Chapter 3
3
Earlier in the evening, the thought of us ending up at Michael’s place, panting and hearts racing, had been a tempting outcome.
Fleeing kidnappers isn’t quite what I had in mind.
We’d kept running long past when Michael thought we’d lost our pursuers. Now we fumble our way into his building. I’m sweaty and shaky and still trying to catch my breath as I follow him through a cramped hallway to his door. My eyes dart around, and it sinks in how very alone we are and just how difficult it would be for me to escape if I’ve made a terrible error in judgment.
We enter a cozy studio with only enough room for a kitchenette, a desk, and a bed. I do my best to ignore the intimacy of the space as I dart into the tiny bathroom.
Finally peeing is oh so satisfying, but the walls feel too close. The drip of the sink causes my gut to clench, and I want to get the hell out of here.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It’s just a bathroom.
Once the panic has subsided, I feel around my head with my fingers. There’s no pain where I was hit, but there is some dried blood. The lump must have healed along with my palms. My long brown hair is wild and full of snarls. I comb through it with damp fingers and twist it into a knot at the base of my neck. I splash my face with water and wipe off the bruises left by tired makeup.
No, I don’t care that the handsome stranger on the other side of the door saw me looking like the Picasso version of myself. Or that he probably just heard me pee. I can’t care about any of that. Because I need to focus on not letting anything slip that could alert him to why I’m actually here.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I have a job to do.
I can’t get distracted by fear. And I definitely can’t get distracted by Michael’s dimples. Especially now that I know who he must be.
I’m here to do what I’ve always wanted: to be a member of the Families, the historic order that my ancestors have long been a part of. That I too am finally a part of.
The Families have spent generations passing down the secret history of a group of exiles rumored to be in hiding. They supposedly have artistic talents and scientific knowledge far beyond anything we know to exist in our own society. I’ve grown up on stories of the exiles’ incredible innovations and their tragic disappearance, and I’ve heard countless fantasies of what the world could be like if we ever found them again and could share their knowledge.
And I’m pretty sure Michael is one of the exiles.
I take a few more calming breaths, ready to face whatever happens next.
When I come out, Michael is sitting at the desk chewing his nails and inspecting the gloves. His face is illuminated by the strands of dawn peeking through the window; his wound has been cleaned up, and there’s little evidence that it was ever there at all.
There’s nowhere else to sit, so I perch myself on the edge of the bed. I cross one leg over the other, then awkwardly uncross them.
“Here’s your phone,” Michael says, handing it to me.
“Thanks.” The screen is cracked and the battery is dead. No one knows where I am, and I have no mode of communication. Great.
Michael continues to tinker with the gloves. He lifts his multi-tool and uses a tiny magnifying glass to peer at the metal. “How did they get ahold of antimatter?” he mutters. “I can’t wait to bring these back to Genesis; they’re incredibly valuable.” He looks up. “And so are you.”
No one has ever called me valuable.
As his gaze locks on mine, his floppy hair a wayward mess, I remind myself that I have no reason to trust him. But I really need to convince him that he can trust me.
He blinks, looks away, then looks back at me. “Uh, what I mean is that we need to get you to the institute as well.”
I swallow. “What institute? Why?” I don’t have to fake my curiosity, even if I may not be quite as clueless as Michael believes me to be.
Finding out about this supposed institute is the whole purpose of my mission. Over the years, the Families have come closer and closer to tracking down the exiles. Recent intel led them to believe that someone with my abilities could make contact with them at the right place and the right time and could maybe even be invited to join them. I’m not sure whether I ever truly believed it was actually possible. But here I am. And it’s suddenly seeming very, very possible.
“You’re a Sire. You need to be trained and protected.”
Mission aside, I can’t deny that I’m desperate to know what it means to be a “Sire.” These people understand this part of me that has been a mystery—and a weight on my shoulders—for so long. It might not be my main purpose for being here, but a little more probing would only be natural from a girl who’s supposedly never heard about any of this.
“So, what, I’m some kind of scientific anomaly?”
“What? No. Not at all. Having Sire abilities is a normal recessive genetic trait. Just like blue eyes or red hair.”
Normal. I feel so much relief in that one word.
I’ll never forget the time my parents first saw evidence of my abilities. I accidentally revived some wilted roses at our dining room table, and they freaked out like I’d gotten a face tattoo. My mom threw the flowers out immediately, and my dad’s hands were actually trembling. It’s a horrible feeling, seeing fear on your parents’ faces and knowing they’re terrified of you.
I could never understand what made them so afraid, until I saw the book.
I was in middle school, and Grandfather had brought me to visit Mom at her office. As I was waiting for her, I could tell the big, gilded book on her desk was the kind of thing that those not yet initiated into the Families were definitely not allowed to see. Of course, I couldn’t stop myself from looking.
It was all in a language I couldn’t read, but the illustrations were clear enough, and I knew why my mom must have been reading it. I couldn’t grow a vine out of my hands, throw lightning, or stop someone’s heart with a touch like the people in the colorful sketches, but whoever they were, my mom thought I was like them. And the pictures told me what happened to people like me. Drowned, burned at the stake, excommunicated. It was enough to make me want to do anything I could to prove that I was not one of those monsters.
Can it possibly be true that everything I bottled up for so long is just… normal ?
Michael continues, “Being a Sire means you can manipulate Ha’i—life force—like when you made the plant grow and how you heal rapidly.”
Ha’i. He says it like the Hebrew word chai, the sound coming from the back of his throat in a way I sometimes struggled to pronounce. Ha’i. The warmth that flows through me and tingles from my palms is life force . I’ve always thought of that feeling as more of a reaction, like a blush or a shiver.
“So, how can you touch those without them hurting you?” I ask Michael, looking at the gloves.
“Because I’m not a Sire. These”—he holds up the gloves—“are made with antimatter, which counteracts Ha’i and incapacitates Sires.”
“You’re not a Sire?” I ask. “But your cut healed so quickly.”
“Ah. Right.” He gestures toward a tube of ointment. “Where I come from, medicine is more advanced.”
“I see.” I look at his forehead, where the injury still shows, but hardly. “Well, if you guys have such great medicine, how come you haven’t shared it with everyone else?”
I don’t really have a sense for how much more advanced these exiles actually are compared to the rest of us, but I know that medical knowledge is one of the things the Families most hope to gain from them. Exactly what kind of healing are these people capable of? I can’t help but think of how ill Grandfather has been recently….
“We’ve tried,” Michael answers vaguely, his lips downturned. “A lot of our medical advancements are dependent on Sire abilities. If you understood your skills, you could have healed me without any need for the patch paste.”
Is that true? For a moment I wonder if perhaps he’s recruited the wrong person after all. As far as I know, my abilities are more likely to hurt someone than help them. Could I truly be using them to heal others?
And if there are more people out there with my abilities—all apparently capable of advanced healing—then what the hell are these supposedly idealistic people doing gatekeeping that kind of knowledge?
I get up from the bed and wander over to the window.
“I’m sorry, you must be very overwhelmed,” Michael says.
“Yes, but I’m ready for you to explain it all.” I don’t turn, but I can see his reflection through the glass. He puts down the gloves and turns to give me his full attention. I meet the reflection of his eyes.
“My people are called the Makers, and I’m from the Genesis Institute, which you would not have heard of.”
I exhale. My breath fogs up the window, and I trail my finger through the condensation.
He continues. “Though we keep our existence secret, we occasionally recruit Sires like yourself to join us.”
It’s difficult to swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Look, Michael, or whatever your real name is—”
“My name is Michael. I haven’t lied to you about anything.”
That makes one of us.
“Well, you failed to mention that you’re from some secret society looking to recruit me,” I say bitterly.
“I didn’t realize it was relevant.” He stands. “I had no idea you were a Sire. That was completely coincidental. We got a tip that there was a Sire in the area, but I thought it was the pianist—”
“Then why did you ask me out?” I ask, twirling to face him. This suddenly matters very much. Was it all an act? Did he know I was a Sire all along?
“Because I thought you were… cool!” His puppy-dog eyes are annoyingly sexy.
“But you would have disappeared, and we would never have seen each other again.” I don’t know why I’m so upset. But if I’m going to try to play the part to find out more about these people, I need to know who I’m dealing with. I need to know if he’s the kind of guy who would use seduction to manipulate me or if our meeting truly was a freak coincidence.
“That’s… I wasn’t overthinking it…. I didn’t realize how young—I mean, sometimes that’s normal, to go out and never see each other again.”
I blush at the implication of his words. “It wasn’t like that.”
He shakes his head. “Maybe not. But what about you? You’re going back to school in a few days. You knew it wouldn’t work out either.”
I mean, he has a point.
“Moving on.” He brushes the conversation away. “We’re in agreement. It was a mistake.”
Even though I am firmly in the “it was a mistake” camp, it still stings to hear him say it.
“Fine,” I snap, and I feel so childish.
“Look, Ada, what’s important is that you need to learn about your Sire genetics.”
“Yeah, well, if being a Sire is as normal as you say, then why isn’t it common knowledge?”
More than ten years of my own insecurities would really like to know the answer to this.
“Because in the provincial world, the manipulation of life force using Sire abilities was made illegal more than six hundred years ago. And many Sires have been recruited to join the Makers, limiting the gene pool. So abilities like yours have become rare in your world, or so latent that they never surface in any obvious way.”
Your world.
What is his world?
Growing up among the Families—but not as an initiate of the order—meant I heard a lot about the exiles before they were exiled. Everything else was classified, and I’d been given only the barest sketch of the secret stuff in the rush to prepare me for this trip. I don’t even know whether what the Families think they know is accurate.
But I can be the one to find that out. That is, if I don’t completely bungle this.
Okay, irritatingly attractive recruiter, time for me to squeeze some information out of you.
“Fine,” I say. “Tell me about these Makers.”
I gingerly settle myself back on the edge of the bed feeling skittish, like a bird on a windowsill, unsure of what is glass and what is sky.
Michael swivels the desk chair to face me and sits. He takes a deep breath, then says, “Imagine a society devoted to advancing the world scientifically, artistically, and socially. Where everyone is committed to bringing more beauty to the world and eradicating the horrors of inequality and illness and ecological damage.”
I hear the passion in his voice, and I envy it.
“You’re describing a utopia.”
“Not quite, but as close to it as history has ever seen.”
A bubble of excitement expands in my belly.
“And you’re saying this society exists?”
“I’m saying it exists and that I want to take you there.” His eyes sparkle with excitement, and his smile is so wide I almost forget I’m not supposed to trust him.
“But if what they’re doing is so great, why does no one know about it? Why aren’t these ideas helping the rest of the world?”
“Because we’re hunted,” Michael says matter-of-factly. “We’re in hiding. And we have been since the original Makers were forced to flee during one of the Roman Inquisitions. Before then, they were scholars of an academy in Italy renowned for its advancements in art, science, and philosophy. It attracted scholars from around the globe who wished to be modern ‘muses,’ like the mythical goddesses said to have inspired the arts and sciences.”
This is the confirmation I’ve been waiting for. These Makers are definitely the exiles.
“What happened to the school?” I ask, and I’m genuinely curious to see if his account will match the blurry version I’ve been told.
“The Makers’ science, and their philosophy in general—the Church hated it. Some of the academy’s research was definitely… ethically questionable. Amazing, but highly experimental. They believed that humankind being ‘made in the image of God’ meant it was their job to ‘continue the creation of the world,’ to perfect upon it. And this philosophy was considered deeply heretical.
“And when the school refused to conform to the Church’s narrow restrictions of what could be taught and studied, Inquisitors came”—his voice grows quieter—“and burned the academy to the ground.” He looks away, and the column of his throat tightens as he swallows. This is ancient history, yet he acts as if the pain is still raw, as if it hurts him personally.
Michael collects himself and stretches out his long legs; his feet jostle into mine, and he quickly snaps them back. Sitting up straight, he continues. “Luckily, much of the academy’s research was rescued and hidden before it could be destroyed. The Makers, like many other groups of the time, were forced to denounce their ways or be expelled or even executed. Some did, and some went into hiding and continued their scholarship. A group of those in hiding eventually arranged for passage to the New World, where they went on to found the Genesis Institute.”
My rapt interest in the story is no act. It’s wild to hear the things I’ve only ever been told about in theory confirmed by someone outside of the Families. I try to wrap my head around how much could have been lost with the destruction of such a school.
A flop of dark hair obscures Michael’s face, and my fingers itch to push it away. We’re sitting close enough that if we both leaned forward, I could. Instead, I lean back, lacing my fingers together in my lap. I school my features to look skeptical and say, “If what you’re saying is true, shouldn’t everyone have heard of this Inquisition?”
“Have you heard of Galileo’s trial for his belief that the Earth revolves around the sun? And the Spanish Inquisition that followed the expulsion, when the Jews and Muslims were exiled from Spain?”
“Yes, but not anything about the loss of major scientific advancements.”
“That’s because the Church simply denied that any of it ever existed. They buried all the evidence of the Makers’ heretical experiments and blasphemous ideas, and they forbade anyone to speak of them. Except for an elite group of Inquisitors who were tasked with hunting down those that fled.” His eyes bore into mine, telegraphing sincerity and urgency. “And the loss of all that knowledge, it set advancements back centuries . But the Makers kept it all and have continued their mission of advancement in secret.”
“I don’t understand,” I interject. “If these advancements were so great, how did everyone just go along with the Church and pretend they never existed?”
My feet are jostled by Michael’s again as he makes another attempt to stretch his legs. He pulls them back and stands instead, pacing the length of the small room. “Sorry,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “This version of history is very standard for me, and explaining it to someone with a totally different paradigm is always confusing. But don’t underestimate the Church’s power.” He looks at me. “Even in your own lifetime, you’ve observed enough to see how world narratives are formed. How easy it is to reshape history through propaganda and misinformation.”
He’s starting to sound like my grandfather.
“It’s scary how quickly truth can be rewritten,” he continues. “Within one generation after the Exodus, the truth of the original Makers and their discoveries was mostly forgotten, and by the next generation, completely so. Remnants of their legacy remain, but only under the guise of myths and legends.”
There’s a part of me that was never sure whether I really believed all the Families’ stories, that wondered if it has all just been exaggerated and lost in translation over the years. But hearing how Michael’s story fits with what I’ve been taught—it starts to sink in that this could all actually be real . I feel almost weightless, my muscles tight and trembling with a mix of excitement and confusion.
Michael’s pacing takes him to the kitchenette. “It’s been a long night,” he says. “Let me get you something to eat.” As he putters around, I observe him with new eyes, looking for signs that he’s from a society hidden by some big historical conspiracy. He looks normal. But there are subtle hints. There’s no branding on anything he’s wearing. His shoes look well worn, well made, and just a little too old-fashioned. He wears no watch. And I don’t think he has a cell phone, or if he does, he hasn’t pulled it out all night. I mean, that alone is weird.
He sits next to me on the bed and places a tray with a cup of tea and some cookies between us.
I’ve been too distracted to realize how hungry I am. I take my time eating the cookies and washing them down with tea. Michael’s not very good at sitting still. He runs his hands through his hair, chews his nails, drums his fingers on his knees.
“You know that you sound crazy, right?” I ask him, the way I assume a random teenage girl who has not grown up among the Families would. “Hidden society, centuries-long conspiracy, and all that?”
He stills his fidgeting and turns to face me. “I understand that it’s hard to second-guess everything you’ve ever learned. And there’s so much more than what I have told you. If you come with me to Genesis, I can show it all to you.”
It’s the exact invitation I’ve been hoping for. And it sounds incredible. But being kidnapped has really clobbered my enthusiasm.
Michael’s eyes brighten, and his dimple makes an appearance. “You know, Michelangelo was a Maker.”
This gets my attention. “What?”
“Yes, and a Sire; he was at the academy before the Inquisition. He, and others who didn’t want to abandon their lives, chose to stay behind and denounce all Maker activity considered to be heretical. Whenever I look at his prisoner statues, I see the struggle of the life he chose. Like he’s the one trapped in an unfinished state, confined by the new rules of the world, most of his fellow Makers gone.”
He is annoyingly adorable when he gets passionate about art stuff. And this is not anything I’ve heard before. The Families revere the well-known masters for sure, but not in the same way as the ones who were exiled.
“And what other historical celebrities would you like to claim?” I ask.
“Many. Da Vinci, Ada Lovelace—both Makers.”
“No way.” Do the Families know this?
“It’s true. Da Vinci was another who stayed behind. Ada was a Sire recruited later in life; she didn’t die young as your history says. One of her direct descendants is my guildmaster.”
This is far beyond anything I thought I knew. My mind is racing, trying to rearrange what it thinks is true.
“Look, if I haven’t convinced you yet, at least understand this.” He waits for me to look up at him, and the expression in his eyes has grown urgent. The warmth of his body is far too close to mine on the bed. “Someone has been abducting Sires around the globe, but the Makers can keep you safe.”
Why would anyone be capturing Sires? I wonder if it’s related to what I saw in that book and why my parents were so insistent I suppress my abilities.
“Your kidnapping means the Inquisitors know who you are, which means you’re still a target.”
“Wait, Inquisitors? Who are you talking about?”
“The initial group of Inquisitors who were tasked to hunt us down—they never stopped. Our ancestors hoped that they would forget about us, but that hasn’t happened. They’ve passed on their hatred to their children, and we’ve been hiding from them ever since.”
Well, that, at least, he’s totally wrong about. I’ve heard stories from the Families about those Inquisitors, and they definitely don’t exist anymore. But someone tried to kidnap me. Who would want to harm Sires?
“Ada, don’t you get that you’re in danger? We need to get you to the Genesis Institute as soon as possible.”
As soon as possible . No way I’m waltzing out of the country with this stranger. “I can’t go with you right now ,” I say.
He massages his forehead as if it will somehow give him the words to convince me. “Please,” he says, “you were abducted because you are a Sire. I can help you.”
Sire . It’s still strange to have a name for whatever I am. I try to call up the tingling warmth between my fingers, but nothing happens. I want to know how to control it. And I want to show the Families that I’m worthy of being one of them. But I shouldn’t make any impulsive decisions on my own. Me being kidnapped was not part of the plan. I’ve found the recruiter, got the invite, and now I need to get the hell out of Italy. I just hope that refusing to go with Michael won’t lose me my chance.
“I believe you, but I need to go home to my family before I make any final decisions.”
“That’s fair,” Michael says, resigned. “I’ll send you a formal application to Genesis, and I hope you’ll choose to come.”
I’m relieved that his offer is open, but selling the lie of my indifference is safer than the truth. “I’ll think about it,” I say.
“Until then”—his tone sharpens—“you can’t tell anyone about any of this.”
“Right, hiding for hundreds of years, hunted by dangerous people and all that.”
“We’ve stayed hidden for a long time, but things have changed in recent decades. Your world has airplanes and satellites and the internet—hiding an entire society has become more difficult. Telling anyone is a risk. Can I trust you with this knowledge?”
“Yes.” I avert my eyes and aggressively inspect the scars on my hands.
“Good. Because I really don’t want to have to muddle you.”
I look up sharply. “Muddle me?” Dread churns in my belly.
“Um, can we pretend I didn’t mention that?”
“Michael,” I insist. “What does it mean?”
“It means to make you forget.”
The dread rises into my throat, and I stand, taking a few steps away from him.
“I hate muddling people, but sometimes it’s necessary. Don’t worry. I’m not going to do it to you.”
“You can steal memories?”
“No, no, it’s only a blend of tea—”
“You were going to drug me ?” I look down at my empty cup in horror.
“No!” He stands but doesn’t move toward me. He holds up his hands placatingly. “Ada, calm down. I’m not going to muddle you. I’m going to make sure that you get home safely, and then I’m going to hope that you’ll come to Genesis when you’re ready.”
I take a deep breath. He says he hasn’t done anything to me, and I’m going to believe him, because I don’t really have another choice. “Okay.”
By now the sun has fully risen; morning lights up the room, and I realize how thoroughly exhausted I am. I need to sleep and then think about everything with a clear head and copious amounts of caffeine.
Michael pulls a leather billfold from the pocket of his cloak, opens it, and takes out a white folded paper. It’s an origami bird. “I’m still worried about leaving you knowing Inquisitors are looking for you. Take this pigeon,” he says. “Use it if you need me.”
Even if I know it’s not these Inquisitors who are looking for me, it seems that someone else is, so I do need to be careful. I take the bird from him, and I’m surprised to find that it isn’t made of paper but of something that feels like lightweight clay.
Michael reaches over and strokes the bird’s beak. The flat wings unfold and begin to flutter. The bird elevates off the top of my palm and hovers there, wings flapping, its faceless head twitching from left to right.
I’m transfixed by its delicate beauty.
“It’s like magic,” I say in wonder.
“Or advanced science.” Michael winks. “This is a homing pigeon golem. It will find me wherever I am, anywhere in the world. You can write a message inside, or just send it off if you’re in danger. All you need to do is flick its tail, and it will know to find me.”
“This is… impossible.”
“Your understanding of what is possible and impossible is about to change,” Michael says with a smile. The sentiment tangles in my chest, making it hard to breathe, whether from amazement or fear, I’m not quite sure.
“This golem utilizes magnetoreception—the same force that allows real pigeons to navigate using Earth’s magnetic field—and it is entirely scientifically possible.” He reaches over and strokes the bird’s beak again. It folds flat and floats back down into my hand. Michael’s hand comes down on top of it and presses it into my palm. His fingers are warm and strong, and I try my best to ignore the growing tension coiling inside me as his eyes find mine earnestly. “Promise me that you’ll deploy the pigeon if you need me and that you’ll keep it with you at all times while you’re still at risk.”
“Okay,” I say, quite sure that I am indeed at risk—but of what, I do not know.