The creature.
Isabela grunted her thanks and waited, not drinking any of the beer. Subterfuge was one thing, but she wasn’t risking catching whatever contagious stupidity was circulating around this bar.
She sat on a stool and waited, keeping an eye on the cooler. After about five minutes, the door squealed open and a tall man wearing a black duster emerged. The man was bald, a complicated spiderweb tattooed across his skull. The woman outside had been being literal.
Darryl said something to the guards, then headed down the hall, into one of the smelly bathrooms. Casually, Isabela got up from her stool, walked past the two guards and followed him in.
Two stalls and two urinals, a sink with a cracked mirror, mold and mildew all over the broken floor tiles. Isabela paused just inside the doorway, observing it all. There was a Harvester at a urinal. Darryl stood at the sink, washing blood off his hands. Isabela checked the bathroom door. It had a dead bolt.
None of the men looked at each other. Isabela went to the other urinal and set her mug of beer on top of the cracked porcelain. She pretended to pee while waiting for the other Harvester to leave. He didn’t wash his hands.
As soon as he walked out, she used her telekinesis to lock the bathroom’s dead bolt. She turned around to look at Darryl.
“Heard you got one of those abominations,” she said.
Darryl glanced over his shoulder and grunted. He continued scrubbing his hands. “Got the thing’s blood on me. Don’t want to catch some extraterrestrial plague.”
“She still alive?”
“Of course. We going to burn the sin out of her proper, like Jimbo would’ve wanted.” Darryl half turned, surprised to find Isabela standing right behind him. “Who are—?”
Isabela smashed her beer mug across his face.
Darryl reeled but didn’t go down. Blood streamed down the side of his face, into one of his eyes. He took a swing at her, but Isabela ducked with agility that must have seemed supernatural for a fat biker. She thrust out with her telekinesis and slammed Darryl’s face into the bathroom mirror.
He slumped over the sink, breathing heavily but not yet unconscious. Isabela leaped onto his back. She clenched her legs around his torso and looped her arm around his neck. Squeezed. She’d learned the chokehold at a self-defense class before she even came to the Academy.
Darryl’s legs gave way. Isabela rode him to the floor, pleased with the sound his face made when it smacked against the tiles. He was out.
With her telekinesis, Isabela hoisted Darryl’s body and shoved it into one of the empty stalls. She sat him on the toilet and studied his busted face.
Then, she shape-shifted into him.
Isabela stepped out of the stall and telekinetically locked it from the other side. She looked at her new appearance in the cracked bathroom mirror. Gross, but accurate.
Just then, someone tried to enter the bathroom, found it locked and pounded on the door.
Isabela as Darryl yanked the door open. She stared down at one of the boys from outside. He took an uneasy step back.
“What’re . . . you looking at?” she asked, not meaning to pause so much. Isabela hesitated because she hadn’t heard Darryl talk enough to perfectly mimic his voice. With the loud music, she hoped it wouldn’t matter.
“Sorry, Darryl,” the guy muttered.
Isabela shouldered by him.
She approached the freezer. The two guards stepped aside for her.
“Boys say the snake is ready,” one of them said. “You want help bringing her outside?”
A fuzzy feeling came over Isabela as she tried to answer. For some reason, she was really struggling with Darryl’s voice. This hadn’t happened to her before. Nerves?
“I want . . . more minutes . . . ,” Isabela grunted. “I’ll bring her out . . . quick.”
The guards eyed her, but they didn’t make any move to stop her. They probably just assumed that Darryl had chugged some grain alcohol like all the other drunks in this freak show. Isabela unlatched the freezer, yanked open the door and stepped into the cold. She slammed the door behind her.
Isabela immediately had to swallow back a scream. A gutted deer carcass hung from a hook right in front of her. She carefully stepped around the animal, her breath misting in front of her.
The girl from the road, the one with the headscarves, hung by the arms behind the deer. Her headscarves were gone, her raven hair loose and greasy, blood clumping the curls together. The girl had been beaten savagely—her face was swollen, lips split, her clothes bloody tatters. Isabela’s stomach turned over. Yes, this girl had made an enemy of her, but no one deserved this disgusting brutality.
At least they hadn’t put her on a hook. Instead, the girl’s hands were secured by a pair of the heavy-duty handcuffs the Peacekeepers had used against the Garde. The magnetized cuffs were attached to the corrugated-metal ceiling. Isabela also noticed a couple of strange objects attached to the girl’s temples—triangular in shape, about the size of quarters, they looked like twin microchips. Some kind of Garde-fighting technology, surely, but not something she’d seen demonstrated back at the Academy.
Isabela approached the girl. Her breathing was ragged, her lips blue from spending so much time in the freezer. With a cautious glance over her shoulder, Isabela shape-shifted back into her normal form. She touched the girl gently on the chin, eliciting an exhausted moan.
“Please . . . ,” the girl said, followed by words Isabela didn’t understand.
“Stupid, open your eyes,” Isabela snapped.
The girl did open her eyes at the sound of Isabela’s voice. She gasped and strained against her bonds, babbling away in a language Isabela recognized but didn’t understand. Isabela shook her.
“Stop talking,” Isabela ordered, speaking quickly. “I will get you out of here, but only if you lead us to our friend who you kidnapped. Otherwise, you are useless and can stay here. They plan to set you on fire, so at least that will be a relief after this cold.”
The girl stared at her. “English?” she asked. “English, please?”
Isabela stared back at her, brow furrowed. “I am speaking English, you stupid . . .”
She paused. The fuzzy feeling she’d felt before. The difficulty finding the right words for Darryl. It wasn’t because she hadn’t heard him speak enough . . .
Isabela looked down at her wrist. The bracelet. She tugged at it, looking for the one bead that should be emitting a faint glow. Brought her face close, cupped her hand against her wrist to see . . .
When was the last time she’d visited Simon for a recharge?
Slowly, it dawned on Isabela that she’d been speaking to this girl in Portuguese.
The bracelet was dark. Useless jewelry.
Her English was gone. Behind her, the door to the freezer clanked. Someone was coming in.
“Merda,” Isabela said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
TAYLOR COOK
HOFN, ICELAND
AS TAYLOR CREPT BACK INTO THE HOUSE, SHE heard Einar’s raised voice coming from upstairs. He was yelling at someone.
She took the stairs quickly, but as quietly as she could. Freyja stayed in the living room, furtively peeking through the curtains at the men in the Jeep.
At the end of the upstairs hallway, Einar’s door was ajar. Taylor tiptoed forward. Through the crack, she saw Einar pacing back and forth, obviously agitated. The flat-screen TV on his wall was tuned to a video conference. Taylor could see only the lower-right corner of the screen—a woman, blond hair in a proper bob, a white dress shirt and pinstriped jacket, professional. Seeing only the woman’s mouth and shoulders wouldn’t be enough to identify her, if Taylor was ever able to get out of here. She inched closer.
“Please explain to me why there’s a team of Blackstone men parked outside my house,” Einar growled.
“You know why,” she replied with icy professionalism. Her accent was British. “There is concern your location is compromised.”
“Nonsense.”
“Rabiya knows how to get to you, does she not? You lost Rabiya. Therefore, your location is compromised. The Blackstone men are simply there as a precaution.”
“If you’d let me take them on the mission instead of those moronic Harvesters, this never would’ve happened,” Einar replied.
Taylor inched closer, trying to get a better look at the woman. A floorboard creaked under her foot.
“Now, Einar,” the woman said, drowning out Taylor’s misstep. “’Tis the poor craftsman who blames his tools. Rabiya is quite valuable to the Foundation. We’ve yet to catalog another Garde capable of producing Loralite.”
“For weeks all you could talk about was acquiring another goddamn healer,” Einar hissed. “I got her for you. If I hadn’t—if I hadn’t escaped when I did, all three of us would have been killed.”
“So you said in your report,” the woman replied dryly. “Nonetheless, it was sloppy work. Earth Garde is making inquiries. Thus, we are keeping the Blackstone men close by in the event we need to liquidate the Iceland side of our operation.”
Taylor didn’t like the sound of that. Creeping closer, she made out more details of the Foundation woman. A sharp blue eye, delicate wrinkles, maybe in her late forties or early fifties . . .
“Please, listen,” Einar said beseechingly, obviously not liking the connotation of “liquidate” any more than Taylor. “You don’t understand what it was like—”
“We’ve moved up your appointment. The others are teleporting in,” the woman interrupted crisply. “Get your house in order, Einar. She is eavesdropping.”
The screen went abruptly blank. Taylor glanced up, saw the hallway camera pointed in her direction and cursed under her breath. So, that was the woman on the other side of all this surveillance. She wished she had gotten a better look.
Einar stood in his doorway, glaring at her, his face a cold mask. He had changed out of his coffee-stained sweater and into an immaculately tailored gray suit. Taylor felt suddenly underdressed in her pajamas and borrowed leather coat.
“Are we going to prom?” she asked.
“Get dressed,” he said simply. “We’re leaving.”
“Who was that woman? Your mean British nanny?”
“You may get to meet her one day, if things go well. She’s a visionary.”
“Oh, wow, do you promise?” Taylor replied with a snort. She locked eyes with Einar, probing for weaknesses like Isabela would. “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You screwed up in California. I heard her. Made a big mess. They’re going to liquidate you.”
“Not me,” Einar replied with a meaningful look.
“Yeah, right. I’m a healer. Sounds like I’m more valuable than you.” She made a point of addressing the camera overhead. “You’d rather have me than this fussy screwup, right?”
Einar took a sharp step towards her. “Stop it.”
“They don’t care about you,” Taylor said quietly. “Or me. But the Academy could protect us. They’ll be looking for me . . .”
Einar laughed in her face. She’d been close to getting a reaction out of him, but had pushed too hard in the wrong direction.
“I told you. Get dressed,” Einar said through his teeth.
Taylor’s muscles tensed. Her heart beat faster, stomach rolling over. She was suddenly afraid. Taylor took a step backwards, towards her room. She better do what he said or else—
No. She noticed the way Einar looked at her. Concentrated on her. This was his Legacy again. He was manipulating her emotions. Knowing that didn’t make the fear any easier to resist.
“Stop—stop it,” she said.
“Go,” he ordered.
Taylor’s palms started to sweat and her knees almost buckled. She gritted her teeth, but couldn’t keep her body from reacting. With a yelp, she ran for her room, slamming the door behind her as if there were a monster on her heels. In a way, she thought, there was.
The fear didn’t subside until she began changing into the clothes Freyja had brought for her that morning. An austere peach-colored blouse and a long black skirt. The outfit was stuffy and didn’t fit her exactly right. She had to roll up the sleeves. There was also a long sash of dark silk that she didn’t know what to do with.
She came back out of her room and found Einar still waiting outside. The fear was gone now, resentment in its place.
“You’re an asshole,” she said.
Einar frowned. He held out his hand and took the silk from her. Then, before Taylor could stop him, he stepped in close and began loosely wrapping the scarf around her head. Taylor had to resist the urge to punch him in the mouth. Once her head was properly covered, Einar stepped back to appreciate his work.
“There’s a dress code where we’re going,” he said.
“And where is that?”
“Abu Dhabi.”
“What? Seriously?”
Einar headed downstairs, forcing Taylor to chase after him. Freyja was still wrapped in the curtains, keeping a close eye on the men parked outside. Taylor glanced in her direction and grimaced. Einar ignored the young girl completely, marching towards the back deck.
“What about her?” Taylor asked.
“Who?”
“Freyja. You know, your other prisoner.”
“She stays here,” he replied. “If you have an idea that you might do something stupid, imagine her dying gruesomely.”
Einar shoved open the back door and strode across his frost-covered deck. Taylor hurried after him, grateful that Freyja was out of earshot.
“Isn’t that going to happen anyway?” she asked. “I heard that Foundation lady use the word ‘liquidate.’”
Einar paused and turned to look at her. “That isn’t going to happen.”
“But if it does . . .” Taylor waved towards the front yard. “Those guys outside will kill her, right?”
Before he responded, Einar glanced over Taylor’s head at the camera mounted over his back door. It seemed to Taylor he wasn’t sure how much he should say.
“That won’t happen,” Einar repeated. “We’re too valuable.”
He didn’t sound entirely convinced.
Einar crossed through the rock garden and approached the wooden enclosure that contained the Loralite stone. Taylor watched over his shoulder as he punched in the four-digit access code, making no effort to hide it.
“All right,” Taylor said resignedly. “So, what are we doing in Abu Dhabi?”
“You and the others will be healing the prince of one of the royal families,” Einar replied, pushing the wooden gate open.
Taylor blinked. So many questions. “What others?” she asked first.
“You make the fourth healer the Foundation has acquired.”
“Four,” Taylor repeated. She was the only healer enrolled at the Academy. “You’ve kidnapped four . . .”
As they approached the Loralite, the chunk of cobalt stone pulsed in greeting, the glow coming and going like a heartbeat.
“The prince has leukemia,” Einar continued matter-of-factly. “The others have so far been unsuccessful in healing him. Hopefully, the addition of your power will be enough.” He put his hand on the Loralite stone, then hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. “It has to be enough,” he said, “or this entire operation will be judged a failure.”
Liquidate. The word echoed in Taylor’s mind and a sense of nervousness fluttered in her belly. She thought of the cancer patient who she had failed to heal back in California. Would failure here mean punishment? Death for Freyja? Some other unimaginable consequence? Her mind worked feverishly—she needed to save Freyja and escape—but she saw no outs. All she could do was continue to play this game.
Einar held out his hand impatiently. “Coming?”
Taylor made a face, wanting to be sure Einar saw her look of revulsion, before taking his hand.
The world spun and reality bent. Taylor had been unconscious when they
last teleported, so this was her first experience with the alien process. It felt like her body dissolved—not in an unpleasant way—but a gentle coming apart, as if in a dream. The only thing she could still feel was Einar’s hand, like an anchor that dragged her towards their destination. She felt dizzy, a speck of dirt blown in the wind. For a moment, her vision was filled with darkness penetrated by thousands of pinpricks of bright blue lights. Other Loralite stones, other locations. The cobalt fireflies swirled by her and then—
The heat hit Taylor all at once. That might have been the most disorienting part—to have the chill of Iceland wiped away so quickly, replaced with a dry heat that made Taylor immediately sweaty. It felt like she was baking. She shielded her eyes from the sun. Unlike the clouded-over Iceland, here the sun hung red and blistering in the sky. Taylor found herself surprisingly grateful for the scarf wrapped around her head.
She and Einar stood in the courtyard of a genuine palace. All around her were statues of lions and women, these gilded with what she assumed was real gold. A trio of burbling fountains flanked by fastidiously groomed palm trees complemented the cobblestone path in front of them. Taylor gazed up, slightly in awe, at the four-story building—blowing silk curtains from thrown-open windows, cupolas and crenellations covered in ancient-looking oil paintings, balconies filled with men holding machine guns.
The guards gave Taylor pause. There were dozens of them, both up high and along the edge of the courtyard, all identically dressed in long-sleeved white thobes and mirrored sunglasses. A small army. Taylor swallowed; she’d been around too many armed groups of men recently.
“They don’t entirely trust our kind here,” Einar said quietly, following Taylor’s gaze. “The prince’s father—”
“The king?” Taylor asked.
“Sheikh, actually,” Einar replied. “He is a generous supporter of the Foundation. But not all of his brothers and nephews see our . . . utility.” Einar adjusted his tie. “Behave. Remember Freyja.”
Taylor sighed, looking around at all the guns. She glanced back at the Loralite stone. Making a move here would probably get her killed. She followed Einar down the cobblestone path, towards the palace entrance.