Fate of Flames Page 2

  “You’re done,” she said, and pushed.

  Just like that, the phantom’s body shattered into a blizzard of ice and snow, blown away with the wind.

  In that one haunting moment, I realized that I would never have stood a chance against the creature. That despite whatever insane, heroic delusion had compelled me to stupidly risk my life during a Category Three attack, there was just no comparison between the two of us. No comparison at all between Belle Rousseau and the ridiculous Maia Finley.

  Even though we were both Effigies.

  Seven months ago

  Early September

  New York Fashion Week

  “H-HEY, STOP PUSHING!”

  The group of haute wannabes surrounding me barely let me stutter out the phrase before they pushed again, but it was every man for himself.

  The back door to Lincoln Center had just opened.

  I’d been waiting for what felt like hours, locked outside with everyone else whose plebeian status relegated them to the heavy, sticky air. The moment the back door opened, it was a mad push to the railings. Dropping all pretense of civility, I started elbowing my way to the front.

  And above the carnage:

  “Belle!”

  “Belle, you look gorgeous!”

  Belle had come to Manhattan for Fashion Week as a special guest of some up-and-coming designer. The paparazzi’s frenzied cries pounded against my eardrums.

  “Belle! Belle can you look this way, please?”

  She didn’t. Belle emerged from the building’s exit in a haze of camera flashes and glided down the ramp with nary a glance.

  The queen herself.

  She strode with gallant steps, tall, regal, and proud, her long blond hair twisted into a braid over her slender shoulder—a beautiful warrior princess in a Valentino Bambolina dress destined to fly off high-end shelves the moment photos hit the net. They called it the Belle Effect.

  Flanking her was a small entourage of “friends” for whom “friendship” no doubt existed for the photographic evidence alone. Leeches.

  I was different.

  I was different from the throng of reporters and the Fashion Week peasants who just wanted a clear shot of Belle to drive traffic to their try-hard blogs. With the pen I’d dug out of my purse and the poster I’d earned after winning third place in a radio contest, I knew in that moment that I was the one person who deserved to be there. A true fan.

  “Belle.” My voice was weak at first, quickly finding its volume. “Belle!”

  At the end of the ramp awaited a black van ready to whisk Belle off to fairy-tale destinations unknown. In a few seconds, she’d be gone. I’d lose my chance.

  I fought through legions of photogs and attendees, my heart racing when my hand brushed cool metal. “Belle!” I gripped the bar and pulled myself forward. Belle was coming. She was so close. What would I even say once our eyes met? Hello, my name is Maia Finley, and I fanatically idolize you—please don’t think I’m psychotic. Or maybe: My dead sister cosplayed as you last summer. Sign this now.

  Please . . . see me. “Belle!” I cursed underneath my breath, my slippery fingers fumbling with the pen. Belle was so close. In just a few seconds, I’d look up and there we’d both be. Just a few seconds more. I need you to see me. . . .

  And then . . .

  Present Day

  Early April

  Phantom Attack: Category Three

  “Hey, kid!”

  “Huh?”

  It was strange, how easily history repeated itself. Seven months after seeing Belle at Fashion Week, and here I was again, standing dumbstruck with my sneakers frozen on the pavement, ignoring the chaos raging all around me to stare in silent awe at the Effigy whose battle stats were burned into my brain.

  “Hey!” The police officer grabbed my forearm. “Come on; you need to vacate the area.”

  A wrecked expressway.

  Overturned cars.

  People screaming.

  That’s right. The phantom attack wasn’t over. The War Siren was still wailing. How long had I been standing here, lost in my thoughts?

  With great effort, I dragged myself out of my memories and the pandemonium seeped back in. The little girl was still clinging to my leg, crying. I was supposed to be doing something. Comforting her? Protecting her? I had no clue how to do either. It didn’t matter anyway. The officer quickly pried the little girl off of my flesh, scooping her into his arms as mine dangled uselessly by my sides. He was saying something, but I was barely listening. Belle was on her phone just a few feet away from me, flakes of snow still fresh on her blond hair. A living legend, sinfully epic even just standing there.

  Belle was on the phone for only a few seconds. It was barely a conversation—maybe someone from the Sect telling her where to fight next. She’d be gone soon. It was stupid, but I couldn’t let my opportunity slip away. Not again. The moment she lowered her arm, I seized my chance.

  “Belle!” I stepped forward, but stopped once I noticed the way her fingers tightened around her phone. Her hands were trembling, her head bent low. Something was wrong. Belle did have the tendency to be somewhat grim, of course, but she usually carried her grimness with her, all business while she walked around murdering monsters. This Belle didn’t move. Even from where I stood, it was obvious how tense her body had become.

  “Belle?” I tried again.

  Black helicopters overhead drowned out my voice as they flew in from behind, low enough for the wind from the rotor blades to thrash my hair and clothes. One paused a safe distance ahead of Belle, descending close to the earth before opening the door. A young man jumped out, his black boots striking the broken asphalt with a kind of grace that suggested he’d done this far too many times before. You’d expect that from a Sect agent.

  The helicopter flew off and he started toward us. It was clear he was Sect from the dark red, full-length uniform fitted to his tall, slender body. But as far as agents went, I was expecting someone bigger, with more chin stubble and a few age lines; this guy didn’t look much older than I did. A pair of high cheekbones gave his lean, clean-shaven face some rather sharp angles that weren’t at all unpleasing to the eye. Actually, none of him was—unpleasing, that is. He twisted around to survey the damage; that’s when I could see the muscles straining in his long neck as he craned it, and, as he drew closer, the long lashes fanning a pair of soft, dark brown eyes. He was the perfect mixture of hard and soft—handsome and delicate, but strong and capable as he stalked toward us with a businesslike quickness.

  The police officer was far less impressed. “Oh great, it’s the cavalry,” he said once Hot Sect Agent reached us. The little girl was still quivering in his arms. “Better late than never, right?”

  “This is somewhat of an emergency, so I’ll ignore your bitchiness.”

  Urgency gave the agent’s tenor voice enough authority to silence any debate. It was full of power for someone who looked like he should be grinning in a senior yearbook photo with the rest of his classmates. Then again, when I looked harder, I could see the thin lines of faded scars running up his arms, slashing across his neck. This “boy” had seen battle.

  The slight breeze tousled his black hair against his forehead. “The other agents have already secured an emergency route down Thirteenth. Hostiles will keep appearing throughout the city until the Needle is fully operational again. You need to take every civilian you find”—his eyes flitted to me—“to a designated shelter.”

  “Shelter.” My brain was working again. “Shelter . . . There’s one under my school.”

  “Then go there.” He shifted his broad shoulders. “Preferably now.”

  “Rhys?”

  Belle. The young agent responded, turning to her, but Belle didn’t meet his gaze. She kept her face hidden from him.

  Rhys jogged up to her. “Belle, what is it?”

  “Natalya.”

  He stopped dead and for a second it felt as if my heart would too. The expression Belle gave hi
m sent a quiet shudder through me.

  “I just got the call. Natalya has died.” She said it with a lifelessness that dulled her French accent. “Rhys, you already knew, didn’t you?”

  Natalya’s name drummed in my head, loud, terrifying, accusing. Rhys looked pretty shaken himself, like he didn’t know how to answer, but I did: Yes, Natalya is dead. Your mentor died literally just shy of forty-eight hours ago.

  She had to be dead, of course, before I could take her place.

  That was how being an Effigy worked.

  “She’s dead.” Belle was shaking. It was a Belle nobody was used to. After letting out a sharp, ragged breath, she clasped a hand against her mouth. “Oh god.”

  “Belle . . .” It was sheer guilt that made me speak, but what could I possibly say? “Belle, I’m sorry—”

  Somewhere behind us, an explosion rattled the ground beneath our feet. I couldn’t see it, but I could already hear the panic.

  “Belle, I don’t know who told you, but now is not the time.” Rhys took her by the shoulders, letting go rather quickly when he saw her resultant death glare. “Let’s go.”

  Whatever vulnerability Belle had shown in that moment was gone. With eyes colder than ever before, she began back down the street, striding toward me with Rhys trailing behind her.

  As Belle drew near, a familiar, confusing mix of excitement and terror beat against my chest. “Belle—”

  The officer grabbed my arm with his free hand. “Come on, kid.”

  “Wait,” I cried, struggling. But what should I say? “Belle!” Please just see me.

  It was almost elegant, the sheer indifference Belle showed me as she passed by without a word, without a glance, as if I didn’t exist. Perhaps because in Belle’s world, I didn’t. Not seven months ago, outside Lincoln Center. Not now, either, even though we had more in common now than Belle realized. Literally nothing had changed. Nothing.

  “I’m Natalya’s successor. I’m an Effigy,” I whispered. It was a good thing the NYPD officer wasn’t listening. I let him drag me back toward the school.

  • • •

  Several hours passed by inside the fully stocked bomb shelter the size of a gymnasium packed with sniveling children and not-so-subtly panicking adults. I was the only one in the room with the power to do anything, and I was stuck inside, pathetically twiddling my thumbs next to a ninth grader complaining about the lack of functional bathrooms. Guess having the power to do something doesn’t make you useful. My latest attempt at heroics taught me that well enough.

  After those several, excruciating hours, the principal disappeared, reemerging thirty minutes later to let us know that the danger had passed. The Needle was fully operational again, its high-frequency signal obliterating any phantom left inside the city while keeping out the ones roaming outside the signal’s reach, silent as nightmares. It was a wonder how the damn thing got turned off in the first place, but at least it was over. The phantoms couldn’t get in anymore. We were safe, like we were supposed to be.

  No thanks to me.

  They finally let us go home. Stuffed inside a crowded, musty school bus, I tried calling Uncle Nathan yet again—probably for the tenth time—but the phone lines were all busy at the Municipal Defense Control Center. He had to be okay. He was probably holed up in there with all the other brilliant young techies, clicking away at their space-age equipment to ensure the city’s safety. He’d told me once that the MDCC was one of the few sites in the city fortified with all sorts of extra protection, in case of emergencies like these. He was okay. And because I wouldn’t accept any other reality, I calmly left a message on his voice mail before forcing myself to think of other things.

  Like where the hell did phantoms even come from?

  It was pointless, but I couldn’t help but think about it on the way home, ignoring the crazed chatter around me. Last year, I’d circled “1865” twice in the notes I’d taken for history class. But knowing the date of the first documented attack didn’t do much to satisfy, especially when that was the only information anyone had when it came to their origins.

  Same with the Effigies. There could only be four at a time. Everyone knew that. Powerful girls, monsters in their own right. But as for their origins, nobody knew. 1875—the year that the first documented Effigy was found in Beijing. A date and not much more.

  Magic and monsters shrouded in mystery.

  What I did know, at least, was that even phantoms had their categories: terrestrial, aquatic, aerial. Classes, too: A through E, according to size and weight. Some phantoms were smaller than an average human, while others towered over us by dozens of feet. They usually looked like serpents—really big, hellish versions anyway—especially in the sky and sea (and, apparently, underground). There was more variety on land; though most of those ones looked like huge carnivores, the consensus was that you never really knew what you were going to get—rotting flesh, usually, protruding black bones, sometimes. And then there were the ones with too many arms that were too long or too short, or with wings in places that didn’t seem to work. Phantoms were like the sideshow act of some nightmare version of the animal kingdom. And yet there were aspects they all seemed to have, aspects seared into your brain: like the black smoke clinging to their black, horrible hides.

  But where did they come from?

  Everyone had their theories, from philosophers to poets, scientists, popes, and conspiracy theorists alike. Phantoms were mutants created through secret experiments gone wrong. Or maybe they were god’s divine wrath made flesh to punish us. Not to mention theories about what that made Effigies. If they were experiments, then we were experiments. If they were god’s wrath, then we were god’s mercy. The possibilities were endless.

  It didn’t matter anyway. Phantoms existed. The entire world had found ways to deal with it, so who cared about the rest? Before today, society had operated just fine. For the most part, you could venture out into the world all you liked, as long as you used one of the secure travel routes. By following the rules like the good little citizen I was, I’d somehow managed to live sixteen years without seeing a single phantom up close. Until today.

  Needless to say, I preferred them much more as pictures drawn in books, or images captured by satellite footage, or digital effects whipped up by some animation studio in a movie. Now that I’d actually seen one up close, I almost wanted to berate myself for actually having found them cool once. On family trips outside the city, me and June used to peer outside the same window, shrieking in excitement at every wisp of black smoke, every heavy footstep we could see shaking the trees, far off in the distance. I’d squeal until our frightened mother ordered us from the passenger seat to park our butts.

  Mom. I shut my eyes, banishing the memory, putting it all out of my mind.

  The bus ride was uncomfortable. The kid next to me was very sweaty. At least Uncle Nathan eventually called me back.

  “Thank god you’re okay,” he said before his long, relieved sigh swallowed up the receiver.

  “Yeah.” Hearing his voice helped. The knots in my neck started to loosen. I rested my head back against the seat. “Good job getting the Needle running again. What even happened?”

  “We think it was a glitch. I mean, it’s a one-in-a-million chance, but it can happen.”

  “Yeah, the universe has been doing that a lot lately,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “Uh, nothing. Anyway, glad you’re okay.”

  “Yeah. We have to check the systems, so I’ll probably be here all night. That means you’ll have to make your own dinner today.”

  “Cereal it is.”

  “Sorry.” Uncle Nathan laughed. The kind of strained chuckle you spit out when your whole body’s still tense from immense stress. Working at the MDCC after a phantom attack couldn’t possibly be fun. “I should be back by tomorrow morning, so I’ll make it up to you then. Oh, crap,” he added awkwardly, because someone had just yelled his name. “Gotta go. Call me if you need anythin
g, okay?”

  Because of the traffic, it took a whole hour to get to South Slope: the unfortunate consequence of only having a handful of streets open for public use after of the attack. I returned, tired and worn, to an empty brownstone and a sink of dirty dishes I didn’t feel like loading into the dishwasher. Embracing my laziness, I grabbed a bowl of cereal and went right up to my room. With clumsy precision, I stepped over the dirty clothes littering the floor, ignoring the now heartily defaced motivational posters Uncle Nathan had tacked to my wall when I’d first moved in.

  Stopping at my desk, I plopped down into my chair, finding the comfortable grooves, threw my metallic blue headphones on, and shook my laptop out of hibernation with a swift click.

  Doll Soldiers was in my Bookmarks page. It wasn’t a great name for a forum, but it had everything an Effigy junkie needed.

  Check the thread, I told myself. Don’t be nervous; just do it. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. It would take only a few seconds to browse the thread I’d made earlier that morning before going to school. It was a dumb thread, really—no more than a rashly concocted experiment. The responses couldn’t be that bad. Right? Just check it.

  I checked the latest forum updates instead. Ah, the Belle Kill Count thread was lively as usual. And below it:

  Lake Announces Debut Album Title

  Was she still trying for a solo career? I rolled my eyes. Lake was like the English degree of the Effigy world. What did she even do? Where was she today, while people were dying and getting separated from loved ones? Watching it on the news from the comfort of some asshole’s recording studio? A flop Effigy, and a flop pop star.

  I took a breath. Lake made me crazy sometimes, crazier still because she had a cult following of “Swans” that would swiftly cut down anyone who dared speak against their “Swan Queen.” Whatever.

  An uncomfortable moment passed in which it dawned on me that I, too, might one day have the rare honor of inspiring irrational hatred. Maia Finley is like the masters of fine arts degree of the Effigy world. Like, what does she even do?