“Yeah, I can see how it’s both.” He nods. “As for your voice—it really is something else. Kind of mind-blowing. I have to tell you, when you first explained to me that night how you sang and landed the shuttle, I did not believe you. I just couldn’t. To my mind, it made no sense. But now that I actually saw and heard you do it—just, wow.”
I glance at him quickly, and the damned smile just does not want to leave my face.
“I can only begin to imagine,” he continues, “the kind of things you can do with that voice of yours. Furthermore, with enough orichalcum at our disposal, we can do some groundbreaking major stuff—think about it, construction, engineering, technology, other industries. The applications here on Earth are limitless. The drilling industries alone—”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, think about it.” He lets go of my shoulder and turns to me, and his expression is intensely focused. “What if Earth had access to all this orichalcum voice tech? Assuming, of course, that the asteroid threat was no longer there?”
“What? How can it be? I thought the asteroid is going to make impact regardless of what we do? Earth’s official expiration date is what, in November of next year?”
“Yeah, of course it is. The dreaded November 18, 2048, at around 2:47 PM Eastern Time, plus or minus a few minutes, is when we go Boom.” He recites the now-famous date and time of anticipated impact in a dramatic tone then shakes his head tiredly. “What I meant was, what if these circumstances were different? What if we had all the time in the world, and all the means to make something of ourselves in this new world of shared Atlantis-Earth cooperation?”
“I’m not sure it’s any good thinking of what-ifs,” I say. “It’s super depressing.”
“You’re right.” And then he shrugs it off lightly. “I was kind of carried away by the amazing potential of your voice. Sorry if it made you uncomfortable or bummed you out.”
“Thanks, and no, I’m fine.”
His hand is back around my shoulder, and I feel a gentle squeeze on my upper arm. “Good, because the last thing I want you to do is be upset over stupid stuff, after the kind of day you’ve had.”
“It’s not exactly over yet,” I mutter. “I still have to deal with him.”
Logan pauses walking and turns and looks at me, bringing himself to stand before me. His dark eyes glitter with intensity, reflecting the fluorescent lamps of the brightly lit walkway on which we happen to be—it’s a portion of the RQC compound just a building away from the Arena Commons Building, since we’re almost there.
“Gwen, you only have to deal with him for a short period of time. Go in there, stay smart, keep cool and use your head. Do nothing to provoke him in any way. All you need is to survive Qualification. And for that you need this Atlantean’s special training. Whatever he teaches you—take it! Don’t think about anything else. Use him as a resource.”
“You’re right,” I say in turn, and gaze up into his warm, bewitching hazel eyes.
His chiseled lips curve upward. “Okay then, here’s the plan—first, we run a few laps before eight, then you go in and see him. . . .”
I nod, unable to move away from him, from this incredible proximity and sensation of intimacy. And I think he kind of knows it. . . .
Because he leans in closer to me, so that I can almost feel his breath washing over my lips as he finishes: “. . . And after you get back, I’ll be waiting for you.”
Before I can say anything in reply, he suddenly closes the distance between us, puts his strong hand on my cheek and turns my head to the side slightly.
I am already reeling a little from the impossible touch of his fingers on my skin.
It’s then that Logan Sangre kisses me . . .
On my mouth.
Chapter 27
Let me repeat that.
On my mouth.
I’ve just been kissed by Logan Sangre, full-on, lips against lips.
I’ve been dreaming of this moment for the last three years. No, strike that—I’ve been unknowingly dreaming of this moment for as long as I can remember, since I first became conscious that there was such a thing as girls and boys and kisses, and that I was a girl and that somewhere out there was the one perfect boy for me. . . .
Talk about uber-pathetic, I know. . . . The idea of the one perfect soul mate—whether it be girl, boy, or flying chipmunk—is right out of an old-fashioned romance novel (okay, maybe not the chipmunk part, unless he’s a shape-shifting paranormal chipmunk who turns into a sexy tattooed hunk when the moon is full—yeah, you can tell I’m babbling even in my thoughts). Honestly, I should know better. But I can still dream. . . .
Furthermore, I’ve been dreaming of that one perfect boy seeing me and naturally falling in love with me at first sight. And then I visualized what it would be like to have that first magical kiss.
And now, the impossible has come true. My first kiss happened with Logan Sangre, the perfect guy of my dreams.
Okay, no, strike that again. This, just now, was my first real kiss.
Because there was another awful stupid kiss in first grade, a kiss that doesn’t really count except in the technical sense. It happened when a bunch of class bullies gathered around me and another nerdy loser kid—the wimpiest, skinniest, shortest little boy in class, the one who had the huge glasses and the stick arms and whose name I don’t remember—and they chanted “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” as they crowded around us and pushed and shoved the two of us together until the poor boy reluctantly planted a sloppy fish-wet smooch on my mouth. I remember shoving him away immediately and then spitting in disgust, wiping his disgusting saliva from my lips while saying “Eeeew, gross!”
That was my one and only “kiss” experience before the real thing just happened, seconds ago.
Wow. . . .
I had no idea that a boy’s lips could be so soft.
Because his lips that are so beautiful and naturally well-shaped are also soft as a dream as they press against mine with gentle sensuality, sending all kinds of electrical impulses coursing down my body. . . . My lips are now the center of the universe—all feeling, all sensation and focus is there.
Logan draws back, and his hazel eyes never look away. Meanwhile I exhale in wonder, and find that I am trembling.
“What—what was that?” I say like a total fool, even as my lips still remain parted.
He looks at me and then the faintest shadow smile comes to him. “I thought you might like a little support. . . . I felt like it—and like it was what you needed. I hope I didn’t screw up just now? Please let me know if I did!”
“Oh, no!” I blink rapidly, and my lips are still ringing like silent bells from the touch of his against mine. “That was—that was good! Thank you! I mean, it was amazing, and it was—”
“Gwen,” he says. “I really like you.”
I stare, just dumbstruck.
“And maybe I’m wrong,” he continues, “but I think there’s something there too on your end, something between us. I get the sense that you—”
“Yes!” I say. “I do!”
And then I realize how idiotic that sounds—it’s like I just said a formal marriage vow! And now he is probably going to be all disgusted and turned off by my needy clingy response. Oh lord, what have I done?
But apparently I have nothing to worry about.
“Oh, phew!” he says with a laugh, and makes a gesture of wiping fake sweat from his forehead. “Was worried you might not take it well. Or that you may not be interested.”
“I—I really like you too! I’m just amazed you don’t already have a girlfriend or something.”
He shrugs lightly. “I did. Back in St. Albans. She went to our school too, might have been in your class, even. But we broke up a while ago. It was just not working.”
“Oh . . .” I say.
“But, forget her, I want to get to know you.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not with anyone
, are you?”
I shake my head side to side negatively, like a giddy fool. Oh, if only he knew!
We resume walking, and Logan’s hand slips into mine.
It feels like lightning has struck me, and it’s coursing back and forth between us, in the spot where our palms and fingers touch. . . .
I am not exactly sure what happens for the next fifteen minutes. It’s all kind of a crazy happy blur. We get to the Arena Commons Building. . . . We run around the track, and we laugh as he pulls me by my hand at some point when I begin to collapse.
I end up in stitches, gasping from running and laughing at I don’t know what, while he grins and tells me silly funny things as we again race each other.
And then it’s almost eight o’clock.
“Ugh,” I say, with a glance up at the fifth level walkway of the stadium arena, “I have to go.”
He nods. “Go. I’ll be here.”
“Are you sure? It might take a while.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” There’s a determined light in his eyes that makes my heart warm.
And so I leave him at the track and head upstairs to Office 512 and my grim fate.
When I reach the upper walkway and knock on the office door, I am worn out from having just run laps. It’s actually good that I am almost too tired to care what Aeson Kass will think or expect of me, because I am still riding the emotional high from hanging out with Logan.
And yet . . . my pulse goes erratic, begins to sound once again in my temples, this time from nerves as opposed to exertion. But my agitation is relatively dull and not as bad as it could be.
Yeah, it really has been a very long day.
No one answers the door, but the light inside is on, visible through the shades. Once again I simply turn the handle and enter.
This time the office is lit up brightly, but although the various consoles and surveillance screens are live, there’s no one at the computer area. I look around and there’s Blayne Dubois on the sofa. He’s holding the familiar hoverboard, while his wheelchair has been moved neatly out of the way against the wall.
Okay, I wasn’t sure what to expect after today’s intense events, but it looks like our secret training arrangement with Blayne is still on. . . .
“Hey.” I approach the sofa lounging area and take a seat next to him. “Where is he?”
Blayne gives me a brief look. “He’s in the other room. Got some kind of important call, had to take it, said he’ll be back in a few.”
“What other room?”
Blayne points.
I stare where he’s pointing and for the first time notice a very discreet doorway that almost looks like it’s a part of the wall, or maybe a utility closet near the end of the sofa.
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t notice that door. What is it?”
“I’ve no idea. Probably more office space. Maybe it’s his private rooms.”
“I see. . . . Interesting.”
“Not really.” And Blayne turns away from me, flipping his hair out of his eyes.
“Okay—did he say what we’re supposed to do until he gets back?”
“No.”
Well, this is going to be awkward.
I sit, drumming my fingers against the sofa upholstery. Minutes pass.
“I heard what happened today,” Blayne says suddenly. He is still not looking at me but staring at the surface of the hoverboard that he’s holding upright. “Is it true that you actually levitated a whole shuttle just with your singing?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you do it?”
“No idea. But, I’m hoping that he will explain it to me at some point. That is, if he ever shows up.”
“That’s kind of mind-blowing.”
“Yeah. . . .”
Another long pause.
Blayne stops fiddling with the hoverboard and glances at me. “Did you have anything to do with whoever blew up that other shuttle?”
I frown at him. “No! Of course not! Do you seriously think I’d be involved in something awful like that? Jeez!”
He shrugs. “Whatever. Just had to ask.”
“Did Command Pilot Kass put you up to this?” I say with beginning irritation.
“No, he didn’t have to. It’s just me asking. Not that I really think you did it. If you did, it would be completely unlike you.” And Blayne’s lips curve into the faintest smile.
My mouth falls open. “Okay, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a good thing, Lark. Means I don’t think you’re an a-hole capable of evil villain deeds. You’re pushy and annoying, but not malicious.”
My jaw drops even more, and my eyebrows go up. “Oh, really?” I snort. “How well you know me! Jeez, thank you for the compliment from hell!” But I’m grinning.
“Any time,” he says.
“So, how are you doing?” I decide to change the subject and use this opportunity—since Blayne’s not in an entirely asocial mood—to talk to him.
“Fine, great. Insert your own adjective.” He runs his fingers against the matte surface of the hoverboard.
“Have you been practicing any of this stuff back at the dorm?” I say it and immediately realize how stupid my question is.
“How? I don’t have a hoverboard. The best I can do on my own is the hand Forms. But there’s no one to practice sparring with outside of class.”
“We can practice together,” I say.
He shrugs.
“No, seriously!” I lean forward. “I need someone to practice with anyway, since looks like I will be doing some extracurricular voice stuff or something. And this way we can keep it low-key and won’t have to explain things to anyone else. How about it?”
Blayne pauses, then after an exhalation, says, “Sure . . . okay.”
“Cool!” I smile at him.
The inner door opens and Aeson Kass comes in from the other room.
Immediately my heart does this weird, hard somersault-lurch-jerk in my chest and the pulse in my temples starts pounding. . . .
Oh, crap! Considering how I react to him, at this rate this guy is going to kill me. . . .
But Aeson does not seem to notice how I stiffen up, nor does he seem to care. His expression is indifferent and he appears very, very tired, judging by the hollows around his eyes.
“All right, let’s get started,” he says to both of us, never looking at me directly.
“So,” I blurt. “Does this mean I am still going to continue helping out with Blayne’s practice?”
“Yes, you are.” His answer is crisp and emotionless.
“What about my own practice? You said—”
“After this.” He interrupts me in a hard voice and turns to Blayne.
I get up and stand ready to assist with holding the board. I am mostly ignored.
It is very strange to be in such near proximity with someone who actively does not want to be around you. As I stand holding the board, watching Aeson and Blayne throw exquisitely precise form-based punches, inches away from my face, I cannot help feeling the new distance between me and the Atlantean.
He never once glances in my direction. All his instructions to me are spoken in a bland voice and accompanied with minimal gestures. At one point when I move in too closely, he stops and tells me to keep back. And again I only see his profile.
Ten minutes later, they finish sparring, and Aeson pauses, while Blayne is trying to catch his breath.
“There is one more thing I need to show you for today, and then we’re done.” This time Aeson turns to me also and I see his gaze flicker over me as he includes us both.
“At some point when you are on a hoverboard or anywhere else you find that you have to support or carry another person in mid-air—especially if the person is hanging off the board and you can only reach and grab them by the hand—we use a technique we call the Grip of Friendship.”
I watch in curiosity as Aeson then demonstrates. “Put out your hand,” he
tells Blayne. “Like this, palm down. And you—” he turns to me. “You reach underneath, to clasp his arm above the wrist. The insides of your arms touch. Both of you hold the other’s arm above the wrist.”
I do as I am told. I reach out and take Blayne’s warm hand, slightly slippery with sweat.
“Clasp firmly, and remember well,” Aeson says, looking at our arms and hands held together, and then at our faces. “This hold is similar to what your trapeze artists and acrobats use here on Earth when they hold each other up with arms and hands alone as they swing. It can save your life, and prevent a fall. No other mutual hold or grip is as secure as this one.”
“Got it,” Blayne says, flexing his fingers in the grip then releasing my arm.
I nod. “Okay.”
“Good,” Aeson says to Blayne. “That’s it for today, Candidate Dubois, you can go.”
“Thanks,” Blayne mutters, then turns to his wheelchair.
I watch the now familiar maneuver with which Blayne switches over from hoverboard to the chair. And then he heads out.
I am suddenly alone with Aeson Kass.
My face hurts from trying to keep it motionless, not even twitch a muscle, as I wait for Aeson to give me his attention.
“What now?” I say finally, while he goes to the console surveillance area and checks the various multi-screens.
He says nothing. Moments pass.
Finally he returns to me, and I notice that he is carrying something in one hand. His gaze is steady and unblinking as he looks at me coldly, stands before me, then opens his palm at chest level before him.
On it, are two small pieces of orichalcum.
“Your first lesson,” Aeson Kass says, and his eyes narrow with the finest trace of hostility that breaks through his otherwise impeccable composure, “is to be able to fine-tune and control the focus of your voice to such a degree that you can perform actions selectively on one object and not the other.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
His gaze bores into me with a dark relentless force that makes me want to retreat—to step back, to blink and look away.
I clutch my fingers slowly, and don’t.
“Levitate only one of these two pieces,” he says.