The Reformation Read online

  “Oh my, the thought I should use my own gun, never occurred to me. Well, smartass, it combusted in the fire you set off in the stronghold, remember?” he snarled, eyes trained on the mirror, watching the rebels following them.

  “Celine won’t be too keen on the whole fire idea.”

  “Well, it was the right one,” he grudgingly admitted. “Too many people saw us as soon as she started to mug up.”

  “It wasn’t her fault, Jan,” Noticing Fey’s white knuckles—clutching the steering a little too tightly for Jan’s taste—allowed him to swallow back his response to that statement.

  “Drive as straight as you can, I’m going to try and eliminate some of our following. And whatever you do, don’t drive towards the palace until I tell you to; no one can know of our affiliation.”

  “You sure you got it?”

  “Seeing as I’m the only one fit for the job right now, I’ll manage, thanks. Can you slow down a bit?”

  Fey slammed the brakes, casing the entire car to jerk, and for Jan to ram back into his seat. Cursing, Jan massaged the back of his head. “I said slow down, not kill me, please.”

  “It’s a learning process, you know,” Fey stated, pressing on the acceleration again.

  She continued on, but Jan ignored her, his ears pricking up at a different sound, and his vision becoming jumpy. Something was up. Something was-

  “Duck!” Fey didn’t even question him, slamming the breaks as she crouched low. A bullet shot through their front window.

  Crouched on the dirty floor, Fey decided to make small talk. “Did you know that you actually have a sense of sarcasm when you’re pissed?”

  “Fey!”

  “Killjoy,” Sighing, she gave him the run-down. “They probably took a short-cut to cut us off.”

  “Are you sure that’s all of them?”

  “Positive. The rest are burning up, remember?”

  “Right. You stay here, make sure Celine gets put out of the firing line.”

  “And you?”

  “Let’s pray none of them have a steady hand.”

  Her dark eyes widened as she realized his intentions. “You’re-” Jan opened the door, and in a fluid motion shot 2 of them down. A bullet whizzed right by him, and he used the door as his cover.

  “You- are- insane!” Fey yelled at him, enunciating each word with frustration, pulling Celine down.

  “There are only 3 left.”

  “And you’re planning to take them?”

  “Get the car ready for a quick-” he flattened himself against the truck, narrowly dodging a bullet, “escape.”

  She rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything, which he took as a good sign. Counting backwards from three, bracing himself, he stepped out from his hiding spot, and shot.

  The guy crumpled down at his first shot, but the second one was much harder to get, and was fighting back, with the third one supporting him. After a few seconds of back and forth firing, he managed to get the third person down, but the second one was still putting up a show. “Get hit, would you?” he muttered to himself.

  “Not sure it works that way. Get in, don’t shut the door,” Fey yelled at him.

  “Are you insane-”

  “Do it,” she ordered, and he did so hesitantly. As soon as he was seated, she took off, driving until she was parallel to the enemy.

  Where did he go? Suddenly, Jan saw him, springing up from nowhere, and Jan saw that his gun was pulled out and aimed straight at-

  “Fey!”

  Crack.

  He fell back, a well-positioned shot leaving him lying on the pavement, bleeding. Jan swiveled in his seat to see Fey, holding a still smoking gun, one hand on the wheel.

  “Where did you get from?”

  “Celine didn’t seem to be in need of a gun.”

  “Speaking of which, we should pull her up.”

  “We have no time, she’s been-” she was cut off by a deep, rattling sound, and Jan didn’t need to turn to know what it was, but he did anyway. Crimson was sprayed over the seat, where Celine’s head lolled back, a sheen spread over her brow. “Coughing like this,” she finished, disappointed.

  “I suppose that means that you’re stuck driving?”

  “Hold on tight, we’ll get there,” Jan wasn’t sure if that was made for him or Celine.

  Whoever it was for, they needed to get to the palace, ASAP.

  …

  “Why do we need to be here again?”

  Jan sighed, resting his head against the wall. They were both trapped in a small sterile room, which was their quarantine. “You said it yourself, Downcley. Scorchen is highly contagious,” he explained, but it didn’t satisfy Fey.

  “But locking us in here? And together?” she said, clearly frustrated. For once, January actually found himself agreeing with her, but hell if he said anything to confirm that.

  Instead he just closed his eyes, coolly saying, “I’m not thrilled either.”

  “You know, if we had taken the blood test, we could’ve prevented all thi-”

  “Are you kidding me right now?” Jan said, disbelieving as his eyes flew open. “I told you our options at the time, and you supported me.”

  She turned obstinately. “Hopefully she’ll be alright.”

  “You know that she won’t make it, right?”

  She swerved around, looking at him accusingly. “And you just want her out of the way, so you can become the Head Strategist, don’t you? Well newsflash, we’re doing everything in our power to make sure that she makes it.”

  “I never said anything about the position Downcley, so stop assuming,” he informed her coldly. He continued on, just as purposefully and distant as before, “Do you know how Scorchen works?”

  She stared forwards, not daring to move.

  January continued. “Well, it attacks the immune system. Surviving Scorchen is rarely heard of, and in case you didn’t realize, she showed almost all the symptoms within an hour of contact. That’s not good chances for anyone, even a girl with the king’s resources behind her.”

  “You’re so cold. So heartless.” She sunk down, sitting on the wall opposite to Jan.

  “I’m being a realist, Downcley. Have you ever even seen someone suffer from Scorchen?”

  “You mean to tell me that you have?”

  “It sucks,” he told her, his voice breaking at the end. He felt hot tears pricking at his vision, memories clouding his thoughts.

  …

  “Where are they Aunty Ann?”

  The woman he called Aunty Ann smiled at him, red eyes pairing her watery smile perfectly. “They’re not going to be back for some time, January. But I have some news for you!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. We’ll be going to London,” The boy on her lap was so excited that he missed the sad look on her face, the utter misery she felt, knowing what she was going to do next.

  …

  “Are you crying?” He looked up at the ceiling, not daring to look at Fey while tears raced down his cheeks.

  “I’m just trying to make sure that you don’t raise your hopes too high, Fey. They always let you down.”

  …

  “Where did Aunty go?”

  …

  Fiercely wiping his tears away, January caught sight of Fey’s shell-shocked expression.

  “Jan, I-”

  Z’s voice cut her off, the cracking quality of his voice magnified by the speakers.

  “You guys are clear. If you both are alive in there, of course,” he jested somberly, the joke sounding completely and utterly out of place in the quarantine room’s tension.

  Jan stood up, brushing the dust off his clothes. As he started to make his way to the door, Fey stood up and called after him. “Jan. I’m so sor-”

  He pushed the door open and left.

  Twenty

  SHE was cold. So cold. Yet burning with fervour.

  Jax was on watch shift, watching Celine burn up with what might be her death. She shi
fted in her slumber, making small whimpers of pain. Although Jax knew that her skin was burning hot, he could only see the sweat that cast a sheen to her skin. Her hair was neatly arranged on the pillow, though it didn’t feel right. Seeing Celine like this, wasn’t right.

  She had been in a coma-like state for 12 days now. And between lifeless unconsciousness, and in a hazy state of conscious confusion to cough up blood, he didn’t know which was worse.

  He wanted to see her eyes, the green melting into a rich brown, again. But when she was awake—well, partially awake—he forgot all of his wishes. Every so often, she would open her eyes and come into a delusional state of consciousness to cough up wet splatters of crimson. Sometimes, they managed to get some water directly into her, through one of Z’s innovations, but it never seemed to do much.

  He had seen the illness eat away his father, but never this close. Never close enough to touch her, but he would be able to, if it wasn’t for the transparent glass that surrounded her. Jax vetoed the idea of Celine being kept in that small, almost tomb-like structure, knowing just how claustrophobic she was. But, as Areya had helpfully reminded him, the king was better off not suffering from Scorchen as well.

  The fact that January and Fey had gotten through quarantine without a hitch was kind of amazing. They passed the test with flying colours, deemed 100% free of Scorchen. The fact that his three Strategists had been able to detect that Celine had contracted the illness, was a blessing. And the fact that one of NNR’s leading medics from the program to re-integrate healing into the (newly revised) education system that Jax had made, was another piece of luck.

  But Jax still didn’t feel lucky, or blessed, or amazing. He should, and he knew that, but he didn’t. Scorchen had already taken so much from the nation. From him. He couldn’t afford another loss. Not so soon.

  But part of him considered her, rather than him. He knew that it was greedy for him to wish that she made it through; heavens knew what agony she might be going through. What if it just wasn’t worth it? What if she would never be the same? What if he was the reason for that?

  Positive thoughts. First, they would make sure that she would make it out alright, then he would deal with the consequences.

  “I thought you had long retired to your royal comfiness of slumber, Your Majesty.” Jax didn’t even have to turn to recognize the playfully-mocking voice of Z, but he did anyway.

  “Tonight was my shift,” Jax explained, and although he fought his hardest to keep the weariness out of his tone, he knew that it seeped through, because Z suddenly looked serious, and pulled up a chair beside the king.

  “And so was yesterday night,” the mechanic plainly stated. “And the night before.”

  “I was-” Z held up an adamant finger to silence Jax’s protests.

  “None of that working, nonsense. Don’t think we haven’t noticed the abundance of your name on the shift list.”

  “But then why did none of you say anything about it?”

  Z let out a sigh, and suddenly, the weight on the boy’s face made Jax realize with a shock, that this boy, this man, in front of him, was much older than he always appeared to be. With his joking demeanor, and always present jovial smirk, made him seem so young, but in reality, he was older than Jax was, wasn’t he?

  “We all know that we have different ways of how we deal with all of this,” he waved in the general direction of Celine’s tossing body, not daring a peek at her, “And the way you do it, is by sacrificing all of your quite necessary rest to watch Celine—which is actually pretty creepy, might I add.”

  “Speaking of necessary rest, what happened to yours?” Jax asked. Z’s face was frozen in surprised curiosity, but the look quickly melted away to be replaced with a charming smile.

  “You got me. I had a nightmare, couldn’t sleep.”

  “For the past 3 weeks?”

  “And a half,” he responded immediately, sarcasm laced in so well, Jax would’ve thought Z had made it an art by now. Then, the mechanic let out another heavy sigh, and his voice morphed into a much more thoughtful, deeper one. “It’s been getting worse. But I wouldn’t like any of the others to know; we already have enough on our plates.”

  Jax gave him an affirmative nod. “Of course.”

  They were silent for a minute, before Z spoke up again, but not in his usual light tone. “How is she?”

  “What do you expect?” Jax asked back, standing to let go of his pent-up frustration.

  “Glad to know Fey’s snarkiness is rubbing off on someone,” Z drawled.

  “Have you ever seen someone die from Scorchen before?” Jax asked, and Z looked away. “It’s horrible.”

  “I bet. You go and get some rest.”

  “No.”

  “You aren’t going to make Celine any better by yawning through all your duties, or looking like death itself, for that matter.”

  “And you know this because?” Jax adamantly asked, waiting for Z to fill in the blank. The latter just gave the king another one of those weary looks and pushed the king towards the door.

  “Because I’ve done it too. Now let me waste away, would you?” Z let out a tired smile, “I’ll call you if she does anything. I promise; pink incognito flamingo will be our word.”

  Jax let out a terse laugh, though he was smiling anyway. “Thanks Z,”

  “Thanks instead of thank you? You’re losing your touch.”

  And with another unnecessary flourish of a bow, Z turned away from Jax, and left the young king with no other choice, but to creep into his bed and fall into a much-needed rest, not even bothering to change.

  Twenty-One

  Z STARED at the palms of his hands. On the side of his left hand, was a long skinny scar if you looked close enough. It was a piece of his life that he never knew; he had woken up with that scar without any previous knowledge of what occurred that left him with that.

  He was surprised when Jax raised the point of Z’s skipped sleep; when one person noticed the circles under his eyes, darkening with each passing day, it showed how careless he was getting. Z didn’t want pity, he didn’t want sympathy. Because that wouldn’t help him with anything, would it? It wouldn’t make the nightmares disappear or the screams that haunted his sleep vanish. It would do more harm than good; adding stress to everyone’s already towering pile of problems. So Z’s own problem’s best be a silent struggle.

  It was the fires that scared him to death. Then the gleam of the variety of metal, sharp tools, so useful for punishing- oh god. Z stumbled back, overwhelmed by a new surge of memory.

  …

  “Millinde. I can do better. Just give me another chance, I swear I won’t let you down,” the adolescent voice of Z rang out, pleading and frantic.

  There was woman holding a case, her dark eyes not nearly as friendly as the kind smile she was offering him. Her dark hair was pulled back, her immaculate white pantsuit was crease-less, and her long nails were tapping against the metallic case. “How do I know that you aren’t making me false promises? Don’t you remember yesterday?”

  The memory of yesterday, caused Z to rapidly nod, sputtering out another feeble, “This time it’s different,” She clicked her tongue, opening the case that was bringing so much terror into the young boy’s life.

  “Maybe you will. But this is a small reminder of what happens, if there ever is a next time.” His right fist balled up immediately, all of his muscles tensed on instinct. He knew what was coming.

  Despite the fact that his eyes were clenched shut, he knew that she was walking forward, the clicking of her heels on the polished floor drawing closer.

  And then there was a sharp pain, and Z heard a gasp hitching his throat.

  His entire left side was shuddering, pain that he couldn’t describe, blurring his vision. A blood-curdling scream filled the air, and only after did Z realize that it came from his own mouth. He struggled against the restraints, the cold metal biting into his skin as his body spasmed against it in burning agony.


  Meanwhile, Millinde stood back, watching with amusement. “Hmm, this one wasn’t that bad. I think we might have found a favourite, my young soldier.” She then stepped forward and quickly unlatched the bounds, the syringe still in her right hand, as to warn him to behave. And even if he had the thought to fight in his mind, he wouldn’t be able to, because as soon as the metal was out of the way, he slumped forward, hitting the ground.

  Head on the cold ground, he watched as her blood-red heels walked away, before stopping. There was the smell of the disinfectant, which stung his nose. Despite the overwhelming stench of it, Z fought back a smile. They had done this for days; he knew that when she went to sanitize her hands, it was done. For now, at least.

  The acknowledgment of the taste of iron in his mouth and the smell of the disinfectant, was what echoed in his racing thoughts as Millinde suddenly brought down the case on his head, sending him spiraling into the pitch-dark depths of his consciousness.

  …

  Z blinked, fighting back the urge to hurl at the memory. It was coming back to him, slowly and steadily, but most certainly not pleasantly. The team knew of his nightmares, but this? Blacking out in the middle of something? —no way.

  His hand quickly darted to his pocket, pulling out his lighter, flicking the flame into existence. He kept the flame steady, watching it intently while he slowly pushed away his memories of a burning city, or death and destruction, of a world he didn’t recognize despite living in.

  Before it had only been of bright lights in a big city. Of a smiling woman, warm and bright, and more beautiful than anything Z had ever seen. He had seen a little boy with the same crooked smile and glint in his eye that he saw in the mirror every day. And occasionally, he got the entre thing; a glimpse into the life that he would’ve had. It was the part of why he wasn’t living that life anymore that he was trying to figure out.

  A small whimper broke his concentration on his flame, so he put away the light and looked up in concern to see how Celine was holding up. She was still in her delirium and seeing her so lifeless made Z look away suddenly. He never said that he was the strongest out of them all, but he definitely wasn’t faint of heart; this, for some reason though, made his stomach turn and twist into tangled knots.