But it always comes down to me. I am always the one to confront each newblood, to explain what they are and what kind of danger they pose to the king. Then they are given a choice, and they always choose to live. They always choose us. We give safe passage to their families, directing the ones left behind to the various sanctuaries and bases operated by the Scarlet Guard. To Command, as Farley says, her words more cryptic every time. A few are even sent to Tuck Island, to seek the safety of the Colonel. He might hate newbloods, but Farley assures me he won’t turn away true Reds.
The newbloods we find are afraid, some angry, but a few are surprised, usually the children. For the most part, they don’t know what they are. But some do, and they are already haunted by the mutations of our blood.
On the outskirts of the city of Haven, we meet Luther Carver. A young boy of eight with wispy black hair, small for his age, the son of a carpenter. We find him in his father’s workshop, excused from school to learn the trade. It takes very little convincing to get Mr. Carver to let us in, though he eyes Cal and even Nix with suspicion. And the boy refuses to look me in the eye, his tiny fingers twitching with nerves. He trembles when I speak to him, and insists on calling me lightning girl.
“Your name is on this list because you are special, because you are different,” I tell him. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
The boy shakes his head violently, his long bangs swiping to and fro. But his aptly named father stands like a guardian at his back. Solemnly, slowly, he nods his head.
“It’s all right, Luther, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I reach across the table, past intricate designs that are certainly Carver’s handiwork. But Luther’s fingers ghost away from my touch and he pulls his hands into his lap, squirming out of my reach.
“It’s nothing personal,” Carver says, putting a soothing hand on his son’s shoulder. “Luther’s not—he just doesn’t want to cause you any harm. It comes and goes—it’s getting worse, you see. But you’re going to help him, aren’t you?” The poor man sounds pained, his voice cracking. My heart goes out to him, and I wonder what my father would be like in such a position. Faced by people who understand your child, who can help—but must take him away from you. “You know why he is this way?”
It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times, a question almost every newblood asks of me. But still I have no answer. “I’m sorry but I don’t, sir. We only know that our abilities come from a mutation, something in our blood that can’t be explained.”
I think of Julian and his books, his research. He never got to teach me about the Divide, the ancient moment when silver blood split from red, only that it happened and resulted in the world now. I suppose a new Divide has begun, in blood like mine. He was studying me before his capture, trying to figure out the answer to this exact question. But he never got the chance.
Cal shifts at my side, and when he rounds the table, I expect to see the intimidating mask he keeps so close. Instead, he smiles kindly, so wide it almost reaches his eyes. Then he bends, kneeling down so he can look Luther in the eye. The boy is transfixed by the sight, overwhelmed not just by the presence of a prince but by his undivided attention.
“Your Highness,” he squeaks, even trying to salute. At his back, his father is not so proper, and his brow furrows. Silver princes are not his favorite guests.
Still, Cal’s grin deepens, and his eyes remain on the boy. “Please, call me Cal,” he says, and extends his hand. Again, Luther pulls away, but Cal doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I’ll wager he expected it.
Luther flushes, his cheeks pulsing a dark and lovely red. “Sorry.”
“Not at all,” Cal replies. “In fact, I used to do the same thing when I was little. A bit younger than you, but then, I had very, very many teachers. I needed them, too,” he adds, winking. In spite of his fear, the boy smiles a little. “But you just have your dad, don’t you?”
The boy swallows, his tiny throat bobbing. Then he nods.
“I try—” Carver says, again gripping his son’s shoulder.
“We understand, sir,” I tell him. “More than anyone.”
Luther nudges Cal with his shoe, his curiosity overcoming all else. “What could make you afraid?”
Before our eyes, Cal’s outstretched palm bursts into hot, roiling flame. But it is strangely beautiful, a slow burn of languid, dancing fire. Yellow and red, lazy in movement. If not for the heat, it would seem an artistry instead of a weapon. “I didn’t know how to control it,” Cal says, letting it play between his fingers. “I was afraid of burning people. My father, my friends, my—” His voice almost sticks. “My little brother. But I learned to make it do as I wished, to keep it from hurting the people I wanted to stay safe. So can you, Luther.”
While the boy stares, transfixed, his father is not so certain. But he is not the first parent we’ve faced, and I am prepared for his next question. “What you call newbloods? They can do this too? They can—control what they are?”
My own hands web with sparks, each one a twisting purple bolt of perfect light. They disappear into my skin, leaving no trace. “Yes, we can, Mr. Carver.”
With surprising speed, the man retrieves a pot from a shelf, and sets it in front of his son. A plant, maybe a fern, sprouts from the dirt within. Any other would be confused, but Luther knows exactly what his father wants. “Go on, boy,” he prods, his voice kind and gentle. “Show them what needs fixing.”