Neverseen (30 page)

Which left Sophie on her own, with a notebook full of Cognate exercises and a bedridden telepathy partner. The only useful thing she could do was help Keefe search his memories. Part of her was desperate for them to find a clue about the Neverseen’s plan. The other part of her was terrified of how Keefe would handle that.

“You never told me about the memory you thought was going to be useful,” she said as she paced around his room, noticing he’d added new notes to the walls.

“That’s because it was stupid.” He grabbed a crumpled piece of paper off the floor. “I was trying to figure out how she stayed in touch with the Neverseen, and I remembered she had this bracelet my dad hated, so I knew he didn’t give it to her. I thought maybe it was a communicator, but I don’t see how.”

He uncrinkled the paper and showed Sophie a sketch he’d done of a bracelet made of round sparkly beads.

“Wow, I didn’t realize you could draw.”

“It’s no good.” Keefe snatched it away and crumpled it again.

He was wrong—his drawing looked like a photograph. But he was also right—Sophie didn’t see how the bracelet could be a clue.

“Well,” she said, “that’s why I’m here. It’s easier to see what’s important when you can look at the memory on paper.”

She held up her memory log and flipped to a blank page.

“We’ll start with something easy,” she promised when Keefe turned almost as green as Fitz had during the Great Vacker Hurlfest. “I was thinking it’d be smart to record your memories of the Neverseen’s attacks. You might spot something you didn’t notice before, and you’ll get a feel for how this is going to work. And it shouldn’t be too weird for you, since I was there.”

Keefe’s shoulders relaxed. “Yeah, I guess that could work. So how do we do this?”

“Well, first you need to think about those memories so they’re in the front of your mind. And then you need to give me permission to enter your consciousness—and yes, I know, you think that sounds creepy.”

Keefe smiled half a smile. “It sounds less creepy from you.”

She reached for his temples.

He flinched. “Sorry. Wasn’t expecting that. You don’t do that with Fitz.”

“I’m so used to his mind I don’t need to make contact anymore. Just relax—this isn’t going to be a big deal.”

Keefe nodded and held still, sucking in a slight breath as her fingers settled against his skin. That was when she realized how close they were standing.

“You okay there, Foster?” he asked, the other half of his
smile curling his lips. “Seems like your mood just shifted.”

“Just bracing to relive those attacks. You ready?”

He swallowed hard before he nodded.

Sophie did the same, adding a couple of deep breaths before opening her mind to his.

She still wasn’t prepared for how vividly Keefe remembered everything. Fitz didn’t have a photographic memory, so his memories were always slightly faded. But Keefe’s mind was in high definition—and the soundtrack could’ve been THX certified.

Her hands trembled as she watched herself leave the Black Swan’s ocean cave with Keefe. Silveny had barely lifted off the ground when five black-cloaked figures knocked them out of the sky. For Sophie, the fight had happened through a haze of pain and exhaustion after nearly dying. But Keefe had lived the full-color reality. His rage made her stomach heave—especially when one of the cloaked figures flung a rock at his head. They knew now that the figure was his mom, but as the fight replayed, Sophie saw nothing to clue them in. Lady Gisela never used her real voice—even when Keefe sliced her arm with a goblin throwing star. And she fought without remorse, even when challenging her son.

Good old Mom,
Keefe thought.
Doesn’t it give you warm, fuzzy feels?

His memories shifted, bringing them to Mount Everest, during the part of the battle Sophie had missed. An ogre had
dragged her through the cave’s ceiling, and she’d never realized how hard her friends fought to get to her. No one fought harder than Keefe. His aim with the throwing stars was flawless, nailing one dwarf in the hand right before it threw a rock at Fitz, clipping another dwarf in the leg so it couldn’t chase them. He waded through snowdrifts, trudged through the freezing winds, refusing to stop until he caught up with the Neverseen. And then . . . panic slowed his hand when he pointed his weapon at the figure he thought was his father.

More dwarves burst out of the snow, and Keefe chased down his dad, his only thought,
I need to end this.
When he’d caught up, he’d been ready to do what was necessary. But then the wind threw back his father’s hood and Keefe saw who it really was . . .

“Oh,” Sophie said as Keefe’s emotions exploded.

Shock.

Anger.

Betrayal.

Hate.

But the strongest emotion was
grief
.

As the sadness swelled in Keefe’s mind, so did a cyclone of older memories. Keefe tried to push them back, but they were too strong.

Sophie saw a young Keefe—he couldn’t have been older than three or four—curled up on the floor of his room, crying. His mom came in to tell him to be quiet and realized he’d wet the bed. “Dad’s going to be so mad,” he whispered. His
mom agreed and started to walk away, then sighed and called for the gnomes. She asked them to change out the bedding and have the room looking normal by morning. “Your father doesn’t have to know everything,” she told Keefe. “But don’t let this happen again.”

In another memory Keefe was six or seven, waiting by a fountain in Atlantis.

And waiting.

And waiting some more.

Crowds came and went. The balefire streetlights dimmed. And still, Keefe sat all alone. Finally his parents rolled up in a eurypterid carriage, along with another dark-haired elf that Keefe didn’t recognize. Keefe’s father was so deep in conversation with his friend that he didn’t even look at his son. Keefe’s mom said, “Sorry, we forgot you.”

The memory shifted again, to Keefe wearing an amber-brown Level Three Foxfire uniform. He’d just gotten home from school and found his parents waiting in his room. Keefe’s father demanded Keefe show him his notebooks, and when Keefe handed them over, his dad freaked. The pages were covered in sketches, each more intricate and amazing than the last. But his father tore out each drawing, crumpling them beyond ruin as he shouted about Keefe needing to pay attention during his sessions. Keefe argued that he could draw and learn at the same time, and his father stormed off, calling Keefe a disappointment. Keefe’s mom said nothing as she followed her
husband out. But she did retrieve one of the drawings from the floor—a sketch of her—and tucked it into her pocket.

The theme of each memory became achingly clear.

Two awful parents.

But one was better—or that was what Keefe had believed.

Keefe stepped back, severing Sophie’s connection. “So 
. . . that
just happened.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I never wanted anyone to see that.”

“I know. But . . . I’m glad I did. You shouldn’t have to carry all of that alone.”

“And you shouldn’t have to know I used to wet the bed.”

“Lots of kids wet the bed.”

“Not according to my father.”

He kicked the wall so hard it had to be painful.

Sophie inched closer, hesitating before resting a hand on his shoulder. “You know what I think when I see things like that?”

“ ‘I never should’ve agreed to help such a loser—even if he has awesome hair?’ ”

“Not even close. Okay, fine, the hair part is kinda true. But other than that, all I think is, ‘Keefe’s even braver than I thought.’ And I already thought you were incredibly brave. Between the way you held your cool in those battles, and the way you’ve stayed my friend despite all the rumors and gossip about me. You’re just . . . I don’t even know how to say it. But
you’re so much more than what your family made you believe. And by the way, I want to see more of your drawings.”

“I don’t have any,” he told the floor. “I stopped drawing years ago.”

“You have that one you just drew of your mom’s bracelet.”

“That one was stupid.”

“I’d still like to keep it—can I?” she bent and picked it up, tucking it into her memory log.

“Anyway,” she said after an endless stretch of silence, “I guess I should record those attacks with the Neverseen.”

She projected the battle scenes on the pages using a telepathy trick. Keefe watched over her shoulder and took the book from her when she got to the moment he’d learned the cloaked figure was his mom.

“You made her look afraid,” he said.

“That’s how she looked. Photographic memory, remember?”

Keefe frowned. “I remember her looking angry.”

“She did look angry. But first she looked scared—like she didn’t want you to see her.”

Keefe stared at the projection for a painfully long time, then shut the book and handed it back. “You’re not going to record the other memories, right?”

“No. I think we should keep those between us.”

He nodded.

“Is this going to be too hard for you?” she whispered.

“Is it going to be too hard for
you
?”

Sophie chewed her lip. “I
hate
seeing them hurt you. If I ever face your father again . . . well, he better hope I’m not wearing my Sucker Punch, because I’d knock him to Timbuktu.”

“I would pay so much money to see that.”

She smiled sadly. “I don’t want you dealing with all of this alone, Keefe. You’ve spent long enough hiding the bruises and scars behind jokes and pranks—”

“He never hit me,” Keefe interrupted.

“I know. But words cut deeper than goblin throwing stars. So I hope you’ll keep letting me help.”

He raised his eyes to the window, looking as scared as his mom. Sophie could definitely see the family resemblance between them. But Keefe was missing her hard edges.

“Just promise me that if this gets to be too much for you, you’ll run away,” he whispered.

“It won’t be too much.”

“It might be. I have a major dark side, Sophie.”

“So does everyone.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Even the Mysterious Miss F.?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m an Inflictor, remember?”

Keefe turned away again. “I wanted to manifest that ability so bad. I begged my ability detecting Mentor to try to trigger it. But no, I got my
dad’s
ability.”

“Hey, being an Empath is a
way
better talent. I’ve wondered sometimes why the Black Swan didn’t give it to me.”

“Maybe you’ll trigger it eventually. Along with another fourteen or fifteen talents.”

“Man, I hope not. Four is enough.”

“Psh, you should at least go for five. But don’t waste your last slot on empathy. Go for something cool, like Hydrokinetic.”

“Okay seriously—how many abilities are there?”

“A
lot.
That’s why they make such a big deal when someone doesn’t get one. There are
so
many chances to have a talent.”

“I still don’t think it’s right to treat them like a secondary citizen because of it,” Sophie mumbled. “Even if they have the same money or whatever, it’s still not fair.”

“I bet that’s why you scare the Council so much,” Keefe said after a second. “I never thought about things like that until I met you.”

“That’s why she’s the moonlark,” Calla said from the doorway.

Sophie smiled as she turned to greet her friend, but it vanished when she saw the tears staining Calla’s cheeks.

“What happened?” Sophie asked, hoping she hadn’t already guessed the answer. But it was everything she’d feared, and so much more.

“I found Lur and Mitya—and Sior,” Calla whispered. “They’re in Lumenaria. Under quarantine. All three of them are infected with the plague.”

T
HE WORDS BOUNCED
around Sophie’s head, making her ears ring.

Lur and Mitya and Sior had the plague.

They could be dying.

No—not “could be.”

They
were
dying, if someone didn’t find a cure.

“How long can someone have the plague before . . . ?” She couldn’t finish the question.

“We still do not know—but that’s good news, in a way,” Calla said. “All the Wildwood colonists are still alive and fighting.”

The answer helped a little—but it didn’t change the fact that the infected gnomes were running out of time. Maybe they
had months. Maybe weeks. Maybe days. Whatever it was, they deserved more.

“But you’re safe?” she asked Calla. “You haven’t been exposed?”

“I was very careful,” Calla promised, drying her eyes with her long braid. “I would not have come back if I wasn’t certain. I would never risk Amisi’s safety.”

“So what happens now?” Keefe asked.

Calla let out a slow, heavy breath. “I don’t know. This . . . there was no plan for this.” Her eyes welled up again.

“Does the Collective know yet?” Sophie asked.

“I couldn’t find them.”

“They’re taking care of Prentice,” Sophie said.

“Does that mean he hasn’t been healed?” Calla asked.

“I tried—”

“It’s okay,” Calla interrupted. “I have no doubt you’ll do everything you can. Do you know if they’re at the Stone House?”

“Is that a cottage in the middle of the Moors?” Sophie asked.

Calla nodded and turned to leave. “I need to speak with them before I tell Amisi. They might know something that could bring her better comfort. She and Sior are courting.”

“I’m going with you,” Sophie said, following Calla down the hall.

Keefe rushed after them. “Me too.”

“I don’t know where you’re going,” Dex said as they entered
the boys’ main room, where he sat on the floor, surrounded by Twiggler supplies. “But you’re not going without me.”

“I suppose that means you’re coming too?” Calla said, glancing toward an empty corner.

“Ugh, I really thought I’d figured out how to hide that time!” Biana said as she appeared. “But yep, I’m in. Where are we going?”

Sophie did her best to catch them up.