Whisper (Whisper #1)(75)

At least, I convince myself that’s the reason I feel tears coming. Not because he’s just shown me a glimpse of the Ward I remember. The Ward I miss.

“Why don’t we just —” My voice comes out hoarse, so I clear it and try again. “Let’s just — let’s just get back to training.”

I watch as he visibly relaxes, a short nod of agreement all he offers me. The transformation of his features is instant, with all signs of emotion gone and his walls firmly in place once more. It makes me wonder if I imagined his outburst. If I read more into it than what it actually was. If it, like everything else with him seems to be, was an act.

With a sigh, I return my attention to the ground, and piece by piece I focus on building the haystack Ward directed me to create earlier. I put aside our discussion and lose myself in the task, moving the golden straw into position with my words and imagination. Only when I’m done do I turn to Ward again.

I’m not surprised when I can’t read his face. I can’t ever seem to read his face anymore.

When he continues to just look at me, I wave my hands, a gesture that appears to startle him, as if he hadn’t realized he was staring at me.

“Good job,” he says, taking in the haystack that I shaped roughly into the form of the Eiffel Tower. If you squint, tilt your head and turn all the lights off.

“One more activity, then we’ll call it quits for the day.”

My shoulders slump, but I show no other resistance — even as I ignore the pounding across my forehead that has yet to ease.

“You’ve been handling things well lately, so I thought we’d try something different this afternoon, out in the main room again,” Ward says, moving toward me.

Without being told, I banish my sad attempt at recreating the iconic French landmark and turn my focus back to him, wary but also curious about what he might have in store for me next.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


Ward asks me to hold out my hand, so I tentatively do so, and he places something in my palm. It’s not heavy, nor is it light. What it is, is invisible.

I ignore the tingles that wash over my skin as he uses his fingers to wrap mine around the object, then squeezes them until whatever I hold is secure in my hand.

“Um,” I say as he puts three deliberate steps of distance between us, “do you want to maybe explain?” I wave the invisible object I can feel but not see.

“The first day you were brought down here, there was a paintball skirmish going on outside.”

I remember that. The memory is vividly burned into my brain.

Reading my face, Ward continues, “You’re currently holding an unloaded paintball gun.”

“It’s invisible.”

Sadly, those are the exact words that come out of my mouth, which is why I find Ward’s response to be generous.

“Very astute, Jane.”

I can practically hear his unspoken “dumb-ass” tagged on the end.

“The weapon you’re holding has been cloaked by a Speaker to make it invisible, but nothing more.”

I automatically think of Jet and her ability, wondering who in Lengard has a similar power.

“The weapons your opponents will be using are also invisible, but they’re infused to generate and release paintballs at the Spoken word ‘bang.’”

His use of the word “infused” calls to mind Pandora’s transferring ability and the objects I have hidden in my wardrobe. Three days. I still have time. “My opponents?”

“You can’t play skirmish with only one person, Jane.”

Ward’s dry response irks me, but I’m guessing I’ll find out for myself soon enough.

“If my gun isn’t loaded like theirs, how am I supposed to shoot anyone?”

He peers at me for a long moment before inhaling and looking upward, staring at the ceiling as if seeking divine patience. “You’re a Creator, Jane. Use your imagination.”

Oh. Right.

Ward shakes his head and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a strip of blue material and throws it to me. I catch it with my free hand.

“Your task is simple,” he says.

As he speaks, I wedge my invisible gun between my knees so I can tie the makeshift armband around my left bicep. When I’m unable to manage such a coordinated feat on my own, Ward sighs heavily and strides forward to secure it in place for me.

“I’m listening,” I say as he retreats once more. I attempt to figure out if, after reclaiming my gun, I’m holding it the right way or at risk of shooting myself in the face.

“I don’t care if you’re on the winning team or the losing one, just as long as you maintain control of your ability,” Ward tells me. “All you have to do is create paint, using the same ‘bang’ word as everyone else so no one realizes your gun isn’t infused like the guns of the others. Think you can do that?”

“I’m assuming if I can’t, you’ll protect them from me?”

“That’s not the point,” he argues.

“But it’s still a point,” I say. When his eyes narrow, I roll mine in return and confirm, “Yes, Ward. I think I can keep enough control to create a little bit of paint. But just to be sure …”

I can’t ignore the opportunity he’s presented me, so I raise my hand, tug on what I think is the trigger — not that it matters, since the gun isn’t really loaded — and say, “Bang!”