Whisper Read online

  But despite my protest, Messalina remained persistent—she would not give in easily. “Don’t forget, you’ve left your world far behind. You’re in my world now. So please, why don’t you just try to trust me? Why don’t you just take a chance, try on the dress, and see for yourself?”

  While I had no idea why it was so dang important to her, I did know there was no use in fighting her. From what I could tell, we were equally matched in the stubborn department, which meant the longer I fought, the longer it would take me to get down to business, finish the job, and get the heck out—something I desperately wanted to do.

  I heaved a loud sigh—leaving no doubt as to just how reluctant I was to cooperate—then I surrendered to the dress, allowing her to slip that filmy, blue fabric right over my head.

  Her fingers moved deftly, quickly, as she tucked, and draped, and tied, and pinched, and pulled, and fussed—all the while making soft, little clucking sounds as her tongue repeatedly hit the roof of her mouth. And even though I was tempted to peek, she’d given strict orders that I was to either close my eyes, or stare straight ahead. I wasn’t allowed to look at the final result, until she gave the OK.

  The moment the dress was in place, she started messing with the rest of me as well. Twisting and pulling at my hair, pinning it in place with all manner of shiny jeweled ornaments she’d plucked from the table beside her. Then, after attaching some earrings to my ears, and clasping a heavy, jeweled necklace behind my neck, she told me to close my eyes—well, it was actually more like a demand—and since I was already in the mode of obeying, I did.

  “And keep ’em closed,” she said, as soon as I’d done as she asked. “No peeking until I say when. Promise?” I sighed in reply, fully convinced she was setting me up for what would only amount to a major fail on both our parts.

  Her feet padding softly against the floor as she moved to wrestle with something in a corner—her sudden return announced by the hum of her murmuring voice at my ear, saying, “Now, I want you to think very hard. I want you to concentrate not on the image you’re convinced that you’ll see, but rather on the one you desire to see.”

  “You mean, like … manifesing?” My entire being drooped in frustration, sure it would never work.

  While I was well used to manifesting—well used to imagining whatever it is that I wanted—things like clothes, and books, and iPods, and new furniture for my room—and then seeing it appear right before me like the magic it was—I knew for a fact that it would never work on myself. I mean, it’s not like I hadn’t already thought of that—it’s not like I hadn’t already tried.

  But, for whatever reason, Messalina was convinced, and she was more than determined to convince me as well. “Yes, it’s exactly like manifesting,” she said. “And in order for it to work, I need you to clear your mind of any lingering doubt. Remember Riley, you’re in my world now.”

  To be honest, I felt a little silly standing there with my body swallowed whole by that baggy blue dress, and my eyes all squinched shut as I tried to envision a version of me that would never, ever be.

  And yet, part of me figured, what the heck? It’s not like I had much to lose. I mean, hadn’t Bodhi told me that if I wanted to be a teen then I had to see myself as a teen? That I had to learn how to act as if I already had it? If it worked, well, then I’d finally realize my dream—and the thought of that alone made it well worth the risk of looking any dumber than I already did.

  I squeezed my lids tighter, tempted to really dive in, go all out, and imagine myself looking like a movie star, a supermodel, or maybe even a hybrid of both. But before the image could begin to take shape, I quickly erased it and started again. Figuring it would be far more interesting to see a version of me that truly lived up to my full (and far more probable) potential, as opposed to an image my own mom wouldn’t recognize.

  “Can you see her?” Messalina’s voice was tinged with excitement. “Can you see the new you blossom like a flower in your mind?”

  She brushed a cool finger across my brow as I continued to concentrate as hard as I could. Focusing on a version of me that wasn’t so entirely different from how I actually was—only better—taller. One where the baby fat that once padded my face had made way for a nice pair of cheekbones that somehow, miraculously, made my semi-stubby nose appear … well … not quite so semi-stubby.

  Oh, and of course I gave myself hair that was thicker, and wavier, and a whole lot glossier too—the kind of hair you see in shampoo ads. And when it came time for imaginings below the neck, well, let’s just say that I was quick to transform my stick figure into one with just the right amount of swoops and curves that would serve the dress well.

  With the image firmly fixed in my mind, I gave a quick nod so Messalina would know it was done. And when she clapped her hands together and said, “Look!”—I did.

  Gazing into the full-length mirror she’d propped up before me, I gasped in delight at a vision of me that looked a lot like my beautiful, older sister Ever, while also managing to stay true to me—albeit, a much better, prettier, more mature version of me.

  I looked exactly like the image I’d conjured in my head.

  “So, what do you think? Do you like what you see? I was right about the dress, wasn’t I?” Messalina’s voice was as anxious as the expression she wore on her face.

  My fingers grazed first over the mirror, and then over myself—hardly able to grasp the enormous change that had just taken place. My face broke into a smile as I glanced her way, my eyes shiny, my cheeks beaming, my voice gone hoarse but still bearing the full extent of my gratitude when I said, “Oh yes, I like it very much. I look at least …” I turned back toward my image, scrutinized it closely. Starting to say: I look thirteen—the age I’ve always wanted to be!—but soon realizing I’d managed to pass thirteen right by.

  Maybe even fourteen as well.

  And quite possibly fifteen too.

  “How old are you?” I asked, looking her over again, hoping to gauge my own progress against hers, since she still appeared older than me.

  But Messalina just shrugged. Her shoulders rising and falling in that graceful, delicate way that she had. “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess no one ever thought to keep track.”

  My eyes bugged in a way that wasn’t one bit pretty, but I couldn’t help it. I’d never heard of such a thing. It was so outrageous, so unthinkable, I immediately suspected her of lying.

  “My parents died when I was quite young,” she continued, her voice steady, the words matter of fact, with no hint of the emotion she might’ve felt at that long-ago time. “I lived with a series of reluctant relatives until I landed here. The ludus belonged to my uncle, my aunt was unable to conceive and found herself so desperate for a child, she settled for me. And while I’ve spent many years in this place, I can’t say exactly how many. All I know is I was a child when I arrived, and when I died, I looked like this.” She ran a hand down her side.

  “So you never had a birthday party?” I tried my best to quash my surprise, but still, it really was unthinkable, an outrage for sure. I couldn’t even imagine such a thing. Birthdays had always been extremely important to me.

  She squinted, tilted her head to the side, acting as though my reaction was completely unfathomable, as though she couldn’t understand why I’d place such importance on something that to her was just as easily forgotten, if not ignored.

  Her reaction prompting me to wave it away, end it right there. We were products of different times, different cultures—there was no point in getting sidetracked by things that couldn’t possibly help me with the job I came to do.

  Returning to my own glorious transformation, the newly grown-up version of me, I moved closer to the mirror, ran a hand over my shiny, springy curls that cascaded all the way down to my waist, taking in the pale green shimmer that glowed all around me—remembering how it used to glow a little bit darker, a little bit deeper, until things didn’t go so well on my last unassigned Soul Catch and a
ll of my progress faded away. Pretty much the opposite of Bodhi’s glow, which continued to shine brighter—the green edged out by blue until it became a beautiful, vibrant aqua—the same shade as the dress I was wearing.

  My guide had left me in the dust. Effortlessly moving onto fifteen while I was stuck at twelve. And yet, if he could see how quickly I’d just progressed, I was sure he’d be as awestruck as I was. The only thing that marred the transformation was that stupid, barely there glimmer of mine.

  “Is everything okay?” Messalina peered at me, her face clouded with concern. “Are you not happy with the new you?”

  I glanced between our reflections, unable to see my dismal green glow as anything other than what it truly was—a constant reminder of what I’d done wrong. A painful memory of what I’d already learned. And it’s not like lugging it around was doing me the least bit of good.

  Messalina didn’t glow. Neither did any of the other ghosts I’d seen around the ludus. And if the goal was for me to find a way to fit in as best as I could, well, then it was clear that my glow-on needed to move on.

  I lowered my lids, imagining the way I’d look without that annoying, greenish-tinged glow—and when I lifted them again, it was gone. Easy-peasy—simple as that. Leaving me with a perfected version of the newly improved, glorious me.

  Messalina stared, her eyes bright and anxious, playing at the rings she wore on her hands, eager for me to react in some way, let her know how I felt about my sudden transformation, and I was quick to relieve her.

  “This is everything I’ve dreamed of for so long!” I ran my hands over my dress as my face curved into a grin. “I feel like a butterfly that just burst free of its cocoon.” My eyes met hers, wondering if there was any way to express the full depth of my gratitude. “I truly have no idea how I’ll ever go about thanking you,” I said, meaning every last word.

  Messalina smiled and reached toward me. Capturing my hand between hers, she led me away from the room. “No need to worry about that right now,” she said. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later, to be sure. But for now, just a few final touches.” She stopped before a beautiful tray where she scooped up a pile of glimmering, golden rings, taking careful consideration of the offerings before selecting two she then handed to me. “They’re exact replicas of the ones I wear.” She smiled, holding her hand up and wiggling her fingers for me to see. “I hope you’ll consider this as a seal of our friendship.” She watched as I slipped the rings onto my fingers, her grin growing wider when the task was complete. “Actually, we are closer than friends now, we are more like sisters, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I frowned, all too ready to disagree. Being friends was one thing, pretending to be sisters was another thing entirely. I already had a sister—one who I loved, and admired, and greatly missed—one who could never, ever be replaced.

  I was just about to tell Messalina as much, when she ran a light finger across the width of my forehead and the strangest sensation swept over me. A swarm of kindness, and acceptance that made all of my former loneliness disappear, until I couldn’t help but think: What the heck? What could it hurt to pretend?

  And the next thing I knew, I was smiling and giggling, ready to follow wherever she led. Crooking my arm around hers as she said, “So now, sister, we must hurry—we have ourselves a very glamorous party to attend!”

  7

  I know it sounds vain. I know it sounds completely self-centered and more than a little obnoxious—but I couldn’t help it—I just couldn’t stop staring at myself.

  Every reflective surface I passed became another opportunity for me to gawk, and gape, and marvel, and basically just outright ogle my shiny, new self.

  It was the makeover to end all makeovers, and I just couldn’t get enough of it.

  “You are quite beautiful, I assure you,” Messalina whispered, her voice far more amused than annoyed, her hand pressed firmly to the small of my back as she guided me down the length of a very large room. “This must be rather exciting for you, no?”

  A servant strolled by balancing a long silver platter that my eyes eagerly chased. Dismissing the tall pile of fruit that sprawled along its top, I went straight for the edges, my gaze drawn to the place where my image beamed back, broken and distorted for sure—but still far more pleasing to look at than ever before.

  “So, where are we?” I asked, as soon as the servant moved on. It was time to get over myself and focus on the business at hand. But with all the surrounding excitement and splendor, it was getting harder and harder to do.

  There was so much flamboyance, so much opulence and wealth, so much sparkly glitz and glamour—my head practically spun on my neck in an effort to take it all in.

  Every surface gleamed. Every table sagged under mountains of sweets and treats and towering heaps of delicacies that a parade of servants constantly replenished. The room dotted with petal-strewn fountains, the floors covered by intricate mosaic designs, and yet despite the glorious décor, it was the other partygoers who really stole my attention.

  The females all dripping with the finest array of satins and silks, sporting bright, shiny jewels the size of small fists—and the males were no different, dressed in elaborate tunics with glittering braided bits that swooped around the necklines and hems, while thick golden chains swung from their necks.

  It was the kind of life one could easily get used to—easily get lost in. After just a short time there, I could already see why some of those other Soul Catchers had chosen to stay. It was the opposite of the world I first stumbled upon—as different from the ludus as you could possibly get.

  “The games begin tomorrow.” Messalina’s gaze moved among the assorted guests before finding her way back to me. “And though the games themselves are considered to be the best part of the celebration, think of this as a sort of … kickoff party.” She smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “A party intended to commemorate the start of the games.”

  The games, right. Gladiators. Theocoles. The real reason you’re here. Stay focused, Riley—sheesh!

  “So the party is for the games?” I asked, knowing it was redundant, but determined to get back on track.

  “Indeed.” She nodded. “These games are in honor of the emperor’s death. They are funeral games, as most games are. Meant to honor powerful men whose time has come, and the longer the games run, the more important the man—or so it is thought. And believe me, these particular games are meant to provide the biggest, splashiest spectacle yet. No expense has been spared, as you will soon see.” She gazed around the room again, as though searching for someone, her gaze far away when she said, “Hundreds of gladiators are scheduled to compete, and thousands of wild beasts have been brought from as far away as Africa just to take part.”

  I struggled to imagine such an endeavor. Having to remind myself that I was caught in a time that existed long before cars, planes, trams, or trains, all of which made such a journey seem completely incomprehensible.

  “They traveled on a series of boats and rafts and then were loaded onto horse-drawn caravans, just so they can die a spectacular death before bloodthirsty crowds that demand nothing less.” She sighed and shook her head, her glorious curls swinging back and forth. “Which is not so different from the way the gladiators will die, some of whom made the trip alongside them.”

  “It sounds awful,” I said, my voice turned suddenly serious, my mood suddenly sobered, no longer drunk on my shiny new self.

  “It is, to be sure.” She nodded. “Though, I must confess I was once no better than the rest of them.” She gestured toward the glittering crowd. “Panem et circenses.” She pronounced the words easily, with a beautiful lilt I never could’ve managed. “Which translates to bread and circus. The bread being that which they throw to the crowd during the course of the games in order to keep them fed throughout a long day, and the circus being the games themselves. ‘Keep the lower classes appeased by bread and circus, and they will be yours’—or so it was s
aid. But make no mistake, the upper classes were just as enthralled. I once considered the games and all of those horrible deaths as the highest form of amusement. But then, one day, one of those deaths touched me personally, and from that moment on, everything changed …”

  I stayed silent, clinging fast to her words. Realizing she’d just revealed something deeply personal, and wondering if the hint was intentional. Everything about her seemed calculated—there was nothing careless about her.

  Was she referring to Theocoles? I’d seen the way she’d gazed down at him from her perch on the balcony. Clearly she’d known him, but how? Had they been close? The idea of it seemed impossible. They were from two different worlds—two different worlds that sometimes overlapped, but still.

  “Weren’t all of the gladiators slaves?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual, figuring she’d cut me off the second she sensed I was prying. She had an agenda—of that I was sure—one she controlled as tightly as she controlled her own world.

  “Yes,” she said. “Though while it is true that the majority of them were slaves, make no mistake—they were among the strongest, bravest, most fierce of all. My uncle had an eye for these things. Other ludus owners watched him quite closely in the slave markets, trying their best to outbid him, but they rarely succeeded. My uncle had very deep pockets, along with a sort of second sight—a gift for these things—if you could call that a gift.” She waved a dismissive hand, causing the sparkling ring on her finger to catch and reflect the torchlight. “Though, that’s not to say that they all began as slaves. I know it may seem strange to you, but there were also those who volunteered, those who signed a contract with my uncle—eagerly exchanging their time and talents for the possibility of winnings and glory. Being a gladiator held its own unique brand of honor—they were both respected and feared. You must realize, Riley, that the Colosseum easily housed up to fifty thousand people, and more often than not, it was filled to capacity. I guess you could say they were like the rock stars of their time—they ruled the arena like gods. Boys who hailed from soft lives and nobility mimicked their moves, while countless women swooned over them—their affections displayed in the small, blood-dipped swords they’d pin in their hair.”