“I’ve been under for a long time, Greta.” I stretched, like awakening from a long nap, and studied my reflection in the dresser mirror across from me. The color was still there, not the vibrant crimson of my dreaming state, but a banked flame like a burner set to low. It was warm and steady, and this time I knew it would never go out. “It was long past time to wake up.”

And I felt refreshed. My pores drank in the air, and the room appeared brighter. Greta was tinged in a sallow green, though; her fear, I guessed, and again I was sorry for that. I inhaled deeply, then jerked back, frowning. “What’s that smell?”

“I—I couldn’t reach you. I was drawing a syringe to bring you out of the trance chemically.” She waved a hand at the glass littering the floor, one side of her mouth lifting wryly. “Turns out I didn’t need it after all.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I can smell the enzymes in it. I can also smell your perfume without even inhaling. Isn’t that funny? It’s like I can breathe through my pores.” I turned from studying the glow of my aura in the mirror, and caught the fear in her eyes. Smiling, I went to her and took her face in my hands. “Don’t be afraid, Greta. I no longer am.”

And I left the room after that, with Greta gaping as I trailed confidence and knowledge and power like a silken red cloak behind me.

22

Doors that won’t open, elevators that won’t come when you call…they’ll come now.

Intending to test this theory, I entered a locker room almost oppressive in its silence, my heels clicking sharply on the cement floor. The lockers fanned around me like sentinels guarding the perimeter of the circular room, and there was the faint hum of energy coursing through the illuminated emblems. My eyes went immediately to the centaur, glowing steadily and reassuring in a soft green neon.

I tried to ignore the five dormant signs, but Warren’s admission kept sneaking up on me—ten agents, not five, had been murdered in the past few months—and the unlit glyphs belonging to those agents looked like bullet holes to me. Soundless, colorless, empty voids where no light could penetrate as long as their deaths remained unavenged.

Dragged from the recesses of a broken mind, the true memory of my mother made me believe that I could do that. Avenge them. I turned my attention back to my locker. Whatever was inside this steel trash bin was going to help me be the woman she’d given her life for me to be. It would teach me how to be the Archer. It would help me create a safe place for myself in this world again.

So forgetting about the empty eyes of the fallen star signs bowing around me, I put my hand to the palm plate. The button in the middle lit up in a red, inviting square.

“Just so you know,” I said, whispering into the locker’s horizontal slats, “the answer to my own life’s mysteries aren’t inside of you. They’re inside of me.” I pressed the button, a bittersweet smile touching my face. “My name is Joanna. I’m the Archer of Light.”

And as easy as that, a click, and the latch released. I shook my head. All I’d had to do was take a trip down into myself…and come back as a different person.

The photo Warren had shoved in the day before wasn’t lying at the bottom of the locker as expected, but was taped to the inside of the door, along with three others, and my breath caught as I viewed the four together.

The first was of my family as I once knew it. My mother, bent forward, one arm around Olivia, another around me. We were all wearing matching smiles, and it looked like we were at Disneyland. Xavier was in the picture too, but he was relegated to the background, arms folded resolutely across his chest, studying the domestic scene as if wondering who those people were. His impatience with the moment was set in his shoulders, though I couldn’t read his expression. His face had been cut from the photo.

The second was of my mother alone, obviously taken at the sanctuary. She wore a black bodysuit that clung to the muscles of her able body, her bright hair gathered high atop her head, arms stretched forward as she aimed some sort of weapon at an invisible enemy. Her face wore an expression I’d never seen before—determination, hatred, strength—and I smiled looking at it.

Then Ben’s picture, a smile lifting one side of his mouth as he slept, dreaming of a future that would never be. I traced his jaw in the photo, remembered how it’d felt beneath my fingertips. This photo would also serve as a reminder that some loved ones had to stay tucked safely away. My mother had taught me that much.

Finally, Zoe with another woman. Their arms were thrown about one another’s shoulders, and they were laughing into the camera, looking impossibly young. It meant nothing to me, but it obviously had to her, so it would remain.

The only remaining item was nestled in the corner on the floor, a small package wrapped in brown postal paper, secured with aging twine, with a note tucked between the folds of the paper. I weighed it in my hand. Sturdy and small—the length and width of one palm—it was weighty for its size. Removing the note for later, I ripped open the packaging.

“Ha!” I laughed in triumph. My mother’s conduit. I glanced back up at the photo, compared the two weapons, and mimicked her stance. My conduit. Thumb-sized arrows were lined in a chamber much like a gun’s, waiting to be cocked. Flat-headed, the bowstring was made of some shiny and supple wire, while the body of the weapon shone like onyx stone. Anxious to see what she’d said, I fumbled with the accompanying note, addressed to: The Archer.

They’re coming for me. I’ve foreseen it. To keep me from speaking truth they’ll take away my voice. Help me. My eyes for your voice? Speak, and I’ll show you the way to redemption. To the outside world. To the traitor.

I gasped. This couldn’t have been written by my mother. I started over, noticing this time the crispness of the paper before my eyes fell to the signature, an initial only, the letter T. It was followed by a postscript.

Look behind you.

A hand fell on my shoulder. I yelped and whirled around, automatically tucking the conduit behind me.

“You got it open,” Vanessa said, jerking her head at the locker. Chandra, to her left, said nothing, but her jaw clenched convulsively.

I shifted to stand in front of her, and she stiffened when I shot her a knowing look. “Well, someone delivered a little package to my room earlier, and it kept me from sleeping. So I thought I’d come up and give this a try again. Funny, isn’t it? That something meant to hurt me led me to this?”

Chandra’s cheek twitched. “Congratulations,” she said, but I could tell by the dark violet hue ringing her body that she didn’t mean it.

Vanessa cleared her throat and pointed at the note clutched in front of me. “What’s that?”

“Just a note from my mother,” I lied, turning away to tuck it back into the wrapping with the conduit. I settled the package in the locker and was swinging the door shut when Chandra stopped me.

“Hey! It’s Tekla!” She pointed to the photo of my mother and her friend, which answered the question as to who the other woman in the photo was. And, I thought, might answer who the note was from as well. Who else but a woman with the Sight would speak of lending me her eyes?

In exchange for my voice, I corrected mentally, as Chandra and Vanessa crowded in closer. But what was I supposed to say on her behalf? And to whom? The knowledge was emerging inside me, I could feel it like the stirring of bees in a hive, but it was deep still, too remote to be understood. But…

There’s a traitor among us.

I swallowed hard. That wasn’t just the babbling of a madwoman, I thought. Tekla had known this was coming, and wanted my help.