Fracture (The Machinists) (11 page)

Lukas touched her arm and stood. Kaleb and Reyland followed suit. With a hand at the small of her back, Lukas guided Kendyl around the table and through the center of the room. Jarrell and the other followers stood and bowed their heads as Lukas’s procession passed. Eyes downcast, Jarrell thought he felt Kendyl’s gaze as she walked by, but when he looked up, her attention was elsewhere.

Jarrell followed the procession out of the room and through the compound. It was his rotation. Kendyl’s well-being would fall to him tonight. His stomach became a gnawing pit, and his hands started to quiver. He hated his part in Lukas’s schemes. Graeme needed someone on the inside, and Jarrell had volunteered, but he hadn’t volunteered for
this
. He wanted to run, escape while he could, before Lukas caught on. And Lukas
would
catch on. Jarrell would escape as soon as he was sure Kendyl was safe, when he had something to show for his time with the enemy.

The procession stopped outside the storage room Lukas’s followers had nicknamed the Range. It had originally housed flammable oils and solvents, keeping them dry and away from sunlight, but now it was used for other purposes. Lukas lifted the lever and swung it aside, opening the large steel door, making the dry hinge squeal. Yellow fluorescent lights flickered on, illuminating a long narrow chamber with concrete walls. Scorch marks discolored the wall at the far end, and large chunks of concrete had been blasted away to reveal the rebar inside.

“Wait here,” Lukas said. He led Kendyl across the room to the far wall and grabbed a chain off the ground. Hooking one end around a rod of rebar, he attached the other to a large leather belt, which he wrapped around Kendyl.

Jarrell ran his hands through his hair, feeling more scalp than he used to, trying to find a way to prevent Lukas from following through with his latest atrocity.

Lukas said something to Kendyl that Jarrell couldn’t make out then walked back to the procession, his face expressionless.

“What are we doing?” Jarrell asked.

“Training,” Lukas said.

“How is this training?” Jarrell was playing a dangerous game by questioning Lukas in front of his closest followers. If he was too forceful, he would be the one chained to the wall to be used as target practice.

“She has the power to stop it,” Lukas said, loud enough for Kendyl to hear. “She knows what she has to do. She just won’t do it. We’re helping her along.” Lukas nodded to Kaleb and whispered, “Nothing too strong. I want it to hurt, but I don’t want to kill her. Scare her, nothing more. Understand?”

Kaleb’s grin faded, but he nodded and stepped forward. If Kendyl knew what was coming next, she didn’t show it. She stood tall, her feet firmly planted on the ground, facing them down. Her resolve faded as a cascade of fire erupted from Kaleb’s hands. He hurled it toward her. She threw her hands in front of her face and tried to dive to the side, but the chain snapped taught, pulling her back. The wall of fire hit her from the side.

Coughing, Jarrell shielded his nose from the smells of burnt hair and watched as Kendyl rose to her feet again. Her skin was red, but not scorched or blistered. It looked more like a severe windburn. Kaleb had extraordinary control. His fire burned colder. Jarrell could tell it was painful, even if Kendyl did her best to hide it, but it wasn’t fatal.

“Again,” Lukas said.

Kaleb brought his hands up level with his shoulders, and with a deep breath, he swung them forward in an exaggerated clap. Dust kicked up from the floor as a gust of wind threw Kendyl against the wall. Her head slapped the concrete with a disgusting crack, and she slumped forward, held by the chain in a half-standing, half-crouching position, unconscious.

“I said to scare her!” Lukas bellowed. “Not kill her!”

Kaleb bowed his head. “My apologies. It won’t happen again.”

“Out!” Lukas commanded. Kaleb hastily left the room, and Lukas turned to Jarrell. “It’s your turn.”

Jarrell strode forward as quickly as he could without appearing eager. He took Kendyl’s head in his hands. Her hair was matted with blood from a laceration across the back of her skull, and she had a concussion that he would need to monitor, but her pulse and breathing were steady. “She’s alive.”

“Bring her to,” Lukas said.

“She can’t withstand any more of this.”

“Then heal her.”

I can’t withstand any more of this.
“Even with my healing, she will be weak. How many days has this gone on? She has limits.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Lukas said. “Wake her up.”

Jarrell shook his head, but did as he was ordered. Two pains formed in his head as Kendyl’s wounds healed—a dull ache, probably a symptom of the concussion, and a sharp pain where his skin was splitting apart forming a wound identical to the one healing on Kendyl’s scalp. He became dizzy, and fatigue swept over him as her concussion became his.

“I’m sorry,” Jarrell whispered in her ear. “I don’t like this.” He pulled away and noticed her eyes were open. She looked up at him, a puzzled look on her face. Jarrell smiled. “I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but I’m going to get you out of this place. Okay?”

She nodded slightly.

He patted her on the shoulder and stumbled back to the front of the room.

“What did you say to her?” Lukas asked.

Jarrell looked back at Kendyl, who watched him with renewed interest. “I told her to do whatever you tell her to, because I don’t know how many more injuries like that I can heal.”

Lukas smiled. “You see, Kendyl? We’re all rooting for your success.” He turned to Reyland. “You’re up.”

Chapter 11

“H
ow far is this place?” Allyn asked, looking out the car window. They drove down an empty two-lane highway through a densely wooded forest in the Cascade Mountains. The road had fallen into disrepair and was plagued by potholes and cheap concrete patches. Loose gravel covered the road, offering traction against ice in the coming winter months. It was the kind of scenic highway that was seldom traveled, often forgotten, and otherwise ignored—the perfect place to hide.

“A few hours,” Graeme said. “It’s along the coastline.”

A few hours?

They’d already been on the road for over two hours, having left before sunrise, and the commute was wearing on him. Graeme sat in front of him, facing him, in a black leather bucket seat that butted up back to back with the driver’s seat. Jaxon drove, and Nyla sat beside Graeme. Liam sat with Allyn on a long bench seat in the back of the car. Being forced to face two people in such a confined space felt strange. Allyn found himself exchanging awkward glances with Nyla. He would find himself watching her, only to have to avert his eyes when she caught him. Then a few moments later, he would feel her eyes on him, but when he glanced back, it was her eyes that would dart away. It was the type of game lovers played, but today, and within the tight confines of the car, it was just uncomfortable.

“Then I assume it’s as far out of the way as your manor?” Allyn asked.

Graeme grinned. “You could say that.”

“The Hyland Family lives on forty-five acres of coastal property,” Liam said. “Their house, a twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion, backs up to a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. They’re actually
more
secluded than we are.”

“I thought you said you’ve never been there?” Allyn asked.

“I haven’t,” Liam said. “I just like to know where I’m going.”

Allyn laughed. “You really are a strange kid.”

Liam’s face flushed, and he looked at the floor.

Wincing, Allyn wanted to say something. He’d unintentionally embarrassed his friend. He’d meant it as a compliment, but Liam could be a bit… emotional. Saying something else would only make it worse.
Teenagers
, Allyn thought.
They’re all the same.

Jaxon and Leira talked in the front seat. About what, Allyn didn’t know—he couldn’t hear, but their soft voices were the only noise in the otherwise-silent car. Leira was wearing the same diamond-pendant necklace Jaxon had tasked Allyn with untangling. She played with it, twisting it with her fingers while her other hand rubbed the stubble on the back of Jaxon’s neck.

Allyn leaned his forehead against the window. It was a trick his mother had taught him to fight motion sickness. The cold glass felt good against his skin, allowing him to focus on the relief and not the swaying motion of the car. As he’d grown older, his trouble with carsickness had faded, but he always assumed part of it was because he was the driver. When he drove, he had control—something he didn’t have at the moment.

“Can I ask you something?” Allyn turned to Graeme.

“Of course.” Graeme always seemed to encourage an open line of communication, but it often felt at odds with his direct, sometimes-cold demeanor.

“Why is there so much resistance to what Lukas is trying to do?”

Silence filled the car. Not the silence of before, but complete silence. Jaxon and Leira stopped talking, and five pairs of eyes focused on him.

“I mean,” Allyn said awkwardly, “isn’t there something to be said about not having to live in secret? Not having to hide who you really are? It can’t be easy.”

“It isn’t easy,” Graeme said, “but it is necessary.”

“Why?”

“We’re different, Allyn.”

“So?”

“So,” Graeme said, “when was the last time being different was a good thing? When was the last time
any
society of a certain size looked upon someone of a different race, color, or religion and accepted them for what they were?”

“Well…” Allyn stalled, shifting in his seat.

Graeme didn’t wait for him to continue. “There are only two things that happen to minority cultures. They’re either assimilated into the majority, or they’re destroyed.”

“That’s not true,” Allyn said. “There are elements of minority cultures that have entered ours.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Food? Holidays? I’m not a sociologist.”

“That’s because there’s an overlap between cultures,” Graeme said. “Most cultures celebrate birthdays or anniversaries. And holidays are shared by nearly every culture in the world, big or small. It’s not a coincidence they all happen to fall at about the same time of year. But what I’m talking about are truly alien cultures. How much of Native American culture has been adopted by American society?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not much then,” Graeme said. “Being different is usually met with violence. Not always physical violence, but emotional violence. Psychological violence. People are afraid of the alien, just as they’re afraid of change. They fear it because they’re scared it will erase their own traditions. It’s an attack on their beliefs. People resist because it’s
dangerous
.”

“I’d argue people are afraid of what they don’t know,” Allyn said. “The monster hiding in the closet is scarier than the monster standing in the daylight, where people can see what it really is.”

“I don’t disagree with you there,” Graeme said. “But if people are afraid of the different because they believe that it’s dangerous, how will they react when they realize that we truly are
dangerous
?”

“Anyone can be dangerous,” Allyn said.

“True, but think of it this way. You restrict access to weapons. You have to have a license to carry one in public, certain kinds are illegal, and you can’t bring one into a school, hospital, or government facility. They have to be registered and stowed away properly. I am a weapon, Allyn. And I am every bit as dangerous as the weapons you have created. Will I have to have a license to live? Will my access to schools or hospitals be denied? Will you make me register my abilities? Will I be stowed away in the name of protection?”

Allyn didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

“This debate has raged for hundreds of years, and nobody has been able to solve it.”

“It’s all happened before, hasn’t it?” Allyn asked.

Graeme nodded. “Living openly isn’t a new aspiration. Acceptance isn’t a modern dream. I told you of a period when we were targeted, persecuted, and killed for what we are. It began when a man named Girak Klay started a movement within the magi order to live openly. By all accounts, Girak was a gifted speaker, and hundreds of besieged magi fled to his cause. The Council, still crippled from the Fracture a century earlier, was convinced Girak and his followers would leave the Order if they didn’t heed his movement’s demands. It began small. Magi advertised medicinal remedies and health services, hiding them behind flamboyant concoctions of bright colors that foamed, hissed, and bubbled. As the public became used to the relief of these colorful elixirs, the magi stepped out even further. The cycle repeated itself until an ailing person would see the cleric and not the fake potion they hid behind.”

“What happened?” Allyn asked. “Why the backlash?”

“Even the most powerful cleric cannot save everyone,” Graeme said. “Factor that with the rise of religion and the increased role of the church. We were associated with death and could perform the unexplainable. We were a threat to the establishment. The church called us witches and wizards and convinced the populace we were cavorting with the devil. They called for our heads, and hundreds of magi burned at the stake.”

“But they didn’t have any proof.”

“You don’t need proof,” Graeme said. “Not as long as you say it loud and say it often. Girak’s movement led to the largest massacre since the Fracture, and it was a death blow to our Order.”

“Wasn’t there something they could do? Some way to defend themselves?”

“A magi’s power comes from within. We use our own bodies, our own heat, our own water and air. If we overextend ourselves, we die. But yes, they could have fought, and some did, but most turned themselves in to avoid the stake, only to find their imprisonment a slower, more painful death. Because once captured, the magi were denied food and water, and the convicted witches and wizards more often died of dehydration, malnourishment, or exposure to the elements than fire at the stake.”