6. Stage of Grief Anger #3
He reached for me again, hand flaming with magic. I flinched backward before I could stop myself, preparing for another violent attack. He swore and looked murderous. Turning abruptly, he stalked away.
I stomped in the other direction. Staggering through the desert, I wiped tears of frustration off my face. I miss you, Mom. Time stretched as I fantasized about mastering my power and punishing Tarantula.
Wincing through a haze of white, I covered my eyes as a reflected light blinded me. Strange bluish-black panels covered a corner of the hangar’s roof, mostly hidden from view by a row of immense gargoyles.
Stumbling, I tripped on something hard. I was standing on a rounded piece of metal. It jutted out from the base’s foundation. The wind howled, and sand gusted, covering it. A dire horse neighed loudly off in the distance.
Deeply unsettled, I sprinted the last stretch back into the hangar, feeling like I’d been caught doing something that I shouldn’t. I didn’t stop until the cooler interior fully surrounded me.
I barely registered the waiting Shadow Swords, who immediately escorted me down under the base for my afternoon training with the Marshal. After an hour of watching me fail to move a cup of water, she threw it at me. Glass shattered across the floor.
“Do something,” she ordered. “Concentrate.”
Gritting my teeth through the throbbing headache, I focused all my effort on the water. I needed to be more powerful than Tarantula. A single droplet rose up from the floor. Streaked with silver, it hovered in the air between us.
I whooped with excitement.
It splashed down.
“Are you kidding me?” The Marshal’s glare was withering. “A single drop and you’re smiling like a loon. This is war. I haven’t been able to visit my wife in over a year—”
“Just bring her here,” I pointed out, too tired to mince words.
“No civilians are allowed on this base. It’s the law.”
“Make an exception—”
She threw another glass of water at me. “We’re under a level five threat. Train like it.”
I barely ducked in time.
We continued for hours, but the results were the same. No matter how many times she threatened or taunted me, the magic hovered just out of my reach. I was so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open.
When the session was finally over, I went and cried in the shower, fully clothed.
Ella rubbed my back at dinner while I napped at the table, and Axel prattled on about his day. Tarantula took his meal in the bedroom.
Afterward, Tarantula led me out into the desert and once again pummeled me with his awful wind. Shaking with exhaustion, I made a Shield and pretended to be disappointed when nothing happened.
After another few hours of misery, he stomped away with disappointment.
Feeling like a wraith, I headed back through the quiet military base.
Night’s shadows stretched around the empty hangar.
A door I hadn’t noticed before sat innocuously behind the missiles.
I couldn’t face the tension in our bedroom, so I didn’t fight the inexplicable instinct that urged me toward the door.
Anywhere is better than with him. I tried the handle, but it was locked.
Pulling out my newly sharpened toothbrush shiv, I jiggled it in the handle lock with my ear hovering near the mechanism. Click. It popped open. A long, empty hall greeted me. Rows of formal portraits hung on the white walls, illuminated by low lamplight.
I crept forward.
The First Illustrious Marshal, a gold plaque declared next to a portrait.
The elderly male in the painting wore outdated clothes.
He had severe features and bright blue eyes.
The next portrait said, The Second Illustrious Marshal.
A woman stared down at me with wide, strong features and lighter blue eyes.
I continued down the row. Each Marshal, man or woman, shared eerie similarities.
When I got through the long line to the final portrait and stared into the familiar eyes of Kalen Reeves, the truth hit me. I staggered back, gripping the white wall behind me like it could somehow save me.
They had the same unique blue eye color.
They had the same nose.
The same severe facial structure.
Each one of our elected Marshals was related to the others, something the Democratic Papers had never shared. Did any of the rest of the candidates ever have a chance? I opened my mouth to scream, to do something. Does it matter? My teeth gnashed together, lungs deflating.
Mom was still in danger.
The North was still starving.
Focus on your quest.
The hall opened into an expansive circular rotunda with oil lamps flickering along the walls.
Life-sized bronze sculptures of people were displayed around the perimeter.
The Mist rose in slow tendrils from the floor, a faint blue glimmer, barely visible.
A dramatic mural of aquamarine skies and clouds filled the ceiling.
On the white tile floor, seven horizontal rows were decorated with black letters, and three were painted a bright blue, standing out from the rest. I crouched down, faintly recognizing the rows as something Mom had tried to teach me one night when I was too tired to pay attention.
Some sort of table? The three blue tiles had the letters C, N, O.
What does it mean?
This was something Kane, Steelden’s idiotic valedictorian, would recognize instantly and scoff at me for not understanding. I felt stupid. Bitterness expanded inside my rib cage.
Nerves on edge, I tiptoed up to the nearest sculpture of . . . the Marshal? All of her ancestors were spread around her, immortalized in bronze. What in the old god is going on here? In the base of each sculpture gleamed the alchemy symbol for blood. A secret society?
Heart in my throat, I spun in a circle as I remembered a line from one of my favorite poetry books—they want respect, but you must suspect those with power.
Metal doors sat recessed between the sculptures. I tried a gold handle. Locked. Moving to the next door, I tried it. Locked. The back of my neck prickled as I moved around this strange room, trying handles unsuccessfully. Buzzing panic clouded my head, mounting with each second.
Wait. I paused and listened.
A very real buzzing sound tingled faintly through the quiet room.
In the center of the rotunda, the noise was softer.
I moved to the periphery, where it was louder.
I pressed my ear to a locked door, the noise strongest behind the steel.
Something is on the other side. Strange wires, which looked like copper and zinc, ran from the ceiling, down the wall, and dipped underneath the door.
A lock clicked.
One of the doors to the rotunda slowly creaked, opened from within by someone.
Heart pounding out of my chest, I turned and ran as fast as possible back through the hangar, toward my room.
In the doorway, I slammed into Tarantula.
He stood in the middle of the space, blocking my path, oozing viciousness.
The hair on my arms stood on end.
“What . . . art thou doing, Ravenal?” he asked with a hiss of breath.
I feigned disinterest. “I was just getting some water.”
He tilted his head down, staring at where my finger touched the D of the DANGER written across his jumpsuit. Warmth prickled my hand as silvery storm magic tendrilled off him and onto me. Again?
I yanked my burning finger away.
His jaw clenched. “Do not touch me.”
“Gladly.” I shoved my shoulder into him and stomped past, flinging myself at my bed.
“Rude.”
“Better to be rude than a monster.”
“Better a monster,” he said roughly, “than just a man.”
What? Fear seized my heart, and I opened my mouth to demand he explain, but no sound came out. Tarantula obliterated my ability to think.
No one was going to save me from him; I had to save myself.
Tarantula stalked over to his bed, silver-scaled boots reflecting moonlight. I’d faced down the beast that donated them: six years ago.
That night, I fell asleep instantly, but my dreams were filled with memories.