Strayborn

by E E Rawls

  Nephryte’s firm hand on Aken’s back forced him onward before he could comment back. He wanted to smack that demeaning look off of Denim’s face.

  Nephryte bent to Aken’s ear as they exited the main doors, his voice lowered. “Be grateful I haven’t taken that picture book collection of yours away permanently. One more incident out of you, and I might. But that’s the least of your worries. You don’t want to be expelled and locked away as an uncontrollable Ability user, do you? Keep playing pranks, and that’s where your future will be.”

  Aken’s ears burned red as he focused straight ahead. “Be honest. They don’t want to lock me away—they want me dead, just like the rest of my kind,” he growled.

  Silence ticked for a second. “Then, all the more reason for you to straighten up and avoid causing trouble,” Nephryte replied.

  Causing trouble? He was just trying to keep Cy and the school safe!

  Causing trouble...

  No one believes me.

  I mean nothing to them.

  Heheh, end them all.

  The darkness he’d locked away before now lurked at the edge of his subconscious—a cockroach trying to pry free from its cage. He mumbled bitterly, “I did see a Corpsed out in the storm, and it tried to grab Cyrus.”

  He glanced sideways, and Cy gave his hand a brief squeeze.

  The madman of darkness slowly shrunk back inside the cage in his mind again, falling silent.

  Nephryte glanced down, but didn’t reply.

  At least Cyrus had his back. As for the rest of Harlow, though...it would be wise if he kept a low profile until this incident blew over.

  “Corpsed in the school? What a childish prank! He should still be in the crib, drinking from baby bottles,” said Hercule.

  “Perhaps Scourgebloods are monsters for their foolishness,” sniffed Lykale.

  Aken dug his fingernails into his palms.

  ONCE THE SCHOOL PREMISES fell behind, the atmosphere was less menacing as they walked through Uptown on their way to church.

  “Master, I have projects to finish. Let me skip church, this time?” Lykale was asking.

  Nephryte shot him down. “My answer is no, and it will always be no. Nothing is more important than church. Every student of mine will attend. And after church, you will be carrying out Harlow’s punishment serving in the kitchens.”

  Lykale turned his head and made a face.

  Down a cobblestone street, which ended in a cul-de-sac island of flowering trees, stood a quaint church. It wasn’t like the grand, cold cathedral of the Church of Draeth that towered over the city, where the king and most prestigious of citizens attended. Aken could make out the looming gothic spires not far away.

  In contrast, this small chapel on Pordenone Street radiated warmth and welcome, its walls a rosy brown, and stained-glass windows charming above the sidewalk. Faceted stone posts and rusted limp chain made a fence marking the property.

  There were a lot of old stone fences, chains, and odd gates in Draethvyle that no longer served much purpose. Cy commented how unique it was, though Aken had never really thought about it.

  Twin bronze bells in the steeple bonged, spooking pigeons who flapped away. Inside, the church was as cozy as its outward appearance promised. Nothing fancy but a tiled floor, some petunias in pots, and the small, old organ humming music. The air was cool.

  The pews were filling up. Aken recognized the female Master Seren-Rose and a handful of Draevensett students. He also spotted humans, fox-like kitsune, and faeryn—all of them slaves who for some reason or other were allowed time off on Sunday mornings.

  Harlow took seats along the second-row pew. Aken made sure to sit next to Cyrus, far from Lykale and Hercule. The dragon-eyed noble had yet to stop seething, and curls of steam were rising from his ears.

  The first service soon began: the Lord’s Supper, when cups of red juice were handed out—symbolizing the blood Jesus shed to cleanse people of their sins—and handed out bread—symbolizing Jesus’s body, His death and resurrection. It wasn’t a religious ritual or something you had to do for salvation, but a reminder of what Jesus had done, and that He would one day return.

  In the next service, the church speaker for this week continued a study lesson of the book of John. Aken found his mouth involuntarily yawning; between Cy’s nightmare and the Corpsed mayhem, he was barely awake. His eyelids sagged lower and lower with each tick of the clock.

  A warm bed and pillow sounded so nice. He imagined sailing through the sky on a fluffy cloud, the ground below melting into a tranquil sea...

  “Aken-Shou...”

  He ignored the voice.

  “Aken.” It came louder.

  “Go bug somebody else’s ear. I don’t wanna be in class,” he mumbled.

  “AKEN!”

  Something smacked him.

  He jolted awake and got to his feet, shouting the answer to what he thought was a teacher’s question: “Epidermus!”

  The church fell silent. The elder at the podium startled.

  Everybody turned to stare at Floor Harlow.

  Nephryte’s face fell into his hand. Cyrus’s mouth gaped. The Harlow boys flushed red in humiliation, and shifted, ready to skin Aken alive.

  “As if last night’s trouble wasn’t bad enough!” Cy hissed at him.

  Aken blinked, turning his head this way and that at the mass of staring faces. “Oh...” He scratched the back of his head. “Eh-heh, I thought I was in—erm, y’know—in health class...” The sentence trailed away, and he croaked: “Carry on!”

  He dove underneath the pew, but not before pairs of angry Harlow shoes kicked at his backside.

  AFTERNOON FOUND HARLOW scrubbing pots, pans and floors in Draevensett’s kitchen maze, drenched in slimy soap water.

  Master Nephryte paused before entering the open doorway. Punishing all of the boys for Aken’s troublemaking wasn’t what he wanted, but other Floors would hold a grudge against Harlow and cause problems if they felt no justice had been served. As it was, except for Hercule, his students were considered the odd ones, a pack of homeless strays; and having the last living Scourgeblood among them made it harder.

  They had potential, though, and could become a great Draev Guardian squad in the future. He was determined to believe in the youngsters, even if no one else would. But if Aken couldn’t graduate, if he couldn’t learn to be more responsible, then nothing would be left for him but a future locked away. Uncontrollable Ability users were too dangerous to let loose in society—and he was the most dangerous breed of vempar.

  Nephryte craned his neck. Harlow was scattered about the connected network of rooms, at every sink and floor, scouring away. They’d been at it for hours. “That’s enough punishment for today,” Nephryte’s voice carried. “I’ll let you off easy, this time.”

  Bakoa heaved a grateful sigh.

  Aken rested back on his heels, until the Master coolly added: “All except for Aken-Shou, that is.” Nephryte beamed a smile for the other boys. “Go enjoy what’s left of the day.”

  “Wha—!” Aken started in protest.

  A warning shadow crossed Nephryte’s face, and Aken shut his mouth tight.

  Harlow bustled out, while Aken stared glumly at the massive brown cauldron twice his size before him. He’d been scrubbing at the thing for hours, and it was no closer to getting clean. Aken groaned, sitting on his knees on the tiled floor, in the corner where drains made for washing out pots too large for sinks were; his shirt and shorts were thoroughly drenched, and his feet sloshed grossly inside clogs.

  Nephryte observed from the doorway. He noted fondly that, while the other students had left, Cyrus remained cleaning away at a sink. He turned and left them to their work.

  CYRUS SCRUBBED A GRITTY sponge along the sink’s yellowed sides. Needle pains stabbed at her wrists—due to all the abuse she’d put them through the past two days, no doubt. At least the fingerless gloves helped shield from the arduous work, though they felt gross and wet.


  “Cy, you don’t have to stay,” Aken told her, sounding touched but not wanting her to suffer hot, soapy slosh any longer. He flashed a reassuring grin. “I can finish this up in no time!”

  “You saved me from that Corpsed—or whatever it was. Friends stick together,” she said.

  “And you have, buddy; thanks. But c’mon, at least one of us should enjoy the day. Maybe you can even, um...convince the others to stop hating me?”

  “Don’t ask for miracles.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up. “Just go. I got this.”

  Disbelieving that, Cyrus finally kicked off her water-filled clogs, shrugged on her shoes, and headed out the doorway, waving a hand. “See you soon.”

  A loud CRASH rang behind her—it sounded like a stack of pans had fallen, followed by a frustrated “Grahh, fudgesickle!”

  She winced and didn’t look back.

  Chapter 18

  Cyrus shifted from foot to foot before the door.

  Now that she was a member of Harlow, it was a good idea to get to know better the comrades she’d be spending the next handful of years training with—providing she survived that long.

  Her hand rapped lightly on the door.

  “Come in,” spoke a voice from inside.

  Mamoru didn’t look when she entered, seated on a wood stool at work on something. Light olive skin showed through random tears in his dark vest. He raised his head, “How are you liking Draethvyle so far, Cyrus?”

  Somehow he knew it was her without looking. She closed the door behind her, leaving it a fraction open. The scent of amber oil and wax hung in the air.

  Cyrus took a step near. Within Mamoru’s artsy bedroom was an extra, dimly lit chamber with a sliding door blended into the wall—puppets, tools, limbs and other parts crammed shelves and display cases inside.

  “Is it very different from your old home?” He rotated on the stool to face her.

  Her cheeks flushed. “Y-yes! It’s very different from what I’m used to. But I like it here.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed his lips.

  She mentally rebuked herself for stuttering like a nervous idiot. “I’m so socially challenged...” she muttered under her breath at the floor.

  Mamoru blinked.

  Darn, she forgot vempars had sensitive hearing!

  Mamoru broke into an amused grin. “Being social was never my strong point, either.” He rose from the stool and chuckled, a sturdy hand built from years of craftwork resting on his hip. His fingers should have been worn and calloused, but instead looked smooth as wax. “I can handle small groups, but anything more than that is stuffy. I find more enjoyment working on my sap-wax puppets.” His chin nodded to the secret chamber.

  “I’ve never seen anyone with puppets like these,” Cyrus said, nearing the work table.

  Mamoru’s left hand splayed, and thin amber threads rose from each fingertip. The threads glimmered like tree sap, and flew and attached to the skeletal puppet. The jumble of joints and limbs suddenly sat up.

  “They’re made of hardened wax, a special kind I create using tree saps,” he told her. “I call it sap-wax. I’m of the Terravis class, like you. My Ability can manipulate sap and amber.”

  Cyrus poked at the puppet’s knobby, glossy hand.

  He pulled out a rock of amber from his pocket, similar to the one he’d used the other day. “I store puppets inside amber, like this.”

  Light from a window reflected off the hardened sap’s facets like a gold jewel. A dark shape was trapped inside.

  “I coat layers of sap over an object, soaking it in essence sap until it breaks down and becomes flexible enough that I can twist and fold it as I please.” He set the amber rock down. “That lets me shrink a puppet down to this convenient size.”

  She swallowed. “But it’d be a flimsy puppet then, right?”

  “My essence activates the amber and sap-wax of the puppets, making them strong while in use; you’d be surprised how tough they are.” He winked.

  She nodded, pretending to understand. “Those strings...”

  “Hm? Oh, these puppet strings?” He twirled one. “They extend from a layer of sap coating my body.”

  Cyrus resisted the urge to gag. “Your...skin is covered in sap-stuff?”

  Mamoru held out his arm. “My secret protection.” His hand clenched the stool, and a coating of sap moved down his arm to cover the seat. “I can grab my enemy, shift a layer of sap from my skin and wrap them up like a pretty package with it.” He snapped his fingers, “Amberfied, instantly.” The sap on the stool hardened. “The enemy fast suffocates, and will become a new addition to my amber collection.”

  Cyrus stiffened. She debated whether or not to maintain her fake smile or run for the door.

  Mamoru chuckled, waving both hands. “A joke, a joke! Haha, you take me too seriously. I would never do something so cruel. Then again...” his face turned up to the ceiling, “perhaps if it were a very evil person...”

  “And that makes it okay?” she squeaked.

  Mamoru brushed the back of his hand under her palm, and she gave a start. “My skin still feels normal, see?”

  Surprisingly it did feel muscle-firm, not sticky; but still too smooth to be natural.

  “I don’t mind if you have a look around,” he said, and leaned his elbows back against the table. His vest rode up, showing more olive skin.

  A look around his abs? She rubbed her wrists, flustered.

  “But keep it secret,” he winked. “My workshop is the only place where I can get away from the world, and from certain needy students.”

  Obviously he meant the puppet chamber—not his abs. ‘I’m such a dweeb.’

  She eyed some of the puppets that were hanging up. Had any of those been real people, once? Eek, even if it had been a joke, the thought was unsettling.

  He let out another laugh. “They were never alive.” When his mirth subsided, he fiddled with a rip down his vest. “I’m sure you’ve been wondering about my unique style of clothing, too?” he asked.

  Unique was putting it mildly.

  “Because of how my Ability works, I need clothes that won’t hinder my use of sap. I need skin exposed in order to use it properly.”

  “Aren’t short sleeves enough?”

  “Maybe. But if something happens and I can’t use my arms, then I’ll need other skin. And besides, exposed skin makes me dangerous to touch—for an enemy, that is.” He hooked his thumbs in his pants pockets and studied her. “But enough about me. How about you? You don’t seem to handle your essence very well.”

  She flinched.

  His eyes closed in thought for a second. “Meet me in the grasslands at sunset—and bring Aken along. I’ll teach you the basics of Draev essence then.”

  Cyrus recalled Master Nephryte had asked him yesterday to teach her Landing—whatever that was. Now they had a training date. With a nod and a “Thank you,” she made her way out. He gave a casual wave.

  Down the Harlow dorm corridor, she came to Lykale’s room next. The door had been left ajar. She peeked inside. “Hello?”

  Silence. She took a few steps in, pushing the door farther.

  It looked more like a haphazard lab and clothing shop than a room. One half of it hangers and hooks of paired outfits, the other half littered tables and shelves of test tubes, pipes dripping solutions, bowls and vials of contents ranging from seeds, ground plants, powders, to bubbling liquids.

  Lykale was either a clutterer or a hoarder—she couldn’t tell which. Vents let in fresh air through the ceiling, otherwise fumes from experiments would be unbearable to live in. Yep, all of Harlow was strange, she decided. The taunts from other Floors were making more sense.

  “Hello?” she tried again.

  Cyrus weaved her way about, scanning table contents. One bowl held halves of putty-like orbs the size of walnuts, like what he used during volleyball the other day.

  “Snooping around my laboratory, when you’re barely two days new?”

 
She jumped with a squeak, turning to face the tall, lean boy, who today sported a collared plaid shirt and tan trousers layered with pockets. He knew fashion, and she noted with irony how almost-human that fashion seemed.

  Lykale’s intense aqua gaze studied her from behind the glasses perched on his long, falcon nose.

  “Sorry, I just wanted to get to know everyone in Harlow better,” she piped, trying to muffle the fright in her tone.

  Lykale sniffed disdainfully. “You’re not going to become another troublemaker like Aken, are you? Because I really don’t have time to deal with such nonsense.” A finger by habit adjusted his glasses, and sunlight reflecting off a lense made her squint. He half-turned aside. “No, no. There is not a single person in all of Eartha who can cause as much trouble as him. You seem better mannered, at least.”

  Cyrus smiled—a cute smile unbefitting of a boy. “Thank you, Lykale. I hope we can be friends!”

  Lykale looked startled; a shaky hand adjusted his glasses once more. He cleared his throat. “Ahem...erm-erm...perhaps.” He turned to a congested table. “What is it you wanted?”

  “I want to get to know my Harlow comrades better,” she replied. His hair was so white; did he bleach it?

  Lykale’s brow pinched. “Better? Well, my Ability is of Armavis class, though unlike most, my weapon isn’t a blade but chemistry.” He held up a vial of purple powder, swirling it. “I concoct smoke bombs, poison fogs, paralyzing liquids and such.” A sweep of his arm indicated the brimming bowls and mugs. “This was the smoke bomb you saw me use—it has a putty texture, one side flat so it can stick to any surface.” His thumb flipped one of the halved orbs.

  She poked the putty.

  Lykale pulled out a syringe, twirling it from finger to finger as a knife-thrower would knives. “I can also throw these toxic darts at enemies.” The syringes he called darts varied in shape, with feather wings in different positions. She shuddered at the thought of needles flying through the air at her.

  “What about your Ability?” he inquired.

  She didn’t have much to say, except it was Terravis class, related to metal. “I think it only works on certain metals, though. I can’t seem to do anything with gold.”