Everblaze (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 3) (12 page)

Until she knew who their leak was, she was officially on her own.

FIFTEEN

D
EX DIDN’T SHOW UP IN
the cafeteria during lunch, and Keefe was stuck in detention. The rest of the group sat with Sophie at their usual table in the corner, but Jensi was still peppering Biana with questions, and Marella was still sulking about whatever it was that was bothering her—and she
did not
want to talk about it when Sophie tried to ask.

Which left Sophie with nothing to do except pick at the weird green fruit she’d grabbed from the lunch line, and stare at the note the Black Swan had given her.

“This is when I miss transmitting to you,” Fitz said, making her jump as he scooted into the seat across from her. “Then I could ask you what’s wrong and you might actually tell me.”

For a brief time, they’d been able to have telepathic conversations. But Fitz was only able to transmit past her blocking because of a crack in the barriers around her otherwise impenetrable mind. Now that her abilities had been healed, they had to talk out loud again.

“I could help, you know,” Fitz said quietly.

“Not with this.” This was a whole other realm of complicated.

How was she supposed to figure out if the Black Swan had a leak when she didn’t even know who they were? The only member she’d met was Mr. Forkle, and she had no idea who he
really
was under the disguise. Plus, she was pretty sure it couldn’t be him. Why would he rescue her when she’d been kidnapped?

Unless that was part of his cover . . .

“Come on, let me at least try,” Fitz pressed. “You let Keefe help.”

“Not by choice.”

“So what if I don’t give you a choice?” he asked, and the glint in his eye made her cheeks burn.

She leaned back in her chair. “No way you could ever be that annoying.”

“Try me.”

“I—”

“Ugh, check out the loser table,” a snooty voice interrupted behind her, followed by an ugly laugh.

Sophie’s hands curled into fists as a tall, bony girl plopped into the empty seat next to her.

“You do not have permission to sit there,” Sandor snapped, stepping out of his hiding place in the shadows.

“I can handle Stina, Sandor.” Sophie turned to glare at the girl beside her. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Stina turned to Fitz with a sly smile. “I’m not interrupting something, am I?”

“Yeah, actually you are,” Fitz told her. “I was talking to my
friend
.”

Sophie knew why he was emphasizing the word, but it still stung—almost as much as the stupid bruise on her wrist.

“Yeah, what’s up with that, by the way?” Stina asked. “I mean, I understand why these two are hiding over here”—she pointed to Jensi and Marella, who were both glaring at her—“they’re just as bad as this one”—she pointed to Sophie. “But you guys used to be so cool. And now?” She turned to her two stringy-haired minions standing behind her and shrugged, unimpressed.

“Do you think I care what you think?” Biana asked.

“You should,” Stina snapped. “I mean, look at you. I bet you feel so special now, just because you manifested an ability.”

“Uh, I manifested before
you
,” Biana reminded her, vanishing again for added effect.

Stina’s jaw tightened—but only for a second. “Whatever. Abilities don’t matter as much as people say they do.”

“Is that what your dad tells you?” Marella jumped in.

“So what if it is? Look at your family—both parents with special abilities and you’re still at the loser table.”

“The only loser here is you,” Jensi grumbled.

“Keep telling yourself that.” Stina turned back to Fitz and Biana. “Don’t you realize what people say about the Vackers now? They’re calling your family traitors.”

“Traitors?” Fitz repeated. “How do you figure that?”

Stina tossed her frizzy curls. “Simple. You spend all your time helping out the enemy.”

Fitz laughed, his scowl fading to a look of pity. “Sophie is not our enemy.”

“Are you sure about that?” Stina focused on Sophie, the glint in her eye as cold as her smile. “So you haven’t agreed to heal an incredibly dangerous criminal?”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get rid of her for you?” Sandor offered again.

“No, I’m fine,” Sophie said, her voice echoing around the suddenly silent room. “And Prentice isn’t a criminal.”

“Tell that to the guards at Exile—but that’s not who I meant. My dad told me you’re going to heal
Fintan
. And uh, didn’t he have something to do with all those fires a few months ago?”

“How do you know that?”

As far as Sophie knew, all of that information was classified.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Stina said smugly.

“Uh, are you forgetting that Sophie’s the one who helped stop those fires?” Fitz asked. “And I’m sure the Council ordered Fintan’s healing.”

“So? Everyone knows the Councillors don’t know what they’re doing—not since she came along. They need to replace, like, sixty percent of them.”

“That. Is. Enough!”

All heads turned toward Dame Alina, who was striding toward Sophie’s table. Her ruby-encrusted gown swished with every step, and it was the only sound in the room. She cleared her throat when she reached their table. “Miss Heks. Slanderous statements against the Council have no place at this school!”

“I wasn’t—”

“I know what I heard. And I will not allow anyone to disparage our leaders—or one of our most prominent noble families—under my watch. Is. That. Clear?”

Stina stood, her beanpole body almost as tall as Dame Alina’s. But she didn’t argue.

She didn’t
agree
, either. She just motioned for her minions to follow her and stalked away.

“You’ve earned yourself a week’s worth of detention,” Dame Alina called after her. “And you can count on me notifying your parents.”

Sophie doubted Vika and Timkin would care. She’d heard them say even worse.

“All right, show’s over,” Dame Alina said, clapping her hands and ordering everyone to get back to their lunches. “And Miss Foster,” she added, loud enough for everyone to hear. “If anyone says anything like that again, I expect you to tell me. Same goes for all of you.”

She waited until every prodigy nodded.

“Good. Now eat up—you need brain food for all the learning ahead of you.”

Sophie usually dreaded the long walk across campus to the twisted gold and silver towers that housed the elite levels—and her afternoon session. But it was a relief to get away from all the stares and whispers that had followed the lunch incident. She wished Fitz and Biana could do the same—especially since it was her fault they’d been dragged into the drama.

Then again, they didn’t have to endure two hours of linguistics with Lady Cadence.

The session was an elite subject, taught only to prodigies in their eighth and final year at Foxfire. But since Sophie had discovered that she was also a Polyglot—able to speak any and all languages on instinct—the Council had decided she needed to start her training early. They’d also given her access to the usually restricted Silver Tower, even though she was too short to lick the DNA access strip on the door and had to wait outside for Master Leto, the Beacon of the Silver Tower, to let her in.

“You kids always need me right when I’m sitting down to lunch,” he complained as he stepped aside to let Sophie pass.

She’d barely taken two steps before he spun on his heal, his long silver cloak swishing as he slammed the door in Sandor’s face.

“I love how he looks ready to strangle me when I do that,” Master Leto said, laughing to himself as he led her to the other side of the low-ceilinged foyer.

Balefire sconces bathed the silver walls with their blue tint, and the lone statue of a silver unicorn—the Level Eight mascot—seemed to stare at them as Master Leto placed his silver Beacon badge against a small black sensor, releasing a hidden compartment full of cloaks. While Sophie was in the Silver Tower, she was expected to dress like one of the elite. So she grabbed the silver cape that had been shortened just for her and clasped it across her shoulders.

“I heard you had some excitement today,” Master Leto said, checking his overly gelled hair before pressing his palm against the wall and opening the hidden doorway to the main tower. “I’ve been telling Dame Alina for months that she needs to run those levels with a heavier hand. Perhaps now she’ll be willing to listen to me. You’ll find no such issue here. The Silver Tower is under my control.”

Sophie would have loved to believe him. But when they entered the amphitheater-size common area, filled with bookshelves and chandeliers and plush silver armchairs, she could see someone waiting for her in the mostly empty room—impossible to miss at the base of the silver spiral staircase.

Prentice’s son, Wylie.

SIXTEEN

N
EED I REMIND YOU OF
the punishment for tardiness, Mr. Endal?” Master Leto asked, pointing to his badge for emphasis.

Wylie’s skin wasn’t as dark as his father’s, and his features were sharper. But their eyes were the same. Same shape. Same piercing blue. And they looked just as sad and lost as he told Sophie, “I need to talk to you.”

“No, you
need
to head to your session—immediately,” Master Leto informed him.

Wylie didn’t budge.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Sophie told him quietly. “And I . . .”

She had no idea how to finish that sentence.

Wylie hadn’t spoken to her since the day she’d found him at his mother’s grave, when he’d told her his father had promised him that someone would heal him. The poor guy had spent the majority of his life clinging to that dim hope for his father—even when he didn’t know Sophie existed. And now that the possibility was finally a reality, she could practically smell the desperation radiating off him, thick and sour, like the bile coating her tongue.

Master Leto nudged her. “Miss Foster, you should head to your session. Lady Cadence
will
punish you, even if you’re only a few seconds late.”

She was sure he was right, and she was so tempted to climb the winding, twisted stairs and avoid the awkward conversation. But Wylie deserved to know what she was thinking. Maybe he’d even agree.

“I know you miss your dad,” Sophie said, forcing herself to meet Wylie’s eyes. “But I’m starting to wonder if healing him is a good idea. Think about what it would be like for him, waking up to find out how much time he’s lost. How many things he’s missed. And your mom . . .”

Wylie looked away, his hands curled into fists. “So, what? You think it’s better to just leave him in Exile?”

“What I think is that this whole thing is
way
more complicated than any of us realized, and . . . maybe we need to take some time to really consider the consequences before we decide.”

“Meanwhile you’ll heal
Fintan
?” Wylie spat the name like it was a bad word.

Master Leto stepped closer. “That information is supposed to be classified.”

“Well, word gets around. Especially when everyone disagrees.”

Everyone disagrees?

Sophie wanted to know more, but stopped herself from asking. It didn’t matter.

“I’m healing Fintan on the Council’s order—and only because we need to know what he’s hiding. But your dad is different. He’s lost so much. What if all the grief is too much for him to handle?”

“Don’t!” Wylie shouted, his voice crashing off the sleek walls. “Do not pretend to care about him. This is
your
fault. If he hadn’t been protecting you—”

“That’s enough, Mr. Endal!” Master Leto snapped, straightening up to his full height. He actually made a pretty imposing figure, especially when he told Wylie, “I would not recommend trying my patience any further.”

Wylie gritted his teeth, and for a second Sophie wondered if he was going to clock Master Leto in the face. But all he did was shove past him, stomping up the stairs so loudly, each footfall sounded like a drumbeat. Once he’d disappeared around a few curves, Sophie slowly started up the stairs behind him.

“Did you mean what you said back there?” Master Leto called behind her.

Sophie turned back to face him. “Did I mean what?”

“You really think Prentice wouldn’t want to be healed?”

“I . . . don’t know. But how would you feel waking up after all those years and finding out your wife was dead?”

“I don’t have a wife.” His voice had turned thick, his face twisted with emotion—though Sophie doubted even an Empath could translate it.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“It’s not . . . And I still . . . Not that it matters . . .”

She wasn’t sure if he was talking to her anymore. His gaze had turned distant, like he’d fallen deep into a memory. And as she studied his face, she realized Master Leto was much older than he looked. His ears weren’t pointed, but he had ancient eyes.

The bells chimed their intricate peal, drawing him out of his trance.

“You’d better go,” he reminded her.

He didn’t follow her as she headed up the twisting staircase. And when she glanced down a few floors later he was still standing there, staring into space, looking even more confused than she felt.