As I wait for Kellan, I spend the rest of the afternoon as far from Harper as possible and test out different art forms. I rule out those I know I’m bad at and test a few new ones. I try pottery, but the clay keeps collapsing between my fingers like pie dough. It doesn’t help that Claire’s masterpieces sit on the window ledge, gawking at my inept talent.
She’s really into twisting bodies into whatever elongated shapes she can, backbends, high kicks . . . you name it. I also try my hand at painting, but splats and squiggles are the best I can do.
After getting a quick bite for dinner, I settle in one of the wingback chairs near the hallway to the cellar. I pick up a pencil and spare notebook in the supply basket and scribble: “I’m awful at this.” Well, there’s a truth, and for some reason, writing it out makes me feel a little . . . less burdened. I want to pour out how I couldn’t protect Jess, but that’s classified information I can’t leak out onto the page. At least not outright.
Failing.
Falling.
Life now ending.
Burning in the flames.
I lower the pencil. Each word is stuffed with meaning no one would understand except me. I strike through the words, flip to a new page, and start again. This time I let the words seep out without holding back. I snuggle deeper into the chair and draw up my knees. My muscles relax with a deep release as I write.
Melodic notes from a strumming guitar float up from Maddox’s sunken alcove under the stairs. The soulful music drifts across the café, finding me. I can’t concentrate on writing because the yearning song is all I hear. Then my pencil lead breaks. Forget it. I rip the sheet from the notebook and crumple the useless paper in my fist. The soft notes beckon me to peer around the back of the chair, so I do. In the nook, Maddox sits on the corner of the wooden table, barefoot, head down and lost in his own world as his nimble fingers dance over the strings. He stops then starts again, perfecting a chord. He’ll have a pen I can borrow. I get up and go down the steps to meet him.
He stops playing as soon as I enter. “Sorry,” I say when he looks up. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I could use a break. It’s just not flowing today. The lyrics in my head don’t go with the melody.” He casually rests his arms on the guitar and welcomes me with a smile. “Do you play? Maybe you’ll know what I should change.”
“Me? No.” I hold the wadded paper in my fist. “I tried on my own, once. I think my fingers are too short.” I set the paper on the corner of the table and spread my hands wide for proof. Sure, I was five and it was my dad’s guitar, but still . . .
Maddox ignores my protest. “I bet you can. Learning on your own isn’t easy. C’mon. Give it another try.”
I hesitate for a split second. I only came in for a pen, but this could be a good break for me too. “All right, but don’t be surprised when I’m right about these mini-digits.”
He laughs. “You can’t start off thinking you’re going to fail. Think positive.” He stands and lifts the guitar strap over his head. “I believe you’re gonna crush it.”
“I’m gonna crush it. Right,” I say, taking the guitar. “Hopefully not literally.” I glance at the stone floor, hoping his guitar doesn’t accidentally slip from my clumsy hands.
He pulls the wooden bench away from the table. “It’s easier if you sit down. Table or bench. It’s your call, but that way you can rest it on your knees.”
I sit down and slide the strap over my shoulders. The woven blue nylon carries a trace of his scent. I let out a deep, shaky breath. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
“I won’t. Remember, everyone’s had a first time.”
“Second time,” I’m quick to remind him.
“Not everyone gives it a second shot.” He watches as I tug a lock of my hair out from under the strap, letting the strands fall over my shoulders.
I feel awkward, but I set the guitar in position and look up at him for further instructions. “Okay. Now what?”
He straddles the bench. “Get a feel for the strings. Just run your finger across like this.” He gently wipes his calloused thumb across the strings the way he’d probably stroke a girl’s cheek. Swooning notes fill the air. “You try.” He leans back. I run my fingers over the metal strings, but not quite as smooth and melodic. “That’s a good start.”
“Anyone can do that.” I turn, suddenly aware of how close he is.
Underneath that shaggy hair, he studies my fingers on the strings. “Maybe. But not everyone has a connection with the strings and the sound. If you don’t feel what you play, then the notes won’t resonate the way they should. Relax and try playing a chord.” He reaches behind me and takes my left hand, placing it on the neck of the guitar. He positions my thumb and curls my fingers, guiding them onto different strings, pressing lightly. His hands are much bigger than mine and his nails are cut short and clean. “Hold it gently and relax, or else the strings will feel the tension.”
How can I not be tense right now? His hand holds my fingers in place, and he is leaning against my back. His ocean scent is all I breathe. “Now strum the C chord. One long, smooth stroke.”
I watch my fingers slide over the strings. The soft notes glide through the room, sounding—not half bad, actually. I want to look at Maddox and see if I did it right, but with him this close, my face would no doubt turn full-blown scarlet and he’ll think I’m into him. Truthfully, I’m not used to being this close to anyone.
His breath brushes near my ear. “That’s good.”
My stomach flutters. I pull away and lift the strap over my head. “You proved me wrong about my fingers, but I’m quitting while I’m ahead.” I hand him the guitar, putting a safe distance between us. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. Especially Harper. “Thanks for the lesson.”
“You should keep playing.” He hesitates to take the guitar back until I laugh out loud.
“I wish I could think in melody.” I slide to the edge of the bench and tuck my hands between my knees. “I’m more of a word girl. But there’s not much I can do to change the world with mere words. Poets are a dying breed.”
His eyes spark. “You’re a poet?”
My face burns hot. Why did I just say that? “I’m not—no. I’m just constantly walking around with phrases in my head. Thoughts, ideas.”
“A philosopher then? Even better. Philosophers have a unique way of looking at the world.”
“Hardly my story.”
He sets the guitar at his feet. “Were you working on something?” He motions to the crumpled piece of paper.
“I was waiting for Blades to get back and thought maybe if I slapped down the words, they’d get out of my head and I’d be able to think more clearly about everything I’ve been learning.”
“Can I read it?” Maddox reaches for the paper.
I jump off the bench. “No. It’s not worth reading—just scrambled words.”
My heart races as Maddox takes the paper and unfolds the wadded ball. Instead of reading my scribbled handwriting, he walks over and hands me the sheet. “Sharing makes your work stronger. Read it out loud. That way you can hear the rhythm.” I take my wrinkled poem. “That’s what we do at Hesperian, express ourselves through our art. There’s no judgment here. You just heard me play a few chords earlier. It wasn’t anything special, but the more I play, the more music opens up in my head. Art needs an audience to thrive. That’s how we grow and strengthen our Bent. So, why not give it a try? Turn your back or pretend I’m not here, if that helps.”
He stands in front of me, honest, open, and encouraging. Wow. This must be what Devon meant when he said “get to know people.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. It’s not my dream to be a poet, so I’m not risking much except total embarrassment. And I embarrass myself daily, so it’s not like this would be something new. Plus, the words aren’t anything life-changing. I guess since all my other artistic talents have been abysmal failures, I should give it a go. I want to find a way to prove I belong here, esp
ecially since he told Devon there’s something different about me, and guitar isn’t the answer. “Okay. You’re my first audience, so . . . no judgment, right?”
He sits, resting his arms on the table. “Never.”
I walk to the back of the room. There’s less chance someone passing by the stairs will hear me if I read back here. I rest my shoulder against the back wall and start reading aloud, working hard to ignore Maddox as he leans forward. I focus on the words alone, feeling each one rumble inside before springing out of my mouth.
I was born the colliding line
Where shadows wrestle light
Alone, unseen
Heart breaking
Soul scraping
Trapped between the war.
My voice sounds shaky. I glance up. Maddox nods, encouraging me to go on.
Never bright enough
Not bold enough
Just a hidden marking line
Balanced on the ebb and flow
Of light and shadow’s throne.
My words float back into my ears, shutting everything out as I read on.
Guiding eyes, taking sides, lining each one’s shore
I’m drowning in the endless wake
Straining for the sun
Yearning for the rising dawn
Until—
I bite my lip and stare at the words. “That’s all I’ve got. The rhythm doesn’t work. That last part about the drowning doesn’t transition right. The throne part feels contrived, and my imagery isn’t clear.” I pull away from the brick wall with the sudden urge to find a pen. Not finding one, I focus back on my words. “I wanted to finish the piece by writing about how light doesn’t fall over something by accident. It’s always revealing something. If everything were bathed in light, nothing would be a focal point. Just like in a painting, the shadows are needed to help guide the eye to what matters, but—” I pull my eyes from the page and look at Maddox. He sits there with this dumfounded, entranced look as if he’s never heard someone read out loud before. “You said no judgment, remember?”
“No, it was . . .” Maddox has trouble getting to his feet, as if the world’s axis shifted one degree. He clears his throat. “It was great.”
I clearly bored him. “Quit being nice.” I wad up the paper. “It’s trite and doesn’t follow any traditional iambic meter. I’d get slaughtered if I ever turned something like this in for a grade. I never meant to show—or read it to anyone. I keep trying to capture what I feel, but my emotions never make it on the page the way I want.”
“I felt every word.” His voice is quiet. I stiffen when he looks at me as if seeing me for the first time—or maybe he sees the darkest part I keep hidden. Not only does my skin suddenly feel transparent, but Maddox doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“Oh.” I tuck the wadded paper under my arm. If there were a fireplace in this tiny space, I’d toss my paper soul into the flames. “Perhaps it was my grand oration and perfect enunciation because I’m a Marlowe . . . a long, long, long and distant relative to the playwright. At least I like to imagine so.” I grin. “Alas.” I let out a dramatic sigh and an extravagant curtsy to lighten the thickened air. “Reading out loud doesn’t change the world.”
At that moment, Harper calls Maddox’s name from somewhere across the room. I’m glad, because I don’t know what to do, or how to be around Maddox right now. “I’d better go,” I say, heading out of the suffocating space.
Maddox blocks my way up the steps. “Come by later and I’ll give you another guitar lesson.” He’s way too serious, or intense, or . . . something. I can’t place what just happened to him, but his eyes have this stormy look that makes my insides feel squishy.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m done with guitar.”
“Cera. Your words are lyrical.” When he touches my arm, I look up at him. Something about the way he looks at me makes all the air feel sucked out of the room. The Current kicks up as our eyes meet. His voice is almost a whisper as he says, “Write songs with me.”
“Do what with her?” Harper stands at the top of the steps with her arms crossed and a heated death glare aimed right at me.
“Nothing.” I’d be stupid to deny the connection between us, but I step away from Maddox. Maybe it’s the Current, maybe it’s something more, but he’s with Harper. I might not have a tribe of friends, but I’m smart enough to know that going after someone else’s guy—or even their crush—is violating a sacred “girl code.” Even with someone as unlikable as Harper. “He was . . . I’m not talented at anything, and he was trying to make me feel better.”
Harper marches down the steps with a plastic smile that belies the fury in her eyes. “Isn’t that sweet of you, Maddox.” She hooks her arm through his, smothering the space between them. “I’m beginning to think I can’t leave the two of you alone.” She forces a tinkling laugh.
I throw my hands out as she walks Maddox up the stairs. “No, it’s not like that.”
Maddox doesn’t say a word and he doesn’t have to. His eyes, fixed on me with an “I’m serious,” expression, say it all.
I slump against the table. He’s out of his mind. There’s no way I’m writing with him. Especially not after the way he just looked at me. Not to mention how exposed I felt when I bared my soul. He’d have to drag words out of me if I was to wax—or wane—any poetic thoughts with him. Besides, writing lyrics hits too close to home. Dad was a musician. I’m nothing like him, and I don’t ever want to be.
I look up as a group of rowdy kids jostle each other, laughing as they walk through the café after dinner, Kellan being one of them. He’s back? They’re headed down to the cellar. I race down the steps after him, following the voices. They’re not in the storeroom but in the last room on the left where the light pours into the dank hall.
“You told Gladys we were headed out, right?” Claire’s voice comes out into the hall. She must have walked right past me but I was too focused on Kellan to notice. I run my hand along the wall, staying in the shadows as I approach the room.
“First things first. We’re scouting.” I’m not sure who that girl is, but her deep voice makes her sound like someone I don’t want to mess with. “Our only job is to track Legions. There’ve been more sightings than usual on the edge of town. We’re only seeing if they’re getting close.”
I stop halfway down the hall, in front of the storeroom. Did she say Legions? I thought Maddox called the beast a Cormorant. Unless she’s talking about a different creature.
Milton chimes in with the verse: “Another world / Hung o’er my realm, linked in golden chain / To that side of Heaven from whence your legions fell.”
I know about the other realm, Milton, but don’t say, “your legions,” otherwise it sounds like I’m on their side.
“Y’all heard Tanji.” With his slight country accent, I’m pretty sure that’s Kellan. “Send the signal if you spot one. We’re markin’ their path. Not bringin’ attention to ourselves.”
“Can we take them down if they cross into our territory?” That’s Claire.
“Not on your own. Duck out ’n head back. We’ll hunker down till they pass over.” Kellan’s long shadow stretches over the stone floor.
“Let’s move.” The girl with the cold alto voice gives the instruction. Footsteps thump over a soft surface. I don’t want them to call me out for eavesdropping, so I lean into the shadows against the wall as they file out of the room. Dressed in all black, they head into the dark end of the hall and turn a corner.
Kellan is the last to leave. Before he disappears around the corner, he turns around and squints in my direction. Even though I’m swallowed in darkness, he spots me. “Cera, right?”
“Yeah . . .” Feeling a little nervous, I step out of the shadows.
He slips on a set of leather gloves. “We’re goin’ on a routine outing. Come see how we do things. Can’t learn inside these walls. If you’re one of us, it’ll be clear on the street.” He walks my way and tosses me a knit
beanie. I catch it. “There’s a tub of clothes in the gym.” He motions to the room they were in. “Find a jacket that fits. Then meet me outside.”
I don’t hesitate. I race into a room that smells like sweat and vinyl. My feet bounce on the rubber mats as I pass by punching bags and workout equipment. I find a tub of lost-and-found items in the far corner near the wall of mirrors. I sift through the contents as fast as I can and grab a thick jacket that mostly fits, sliding it on while I race out of the room.
I yank the beanie down on my head and turn the corner, stopping at a metal door. My face is blasted with cold air as soon as I step outside. An amber light from a streetlamp illuminates the steps up to the road. I jog up and join the others.
“Who’s the toddler?” The girl with the deep alto voice is a thick, amazon warrior who towers over me. Her straight and sharp nose contrasts against the tight, curly black hair puffing out under a beanie and falling around her wide shoulders.
“Tanji, this is Cera.” Kellan places a hand on my shoulder. “She’s runnin’ with us tonight.”
Tanji frowns. “You got good shoes?”
I wiggle my toes, glancing at my feet. “They’re a bit worn, but they’ll hold up.”
“They don’t look solid.” She turns to Kellan. “She’s running with you. I don’t want any whining about blisters.”
I stand tall, despite the fact that I feel tiny next to her. She’s probably taller than Maddox. “I’m a good runner, and I don’t whine.” Much.
Tanji looks me over. Each of her thighs are thicker than my waist. It’s pretty clear by looking at her running tights and thermal jacket that she’s solid muscle.
I plant my feet into the concrete. “Whatever it takes, I’m in.”
Tanji slips on a pair of thermal gloves. “You’ll need a clear head, a quiet mouth, and a strong bladder. Hope you got all three ’cause it’s going to be a long night.”
Kellan, removes a glove and places his fingers in his mouth for a high-pitched whistle. Everyone scatters. Footsteps tap lightly against the concrete, my own included. I run with steeled grit, keeping pace with Kellan and Tanji as frosty air fills my lungs and adrenaline powers each step. I’ve never felt so alive. Even though I’m part Seer, there’s no doubt in my mind this is where I belong. The only risk I pose being out here is letting the enemy intercept the vision—if I happen to have one. If that’s so, then there’s not much I can do to hide what I really am.
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