TAYLOR COOK
HOFN, ICELAND
AS TAYLOR CREPT BACK INTO THE HOUSE, SHE heard Einar’s raised voice coming from upstairs. He was yelling at someone.
She took the stairs quickly, but as quietly as she could. Freyja stayed in the living room, furtively peeking through the curtains at the men in the Jeep.
At the end of the upstairs hallway, Einar’s door was ajar. Taylor tiptoed forward. Through the crack, she saw Einar pacing back and forth, obviously agitated. The flat-screen TV on his wall was tuned to a video conference. Taylor could see only the lower-right corner of the screen—a woman, blond hair in a proper bob, a white dress shirt and pinstriped jacket, professional. Seeing only the woman’s mouth and shoulders wouldn’t be enough to identify her, if Taylor was ever able to get out of here. She inched closer.
“Please explain to me why there’s a team of Blackstone men parked outside my house,” Einar growled.
“You know why,” she replied with icy professionalism. Her accent was British. “There is concern your location is compromised.”
“Nonsense.”
“Rabiya knows how to get to you, does she not? You lost Rabiya. Therefore, your location is compromised. The Blackstone men are simply there as a precaution.”
“If you’d let me take them on the mission instead of those moronic Harvesters, this never would’ve happened,” Einar replied.
Taylor inched closer, trying to get a better look at the woman. A floorboard creaked under her foot.
“Now, Einar,” the woman said, drowning out Taylor’s misstep. “’Tis the poor craftsman who blames his tools. Rabiya is quite valuable to the Foundation. We’ve yet to catalog another Garde capable of producing Loralite.”
“For weeks all you could talk about was acquiring another goddamn healer,” Einar hissed. “I got her for you. If I hadn’t—if I hadn’t escaped when I did, all three of us would have been killed.”
“So you said in your report,” the woman replied dryly. “Nonetheless, it was sloppy work. Earth Garde is making inquiries. Thus, we are keeping the Blackstone men close by in the event we need to liquidate the Iceland side of our operation.”
Taylor didn’t like the sound of that. Creeping closer, she made out more details of the Foundation woman. A sharp blue eye, delicate wrinkles, maybe in her late forties or early fifties . . .
“Please, listen,” Einar said beseechingly, obviously not liking the connotation of “liquidate” any more than Taylor. “You don’t understand what it was like—”
“We’ve moved up your appointment. The others are teleporting in,” the woman interrupted crisply. “Get your house in order, Einar. She is eavesdropping.”
The screen went abruptly blank. Taylor glanced up, saw the hallway camera pointed in her direction and cursed under her breath. So, that was the woman on the other side of all this surveillance. She wished she had gotten a better look.
Einar stood in his doorway, glaring at her, his face a cold mask. He had changed out of his coffee-stained sweater and into an immaculately tailored gray suit. Taylor felt suddenly underdressed in her pajamas and borrowed leather coat.
“Are we going to prom?” she asked.
“Get dressed,” he said simply. “We’re leaving.”
“Who was that woman? Your mean British nanny?”
“You may get to meet her one day, if things go well. She’s a visionary.”
“Oh, wow, do you promise?” Taylor replied with a snort. She locked eyes with Einar, probing for weaknesses like Isabela would. “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“You screwed up in California. I heard her. Made a big mess. They’re going to liquidate you.”
“Not me,” Einar replied with a meaningful look.
“Yeah, right. I’m a healer. Sounds like I’m more valuable than you.” She made a point of addressing the camera overhead. “You’d rather have me than this fussy screwup, right?”
Einar took a sharp step towards her. “Stop it.”
“They don’t care about you,” Taylor said quietly. “Or me. But the Academy could protect us. They’ll be looking for me . . .”
Einar laughed in her face. She’d been close to getting a reaction out of him, but had pushed too hard in the wrong direction.
“I told you. Get dressed,” Einar said through his teeth.
Taylor’s muscles tensed. Her heart beat faster, stomach rolling over. She was suddenly afraid. Taylor took a step backwards, towards her room. She better do what he said or else—
No. She noticed the way Einar looked at her. Concentrated on her. This was his Legacy again. He was manipulating her emotions. Knowing that didn’t make the fear any easier to resist.
“Stop—stop it,” she said.
“Go,” he ordered.
Taylor’s palms started to sweat and her knees almost buckled. She gritted her teeth, but couldn’t keep her body from reacting. With a yelp, she ran for her room, slamming the door behind her as if there were a monster on her heels. In a way, she thought, there was.
The fear didn’t subside until she began changing into the clothes Freyja had brought for her that morning. An austere peach-colored blouse and a long black skirt. The outfit was stuffy and didn’t fit her exactly right. She had to roll up the sleeves. There was also a long sash of dark silk that she didn’t know what to do with.
She came back out of her room and found Einar still waiting outside. The fear was gone now, resentment in its place.
“You’re an asshole,” she said.
Einar frowned. He held out his hand and took the silk from her. Then, before Taylor could stop him, he stepped in close and began loosely wrapping the scarf around her head. Taylor had to resist the urge to punch him in the mouth. Once her head was properly covered, Einar stepped back to appreciate his work.
“There’s a dress code where we’re going,” he said.
“And where is that?”
“Abu Dhabi.”
“What? Seriously?”
Einar headed downstairs, forcing Taylor to chase after him. Freyja was still wrapped in the curtains, keeping a close eye on the men parked outside. Taylor glanced in her direction and grimaced. Einar ignored the young girl completely, marching towards the back deck.
“What about her?” Taylor asked.
“Who?”
“Freyja. You know, your other prisoner.”
“She stays here,” he replied. “If you have an idea that you might do something stupid, imagine her dying gruesomely.”
Einar shoved open the back door and strode across his frost-covered deck. Taylor hurried after him, grateful that Freyja was out of earshot.
“Isn’t that going to happen anyway?” she asked. “I heard that Foundation lady use the word ‘liquidate.’”
Einar paused and turned to look at her. “That isn’t going to happen.”
“But if it does . . .” Taylor waved towards the front yard. “Those guys outside will kill her, right?”
Before he responded, Einar glanced over Taylor’s head at the camera mounted over his back door. It seemed to Taylor he wasn’t sure how much he should say.
“That won’t happen,” Einar repeated. “We’re too valuable.”
He didn’t sound entirely convinced.
Einar crossed through the rock garden and approached the wooden enclosure that contained the Loralite stone. Taylor watched over his shoulder as he punched in the four-digit access code, making no effort to hide it.
“All right,” Taylor said resignedly. “So, what are we doing in Abu Dhabi?”
“You and the others will be healing the prince of one of the royal families,” Einar replied, pushing the wooden gate open.
Taylor blinked. So many questions. “What others?” she asked first.
“You make the fourth healer the Foundation has acquired.”
“Four,” Taylor repeated. She was the only healer enrolled at the Academy. “You’ve kidnapped four . . .”
As they approached the Loralite, the chunk of cobalt stone pulsed in greeting, the glow coming and going like a heartbeat.
“The prince has leukemia,” Einar continued matter-of-factly. “The others have so far been unsuccessful in healing him. Hopefully, the addition of your power will be enough.” He put his hand on the Loralite stone, then hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. “It has to be enough,” he said, “or this entire operation will be judged a failure.”
Liquidate. The word echoed in Taylor’s mind and a sense of nervousness fluttered in her belly. She thought of the cancer patient who she had failed to heal back in California. Would failure here mean punishment? Death for Freyja? Some other unimaginable consequence? Her mind worked feverishly—she needed to save Freyja and escape—but she saw no outs. All she could do was continue to play this game.
Einar held out his hand impatiently. “Coming?”
Taylor made a face, wanting to be sure Einar saw her look of revulsion, before taking his hand.
The world spun and reality bent. Taylor had been unconscious when they last teleported, so this was her first experience with the alien process. It felt like her body dissolved—not in an unpleasant way—but a gentle coming apart, as if in a dream. The only thing she could still feel was Einar’s hand, like an anchor that dragged her towards their destination. She felt dizzy, a speck of dirt blown in the wind. For a moment, her vision was filled with darkness penetrated by thousands of pinpricks of bright blue lights. Other Loralite stones, other locations. The cobalt fireflies swirled by her and then—
The heat hit Taylor all at once. That might have been the most disorienting part—to have the chill of Iceland wiped away so quickly, replaced with a dry heat that made Taylor immediately sweaty. It felt like she was baking. She shielded her eyes from the sun. Unlike the clouded-over Iceland, here the sun hung red and blistering in the sky. Taylor found herself surprisingly grateful for the scarf wrapped around her head.
She and Einar stood in the courtyard of a genuine palace. All around her were statues of lions and women, these gilded with what she assumed was real gold. A trio of burbling fountains flanked by fastidiously groomed palm trees complemented the cobblestone path in front of them. Taylor gazed up, slightly in awe, at the four-story building—blowing silk curtains from thrown-open windows, cupolas and crenellations covered in ancient-looking oil paintings, balconies filled with men holding machine guns.
The guards gave Taylor pause. There were dozens of them, both up high and along the edge of the courtyard, all identically dressed in long-sleeved white thobes and mirrored sunglasses. A small army. Taylor swallowed; she’d been around too many armed groups of men recently.
“They don’t entirely trust our kind here,” Einar said quietly, following Taylor’s gaze. “The prince’s father—”
“The king?” Taylor asked.
“Sheikh, actually,” Einar replied. “He is a generous supporter of the Foundation. But not all of his brothers and nephews see our . . . utility.” Einar adjusted his tie. “Behave. Remember Freyja.”
Taylor sighed, looking around at all the guns. She glanced back at the Loralite stone. Making a move here would probably get her killed. She followed Einar down the cobblestone path, towards the palace entrance.
“About time.”
A rail-thin Asian girl who had been hanging out in the shade of one of the palm trees smoking a cigarette from a sleek gold-plated holder cut them off before they could enter the palace. The guards eyeballed this girl in the same uneasy way as they did Einar and Taylor, which meant she must be Garde. Like Taylor, she wore a hijab, although hers was decorated with frolicking seahorses. The new arrival wore high heels that made Taylor’s feet ache in sympathy, a half blazer and a sleek pencil skirt. Her nails were painted red and black to match her outfit. Although she looked only a year or two her senior, Taylor immediately felt like this girl was much older.
“Jiao,” Einar said by way of greeting. When he attempted to walk around her, the girl simply fell into step with him. She completely ignored Taylor.
“We need to talk.”
“Do we?”
“You told me, you promised me, that the Foundation would get my family out of Shenzhen.”
“It’ll happen,” Einar said with a sigh. “You need to be patient.”
Taylor got the feeling this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation.
They entered the palace, Jiao’s heels echoing loudly against the marble floors. The air was much cooler in here. Taylor tried to keep track of her surroundings—paintings that probably belonged in museums, dozens of rooms, more and more guards—while also listening to Einar and Jiao.
“It’s been months,” Jiao said sharply.
“Extractions take time,” Einar replied. “I promise. I’ll look into it.”
“You’d better,” Jiao said. “Tell that British gao bizi this is the last assignment I’m taking until they keep their end of the bargain.”
Einar nodded stiffly and said nothing. Jiao flicked a glance over her shoulder, sizing Taylor up in a split second.
“This is the new girl? She’s supposed to put us over the top?”
“Yes,” Einar replied.
“Hmpf.” Jiao gave Taylor another look, then turned back to Einar. “Where’s Rabiya?”
“Couldn’t make it.”
Jiao studied Einar for a moment, obviously hoping he would elaborate. Taylor volunteered no information. If she was looking for an ally to help her escape, it wouldn’t be this girl. She almost seemed like more of a shark than Einar.
“Wonderful conversation as always, Einar,” Jiao said bitterly, then sped up her walk down the palace’s domed hallway. She knew where she was going and didn’t want to arrive at the same time as them.
After a moment, Taylor chuckled. Einar looked in her direction, lips pursed.
“I finally get it,” Taylor said.
“Get what?”
“There used to be this clique in my school, the mean girls from a couple grades above me. They all worked in the same store at the mall. This—well, you probably don’t have it in Iceland. It’s like a popular store where they sell distressed jeans and sweatshirts with big store logos stitched into them.”
Up ahead, Jiao pushed open a set of hand-carved double doors and entered the room at the end of the hall. Einar slowed down and then stopped, turning to face Taylor. The guards following them—herding them, really—stopped a respectable distance back.
“Please get to the point,” Einar said.
“Okay. These girls were real tight until one of them got promoted to supervisor and then she got all serious, bossing the other ones around, basically acting like a huge tool. A little power went right to her head.” She pointed at Einar. “That’s you, man. You’re like . . . an assistant manager. How lame is that?”
Einar closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them. “Are you finished?”
“Well, the moral of the story is that the store went out of business and they all had to find new summer jobs, but their friendships were already totally ruined,” Taylor said with a bright smile. “So, take that for what it’s worth.”
Einar took Taylor by the arm and led her towards the room Jiao had gone into. “These attempts to get under my skin won’t get you anywhere,” he said. “I’m not some silly bitch from your high school.”
“I’m not trying to get under your skin,” Taylor insisted. “I’m trying to make you see how dumb your situation is.”
“Shut up, now,” Einar commanded.
Einar ushered her through the double doors. It took Taylor’s eyes a moment to adjust—the rest of the palace had been soaked through with sunlight, but this room was kept purposefully dim, all the curtains drawn, candles flickering in wall sconces. The room was huge, with a domed ceiling that featured a chipped mosaic of birds soaring through trees. Incense burned in one corner where a group of women were gathered, all of them covered head to toe, on their knees, foreheads to the ground in prayer. Spread out around the room were more guards with more guns. Taylor swallowed.
An older man with a thick white beard sat at a small table, a goblet of dark wine not far from his hand. He wore a robe of gold and white and Taylor could tell immediately that he was in charge here, the mood of the room seeming to bend around him. This must be the sheikh. He gave both her and Einar a stern look when they entered, his fingers drumming on the table, but said nothing. At his side was an Arabian woman, not wearing the head-to-toe coverings of the group in the corner, but dressed in a hijab and lab coat. A doctor of the traditional variety. She crouched next to the older man and showed him a chart, explaining something in Arabic.
“We’re late,” Einar said quietly to Taylor.
“I got that impression.”
Taylor’s attention soon turned to the king-size canopy bed that dominated the center of the room. Laid up there was the sick prince. He looked like a younger and handsomer version of the sheikh. His beard and hair were clipped meticulously. Unlike the healthy olive bronze of his father and bodyguards, the prince’s skin was ashen, his cheeks hollow, his body pointy and emaciated beneath the sheets. He was hooked up to an array of medical equipment, the steady beeps and hums creating a strange chorus with the prayers from the back of the room. If not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, Taylor would have thought the prince to be dead.
Jiao already stood at the prince’s bedside. “Hurry up, new girl,” she said.
There were two other young people around the prince’s bedside. The first was a heavyset boy with a mane of curly hair. His eyes were red-rimmed, the side of his face discolored by recent bruises. He glanced up at Taylor skittishly, then quickly looked away. Another prisoner of the Foundation. Taylor remembered Isabela mentioning a healer who had graduated to Earth Garde, an Italian guy . . . could this be him? Vincent, she thought his name was.
Across from Vincent was an even younger boy with dusky skin, a shock of bright white hair and no legs. He sat in a wheelchair and seemed completely out of it—his head lolled from side to side, his eyes unfocused. A pair of strange-looking microchips were stuck to his temples. A conservatively dressed older woman stood behind the wheelchair, her hand resting gently on the boy’s shoulder. Taylor found herself staring at this poor soul, sympathy mixing with apprehension.
“The Foundation is generous,” Einar said in her ear, startling Taylor. “But, as you see, they can also be cruel.”
He pushed her towards the prince’s bedside. Taylor ending up standing at the foot of the bed, Jiao at the head, the two boys on either side. Taylor glanced nervously at the two traumatized boys, at least until Jiao snapped her fingers.
“Focus up,” she barked. “Follow my energy.”
Taylor’s brow furrowed. “Follow your . . . I’m sorry. I’ve never done this with a group before.”
She sensed the sheikh shift impatiently behind her, but ignored him.
Jiao rolled her eyes. “You’ll know what to do once we get started.” She gestured in the crippled boy’s direction. “Even a vegetable can do it.”
Paying no attention to Jiao’s remark, the woman handling the wheelchair bent down and whispered something in the legless boy’s ear. Robotically, he reached out and clasped the wrist of the sleeping prince. Vincent, still avoiding Taylor’s gaze, did the same with the prince’s other arm.
“See?” Jiao said, and set her hands on either side of the prince’s face. She closed her eyes and went to work.
Taylor could sense all of them using their Legacies. The rest of the people in the room might have been blind to it, but to Taylor, the healing energy gave off a warm aura.
Carefully, she moved the sheet aside, and readied her hands over the prince’s feet.
She sensed movement. The prince had opened his eyes. He stared, blinking, at Taylor, and a small smile formed on his lips. He looked almost peaceful. There was a kindness in his expression, a gentleness.
“Are you a good person?”
The words popped out before Taylor could stop them. She sensed a restless shifting from the many guards in the room and felt Einar step up behind her. Meanwhile, the sheikh’s fingers suddenly stopped their drumming on the table.
The prince struggled to work moisture into his mouth. “. . . What?”
“Are you a good person?” Taylor repeated. “Because, you know, all of us were basically kidnapped to heal you. Some of us probably tortured. So, I want to know if you’re, like, worth the trouble . . .”
Vincent trembled, but pretended not to hear, his eyes closed. The legless boy remained slumped over the prince, pouring his healing energy out. His handler glared daggers at Taylor. Jiao slowly opened her eyes, her lips curled in disdain.
The prince peered around Taylor, searching for his father. He looked confused. Something wordless passed between him and his father. Finally, he looked back at her and slowly shook his head.
“I . . . I cannot answer that,” the prince said.
“Well, think about it when you’re better,” Taylor said. “Because this Foundation thing is totally fucked and somebody needs to do something about it.”
With that, Taylor closed her eyes and clasped the prince’s feet. She sensed the sickness lurking within him, just as she sensed three pulsing beacons of light trying to burn it away. She added her healing energy, giving as much as she could, as if her life and not the prince’s depended upon it.