Everblaze (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 3) (49 page)

Sophie’s nose tingled, remembering the white fires that had torn through San Diego. The flames had smelled exactly the same. Which meant Jolie hadn’t just met the leader of the Neverseen.

She’d met her killer.

The torchbearer told her that joining their ranks meant accepting their enemies. And enemies had to be destroyed. Then he handed her the torch and pointed to the woods, which bordered some sort of human nuclear facility, poisoning the earth with its toxic chemicals. “Nothing so vile should be allowed to continue,” he told her, ordering her to spark the first flame.

She tried to hand the torch back, but he gave her a speech about protecting their planet and taking back what was rightfully theirs. Told her the war was coming whether she wanted it or not and begged her to join the side that would win. When she still tried to push past him, he grabbed her wrist, searing her with his fiery hands. She screamed from the pain, but he didn’t let go, ordering one of the cloaked figures to wash Jolie’s recent memories clean.

Before they could wipe her mind, Jolie used her home crystal to leap away.

She hid at Havenfield for the next few days, afraid the Neverseen were waiting for her.

But there was another reason to hide. One that was far more terrifying.

She’d figured out why his voice had sounded familiar. He . . .

The next several lines were scratched through so thoroughly, Sophie couldn’t pick out even a single letter. And when the legible runes picked back up, the tone of Jolie’s narrative had changed.

It wasn’t a story anymore.

It was a plea.

You have to remember how angry he is.

How lost he feels.

He just wants the life that’s been stolen away from him.

“But who?” Sophie asked, wishing she could reach through the journal and shake Jolie.

Why was she protecting him?

She kept going on and on about the burden that the ban on pyrokinesis had placed on him. Branding him Talentless when he had an ability that should have qualified. Forbidding him from ever satisfying his insatiable craving for flame. Apparently he’d fought as long as he could, but the struggle had been too great. And when he’d turned to Fintan for advice, Fintan gave him secret pyrokinesis lessons instead, opening his mind to new longings, new possibilities.

The power fueled him and haunted him, changing him into someone Jolie didn’t recognize. But she still wouldn’t say who he was—and the pages in the journal were quickly running out.

“Please tell me you put his name in here,” Sophie begged as she turned to the last page.

The final paragraphs gave her no answers. Just hasty scribbles about how he deserved another chance.

Jolie was planning to go to him one last time and try to make him see reason. And if she failed . . .

“You have to be kidding me!” Sophie shouted when the final sentence ended.

Did Jolie really make a special compartment in her wall, and give Vertina a password, and record the message backward so only someone with a special mirror could read it—and even then, only if they had a tremendous amount of patience—AND THEN NOT GIVE HIS NAME?

Sophie stood, needing to move—or maybe kick something—to clear her head.

Could she have mistranslated? Should she go back through and double check?

She picked up the journal and mirror, wondering if her eyes could really handle another marathon translating session, when Grady peeked his head through her doorway.

“Everything okay in here?” he asked. “I was on my way up to let you know Sandor had left, and I thought I heard you yelling.”

“Sandor left?” Sophie glanced out her windows, stunned to see purple-blue streaks announcing the coming sunrise.

“A few minutes ago,” Grady agreed. “But somehow I don’t think that’s what you were shouting about. Was it something in there?” he asked, pointing to the purple journal she was clutching with a death grip. He took a deep breath before he asked, “Did you find something bad?”

“Honestly? I didn’t find anything. After all I had to go through to get this thing, it’s just a long story that tells me nothing.”

Grady’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s how Jolie’s stories always ended. She would act like she’d revealed this huge thing, and most of the time I’d be thinking,
That’s it?
But after a while I realized that what she’d told me was big—for her. She wasn’t big on sharing secrets. I think that’s why the bad match was so upsetting for her. Suddenly everyone knew way more about her personal life than she wanted. Which was ironically how I knew she truly loved Brant. No matter how hard it got, she always stood beside him.”

He smiled at the memory, because for him it was sweet.

But Sophie felt like she was back in that burning tower, watching the world bubble and melt around her.

The mirror slipped from her hand, hitting the carpet with a soft thud.

“Are you okay?” Grady asked.

Sophie shook her head, unable to form an actual reply.

She wasn’t sure she would ever be able to speak again—and she almost hoped that was true, so she would never have to tell Grady the truth.

She rubbed her wrist, remembering the burns her kidnapper had given her. But she could remember a different burn too, one she hadn’t even thought was a burn, even though it had needed burn ointment to treat it.

The wound Brant had given her.

“He’s a Pyrokinetic,” she whispered, knowing the words were true even though she desperately didn’t want them to be.

Because if she was right, then . . . Brant hadn’t just been with Jolie the day she’d died.

He’d set the fire that killed her.

SIXTY-THREE

S
OPHIE BURIED HER HEAD IN
her hands, trying to think of any reason she could be wrong.

She’d visited Brant—talked to him.

And he’d creeped her out both times.

He’d even told her, “I’ve seen you before,” the first time she met him.

Now she finally knew where.

But his voice! She remembered her kidnapper’s voice—and he hadn’t sounded like Brant.

Except . . . Brant had been sick when she’d visited.

Or he was trying to disguise it.

He’d even stopped her from probing his memories—was that because he was afraid of what she’d find?

“No,” she whispered, repeating it over and over, like if she just said it enough times it would suddenly be true.

“Okay, I’ve been pretty patient,” Grady said, taking her hands and waiting for her to look at him. “But you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on.”

She knew he was right—but this was too huge.

Too life changing.

It would shred his heart into itty-bitty pieces.

“Please tell me, Sophie. I need to know.”

“I know,” she whispered, smearing away tears.

But she still couldn’t look at him.

“Who is the Pyrokinetic? Just say it really fast.”

She tightened her grip on him, knowing they’d both need something to hold on to if she was going to do this.

Grady curled his fingers around hers and she took deep breath, choking down the bile in her throat as she whispered, “Brant.”

Grady went very, very still.

It felt like time had stopped—like the entire universe was resting on the edge of nothingness, ready to topple over any second.

But Grady’s voice was soft—barely even audible—as he let go of her and said, “I have to go.”

“Where?” Sophie asked, stumbling into her nearest pair of shoes as she ran after him.

She wasn’t surprised that he went up the stairs instead of down, nor when he stepped under the crystals of the Leapmaster and called for Brant’s house.

But she couldn’t let him go.

“You can’t do this, Grady,” she begged, running to his side.

“Believe me, I can.”

He moved to step into the light—but Sophie grabbed his arm, dragging him back.

“I might be wrong.”

“Are you?” he asked.

She rubbed her wrist, remembering the sting of Brant’s last burn. And she replayed the memory she’d seen in his mind of the fire—the way the flames had exploded so strongly. So suddenly. Why had Brant been knocked back to safety, while Jolie had been surrounded?

It only made sense if
he
sparked the fire.

“It’s true,” she whispered.

“Then let me go.”

“But he probably won’t even be there,” she reminded him. “I’m sure he’ll be with the others on Mount Everest.”

“Maybe,” Grady agreed. “But I’ll be waiting for him in case he gets away.”

When she still didn’t let go, his expression became dull and rigid—like he’d turned to stone. “Don’t make me force you to let go, Sophie.”

She realized what he meant and dropped his hand.

“Don’t tell Edaline,” he whispered.

She lunged for him as he stepped into the light, not entirely sure what she was doing. She had just enough time to hope Brant wouldn’t be there. Then the force of the light ripped them away.

“You shouldn’t have done that!” Grady shouted as they reappeared on the rocky ground of the cold, bleak cliff. “Go home now!”

“Not without you!”

“Trust me, Sophie, you don’t want to be here for this.”

She shivered as she turned to face Brant’s square, windowless house.

The house Grady and Edaline had built to accommodate his every need.

The house they’d visited every year. Bringing him his favorite cookies. Treating him like a
son
.

“Sixteen years,” Grady said, picking up a stone and hurling it at the wall.

It crashed with a thunderous
CLANG!
and shattered to a dozen pieces.

Sophie froze, waiting for Brant to slam open the door and confront them.

But the door stayed sealed and the house remained eerily silent. Nothing but the roar of the icy wind and the crashes and bangs as Grady threw stone after stone after stone.

Finally, out of breath and out of stones, he turned away to dry his tears with his sleeve.

Sophie strangled him with a hug, hoping if she held him tight enough she could keep him together.

“All this time,” he whispered. “I thought he was broken by his
grief
.”

“Maybe he was.”

She could still see Brant cowering in the corner, cradling Jolie’s pin in his hands. And he’d written her hundreds and hundreds of love poems and letters.

“What if it was an accident?” she asked quietly. She knew better than anyone how unstable Pyrokinetics could be. And he’d ended up burning himself. “What if he lost control of his temper and the fire just . . . happened?”

“I love this about you, Sophie,” Grady said, brushing his fingers over her head—careful to avoid her circlet. “You always hope for the best.”

“But what if I’m right?”

“Even if you are—and I don’t think that’s the case—how was what he did to
you
an
accident
?” He pulled away, taking her hands and tracing his fingers over her wrists.

Wrists that had taken Mr. Forkle over an hour to heal.

“Maybe—”

“Well, I guess this means no more custard bursts,” a bitter voice said behind them.

Grady’s grip was like a vise as he pulled Sophie behind him and turned to face Brant.

Brant leaned against the metal door, looking perfectly at ease in his strange yellow-orange robe, like he’d known this day would come—and had been preparing for it.

“I guess there’s no need to pretend anymore, is there?” he asked, switching to the hollow, raspy voice Sophie would recognize anywhere. His scarred lips curled with the hint of a smile as he met her eyes. “What? Not happy to see me again? And here I thought you were working so hard to find me.”

“Actually, I was working to stop you,” she told him.

“Hmm—and that hasn’t gone very well either, has it?” He traced his fingers across his forehead, miming her circlet. “I must say, that contraption is the only good decision the Council’s ever made. Well, that, and having you heal Fintan. Both worked out very well for me.”

His grin made Sophie want to vomit.

“Watch yourself, Brant!” Grady warned him.

“Why? So I can wait another sixteen years for you to figure out what’s going on? Tell me this—what do you think I do all day? Sit in this cold box of a house, staring at the walls, waiting for my annual visit? Actually, I get out all the time. It’s amazing how much a little ash helps me slip past goblins.”

Sophie sucked in a breath. “You were the intruder who left that footprint in the pastures—and you’ve been to the Sanctuary, haven’t you?”

His smug smile was the only answer he gave.

“What do you want with Silveny?” she demanded, wishing Grady hadn’t used up all the rocks to throw at him.

“A creature the Council will do
anything
to keep alive?” Brant asked. “Whatever would I do with that?”

Before Sophie could reply, Brant’s fist flew up, punching himself in the face. He stumbled backward, crashing into the wall—and when he righted himself there were red streams dripping down his scarred chin.

“I wouldn’t do that again if I were you,” he warned Grady.