“The students have been working hard to improve their Affinities,” Fraco persisted, the shrillness of his voice beginning to surface. “Many of them are still discovering their abilities, and it takes time to harness such powers. You have already seen very clearly that their academic test scores are above what you might expect, considering many of them come from terrible upbringings.”
“This is supposed to be a training camp,” Artemis said. “That was the agreement Angor Periculy made when the government gave him permission to build this town. You, as his vice principal, should be aware that he is legally obligated to prepare these children for the government’s use. They are meant to be weapons, not scholars.”
“You should also be aware of the threat your kind poses to the rest of the world,” William chimed in. “This town has seen firsthand what the Wackos can do. If Mr. Periculy backs out of the deal he made, he and everyone in this town will be enemies of the United States government. He must either train them properly and then give them to us, or we’ll be forced to imprison them all.”
“Are we understood?” Artemis finished, and though Adara couldn’t see her face, it was evident by her tone that Fraco didn’t have a choice in the matter.
“Of course,” he answered, bowing his head submissively. “I will relay all you’ve said directly to Mr. Periculy. I assure you there will be no discrepancies between Periculand and the United States government. We wish to work peacefully with you.”
William nodded. “Good. With the upcoming shift in the political paradigm, you can imagine some of our terms may change. Between the two of us, we would like to employ your Affinity forces soon and strike an attack on the Wackos—but we will see what the new president thinks, won’t we?”
Fraco smiled like a sycophant but made no reply before gesturing to the doors and allowing William to open them. The three adults filed out to the vague sound of Artemis’s complaints.
Adara and Tray, still standing tensely against the wall, glanced sideways at each other but didn’t move; after a moment of processing the conversation they’d just heard, she whirled to face him directly.
“Well,” she said, her tone dripping with spite, “they’re evil enough to be my parents.”
Tray relaxed only slightly before answering. “They’re not evil. They’re just…deceptive.”
“They want to train a bunch of teenagers to fight a war against terrorists for them,” she said flatly. “They’re evil.”
Pinching his forehead, he stared down the empty corridor in rumination. “What’s worse is Angor agreed to the terms and hasn’t even told anyone. Everyone in there, thinking they’re just improving for their own benefit—they’re really being groomed for war. The Reggs are right in saying Angor’s doing a lousy job at it. If the government decides to throw us in front of the Wackos now, we’re done for. It took all of us just to take down two of them.”
“Even Nero couldn’t take them down,” she said as desperation overcame her. “We need to get out of this place—all of us. We can’t stay here.”
“Where will we go?” Tray demanded. “Soon they’ll be opening these schools—or training prison camps—everywhere in the country.”
“Then we leave this goddamn place!”
“And go where? The whole world is going to be on board with this eventually. We’ll never be safe anywhere. We’re never going to have normal lives.”
“So, what—we stay here and become weapons for the government? I’d rather be a fugitive, thank you.”
Tray shook his head repeatedly, his face set in thought. “No, we can’t run. We need to stay here and become weapons for ourselves. You don’t even know what your Affinity is yet, and I’ve been pretending mine doesn’t exist for the past month. It’s time we figure out how to master our powers, so we can use them to protect ourselves from the Wackos and the government. We’ll fortify this town and protect it. This may not be home, but it’s better than prison—it has to be.”
28
Remembering
“The polls have to be wrong,” Seth insisted as he chomped on a sandwich. From the red table they sat at, he stared at the television across the room, the screen flashing numbers and graphs associated with the upcoming presidential election.
Almost four weeks had passed since his sixteenth birthday—the day Adara and Tray had discovered the truth of Periculand—and the election that would determine their fates was only two days away. Most of the students at the training school were too young to vote, of course, but everyone was still deeply invested in the politics that had the possibility to end their lives.
“The polls are exactly what they should be,” Tray refuted, a book on the table in front of him rather than a plate. In only a month, the scrawnier Stark twin had put on enough muscle to be easily confused for Seth, and if it weren’t for Tray’s completely brown eyes, Adara would have had trouble telling them apart.
Jacked Tray was a disturbing sight for Adara, and what he could do with his strength was even more baffling. He wasn’t nearly as impressive as Nero yet, but he and Lavisa had been practicing an acrobatic move during training where he would lift her by her foot with only one arm, and the few times they’d succeeded had been rather remarkable—especially for a kid who had never had an interest in sports. Adara, who was still in ardent denial about her Affinity, and who had been an avid critic of super strength, refused to admit she was jealous.
“The population of Affinities in the US is only about two percent, isn’t it, Aethelred?” Tray went on, looking to the chief of Mentals, who sat among them. He was wedged in the seat between Eliana and Seth, plucking purple grapes and plopping them into his mouth with pensive amusement. With the rest of the gang here except Ackerly, Devil-Red almost felt like one of the primaries.
“One percent, officially,” he answered, “although we suspect there are more Affinities out there, perhaps in hiding or perhaps unaware of their own ability.”
“Well, then it’s impressive Hauser and Cosmos have even three percent supporting them. As an independent party, it’s surprising they have any votes at all, considering you have to confine your ideas to one of two narrow-minded views to even be considered for the presidency,” Tray said, glancing toward the news polls.
Adara wouldn’t have cared about any of it if she weren’t an Affinity, but now she was being forced to give a damn about stupid, serious stuff like politics. Emmett Ventura, the one Calder nearly drowned, was leading with forty-nine percent; the democratic nominee had forty-seven; and Harold Hauser and Olalla Cosmos were at a pathetic three percent, their bar on the graph nearly invisible next to the other two.
“It only makes sense that they’ll lose. The Reggs are terrified of us,” Adara sighed, licking the donut frosting from her fingers. Donuts weren’t served at lunchtime, but the school’s chef had learned to save the leftover breakfast donuts for her, to Tray’s obvious disgust.
“We can only hope that, whoever wins, the government starts telling the public the truth about Affinities,” Aethelred said, his words more optimistic than his tone. “I should get going soon,” he added, dropping the last grape into his mouth as he began to stand. “As always, I enjoyed lunch with you all. Unfortunately, I have a meeting with Fraco in a few minutes.”
“Fraco,” Adara snorted, “that little worm. Glad you don’t like him much either, Devil-Red.”
“I wouldn’t say I dislike him,” Aethelred said, gently pushing in his orange chair. “I just don’t…understand him.”
“Well, if you don’t understand him, I don’t think anyone could,” Hartman reckoned from across the table, gnawing on a carrot like a bunny.
“How’d Mr. Grease get his Affinity, anyway?” Adara inquired. “Did he drown in oil or something?”
“I have no idea,” Aethelred said, his lips curved humorously. “I am curious, of course, but I’ve never mustered the courage to touch his slimy skin.”
“I don’t think anyone has—”
Adara cut her
self short when Ackerly entered the cafeteria, his shoulders slumped. Though his skin was clean, his green sweatshirt was painted with dirt, as were his jeans. When he plopped down beside Adara, she noticed his eyes were glossy and droopy behind his glasses, his face pale with nausea.
“You’re looking greener than usual, Greenie.”
He swallowed and glanced at her with sorrow. “I-I just…I was at my garden—you know, by the woods—and…and it’s destroyed. All of the plants were torn up and ripped and murdered and—and he wrote his name with the remains—”
Instinctively, Adara grabbed Tray’s fork and clenched her fist around it, her chest burning with fury. “Nero.”
Ackerly nodded solemnly, but she barely saw it before shoving out of her chair, knocking it onto the ground, and stalking through the cafeteria. Everyone else had stood with her: Tray, pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt; Lavisa, cautious but prepared; Hartman, teleporting toward his stepbrother’s table; and Seth, running to grab Adara’s arm.
“Dar,” he implored, but she wrenched away from him and continued toward Nero, who was chortling among his friends. Hartman had already reached his brother, but he was hesitant to say anything and glanced back at Adara for assistance instead.
“What do you want, twat?” Nero sneered at his stepbrother. Nixie, seated beside her boyfriend, had previously been laughing along with the rest, but when she saw the horde of primaries approaching, she nudged Nero and he looked. “Ah—you all saw the masterpiece I made with the plants, huh? I’m not much of an artist, but I was feeling inspired. Told you I’d get back at you for that stupid prank you played in September, Stromer.”
The Pixie Prince, seated across the table from his sister and her boyfriend, had stood and was blocking Adara’s path. Her hand flew up as she prepared to stab him with the fork, but Seth grabbed her wrist and Calder squirted her face with water before she could attack. Spitting and seething, she violently yanked her arm from Seth’s grasp yet again, and granting Calder no time to react, she jabbed the dull spikes of the fork through his flimsy t-shirt.
A grunt escaped his lips as the metal pierced the skin below his left clavicle. The wound was shallow, but blood still seeped out onto his white shirt, creating a circle of red that didn’t faze Adara in the slightest. She plowed past Nero’s first line of defense and hurled herself at the block of muscle that still sat smugly in his chair.
Instead of punching him in the face, like he must have expected, she slammed her elbow into the bulging muscle between his neck and shoulder. He didn’t groan or cry or even flinch, but his smirk did fade into a scowl as he rose from his seat like a monster emerging from the depths of the earth. Broad and heavy, he towered over Adara with a malevolent gleam in his steel gray eyes.
“You wanna fight, Stromer?” he asked, his thick eyebrows jumping provocatively.
“Don’t be dumb, Adara!” Seth shouted from a few feet away.
Calder, who had just viciously yanked the fork from his chest, blocked Seth from approaching her, along with Acid Attack and a boulder-shaped boy. Hartman was the only one who managed to get near Adara and Nero, since there was now a mass of defenders and spectators, but he was too busy cowering by the wall to help.
“We gotta strike back with an even better prank,” Seth yelled, “not violence!”
His discouragement was lost on Adara; all she could see was red anger that boiled her blood and fueled her with adrenaline. With a growl of exertion, she thrust her foot toward Nero’s groin, much like she’d done to Calder at the first JAMZ session. Before she could kick him, though, Nero wrapped his giant fingers around her ankle, halting her so she stood unbalanced on one foot.
Smiling manically, he jerked her leg upward. It would have flipped her onto her back—or dislocated her hip—if someone hadn’t suddenly appeared behind her, catching her before she could fall. His hands were on her bare arms—hands too aged to be Seth’s or Tray’s or Hartman’s. She only had enough time to rotate her head and see the unusual expression of terror that had engulfed Aethelred’s face.
He had touched her skin, giving him uncontrollable access to her memories. The spark shot through her, igniting her core with the heat she’d been desperately trying to stifle. Instead of pulling away consciously, blackness quelled her vision and plunged her into the past.
Wisps of black hair hung in front of Adara’s face as she held a pencil in her fist, attempting to write on the large, lined paper in front of her. Her fingers were tiny—a child’s—and her face was rounder and softer, her tanned skin glowing with youth.
The other kindergarteners ran around the classroom, laughing and playing with dolls and cars, while Adara sat alone at one of the miniature rectangular tables, her dark eyes narrowed with impatient determination. Even though it was only her first day of school and most of the other children didn’t know how to write letters yet, Avner had been teaching her how to write her name at home—at their foster home.
A loud giggle emitted from the other side of the room, and Adara looked up to see it had come from the little blonde girl who’d declared her name as Kiki Belven. Her lengthy hair cascaded in curls, and she wore a purple princess dress as she played along with all of the other dressed-up girls who had naturally flocked to her. Even at the age of five, Kiki’s beauty radiated, and with her pretty clothes and nurtured confidence, she’d had no issue acquiring friends.
Adara had no interest in socializing with the other kids, and due to her ripped jeans, dirty black t-shirt, and scraggly hair, no one else had much interest in talking to her, either—until two identical boys plopped down in the vacant chairs across from her.
“What are you writing?” the first boy asked her, his brilliant blue eyes squinting as he tried to read upside down. His brown hair was messy—almost long enough to hinder his vision—and he wore a football jersey.
“She’s trying to write her name,” the other twin said as he opened a thick book on the table; the words were small in print, and there were barely any pictures in it at all. This boy had the same brown hair, but his was slicked back neatly, and instead of wearing a sports jersey, he wore an argyle sweater vest over a fancy button-up shirt. “She’s not very good at it, though. She said her name was Adara in the beginning of class, but that looks like a B, not an A.”
“I can hear you,” Adara snapped, her eyebrows creased indignantly as she tightened her grip on her pencil.
“I’m Seth,” the first boy said, taking her response to his twin as a sign that she wanted to talk to them. He extended his small hand toward her, and she tentatively shook it. “I don’t know how to write, either—or read—but I can do a handstand. Wanna see?”
“Of course she doesn’t want to see,” the other twin said. “We’re in school, Seth—”
Seth ignored his brother and stood from his chair. Throwing his hands above his head, he took a step back and then kicked upward, placing his hands on the hard floor as his legs met gracefully in the air. For a moment, Adara was actually impressed…until Seth’s legs began to swing a bit too far and, with a mild yelp from the boy, he flopped onto his back and coughed.
A few of the other kids glanced over from the play area, and one of the teachers was already rushing over. Seth held up his hand and said, “I’m okay” while his twin just shook his head and rolled his eyes. Adara snickered.
“What’s so funny?” the other twin demanded as the teacher helped little Seth to his feet.
“Your brother falling was funny. Didn’t you think so?”
He pursed his lips but gave no verbal agreement. “Why aren’t you playing dress-up?”
“Because it’s stupid…and Kiki Belven told me I wasn’t allowed to play with her and her friends because I look dirty.”
“She told me I wasn’t allowed to read near her because my sweater is ugly.” The unnamed twin paused thoughtfully before he asked, “Do you want me to teach you how to write your name?”
“No,” Adara sneered, looking hastily back down at h
er paper. She’d written AD so far, but it looked more like BO. “My brother teaches me. He’s a great teacher.”
“If your name is Bob.”
“Whose name is Bob?” Seth asked breathlessly as he hopped back into the seat beside his brother. The teacher eyed him warily, but he seemed just as peppy as before, his smile big as he glanced between them.
“His,” Adara replied, motioning toward the unnamed twin.
“My name is Tray—Tray Stark.”
She shrugged carelessly. “I like Bob better. I think I’ll just call you Bob.”
Seth chortled as his brother scowled. “Tray doesn’t like nicknames.”
Adara’s smile was much too sinister for a six-year-old. “Good to know.”
“Bob! Bobby-boy!” Adara called as she chucked stones at one of the second-story windows of the Starks’ home. She remembered this as the first day of spring break during third grade, her legs long and lithe enough for a nine-year-old. With ripped jeans and a black t-shirt, her style hadn’t changed much since kindergarten, and somehow her nickname for Tray hadn’t faded, either.
When the more peevish of the two Stark twins stuck his head out of his bedroom window, he was instantly pelted with a rock that made him groan. “What was that for?”
“I was trying to get your attention!”
Fixing his styled hair and blue sweater, he huffed, “Obviously—”
“What’s going on?” Seth questioned as he stuck his head out of his own bedroom’s window. He had a severe case of bedhead, and he appeared to be shirtless. When he saw Adara standing in his driveway, his face lit up. “Hey! Dar! Oh—and you brought Av!”
Avner, who was half-sitting, half-standing on his bike in the road, waved up at the twins. At the age of twelve, he already dwarfed Adara with his lankiness, and though he played sports, he hadn’t filled out his tall form yet. His hair was black, like Adara’s, and his eyes were equally as dark.
“She told me we were just going to ride our bikes around the park,” Avner told the Starks with a light-hearted glare in Adara’s direction. “I wanted no part in this.”
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