Copper Veins (14 page)

I remembered what Max had said before we'd gone to Moose Lake: that Micah didn't control me. But Dad seemed to think he did, asking me about when we'd
met and if he'd “coerced” me into marrying him…

Did he? Micah and I had both been dreaming when we'd first met, but now I wondered if he had somehow influenced my dream. It clearly hadn't been the first time he'd hopped into a strange woman's dream—he'd even implied that female Dreamwalkers attracted male Dreamwalkers for just those sorts of rendezvous. Had Micah somehow made me want him?

And then there was Dad's reaction to the silver mark on my wrist. He'd responded as an indignant father would, assuming that Micah had forced his element into my skin. While I still didn't know if that was even possible, I'd never gotten the chance to ask Micah, which wasn't surprising since we couldn't manage to make this marriage thing official either. Whether it had been one of Dad's missions or the Gold Queen's lunatic notions or a thousand other things, we couldn't find time to be alone.

Does it matter how we met?
I wished I knew the answer to that. I remembered the Goblin Market and how the dark magics that wafted up from the shops had reduced me to a weepy mess. Micah had sensed my distress, and he'd protected me. He was always protecting me, except for those few times I'd needed to protect him.

I shook my head, took a sip of water, and dove back into my memories. Specifically, I thought about that first dream Micah and I had shared. The beef jerky
I'd wolfed down earlier became a ball of lead in my stomach as I came to an undeniable conclusion—I had no idea how that dream had started.

I had no idea if I'd called Micah into my dream, or if he'd just made me think that I had. I couldn't even remember our first kiss.

“This is nuts,” I muttered.

“What's that, sis?” Max called. I looked up and saw him and Jerome with their heads bent over a map. Sadie, predictably, had found a book and was propped up in a dark corner, reading it by way of a flashlight.

“This,” I repeated, gesturing to encompass the cave, and our situation. I was not sharing my relationship doubts with anyone, not until I'd talked to Micah. “We're three of the most powerful Elementals Pacifica has dealt with in recent years, and we're hiding out in a cave.” I strode over to the map, pretending to be confident.

“We're working on that,” Max said. “I'm marking the known static portals, and Jerome here is figuring out which are the easiest to get to.”

I nodded—at least they'd been doing something while I'd been busy having an emotional crisis. “What about Dad's stashed portals?”

“Too risky,” Max said, shaking his head. “If these sniffers are as strong as Jerome says, they could have cleaned them out. Better to stick with portals we know aren't going anywhere.”

Well, that was practical. I nodded, as if I'd ever been in charge of this mission, and went to sit beside Sadie. “What're you reading?”

“It's a procedures handbook,” she replied. “Only, it doesn't make a lot of sense.” She flipped back a few pages, then laid the book on the floor between us. “See, here it tells the reader that, if this location is compromised, they should report to centralized command. But here,” she paged forward a bit, “you're told to burn everything in the cave and go to ground.” Sadie flipped back and forth between the two sections, lips pursed. “This handbook is full of these contradictions. If anyone tried to follow it, they'd be captured in a day.”

A nonsense procedural. I used to sort nonsense reports for a living, reports that told you all you needed to know about nonesense hamsters and lemon oil. I'd sorted those garbage reports for a year at Real Estate Evaluation Services, the sham job that had been created by my fake best friend, Juliana, so that she could keep tabs on me and my family.

I took the handbook from Sadie and turned to the map section. There was an incredibly detailed map of Capitol City, right down to resistance headquarters—which was smack dab on top of the Presidential Mansion, a.k.a. Peacekeeper World Headquarters.

“This is a trap.” I stood, dropping the sham procedural in the dirt. Max and Jerome looked up from the map. “Either this location has been compromised
or Jerome's nothing but a lying Peacekeeper.”

“I am not—” Jerome began, but it was hard to hear the rest once Max had twisted his arm behind his back and shoved his face onto the table.

“Got evidence?” Max demanded.

“Fake handbooks, just like the fake reports I used to sort at the real estate company,” I replied. “Our way-too-easy escape. That when we left where we were held the guard didn't search the truck bed. The fact that we only have Polonsky's word that he's on our side. Even if he is on our side, his tracker chip should be screaming loud and clear that he's left the base.” I ticked them off on my fingers, one by one. “Either Polonsky's a plant, or the Peacekeepers knew he was coming and let him get us out.”

“Why bother with either?” Max asked. Jerome squawked about his innocence, but Max just ground his face into the table. “They already had us.”

“They must want us to do something,” Sadie murmured, seeing the truth of the matter. “But what?”

Jerome struggled a bit more, this time kicking at the dirt. “Max, ease up,” I said. “Let's hear what he has to say.” It would be awfully inconvenient if Jerome suffocated. Bodies can be cumbersome, you know.

Max took the pressure off Jerome's neck—after a few gulps of air, he said, “I am in the resistance. I have been since Peacekeepers killed my father.”

“When was that?” Max demanded.

“When I was twelve. Fifteen years ago.”

“Who was your father?” Max asked.

“Jorge Vasquez.”

That name meant nothing to me, but Max went still. “You're Avatar's kid?” Max asked.

Jerome nodded, and for a moment we just stared at him. Avatar had been the last known Inheritor of Air, and had died a grisly death during the Magic Wars. To date, no new Inheritor of Air had surfaced.

“Avatar was a good man,” Max murmured. “So was his brother, Galen. I spent time in the Institute with him. He made imprisonment bearable.”

“Thank you,” Jerome said, rubbing his neck. “My father and uncle shaped me into who I am today.”

Max looked Jerome up and down, and asked, “So why haven't we ever met?” When Jerome blinked, Max continued, “Avatar was always near my father. They were great friends. Hell, he even came by for Sunday dinner.” Max leaned forward. “So, why didn't he ever bring his son along with him? Why didn't Galen ever mention a nephew?”

Jerome pursed his lips and looked away. “He was ashamed. I…I'm not of air.”

“How is that even possible?” Max demanded. “Elements are passed from father to child.”

“Elements can skip a generation,” Sadie chimed in, always ready with the facts. “Although it usually only happens when the mother also has a strong
magical ability. And, they can be passed from mother to child, too.” She peered at Jerome as if he were a lab specimen. Good. Now a Peacekeeper knew how Max had felt while trapped in the Institute. “Your mother must have been very powerful to cancel out the Inheritor of Air.”

“Wait,” I said, holding up my hands. “If your father was an Inheritor, how are you a Peacekeeper? I mean, don't they check these things?”

“Changed my name, dyed my hair. I blended in, just like you used to.” He looked pointedly at my copper hair, which I'd once dyed dirt-brown. However, I had never, not even once, contemplated changing my name. We Corbeaus were proud. Jerome continued, “The resistance set me up with a new family, and when I was eighteen, I enlisted.”

“Your chip?” I prompted.

“In my bunk at the base.”

“Your mother?”

“A weather witch from the Otherworld,” he replied. “I never really knew her. She always had her maids take care of me.”

“Huh,” Max said, rubbing his chin. “So that was the scandal with Jorge and his wife.”

Jerome dropped his eyes. “Yeah. She was pretty surprised when Dad introduced her to me.” Since we were all staring at Jerome, he continued. “My father didn't meet me until I was seven, when my mother appeared at his door and told him that since she'd
taken care of me for the first seven years, the next seven were all his. Dad was happy to have a son, but his wife hated me from the start.”

We were silent for a moment, the three of us staring at the Inheritor of Air's wrong-side-of-the-blanket son. Thankfully, Max was still working out his plans.

“All right,” Max began. “Let's assume we believe your sob story. This place is still a trap, and we need to leave, the sooner the better. Think the truck's still there?”

He shook his head. “Not enough gas left,” he replied. “If we're going, we should hoof it. My headquarters is a few days' walk from here.”

We located some packs and raided the cave for useful supplies—flashlights, food and water, matches, and camping gear. We even found a few sets of socks and jackets, and a pair of slightly worn boots for Max. As Jerome and Max filled the canteens, Sadie and I divided up the food into four equal piles. After Max had drunk his jerky-cherry soup and made a few comments about my cooking being even worse than Mom's, we set out.

Night was falling as we trudged into the trees. Max led the way in his new-to-him boots, following directions that Jerome had hastily sketched rather than one of the Peacekeeper-tainted maps. Before we left the cave, Max had whispered to me and Sadie that we should listen for road noise so we could use the mile markers to check Jerome's map. Jerome
brought up the rear of our pathetic parade and kept to himself.

“Can you feel anything yet?” Sadie asked me after we'd walked for a while.

I reached out with my ability and felt the tug of something metallic, though it remained out of my reach. “A bit. I don't know if I still have a lot of the drugs left in me, or if there just isn't much metal around.”

She nodded. “Me, too. I never thought I'd miss it so much.”

Before I could agree, Max called out, “Ladies and gent, we have a road.”

Cautiously, we stepped out of the trees and onto the pavement. The road stretched on into the darkness and appeared deserted. “Any idea where we are?” I asked.

“Nope,” Max replied. “Should be a mile marker coming up soon, though.”

I nodded, and soon enough we came upon a marker. Max read the marker and consulted Jerome's directions, then he gave the barest of nods. While it didn't prove that Jerome was on our side, at least this part of his story checked out.

We stopped for a few minutes, enjoying a snack of dried apricots, then we moved on. We followed the road, keeping to the shoulder and diving into the woods whenever we heard vehicles approaching. Luckily, traffic was pretty sparse on this stretch of
road. Or maybe that was unlucky, who knew?

As we walked on, I kept my eyes peeled for oaks among the trees. There wasn't a single one.

The four of us walked until sunrise, slept during the day, and resumed walking at dusk. Shortly before sunrise on our second day of walking, Jerome beckoned us toward what looked like a snarl of brambles.

“Trust me, this is the way,” he whispered. I was at the end of my rope when it came to trusting him, but when we got closer I noticed that a path snaked between the brambles. We followed him between the thorny bushes—a few steps later, we found ourselves at the edge of a clearing. In the dim light we could just make out a few tents and the dying embers of campfires. There wasn't a permanent structure anywhere in view, unless you counted the trees. I didn't.

“Here we are,” Jerome announced with a sweep of his hand.

“And we are where?” Max drawled. He was using the same technique I did—attempting to sound all badass and confident when in reality he didn't have the slightest idea what was going on. “I thought we were going to resistance headquarters.”

“This
is
resistance headquarters,” Jerome replied.

I glanced between the few tents in the clearing and Jerome. “Seriously?”

“Yep,” he said, proud. He led us through the trees and toward the clearing. We saw a few bored sentries lurking in the underbrush, and I couldn't tell if they weren't intercepting us because they recognized Jerome or they just didn't care. One appeared to be sleeping.

Resistance headquarters left me feeling somewhat underwhelmed. A few once-white tents formed a loose circle around the perimeter. In the center of the tents was an open space, and in addition to campfires I saw a brick hearth—okay, so there was one permanent structure. People wandered to and fro, going about day-to-day tasks and seeing to chores
like cooking and laundry. The only weapon I saw was a knife being used to slice bread. All in all, this was a rather domestic resistance.

“This is your headquarters?” I repeated. “Resistance
headquarters
.”

“Heart of the operation,” Jerome replied.

Good gods, we were doomed. “Who is in charge here?” I asked.

“This way,” Jerome said. I wondered if he'd sussed out from my tone that I was unimpressed. “I'll introduce you to Lopez.”

Despite our doubts, we followed Jerome, probably because that was all we had been doing since he'd sprung us. As we stepped into the clearing I felt a sharp
crack
, like static electricity—at least they had some kind of surveillance going on. He led us to the largest tent, then motioned for us to wait while he entered alone—we heard hushed tones as he spoke with whomever was inside. A moment later, Jerome darted out from under the flap, then held it aside for us. Max took the lead, and Sadie and I followed him into the tent.

A short Hispanic man stood behind a folding table, playing solitaire. For a moment I wondered why he looked familiar, then I recognized him as the radical Mirlander that had spoken at the political rally Max and I attended a month or so back—he'd even gotten pelted with a few vegetables. I remembered what he'd said to Max and me while we were in the crush of
the crowd—that Mike Armstrong wanted to create an army of human soldiers with Elemental attributes—and how he had admonished us to learn our history. I wondered what Lopez thought we were supposed to know.