“Where is he?” Isabela asked.
“Caleb is getting us a new car,” Ran said.
“Him? Really?” Isabela asked.
“He knows cars,” Nigel replied. “Figures he can get one started all telekinetically.”
“Yes, but he is—what do the Americans call it? The little camper children.”
“A Boy Scout,” Nigel replied with a half smile.
“Not who I would put in charge of stealing a car,” Isabela said with a shrug.
“Wasn’t no Boy Scout last night. Lad fought like he was possessed. Might’ve turned those Harvesters away himself, if . . .”
Nigel trailed off, glancing gloomily in Kopano’s direction. Kopano’s frown deepened and he walked out of the alley. Isabela pursed her lips—she really had missed a lot.
“What’s his problem?” she quietly asked Nigel as they walked, nodding in Kopano’s direction.
“He bloody lost it last night,” Nigel whispered. “We think the knob in the suit used some kind of mind control on him.”
They made an odd-looking group as they emerged from the alley, but luckily the shopping center parking lot was uncrowded this early in the morning. Even so, Isabela felt exposed being out in the open. She’d been on numerous excursions since coming to the Academy, but none had ever spiraled out of control like this. At best, they were in deep trouble with the Academy. At worst, they were being hunted. For the first time since she’d come to the Academy, Isabela felt her confidence begin to waver.
“Shouldn’t we at least call in to the Academy?” she asked. “Tell them that Taylor’s been kidnapped.”
“That lot’s got to have noticed we’re missing by now,” Nigel said. “We give them a ring, they’ll track us down.”
“Would that . . . would that be so bad?”
“We don’t know if we can trust them,” Ran said. “I, for one, am not ready to go back yet.”
“We can’t go back without Taylor,” Kopano said firmly. “I promised her . . . I promised I would protect her.”
Isabela rolled her eyes at the macho posturing, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she turned to Nigel and Ran.
“Taylor could be anywhere,” she said. “Where would we even start?”
Nigel reached into one of his cargo pockets. “Took the liberty of searching a couple of bodies before we made our escape last night. One’a them wankers had this on him.”
He handed Isabela a pamphlet. It looked like something hastily thrown together in Photoshop and then spit out from an ancient printer. Her eyes skimmed over the imagery—the Harvester logo, bulbous-headed green aliens, the devil, random Bible quotations. More importantly was the message, scrawled in Sharpie on the back. “Apache Jack’s. 4866 Route 15. Gila. Outside Silver City. Ask for Jimbo.”
“Where is this?” Isabela asked.
“Biker bar in bloody New Mexico,” Nigel replied. “We think it’s a spot where these Harvesters sharpen their pitchforks and grope their cousins.”
“How do you know all this?”
Nigel pulled a cell from his pocket. “Nicked this from one of the bikers. Battery’s all dead now, though. Found a bit of cash, too. How we afforded our lovely new wardrobe.”
“That reminds me,” Isabela said. With a bit of concentration, she changed the appearance of her clothes—made the jeans more formfitting and turned the T-shirt into a silky tunic.
Nigel scowled at her. “Not fair.”
Isabela smirked. “So the plan is to track down these maniacs who already tried to murder us once and hope they will tell us how to find Taylor?”
“About sums it up,” Nigel said. He looked to Ran. “Right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Either they tell us, or perhaps we find the girl who creates Loralite. The Harvesters who survived took her when they were escaping.”
“How did we escape?” Isabela thought to ask.
“The baddies hightailed it when their leader all of a sudden decided to off himself. Think the wanker in the suit played a part in that. Otherwise, don’t make any sense,” Nigel said. He glanced at Ran. “The ones who had a mind to keep fighting got their asses exploded.”
Isabela eyed Ran. “You . . .”
She flexed her fingers, knuckles cracking. “I am not a very good pacifist. Especially when men are trying to kill me and my friends. We will find them. And they will talk.”
Nigel smiled at Isabela. She realized he was actually having fun with this. “Going off half-cocked without official approval is the way Garde get things done,” he said. “Or haven’t you heard the stories, love?”
“Oh, I have heard. But you are no John Smi— Oof!”
Kopano stopped directly in front of Isabela and she bumped into the large boy’s back. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Uh . . . ,” Kopano said. “This looks like a problem.”
In the back row of the parking lot, Caleb stood with his hands on the hood of a minivan, not moving. Three other Calebs swarmed around him, all of them speaking over one another.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” said one Caleb, this one rocking back and forth on his heels and hugging himself. “We shouldn’t be doing any of this. We need to go back to the Academy. We need to tell the administrators everything and hope we aren’t in trouble.”
“Imagine how hot she’s going to be for you when you bust in and rescue her,” another Caleb said, this one strutting back and forth. “This is gonna be awesome, bro. Don’t listen to these other shitheads.”
The third duplicate stood a bit away from the others. He stroked his chin ponderously. “Has anyone considered the implications of a terrorist organization having access to the same weaponry as our government? Or the fact that there are Garde being used for violent acts against other Garde? I’m beginning to think we don’t know as much about our situation as we should.”
“We know exactly enough,” whined the first duplicate. He tugged at the silent Caleb’s arm—that one, Isabela surmised, must be the real Caleb, since these duplicates were all trying to coax him to action. “Please! Please can we go back?”
The strutting Caleb slapped his nervous counterpart hard across the face. “Shut up, man! Goddamn. You are pathetic.”
Meanwhile, a Big Box worker pushing a train of shopping carts paused to stare at the arguing quadruplets. Isabela spotted him first and nudged Ran. “We’re attracting attention.”
All at once, the clones went silent, although their many mouths were still moving. Nigel had lowered their volume. He jogged forward, shoving through the duplicates to get at the real Caleb.
“You all right, mate?”
Caleb looked up. “Huh?” He stretched, the movement seeming painful. “Sorry. I spaced.”
Nigel looked around, drawing Caleb’s attention to his squabbling copies.
“Oh,” Caleb said. “I didn’t . . .”
“Quit listening to the voices, yeah?” Nigel said quietly. “We got work to do.”
Caleb closed his eyes. In a blur of ghostly movement, the duplicates became incorporeal and flowed back into Caleb. Isabela shuddered. The Big Box store employee screamed and ran in the other direction.
“Oops,” Caleb said.
With a burping sound, the engine of the minivan came to life. Caleb used his telekinesis to unlock the doors.
“We should probably go,” he said.
“You think?” Isabela replied.
Caleb looked at her, surprise registering on his face. “You look . . . better.”
Isabela groaned. “I’ll tell you in the car, weirdo.”
With that, they piled into the minivan and headed for New Mexico, the Harvesters and whatever waited beyond.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TAYLOR COOK
A ROOM WITH A VIEW—HOFN, ICELAND
THE HARVESTERS HAD COME FOR HER. THEY WERE going to finish what they started back in South Dakota.
That strange girl they had with them. She killed Isabela. Shot her right in the neck with some
kind of poison that melted her face.
No. No . . . she was panicking. Get it together, Taylor.
Isabela wasn’t dead, just knocked out. The scars on her face weren’t from the girl’s weapon; they were the same as what Taylor had seen that night in the dorms. They were what Isabela was trying to hide.
All that seemed so obvious now, as Taylor dreamily recollected it. Yet, in the moment, she had desperately pumped healing energy into Isabela. It was all she could think to do as chaos unfolded around her.
“I’ll protect you,” Caleb said, a trio of his duplicates surrounding her.
And then Kopano, frothing at the mouth, mad with anger, like nothing Taylor had seen before—he tossed Caleb into the windshield of the van. He was out of control.
A powerful shriek that made Taylor woozy. A sharp pain in the back of her neck. Was that a dart?
She floated up. Carried by telekinesis. Hard to keep her eyes open. A glowing stone in the middle of the road . . .
Taylor woke up screaming. Her temples throbbed. Woozily, she sat up in a bed that wasn’t her own, shoving silk sheets off her body.
Wait. Silk sheets?
Taylor caught her breath and looked around. She was in a king-size bed, the dark blue sheets incredibly soft, the mattress more comfortable than anything she’d ever slept on. The room looked like a posh hotel suite. Directly across from her, a flat-screen television hung over a decorative fireplace. A bookcase stocked with classics; a writing desk; an expansive window with the curtains drawn. A stick of chamomile incense burned on the nightstand.
“What?” Taylor said aloud. “What the hell?”
This room didn’t jibe with her idea of the Harvesters. They were bikers or rednecks or both. They didn’t invest in hardback copies of the works of Albert Camus.
Cautiously, Taylor swung her feet out of bed. She wore a pair of flannel pajama pants and a cotton T-shirt. Someone had taken the liberty of changing her. She shivered at the thought.
Across the room was a thick wooden door. Taylor went for it. Only when she stood right in front of it did she realize that there wasn’t any doorknob or handle on her side.
She shoved against the door with her telekinesis. It didn’t even shake. Must be reinforced somehow.
Taylor ran to the window and threw open the curtains. She gasped.
The view outside was otherworldly. Taylor’s window overlooked a lake of the bluest water she had ever seen. Chunks of ice bobbed on the surface, steam rising up from between them, bending the landscape. Beyond that was an ice-covered mountain—a glacier? an icecap?—run through with cerulean veins that glowed in the hazy sunlight.
This was definitely not California.
Taylor pressed her face close to the window, looking down. She was on the second floor. Below, smooth obsidian pebbles fought a battle with stubborn patches of grass for control of the ground. There wasn’t another house in sight. However, she did notice a small rowboat beached on the frozen lakeshore.
Taylor didn’t know why she had been brought here or where here was. She didn’t intend to stick around and find out.
She could jump. Find some place safe. Get home.
Taylor looked for a latch on the window. Like the door, there was no way to open it.
Well, subtly sneaking away was out of the question. Time for a more direct approach.
Without further hesitation, Taylor picked up the writing desk with her telekinesis and smashed it against the window.
Not even a crack.
Taylor’s eyes filled up with angry tears. The window was solid. Probably bulletproof. That didn’t stop her from trying again. And again.
She bludgeoned the window with the desk until there was a small pile of wood on the floor at her feet. She ran her fingers across the window. Smooth as the sheets.
Maybe something sharper would do the trick?
As Taylor looked around, she heard a series of beeps from the other side of the door.
Someone was coming in.
Quickly, she grabbed one of the legs from the broken desk and gripped it like a club. She advanced on the door, fully intending to clobber whoever stepped through. She heard a hydraulic wheeze and then a metallic clanking as the steel pylons that reinforced the door gave way. Taylor cocked her arm back. The door slid open . . .
The little girl yelped when Taylor lunged at her. Taylor was just barely able to hold back from striking her. The girl nearly dropped the metal tray she carried.
“Don’t hurt me!” the girl shouted. She stumbled back a few steps. Taylor, her teeth bared, brandishing the table leg, realized she must look like a total psychopath.
The girl couldn’t be more than ten. She wore a white blouse tucked into a long black skirt and dark clogs. She was pale, dark-haired, her eyes almond-shaped and wide with fear. Upon her tray was a tall glass of water, a couple of Advil and a meticulously folded set of clothes.
“Who are you?” Even though she made an effort to calm herself, Taylor’s voice was sharp. She lowered the club. “Where am I?”
The child swallowed hard, then tiptoed by Taylor. She stared at the destroyed desk for a moment, then set the tray down on the bed.
“I am Freyja,” the child said nervously, her English accented. “You are in Iceland.”
“Iceland?” Taylor exclaimed. “You mean, like . . . ?” She tried to picture where Iceland was on a map, imagining a jagged block of land hovering over Europe. “Iceland?” she repeated.
“Yes,” Freyja said. “If your head hurts, I brought you medicine.”
Taylor stared at the girl. Her head did hurt, but she wasn’t about to ingest anything from this strange child standing guard on her posh prison cell.
“I also brought you a change of clothes,” Freyja continued.
Freyja seemed as skittish as Taylor felt. Taylor took a closer look at her. The girl wore a choker with a bulbous red gemstone over the throat. The jewel flashed in the sunlight—or at least that’s what Taylor thought at first. Upon closer examination, Taylor realized there was a steady pulse happening within the stone, like the lights on a computer.
“Freyja, what am I doing here?” Taylor asked, her tone now under control.
The child looked away. “The man downstairs will explain. Also, there is breakfast.”
Taylor glanced at the open door. Then, she went to kneel in front of the frightened girl.
“Are you in trouble?” Taylor asked. “Did they take you, too?”
Freyja gave a tug at her choker, which, Taylor realized, did not appear to have a release clasp. She nodded slowly, her watery gaze now fixed on Taylor.
“If you’re good,” Freyja whispered, “nothing bad will happen to me.”
“If . . . I’m good?” Taylor’s throat tightened. She stood up. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound sinister at all.”
Again clutching the broken table leg, Taylor left the frightened child behind to go see this “man downstairs.” Outside her room, her surroundings became clearer. She was in a modernized log cabin, the hallway chicly decorated with paintings and sculptures. There were a couple of bedrooms identical to hers, their reinforced doors open. Their beds hadn’t been slept in. At the end of the hall, by the stairs, was a bathroom with gilded fixtures, obsidian floor tiles and a Jacuzzi. There was a closed door kitty-corner to that, presumably the master bedroom.
Whoever the pervert was who lived here, he had fancy taste.
Taylor crept downstairs. She heard music—some eighties-sounding synth band played at a respectful volume. Her stomach growled; she smelled bacon and pancakes. The stairs led to a living area that featured a couple of lush sectionals and a tastefully large flat-screen television mounted above another fireplace. The whole downstairs was open. She could see into the kitchen—all glittering stainless steel and polished countertops.
The so-called man downstairs sat at the kitchen counter, reading a book and sipping a cup of coffee. He didn’t look like much of a man to Taylor; the guy looked like a teenager like
herself. He had soft features only slightly offset by his sternly slicked-over brown hair. He wore a cashmere turtleneck and immaculately pressed slacks.
Taylor didn’t wait for him to notice her. She chucked the table leg at him.
He held up a hand and the chunk of wood stopped in midair. Telekinesis.
He was Garde. But if he was also a Harvester . . . that didn’t make any sense.
Taylor didn’t waste time thinking about it.
“Why the hell have you brought me here, you creepy asshole?” she shouted. At the same time, from the kitchen, she grabbed a trio of cast-iron skillets and a butcher knife with her telekinesis. She flung these objects at the boy, who hadn’t been able to speak at all.
He deflected each of them except the butcher knife. The blade arced through his mug, shattering it, and spraying his off-white sweater with coffee. He frowned.
Something hit Taylor in the back of the legs. A sofa. He’d pulled it into her. She fell backwards, landed softly.
“Stop,” the guy commanded.
She didn’t. Again with her telekinesis, she picked up the shards of his mug. Soon, they were buzzing around his face like a swarm of porcelain hornets. The guy was having a difficult time fending them off.
Taylor heard a shriek and a thud. She turned in time to see Freyja come tumbling down the stairs. The small girl’s body rag-dolled to the floor, her forehead hitting the bottom step with a sickening crack.
“No!” Taylor yelled and tried to get up from the sofa. Blood was already pooling beneath Freyja’s head.
But Taylor couldn’t get up. Or . . . she didn’t want to. A deep sense of calm settled over her body. Moments ago she’d been tense, on the attack. Now, her muscles were relaxing, her heart rate slowing. She felt the way she did after an especially hot shower, like she could just melt.
Her head heavy, she looked to the guy at the kitchen counter. He stared at her. Focused on her. There was a spot of blood on his cheek from where she managed to cut him.
“What . . . are you doing to me?” Taylor asked sleepily.
“I am making you calm,” he said, his accent similar to Freyja’s. “My name is Einar. I am not here to hurt you. In fact, no matter what you do here, you will not be harmed.” He pointed across the room, towards Freyja’s slumped little body. “She will be hurt instead.”