Chapter 18
Aether. Her eyes were blue because of Aether.
It made sense, kind of. People had commented on Amaya’s eyes her entire life, citing them as the brightest blue they’d ever seen. Her mother’s eyes had been the same, and her grandfather’s before that . . . she’d always dismissed the compliments. The vivid hue simply ran in the family.
But that wasn’t it at all.
Aether ran in the family.
How was that possible?
The laboratory began to shift in Amaya’s vision, the tiles beneath her feet becoming quicksand that threatened to pull her down as she contemplated the implications of the professor’s declaration.
She suddenly felt as if her own body did not belong to her and had been invaded by a strange, atmospheric force.
Amaya steadied herself by reaching for William’s arm, gripping his sleeve. He stood next to the crystal bottles swirling with magical concoctions of Aether, which she couldn’t take her eyes off of. That stuff—the magic in those jars—was inside her?
“I don’t understand.” Edmund’s voice sounded far away. “How can she have Aether in her genes? And what do you mean about the stone?”
“I’ll run a few more tests, but if its readings are as high as you say, I believe it to be crystallized Aether,” Professor James said.
“Wow.” Edmund practically swooned.
Amaya frowned at him, then at their host.
“What about the first question?” she demanded, her heartbeat quickening. “How could there be Aether in my—”
“Hush. Let me explain.” The old professor hobbled over to a shelf lined with books and pulled one, flipping through the pages. “Almost ninety years ago, Pearce isolated himself in the Marruvian Mountains.”
“Right. In his Skyvault,” Edmund said. “That’s when he crafted the Class Fours for the Relic War.”
“Correct. Records suggest he lived in isolation for the duration of the war, sending the Class Fours back to his partner, Westin Cory, to distribute among the first Sky Lords. That continued until—”
“The Aether Storm formed,” Edmund cut in. “Pearce disappeared—”
“For three years. But when he returned, he wasn’t the same.”
Amaya looked back and forth between Edmund and Trinity, struggling to follow. After a moment, she realized she was still holding Will’s sleeve.
“Sorry,” she muttered, dropping it.
“It’s fine.” His voice sounded thick, his gaze unmoving.
Professor James set down the book and motioned for everyone to gather around. Will’s shoulder brushed Amaya’s as they bent over the book—a book of historical photos.
One of them showed two young men, both with dark hair and eyes. The caption read, “Ronan Pearce and Westin Cory, University of Sorrento, 1794.” A school photo.
The opposite page showed one of the men a few years older, but with a notable difference. Although the photos were sepia-toned, his eyes were noticeably lighter in color. Brighter, too.
“‘Ronan Pearce enjoys a hero’s homecoming in Aerion, 1808,’” Amaya read the caption aloud.
“Look at his eyes,” said James. “Scholars have always believed that whatever happened during those three lost years changed him. He never shared what he’d found or left behind, or revealed if he was responsible for the storm.”
“But of course he was.” Amaya spoke so softly she didn’t even realize she’d spoken aloud until everyone was looking at her. She looked up, caught their stares, and hurried to explain herself. “If he was there when it started, and different when he returned, then . . .”
There were only so many conclusions to reasonably draw.
“So—forgive me if I’m not keeping up—you’re suggesting that he somehow infused himself with Aether when he triggered the storm. Like a human relic?” Edmund asked.
Amaya did not like the sound of that. She shuddered and backed away from the book, hugging her arms across her chest.
“Miss Sinclair is not a relic, but yes, in a sense. Until now, he wasn’t thought to have descendants, but it’s possible that a mutation was passed on.”
“This is all just a theory,” Amaya blurted out, taking another step back. “We don’t know that I’m . . . that I have . . . we don’t even have proof I’m related.”
Professor James produced a crystal needle in response, the point glinting.
“May I? We can test your blood for an Aether signature.”
Amaya shook her head vehemently. “No.”
Because what did it mean if Aether was in her blood? Was she susceptible to Aetheric Decay like the Sky Lords? Worse?
“Maker, just . . .” Edmund grabbed her arm and tried to drag her forward, but Amaya stomped on his toes, drawing out a squeak from the artificer.
“No!” She wasn’t sure she wanted proof of this. Let it stay a theory, something she could forget about. Aether was dangerous. It couldn’t be in her body.
“Amaya,” Will said, his voice low and steady. She worried he was going to force her to give the professor her hand, her blood, but he didn’t. He only said, “We should test this.”
Her entire body tensed as she looked from Professor James and her glass needle to the Sky Lord, and back again.
She didn’t want to. She really, really didn’t want to.
“You’re the only person who can activate the Skystone,” Will said, as if she needed a reminder. “Do you really think I’d let you get hurt?”
Well, when he put it like that, no, she didn’t.
And whether or not she wanted answers, she couldn’t go home until they reached the end of this.
Reluctantly, Amaya extended her hand.
Amaya’s index finger pulsed where Professor James had drawn her blood, but it was less from the prick and more a side effect from the persistent thundering in her chest.
Her blood tested positive for Aether, as expected.
So did a strand of her hair. The revelation that Aether was woven into every part of her was startling, and it didn’t help how Edmund repeatedly impressed upon her that, as Pearce’s only known descendant, she was likely the only person alive with this specific genetic mutation.
She hated that word. Mutation. It was just a fancy way of saying something was wrong with her.
Professor James tested the Skystone, too, and all but confirmed her theory that the jewel was crystallized Aether.
She hypothesized it had activated now because of their elevation; Aether formed in the atmosphere, with very little reaching the ground where Amaya had spent her entire life.
Aether reacted to Aether, and the stone’s activation seemed dependent on the combined atmospheric concentration and direct contact with Amaya.
But after running dozens more tests, James couldn’t figure out how to use it as a navigational tool. It just glowed, the light indiscriminate and imprecise. There was no path, no way to direct the light.
They were missing a conductor, she said. Amaya and the Skystone were only two-thirds of the puzzle. Without something to transform the Skystone into a viable navigation device, it was essentially useless.
The thought made Amaya sick to her stomach. Did Graven already have the missing piece?
They left the Institute with some answers, but more questions and a new mystery to solve. The tension in Amaya’s shoulders wouldn’t release, even as they put distance between themselves and the school.
She didn’t like the way Edmund had looked at her: like she was a test subject he wanted to poke and prod until she lost what little agency and sanity she had left.
Even now, as they wound through the streets to The Drunk Captain, Edmund kept whispering things to himself and jotting down notes in a journal.
Stop looking at him. Stop.
Amaya trained her gaze on the captain’s back instead, attempting to match her footsteps to his and clear her head.
But although looking at Edmund made Amaya anxious, looking at William Lexington for too long made her flustered. So in the end, her heart pounded all the same.
When they arrived at The Drunk Captain, the rest of the crew was already there, sitting at the same table as yesterday and laughing uproariously.
Amaya didn’t feel quite as out of place this time, but something felt different.
It took her a second to register that it was the music. There wasn’t any music tonight.
She glanced across the pub to the decrepit piano, finding its bench empty and keys silent.
Her fingers flexed, longing to go over to it and escape into music like she would at home when troubled.
She followed her companions to the table, though, nodding politely when Lockwood stood to pull out a chair for her on his left.
Edmund squeezed into the center of the table between Mouse and Serena while the captain took his place at the head between Amaya and Sebastian.
Sebastian looked up from his mug and lifted his eyebrows in an unspoken question.
Will shook his head. “Later.”
“Ah! Look who finally dragged his sorry ass in here,” Rory said, circling around with his notepad and clapping Will on the back. He winced and Amaya cringed, realizing that was his injured shoulder. Rory didn’t notice. “You’ve got them dark circles again, William.”
“And you’ve got less hair,” the Sky Lord said without missing a beat. The corner of his mouth twitched in a half-smile, and Amaya could tell they were old friends by the way Rory cackled.
“Touché. Markus, here’s your bourbon . . . and you’re looking especially lovely this evening, Miss Amaya.” Rory handed Lockwood a glass before turning to Amaya and bending in a slight bow.
“Thank you. Happy to be back.” It was the truth, even if she was distracted. “I don’t suppose you have wine, do you?” She didn’t want more ale, but needed something to settle her nerves.
“Aye, we do. Red or white?”
Amaya faltered, used to being handed a more comprehensive list. “Um, red?”
“Coming right up. Whiskey for you, William?”
Lord Lexington grunted in what Amaya assumed was approval.
Rory left to get their drinks, returning not two minutes later and placing a glass of red wine in her hand. She took a sip and crinkled her nose at the sour taste. Okay, so maybe don’t order wine at a pirate-frequented pub.