Unseen

Chapter 5

I HAD NEVER EXPECTED to work with children. Isabel, yes, but I had always considered her a special case in many ways—the first child I had ever met, after taking human form, and a very special, sweet, affectionate child at that. I had grown desperately fond of her, and I was aware that that was unusual for me. I am not fond of many things, really, and fewer people.

But almost immediately, I was put face-to-face with a great many individuals, and I was asked to care about them, deeply. As an Earth Warden, or at least a crippled Djinn sharing the powers of an Earth Warden, such connection was natural to me, and yet still sat oddly with my nature. Luis was compassionate. I was not ... but the more children we met at the school, the more his compassion grew, and influenced me as well, overtaking my natural reserve.

I had already met Mike and Gillian, who proved to be the two oldest in the compound; Mike and Gillian, I soon learned, had been among Pearl’s earliest captures and experiments, and while Mike seemed to have fared the best—or at least sustained the least long-term damage—he was having considerable difficulty with sudden crippling flares of pain and panic. Gillian was much worse, with episodes of paranoia that brought out uncontrollable manifestations of her powers—a potentially fatal problem for anyone around her. Mike, being a natural opposite to Gillian’s Weather powers, was a good check and balance for her, and she for him, but Gillian was frighteningly fragile, and for all Mike’s stoic strength, he was still only a boy—one forced to be a man far too early.

The others were worse. Elijah was a small African-American boy with a heartbreakingly beautiful smile, prone to sudden attacks of epileptic fits during which his artificially strong Earth power affected others around him. That connection triggered similar seizures at best, crushing injuries to the internal organs of others at worst. He had a constant Warden companion to monitor his status and try to head off the attacks, but they were becoming more and more frequent.

Little Sanjay couldn’t speak, and his inarticulate rage triggered actual fiery explosions when his frustration grew too intense.

And they were not the most dire cases, by far. Janice, who was giving us an introductory tour, still radiated the warmth and soothing comfort that I now understood was so vital; even Sanjay, as angry and injured as he was, seemed calmer in her presence. But Janice couldn’t be everywhere. There were, I realized, only four Earth Wardens present in the school, and only two were on duty at any one time, with rotating schedules. I could understand now why Marion had wanted us to stay. It was not merely for the benefit of Isabel—it was for the benefit of all her other charges as well, who had so little chance of long-term survival. She was hoping I would change my mind.

After the tours and introductions, we were served a quick, simple meal, and as I ate, I considered the future of these children. If Marion was successful in managing their conditions, then it was possible they could become useful Wardens and live approximately normal lives, for as long as their damaged bodies could sustain them. But that was not a cure, and I began to realize that there was never going to be a cure. Marion Bearheart was the best, most expert Earth Warden alive, and if she could not guarantee their health, then it could not be done.

Isabel had been dealt a mortal wound. It was simply killing her very, very slowly. That thought filled me with a sick, deadly rage that made me wild with the need to escape these walls, ride into the night, and exact revenge in the bloodiest way possible.

But Luis was right. I needed a plan, a real and solid one. Djinn were subtle, and we were known for our ability to outguess and outthink humans ... but I was going to have to outguess and outthink the ghost of a Djinn who had more experience of strategy. I had never bothered with strategy. I had been too powerful to need it.

In the end, it was Gillian, red-haired Gillian, who gave me the plan, although I doubt she meant to do so. We were sitting together, with Mike as her constant shadow, sharing hot cocoa in one of the comfortable, quiet common areas of the school. And Gillian was talking about Pearl, surprisingly; few of the children ever mentioned her, except in euphemisms (such as calling her “the Lady”).

None of them answered my questions about what she was like, except Gillian.

“She was like you,” she told me. Mike grabbed her hand, probably to warn her to shut up, but she shook him off. “Pretty, I mean. And really cold.”

“She doesn’t mean you’re cold,” Mike said. “Just—”

“Not like us,” Gillian finished. “And yeah, I meant cold. Don’t tell me what I meant.”

“You shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Why?” Gillian tossed her red hair over her shoulders in a gesture that practically dared Pearl to appear and strike her down. “I hate her. The Lady. She tried to make me love her, but I never did. I hated her then, and I really hate her now.”

“Gillian,” I said, “this is important. How often did you see her?”

“See her?” She paused for thought, then shook her head. “Almost never. But she was always there, you know? You could feel her all the time.”

“But she did show herself.”

“Only a couple of times. She didn’t look—right. Like wax or something, not a real person. It was weird and creepy.” Gillian considered for a few more seconds before she added, “When she was there, when she was like that, it did feel different, though.”

“Different in what way?”

“Like—less. Like she wasn’t watching us, except when she looked right at us. Does that make sense?”

It did, and I felt an unreasonable jolt of excitement. If Pearl’s omniscience limited itself as she took physical form, even as rough a form as Gillian described, then there were ways to fool her. Ways to hurt her.

“When did she take form?” I asked. Gillian, for the first time, looked at Mike, who shook his head mutely. “Please. This is important. I need to know.”

“I’m going to tell,” Gillian said to Mike.

“You know what she said. She said she’d know.”

“Well, I don’t care if she does.” Gillian looked right at me and said, “It was after they woke up our powers. When there was one they thought was special, she’d come to see. Sometimes she showed things to us. Sometimes.”

“What kind of things?”

“It’s hard to explain. She showed us the future, I guess. And the past. And she showed us how our parents were gone and she was all we had.” A muscle jumped in Gillian’s tensed jaw. “But she wasn’t. We had each other.” She was holding Mike’s hand again, and her knuckles had gone pale. “We always had each other.”

I nodded and stopped the conversation; I could sense that even Gillian, brave and angry as she was, would go no further with it. Mike pulled her away, leaving me alone to consider what she’d said.

As the fire burned down to ashes and the night settled in deep and cold, I murmured, “She comes to the camps. She comes in the flesh.”

If I could get in, if I could get close, I could destroy her while she was in skin, or at least damage her badly. Gillian had given me the clue. She’d said that Pearl’s omniscient presence had ceased when she was inside flesh. That meant Pearl couldn’t maintain both things; she could be energy or she could be flesh.

Flesh was vulnerable. I knew that better than anyone.

I waited until the next day to speak to Luis, at the end of a silent meal. Our guides had left us, no doubt wanting us to process all the information we’d been given so far, although I had no illusions that there weren’t ears listening, both mechanical and actual. “I’m going to say something you may not like.”

He grunted and took a sip of Diet Coke. “Yeah, that’s not really new, you know. You do that a lot.”

I let the silence stretch for a moment, long enough that his smile faded, and I felt him tense in readiness for what I was about to say. “I’m not staying here.”

He stopped, watching my face. I couldn’t tell, in that moment, what he was thinking, but I knew what he was feeling: the same slow, rolling anger he’d been carrying since he’d first realized how damaged Isabel had become. The anger we shared, and the need for action. The difference between us was how we defined actions to be taken. “Why?”

“Because my fight is out there. Can I be of value here? Yes. But I could be of value anywhere, in any hospital, any war zone, any disaster. My duty is to find Pearl and stop her. I can’t do that from here.”

“You think I don’t want to run off and get my revenge on? Damn straight,” he said. “But I can’t leave Ibby to face this alone. And neither can you. I know you better than that.”

I swallowed. “You’re wrong. I can.”

It was black and brutal to say, but I needed to leave no doubt, and I was dreading the violence of his response ... but not for the first time, Luis surprised me.

He looked back down at his plate, picked up a potato chip, and ate it with careful deliberation. Then he said, “You know these kids need our protection,” he said. “And our help. Isabel needs our help.”

“These children are Pearl’s failures. Her castoffs. Her rejects, Luis. She won’t threaten them; it’s to her advantage to have them seeded out here in the world, causing mayhem and absorbing the best efforts of our Wardens. She throws the wounded and dying in our path to slow us down. Don’t you see that?”

“No. I see kids who need help, and who the fuck do you think you are, calling them failures?” Now I’d made him angry—or, more accurately, given him a target for his rage. Me. “It takes more courage for them just to get up every day and face the world than you’re ever going to know your whole life. You calling Ibby a failure? A reject?”

I had, of course. “That isn’t a personal judgment ...”

“The hell it isn’t!” He shoved his plate aside, got up, and paced, glaring at me with sullen fury. “You cold bitch. You can really sit there and say this to me. I always knew you were some kind of alien inside, but damn. I thought you cared.”

“I do. I love Ibby,” I said. “And I love you. But I know my duty, and it isn’t here. It isn’t doing this. This is nothing but bandages on a mortal wound.”

Luis Rocha let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Love. Yeah, I figured you’d be bringing that up sooner or later. You always hurt the ones you love, right? Well, fuck you. That’s not love; that’s selfishness. We don’t need you. Just get your shit and go, if you’re going to cut and run. Ibby’s better off without you dragging it out. So am I.”

I’d been prepared for this to hurt, but not this much. Not as if my intestines were being dragged out and burned. Oddly enough, it wasn’t only the hurt, though—it was anger, too. I was right, and Luis knew it. He just couldn’t bear to hear it.

And that made me see him as weak. As human. It made it perversely easier to say, “If you don’t want me here, there’s no reason for me to stay, is there?”

“None,” he said. His eyes had turned obsidian-hard, and there was no trace of the man I’d kissed just yesterday. The man who had held me and shown me the sweetness of human life in ways I’d never imagined. The one who’d made me lose myself in him.

That man had been an illusion, a ghost, and now he was gone.

I kept my voice steady with an effort. “Then I’ll leave tomorrow,” I said. “I can’t delay any longer.”

“Yeah, I know, you’ve got a destiny and shit,” he said dismissively. “Too important for all us little people to stand in your way. Especially us failures and rejects.”

Hearing the words from his lips, I felt their sting, but they were still true. The longer I stayed here, mired in the hopeless struggle of these children, the more damage Pearl could do. I needed to engage her, and quickly, before she could carry out whatever obscure plan she was pursuing. It involved the children of Wardens, and Djinn, and although the Wardens were now on guard against her, the Djinn were overconfident. Always overconfident.

The fact that all that was true didn’t make the cruelty of my decision any less biting, and I couldn’t think what to say to make it any easier. Luis would accept nothing short of complete compliance with his wish to stay close to Ibby; I couldn’t give it, though I deeply desired to make them both happy. We were in a war, and there was triage to be done, no matter how much it hurt.

“How are you planning to stay alive?” he asked me bluntly. “You need me, Cass, unless you all of a sudden got some plug-in to the Djinn I don’t know about.” That was startling; we rarely talked about my ... disability in not being able to reach the aetheric realms the same way the Djinn could, to draw their life energy directly.

It was a handicap I didn’t like to remember—and one that gave him unspoken power over me.

I stared steadily at him. “I plan to stay alive the same way I have so far,” I said. “Do you really mean that you will cut me off from your power? That you’ll send me away to die?”

His mouth opened and closed. I knew he wanted to strike at me, but even now he couldn’t do that. Not that. He knew what a risk I was taking, and how much power he really held over me. But he also knew that he couldn’t stop me, not with threats. Not even with action.

Cutting me off from his power would damage me, weaken me, force me to find other sources ... but it wouldn’t change my mind.

“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t do that. I know what’s at stake here. But you’re wrong, Cassiel. You’re wrong to go off after her like this.”

“And you’re wrong to hide,” I said. “Because this fight has to go to her. She’s already brought it to us, and she’ll keep hurting us until we’re unable to fight at all. I have to do it. Please understand.”

He did. He just couldn’t admit it, and it made him unreasonably furious.

“Then you should go right now,” he said. “I can explain to Ibby why you dropped her off like a puppy at the pound, but not if you stay a couple of extra days and then abandon her. I can’t explain that at all.”

“I know you think I’m cruel, but this is—”

“No,” he said, and there was quiet venom in the word that stopped me cold. “No, don’t you try to tell me all the reasons why you’re right. I know you’re right, I damn well know you’re right, but I can’t forgive you for it. Don’t ask me to do that, because if you loved her, you wouldn’t leave us.” The rage was still there, but his voice broke at the last, and I sensed that the anger was a thin crust now over a bottomless well of grief. Like Ibby, he’d never truly come to terms with the loss of Manny and Angela; like Ibby, he still blamed me, deep down. He didn’t want to, but he did.

And yet, he wanted me to stay here. With him. He wanted it so badly that it put tears shimmering in his eyes. He hid them by turning his back on me.

I was breaking his heart, and mine, and there was nothing I could do that would heal that wound. It was better to let it bleed out the poison ... if that was possible.

I wasn’t sure that it wouldn’t kill us both.

I got up and left the room, found Marion, and said, “I’m leaving tomorrow. What do you need of me tonight?”

She frowned, then looked from me to Luis, still seated in the conference room, head down. “Oh,” she said, and there was a world of sad comprehension in her voice. “Oh. He’s not going with you.”

“No.”

“I’m so sorry. That must be difficult.”

So was I, deeply and achingly, but there could be no going back now. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I want to help while I can.” And I wanted to keep busy, and away from the aching black hole of pain that formed inside me when I was in Luis’s presence.

“All right, there’s plenty to do around here,” she said. “Come with me.”

Marion Bearheart was brilliant, and untiring in ways that defied my understanding; she should have been exhausted, but even in Oversight I couldn’t see any trace of it throughout the next few hours. I certainly tired quickly, because the delicacy of what Marion was doing in her sessions with these children was extremely difficult, and a profligate use of Earth powers; all that I was doing was amplifying and concentrating the power that she wielded, much as a nurse assists a surgeon wielding the finest laser scalpel, and of course I helped keep the children calmed and under deep sedation. I made it only halfway through the first session with Sanjay before I realized that I would need to draw power from Luis ... or from someone else. Preferably from someone else. I wasn’t sure that his power wouldn’t turn toxic between the two of us, as angry as he was with me now. He’d promised not to cut me off, but that didn’t mean our relationship was the same as it had been—not in any way.

I didn’t need to ask for help, after all. Marion looked up from what she was doing, met my eyes, and held out her hand without hesitation. I gripped her fingers, and a glorious flood of power spilled over me, warm and insubstantial as sunlight, sinking into every hungry cell of my body and filling the reservoirs completely in only a few seconds. Marion was a natural, almost frictionless conduit for the power of the Mother, and that was an amazing thing to experience. It was close to Djinn strength, and I acknowledged that with a hesitant dip of my head in honor of the fact. Marion smiled and went back to work. I put both hands on Sanjay’s warm, sweating head, not so much to restrain him as to give him the comfort of simple human contact, and felt a tension inside of him ease. Children craved touch, even more than older humans did.

The fact that people were so hesitant to get near Sanjay was a sad additional burden of his condition. They were right to fear him, but that didn’t mean it made his loneliness any easier to bear.

Two hours later, Marion sighed, lifted her hands from the boy’s still form, and shook her head. “I can’t do more for now,” she said. “It should ease the frequency and severity of his attacks, but I can’t prevent them; over time, with enough interventions, we should be able to reduce them to almost nothing, but the bigger issue is controlling his power and keeping him from accessing it. It’s not going to be easy. I’ve put some blocks in place, but until the nerve pathways heal a little I don’t dare block it completely. He’s going to be a danger for some time to come. The worst thing he can do is to try to use his power consciously; that would undo everything we’ve accomplished.”

She stretched out her arms and rolled her shoulders to release tension, and Ben, who was still on duty, came into the room to take the boy back to his quarters. He could have simply rolled the bed along with its sleeping burden, but instead he picked the boy up and carried him in his arms. I was glad; the boy needed contact, needed it badly. Even sleeping, he would feel that someone loved him enough to risk that simple human touch.

“Right. That’s enough, I think. I don’t want you working on Isabel,” Marion said, as she checked the schedule on the wall. “She’s in here next. Are you still planning to leave us after sunrise?”

“Yes.”

“Better sleep fast, then. You’ve only got about two hours, and you need it whether you know it or not.”

“I could help with—”

“No, you couldn’t,” Marion said, and rolled her chair around to face me. “Soldiers learn to sleep when they can; who knows when you’ll get your next downtime. The thing is, you’re going out there alone, and we both know what a risk that is for you. You’re a great asset to the Wardens out there, but you’re vulnerable. I wish Luis was going with you. Do you want me to talk to him?”

I shook my head. “He won’t leave Ibby, no matter what you say. Even if you did manage to convince him, it would poison the two of us for him to leave now.” If I haven’t irreparably poisoned us already.

“I see,” Marion said. “You’re probably right. I like Rocha, but he’s got issues to work through.”

“Don’t we all?”

She smiled and didn’t answer.

“Should I say good-bye to him?” I asked it as a straightforward question, because in all honesty I was at sea with this, with all the tidal sweep of emotion in this moment. I hadn’t seen Luis since we’d fought and caused each other such pain, but I hadn’t ceased thinking of him, and aching within for the anguish we’d caused each other. “Would that be ... kind?”

“Not to you,” Marion said. “But it might be the right thing to do, yes.”

“And Isabel?”

“She’s asleep,” Marion said. “I wouldn’t wake her up, but you can look in on her.”

And if she woke, what then? What excuse would I give to avoid seeing the betrayal and disappointment on the child’s face? Would I lie to her to save myself the discomfort?

The hard fact was that when I left, she, like Luis, would see me as a traitor—as the villain she had secretly believed I was. And that was my personal burden, because I could not stay here. I could not allow my personal feelings to get in the way of my duty.

Did that make me cold? Perhaps, from a human perspective. I couldn’t think of it in such terms anymore, not if I hoped to prevent the ghastly atrocities I saw here at this school.

“Cassiel?” Marion raised her eyebrows.

“I think I’ll rest first,” I said.

I left, but tired as I was, I was unwilling to take the opportunity to sleep. I found myself wandering the school, watching the children sleeping, or at play, or studying. They looked normal, much of the time, the way Isabel did when watching her movies or playing her games. It was the flashes of ungovernable temper that were dangerous—or unstoppable fear. Those were the things that Pearl had woken in these children—or perhaps they were normal enough, except when paired with the fearfully strong gifts she’d woken as well. I saw Mike, as always serving as Gillian’s protective shadow; I watched Elijah with his beautiful, brilliant smile charming his tutors, until the clouds once again crept over him and anxiety made him difficult to manage. I was standing in the corner, observing but not taking part, when Shasa entered the room, spotted me, and drifted in my direction. I thought she might be inclined to needle me, but she only leaned against the wall beside me, crossed her arms, and finally said, “You’re probably wondering where their parents are.”

I hadn’t been, surprisingly, but now that it occurred to me I did wonder. Luis was so protective of Isabel—was that not the normal human condition, to be concerned for one’s own?

I lifted a single shoulder in response. Shasa jerked her chin at Elijah. “Orphans,” she said. “All orphans. Every one of them. Parents killed in the Djinn rebellion, or in accidents, or in storms, fires, earthquakes ... the usual fate of Wardens, sure. But every one of the children Pearl really focused on was an orphan, including your Ibby. Ever wonder why?”

I considered it now. “Because it’s easier to twist a child who has no roots,” I said. “No one to care. No one to watch. No one to fight for her.”

“Oh, believe me, we care,” Shasa said. “We watch. We fight. And if I ever see that bitch, I’ll make her understand that we’re a community, we Wardens. We stick together.” She sent me a sidelong look. “Maybe you can tell her next time you see her. From me.”

“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps I will explain it to her in great detail.”

“Is it true she’s one of you? One of the Djinn?”

“Not anymore,” I said. “But then, neither am I, if you wish to be technical.”

“So you say.” Shasa seemed unimpressed. “My aunt seems to like you. She doesn’t trust you, though. Seems that nobody trusts you, really. Including your own Warden.”

“How do they feel about you?” I asked.

She laughed. “About the same. I don’t go out of my way to be liked. Never seen much point in it.”

We had that in common, it seemed. After a moment, Shasa pushed off from the wall and walked to Elijah, who was wavering between smiles and tears, and when he saw her his face simply lit up with joy.

There was much to be said for the judgment of a child, I thought. And for not much caring about the opinions of others.

“Shasa,” I said as she lifted Elijah in her arms. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

“Yeah, I heard. I’m planning a party, with cake and balloons. You’re not invited, though.”

“Look out for them,” I said. “All of them.”

She looked up, holding a laughing Elijah on her hip, and frowned. “You got something to tell me? Something I should know?”

“Nothing definite, or I’d stay. But—it’s too good a target, this place. These children.”

“Yeah,” Shasa said. “I know. We all know. But keeping them separately wasn’t helping. At least together they can help each other. We haven’t got a lot of choices.”

I definitely understood that, but I still couldn’t silence the tremor of doubt deep within that had started upon first glimpsing this place. They’d located it far from a ley line, which was a part of the network of aetheric forces that allowed Pearl to establish footholds and compounds for her own misguided followers. There were no obvious signs that Pearl’s people were even aware of this location, and yet ...

And yet.

I couldn’t wait for the fight to come here, not with so many fragile lives at risk. I had to act first, and as aggressively as possible.

That meant abandoning Ibby, and Luis, and destroying all that I’d worked so hard to build with them.

And it hurt.

My God, it hurt.

I went to say my good-byes to Luis. His door was closed, and I knocked. I heard a rustle of sheets inside, but nothing else.

I knocked louder, and then I turned the knob.

Locked.

I snorted. That was only a token gesture—he knew perfectly well that a lock couldn’t keep me out if I wished to come in. I snapped it and repaired it as soon as the door swung in, and shut it behind me. The room was dark, but after a second there was a click, and the bedside lamp flickered on to illuminate Luis, propped up on pillows, staring at me.

I felt nothing from him. He’d closed himself off. Only the quiet whisper of the connection between us was left, but nothing came through it to indicate to me what he was feeling.

“Come for the big scene?” he asked. “Sorry. I’m all out of drama. I thought you were leaving already.”

“I am,” I said.

“So go.”

“I will. I came to see you first.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to talk about it. Locked door doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“It means you’re angry.”

“Damn straight I’m angry. Christo, woman, how you think I ought to feel, like twirling on a mountaintop and singing? How you think Ibby’s going to feel when I tell her you dumped us?”

“I think she’ll feel very hurt,” I said. “Especially if you lie to her about my motives.”

He sat up, and the sheet slid down his bare chest. The light seemed to be devoured in the dark shadows of his flame tattoos that ran up both arms. His voice came low and almost savagely rough. “You’d better not mean that, chica. You’d better not say I’m a liar, because you’re the one leaving, not me.”

“If you tell her that I’m dumping the two of you, you’re lying,” I said. “You’re lying to yourself, and to her, and that’s unforgivable. I’m not turning my back on you out of some petty disagreement. I’m fighting for you.”

“I never asked you to do that!”

“You didn’t have to,” I said. “I fight for you because it’s my duty. And I fight because I love you, Luis, and because I love Ibby and I can’t bear to see either of you harmed again. And I always will love you, no matter how you feel. Because that’s the curse of being a Djinn; we don’t fall out of love the way humans do. That’s why we so seldom try to love at all. I thought you knew that.” I felt out of breath, saying it, and a little sick. There were some weaknesses Djinn don’t want to admit, and this was the worst. Our constancy.

I wanted to stop this. I wanted him to reach out to me, love me, forgive me. I needed that from him, because I could never, ever go back to simply thinking of him as a friend, an ally, a disposable human being. He was real, and he had my heart.

Perhaps he could turn his back on what we’d built. As a Djinn, I didn’t have that option. The pain would echo forever in the empty places that were left.

I turned to leave. I suppose I was hoping that he’d stop me, say something, do something, and that there would be a shining, soul-easing moment of reconciliation between us.

And he said, very quietly, “Cassiel.”

I looked at him, and saw that a struggle was going on inside of him, one I didn’t fully understand. “Cass,” he said, “you’re doing what you’ve got to do. I know that. I don’t like it, and I don’t agree with it, but I know. But there are things I have to do, too. Things you aren’t going to like, either.”

I felt my forehead wrinkle into a frown. “What do you mean?”

“Since we talked I—I took some precautions. For Ibby’s sake.”

“I don’t understand. What precautions?”

He shook his head. “You wouldn’t agree. Best I not tell you. But just remember—I didn’t do it for myself. Just remember that.”

He wasn’t going to admit anything to me, I realized, not directly. I studied him, still frowning, and then nodded. “Be careful,” I said. “Watch out for yourself, and her. And all of them.”

He nodded, without a single word of comfort, of understanding, of acknowledgment. It was only as I walked away, feeling the burning weight of my own pain, that I realized I hadn’t, in fact, told him good-bye at all.

But I believed that he had nevertheless understood what I meant.