Foretold Read online

  Ford stills and turns, looking from Regan to me and back again. Noah has turned in his seat to watch. “Well,” he says, in a measured tone, “love is off limits. You can only lead a horse to water, you can’t make it drink. So you can put yourself in that person’s path, but there’s no controlling love. It’s like a flower springing up through sidewalk cracks. A spot of beauty that can grow even in unexpected places.”

  “What’s up with red blessings?” Dill asks.

  I start. The red blessing approaches. I haven’t thought of the phrase since the day I scried it in Pict’s office before I joined Theban, but the memory of the swirling despair that accompanied the message sets my body to trembling.

  “Red blessing?” I force myself to ask.

  “Necromancy,” Noah volunteers. “I’m not into it or anything. I just like reading about that stuff.” He throws a worried look at Regan, trying to read her reaction.

  “That’s right, Noah—” Ford says.

  “Like controlling corpses?” I ask, cutting him off.

  “No, that’s movie stuff,” Noah says. “It’s actually murdering someone for scryer gain. A blood sacrifice. A red blessing is an offering of human blood. A body’s worth—”

  “It’s dark, that’s what’s up with it,” Ford interjects, steering us away from the gory details. “The things we can scry, the things we can influence, have limits. And… well, yeah, if you take a life, you shortcut your way through some of those. But it’s a trade. The life you take isn’t the only sacrifice you make when you’re messing with forces like that, right? Scryers rely on energy to feed our abilities. You tango with dark forces and it strips you of your light.”

  “So, if you engage in necromancy, you can lose your ability to scry?” Noah asks.

  I have to wonder: would I give up these new abilities, this world, these friends, all of it, to save Colin? Yes, I think. Yes, I would. But the answer comes slower than I thought it would, more hesitant. Yes. Yes. Yes.

  Ford is opening his mouth to respond when Regan lifts up a pair of scissors and lops off a big hunk of her hair. I’m stunned, considering how much stock she puts into appearance. Noah full on gasps. Even Ford looks a little taken aback.

  Regan closes her eyes, repeating the words of her ritual and opening them, holding her hair over the flame. The springy dark corkscrew curls fold in on themselves in threads of burning orange and red. We wait.

  Ford looks at Regan sympathetically and squats next to her chair. “You are beyond talented. Don’t let this discourage you. We’ll work on it during office hours.”

  We go around the room, a few people explaining what they asked for, what they sacrificed, and sharing whether or not they got what they wanted; silly things like getting the bird in the room to land on their shoulder. Like Regan, lots of people weren’t able to accomplish their goals. I’m feeling puffed up, peacock proud. I tapped into an unknown well of power inside me and made something happen! I’m going to save Colin, I know it. I want to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

  Before long, we’re packing up our bags, brand-new ICARUSS devices in hand, and heading out to our next class. The class across from ours lets out at the same time, and Griffin sidles up to us immediately. Pict follows Griffin out of the same door, a dour expression on his face as always.

  “I didn’t think training to see the future could be so boring,” Griffin moans.

  Pict’s frown deepens, clearly overhearing. His eyes land on me a second before he weaves around us and stomps off. I silently curse Griffin for making me guilty by association in my advisor's eyes.

  “Mathmatiks may kill me before I’m done with it. Or I’ll end up killing Pict. Either way, at least it’ll be over. If I had to hear one more thing about Pythagoras, I was going to… Hey, nice haircut, Rhesus. Had an accident in class?”

  Regan remains uncharacteristically silent, refusing to take the bait. Griffin is still looking at her when he walks smack into one of the life-sized gargoyle statues jutting from the corridor’s walls. One second he’s next to me and the next he’s flat on his back, a look of shock on his face and a red welt on his forehead. The contents of his bag are scattered around him.

  Dill and another of their friends help wrench him up. Griffin rubs his head.

  Regan marches on, a satisfied grin on her face. “Sacrifice worth it.”

  Chapter 13

  Regan is on the floor of my dorm, painting her toes a hot pink. Noah is leaning back in my desk chair. He lifts his hand to the ray of late morning sun beaming through my window and stares at his neon orange nails. I watch him blow on them from my bed.

  “I can’t believe Noah let me paint his nails, but you won’t.”

  I glance at my rough hands and go in for a diversion. “I still don’t know why you bother since the color disappears the second you hit the elevators.”

  Regan extends her foot and wiggles her toes. “Temporarily cute is still cute.”

  Noah laughs and I smile, returning my attention to the stack of Fortnight Foresight back issues Regan let me borrow. I flip through haphazardly.

  “It’s fugacious,” Noah says, touching his nails to see if the polish has dried.

  “Is that like fugly?”

  “Good great-grandma word,” I say, turning another page. “Means fleeting. Comes from a Latin word meaning to flee…”

  “Cassie, my great-grandma would’ve loved you,” Noah crows.

  I grin, and an article on the Coil tugs at my attention. “Hey, guys… the Coil—this whole thing—” I gesture around us at my Coil-illusion room. “It’s a little different than seeing and messing with the future. You ever think about that?”

  “Yeah, but it’s all the mind, isn’t it?” Noah says. “Only difference is what the environment allows. Outside the Coil—out in the world—we can only see or sense the future and maybe influence it. In here, we can just project what we’re thinking on the world around us in the Coil and these semi-Coil spaces. All still coming from your head though, right?”

  I nod, and I ponder his words all the way to the Rotunda after they decline to join me for a meeting with my aunt.

  I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the Rotunda or the way it feels each time I clap eyes on it—like something has bloomed in the murky depths of my chest and is reaching out for that ceiling’s radiance. Or maybe it isn’t the ceiling. It might be the geeked-out glee of overhearing snippets of scryer conversations. Or both. Whatever it is, over the past week this space more than any other at Theban Group has filled me with awe. And that’s saying a lot.

  I spot Aunt Bree before she notices me, and for a brief, cowardly moment, I consider ducking behind the Magpie cart where I’m waiting in line. The auburn hidden in her dark hair comes alive in the Rotunda dome-light. She’s wearing a breezy belted sundress adorned with a collection of accessories I wouldn’t have thought to assemble. But then again, I wasn’t born effortlessly chic. The way her lip curls as an initiate darts across her path reminds me, unnecessarily, that the rose has thorns.

  “There you are. I should’ve checked the meat pie line first.” Aunt Bree smiles as she approaches. There isn’t any reproach or mockery in her tone, but I immediately know it’s an insult. Or… do I? Maybe I’m not being fair to her. Sure, she says rude things with a laugh so she can pretend it was just a grand joke when you take offense, and she has an arrogant air that makes you want to smack her just to knock her off that pedestal she’s put herself on. But she’s also the reason I even have a shot at saving Colin. She’s the reason I know I’m not losing my mind.

  “They’re good,” I say, tentatively. “I got two. Want one?”

  She waves the offer away and indicates I should join her at one of the bistro tables near the fountain. I grab my steaming pies in their wax paper jackets and stamp after her, juggling to keep from burning my fingers.

  “I wanted to check up on you now that you’re finishing your first week,” Aunt Bree says when I sit across from her. “I’
ve been very busy, which I’m sorry about.” She purses her lips into a moue of regret. “But I heard good things about your Rituals class in particular. How are you acclimating?”

  “Good, I guess. I miss Dad, but I’m making some friends. I’ve got an ECC appointment to talk to Dad later today. First one.” I shrug and unwrap one of my pies, bringing it to my mouth and sinking my teeth into it defiantly. Aunt Bree doesn’t react.

  “If you need me to pull strings to get you more frequent ECC appointments, let me know.”

  That’d make me super popular with everyone here, hopping to the front of the line. But even still, I so want to tell her yes.

  “There are benefits to being my niece. You’ll want to—”

  “Ms. Morai! Haven’t seen you in a couple weeks. How’d you sneak past me?” Theodore, the front desk Santa, asks, clutching his own pair of pies and staring at Aunt Bree.

  “Maybe I caught you mid-nap?” Aunt Bree says, saccharine sweet. “Or on a snack break?”

  “No one gets the drop on me, Ms. Morai. And the logs don’t show you comin’ in during Kren’s watch…” He starts taking down one of his pies with the skill of a lion devouring a gazelle and chews thoughtfully.

  Aunt Bree sighs when it becomes obvious he isn’t moving away. “Jordan approved an executive entrance. It isn’t common knowledge, and I’d like to keep it that way. Understood?”

  Theodore straightens. “Of course.” He turns his attention to me. “Other Ms. Morai. I see you discovered the meat pies!”

  I ignore whatever Aunt Bree mumbles and smile. “Cassie. Yeah, my favorite pair of jeans wishes I hadn’t, but I’m glad I did.”

  Theodore grunts out a laugh and finishes his second. “Now that I’ve taken care of my own girlish figure, I’d better get back to my desk. Don’t be a stranger now, Cassie.” He grins and heads off.

  Aunt Bree stares at his retreating figure and then down at my own second pie on the table. “You do know Theban has a gym?”

  “Hiya, Cass!”

  I blink back tears, and the antiseptic pale green walls of the ECC—Theban Group’s External Communications Center—swim in front of me. “Hi, Dad,” I say thickly.

  Theban Group’s ban on personal phones and internet has been killing me, and not just because I’m used to having my phone in my hand every second of the day. Yes, the policy is because they make for too big a distraction, and I get that, but it’s been a week since I’ve heard Dad’s voice. It's the longest I’ve ever gone. Seven painful days of waiting for my ECC appointment. I didn’t appreciate how painful the wait was until I heard that gentle timbre on the other end of the line.

  “How’s it going at camp? What’ve you been up to?”

  “Oh, you know, camp stuff. It’s okay,” I say, the lie goring its way down my tongue before tumbling off.

  “You checking for ticks every day?”

  “Yes! I said I would. How’s it been having the place to yourself?”

  “Well, I miss you, Cass. But to be honest, I’m loving all the leftover lasagna. Didn’t realize how much of it you pack away.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, hiccupping out a laugh. “I miss you, too.”

  “Oh, sorry. Hang on a sec.” A woman’s voice murmurs something in the background on Dad’s side.

  “Who’s that?” I ask. I pick at the healing skin of my thumb.

  I hear him talking to someone before he answers. “Sorry about that. Er… Eleanor is here. I burned our dinner and… takeout to the rescue. It just got here.”

  I stare at the wall in front of me, my mind supplying images of that faceless woman sitting on my mom’s side of the couch. “Oh. Well, go eat, then. I just wanted to say hi. I’ll give you a call again when I get a chance. Lots going on here. Have fun.”

  “Cass…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you,” Dad says.

  I swallow. “Yeah. Me too. Bye, Dad.”

  I hang up before he can say anything more, and I open my email on the computer in front of me, angrily clicking around. Who even uses email anymore? Old people. And me, apparently. My upset reluctantly fades when I see a name that makes my heart bounce around my ribcage like a puppy in a gift box.

  I open Colin’s email, and the smile that splits my face is nearly painful.

  * * *

  Dear Cassie,

  * * *

  How’s camp? Got to be better than jail, which is where you’re headed after committing the unforgivable crime of stealing my favorite sweatshirt. You thought you could bat your pretty eyes and I’d forget all about it, didn’t you? Well, you’re right, but now that you’ve been gone for a week, your spell has worn off, and I am *livid*. I suggest you rush back. Not because I miss you. I just want that sweatshirt.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Colin Jon Clay, III

  * * *

  P.S. Mrs. O says hi.

  * * *

  Below Colin’s note is a picture of me behind bars. He’s doctored a snap he took of our waffle outing last week. I’m mid-chew and look ridiculous.

  I fire back a response, pretending to be a lawyer representing Cassie Morai, unjustly accused of stealing, and race back to my room to throw on his sweatshirt, inhaling deeply to capture the faint whiff of the coconut body wash he steals from his mom’s shower and, under it, him. I flop onto my bed with my Pict homework, grinning like mad, and try not to let the delicious thought that Colin misses me distract me too much.

  Chapter 14

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the old albatross herself.” Pict’s voice echoes off the walls of the corridor outside his office.

  Linda Fenice, owner of the door of a million locks, and my ornithomancy instructor—or “bird brain,” if you’re asking Aunt Bree—levels Pict with a look of disgust before returning her attention to unlocking her door. “Charm, charm everywhere, and not a drop in you, eh, Martin?”

  Pict smiles coldly. “Speaking of charming, is that bird excrement on your shoulder, Fenice?”

  “Another Band-Aid, Marty? Burying your head in a book has some occupational hazards, doesn’t it? Chief among them an absolute lack of friends. Oh dear, you probably don’t know what those are, do you?” She clucks her tongue in sympathy. “I’ll save you a trip to the bookshelf. Friends are—”

  “Ms. Morai, before you stands Ms. Fenice, the one person in the building who might be less talented than yourself.”

  Fenice laughs. “Your mentee is in my class. Lovely girl with a great deal of raw talent.” She finishes with her locks, opens her door, and turns back toward me. “If you ever need a shoulder to cry on, dear—and we know with this lummox there will definitely be a need—I’m across the hall.” She gives me a kindly look and glares at Pict before closing her door with a teeth-rattling slam.

  Pict turns to me with a furious look. “An extra hour of reading tonight in Vassago’s Pyromancy.” He falls back into his office and slams his pink door behind him.

  Awesome. Now I’m even punished when other people piss Pict off. Hilariously, I was just thinking about how relatively mellow he’s been the past few days.

  I stifle a yawn. It’s been a long day, and with a late-afternoon Palmistry class followed by a mirror scrying night lab, it’s not over yet.

  I run my fingers over the walls of the hall on my way to class, marveling at how the different spaces are so perfectly spliced into one another, from jagged stone to wood paneling to Moroccan tile to wall hangings. I don’t usually enjoy silences, since my mind always fills them with worries, but here… Theban is so much larger than the number of scryers here could possibly need, so everywhere outside the dorms, the Rotunda, or the class halls, always has this waiting quiet. But it’s different than the empty quiets I dislike. This quiet is heavy. A bated breath come to life.

  Regan greets me as I take my seat in Palmistry and rests her chin in her upturned palms. “He is so beyond,” she says, staring at our instructor.

  I stifle a yawn. “Beyond what?”<
br />
  “Anything.”

  James du Lac, Theban’s Palmistry instructor and Constance du Lac’s husband, brushes his shock of shoe-polish-black hair back off his brow. His bone structure hints at extreme good looks in his youth, and tanned aging skin suggesting summers spent in the sun and winters in tanning beds. He’s nice enough, but I can’t bring myself to care all that much about palm reading. How would that help me save Colin?

  “Pair up, kids, and spread out. Plenty of space here. You want to find a nice, quiet spot where you can concentrate on each other,” Mr. du Lac says. “We’ve studied all the practical stuff this week, and now we execute. You’re going to take your partner’s dominant hand, palm up, into your own hands. Cradle it, like this.” The girl whose hand he has taken into his own blushes. He isn’t flirtatious in any way, but somehow every word out of his mouth feels like the start of a romance.

  The class fans out, pushing desks together and settling into groups. A hush falls over the room, white noise only interrupted by the occasional laugh or a comment by our instructor.

  “Palmistry is still forbidden in some parts. It’s too personal. Too focused. Too intimate,” he says. “When you scry, you don’t know what you’ll come back with, who it might relate to, or what it will reveal. With the palm, you know that everything you uncover is going to be about that one person in front of you. And—this is the kick in the head—it’s the only scrying method that lets you see the future and the past.”

  “Come on, Cassie. Give me your hand. I want to impress my new husband,” Regan says.

  “What about Welborne?”

  “Old news. James is a total Clooney. Besides, he’s a wounded baby bird who needs to be nurtured. He’s going to need comforting when he finds out his wife is a basic skank.”

  “Unless they’re already broken up. Or he knows and doesn’t care. What about Noah? He’s awesome.”