The Rise of the Fourteen (17 page)

Dinero, dinero, dinero. That is the word that is repeated
over and over again every night when Nuptia listens at the kitchen door. Ever
since the break-in, the family has been struggling to get by. Father has had to
begin working at the manufacturing plant because the pay there is double.

The problem is, the plant is several miles away, and he
often finds himself riding his rickety bicycle across the uneven dirt roads at
dusk, barely able to see by merely the light of the stars. He always seems to
come back with more wrinkles and dark bags beneath his eyes. That’s when he
does come home. Sometimes it is simply easier to sleep on a pile of sacks next
to the machines.

 Nuptia’s mother is not much better off. Her paranoia is
palpable. One member of the family is set up on watch every night, and no one
ever leaves the house unattended, not even for a moment. What little money they
do have is in a leather pouch around her mother's neck. The high-strung
atmosphere of the house is what drives Nuptia to slip out the back door in the
early evening.

 The sun hasn’t set as Nuptia begins walking down the
earthen road. Most people have gone home for dinner already, so she doesn't see
anyone. Having no sense of destination, she ambles aimlessly between the houses
and stores, taking in the dusty, spicy scent of the air. She pauses for a
moment in front of the church, staring at the peeling paint. She hasn't been
inside since the incident with the face in the window.
And I suppose it’s
going to stay that way.

***

Dusk is beginning to fall as Nuptia finally forces herself
to go home. If she could have her way, she might have run free with her
thoughts forever.
But I have a responsibility, a responsibility to take
care of my family.
When she reaches the house, the lights have already been
dimmed.
Strange. Supper should still be going.

Nuptia slips back in the way she went and makes her way
towards the kitchen. The sounds of shouting are audible.
They’re arguing
again.
Nuptia is tempted to flee the house once more, but she holds her
ground, slowly making her way towards the noise.

“You need to work more hours! You saw their faces when we
gave them barely a bowl each for dinner!”

“I am bone tired, woman. I can’t change what happened!”

“We have mouths to feed! School tuition to pay!” She pauses
for a moment, struggling over her words. “And Nuptia has disappeared.” Nuptia
makes a noise of discomfort from behind the doorway, but neither of the quarreling
adults hears her.

“Well
,
maybe you should have fewer kids!”

Both women gasp simultaneously.
That isn’t father. Father
would
never
say that.

The fighting continues and Nuptia has begun shaking.
They’ll
come to blows soon.
She looks on nervously as her mother advances towards
her father, a fire in her eyes.
What can I do?
Her father picks up a
fork in self-defense and brandishes it at his wife.

Stop! Please! Don’t do this!
She pours some of her feelings
into the room, gesturing urgently and feels a surge of power ripple through
her. Her parents blink hard, suddenly dazed and drop their aggressive stances.
Then the world turns black. Nuptia slips and knocks her head on a table. While
she is lying on the floor, an arrow-shaped scar appears on her scalp.

When she wakes up, her parents are kneeling over her,
talking with concern and worry.

“Nuptia, Nuptia speak to me.”

“Are you okay, dear?”

“Of course she’s not! She’s just had a bang on the head.”
Nuptia sits bolt upright, aware of the lingering tingling sensation in her
limbs.
What happened?
She looks up and sees no trace of anger in her
parents’ eyes.
I … I must have been … possessed. That's why I can't go back
to the church. It must be some kind of demon.
She springs up and sprints
out of the house, sure that she has been affected by some dark being. Soon
after she goes, the yelling begins again, but it does not mask the distinct
sound of fists on flesh.

Nuptia doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t see anything. She is
running, running as far as she can from that house. She doesn’t feel the tears
come out. Suddenly they’re just there, whipping across her face and dispersing
into the wind. She has no sense of destination, again. But, this time, she has
no intention of going back.

***

 “Demetri that made her cry, I don’t think we should take
her this way.”

“Sorem, she would never have agreed to come if we hadn’t
made her feel like she had no choice.”

“Well, the way you're planning it, she won't have
a choice,
no matter how she feels.”

“If you have any better ideas, I would be happy to hear
them.”

***

Nuptia turns and runs down a back alleyway, still blocking
out all sensation in her limbs, and trying to ignore the glowing mark on her
forehead. As she runs, a hand reaches out from a window and grabs her. But, before
she can scream, a crescent convergence engulfs her, and she is whisked away
into the night in a sluggish dream state. She wakes up some hours later, sore
from napping on a large marble floor.

Lacria grins triumphantly over the sweaty body of Ámpelos,
brushing back her white braid. “You lose,” she says happily, “again.”

“How are you so good?” Anima asks incredulously, wiping
down a wooden drill sword.

 “I’ve had other training.” Lacria casts a sideways glance
at Terrance, willing him to keep his mouth shut. They haven’t spoken properly
since what happened in the olive grove.

Maybe I should keep it that way.
Although she admits
Terrance helped her a lot, in ways that she can’t even begin to describe.
Even
if it was only for a few hours. But now it feels … awkward. Is that even a
thing?
After living her life in solitude, talking to people, doing communal
things seems foreign to her.
I don’t even know who should be apologizing in
this situation or if an apology is needed at all.

 Anima just rolls her eyes. “You’re like a friggin’ master
or something.” Anima tosses the aforementioned sword on the floor. There’s a
great crack as wood smacks against stone, followed by the sound of swearing and
hurried footsteps.

 “Anima!”

“Oh relax, Sorem.” Anima raises her hand slowly, as if
trying to lift the sword.

“Let me do it,” Callida says, pushing past Anima. With one
fluid hand motion, the sword lifts from the ground and slides neatly back onto
the rack.

“Show off.” Anima says.

Callida blows a raspberry at her.

“Telekinesis just isn’t your
prima
magic. Focus on
your ward magic,” Sorem says sternly.
Oh god
, she thinks,
I sound
like my brother.

“Great, I can make pink shields, big whoop.” Anima mutters.
She shakes her hand in frustration and accidentally sends a magenta sheet of
energy flying at the other training
mahi.
Anima turns around as soon as
she realizes and sees a frightened Lacria pinned against the wall by a fuchsia
shell.

“Oh, sorry,” Anima says, cringing. “That tends to happen.”
With a wave of her hand, the shield lowers. Lacria blinks quickly, trying to
hide the raw fear going through her.

“Why does magic bother you so much?” Ámpelos asks.

“It doesn’t.” Lacria replies coldly.

Ámpelos shrugs, but he’s not the only one who has noticed.
While Sorem and Demetri had begun allowing them to use some basic magic during
training, Lacria always seemed to stick to the weapons.
Only Terrance knows
the real reason. But I can’t talk to him, can I?

Silence reigns in the training room, the blue torches
flickering. The room seems to have evolved as more and more
mahi
have come.
The wooden sparring floor has expanded to encompass nearly the entire room,
save for the “moat” around the edges. The waterfalls on each side of the room
still flow ceaselessly. Several racks of weapons, most of them wooden, have
sprung up around the room as well.

Lacria holds onto one of these racks to steady herself while
the others restart their sparring sessions. As if to add insult to injury,
every pair begins to duel with magic. Soon the room is full of flashes of light
and brilliant sparks. Feeling physically sick, Lacria excuses herself and
leaves the room, eager to get away from the swirling flares, bouncing about the
chamber.

***

Lacria has been lying on her bed for some time now, just
staring up at the ceiling. She has retreated into the only place where her fear
cannot get to her
—in her
memories.
She remembers the barest image of the smile of her mother, the warm hands of
her father, and a happier time. She is so lost in her labyrinth of thought that
she barely registers when Terrance slips into her room.

“Lacria?”

“Mm,” she replies drowsily. She rubs her eyes in an attempt
to see him clearly, but his face keeps shifting in and out of focus.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” She looks at him
blankly, her eyes glazed. “Earlier,” he says nervously, making extraneous hand
gestures, “you snuck out of training. I thought you might be sick or
something.”

“I’m fine,” she says quietly, avoiding eye contact.

“Okay then.” He makes his way back towards the door.

“Terrance ….”

“Yes?” He apprehensively turns to face her again. Her eyes
are locked with his now.

“Thanks for checking on me.” A half smile creeps up her face
as she says it. Terrance swallows hard and then nods.

“You’re welcome.” Terrance feels a frisson ripple through
his body, as Lacria blinks gratefully at him.

“Lacria?”

“Yes?”

Whatever he might have said is cut off as Luna
unceremoniously bursts into the room. “You have to come and see this,” she
says, a wicked glint in her eye. “Demetri and Sorem are having a most excellent
row!”

Terrance runs out of the room after Luna, with Lacria
quickly following suit.

***

 “I was aware of the fact we would have to reach out and
grab her, but I was not
aware of the fact you gave her a
somnum
draft!”
Sorem’s shrill voice pierces the air as the trio makes their way towards the
foyer.

“It was just to knock her out
—t
emporarily.
She was
very distressed.
How else were we supposed to put an
iris
on her! Didn’t you want her to
be able to understand the other
mahi
who weren’t speaking Spanish?"
Demetri is most definitely on the defensive, the strain showing in his clenched
jaw.

“Just to knock her out. Just to knock her out! Do you know
how powerful that potion is? And Lacria was very distressed when she first came
here, and you didn’t drug her.”

Lacria flinches, involuntarily, and bumps into Terrance. “Sorry,”
she mumbles.

As Demetri begins spewing curses (in all manner of
languages), Terrance puts a comforting hand on the small of her back. His touch
is subtle; had she not been so on edge, she might have missed the sensation.
The warmth of his hand soothes her. She leans into the gesture, making their
shoulders brush.

“Earlier, I just wanted to apologize, you know, for getting
you in trouble.” Terrance's voice is barely audible as a riled Demetri desecrates
a potted plant.

“No need to,” she replies. “Thank you for doing it.”

Sorem has begun ranting about childhood embarrassments while
a distressed Demetri attempts to cover his ears in vain.

Lacria places a delicate pale hand on Terrance’s shoulder. “Are
we cool now?” He sees a flicker of uncertainty in her eye.

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t remove her hand as the fight continues, and
Terrance can’t help but smile. He’s glad to have regained her trust, but he
also can’t deny the unmistakable heat rising in his cheeks.

Amidst all the chaos, Nuptia goes mostly unnoticed, merely a
frightened creature in the background. One person does notice her, however.
Even as the altercation comes to a close, Ámpelos curls his lip appreciatively,
wondering about the newest enigma to enter the sanctuary.

Nuptia is certainly a jarring addition. If anyone tries to
speak to her, she crosses herself and pointedly refuses to reply. While she
goes to training, she practices on her own or with a dummy, never with an
actual person. She even refuses to have a proper room. Her worldly possessions
reside upon a stone bench in the foyer where she sleeps every night. So,
breakfast, usually uneventful, had changed dramatically over the past week or
so, and today was not different.

“Good morning, Nuptia,” Callida says cheerfully as the
Mexican girl walks through the dining room door. Even Callida’s nauseatingly
chipper tone is not enticing enough to start conversation and Nuptia sits down
quietly, a stony glare set on her face.

Nuntios and Armifer are chatting next to her. Ámpelos soon
comes to take the seat on her other side. Nuptia sighs and begins to try to
force down a piece of toast.
I can’t trust these, these … sinners. I must
live amongst them. I see no plan that Dios could have for me.

Nuntios roughly elbows Armifer. ‘Be polite,’ he mouths to
his friend.

“Would you like some jam?” Armifer asks in the most cordial
tone he can muster. Nuptia nods cautiously. “She can understand English?”
Armifer asks Nuntios in a whisper. Nuntios gestures to the flower tattoo at the
base of his throat. “Oh right.”

Armifer hands Nuptia a glass jar of nectarine jam. Their
fingers brush for a moment, as he hands her the jar. Nuptia stiffens and
shudders at his touch. Armifer raises his brow at her, then turns back to his
conversation. Ámpelos passes her a napkin. She flinches as it brushes against
her skin.

Nuptia begins shaking, her mind racing.
One of them
touched me. A … demon touched me. I have to get out of here to somewhere God
can help me.
Nuptia slides off her seat and begins to run, squeezing past Ámpelos’s
pulled out chair. She ends up tripping on the edge of the carpet. The room
spins before her eyes
—
the
long table with all its wooden chairs
—t
he glass chandelier
—t
he beige area rug. The rug she is falling towards. She braces
herself for the fall. Instead, she is caught by a strong pair of arms.

“Are you alright?” Ámpelos asks, his eyes full of concern.

“Fine, thanks,” Nuptia says, clearly flustered.

“It looks like we know what his type is,” Armifer says to
Nuntios, laughing at Ámpelos’s attempt at chivalry.

“What about your type?” Nuntios says suggestively, giving
his friend a knowing look. Armifer’s cheeks redden a bit, and he begins
concentrating intensely on the plate of eggs in front of him, trying to ignore
the warmth of Nuntios’s knee touching his beneath the breakfast table.