"I've heard what they're calling your mum."

The words bounced away from my ears, my twisting sorrow a shield that blocked them from reaching me. I hugged my skinny knees to my chest, huddled in the far corner of aisle 119. Diagonally to the right, my father's orb gleamed, the cloudy insides swirling a healthy pearl color once more. My muscles cramped, my legs having long ago fallen asleep, but I wasn't worried about my near day's long disappearance.

Serah Mallory would come up with some excuse to tell my dad.

"A sleepover at your Aunt Serah's house," she had said, patting my head before whisking away to deal with the aftermath of my mother's death and the glass shards that littered the halls.

I heard your footsteps stop just out of my reach. "I don't believe she's a traitor."

My head snapped up at your words, so quickly that my two front teeth sliced into my tongue. My molars rattled together like loose bones. "She's not!" I hissed.

Instead of being discouraged by my tone, you slid down the shelves until your legs stretched out beside mine. You looked at me, read me, and though I'd only seen your eyes for the first time three days earlier, I felt as if I were somehow looking into a mirror.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't even know you." I shook my head for emphasis, the black curls so much like my mom's that I had half a thought to chop them all off. 

Your open expression watched me as I closed up, a novel being shut so violently that my pages bent and tore. With nothing else to hold onto, I clutched my middle finger in my opposite fist, the silver ring cool against my palm. I bit the insides of my cheek to keep the words in; I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, all that would come out would be a waterfall of useless hopes:

Please stay.

Don't leave.

I hate my mom.

I wish she were here.

"But I know you," you said. "You're Guinevere James—" You quirked your head at me—"but I'm going to call you Vera because you'll find the truth."

I didn't quite know what to say to that, but my throat had closed up too much for me to say anything anyways.

"You don't have to talk, you know." Your words brushed against the back of my neck as you leaned closer. "You can write it down, if it helps."

My head fell back, the base of my skull meeting the edge of the shelf behind me like a pillow. When I remained still and silent, and you still hadn't left, I opened my wavering eyes and glanced sideways at you. There was a scabbing cut underneath your jaw from a few days earlier when the orbs had imploded and my world had ended.

"I don't have any paper," I whispered, but the words seemed loud, echoing against the shelves of the Orbs Hall so jarringly that I worried it would rattle Robert James again.

Wordlessly, you held out your forearm, pushing up the sleeve of your sweater. "Use me."

O * O * O

I curse to myself when I realize there isn't a pen in my bag.

"Are you listening, Guinevere? Most new employees write this information down, at least."

"Yeah, sorry," I say to the girl who has been found unfortunate enough to have received the job of training me. I've already forgotten her name—Mary Ann? No, Beth Ann? Mary Beth?—I scramble for a pen. "The old families get into the museum free of charge, right?"

"And which families are those?" she quizzes me.

I glance over at her a little sheepishly and spot her small, black nameplate pinned to her pressed white polo shirt: Anna Grace. Well, I'd been close, at least. "Erm...the ones with gray hair?"

Anna Grace scowls, though it's impossible to really tell since I suspect her face always arranges itself like that. At least, it's been stuck that way ever since I have known her.

Perhaps that says more about me.

She sighs. "They're our benefactors, Guinevere! Battlefield's inception dates back to 1868, as I'm sure you are aware, and these families have donated millions of dollars to keep our school as esteemed as it is!"

Apparently flustered now, she smooths out the shining auburn wisps of her hair and the pleats of her skirt before unfolding one of the museum's pamphlets as if it were a document from President Andrew Johnson himself. She slides it across the countertop.

"You'll need to study up because I won't risk cultural embarrassment on your behalf."

Gritting my teeth, I take the pamphlet from her. A picture of Battlefield Preparatory Academy takes up the entire length of the tri-folded paper. My new fancy private school. I mean, there's even a civil war museum on the school's property, open to public admission! Or, in other words, my new part-time job.

I hope you'll appreciate this, Jericho, I think to myself as Anna Grace's judgmental gaze flitters over my casual attire, no doubt.

What can I say? I'm still a Californian at heart. My toes dig into my sandals.

I ignore the looks and shake out the pamphlet, smoothing out its creases. Beneath the impressive picture of the white-stoned, columned buildings are words that read: Battlefield's Historical Landmark Society would like to extend a grateful hand to the following families of note—

All of the listed names seem to come straight out of To Kill a Mockingbird, and it's not easy to memorize them all with Anna Grace tapping her heels impatiently on the wooden floor behind me. I turn my head so that my ponytail slides along my neck, blocking her breaths.

"I'll know them by tomorrow."

She huffs from behind me. "Why'd you take this job anyways?"

Because it's as close as I can get to the school's property, and my dead best friend left me a job to do. Instead, I tell her, "I'm starting at Battlefield next week. Thought it would be nice to immerse myself in its rich history." I point to something on the page. "Is that the school seal?"

It looks like an outline of a classic shield, sides fanning out into wings on either side, which then retreat to a sharp point at its bottom. An olive branch snakes around the dips and curves of it. Inside its shape are two rifles crossed over each other, twined together with a manacle of metal.

Anna Grace quits tapping her toes, mollified by my interest, and turns towards the engraved plaque hanging up on the wall. "Revere, reforge, relentless."

The school's motto. My eyes threaten to roll right back into my head. "Doesn't that sound kind of...frightening? Intense?"

Anna Grace shrugs. "We're an intimidating school. Number one in college admissions to nationally ranked universities."

By now, I've seen the emblem plenty of times, stamped onto every piece of mail the school sends out, stitched into the articles of our uniforms—yes, uniforms. We even have pleated skirts and sweater vests straight out of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. To be fair, that bit is a little exciting.

Apparently, I'm a sucker for a good uniform.

Again, I tilt my head at the seal. There's something about the sheen of the florescent lighting that snags my attention.

"What's that? In the center there?"

Anna Grace pushes her pink, tipped glasses up her nose and points to the manacle that holds the rifles together. "It's the unity band. You've just discovered one of Battlefield's favorite character traits. We have a list of them: the Upstanding Citizen Attributes. Unity is number one."

I stare at the plaque, turning my head slightly to the left, narrowing my eyes until my head begins to throb. Nothing about the manacle has ever caught my interest before but, for a moment, I swear I see a golden engraving coil its way around its circumference. For a moment, it looks like a ring.

A Settler's ring.

My own fingers clench tightly around the pamphlet, crumpling its edges. Anna Grace huffs once more, snatching the pamphlet from my grasp. "Go take a thirty-minute break."

"But we're opening in five minutes."

"Exactly." She has already disregarded my presence by taking out a Clorox wipe and scrubbing down the part of the counter my elbows have been resting on.

The museum is fairly small, only two rooms that are chocked full of Civil War artifacts excavated from around Liberty Forrest, so my only option to escape Anna Grace's haughty presence is to step outside. Battlefield's seal decorates the museum's heavy, glass doors as well. The sight sends a rush of claustrophobia through my hands, something that won't be helped by the humidity about to swamp me. I push open the door a bit forcefully, but something stops it. 

My forehead hits the glass of the door.

Someone swears, and for a moment I think it may have been me because I've held in the desire to do so all morning, but then I hear tacked onto the end of it like a bent up horseshoe, "Oh, shit. Are you okay?"

Through bleary eyes, I see the hand that reaches out to me and the boy that follows it. I jump out of reach reflexively, letting the door shut behind me. It clips my heels. "Ouch!"

"I'll say," the boy quips, and I notice he rubs his own forehead. "Devil's nippin' at your ankle or something?"

"Devil?"

Old habits die hard because I have one eye searching for the flash of a concealed weapon as my other eye locks in on the thin flesh of the boy's wrist before I've even looked him in the face. When I find neither knife nor demon's tattoo, I inhale, my lungs unclenching.

Get a grip, Vera.

Not for the first time this morning, I wish Jericho were here.

"Head's so far up, you could drown in a rainstorm, I'd think."

The boy's rude Southern audacity sends my arms crossing across my chest. My eyes narrow as I examine him. "It's not raining."

His eyes are sappy, like thick honey, and they brighten in amusement. "Good thing for you, otherwise you'd be a goner." He scuffs his brown, weathered boots against the sidewalk as he steps towards me, eyeing the red blotch on my throbbing forehead. "Are you alright?"

This must be what whiplash feels like. "What?"

He grins, his teeth standing out against the tan of his skin. "Are you suffering a concussion from the door? I am speaking English, right?"

"That's debatable," I counter. "Your colloquialism speaks otherwise."

"Colloquialism?" His brown hair is cut for the summer season—shaved shorter on the sides but fuller at the top where his waves sweep to the right-hand side. He rubs a hand against the shorn strands and whistles lowly at my vocabulary. "Definitely not from around here, then. Boston, maybe? Harvard?"

I watch him wearily. "Los Angeles."

"Ah. That explains the lack of manners."

"Wow." Using the lessons I learned from being around Anna Grace all morning, I expertly scowl at him. "Excuse me?"

"You hit me with a door!"

"On accident."

"And accidents don't merit an apology? How very Californian of you."

His smirk widens, and after being belittled by Anna Grace and now this wannabe cowboy, my patience snaps. Then again, patience has never been a virtue of mine.

"If you knew how to read, perhaps you would've known the museum doesn't open for another five minutes. This whole unfortunate encounter could've easily been avoided."

His broad shoulders rise as he holds up his hands in a sign of surrender, but they shake with laughter. "I think we got off on the wrong foot," he says with a grin, "and that's a shame because if you work here, we'll see a lot of each other."

My nose scrunches. "Was that meant to be charming?"

"No—" His amused grin says otherwise—"it's the truth. My family owns the museum." He sticks out one of his hands, the back of which looks sunburned. "I'm Jase."

"You've got to be kidding me," I can't help but mutter.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." My hand slaps against his waiting one, shaking it quickly before letting it go. Which quickly turns awkward because he tries to hold on to my slipping fingertips, and I end up having to shake him off like a cobweb caught on my skin.

His grin twirls into a smirk. "The least you could do is give me your name, Cali Girl."

For the love of the Orbs. His persistence reminds me of a surfer's choice wave, gathering water as it surges closer towards shore, and I fear its break. I glance at him once more, to say something undoubtedly witty, I hope, but the museum's door swings open and two things happen at once—

"Guinevere, you're not getting paid to socialize," Anna Grace chastises in a false, cheery falsetto. "Oh, hey, Jase!"

I barely have time to roll my eyes.

And then the ring around my left, middle finger tightens.

O O O

Emily Collins.

I'm slightly disappointed it wasn't Jam Toast again. Serah Mallory would have just loved that, and Ewan's temper would have surely exploded when I failed to respond—yet again—not even a week after our last Conclave meeting.

The only good thing about my igniting ring, besides it potentially detonating Old Man Ewan, was it provided an excuse for a hasty retreat from both Anna Grace and Jase. I tucked my hand into the back pocket of my pants to mute the bright orange light from the ring's call and strolled briskly to the employee bathroom.

I swear, I could still feel Jase's amused grin even after I shut the door and locked it.

Now, four hours later, my first shift finally over, I'm back to wondering who Emily Collins may be.

Over the past six months, I've taken to imagining lives for the names that wrap themselves around my ring. Since I grew up in Southern California in the same lazy beach city in the same beautiful house for sixteen years, the providence assigned to me by the Seer Council threatened to grow rather dull. But since moving to Liberty Forrest, a farm county that's one step away from Small Town U.S.A., I haven't recognized one name burned into my ring, which makes it a lot easier for my imagination to take its course.

I suppose I should live up the novelty while I can.

In my head, Emily Collins wears black-rimmed glasses, the kind with the frames that tip upwards at the corners, like cat eyes. She leads the yearbook committee at her high school and writes the Senior Advice Column. Secretly, she crushes on the head photographer, a girl who accidentally snapped a picture of the star quarterback kissing a Sitri Shade disguised as a college sorority sister—

Dammit. Why must my imagination always take me there?

The silver ring lies cool around my finger at the moment, watching me innocently from the steering wheel. I wonder who will attend to Emily Collins' orb and whatever hellish Shade has gone after her soul.

What if no one does?

I shake my head. That is not my problem. Not anymore.

Right?

You are meant for more.

I have the sudden desire to rip the ring from my finger and toss it from the car window. Wide open fields littered with rolled up hay barrels stretch out on either side of this winding back road. White picket fences flash by my car window. The ring could be lost for decades out here. Centuries, even. But just like every other time that I've had the thought, I can't bring myself to do it.

Jericho wouldn't want me to because how would I ever find my way back to him without it?

My brain snarls: No, Guin. Don't you dare.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.

Our new house reminds me of pictures I've seen of Antebellum plantations, but on a smaller scale, of course, since my father is hardly Bill Gates. The bricks are various shades of terra-cotta and browns, and white shutters guard the exterior windows like ancient barn doors. Grecian columns support the balcony that wraps around the second story, and a porch swing extends from the wooden ceiling panels of the front patio by chain links. It had been my dad's idea; it took him two days to build it. He had even tried to install a motor to the swing so it would constantly sway on a timer.

Thankfully, our house still stands, unharmed.

As soon as I push the garage door open—unlocked, since apparently Tennesseans never suffer from city thefts—I'm hit with a wave of wrongness. I drop my purse on the coffee table just as Leo barrels towards me, his little feet slipping on the hardwoods. His socks skid to a stop. He grabs my wrist and yanks me down to his level; I nearly fall on top of him.

"I don't trust her shadow," he whispers into my face. His breath smells like the tang of lemonade.

My question thickens on my tongue, and I'm still staring at him, wondering what he's trying to tell me when my father peeks his head out from around the corner. His fingers are stained with oil. His brown eyes wander to my brother who clutches my hand and then to my face like he could devise some pulley device that would link us back together.

He smiles with the force of a chained prisoner.

"Guinevere, you're back. How was work?"

My heart stutters; he only ever calls me by my full name when his blood pressure has sky-rocketed. "Your Aunt Serah's outside on the patio. She just flew in."

The fingers on my left hand clench into a fist, my knuckles going instantly white to the bone. "Here?"

Leo nods vigorously, tugging at my arm again. "She brought a gift, but it's probably no good." He lowers his voice. "She smells weird."

I can't do anything but laugh shortly, disengaging my brother from my limbs. "Maybe Dad should invent a portable shower for airplanes, how about that?"

Dad glances towards the screened in porch. "Yes, but imagine the mess." His words are a little stiff, but what can I say? My dad has always had good intuition, and Aunt Serah has never graced his good books. "She's waiting for you, Guin. Leo, let's go make up some snacks for your aunt."

Leo trots away, grumbling, "She's not my guest, and she tried to hug me," like it's a capital offense, but my own temper is rising at the thought of her talons anywhere near my brother.

Serah Mallory hasn't paid a personal visit in years, not when she can yank me into the Orbs Hall by my ring whenever she pleases. Although, I suppose this is more polite. I snort, thinking about Jase and his abrasiveness and Southern manners, but it does nothing to help calm me as I shove at the bronze handle, and the door to the porch snaps open.

A wave of heat swamps me, the air conditioning non-existent out here, though the overhead fan is switched on; it creates a dull lulling swish as it whisks overhead.

"What do you want?"

Serah already watches me, her copper hair twisted into her signature knot. Sometimes, it's hard to imagine she used to be my mother's Comrade. Back in the day, the two of them had been thick as thieves, partners to the death. The truest of friends. Just like I had been with Jericho. I pinch myself, and the sharp pain snaps me into focus as I meet her steady black gaze. The cat-and-mouse shine to her posture alerts me that she's about to say something foul.

"Don't become his sacrifice, Guin."

The one thing about Serah is she never fails to disappoint. If she wants to play this game, I'm more than willing. "I haven't a clue what you're speaking about, Over-Seer."

She purses her lips, a knowing grin flickering across her tight features. "Jericho Crosse died for something."

It's difficult to keep my expression still when she observes me with such determined clarity.

"I will find out what he martyred for, and I hope not to find your name attached to whatever noble cause you two thought you were fighting."

"Martyred?" I form the word with the same precision I would wield a blade. "Jericho was murdered by a Shade that an open portal let through. An open portal that should have been locked shut."

Serah's eyes are an inquisition, and I'm about to be put under the firing squad. Her slow words are used as the bullets. "There was never a body, Guinevere."

That was common knowledge. Besides, that's what tends to happen when a Settler gets sucked into the Void. "What are you accusing us of, Over-Seer?" I tread carefully, navigating the minefield that lies between us. "He was my sworn partner against the Void. We fought for the Orbs," I say, but my throat is teetering on a crack, my words unbalanced, so I swallow. "If you're insinuating otherwise, then why not have me Shelved?"

Serah sits back into our patio furniture, one leg crossed primly over the other. She taps her fingernails on the iron armrest. "Should you be Shelved?"

"You were responsible for my Comrade." I cross my arms to hide my quaking fingers. "You failed him. I'm tired of fighting for those who wouldn't fight for us."

"Jericho was responsible for himself." There's a hint of gentleness to her words, but she uncoils herself from the chair like a snake. In her leopard print pumps, she's taller than me, but I can still see the new wrinkles radiating outwards from the corners of her eyes.

She looks tired, too.

I should feel sorry for her, but I can't find a sliver of sympathy within me.

Her eyes soften as if she read my thoughts and wishes to win me back over. "I'm not the enemy that you want me to be—" her expression narrows back into her role as Over-Seer of the Council—"Humanity needs you, Guin, and so does the Conclave, but if you choose to remain so childishly heartbroken—" I don't like the way she looks into my house through the glass doors, her eyes latching onto my brother as he sneaks an Oreo from the pantry—"there's another of Paqad blood we could use."

She pats me on the arm, but it feels like a slap. It takes all I have to stand there, my spine a straightened rod of chipped metal. Serah lowers her light lashes as she peers at me, and they cast an eerie shadow to the bags under her eyes.

"Don't forget that, Vera."

_ _ _

Don't worry. Some bits of clarity should be coming shortly... haha!

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