by K. Gorman
Sophia shifted, straightening slightly. The glow dissipated from her skin. “I thought you might try something stupid like this.”
Michael’s lips twisted, his eyes dark and furious. When he let go of his spell, the green light fled. Shadow cloaked his side of the room.
“You’d turn against me? For her?”
“She’s under my protection.”
Relief flooded through Mieshka at Sophia's words. Her good knee shook under her, pain throbbed from her bad one, and a coppery taste dried in her mouth. Fine granules of dirt ground between her teeth. She leaned against the doorframe, resisting the urge to slide down to the ground.
“Your kind never was good at loyalty.” Michael tilted his chin up. A small cut bled on his neck. “I can hear the blithspeln in your tongue.”
Glass cracked on the other side of the room. Symbols shivered onto the underside of Sophia’s palm, visible only to Mieshka. A set of jars, previously untouched, slid across one of the counters. The liquid inside pulled toward Sophia like tides to the moon.
“And your kind never got over the Transition. Move on, eider.” Sophia spat out the last word. A trickle of clear fluid slipped through a crack in the foremost jar, running down the glass. It hissed on the counter.
Looked like Sophia had found the acid.
Michael backed up, disgust clear on his face. “You'll regret this.”
Sophia rolled her eyes, turning back to Mieshka. The liquid in the air splashed back to the ground. Her shoes squeaked on the floor.
“I'm taking her. Don't follow us.”
*
Sophia propped Mieshka up, supporting her as they hobbled through the darkness. She’d left the flashlight back in Michael’s lab, and they weren’t going back for it. Instead, she conjured a tiny, flickering flame ahead of them as they piloted through Michael’s apartment. The light gleamed on hardwood floors, perfectly painted walls, and immaculate furniture. Bookshelves lined one room.
Sophia ignored the staircase that opened to their right. She seemed to know where she was going.
Soon, they walked through the old, rough-hewn tunnels that Mieshka recognized as the Underground.
She cast a glance back at the apartment they’d left. When she spoke, her throat felt raw, full of dust. She coughed the first few words.
“Why isn’t he following?”
Sophia shifted her grip, pulling her up the tunnel. “Because Aiden has a tracking spell on you, too. He must have guessed this. Are you okay?”
She grunted. ‘Okay’ was an overestimation right now. “I might have to postpone my date with Roger tomorrow.”
“I think you need a date with a doctor instead. What happened? I didn’t give Jo time for the backstory.”
She shrugged, wincing when it pulled at the wound in her bicep. “There’s nothing to tell. He collapsed the tunnel, cut me off from the rest, and took me to his lab. It’s not like I had any other choice but to follow him.”
“No, no. Of course not. You did the right thing.”
Sophia shifted her grip again. The tunnel shivered in the dance of the flame. Mieshka felt worn. Drained. Even this small use of her Element pulled at her energy. The earlier adrenaline had vanished, and pain once again throbbed through her legs. Every part of her ached.
The tunnel was dark, silent. Only the scrape of their shoes and the draw of their breath echoed in the shadows.
Sophia’s eyes slid toward her. “What did he want?”
Mieshka winced at a cut on her lip. When had that happened?
“He said something about an Extraction. I think he wanted to take the Phoenix back.”
Sophia’s muscles worked under her arm. Her grip tightened on Mieshka’s arm, fingers like bars of iron. “He’s fucked up. That whole eider family is fucked up.”
They shuffled up the tunnel. Cool air slipped past her skin, making goosebumps rise from her arms. Her flame slipped through the air, bobbing ahead of them like a Will O’ Wisp.
Sophia frowned. “He was holding back. He could have buried us easily. Why?”
“Maybe he needed me alive,” she suggested. “Could he have done it?”
“Taken the Phoenix? No. I don’t think so. Has Aiden said anything about it? How it bonded with you?”
“He doesn’t have the instruments to diagnose me with.”
The Water Mage made a noncommittal sound in her throat. “That’s what we get for living here, I guess. Scraps. Junk. You know, we—”
A sound echoed up the tunnel. Sophia stiffened, her fingers tightening on Mieshka's shoulder. The flame flickered ahead of them, cradled in the air.
The sound faded. Silence returned.
Sophia shifted her grip, repositioning her shoulder under Mieshka’s.
“Sometimes, the tunnels shift, drop stuff. It’s not him.”
They resumed their sluggish pace up the tunnel. Mieshka leaned heavily against her, gritting her teeth against the pain in her leg. A few minutes passed by. The tunnel diverted through an old building, the concrete and cinder-block walls turning to old, cracked drywall for a turn. They hobbled up a small set of stairs. She left a handprint of crusty blood on the adjoining wall. Her shoulder ached.
“Thanks,” she said. “For coming to get me.”
“I keep my word.”
A few minutes later, magic stirred on her. Orange lines traced her skin, their color shivering between shades like tongues of fire.
Aiden's tracking spell.
Sophia saw it and pulled them both to a stop. The warmth spread. They waited.
The tunnel’s air shifted. Her flame guttered briefly.
Then, Aiden was there.
Symbols blazed on his knuckles, bright and hot in the tunnel’s shadow, their Fire energy burning bright in her Elemental senses. Others shivered on the floor, fading into the concrete. His eyes darted from Sophia to Mieshka and back, their lightness belied by Mieshka’s floating candle.
“You missed the party,” Sophia said.
The light faded from his skin. He curled his fingers and made a fist, and it was a few moments before he relaxed it. His jaw muscles remained tight. “Is she okay?”
By the look on his face, she could tell he’d seen the blood.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Banged up,” Sophia clarified. Her lip curled. “Michael has a fondness for scalpels, it would seem.” The Water Mage shifted again, the movement pulling on the wound in Mieshka’s arm. She could feel where the blood-soaked fabric stuck to her skin. “Did you bring a flashlight?”
Mieshka’s little flame had grown smaller with the pain. It was barely more powerful than the tea lights she’d practiced on now.
Aiden took over, his power overlapping hers. The fire crackled and quadrupled in size, its color shifting whiter with heat. She let go, and Aiden sent the fire farther from them, illuminating the gritty walls of the tunnel.
Sophia patted her arm. “It’s okay. Size isn’t everything.”
They moved up the tunnel again, Mieshka lurching at Sophia’s side. The light slipped ahead of them, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. The top of it licked upward, shivering in the darkness. Occasionally, a flick of dust caused it to spark.
“We need to do something about him.” Aiden kept pace with them. “This is too much.”
“We should have done something ages ago.”
“The shield can’t hold with two crystals. I’ve run the calculations.”
Mieshka stumbled and tripped. Pain tore her thigh. Aiden watched her, an edge to his solemn look. The fire flickered over his features, reflected in his eyes.
“We don't need him. Just his crystal,” Sophia said.
Silence engulfed the tunnel. Aiden didn't answer, though his expression had grown even grimmer.
“We'll talk later,” he said finally. “What's the plan now?”
Sophia didn't break stride. “We take care of Meese. Then, we talk.”
*
Mieshka tensed as Jo dabbed the e
dge of the wound on her thigh. It had an ugly, partially-knit scab—half of which had torn when they’d peeled her blood-soaked jeans off. It oozed blood, the sides jagged and puffy.
She sat on a closed toilet lid in her underwear, a worn towel between her and the cold seat. The smell of rubbing alcohol and iodine hung heavily in the air. Goosebumps rose on her skin.
Jo inspected the wound. A dark, blood-covered facecloth lay on the floor next to her. Three clean ones balanced on the edge of the nearby sink. “It’s scabbed around some dirt. I’m gonna have to pull it off.”
Mieshka nodded and gritted her teeth. The bathroom was small—just a single-person unit from an old restaurant. The light hummed above them, casting an industrial white over the scuffed, patched, faded walls. Jo opened a small package, and the smell of more antiseptic filled the air.
“This will sting.”
It did more than that. She grimaced as Jo worked the edge of the scab, twisted it away from the wound, and pulled it from the skin. Tweezers glinted in her hand. Blood oozed out. The antiseptic cloth wiped away a fresh trickle, leaving a cool, wet streak in its place. Her fingers found the edge of the toilet seat, nails digging into the hard plastic lid.
“Looks deep,” Jo commented. “Stab wound. What did he hit you with?”
“Scalpel.” Mieshka gritted her teeth some more as the antiseptic wipe cleaned a speck of dirt from the wound.
The former soldier said nothing. Her face was stoically devoid of emotion—unusual for the snappy, sarcastic woman.
When she did speak, her voice had none of her usual humor. It sounded clinical. Passive.
“Sharp blade. Clean cut. It’ll heal easier. And the bruise?”
One on her shin had become visible, turning her skin a sickly, darkening yellow.
“Table fell on me.”
Jo grunted and then picked up a bottle of peroxide from the floor. “This is really going to sting.”
Mieshka hissed. The liquid bubbled into the wound, burning deep into the cut. She heard it work. Pain numbed her skin, made her want to bite into something. Instead, she switched her grip from the seat to the towel, clenching it tight in her fists.
The pain subsided. She let out the breath she’d been holding. Jo leaned back and gave her space to let her relax.
“I lied,” she said. “That stuff hurts like a bitch. No other way for it, though.”
Great. And they had another two wounds to go. She took a deep, calming breath. Jo pressed a piece of gauze to the wound and wrapped it in place with a worn tensor bandage. The elastic crackled as she wound it around.
“It’ll bleed a bit when you move, but it’ll hold. We’re having a doctor check you out soon. You’ll be hurtin’ tomorrow, though.”
Tomorrow. Monday. The day she was supposed to show up for work with Roger.
“Where’s Robin?”
Jo paused, then glanced up. For once, her normal personality slid into her eyes.
“Oh, shit,” she said. “I forgot.”
She set the bandages down, got up, and cracked the door open. She had a quiet conversation with someone outside. A last hiss of peroxide flared at the edge of her wound, taking Mieshka's attention off of whatever was said at the door. Cold air touched her cut. It itched, a dull, clear layer forming over top.
That was a good thing, right? The itching?
The door clicked shut. Jo returned.
“I left her back in the tunnel. Someone’s gonna get her.” She took a clean facecloth from the sink and rinsed it. “Someone’s getting you some pants, too.”
Jo fussed with the bandage again, re-tucking its tail underneath the wrap. It hadn’t come with any of the usual metal clips tensors came with. Mieshka winced as the bandage pulled across the wound. The gauze made a square lump on the front of her leg.
“How long will it take to heal?”
Jo shrugged. “Two weeks? Three? I dunno. Maybe the doctor will prescribe some painkillers. This is just a patch job until then.”
“Aboveground or below?”
“Whoever’s available. Though, an Underground one might ask fewer questions—be less inclined to file a police report. Roger does know a couple practices above that are… more accommodating.”
Jo glanced up, her dark eyes surveying Mieshka’s other cuts. Some of her humor had returned, and her movements were more animated, had less of a robotic quality to them. “Right. Next one. Your pants are already off, so let’s do the back of the leg.”
They got back to work. By the time Jo had finished, Mieshka needed a new shirt, as well.
Chapter 12
Every now and then, Robin heard movement.
She’d wandered away from the cave-in, motivated by the need for cleaner air and guided by the pale, insufficient light of her cell phone’s screen.
Damn. Now would have been a good time for that flashlight app she’d never bothered to download. How long had it been since they’d walked away from that one nice tunnel with the friendly, functioning lights?
Too long.
And now, there was something moving. In the dark.
Maybe it was the cave-in settling. Or some weird echo effect of a dirt clump rolling to the ground. It sounded like whispering. Quiet, unintelligible, infrequent whispering.
It set all her hairs standing on end.
She forced herself to sit—put her pack down next to her, slung an arm through its straps, and leaned her back against the wall. The tunnel was quiet. Every rustle of clothing—every movement—seemed unbelievably loud. She cringed when her shoes scraped against the floor.
It felt like she wasn’t the only one listening.
Which was silly. Who’d be there?
…Better not to pursue that thought, she decided. There’d been too many horror movies in her recent viewing history, in the time before her grounding.
A twinge of worry shot through her. What if she didn’t make it back in time? How could she explain this to her mom? It’d be bad enough to explain the dirt—Ryarne hadn’t exactly seen much bare, dusty dirt in the last little while. Everything was hard, frozen, covered with snow.
Was there a conservatory around? Maybe she could say—
Clunk.
She froze. The sound had come from farther up the tunnel, toward the cave-in. It had sounded faintly hollow—like hard plastic.
…the doll?
An image flashed through her mind of Jo bouncing the head off the cave-in. The sound it had made as it had hit the ground had ricocheted off the wall. It had rolled on the floor, spinning lengthwise like an empty bottle in a sleepover game.
She could see its vacant eyes in her mind, staring at her.
Maybe she should go get it. Put an end to her overactive imagination.
Robin stood, lit up the screen of her phone, and wandered back down the tunnel. The gun slid around the bottom of her pack as she slung it over her shoulder, smacking into the back of her hip. Her footsteps echoed in the dark, loud in the silence.
She made sure to stomp, for propriety.
The head was where she’d left it, cocked at an angle near the foot of the mannequin’s body. A fine layer of dust coated the plastic, making the sheen dull, dim, and dirty. She had discarded it just after Jo had left, leaving it whole and hale on the floor. Now, the dirt mound had claimed the mannequin’s arm, burying it elbow-deep. As she watched, a new trickle of dirt streamed down from the cave-in, further covering the mannequin. It had a quiet, insidious sound.
Maybe that’s what she’d been hearing.
She coughed, the dust making her throat dry. Her phone dimmed, and she glanced down at it, swiping the screen to reactivate it. It was down to a quarter battery. Maybe four hours left. Two, if she started playing games on it.
How long had she been here? An hour? She’d forgotten to check the time when Jo had run off, too busy thinking of Meese, the Earth Mage, and the incredible darkness of the tunnel—heck, she’d probably looked at her phone about fifty times, but had never registered th
e time. She’d been looking for networks instead.
Not that she expected to find one down here, but one could hope.
Robin bent down and scooped up the doll’s head. Like its body, it was the same, uniform color. Even its hair was white, nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the head. She rubbed her thumb over the sculpted locks. They were curled, combed back in a wave she had seen only on the historical dramas her mom used to watch. It was outdated. Belonged in a museum.
The face was more familiar. That hadn’t changed in the last—how old was this?—seventy years. Humans evolved at a sluggish pace. Or, at least, their faces did.
She cocked her head. He might have been handsome if he’d had more color to him.
Her cell phone timed out, drenching them both in darkness again. She fumbled for the button, trying to keep hold of both head and phone. The light popped back on, gleaming on the head’s pearly skin.
Footsteps echoed up the tunnel. She froze, fingers encircling the mannequin’s hollow neck. Voices followed, both muffled and echoed by the tunnel’s strange acoustics. She straightened, seeing a glow of light shift around the next curve. A flashlight beam arced over the wall, illuminating the rough, stark concrete. Dust hung in the air.
The murmur of their voices grew louder, more distinct. When they spoke again, she made out some of the words.
“—she should be around here somewhere. Jo said—”
A loud scrape scrambled the end of the sentence. Someone tripped. The flashlight’s beam retreated briefly. She heard laughter.
“Careful, now. Don’t wanna end up like Meese.”
Robin frowned. Meese? What was wrong with Meese? Was she okay?
Two figures rounded the corner, their dark forms silhouetted in the flashlight’s backsplash. She squinted as the beam flashed across her, hit the wall, and jerked back. The doll’s head gleamed in her hand. Dust drifted through the air.
They stopped short, and she heard a sharp intake of breath. The beam dropped from her face, focused on the head.
In the sudden quiet, Robin realized how she must look.