Flickers of Flame Page 6

  Clio studied my face. “Uh oh. I’ve seen that look before.”

  “What look?”

  “The look like you’re going to spew all over your shoes.”

  I did my best to call up a neutral expression. “You see a lot of shoe-spewing around the academy?”

  “On days like today? Yeah.” She edged closer, dropping her voice. “There’s a reason Bridger doesn’t eat much on high-stress days, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

  As we closed the remaining distance to the cafeteria building, I tried to imagine Bridger nervous to the point of throwing up, but I couldn’t conjure the picture in my mind. Bridger was always so sure of himself. He seemed cocky to the point of overconfidence.

  I supposed everyone was hiding something.

  Besides the cafeteria workers, there were only three other students in the room when we entered. As Clio and I made our way through the line, I couldn’t help second-guessing my choices through the lens of what nerves did to Bridger. I didn’t particularly want to throw up at any point today.

  By the time Clio and I took up chairs at our usual table, the cafeteria was filling with students. Several times, I caught myself glancing over when I noticed someone new entering the building. When Clio asked about my extra attentiveness I tried to play it off as nerves, but I knew exactly who I hoped to see.

  I was nearly finished with my breakfast when Nate, Bridger, and Thor finally arrived. Although I fought to keep my eyes on my plate as they made their way through the line, my gaze kept slipping to Nate—to the way the fabric of his uniform stretched across his shoulders and the way the ropes of his muscles slid over his forearm as he reached for items from the food line.

  My stomach clenched as the guys neared the table, and a stab of disappointment pierced my chest when Nate took the spot to Clio’s left instead of one of the empty places on either side of me. Bridger sat on Clio’s right, and Thor rounded the table, brows furrowed, to sit beside me.

  “So, Eden, are you nervous?” Bridger asked, grinning.

  Remembering what Clio mentioned about Bridger’s stomach on days like today, I glanced at his plate. It was more spare than usual, with a simple bowl of cereal and some buttered toast. “I think I’m more curious than nervous. You?”

  He picked up a triangle of bread. “Cool as a cucumber.”

  It wasn’t lost on me that he didn’t take a bite.

  I took a swig of my orange juice. “So, did everyone sleep all right?” My gaze flicked to Nate, studying his expression for any sign that his dreams had been like mine. But he simply nodded, barely looking up from his tray.

  “I had a bad dream, actually.”

  I turned my attention to Thor, surprised by his multi-syllabic answer. “A bad dream?”

  Bridger set down his unbitten toast. “Not this again.”

  Clio smacked his arm. “Hey, be nice.”

  I glanced for Thor to Bridger to Clio, trying to figure out what was happening. Nate kept his gaze glued to his breakfast. “I must be missing something.”

  Bridger pointed at Thor. “This one thinks he has prophetic dreams.”

  “I never said that,” Thor insisted.

  Clio waved a hand to claim my attention. “Thor sometimes has bad dreams. And usually something bad happens not long after.”

  “Coincidence,” Bridger muttered.

  “That’s a lot of coincidence,” Clio noted.

  Still lost, I turned to Thor. “What kind of dream was this?”

  He shrugged, absently stabbing chunks of pancake on his plate. “It wasn’t specific. They never are. Or maybe I just forget them as soon as I wake up. What sticks with me is the feeling. It’s this… dread.” He held a clawed hand in front of his chest.

  I turned my attention to Bridger. “And how is dread prophetic?”

  “It’s not,” Bridger scoffed. “But some people—” He nodded dramatically toward Clio. “—like to tie any bad thing that happens within a month or so to Thor’s nightmares.”

  “I do not,” Clio said stiffly. “I’ve pointed out the fact that something bad always seems to happen around the time Thor has a nightmare.”

  “Bad things happen all the time,” Bridger countered. “You just don’t notice unless you’re looking for it.”

  “But these aren’t just normal bad things,” Clio insisted. “Remember the riots last year in Amberg? Thor had been having bad dreams for a week leading up to them.”

  My skin prickled at the reference to the Amberg. It shouldn’t surprise me that the angels would call what happened there “riots,” even if the word painted a poor picture of what actually occurred. A man named Dillon Osgood was running for mayor. On election night, exit polls showed he had a commanding lead over the incumbent, Zoelie McGown. The only problem was the fact that Dillon Osgood was a demon. When the results began pouring in, showing Osgood had beaten his opponent, McGown announced that according to an old law on the city’s books, Osgood’s lineage prevented him from holding the office. McGown announced her victory-by-default, and the city’s mostly demon population took to the streets to protest. In response, McGown called in the Guard. The peaceful demonstration quickly turned violent. Liza had some contacts who were on the street that night. They claimed the Guard came looking for a fight. The news, however, painted the demons as the aggressors. They arrested dozens of people. Some were still in the pit, as far as I knew.

  So far as things to have a premonition about, the incident in Amberg wasn’t nothing.

  “Coincidence,” Bridger repeated.

  Nate stood, shaking me from my thoughts. When he picked up his tray and turned toward the garbage can on the far wall, my interest in the current conversation ebbed when I spied an opportunity to speak to him without the others listening. As Clio launched into another example of Thor’s supposed gift, I stood and followed Nate.

  “You’re quiet today,” I noted as I caught up with him. Although the students at surrounding tables were engaged in conversations of their own, I kept my voice low enough that only Nate could hear me.

  “Yeah.” He dumped his trash in the bin before placing the tray, plate, and utensils in the appropriate places above the garbage can. “Just, you know, focused on the tryouts.”

  I stepped next to him, pressing in as close as I dared while I disposed of my own trash. “Are you sure that’s all that’s distracting you?”

  I hazarded a glance and locked my gaze on his, but the tumult there made me wish that I hadn’t. A storm brewed in his dark brown eyes.

  “There’s… I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he said after a beat.

  I tore my gaze a way, glancing down. “It’s complicated?” A wave of embarrassment rushed through my body. Nate had said the words to me last night, but I hadn’t imagined they would apply today. I’d spent so much time rationalizing last night and convincing myself I hadn’t screwed up my mission by giving into his kisses. It never occurred to me that he was the one using me.

  I tamped down my rising disappointment. What did it matter if last night had been a onetime thing? It should come as a relief. Now I didn’t have to play the dangerous game of pretending to care about him while pressing him for information that would help with Liza and Marco’s cause. My cause. Nate having second thoughts in the light of day only made my mission easier.

  I turned to walk back to the table, but Nate hooked my elbow with his hand, gently tugging me back to face him. “We need to talk—but not now. After the tryouts. Can you… Can you give me that time?”

  My cheeks burned and I couldn’t make myself look up at him as confusion, anger, and longing swirled in my stomach. “Take whatever time you need.”

  As I strode back to the table, Thor met my eyes fleetingly, and my cheeks burned so hot that I took a sharp right and headed into the bathroom.

  I didn’t know what was going on with Nate, but I knew one thing for sure: I needed to get my head on straight so I could win at the tryouts. Whatever this field experience was, I needed to
be on it. I couldn’t let anything get between me and what I was here for.

  Chapter Nine

  During morning training, Anders informed us that the tryouts would take place after lunch. Instead of our usual routine, he put us through a series of agility maneuvers, and the whole time I wondered if he knew something we didn’t about what was to come.

  At the very least, Anders’s prescribed exercises helped me get my head on right in regard to Nate. It was foolish of me to let myself get so worked up over some angel. This debacle was really a gift. Nate had been a distraction since my arrival, but I wouldn’t let him continue to be one.

  I found it difficult to concentrate in the morning’s academic classes. The air was positively electric with excitement about what the afternoon would hold.

  First-year cadets who hadn’t signed up were buzzing with speculation about what the tryout would involve. Even the professors weren’t immune. Our physics teacher spent the last half hour of class giving out pointers based on common themes from the last several events. The cadets ate it up until a commotion near the front of the room derailed the conversation.

  “What was that, Miss Bradford?” asked Professor Mitchner, looking more than slightly irritated at having lost command of the classroom.

  Aisha Bradford, a blonde girl I recognized only by her association with Shonda, crossed her arms over her chest and muttered something too quiet to make out.

  Professor Mitchner stood a little taller. “Oh, so whatever you were saying was only for the benefit and edification of those around you?”

  Aisha sank in her seat, looking like she was hoping the chair would swallow her whole.

  After a few seconds, Shonda turned toward the teacher, lifting her chin. Her posture was such a contrast to that of the girl sitting beside her that it was actually uncomfortable to watch. “Aisha was just saying something all of us have wondered at least once: Why bother with the trials at all when we already know the outcome?” She twisted in her seat until she was staring at me and the other Keepers. “The judges have their favorites. No matter how well the rest of us do, the chance of us being chosen is low.”

  Professor Mitchner squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Miss Hailwood, but despite what you might think, that is not the way things work. You of all people should know that. Am I mistaken in recalling you’ve been chosen for field missions before?”

  Shonda smirked before turning to face the teacher again. “You are correct, professor.”

  I scowled. It wasn’t as if Shonda had forgotten they had selected her for these missions before. Her smug smile told me all I needed to know: she wanted to remind everyone else that they had chosen her before.

  Or, since everyone in this room probably already knew, maybe her target was me.

  Either way, I didn’t care. I’d faced Shonda twice now, and while she’d beaten me once, I ultimately prevailed against her. She hadn’t gained the Aether Blade’s loyalty, but that fact wasn’t stopping her from trying to get under my skin.

  Get in line.

  As class ended, I stuffed my notebook and physics text into my backpack and stood. An arm slipped around my waist as I headed out the door, and I turned to glance at Clio just as she gave me a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be great.”

  I smiled, hoping she was right.

  The cafeteria was thrumming with energy by the time we arrived. Although the room always buzzed with voices, today the sound was almost painful. The tryouts were just around the corner, and the air was thick with nervous tension.

  Although we all went through the lunch line, none of us grabbed much to eat. Nate selected some vegetables and hummus, Clio took a banana, and Thor nabbed a single turkey sandwich. I picked up some yogurt and granola, but by the time I made it to the table I wondered if I could stomach a bite. Bridger took nothing at all.

  Questions that hadn’t occurred to me before suddenly circled through my head. “When will we know who they’ve chosen? Do they announce it, like, right after the last person goes? Or will they decide after dinner or something?”

  “It’s usually pretty immediate,” Clio said. “Maybe ten or fifteen minutes to deliberate after everyone’s done, but even that’s not definite.”

  I nodded, although waiting ten to fifteen minutes sounded like an impossibility. “And when do we find out how many people they’re taking? Do they announce how many slots there are before the tryouts start?”

  “Usually they wait till after,” Bridger said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Nate says it’s because they don’t want us distracting ourselves with keeping track of scores in our head, but I think it’s because they don’t want to lock themselves into a specific number until they’ve seen what everyone can do.”

  When Bridger said his name, I couldn’t keep my gaze from straying to Nate. “Any last words of advice?”

  His eyes locked on mine, and I felt a jolt of electricity pass between us. “No. You already know what to do.”

  I held his words close as we made our way from the cafeteria to the tryouts about fifteen minutes later. We passed by the old training gym and beyond the copse of trees that obscured the field beyond. Metal bleachers surrounded a large open area. Enormous canvas tents had been erected between each set of bleachers on this side of the arena, and instructors stood in a long line, guiding everyone to the appropriate places. Professors directed the students who hadn’t signed up to the stands while they split the rest of us among three large tents to await further instructions.

  I expected the Keepers to have an area set apart from the rest of the hopefuls, but that idea was shattered when I found myself pressed into a standing-room-only tent that smelled vaguely of sweat. Nate ushered us all into a corner, his hand remaining on the small of my back longer than was strictly necessary.

  He had been keeping a careful distance between us all morning, so his lingering touch made me wonder what was going on in his head. I hadn’t given much thought to the talk he wanted to have, but I suddenly wished we could step away and discuss it now.

  Before I could come up with a valid excuse to pull him away from the craziness within the tent, a voice cut above the din. “Tryouts for the field experience will begin in five minutes,” said a tired-sounding man. I wondered if this wasn’t the first time he’d given this speech. “You will head out in pairs. Your partner has been pre-selected. No, you may not switch.”

  A chorus of grumbles rose in the tent, and the speaker fell silent until the noise faded. “If you refuse to work with the partner assigned to you, it will be taken as a refusal to participate in the tryouts. Any questions?”

  The threat of disqualification hung heavy in the air, silencing any further dissent.

  “All right, then. You have four minutes to find me or one of the other officers present to identify your partner. Good luck, cadets.”

  Clio gripped my hand. “Let’s do this.” She pulled me forward into the swell of bodies surging toward the five officers in dark blue uniforms stationed throughout the tent. I reached back and grabbed for another member of our group, surprised when a hand slid easily against my palm, fingers lacing with mine. I didn’t have to look back to know Nate had seized the opportunity to make contact without it looking out of place, and my heart tapped out a chaotic rhythm in my chest.

  Our line of five cut through the havoc until Clio made her way to the end of a line surrounding a guardsman with curly red hair. Although no longer strictly necessary, I kept hold of both Clio’s and Nate’s hands.

  We shuffled steadily forward until it was Clio’s turn. She released my hand when she addressed the officer, and I knew I should drop Nate’s, too, but I couldn’t make my muscles cooperate. I didn’t know what these tryouts would hold, but I knew that—at least for a moment—Nate’s steady presence could drive out my nerves.

  Clio stepped out from in front of me, and the officer at the head of the line locked eyes on me. “Name?”

  I couldn’t find my voice. I wasn�
�t sure how I hadn’t recognized him before, but now there was no denying who I stood in front of. Keats, the guard Derek had tranquilized on the rooftop of West Cameron City Hall. Fully conscious today, he held a clipboard and wore a harried expression.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Name?”

  Nate squeezed my hand before releasing it, and I shook off my surprise at Keats’s presence. “Eden.”

  Keats tilted his head. “Last name,” he clarified, sounding irritated.

  I opened my mouth but stopped a split second before Everdell tumbled out. “Jensen.”

  He slid a finger down his clipboard. “Your partner is Cadet Rocha. Next!”

  Adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I stepped aside to where Clio stood.

  “Who’d you get?” she asked, pulling me toward the wall across from the door where we’d entered.

  “Thor.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about the match. He was a capable fighter. I had seen his moves enough during training to know he was a formidable force. But he and I had never worked together. I’d done the bulk of my sparring against Bridger and Nate. Even Clio and I had been in the ring together a few times. But I’d never faced Thor, which meant I wasn’t sure of his rhythms. I only hoped that wouldn’t put me at a disadvantage.

  An expression flitted across Clio’s face, but it disappeared too quickly to decipher. “That’s great. Thor’s amazing—just stick close to him and trust his instincts when you’re unsure.”

  I nodded, taking in the advice. “Who’d you get?”

  Before she could answer, Nate appeared beside us. “You ready for this, partner?”

  Clio smiled, slipping an arm around Nate’s waist. “You know it.”

  A tiny stab of jealousy pricked my stomach at the sight of the two of them together. He returned her half-hug, and the two of them looked entirely comfortable, like it was a pose they struck regularly.