Neverseen

by Shannon Messenger

  “You okay there, Foster?” he asked, the other half of his smile curling his lips. “Seems like your mood just shifted.”

  “Just bracing to relive those attacks. You ready?”

  He swallowed hard before he nodded.

  Sophie did the same, adding a couple of deep breaths before opening her mind to his.

  She still wasn’t prepared for how vividly Keefe remembered everything. Fitz didn’t have a photographic memory, so his memories were always slightly faded. But Keefe’s mind was in high definition—and the soundtrack could’ve been THX certified.

  Her hands trembled as she watched herself leave the Black Swan’s ocean cave with Keefe. Silveny had barely lifted off the ground when five black-cloaked figures knocked them out of the sky. For Sophie, the fight had happened through a haze of pain and exhaustion after nearly dying. But Keefe had lived the full-color reality. His rage made her stomach heave—especially when one of the cloaked figures flung a rock at his head. They knew now that the figure was his mom, but as the fight replayed, Sophie saw nothing to clue them in. Lady Gisela never used her real voice—even when Keefe sliced her arm with a goblin throwing star. And she fought without remorse, even when challenging her son.

  Good old Mom, Keefe thought. Doesn’t it give you warm, fuzzy feels?

  His memories shifted, bringing them to Mount Everest, during the part of the battle Sophie had missed. An ogre had dragged her through the cave’s ceiling, and she’d never realized how hard her friends fought to get to her. No one fought harder than Keefe. His aim with the throwing stars was flawless, nailing one dwarf in the hand right before it threw a rock at Fitz, clipping another dwarf in the leg so it couldn’t chase them. He waded through snowdrifts, trudged through the freezing winds, refusing to stop until he caught up with the Neverseen. And then . . . panic slowed his hand when he pointed his weapon at the figure he thought was his father.

  More dwarves burst out of the snow, and Keefe chased down his dad, his only thought, I need to end this. When he’d caught up, he’d been ready to do what was necessary. But then the wind threw back his father’s hood and Keefe saw who it really was . . .

  “Oh,” Sophie said as Keefe’s emotions exploded.

  Shock.

  Anger.

  Betrayal.

  Hate.

  But the strongest emotion was grief.

  As the sadness swelled in Keefe’s mind, so did a cyclone of older memories. Keefe tried to push them back, but they were too strong.

  Sophie saw a young Keefe—he couldn’t have been older than three or four—curled up on the floor of his room, crying. His mom came in to tell him to be quiet and realized he’d wet the bed. “Dad’s going to be so mad,” he whispered. His mom agreed and started to walk away, then sighed and called for the gnomes. She asked them to change out the bedding and have the room looking normal by morning. “Your father doesn’t have to know everything,” she told Keefe. “But don’t let this happen again.”

  In another memory Keefe was six or seven, waiting by a fountain in Atlantis.

  And waiting.

  And waiting some more.

  Crowds came and went. The balefire streetlights dimmed. And still, Keefe sat all alone. Finally his parents rolled up in a eurypterid carriage, along with another dark-haired elf that Keefe didn’t recognize. Keefe’s father was so deep in conversation with his friend that he didn’t even look at his son. Keefe’s mom said, “Sorry, we forgot you.”

  The memory shifted again, to Keefe wearing an amber-brown Level Three Foxfire uniform. He’d just gotten home from school and found his parents waiting in his room. Keefe’s father demanded Keefe show him his notebooks, and when Keefe handed them over, his dad freaked. The pages were covered in sketches, each more intricate and amazing than the last. But his father tore out each drawing, crumpling them beyond ruin as he shouted about Keefe needing to pay attention during his sessions. Keefe argued that he could draw and learn at the same time, and his father stormed off, calling Keefe a disappointment. Keefe’s mom said nothing as she followed her husband out. But she did retrieve one of the drawings from the floor—a sketch of her—and tucked it into her pocket.

  The theme of each memory became achingly clear.

  Two awful parents.

  But one was better—or that was what Keefe had believed.

  Keefe stepped back, severing Sophie’s connection. “So . . . that just happened.”

  “It’s okay,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “I never wanted anyone to see that.”

  “I know. But . . . I’m glad I did. You shouldn’t have to carry all of that alone.”

  “And you shouldn’t have to know I used to wet the bed.”

  “Lots of kids wet the bed.”

  “Not according to my father.”

  He kicked the wall so hard it had to be painful.

  Sophie inched closer, hesitating before resting a hand on his shoulder. “You know what I think when I see things like that?”

  “ ‘I never should’ve agreed to help such a loser—even if he has awesome hair?’ ”

  “Not even close. Okay, fine, the hair part is kinda true. But other than that, all I think is, ‘Keefe’s even braver than I thought.’ And I already thought you were incredibly brave. Between the way you held your cool in those battles, and the way you’ve stayed my friend despite all the rumors and gossip about me. You’re just . . . I don’t even know how to say it. But you’re so much more than what your family made you believe. And by the way, I want to see more of your drawings.”

  “I don’t have any,” he told the floor. “I stopped drawing years ago.”

  “You have that one you just drew of your mom’s bracelet.”

  “That one was stupid.”

  “I’d still like to keep it—can I?” she bent and picked it up, tucking it into her memory log.

  “Anyway,” she said after an endless stretch of silence, “I guess I should record those attacks with the Neverseen.”

  She projected the battle scenes on the pages using a telepathy trick. Keefe watched over her shoulder and took the book from her when she got to the moment he’d learned the cloaked figure was his mom.

  “You made her look afraid,” he said.

  “That’s how she looked. Photographic memory, remember?”

  Keefe frowned. “I remember her looking angry.”

  “She did look angry. But first she looked scared—like she didn’t want you to see her.”

  Keefe stared at the projection for a painfully long time, then shut the book and handed it back. “You’re not going to record the other memories, right?”

  “No. I think we should keep those between us.”

  He nodded.

  “Is this going to be too hard for you?” she whispered.

  “Is it going to be too hard for you?”

  Sophie chewed her lip. “I hate seeing them hurt you. If I ever face your father again . . . well, he better hope I’m not wearing my Sucker Punch, because I’d knock him to Timbuktu.”

  “I would pay so much money to see that.”

  She smiled sadly. “I don’t want you dealing with all of this alone, Keefe. You’ve spent long enough hiding the bruises and scars behind jokes and pranks—”

  “He never hit me,” Keefe interrupted.

  “I know. But words cut deeper than goblin throwing stars. So I hope you’ll keep letting me help.”

  He raised his eyes to the window, looking as scared as his mom. Sophie could definitely see the family resemblance between them. But Keefe was missing her hard edges.

  “Just promise me that if this gets to be too much for you, you’ll run away,” he whispered.

  “It won’t be too much.”

  “It might be. I have a major dark side, Sophie.”

  “So does everyone.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Even the Mysterious Miss F.?”

  “Uh, yeah, I’m an Inflictor, remember?”

  Keefe turned aw
ay again. “I wanted to manifest that ability so bad. I begged my ability detecting Mentor to try to trigger it. But no, I got my dad’s ability.”

  “Hey, being an Empath is a way better talent. I’ve wondered sometimes why the Black Swan didn’t give it to me.”

  “Maybe you’ll trigger it eventually. Along with another fourteen or fifteen talents.”

  “Man, I hope not. Four is enough.”

  “Psh, you should at least go for five. But don’t waste your last slot on empathy. Go for something cool, like Hydrokinetic.”

  “Okay seriously—how many abilities are there?”

  “A lot. That’s why they make such a big deal when someone doesn’t get one. There are so many chances to have a talent.”

  “I still don’t think it’s right to treat them like a secondary citizen because of it,” Sophie mumbled. “Even if they have the same money or whatever, it’s still not fair.”

  “I bet that’s why you scare the Council so much,” Keefe said after a second. “I never thought about things like that until I met you.”

  “That’s why she’s the moonlark,” Calla said from the doorway.

  Sophie smiled as she turned to greet her friend, but it vanished when she saw the tears staining Calla’s cheeks.

  “What happened?” Sophie asked, hoping she hadn’t already guessed the answer. But it was everything she’d feared, and so much more.

  “I found Lur and Mitya—and Sior,” Calla whispered. “They’re in Lumenaria. Under quarantine. All three of them are infected with the plague.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE WORDS BOUNCED around Sophie’s head, making her ears ring.

  Lur and Mitya and Sior had the plague.

  They could be dying.

  No—not “could be.”

  They were dying, if someone didn’t find a cure.

  “How long can someone have the plague before . . . ?” She couldn’t finish the question.

  “We still do not know—but that’s good news, in a way,” Calla said. “All the Wildwood colonists are still alive and fighting.”

  The answer helped a little—but it didn’t change the fact that the infected gnomes were running out of time. Maybe they had months. Maybe weeks. Maybe days. Whatever it was, they deserved more.

  “But you’re safe?” she asked Calla. “You haven’t been exposed?”

  “I was very careful,” Calla promised, drying her eyes with her long braid. “I would not have come back if I wasn’t certain. I would never risk Amisi’s safety.”

  “So what happens now?” Keefe asked.

  Calla let out a slow, heavy breath. “I don’t know. This . . . there was no plan for this.” Her eyes welled up again.

  “Does the Collective know yet?” Sophie asked.

  “I couldn’t find them.”

  “They’re taking care of Prentice,” Sophie said.

  “Does that mean he hasn’t been healed?” Calla asked.

  “I tried—”

  “It’s okay,” Calla interrupted. “I have no doubt you’ll do everything you can. Do you know if they’re at the Stone House?”

  “Is that a cottage in the middle of the Moors?” Sophie asked.

  Calla nodded and turned to leave. “I need to speak with them before I tell Amisi. They might know something that could bring her better comfort. She and Sior are courting.”

  “I’m going with you,” Sophie said, following Calla down the hall.

  Keefe rushed after them. “Me too.”

  “I don’t know where you’re going,” Dex said as they entered the boys’ main room, where he sat on the floor, surrounded by Twiggler supplies. “But you’re not going without me.”

  “I suppose that means you’re coming too?” Calla said, glancing toward an empty corner.

  “Ugh, I really thought I’d figured out how to hide that time!” Biana said as she appeared. “But yep, I’m in. Where are we going?”

  Sophie did her best to catch them up.

  Dex looked like someone had crushed all his gadgets to dust. “We have to help them,” he whispered. “They saved us, Sophie. Lur and Mitya.”

  “I know,” Sophie said.

  Biana rushed to give Calla a hug. “Are you sure it’s safe for you to leave Alluveterre? The plague seems to be popping up everywhere.”

  “We’ll travel deeper than normal, and I’ll steer clear of the Neutral Territories,” Calla promised, heading outside and down the winding stairs. When they reached ground level, she sang a deep, earthy song to create a tunnel and tangled the roots around them. The journey was faster than ever—so fast Sophie was sure she lost her stomach several times. But it was worth the nausea when they arrived at the Stone House after only a few minutes of journeying.

  Sophie had assumed it would still be sunny, but when they climbed out of the tunnel the sky was bruised by twilight, the only light coming from the early stars and the hideout’s windows.

  “Should we knock?” Biana asked as they crept toward the cottage’s door.

  “No need,” Blur said, phasing through the wall and making them all scream. “But you do need to explain what on earth you’re doing here. How . . .”

  His voice trailed off when he noticed Calla. “Better come in.”

  They squeezed into the room, trying to find places to stand in the small, crowded space. Sophie’s heart twisted when she saw that Prentice hadn’t changed at all since the last time she’d seen him.

  He also had guests.

  Della stood with three figures that Sophie recognized right away, even though her brain kept telling her they couldn’t possibly be there.

  “Magnate Leto?” Keefe asked, sounding equally confused to see Foxfire’s principal in a Black Swan hideout.

  Next to him stood Tiergan, Sophie and Fitz’s Telepathy mentor. And on his other side was his adopted son, Wylie.

  Prentice’s son.

  Sophie had only talked to Wylie twice, and both times had been a disaster. She’d never forget their fight at his mother’s grave, when he’d told her, “You were supposed to make it right.” That was when she’d realized she’d been designed for healing minds, and that something must be wrong with her if she couldn’t. She’d gone to the Black Swan and risked her life to reset her abilities. And yet, there Prentice rested, farther from being healed than ever.

  Wylie resembled his father even more than Sophie had realized. His skin was a slightly lighter shade of black, and his features a bit sharper. But he had his father’s hair and lips and eyes.

  “I’m guessing you weren’t expecting to find us here,” Magnate Leto said.

  “It’s weird,” Biana admitted. “Are you part of the Black Swan?”

  “That would be rather impossible.” Magnate Leto smoothed his black hair, even though it was coated with so much gel it couldn’t possibly move. “I’m here to cover for these two.”

  Sophie shouldn’t have been surprised that Magnate Leto would help—he’d protected her when he’d discovered the ability-restricting circlet didn’t completely stop her telepathy.

  “The Council is watching us,” Tiergan said, tugging on the sleeves of his simple gray tunic. His usually deep olive skin looked almost as pale as his blond hair as he added, “The Collective hopes that if Prentice hears our voices, it might reach him.”

  “So they pretend to be meeting with me in my office every evening,” Magnate Leto added. “And instead we come here.”

  “Our pendants have to stay near each other or the Council won’t believe we’ve been together,” Tiergan explained.

  “I might be able to fix that,” Dex offered.

  “Maybe another time,” Blur said. “Right now you need to tell us why you’re here.”

  “Should we wait for the rest of the Collective?” Sophie asked.

  “They can’t get away from their other identities right now,” Blur said.

  Calla asked everyone to head downstairs, not wanting to reveal the bad news in front of Prentice. The round bedroom
below was simple but cozy—a bit too cozy once they’d all squeezed in. Sophie was surprised Blur let Tiergan, Magnate Leto, and Wylie join them.

  She spent most of Calla’s update staring at her feet so she wouldn’t risk meeting Wylie’s eyes. Every time he looked at her, she could see such heartbreaking sadness and disappointment. She was trying to think of something to say to him when she realized the room had gone quiet.

  “Calla was wondering if you could transmit to Lur, Mitya, and Sior,” Keefe whispered to catch her up.

  “I can try,” Sophie said, hoping her voice sounded less shaky than she felt. “What do you want me to say?”

  Calla cleared the thickness from her throat. “Tell them we’re not giving up, so they must not give up on themselves. And remind them that the good in nature is always stronger than the bad. Ask them if there’s anything they can share that might help us find the cure. And . . . tell them we love them.”

  Sophie translated the message to gnomish and transmitted it in every direction. Her brain hurt from the strain, but she kept repeating the call, stretching out her consciousness and listening for any trace of a response.

  For several endless minutes all she found was a headache. Then a voice that sounded like Mitya’s filled her mind.

  “They say the plague works in stages, and that they’re only stage one,” Sophie whispered.

  “How many stages are there?” Magnate Leto asked.

  Sophie transmitted the question and the room seemed to hold its breath.

  “They don’t know,” Sophie said. “So far the healers have counted six. But they won’t know the final count until someone dies.”

  The word struck a blow, and Sophie was glad Biana could take Calla’s hand—especially since she had an even more upsetting message to deliver.

  “They say there are two hundred and thirty-seven gnomes in quarantine.”

  The number was too big to fit in such a small room.

  Two hundred and thirty-seven gnomes, all sick and slowly dying.

  We’re going to find the cure, Sophie transmitted. We’ll do whatever it takes.

  Calla was crying by then, and Sophie nudged through the crowd, hugging her tight and repeating the promises she’d given Lur, Mitya, and Sior.