“Not at all,” Kilorn replies. I want to smack the grin right off his face, and he knows it. “After you, Mare.”
“Fine,” I force through a clenched jaw.
Fighting my natural instinct to slink away from attention, I take a few steps toward the newbloods. A few more. A few more. Until I reach them, Cal and Kilorn alongside. In the Notch, I didn’t want friends. Friends are harder to say good-bye to. That hasn’t changed, but I see what Kilorn and Julian are doing. I can’t close myself off from others anymore. I try to force a winning smile at the people around me.
“Hi. I’m Mare.” It sounds stupid and I feel stupid.
One of the newbloods, the teleporter, bobs her head. She has a forest-green Montfort uniform, long limbs, and closely cropped brown hair. “Yeah, we know. I’m Arezzo,” she says, sticking out a hand. “I jumped you and Calore out of Archeon.”
No wonder I didn’t recognize her. The minutes after my escape are still a blur of fear, adrenaline, and overpowering relief. “Right, of course. Thank you for that.” I blink, trying to remember her.
The others are just as friendly and open, as pleased to meet another newblood as I am. Everyone in this group is Montfort-born or Montfort-allied, in green uniforms with white triangles on the breast and insignia on each bicep. Some are easy to decipher—two wavy lines for the nymph-like newblood, three arrows for the swift. No one has badges or medals, though. There’s no telling who might be an officer. But all are military-trained, if not military-raised. They use last names and have firm handshakes, each one a born or made soldier. Most know Cal on sight and nod at him in a very official manner. Kilorn they greet like an old friend.
“Where’s Ella?” Kilorn asks, directing his question at a man with black skin and shockingly green hair. Dyed, clearly. His name is Rafe. “I sent her a message to come down and meet Mare. Tyton too.”
“Last I saw, they were practicing on top of Storm Hill. Which, technically”—he glances at me, almost apologetic—“is where electricons are supposed to train.”
“What’s an electricon?” I ask, and immediately feel foolish.
“You.”
I sigh, sheepish. “Right. I figured that about as soon as I asked.”
Rafe floats a spark over his hand, letting it weave between his fingers. I feel it, but not like my own lightning. The green sparks answer to him and him alone. “It’s an odd word, but we’re odd things, aren’t we?”
I stare at him, almost breathless with excitement. “You’re . . . like me?”
He nods, indicating the lightning bolts on his sleeves. “Yes, we are.”
Storm Hill is just like it sounds. It rises at a gentle incline in the middle of another field at the opposite end of the base, as far from the airfield as possible. Less chance of hitting a jet with a stray bolt of lightning. I get the sense the hill is a new addition, judging by the loose earth beneath my feet as we approach the summit. The grass is new growth too, the work of a greeny or newblood equivalent. It’s more lush than the training fields. But the crown of the slope is a mess, charred earth packed flat, crisscrossed by cracks and the smell of a distant thunderstorm. While the rest of the base enjoys bright blue skies, a black cloud revolves over Storm Hill. A thunderhead, rising thousands of feet into the sky like a column of dark smoke. I’ve never seen anything like it, so controlled and contained.
The blue-haired woman from Archeon stands beneath the cloud, her arms outstretched, palms up to the thunder. A straight-backed man with swooping white hair like a wave’s crest stands back from her, thin and lean in his green uniform. Both have lightning-bolt insignia.
Blue sparks dance over the woman’s hands, small as worms.
Rafe leads us, Cal close at my side. Even though he deals with his fair share of lightning, the black cloud puts him on edge. He keeps glancing up, as if expecting it to explode. Some blue flashes weakly in the darkness, illuminating it from within. Thunder rumbles with it, low and thrumming like a cat’s purr. It shivers my bones.
“Ella, Tyton,” Cal calls. He waves a hand.
They turn at their names, and the flashing in the clouds abruptly stops. The woman lowers her hands, tucking away her palms, and the thunderhead starts to dissolve before our eyes. She bounds over in leaps of energy, trailed by the more stoic man.
“I was wondering when we would meet,” she says, her voice high and breathy to match her dainty stature. Without warning, she takes my hands and kisses me on both cheeks. Her touch shocks, sparks leaping from her skin to mine. It doesn’t hurt, but it certainly perks me up. “I’m Ella, and you’re Mare, of course. And this tall drink of water is Tyton.”