Cardinal Tower (Trinity Central Book #1)

Chapter 6

"You really did it this time, Castelle, what the hell were you thinking?"

Devon's pacing back and forth in front of me, rubbing his hands together in stress and anxiety. His brows are furrowed and his eyes are fixated on the ground in front of him. His hair is a mess and his shirt haphazardly buttoned. It looks like he hasn't slept in weeks. I have a pounding migraine and I rub my head in an attempt to clear my thoughts. I decided against telling him the conversation that conspired between Monica and I, knowing Devon, he'd blame himself for the situation.

As I lift my arm, I catch sight of that dark indent on my wrist. I absentmindedly trace the mark with my left index finger as I attempt to tune out the exasperated rant coming from my brother's trying to make sense of things. He pauses and looks at me, and I try to cover the mark with my left hand, though I know there's no point.

I don't blame him for rambling since I can't make sense of it either. The scene from the day before continuously plays in my mind. My vision tinting black, Monica running away in fear, black fire lighting around me, the desert igniting into the world's most mysterious wildfire. I don't understand what happened yesterday, but after I burned everything in sight, I passed out and woke up in a blank room with nothing but a single light bulb, a television screen hanging next to the door, and a sterilized cot in the corner.

I sat alone, staring at the ceiling, until my brother walked through the door with anger and worry striking his weary face. He continued to mutter to himself for the next twenty minutes and I've been staring at my arm with a blank expression. The more I think about my anger from before, I see the black slowly climb up my arm only to recede when I calm myself.

Something seems off about Devon, more than usual at least. He seems concerned, but his face doesn't show fear and sympathy, instead, he almost looks disappointed. Listening to the words being spit under his breath, I see his eyes widen in horror, and a quiet sentence escapes. What's going to happen to me? It's clear those words weren't meant to be heard, and I just pretend to not have heard them.

After a minute, he takes in a deep breath and exaggeratedly exhales, lowering his hands and scrunching his eyebrows together only to focus his vision on me again. "What happened, Castelle?" he enunciates each word very carefully.

It takes me a second to string together a coherent sentence, and when I do I realize it's still not really a response. "I wish I could tell you," was all I could manage after a few moments of silence.

He looked like he was about to speak again until a large, bulky, middle-aged man enters the room. He had a scar running down the left side of his cheek, a thinning scalp which clearly indicated his age, and a permanent scowl tattooed onto his burning glare. I would be intimidated but I noticed he walked bow-legged and with a limp, his back was hunched and he stood lopsided.

I could tell the limp was from a prosthetic leg he was trying, but failing to conceal, back and arm injuries could be from age but the emblem marked on his chest suggests it was from fighting. He donned the uniform of a high ranked officer; blue with white cuffs, and a triangle of stars splayed on his pocket. Despite the dangerous criminal seated in front of him, he wasn't scared, but disgusted, sneering right when he saw me. After a quick evaluation, I realized how easily I could overtake him if I really had to. And I might if he keeps looking at me like that.

He grabbed Devon by the arm and forced him outside. The fight seemed to have gone out of my brother, and I don't blame him. The man left the door wide open, and the notion of escape crossed my mind. I could've just gotten up and left, but before I could do anything, President Malachi Blaire entered the room.

A wave of exhaustion finally washes over me, the events of the last few days taking a real toll on my stamina. I walk over to the wall on my right and sit down, staring at my target across the room. As the pompous aristocrat walks towards me, I hold out my wrists in defeat, pleading for him to incarcerate me. Running takes so much effort that I simply don't have anymore.