Foretold Page 5

  Beyond the caravans, there is a clearing, and my eyes don’t know where to look first. An animated man is entertaining his four friends near a fountain, a huge mechanical sphere ringed by motorized zodiac symbols leaping and looping through jets of shooting water. The man wildly waves a meat pie as his appreciative audience laughs. Cawing birds swoop and dive through the fountain’s spouting water. A notebook-toting group chases the birds around the hall, copiously taking notes.

  “Did you catch the asymmetrical flight pattern, Nalan?” a woman near me with a slick of dark hair asks her companion.

  “Got it. Notice the choice of perch? Like Ms. Fenice said,” the man responds, his eyes owl-large behind his eyeglasses.

  “What are they doing?” I ask Aunt Bree.

  “Ornithomancy,” she responds dismissively, which as far as I’m concerned, explains nothing.

  Aunt Bree leads me past guards dressed in hunter green uniforms carrying mean-looking guns, and a circular desk of more guards buzzing like hornets. A frisson of disquiet passes through me at the sight. Bree notices.

  “Can’t be too careful.”

  We head down the long hall directly beyond the guard station. I stare up at the arching glass ceiling, up at the windows, at the doors in the stone walls around us. And then, without warning or even the semblance of a transition between the two spaces, we’re walking down a sparse concrete hallway. I look back, goggling at the bright city-space behind us, then at the austere path ahead of us. This entire place is strangely cobbled together, like patchworking took up architecture as a hobby.

  A metal door with a tin-can shine sits at the end of the hall. An intercom panel to the right features a single red button, and a small engraved sign above simply reads, “Scryer Services.”

  Aunt Bree presses the button. After a beep, a nasal voice says, “Records, please.” A metal slot slides opens in the center of the door, and Aunt Bree slips paperwork apparently belonging to me through. “Step on the mark and face forward.” Aunt Bree ushers me onto a red X on the floor. A flash goes off, and a badge with my surprised expression slips through the slot. I pick it up. It reads: Theban Group, Cassandra Claire Morai, Initiate.

  “Photogenic, aren’t we?” Aunt Bree says in amusement.

  A thick stack of papers is pushed through the slot. “You’re missing the MV-77 form. Please complete and return no later than the morning of Orientation. Goodbye.”

  I shove the form and badge into my backpack, lightheaded with thoughts of Alice and her looking glass, and race to catch up to my white rabbit, her heels already clapping into the opulent space to the left of the Scryer Services door. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in a medieval castle, with its hanging velvet banners and stone gargoyles—except for this row of weird copper bird cages set into the wall. One of the cages opens as we approach; elevators, I realize, as Bree enters, holding the door for me. She presses a button, and I examine her in dismay as she pulls a thin, long, silver device from her pocket, scrolling through it with her index finger. I’m pretty sure I look like an electrified rat, but her hair is somehow perfect despite the humidity and the rain. It's ridiculous. This whole thing—this whole place—is ridiculous.

  Maybe there’s a gas leak and I’m hallucinating all of this. That’s got to be it. The alternative would mean… My wet shoes squish uncomfortably, confirming this is very much real life.

  It hits me like a lightning strike to the head: this is real. My visions are real. I have abilities. I can see the frigging future! Oh. My. God. The implications rush at me all at once, and I suddenly feel very, very dizzy.

  I can see the future. Which means my… oh. Oh no. My Colin vision is real. I pick at the skin of my thumb.

  “You said you control things. Your destiny. How? You can change the stuff you see?”

  “Your training will fill you in on all of that,” Aunt Bree says.

  “There’s training?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it like?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.”

  “Where did our abilities come from? How did you know I had any? What happens after training? Can you tell me something?”

  Aunt Bree pockets her device and stares. “Relax, Cassandra. You’ll learn more during Orientation.”

  I tap my foot and bite at my thumbnail. “Relax? You should know that I can’t exactly relax since you’re the one who can apparently tell the future here.”

  Aunt Bree laughs. “We’re not omniscient, Cassandra. We see snippets of the future, not everything. Although that’s changing with Jordan’s work. He is…” She pauses with a faraway look, completely unlike any I’ve ever seen from her. “A genius. There’s no other word for it.”

  “Jordan?” It’s the second time she’s mentioned that name.

  “Jordan Welborne, our CEO. He—” The elevator door opens, and Aunt Bree turns her attention to the endless corridor of doors curving dizzyingly in front of us. She smiles at me as she steps out, and it has the feel of someone sun-frying an ant under a magnifying glass. “You’re late for your meeting with Martin. You’ll love him. He’s nurturing.”

  She leads me to a pair of odd doors directly across from one another; they would have been startling on their own, but they’re doubly so because they’re flanked by loads of completely uninteresting ones. The door to my left is covered with dozens and dozens of keyholes, some small and dainty, others huge and ornate. The door opposite looks like the rest in the hall, except it’s an appalling, retina-searing pink. Aunt Bree gestures toward the pink door, and I raise a fist to knock.

  “I’m okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay,” I whisper. Five times. I know it doesn’t really help anything, that it’s temporary relief. I know it’s giving OCD a win. But this urge doubles as a pep talk, and I can live with that right now.

  “Enter,” a voice says from beyond the pink wood. I look at Aunt Bree, but she’s already walking back toward the elevator.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m not a babysitter, Cassandra. Meet with Martin, and I’ll be back to escort you out.”

  Breathe. You’re okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. I bite at my thumbnail and push open the door, nearly knocking down a teetering stack of books leaning against the wall. I reach out a hand to steady them.

  It’s as if a library has exploded. Books. Papers. Pamphlets. Folios. The room even has that musty library smell. A few paces away, next to the stack I managed to keep upright, a small avalanche of books fans out across the floor from its original heap. I pray it was like that before I entered and gingerly step over the literary land mines.

  An enormous window overlooking the river and the rain-sodden landscape beyond takes up the back wall, and the light it lets in illuminates streams of dust in the air. Groaning shelves full of curiosities and texts line the three other walls. A rolling ladder rests up against one, co-opted due to lack of space, brittle leaflets stretched over every rung.

  It’s back to raining again? And… if the river is there, and we entered through that alleyway, this place must take up a good chunk of the waterfront… but even if it takes up the entire waterfront, that Rotunda was immense… and based on how much walking we just did… The logistics of it all hurts my head. I’m assuming that there's some sort of magic at play here, but I’m only just wrapping my head around the fortune telling of it all. I don't really want to get too far in the weeds with obscuring the laws of physics.

  I think I can see a hint of a desk under the mountain of texts in the center of the room. The mountain speaks in the booming voice of an angry man. “So, you’re the nepotistic waste of time I’m supposed to vet. You’re late. Punctuality, in spite of what your generation might think, is not a cute relic of the past.”

  I hear what I think is the squeak of a chair longing for oil being pushed back. “I’m sorry? I didn’t even know this place existed.”

  “Was that an apology or a question?”

  “What?”

  “Are you hard of hearing, to
o?” A slight man with a big bark and salt and pepper hair rounds the desk. He firms his jutting chin and narrows his flinty eyes behind his spectacles. “You said ‘sorry?’” He pitches the second syllable of the word higher. “So was that a question, or was that an apology?”

  “It was an… apology?”

  Disapproval is Mt. Rushmore’d into every line of his face, like the emotion was carved there and left to weather the elements for generations. “Sit. There.” He gestures to a small alcove to the right of his desk, where two faded blue seats and a small wooden side table are positioned under a porthole-like window.

  I hesitate, pushing the hanging skeleton of an alligator-like creature out of the way before moving to the alcove.

  He seats himself on the chair opposite mine and leans back, his hands folded across his paunch. “I am Martin Pict. You will address me as Mr. Pict. I have never served as a mentor because I have never wanted to, and I do not want to now. But since your insufferable aunt is Jordan Welborne’s Lackey-in-Chief, I’ve been commanded to assume the position.”

  I’m going to kill Aunt Bree. You’ll love him. He’s nurturing. The worst.

  “Let’s start with the basics. In order to be accepted as a Theban initiate, I need to know the precise number of visions you’ve had and the nature of same. Begin.”

  I open my mouth and close it. “Um… when you say visions…?”

  He waves a hand airily. “Visions. Scrying. Divination, premonitions, second sight, prophecy, whatever you want to call it. How. Many. Times. Have. You. Had. A. Vision.” He sits back and studies me.

  “Um…”

  “Do you begin every sentence with ‘um’? Dreadful.” His diction is strangely precise, as if every word has been carved out of his mouth with a scalpel. “You have an unfortunate habit of keeping people waiting. I’d like an answer sometime today.” Mr. Pict picks up a thick book next to his chair and flips a few pages with sharp flicks of his wrist.

  “I’ve had two? Or three, actually,” I respond tentatively. He looks up from the book on his lap, and his expression makes me want to run away.

  You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, okay, okay.

  “Asking or telling?”

  “I’m telling.” I try to sound as firm as possible.

  “Two or three. Quite underwhelming. What medium or manner did you use to scry?”

  “Medium?”

  Pict’s face takes on a look of pinched disapproval. More disapproval than before, anyway. “Like pulling teeth. Did you use a mirror? Water? The stars? A crystal ball? See it in a dream?” He raises his voice. “Deduce it from the blasted animal entrails of a sacrificial beast?”

  “Oh. Then… no medium? All those times I just saw it. While awake. I was crossing the street last week, and I saw this guy die right in front of me. Only it didn’t really happen. I ended up meeting him later, and he’s alive.” I hold my breath and wait. When Pict says nothing, I offer unhelpfully, “His name is Colin.” As if that’s the piece of information that’ll seal the deal. The silence stretches.

  “Right.” Mr. Pict slams the large tome on his lap shut and sets it on the table. “I once had a vision like that. Of a young girl dying.”

  My stomach clenches. “Did she? Die, I mean?”

  “That remains to be seen. But she seems to be laboring under the misapprehension that I suffer fools lightly. Please know that I am many things, Ms. Morai, but patient is not one of them. Perhaps you think that you are amusing; if so, allow me to disabuse you of that notion. I do not find you entertaining. I do not find my current predicament entertaining. Life in general may be a theater of the absurd, but scrying is deadly serious.” He glares at me. “Novices do not scry without a medium to channel their skills. If you are able to sufficiently hone your abilities during Theban’s initiate training, if you complete the Coil Walk and achieve Oracle status, then and only then might you do so.”

  Pict stands, marches to his desk, and returns with a folder, my name boldly printed across the front. “You require my approval to attend orientation, and I would not lose an ounce of sleep ending your career before it begins, exalted lineage be damned. Have I made myself clear?”

  I sit in miserable and confused silence.

  “I asked you a question, Ms. Morai.”

  “Ye—yes.” My voice sounds cracked and dry. I try to swallow but nothing slides down.

  “Asking or telling?”

  “Telling,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “So, let’s begin yet again. What medium, Ms. Morai, did you use to achieve your two, or three, visions?” His voice has taken on a mocking quality.

  “I didn’t use a medium.” My voice quavers, but I try and keep it strong and clear.

  “You are dismissed,” Pict says.

  I didn’t think that I could feel more depressed than I was the day I saw Colin die, but to be given hope—that I can have some control—only to have it snatched away is almost more than I can take. I feel my murky depths welling up and spilling out.

  One, two, three… I’m in control.

  I pick at the skin of my thumb, ripping at a rough piece of skin until it stings, reopening a cut that was healing so that blood blooms in my nail bed. This feeling and these urges are always stalking, waiting in the dark ready to pounce, and right now it feels like they’re going to win.

  Four.

  “Don't make me repeat myself yet again,” he says.

  “Please, Mr. Pict, I can learn. I…”

  Five.

  A loud thud nearly startles me out of my seat. Pict has tossed the thick book from the table onto the floor in front of me. The Iliad and The Odyssey now rests at my feet.

  Pict leans back and crosses his arms. “The Theban Group is a venerable organization founded to protect scryers from persecution and exploitation and allow them to nurture their abilities. It has since morphed into a vulgar for-profit corporation, but that is neither here nor there. The point remains that we do not allow imposters or liars into our midst. Sortes Homericae, Ms. Morai. Bibliomancy is the fastest way to parse through this mess. If you have any abilities at all, even low-level ones, Homer will pick them up.”

  I grab the book and clench my teeth, waiting. Six. Seven. This urge does not rule me.

  “Concentrate. Clear your mind until nothing exists but you and the weight of that text on your lap.”

  I try, but my head is awash with renegade thoughts. Eight… I stare at Pict.

  “If you’re not going to take this seriously, Ms. Morai, we can end this charade now.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just having trouble—”

  “If you must think of something, think about the absence of everything.”

  What does that even mean? You’re okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. Nine. I inhale deeply. Ten.

  “After you have cleared your mind, you will hold the book so that the spine rests on your lap and allow it to fall open to a random page. You’ll then repeat the following, ‘Do I have any scrying abilities?’ After you ask the question, you will place your finger on the page and trail it in slowly widening circles until your instincts tell you to stop. You’ll then read the line to me. If you come up with nonsense, I’ll know you’re a fraud.” He stretches his lips into a semblance of a smile. It’s more alarming than his dislike. “We’ll determine here and now if you can ever be more than this.” He waves his hand in my direction.

  His words upset my mind’s precariously loaded apple cart, spilling out worries and self-soothing thoughts apace: He doesn’t dust often. It’s fine, only a little dust. In my lungs. Stop. One. Two. Three. I didn’t even ask to be here. Four. Five. Bree ambushed me with all of this. I need to run and find the closest faucet. Six. I need this. For Colin. Remember your ERP therapy. I can bear this exposure. I won’t act on my compulsion. I can have real control if I make this work. Seven…

  By the time I reach ten, my breathing has settled and I’ve convinced myself of the rightness of this path. The promise of real contro
l holds OCD’s demands at bay.

  “Do I have any scrying abilities?” I ask.

  I place my finger on the page and begin to trace invisible swirls, concentrating on the friction of the page on my index finger. It’s smooth as my finger glides along, as if following an invisible road in my mind. Suddenly, I feel a tug, as if I’m being willed to stop. I look up, startled.

  “Read the line aloud,” Pict says.

  I squint at the dense text on the page where my finger stalled. “O thou, whose certain eye foresees / The fix'd events of fate's remote decrees.”

  His expression is inscrutable, and he says nothing for a moment. Then, “We may have some ability to work with.”

  My heart leaps with a joy so intense I must glow with it. I’m suddenly bursting with goodwill for this awful man.

  Pict pulls out a small gilt mirror from inside his suit jacket. “Take this and tell me what you see.”

  I set the book next to me, wipe my clammy palm on my pants, and accept the mirror’s handle. It’s warm to the touch from resting against Pict’s body. I look into it, but the only thing I see are a set of huge mossy eyes and an ominous red spot on my forehead that may or may not be the makings of a zit. Judging from the dull throbbing I’m suddenly aware of, signs are pointing more to yes.

  “It looks like black squiggles. Oh, and spots. They’re falling. Is this—is this a vision?”

  “Black squig—oh, for the love of… No, those are eye floaters. Your aunt will be happy to hear you’ll make a delightful ophthalmologist.”

  I take my gaze back to the mirror again and try to clear my head. I see Colin in my mind’s eye, my mental compulsions wrestling with the rest of my thoughts, but I push him back, determined or desperate. The strain of it… The pressure in my head builds until it seems I’m in danger of venting it via my eyes bursting from my head. My reflection in the mirror shows a face ablaze and glistening with sweat. Please cooperate, brain.