Fate of Flames (Volume 1) (The Effigies, Band 1) - Softcover

Buch 1 von 3: The Effigies

Raughley, Sarah

 
9781481466783: Fate of Flames (Volume 1) (The Effigies, Band 1)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 148146678X ISBN 13: 9781481466783
Verlag: Margaret K. McElderry Books, 2017

Inhaltsangabe

Four girls with the power to control the elements must come together to save the world from a terrible evil in this “series opener [that] has it all” (Kirkus Reviews).

Years ago, everything changed.

Phantoms, massive beasts of nightmare, began terrorizing the world. At the same time, four girls—the Effigies—appeared, each with a unique power to control a classical element. Since then, they have protected the world from the Phantoms. At the death of one Effigy, another is chosen, pulled from her normal life into the never-ending battle.

When Maia unexpectedly becomes the next Fire Effigy, she resists her new calling. A quiet girl with few friends and almost no family, she was much happier to admire the Effigies from afar. Never did she imagine having to master her ability to control fire, to protect innocent citizens from the Phantoms, or to try bringing together the other three Effigies.

But with the arrival of the mysterious Saul—a man who seems to be able to control the Phantoms using the same cosmic power previously only granted to four girls at a time—Maia and the other Effigies must learn to work together in a world where their celebrity status is more important than their heroism.

But the secrets Saul has, and the power he possesses, might be more than even they can handle…

Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sarah Raughley is a Nigerian-Canadian novelist and a member of the Royal Society of Canada: the national council of distinguished Canadian scholars, scientists, and artists. She’s best known for her YA books: The Effigies Series, The Bones of Ruin Trilogy, and The Queen’s Spade duology. Raughley is also an English professor and public intellectual who has written for journals such as The Washington Post and CBC. You can find out more about her work at SarahRaughley.com.  

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Fate of Flames
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THE WAR SIREN WAILED.

I gaped at the windows, my eyes locked on the sky-grazing tower that stood out against the Manhattan skyline.

The Needle. Like all the others in the country, it was a tall, sleek eyesore glimmering day and night with bright streaks of the most obnoxious metallic blue running up and down its length like little live wires. It was supposed to be some kind of high frequency . . . something-something particular disrupter. Okay, I’m not great with technical terms. The important thing was that it was more than just a tourist attraction.

Eyesore or not, it was the only thing keeping everyone in the city from being slaughtered very messily.

Blinking lights meant we were safe.

And its lights had just blinked off.

No one in my algebra class said anything. No one could. We were screwed.

“Okay, ch-children, just remain calm,” Mr. Whomsley shouted, though he tripped over his own feet trying to get around his desk. His sunken eyes darted around the classroom as if looking for one of us to tell him what to do next. Except we were all looking at him now, at his gaping mouth and his greasy forehead beading with sweat. I could tell he was nervous, no, terrified—terrified because the War Siren that hadn’t blown in some fifty years had just broken into short, quick pulses.

The signal for a Category Three attack.

It was all from the Hirsch-Johnson Phantom Disaster Scale. Four categories. Categories One and Two were already bad, with damage to infrastructure and physical injury expected to varying, awful degrees. But Category Three . . . large-scale destruction . . . city-wide terror . . .

And that was just the third level.

Wait. Category Three?

Oh god. My nails grazed my desk. This isn’t happening.

“Don’t panic!” Mr. Whomsley shuffled the papers on his desk.

“Mr. Whomsley?” Janice Gellar sounded near tears. A lot of oh my gods harmonized with her whimpers in the background. My own included.

“I said don’t panic. Don’t panic!” He started grasping his tie, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Rick Fielding roared from the back of the classroom.

Then Whomsley finally got his beady eyes to focus, probably because he knew as well as I did that another two seconds of waffling and there’d be a bloody stampede for the door. I could already hear the doors of other classrooms opening, students filing out, teachers crying out over the terrified din: “Okay, everyone, now just proceed in a calm and orderly fashion.”

Calm and orderly. Like we weren’t all going to die soon.

“O-okay, students, remain calm.” Mr. Whomsley readjusted his toupee and sucked in a breath. “Proceed to the shelter in a . . . a calm and orderly fashion.”

Right. The shelter. Just like the handbook said, going to the school’s underground shelter was the first thing we were supposed to do “in the event of an emergency.” ’Course, nobody really read the handbook anymore because we hadn’t had to in years.

So after that . . . what were we supposed to do?

As I stood from my chair, I tried to remember what those two military guys had said at that special preparedness seminar back in September—the same one they gave every year. Bits and pieces came back to me:

In the rare case of a hostile attack, take only the essentials. Get to the shelter beneath the school within ten minutes of the first few warning pulses.

Ten minutes. Or was it five minutes?

Damn it, what had I been thinking, blogging instead of paying attention?

I slung my tote bag over my shoulder and pushed my chair in. The feet groaned against the tiles, but I could barely hear it beneath the siren’s steady rhythm and my own pulse beating in my ears.

“Orderly fashion!” Mr. Whomsley cried when people started shoving. “Orderly!”

In front of me, Missy Stevenson was muttering deliriously under her breath, and I couldn’t blame her. New York had one of the most efficient APDs in the world. This wasn’t supposed to happen to us.

“The National Guard should be here in ten to fifteen minutes,” Mr. Whomsley assured us.

True. And if there was a base nearby, the Sect could get here a bit faster. That meant there was actually a chance we could make it down to the shelter alive before the big fight scene started.

I inhaled an unsteady breath and nodded. Everything was good. Everything was going to be fine.

Except . . .

Ten to fifteen minutes would be quite enough time for a Category Three phantom to raze Manhattan to the ground.

As we flooded out of the classroom and joined the long, silent death march making its way through the labyrinthine halls, I noted the terror hollowing out the faces of students and teachers alike, even those with the good sense to at least pretend to be calm and collected. Deep down, we were all hoping for the best, praying to be saved. But what if the cavalry came too late? What if nobody came to save us?

Then I would end up being the city’s only hope.

Oh god.

I let the thought sink in as I gazed down at my clammy hands. If people knew what I could do . . . if they knew who I was, what I was, especially now, then they’d ask me to save them. Beg me. And I knew I couldn’t.

But if I didn’t do something . . .

I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart rattling. What the hell was I supposed to do?

“Oh god, there it is!” Missy Stevenson shrieked, and it was like all of Ashford High erupted into chaos. She was pointing out the windows, up at the sky, its bright blue darkening by the second. Dead, gray clouds crackled with frantic energy, but nobody was expecting lightning. We knew better.

We saw it instead.

It was as if the clouds themselves were distended. A dark, twisting funnel slowly drooped out of the gray masses, but the farther it descended, the clearer its shape became.

I ran to the windows with everyone else, clutching the metal bars separating us from the glass. I’d never seen one before, not up close. It looked like a coiled snake detangling itself from a net, its long, thick body trying to shake itself out of the clouds. And as it slowly dipped into the stratosphere, I could see its body of gray mist hardening, an armor of black bones sprouting down its length, gripping its skin.

A phantom. A big one.

The metal bars bit into my palms, pinching the blood flow.

“Keep moving, students!” A teacher began shoving kids forward. “Get to the shelter. Now!”

I wasn’t gaping at the sky anymore. My eyes were fixed on the chaos down below. The NYPD was doing a pretty crappy job of getting citizens off the street in a calm and orderly fashion, though a giant freaking monster appearing from nowhere probably made the task all the more difficult. Traffic had come to a full stop with too many cars going in too many directions. People were abandoning their vehicles altogether and fleeing on foot, though some multitasked and captured the chaos on their phones as they ran. It was bedlam down there.

Nobody seemed to notice the tiny girl who’d hidden underneath a parked Jeep.

“Keep moving, students!”

Just go to the shelter, Maia, I told myself. It was okay; the police would take care of it.

I managed to tear my eyes away from...

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Verlag
Margaret K. McElderry Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2017
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
148146678X
ISBN 13 
9781481466783
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
384
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Simon and Schuster Netherlands BV, GPSR Europäische Union
info@simonandschuster.nl

Herculesplein 96
AA Utrecht
3584
Niederlande

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ISBN 10:  1481466771 ISBN 13:  9781481466776
Verlag: Margaret K. McElderry Books, 2016
Hardcover