Хлоя Нейл - Firespell

Or so I assumed.

“You could slow down a little, you know.”

“Slowing down would make it harder for me to punish you by making you keep up,” she said,

but came to a stop as we reached the dead end of a limestone corridor that ended in a nondescript metal door.

“Why are you punishing me?”

Scout reached up, pulled a key from above the threshold, and slipped it into the lock. When the door popped open, she put back the key, then glanced at me. “Um, you abandoned me for the brat pack?”

“Abandoned is a harsh word.”

“So are they,” she pointed out, holding the door open so I could move inside. “The last time you hung out with them, they put you in the hospital.”

“That was actually your fault.”

“Details,” she said.

My feet still on the limestone, hand on the threshold of the door, I peeked inside. She was leading me into an old tunnel. It was narrow, with an arched ceiling, the entire tunnel paved in concrete, narrow tracks along the concrete floor. Lights in round, industrial fittings were suspended from the ceiling every dozen yards or so. The half illumination didn’t do much for the ambience. A couple of inches of rusty water covered the tracks on the floor, and the concrete walls were covered with graffiti—words of every shape and size, big and small, monotone and multicolored.

“What is this?”

“Chicago Tunnel Company Railroad,” she said, nudging me forward. I took a step into dirty water, glad I’d worn boots for my shopping excursion, and glad I still had on a jacket. It was chilly, probably because we were underground.

“It’s an old railroad line,” Scout said, then stepped beside me. Cold, musty air stirred as she closed the door behind us. Somewhere down the line, water dripped. “The cars used to move between downtown buildings to deliver coal and dump ash and stuff. Parts of the tunnel run under the river, and some of those parts were accidentally breached by the city, so if you see a tsunami, find a bulkhead and make a run for it.”

“I’ll make a point of it.”

Scout reached into her messenger bag and pulled out two flashlights. She took one, then handed me the second. While the tunnels were lit, it made me feel better to have the weight in my hand.

Flashlights in hand, we walked. We took one branch, then another, then another, making so many turns that I had no clue which direction we were actually moving in.

“So this mark thing,” I began, as we stepped gingerly through murky water. “What is it,

exactly?”

“They’re called darkenings. We all have them,” Scout answered, the beam of light swinging as she moved. “All the members of the ‘Dark Elite,’” she flatly added, using her hands, flashlight and all, to gesture some air quotes. “That’s what some of the Reapers call us—all of us—who have magic. Elite, I guess, because we’re gifted. They think we’re special,better , because we have magic. And dark because the darkenings are supposed to appear when the magic appears.

Well, except in your case.” She stopped and looked at me. “Still no powers, right?”

“Not that I’m aware of, no. Is that why we’re down here? Are you going to prod me or poke me or something, to figure out if I have secret powers? Like a chick on an alien spacecraft?”

“And you think I’m the odd one,” she muttered. “No, Scully, we aren’t going to probe you.

We’re just going to talk to the Adepts and see what they have to say about your new tat. No bigs.” She shrugged nonchalantly, then started walking again.

Ten or fifteen minutes later, Scout stopped before a door made up of giant wooden beams, two golden hinges running across it, an arch in the top. A large numeral “3” was elegantly carved into the lintel above the door. And on the door was the same symbol I’d seen in the model room —a circle with aY inside it.

This was Enclave Three, I assumed.

Scout flipped off her flashlight, then held out her hand; I pressed my flashlight into her palm.

She flicked it off and deposited them both back in her messenger bag.

“Okay,” she said, looking over at me. “I suppose I should prep you for this. The other seven Adepts in ET should be here. Katie and Smith are our Varsity Adepts. You remember what that means?”

“They’re the college kids,” I answered. “And Junior Varsity is high school. You just told me on Friday.”

“You’ve brat-packed since then,” she muttered. “Your IQ has probably dropped.”

I gave her a snarky look.

“Anywho,” she said, ignoring the look, “Katie’s a manipulator. Literally and figuratively. You know, in history, when they talk about the Salem witch trials, about how innocent girls and boys were convinced to do all these horrible things because some witch made them?”

I’d readThe Crucible in English last year (probably just like every other sophomore), so I nodded.

“Yeah, well, they probablywere convinced. That stuff wasn’t a myth. Katie’s not a wicked witch or anything, but she’s got the same skills.”

“Well, that’s just downright disturbing,” I said.

“Yeah.” She nodded, then patted my arm. “Sleep well tonight. Anyway, Katie manipulates, and Smith—and, yes, that’s his first name—levitates. He lifts heavy stuff, raises things in the air. As for JV, you know me, Michael and Jason, obvs, and there are three more. Jamie and Jill, those are the twins. Paul’s the one with the curls.”

“You said you were a spellcaster?”

“Binder. Spellbinder.”

“Okay. So what are these guys? Michael and the rest of them. What can they do?”

“Oh, sure, um”—she shifted her feet, her gaze on the ceiling as she itemized—“um, Jamie and Jill have elemental powers. Fire and ice.”

“They have firespell?” I wondered aloud.

“Oh, sorry, no. Jamie can manipulate fire, literally—like a firestarter. Set stuff ablaze, create smoke, general pyromania. She can work with the element without getting burned. Firespell is different—it’s not about fire, really, but about power, at least we think. There aren’t any Adepts with firespell, so we kind of go off what we’ve seen in action. Anywho, you put Jamie, Jill, and me together, and we’re one medieval witch,” she said, with what sounded like a fake laugh.

“Paul is a warrior. A man of battle. Ridiculous moves, like something out of a kung fu movie.

Michael is a reader.”

“What’s a reader?”

“Well, I bind spells, right? I take words of power, charms and I translate them into action, like the house I showed you.”

I nodded.

“Michael reads objects. He can feel them out, determine their history, hear what they’re saying about things that happened, conditions.”

“Well that’s . . . weird. I mean cool, but weird.”

She shrugged. “Unusual, but handy. Architecture speaks to him. Literally.”

“And for all that, you two still aren’t dating.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I’m not sure I should let you two talk to each other anymore. Now, are you done procrastinating? Can we get on with this?”

“I’m not procrastinating,” I said, procrastinating. “What about Jason?” I already suspected, of course, what Jason’s magic was. But he hadn’t exactly confirmed it, and my own suspicions—

that he had some kind of animal-related power—were strange enough that I wasn’t ready to put them out there. On the other hand, how many teenage boys growled when they were attacked?

Okay, when you put it that way, it actually didn’t sound that rare.

Scout dropped her gaze and fiddled with her messenger bag. “Jason’s power isn’t for me to tell.

If he’s ready for that, he’ll tell you.”

“I—I have an idea.”