Stormbringer dreamwalker.., p.13
Stormbringer (Dreamwalker Book 1), page 13
Rowan pulled himself out abruptly. Seconds later, I felt the spill of sticky heat over my pelvis. I stared down at him, wide-eyed, paralyzed by shock. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should’ve been pleased by this development, but I could muster up only repulsion.
Rowan stumbled out of bed long enough to retrieve a wet washrag. He gave me a perfunctory cleaning and then collapsed beside me, watching me indolently. I waited for him to say something, but his eyelids were already drooping, so I simply stroked his side until I was confident he was asleep—that is, until he jerked awake with a pained hiss.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered swiftly, drawing my hand back. “Did I hurt you?”
Rowan pulled the blankets up over him. “It’s fine,” he said. The words were low and tight between his teeth. “Just a bruise.”
But I didn’t feel reassured. I apologized once more and then, insisting I needed the restroom, slipped out of bed and retrieved my clothes.
I escaped from the room with tears in my eyes.
13
PURGE
I awoke the morning after the Champions’ Gala to a phone call.
“Hey,” Micah greeted on the other end. “You didn’t answer my text, so I just wanted to make sure you were awake. And alive.”
My heart seized briefly. Alive? Indeed, I was. I had survived the night after all. In a panic, I sat upright and rolled up my shirt.
There, right above my left hip bone, was a dark bruise no bigger than the pad of my little finger. I stared in horror at it. Memories from the previous night came flooding back into my awareness.
“Nikkeah?”
I dropped my shirt back into place. “Yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m alive. I just forgot to set my alarm.”
“Well, you’d better haul ass. We’ve got that appointment with Diana in an hour. And your med screening after that.”
“Agh, shit,” I muttered, checking the time. Nine o’clock. “Are you on your way?”
“Getting into the car.”
“All right. I’ll see you soon.”
I hung up and stared vacantly into space. Across the room, the tiny idol of Cygnus watched me in repose. Dread, thick and sour, curdled in my belly. Now that I had slept through the night, I surmised I was in no immediate danger of dying. Not unless it’s a slow-working poison, my mind supplied. I shoved the thought away and scrambled out of bed to change and freshen myself up. My appetite was lacking, but I chalked that up to stress. I at least managed to drink some water before making my way downstairs to the street.
The morning was mostly clear, for once; the sun shone in direct contrast to my mood. I browsed through news articles on my phone while I waited for Micah, but I couldn’t find anything pertaining to the gala save opinion pieces critiquing the various fashions that had been on display. As far as the public was concerned, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred last night. There were no reports on poisoned competitors, no scandals beyond the shoes one Earthcaster champion had chosen to wear with her dress.
With slowly dawning horror, I realized I might’ve been the night’s only victim. If Reva had been the culprit, then it made sense. Not only had I interfered with her plans regarding Lidia at Solstice, I had provoked her ire at the gala. Poisoning me was exactly the sort of spiteful vengeance she’d inflict on a perceived enemy.
Micah was right. I had painted a target on my back. I had only myself to blame for this nightmare. All the more reason I couldn’t tell him—not yet, anyway.
He picked me up five minutes later, clad in his familiar denim. As I settled into the passenger seat, he lowered the radio volume and asked, “You okay? You look like hell.”
“The night took a toll,” I admitted. “I’m guessing for you, as well?”
“Oh, I knew it would suck,” he said, head on a swivel as he merged into traffic. “I didn’t really enjoy it my first time around, either. It’s just not my sort of environment. I don’t need to dress up and put on airs to feel accomplished in my career.”
“I would’ve liked it better if I didn’t have to worry about the other guests.”
He glanced over at me. “Well, fortunately, you don’t have to play nice with them anymore. Next time you’ll see them will be on the field.”
If I make it that far, I thought with a chill.
A fifteen-minute drive saw us back to Embassy Square, where we met with Diana for my final fitting. She took me to the dressing rooms and showed me the finished product. The black synthetic mix was durable—even heat-resistant—yet gorgeous. I trailed my fingers over it, marveling at the craftsmanship.
“Diana, this is remarkable,” I said softly. “It seems a waste to wear it in the arena.”
She chuckled. “I’m flattered. But it’s yours, honey. No one else can wear this quite like you. Ready to try it on?”
I took the garments into the privacy of a dressing room, forcing my gaze away from the small bruise above my hip. Leggings and jacket alike molded perfectly to my body. The geometric panels were not only aesthetically pleasing but allowed for flexibility, as well. I emerged from the dressing room clad like a sovereign of storms.
“Lady have mercy,” Micah swore as he turned to regard me.
I spread my arms and rotated in a small circle. “Freaking fantastic, isn’t it?”
Diana gestured me onto a platform and fussed around me. A tuck here, a tug there… Her gaze sharpened as she appraised me in her own handiwork. “How’s the fit? Too tight? Anything feel off?”
“Diana, it’s perfect. It’s always perfect.”
“I went ahead and made the gauntlets, too,” she said, stepping up with the accessories in hand. She fitted them over my fingers and forearms; they were of the same material as the jacket and leggings. “They’ll give you wrist support and help protect against fractures.”
I caught my reflection in the mirrors and found myself smiling despite the turmoil brewing in my heart. I looked like a champion—a true Invocation champion. Power and grace and skill coalesced into this body.
I only hoped I had the chance to demonstrate that power to the world.
“Thank you,” I said to Diana. “Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure, honey,” she cooed. “I can’t wait to see you in action.”
***
To say I was sick with worry was a massive understatement.
From Tempest Apparel, Micah and I bolted across the city to Spectrum for my medical appointment. Med screening took place at one of two infirmaries, usually forty-eight hours before a match. Those who competed more regularly—such as myself—were often resigned to weekly screenings. The Invocation, however, was a much different beast. I had no doubt this screening would be far more comprehensive.
So I sat at a private cot in the back of the room in a paper gown, having just provided a urine sample for the lab. I knew what was coming next and was trying desperately to calm myself down lest I appear suspicious to the medics. I focused on my breathing until one such medic came along, his nose buried in my chart.
When he lowered his tablet, I found I didn’t recognize him. By now, I was familiar with most of Spectrum’s medical team. Occasionally, specialists were called in to deal with unusual or extreme cases, and the thought that I might be one such case spiked my pulse all over again.
The man had no name tag. Casually, I asked, “Are you new here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around before.”
He gave me a perfunctory smile. “I was called in to assist,” he answered simply. “The team’s got their hands full at the moment. Come to the scale; I need to take your weight.”
I obeyed, sliding off the cot and onto the scale. No dramatic gain or loss, it seemed. The medic then gestured me back to the cot, where he applied a stethoscope to my chest and asked me to breathe normally. My pulse was still kicking while he listened.
“Nerves?” he suggested with a wry smile.
“They’re not normally this bad,” I said sheepishly.
“Breathe in deeply for me.”
When he was satisfied, he pulled the stethoscope out of his ears and draped it around his neck. “Any recent injuries or illnesses we should know about?”
“Nothing that would interfere with my ability to compete.” My palms had begun to sweat.
“Good to hear. Just sit up straight for me; I need to conduct a physical examination.”
He circled the cot and untied my gown so that the top half lay bunched around my waist. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but tense beneath his touch. His hands felt too invasive as they swept over my skin, checking for abnormalities.
“Just relax,” he said, even though his fingers were prodding dangerously close to that tiny bruise. I clenched my eyes shut, bracing myself for an interrogation.
But the man proceeded downward, adjusting my gown as he went. My eyes fluttered back open. Surely, he had to have seen the bruise. Did he not find it suspicious, then?
I decided not to push my luck. I endured the brief humiliation that was the remainder of the exam and sat patiently while he fixed my gown back into place. Then, he instructed me, “All right. Next, I’ll have you come sit over here for a blood draw. Have you eaten today?”
“Not yet.”
He guided me away from the cot and to a venipuncture station. The intensity with which he scrutinized me made me uneasy, as if he were assessing me for faults or vulnerabilities. He rolled up my left sleeve, swabbed the crook of my elbow, and began the draw. The sensation reminded me all too closely of the sting I’d felt at the gala, and I had to suppress the sudden urge to yank my arm away from the medic.
After he’d filled his tube, the medic wrapped my arm with cotton and gauze, saying, “Okay. That’s all I need from you. We’ll have results within twenty-four hours. If you don’t hear anything from us, you’re good to go.”
“Thank you,” I said awkwardly.
I retreated to the privacy of my cot to change back into my clothes, certain I felt the heat of his suspicious gaze scorching my back.
***
Micah and I spent the rest of the daylight hours back at his place, where we reviewed more of my competitors’ public footage and devised a training plan for our reservation at Spectrum Park the following morning. I was antsy and distracted, unable to think about anything other than what might befall me in the coming days. Occasionally, I would feel the urge to tell Micah what had happened to me, only for my anxiety to tear down every scrap of courage I had mustered. Telling him now would ruin everything; I was certain of it. All I needed to do was survive the Invocation. Afterward, I would confess, regardless of whether I won or lost.
That night, Gahera texted me to pass on messages of support from Cathaire, insisting that he had seen the televised portions of the gala and was proud of my accomplishments. I had no way of knowing whether this was a fabrication on my sister’s part and couldn’t bring myself to care. Instead, I was absorbed in research. I spent my free hours online, scouring the web for clues as to what I was poisoned with. The results—an intimidating list of recreational drugs—only exacerbated my fears. I went to bed that night envisioning all manner of troubling scenarios involving the police, the CEA, and the judgmental sneers of my parents.
The following morning, I awoke to my alarm and a sky as gray and heavy as the pit in my stomach. I dressed in my lightweight training gear, washed up, and stared blankly into an empty fridge before selecting a protein shake. After only a few sips, I capped the beverage and stowed it back into the fridge door. My appetite had fled along with my optimism, it seemed.
Micah was waiting for me down on the street, as usual. We rode to Spectrum Park mostly in silence, as we had discussed our session plan the previous night. Although I was sure he could sense my anxiety, he didn’t interrogate me or pester me with idle chatter. He simply turned up the volume on his radio, weaving a comfortable barrier of sound between us.
The park, I noticed, was busier than usual. On our way through the lobby to the back fields, I glimpsed a few of my competitors exercising in the indoor training rooms, warming themselves up with weights and various other gym equipment. Filippo Santoli caught my gaze and flexed when he recognized me. Outside, the primal sounds of elemental casting reverberated through the air: churning earth rumbling like thunder; writhing flames hissing and spitting; the crack of lightning, high-pitched, loud as a gunshot. Magic swelled across the fields and quivered against my skin.
While Micah set up targets, I completed my warm-up exercises, stretching out the stiffness in my limbs and encouraging circulation. The day, while overcast, was mild in temperature. Before long, I was impervious to the chill.
When I was ready to begin casting, I worked magic down into my palms with the intention of condensing my power for projectiles. But rather than flow steadily into my hands, my magic burst from my fingertips with such vigor that I was caught off balance. I glanced up at Micah in a panic, but he was absorbed in his own exercises.
I stared wide-eyed at my palms. My anxiety must have impacted the potency of my magic. Micah had taught me years ago that strong emotions influenced a caster’s output; this was why he had incorporated so many mindfulness and meditation techniques in my early training. I tried to recall those techniques now. Measured breaths, calming visualizations, the whole package.
Then, I shook out my hands and tried again. Lightning coalesced into a white-hot ball seconds before I hurled it across the field at the first target. The ball shot off like a rocket, obliterating the target in a shower of vicious sparks. Micah’s attention snapped to me in alarm.
“Sorry,” I called swiftly. “I was a little overzealous there.”
“No worries. Give it another shot?” He gestured at the next target.
I loosened up my limbs and rolled my shoulders. I stretched a palm to the flat, gray sky and called down a single bolt of lightning to strike the adjacent target. The nerves in my arm prickled to the point of pain, the magic biting back with all the aggression of a sizzling wire. Splinters of wood and metal erupted into the air as the bolt rent the target.
Micah lurched backward, startled. “What the hell, Nikkeah?” he called. “Cool your heels. This isn’t about force.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I think I’m just…I think it’s just nerves.”
But the growing pit in my belly said otherwise.
Micah’s expression softened in sympathy. He approached me now, peeking down at me over his sunglasses. “I’d tell you it gets better,” he said, “but I’d be lying. All you can do is focus on what you’re doing. Let your body develop its natural reflexes.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it, eyeing the smoldering targets across the field. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much power from you.”
“Well, maybe you have taught me a thing or two about control these last several years.”
“Smartass.” He nodded toward the targets. “Next one. Breathe. It’s just you and me.”
My subsequent attempts were just as wild and concentrated as the first ones. I couldn’t help but squirm under Micah’s watchful gaze; part of me wanted to abandon the training altogether, but this was one of my last chances to refine my skill before the Invocation. Mere days separated me from the biggest tournament of my career. I had to make the most of this.
Micah, however, disagreed. He ended our session early, citing my need to manage my emotions. He was gentle and patient with me, but the intensity of his gaze nauseated me more than my own anxiety. I quailed in his presence, bracing myself for an interrogation that never seemed to come. If he suspected me of keeping secrets, he didn’t make it obvious, nor did he attempt to probe me for clues.
He sent me home that afternoon with lunch and instructions on how to alleviate my stress. I picked at my salad with little enthusiasm and later with repulsion as my stomach began to protest. Within minutes, I was running to my toilet and emptying my guts. When I was finally able to tear myself away, I tried to stand, only to stagger and nearly collapse; my head was spinning, and a cold sweat had broken out over my entire body. I trudged the short distance to my bed just as my knees threatened to give out.
There, sprawled in the center of my mattress, I plunged in and out of consciousness. I would wake to find myself shivering hard or tangled in my blanket. Lying down did nothing to relieve my dizziness. My clothes were drenched in sweat, and my stomach was so unsettled that I was utterly convinced I would vomit right there on my bed. I allowed myself the small comfort of moaning and whimpering and swearing. This, I knew, was not a stress response. This was my body attempting to purge a poison.
I expected to die that night. In gauzy snatches of lucidity, I entertained thoughts of what would come next. Who would find me and when? Would I still be warm to the touch, or would I have putrefied into an unrecognizable, stinking mass? Who would arrange my funeral? Who would even attend?
Ugly sobs tore out of my throat. Here I lay, twenty-five and dying, tormented by mind and body alike. Had I the energy, I would’ve snatched up my phone and confessed everything to Micah right then. But I could hardly roll over in bed, let alone lift my arm. I would die pitifully, alone and in agony.
The hours slid away in silence, and still, I was alive. My mouth had dried into a foul-tasting desert. My eyes were swollen and gritty. Blinding daylight cascaded through the windows to my right and ignited the backs of my eyelids. Somewhere in the living room, my phone fired off notification after notification. Traffic noise echoed up from the street. I buried my head beneath a pillow and tried to shut out all the stimuli.
I must have fallen asleep at some point because I woke up to the sound of my ringtone floating in from the other room. Apprehension twined its roots around my ribcage. I hadn’t touched my phone since I arrived home the previous afternoon. Micah must’ve been beside himself with worry. I took a moment to assess my condition—depleted, but alive—before making a valiant attempt at sitting up. The world teetered to my senses; I slid to the edge of my bed and spent several long moments reacquainting myself with the notion of sitting upright. Once I was sure I wouldn’t collapse again, I rose carefully to my feet and dragged myself into the living room in search of my phone, using the walls as support.
