Читать книгу Waterfell - Amalie Howard - Страница 8

1

UNMASKED

“Run!” the voices scream. “RUN, RISSA!”

I can barely hear them over the pounding of blood in my ears as my feet skim over the grass. I’m winded but can sense the others on my left flank, already closing in. I push my feet faster—I must get there before they do or we are lost. In the past few seconds, white netting looms in front of me like a spidery haze, just as a heavy shoulder jolts like a ton of bricks into my side. The breath is knocked out of me as over a hundred pounds of muscle collides into my side with the force of a speeding train. Adrenaline jerks along my limbs and I kick out, blindly swinging the wooden pole in my hand with all the force I can muster. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to go.

It’s now or never. I have to strike first or the moment’s gone.

The silence stretches into eternity as the momentum of the assault makes me keel backward, my shoulder dangling limply, and then there is nothing but the feeling of falling until the ground rushes up to meet me with an unforgiving crunch. The only sound around me is the rasp of my own labored groans combining with the wheeze of my opponent’s. Her eyes are as fierce as mine.

Either way, it’s over.

“GOAL!” the crowd cheers wildly just as the buzzer goes off, signaling that it’s halftime. It’s been one of the most intense games we’ve played all season. Bishop’s is the top-seeded field hockey team in Southern California and if they beat us, we’re out. Going into the second half of the game one goal up on them means everything. I roll to my knees, gasping as my cocaptain, center midfielder and best friend, Jenna Pearce, throws herself on top of me, screaming in unbridled delight.

“I don’t know how but you did it!” she shouts in my ear. “Getting us ahead at the last minute like that. I love you so hard right now.”

“Nice goal, Riss!” someone else yells. “Way to bring the fire!”

The ten-minute halftime in the guest locker room goes quickly. Coach Fenton is pleased that we’re ahead, but things can change on a dime especially with a team as aggressive as Bishop’s.

Coach clears his throat. “Okay, listen up. First off, great teamwork out there! Offense, follow your striker. Marin’s calls on the field and her shot on goal got us here. Let’s keep that drive going. Defense, you’ve been like a vise, let’s keep that up. Pearce,” he says, glancing at Jenna, “outstanding job manning the midfield line. Smith,” he snaps at a tired-looking brunette. “You’ve been letting your opponent get ahead of you the entire first half. Get your head in the game.”

“She’s too fast, Coach.”

He studies her, frowning. “Then Andrews is in.”

Jenna pokes me in the side and raises an eyebrow. Cara Andrews—second-string right forward, former friend and my current archnemesis—has been warming the bench the entire game. She used to be starting striker on the JV team freshman year until I got bumped up from right forward sophomore year. Now she’s been relegated to second string on the varsity team. I’d prefer to keep it that way, but it’s the coach’s call even if Jenna and I are the captains. I grit my teeth and keep my eyes on the coach. Cara’s presence on and off the field makes no difference to me.

Coach Fenton takes a long look around at all the sweaty, tired faces in the room. “Keep the momentum going, you earned it with blood and sweat. Don’t lose it now. We have a thirty-five-minute half to prove ourselves—show this team that the first half was just a taste of what we can do. Don’t take on any bad fouls and play a clean game. We’re the underdogs. Let’s own it. Come on, everybody hands in! Bring this home! Fighters on three—one, two, three...”

“Fighters!” we all yell in unison.

We troop fiercely onto the field, pumped full of adrenaline and courage. But by the time we’re three-quarters of the way through the second half, I’m so winded that I can barely breathe, and that’s saying a lot for me. The score is still one–zero with less than a quarter regulation time to go. We have to hold them off for seven more minutes. I glance down the field where Jenna and the center midfielder from Bishop’s are faced off in a bully. They thump the ground, then tap their sticks against each other and it’s on.

“Kate,” I yell to my left forward. “Watch your mark! If the ball comes to you, pass it to me or back to Jenna.”

“Got it.”

Jenna wins the ball and passes to one of her wingmen, who takes it up the right side of the field. Keeping my eye on my opponent, I charge up the middle just as my teammate passes Kate the ball. As instructed, she sends it my way, but within seconds, I am stormed by three defensive players from Bishop’s in some kind of blitz attack.

Dimly, I hear Coach Fenton screaming at me from the sidelines. “Pass it to Andrews, Marin! Andrews is wide-open! Marin, ANDREWS!”

Cara is indeed wide-open, but hell will freeze over before I pass her the ball. I can get the shot without her, even with the blitz. Ignoring the shouts from other teammates and my coach, I shove through the defensive line with otherworldly agility. They’re on me like glue and Cara is still open, but I’ve got the shot that will seal our victory.

My triumph is short-lived as one of the midfielders on the other team sweeps the ball out from under my nose and drives it back up the field, striking it down to her offensive line. Our collective breath stops as their striker takes her shot on goal with seconds to spare before the end of the game. If they score, our chances of holding them off in overtime are slim.

The ball flies through the air as our goalie makes a superhuman dive to the right, taking the hit on her right shoulder and deflecting the shot. Relief floods through me as the buzzer sounds, ending the game. High-fiving Kate, I turn to face a furious Jenna.

“What the hell was that?” Jenna hisses.

“What?”

“Out there with Cara. You nearly cost us the game. If it were any player but her, you would have passed the ball, and you know it.”

“I had the shot,” I say, ignoring my sudden surge of anger.

“You didn’t have a shot.”

“We won, didn’t we?”

“That’s not the point, Rissa. We play as a team. And everyone saw what you did out there.”

“No one cares. We won.”

But someone does care. I feel the weight of Coach Fenton’s stare all the way through the handshakes with the other team. He’s not happy that I ignored him, but it was my call on the field. I stand by it. He doesn’t say anything as I raise my chin in a half-defiant gesture and walk past him to hug our ecstatic goalie.

With a twinge, I see that she clutches her right shoulder on contact. “You okay, Sarah?”

“Best case, bruised. Worst case, dislocated. But either way, totally worth it.”

I meet Jenna’s eyes, the question in them clear. Was it?

Shrugging, I turn away and, in the next moment, Sarah and I are both picked up and carried along in a tide of girls toward the sidelines, where the bus is waiting to ferry us all back to school. The cheering is deafening for the ten-minute ride and continues into our own locker room. The only girl with a scowl on her face is Cara, but I refuse to let her ruin this moment for me.

“Nice job, Fighters,” Coach Fenton says after we shower and gather in the middle of the outer room. “That was close, but you did it. You stayed strong and won us the game. And that kind of teamwork is what makes us Fighters.” He doesn’t make eye contact with me, but for the briefest of seconds I feel that the last part of his sentence about teamwork is directed my way. I shake it off as a new wave of cheering and hollering makes its way around the room.

“Have a great weekend, team,” Coach Fenton says. “You deserve it. See you at practice on Monday.”

Grabbing my gym bag on the way out, I join in the whooping as the revelry spills into the hallway. Even with the near-miss, you couldn’t wipe the smiles off everyone’s faces—making it to the semifinals is a huge deal for a prep school that hasn’t been in the Spring Hockey Tournament playoffs for more than a decade. I’d been recruited into the game during my second day as a freshman at Dover Prep. As much as I hate to admit it, I have Cara to thank for that. Back when we used to be friends, we’d been joined at the hip and she’d insisted that we try out together. We’d both made the JV team—she as striker, and me as right forward. To me, it’d been a way to pass the time.

The plain truth is I can’t participate in any competitive water sports, even though swimming is more my thing than hockey. My guardians warned me about that, and at the time I’d yet to figure out what else I might enjoy. Field hockey fit the bill as well as any other sport, and two and a half years later, I’d become quite good.

More than good, a sneaky inner voice whispers. Starting striker on the varsity team as a junior is pretty much unheard of.

I acknowledge it with a smug grin. My natural athleticism isn’t a curse—it’s a gift. As long as I’m careful and don’t draw undue attention to myself, it’s a bonus. And it isn’t like swimming where I can clock a fifty-foot pool in less than ten seconds, almost half the time of the Olympic world record for freestyle, or hold my breath indefinitely. A smile curls my lip upward—technically I’m not holding my breath, but nobody really knows that.

“Riss,” a male voice says from behind me as I reach the parking lot. An odd magnetic feeling, as if someone has placed a wet cloak over my skin and is tugging on it at the same time, stops me in my tracks. I turn toward the pull automatically, my body registering its owner a half second before my brain does. Sure enough, the owner of the voice—and the sensation—is a tall skinny boy with a shock of blond spiky hair and moss green eyes, holding a skateboard under one arm.

The smile on my face slows and stops altogether as I spot the familiar critical look in his eyes. I sigh. Speio and I used to be so close, but lately, everything I do seems to piss him off—field hockey, my friends, school, all of it. I can’t do anything right, and it’s getting to the point that he’s becoming the nagging older brother everyone assumes he is. I know he means well. After all, his parents are tasked with keeping me safe, but it’s not like that’s his job.

“We need to talk,” he says, and grabs my arm to pull me to a bench across the street. He’s barely six months older than I am, but he’s strong and his fingers dig painfully into my upper arms.

“Ouch,” I mutter, pulling away and rubbing my already reddening skin. “What the hell, Speio?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” he says in a low voice.

“What? You mean the game?” I can hear the defensive tone in my own voice as he nods. If Speio called the shots, I would be the kid who sits in the back row at school and never answers any questions or sits in the library all day...under a protective tarp in flame-resistant gear. “You followed me to the game at Bishop’s?”

“I have to keep an eye on you,” he says. “And I saw you. I saw what you did at the end with the three defenders.”

“What did I do, Speio? Move a shade faster than normal?” I say as a wave of irritation replaces my earlier defensiveness. “Besides, what does it matter? Your parents are Handlers here. Not you. You don’t have to watch me every ten seconds!”

Speio flinches as if I’ve struck him, but then brushes it off. “I just don’t get it. Why do you try so hard to be like them?”

The soft comment strikes an unexpected nerve. “You know why, Speio,” I snap more harshly than I intend. “I have to fit in.”

My words are sharp but true. I’ve spent almost my whole life studying the other side, trying to understand humans and learn everything I could about them. And now, living here as a human, I’ve had to put theory into practice. As a student, I’ve absorbed everything academic they’ve thrown at me. As an athlete, I’ve enjoyed all the games, using my legs to run and my arms to swing a stick—things I’d never before experienced. Here, I’ve felt free for the first time in my life. Unfettered with who I am.

Now, a year after my father’s cryptic message, it seems that I’m only delaying the inevitable—facing what is left of my legacy. The truth is, I don’t want to think about any of it. So I’ll pretend that what I’m doing is still the same, until someone tells me it’s time to go back. And if that day never comes, maybe I’m fine with that, too. I’d rather be here, pretending to be young and carefree, instead of there, where everyone will look to me for the answers I don’t have.

My family’s legacy and my royal duty.

Speio stares at me. “But that’s just it. You don’t have to, because we don’t belong here. We’ve been here three years already, and you don’t even talk about going back. Waterfell’s your home. You have everything there, can’t you see that?”

Not anymore. I shake my head firmly. I may have been born in Waterfell, but my father was clear that I should never return—someone else was the ruler of our undersea home now. I grit my teeth, raising cold eyes to Speio. “I’m here to learn—this is part of my initiation cycle. You know that. And until I come of age to rule, we stay.”

“And then what?” Speio presses. “We go back? You won’t even talk about going back, and that’s what scares me. Because you don’t want to go back, do you?” His eyes widen at my expression. “That’s the truth, isn’t it? I can see it written all over your face when you’re with the humans. But you’re not them. Don’t you get that?”

My blood rushes in a slow surge at his rising tone. “Careful, Speio,” I tell him.

“Why?” he shoots back. “For being honest? You’re so selfish, Nerissa.”

“I’m selfish?” I repeat carefully, unable to keep the anger from seeping into my voice. Speio is only here because his parents, Echlios and Soren—both Handlers—are sworn to safeguard me. There’s nothing he can say that will make them break their blood oaths. It’s a fact, but still, something in his last words sneaks under my skin, unsettling me. Maybe because there’s truth in what he says or maybe I’m still rattled from Jenna’s accusations on the field. “Why am I selfish?”

“Because this is all about you,” he says. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

I glare at him, a thousand fiery emotions running through my brain. “It is about me. And yes, I’m the one who’s decided to stay here. But you’re free to go back if that’s what you want. Go, and be one with the home none of us have anymore.” Speio’s eyes widen, but I don’t stop. My words slow and become more enunciated, exhibiting the fact that English is not my native tongue. I hate the way the words taste in my mouth, so clipped and guttural. I also hate the way the commands come so quickly to me as if being a ruler is an inborn trait.

Because it is.

No matter what I look like, I can never escape who I am.

So I become the monarch. I become the royal with the clipped tones and the icy, immovable face. “You weren’t told because I didn’t want you to know. We don’t have a home anymore, Speio. The Gold Court is finished. Wake up.” He flinches at the cruel whip of my words. “We’re never going home. Do you understand that? We have nothing to go home to.” I gesture madly to the people walking around us and to the school behind me. “This is our home now. Accept it.”

“But you’re—”

“But nothing. I’m nobody.” I lower my voice, forcing a smile to my lips even though all I want to do is scream...scream all the pain and anger and loss seething through me at his naïveté. Speio’s expression is scared and confused. I gentle my voice. “Ask your parents. Get them to tell you the truth.” I pause and press my hand to his shoulder in a comforting gesture, an apology of sorts, but he shakes my arm off like it’s a snake. “Tell them that I commanded it.”

I walk across the parking lot without looking back, and jump into my car. My hands are trembling with emotion and my throat is dry like sandpaper. I gulp and lean my head against the cool window, heaving breaths into my lungs, hoping to staunch the tide of helpless anger that’s threatening to overwhelm me. But it’s too late. I need to get out of there before I do something ridiculous like throw up all over the floor of my Jeep. Flooring the gas pedal, my tires burn a black path across the asphalt as I peal out of the lot, gasping for air and heading blindly for the shoreline. I need to get to the ocean.

The drive seems endless even though it’s only a few minutes before I see blue on the horizon. Then I’m out of the car and running on the sand as fast as my legs can take me despite my exhaustion from the earlier hockey game. I don’t care. If I stop, I’ll break...I’ll collapse and never be able to get back up. My face is wet as the taste of salt dips into my mouth, making me ache even more. Driven by pain, my vision spirals into the raw memory.

Days after my father’s warning, Speio’s father, Echlios, came back from a brief trip to Waterfell to see me. He was different that day. I’d never seen a Handler express emotion, but he did. He repeated exactly what my father had told me, but I already knew. My father never would have risked contacting me otherwise.

“Your father is dead,” he said. “The High Court has been taken by Ehmora.”

“Ehmora?”

Echlios nodded. I wasn’t surprised. Queen of the lower Ruby Court, she belonged to one of the stronger families, always opposing my parents, always scheming to replace the Gold Court with the Ruby Court. She’d never been content to stay hidden. She wanted it all—the waters, the lands, every last bit of it. And now that she’d displaced my father, she’d do anything to take control of the High Court.

And once I came of age at seventeen, I’d be the rightful heir. No wonder my father had urged me never to return. Leaving Waterfell was a part of my grooming—a necessary part of my training to understand the world in which we lived, to share the lives of humans, before I assumed the position I was born into just like all the heirs before me. But my training turned into something more with the death of my father. Without a home to return to, I took refuge in the human world.

“How?” I asked.

“It looked like a hunting accident,” Echlios said, his face shadowed. But I knew better. My father was murdered.

“My father’s advisers? What of them?” I asked him.

“All missing, presumed dead. My lady, it’s not safe for you here. Ehmora’s spies will no doubt have told her where you are.”

I shook my head. If what Echlios said was true, this was the only safe haven I had left. Running meant I’d always be on the run, and I’d never give Ehmora that satisfaction. “No running. This is my home now. What does she want, Echlios?” I asked him, and then frowned. “What’s to stop her from just killing me, too?”

“She needs you.”

“Why?”

But I already knew why. Rule of the High Court in Waterfell was determined by succession of birth, unless there was no direct heir. Then each of the lower courts—Ruby, Emerald, Sapphire and Gold—could present a challenger. Whoever won would become the next king or queen, and their court the new High Court. Since I was the only living heir to my father’s throne, once I came of age, the High Court would rightfully be mine. But the truth was, I didn’t want it.

“Well, she can have the throne,” I said dully. “I don’t care.”

The thought of returning to Waterfell was a bitter one, with my father gone. All his people—my people—would be looking for someone to lead them, and I wasn’t that person. To them, I’d been a frivolous child who’d shirked every form of royal responsibility and been indulged by a doting father. They’d loved him but only tolerated me. They’d be better off with Ehmora as queen. I said as much to Echlios.

“You don’t mean that,” he said.

“I do. I belong here now. I’m never going back.”

As the memory fades, I’m hissing the word never through my teeth just as the smell of salt hits me like a rolling wave, and I pump my legs faster, stopping only to throw my backpack on the side of the pier and to kick off my shoes. Self-disgust pours through me in violent waves. I hate feeling so powerless. I hate the way that Speio looks at me as if I’m a loser...a coward who’s taking the easy way out. But it’s not like I have much of a choice, do I?

In seconds, I fling myself off the edge of the pier in a graceful swan dive, letting the icy water envelop every part of me, and suddenly I can breathe again. I ignore the startled glances of the surfers clad head-to-toe in wet suits and churn my arms in a strong front crawl that takes me effortlessly past the breakers. The water is cold for February, but it feels balmy against my bare skin as I duck underneath the last of the breaking waves to make my way underwater to where the ocean rocks with a gentle wide roll.

I’m careful to control my reaction to the water—it’s like life energy to me—and it takes work to stay focused and make sure I don’t transform when every part of me wants to give in to the magical pull of the sea. But I relax enough to let the cold salty water do what I came here for. I let it soothe me, fill me, pass over and through me until I am nearly faint with it.

Until I am calm once more.

It has been only moments but it feels like days. The arms of the water will always be my home, up near the surface or down in the deep.

Floating on my back watching the popcornlike clouds sail across the sky, I don’t immediately notice the surfer paddling toward me. Or maybe I do and hope that he will go away, but I can feel the changes in the water that tell me he’s coming closer.

“Hey, you okay?”

I turn around with a flippant remark on the tip of my tongue that gets stuck as I make contact with a pair of the oddest-colored eyes I’ve ever seen—a bottomless blue, as if he’d leached the color straight from the depths of the ocean. The eyes belong to a boy not much older than me. He paddles closer.

I must have imagined the strange, nearly navy color, or it must have been some trick of the sunlight, because on closer inspection, his eyes are more dark than light, almost blue-black. His teeth flash white at my look. Flushing, I realize that I’ve been ogling him for the better part of a minute.

“I’m fine,” I manage, tearing my gaze away from his odd eyes.

The boy shoots me another knowing glance before his gaze dips to my bare arms. “Um, you’re not wearing a wet suit. Aren’t you freezing?”

“I’m fine,” I repeat, a little irritated by his smile and the fact that my private moment of bliss has been interrupted by what seems to be some annoying local—even if he does have amazing eyes—one who probably doesn’t even go to school and spends all his days tanning and surfing. “Look, thanks for your concern...”

“Lo,” the boy supplies helpfully. At my blank look, he clarifies. “Name’s Lo.”

“Well, thanks, Lo. See you around.”

I duck-dive and swim a few lengths underwater before resurfacing several feet away. He hasn’t moved and is still staring at me with those strange dark eyes. Lo shoots another irritatingly white smile in my direction, a knowing grin as if he’s far too used to having that effect on girls. No effect whatsoever on me, of course. I’d been overemotional and caught by surprise.

“Catch you later, then,” he says loudly.

I watch him as he deftly paddles to catch a wave, his body sleek as a seal’s in his wet suit. He rides the wave expertly, skimming along the foamy lip of its crest to curl across its open face and twisting his body like a whip to bring the board up and around.

Lo’s a pretty good surfer, I admit to myself.

Then again, he probably surfs every available hour out of every day like half the other kids carving it up out there. He’s just another boy with a board, and I’ve certainly seen my share of them showing off their tricks, especially living in San Diego. Jenna’s boyfriend, Sawyer, is captain of the surf team at Dover, the reigning state champions. We’d always joked that if she and Sawyer ever had kids, they’d be born All-Star All-Americans just from the gene pool. Jenna likes her boys talented and driven, just as she is. It is one of the reasons I like her so much—she gives everything her all, from sports to studies to her relationships. She never shies away from anything.

Typical surfer-boy bravado aside, for some reason, I can’t tear my eyes away from Lo’s lithe form. He moves as if he is one with the wave, a part of it instead of riding on top of it, in some kind of fluid symmetry. He surfs like how I like to surf, something that Sawyer calls Zen-surfing.

As if sensing my stare, at the very last minute on his final turn, Lo rips backward on his surfboard to make eye contact with me one last time—a look that I can feel even as far away as he is—and winks before somersaulting backward into the surf.

I feel that last glance of his all the way to my toenails. Not even the icy touch of the water can calm the deep flush that tunnels its way through me.