Page 38

TWENTY-NINE

K el and Dira jerked upright at the sound.

They rubbed sleep from their eyes and swapped frowns.

Slowly, they tiptoed across the aviary, toward the glass wall that Savita shared with the other phoenixes.

Savita didn’t seem concerned by the noise—which did concern Kel.

Was it nothing to worry about? Or was it just a familiar noise to her phoenix?

Voices echoed around the glass, coming from the larger aviary. The phoenixes’ answering noises were somehow wrong—not the usual shriek or squawk, but something stifled.

Nothing could stifle a phoenix.

Nothing but a muzzle.

Kel and Dira hid behind a thick tree trunk. Kel couldn’t spot all five phoenixes in the neighboring enclosure, but the two she could see both wore intricate leather harnesses around their beaks.

Kel clenched her nails into her palms. She’d never seen a muzzled phoenix, never even heard of someone attempting it. The creature would either kill them or the taboo of it would chase them from Cendor.

A muzzle was no better than clipping a phoenix’s wings.

Why would Cristo let this happen?

The people in the enclosure wore the white masks and uniforms of Cristo’s research division, which rarely had anything to do with the aviaries.

The phoenixes griped and ruffled their wings, but quickly lay on the ground beside the workers. They were clearly used to this treatment.

Kel’s breath shallowed as she watched the scientists move around the birds, carrying strange glass instruments.

Their words were whispered too quietly to hear, but it was clear what they were doing.

A phoenix’s collar could only tell a person so much.

For whatever reason, these scientists were poking and prodding the creatures for more data.

Kel glanced back at Savita, sleeping peacefully on the ground. Had Savita been experimented on, too?

Dira must have felt Kel begin to shake, because she touched Kel’s arm and whispered, “Not yet.”

Kel quietened her breath and unclenched her fists. She forced her feet to stay planted, even as the scientists bent down to inject the phoenixes and she heard muted whines of pain. They must have sedated the creatures. No grown phoenix would let this happen to them.

Kel knew they had to be cautious. They weren’t supposed to be here—seeing this. Storming in there would just get them into trouble. They’d probably be fired for sleeping inside a phoenix’s enclosure. They might take Savita from her.

The scientists filled their syringes with blood and placed them carefully in black bags. Then, with gloved hands, they reached for the phoenixes, and yanked.

Their hands came away with feathers.

Kel couldn’t stop her gasp. No one plucked feathers.

Cendor was far from Salta’s religious heart, but most Cendorians clung tightly to superstitions about phoenixes and their magic.

A firebird’s plumage was its last layer of protection.

Even if there wasn’t a taboo, there was no reason to steal them.

Everyone knew that phoenix feathers lost their magic if they were plucked.

So many questions soared through Kel’s mind as she watched the scientists stuff their bags, before carefully removing the muzzles and leaving the aviary. They left no trace of their presence.

Both Dira and Kel let out loud, hard breaths when the aviary’s door closed. Neither dared to leave Savita’s cage that night, and neither dared to feel anything but confusion and fear for what the morning might bring.

Every night that week, Kel and Dira snuck back into Savita’s enclosure with pillows, taking shifts to stay awake.

They needed proof before going to Bekn or Rahn, who both revered Cristo as if he was an Alchemist himself.

Or Coup—who needed to focus on his recovery, and who Kel still hadn’t been to see.

The guilt she felt for staying away kept her from eating, and still, she couldn’t bring herself to go.

Kel volunteered for most shifts throughout each night. She rarely slept, and when she did, her dreams were filled with dark, brown-speckled irises. They were Cristo’s eyes, but something about them was different. Familiar, yet alien, and entirely wrong .

When awake, Kel could rarely keep herself from thinking of Coup— in a bleached room, with no pulse —and so she tried to let their search for proof consume her.

She avoided the world beyond Savita’s aviary, which seemed to have very strong opinions about their most recent race.

Every broadcasted scene and magazine cover she glimpsed throughout the week seemed to focus back on one shot of Kel at Coup’s side.

Heartbroken , the news had dubbed her. When she’d seen a celebrity psychologist post a video breaking down Kel’s red eyes and crumpled expression, she had shut off her own tele-comm.

Despite the nights spent in the aviary, no one returned. If not for Dira at her side, Kel might have thought she had imagined the whole thing. The pair hid inside Savita’s enclosure under the cover of night, and waited, sacrificing mattresses and clean sheets for dirt and smoke.

After a week had passed of their tiring new rhythm, Dira and Kel were almost out of momentum. They were no closer to the truth, but they knew they had to tell their team.

They trudged back toward their apartment the next morning, weary and short-tempered, ready to raid the precooked meals Bekn usually kept on his fridge shelf.

But when they opened the door to their unit, someone blocked their path to the kitchen, hobbling toward them on crutches.

Coup.

Kel’s throat thickened. She hadn’t seen Coup since the accident, hadn’t visited him, despite Dira’s pestering.

Her worry for Savita had been a wonderful distraction, but now, Kel couldn’t swallow the startling relief she felt at the sight of him.

Butterflies and guilt tangled in her stomach as he offered a gentle smile.

She should have spent every day at his bedside. She didn’t care if he hated her, or didn’t want to see her— she should have been there . She shouldn’t have run from whatever made her stomach flip at the sight of him.

Dira squealed, breaking the tension. She rushed forward as if to throw her arms around Coup but paused an inch away, settling instead for awkwardly ruffling his hair, careful not to put any weight on him.

Coup’s shoulders bunched the fabric of his dark gray shirt as he held his arms over the crutches.

Other than a lack of riding leathers and faded burns creeping his neck, he looked exactly as he usually did.

His chestnut curls crept down his neck in untamed waves, almost reaching his shirt collar.

There were no tired lines pinching his face, no fatigue slumping his posture.

Even with crutches and red, tender skin ringing his neck, he looked ready to race.

Kel couldn’t look away from the remaining burns at his throat. “They let you out so soon?” she breathed.

Her heart thudded in her ears. Those were her first words to him? An accusation instead of an apology? Why couldn’t she do at least this right?

Coup merely shrugged. “Cristo’s tech is unbelievable. They only kept me so long to monitor my physical therapy. I’m feeling great. Invincible, actually.”

Both Kel and Dira rolled their eyes. The accident might have left him burned and injured—but he was still Coup .

He stepped out of Dira’s hold, toward Kel. “Can we talk?”

Dira looked between them and moved into the kitchen.

Kel tried to clear her throat. “We all need to. But not here.”

Not where Rahn or any of Cristo’s workers could walk in at any moment.

Coup shook his head. “No, I mean—can just the two of us talk?”

The butterflies in her stomach turned to spiders, knotting webs around her ribs, tightening her chest. “Ah. Sure. But maybe later? Dira and I—we really need to tell you and Bekn what we’ve found.”

Coup’s face was unreadable. He nodded stiffly and walked with her into the kitchen, where Bekn hunched over the stovetop, a green apron—his favorite color—tied around his waist. There were floral initials stitched into the apron’s side: E.

C. Kel’s stomach gurgled as the smell of pancakes wafted from the stove.

Bekn gestured to the long dining table. Six plates were set out, two bottles of maple syrup at the center.

She assumed one of the extra plates was for Rahn.

She didn’t know who the last plate was intended for—maybe Bekn hoped Cristo himself would join them for breakfast. Her pulse raced at the thought.

Kel helped Coup into the nearest chair, trying as hard as she could to avoid touching him.

Kel’s stomach growled again as Bekn slid three pancakes onto her plate.

He raised a brow. “I think I’ve heard more from your stomach this week than I have from you.”

Heat filled Kel’s cheeks as she thanked him. “Sorry. We’ve been busy.”

Dira nodded. “We need to talk—but not here. Not yet. Pancakes are more important.”

Kel agreed, barely cutting her food before shoveling them into her mouth. Bekn filled his and Coup’s plates, then took a seat. They all ate in a familiar, comfortable silence, until their plates were clean.

Bekn licked syrup off his thumb and frowned, as if there’d been no break in the conversation. “Why can’t we talk here?”

Dira and Kel exchanged looks. Eventually, Kel said, “It’s… about some future simulations that Dira and I have planned. We don’t want anyone else to hear and steal our ideas.”

A muscle in Bekn’s jaw feathered. “Coup’s just gotten out of hospital. I think training talk can wait.”

“I want to hear about the simulations,” Coup cut in. “We should go to Bekn’s room. I’d bet fifty ceres that his is the cleanest.”

The other three rose to their feet and looked expectantly at Bekn.

Their mitigator sighed. “Follow me.”