Seasons of Chaos Read online

  An incoming video call flashes on one of my screens.

  “Professor,” I greet Lyon as I strap on my wrist monitor. I still haven’t gotten used to the idea of calling him Chronos, but I’m not sure he’s gotten used to being Chronos, either. I lean down, my voice muffled as I drag on my running shoes. “You’re punctual, as usual.”

  I sync my wrist monitor with Fleur’s tracking program, making sure the red light blinks on. Professor Lyon’s weekly check-ins are usually short. If I hurry, I can make it to the park and get a few miles in before Fleur gets home. She won’t even know I left the house.

  “As are you, for a change.” Lyon’s humor is dry, his formal tone difficult to read sometimes. It’s hard to tell if he’s being sardonic or sincere. “It seems I’ve caught you on your way out. I won’t keep you long.”

  “Sorry.” I adjust the video camera, giving him my full attention. “Everything all right?”

  Lyon’s face is drawn. He rakes back the silvering hair at his temples and rubs his eyes, a more human gesture than I’m used to seeing from him. A smile touches his winter-blue eyes. “It’s been a difficult week here at the Observatory.”

  “More difficult than usual? I thought you and Gaia were already past the worst of it.”

  After killing Michael, the former Chronos, Professor Lyon and Gaia had returned to the Observatory with a thoughtful and clear plan for liberating and reforming it—a plan they’d spent centuries secretly devising. The Guards loyal to Michael were rounded up and detained in stasis chambers within the Observatory. Awakened from their extended sleep in groups, they were subjected to hearings over the months that followed, as Lyon and Gaia replaced them with a security team of their own—a collection of Seasons and Handlers they’d been observing and quietly cultivating relationships with for years.

  With the old regime out of the way, Lyon and Gaia then dismantled the old systems. New rules were established, condemning violence between Seasons and rewarding cooperation between the previously segregated wings. The restricted sections of the Observatory library were declassified, and Seasons were encouraged to bridge the gaps in our knowledge of our own history, to learn the truth about our magic—the truth Fleur and I had discovered and exposed to the world: that in pairs, we can survive off the complex system of ley lines Michael had leashed us to.

  Think tanks and action committees were formed, consisting entirely of volunteers, allowing Seasons and Handlers to have a voice, paving a gradual path to peace. With the ranking system rendered meaningless, the barriers between wings were gradually opened, and Seasons were slowly given opportunities to train, eat, and mingle together. According to Lyon, there had been a handful of fights, but for the most part, the transitions had gone smoothly. And Seasons who wanted to be liberated from the Observatory, like Fleur and me, were granted the right to leave. Subject to a period of monitoring, they were released in pairs and permitted limited freedom of movement to preserve the environmental balance and ensure their safety.

  When Lyon and I spoke last week, everything seemed fine; Lyon and Gaia’s plan had fallen into place relatively peacefully. With all the challenges of the initial transition behind them, it seems odd that he should look so worn out now.

  “Gaia and I have awoken the last of the members of the old Guard.”

  “About time,” I say bitterly. That’s one less threat I’ll have to worry about. Michael’s old regiment—a group of elite personal Guards gifted with the powers of every Season—had hunted and attacked us just miles from here, and the Guards who were left in stasis the longest had been deemed the biggest threat to me and Fleur. I don’t think I’ll ever forget Kai Sampson’s narrowed eye in the moment before she shot me full of arrows. Or Doug Lausks’s teeth as he sprinted over the frozen lake to kill me. I’m more than ready for Lyon to dole out their punishments. “What will happen to them?” I ask, remembering the bee Lyon crushed under his shoe the day he helped us escape the Observatory—a bee that had once been a Season . . . or at least the soul of one. After what Doug and the other Guards did to us, I find it hard to muster any sympathy for them.

  Lyon sighs as if he’s not entirely sure. “They will be stripped of their magic. Like the others, we’ve given them the choice to live on here, taking on service positions at the Observatory.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Lyon raises one in return, acknowledging my surprise. “Most are grateful for the option, given the alternative.”

  “Even Doug?”

  A shadow passes behind Lyon’s eyes. “I’m not sure he can be swayed into conceding his magic peacefully.”

  “Can’t you just look in your magic wand and see?” The Staff of Time carries an insane amount of power: the power to grant immortality, to pause the clock, and to reveal glimpses of the future.

  “I prefer not to.”

  “Why not? Seems like it might help you find an answer to your problem.”

  “Will it?” He tips his head. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe I’m the only one who fears the consequences of my own power. Perhaps we are wise, you and I, to recognize the risks in making such decisions.”

  I pick at a crack in the surface of the desk, finding it hard to look at the twisting dark cloud in the glass orb atop his desk.

  “Be that as it may,” he continues, “I had hoped not to use the staff in the manner of my predecessor. But I fear Doug may leave me no choice. Only time will tell, I suppose.” He shakes his head. “But enough of this. How are you and Fleur?”

  “We’re good.”

  He leans back in his chair, studying me over steepled fingers, his old office coming into focus behind him, the poster of Cuernavaca mounted in the same place it’s hung as long as I’ve known him. The sudden pang of homesickness I feel surprises me. I don’t miss the Observatory at all, but Lyon’s office feels like a ley line to my soul. All those years, it was the one place I didn’t have to speak my mind or confess my heart, because somehow, Lyon already knew what was beating around inside it.

  “How is she sleeping?” he asks gravely.

  “Okay. Better.” It’s a lie. Fleur still wakes in cold sweats most nights, screaming. Sometimes, she thrashes and calls out Doug’s name, or Denver’s, or Noelle’s, as if she’s still wrestling with them in her sleep. We’re both fighting our own demons. There’s no sense in worrying Lyon over it. “She’s getting a little antsy. She wants to plan a trip.”

  “I understand. It’s been a long time since you visited with your friends. Gaia and I would be happy to approve arrangements for you both to travel to California to see them.”

  “Actually, she wants to go somewhere for our anniversary. You know . . . maybe do a little sightseeing. Just the two of us.” This last part is more about me than Fleur. Fleur would probably be thrilled to have Julio and Amber tag along for a whirlwind tour of the Mediterranean or a trip to visit Poppy and Chill and check out the sights in Alaska. But ever since the battle, being around them is hard for me. I’m not a Season anymore. The last time Julio and Amber came to visit, it was like I was on the outside looking in on them all, my hands pressed against the window glass. I’d been sitting right beside Fleur, and I’d never felt so apart from her.

  Lyon scratches his cheek. “Are you sure that’s wise, Jack?”

  “It would only be a week. The weather will be warm enough. Fleur will be fine.”

  “I have concerns . . .”

  “Concerns about what?”

  “Nothing to do with you,” he assures me. “I know you and Fleur would do everything in your power to take care of one another. But the timing . . . There are still a few rogue Seasons we haven’t been able to track down, and word of this final Dismantling is bound to ruffle some feathers. I’d feel better sending a security detail to shadow you, but I can’t spare—”

  “Never mind. You’re right.” I rub the glossy image from Fleur’s magazine from my eyes. “It’s probably a terrible idea.”

  “No, it’s not.” He sighs, scrubbing a han
d over his stubble. “You and Fleur deserve this much. I’ll speak with Gaia. Perhaps we can come up with a plan. Let’s revisit this when we meet again for our call next week.”

  I give a shallow nod, unable to shake the feeling that there’s something he’s not telling me. “Are you sure you’re okay, Professor?”

  “Just tired.” He forces a smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Still teaching?” I press him.

  “Much to Gaia’s dismay. She’s concerned I’m trying to do too much. To be too much, perhaps.”

  “Maybe she’s right.” My eyes dart to the orb in the corner of the screen. The clear globe rests in its usual place on a brass pedestal on Lyon’s desk. The smaze inside that orb is mine, the shadowy mist a host for my former magic, entrusted to Lyon for safekeeping when I chose to give my life for our cause. Lyon’s magic had once been trapped in a globe like this one—magic he’d willingly given up in order to be closer to Gaia, then given up again to take up a much heavier mantle.

  I turn away from the screen before my longing gives me away.

  “I swore an oath to you, Jack. I’ll keep it safe.” Lyon rests a hand on the curvature of the glass. “I owe you an immeasurable debt. If you ever again wish for your magic, you need only to ask.”

  The gray smaze whips inside the glass, hungry to get out. But reclaiming my magic would come with a price.

  My magic’s not the same as it was. Gaia sensed it when it left me, that there was something wrong with it, angry and dark. She speculated that the most tortured parts of my soul—all my worst fears and resentments, the most painful bits of my deepest and most horrible memories—hitched a ride with it on its way out of me, as if it knew that was the only way I would ever survive what I’d been through. But I’ve always wondered if it was something more. If the darkness in that smaze isn’t because of something I’ve gone through, but something I’ve done. And the fact that I still ache to have it back in spite of that troubles me more than anything else about it.

  “There is a way to make peace with it, Jack. Facing your demons may be the first step to forgiving yourself. Gaia and I said it would be painful. We never said it was impossible.”

  I push that thought back into a deep corner of my mind.

  “It’s okay to pause the world sometimes, to take the time you need to heal and think after suffering a trauma, as you and Fleur have done. But it’s not too late, Jack. You can always choose another way forward. Gaia and I would be here for you, if you decided to try,” he says delicately. “We won’t let you go through it alone.”

  I bite my tongue. I made an oath, too, to keep Fleur safe. To honor her choices. And I won’t throw this one in her face to save my own pride. “I’m fine.”

  “Very well, then,” he says. “I’ve wired your quarterly living allowances to your accounts. And I’ve procured permanent visas for you and Fleur so you may remain in Mexico as long as you wish. They’ll arrive by courier later this week, along with new passports in case you change your mind about returning to the Observatory—”

  “Or for when Fleur and I plan our trip,” I remind him.

  His mouth quirks up as he continues. “Your new documents will hold up to routine airport scrutiny, but I’d advise you both to avoid any legal entanglements, to prevent any investigations into your identities. Mind the speed limit while driving, and don’t get into any skirmishes involving the police.” His clear eyes twinkle like the crystal in the eye of his staff, reflecting all my past decisions and every possibility in my future. I grin in spite of myself. Lyon’s the closest thing I’ve had to a father figure in more than thirty years, and even though we don’t always see eye to eye, it’s comforting to know he’s there looking out for me.

  “I’ll behave.”

  “I won’t count on it,” he says wryly. “If you speak to Amber, Julio, and the others, be sure to send my best.”

  “I will.”

  “And Jack,” he says, his voice tinged with melancholy, “I know you and Fleur have no desire to return here. After all you’ve both been through, I suppose I’ve no right to expect otherwise. But you will both always have a home here. Don’t ever doubt that.”

  If I shut my eyes right now, I could smell his office—the heavy scent of coffee and aging books, the dry pinch of his chalk in the back of my throat. I nod, swallowing a small nagging yearning to go back. To see my smaze. To see him.

  “Until next time, Jack.”

  “See you, Professor.” I hold my smile until his image flickers out.

  3

  The Callus on His Soul

  DOUG

  I don’t make it ten steps out of Lyon’s office before I’m surrounded by four of his new Guards. I grit my teeth as they escort me down the brightly lit hall. One of them presses a phone to his ear, voicing affirmatives between extended pauses. With an abrupt jerk of his head, he indicates a change in direction, detouring us away from the gallery that should take us back to the elevator in the Crux. Back to my room.

  “Where are we going?” I bite out as he slips his phone into his pocket. The sooner I get to my room, the sooner I can start planning a way out of here.

  The Guard holds open a door to a familiar stairwell. An earthy, stagnant dampness rises from the passages below. My feet slow and I’m nudged from behind.

  “You’re being moved.”

  “Where?”

  “To a holding cell.” The team guides me down a flight of stairs. The temperature drops, and a chill rakes up my spine. The secure cells are in the catacombs. Impossible to break out of.

  This puts a fucking damper on things.

  The white walls and bright overheads give way to circular steps, carved out of stone and lit with torches. They herd me through the winding tunnels of the caves below the school, into a corridor of cell doors made with heavy iron bars. A crow—one of Gaia’s spies—squawks, shaking out her feathers as we brush past her perch. I’m directed into an open cell, and the locks snap closed behind me.

  I turn at the sound, the stone walls closing in around me, but the Guards are gone, their footsteps already fading under the distant hum of the generators and the scratch of the crow’s talons against her perch.

  I pace the edges of my cell. I didn’t pause to get a haircut during the weeks I spent hunting for Jack, and a stubborn piece of hair keeps falling into my eyes no matter how many times I rake it back. I’d kill someone for a pair of scissors and a razor. But Lyon’s given me nothing. Clearly, he doesn’t trust me to wait out the week without incident. And for good reason. I’d burn this whole place down before I’d concede to give up my magic and serve the rest of a mortal life here.

  I grab the bars in the door and shake them, just to loosen some pent-up frustration. It’s not like the damn things will budge. These holding cells were designed to contain Seasons. The walls are stone. The faucets and plumbing fixtures are all fitted with low-flow regulators to control the supply of water. Not a single thing in this cell will burn, and there are no roots capable of burrowing through the thick slabs of rock. I know, because for a brief time when I was a new recruit, I was tasked with guarding these cells. Back then, they were darker, colder, and far nastier than they are now. Which only goes to prove that Lyon’s soft—too weak to be in charge.

  A sliver of white soap is the only bright spot in the room. I unbutton the top of my jumpsuit and let it hang around my waist, washing the stink of stasis and the smell of Lyon’s office from my body as best as I can with the trickle of water in the sink. I look haggard, older somehow in its steel surface, and I splash my face, wishing I could scrub away everything that’s happened since I was last here.

  The faucet shuts off abruptly, and my spent ration of water swirls down the drain. I lift my head, my wet skin blooming with goose bumps in the damp chill. The heat of the torches at the far end of the corridor doesn’t reach my cell, but I don’t need it. The cold soothes my nerves. It sparks memories of long days spent with Denver and Noelle and speaks to my oldest, most familiar
magic—before we were Guards, back when we were Winters.

  I keep my jumpsuit half-off, leaving the ends of my wet hair to drip down my shoulders, letting the Winter magic stir after its long hibernation. Ice pops and snaps softly as it freezes over the shells of my ears, like the crackle of a fire in a dimly lit room. I draw in a deep breath, mustering the cold to rise up until it’s fully awake inside me. My breath whitens and ice laces my hands. The effort leaves me nauseated and dizzy.

  Sinking onto the lower bunk, I rub the melting frost from my fingertips. A vision of Fleur comes unbidden to my mind, like a smoking car wreck in my rearview mirror I wish I could forget. I envy the way the ground ripped open for her, trembled for her. I’d kill for a fraction of that power right now. With that kind of magic, I could bring this entire place to its knees.

  Metal screeches against metal as a slot opens in the cell door. A tray appears, containing a snack-size bottle of water and a paper cup full of vitamins.

  I set the tray on the floor, glaring at the Guard on the other side as he slides the panel shut again. So much for eating. Despite the stasis sickness, my stomach rumbles, but I know there’ll be no food coming. It’ll be another few days before my body can handle anything more than bland liquids and diet supplements, and by then, Lyon will be done with his Culling.

  The tablets dissolve into a chalklike paste on my tongue, but I swallow the medicine down, determined to keep my strength up. Sliding down the cold stone wall, I press the water bottle to my temple.

  I have one week to find a way out of here.

  And then . . . then I will hunt for Jack.

  A handful of soft voices drift from the other cells. I recognize some of them, but the conversations are quickly silenced by the crow’s shrill caw. I open my eyes, shaking off the heavy shroud of sleep as the echo of footsteps grows louder in the tunnels. Guards—a team of them, at least. The locks on my cell door snap and I stiffen as it swings open, wondering if the old man got smart and changed his mind about giving me a week to think.