Her slim green wallet sat on the top shelf. Because she was a glutton for punishment, she removed the wallet and opened it. There, sandwiched between her driver’s license and her sole credit card, she thumbed out the all-too-familiar rectangular piece of plastic. The tiny slip of paper encased inside, no bigger than a cookie fortune, had nibbled edges and numerous creases, all of which she knew by heart.
The faded letters read: There is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved: It is God’s finger on man’s shoulder.
With a snarl she threw the wallet back into the locker and slammed it. She’d had the damn thing laminated for stars’ sake. If that wasn’t pathetic, she didn’t know what was.
She heard the scrape of a chair on the floor. Around the lockers, Emily Pritchart sat slumped at the tiny table in the back corner, her eyes rimmed with red, the bags beneath them puffy and purple. Severe silver roots showed at the scalp of her dyed brown hair. She clutched a pen in one hand and absently scribbled on the pink, rumpled take-out bag from El Tamale Loco.
Kelsey turned to go, to give Emily privacy, but her employee said in a flat voice, “They found him. Didn’t they. That’s why David Capshaw was in here, hurt.”
Kelsey leaned against a locker. “David found him, then lost him.”
Emily sagged and threw the pen across the table. “I wish he’d turn himself in. He’s just delaying the inevitable.”
Kelsey looked at the shiny white tile beneath her sneakers. The whole race felt slashed open, their wounds open to infection. Thanks to generations of selfish leaders—who had in turn created a race of entitled, selfish Ofarians—they were all bleeding out, the treachery and despicable acts of a precious few polluting them all.
One of the first things Griffin Aames had done was outlaw the old class system. Every Ofarian child would start on even ground. No more preordained tracks of service or soldiering or ruling.
Not every Ofarian, even if they’d opposed the old Board, was happy about these changes. Least of all Wes Pritchart. He’d grown into somewhat of an idol for the dissidents.
“Sorry, Dr. Evans. I’ll get back to work.”
“At times like this, Emily, you can call me Kelsey.”
Emily threw her an unreadable look and stood. She crumpled up the pink tamale bag, and tossed it in the trash.
“Why don’t you go on home . . .” Kelsey began, but Emily had already shuffled out of hearing range, and Kelsey was again left alone with her screaming thoughts.
CHAPTER THREE
David sprawled on his well-worn blue couch, legs kicked out, shirt unbuttoned so the fabric wouldn’t scrape against the gauze wrapped over his still-tender wound. The plate that had once held a mound of baked manicotti balanced on the edge of the side table. The TV flickered but he wasn’t watching it. Instead, he squiggled in the corner of the last page of his Gigantic Book of Brain Puzzles, the final mind-bender just completed. Flipping the cover closed, he tossed the brick of a book onto the pile of the others that needed to go out to the recycling bin.
Didn’t matter that he’d always placed at the top of every class with Kelsey Evans; he’d been born into the soldier class of Ofarians, and that’s who his parents had raised. It felt strange to be the one in charge of all the soldiers now. Strange . . . but good. It was that goodness that fed his fear of letting down both Griffin and his people.
David absentmindedly rubbed the stitches on his temple beneath the butterfly bandage, still feeling the flutter of Kelsey’s touch. The wound on his chest twinged and burned, remembering how she hadn’t been so nice tending to it. Because he’d brought up Emily Pritchart.
Despite Kelsey’s insistence of Emily’s innocence, Griffin’s soldiers had been monitoring Emily Pritchart for months. Her phone, her mail, her house—all were under surveillance. And true, Wes hadn’t attempted any contact through those means, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. The chase through the Sierras had been brutal, and David had almost caught the bastard, but he could tell Wes was weakening. Getting sloppy. Usually that’s when people gave up . . . or reached out for help.
The only place Emily was open and vulnerable was at the clinic, behind Kelsey’s veil of privacy. David understood the good doctor’s vehemence over protecting the clinic’s confidentiality—he really did—but there were huge issues riding piggyback on Wes’s evasion. He had to get Kelsey to see that. It wasn’t just Griffin’s leadership at stake, it was the structure of the entire race.
His phone rang, and he had to dig it out from under the half-devoured bag of M&Ms on the coffee table.
“I got the report.” Griffin rarely said hello anymore. Moments like this, David didn’t know if he talked to his friend or his leader.
David scratched at his jaw. “He got away. Again.”
Goddamn Ofarian senses that could pick out magic at fifty paces. Wes could always tell when he’d closed in.
“It’s the closest you’ve gotten yet,” Griffin said, his voice gruff. “He’s running out of steam.”
“Was just thinking the same thing.”
Griffin sighed, deep and resigned, and David knew it was his friend now on the other end of the line. “Shit, man. You okay? Heard that fall was pretty spectacular.”
David snorted and shifted higher on the couch, tugging the flaps of his shirt closed. “I will be.”
“You see the doc?”
“Yep. You know she’s experimenting with combinations of magic and Primary medicine?”
“Yeah.” It was the first real spark of hope David had heard from Griffin in weeks. Maybe months. “Pretty amazing stuff. Should’ve been done decades ago.”
That’s as far as they took that discussion. None of Kelsey’s findings would matter if the race splintered apart, if they couldn’t move forward into the future as one.
“How is she otherwise?” Griffin asked.
“Just told you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
David closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “The same.”
Griffin exhaled. “Sorry, man.”
David had never voiced his feelings for Kelsey. He hadn’t had to. Griffin was a smart son of a bitch who knew David’s emotions, just as David was well aware of Griffin’s heartache over his broken engagement to Gwen, who’d chosen another man, and a Primary at that. They were two sorry, unwanted assholes. Should have been funny, except that it wasn’t.
“It is what it is. Or was. Or never will be.” David struggled off the couch. “You calling on official business or just to remind me of my failures?”
“Both, apparently. I need your help.”
“Whatever you need. You know that.”
“I’m getting the Fragment out of the vault tomorrow before the Star Gala. I’d like you to come with me.”
The Ofarians’ most sacred artifact, used during their most revered holiday. A big deal, to say the least.
“Our fearless leader needs help turning the key in the lock?”
Griffin chuckled. “Fuck you.”
“I’m not good for much else. My chest is black and blue and hurts like a mother. Not sure I can carry a hunk of rock very well.”
“I’ll carry it. I just . . . need you there.”
The heaviness in Griffin’s tone gave David pause. Many times over the past few months they’d been in the same room when important issues had barreled down on the race, but Griffin excelled in portraying confidence. Diligence. Intelligence. As an Ofarian, David didn’t want to hear such fear and doubt in his leader’s voice. As a friend, it hurt even more.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Anything you need.”