Blazewrath Games Page 14

  “He could sit this one out,” he says during breakfast. Manny sits directly across from me, filling up a bowl with cranberry-and-coconut cereal. “Russell hasn’t been feeling well.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” I keep my tone soft and warm. No need to freak Manny out.

  He mumbles, “Don’t know,” and eats his cereal.

  “Did he have any medical problems leading up to the Cup? Or is this sudden?”

  “Finish your breakfast, nena. It’s getting cold.”

  “Aren’t you worried?” I wave to the others. “I’m sure we all are.”

  “He did seem pretty tired after his fall,” says Gabriela. I could hug her. “Is he okay?”

  Luis shrugs. “Maybe old age is catching up to him.”

  “Or maybe,” Manny’s eyes are tightly narrowed, “this isn’t something you should focus on. You have a big day ahead. Eat. I don’t wanna hear you complaining about lunchtime later.”

  I swallow my tongue and pick at my veggie omelet. Héctor chimes in with a swift change of subject—the weather, of all things—officially letting Manny off the hook for now. My target is President Turner. If he doesn’t show up, I’ll hit Manny with everything I have until he spills.

  I keep my mouth shut all the way back to my room. I change into a plain T-shirt and jeans, while the other girls put on their uniforms. Gabriela takes care of everyone’s hair and makeup. She styles us with the so-called Clean Starlet look, which includes pink gloss and voluminous mascara on our real lashes. We’re all in ponytails except for Génesis; she’s rocking her Afro.

  When I arrive at the habitat, the dragons have already been positioned in front of the trees, the lights shining down on them. Their scales are gleaming even brighter. While most keep their cool as their riders approach, Daga wags her tail and stomps the floor in total joy.

  Ambassador Haddad and two women are standing near the monitors.

  The woman closest to him is as dark-skinned as Génesis, an Afro-Latina straight off the runway, but she’s much curvier and older than my Blocker teammate. Fiftysomething, I’d wager, and somewhere between a glorious size twelve and fourteen. Her black hair is knotted up in a crown braid, and she stuns in a fuchsia dress with matching heels.

  “¡Buenos días, mis amores!” she bids us a good morning with the kind of smile that befits a mother upon reuniting with her kids.

  “¡Buenos días!”

  The team takes turns hugging her. Even Victoria is the embodiment of warmth in her presence. Once the hugs are done, the woman waves hello to me, but it’s the wave where she only wiggles her fingers. “Lana, mamita,” she calls me in a raspy voice, “my name is Marisol Cabán. I’m your stylist. It’s my pleasure to help you with your uniform today.”

  Yeah, I like her already. “Thank you so much. I can’t wait to try it on.”

  “And we can’t wait to see the whole team in their suits at last,” says Ambassador Haddad. He turns to the other woman. “This is my daughter, Noora, your photographer for today.”

  Noora, who seems to be in her early twenties, is wearing a comfy dress I believe is called an abaya. Like her hijab, Noora’s abaya is sable colored, but its neckline has fine embroidery in the deepest ruby thread. The designs are flower petals and the leaves attached to their stems. She’s much thinner than Marisol, but together, they’re a tag team of elegant powerhouses.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say to Noora.

  “Delighted, Lana,” she replies. “Hello, everyone.”

  “Hello,” the team says.

  Noora turns to Marisol. “You can get her dressed while I work on solo portraits.”

  “Perfect. Come, come. Take me to your dormitory, Lana.”

  I’m walking toward the elevator with Marisol when the doors open.

  President Turner bursts into view.

  He’s in charcoal gray today. His hands aren’t shaking, and he’s perfectly balanced as he walks into the habitat. “Good morning! My sincerest apologies for arriving late!”

  “Mr. President!” I wave hello. “I’m so happy you could—”

  “Oh, come! You can have your little chat later.” Marisol yanks me forward with the strength of a Spartan warrior. “Let’s get you in that suit.”

  “See you in a bit!” President Turner gives me a quick nod. He then bolts for Manny, hugging him and whispering something in his ear.

  The elevator doors close before I can read his lips.

  “UNDERWEAR ONLY, MAMITA. CHOP-CHOP.”

  As I’m tossing the clothes on my bed, I wonder what the hell President Turner whispered to Manny. It could’ve been something important. Maybe even Sire important.

  I’m standing in my sports bra and panties. My stomach clenches. Mom’s the last person to have seen me like this. She’d been zipping me up in a floral lace jumpsuit at Dillard’s. “Aunt Jenny loves you in jumpsuits,” she told me as I flung off the stupid thing. “She thinks they make you look more mature. I happen to think she’s right.” Naturally, I’ve hated jumpsuits since then.

  I heave a sigh. She must still be dealing with her favorite nephew’s stupidity, but that shouldn’t make me feel bad. She chose him just like I chose this tournament. Besides, she’s probably done a billion things to forget I exist. Why should I care about what’s happening with her?

  “Why do you look like you’re about to knock me out?” Marisol backs away from me.

  “Oh! No, I don’t want to knock you out. Sorry.”

  “I come from a family of boxers, in case you want to go at it.”

  I can’t resist a laugh. “It’s just my, um … Never mind.” Great. Mom’s not even here, and she’s still getting to me. This is a fitting, for God’s sake. I have to act professional.

  Marisol is quiet, but I know she’s judging the crap out of me. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s okay. Can I see my uniform now, please?”

  Marisol tsk-tsks me. “Tell me the truth, Lana. Are you angry?”

  I gulp down. “Not at all.”

  Marisol studies me like an aunt whose job is to butt into your business, suggest how you should live while also acknowledging you’re free to choose for yourself, then get offended when you don’t do exactly what she suggested. “Here’s a tip. You’ll need that fire on the field, so keep it. Let it simmer until the time comes to burn them all. Be careful not to burn yourself away, though. That kind of fire could take you, too.”

  Burn myself away? I never thought of it like that, but she’s right. This bitter little pill Mom force-fed me doesn’t always come up to sabotage me. When it does, it has the power to derail me. I can’t afford that. Mom is living her life. I’m living mine, just like she told me to. That should be enough for me to let it go. It might not be enough at the moment, but it will be.

  “I’m fine, Marisol. Really.”

  “Mm-hmm …” Marisol pulls out a Silver wand from her dress’s pocket. Well, at least I think her wand is Silver. I can’t see the metal because of all the crystals attached to it. They’re translucent little balls of light, mirrors to the world around them. Usually, witches and wizards don’t bedazzle their wands this much. Either Marisol had this specially ordered, or the wand had already been designed this way, which would make it even more of a rarity.

  “That’s not a Madame Waxbyrne design,” I point out.

  “Good eye. No. It’s not.”

  “But she’s the only one who can sell wands legally. Where did you get it?”

  “She’s the only one who can sell to the masses, but there are other licensed wand-makers. They just can’t serve the general public. Only wealthy and well-connected people have access to their designs.” Marisol raises her wand. She’s transfixed by it, as if she’s never seen such beauty. “I bought this wand from one of Madame Waxbyrne’s former classmates at Iron Pointe.”

  That’s the top wand-maker academy in the world. It’s hidden deep within the Swiss Alps. Madame Waxbyrne had studied there long before she became one of its professors
. I’ve only heard of one other wand-maker who went to Iron Pointe—Julia Serrano, a Puerto Rican Gold Wand. She’d been the first Puerto Rican wand-maker to attend Iron Pointe in the late sixties.

  “Was it Julia Serrano?” I ask.

  Marisol lowers her wand, glum as a funeral attendee. “No,” she whispers.

  Well, that was ominous. “So … who was it?”

  “That’s not why we’re here.” She flicks her wrist in a jarringly quick motion.

  POP!

  A clothes hanger appears out of nowhere. It hovers right beside Marisol like a balloon, bobbing up and down. My uniform is on the hanger. The metal chest with its white stardust letters and my country’s name on it faces me. The dark cuffs have the same four spikes as the rest of my teammates’ uniforms, too. Marisol has even summoned my boots. With a flick of her wand, she turns the uniform around, showing me the back. TORRES is splashed across the middle in matching letters. The only thing missing is my number.

  “Let’s get you into this,” says Marisol.

  I let her take the uniform instead of ripping it off the hanger myself. This is history in the making. I’m about to wear a Blazewrath suit with my last name on it. Marisol takes her sweet time unzipping it, relishing every inch of her impeccable design, then holds the suit toward me, back first. I slip in one leg, then the other, until I’m fully clothed and Marisol’s zipping me up.

  I sigh in relief. It’s not squeezing the life out of me.

  “Raise your arms,” Marisol orders.

  I do as she says. The suit is a second skin to me. Even the metal is a weightless, cozy addition to the spandex. Marisol tells me to bend, lunge, and squat. I’m able to move without trouble. When I add the boots, everything feels even better. I can run for days. Marisol puts me in front of the full-body mirror. I’m every bit as stylish and fierce as my teammates, but not nearly as physically strong. Thankfully, I have them to do all the intimidation.

  “For our final act, I need a number,” Marisol says.

  I scrunch up my face, then hang my head low. Victoria’s criticism stings yet again as I stare at Marisol’s wand. She’s about to put a number of my choosing on a uniform that others from the island could wear in my place. Kids who’ve spent their whole lives where I only spent a handful of years, too young to remember what makes it irreplaceable. Reaching the top of the mountain proved to my teammates I deserve to play alongside them. But this number, this suit, will show the world I’m taking this spot from those who know their island better.

  “There you go with that fire again.” Marisol’s eyeing me like I’m a juvenile delinquent in the making. “You can rage at the walls and the planets, because raging is normal and fun, but don’t let that rage eat your heart for breakfast. You’re not on the menu, mamita. You shouldn’t let things consume you to the point where you can’t tell what matters and what never should.”

  Easier said than done.

  “What if I can’t stop the fire?” I whisper. “What if it kills everything I am?”

  “Only you can answer that.”

  Her words are fists to the gut. Of course I’m angry. I’m furious. But I’m not just the girl without a home. I’m not just the girl whose mother won’t fully support her. The girl who wishes Takeshi would somehow be good and righteous and heroic again, that President Turner would own up to whatever he’s scheming.

  That’s all I’m going to be if I don’t keep my crap together.

  There won’t be anything to fight for, anyone to stand against, if there’s no me left.

  So I think of a number for my uniform. A number those kids I’m taking this opportunity from will remember me by and chant on the streets. I could stick with my birthday—November 7. That might be a little played out, though. Then I remember there are thirteen of us total on the team. I don’t have a home, but I have people who remind me of the one I want.

  I tell Marisol, “Twelve.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I’m playing with the strength and agility of my twelve teammates as my fuel to keep going. I’m carrying them all with me so I can be the best at what I do.”

  Marisol seems proud. “Beautifully said,” she speaks warmly. “Turn around.”

  Once my back is facing her, she uses her wand to write a bold number twelve across the metal. The digits rest right underneath my last name, the reflection of all the letters glinting in the mirror. I shine brighter now. Holy crap. I’m the night and a star all at once. I’m blinking back tears as I struggle to catch my breath. With each cough, my chest feels like it’s about to explode.

  “Are you the hugging type?” Marisol asks me.

  “Oh … Yeah, I guess.”

  Marisol offers me a hug and I gladly accept it. She’s holding me a lot tighter than I expect.

  She’s holding me like Mom should’ve before saying goodbye.

  “Thank you, Marisol,” I whisper. We stay that way for a while, then I let her take me back upstairs to the men keeping secrets.

  “RIGHT IN THE FRONT, LANA. ACROSS FROM HÉCTOR,” NOORA instructs me.

  My human teammates stand in a triangle position. Their steeds are behind them. Gabriela, Edwin, and Luis to the left. Génesis, Victoria, and Héctor to the right. They’re posing with their fists on their hips, baring all their teeth. Victoria’s smile is a straight line that invites the beholder to challenge her and meet their end. She’s a living, breathing stop sign dressed in green light.

  I take my place in the triangle. Flash after flash goes off. Noora seamlessly flows from one angle to the next. She’s super gentle whenever she has to fix our hair or help us change position.

  Everything is as picture perfect as President Turner wants it to be. He even claps from time to time. Maybe Andrew’s right. It’s useless to reason with him, but it’s still worth a shot.

  “Lana?” Noora lowers her camera. “Are you all right?”

  “What? Oh. My bad. Just got a bit distracted there.” I smile again.

  Noora is flying through these shots like a pro. We leave my solo portraits for last. First, I take pictures by myself, then the dragons join me. I picture how cool it would look if they were flying across the habitat, or even if they were allowed to Fade in public. But President Turner isn’t game for any action shots. He’s giving me a big thumbs-up as I pretend I’m a mannequin.

  Once Noora wraps up, she says, “You were wonderful to work with, Team Puerto Rico. Expect the final results to hit the IBF website and newspapers everywhere in a few days.”

  “Thank you, Noora,” we all say together.

  She and her father start bidding us farewell, along with President Turner.

  My face falls. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes. I have a meeting with the finance committee soon.” President Turner seizes my shoulders. “I’m so very happy with your progress, Ms. Torres. Keep up the great work!”

  “Thank you, sir. But I was wondering if we could have a minute?”

  “Oh, I’d love to, but I really should get going. You can always give me a call! Remember the house phone has my number saved on speed dial. Have a wonderful rest of your day!” He lets me go and makes a beeline for the elevator. “I’ll see you all during the opening ceremonies!”

  A phone call won’t let me see how he’s reacting. He could easily manipulate his voice to pretend he’s telling the truth. That’s if he even answers my call. President Turner had been so determined to remove the distance between us, and now he’s shoving a fence in my path.

  So I let him get into the elevator. Cornering him had been both a failure and a mistake. I need to get his attention with a different tactic. Something he won’t be able to ignore.

  And I know the perfect way to do it.

  AFTER SIX UNANSWERED PHONE CALLS, I GIVE UP ON TRYING TO contact the president.

  He could really be at a meeting. I don’t have time to keep waiting, though.

  I hang up the house phone and head back to my room. It takes me twenty seconds to whip u
p a private message to Andrew:

  Hey! I saw the president today. He slipped away before I could grill him, but he said I could call him later. He never picked up the phone, though.

  I have a proposition for you.

  He replies twenty minutes later:

  interesting. what’s your proposition?

  I’m in, Andrew. Let’s protest the Cup together.

  The screen shows me he’s read the message, but he’s not typing.

  Not that I blame him. He could think this is coming out of left field.

  This is the best way to force President Turner’s attention on me. I don’t want to cancel the Cup. Andrew doesn’t have to know that. Neither does President Turner. He’ll be forced to pull me aside so he can reprimand me. Maybe even ask me to take back my words in a public forum. I’ll only do so if he comes clean. Whatever he demands, my ultimatum remains the same.

  Andrew finally writes back:

  excellent life choice, lana. we’ll be in touch.

  I send him a smile emoji and log off. I’m practically skipping on my way to the gym. Maybe this will be another failure, another mistake, but it doesn’t feel like it right now.

  It’s the end of the game I never signed up for.

  Dragon Knights originated long before the Sire had even been born. Countries like Thailand, China, Japan, Mongolia, Zimbabwe, Kenya, and Russia have been reported as having the highest number of shrines built in honor of their respective dragons. However, most of these shrines exalted dragons without advocating for the slaughter of humans. It was only when the Sire famously broke his Bond with Edward Barnes that the rise of Dragon Knights as soldiers in the war against non-dragons came to pass. Although the majority of Dragon Knights are Regulars, such as the notorious Headhunter of Alabama, Grace Wiggins, some members of the magical community have also chosen to spill the blood of their brethren to appease their master.

  —Excerpt from Edna Clarke’s Magical History for Regulars, Twelfth Edition