WHEN I ENTER THE GYM the next day, I’m frustrated and angry and ready to knock someone over. Neil left without me. He’s avoiding me after my meltdown onstage. Not that I blame him. I’d avoid me too, if I could.
Moby approaches me, his balled-up fists gripping the frayed sleeves of his black shirt. “I dig the eyes. Totally badass.”
“Thanks.” I tilt up my chin. If I can’t remove the eye shadow, I’ll have to own it.
“I voted to keep you in the band. Keegan’s the problem, not you.” Musically speaking, Moby’s right. But if the main purpose of the band is to enhance people’s moods, then I’m the problem.
“That’s sweet of you. But maybe this a good thing. Now I won’t have any distractions from training.”
Moby nods, even though it’s a weak attempt to look on the bright side. “Let’s spar?”
As an answer I throw a punch from my right shoulder, keeping my arm straight and aiming for his ear. He blocks it with his left forearm, bringing his right arm in at a diagonal to push it down with his hand. He then throws a punch from his right shoulder, and my left arm comes up to block it. We continue this chain of punches and blocks, faster and faster, until both of us are panting.
He spins out of my reach, doubles over, and rests his hands on his knees. “Damn, girl, what has gotten into you?”
If only he knew.
I switch to training roundhouse kicks and arm blocks with Emilia. Furukama comes over to demonstrate how it is done, helping me position my arms so that the right one is turned and reaching toward my left hip, while the left one is bent toward my shoulder with the knuckles facing out. When Emilia’s leg comes up, I launch my knuckle toward her neck to block and then bring up my right fist in an overhead punch that glances off her cheek. Then I kick and she blocks. She’s more flexible, so her kicks go higher, but I’m laser focused, landing all my kicks and punches until she, too, bows out.
For the remainder of the training, Furukama demonstrates a new fighting technique, and we alternate partners. By the end of the session, my legs and arms groan. I don’t know how I’ll lift them tomorrow. But even more concerning is how I’ll face Julian in our private training.
I have no doubt he’ll be turning on the charm. What scares me is that he’ll eventually wear me down. And if that happens, I can’t be alone with him. If I give in to Julian, I’ll kill my last shred of a chance with Neil, and maybe the last shred of my humanity too. I can’t risk it. I need someone to train with us.
The most likely candidate is Brady. First because he genuinely seems to enjoy my company, and second because he often spends nights guarding the brimstone jail, which strongly suggests he can’t be Morati.
I corner him as he’s leaving.
“Howdy, Twitchy.” He still hasn’t dropped his nickname for me. “Fixin’ to go back to the dorms?” Neither he nor the other recruits in my class are aware that I’m training with Julian on the side.
We step over the rubber duck—Furukama’s ridiculous rubber duck—as we exit, and head toward Eastern Avenue. Once we’re out of hearing range of our classmates, I stop him. “You’re ambitious.” He’s one of the best in our class, and he’s determined to get selected this rotation. “Why is the seraphim guard so important to you?”
“Cancer took over my life. I couldn’t escape the treatments, the hospital visits, the looks of pity.” Brady faces me, conviction lighting up his face. “But in Level Two I joined the fight against the Morati, and for the first time in forever, I felt strong. Seraphim guards are the toughest, and I don’t ever want to be weak again.”
I hug him. I can’t take away what he went through, but I can offer my support. “Do you want to improve your odds for Ascension Day?”
Brady runs a hand through his wavy hair. “How?”
“Julian. I train with him after class.”
“I reckon that’s why you were on fire today?” That was less about training with Julian than it was about me being part of Julian.
“We could train with him together.”
Brady answers with a loud whoop and then covers his mouth when he sees people staring at him. He whispers, “Let’s do it.”
We go to Julian’s new room in the administration building. When I enter with Brady, Julian scowls and says nothing.
“When you met Brady, it wasn’t under the best circumstances. But I trust him, and it would be good to have someone on my side. Are you willing to train Brady, too?”
Julian stares at me and then at Brady. He shrugs. “Sure, why not?” He rises slowly, holding his lower back like an invalid, and pushes his tray table to the side with his foot. “Sit,” he instructs. I materialize my trusty wooden chair and set it in front of Julian’s sofa. Brady sits next to Julian.
We explain to Julian what Furukama has taught us so far, including the mind stuns, mind blocks, and the physical drills. Julian proposes that we concentrate on two critical skills: sifting through memories to uncover ones more deeply hidden, and distress calls.
Both Brady and I have practiced memory extraction before, of course, so we start with distress calls.
“Felicia, you know how you always find me by searching for my brain waves?” Julian asks. “Distress calls start out the same way. Once you find their signature, you open up a channel to them, and then you can communicate telepathically. It’s how I kept in touch with the other rebels in Level Two.”
“I’ve never even tried something like that before,” Brady says.
“It’s not easy. The other person has to be open to it. Most people block access to themselves by default, as a privacy measure.” Julian stands, now more steady on his feet, and offers me his seat. “It’s better if you face each other to start.”
Brady and I arrange ourselves so that we’re sitting cross-legged on the sofa, with our knees loosely touching. Julian instructs us to examine each other carefully and then note three remarkable features of the other out loud.
By now I’m pretty familiar with Brady, but I’ve never stopped and openly stared at him before. He has brown wavy hair, wide-set amber eyes, a strong jaw lined with stubble, and a friendly face. His skin is the color of caramel, like he’s been in the sun a lot, and he has a mole right above his left eyebrow. He wears a black button-down shirt with pearl snaps, black jeans, black cowboy boots, and a bronco belt buckle. He doesn’t have his sword with him, since he wears it only when he’s on jail duty. “Silver belt buckle, beer-colored eyes, and pearl snaps,” I say.
“Nose twitch, elegant fingers, and too much eye makeup,” Brady says about me.
Julian snorts. “These are the things you’ll picture when seeking out the other. Hold them in your mind, get a good picture of the person, and then reach out. Once you find them, concentrate on opening a dialogue and send your message.”
Brady goes first. I close my eyes and focus on letting him in, but I don’t feel a thing.
After a few attempts Brady gives up. “I can’t find you, and you’re right in front of me.”
When I try, I can faintly make out the shape of him. I send out a signal and wait.
“It tickles,” Brady says. “In the back of my head.”
It’s something. Not enough, but with steady practice I might be able to call for him one day.
Over the next few weeks I fall into a regular, punishing schedule: class, training with Julian and Brady, and then deep meditation.
I see Neil most mornings. He picks me up and we walk as far as the administration building, where he meets for healer training. Though he’s a sweet, steady anchor to my days, we never have the chance to have any meaningful discussions, because of the constant interruptions from fans. Officially we’re still a couple. He still holds my hand, still gives me a good-bye peck on the cheek. Unofficially I dread the inevitable day when he decides we’ve drifted too far apart to stay together.
But instead of dwelling on it, I throw myself into training, going through mental and physical drills with a ruthlessness that surprises my fellow trainees. They don’t know the darkness that drives me, and the slim hope that if I face down the Morati, I might once again see the light.
I’m careful to never be alone with Julian. I arrive at his room with Brady and leave with Brady. When it’s my turn to touch Julian’s palm to sift through his memories, he sometimes teases me with images of our kisses, but I become adept at skimming over them, of avoiding getting pulled in.
Sometimes I go to Neil’s concerts. I stand in the back so he doesn’t see me and so I won’t accidentally infect the crowd with my bad moods. Sometimes I linger in our hallway in the evening, hoping for a glimpse of him, wishing he would smile at me the way he used to. Sometimes I miss him so much, it aches.
Usually I go straight to bed after my sessions with Julian. Nights are for meditating my way to a sleeplike state. A time when I do my best to ignore the memory globe swinging on its wire hanger, thumping against the bed skirt like Poe’s tell-tale heart.
Just when I am beginning to grudgingly accept my Spartan existence of training and mediation, Furukama makes an announcement in class.
“Attention please.” He claps his hands together. “Today we put your skills to the test. Each of you will participate in a double elimination tournament. If you lose two matches, you will be in danger of immediate expulsion.”
All thirty-nine of us gasp. Only a fraction of us will be chosen to join the guard on Ascension Day, but to be kicked out entirely? It is unexpected and unprecedented.
I’m especially freaked out. I’m so close to a breakthrough. Every day more power unlocks inside me. I might even expose the Morati tomorrow, but I won’t be able to if Furukama bars me from further training. If I lose my two matches, I might lose everything.
Furukama instructs us to line up single file around the gym. He draws names from a hat to pair us up. The object of the spar is to be the first to extract the image from your opponent. Furukama goes down the line, starting with Brady, and inserts images into our minds. When he reaches me, he lifts his hand to my forehead and inserts an image of an apple.
Solemnly Furukama calls the first two names. “Felicia and Wolf. You may begin.”
Wolf tries unsuccessfully to mask his displeasure at having to fight me. We’ve sparred in training, and nine times out of ten I’ve beaten him. But in a tournament like this, it takes only one slipup. I rub my hands on my pants.
Planting his feet in front of me, Wolf lifts out his palm to connect with mine. He chooses his default defense—the steel wall he used with Furukama during their demonstration, and something I’ve now torn down numerous times in the past few weeks. While I work on breaching his wall, he pokes around, looking for weaknesses in my force field. When I get through the first layer of steel, I find that Wolf has erected a brick wall behind that. Clever. Within a minute, though, I break through that, too, and grab the image of a katana sword.
I shout, “Katana.” Furukama declares me the winner as Wolf curses. Furukama directs me to the opposite side of the gym to wait for the next winner, and directs Wolf to stay put to wait for the next loser.
Next up are Brady and Zhu Mao. They circle each other as they engage in their mental battle. Brady extracts Zhu Mao’s bamboo tree image and joins me in the winner line.
Furukama continues with the pairings until all of us are either in the winner or loser line. Then he goes down the loser line and gives them each a new image to spar with.
My first fight in the winners bracket is with Brady.
“Ready, Twitchy?” he asks. I nod, though I’m dreading this fight.
He lifts his palm to mine, and we spar. Brady is inventive with his defenses. He creates a densely wooded forest, and as I try to pass, branches scratch at my face and arms. I concentrate so much of my energy trying to protect myself while on the offensive that I leave my force field vulnerable. Brady snatches the apple image, lifts his hand to his mouth, and makes a crunching sound as he snaps his jaw, as if he’s taking a big bite of the piece of fruit. “Apple,” he says loudly enough for Furukama to hear.
“Well played.” I slink over to the first-time loser line. At the end of this series of fights, there are three lines: the winner line, consisting of those who have won both fights; the first-time loser line, consisting on those who have lost only one fight; and the second-time loser line, consisting of those who have now lost two fights. The two-time losers sit on the floor.
Furukama goes down the first-time loser line and gives us each a new image. Mine is of a cherry blossom tree in full pink bloom. I wouldn’t mind sitting under one of those with a bento box instead of having to spar.
My next match is against Zhu Mao. I can’t lose this, or I’m probably out. She extends her palm languidly, but as soon as I connect, her arm goes rigid. I’m shaky at first, but I manage to get through her walls and extract her image of a cat. She pouts as she joins the rest of the two-time losers on the floor.
I have one match left. When I face off against Emilia, I bundle up my cherry blossom tree and set a barrier of fire around it. When our palms connect, I’m blinded by the whiteness of a blizzard. I dig deeper and deeper, shivering all the way, until I find myself trapped inside the Morati’s mainframe again.
The point of view switches, and I’m looking at myself trapped inside the mainframe. I raise my eyes until I’m staring at Emilia’s face reflected in the shiny surface of the mainframe, her glowing alabaster skin framed by silver hair. Libby was right when she said I could be the one to expose the Morati posing as humans.
Because Emilia is Morati.