by Casey Hays
“It’s not your fault, Jude.” Petra’s hug is tight. “Nothing you could have said would have prevented Sean from taking Rylin to that hearing. He confided in me that it was his plan all along.” She grips me closer, her cheek against the top of my head. “We can’t know the Contingent’s intentions. Other than the fact that they run a cruel ship, their actions are unpredictable. Based on the information he had, our informant did not believe it would come to this.”
I sit up, sniffling. “You have an informant?”
Petra purses her lips, clearly weighing out whether transparency is the best route. But she’s said this much already, so…
“We do. Ramon Chama. He was in the lab with us when you first met Joshua.”
I shuffle through my memory. Yes. He had a winged heart tattoo. So he’s not a drug dealer after all. He’s also not the lab’s supplier.
“Did he see what happened?”
“No.” Petra pulls the shawl closer around herself, suddenly chilled. “He’s not a Fireblood, but his employer is one of the most prestigious members of the Contingent and a highly respected board regent. He receives his information from this man.”
“A mole,” I whisper.
“Yes. Alexandre Simon. For several years now, ever since they executed the first hybrid, he’s had qualms about the Contingent’s stance on the matter. He’s a long-time friend of Sean McDowell’s… and he’s Rylin’s godfather.”
My mind reels as the pieces begin to fall into place. Rylin’s godfather had to have had something to do with getting him out of headquarters alive.
“Mr. Simon had questions about our work here, so Sean put him in touch with us by way of Ramon. Mr. Simon has never met with us personally. He can never appear dissatisfied with the decisions the regents make as a whole for the Fireblood community. But he supports our agenda whole-heartedly as we work to find solutions that will end executions.”
“It sounds like he’s taking a big risk.”
“Huge,” she smiles. “And stupid and brave and heroic all rolled into one.”
I tip my brows into a frown. “I thought you weren’t concerned with Contingent business.”
“We aren’t. Mr. Simon is concerned with our business. And your presence here—and Sean McDowell’s attempts to appease the Contingent—which failed—put us in a precarious position. We need to stay informed.”
“Mr. Simon rescued Rylin, didn’t he?”
“I believe that was you.” She tilts her head.
“I found him at the farmhouse, but someone took him there. Someone tried to treat his wounds.”
“Yes. I imagine Mr. Simon was behind it. We’ll know more when Ramon brings us another report. For now, we can only surmise.” Her eyes drift toward the window of the operating room. I stare at her profile.
“Why couldn’t he help Mr. McDowell?”
“He might have, if he’d been there.”
“Where was he?”
“Out of the country.” Her eyes turn cold, but they glisten with bright tears. “We believe the regents called this hearing while he was away—a deliberate attempt to keep him from participating.” She toys with the fringe of her blue shawl. “The minute Ramon learned of it on Monday morning, he contacted Mr. Simon, and of course, he could not get state-side in time. In fact, he was unable to get a flight home until last night.”
Just in time to sweep Rylin out of the hands of the Contingent before he ended up like his father.
“Can I ask you…” I hesitate a moment unsure whether I’m really up for knowing the answer. “How did Mr. McDowell die?”
Petra takes a deep breath and crosses one leg over the other.
“The most effective way to kill a Fireblood is to cut off his wings.”
My heart drops, hitting every one of my ribs like strings on a dissonant harp on the way down. No. I can’t accept this. I clench my fists against another bout of nausea.
“Most will die from the excruciating levels of pain within a few hours. If that doesn’t kill them, infection will set in. It’s brutal, and it’s the Contingent’s most accepted form of execution.”
Petra keeps talking, and I’ve changed my mind; I don’t want to know. But I don’t stop her as the grisly details pour out. Mutilation and humiliation and torture. Rylin suffers. Mr. McDowell suffered. Daddy…
“Afterwards, they burn the body.”
Daddy. Blackened. Thrown away like a piece of garbage.
“I’ve heard some members even keep the wings as a trophy.”
I’m really going to be sick. I stand quickly and fill a paper cup at the filtered water dispenser on the opposite wall. I drink deep, horrified and sickened.
“Rylin doesn’t have a chance, does he?” I squeeze the cup until it crumples, leftover water trickling out. I don’t want to cry anymore but my lower lip trembles against my teeth with the threat of it.
“We have hope,” Petra says, and she sounds hopeless. “His wounds are fresh—hours old. Dr. Bonnet is a skilled surgeon, fully knowledgeable in Fireblood anatomy. Granted, he’s never been presented with anything quite like this, but I have full confidence in his abilities.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper, my mind all over the place. “Rylin and his father went to that hearing willingly. They were cooperating.”
“Some things arose to make them suspicious.”
I cinch the cup more tightly. “What things?”
“Detectors.” There’s a hush in Petra’s voice, as if even she’s afraid to call them out. “They found two trackers near Indian Springs. A check of the GPS history indicated Rylin and Kane had been together for several hours.”
My heart drops as I sink into the chair.
“Ramon told us the Contingent believed Rylin knew where Kane was. Their logic? Find Kane… find the female with the unregistered mantra. So, when Rylin and Sean refused to cooperate, the regents ‘generously’ gave them a seventy-two hour extension to make contact with the O’Reillys’ son.” She hands me a sad smile. “It’s pretty clear what happened when that tactic failed.”
“They would have been probed,” I whisper.
“Yes. And we’re fortunate in that the McDowell clan has mastered the ability to resist a probe. Sean McDowell taught his sons well how to combat an enemy, and the Contingent got a full dose of it at that hearing. I can’t know for sure but it could be why Sean is dead.” She sighs, heavy and deep and full of true sadness. “They were never going to let the McDowells out of headquarters alive once they made up their minds that they were renegades.”
Renegades.
Rylin called it the new revolution, and I’m swept backwards in my memories to the rooftop of the Fairfield Inn in Portland where it all began for me. I saw Rylin’s boldness, his fierce abandonment, his complete indifference at being caught. Flaring is a right, one to be exercised, and he is not interested in being deprived. He’d never exploit another Vatra u Krvi, but he will spread his own wings, sing his song, burn with a little fire. And why not?
“Hold on.” Confusion jumbles up inside my head. “Gema and Connor weren’t there?”
“No. They didn’t show.”
Shock pummels me. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” She studies the opposite wall. “The regents simply announced that a search of the O’Reillys’ home and a cabin up north proved they were nowhere to be found.”
Nowhere. I swallow.
“Kane left,” I whisper.
Petra shifts toward me. “What?”
“I know it was reckless.” I study my feet. “But when we found out that Mr. McDowell was dead, there was nothing I could do to keep him here. We stayed connected in dreams.” I raise my head. Her breathing slows as she lets me talk. “It’s a good thing he went, because things have started to click inside my brain now. We found Rylin together, inside my dream, and out.”
A bustling at the end of the hallway draws our attention, and a couple of medics come into view wheeling one of those white, medical coolers with a r
ubber seal around the lip of the lid. The kind used to transport organs, only much bigger. They hurry past us, stopping in front of the operating room door. Almost immediately, two masked technicians appear, take the chest from them, and vanish back inside. A nurse pokes her head through.
“Dr. Ademov?” She lowers her mask with one hand to reveal red lips in a pale face. “Dr. Bonnett would like a word please.”
I stand as Petra hurries off—our conversation put on hold as Rylin becomes priority. At the door, the two women speak in a whisper. Petra takes a sudden breath, her hand climbing to her throat. For a fraction of a second before the door swings closed behind her, her face changes. Hope? Fear? In the moment, they look exactly the same.
I hold my anxious breath. I bet a lot of failures in history felt this very emotion just before their demise.
Lyric 7
Before Angelica, there was something else. Something I didn’t remember until now.
My blankie.
Yellow and fuzzy and oh-so-warm, I dragged it with me everywhere. It was with me when I learned to crawl. Walk. Run. It was with me on the potty when I toilet trained, and on the playground when Mom pushed me in the swing. It was more than a security blanket; it was my camouflage. And Mom wrapped me up in it every chance she got.
I loved it into pieces.
Post blankie and pre-Angelica, there was a year timespan when Dad believed I had outgrown my abilities. That perhaps keeping them dormant had trained me to forget what I was. And maybe I would have if a certain, little Irish boy hadn’t awakened the sleeping giant. But he did.
I remember now.
I don’t regret it.
Twenty-nine
I don’t leave the waiting room. I can’t sleep—something I really ought to try doing. Believe me, if I could, I would. Because Kane is still out there, and at this point a dream is the only gateway for reaching him. But my emotions have reached a desperate pinnacle. I doubt even one of those little, green sleeping pills would be worth a try tonight.
So there it is. The thought of sleeping—or whatever it is that I do—while Rylin’s life hangs in the balance seems wrong. The thought of not sleeping, just as wrong. I feel crazy. Fidgety. I pace, I sit, I cry, I pray, I make wish upon wish—whatever it takes to cope. Mostly, I realize what I’ve been trying to deny for weeks—how much Rylin has come to mean to me. Life without Rylin in it? The thought tears me up all over again.
I don’t see how he can survive; not after what I saw. Not after the medics stormed into my suite and pulled off the bloody bandages to reveal what was underneath. Large gaping sores, crusted with blood, oozing with the beginnings of an infection. I didn’t want to look, but I had to.
I overheard their low whispers—these medics who specialize in Fireblood care. They had never seen anything like it. Rylin’s wings weren’t simply gone, they’d been dug out, expertly and precisely. As if the torturer had done this procedure a million times before. As if he knew exactly how to extract without killing—to prolong the suffering.
The paramedics said so.
Each one of them looked up at me occasionally with curiosity as they quickly stabilized Rylin and hiked him from the bed to a gurney. At the time, my skin was still lit up, burning a low white, my hair—gleaming at me from my reflection—just beginning to streak back to its dark hue in slow, singular lines. Frankie stood beside me, a silent comfort but stunned by it all. After the medics left, the smell of Rylin—mint mixed with blood and dirt—it clung in the air, on my clothes, in my heart. One look at the stained comforter sent me stumbling to the bathroom to retch over the toilet.
It’s been hours since Rylin went into surgery. Frankie, too tired to keep her eyes open any longer finally went on to bed, and I sit… all night… alone. No news has come.
For the twentieth time tonight, I go to the window, try to see through the slatted lines. The room is well-insulated so that even with my heightened sense of sound, I hear only the distant murmuring of voices, the far away beeping of machines. Nothing distinct. Nothing to ease the nervous tension racking my spine. Not to mention the added worry of Kane. Where is he now? And why hasn’t he returned if he could? I need answers, and I have absolutely no way of getting them.
And so… Thursday night painstakingly turns into Friday morning. I wouldn’t know it in the depths of the lab. Not until Frankie appears wielding two bowls of steaming oatmeal and slabs of toast on a tray. She sets the tray down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs between us and takes a seat.
“I thought you might be hungry.”
“Thanks.” I ease up, my back cracking its way out of my bent-over-curled-up position, and take the glass of orange juice she offers. The cool tartness feels good sliding down my throat.
“Anything?”
Her voice is strikingly hopeful, so the shake of my head is a complete let down. The whole atmosphere of the waiting room seems to shift with it.
“Maybe you should try to get some sleep,” she prods. “I can wait here. I’ll come get you the minute something changes.”
Sleep? I guess she’s forgotten I don’t do that.
“I’m fine.” I bite into a piece of toast. It’s dry and unimpressive. I have no appetite, but I tell myself to eat… to keep my strength. To ward off nausea. Toast seems harmless.
We sit in silence for several minutes. Frankie picks at her oatmeal, uninterested, her appetite no better than mine, and when she sniffles, I glance at her. Two big tears crawl out from under her glasses and swarm over her cheeks in unison. My heart feels it. Because Frankie is not one to cry. Not ever.
I reach across the breakfast tray and take her hand. She sucks back a sob that tries to escape, and she takes a couple of calming breaths until the feeling to burst into tears subsides.
“Goodness, I didn’t realize how this was affecting me.” She sniffles again, running the back of her hand across her nose. “I just had such a great time with Rylin on the Portland trip. I got to know him; we connected. He was so forthcoming about himself, and I learned so much about him and his family and all the differences in the make-up of a Fireblood. He’s so…necessary to your race.”
She bites her tongue, in fear that saying all of these nice things about Rylin amounts to some sort of mutiny toward me. Toward Kane. I squeeze her fingers. She couldn’t be further from the truth.
“I like him, Jude. I like him so much. He’s a fascinating person on several levels. I don’t know much about your history with him or with Kane, but that’s the pertinent word, wouldn’t you say? History? In the past?”
“Yes.” I say it quietly; she misses it.
“He’s done so much for both of you, don’t you think so? And I know you love Kane, and I’m not in any way suggesting—”
“Frankie.” I break her off with a tug on her hand. “I’m agreeing with you. You can stop now. I know how important Rylin is.”
Her shoulders noticeably sag. “Important to the cause, or to you?”
She jabs that in there awfully quick. And maybe once upon a time, this would have made me uncomfortable. Not anymore. I’ve been through too much with Rylin not to know exactly how to answer this question. I settle my tired eyes on her.
“I don’t want Rylin to die,” I whisper. “Because he matters to me, and I can’t imagine this world without him in it.” I pause to watch her tiny, trembling smile creep onto her lips.
“Okay.” Her relief is all over that one word. “Good.”
She returns to her oatmeal, and I take another indifferent bite of toast.
“This is beyond Star Trek, Jude.” Frankie sets her half empty bowl aside with a clatter and focuses her bright eyes on me. “You pulled a hundred and fifty pound Fireblood out of your dream.”
“I did,” I whisper. I almost can’t believe it.
“It’s a miracle.”
A miracle. The swinging entrance to the operating room taunts me. A miracle overshadowed by Hell.
I stand, raking my hands through my tangled hair, i
rritated. I need to wash it. I need an entire shower and a change of clothes, honestly. Then again, the whiff of mint still lingers on my skin, and it’s a strange comfort. The only proof I have right now that Rylin still exists in this world.
“Why is it taking so long?’ I blurt.
The question deserves no answer. Rylin is messed up, something he may not bounce back from. Frankie doesn’t respond; she knows I only ask it out of frustration. I slump back into my seat, head hanging in my hands.
“What did Petra say?” she asks.
“That he’ll live.” I slide low in the chair, and study the ceiling. “But how is he going to live like this? Missing a piece of himself.”
I roll my head, take in her face, the lighted panels from the ceiling reflected in her lenses, masking the emotions that inevitably plague her as much as they do me.
“You managed without your wings.” She keeps her voice steady, for her sake, and mine. “He will too.”
“He shouldn’t have to manage,” I snap.
“He should be dead by all rights,” she reminds me, her own voice rising to match mine. “And his wings don’t define who he is.”
I take this in, a catch in my heart tugging at a soft spot in my emotions. How many times has Kane said this to me? But I don’t remember my wings, unless you count those fleeting baby dreams that keep haunting me. I’m not so sure I can trust them. The point is they were never a part of who I am. Not really. It’s different for Rylin. I pull my lower lip between my teeth, biting hard. His wings. His beautiful red-tinged wings.
“I’m so worried, Frankie.” My eyes find the ceiling again. “I think Rylin might have needed a transplant.”
Frankie stills, her face contorting with concern.
“It makes sense.” She twists her orange juice glass a full circle. “His wounds were cavernous. One of his internal organs could have been nicked.” I don’t answer; she keeps talking. “A lung. His heart.”
His heart. My own pounds heavy.
Movement. The door swings open. I stand abruptly, anticipation riddling my whole body as a nurse emerges. Then another, and another, pulling their masks down to their chins as they quietly talk. One by one techs, a couple of assisting physicians, more nurses spill into the waiting room. They saunter away down the opposite corridor—all in a day’s work. No comments, no news. And why would they tell me anything? I’m not family. So no words of solace for the girl who’s been sitting out here in the lobby like a night watchman on guard.