The Rise of the Fourteen (9 page)

 “It's beautiful isn't it?” It is a lovely morning, but the
executive’s voice still ices Terrance's spine. “It is so calm when there is
nothing around you but the open sea.”

What?
Terrance looks back. The bustling marina, the
waterfowl, the whole coastline, is gone. They couldn't have left more than ten
minutes ago. Terrance edges away from the executive, his misgivings making his
legs shake
. I’m losing my mind.

He leans over the rail to get a better look. There is only
the open seas and the smell, the smell of salt and confusion. His gaze locks
with the executive's, a look of hopeless confusion on Terrance's face. The
executive merely looks back with a scornful but quietly pitying look. His eyes
seem to say, “you have so much to learn.” Terrance considers this a warning,
and goes below deck. The darkness comforts him and almost convinces him he's in
a dream. In a bedroom below, Terrance finds himself nodding off, and before he
knows it, he is asleep.

 Terrance wakes up rather disoriented the next morning. He
is quite nauseated after a night of being thrown about his cabin by crashing
waves. He immediately rushes above deck and throws up the remains of yesterday’s
lunch, retching over the side for some time.

At some point, he feels a hand patting him on the back. He
hears the executive's voice soothing him, telling him to let it all out. Much
to Terrance’s surprise, he stops vomiting. He sinks into a deck recliner, the
color drained from his face.
Vomiting doesn’t stop that fast.

He gives the executive a questioning look for a moment, but
is too tired to confront the man. He sprawls out on the recliner and just lies
there for a while, breathing in the fresh air. He doesn't see the executive
smiling at his success.
If the boy’s trust can be bought this easily, things
are looking up after all,
he thinks smugly
.

When Terrance finally feels like he can stand up again, he
is immediately greeted by the executive and a rather puny lackey. He is offered
all manner of tonics and sodas, but Terrance refuses them all.

 “Really Terrance, you must drink,” the executive says. “We
can't have you feeling unwell for your training.” At that moment, Terrance
notices it
—
not the
wolfish smile, nor the sinister twinkling in his eyes
—
an aura of blackness surrounding the man, even as
he tries to persuade Terrance not to be afraid. No longer able to ignore his
suspicions, Terrance vaults off the recliner. Seeing no place to go but forward
he runs to the bow and hurdles over the railing, plunging into the swirling
waters.

 “You stupid boy!” The cries that emanate from the ship
hardly sound human, but Terrance isn't going to stick around and confirm that.
Of course, he has never swum before but his doggy paddle does get him a few
yards before he starts to flounder.

The wake of the ship is just getting to be too much, and the
waves seem to be growing before his eyes. There are two large splashes in the
water behind him.
They must have abandoned ship as well.
Terrance
paddles furiously, but his own weight drags him down.
Either they’ll get me,
or the water will.

A wave crashes over his head. It will be over soon.
Drowning
always seemed like such a horrible way to go. The bubbles will stop coming up
eventually.
As he begins to sink into unconsciousness, a pair of strong
hands grabs him from behind.

“Sorem, will you get a move on? The boy’s half-drowned as it
is, and the sanctuary is completely unsupervised.”

“This isn’t easy in normal circumstances, Demetri! I guess
you wouldn’t know how hard conjuring a portal is because you’ve never done it.”

“Just make the portal, woman!”

Terrance is coughing and flailing as the waves slap him
silly. There is a great luminescence in the sea. Moments later the three of
them are gone.

A sodden figure in a dripping black suit floats in the
frothy brine, staring forlornly at the expanse where the trio was only seconds
ago.

“
Remex
will be displeased.” He takes off, swimming
back to the boat, which is already speeding towards him.

Mortas can feel their pull so strongly that it hurts. It
aches right in her core. She can feel the dammed-up tears, just sitting behind
her eyes, only blocked by sheer willpower. Ferula looks at her contorted face
but says nothing. The crinkling sounds of snack-size peanut packets being
opened echo around them as well as the slurping of Sprite through little
cocktail straws. They have been flying for at least an hour and Mortas hasn't
said a single thing. The goodbyes at the airport must have been hard for her.
Ferula looks over at Mortas again, wondering about her deep reverie.

***

 “Goodbye Annabelle! I’ll miss you so much sweetie!”

“Shiloh, make sure to brush your teeth!”

“Give me a big hug, come on!” Mortas looks around bitterly, her
face concealed by the cowl of her dark sweatshirt. The tearful hugs, the
momentous farewells, “Bon voyage” from the lips of all the well-wishing parents,
but two familiar faces are gone from the crowd.
I said goodbye the night
before. Ferula was nice enough to take me. But it’s not the same. No memory can
recreate a hug. No photo can show you a true smile.
An arm goes around her
shoulders and embraces her in an awkward side hug. She shudders and only exhales
after the arm has released her.

“I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun, Mortas.” Her father’s
eyes are so sad and empty, like the faded gray of old prescription slips with
traces of long gone blue ink. “I know Granny and Mom would have been here today
if they could have.”

She grimaces, shutting her eyes tightly.
Yes, they would
have been here.
She
would have been here. But you let her die.

Mortas reopens her eyes. “I will have fun, thank you.” She
turns her back and begins walking with the other students to the security
checkpoint. Her father stands speechless, his arms outstretched in disbelief.
Then, resignation sets in, as he slowly lowers them back to his sides. Mortas
doesn't look back, her brown backpack bouncing with her gait. Her eyes are
burning like crackling embers. She disappears from her father's view, her dark
hood passing around the corner.

***

Dinner was served half an hour ago, but Mortas hasn’t
touched her food. She sits gazing blankly at the dingy monitor, aimlessly
flipping through movies:
The Notebook, The Croods, Twilight.

 The titles are an iridescent blur of pixels as she
mindlessly hammers at the little remote. Ferula shakes her arm, but to no
avail. He does it again, even more concerned. Eventually, she takes off the
headphones.

“What?” Her voice is sluggish, like water dripping from a
cracked ceiling. Her eyes are hollow. In general, she has a haggard look to
her, something Ferula would never associate with Mortas.

 “Nothing,” Ferula says, “just making sure you’re okay.”

She mumbles something unintelligible and then puts her
headphones back on. An hour later, when the food is collected, Mortas hasn't
even unwrapped the foil. The flight attendant sniffs disapprovingly but doesn't
say anything. Sometime later, Mortas dozes off, her shoulders hunched and
weary. Ferula looks uneasily at her snoring face and removes her headphones,
stuffing them into the shabby seat pocket. Finally, Ferula dozes off too.

***

 “Did we have to dress up as flight attendants? This
glamor
really doesn’t suit me.”

“Sorem, we already agreed, being passengers attracts far too
much attention. And we’ve already done it.”

“But this is different!”

“You just don’t like the hat.”

“It is certainly a contributing factor.”

“You can be so shallow sometimes.”

“You tell me that the next time you insist on dry cleaning
our clothes between missions.”

***

Mortas wakes up shivering, with the chill of the cheap seats
permeating through her bones. Ferula has been awake for hours and is drinking a
cup of hot coffee when she comes to.

“Would you like some, miss?” A smiling attendant beams down
at her, holding a steaming pitcher in one hand, and a plastic cup in the other.
Are her eyes … silver?
Mortas leans forward, her brows furrowing. But
no, they’re a flat brown.
It must have been the light.

“I would love a cup, thank you.”

“Sugar?”

“Yes, and plenty of cream.” Mortas eagerly slurps up the
tawny liquid, letting out a sigh of contentment. The caffeine works wonders on
her slumped form and soon she is sitting upright, smiling, and finger combing
her hair. However, she remains reticent. Ferula pretends not to notice, and
chats (rather one-sidedly) with her, doing his best to avoid talking about
family and home.

***

 The group finally exits the plane at around 8:30 a.m. local
time. They lazily weave their way through the crowd, following the teal signs
to the baggage claim area. The unfamiliar words and smells of hundreds of
passengers induce a sensory overload in Ferula, and he finds his head spinning.
Mortas, on the other hand, remains reticent, her face nearly motionless.

After some waiting around, everyone has gathered their
things, and they head out to the arrivals lobby. There, a smiling woman with
caramel-colored hair greets them with a boxy sign. It reads “Welcome to
Ankara!” Mortas nearly bumps into her, but Ferula pulls her out of the way just
in time.

“Watch where you’re going,” he admonishes. She nods
placidly, but her eyes are glazed over. He keeps close to her as the woman
leads them out to the curbside towards the bus.
Letting her wander in front
of a speeding taxi would not end well.

The bus is a giant Greyhound, with a large gleaming
windshield. The students file inside, taking advantage of the spacious vehicle.
Ferula pushes a near-comatose Mortas into a seat and takes the aisle seat next
to her
. She’s still completely out of it.
The engine roars to life as
the bus begins to glide forward. No one notices the bus driver tip the mirror
slightly, just enough so that he can see Ferula and Mortas.

“Seriously, what’s bugging you?” Ferula has a guess about
what the answer is, but hopes he’s wrong.

“We’re here for two weeks, Ferula. I won’t be able to talk
to them at all.”

“Couldn’t you work out some kind of graveyard Skype with
your dad or something?”

“He wouldn’t understand.”

“Besides, you said goodbye, didn’t you?”

“I hate goodbyes.”

Ferula looks at her, scandalized.
Considering the way
she treated her dad, why is she surprised? What about the living?
“You
shouldn't be so obsessed with communicating with the dead. It’s not healthy.”

Mortas is livid. “You wouldn’t be saying that if your mom
died!”

“I’m just saying ….”

“No, you’re just being tactless, dung head.” She steps over
Ferula and into a seat a few rows up. Over the twelve-hour bus ride, Ferula
attempts to talk to Mortas several times. She pointedly ignores him and turns a
blind eye.

Hunched in his seat, Ferula curses himself for his
stupidity. Unbeknownst to him, his fingers are flaming as he wrings his hands
in frustration. Crimson sparks dance across his fingertips, scorching the
floral seat fabric.

Looking in his mirror, the bus driver notices and grins.
Soon
it will be time.

Callida walks gaily in the sunlight, the Duomo towering
behind her. Hordes of tourists flow past, eager for a glimpse of the intricate
façade. The street smells like sherbet and sweat. Mopeds of all shapes and
sizes are found in the streets, almost like little metal dogs.

A carriage full of sunburnt sightseers rolls past, the
horse's hooves clattering on the cobblestones. She always loves coming to the
city with all the smells, the people, and just the faintest whiff of
possibility in the air. That's another thing that she loves about the city: the
essence of freedom is in the worn down bricks of every back alley.

She turns left and heads down a wide street lined with shops
—
various knock-off stores and
high-end showrooms alike with the occasional gelato shops. Callida peruses the
stores, frowning in frustration.
What to get for Marianna? It's just my luck
that the only family get together we have is on her birthday. I haven't seen her
in five years! Shoes? A cardigan? A phone case? The glossy storefronts are
endless.
She wanders, flicking through multitudes of racks and shelves
.
What could possibly be more aggravating than shopping for a faceless name?

“Hey, Callida! Long time no see,” a voice calls.
Derek?
She spins around, her wavy hair trailing about her. She spots a slim,
fair-haired boy, wearing gray Vans and a black hoodie. A grin cracks on her
face and she runs to embrace her old friend.

“It’s great to see you!”
You’ve grown taller. Were your
eyes always so striking?
She looks up at the crystal pools as they reflect
the fluorescent lights.

“What brings you to the city?” he asks. She snaps out of her
reverie, blinking away her thoughts.

“Birthday present shopping. Mom and Dad are busy at home
packing.”

“You want help?”

“Boy, do I ever!” she grins as they leave the shop, her arm
linked in his.
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
She laughs as Derek
points out a gaggle of customers swarming a designer shop. She can never
understand people’s fascination with clothes.

Derek allows a small grin to creep up his face. He had
missed Callida’s sarcastic no-nonsense attitude. Going to school on the other
side of town meant they didn’t get to see much of each other.
She hasn’t
grown much
, he notices as they meander down the street, chatting amiably.

Callida had always been the short one. She still has her
acid tongue and her cherry-red lips and her long hair rolling down her
back in flowing loops.
He barely listens to her, but just takes in her
being. They eventually pop into a snack shop and buy some gelato cones.
Callida, of course, gets gelato in her hair and has to rush back for a napkin.
She
did that when she was little too. Some things never change.

***

“Sorem, we’re supposed to be incognito. That parasol makes
you look like a peacock.”

“I’m sorry, brother dearest, but I don’t want to tan, it’s
not right for my complexion.”

“Never mind. Are the kids asleep?”

“If that tonic in their tea was strong enough.”

“You did what!”

“You were the one who wanted the both of us to check out
this girl.”

“You’re a nutcase.”

“Well, you’re a nutcase’s sister. How’s that?”

***

The sun is beginning to set behind the Ponte Vecchio as
Callida and Derek exit the restaurant. Callida carries a single shopping bag.

“Thanks for the dinner, Derek!”

“Anything for a good friend.” They walk in silence for a few
more blocks, their hands nearly brushing. “I should probably head back home. Do
you need a ride?”

“Nah, I’ll just catch a cab. But thank you.” She envelops
him in one last hug, then skips off, a spring in her step. Derek heads back
towards the bridge, feeling light as a feather.

The nightlife of the city begins its revival as Callida
takes one last stroll. Shops are closing and windows are being illuminated. The
last of the tourists are being shooed out of the Duomo as music spills out of
diners and bars and out onto the streets, filling the air with an oddly
pleasing dissonance.

It grows darker as she traipses past various neon signs.
Just
two more blocks, then I’ll catch a cab. Promise.
She ducks into a side
street. The sounds of drunken partying stream out onto the cobblestones. Glitzy
banners beckon people in for draft beer and exquisite wine.

She ends up strolling past a tacky bar. It's clearly a
tourist hub, and everyone is drunk. One beefy man hobbles out, beer in hand,
and tries to convince her to join their drunken carousing. She politely
declines and backs away, but he is persistent.

“Don't be afraid, girly. Just come in for a few drinks.” He
looms over her, his jowls swinging and stinking of liquor. His friend, carrying
a bottle of whiskey also tries to cajole her.

“Ain’t nobody gonna hurt ya. We just want ya to join us.”
The man cracks a toothy grin, his mouth full of yellow gems.

“I told you no!” Callida yells defiantly. She slides into a
wide stance, her eyes going back and forth between the two. Tension clots the
air. If you were listening closely, you could hear the crickets. Then, slowly,
as if just coming to their senses, the men begin to plod forward, patting their
bottles menacingly.

***

“You still haven’t explained what’s going on,” Luna mumbles
sleepily. “Why are we here on a rooftop of all places?”

“I’m sorry, but I just found this girl, I don’t want to lose
her.” Sorem shivers nervously. “I may need your help when we must swoop.”

“Swoop?”

***

Adrenaline. There is no other way to describe the buzz
flowing through Callida’s veins. Mechanically, as if drilled into her head, she
does the sequence. The one she never learned.

Duck.

The bottle goes sailing over her head.

Move the glass.

The other man bellows as his ankles are lacerated.

Down low kick.

Beer belly is down for the count.

Aim for the gut!

Whiskey never sees the punch till he's rolling on the
ground.

The tourists run off, convincing other customers to flee
the area. The restaurant staff even begin shuttering their windows, expecting
trouble. Trouble comes mere moments later as a great glow begins to swirl
around Callida. It gets smaller and smaller until, in a great burst, an arrow
materializes in her hand. It has silver and golden swirls on it, with olive
branch designs of the fletching. A shimmering owl insignia is stamped on the
arrowhead. Callida is flabbergasted and just stares mutely at the object in
her hand. This gives her little time to react to the black mist now forming a
ring around her.

***

 “We have to go now!” Sorem urges, her face contorted with
worry.

“What’s happening to her?” Luna asks.

“There’s no time. They’re coming.”

***

Callida shrieks as she notices the mist condensing into
little toad-like creatures with horns and glowing eyes. They trail onyx vapor
and display their curved teeth. Callida tries to summon her courage from
before, but falters, her hands trembling.

“Callida, hold still!” Callida looks up in confusion,
trying to discern the source of the voice. Sliding down the curved awning are
two women, bedecked with silver attire. One could be sixteen or thirty, the
other, probably not much older than Callida. They did get one thing right: Callida
has no intention of moving.

“Sorem, what do we do about those things?”

“They’re called
Nakiste
. You ensnare them with your
moonlight. I'll open a portal.” Luna’s eyes widen at Sorem’s disturbing calm. “Well,
don't just stand there!”

With shaky movements, Luna grasps at the beams of light.
They congeal into silvery strands. Feeling rather ridiculous, she uses her
energy to throw the ropes at the
Nakiste
. She is breathing hard as some
unlucky
Nakiste
struggle against her cordage.

Meanwhile, Sorem is lifting Callida to safety via a bubble
of light. Callida pounds on the surface of the orb, terrified that she appears
to be floating ten feet above the ground, a sea of darkness at her feet.
Callida and Sorem land haphazardly on the awning and Callida and Luna exchange
equally horrified glances.

“Go, go, go!” Sorem shrieks, shoving them through the
shrinking portal. She titters about the timidness of youth as the two girls against
her grip, a swirling gamut of colors coalescing about her palms.