I hear the voice inside me like I did when I marched through the trees toward a derelict shed buzzing with bees. Only now, she is patient as she gives the command, calm even. She says it like I already know the answer but must be reminded. She says it with finality:Blackout.
Pyrokinesis, the woman under the bridge had said when she looked at me.Electrokinesis.The flow and release of energy, combustion and charge, movement…transformation.I know that you’re a fire rover.
Something burns inside me, all my nerve endings firing to life at once, a pins-and-needles sensation humming through my extremities, making me itch with a call to action. I stand like a marionette pulled by a string, my legs planted beneath me but aching. In my chest, my heart is racing, kicking adrenaline through my system. I can feel the cobwebs clearing inside, long-frozen cogs beginning to turn, churning at the bottom of my gut, an engine finding its zip. And all of it is pushing through me, filling up my chest, my throat, my eyes with unbearable pressure. It was always so easy before, so fast and effortless. A snap of my fingers, a thought laced with will, and it was done. But this is agonizing, this slow grind to power up, this rebirth ripping through me.
My eyes can’t be torn away from the sight of that blazing monolith, but in my mind, it has already gone dark. I open my mouth to howl a scream at the world, a scream that has been building for seventeen long years, a scream that could take down mountains, stone by stone. A scream that my grandfather put there, that mymother fed and the voice honed, that woke up in the park under that bridge and might swallow me alive if I don’t get it out. It is a horrific, caterwauling sound that claws its way out of my throat and into the wires supplying the building. And when it hits the night, the Needle goes black, every light ticking off in a dizzying sequence, dousing the heart of the city in shadow.
7NUMBER OF THE BEAST
A low whistle breaks through the silence.
“Impressive.”
I freeze at the sight of a man materializing from the dark, an unknown variable. Is he friend or foe? Is he from the Fathom?
As he nears, I let out the breath I was holding, and the parking lot lights, which had gone out with the rest, come flaring to life. His cherubic face glows with an enthusiastic grin. “I knew you could do it,” he cheers.
“Who are you?” I manage to rasp out.
He puts out a well-manicured hand, nails painted a vampy shade of merlot, signet pinkie ring sparkling. It is marked by a twisting dragon, eerily reminiscent of the symbol at the bottom of my note card. “I’m Brennan.”
It’s then that I notice we match in our all-black clothes—well,nearlyall black in his case. A tiny silver stripe runs through his expensive silk shirt, silver buckles shining on his shoes. I don’t shake his hand. “You’re one of them.”
“Indeed,” he says, smiling, craning up to see the top of the Space Needle, lost to the night. He squints as he examines my work, and whistles again. “Did you have to take out the whole thing? Overkill, don’t you think?”
I glare at him.
He leans back. “Easy. Clearly you passed your test. I’m supposed to give you this,” he says, pulling another black envelope from where his waistband is encircled by an expensive black leather belt.
“I want answers,” I say, crossing my arms. “Where is she? The woman from the other night?”
“Who? Arla?” He winks at me. “Whoops. Wasn’t supposed to let that slip.” He adds in a low voice, “Our little secret.”
I scowl. He’s teasing, jovial, but I don’t trust it. I don’t trust any of them. “Who is she?”
“Have a little crush, do we? She has that effect on people.” He appraises me for a moment and says, “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you. Not yet. But Arla was the first.”
“The first?” I peer at him.
“The first to be called. The first to be initiated.”
If Arla was the first member of the Fathom, then who called and initiatedher? I breathe in through my nose, trying to steady my pounding heart. “What are you exactly—the Fathom? She called you a ‘circle,’ but I don’t know what that means. Are you like a secret society?”
His eyes widen like a child’s as they roll. “Secret societies are so last decade, all capitalism and conspiracy. We’re way cooler than that. More like a coven, but less Anne Rice about it.” He trails off, thinking. “Although… maybe we should bemoreAnne Rice about it. She’s a definite vibe.”
For a second, I almost relax. He’s so inviting, so approachable, I could be talking to Aaron at work.
“Anyway, you’ll just have to be satisfied with me tonight, I’m afraid. We’re acircle, remember?” he says, twirling his finger around. “Arla is only the beginning.”
“The beginning of what?” I whisper.
His grin turns wicked, transforming his face. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He pushes the envelope at me. “It will get harder from here, but I’m rooting for you.”
I reach out to take the envelope, but he holds on and leans in. “Tell the dead I said hello,” he whispers, winking again.
He lets go and I snatch the envelope away, staring at him with wide, intense eyes.
Brennan smiles. He has a handsome, boyish face, eternally young and deceptively friendly when he isn’t grinning impishly. Dimpled like Brad Pitt, but rounder, doughier. A face I could get used to if I wasn’t so afraid of what hides behind its lines. It’s topped by a whirl of hazelnut hair. “A tip,” he informs me. “You’ll thank me later.”
