Powell
She took out a folded piece of paper from her pocket and passed it over to him. It was a page from the mood diary he’d been doing in art class; a splurge of red and black swirls, jagged yellow scribbles.
‘What does this represent?’
He tried to laugh. ‘Nothing good, by the look of it.’
He remembered doing it, of course. It was when he and Glory had discovered Rose Merle had been at Wildings. He had been thinking of Rose’s mother’s death in the burning attic. And of his mother, in the burning car.
Lucas glanced at the other doctor, who nodded encouragingly. He decided to take the cue.
‘I suppose it’s true I’m, er . . . conflicted. But I thought I was making progress.’
‘Indeed you are. That’s why I have brought you here today. I’ve seen how you have begun to let your guard down, and your vulnerabilities show. Some patients with your condition have no desire to open up, no real motivation to alter their behaviour and attitudes. But you, I think, want to change.’
‘My behaviour?’ He didn’t need to pretend to be confused. This was not where he expected the conversation to be going.
Dr Caron gave him one of her measuring looks. ‘Adam.’
Self-consciously, Lucas touched the grey in his hair. ‘Adam’ was the name they had agreed to use in the therapy sessions when talking about his fae. ‘Adam’s’ arrival had been very unexpected. ‘Adam’ caused a lot of trouble for Lucas’s family, and his father disapproved of ‘him’. And so on. But Lucas was tired of codewords and evasions.
‘There’s nothing I can do about my fae.’
‘Ah,’ said Dr Claude, leaning forward, ‘but we can.’
The breath rushed out of Lucas’s body. All of a sudden he knew what this was about. It was about what had been done to Rose Merle. These people wanted to cut the Seventh Sense out of his brain.
He forced himself to keep calm. All the signs indicated this was a sales pitch, not an ambush, and he needed to play along. At least it was no effort to appear confused. ‘I – I don’t understand.’
‘You believe your fae is an aberration, something inexplicable and uncontrollable. Yes?’ Dr Caron asked.
He nodded.
‘Well,’ said Dr Claude easily, ‘I’m here to tell you that’s not true. The Seventh Sense is a physiological, not supernatural, condition, which can be mapped to regions of the brain.’
‘You’re a brain surgeon?’ Lucas tried to keep the scepticism out of his voice. Dr Claude looked like he’d walked straight off the set of one of those American hospital soaps.
‘A neuroscientist.’ He gave a modest yet manly smile. ‘I work for a company called Cambion, which specialises in neural technology. Our brain-imaging systems have identified the neural network responsible for the Seventh Sense, or rather, the range of symptoms ascribed to the Seventh Sense. In witches, the neurons in this network form inappropriate connections – faulty brainwaves.’
Lucas looked at his therapist. ‘So witches are mentally ill?’
‘We aren’t questioning your sanity,’ she said mildly. ‘Certainly, not all the fae’s attributes are negative. Some probably had an evolutionary advantage, before the technological advancements of the modern age. This particular technology simply aims to help those who feel their condition is a burden, rather than a gift.’
‘What’s the treatment?’
‘Something called a deep brain stimulation implant,’ Dr Claude replied. ‘It’s an electrical device that is set to block the signals emitted by the dysfunctional area of the brain.’
‘Sounds a bit sci-fi.’
‘Not at all. DBS implants have been in use since the 1990s to treat conditions such as dystonia, Parkinson’s disease and epilepsy. The device we use is similar to a cardiac pacemaker, and made of nanoscale carbon fibres. In size, it’s no larger than a grain of rice. Once in place, it delivers minute electrical impulses to block the impulses producing the fae – the technique is known as intra-abdominal vagal blocking. Simply put, the instinct to commit witchwork as well as the ability is suppressed. The mark known as the Devil’s Kiss fades within an hour of the procedure.’
His delivery was plausible and practised. The faint lines around his eyes and sprinkling of grey at his temples seemed to have been expertly applied – just enough to convey gravitas. Lucas remembered what Glory had told him about the man who’d collected Rose from her clinic, the smooth American.
He risked a frown. ‘OK, but how come I haven’t heard of this before? I mean, this is a major medical breakthrough. It could change . . . everything.’
The gravitas intensified. ‘Exactly. If the procedure was to be made public, it would arouse a storm of controversy. Witchkind Rights organisations would be sure to campaign against our work, or even attempt sabotage. Then there’s the danger that some authorities might force people into wearing the implants, whether they wanted to or not. The fact is, many powerful organisations are prepared to go to any lengths to possess Cambion’s research and technology.
‘For this reason, I’m not at liberty to tell you where our clinic is based until you and your family have formally committed to the procedure. To all intents and purposes, Cambion and its staff do not officially exist.’
I’ll bet, thought Lucas. That way, the moment the medical malpractice suits arrive, you’ll vanish in a puff of smoke. ‘How many people have already undergone this procedure?’
Dr Claude smiled reassuringly. ‘A wide range. The outcomes have been consistently successful – I can show you many personal testimonies in support of our claims. Of course, you must have plenty more questions, and I will be happy to answer them. But for now, I’m sure you’d like to have some time to reflect on what we have told you. There’s a lot to take in.’
‘I know your godfather is coming to see you on Wednesday,’ Dr Caron put in, ‘but this is something you need to discuss with your father. If you wish, I can arrange for you to make a private telephone call. He will doubtless want to meet with us too. But it is of the highest importance you talk to no one else about this, either at the academy or anywhere else. If you do, I’m afraid the opportunity will be withdrawn.’
‘And you won’t have it again.’ Dr Claude shook his head regretfully. ‘Cambion knows how to guard its privacy. I assure you, we will be impossible to find.’
Dr Caron reached out and put her hand on Lucas’s. Her eyes were large and gentle behind the frumpy glasses.
‘Unlike your classmates, there are no instances of witchkind in your ancestry. For you to get the fae was a particularly cruel twist of fate. There is no shame in admitting this is something you would like to change. The fae isn’t a part of who you are. Not if you don’t want it to be.’
Lucas remembered the moment of discovery; how he’d crouched naked in his bathroom, stabbing a needle through the black blot on his shoulder blade. The Devil’s Kiss could not bleed, but the rest of him had. Briefly, he closed his eyes, and saw bright red flecks spot the darkness.
If he hadn’t gone to WICA . . . if he hadn’t met Glory . . . if he didn’t know about Rose . . .
Of course he’d be tempted. Of course he would.
Chapter 14
‘The perfect scam,’ was Glory’s verdict that evening. ‘And the perfect mark: a load of pissed-off teenagers who want their lives back. How much does it cost?’
‘I didn’t ask,’ Lucas admitted.
She gave him a look. Typical rich boy, it said.
They were in one of the music practice rooms. Mei-fen, as Wildings’ longest-serving inmate, had been granted a key so that she could play the piano when she wished. She had lent it to Lucas, no questions asked, and Glory had checked the place for bugs. The only place they had found them so far was in the common room. But better safe than sorry.
‘There wasn’t much opportunity for questions,’ Lucas explained, a little defensively. ‘Just lots of scientific jargon.’
‘I’ll bet – razzle-dazzle you with fancy words. It was the same wh
en Patch was flogging this balding cure cream down Talbot Market. Made a packet for the coven, he did.’
‘Rubbing snake oil into your scalp isn’t the same as drilling into someone’s skull.’
‘No,’ said Glory soberly. ‘Well, we know we ain’t dealing with Endor at least. It’s not like they’d want to cut down the number of witch-kids in the world.’
‘Lady Merle said the procedure worked at first, didn’t she?’
‘Oh yeah. Rose’s fae was gone, all right. Then a coupla days after she got home, she had some sort of fit and woke up doolally.’
It wasn’t the first time Lucas had heard the theory that the fae could be traced to abnormalities in the brain structure. Cambion’s claims possibly had a legitimate scientific basis. But without registered clinical trials, let alone a medical licence, Dr Claude and his friends were essentially using witches as human guinea pigs.
However, Lucas was sure that if Cambion were able to get past the experimental phase of development, they’d take their technology mainstream and sell the licence to the highest bidder.
‘We can’t be sure if Rose was just unlucky,’ he said, ‘or if that’s the fate of everyone who has the implant. It could happen to one in three, or one in a hundred. We don’t even know how many people have undergone the procedure.’
‘Huh. They must pick their victims carefully – people desperate enough to try anything, but who can be trusted not to blab. Which is where the dodgy shrink comes in. Bet she gets a nice fat commission from sending business the brain-cutters’ way.’ Glory looked at him curiously. ‘What do you talk about in your sessions, anyhow?’
‘Oh, the usual rubbish. Whatever I think she wants to hear.’ But Lucas knew that he hadn’t needed to fake being aggressive and fearful when he talked about his fae with the therapist. No wonder she thought he was an ideal candidate for its removal.
‘Well, she might have made out you was a special case, but it could be there’s others here who’ve been approached. So it’s not Principal Lazovic’s files we need to break into. It’s the doc’s.’
‘Shouldn’t we hold off until Wednesday and wait for instructions?’ Wednesday was when the MI6 man was due to arrive. ‘This isn’t what we were sent here to investigate.’
‘Yeah, and up till now we’ve turned up nothing but dead ends. We gotta have something to show for ourselves, and if we wait for Wednesday, it might be too late. From what you said, these creeps are a paranoid bunch. They could up sticks any moment.’
Lucas wasn’t convinced, but he thought he understood where Glory was coming from. She must be frustrated that he was the one to make the breakthrough. Neither of them wanted to go home empty-handed, but Glory had more to prove than him.
She pressed on. ‘’Sides, this might be my only chance to get a lead on Rose. I reckon whoever broke her out of that clinic was connected to Cambi-whatnot. She’s living proof of what crooks they are. What if they’ve decided to get rid of the evidence?’ Her voice swelled. ‘Rose is family, remember. I got a responsibility for her.’
‘All right,’ he said at last, defeated. ‘Fine. If you come up with a feasible plan for breaking into Dr Caron’s office, then I’ll go along with it. Deal?’
‘Deal.’ Glory spat on her palm and made as if to shake his hand, before looking at his horrified expression and bursting into laughter.
With a proper job to do, Glory felt her prospects brighten. And she’d spoken the truth when she said she had a responsibility for Rose. Her faith in Starling Girl solidarity had been shaken by her Great-Aunt Angeline, but that only made it all the more important that she did things right by Lily’s granddaughter.
Dr Caron did not live on campus, but commuted from one of the larger towns in the east. Since Sundays and Mondays were her days off, Glory decided to spend Sunday on planning and preparation, and stage the break-in the following night.
She knew the therapist’s office was protected by a keypad on the door as well as a sturdy lock. The windows were iron-shuttered. However, there was a small toilet adjoining the office, with an old-fashioned skylight in the ceiling. If she and Lucas could sky-leap on to the roof of the tower, her lock-picking skills should get them inside.
The problem was where to sky-leap from. The windows in their bedrooms were barred, and the attics out of bounds. Trying to break into them would be an unnecessary complication. Instead, Glory had chosen a top-floor window that looked into the smaller of the castle’s two interior courtyards. It had a decent ledge and was overshadowed by the eaves. Once on the roof, the castle’s towers and turrets should shield the sky-leapers from view.
The biggest challenge, however, was avoiding the interior security patrols. A pair of guardians made the rounds four times a night, but kept their timings deliberately irregular. The situation was further complicated by the fact that she and Lucas would be coming from different directions.
On Monday after lights-out, Glory waited in her room. She was sitting on a chair opposite the window, hands resting on her thighs, with five threads of cotton strung loosely between each finger. She had worn the threads looped around her wrist all day, and that evening run them between her hands, damp with spit, as she worked her fae into the cotton. Then she’d cut the cotton in half, and laid five of the ten pieces along the route from her room to the exit window. The castle’s luxurious carpeting was an advantage, for she had nestled the lines of cotton so deep in the plush they were virtually invisible.
Back in her room, she’d run the other five threads through her hands again, and licked them too, before tying them to her fingers. She kept her breath slow and steady, visualising the darkly shimmering thread of fae that bound those laid on stairways and thresholds to those knotted to her fingertips. In his own room, Lucas would be doing the same. Her eyes were fixed on the window.
After over an hour’s wait, the glass suddenly bloomed with mist, as if a ghost had breathed on to the pane. The ghost’s invisible hand wrote a tick mark into the mist, which quickly faded away. It meant the patrol had passed by Lucas’s quarters first, and was now headed in her direction.
A faintly smeared handprint was still visible on the window pane. Lucas had put it there, making a furtive dash into her room after morning assembly. Communicating between windows or mirrors was one of the more useful tricks they’d learned at WICA, but for it to work, both witches had to have laid their palms on both panes of glass. Glory smiled a little, remembering how she had bumped into Matron on the way back from a reciprocal visit. ‘These are the boys’ quarters, Gloriana,’ Mrs Heggie had told her, frowning. ‘Did you take a wrong turn?’
Glory intensified her focus on the threads she held. Her fingers felt cramped and stiff. Finally, almost twenty minutes after Lucas’s message, the line of cotton between her thumbs twitched and tightened. It was a sign that someone had crossed over its other half, which she had laid under their exit window. The patrol must be heading to the stairs down to her floor. Sure enough, about five minutes later, the thread between her forefingers snapped straight, and Glory knew the patrol had passed by the door at the end of her corridor. A third, and they’d turned right. A fourth, and they’d reached the main staircase. A fifth – much weaker, since the thread was at a considerable distance from her room – told her the guardians were on their way back to their station in the north tower.
With a sigh of relief, Glory disentangled the cotton, rolled it into a small clump and flicked it out of the window. The talisman only worked once, and the importance of cleaning up after witchwork had been drummed into her time and time again. She would get rid of as many of the remaining threads as possible while on her way out.
First, though, she laid her left hand over the smudge left by Lucas’s handprint on the window. Glory breathed deeply on to the glass next to the print, feeling her fae swell within her, a silvery second breath. Her right forefinger tingled as it traced a slightly wobbly tick in the condensation. Time to go.
They had calculated they’d have at leas
t forty-five minutes before another patrol was due to make the rounds. In all likelihood, they’d have considerably longer, but it wouldn’t do to take any chances. At her bedroom door, Glory pulled down a wool beanie to hide her face. She was wearing a navy tracksuit and plimsolls and had her lock-picking set in her left pocket. In her right was the pine cone she would be using as a lodestone. A pebble might clatter too noisily, though it would be easier to throw.
It was near midnight: the witching hour. The illuminated dial of Glory’s wristwatch – another MI6 gadget – provided the only light outside her room. They needed to keep witchwork to a minimum in case they got caught. That way, it would be easier to pass off their exploits as a prank.
Lucas was already by the window, his face a pale smudge under his hooded top. Good gear to go robbing in, said Auntie Angel’s voice approvingly in Glory’s head, and she almost laughed. She squeezed Lucas’s hand, partly in greeting, partly in celebration of the fae fizzing through her, and he pulled back a little, startled.
She undid the window latch. The sash moved up smoothly. There was only one outside light in the narrow courtyard, set over the door five steep storeys below. Glory rolled the pine cone between her palms, feeling the bark scratch pleasantly against her skin. She propped it on the sill, summoned it, and climbed on to the ledge, eyes fixed on her chosen landing spot. It was the other side of the courtyard, to the left of the gable opposite, meaning she would need to leap upwards on the diagonal. She could sense Lucas tensing up behind her, and took a deep breath, not to calm her nerves, but to settle her excitement. The thrill of witchworking was like champagne bubbles in the blood.
Glory expelled the lodestone in a fluid arc, listening for the faint tap of its landing. There was a half-second of suspense, then the tug of fae jolted up through her body and into the air, and she soared after it: easily, sweetly, naturally. In the blink of an eye, her hand closed on the pine cone, and her feet found purchase on the stone.