Contents
Shatter Me
Destroy Me
Unravel Me
Fracture Me
Ignite Me
About the Author
About the Publisher
Dedication
For my parents, and for my husband, because when I said I wanted to touch
the moon you took my hand, held me close, and taught me how to fly.
Epigraph
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference.
—ROBERT FROST, “The Road Not Taken”
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Credits
Copyright
Chapter One
I’ve been locked up for 264 days.
I have nothing but a small notebook and a broken pen and the numbers in my
head to keep me company. 1 window. 4 walls. 144 square feet of space. 26
letters in an alphabet I haven’t spoken in 264 days of isolation.
6,336 hours since I’ve touched another human being.
“You’re getting a cellmate roommate,” they said to me.
“We hope you rot to death in this place For good behavior,” they said to me.
“Another psycho just like you No more isolation,” they said to me.
They are the minions of The Reestablishment. The initiative that was
supposed to help our dying society. The same people who pulled me out of my
parents’ home and locked me in an asylum for something outside of my control.
No one cares that I didn’t know what I was capable of. That I didn’t know what I
was doing.
I have no idea where I am.
I only know that I was transported by someone in a white van who drove 6
hours and 37 minutes to get me here. I know I was handcuffed to my seat. I
know I was strapped to my chair. I know my parents never bothered to say goodbye. I know I didn’t cry as I was taken away.
I know the sky falls down every day.
The sun drops into the ocean and splashes browns and reds and yellows and
oranges into the world outside my window. A million leaves from a hundred
different branches dip in the wind, fluttering with the false promise of flight. The
gust catches their withered wings only to force them downward, forgotten, left to
be trampled by the soldiers stationed just below.
There aren’t as many trees as there were before, is what the scientists say.
They say our world used to be green. Our clouds used to be white. Our sun was
always the right kind of light. But I have very faint memories of that world. I
don’t remember much from before. The only existence I know now is the one I
was given. An echo of what used to be.
I press my palm to the small pane of glass and feel the cold clasp my hand in
a familiar embrace. We are both alone, both existing as the absence of something
else.
I grab my nearly useless pen with the very little ink I’ve learned to ration
each day and stare at it. Change my mind. Abandon the effort it takes to write
things down. Having a cellmate might be okay. Talking to a real human being
might make things easier. I practice using my voice, shaping my lips around the
familiar words unfamiliar to my mouth. I practice all day.
I’m surprised I remember how to speak.
I roll my little notebook into a ball I shove into the wall. I sit up on the clothcovered springs I’m forced to sleep on. I wait. I rock back and forth and wait.
I wait too long and fall asleep.
My eyes open to 2 eyes 2 lips 2 ears 2 eyebrows.
I stifle my scream my urgency to run the crippling horror gripping my limbs.
“You’re a b-b-b-b—”
“And you’re a girl.” He cocks an eyebrow. He leans away from my face. He
grins but he’s not smiling and I want to cry, my eyes desperate, terrified, darting
toward the door I’d tried to open so many times I’d lost count. They locked me
up with a boy. A boy.
Dear God.
They’re trying to kill me.
They’ve done it on purpose.
To torture me, to torment me, to keep me from sleeping through the night
ever again. His arms are tatted up, half sleeves to his elbows. His eyebrow is
missing a ring they must’ve confiscated. Dark blue eyes dark brown hair sharp
jawline strong lean frame. Gorgeous Dangerous. Terrifying. Horrible.
He laughs and I fall off my bed and scuttle into the corner.
He sizes up the meager pillow on the spare bed they shoved into the empty
space this morning, the skimpy mattress and threadbare blanket hardly big
enough to support his upper half. He glances at my bed. Glances at his bed.
Shoves them both together with one hand. Uses his foot to push the two
metal frames to his side of the room. Stretches out across the two mattresses,
grabbing my pillow to fluff up under his neck. I’ve begun to shake.
I bite my lip and try to bury myself in the dark corner.
He’s stolen my bed my blanket my pillow.
I have nothing but the floor.
I will have nothing but the floor.
I will never fight back because I’m too petrified too paralyzed too paranoid.
“So you’re—what? Insane? Is that why you’re here?”
I’m not insane.
He props himself up enough to see my face. He laughs again. “I’m not going
to hurt you.”
I want to believe him I don’t believe him.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
None of your business. What’s your name?
I hear his irritated exhalation of breath. I hear him turn over on the bed that
used to be half mine. I stay awake all night. My knees curled up to my chin, my
arms wrapped tight around my small frame, my long brown hair the only curtain
between us.
I will not sleep.
I cannot sleep.
I cannot hear those screams again.
Chapter Two
It smells like rain in the morning.
The room is heavy with the scent of wet stone, upturned soil; the air is dank
and earthy. I take a deep breath and tiptoe to the window only to press my nose
against the cool surface. Feel my breath fog up the glass. Close my eyes to the
sound of a soft pitter-patter rushing through the wind. Raindrops are my only
reminder that clouds have a heartbeat. That I have one, too.
I always wonder about raindrops.
I wonder about how they’re always falling down, tripping over their own
feet, breaking their legs and forgetting their parachutes as they tumble right out
of the sky toward an uncertain end. It’s like someone is emptying their pockets
over the earth and doesn’t seem to care where the contents fall, doesn’t seem to
care that the raindrops burst when they hit the ground, that they shatter when
they fall to the floor, that people curse the days the drops dare to tap on their
doors.
I am a raindrop.
My parents emptied their pockets of me and left me to evaporate on a
concrete slab.
The window tells me we’re not far from the mountains and definitely near
the water, but everything is near the water these days. I just don’t know which
side we’re on. Which direction we’re facing. I squint up at the early morning
light. Someone picked up the sun and pinned it to the sky again, but every day it
hangs a little lower than the day before. It’s like a negligent parent who only
knows one half of who you are. It never sees how its absence changes people.
How different we are in the dark.
A sudden rustle means my cellmate is awake.
I spin around like I’ve been caught stealing food again. That only happened
once and my parents didn’t believe me when I said it wasn’t for me. I said I was
just trying to save the stray cats living around the corner but they didn’t think I
was human enough to care about a cat. Not me. Not something someone like me.
But then, they never believed anything I said. That’s exactly why I’m here.
Cellmate is studying me.
He fell asleep fully clothed. He’s wearing a navy blue T-shirt and khaki
cargo pants tucked into shin-high black boots.
I’m wearing dead cotton on my limbs and a blush of roses on my face.
His eyes scan the silhouette of my structure and the slow motion makes my
heart race. I catch the rose petals as they fall from my cheeks, as they float
around the frame of my body, as they cover me in something that feels like the
absence of courage.
Stop looking at me, is what I want to say.
Stop touching me with your eyes and keep your hands to your sides and
please and please and please— “What’s your name?” The tilt of his head cracks
gravity in half.
I’m suspended in the moment. I blink and bottle my breaths.
He shifts and my eyes shatter into thousands of pieces that ricochet around
the room, capturing a million snapshots, a million moments in time. Flickering
images faded with age, frozen thoughts hovering precariously in dead space, a
whirlwind of memories that slice through my soul. He reminds me of someone I
used to know.
One sharp breath and I’m shocked back to reality.
No more daydreams.
“Why are you here?” I ask the cracks in the concrete wall. 14 cracks in 4
walls a thousand shades of gray. The floor, the ceiling: all the same slab of stone.
The pathetically constructed bed frames: built from old water pipes. The small
square of a window: too thick to shatter. My hope is exhausted. My eyes are
unfocused and aching. My finger is tracing a lazy path across the cold floor.
I’m sitting on the ground where it smells like ice and metal and dirt.
Cellmate sits across from me, his legs folded underneath him, his boots just a
little too shiny for this place.
“You’re afraid of me.” His voice has no shape.
My fingers find their way to a fist. “I’m afraid you’re wrong.”
I might be lying, but that’s none of his business.
He snorts and the sound echoes in the dead air between us. I don’t lift my
head. I don’t meet the eyes he’s drilling in my direction. I taste the stale, wasted
oxygen and sigh. My throat is tight with something familiar to me, something
I’ve learned to swallow.
2 knocks at the door startle my emotions back into place.
He’s upright in an instant.
“No one is there,” I tell him. “It’s just our breakfast.” 264 breakfasts and I
still don’t know what it’s made of. It smells like too many chemicals; an
amorphous lump always delivered in extremes. Sometimes too sweet, sometimes
too salty, always disgusting. Most of the time I’m too starved to notice the
difference.
I hear him hesitate for only an instant before edging toward the door. He
slides open a small slot and peers through to a world that no longer exists.
“Shit!” He practically flings the tray through the opening, pausing only to
slap his palm against his shirt. “Shit, shit.” He curls his fingers into a tight fist
and clenches his jaw. He’s burned his hand. I would’ve warned him if he
would’ve listened.
“You should wait at least three minutes before touching the tray,” I tell the
wall. I don’t look at the faint scars gracing my small hands, at the burn marks no
one could’ve taught me to avoid. “I think they do it on purpose,” I add quietly.
“Oh, so you’re talking to me today?” He’s angry. His eyes flash before he
looks away and I realize he’s more embarrassed than anything else. He’s a tough
guy. Too tough to make stupid mistakes in front of a girl. Too tough to show
pain.
I press my lips together and stare out the small square of glass they call a
window. There aren’t many animals left, but I’ve heard stories of birds that fly.
Maybe one day I’ll get to see one. The stories are so wildly woven these days
there’s very little to believe, but I’ve heard more than one person say they’ve
actually seen a flying bird within the past few years. So I watch the window.
There will be a bird today. It will be white with streaks of gold like a crown
atop its head. It will fly. There will be a bird today. It will be white with streaks
of gold like a crown atop its head. It will fly. There will be a— His hand.
On me.
2 tips
of 2 fingers graze my cloth-covered shoulder for less than a second and
every muscle every tendon in my body is fraught with tension and tied into knots
that clench my spine. I stay very still. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Maybe if I
don’t move, this feeling will last forever.
No one has touched me in 264 days.
Sometimes I think the loneliness inside of me is going to explode through
my skin and sometimes I’m not sure if crying or screaming or laughing through
the hysteria will solve anything at all. Sometimes I’m so desperate to touch to be
touched to feel that I’m almost certain I’m going to fall off a cliff in an alternate
universe where no one will ever be able to find me.
It doesn’t seem impossible.
I’ve been screaming for years and no one has ever heard me.
“Aren’t you hungry?” His voice is lower now, a little worried now.
I’ve been starving for 264 days. “No.” The word is little more than a broken
breath as it escapes my lips and I turn and I shouldn’t but I do and he’s staring at
me. Studying me. His lips are only barely parted, his limbs limp at his side, his
lashes blinking back confusion.
Something punches me in the stomach.
His eyes. Something about his eyes.
It’s not him not him not him not him not him.
I close the world away. Lock it up. Turn the key so tight.
Blackness buries me in its folds.
“Hey—”
My eyes break open. 2 shattered windows filling my mouth with glass.
“What is it?” His voice is a failed attempt at flatness, an anxious attempt at
apathy.
Nothing.
I focus on the transparent square wedged between me and my freedom. I
want to smash this concrete world into oblivion. I want to be bigger, better,
stronger.
I want to be angry angry angry.
I want to be the bird that flies away.
“What are you writing?” Cellmate speaks again.
These words are vomit.
This shaky pen is my esophagus.
This sheet of paper is my porcelain bowl.
“Why won’t you answer me?” He’s too close too close too close.
No one is ever close enough.
I suck in my breath and wait for him to walk away like everyone else in my
life. My eyes are focused on the window and the promise of what could be. The
promise of something grander, something greater, some reason for the madness
building in my bones, some explanation for my inability to do anything without
ruining everything. There will be a bird. It will be white with streaks of gold like
a crown atop its head. It will fly. There will be a bird. It will be— “Hey—”
“You can’t touch me,” I whisper. I’m lying, is what I don’t tell him. He can
touch me, is what I’ll never tell him. Please touch me, is what I want to tell him.
But things happen when people touch me. Strange things. Bad things.
Dead things.
I can’t remember the warmth of any kind of embrace. My arms ache from
the inescapable ice of isolation. My own mother couldn’t hold me in her arms.
My father couldn’t warm my frozen hands. I live in a world of nothing.
Hello.
World.
You will forget me.
Knock knock.
Cellmate jumps to his feet.
It’s time to shower.
Chapter Three
The door opens to an abyss.
There’s no color, no light, no promise of anything but horror on the other
side. No words. No direction. Just an open door that means the same thing every
time.
Cellmate has questions.
“What the hell?” He looks from me to the illusion of escape. “They’re letting
us out?”
They’ll never let us out. “It’s time to shower.”
“Shower?” His voice loses inflection but it’s still threaded with curiosity.
“We don’t have much time,” I tell him. “We have to hurry.”
“Wait, what?” He reaches for my arm but I pull away. “But there’s no light
—we can’t even see where we’re going—”
“Quickly.” I focus my eyes on the floor. “Take the hem of my shirt.”
“What are you talking about—”
An alarm sounds in the distance. A buzzing hums closer by the second. Soon
the entire cell is vibrating with the warning and the door is slipping back into
place. I grab his shirt and pull him into the blackness beside me. “Don’t. Say.
Anything.”
“Bu—”
“Nothing,” I hiss. I tug on his shirt and command him to follow me as I feel
my way through the maze of the mental institution. It’s a home, a center for
troubled youth, for neglected children from broken families, a safe house for the
psychologically disturbed. It’s a prison. They feed us nothing and our eyes never
see each other except in the rare bursts of light that steal their way through
cracks of glass they pretend are windows. Nights are punctured by screams and
heaving sobs, wails and tortured cries, the sounds of flesh and bone breaking by
force or choice I’ll never know. I spent the first 3 months in the company of my
own stench. No one ever told me where the bathrooms and showers were
located. No one ever told me how the system worked. No one speaks to you
unless they’re delivering bad news. No one touches you ever at all. Boys and
girls never find each other.
Never but yesterday.
It can’t be coincidence.
My eyes begin to readjust in the artificial cloak of night. My fingers feel
their way through the rough corridors, and Cellmate doesn’t say a word. I’m
almost proud of him. He’s nearly a foot taller than me, his body hard and solid
with the muscle and strength of someone close to my age. The world has not yet
broken him. Such freedom in ignorance.
“Wha—”
I tug on his shirt a little harder to keep him from speaking. We’ve not yet
cleared the corridors. I feel oddly protective of him, this person who could
probably break me with 2 fingers. He doesn’t realize how his ignorance makes
him vulnerable. He doesn’t realize that they might kill him for no reason at all.
I’ve decided not to be afraid of him. I’ve decided his actions are more
immature than genuinely threatening. He looks so familiar so familiar so familiar
to me. I once knew a boy with the same blue eyes and my memories won’t let
me hate him.
Perhaps I’d like a friend.
6 more feet until the wall goes from rough to smooth and then we make a
right. 2 feet of empty space before we reach a wooden door with a broken handle
and a handful of splinters. 3 heartbeats to make certain we’re alone. 1 foot
forward to edge the door inward. 1 soft creak and the crack widens to reveal
nothing but what I imagine this space to look like. “This way,” I whisper.
I tug him toward the row of showers and scavenge the floor for any bits of
soap lodged in the drain. I find 2 pieces, one twice as big as the other. “Open
your hand,” I tell the darkness. “It’s slimy. But don’t drop it. There isn’t much
soap and we got lucky today.”
He says nothing for a few seconds and I begin to worry.
“Are you still there?” I wonder if this was the trap. If this was the plan. If
perhaps he was sent to kill me under the cover of darkness in this small space. I
never really knew what they were going to do to me in the asylum, I never knew
if they thought locking me up would be good enough but I always thought they
might kill me. It always seemed like a viable option.
I can’t say I wouldn’t deserve it.
But I’m in here for something I never meant to do and no one seems to care
that it was an accident.
My parents never tried to help me.
I hear no showers running and my heart stops in place. This particular room
is rarely full, but there are usually others, if only 1 or 2. I’ve come to realize that
the asylum’s residents are either legitimately insane and can’t find their way to
the showers, or they simply don’t care.
I swallow hard.
“What’s your name?” His voice splits the air and my stream of
consciousness in one movement. I can feel him breathing much closer than he
was before. My heart is racing and I don’t know why but I can’t control it. “Why
won’t you tell me your name?”
“Is your hand open?” I ask, my mouth dry, my voice hoarse.
He inches forward and I’m almost scared to breathe. His fingers graze the
starchy fabric of the only outfit I’ll ever own and I manage to exhale. As long as
he’s not touching my skin. As long as he’s not touching my skin. As long as he’s
not touching my skin. This seems to be the secret.
My thin T-shirt has been washed in the harsh water of this building so many
times it feels like a burlap sack against my skin. I drop the bigger piece of soap
into his hand and tiptoe backward. “I’m going to turn the shower on for you,” I
explain, anxious not to raise my voice lest others should hear me.
“What do I do with my clothes?” His body is still too close to mine.
I blink 1,000 times in the blackness. “You have to take them off.”
He laughs something that sounds like an amused breath. “No, I know. I
meant what do I do with them while I shower?”
“Try not to get them wet.”
He takes a deep breath. “How much time do we have?”
“Two minutes.”
“Jesus, why didn’t you say somethi—”
I turn on his shower at the same time I turn on my own and his complaints
drown under the broken bullets of the barely functioning spigots.
My movements are mechanical. I’ve done this so many times I’ve already
memorized the most efficient methods of scrubbing, rinsing, and rationing soap
for my body as well as my hair. There are no towels, so the trick is trying not to
soak any part of your body with too much water. If you do you’ll never dry
properly and you’ll spend the next week nearly dying of pneumonia. I would
know.
In exactly 90 seconds I’ve wrung my hair and I’m slipping back into my
tattered outfit. My tennis shoes are the only things I own that are still in fairly
good condition. We don’t do much walking around here.
Cellmate follows suit almost immediately. I’m pleased that he learns quickly.
“Take the hem of my shirt,” I instruct him. “We have to hurry.”
His fingers skim the small of my back for a slow moment and I have to bite
my lip to stifle the intensity. I nearly stop in place. No one ever puts their hands
anywhere near my body.
I have to hurry forward so his fingers will fall back. He stumbles to catch up.
When we’re finally trapped in the familiar 4 walls of claustrophobia,
Cellmate won’t stop staring at me.
I curl into myself in the corner. He still has my bed, my blanket, my pillow. I
forgive him his ignorance, but perhaps it’s too soon to be friends. Perhaps I was
too hasty in helping him. Perhaps he really is only here to make me miserable.
But if I don’t stay warm I will get sick. My hair is too wet and the blanket I
usually wrap it in is still on his side of the room. Maybe I’m still afraid of him.
I breathe in too sharply, look up too quickly in the dull light of the day.
Cellmate has draped 2 blankets over my shoulders.
1 mine.
1 his.
“I’m sorry I’m such an asshole,” he whispers to the wall. He doesn’t touch
me and I’m disappointed happy he doesn’t. I wish he would. He shouldn’t. No
one should ever touch me.
“I’m Adam,” he says slowly. He backs away from me until he’s cleared the
room. He uses one hand to push my bed frame back to my side of the space.
Adam.
Such a nice name. Cellmate has a nice name.
It’s a name I’ve always liked but I can’t remember why.
I waste no time climbing onto the barely concealed springs of my mattress
and I’m so exhausted I can hardly feel the metal coils threatening to puncture my
skin. I haven’t slept in more than 24 hours. Adam is a nice name is the only thing
I can think of before exhaustion cripples my body.
Chapter Four
I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not
insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am
not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I
am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not
insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am
not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I
am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not
insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am
not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I
am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not
insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am
not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I
am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not
insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am
not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I
am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not
insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am not insane. I am
not insane.
Horror rips my eyelids open.
My body is drenched in a cold sweat, my brain swimming in unforgotten
waves of pain. My eyes settle on circles of black that dissolve in the darkness. I
have no idea how long I’ve slept. I have no idea if I’ve scared my cellmate with
my dreams. Sometimes I scream out loud.
Adam is staring at me.
I’m breathing hard and I manage to heave myself upright. I pull the blankets
closer to my body only to realize I’ve stolen his only means for warmth. It never
even occurred to me that he might be freezing just as much as I am. I’m
shivering in place but his body is unflinching in the night, his silhouette a strong
form against the backdrop of black. I have no idea what to say. There’s nothing
to say.
“The screams never stop in this place, do they?”
The screams are only the beginning. “No,” I mouth almost mutely. A faint
blush flushes my face and I’m happy it’s too dark for him to notice. He must
have heard my cries.
Sometimes I wish I never had to sleep. Sometimes I think that if I stay very,
very still, if I never move at all, things will change. I think if I freeze myself I
can freeze the pain. Sometimes I won’t move for hours. I will not move an inch.
If time stands still nothing can go wrong.
“Are you okay?” Adam’s voice is concerned. I study the balled fists at his
sides, the furrow buried in his brow, the tension in his jaw. This same person
who stole my bed and my blanket is the same one who went without tonight. So
cocky and careless so few hours ago; so careful and quiet right now. It scares me
that this place could have broken him so quickly. I wonder what he heard while I
was sleeping.
I wish I could save him from the horror.
Something shatters; a tortured cry sounds in the distance. These rooms are
buried deep in concrete, walls thicker than the floors and ceilings combined to
keep sounds from escaping too far. If I can hear the agony it must be
insurmountable. Every night there are sounds I don’t hear. Every night I wonder
if I’m next.
“You’re not insane.”
My eyes snap up. His head is cocked, his eyes focused and clear despite the
shroud that envelops us. He takes a deep breath. “I thought everyone in here was
insane,” he continues. “I thought they’d locked me up with a psycho.”
I take a sharp hit of oxygen. “Funny. So did I.”
1
2
3 seconds pass.
He cracks a grin so wide, so amused, so refreshingly sincere it’s like a clap
of thunder through my body. Something pricks at my eyes and breaks my knees.
I haven’t seen a smile in 265 days.
Adam is on his feet.
I offer him his blanket.
He takes it only to wrap it more tightly around my body and something is
suddenly constricting in my chest. My lungs are skewered and strung together
and I’ve just decided not to move for an eternity when he speaks.
“What’s wrong?”
My parents stopped touching me when I was old enough to crawl. Teachers
made me work alone so I wouldn’t hurt the other children. I’ve never had a
friend. I’ve never known the comfort of a mother’s hug. I’ve never felt the
tenderness of a father’s kiss. I’m not insane. “Nothing.”
5 more seconds. “Can I sit next to you?”
That would be wonderful. “No.” I’m staring at the wall again.
He clenches and unclenches his jaw. He runs a hand through his hair and I
realize for the first time that he’s not wearing a shirt. It’s so dark in this room I
can only catch the curves and contours of his silhouette; the moon is allowed
only a small window to light this space but I watch as the muscles in his arms
tighten with every movement and I’m suddenly on fire. Flames are licking at my
skin and there’s a burst of heat clawing through my stomach. Every inch of his
body is raw with power, every surface somehow luminous in the darkness. In 17
years I’ve never seen anything like him. In 17 years I’ve never talked to a boy
my own age. Because I’m a monster.
I close my eyes until I’ve sewn them shut.
I hear the creak of his bed, the groan of the springs as he sits down. I unstitch
my eyes and study the floor. “You must be freezing.”
“No.” A strong sigh. “I’m actually burning up.”
I’m on my feet so quickly the blankets fall to the floor. “Are you sick?” My
eyes scan his face for signs of a fever but I don’t dare inch closer. “Do you feel
dizzy? Do your joints hurt?” I try to remember my own symptoms. I was
chained to my bed by my own body for 1 week. I could do nothing more than
crawl to the door and fall face-first into my food. I don’t even know how I
survived.
“What’s your name?”
He’s asked the same question 3 times already. “You might be sick,” is all I
can say.
“I’m not sick. I’m just hot. I don’t usually sleep with my clothes on.”
Butterflies catch fire in my stomach. An inexplicable humiliation is searing
my flesh. I don’t know where to look.
A deep breath. “I was a jerk yesterday. I treated you like crap and I’m sorry.
I shouldn’t have done that.”
I dare to meet his gaze.
His eyes are the perfect shade of cobalt, blue like a blossoming bruise, clear
and deep and decided. His jaw is set and his features are carved into a careful
expression. He’s been thinking about this all night.
“Okay.”
“So why won’t you tell me your name?” He leans forward and I freeze.
I thaw.
I melt. “Juliette,” I whisper. “My name is Juliette.”
His lips soften into a smile that cracks apart my spine. He repeats my name
like the word amuses him. Entertains him. Delights him.
In 17 years no one has said my name like that.
Chapter Six
1 word, 2 lips, 3 4 5 fingers form 1 fist.
1 corner, 2 parents, 3 4 5 reasons to hide.
1 child, 2 eyes, 3 4 17 years of fear.
A broken broomstick, a pair of wild faces, angry whispers, locks on my door.
Look at me, is what I wanted to say to you. Talk to me every once in a while.
Find me a cure for these tears, I’d really like to exhale for the first time in my
life.
It’s been 2 weeks.
2 weeks of the same routine, 2 weeks of nothing but routine. 2 weeks with
the cellmate who has come too close to touching me who does not touch me.
Adam is adapting to the system. He never complains, he never volunteers too
much information, he continues to ask too many questions.
He’s nice to me.
I sit by the window and watch the rain and the leaves and the snow collide.
They take turns dancing in the wind, performing choreographed routines for
unsuspecting masses. The soldiers stomp stomp stomp through the rain, crushing
leaves and fallen snow under their feet. Their hands are wrapped in gloves
wrapped around guns that could put a bullet through a million possibilities. They
don’t bother to be bothered by the beauty that falls from the sky. They don’t
understand the freedom in feeling the universe on their skin. They don’t care.
I wish I could stuff my mouth full of raindrops and fill my pockets full of
snow. I wish I could trace the veins in a fallen leaf and feel the wind pinch my
nose.
Instead, I ignore the desperation sticking my fingers together and watch for
the bird I’ve only seen in my dreams. Birds used to fly, is what the stories say.
Before the ozone layer deteriorated, before the pollutants mutated the creatures
into something horrible different. They say the weather wasn’t always so
unpredictable. They say there were birds who used to soar through the skies like
planes.
It seems strange that a small animal could achieve anything as complex as
human engineering, but the possibility is too enticing to ignore. I’ve dreamt
about the same bird flying through the same sky for exactly 10 years. White with
streaks of gold like a crown atop its head.
It’s the only dream I have that gives me peace.
“What are you writing?”
I squint up at his strong stature, the easy grin on his face. I don’t know how
he manages to smile in spite of everything. I wonder if he can hold on to that
shape, that special curve of the mouth that changes lives. I wonder how he’ll feel
in 1 month and I shudder at the thought.
I don’t want him to end up like me.
Empty.
“Hey—” He grabs the blanket off my bed and crouches next to me, wasting
no time wrapping the thin cloth around my thinner shoulders. “You okay?”
I try to smile. Decide to avoid his question. “Thank you for the blanket.”
He sits down next to me and leans against the wall. His shoulders are so
close too close never close enough. His body heat does more for me than the
blanket ever will. Something in my joints aches with an acute yearning, a
desperate need I’ve never been able to fulfill. My bones are begging for
something I cannot allow.
Touch me.
He glances at the little notebook tucked in my hand, at the broken pen
clutched in my fist. I close the book and roll it into a little ball. I shove it into a
crack in the wall. I study the pen in my palm. I know he’s staring at me.
“Are you writing a book?”
“No.” No I am not writing a book.
“Maybe you should.”
I turn to meet his eyes and regret it immediately. There are less than 3 inches
between us and I can’t move because my body only knows how to freeze. Every
muscle every movement tightens, every vertebra in my spinal column is a block
of ice. I’m holding my breath and my eyes are wide, locked, caught in the
intensity of his gaze. I can’t look away. I don’t know how to retreat.
Oh.
God.
His eyes.
I’ve been lying to myself, determined to deny the impossible.
I know him I know him I know him I know him The boy who does not
remember me I used to know.
“They’re going to destroy the English language,” he says, his voice careful,
quiet.
I fight to catch my breath.
“They want to re-create everything,” he continues. “They want to redesign
everything. They want to destroy anything that could’ve been the reason for our
problems. They think we need a new, universal language.” He drops his voice.
Drops his eyes. “They want to destroy everything. Every language in history.”
“No.” My breath hitches. Spots cloud my vision.
“I know.”
“No.” This I did not know.
He looks up. “It’s good that you’re writing things down. One day what
you’re doing will be illegal.”
I’ve begun to shake. My body is suddenly fighting a maelstrom of emotions,
my brain plagued by the world I’m losing and pained by this boy who does not
remember me. The pen stumbles its way to the floor and I’m gripping the
blanket so hard I’m afraid it’s going to tear. Ice slices my skin, horror clots my
veins. I never thought it would get this bad. I never thought The Reestablishment
would take things so far. They’re incinerating culture, the beauty of diversity.
The new citizens of our world will be reduced to nothing but numbers, easily
interchangeable, easily removable, easily destroyed for disobedience.
We have lost our humanity.
I wrap the blanket around my shoulders until I’m cocooned in the tremors
that won’t stop terrorizing my body. I’m horrified by my lack of self-control. I
can’t make myself still.
His hand is suddenly on my back.
His touch is scorching my skin through the layers of fabric and I inhale so
fast my lungs collapse. I’m caught in colliding currents of confusion, so
desperate so desperate so desperate to be close so desperate to be far away. I
don’t know how to move away from him. I don’t want to move away from him.
I don’t want him to be afraid of me.
“Hey.” His voice is soft so soft so soft. His arms are stronger than all the
bones in my body. He pulls my swaddled figure close to his chest and I shatter.
Two three four fifty thousand pieces of feeling stab me in the heart, melt into
drops of warm honey that soothe the scars in my soul. The blanket is the only
barrier between us and he pulls me closer, tighter, stronger, until I hear the beats
humming deep within his chest and the steel of his arms around my body severs
all ties to tension in my limbs. His heat melts the icicles propping me up from
the inside out and I thaw I thaw I thaw, my eyes fluttering fast until they fall
closed, until silent tears are streaming down my face and I’ve decided the only
thing I want to freeze is his frame holding mine. “It’s okay,” he whispers.
“You’ll be okay.”
Truth is a jealous, vicious mistress that never ever sleeps, is what I don’t tell
him. I’ll never be okay.
It takes every broken filament in my being to pull away from him. I do it
because I have to. Because it’s for his own good. Someone is sticking forks in
my back as I trip away. The blanket catches my foot and I nearly fall before
Adam reaches out to me again. “Juliette—”
“You can’t t-touch me.” My breathing is shallow and hard to swallow, my
fingers shaking so fast I clench them into a fist. “You can’t touch me. You
can’t.” My eyes are trained on the door.
He’s on his feet. “Why not?”
“You just can’t,” I whisper to the walls.
“I don’t understand—why won’t you talk to me? You sit in the corner all day
and write in your book and look at everything but my face. You have so much to
say to a piece of paper but I’m standing right here and you don’t even
acknowledge me. Juliette, please—” He reaches for my arm and I turn away.
“Why won’t you at least look at me? I’m not going to hurt you—”
You don’t remember me. You don’t remember that we went to the same
school for 7 years.
You don’t remember me.
“You don’t know me.” My voice is even, flat; my limbs numb, amputated.
“We’ve shared one space for two weeks and you think you know me but you
don’t know anything about me. Maybe I am crazy.”
“You’re not,” he says through clenched teeth. “You know you’re not.”
“Then maybe it’s you,” I say carefully, slowly. “Because one of us is.”
“That’s not true—”
“Tell me why you’re here, Adam. What are you doing in an insane asylum if
you don’t belong here?”
“I’ve been asking you the same question since I got here.”
“Maybe you ask too many questions.”
I hear his hard exhalation of breath. He laughs a bitter laugh. “We’re
practically the only two people who are alive in this place and you want to shut
me out, too?”
I close my eyes and focus on breathing. “You can talk to me. Just don’t
touch me.”
7 seconds of silence join the conversation. “Maybe I want to touch you.”
There are 15,000 feelings of disbelief hole-punched in my heart. I’m tempted
by recklessness, aching aching aching, desperate forever for what I can never
have. I turn my back on him but I can’t keep the lies from spilling out of my lips.
“Maybe I don’t want you to.”
He makes a harsh sound. “I disgust you that much?”
I spin around, so caught off guard by his words I forget myself. He’s staring
at me, his face hard, his jaw set, his fingers flexing by his sides. His eyes are 2
buckets of rainwater: deep, fresh, clear.
Hurt.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I can’t breathe.
“You can’t just answer a simple question, can you?” He shakes his head and
turns to the wall.
My face is cast in a neutral mold, my arms and legs filled with plaster. I feel
nothing. I am nothing. I am empty of everything I will never move. I’m staring
at a small crack near my shoe. I will stare at it forever.
The blankets fall to the floor. The world fades out of focus, my ears
outsource every sound to another dimension. My eyes close, my thoughts drift,
my memories kick me in the heart.
I know him.
I’ve tried so hard to stop thinking about him.
I’ve tried so hard to forget his face.
I’ve tried so hard to get those blue blue blue eyes out of my head but I know
him I know him I know him it’s been 3 years since I last saw him.
I could never forget Adam.
But he’s already forgotten me.
Chapter Seven
I remember televisions and fireplaces and porcelain sinks. I remember movie
tickets and parking lots and SUVs. I remember hair salons and holidays and
window shutters and dandelions and the smell of freshly paved driveways. I
remember toothpaste commercials and ladies in high heels and old men in
business suits. I remember mailmen and libraries and boy bands and balloons
and Christmas trees.
I remember being 10 years old when we couldn’t ignore the food shortages
anymore and things got so expensive no one could afford to live.
Adam is not speaking to me.
Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe there was no point hoping he and I could be
friends, maybe it’s better he thinks I don’t like him than that I like him too much.
He’s hiding a lot of something that might be pain, but his secrets scare me. He
won’t tell me why he’s here. Though I don’t tell him much, either.
And yet and yet and yet.
Last night the memory of his arms around me was enough to scare away the
screams. The warmth of a kind embrace, the strength of firm hands holding all of
my pieces together, the relief and release of so many years’ loneliness. This gift
he’s given me I can’t repay.
Touching Juliette is nearly impossible.
I’ll never forget the horror in my mother’s eyes, the torture in my father’s
face, the fear etched in their expressions. Their child was is a monster. Possessed
by the devil. Cursed by darkness. Unholy. An abomination. Drugs, tests, medical
solutions failed. Psychological cross-examinations failed.
She is a walking weapon in society, is what the teachers said. We’ve never
seen anything like it, is what the doctors said. She should be removed from your
home, is what the police officers said.
No problem at all, is what my parents said. I was 14 years old when they
finally got rid of me. When they stood back and watched as I was dragged away
for a murder I didn’t know I could commit.
Maybe the world is safer with me locked in a cell. Maybe Adam is safer if he
hates me. He’s sitting in the corner with his fists in his face.
I never wanted to hurt him.
I never wanted to hurt the only person who never wanted to hurt me.
The door crashes open and 5 people swarm into the room, rifles pointed at our
chests.
Adam is on his feet and I’m made of stone. I’ve forgotten to inhale. I haven’t
seen so many people in so long I’m momentarily stupefied. I should be
screaming.
“HANDS UP, FEET APART, MOUTHS SHUT. DON’T MOVE AND WE
WON’T SHOOT YOU.”
I’m still frozen in place. I should move, I should lift my arms, I should
spread my feet, I should remember to breathe. Someone is cutting off my neck.
The one barking orders slams the butt of his gun into my back and my knees
crack as they hit the floor. I finally taste oxygen and a side of blood. I think
Adam is yelling but there is an acute agony ripping through my body unlike
anything I’ve experienced before. I’m utterly immobilized.
“What don’t you understand about keeping your mouth SHUT?” I squint
sideways to see the barrel of the gun 2 inches away from Adam’s face.
“GET UP.” A steel-toed boot kicks me in the ribs, fast, hard, hollow. I’m
swallowing nothing but the strangled gasps choking my body. “I said GET UP.”
Harder, faster, stronger, another boot in my gut. I can’t even cry out.
Get up, Juliette. Get up. If you don’t, they’ll shoot Adam.
I heave myself up to my knees and fall back on the wall behind me,
stumbling forward to catch my balance. Lifting my hands is more torture than I
knew I could endure. My organs are dead, my bones are cracked, my skin is a
sieve, punctured by pins and needles of pain. They’ve finally come to kill me.
That’s why they put Adam in my cell.
Because I’m leaving. Adam is here because I’m leaving, because they forgot
to kill me on time, because my moments are over, because my 17 years were too
many for this world. They’re going to kill me.
I always wondered how it would happen. I wonder if this will make my
parents happy.
Someone is laughing. “Well aren’t you a little shit?”
I don’t even know if they’re talking to me. I can hardly focus on keeping my
arms upright.
“She’s not even crying,” someone adds. “The girls are usually begging for
mercy by now.”
The walls are beginning to bleed into the ceiling. I wonder how long I can
hold my breath. I can’t distinguish words I can’t understand the sounds I’m
hearing the blood is rushing through my head and my lips are 2 blocks of
concrete I can’t crack open. There’s a gun in my back and I’m tripping forward.
The floors are falling up. My feet are dragging in a direction I can’t decipher.
I hope they kill me soon.
Chapter Eight
It takes me 2 days to open my eyes.
There’s a tin of water and a tin of food set off to the side and I inhale the
cold contents with trembling hands, a dull ache creaking through my bones, a
desperate drought suffocating my throat. Nothing seems to be broken, but one
glance under my shirt proves the pain was real. The bruises are discolored
blossoms of blue and yellow, torture to touch and slow to heal.
Adam is nowhere.
I am alone in a block of solitude, 4 walls no more than 10 feet in every
direction, the only air creeping in through a small slot in the door. I’ve just
begun to terrorize myself with my imagination when the heavy metal door slams
open. A guard with 2 rifles strung across his chest looks me up and down.
“Get up.”
This time I don’t hesitate.
I hope Adam, at least, is safe. I hope he doesn’t come to the same end I do.
“Follow me.” The guard’s voice is thick and deep, his gray eyes unreadable.
He looks about 25 years old, blond hair cropped close to the crown, shirtsleeves
rolled up to his shoulders, military tattoos snaking up his forearms just like
Adam’s.
Oh.
God.
No.
Adam steps into the doorway beside the blond and gestures with his weapon
toward a narrow hallway. “Move.”
Adam is pointing a gun at my chest.
Adam is pointing a gun at my chest.
Adam is pointing a gun at my chest.
His eyes are foreign to me, glassy and distant, far, far away.
I am nothing but novocaine. I am numb, a world of nothing, all feeling and
emotion gone forever.
I am a whisper that never was.
Adam is a soldier. Adam wants me to die.
I stare at him openly now, every sensation amputated, my pain a distant
scream disconnected from my body. My feet move forward of their own accord;
my lips remain shut because there will never be words for this moment.
Death would be a welcome release from these earthly joys I’ve known.
I don’t know how long I’ve been walking before another blow to my back
cripples me. I blink against the brightness of light I haven’t seen in so long. My
eyes begin to tear and I’m squinting against the fluorescent bulbs illuminating
the large space. I can hardly see anything.
“Juliette Ferrars.” A voice detonates my name. There’s a heavy boot pressed
into my back and I can’t lift my head to distinguish who’s speaking to me.
“Weston, dim the lights and release her. I want to see her face.” The command is
cool and strong like steel, dangerously calm, effortlessly powerful.
The brightness is reduced to a level I’m able to tolerate. The imprint of a
boot is carved into my back but no longer settled on my skin. I lift my head and
look up.
I’m immediately struck by his youth. He can’t be much older than me.
It’s obvious he’s in charge of something, though I have no idea what. His
skin is flawless, unblemished, his jawline sharp and strong. His eyes are the
palest shade of emerald I’ve ever seen.
He’s beautiful.
His crooked smile is calculated evil.
He’s sitting on what he imagines to be a throne but is nothing more than a
chair at the front of an empty room. His suit is perfectly pressed, his blond hair
expertly combed, his soldiers the ideal bodyguards.
I hate him.
“You’re so stubborn.” His green eyes are almost translucent. “You never
want to cooperate. You wouldn’t even play nice with your cellmate.”
I flinch without intending to. The burn of betrayal blushes up my neck.
Green Eyes looks unexpectedly amused and I’m suddenly mortified. “Well
isn’t that interesting.” He snaps his fingers. “Kent, would you step forward,
please.”
My heart stops beating when Adam comes into view. Kent. His name is
Adam Kent.
I am aflame from head to toe. Adam flanks Green Eyes in an instant, but
only offers a curt nod of his head as a salute. Perhaps the leader isn’t nearly as
important as he thinks.
“Sir,” he says.
So many thoughts are tangling in my head I can’t untie the insanity knotting
itself together. I should’ve known. I’d heard rumors of soldiers living among the
public in secret, reporting to the authorities if things seemed suspicious. Every
day people disappeared. No one ever came back.
Though I still can’t understand why Adam was sent to spy on me.
“It seems you made quite an impression on her.”
I squint closer at the man in the chair only to realize his suit has been
adorned with tiny colored patches. Military mementos. His last name is etched
into the lapel: Warner.
Adam says nothing. He doesn’t look in my direction. His body is erect, 6 feet
of gorgeous lean muscle, his profile strong and steady. The same arms that held
my body are now holsters for lethal weapons.
“You have nothing to say about that?” Warner glances at Adam only to tilt
his head in my direction, his eyes dancing in the light, clearly entertained.
Adam clenches his jaw. “Sir.”
“Of course.” Warner is suddenly bored. “Why should I expect you to have
something to say?”
“Are you going to kill me?” The words escape my lips before I have a
chance to think them through and someone’s gun slams into my spine all over
again. I fall to the floor with a broken whimper, wheezing into the filthy floor.
“That wasn’t necessary, Roland.” Warner’s voice is saturated with mock
disappointment. “I suppose I’d be wondering the same thing if I were in her
position.” A pause. “Juliette?”
I manage to lift my head.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Chapter Nine
I’m not sure I’m hearing him correctly.
“You have something I want.” Warner is still staring at me.
“I don’t understand,” I tell him.
He takes a deep breath and stands up to pace the length of the room. Adam
has not yet been dismissed. “You are kind of a pet project of mine.” Warner
smiles to himself. “I’ve studied your records for a very long time.”
I can’t handle his pompous, self-satisfied strut. I want to break the grin off
his face.
Warner stops walking. “I want you on my team.”
“What?” A broken whisper of surprise.
“We’re in the middle of a war,” he says a little impatiently. “Maybe you can
put the pieces together.”
“I don’t—”
“I know your secret, Juliette. I know why you’re in here. Your entire life is
documented in hospital records, complaints to authorities, messy lawsuits, public
demands to have you locked up.” His pause gives me enough time to choke on
the horror caught in my throat. “I’d been considering it for a long time, but I
wanted to make sure you weren’t actually psychotic. Isolation wasn’t exactly a
good indicator, though you did fend for yourself quite well.” He offers me a
smile that says I should be grateful for his praise. “I sent Adam to stay with you
as a final precaution. I wanted to make sure you weren’t volatile, that you were
capable of basic human interaction and communication. I must say I’m quite
pleased with the results.”
Someone is ripping my skin off.
“Adam, it seems, played his part a little too excellently. He is a fine soldier.
One of the best, in fact.” Warner spares him a glance before smiling at me. “But
don’t worry, he doesn’t know what you’re capable of. Not yet, anyway.”
I claw at the panic, I swallow the agony, I beg myself not to look in his
direction but I fail I fail I fail. Adam meets my eyes in the same split second I
meet his but he looks away so quickly I’m not sure if I imagined it.
I am a monster.
“I’m not as cruel as you think,” Warner continues, a musical lilt in his voice.
“If you’re so fond of his company I can make this”—he gestures between myself
and Adam—“a permanent assignment.”
“No,” I breathe.
Warner curves his lips into a careless grin. “Oh yes. But be careful, pretty
girl. If you do something . . . bad . . . he’ll have to shoot you.”
There are wire cutters carving holes in my heart. Adam doesn’t react to
anything Warner says.
He is doing a job.
I am a number, a mission, an easily replaceable object; I am not even a
memory in his mind.
I am nothing.
I didn’t expect his betrayal to bury me so deep.
“If you accept my offer,” Warner interrupts my thoughts, “you will live like I
do. You will be one of us, and not one of them. Your life will change forever.”
“And if I do not accept?” I ask, catching my voice before it cracks in fear.
Warner looks genuinely disappointed. His hands are clasped together in
dismay. “You don’t really have a choice. If you stand by my side you will be
rewarded.” He presses his lips together. “But if you choose to disobey? Well . . .
I think you look rather lovely with all your body parts intact, don’t you?”
I’m breathing so hard my frame is shaking. “You want me to torture people
for you?”
His face breaks into a brilliant smile. “That would be wonderful.”
The world is bleeding.
I don’t have time to form a response before he turns to Adam. “Show her
what she’s missing, would you?”
Adam answers a beat too late. “Sir?”
“That is an order, soldier.” Warner’s eyes are trained on me, his lips
twitching with suppressed amusement. “I’d like to break this one. She’s a little
too feisty for her own good.”
“You can’t touch me,” I spit through clenched teeth.
“Wrong,” he singsongs. He tosses Adam a pair of black gloves. “You’re
going to need these,” he says with a conspiratorial whisper.
“You’re a monster.” My voice is too even, my body filled with a sudden
rage. “Why don’t you just kill me?”
“That, my dear, would be a waste.” He steps forward and I realize his hands
are carefully sheathed in white leather gloves. He tips my chin up with one
finger. “Besides, it’d be a shame to lose such a pretty face.”
I try to snap my neck away from him but the same steel-toed boot slams into
my spine and Warner catches my face in his grip. I suppress a scream. “Don’t
struggle, love. You’ll only make things more difficult for yourself.”
“I hope you rot in hell.”
Warner flexes his jaw. He holds up a hand to stop someone from shooting
me, kicking me in the spleen, cracking my skull open, I have no idea. “You’re a
fighter for the wrong team.” He stands up straight. “But we can change that.
Adam,” he calls. “Don’t let her out of your sight. She’s your charge now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Ten
Adam puts on the gloves but he doesn’t touch me. “Let her up, Roland. I’ll take
it from here.”
The boot disappears. I struggle to my feet and stare at nothing. I won’t think
about the horror that awaits me. Someone kicks in the backs of my knees and I
nearly stumble to the ground. “Get going,” a voice growls from behind. I look up
and realize Adam is already walking away. I’m supposed to be following him.
Only once we’re back in the familiar blindness of the asylum hallways does
he stop walking.
“Juliette.” One soft word and my joints are made of air.
I don’t answer him.
“Take my hand,” he says.
“I will never,” I manage between broken bites of oxygen. “Not ever.”
A heavy sigh. I feel him shift in the darkness and soon his body is too close
so disarmingly close to mine. His hand is on my lower back and he’s guiding me
through the corridors toward an unknown destination. Every inch of my skin is
blushing. I have to hold myself upright to keep from falling backward into his
arms.
The distance we’re walking is much longer than I expected. When Adam
finally speaks I suspect we’re close to the end. “We’re going to go outside,” he
says near my ear. I have to ball my fists to control the thrills tripping my heart.
I’m almost too distracted by the feel of his voice to understand the significance
of what he’s saying. “I just thought you should know.”
An audible intake of breath is my only response. I haven’t been outside in
almost a year. I’m painfully excited but I haven’t felt natural light on my skin in
so long I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it. I have no choice.
The air hits me first.
Our atmosphere has little to boast of, but after so many months in a concrete
corner even the wasted oxygen of our dying Earth tastes like heaven. I can’t
inhale fast enough. I fill my lungs with the feeling; I step into the slight breeze
and clutch a fistful of wind as it weaves its way through my fingers.
Bliss unlike anything I’ve ever known.
The air is crisp and cool. A refreshing bath of tangible nothing that stings my
eyes and snaps at my skin. The sun is high today, blinding as it reflects the small
patches of snow keeping the earth frozen. My eyes are pressed down by the
weight of the bright light and I can’t see through more than two slits, but the
warm rays wash over my body like a jacket fitted to my form, like the hug of
something greater than a human. I could stand still in this moment forever. For
one infinite second I feel free.
Adam’s touch shocks me back to reality. I nearly jump out of my skin and he
catches my waist. I have to beg my bones to stop shaking. “Are you okay?” His
eyes surprise me. They’re the same ones I remember, blue and bottomless like
the deepest part of the ocean. His hands are gentle so gentle around me.
“I don’t want you to touch me,” I lie.
“You don’t have a choice.” He won’t look at me.
“I always have a choice.”
He runs a hand through his hair and swallows the nothing in his throat.
“Follow me.”
We’re in a blank space, an empty acre filled with dead leaves and dying trees
taking small sips from melted snow in the soil. The landscape has been ravaged
by war and neglect and it’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in so long. The
stomping soldiers stop to watch as Adam opens a car door for me.
It’s not a car. It’s a tank.
I stare at the massive metal body and attempt to climb my way up the side
when Adam is suddenly behind me. He hoists me up by the waist and I gasp as
he settles me into the seat.
Soon we’re driving in silence and I have no idea where we’re headed.
I’m staring out the window at everything.
I’m eating and drinking and absorbing every infinitesimal detail in the
debris, in the skyline, in the abandoned homes and broken pieces of metal and
glass sprinkled in the scenery. The world looks naked, stripped of vegetation and
warmth. There are no street signs, no stop signs; there is no need for either.
There is no public transportation. Everyone knows that cars are now
manufactured by only one company and sold at a ridiculous rate.
Very few people are allowed a means of escape.
My parents The general population has been distributed across what’s left of
the country. Industrial buildings form the spine of the landscape: tall, rectangular
metal boxes stuffed full of machinery. Machinery intended to strengthen the
army, to strengthen The Reestablishment, to destroy mass quantities of human
civilization.
Carbon/Tar/Steel
Gray/Black/Silver
Smoky colors smudged into the skyline, dripping into the slush that used to
be snow. Trash is heaped in haphazard piles everywhere, patches of yellowed
grass peeking out from under the devastation.
Traditional homes of our old world have been abandoned, windows
shattered, roofs collapsing, red and green and blue paint scrubbed into muted
shades to better match our bright future. Now I see the compounds carelessly
constructed on the ravaged land and I begin to remember. I remember how these
were supposed to be temporary. I remember the few months before I was locked
up when they’d begun building them. These small, cold quarters would suffice
just until they figured out all the details of this new plan, is what The
Reestablishment had said. Just until everyone was subdued. Just until people
stopped protesting and realized that this change was good for them, good for
their children, good for their future.
I remember there were rules.
No more dangerous imaginations, no more prescription medications. A new
generation comprised of only healthy individuals would sustain us. The sick
must be locked away. The old must be discarded. The troubled must be given up
to the asylums. Only the strong should survive.
Yes.
Of course.
No more stupid languages and stupid stories and stupid paintings placed
above stupid mantels. No more Christmas, no more Hanukkah, no more
Ramadan and Diwali. No talk of religion, of belief, of personal convictions.
Personal convictions were what nearly killed us all, is what they said.
Convictions priorities preferences prejudices and ideologies divided us.
Deluded us. Destroyed us.
Selfish needs, wants, and desires needed to be obliterated. Greed,
overindulgence, and gluttony had to be expunged from human behavior. The
solution was in self-control, in minimalism, in sparse living conditions; one
simple language and a brand-new dictionary filled with words everyone would
understand.
These things would save us, save our children, save the human race, is what
they said.
Reestablish Equality. Reestablish Humanity. Reestablish Hope, Healing, and
Happiness.
SAVE US!
JOIN US!
REESTABLISH SOCIETY!
The posters are still plastered on the walls.
The wind whips their tattered remains, but the signs are determinedly fixed,
flapping against the steel and concrete structures they’re stuck to. Some are still
pasted to poles sprung right out of the ground, loudspeakers now affixed at the
very top. Loudspeakers that alert the people, no doubt, to the imminent dangers
that surround them.
But the world is eerily quiet.
Pedestrians pass by, ambling along in the cold, frigid weather to do factory
work and find food for their families. Hope in this world bleeds out of the barrel
of a gun.
No one really cares for the concept anymore.
People used to want hope. They wanted to think things could get better. They
wanted to believe they could go back to worrying about gossip and holiday
vacations and going to parties on Saturday nights, so The Reestablishment
promised a future too perfect to be possible and society was too desperate to
disbelieve. They never realized they were signing away their souls to a group
planning on taking advantage of their ignorance. Their fear.
Most civilians are too petrified to protest but there are others who are
stronger. There are others who are waiting for the right moment. There are
others who have already begun to fight back.
I hope it’s not too late to fight back.
I study every quivering branch, every imposing soldier, every window I can
count. My eyes are 2 professional pickpockets, stealing everything to store away
in my mind.
I lose track of the minutes we trample over.
We pull up to a structure 10 times larger than the asylum and suspiciously
central to civilization. From the outside it looks like a bland building,
inconspicuous in every way but its size, gray steel slabs comprising 4 flat walls,
windows cracked and slammed into the 15 stories. It’s bleak and bears no
marking, no insignia, no proof of its true identity.
Political headquarters camouflaged among the masses.
The inside of the tank is a convoluted mess of buttons and levers I’m at a
loss to operate, and Adam is opening my door before I have a chance to identify
the pieces. His hands are in place around my waist and my feet are now firmly
on the ground but my heart is pounding so fast I’m certain he can hear it. He
hasn’t let go of me.
I look up.
His eyes are tight, his forehead pinched, his lips his lips his lips are 2 pieces
of frustration forged together.
I step backward and 10,000 tiny particles shatter between us. He drops his
eyes. He turns away. He inhales and 5 fingers on one hand form a fickle fist.
“This way.” He nods toward the building.
I follow him inside.
Chapter Eleven
I’m so prepared for unimaginable horror that the reality is almost worse.
Dirty money is dripping from the walls, a year’s supply of food wasted on
marble floors, hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical aid poured into fancy
furniture and Persian rugs. I feel the artificial heat pouring in through air vents
and think of children screaming for clean water. I squint through crystal
chandeliers and hear mothers begging for mercy. I see a superficial world
existing in the midst of a terrorizing reality and I can’t move.
I can’t breathe.
So many people must’ve died to sustain this luxury. So many people had to
lose their homes and their children and their last 5 dollars in the bank for
promises promises promises so many promises to save them from themselves.
They promised us—The Reestablishment promised us hope for a better future.
They said they would fix things, they said they would help us get back to the
world we knew—the world with movie dates and spring weddings and baby
showers. They said they would give us back our homes, our health, our
sustainable future.
But they stole everything.
They took everything. My life. My future. My sanity. My freedom.
They filled our world with weapons aimed at our foreheads and smiled as
they shot 16 candles right through our future. They killed those strong enough to
fight back and locked up the freaks who failed to live up to their utopian
expectations. People like me.
Here is proof of their corruption.
My skin is cold-sweat, my fingers trembling with disgust, my legs unable to
withstand the waste the waste the waste the selfish waste in these 4 walls. I’m
seeing red everywhere. The blood of bodies spattered against the windows,
spilled across the carpets, dripping from the chandeliers.
“Juliette—”
I break.
I’m on my knees, my body cracking from the pain I’ve swallowed so many
times, heaving with sobs I can no longer suppress, my dignity dissolving in my
tears, the agony of this past week ripping my skin to shreds.
I can’t ever breathe.
I can’t catch the oxygen around me and I’m dry-heaving into my shirt and I
hear voices and see faces I don’t recognize, wisps of words wicked away by
confusion, thoughts scrambled so many times I don’t know if I’m even
conscious anymore.
I don’t know if I’ve officially lost my mind.
I’m in the air. I’m a bag of feathers in his arms and he’s breaking through
soldiers crowding around for a glimpse of the commotion and for a moment I
don’t want to care that I shouldn’t want this so much. I want to forget that I’m
supposed to hate him, that he betrayed me, that he’s working for the same people
who are trying to destroy the very little that’s left of humanity and my face is
buried in the soft material of his shirt and my cheek is pressed against his chest
and he smells like strength and courage and the world drowning in rain. I don’t
want him to ever ever ever ever let go of my body. I wish I could touch his skin,
I wish there were no barriers between us.
Reality slaps me in the face.
Mortification muddles my brain, desperate humiliation clouds my judgment;
red paints my face, bleeds through my skin. I clutch at his shirt.
“You can kill me,” I tell him. “You have guns—” I’m wriggling out of his
grip and he tightens his hold around my body. His face shows no emotion but a
sudden strain in his jaw, an unmistakable tension in his arms. “You can just kill
me—” I plead.
“Juliette.” His voice is solid with an edge of desperation. “Please.”
I’m numb again. Powerless all over again. Melting from within, life seeping
out of my limbs.
We’re standing in front of a door.
Adam takes a key card and swipes it against a black pane of glass fitted into
the small space beside the handle, and the stainless steel door slides out of place.
We step inside.
We’re all alone in a new room.
“Please don’t let go of me put me down,” I tell him.
There’s a queen-size bed in the middle of the space, lush carpet gracing the
floors, an armoire flush against the wall, light fixtures glittering from the ceiling.
The beauty is so tainted I can’t stand the sight of it. Adam gentles me onto the
soft mattress and takes a small step backward.
“You’ll be staying here for a while, I think,” is all he says.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to think about the inevitable torture
awaiting me. “Please,” I tell him. “I’d like to be left alone.”
A deep sigh. “That’s not exactly an option.”
“What do you mean?” I spin around.
“I have to watch you, Juliette.” He says my name like a whisper. My heart
my heart my heart. “Warner wants you to understand what he’s offering you, but
you’re still considered . . . a threat. He’s made you my assignment. I can’t
leave.”
I don’t know whether to be thrilled or horrified. I’m horrified. “You have to
live with me?”
“I live in the barracks on the opposite end of this building. With the other
soldiers. But, yeah.” He clears his throat. He’s not looking at me. “I’ll be moving
in.”
There’s an ache in the pit of my stomach that’s gnawing on my nerves. I
want to hate him and judge him and scream forever but I’m failing because all I
see is an 8-year-old boy who doesn’t remember that he used to be the kindest
person I ever knew.
I don’t want to believe this is happening.
I close my eyes and curl my head into my knees.
“You have to get dressed,” he says after a moment.
I pop my head up. I blink at him like I can’t understand what he’s saying. “I
am dressed.”
He clears his throat again but tries to be quiet about it. “There’s a bathroom
through here.” He points. I see a door connected to the room and I’m suddenly
curious. I’ve heard stories about people with bathrooms in their bedrooms. I
guess they’re not exactly in the bedroom, but they’re close enough. I slip off the
bed and follow his finger. As soon as I open the door he resumes speaking. “You
can shower and change in here. The bathroom . . . it’s the only place there are no
cameras,” he adds, his voice trailing off.
There are cameras in my room.
Of course.
“You can find clothes in there.” He nods to the armoire. He suddenly looks
uncomfortable.
“And you can’t leave?” I ask.
He rubs his forehead and sits down on the bed. He sighs. “You have to get
ready. Warner will be expecting you for dinner.”
“Dinner?” My eyes are the size of the moon.
Adam looks grim. “Yeah.”
“He’s not going to hurt me?” I’m ashamed at the relief in my voice, at the
unexpected tension I’ve released, at the fear I didn’t know I was harboring.
“He’s going to give me dinner?” I’m starving my stomach is a tortured pit of
starvation I’m so hungry so hungry so hungry I can’t even imagine what real
food must taste like.
Adam’s face is inscrutable again. “You should hurry. I can show you how
everything works.”
I don’t have time to protest before he’s in the bathroom and I’ve followed
him inside. The door is still open and he’s standing in the middle of the small
space with his back to me and I can’t understand why. “I already know how to
use the bathroom,” I tell him. I used to live in a regular home. I used to have a
family.
He turns around very, very slowly and I begin to panic. He finally lifts his
head but his eyes are darting in every direction. When he looks at me his eyes
narrow; his forehead is tight. His right hand curls into a fist and his left hand lifts
one finger to his lips. He’s telling me to be quiet.
Every organ in my body falls to the floor.
I knew something was coming but I didn’t know it’d be Adam. I didn’t think
he’d be the one to hurt me, to torture me, to make me wish for death more than I
ever have before. I don’t even realize I’m crying until I hear the whimper and
feel the silent tears stream down my face and I’m ashamed so ashamed so
ashamed of my weakness but a part of me doesn’t care. I’m tempted to beg, to
ask for mercy, to steal his gun and shoot myself first. Dignity is the only thing I
have left.
He seems to register my sudden hysteria because his eyes snap open and his
mouth falls to the floor. “No, God, Juliette—I’m not—” He swears under his
breath. He pumps his fist against his forehead and turns away, sighing heavily,
pacing the length of the small space. He swears again.
He walks out the door and doesn’t look back.
Chapter Twelve
5 full minutes under piping hot water, 2 bars of soap both smelling of lavender, a
bottle of shampoo meant only for my hair, and the touch of soft, plush towels I
dare to wrap around my body and I begin to understand.
They want me to forget.
They think they can wash away my memories, my loyalties, my priorities
with a few hot meals and a room with a view. They think I am so easily
purchased.
Warner doesn’t seem to understand that I grew up with nothing and I didn’t
hate it. I didn’t want the clothes or the perfect shoes or the expensive anything. I
didn’t want to be draped in silk. All I ever wanted was to reach out and touch
another human being not just with my hands but with my heart. I saw the world
and its lack of compassion, its harsh, grating judgment, and its cold, resentful
eyes. I saw it all around me.
I had so much time to listen.
To look.
To study people and places and possibilities. All I had to do was open my
eyes. All I had to do was open a book—to see the stories bleeding from page to
page. To see the memories etched onto paper.
I spent my life folded between the pages of books.
In the absence of human relationships I formed bonds with paper characters.
I lived love and loss through stories threaded in history; I experienced
adolescence by association. My world is one interwoven web of words, stringing
limb to limb, bone to sinew, thoughts and images all together. I am a being
comprised of letters, a character created by sentences, a figment of imagination
formed through fiction.
They want to delete every point of punctuation in my life from this earth and
I don’t think I can let that happen.
I slip back into my old clothes and tiptoe into the bedroom only to find it
abandoned. Adam is gone even though he said he would stay. I don’t understand
him I don’t understand his actions I don’t understand my disappointment. I wish
I didn’t love the freshness of my skin, the feel of being perfectly clean after so
long; I don’t understand why I still haven’t looked in the mirror, why I’m afraid
of what I’ll see, why I’m not sure if I’ll recognize the face that might stare back
at me.
I open the armoire.
It’s bursting with dresses and shoes and shirts and pants and clothing of
every kind, colors so vivid they hurt my eyes, material I’ve only ever heard of,
the kind I’m almost afraid to touch. The sizes are perfect too perfect.
They’ve been waiting for me.
The sky is raining bricks right into my skull.
I’ve been neglected abandoned ostracized and dragged from my home. I’ve
been poked prodded tested and thrown in a cell. I’ve been studied. I’ve been
starved. I’ve been tempted with friendship only to be left betrayed and trapped
into this nightmare I’m expected to be grateful for. My parents. My teachers.
Adam. Warner. The Reestablishment. I am expendable to all of them.
They think I’m a doll they can dress up and twist into prostration.
But they’re wrong.
“Warner is waiting for you.”
I spin around and fall back against the armoire, slamming it closed in the
craze of panic clutching my heart. I steady myself and fold away my fear when I
see Adam standing at the door. His mouth moves for a moment but he says
nothing. Eventually he steps forward so forward until he’s close enough to
touch.
He reaches past me to reopen the door hiding the things I’m embarrassed to
know exist. “These are all for you,” he says without looking at me, his fingers
touching the hem of a purple dress, a rich plum color good enough to eat.
“I already have clothes.” My hands smooth out the wrinkles in my dirty,
ragged outfit.
He finally decides to look at me, but when he does his eyebrows trip, his
eyes blink and freeze, his lips part in surprise. I wonder if I’ve washed off a new
face for myself and I flush, hoping he’s not disgusted by what he might see. I
don’t know why I care.
He drops his gaze. Takes a deep breath. “I’ll be waiting outside.”
I stare at the purple dress with Adam’s fingerprints I study the inside of the
armoire for only a moment before I abandon it. I comb anxious fingers through
my wet hair and steel myself.
I am no one’s property.
And I don’t care what Warner wants me to look like.
I step outside and Adam stares at me for a small second. He rubs the back of
his neck and says nothing. He shakes his head. He starts walking. He doesn’t
touch me and I shouldn’t notice but I do. I have no idea what to expect I have no
idea what my life will be like in this new place and I’m being nailed in the
stomach by every exquisite embellishment, every lavish accessory, every
superfluous painting, molding, lighting, coloring of this building. I hope the
whole thing catches fire.
I follow Adam down a long carpeted corridor to an elevator made entirely of
glass. He swipes the same key card he used to open my door and we step inside.
I didn’t even realize we’d taken an elevator to get up this many floors. I realize I
must’ve made a horrible scene when I arrived and I’m almost happy.
I hope I disappoint Warner in every possible way.
The dining room is big enough to feed thousands of orphans. Instead, there are 7
banquet tables draped across the room, blue silk spilling across the tabletops,
crystal vases bursting with orchids and stargazer lilies, glass bowls filled with
gardenias. It’s enchanting. I wonder where they got the flowers from. They must
not be real. I don’t know how they could be real. I haven’t seen real flowers in
years.
Warner is positioned at the table directly in the middle, seated at the head. As
soon as he sees me Adam he stands up. The entire room stands in turn.
I realize almost immediately that there is an empty seat on either side of him
and I don’t intend to stop moving but I do. I take quick inventory of the
attendees and can’t count any other women.
Adam brushes the small of my back with 3 fingertips and I’m startled out of
my skin. I hurry forward and Warner beams at me. He pulls out the chair on his
left and gestures for me to sit down. I do.
I try not to look at Adam as he sits across from me.
“You know . . . there are clothes in your armoire, my dear.” Warner sits
down beside me; the room reseats itself and resumes a steady stream of chatter.
He’s turned almost entirely in my direction but somehow the only presence I’m
aware of is directly across from me. I focus on the empty plate 2 inches from my
fingers. I drop my hands in my lap. “And you don’t have to wear those dirty
tennis shoes anymore,” Warner continues, stealing another glance before
pouring something into my cup. It looks like water.
I’m so thirsty I could inhale a waterfall.
I hate his smile.
Hate looks just like everybody else until it smiles. Until it spins around and
lies with lips and teeth carved into the semblance of something too passive to
punch.
“Juliette?”
I inhale too quickly. A stifled cough is ballooning in my throat.
His glassy green eyes glint in my direction.
“Are you not hungry?” Words dipped in sugar. His gloved hand touches my
wrist and I nearly sprain it in my haste to distance myself from him.
I could eat every person in this room. “No, thank you.”
He licks his bottom lip into a smile. “Don’t confuse stupidity for bravery,
love. I know you haven’t eaten anything in days.”
Something in my patience snaps. “I’d really rather die than eat your food and
listen to you call me love,” I tell him.
Adam drops his fork.
Warner spares him a swift glance and when he looks my way again his eyes
have hardened. He holds my gaze for a few infinitely long seconds before he
pulls a gun out of his jacket pocket. He fires.
The entire room screams to a stop.
My heart is flapping wings against my throat.
I turn my head very, very slowly to follow the direction of Warner’s gun
only to see he’s shot some kind of meat right through the bone. The platter of
food is slightly steaming across the room, the meal heaped less than a foot away
from the guests. He shot it without even looking. He could’ve killed someone.
It takes all of my energy to remain very, very still.
Warner drops the gun on my plate. The silence gives it space to clatter
around the universe and back. “Choose your words very wisely, Juliette. One
word from me and your life here won’t be so easy.”
I blink.
Adam pushes a plate of food in front of me; the strength of his gaze is like a
white-hot poker pressed against my skin. I look up and he cocks his head the
tiniest millimeter. His eyes are saying Please.
I pick up my fork.
Warner doesn’t miss a thing. He clears his throat a little too loudly. He
laughs with no humor as he cuts into the meat on his plate. “Do I have to get
Kent to do all my work for me?”
“Excuse me?”
“It seems he’s the only one you’ll listen to.” His tone is breezy but his jaw is
unmistakably set. He turns to Adam. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell her to change
her clothes like I asked you to.”
Adam sits up straighter. “I did, sir.”
“I like my clothes,” I tell him. I’d like to punch you in the eye, is what I
don’t tell him.
Warner’s smile slides back into place. “No one asked what you like, love.
Now eat. I need you to look your best when you stand beside me.”
Chapter Thirteen
Warner insists on accompanying me to my room.
After dinner Adam disappeared with a few of the other soldiers. He
disappeared without a word or glance in my direction and I don’t have any idea
what to anticipate. At least I have nothing to lose but my life.
“I don’t want you to hate me,” Warner says as we make our way toward the
elevator. “I’m only your enemy if you want me to be.”
“We will always be enemies.” My voice is cracked into chips of ice. The
words melt on my tongue. “I will never be what you want me to be.”
Warner sighs as he presses the button for the elevator. “I really think you’ll
change your mind.” He glances at me with a small smile. A shame, really, that
such striking looks should be wasted on such a miserable human being. “You
and I, Juliette—together? We could be unstoppable.”
I will not look at him though I feel his gaze touching every inch of my body.
“No, thank you.”
We’re in the elevator. The world is whooshing past us and the walls of glass
make us a spectacle to every person on every floor. There are no secrets in this
building.
He touches my elbow and I pull away. “You might reconsider,” he says
softly.
“How did you figure it out?” The elevator dings open but I’m not moving. I
finally turn to face him because I can’t contain my curiosity. I study his hands,
so carefully sheathed in leather, his sleeves thick and crisp and long. Even his
collar is high and regal. He’s dressed impeccably from head to toe and covered
everywhere except his face. Even if I wanted to touch him I’m not sure I’d be
able to. He’s protecting himself.
From me.
“Perhaps a conversation for tomorrow night?” He cocks a brow and offers
me his arm. I pretend not to notice it as we walk off the elevator and down the
hall. “Maybe you could wear something nice.”
“What’s your first name?” I ask him.
We’re standing in front of my door.
He stops. Surprised. Lifts his chin almost imperceptibly. Focuses his eyes on
my face until I begin to regret my question. “You want to know my name.”
I don’t do it on purpose, but my eyes narrow just a bit. “Warner is your last
name, isn’t it?”
He almost smiles. “You want to know my name.”
“I didn’t realize it was a secret.”
He steps forward. His lips twitch. His eyes fall, his lips draw in a tight
breath. He drops a gloved finger down the apple of my cheek. “I’ll tell you mine
if you tell me yours,” he whispers, too close to my neck.
I inch backward. Swallow hard. “You already know my name.”
He’s not looking at my eyes. “You’re right. I should rephrase that. What I
meant to say was I’ll tell you mine if you show me yours.”
“What?” I’m breathing too fast too suddenly.
He begins to pull off his gloves and I begin to panic. “Show me what you
can do.”
My jaw is too tight and my teeth have begun to ache. “I won’t touch you.”
“That’s all right.” He tugs off the other glove. “I don’t exactly need your
help.”
“No—”
“Don’t worry.” He grins. “I’m sure it won’t hurt you at all.”
“No,” I gasp. “No, I won’t—I can’t—”
“Fine,” Warner snaps. “That’s fine. You don’t want to hurt me. I’m so
utterly flattered.” He almost rolls his eyes. Looks down the hall. Spots a soldier.
Beckons him over. “Jenkins?”
Jenkins is swift for his size and he’s at my side in a second.
“Sir.” He bows his head an inch even though he’s clearly Warner’s senior.
He can’t be more than 27; stocky, sturdy, packed with bulk. He spares me a
sidelong glance. His brown eyes are warmer than I’d expect them to be.
“I’m going to need you to accompany Ms. Ferrars back downstairs. But be
warned: she’s incredibly uncooperative and will try to break free from your
grip.” He smiles too slowly. “No matter what she says or does, soldier, you
cannot let go of her. Are we clear?”
Jenkins’ eyes widen; he blinks, his nostrils flare, his fingers flex at his sides.
He takes a short breath. Nods.
Jenkins is not an idiot.
I start running.
I’m bolting down the hallway and running past a series of stunned soldiers
too scared to stop me. I don’t know what I’m doing, why I think I can run, where
I think I could possibly go. I’m straining to reach the elevator if only because I
think it will buy me time. I don’t know what else to do.
Warner’s commands are bouncing off the walls and exploding in my
eardrums. He doesn’t need to chase me. He’s getting others to do the work for
him.
Soldiers are lining up before me.
Beside me.
Behind me.
I can’t breathe.
I’m spinning in a circle of my own stupidity, panicked, pained, petrified by
the thought of what I’m going to do to Jenkins against my will. What he will do
to me against his will. What will happen to both of us despite our best intentions.
“Seize her,” Warner says softly. Silence has stuffed itself into every corner
of this building. His voice is the only sound in the room.
Jenkins steps forward.
My eyes are flooding and I squeeze them shut. I pry them open. I blink back
at the crowd and spot a familiar face. Adam is staring at me, horrified.
Shame has covered every inch of my body.
Jenkins offers me his hand.
My bones begin to buckle, snapping in synchronicity with the beats of my
heart. I crumble to the floor, folding into myself like a flimsy crepe. My arms are
so painfully bare in this ragged T-shirt.
“Don’t—” I hold up a tentative hand, pleading with my eyes, staring into the
face of this innocent man. “Please don’t—” My voice breaks. “You don’t want to
touch me—”
“I never said I did.” Jenkins’s voice is deep and steady, full of regret. Jenkins
who has no gloves, no protection, no preparation, no possible defense.
“That was a direct order, soldier,” Warner barks, trains a gun at his back.
Jenkins grabs my arms.
NO NO NO
I gasp.
My blood is surging through my veins, rushing through my body like a
raging river, waves of heat lapping against my bones. I can hear his anguish, I
can feel the power pouring out of his body, I can hear his heart beating in my ear
and my head is spinning with the rush of adrenaline fortifying my being.
I feel alive.
I wish it hurt me. I wish it maimed me. I wish it repulsed me. I wish I hated
the potent force wrapping itself around my skeleton.
But I don’t. My skin is pulsing with someone else’s life and I don’t hate it.
I hate myself for enjoying it.
I enjoy the way it feels to be brimming with more life and hope and human
power than I knew I was capable of. His pain gives me a pleasure I never asked
for.
And he’s not letting go.
But he’s not letting go because he can’t. Because I have to be the one to
break the connection. Because the agony incapacitates him. Because he’s caught
in my snares.
Because I am a Venus flytrap.
And I am lethal.
I fall on my back and kick at his chest, willing him away from me, willing
his weight off of my small frame, his limp body collapsed against my own. I’m
suddenly screaming and struggling to see past the sheet of tears obscuring my
vision; I’m hiccupping, hysterical, horrified by the frozen look on this man’s
face, his paralyzed lips wheezing gasps through his lungs.
I break free and stumble backward. The sea of soldiers parts behind me.
Every face is etched in astonishment and pure, unadulterated fear. Jenkins is
lying on the floor and no one dares approach him.
“Somebody help him!” I scream. “Somebody help him! He needs a doctor—
he needs to be taken—he needs—he—oh God—what have I done—”
“Juliette—”
“DON’T TOUCH ME—DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH ME—”
Warner’s gloves are back in place and he’s trying to hold me together, he’s
trying to smooth back my hair, he’s trying to wipe away my tears and I want to
murder him.
“Juliette, you need to calm down—”
“HELP HIM!” I cry, falling to my knees, my eyes glued to the figure lying
on the floor. The other soldiers are finally creeping closer, cautious as though he
might be contagious. “Please—you have to help him! Please—”
“Kent, Curtis, Soledad—TAKE CARE OF THIS!” Warner shouts to his men
before scooping me up into his arms.
I’m still kicking when the world goes black.
Chapter Fourteen
The ceiling is fading in and out of focus.
My head is heavy, my vision is blurry, my heart is strained. There is a
distinct flavor of panic lodged somewhere underneath my tongue and I’m
fighting to remember where it came from. I try to sit up and can’t understand
why I was lying down.
Someone’s hands are on my shoulders.
“How are you feeling?” Warner is peering down at me.
Suddenly my memories are burning in my eyes and Jenkins’ face is
swimming in my consciousness and I’m swinging my fists and screaming for
Warner to get away from me and struggling to wriggle out of his grip but he just
smiles. Laughs a little. Gentles my hands down beside my torso.
“Well, at least you’re awake,” he sighs. “You had me worried for a
moment.”
I try to control my trembling limbs. “Get your hands away from me.”
He waves sheathed fingers in front of my face. “I’m all covered up. Don’t
worry.”
“I hate you.”
“So much passion.” He laughs again. He looks so calm, so genuinely
amused. He stares at me with eyes softer than I ever expected them to be.
I turn away.
He stands up. Takes a short breath. “Here,” he says, reaching for a tray on a
small table. “I brought you food.”
I take advantage of the moment to sit up and look around. I’m lying on a bed
draped in damask golds and burgundies the darkest shade of blood. The floor is
covered in thick, rich carpet the color of a setting summer sun. It’s warm in this
room. It’s the same size as the one I occupy, its furniture standard enough: bed,
armoire, side tables, chandelier glittering from the ceiling. The only difference is
there’s an extra door in this room and there’s a candle burning quietly on a small
table in the corner. I haven’t seen fire in so many years I’ve lost count. I have to
stifle an impulse to reach out and touch the flame.
I prop myself up against the pillows and try to pretend I’m not comfortable.
“Where am I?”
Warner turns around holding a plate with bread and cheese on it. His other
hand is gripping a glass of water. He looks around the room as if seeing it for the
first time. “This is my bedroom.”
If my head weren’t splitting into pieces I’d be tempted to run. “Take me to
my own room. I don’t want to be here.”
“And yet, here you are.” He sits at the foot of the bed, a few feet away.
Pushes the plate in front of me. “Are you thirsty?”
I don’t know if it’s because I can’t think straight or if it’s because I’m
genuinely confused, but I’m struggling to reconcile Warner’s polarizing
personalities. Here he is, offering me a glass of water after he forced me to
torture someone. I lift my hands and study my fingers as if I’ve never seen them
before. “I don’t understand.”
He cocks his head, inspecting me as though I might’ve seriously injured
myself. “I only asked if you were thirsty. That shouldn’t be difficult to
understand.” A pause. “Drink this.”
I take the glass. Stare at it. Stare at him. Stare at the walls.
I must be insane.
Warner sighs. “I’m not sure, but I think you fainted. And I think you should
probably eat something, though I’m not entirely sure about that, either.” He
pauses. “You’ve probably had too much exertion your first day here. My
mistake.”
“Why are you being nice to me?”
The surprise on his face surprises me even more. “Because I care about you,”
he says simply.
“You care about me?” The numbness in my body is beginning to dissipate.
My blood pressure is rising and anger is making its way to the forefront of my
consciousness. “I almost killed Jenkins because of you!”
“You didn’t kill—”
“Your soldiers beat me! You keep me here like a prisoner! You threaten me!
You threaten to kill me! You give me no freedom and you say you care about
me?” I nearly throw the glass of water at his face. “You are a monster!”
Warner turns away so I’m staring at his profile. He clasps his hands.
Changes his mind. Touches his lips. “I am only trying to help you.”
“Liar.”
He seems to consider that. Nods, just once. “Yes. Most of the time, yes.”
“I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be your experiment. Let me go.”
“No.” He stands up. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t. I just—” He tugs at his fingers. Clears his throat. His eyes
touch the ceiling for a brief moment. “Because I need you.”
“You need me to kill people!”
He doesn’t answer right away. He walks to the candle. Pulls off a glove.
Tickles the flame with his bare fingers. “You know, I am very capable of killing
people on my own, Juliette. I’m actually very good at it.”
“That’s disgusting.”
He shrugs. “How else do you think someone my age is able to control so
many soldiers? Why else would my father allow me to take charge of an entire
sector?”
“Your father?” I sit up, suddenly curious in spite of myself.
He ignores my question. “The mechanics of fear are simple enough. People
are intimidated by me, so they listen when I speak.” He waves a hand. “Empty
threats are worth very little these days.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “So you kill people for power.”
“As do you.”
“How dare you—”
He laughs, loud. “You’re free to lie to yourself, if it makes you feel better.”
“I am not lying—”
“Why did it take you so long to break your connection with Jenkins?”
My mouth freezes in place.
“Why didn’t you fight back right away? Why did you allow him to touch you
for as long as he did?”
My hands have begun to shake and I grip them, hard. “You don’t know
anything about me.”
“And yet you claim to know me so well.”
I clench my jaw, not trusting myself to speak.
“At least I’m honest,” he adds.
“You just agreed you’re a liar!”
He raises his eyebrows. “At least I’m honest about being a liar.”
I slam the glass of water on the side table. Drop my head in my hands. Try to
stay calm. Take a steadying breath. “Well,” I rasp, “why do you need me, then?
If you’re such an excellent murderer?”
A smile flickers and fades across his face. “One day I’ll introduce you to the
answer to that question.”
I try to protest but he stops me with one hand. Picks up a piece of bread from
the plate. Holds it under my nose. “You hardly ate anything at dinner. That can’t
possibly be healthy.”
I don’t move.
He drops the bread on the plate and drops the plate beside the water. Turns to
me. Studies my eyes with such intensity I’m momentarily disarmed. There are so
many things I want to say and scream but somehow I’ve forgotten all about the
words waiting patiently in my mouth. I can’t make myself look away.
“Eat something.” His eyes abandon me. “Then go to sleep. I’ll be back for
you in the morning.”
“Why can’t I sleep in my own room?”
He gets to his feet. Dusts off his pants for no real reason. “Because I want
you to stay here.”
“But why?”
He barks out a laugh. “So many questions.”
“Well if you’d give me a straight answer—”
“Good night, Juliette.”
“Are you going to let me go?” I ask, this time quietly, this time timidly.
“No.” He takes 6 steps into the corner with the candle. “And I won’t promise
to make things easier for you, either.” There is no regret, no remorse, no
sympathy in his voice. He could be talking about the weather.
“You could be lying.”
“Yes, I could be.” He nods, as if to himself. Blows out the candle.
And disappears.
I try to fight it
I try to stay awake
I try to find my head but I can’t.
I collapse from sheer exhaustion.
Chapter Fifteen
Why don’t you just kill yourself? someone at school asked me once.
I think it was the kind of question intended to be cruel, but it was the first
time I’d ever contemplated the possibility. I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I
was crazy to consider it, but I’d always hoped that if I were a good enough girl,
if I did everything right, if I said the right things or said nothing at all—I thought
my parents would change their minds. I thought they would finally listen when I
tried to talk. I thought they would give me a chance. I thought they might finally
love me.
I always had that stupid hope.
“Good morning.”
My eyes snap open with a start. I’ve never been a heavy sleeper.
Warner is staring at me, sitting at the foot of his own bed in a fresh suit and
perfectly polished boots. Everything about him is meticulous. Pristine. His
breath is cool and fresh in the crisp morning air. I can feel it on my face.
It takes me a moment to realize I’m tangled in the same sheets Warner
himself has slept in. My face is suddenly on fire and I’m fumbling to free
myself. I nearly fall off the bed.
I don’t acknowledge him.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
I look up. His eyes are such a strange shade of green: bright, crystal clear,
piercing in the most alarming way. His hair is thick, the richest slice of gold; his
frame is lean and unassuming, but his grip is effortlessly strong. I notice for the
first time that he wears a jade ring on his left pinkie finger.
He catches me staring and stands up. Slips his gloves on and clasps his hands
behind his back.
“It’s time for you to go back to your room.”
I blink. Nod. Stand up and nearly fall down. I catch myself on the side of the
bed and try to steady my dizzying head. I hear Warner sigh.
“You didn’t eat the food I left for you last night.”
I grab the water with trembling hands and force myself to eat some of the
bread. My body has gotten so used to hunger I don’t know how to recognize it
anymore.
Warner leads me out the door once I find my footing. I’m still clutching a
piece of cheese in my hand.
I nearly drop it when I step outside.
There are even more soldiers here than there are on my floor. Each is
equipped with at least 4 different kinds of guns, some slung around their necks,
some strapped to their belts. All of them betray a look of terror when they see
my face. It flashes in and out of their features so quickly I might’ve missed it,
but it’s obvious enough: everyone grips their weapons a little tighter as I walk
by.
Warner seems pleased.
“Their fear will work in your favor,” he whispers in my ear.
My humanity is lying in a million pieces on this carpeted floor. “I never
wanted them to be afraid of me.”
“You should.” He stops. His eyes are calling me an idiot. “If they don’t fear
you, they will hunt you.”
“People hunt things they fear all the time.”
“At least now they know what they’re up against.” He resumes walking
down the hall, but my feet are stitched into the ground. Realization is ice-cold
water and it’s dripping down my back.
“You made me do that—what I did—to Jenkins? On purpose?”
Warner is already 3 steps ahead but I can see the smile on his face.
“Everything I do is done on purpose.”
“You wanted to make a spectacle out of me.” My heart is racing in my wrist,
pulsing in my fingers.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From your own soldiers?” I’m running to catch up to him now, burning
with indignation. “At the expense of a man’s life—”
“Get inside.” Warner has reached the elevator. He’s holding the doors open
for me.
I follow him in.
He presses the right buttons.
The doors close.
I turn to speak.
He corners me.
I’m backed into the far edge of this glass receptacle and I’m suddenly
nervous. His hands are holding my arms and his lips are dangerously close to my
face. His gaze is locked into mine, his eyes flashing; dangerous. He says one
word: “Yes.”
It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, from my own soldiers. Yes, at the expense of one man’s life.” He
tenses his jaw. Speaks through his teeth. “There is very little you understand
about my world, Juliette.”
“I’m trying to understand—”
“No you’re not,” he snaps. His eyelashes are like individual threads of spun
gold lit on fire. I almost want to touch them. “You don’t understand that power
and control can slip from your grasp at any moment and even when you think
you’re most prepared. These two things are not easy to earn. They are even
harder to retain.” I try to speak and he cuts me off. “You think I don’t know how
many of my own soldiers hate me? You think I don’t know that they’d like to
see me fall? You think there aren’t others who would love to have the position I
work so hard to have—”
“Don’t flatter yourself—”
He closes the last few inches between us and my words fall to the floor. I
can’t breathe. The tension in his entire body is so intense it’s nearly palpable and
I think my muscles have begun to freeze. “You are naive,” he says to me, his
voice harsh, low, a grating whisper against my skin. “You don’t realize that
you’re a threat to everyone in this building. They have every reason to harm you.
You don’t see that I am trying to help you—”
“By hurting me!” I explode. “By hurting others!”
His laugh is cold, mirthless. He backs away from me, suddenly disgusted.
The elevator slides open but he doesn’t step outside. I can see my door from
here. “Go back to your room. Wash up. Change. There are dresses in your
armoire.”
“I don’t like dresses.”
“I don’t think you like seeing that, either,” he says with a tilt of his head. I
follow his gaze to see a hulking shadow across from my door. I turn to him for
an explanation but he says nothing. He’s suddenly composed, his features wiped
clean of emotion. He takes my hand, squeezes my fingers, says, “I’ll be back for
you in exactly one hour,” and closes the elevator doors before I have a chance to
protest. I begin to wonder if it’s coincidence that the one person most unafraid to
touch me is a monster himself.
I step forward and dare to peer closer at the soldier standing in the dark.
Adam.
Oh Adam.
Adam who now knows exactly what I’m capable of.
My heart is a water balloon exploding in my chest. My lungs are swinging
from my rib cage. I feel as though every fist in the world has decided to punch
me in the stomach. I shouldn’t care so much, but I do.
He’ll hate me forever now. He won’t even look at me.
I wait for him to open my door but he doesn’t move.
“Adam?” I venture, tentative. “I need your key card.”
I watch him swallow hard and take a tiny breath and immediately I sense
something is wrong. I move closer and a quick, stiff shake of his head tells me
not to. I do not touch people I do not get close to people I am a monster. He
doesn’t want me near him. Of course he doesn’t. I should never forget my place.
He opens my door with immense difficulty and I realize someone’s hurt him
where I can’t see it. Warner’s words come back to me and I recognize his airy
good-bye as a warning. A warning that severs every nerve ending in my body.
Adam will be punished for my mistakes. For my disobedience.
I want to bury my tears in a bucket of regret.
I step through the door and glance back at Adam one last time, unable to feel
any kind of triumph in his pain. Despite everything he’s done I don’t know if
I’m capable of hating him. Not Adam. Not the boy I used to know.
“The purple dress,” he says, his voice broken and a little breathy like it hurts
to inhale. I have to wring my hands to keep from running to him. “Wear the
purple dress.” He coughs. “Juliette.”
I will be the perfect mannequin.
Chapter Sixteen
As soon as I’m in the room I open the armoire and yank the purple dress off the
hanger before I remember I’m being watched. The cameras. I wonder if Adam
was punished for telling me about the cameras, too. I wonder if he’s taken any
other risks with me. I wonder why he would.
I touch the stiff, modern material of the plum dress and my fingers find their
way to the hem, just as Adam’s did yesterday. I can’t help but wonder why he
likes this dress so much. Why it has to be this one. Why I even have to wear a
dress.
I am not a doll.
My hand comes to rest on the small wooden shelf beneath the hanging
clothes and an unfamiliar texture brushes my skin. It’s rough and foreign but
familiar at the same time. I step closer to the armoire and hide between the
doors. My fingers feel their way around the surface and a surge of sunshine
rushes through my stomach until I’m certain I’m bursting with hope and feeling
and a force of stupid happiness so strong I’m surprised there aren’t tears
streaming down my face.
My notebook.
He saved my notebook. Adam saved the only thing I own.
I grab the purple dress and tuck the paper pad into its folds before stealing
away to the bathroom.
The bathroom where there are no cameras.
The bathroom where there are no cameras.
The bathroom where there are no cameras.
He was trying to tell me, I realize. Before, in the bathroom. He was trying to
tell me something and I was so scared I scared him away.
I scared him away.
I close the door behind me and my hands are shaking as I unfurl the familiar
papers bound together by old glue. I flip through the pages to make sure they’re
all there and my eyes land on my most recent entry. At the very bottom there is a
shift. A new sentence not written in my handwriting.
A new sentence that must’ve come from him.
It’s not what you think.
I stand perfectly still.
Every inch of my skin is taut with tension, fraught with feeling and the
pressure is building in my chest, pounding louder and faster and harder,
overcompensating for my stillness. I do not tremble when I’m frozen in time. I
train my breaths to come slower, I count things that do not exist, I make up
numbers I do not have, I pretend time is a broken hourglass bleeding seconds
through sand. I dare to believe.
I dare to hope Adam is trying to reach out to me. I’m crazy enough to
consider the possibility.
I rip the page out of the small notebook and clutch it close, actively
swallowing the hysteria tickling every broken moment in my mind.
I hide the notebook in a pocket of the purple dress. The pocket Adam
must’ve slipped it into. The pocket it must’ve fallen out of. The pocket of the
purple dress. The pocket of the purple dress.
Hope is a pocket of possibility.
I’m holding it in my hand.
Warner is not late.
He doesn’t knock, either.
I’m slipping on my shoes when he walks in without a single word, without
even an effort to make his presence known. His eyes are falling all over my
frame. My jaw tightens on its own.
“You hurt him,” I find myself saying.
“You shouldn’t care,” he says with a tilt of his head, gesturing to my dress.
“But it’s obvious you do.”
I zip my lips and pray my hands aren’t shaking too much. I don’t know
where Adam is. I don’t know how badly he’s hurt. I don’t know what Warner
will do, how far he’ll go in the pursuit of what he wants but the prospect of
Adam in pain is like a cold hand clutching my esophagus. I can’t catch my
breath. I feel like I’m struggling to swallow a toothpick. If Adam is trying to
help me it could cost him his life.
I touch the piece of paper tucked into my pocket.
Breathe.
Warner’s eyes are on my window.
Breathe.
“It’s time to go,” he says.
Breathe.
“Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer.
We step out the door. I look around. The hallway is abandoned; empty.
“Where is Adam everyone . . . ?”
“I really like that dress,” Warner says as he slips an arm around my waist. I
jerk away but he pulls me along, guiding me toward the elevator. “The fit is
spectacular. It helps distract me from all your questions.”
“Your poor mother.”
Warner almost trips over his own feet. His eyes are wide; alarmed. He stops
a few feet short of our goal. Spins around. “What do you mean?”
My stomach falls over.
The look on his face: the unguarded strain, the flinching terror, the sudden
apprehension in his features.
I was trying to make a joke, is what I don’t say to him. I feel sorry for your
poor mother, is what I was going to say to him, that she has to deal with such a
miserable, pathetic son. But I don’t say any of it.
He grabs my hands, focuses my eyes. Urgency is pulsing at his temples.
“What do you mean?” he insists.
“N-nothing,” I stammer. My voice breaks in half. “I didn’t—it was just a
joke—”
Warner drops my hands like they’ve burned him. He looks away. Charges
toward the elevator and doesn’t wait for me to catch up.
I wonder what he’s not telling me.
Only once we’ve gone down several floors and are making our way down an
unfamiliar hall toward an unfamiliar exit does he finally look at me. He offers
me 4 words.
“Welcome to your future.”
Chapter Seventeen
I’m swimming in sunlight.
Warner is holding open a door that leads directly outside and I’m so
unprepared for the experience I can hardly see straight. He grips my elbow to
steady my path and I glance back at him.
“We’re going outside.” I say it because I have to say it out loud. Because the
outside world is a treat I’m so seldom offered. Because I don’t know if Warner is
trying to be nice again. I look from him to what looks like a concrete courtyard
and back to him again. “What are we doing outside?”
“We have some business to take care of.” He tugs me toward the center of
this new universe and I’m breaking away from him, reaching out to touch the
sky like I’m hoping it will remember me. The clouds are gray like they’ve
always been, but they’re sparse and unassuming. The sun is high high high,
lounging against a backdrop propping up its rays and redirecting its warmth in
our general direction. I stand on tiptoe and try to touch it. The wind folds itself
into my arms and smiles against my skin. Cool, silky-smooth air braids a soft
breeze through my hair. This square courtyard could be my ballroom.
I want to dance with the elements.
Warner grabs my hand. I turn around.
He’s smiling.
“This,” he says, gesturing to the cold gray world under our feet, “this makes
you happy?”
I look around. I realize the courtyard is not quite a roof, but somewhere
between two buildings. I edge toward the ledge and can see dead land and naked
trees and scattered compounds stretching on for miles. “Cold air smells so
clean,” I tell him. “Fresh. Brand-new. It’s the most wonderful smell in the
world.”
His eyes look amused, troubled, interested, and confused all at once. He
shakes his head. Pats down his jacket and reaches for an inside pocket. He pulls
out a gun with a gold hilt that glints in the sunlight.
I pull in a sharp breath.
He inspects the gun in a way I wouldn’t understand, presumably to check
whether or not it’s ready to fire. He slips it into his hand, his finger poised
directly over the trigger. He turns and finally reads the expression on my face.
He almost laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s not for you.”
“Why do you have a gun?” I swallow, hard, gripping my arms tight across
my chest. “What are we doing up here?”
Warner slips the gun back into his pocket and walks to the opposite end of
the ledge. He motions for me to follow him. I creep closer. Follow his eyes. Peer
over the barrier.
Every soldier in the building is standing not 15 feet below.
I distinguish almost 50 lines, each perfectly straight, perfectly spaced, so
many soldiers standing single file I lose count. I wonder if Adam is in the crowd.
I wonder if he can see me.
I wonder what he thinks of me now.
The soldiers are standing in a square space almost identical to the one
Warner and I occupy, but they’re one organized mass of black: black pants,
black shirts, shin-high black boots; not a single gun in sight. Each is standing
with his left fist pressed to his heart. Frozen in place.
Black and gray
and
black and gray
and
black and gray
and
bleak.
Suddenly I’m acutely aware of my impractical outfit. Suddenly the wind is
too callous, too cold, too painful as it slices its way through the crowd. I shiver
and it has nothing to do with the temperature. I look for Warner but he has
already taken his place at the edge of the courtyard; it’s obvious he’s done this
many times before. He pulls a small square of perforated metal out of his pocket
and presses it to his lips; when he speaks, his voice carries over the crowd like
it’s been amplified.
“Sector 45.”
One word. One number.
The entire group shifts: left fists released, dropped to their sides; right fists
planted in place on their chests. They are an oiled machine, working in perfect
collaboration with one another. If I weren’t so apprehensive I think I’d be
impressed.
“We have two matters to deal with this morning.” Warner’s voice penetrates
the atmosphere: crisp, clear, unbearably confident. “The first is standing by my
side.”
Thousands of eyes snap up in my direction. I feel myself flinch.
“Juliette, come here, please.” 2 fingers bend in 2 places to beckon me
forward.
I inch into view.
Warner slips his arm around me. I cringe. The crowd starts. My heart careens
out of control. I’m too scared to back away from him. His gun is too close to my
body.
The soldiers seem stunned that Warner is willing to touch me.
“Jenkins, would you step forward, please?”
My fingers are running a marathon down my thigh. I can’t stand still. I can’t
calm the palpitations crashing my nervous system. Jenkins steps out of line; I
spot him immediately.
He’s okay.
Dear God.
He’s okay.
“Jenkins had the pleasure of meeting Juliette just last night,” he continues.
The tension among the men is very nearly tangible. No one, it seems, knows
where this speech is headed. And no one, it seems, hasn’t already heard Jenkins’
story. My story. “I hope you’ll all greet her with the same sort of kindness,”
Warner adds, his lips laughing without a sound. “She will be with us for some
time, and will be a very valuable asset to our efforts. The Reestablishment
welcomes her. I welcome her. You should welcome her.”
The soldiers drop their fists all at once, all at exactly the same time.
They shift as one, 5 steps backward, 5 steps forward, 5 steps standing in
place. They raise their left arms high and curl their fingers into a fist.
And fall on one knee.
I run to the edge, desperate to get a closer look at such a strangely
choreographed routine. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Warner makes them stay like that, bent like that, fists raised in the air like
that. He doesn’t speak for at least 30 seconds. And then he does.
“Good.”
The soldiers rise and rest their right fists on their chests again.
“The second matter at hand is even more pleasant than the first,” Warner
continues, though he seems to take no pleasure in saying it. His eyes are
sharpening over the soldiers below, shards of emerald flickering like green
flames over their bodies. “Delalieu has a report for us.”
He spends an eternity simply staring at the soldiers, letting his few words
marinate in their minds. Letting their own imaginations drive them insane.
Letting the guilty among them tremble in anguish.
Warner says nothing for so long.
No one moves for so long.
I begin to fear for my life despite his earlier reassurances. I begin to wonder
if perhaps I am the guilty one. If perhaps the gun in his pocket is destined for
me. I finally dare to turn in his direction. He glances at me for the first time and I
have no idea how to read him.
His face is 10,000 possibilities staring straight through me.
“Delalieu,” he says, still looking at me. “You may step forward.”
A thin, balding sort of man in a slightly more decorated outfit steps out from
the very front of the fifth line. He doesn’t look entirely stable. He ducks his head
an inch. His voice warbles when he speaks. “Sir.”
Warner finally unshackles my eyes and nods, almost imperceptibly, in the
balding man’s direction.
Delalieu recites: “We have a charge against Private 45B-76423. Fletcher,
Seamus.”
The soldiers are all frozen in line, frozen in relief, frozen in fear, frozen in
anxiety. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. Even the wind is afraid to make a
sound.
“Fletcher.” One word from Warner and several hundred necks snap in the
same direction.
Fletcher steps out of line.
He looks like a gingerbread man. Ginger hair. Ginger freckles. Lips almost
artificially red. His face is blank of every possible emotion.
I’ve never been more afraid for a stranger in my life.
Delalieu speaks again. “Private Fletcher was found on unregulated grounds,
fraternizing with civilians believed to be rebel party members. He had stolen
food and supplies from storage units dedicated to Sector 45 citizens. It is not
known whether he betrayed sensitive information.”
Warner levels his gaze at the gingerbread man. “Do you deny these
accusations, soldier?”
Fletcher’s nostrils flare. His jaw tenses. His voice cracks when he speaks.
“No, sir.”
Warner nods. Takes a short breath. Licks his lips.
And shoots him in the forehead.
Chapter Eighteen
No one moves.
Fletcher’s face is etched in permanent horror as he crumbles to the ground.
I’m so struck by the impossibility of it all that I can’t decide whether or not I’m
dreaming, I can’t determine whether or not I’m dying, I can’t figure out whether
or not fainting is a good idea.
Fletcher’s limbs are bent at odd angles on the cold, concrete floor. Blood is
pooling around him and still no one moves. No one says a single word. No one
betrays a single look of fear.
I keep touching my lips to see if my screams have escaped.
Warner tucks his gun back into his jacket pocket. “Sector 45, you are
dismissed.”
Every soldier falls on one knee.
Warner slips the metal amplification device back into his suit and has to
yank me free from the spot where I’m glued to the ground. I’m tripping over
myself, my limbs weak and aching through the bone. I feel nauseous, delirious,
incapable of holding myself upright. I keep trying to speak but the words are
sticking to my tongue. I’m suddenly sweating and suddenly freezing and
suddenly so sick I see spots clouding my vision.
Warner is trying to get me through the door. “You really must eat more,” he
says to me.
I am gaping with my eyes, gaping with my mouth, gaping wide open because
I feel holes everywhere, punched into the terrain of my body.
My heart must be bleeding out of my chest.
I look down and can’t understand why there’s no blood on my dress, why
this pain in my heart feels so real.
“You killed him,” I manage to whisper. “You just killed him—”
“You’re very astute.”
“Why did you kill him why would you kill him how could you do something
like that—”
“Keep your eyes open, Juliette. Now’s not the time to fall asleep.”
I grab his shirt. I stop him before he gets inside. A gust of wind slaps me
across the face and I’m suddenly in control of my senses. I push him hard,
slamming his back up against the door. “You disgust me.” I stare hard into his
crystal-cold eyes. “You disgust me—”
He twists me around, pinning me against the door where I just held him. He
cups my face in his gloved hands, holding my eyes in place. The same hands he
just used to kill a man.
I’m trapped.
Transfixed.
Slightly terrified.
His thumb brushes my cheek.
“Life is a bleak place,” he whispers. “Sometimes you have to learn how to
shoot first.”
Warner follows me into my room.
“You should probably sleep,” he says to me. It’s the first time he’s spoken
since we left the rooftop. “I’ll have food sent up to your room, but other than that
I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”
“Where is Adam? Is he safe? Is he healthy? Are you going to hurt him?”
Warner flinches before finding his composure. “Why do you care?”
I’ve cared about Adam Kent since I was in third grade. “Isn’t he supposed to
be watching me? Because he’s not here. Does that mean you’re going to kill
him, too?” I’m feeling stupid. I’m feeling brave because I’m feeling stupid. My
words wear no parachutes as they fall out of my mouth.
“I only kill people if I need to.”
“Generous.”
“More than most.”
I laugh a sad laugh, sharing it with only myself.
“You can have the rest of the day to yourself. Our real work will begin
tomorrow. Adam will bring you to me.” He holds my eyes. Suppresses a smile.
“In the meantime, try not to kill anyone.”
“You and I,” I tell him, anger coursing through my veins, “you and I are not
the same—”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“You think you can compare my—my disease—with your insanity—”
“Disease?” He rushes forward, abruptly impassioned, and I struggle to hold
my ground. “You think you have a disease?” he shouts. “You have a gift! You
have an extraordinary ability that you don’t care to understand! Your potential
—”
“I have no potential!”
“You’re wrong.” He’s glaring at me. There’s no other way to describe it. I
could almost say he hates me in this moment. Hates me for hating myself.
“Well you’re the murderer,” I tell him. “So you must be right.”
His smile is laced with dynamite. “Go to sleep.”
“Go to hell.”
He works his jaw. Walks to the door. “I’m working on it.”
Chapter Nineteen
The darkness is choking me.
My dreams are bloody and bleeding and blood is bleeding all over my mind
and I can’t sleep anymore. The only dreams that ever used to give me peace are
gone and I don’t know how to get them back. I don’t know how to find the white
bird. I don’t know if it will ever fly by. All I know is that now when I close my
eyes I see nothing but devastation. Fletcher is being shot over and over and over
again and Jenkins is dying in my arms and Warner is shooting Adam in the head
and the wind is singing outside my window but it’s high-pitched and off-key and
I don’t have the heart to tell it to stop.
I’m freezing through my clothes.
The bed under my back is filled with broken clouds and freshly fallen snow;
it’s too soft, too comfortable. It reminds me too much of sleeping in Warner’s
room and I can’t stand it. I’m afraid to slip under these covers.
I can’t help but wonder if Adam is okay, if he’ll ever come back, if Warner is
going to keep hurting him whenever I disobey. I really shouldn’t care so much.
Adam’s message in my notebook might just be a part of Warner’s plan to
drive me insane.
I crawl onto the hard floor and check my fist for the crumpled piece of paper
I’ve been clutching for 2 days. It’s the only hope I have left and I don’t even
know if it’s real.
I’m running out of options.
“What are you doing here?”
I bite down on a scream and stumble up, over, and sideways, nearly
slamming into Adam where he’s lying on the floor next to me. I didn’t even see
him.
“Juliette?” He doesn’t move an inch. His gaze is fixed on me: calm,
unflappable; 2 buckets of river water at midnight. I’d like to cry into his eyes.
I don’t know why I tell him the truth. “I couldn’t sleep up there.”
He doesn’t ask me why. He pulls himself up and coughs back a grunt and I
remember how he’s been hurt. I wonder what kind of pain he’s in. I don’t ask
questions as he grabs a pillow and the blanket off my bed. He puts the pillow on
the floor. “Lie down,” is all he says to me. Quietly, is how he says it to me.
All day every day forever is when I want him to say it to me.
They’re just 2 words and I don’t know why I’m blushing. I lie down despite
the sirens spinning in my blood and rest my head on the pillow. He drapes the
blanket over my body. I let him do it. I watch as his arms curve and flex in the
shadow of night, the glint of the moon peeking in through the window,
illuminating his figure in its glow. He lies down on the floor leaving only a few
feet of space between us. He requires no blanket. He uses no pillow. He still
sleeps without a shirt on and I’ve discovered I don’t know how to breathe. I’ve
realized I’ll probably never exhale in his presence.
“You don’t need to scream anymore,” he whispers.
Every breath in my body escapes me.
I curl my fingers around the possibility of Adam in my hand and sleep more
soundly than I have in my life.
My eyes are 2 windows cracked open by the chaos in this world.
A cool breeze startles my skin and I sit up, rub the sleep from my eyes, and
realize Adam is no longer beside me. I blink and crawl back up to the bed, where
I replace the pillow and the blanket.
I glance at the door and wonder what’s waiting for me on the other side.
I glance at the window and wonder if I’ll ever see a bird fly by.
I glance at the clock on the wall and wonder what it means to be living
according to numbers again. I wonder what 6:30 in the morning means in this
building.
I decide to wash my face. The idea exhilarates me and I’m a little ashamed.
I open the bathroom door and catch Adam’s reflection in the mirror. His fast
hands pull his shirt down before I have a chance to latch on to details but I saw
enough to see what I couldn’t see in the darkness.
He’s covered in bruises.
My legs feel broken. I don’t know how to help him. I wish I could help him.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t know you were awake.” He tugs on
the bottom of his shirt like it’s not long enough to pretend I’m blind.
I nod at nothing at all. I look at the tile under my feet. I don’t know what to
say.
“Juliette.” His voice hugs the letters in my name so softly I die 5 times in
that second. His face is a forest of emotion. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he
says, so quietly I’m certain I imagined it. “It’s not . . .” He clenches his jaw and
runs a nervous hand through his hair. “All of this—it’s not—”
I open my palm to him. The paper is a crumpled wad of possibility. “I
know.”
Relief washes over every feature on his face and suddenly his eyes are the
only reassurance I’ll ever need. Adam did not betray me. I don’t know why or
how or what or anything at all except that he is still my friend.
He is still standing right in front of me and he doesn’t want me to die.
I step forward and close the door.
I open my mouth to speak.
“No!”
My jaw falls off.
“Wait,” he says with one hand. His lips move but make no sound. I realize in
the absence of cameras there might still be microphones in the bathroom. Adam
looks around and back and forth and everywhere.
He stops looking.
The shower is 4 walls of marbled glass and he’s sliding the glass open before
I have any idea what’s happening. He flips the spray on at full power and the
sound of water is rushing through, rumbling through the room, muffling
everything as it thunders into the emptiness around us. The mirror is already
fogging up on account of the steam and just as I think I’m beginning to
understand his plan he pulls me into his arms and lifts me into the shower.
My screams are vapor, wisps of gasps I can’t grasp.
Hot water is puddling in my clothes. It’s pelting my hair and pouring down
my neck but all I feel are his hands around my waist. I want to cry out for all the
wrong reasons.
His eyes pin me in place. His urgency ignites my bones. Rivulets of water
snake their way down the polished planes of his face and his fingers press me up
against the wall.
His lips his lips his lips his lips his lips
My eyes are fighting not to flutter
My legs have won the right to tremble
My skin is scorched everywhere he’s not touching me.
His lips are so close to my ear I’m water and nothing and everything and
melting into a wanting so desperate it burns as I swallow it down.
“I can touch you,” he says, and I wonder why there are hummingbirds in my
heart. “I didn’t understand until the other night,” he murmurs, and I’m too drunk
to digest the weight of anything but his body hovering so close to mine.
“Juliette—” His body presses closer and I realize I’m paying attention to
nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in my lungs. My eyes snap open and
he licks his bottom lip for the smallest second and something in my brain bursts
to life.
I gasp. I gasp. I gasp. “What are you doing—”
“Juliette, please—” His voice is anxious and he glances behind him like he’s
not sure we’re alone. “The other night—” He presses his lips together. He closes
his eyes for half of a second and I marvel at the drop drop drops of hot water
caught in his eyelashes like pearls forged from pain. His fingers inch up the sides
of my body like he’s struggling to keep them in one place, like he’s struggling
not to touch me everywhere everywhere everywhere and his eyes are drinking in
the 63 inches of my frame and I’m so I’m so I’m so caught.
“I finally get it now,” he says into my ear. “I know—I know why Warner
wants you.” His fingertips are 10 points of electricity killing me with something
I’ve never known before. Something I’ve always wanted to feel.
“Then why are you here?” I whisper, broken, dying in his arms. “Why . . .”
1, 2 attempts at inhalation. “Why are you touching me?”
“Because I can.” He almost cracks a smile and I almost sprout a pair of
wings. “I already have.”
“What?” I blink, suddenly sobered. “What do you mean?”
“That first night in the cell,” he sighs. He looks down. “You were screaming
in your sleep.”
I wait.
I wait.
I wait forever.
“I touched your face.” He speaks into the shape of my ear. “Your hand. I
brushed the length of your arm. . . .” He pulls back and his eyes rest at my
shoulder, trail down to my elbow, land on my wrist. I’m suspended in disbelief.
“I didn’t know how to wake you up. You wouldn’t wake up. So I sat back and
watched you. I waited for you to stop screaming.”
“That’s. Not. Possible.” 3 words are all I manage.
But his hands become arms around my waist his lips become a cheek pressed
against my cheek and his body is flush against mine, his skin touching me
touching me touching me and he’s not screaming he’s not dying he’s not running
away from me and I’m crying I’m choking
I’m shaking shuddering splintering into teardrops
and he’s holding me the way no one has ever held me before.
Like he wants me.
Like he wants me.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” he says, and his mouth is moving against
my hair and his hands are traveling to my arms and I’m leaning back and he’s
looking into my eyes and I must be dreaming.
“Why—why do you—I don’t—” I’m shaking my head and shaking because
this can’t be happening and shaking off the tears glued to my face. This can’t be
real.
His eyes gentle, his smile unhinges my joints and I wish I knew the taste of
his lips. I wish I had the courage to touch him. “I have to go,” he says. “You
have to be dressed and downstairs by eight o’clock.”
I’m drowning in his eyes and I don’t know what to say.
He peels off his shirt and I don’t know where to look.
I catch myself on the glass panel and press my eyes shut and blink when
something flutters too close. His fingers are a moment from my face and I’m
dripping burning melting in anticipation.
“You don’t have to look away,” he says. He says it with a small smile the
size of Jupiter.
I peek up at his features, at the crooked grin I want to savor, at the color in
his eyes I’d use to paint a million pictures. I follow the line of his jaw down his
neck to the peak of his collarbone; I memorize the sculpted hills and valleys of
his arms, the perfection of his torso. The bird on his chest.
The bird on his chest.
A tattoo.
A white bird with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head. It’s flying.
“Adam,” I try to tell him. “Adam,” I try to choke out. “Adam,” I try to say so
many times and fail.
I try to find his eyes only to realize he’s been watching me study him. The
pieces of his face are pressed into lines of emotion so deep I wonder what I must
look like to him. He touches 2 fingers to my chin, tilts my face up just enough
and I’m a live wire in water. “I’ll find a way to talk to you,” he says, and his
hands are reeling me in and my face is pressed against his chest and the world is
suddenly brighter, bigger, beautiful. The world suddenly means something to
me, the possibility of humanity means something to me, the entire universe stops
in place and spins in the other direction and I’m the bird.
I’m the bird and I’m flying away.
Chapter Twenty
It’s 8:00 in the morning and I’m wearing a dress the color of dead forests and old
tin cans.
The fit is tighter than anything I’ve worn in my life, the cut modern and
angular, almost haphazard; the material is stiff and thick but somehow
breathable. I stare at my legs and wonder that I own a pair.
I feel more exposed than I ever have in my life.
For 17 years I’ve trained myself to cover every inch of exposed skin and
Warner is forcing me to peel the layers away. I can only assume he’s doing it on
purpose. My body is a carnivorous flower, a poisonous houseplant, a loaded gun
with a million triggers and he’s more than ready to fire.
Touch me and suffer the consequences. There have never been exceptions to
this rule.
Never but Adam.
He left me standing sopping wet in the shower, soaking up a torrential
downpour of hot tears. I watched through the blurred glass as he dried himself
off and slipped into his standard uniform.
I watched as he slipped away, wondering every moment why why why Why
can he touch me?
Why would he help me?
Does he remember me?
My skin is still steaming.
My bones are bandaged in the tight folds of this strange dress, the zipper the
only thing holding me together. That, and the prospect of something I’ve always
never dared to dream of.
My lips will stay stitched shut with the secrets of this morning forever but
my heart is so full of confidence and wonder and peace and possibility that it’s
about to burst and I wonder if it will rip the dress.
Hope is hugging me, holding me in its arms, wiping away my tears and
telling me that today and tomorrow and two days from now I will be just fine
and I’m so delirious I actually dare to believe it.
I am sitting in a blue room.
The walls are wallpapered in cloth the color of a perfect summer sky, the
floor tucked into a carpet 2 inches thick, the entire room empty but for 2 velvet
chairs punched out of a constellation. Every varying hue is like a bruise, like a
beautiful mistake, like a reminder of what they did to Adam because of me.
I am sitting all alone in a velvet chair in a blue room wearing a dress made of
olives. The weight of the notebook in my pocket feels like I’m balancing a
bowling ball on my knee.
“You look lovely.”
Warner whisks into the room like he treads air for a living. He’s
accompanied by no one.
My eyes involuntarily peek down at my tennis shoes and I wonder if I’ve
broken any rules by avoiding the stilts in my closet I’m sure are not for feet. I
look up and he’s standing right in front of me.
“Green is a great color on you,” he says with a stupid smile. “It really brings
out the color of your eyes.”
“What color are my eyes?” I ask the wall.
He laughs. “You’re not serious.”
“How old are you?”
He stops laughing. “You care to know?”
“I’m curious.”
He takes the seat beside me. “I won’t answer your questions if you won’t
look at me when I speak to you.”
“You want me to torture people against my will. You want me to be a
weapon in your war. You want me to become a monster for you.” I pause.
“Looking at you makes me sick.”
“You’re far more stubborn than I thought you’d be.”
“I’m wearing your dress. I ate your food. I’m here.” I lift my eyes to look at
him and he’s already staring straight at me. I’m momentarily caught off guard by
the power in his gaze.
“You did none of that for me,” he says quietly.
I nearly laugh out loud. “Why would I?”
His eyes are fighting his lips for the right to speak. I look away.
“What are we doing in this room?”
“Ah.” He takes a deep breath. “Breakfast. Then I give you your schedule.”
He presses a button on the arm of his chair and almost instantly, carts and
trays are wheeled into the room by men and women who are clearly not soldiers.
Their faces are hard and cracked and too thin to be healthy.
It breaks my heart right in half.
“I usually eat alone,” Warner continues, his voice like an icicle piercing the
flesh of my memories. “But I figured you and I should be more thoroughly
acquainted. Especially since we’ll be spending so much time together.”
The servants maids people-who-are-not-soldiers leave and Warner offers me
something on a dish.
“I’m not hungry.”
“This is not an option.”
I look up and realize he’s very, very serious.
“You are not allowed to starve yourself to death. You don’t eat enough and I
need you to be healthy. You are not allowed to commit suicide. You are not
allowed to harm yourself. You are too valuable to me.”
“I am not your toy,” I nearly spit.
He drops his plate onto the rolling cart and I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter
into pieces. He clears his throat and I might actually be scared. “This process
would be so much easier if you would just cooperate,” he says, enunciating
every word.
Five Five Five Five Five heartbeats.
“The world is disgusted by you,” he says, his lips twitching with humor.
“Everyone you’ve ever known has hated you. Run from you. Abandoned you.
Your own parents gave up on you and volunteered your existence to be given up
to the authorities. They were so desperate to get rid of you, to make you
someone else’s problem, to convince themselves the abomination they raised
was not, in fact, their child.”
My face has been slapped by a hundred hands.
“And yet—” He laughs openly now. “You insist on making me the bad guy.”
He meets my eyes. “I am trying to help you. I’m giving you an opportunity no
one would ever offer you. I’m willing to treat you as an equal. I’m willing to
give you everything you could ever want, and above all else, I can put power in
your hands. I can make them suffer for what they did to you.” He leans in just
enough. “I can change your world.”
He’s wrong he’s so wrong he’s more wrong than an upside-down rainbow.
But everything he said is right.
“Don’t dare to hate me so quickly,” he continues. “You might find yourself
enjoying this situation a lot more than you anticipated. Lucky for you, I’m
willing to be patient.” He grins. Leans back. “Though it certainly doesn’t hurt
that you’re so alarmingly beautiful.”
I’m dripping red paint on the carpet.
He’s a liar and a horrible, horrible, horrible human being and I don’t know if
I care because he’s right, or because it’s so wrong, or because I’m so desperate
for some semblance of recognition in this world. No one has ever said anything
like that to me before.
It makes me want to look in the mirror.
“You and I are not as different as you might hope.” His grin is so cocky I
want to twist it with my fist.
“You and I are not as similar as you might hope.”
He smiles so wide I’m not sure how to react. “I’m nineteen, by the way.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m nineteen years old,” he clarifies. “I’m a fairly impressive specimen for
my age, I know.”
I pick up my spoon and poke at the edible matter on my plate. I don’t know
what food really is anymore. “I have no respect for you.”
“You will change your mind,” he says easily. “Now hurry up and eat. We
have a lot of work to do.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Killing time isn’t as difficult as it sounds.
I can shoot a hundred numbers through the chest and watch them bleed
decimal points in the palm of my hand. I can rip the numbers off a clock and
watch the hour hand tick tick tick its final tock just before I fall asleep. I can
suffocate seconds just by holding my breath. I’ve been murdering minutes for
hours and no one seems to mind.
It’s been one week since I’ve spoken a word to Adam.
I turned to him once. Opened my mouth just once but never had a chance to
say anything before Warner intercepted me. “You are not allowed to speak to the
soldiers,” he said. “If you have questions, you can find me. I am the only person
you need to concern yourself with while you’re here.”
Possessive is not a strong enough word for Warner.
He escorts me everywhere. Talks to me too much. My schedule consists of
meetings with Warner and eating with Warner and listening to Warner. If he is
busy, I am sent to my room. If he is free, he finds me. He tells me about the
books they’ve destroyed. The artifacts they’re preparing to burn. The ideas he
has for a new world and how I’ll be a great help to him just as soon as I’m ready.
Just as soon as I realize how much I want this, how much I want him, how much
I want this new, glorious, powerful life. He is waiting for me to harness my
potential. He tells me how grateful I should be for his patience. His kindness.
His willingness to understand that this transition must be difficult.
I cannot look at Adam. I cannot speak to him. He sleeps in my room but I
never see him. He breathes so close to my body but does not part his lips in my
direction. He does not follow me into the bathroom. He does not leave secret
messages in my notebook.
I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined everything he said to me.
I need to know if something has changed. I need to know if I’m crazy for
holding on to this hope blossoming in my heart and I need to know what Adam’s
message meant but every day that he treats me like a stranger is another day I
begin to doubt myself.
I need to talk to him but I can’t.
Because now Warner is watching me.
The cameras are watching everything.
“I want you to take the cameras out of my room.”
Warner stops chewing the food/garbage/breakfast/nonsense in his mouth. He
swallows carefully before leaning back and looking me in the eye. “Absolutely
not.”
“If you treat me like a prisoner,” I tell him, “I’m going to act like one. I don’t
like to be watched.”
“You can’t be trusted on your own.” He picks up his spoon again.
“Every breath I take is monitored. There are guards stationed in five-foot
intervals in all the hallways. I don’t even have access to my own room,” I
protest. “Cameras aren’t going to make a difference.”
A strange kind of amusement dances on his lips. “You’re not exactly stable,
you know. You’re liable to kill someone.”
“No.” I grip my fingers. “No—I wouldn’t—I didn’t kill Jenkins—”
“I’m not talking about Jenkins.” His smile is a vat of acid seeping into my
skin.
He won’t stop looking at me. Smiling at me. Torturing me with his eyes.
This is me, screaming silently into my fist.
“That was an accident.” The words tumble out of my mouth so quietly, so
quickly I don’t even know if I’ve actually spoken or if I’m actually still sitting
here or if I’m actually 14 years old all over again all over again all over again
and I’m screaming and dying and diving into a pool of memories I never ever
ever ever ever I can’t seem to forget.
I saw her at the grocery store. Her legs were standing crossed at the ankles,
her child was on a leash she thought he thought was a backpack. She thought he
was too dumb/too young/too immature to understand that the rope tying him to
her wrist was a device designed to trap him in her uninterested circle of selfsympathy. She’s too young to have a kid, to have these responsibilities, to be
buried by a child who has needs that don’t accommodate her own. Her life is so
incredibly unbearable so immensely multifaceted too glamorous for the leashed
legacy of her loins to understand.
Children are not stupid, was what I wanted to tell her.
I wanted to tell her that his seventh scream didn’t mean he was trying to be
obnoxious, that her fourteenth admonishment in the form of brat/you’re such a
brat/you’re embarrassing me you little brat/don’t make me tell Daddy you were
being a brat was uncalled for. I didn’t mean to watch but I couldn’t help myself.
His 3-year-old face puckered in pain, his little hands tried to undo the chains
she’d strapped across his chest and she tugged so hard he fell down and cried
and she told him he deserved it.
I wanted to ask her why she would do that.
I wanted to ask her so many questions but I didn’t because we don’t talk to
people anymore because saying something would be stranger than saying
nothing to a stranger. He fell to the floor and writhed around until I’d dropped
everything in my hands and every feature on my face.
I’m so sorry, is what I never said to her son.
I thought my hands were helping
I thought my heart was helping
I thought so many things
I never
never
never
never
never thought
“You killed a little boy.”
I’m nailed into my velvet chair by a million memories and I’m haunted by a
horror my bare hands created and I’m reminded in every moment that I am
unwanted for good reason. My hands can kill people. My hands can destroy
everything.
I should not be allowed to live.
“I want,” I gasp, struggling to swallow the fist lodged in my throat, “I want
you to get rid of the cameras. Get rid of them or I will die fighting you for the
right.”
“Finally!” Warner stands up and clasps his hands together as if to
congratulate himself. “I was wondering when you’d wake up. I’ve been waiting
for the fire I know must be eating away at you every single day. You’re buried in
hatred, aren’t you? Anger? Frustration? Itching to do something? To be
someone?”
“No.”
“Of course you are. You’re just like me.”
“I hate you more than you will ever understand.”
“We’re going to make an excellent team.”
“We are nothing. You are nothing to me—”
“I know what you want.” He leans in, drops his voice. “I know what your
little heart has always longed for. I can give you the acceptance you seek. I can
be your friend.”
I freeze. Falter. Fail to speak.
“I know everything about you, love.” He grins. “I’ve wanted you for a very
long time. I’ve waited forever for you to be ready. I’m not going to let you go so
easily.”
“I don’t want to be a monster,” I say, perhaps more for my sake than his.
“Don’t fight what you’re born to be.” He grasps my shoulders. “Stop letting
everyone else tell you what’s wrong and right. Stake a claim! You cower when
you could conquer. You have so much more power than you’re aware of and
quite frankly I’m”—he shakes his head—“fascinated.”
“I am not your freak,” I snap. “I will not perform for you.”
He tightens his hold around my arms and I can’t squirm away from him. He
leans in dangerously close to my face and I don’t know why but I can’t breathe.
“I’m not afraid of you, my dear,” he says softly. “I’m absolutely enchanted.”
“Either you get rid of the cameras or I will find and break every single one of
them.” I’m a liar. I’m lying through my teeth but I’m angry and desperate and
horrified. Warner wants to morph me into an animal who preys on the weak. On
the innocent.
If he wants me to fight for him, he’s going to have to fight me first.
A slow smile spreads across his face. He touches gloved fingers to my cheek
and tilts my head up, catching my chin in his grip when I flinch away. “You’re
absolutely delicious when you’re angry.”
“Too bad my taste is poisonous for your palate.” I’m vibrating in disgust
from head to toe.
“That detail makes this game so much more appealing.”
“You’re sick, you’re so sick—”
He laughs and releases my chin only to take inventory of my body parts. His
eyes draw a lazy trail down the length of my frame and I feel the sudden urge to
rupture his spleen. “If I get rid of your cameras, what will you do for me?” His
eyes are wicked.
“Nothing.”
He shakes his head. “That won’t do. I might agree to your proposition if you
agree to a condition.”
I clench my jaw. “What do you want?”
The smile is bigger than before. “That is a dangerous question.”
“What is your condition?” I clarify, impatient.
“Touch me.”
“What?” My gasp is so loud it catches in my throat only to race around the
room.
“I want to know exactly what you’re capable of.” His voice is steady, his
eyebrows taut, tense.
“I won’t do it again!” I explode. “You saw what you made me do to Jenkins
—”
“Screw Jenkins,” he spits. “I want you to touch me—I want to feel it myself
—”
“No—” I’m shaking my head so hard it makes me dizzy. “No. Never. You’re
crazy—I won’t—”
“You will, actually.”
“I will NOT—”
“You will have to . . . work . . . at one point or another,” he says, making an
effort to moderate his voice. “Even if you were to forgo my condition, you are
here for a reason, Juliette. I convinced my father that you would be an asset to
The Reestablishment. That you’d be able to restrain any rebels we—”
“You mean torture—”
“Yes.” He smiles. “Forgive me, I mean torture. You will be able to help us
torture anyone we capture.” A pause. “Inflicting pain, you see, is an incredibly
efficient method of getting information out of anyone. And with you?” He
glances at my hands. “Well, it’s cheap. Fast. Effective.” He smiles wider. “And
as long as we keep you alive, you’ll be good for at least a few decades. It’s very
fortunate that you’re not battery-operated.”
“You—you—” I sputter.
“You should be thanking me. I saved you from that sick hole of an asylum—
I brought you into a position of power. I’ve given you everything you could
possibly need to be comfortable.” He levels his gaze at me. “Now I need you to
focus. I need you to relinquish your hopes of living like everyone else. You are
not normal. You never have been, and you never will be. Embrace who you
are.”
“I”—I swallow—“I am not—I’m not—I’m—”
“A murderer?”
“NO—”
“An instrument of torture?”
“STOP—”
“You’re lying to yourself.”
I’m ready to destroy him.
He cocks his head and presses back a smile. “You’ve been on the edge of
insanity your entire life, haven’t you? So many people called you crazy you
actually started to believe it. You wondered if they were right. You wondered if
you could fix it. You thought if you could just try a little harder, be a little better,
smarter, nicer—you thought the world would change its mind about you. You
blamed yourself for everything.”
I gasp.
My bottom lip trembles without my permission. I can hardly control the
tension in my jaw.
I don’t want to tell him he’s right.
“You’ve suppressed all your rage and resentment because you wanted to be
loved,” he says, no longer smiling. “Maybe I understand you, Juliette. Maybe
you should trust me. Maybe you should accept the fact that you’ve tried to be
someone you’re not for so long and that no matter what you did, those bastards
were never happy. They were never satisfied. They never gave a damn, did
they?” He looks at me and for a moment he seems almost human. For a moment
I want to believe him. For a moment I want to sit on the floor and cry out the
ocean lodged in my throat.
“It’s time you stopped pretending,” he says, so softly. “Juliette—” He takes
my face in his gloved hands, so unexpectedly gentle. “You don’t have to be nice
anymore. You can destroy all of them. You can take them down and own this
whole world and—”
A steam engine hits me in the face.
“I don’t want to destroy anyone,” I tell him. “I don’t want to hurt people—”
“But they deserve it!” He pushes away from me, frustrated. “How could you
not want to retaliate? How could you not want to fight back—”
I stand up slowly, shaking with anger, hoping my legs won’t collapse
beneath me. “You think that because I am unwanted, because I am neglected and
—and discarded—” My voice inches higher with every word, the unrestrained
emotions suddenly screaming through my lungs. “You think I don’t have a
heart? You think I don’t feel? You think that because I can inflict pain, that I
should? You’re just like everyone else. You think I’m a monster just like
everyone else. You don’t understand me at all—”
“Juliette—”
“No.”
I don’t want this. I don’t want his life.
I don’t want to be anything for anyone but myself. I want to make my own
choices and I’ve never wanted to be a monster. My words are slow and steady
when I speak. “I value human life a lot more than you do, Warner.”
He opens his mouth to speak before he stops. Laughs out loud and shakes his
head.
Smiles at me.
“What?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“You just said my name.” He grins even wider. “You’ve never addressed me
directly before. That must mean I’m making progress with you.”
“I just told you I don’t—”
He cuts me off. “I’m not worried about your moral dilemmas. You’re just
stalling for time because you’re in denial. Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll get
over it. I can wait a little longer.”
“I’m not in denial—”
“Of course you are. You don’t know it yet, Juliette, but you are a very bad
girl,” he says, clutching his heart. “Just my type.”
This conversation is impossible.
“There is a soldier living in my room.” I’m breathing hard. “If you want me
to be here, you need to get rid of the cameras.”
Warner’s eyes darken for just an instant. “Where is your soldier, anyway?”
“I wouldn’t know.” I hope to God I’m not blushing. “You assigned him to
me.”
“Yes.” He looks thoughtful. “I like watching you squirm. He makes you
uncomfortable, doesn’t he?”
I think about Adam’s hands on my body and his lips so close to mine and the
scent of his skin drenched in a steaming downpour soaking the two of us
together and suddenly my heart is two fists pounding on my ribs demanding
escape. “Yes.” God. “Yes. He makes me very . . . uncomfortable.”
“Do you know why I chose him?” Warner asks, and I’m run over by a tractor
trailer.
Adam was chosen.
Of course he was. He wasn’t just any soldier sent to my cell. Warner does
nothing without reason. He must know Adam and I have a history. He is more
cruel and calculative than I gave him credit for.
“No.” Inhale. “I don’t know why.” Exhale. I can’t forget to breathe.
“He volunteered,” Warner says simply, and I’m momentarily dumbstruck.
“He said he’d gone to school with you so many years ago. He said you probably
wouldn’t remember him, that he looks a lot different now than he did back then.
He put together a very convincing case.” A beat of breath. “He said he was
thrilled to hear you’d been locked up.” Warner finally looks at me.
My bones are like cubes of ice clinking together, chilling me to my core.
“I’m curious,” he continues, tilting his head as he speaks. “Do you remember
him?”
“No,” I lie, and I’m not sure I’m alive. I’m trying to untangle the truth from
the false from assumptions from the postulations but run-on sentences are
twisting around my throat.
Adam knew me when he walked into that cell.
He knew exactly who I was.
He already knew my name.
Oh
Oh
Oh
This was all a trap.
“Does this information make you . . . angry?” he asks, and I want to sew his
smiling lips into a permanent scowl.
I say nothing and somehow it’s worse.
Warner is beaming. “I never told him, of course, why it was that you’d been
locked up—I thought the experiment in the asylum should remain untainted by
extra information—but he said you were always a threat to the students. That
everyone was always warned to stay away from you, though the authorities
never explained why. He said he wanted to get a closer look at the freak you’ve
become.”
My heart cracks. My eyes flash. I’m so hurt so angry so horrified so
humiliated and burning with indignation so raw that it’s like a fire raging within
me, a wildfire of decimated hopes. I want to crush Warner’s spine in my hand. I
want him to know what it’s like to wound, to inflict such unbearable agony on
others. I want him to know my pain and Jenkins’ pain and Fletcher’s pain and I
want him to hurt. Because maybe Warner is right.
Maybe some people do deserve it.
“Take off your shirt.”
For all his posturing, Warner looks genuinely surprised, but he wastes no
time unbuttoning his jacket, slipping off his gloves, and peeling away the thin
cotton shirt clinging closest to his skin.
His eyes are bright, sickeningly eager; he doesn’t mask his curiosity.
Warner drops his clothes to the floor and looks at me almost intimately. I
have to swallow back the revulsion bubbling in my mouth. His perfect face. His
perfect body. His eyes as hard and beautiful as frozen gemstones. He repulses
me. I want his exterior to match his broken black interior. I want to cripple his
cockiness with the palm of my hand.
He walks up to me until there’s less than a foot of space between us. His
height and build make me feel like a fallen twig. “Are you ready?” he asks,
arrogant and foolish.
I contemplate breaking his neck.
“If I do this you’ll get rid of all the cameras in my room. All the bugs.
Everything.”
He steps closer. Dips his head. He’s staring at my lips, studying me in an
entirely new way. “My promises aren’t worth much, love,” he whispers. “Or
have you forgotten?” 3 inches forward. His hand on my waist. His breath sweet
and warm on my neck. “I’m an exceptional liar.”
Realization slams into me like 200 pounds of common sense. I shouldn’t be
doing this. I shouldn’t be making deals with him. I shouldn’t be contemplating
torture dear God I have lost my mind. My fists are balled at my sides and I’m
shaking everywhere. I can hardly find the strength to speak. “You can go to
hell.”
I’m limp.
I trip backward against the wall and slump into a heap of uselessness;
desperation. I think of Adam and my heart deflates.
I can’t be here anymore.
I fly to the double doors facing the room and yank them open before Warner
can stop me. But Adam stops me instead. He’s standing just outside. Waiting.
Guarding me wherever I go.
I wonder if he heard everything and my eyes fall to the floor, the color
flushed from my face, my heart in pieces in my hand. Of course he heard
everything. Of course he now knows I’m a murderer. A monster. A worthless
soul stuffed into a poisonous body.
Warner did this on purpose.
And I’m standing between them. Warner with no shirt on. Adam looking at
his gun.
“Soldier.” Warner speaks. “Take her back up to her room and disable all the
cameras. She can have lunch alone if she wants, but I’ll expect her for dinner.”
Adam blinks for a moment too long. “Yes, sir.”
“Juliette?”
I freeze. My back is to Warner and I don’t turn around.
“I do expect you to hold up your end of the bargain.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
It takes 5 years to walk to the elevator. 15 more to ride it up. I’m a million years
old by the time I walk into my room. Adam is still, silent, perfectly put together
and mechanical in his movements. There’s nothing in his eyes, in his limbs, in
the motions of his body that indicate he even knows my name.
I watch him move quickly, swiftly, carefully around the room, finding the
little devices meant to monitor my behavior and disabling them one by one. If
anyone asks why my cameras aren’t working, Adam won’t get in trouble. This
order came from Warner. This makes it official.
This makes it possible for me to have some privacy.
I thought I would need privacy.
I’m such a fool.
Adam is not the boy I remember.
I was in third grade.
I’d just moved into town after being thrown out of asked to leave my old
school. My parents were always moving, always running away from the messes I
made, from the playdates I’d ruined, from the friendships I never had. No one
ever wanted to talk about my “problem,” but the mystery surrounding my
existence somehow made things worse. The human imagination is often
disastrous when left to its own devices. I only heard bits and pieces of their
whispers.
“Freak!”
“Did you hear what she did—?”
“What a loser.”
“—got kicked out of her old school—”
“Psycho!”
“She’s got some kind of disease—”
No one talked to me. Everyone stared. I was young enough that I still cried. I
ate lunch alone by a chain-link fence and never looked in the mirror. I never
wanted to see the face everyone hated so much. Girls used to kick me and run
away. Boys used to throw rocks at me. I still have scars somewhere.
I watched the world pass by through those chain-link fences. I stared out at
the cars and the parents dropping off their kids and the moments I’d never be a
part of. This was before the diseases became so common that death was a natural
part of conversation. This was before we realized the clouds were the wrong
color, before we realized all the animals were dying or infected, before we
realized everyone was going to starve to death, and fast. This was back when we
still thought our problems had solutions. Back then, Adam was the boy who used
to walk to school. Adam was the boy who sat 3 rows in front of me. His clothes
were worse than mine, his lunch nonexistent. I never saw him eat.
One morning he came to school in a car.
I know because I saw him being pushed out of it. His father was drunk and
driving, yelling and flailing his fists for some reason. Adam stood very still and
stared at the ground like he was waiting for something, steeling himself for the
inevitable. I watched a father slap his 8-year-old son in the face. I watched Adam
fall to the floor and I stood there, motionless as he was kicked repeatedly in the
ribs.
“It’s all your fault! It’s your fault, you worthless piece of shit,” his father
screamed over and over and over again until I threw up right there, all over a
patch of dandelions.
Adam didn’t cry. He stayed curled up on the ground until his father gave up,
until he drove away. Only once he was sure everyone was gone did his body
break into heaving sobs, his small face smeared into the dirt, his arms clutching
at his bruised abdomen. I couldn’t look away.
I could never get that sound out of my head, that scene out of my head.
That’s when I started paying attention to Adam Kent.
“Juliette.”
I suck in my breath and wish my hands weren’t trembling. I wish I had no
eyes.
“Juliette,” he says again, this time even softer and my body is in a blender
and I’m made of mush. My bones are aching aching aching for his warmth.
I won’t turn around.
“You always knew who I was,” I whisper.
He says nothing and I’m suddenly desperate to see his eyes. I suddenly need
to see his eyes. I turn to face him despite everything only to see he’s staring at
his hands. “I’m sorry,” is all he says.
I lean back against the wall and press my lids shut. Everything was a
performance. Stealing my bed. Asking for my name. Asking me about my
family. He was performing for Warner. For the guards. For whoever was
watching. I don’t even know what to believe anymore.
I need to say it. I need to get it out. I need to rip my wounds open and bleed
fresh for him. “It’s true,” I tell him. “About the little boy.” My voice is shaking
so much more than I thought it would. “I did that.”
He’s quiet for so long. “I never understood before. When I first heard about
it. I didn’t realize until just now what must’ve happened.”
“What?” I never knew I could blink so much.
“It never made sense to me,” he says, and each word kicks me in the gut. He
looks up and looks more agonized than I ever want him to be. “When I heard
about it. We all heard about it. The whole school—”
“It was an accident,” I choke out, failing not to fall apart. “He—h-he fell—
and I was trying to help him—and I just—I didn’t—I thought—”
“I know.”
“What?” I gasp so loud I’ve swallowed the entire room in one breath.
“I believe you,” he says to me.
“What . . . why?” My eyes are blinking back tears, my hands unsteady, my
heart filled with nervous hope.
He bites his bottom lip. Looks away. Walks to the wall. Opens and closes his
mouth several times before the words rush out. “Because I knew you, Juliette—I
—God—I just—” He covers his mouth with his hand, drops his fingers to his
neck. Rubs his forehead, closes his eyes, presses his lips together. Pries them
open. “That was the day I was going to talk to you.” A strange sort of smile. A
strange sort of laugh. He runs a hand through his hair. Looks up at the ceiling.
Turns his back to me. “I was finally going to talk to you. I was finally going to
talk to you and I—” He shakes his head, hard, and attempts another painful
laugh. “God, you don’t remember me.”
Hundreds of thousands of seconds pass and I can’t stop dying.
I want to laugh and cry and scream and run and I can’t choose which to do
first.
I confess.
“Of course I remember you.” My voice is a strangled whisper. I squeeze my
eyes shut. I remember you every day forever in every single broken moment of
my life. “You were the only one who ever looked at me like a human being.”
He never talked to me. He never spoke a single word to me, but he was the
only one who dared to sit close to my fence. He was the only one who stood up
for me, the only person who fought for me, the only one who’d punch someone
in the face for throwing a rock at my head. I didn’t even know how to say thank
you.
He was the closest thing to a friend I ever had.
I open my eyes and he’s standing right in front of me. My heart is a field of
lilies blooming under a pane of glass, pitter-pattering to life like a rush of
raindrops. His jaw is as tight as his eyes as tight as his fists as tight as the strain
in his arms.
“You’ve always known?” 3 whispered words and he’s broken my dam,
unlocked my lips and stolen my heart all over again. I can hardly feel the tears
streaming down my face.
“Adam.” I try to laugh and my lips trip on a stifled sob. “I’d recognize your
eyes anywhere in the world.”
And that’s it.
This time there’s no self-control.
This time I’m in his arms and against the wall and I’m trembling everywhere
and he’s so gentle, so careful, touching me like I’m made of porcelain and I want
to shatter.
He’s running his hands down my body running his eyes across my face
running laps with his heart and I’m running marathons with my mind.
Everything is on fire. My cheeks my hands the pit of my stomach and I’m
drowning in waves of emotion and a storm of fresh rain and all I feel is the
strength of his silhouette against mine and I never ever ever ever want to forget
this moment. I want to stamp him into my skin and save him forever.
He takes my hands and presses my palms to his face and I know I never
knew the beauty of feeling human before this. I know I’m still crying when my
eyes flutter closed.
I whisper his name.
And he’s breathing harder than I am and suddenly his lips are on my neck
and I’m gasping and dying and clutching at his arms and he’s touching me
touching me touching me and I’m thunder and lightning and wondering when
the hell I’ll be waking up.
Once, twice, a hundred times his lips taste the nape of my neck and I wonder
if it’s possible to die of euphoria. He meets my eyes only to cup my face in his
hands and I’m blushing through these walls from pleasure and pain and
impossibility.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.” His voice is husky, uneven, deep in my
ear.
I’m frozen in anticipation in expectation and I’m so worried he’ll kiss me, so
worried he won’t. I’m staring at his lips and I don’t realize how close we are
until we’re pulled apart.
3 distinct electronic screeches reverberate around the room and Adam looks
past me like he can’t understand where he is for a moment. He blinks. And runs
toward an intercom to press the appropriate buttons. I notice he’s still breathing
hard.
I’m shaking in my skin.
“Name and number,” the voice of the intercom demands.
“Kent, Adam. 45B-86659.”
A pause.
“Soldier, are you aware the cameras in your room have been deactivated?”
“Yes, sir. I was given direct orders to dismantle the devices.”
“Who cleared this order?”
“Warner, sir.”
A longer pause.
“We’ll verify and confirm. Unauthorized tampering with security devices
may result in your immediate dishonorable discharge, soldier. I hope you’re
aware of that.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line goes quiet.
Adam slumps against the wall, his chest heaving. I’m not sure but I could’ve
sworn his lips twitched into the tiniest smile. He closes his eyes and exhales.
I’m not sure what to do with the relief tumbling into my hands.
“Come here,” he says, his eyes still shut.
I tiptoe forward and he pulls me into his arms. Breathes in the scent of my
hair and kisses the side of my head and I’ve never felt anything so incredible in
my life. I’m not even human anymore. I’m so much more. The sun and the moon
have merged and the earth is upside down. I feel like I can be exactly who I want
to be in his arms.
He makes me forget the terror I’m capable of.
“Juliette,” he whispers in my ear. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m 14 years old again and I’m staring at the back of his head in a small
classroom. I’m 14 years old and I’ve been in love with Adam Kent for years. I
made sure to be extra careful, to be extra quiet, to be extra cooperative because I
didn’t want to move away again. I didn’t want to leave the school with the one
friendly face I’d ever known. I watched him grow up a little more every day,
grow a little taller every day, a little stronger, a little tougher, a little more quiet
every day. He eventually got too big to get beat up by his dad, but no one really
knows what happened to his mother. The students shunned him, harassed him
until he started fighting back, until the pressure of the world finally cracked him.
But his eyes always stayed the same.
Always the same when he looked at me. Kind. Compassionate. Desperate to
understand. But he never asked questions. He never pushed me to say a word.
He just made sure he was close enough to scare away everyone else.
I thought maybe I wasn’t so bad. Maybe.
I thought maybe he saw something in me. I thought maybe I wasn’t as
horrible as everyone said I was. I hadn’t touched anyone in years. I didn’t dare
get close to people. I couldn’t risk it.
Until one day I did, and I ruined everything.
I killed a little boy in a grocery store simply by helping him to his feet. By
grabbing his little hands. I didn’t understand why he was screaming. It was my
first experience ever touching someone for such a long period of time and I
didn’t understand what was happening to me. The few times I’d ever
accidentally put my hands on someone I’d always pulled away. I’d pull away as
soon as I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be touching anyone. As soon as I
heard the first scream escape their lips.
The little boy was different.
I wanted to help him. I felt such a surge of sudden anger toward his mother
for neglecting his cries. Her lack of compassion as a parent devastated me and it
reminded me too much of my own mother. I just wanted to help him. I wanted
him to know that someone else was listening—that someone else cared. I didn’t
understand why it felt so strange and exhilarating to touch him. I didn’t know
that I was draining his life and I couldn’t comprehend why he’d grown limp and
quiet in my arms. I thought maybe the rush of power and positive feeling meant
that I’d been cured of my horrible disease. I thought so many stupid things and I
ruined everything.
I thought I was helping.
I spent the next 3 years of my life in hospitals, law offices, juvenile detention
centers, and suffered through pills and electroshock therapy. Nothing worked.
Nothing helped. Outside of killing me, locking me up in an institution was the
only solution. The only way to protect the public from the terror of Juliette.
Until he stepped into my cell, I hadn’t seen Adam Kent in 3 years.
And he does look different. Tougher, taller, harder, sharper, tattooed. He’s
muscle, mature, quiet and quick. It’s almost like he can’t afford to be soft or
slow or relaxed. He can’t afford to be anything but muscle, anything but strength
and efficiency. The lines of his face are smooth, precise, carved into shape by
years of hard living and training and trying to survive.
He’s not a little boy anymore. He’s not afraid. He’s in the army.
But he’s not so different, either. He still has the most unusually blue eyes
I’ve ever seen. Dark and deep and drenched in passion. I always wondered what
it’d be like to see the world through such a beautiful lens. I wondered if your eye
color meant you saw the world differently. If the world saw you differently as a
result.
I should have known it was him when he showed up in my cell.
A part of me did. But I’d tried so hard to repress the memories of my past
that I refused to believe it could be possible. Because a part of me didn’t want to
remember. A part of me was too scared to hope. A part of me didn’t know if it
would make any difference to know that it was him, after all.
I often wonder what I must look like.
I wonder if I’m just a punctured shadow of the person I was before. I haven’t
looked in the mirror in 3 years. I’m so scared of what I’ll see.
Someone knocks on the door.
I’m catapulted across the room by my own fear. Adam locks eyes with me
before opening the door and I decide to retreat into a far corner of the room.
I sharpen my ears only to hear muted voices, hushed tones, and someone
clearing his throat. I’m not sure what to do.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” Adam says a little loudly. I realize he’s trying to
end the conversation.
“C’mon, man, I just wanna see her—”
“She’s not a goddamn spectacle, Kenji. Get the hell out of here.”
“Wait—just tell me: Does she light shit on fire with her eyes?” Kenji laughs
and I cringe, slumping to the floor behind the bed. I curl into myself and try not
to hear the rest of the conversation.
I fail.
Adam sighs. I can picture him rubbing his forehead. “Just get out.”
Kenji struggles to muffle his laughter. “Damn you’re sensitive all of a
sudden, huh? Hangin’ out with a girl is changin’ you, man—”
Adam says something I can’t hear.
The door slams shut.
I peek up from my hiding place. Adam looks embarrassed.
My cheeks go pink. I study the intricate threads of the finely woven carpet
under my feet. I touch the cloth wallpaper and wait for him to speak. I stand up
to stare out the small square of a window only to be met by the bleak backdrop
of a broken city. I lean my forehead against the glass.
Metal cubes are clustered together off in the distance: compounds housing
civilians wrapped in multiple layers, trying to find refuge from the cold. A
mother holding the hand of a small child. Soldiers standing over them, still like
statues, rifles poised and ready to fire. Heaps and heaps and heaps of trash,
dangerous scraps of iron and steel glinting on the ground. Lonely trees waving at
the wind.
Adam’s hands slip around my waist.
His lips are at my ear and he says nothing at all, but I melt until I’m a
handful of hot butter dripping down his body. I want to eat every minute of this
moment.
I allow my eyes to shut against the truth outside my window. Just for a little
while.
Adam takes a deep breath and pulls me even closer. I’m molded to the shape
of his silhouette; his hands are circling my waist and his cheek is pressed against
my head. “You feel incredible.”
I try to laugh but seem to have forgotten how. “Those are words I never
thought I’d hear.”
Adam spins me around so I’m facing him and suddenly I’m looking and not
looking at his face, I’m licked by a million flames and swallowing a million
more. He’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before. I want to wash my soul
in the bottomless blue of his eyes.
He leans in until his forehead rests against mine and our lips still aren’t close
enough. He whispers, “How are you?” and I want to kiss every beautiful beat of
his heart.
How are you? 3 words no one ever asks me.
“I want to get out of here,” is all I can think of.
He squeezes me against his chest and I marvel at the power, the glory, the
wonder in such a simple movement. He feels like 1 block of strength, 6 feet tall.
Every butterfly in the world has migrated to my stomach.
“Juliette.”
I lean back to see his face.
“Are you serious about leaving?” he asks me. His fingers brush the side of
my cheek. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Do you understand the
risks?”
I take a deep breath. I know that the only real risk is death. “Yes.”
He nods. Drops his eyes, his voice. “The troops are mobilizing for some kind
of attack. There have been a lot of protests from groups who were silent before,
and our job is to obliterate the resistance. I think they want this attack to be their
last one,” he adds quietly. “There’s something huge going on, and I’m not sure
what, not yet. But whatever it is, we have to be ready to go when they are.”
I freeze. “What do you mean?”
“When the troops are ready to deploy, you and I should be ready to run. It’s
the only way out that will give us time to disappear. Everyone will be too
focused on the attack—it’ll buy us some time before they notice we’re missing
or can get enough people together to search for us.”
“But—you mean—you’ll come with me . . . ? You’d be willing to do that for
me?”
He smiles a small smile. His lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. His
eyes soften as they study my own. “There’s very little I wouldn’t do for you.”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, touching my fingers to his chest,
imagining the bird soaring across his skin, and I ask him the one question that
scares me the most. “Why?”
“What do you mean?” He steps back.
“Why, Adam? Why do you care? Why do you want to help me? I don’t
understand—I don’t know why you’d be willing to risk your life—”
But then his arms are around my waist and he’s pulling me so close and his
lips are at my ear and he says my name, once, twice and I had no idea I could
catch on fire so quickly. His mouth is smiling against my skin. “You don’t?”
I don’t know anything, is what I would tell him if I had any idea how to
speak.
He laughs a little and pulls back. Takes my hand and studies it. “Do you
remember in fourth grade,” he says, “when Molly Carter signed up for the
school field trip too late? All the spots were filled, and she stood outside the bus,
crying because she wanted to go?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“I remember you got off the bus. You offered her your seat and she didn’t
even say thank you. I watched you standing on the sidewalk as we pulled away.”
I’m no longer breathing.
“Do you remember in fifth grade? That week Dana’s parents nearly got
divorced? She came to school every day without her lunch. And you offered to
give her yours.” He pauses. “As soon as that week was over she went back to
pretending you didn’t exist.”
I’m still not breathing.
“In seventh grade Shelly Morrison got caught cheating off your math test.
She kept screaming that if she failed, her father would kill her. You told the
teacher that you were the one cheating off of her test. You got a zero on the
exam, and detention for a week.” He lifts his head but doesn’t look at me. “You
had bruises on your arms for at least a month after that. I always wondered
where they came from.”
My heart is beating too fast. Dangerously fast. I clench my fingers to keep
them from shaking. I lock my jaw in place and wipe my face clean of emotion
but I can’t slow the thrumming in my chest no matter how hard I try.
“A million times,” he says, his voice so quiet now. “I saw you do things like
that a million times. But you never said a word unless it was forced out of you.”
He laughs again, this time a hard, heavy sort of laugh. He’s staring at a point
directly past my shoulder. “You never asked for anything from anyone.” He
finally meets my eyes. “But no one ever gave you a chance.”
I swallow hard, try to look away but he catches my face.
He whispers, “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about you. How
many times I’ve dreamt”—he takes a tight breath—“how many times I’ve
dreamt about being this close to you.” He moves to run a hand through his hair
before he changes his mind. Looks down. Looks up. “God, Juliette, I’d follow
you anywhere. You’re the only good thing left in this world.”
I’m begging myself not to burst into tears and I don’t know if it’s working.
I’m everything broken and glued back together and blushing everywhere and I
can hardly find the strength to meet his gaze.
His fingers find my chin. Tip me up.
“We have three weeks at the most,” he says. “I don’t think they can control
the mobs for much longer.”
I nod. I blink. I rest my face against his chest and pretend I’m not crying.
3 weeks.
Chapter Twenty-Four
2 weeks pass.
2 weeks of dresses and showers and food I want to throw across the room. 2
weeks of Warner smiling and touching my waist, laughing and guiding the small
of my back, making sure I look my best as I walk beside him. He thinks I’m his
trophy. His secret weapon.
I have to stifle the urge to crack his knuckles into concrete.
But I offer him 2 weeks of cooperation because in 1 week we’ll be gone.
Hopefully.
But then, more than anything else, I’ve found I don’t hate Warner as much as
I thought I did.
I feel sorry for him.
He finds a strange sort of solace in my company; he thinks I can relate to him
and his twisted notions, his cruel upbringing, his absent and simultaneously
demanding father.
But he never says a word about his mother.
Adam says that no one knows anything about Warner’s mother—that she’s
never been discussed and no one has any idea who she is. He says that Warner is
only known to be the consequence of ruthless parenting, and a cold, calculated
desire for power. He hates happy children and happy parents and their happy
lives.
I think Warner thinks that I understand. That I understand him.
And I do. And I don’t.
Because we’re not the same.
I want to be better.
Adam and I have little time together but nighttime. And even then, not so much.
Warner watches me more closely every day; disabling the cameras only made
him more suspicious. He’s always walking into my room unexpectedly, taking
me on unnecessary tours around the building, talking about nothing but his plans
and his plans to make more plans and how together we’ll conquer the world. I
don’t pretend to care.
Maybe it’s me who’s making this worse.
“I can’t believe Warner actually agreed to get rid of your cameras,” Adam
said to me one night.
“He’s insane. He’s not rational. He’s sick in a way I’ll never understand.”
Adam sighed. “He’s obsessed with you.”
“What?” I nearly snapped my neck in surprise.
“You’re all he ever talks about.” Adam was silent a moment, his jaw too
tight. “I heard stories about you before you even got here. That’s why I got
involved—it’s why I volunteered to go get you. Warner spent months collecting
information about you: addresses, medical records, personal histories, family
relations, birth certificates, blood tests. The entire army was talking about his
new project; everyone knew he was looking for a girl who’d killed a little boy in
a grocery store. A girl named Juliette.”
I held my breath.
Adam shook his head. “I knew it was you. It had to be. I asked Warner if I
could help with the project—I told him I’d gone to school with you, that I’d
heard about the little boy, that I’d seen you in person.” He laughed a hard laugh.
“Warner was thrilled. He thought it would make the experiment more
interesting,” he added, disgusted. “And I knew that if he wanted to claim you as
some kind of sick project—” He hesitated. Looked away. Ran a hand through his
hair. “I just knew I had to do something. I thought I could try to help. But now
it’s gotten worse. Warner won’t stop talking about what you’re capable of or
how valuable you are to his efforts and how excited he is to have you here.
Everyone is beginning to notice. Warner is ruthless—he has no mercy for
anyone. He loves the power, the thrill of destroying people. But he’s starting to
crack, Juliette. He’s so desperate to have you . . . join him. And for all his
threats, he doesn’t want to force you. He wants you to want it. To choose him, in
a way.” He looked down, took a tight breath. “He’s losing his edge. And
whenever I see his face I’m always about two inches away from doing
something stupid. I’d love to break his jaw.”
Yes. Warner is losing his edge.
He’s paranoid, though with good reason. But then he’s patient and impatient
with me. Excited and nervous all the time. He’s a walking oxymoron.
He disables my cameras, but some nights he orders Adam to sleep outside
my door to make sure I don’t escape. He says I can eat lunch alone, but always
ends up summoning me to his side. The few hours Adam and I would’ve had
together are stolen from us, but the fewer nights Adam is allowed to sleep inside
my room I manage to spend huddled in his arms.
We both sleep on the floor now, wrapped up in each other for warmth even
with the blanket covering our bodies. Every time he touches me it’s like a burst
of fire and electricity that ignites my bones in the most amazing way. It’s the
kind of feeling I wish I could hold in my hand.
Adam tells me about new developments, whispers he’s heard around the
other soldiers. He tells me how there are multiple headquarters across what’s left
of the country. How Warner’s dad is at the capital, how he’s left his son in
charge of this entire sector. He says Warner hates his father but loves the power.
The destruction. The devastation. He strokes my hair and tells me stories and
tucks me close like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. He paints pictures of people and
places until I fall asleep, until I’m drowning in a drug of dreams to escape a
world with no refuge, no relief, no release but his reassurances in my ear. Sleep
is the only thing I look forward to these days. I can hardly remember why I used
to scream.
Things are getting too comfortable and I’m beginning to panic.
“Put these on,” Warner says to me.
Breakfast in the blue room has become routine. I eat and don’t ask where the
food comes from, whether or not the workers are being paid for what they do,
how this building manages to sustain so many lives, pump so much water, or use
so much electricity. I bide my time now. I cooperate.
Warner hasn’t asked me to touch him again, and I don’t offer.
“What are they for?” I eye the small pieces of fabric in his hands and feel a
nervous twinge in my gut.
He smiles a slow, sneaky smile. “An aptitude test.” He grabs my wrist and
places the bundle in my hand. “I’ll turn around, just this once.”
I’m almost too nervous to be disgusted by him.
My hands shake as I change into the outfit that turns out to be a tiny tank top
and tinier shorts. I’m practically naked. I’m practically convulsing in fear of
what this might mean. I clear my throat just the tiniest bit and Warner spins
around.
He takes too long to speak; his eyes are busy traveling the road map of my
body. I want to rip up the carpet and sew it to my skin. He smiles and offers me
his hand.
I’m granite and limestone and marbled glass. I don’t move.
He drops his hand. He cocks his head. “Follow me.”
Warner opens the door. Adam is standing outside. He’s gotten so good at
masking his emotions that I hardly register the look of shock that shifts in and
out of his features. Nothing but the strain in his forehead, the tension in his
temples, gives him away. He knows something’s not right. He actually turns his
neck to take in my appearance. He blinks. “Sir?”
“Remain where you are, soldier. I’ll take it from here.”
Adam doesn’t answer doesn’t answer doesn’t answer— “Yes, sir,” he says,
his voice suddenly hoarse.
I feel his eyes on me as I turn down the hall.
Warner takes me somewhere new. We’re walking through corridors I’ve
never seen, blacker and bleaker and more narrow as we go. I realize we’re
heading downward.
Into a basement.
We pass through 1, 2, 4 metal doors. Soldiers everywhere, their eyes
everywhere, appraising me with both fear and something else I’d rather not
consider. I’ve realized there are very few females in this building.
If there were ever a place to be grateful for being untouchable, it’d be here.
It’s the only reason I have asylum from the preying eyes of hundreds of
lonely men. It’s the only reason Adam is staying with me—because Warner
thinks Adam is a cardboard cutout of vanilla regurgitations. He thinks Adam is a
machine oiled by orders and demands. He thinks Adam is a reminder of my past,
and he uses it to make me uncomfortable. He’d never imagine Adam could lay a
finger on me.
No one would. Everyone I meet is absolutely petrified.
The darkness is like a black canvas punctured by a blunt knife, with beams
of light peeking through. It reminds me too much of my old cell. My skin ripples
with uncontrollable dread.
I’m surrounded by guns.
“In you go,” Warner says. I’m pushed into an empty room smelling faintly of
mold. Someone hits a switch and fluorescent lights flicker on to reveal pasty
yellow walls and carpet the color of dead grass. The door slams shut behind me.
There’s nothing but cobwebs and a huge mirror in this room. The mirror is
half the size of the wall. Instinctively I know Warner and his accomplices must
be watching me. I just don’t know why.
There are secrets everywhere.
There are answers nowhere.
Mechanical clinks/cracks/creaks and shifts shake the space I’m standing in.
The ground rumbles to life. The ceiling trembles with the promise of chaos.
Metal spikes are suddenly everywhere, scattered across the room, puncturing
every surface at all different heights. Every few seconds they disappear only to
reappear with a sudden jolt of terror, slicing through the air like needles.
I realize I’m standing in a torture chamber.
Static and feedback from speakers older than my dying heart crackle to life.
I’m a racehorse galloping toward a false finish line, breathing hard for someone
else’s gain.
“Are you ready?” Warner’s amplified voice echoes around the room.
“What am I supposed to be ready for?” I yell into the empty space, certain
that someone can hear me. I’m calm. I’m calm. I’m calm. I’m petrified.
“We had a deal, remember?” the room responds.
“Wha—”
“I disabled your cameras. Now it’s your turn to hold up your end of the
bargain.”
“I won’t touch you!” I shout, spinning in place, terrified, horrified, worried I
might faint at any moment.
“That’s all right,” he says. “I’m sending in my replacement.”
The door squeals open and a toddler waddles in wearing nothing but a
diaper. He’s blindfolded and hiccupping sobs, shuddering in fear.
One pin pops my entire existence into nothing.
“If you don’t save him,” Warner’s words crackle through the room, “we
won’t, either.”
This child.
He must have a mother a father someone who loves him this child this child
this child stumbling forward in terror. He could be speared through by a metal
stalagmite at any second.
Saving him is simple: I need to pick him up, find a safe spot of ground, and
hold him in my arms until the experiment is over.
There’s only one problem.
If I touch him, he might die.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Warner knows I don’t have a choice. He wants to force me into another situation
where he can see the impact of my abilities, and he has no problem torturing an
innocent child to get exactly what he wants.
Right now I have no options.
I have to take a chance before this little boy steps forward in the wrong
direction.
I quickly memorize as much as I can of the traps and dodge/hop/narrowly
avoid the spikes until I’m as close as possible.
I take a deep, shaky breath and focus on the shivering limbs of the boy in
front of me and pray to God I’m making the right decision. I’m about to pull off
my shirt to use as a barrier between us when I notice the slight vibration in the
ground. The tremble that precedes the terror. I know I have half of a second
before the spikes slice up through the air and even less time to react.
I yank him up and into my arms.
His screams pierce through me like I’m being shot to death, one bullet for
every second. He’s clawing at my arms, my chest, kicking my body as hard as he
can, crying out in agony until the pain paralyzes him. He goes weak in my grip
and I’m being ripped to pieces, my eyes, my bones, my veins all tumbling out of
place, all turning on me to torture me forever with memories of the horrors I’m
responsible for.
Pain and power are bleeding through his body into mine, jolting through his
limbs and crashing into me until I nearly drop him. It’s like reliving a nightmare
I’ve spent 3 years trying to forget.
“Absolutely amazing,” Warner sighs through the speakers, and I realize I
was right. He must be watching through a 2-way mirror. “Brilliant, love. I’m
thoroughly impressed.”
I’m too desperate to be able to focus on Warner right now. I have no idea
how long this sick game is going to last, and I need to lessen the amount of skin
I’m exposing to this little boy’s body.
My skimpy outfit makes so much sense now.
I rearrange him in my arms and manage to grab hold of his diaper. I’m
holding him up with the palm of my hand. I’m desperate to believe I couldn’t
have touched him long enough to cause serious damage.
He hiccups once; his body quivers back to life.
I could cry from happiness.
But then the screams start back up again, no longer cries of torture but of
fear. He’s desperate to get away from me and I’m losing my grip, my wrist
nearly breaking from the effort. I don’t dare remove his blindfold. I’d rather die
than allow him to see this space, to see my face.
I clench my jaw so fast I’m afraid I’m going to break my teeth. If I put him
down, he’ll start running. And if he starts running, he’s finished. I have to keep
holding on.
The roar of an old mechanical wheeze revives my heart. The spikes slip back
into the ground, one by one until they’ve all disappeared. The room is harmless
again so swiftly I fear I may have imagined the danger. I drop the boy back onto
the floor and bite down on my lip to swallow the pain welling in my wrist.
The child starts running and accidentally bumps my bare legs.
He screams and shudders and falls to the floor, curled up into himself,
sobbing until I consider destroying myself, ridding myself of this world. Tears
are streaming fast down my face and I want nothing more than to reach out to
him and help him, hug him close, kiss his beautiful cheeks and tell him I’ll take
care of him forever, that we’ll run away together, that I’ll play games with him
and read him stories at night and I know I can’t. I know I never will. I know it
will never be possible.
And suddenly the world shifts out of focus.
I’m overcome by a rage, an intensity, an anger so potent I’m almost elevated
off the ground. I’m boiling with blind hatred and disgust. I don’t even
understand how my feet move in the next instant. I don’t understand my hands
and what they’re doing or how they decided to fly forward, fingers splayed,
charging toward the window. I only know I want to feel Warner’s neck snap
between my own two hands. I want him to experience the same terror he just
inflicted upon a child. I want to watch him die. I want to watch him beg for
mercy.
I catapult through the concrete walls.
I crush the glass with 10 fingers.
I’m clutching a fistful of gravel and a fistful of fabric at Warner’s neck and
there are 50 different guns pointed at my head. The air is heavy with cement and
sulfur, the glass falling in an agonized symphony of shattered hearts.
I slam Warner into the corroded stone.
“Don’t you dare shoot her,” Warner wheezes at the guards. I haven’t touched
his skin yet, but I have the strangest suspicion that I could smash his rib cage
into his heart if I just pressed a little harder.
“I should kill you.” My voice is one deep breath, one uncontrolled
exhalation.
“You—” He tries to swallow. “You just—you just broke through concrete
with your bare hands.”
I blink. I don’t dare look behind me. But I know without looking backward
that he can’t be lying. I must have. My mind is a maze of impossibility.
I lose focus for one instant.
The guns
click
click
click
Every moment is loaded.
“If any of you hurt her I will shoot you myself,” Warner barks.
“But sir—”
“STAND DOWN, SOLDIER—”
The rage is gone. The sudden uncontrollable anger is gone. My mind has
already surrendered to disbelief. Confusion. I don’t know what I’ve done. I
obviously don’t know what I’m capable of because I had no idea I could destroy
anything at all and I’m suddenly so terrified so terrified so terrified of my own
two hands. I stumble backward, stunned, and catch Warner watching me
hungrily, eagerly, his emerald eyes bright with boyish fascination. He’s
practically trembling in excitement.
There’s a snake in my throat and I can’t swallow it down. I meet Warner’s
gaze. “If you ever put me in a position like that again, I will kill you. And I will
enjoy it.”
I don’t even know if I’m lying.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Adam finds me curled into a ball on the shower floor.
I’ve been crying for so long I’m certain the hot water is made of nothing but
my tears. My clothes are stuck to my skin, wet and useless. I want to wash them
away. I want to drown in ignorance. I want to be stupid, dumb, mute, completely
devoid of a brain. I want to cut off my own limbs. I want to be rid of this skin
that can kill and these hands that destroy and this body I don’t even know how to
understand.
Everything is falling apart.
“Juliette . . .” He presses his hand against the glass. I can hardly hear him.
When I don’t respond he opens the shower door. He’s pelted with rebel
raindrops and kicks his boots off before falling to his knees on the tile floor. He
reaches in to touch my arms and the feeling only makes me more desperate to
die. He sighs and pulls me up, just enough to lift my head. His hands trap my
face and his eyes search me, search through me until I look away.
“I know what happened,” he says softly.
My throat is a reptile, covered in scales. “Someone should just kill me,” I
croak, cracking with every word.
Adam’s arms wrap around me until he’s tugged me up and I’m wobbling on
my legs and we’re both standing upright. He steps into the shower and slides the
door shut behind him.
I gasp.
He holds me up against the wall and I see nothing but his white T-shirt
soaked through, nothing but the water dancing down his face, nothing but his
eyes full of a world I’m dying to be a part of.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers.
“It’s what I am,” I choke.
“No. Warner’s wrong about you,” Adam says. “He wants you to be someone
you’re not, and you can’t let him break you. Don’t let him get into your head. He
wants you to think you’re a monster. He wants you to think you have no choice
but to join him. He wants you to think you’ll never be able to live a normal life
—”
“But I won’t live a normal life.” I swallow a hiccup. “Not ever—I’ll n-never
—”
Adam is shaking his head. “You will. We’re going to get out of here. I won’t
let this happen to you.”
“H-how could you possibly care about someone . . . like me?” I’m barely
breathing, nervous and petrified but somehow staring at his lips, studying the
shape, counting the drops of water tumbling over the hills and valleys of his
mouth.
“Because I’m in love with you.”
I swallow my stomach. My eyes snap up to read his face but I’m a mess of
electricity, humming with life and lightning, hot and cold and my heart is erratic.
I’m shaking in his arms and my lips have parted for no reason at all.
His mouth softens into a smile. My bones have disappeared.
I’m spinning with delirium.
His nose is touching my nose, his lips one breath away, his eyes devouring
me already and I’m a puddle with no arms and no legs. I can smell him
everywhere; I feel every point of his figure pressed against mine. His hands at
my waist, gripping my hips, his legs flush against my own, his chest
overpowering me with strength, his frame built by bricks of desire. The taste of
his words lingers on my lips.
“Really . . . ?” I have one whisper of incredulity, one conscious effort to
believe what’s never been done. I’m flushed through my feet, filled with
unspoken everything.
He looks at me with so much emotion I nearly crack in half.
“God, Juliette—”
And he’s kissing me.
Once, twice, until I’ve had a taste and realize I’ll never have enough. He’s
everywhere up my back and over my arms and suddenly he’s kissing me harder,
deeper, with a fervent urgent need I’ve never known before. He breaks for air
only to bury his lips in my neck, along my collarbone, up my chin and cheeks
and I’m gasping for oxygen and he’s destroying me with his hands and we’re
drenched in water and beauty and the exhilaration of a moment I never knew
was possible.
He pulls back with a low groan and I want him to take his shirt off.
I need to see the bird. I need to tell him about the bird.
My fingers are tugging at the hem of his wet clothes and his eyes widen for
only a second before he rips the material off himself. He grabs my hands and
lifts my arms above my head and pins me against the wall, kissing me until I’m
sure I’m dreaming, drinking in my lips with his lips and he tastes like rain and
sweet musk and I’m about to explode.
My knees are knocking together and my heart is beating so fast I don’t
understand why it’s still working. He’s kissing away the pain, the hurt, the years
of self-loathing, the insecurities, the dashed hopes for a future I always pictured
as obsolete. He’s lighting me on fire, burning away the torture of Warner’s
games, the anguish that poisons me every single day. The intensity of our bodies
could shatter these glass walls.
It nearly does.
For a moment we’re just staring at each other, breathing hard until I’m
blushing, until he closes his eyes and takes one ragged, steadying breath and I
place my hand on his chest. I dare to trace the outline of the bird soaring across
his skin, I dare to trail my fingers down the length of his abdomen.
“You’re my bird,” I tell him. “You’re my bird and you’re going to help me
fly away.”
Adam is gone by the time I get out of the shower.
He wrung his clothes out and dried himself off and granted me privacy to
change. Privacy I’m not sure I care about anymore. I touch 2 fingers to my lips
and taste him everywhere.
But when I step into the room he’s not anywhere. He had to report
downstairs.
I stare at the clothes in my closet.
I always choose a dress with pockets because I don’t know where else to
store my notebook. It doesn’t carry any incriminating information, and the one
piece of paper that bore Adam’s handwriting has since been destroyed and
flushed down the toilet, but I like to keep it close to me. It represents so much
more than a few words scribbled on paper. It’s a small token of my resistance.
I tuck the notebook into a pocket and decide I’m finally ready to face myself.
I take a deep breath, push the wet strands of hair away from my eyes, and pad
into the bathroom. The steam from the shower has clouded the mirror. I reach
out a tentative hand to wipe away a small circle. Just big enough.
A scared face stares back at me.
I touch my cheeks and study the reflective surface, study the image of a girl
who’s simultaneously strange and familiar to me. My face is thinner, paler, my
cheekbones higher than I remember them, my eyebrows perched above 2 wide
eyes not blue not green but somewhere in between. My skin is flushed with heat
and something named Adam. My lips are too pink. My teeth are unusually
straight. My finger is trailing down the length of my nose, tracing the shape of
my chin when I see a movement in the corner of my eye.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says to me.
I’m pink and red and maroon all at once. I duck my head and trip away from
the mirror only to have him catch me in his arms. “I’d forgotten my own face,” I
whisper.
“Just don’t forget who you are,” he says.
“I don’t even know.”
“Yes you do.” He tilts my face up. “I do.”
I stare at the strength in his jaw, in his eyes, in his body. I try to understand
the confidence he has in who he thinks I am and realize his reassurance is the
only thing stopping me from diving into a pool of my own insanity. He’s always
believed in me. Even soundlessly, silently, he fought for me. Always.
He’s my only friend.
I take his hand and hold it to my lips. “I’ve loved you forever,” I tell him.
The sun rises, rests, shines in his face and he almost smiles, almost can’t
meet my eyes. His muscles relax, his shoulders find relief in the weight of a new
kind of wonder and he exhales. He touches my cheek, touches my lips, touches
the tip of my chin and I blink and he’s kissing me, he’s pulling me into his arms
and into the air and somehow we’re on the bed and tangled in each other and I’m
drugged with emotion, drugged by each tender moment. His fingers skim my
shoulder, trail down my silhouette, rest at my hips. He pulls me closer, whispers
my name, drops kisses down my throat and struggles with the stiff fabric of my
dress. His hands are shaking so slightly, his eyes brimming with feeling, his
heart thrumming with pain and affection and I want to live here, in his arms, in
his eyes for the rest of my life.
I slip my hands under his shirt and he chokes on a moan that turns into a kiss
that needs me and wants me and has to have me so desperately it’s like the most
acute form of torture. His weight is pressed into mine, on top of mine, infinite
points of feeling for every nerve ending in my body and his right hand is behind
my neck and his left hand is reeling me in and his lips are falling down my shirt
and I don’t understand why I need to wear clothes anymore and I’m a
cumulonimbus existence of thunder and lightning and the possibility of
exploding into tears at any inopportune moment. Bliss Bliss Bliss is beating
through my chest.
I don’t remember what it means to breathe.
I never
ever
ever
knew
what it meant to feel.
An alarm is hammering through the walls.
The room beeps and blares to life and Adam stiffens, pulls back; his face
collapses.
“This is a CODE SEVEN. All soldiers must report to the Quadrant
immediately. This is a CODE SEVEN. All soldiers must report to the Quadrant
immediately. This is a CODE SEVEN. All soldiers must report to the Quadra—”
Adam is on his feet and pulling me up and the voice is still shouting orders
through a speaker system wired into the building. “There’s been a breach,” he
says, his voice broken and breathy, his eyes darting between me and the door.
“Jesus. I can’t just leave you here—”
“Go,” I tell him. “You have to go—I’ll be fine—”
Footsteps are thundering through the halls and soldiers are barking at each
other so loudly I can hear it through the walls. Adam is still on duty. He has to
perform. He has to keep up appearances until we can leave. I know this.
He pulls me close. “This isn’t a joke, Juliette—I don’t know what’s
happening—it could be anything—”
A metal click. A mechanical switch. The door slides open and Adam and I
jump 10 feet apart.
Adam rushes to exit just as Warner is walking in. They both freeze.
“I’m pretty sure that alarm has been going off for at least a minute, soldier.”
“Yes sir. I wasn’t sure what to do about her.” He’s suddenly composed, a
perfect statue. He nods at me like I’m an afterthought but I know he’s just
slightly too stiff in the shoulders. Breathing just a beat too fast.
“Lucky for you, I’m here to take care of that. You may report to your
commanding officer.”
“Sir.” Adam nods, pivots on one heel, and darts out the door. I hope Warner
didn’t notice his hesitation.
Warner turns to face me with a smile so calm and casual I begin to question
whether the building is actually in chaos. He studies my face. My hair. Glances
at the rumpled sheets behind me and I feel like I’ve swallowed a spider. “You
took a nap?”
“I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“You’ve ripped your dress.”
“What are you doing here?” I need him to stop staring at me, I need him to
stop drinking in the details of my existence.
“If you don’t like the dress, you can always choose a different one, you
know. I picked them out for you myself.”
“That’s okay. The dress is fine.” I glance at the clock for no real reason. It’s
already 4:30 in the afternoon. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”
He’s too close. He’s standing too close and he’s looking at me and my lungs
are failing to expand. “You should really change.”
“I don’t want to change.” I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Why he’s
making me so nervous. Why the space between us is closing too quickly.
He hooks a finger in the rip close to the drop-waist of my dress and I bite
back a scream. “This just won’t do.”
“It’s fine—”
He tugs so hard on the rip that it splits open the fabric and creates a slit up
the side of my leg. “That’s a bit better.”
“What are you doing—”
His hands snake up my waist and clamp my arms in place and I know I need
to defend myself but I’m frozen and I want to scream but my voice is broken
broken broken. I’m a ragged breath of desperation.
“I have a question,” he says, and I try to kick him in this worthless dress and
he just squeezes me up against the wall, the weight of his body pressing me into
place, every inch of him covered in clothing, a protective layer between us. “I
said I have a question, Juliette.”
His hand slips into my pocket so quickly it takes me a moment to realize
what he’s done. I’m panting up against the wall, shaking and trying to find my
head.
“I’m curious,” he says. “What is this?”
He’s holding my notebook between 2 fingers.
Oh God.
This dress is too tight to hide the outline of the notebook and I was too busy
looking at my face to check the dress in the mirror. This is all my fault all my
fault all my fault all my fault I can’t believe it. This is all my fault. I should’ve
known better.
I say nothing.
He cocks his head. “I don’t recall giving you a notebook. I certainly don’t
remember granting you allowance for any possessions, either.”
“I brought it with me.” My voice catches.
“Now you’re lying.”
“What do you want from me?” I panic.
“That’s a stupid question, Juliette.”
The soft sound of smooth metal slipping out of place. Someone has opened
my door.
Click.
“Get your hands off of her before I bury a bullet in your head.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Warner’s eyes close very slowly. He steps away very slowly. His lips twitch into
a dangerous smile. “Kent.”
Adam’s hands are steady, the barrel of his gun pressed into the back of
Warner’s skull. “You’re going to clear our exit out of here.”
Warner actually laughs. He opens his eyes and whips a gun out of his inside
pocket only to point it directly at my forehead. “I will kill her right now.”
“You’re not that stupid,” Adam says.
“If she moves even a millimeter, I will shoot her. And then I will rip you to
pieces.”
Adam shifts quickly, slamming the butt of his gun into Warner’s head.
Warner’s gun misfires and Adam catches his arm and twists his wrist until his
grip on the weapon wavers. I grab the gun from Warner’s limp hand and slam
the butt of it into his face. I’m stunned by my own reflexes. I’ve never held a
gun before but I guess there’s a first time for everything.
I point it at Warner’s eyes. “Don’t underestimate me.”
“Holy shit.” Adam doesn’t bother hiding his surprise.
Warner coughs through a laugh, steadies himself, and tries to smile as he
wipes the blood from his nose. “I never underestimate you,” he says to me. “I
never have.”
Adam shakes his head for less than a second before his face splits into an
enormous grin. He’s beaming at me as he presses the gun harder into Warner’s
skull. “Let’s get out of here.”
I grab the two duffel bags stowed away in the armoire and toss one to Adam.
We’ve been packed for a week already. If he wants to make a break for it earlier
than expected, I have no complaints.
Warner’s lucky we’re showing him mercy.
But we’re lucky the entire building has been evacuated. He has no one to
rely on.
Warner clears his throat. He’s staring straight at me when he speaks. “I can
assure you, soldier, your triumph will be short-lived. You may as well kill me
now, because when I find you, I will thoroughly enjoy destroying every bone in
your body. You’re a fool if you think you can get away with this.”
“I am not your soldier.” Adam’s face is stone. “I never have been. You’ve
been so caught up in the details of your own fantasies you failed to notice the
dangers right in front of your face.”
“We can’t kill you yet,” I add. “You have to get us out of here.”
“You’re making a huge mistake, Juliette,” he says to me. His voice actually
softens. “You’re throwing away an entire future.” He sighs. “How do you know
you can trust him?”
I glance at Adam. Adam, the boy who’s always defended me, even when he
had nothing to gain. I shake my head to clear it. I remind myself that Warner is a
liar. A crazed lunatic. A psychotic murderer. He would never try to help me.
I think.
“Let’s go before it’s too late,” I say to Adam. “He’s just trying to stall us
until the soldiers get back.”
“He doesn’t even care about you!” Warner explodes. I flinch at the sudden,
uncontrolled intensity in his voice. “He just wants a way out of here and he’s
using you!” He steps forward. “I could love you, Juliette—I would treat you like
a queen—”
Adam puts him in a swift headlock and points the gun at his temple. “You
obviously don’t understand what’s happening here,” he says very carefully.
“Then educate me, soldier,” Warner wheezes out. His eyes are dancing
flames; dangerous. “Tell me what I’m failing to understand.”
“Adam.” I’m shaking my head.
He meets my eyes. Nods. Turns to Warner. “Make the call,” he says,
squeezing his neck a little tighter. “Get us out of here now.”
“Only my dead body would allow her to walk out that door.” Warner
exercises his jaw and spits blood on the floor. “You I would kill for pleasure,” he
says to Adam. “But Juliette is the one I want forever.”
“I’m not yours to want.” I’m breathing too hard. I’m anxious to get out of
here. I’m angry he won’t stop talking but as much as I’d love to break his face,
he’s no good to us unconscious.
“You could love me, you know.” He’s smiling a strange sort of smile. “We
would be unstoppable. We would change the world. I could make you happy,”
he says to me.
Adam looks like he might snap Warner’s neck. His face is so taut, so tense,
so angry. I’ve never seen him like this before. “You have nothing to offer her,
you sick bastard.”
Warner presses his eyes shut for one second. “Juliette. Don’t be hasty. Don’t
make a rash decision. Stay with me. I’ll be patient with you. I’ll give you time to
adjust. I’ll take care of you—”
“You’re insane.” My hands are shaking but I hold the gun up to his face
again. I need to get him out of my head. I need to remember what he’s done to
me. “You want me to be a monster for you—”
“I want you to live up to your potential!”
“Let me go,” I say quietly. “I don’t want to be your creature. I don’t want to
hurt people.”
“The world has already hurt you,” he counters. “The world put you here.
You’re here because of them! You think if you leave they’re going to accept
you? You think you can run away and live a normal life? No one will care for
you. No one will come near you—you’ll be an outcast like you’ve always been!
Nothing has changed! You belong with me!”
“She belongs with me.” Adam’s voice could cut through steel.
Warner flinches. For the first time he seems to be understanding what I
thought was obvious. His eyes are wide, horrified, unbelieving, staring at me
with a new kind of anguish. “No.” A short, crazed laugh. “Juliette. Please.
Please. Don’t tell me he’s filled your head with romantic notions. Please don’t
tell me you fell for his false proclamations—”
Adam slams his knee into Warner’s spine. Warner falls to the floor with a
muffled crack and a sharp intake of breath. Adam has thoroughly overpowered
him. I feel like I should be cheering.
But I’m too anxious. I’m too suspended in disbelief. I’m too insecure to be
confident in my own decisions. I need to pull myself together.
“Adam—”
“I love you,” he says to me, his eyes just as earnest as I remember them, his
words just as urgent as they should be. “Don’t let him confuse you—”
“You love her?” Warner practically spits. “You don’t even—”
“Adam.” The room shifts in and out of focus. I’m staring at the window. I
glance back at him.
His eyes touch his eyebrows. “You want to jump out?”
I nod.
“But we’re fifteen stories up—”
“What choice do we have if he won’t cooperate?” I look at Warner. Cock my
head. “There is no Code Seven, is there?”
Warner’s lips twitch. He says nothing.
“Why would you do that?” I ask him. “Why would you pull a false alarm?”
“Why don’t you ask the soldier you’re so suddenly fond of?” Warner snaps,
disgusted. “Why don’t you ask yourself why you’re trusting your life to
someone who can’t even differentiate between a real and an imaginary threat?”
Adam swears under his breath.
I lock eyes with him and he tosses me his gun.
He shakes his head. Swears again. Clenches and unclenches his fist. “It was
just a drill.”
Warner actually laughs.
Adam glances at the door, the clock, my face. “We don’t have much time.”
I’m holding Warner’s gun in my left hand and Adam’s gun in my right and
pointing them both at Warner’s forehead, doing my best to ignore the eyes he’s
drilling in my direction. Adam uses his free hand to dig in his pockets for
something. He pulls out a pair of plastic zip ties and kicks Warner onto his back
just before binding his limbs together. Warner’s boots and gloves have been
discarded on the floor. Adam keeps one boot pressed on his stomach.
“A million alarms are going to go off the minute we jump through that
window,” he tells me. “We’ll have to run, so we can’t risk breaking our legs. We
can’t jump.”
“So what do we do?”
He runs a hand through his hair and bites down on his bottom lip and for one
delirious moment all I want to do is taste him. I force myself back into focus.
“I have rope,” he says. “We’ll have to climb down. And fast.”
He sets to work pulling out a coil of cord attached to a small clawlike anchor.
I’d asked him a million times what on earth he would need it for, why he would
pack it in his escape bag. He told me a person could never have too much rope.
Now, I almost want to laugh.
He turns to me. “I’m going to go down first so I can catch you on the other
side—”
Warner laughs loud, too loud. “You can’t catch her, you fool.” He squirms in
his plastic shackles. “She’s wearing next to nothing. She’ll kill you and kill
herself from the fall!”
My eyes dart between Warner and Adam. I don’t have time to entertain
Warner’s charades any longer. I make a hasty decision. “Do it. I’ll be right
behind you.”
Warner looks crazed, confused. “What are you doing?”
I ignore him.
“Wait—”
I ignore him.
“Juliette.”
I ignore him.
“Juliette!” His voice is tighter, higher, laced with anger and terror and denial
and betrayal. Realization is a new piece in his puzzled mind. “He can touch
you?”
Adam is wrapping his fist in the bedsheet.
“Goddamn it, Juliette, answer me!” Warner is writhing on the floor,
unhinged in a way I never thought possible. He looks wild, his eyes disbelieving,
horrified. “Has he touched you?”
I can’t understand why the walls are suddenly on the ceiling. Everything is
stumbling sideways.
“Juliette—”
Adam breaks through the glass with one swift crack, one solid punch, and
instantly the entire room is ringing with the sound of hysteria like no alarm I’ve
heard before. The room is rumbling under my feet, footsteps are thundering
down the halls, and I know we’re about one minute from being discovered.
Adam throws the cord through the window and slings his pack over his back.
“Throw me your bag!” he shouts and I can barely hear him. I toss my duffel and
he catches it right before slipping through the window. I run to join him.
Warner tries to grab my leg.
His failed attempt nearly trips me but I manage to stumble my way to the
window without losing much time. I glance back at the door and feel my heart
racing through my bones. The sound of soldiers running and yelling is getting
louder, closer, clearer by the second.
“Hurry!” Adam is calling to me.
“Juliette, please—”
Warner swipes for my leg again and I gasp so loud I almost hear it through
the sirens shattering my eardrums. I won’t look at him. I won’t look at him. I
won’t look at him.
I swing one leg through the window and latch on to the cord. My bare legs
are going to make this an excruciating ordeal. Both legs are through. My hands
are in place. Adam is calling to me from below, and I don’t know how far down
he is. Warner is screaming my name and I look up despite my best efforts.
His eyes are two shots of green punched through a pane of glass. Cutting
through me.
I take a deep breath and hope I won’t die.
I take a deep breath and inch my way down the rope.
I take a deep breath and hope Warner doesn’t realize what just happened.
I hope he doesn’t know he just touched my leg.
And nothing happened.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I’m burning.
The cord is chafing my legs into a fiery mass so painful I’m surprised there’s
no smoke. I bite back the pain because I have no choice. The mass hysteria of
the building is bulldozing my senses, raining down danger all around us. Adam
is shouting to me from below, telling me to jump, promising he’ll catch me. I’m
too ashamed to admit I’m afraid of the fall.
I never have a chance to make my own decision.
Soldiers are already pouring into what used to be my room, shouting and
confused, probably shocked to find Warner in such a feeble position. It was
really too easy to overpower him. It worries me.
It makes me think we did something wrong.
A few soldiers pop their heads out of the shattered window and I’m frantic to
shimmy down the rope but they’re already moving to unlatch the anchor. I
prepare myself for the nauseating sensation of free fall only to realize they’re not
trying to drop me. They’re trying to reel me back inside.
Warner must be telling them what to do.
I glance down at Adam below me and finally give in to his calls. I squeeze
my eyes shut and let go.
And fall right into his open arms.
We collapse onto the ground, but the breath is knocked out of us for only a
moment. Adam grabs my hand and then we’re running.
There’s nothing but empty, barren space stretching out ahead of us. Broken
asphalt, uneven pavement, dirt roads, naked trees, dying plants, a yellowed city
abandoned to the elements drowning in dead leaves that crunch under our feet.
The civilian compounds are short and squat, grouped together in no particular
order, and Adam makes sure to stay as far away from them as possible. The
loudspeakers are already working against us. The sound of a young, smoothly
mechanical female voice drowns out the sirens.
“Curfew is now in effect. Everyone return to their homes immediately. There
are rebels on the loose. They are armed and ready to fire. Curfew is now in
effect. Everyone return to their homes immediately. There are rebels on the
loose. They are armed and ready to fi—”
My sides are cramping, my skin is tight, my throat dry, desperate for water. I
don’t know how far we’ve run. All I know is the sound of boots pounding the
pavement, the screech of tires peeling out of underground storage units, alarms
wailing in our wake.
I look back to see people screaming and running for shelter, ducking away
from the soldiers rushing through their homes, pounding down doors to see if
we’ve found refuge somewhere inside. Adam pulls me away from civilization
and heads toward the abandoned streets of an earlier decade: old shops and
restaurants, narrow side streets and abandoned playgrounds. The unregulated
land of our past lives has been strictly off-limits. It’s forbidden territory.
Everything closed down. Everything broken, rusted shut, lifeless. No one is
allowed to trespass here. Not even soldiers.
And we’re charging through these streets, trying to stay out of sight.
The sun is slipping through the sky and tripping toward the edge of the earth.
Night will be coming quickly, and I have no idea where we are. I never expected
so much to happen so quickly and I never expected it all to happen on the same
day. I just have to hope to survive but I haven’t the faintest idea where we might
be headed. It never occurred to me to ask Adam where we might go.
We’re darting in a million directions. Turning abruptly, going forward a few
feet only to head back in an opposite path. My best guess is that Adam is trying
to confuse and/or distract our followers as much as possible. I can do nothing but
attempt to keep up.
And I fail.
Adam is a trained soldier. He’s built for exactly these kinds of situations. He
understands how to flee, how to stay inconspicuous, how to move soundlessly in
any space. I, on the other hand, am a broken girl who’s known no exercise for
too long. My lungs are burning with the effort to inhale oxygen, wheezing with
the effort to exhale carbon dioxide.
I’m suddenly gasping so desperately Adam is forced to pull me into a side
street. He’s breathing a little harder than usual, but I’ve acquired a full-time job
choking on the weakness of my limp body.
Adam takes my face in his hands and tries to focus my eyes. “I want you to
breathe like I am, okay?”
I wheeze a bit more.
“Focus, Juliette.” His eyes are so determined. Infinitely patient. He looks
fearless and I envy him his composure. “Calm your heart,” he says. “Breathe
exactly as I do.”
He takes 3 small breaths in, holds it for a few seconds, and releases it in one
long exhalation. I try to copy him. I’m not very good at it.
“Okay. I want you to keep breathing like—” He stops. His eyes dart up and
around the abandoned street for a split second. I know we have to move.
Gunshots shatter the atmosphere. I’d never realized just how loud they are or
just how much that sound fractures every functioning bone in my body. An icy
chill seeps through my blood and I know immediately that they’re not trying to
kill me. They’re trying to kill Adam.
I’m suddenly asphyxiated by a new kind of anxiety. I can’t let them hurt him.
Not for me.
But Adam doesn’t have time for me to catch my breath and find my head. He
flips me up and into his arms and takes off in a diagonal dash across another
alleyway.
And we’re running.
And I’m breathing.
And he shouts, “Wrap your arms around my neck!” and I release the choke
hold I have on his T-shirt and I’m stupid enough to feel shy as I slip my arms
around him. He readjusts me against him so I’m higher, closer to his chest. He
carries me like I weigh less than nothing.
I close my eyes and press my cheek against his neck.
The gunshots are somewhere behind us, but even I can tell from the sound
that they’re too far away and too far in the wrong direction. We seem to have
momentarily outmaneuvered them. Their cars can’t even find us, because Adam
has avoided all main streets. He seems to have his own map of this city. He
seems to know exactly what he’s doing—like he’s been planning this for a very
long time.
After inhaling exactly 594 times Adam drops me to my feet in front of a
stretch of chain-link fence. I realize he’s struggling to swallow oxygen, but he
doesn’t pant like I do. He knows how to regulate his breathing. He knows how to
steady his pulse, calm his heart, maintain control over his organs. He knows how
to survive. I hope he’ll teach me, too.
“Juliette,” he says after a breathless moment. “Can you jump this fence?”
I’m so eager to be more than a useless lump that I nearly sprint up and over
the metal barrier. But I’m reckless. And too hasty. I practically rip my dress off
and scratch my legs in the process. I wince against the stinging pain, and in the
moment it takes me to reopen my eyes, Adam is already standing next to me.
He looks down at my legs and sighs. He almost laughs. I wonder what I must
look like, tattered and wild in this shredded dress. The slit Warner created now
stops at my hip bone. I must look like a crazed animal.
Adam doesn’t seem to mind.
He’s slowed down, too. We’re moving at a brisk walk now, no longer
barreling through the streets. I realize we must be closer to some semblance of
safety, but I’m not sure if I should ask questions now, or save them for later.
Adam answers my silent thoughts.
“They won’t be able to track me out here,” he says, and it dawns on me that
all soldiers must have some kind of tracking device on their person. I wonder
why I never got one.
It shouldn’t be this easy to escape.
“Our trackers aren’t tangible,” he explains. We make a left into another
alleyway. The sun is just dipping below the horizon. I wonder where we are.
How far away from Reestablished settlements we must be that there are no
people here. “It’s a special serum injected into our bloodstream,” he continues,
“and it’s designed to work with our bodies’ natural processes. It would know, for
example, if I died. It’s an excellent way to keep track of soldiers lost in combat.”
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. He smiles a crooked smile I want
to kiss.
“So how did you confuse the tracker?”
His grin grows bigger. He waves one hand around us. “This space we’re
standing in? It was used for a nuclear power plant. One day the whole thing
exploded.”
My eyes are as big as my face. “When did that happen?”
“About five years ago. They cleaned it up pretty quickly. Hid it from the
media, from the people. No one really knows what happened here. But the
radiation alone is enough to kill.” He pauses. “It already has.”
He stops walking. “I’ve been through this area a million times already, and I
haven’t been affected by it. Warner used to send me up here to collect samples
of the soil. He wanted to study the effects.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I
think he was hoping to manipulate the toxicity into a poison of some kind.
“The first time I came up here, Warner thought I’d died. The tracker is linked
to all of our main processing systems—an alert goes off whenever a soldier is
lost. He knew there was a risk in sending me, so I don’t think he was too
surprised to hear I’d died. He was more surprised to see me return.” He shrugs,
as though his death would’ve been an insignificant detail. “There’s something
about the chemicals here that counteracts the molecular composition of the
tracking device. So basically—right now everyone thinks I’m dead.”
“Won’t Warner suspect you might be here?”
“Maybe.” He squints up at the fading sunlight. Our shadows are long and
unmoving. “Or I could’ve been shot. In any case, it buys us some time.”
He takes my hand and grins at me before something slams into my
consciousness.
“What about me?” I ask. “Can’t this radiation kill me?” I hope I don’t sound
as nervous as I feel. I’ve never wanted to be alive so much in my life. I don’t
want to lose everything so soon.
“Oh—no.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you—one of the
reasons why Warner wanted me collecting these samples? Is because you’re
immune to it, too. He was studying you. He said he found the information in
your hospital records. That you’d been tested—”
“But no one ever—”
“—probably without your knowledge, and despite testing positive for the
radiation, you were entirely whole, biologically. There was nothing inherently
wrong with you.”
Nothing inherently wrong with you.
The observation is so blatantly false I actually start laughing. I try to stifle
my incredulity. “There’s nothing wrong with me? You’re kidding, right?”
Adam stares at me so long I begin to blush. He tips my chin up so I meet his
eyes. Blue blue blue boring into me. His voice is deep, steady. “I don’t think I’ve
ever heard you laugh.”
He’s so excruciatingly correct I don’t know how to respond except with the
truth. My smile is tucked into a straight line. “Laughter comes from living.” I
shrug, try to sound indifferent. “I’ve never really been alive before.”
His eyes haven’t wavered in their focus. He’s holding me in place with the
strength of one powerful pull coming from deep within him. I can almost feel his
heart beating against my skin. I can almost feel his lips breathing against my
lungs. I can almost taste him on my tongue.
He takes a shaky breath and pulls me close. Kisses the top of my head.
“Let’s go home,” he whispers.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Home.
Home.
What does he mean?
I part my lips to ask the question and his sneaky smile is the only answer I
receive. I’m embarrassed and excited and anxious and eager. My stomach is
filled with beating drums pounded into synchronicity by my heart. I’m
practically humming with electric nerves.
Every step is a step away from the asylum, away from Warner, away from
the futility of the existence I’ve always known. Every step is one I take because I
want to. For the first time in my life, I walk forward because I want to, because I
feel hope and love and the exhilaration of beauty, because I want to know what
it’s like to live. I could jump up to catch a breeze and live in its windblown ways
forever.
I feel like I’ve been fitted for wings.
Adam leads me into an abandoned shed on the outskirts of this wild field,
overgrown by rogue vegetation and crazed bushlike tentacles, scratchy and
hideous, likely poisonous to ingest. I wonder if this is where Adam meant for us
to stay. I step into the dark space and squint. An outline comes into focus.
There’s a car inside.
I blink.
Not just a car. A tank.
Adam almost can’t control his own eagerness. He looks at my face for a
reaction and seems pleased with my astonishment. His words tumble out. “I
convinced Warner I’d managed to break one of the tanks I brought up here.
These things are designed to run on electricity—so I told him the main unit fried
on contact with the chemical traces. That it was corrupted by something in the
atmosphere. He arranged for a car to deliver and collect me after that, and said
we should leave the tank where it is.” He almost smiles. “Warner was sending
me up here against his father’s wishes, and didn’t want anyone to find out he’d
broken a 500-thousand-dollar tank. The official report says it was hijacked by
rebels.”
“Couldn’t someone else have come up and seen the tank sitting here?”
Adam opens the passenger door. “The civilians stay far, far away from this
place, and no other soldier has been up here. No one else wanted to risk the
radiation.” He cocks his head. “It’s one of the reasons why Warner trusted me
with you. He liked that I was willing to die for my duty.”
“He never thought you’d step out of line,” I murmur, comprehending.
Adam shakes his head. “Nope. And after what happened with the tracking
serum, he had no reason to doubt that crazy things were possible up here. I
deactivated the tank’s electrical unit myself, just in case he wanted to check.” He
nods back to the monstrous vehicle. “I had a feeling it would come in handy one
day. It’s always good to be prepared.”
Prepared. He was always prepared. To run. To escape.
I wonder why.
“Come here,” he says, his voice noticeably gentler. He reaches for me in the
dim light and I pretend it’s a happy coincidence that his hands brush my bare
thighs. I pretend it doesn’t feel incredible to have him struggle with the rips in
my dress as he helps me into the tank. I pretend I can’t see the way he’s looking
at me as the last of the sun falls below the horizon.
“I need to take care of your legs,” he says, a whisper against my skin, electric
in my blood. For a moment I don’t even understand what he means. I don’t even
care. My thoughts are so impractical I surprise myself. I’ve never had the
freedom to touch anyone before. Certainly no one has ever wanted my hands on
them. Adam is an entirely new experience.
Touching him is all I want to think about.
“The cuts aren’t too bad,” he continues, the tips of his fingers running across
my calves. I suck in my breath. “But we’ll have to clean them up, just in case.
Sometimes it’s safer being cut by a butcher knife than being scratched by a
random scrap of metal. You don’t want it to get infected.”
He looks up. His hand is now on my knee.
I’m nodding and I don’t know why. I wonder if I’m trembling on the outside
as much as I am on the inside. I hope it’s too dark for him to see just how
flushed my face is, just how embarrassing it is that he can’t touch my knee
without making me crazy. I need to say something. “We should probably get
going, right?”
“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath and seems to return to himself. “Yeah. We
have to go.” He peers through the evening light. “We have some time before
they realize I’m still alive. And we have to use it to our advantage.”
“But once we leave this place—won’t the tracker start back up again? Won’t
they know you’re not dead?”
“No.” He jumps into the driver’s side and fumbles for the ignition. There’s
no key, just a button. I wonder if it recognizes Adam’s thumbprint as
authorization. A small sputter and the machine roars to life. “Warner had to
renew my tracker serum every time I got back. Once it’s gone? It’s gone.” He
grins. “So now we can really get the hell out of here.”
“But where are we going?” I finally ask.
He shifts into gear before he responds.
“My house.”
Chapter Thirty
“You have a house?” I’m too shocked for manners.
Adam laughs and pulls out of the field. The tank is surprisingly fast,
surprisingly swift and stealthy. The engine has quieted to a soothing hum, and I
wonder if that’s why they switched their tanks from gas to electric. It’s certainly
less conspicuous this way. “Not exactly,” he answers. “But a home of sorts.
Yeah.”
I want to ask and don’t want to ask and need to ask and never want to ask. I
have to ask. I steel myself. “Your fathe—”
“He’s been dead for a while now.” Adam’s not smiling anymore. His voice
is tight with something only I would know how to place. Pain. Bitterness. Anger.
“Oh.”
We drive in silence, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts. I don’t dare
ask what became of his mother. I only wonder how he turned out so well despite
having such a despicable father. And I wonder why he ever joined the army if he
hates it so much. Right now, I’m too shy to ask. I don’t want to infringe on his
emotional boundaries.
God knows I have a million of my own.
I peer out the window and strain my eyes to see what we’re passing through,
but I can’t make out much more than the sad stretches of deserted land I’ve
grown accustomed to. There are no civilians where we are: we’re too far from
Reestablished settlements and civilian compounds. I notice another tank
patrolling the area not 100 feet away, but I don’t think it sees us. Adam is
driving without headlights, presumably to draw as little attention to us as
possible. I wonder how he’s even able to navigate. The moon is the only lamp to
light our way.
It’s eerily quiet.
For a moment I allow my thoughts to drift back to Warner, wondering what
must be going on right now, wondering how many people must be searching for
me, wondering what lengths he’ll go to until he has me back. He wants Adam
dead. He wants me alive. He won’t stop until I’m trapped beside him.
He can never never never know that I can touch him.
I can only imagine what he’d do if he had access to my body.
I breathe in one quick, sharp, shaky breath and contemplate telling Adam
what happened. No. No. No. No. I squeeze my eyes shut and consider I may
have misjudged the situation. It was chaotic. My brain was distracted. Maybe I
imagined it. Yes.
Maybe I imagined it.
It’s strange enough that Adam can touch me. The likelihood of there being 2
people in this world who are immune to my touch doesn’t seem possible. In fact,
the more I think about it, the more I’m determined I must have made a mistake.
It could’ve been anything brushing my leg. Maybe a piece of the sheet Adam
abandoned after using it to punch through the window. Maybe a pillow that’d
fallen from the bed. Maybe Warner’s gloves lying, discarded, on the floor. Yes.
There’s no way he could’ve touched me, because if he had, he would’ve
cried out in agony.
Just like everyone else.
Adam’s hand slips silently into mine and I grip his fingers in both my hands,
suddenly desperate to reassure myself that he has immunity from me. I’m
suddenly desperate to drink in every drop of his being, desperate to savor every
moment I’ve never known before. I suddenly worry that there’s an expiration
date on this phenomenon. A clock striking midnight. A pumpkin carriage.
The possibility of losing him
The possibility of losing him
The possibility of losing him is 100 years of solitude I don’t want to imagine.
I don’t want my arms to be devoid of his warmth. His touch. His lips, God his
lips, his mouth on my neck, his body wrapped around mine, holding me together
as if to affirm that my existence on this earth is not for nothing.
Realization is a pendulum the size of the moon. It won’t stop slamming into
me.
“Juliette?”
I swallow back the bullet in my throat. “Yes?”
“Why are you crying . . . ?” His voice is almost as gentle as his hand as it
breaks free from my grip. He touches the tears rolling down my face and I’m so
humiliated I almost don’t know what to say.
“You can touch me,” I say for the first time, recognize out loud for the first
time. My words fade to a whisper. “You can touch me. You care and I don’t
know why. You’re kind to me and you don’t have to be. My own mother didn’t
care enough to—t-to—” My voice catches and I press my lips together. Glue
them shut. Force myself to be still.
I am a rock. A statue. A movement frozen in time. Ice feels nothing at all.
Adam doesn’t answer, doesn’t say a single word until he pulls off the road
and into an old underground parking garage. I realize we’ve reached some
semblance of civilization, but it’s pitch-black belowground. I can see next to
nothing and once again wonder at how Adam is managing. My eyes fall on the
screen illuminated on his dashboard only to realize the tank has night vision. Of
course.
Adam shuts off the engine. I hear him sigh. I can hardly distinguish his
silhouette before I feel his hand on my thigh, his other hand tripping its way up
my body to find my face. Warmth spreads through my limbs like molten lava.
The tips of my fingers and toes are tingling to life and I have to bite back the
shiver aching to rock my frame.
“Juliette,” he whispers, and I realize just how close he is. I’m not sure why I
haven’t evaporated into nothingness. “It’s been me and you against the world
forever,” he says. “It’s always been that way. It’s my fault I took so long to do
something about it.”
“No.” I’m shaking my head. “It’s not your fault—”
“It is. I fell in love with you a long time ago. I just never had the guts to act
on it.”
“Because I could’ve killed you.”
He laughs a quiet laugh. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you.”
I’m one piece of astonishment forged into being. “What?”
He touches his nose to mine. Leans into my neck. Wraps a piece of my hair
around his fingers and I can’t I can’t I can’t breathe. “You’re so . . . good,” he
whispers.
“But my hands—”
“Have never done anything to hurt anyone.”
I’m about to protest when he corrects himself. “Not on purpose.” He leans
back. I can just barely see him rubbing the side of his neck. “You never fought
back,” he says after a moment. “I always wondered why. You never yelled or
got angry or tried to say anything to anyone,” he says, and I know we’re both
back in third fourth fifth sixth seventh eighth ninth grade all over again. “But
damn, you must’ve read a million books.” I know he’s smiling when he says it.
A pause. “You bothered no one, but you were a moving target every day. You
could’ve fought back. You could’ve hurt everyone if you wanted to.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” My voice is less than a whisper. I can’t get the
image of 8-year-old Adam out of my head. Lying on the floor. Broken.
Abandoned. Crying into the dirt.
The things people will do for power.
“That’s why you’ll never be what Warner wants you to be.”
I’m staring at a point in the blackness, my mind tortured by possibilities.
“How can you be sure?”
His lips are so close to mine. “Because you still give a damn about the
world.”
I gasp and he’s kissing me, deep and powerful and unrestrained. His arms
wrap around my back, dipping my body until I’m practically horizontal and I
don’t care. My head is on the seat, his frame hovering over me, his hands
gripping my hips from under my tattered dress and I’m licked by a million
flames of wanting so desperate I can hardly inhale. He’s a hot bath, a short
breath, 5 days of summer pressed into 5 fingers writing stories on my body. I’m
an embarrassing mess of nerves crashing into him, controlled by one current of
electricity coursing through my core. His scent is assaulting my senses.
His eyes
His hands
His chest
His lips
are at my ear when he speaks. “We’re here, by the way.” He’s breathing
harder now than when he was running for his life. I feel his heart pounding
against my ribs. His words are a broken whisper. “Maybe we should go inside.
It’s safer.” But he doesn’t move.
I almost don’t understand what he’s talking about. I just nod, my head
bobbing on my neck, until I remember he can’t see me. I try to remember how to
speak, but I’m too focused on the fingers he’s running down my thighs to form
sentences. There’s something about the absolute darkness, about not being able
to see what’s happening that makes me drunk with a delicious dizziness. “Yes,”
is all I manage.
He helps me back up to a seated position, leans his forehead against mine.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s so hard for me to stop myself.” His voice is
dangerously husky; his words tingle on my skin.
I allow my hands to slip up under his shirt and feel him stiffen, swallow. I
trace the perfectly sculpted lines of his body. He’s nothing but lean muscle.
“You don’t have to,” I tell him.
His heart is racing so fast I can’t distinguish it from my own. It’s 5,000
degrees in the air between us. His fingers are at the dip right below my hip bone,
teasing the small piece of fabric keeping me halfway decent. “Juliette . . .”
“Adam?”
My neck snaps up in surprise. Fear. Anxiety. Adam stops moving, frozen in
front of me. I’m not sure he’s breathing. I look around but can’t find a face to
match the voice that called his name and begin to panic before Adam is
slamming open the door, flying out before I hear it again.
“Adam . . . is that you?”
It’s a boy.
“James!”
The muffled sound of impact, 2 bodies colliding, 2 voices too happy to be
dangerous.
“I can’t believe it’s really you! I mean, well, I thought it was you because I
thought I heard something and at first I figured it was nothing but then I decided
I should probably check just to be sure because what if it was you and—” He
pauses. “Wait—what are you doing here?”
“I’m home.” Adam laughs a little.
“Really?” James squeaks. “Are you home for good?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Damn it’s good to see you.”
“I missed you,” James says, suddenly quiet.
One deep breath. “Me too, kid. Me too.”
“Hey, so, have you eaten anything? Benny just delivered my dinner package,
and I could share some with y—”
“James?”
He pauses. “Yeah?”
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
My palms are sweaty. My heart is in my throat. I hear Adam walk back
toward the tank and don’t realize he’s popped his head inside until he hits a
switch. A faint emergency light illuminates the cabin. I blink a few times and see
a young boy standing about 5 feet away, dirty-blond hair framing a round face
with blue eyes that look too familiar. He’s pressed his lips together in
concentration. He’s staring at me.
Adam is opening my door. He helps me to my feet, barely able to control the
smile on his face and I’m stunned by the level of my own nervousness. I don’t
know why I’m so nervous but God I’m nervous. This boy is obviously important
to Adam. I don’t know why but I feel like this moment is important, too. I’m so
worried I’m going to ruin everything. I try to fix the ripped folds of my dress, try
to soften the wrinkles ironed into the fabric. I run haphazard fingers through my
hair. It’s useless.
The poor kid will be petrified.
Adam leads me forward. James is a handful of inches short of my height, but
it’s obvious in his face that he’s young, unblemished, untouched by most of the
world’s harsh realities. I want to revel in the beauty of his innocence.
“James? This is Juliette.” Adam glances at me.
“Juliette, this is my brother, James.”
Chapter Thirty-One
His brother.
I try to shake off the nerves. I try to smile at the boy studying my face,
studying the pathetic pieces of fabric barely covering my body. How did I not
know Adam had a brother? How could I have never known?
James turns to Adam. “This is Juliette?”
I’m standing here like a lump of nonsense. I don’t remember my manners.
“You know who I am?”
James spins back in my direction. “Oh yeah. Adam talks about you a lot.”
I flush and can’t help but glance at Adam. He’s staring at a point on the
floor. He clears his throat.
“It’s really nice to meet you,” I manage.
James cocks his head. “So do you always dress like that?”
I’d like to die a little.
“Hey, kid,” Adam interrupts. “Juliette is going to be staying with us for a
little while. Why don’t you go make sure you don’t have any underwear lying on
the floor, huh?”
James looks horrified. He darts into the darkness without another word.
It’s quiet for so many seconds I lose count. I hear some kind of drip in the
distance.
I take a deep breath. Bite my bottom lip. Try to find the right words. Fail. “I
didn’t know you had a brother.”
Adam hesitates. “Is it okay . . . that I do? We’ll all be sharing the same space
and I—”
My stomach drops onto my knees. “Of course it’s okay! I just—I mean—are
you sure it’s okay—for him? If I’m here?”
“There’s no underwear anywhere,” James announces, marching forward into
the light. I wonder where he disappeared to, where the house is. He looks at me.
“So you’re going to be staying with us?”
Adam intervenes. “Yeah. She’s going to crash with us for a bit.”
James looks from me to Adam back to me again. He sticks out his hand.
“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you.”
All the color drains from my face. My heart is pounding in my ears. My
knees are about to break. I can’t stop staring at his small hand outstretched,
offered to me.
“James,” Adam says a little curtly.
James starts laughing. “I was only kidding.” He drops his hand.
“What?” I can barely breathe. My head is spinning, confused.
“Don’t worry,” James says, still chuckling. “I won’t touch you. Adam told
me all about your magical powers.” He rolls his eyes.
“Adam—told—he—what?”
“Hey, maybe we should go inside.” Adam clears his throat a little too loudly.
“I’ll just grab our bags real quick—” And he jogs off toward the tank. I’m left
staring at James. He doesn’t conceal his curiosity.
“How old are you?” he asks me.
“Seventeen.”
He nods. “That’s what Adam said.”
I bristle. “What else did Adam tell you about me?”
“He said you don’t have parents, either. He said you’re like us.”
My heart is a stick of butter, melting recklessly on a hot summer day. My
voice softens. “How old are you?”
“I’ll be eleven next year.”
I grin. “So you’re ten years old?”
He crosses his arms. Frowns. “I’ll be twelve in two years.”
I think I already love this kid.
The cabin light shuts off and for a moment we’re immersed in absolute
darkness. A soft click and a faint circular glow illuminates the view. Adam has a
flashlight.
“Hey, James? Why don’t you lead the way for us?”
“Yes, sir!” He skids to a halt in front of Adam’s feet, offers us an
exaggerated salute, and runs off so quickly there’s no possible way to follow
him. I can’t help the smile spreading across my face.
Adam’s hand slips into mine as we move forward. “You okay?”
I squeeze his fingers. “You told your ten-year-old brother about my magical
powers?”
He laughs. “I tell him a lot of things.”
“Adam?”
“Yeah?”
“Isn’t your house the first place Warner will go looking for you? Isn’t this
dangerous?”
“It would be. But according to public records, I don’t have a home.”
“And your brother?”
“Would be Warner’s first target. It’s safer for him where I can watch over
him. Warner knows I have a brother, he just doesn’t know where. And until he
figures it out—which he will—we have to prepare.”
“To fight?”
“To fight back. Yeah.” Even in the dim light of this foreign space I can see
the determination holding him together. It makes me want to sing.
I close my eyes. “Good.”
“What’s taking you so long?” James shouts in the distance.
And we’re off.
The parking garage is located underneath an old abandoned office building
buried in the shadows. A fire exit leads directly up to the main floor.
James is so excited he’s jumping up and down the stairs, running forward a
few steps only to run back to complain we’re not coming fast enough. Adam
catches him from behind and lifts him off the floor. He laughs. “You’re going to
break your neck.”
James protests but only halfheartedly. He’s all too happy to have his brother
back.
A sharp pang of some distant kind of emotion hits me in the heart. It hurts in
a bittersweet way I can’t place. I feel oddly warm and numb at the same time.
Adam punches a pass code into a keypad by a massive steel door. There’s a
soft click, a short beep, and he turns the handle.
I’m stunned by what I see inside.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It’s a full living room, open and plush. A thick rug, soft chairs, one sofa
stretched across the wall. Green and red and orange hues, warm lamps softly lit
in the large space. It feels more like a home than anything I’ve ever seen. The
cold, lonely memories of my childhood can’t even compare. I feel so safe so
suddenly it scares me.
“You like it?” Adam is grinning at me, amused no doubt by the look on my
face. I manage to pick my jaw up off the floor.
“I love it,” I say, out loud or in my head I’m unsure.
“Adam did it,” James says, proud, puffing his chest out a little more than
necessary. “He made it for me.”
“I didn’t make it,” Adam protests, chuckling. “I just . . . cleaned it up a bit.”
“You live here by yourself?” I ask James.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and nods. “Benny stays with me a lot,
but mostly I’m here alone. I’m lucky, though.”
Adam is dropping our bags onto the couch. He runs a hand through his hair
and I watch as the muscles in his back flex, tight, pulled together. I watch as he
exhales the tension from his body.
I know why, but I ask anyway. “Why are you lucky?”
“Because I have a visitor. None of the other kids have visitors.”
“There are other kids here?” I hope I don’t look as horrified as I feel.
James is nodding so quickly his head is wobbling on his neck. “Oh yeah.
This whole street. All the kids are here. I’m the only one with my own room,
though.” He gestures around the space. “This is all mine because Adam got it for
me. But everyone else has to share. We have school, sort of. And Benny brings
me my food packages. Adam says I can play with the other kids but I can’t bring
them inside.” He shrugs. “It’s okay.”
The reality of what he’s saying spreads like poison in the pit of my stomach.
A street dedicated to orphaned children.
I wonder how their parents died. I don’t wonder for long.
I take inventory of the room and notice a tiny refrigerator and a tiny
microwave perched on top, both nestled into a corner, see some cabinets set
aside for storage. Adam brought as much stuff as he could—all sorts of canned
food and nonperishable items. We both brought our toiletries and multiple sets
of clothes. We packed enough to survive for at least a little while.
James pulls a tinfoil package out of the fridge and sticks it in the microwave.
“Wait—James—don’t—” I try to stop him.
His eyes are wide, frozen. “What?”
“The tinfoil—you can’t—you can’t put metal in the microwave—”
“What’s a microwave?”
I blink so many times the room spins. “What . . . ?”
He pulls the lid off the tinfoil container to reveal a small square. It looks like
a bouillon cube. He points to the cube and then nods at the microwave. “It’s
okay. I always put this in the Automat. Nothing happens.”
“It takes the molecular composition of the food and multiplies it.” Adam is
standing beside me. “It doesn’t add any extra nutritional value, but it makes you
feel fuller, longer.”
“And it’s cheap!” James says, grinning as he sticks it back in the contraption.
It astounds me how much has changed. People have become so desperate
they’re faking food.
I have so many questions I’m liable to burst. Adam squeezes my shoulder,
gently. He whispers, “We’ll talk later, I promise.” But I’m an encyclopedia with
too many blank pages.
James falls asleep with his head in Adam’s lap.
He talked nonstop once he finished his food, telling me all about his sort-of
school, and his sort-of friends, and Benny, the elderly lady who takes care of
him because “I think she likes Adam better than me but she sneaks me sugar
sometimes so it’s okay.” Everyone has a curfew. No one but soldiers are allowed
outside after sunset, each soldier armed and instructed to fire at their own
discretion. “Some people get more food and stuff than other people,” James said,
but that’s because the people are sorted based on what they can provide to The
Reestablishment, and not because they’re human beings with the right not to
starve to death.
My heart cracked a little more with every word he shared with me.
“You don’t mind that I talk a lot, huh?” He bit down on his bottom lip and
studied me.
“I don’t mind at all.”
“Everyone says I talk a lot.” He shrugged. “But what am I supposed to do
when I have so much to say?”
“Hey—about that—” Adam interrupted. “You can’t tell anyone we’re here,
okay?”
James’ mouth stopped midmovement. He blinked a few times. He stared
hard at his brother. “Not even Benny?”
“No one,” Adam said.
For one infinitesimal moment I saw something that looked like raw
understanding flash in his eyes. A 10-year-old who can be trusted absolutely. He
nodded again and again. “Okay. You were never here.”
Adam brushes back wayward strands of hair from James’ forehead. He’s looking
at his brother’s sleeping face as if trying to memorize each brushstroke of an oil
painting. I’m staring at him staring at James.
I wonder if he knows he’s holding my heart in his hand. I take a shaky
breath.
Adam looks up and I look down and we’re both embarrassed for different
reasons.
He whispers, “I should probably put him in bed,” but doesn’t make an effort
to move. James is sound sound sound asleep.
“When was the last time you saw him?” I ask, careful to keep my voice
down.
“About six months ago.” A pause. “But I talked to him on the phone a lot.”
Smiles a little. “Told him a lot about you.”
I flush. Count my fingers to make sure they’re all there. “Didn’t Warner
monitor your calls?”
“Yeah. But Benny has an untraceable line, and I was always careful to keep
it to official reporting, only. In any case, James has known about you for a long
time.”
“Really . . . ?” I hate that I have to know, but I can hardly help myself. I’m a
tangle of butterflies.
He looks up, looks away. Locks eyes with me. Sighs. “Juliette, I’ve been
searching for you since the day you left.”
My eyelashes trip into my eyebrows; my jaw drops into my lap.
“I was worried about you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know what they were
going to do to you.”
“Why,” I gasp, I swallow, I stumble on words. “Why would you possibly
care?”
He leans back against the couch. Runs a free hand over his face. Seasons
change. Stars explode. Someone is walking on the moon. “You know I still
remember the first day you showed up at school?” He laughs a soft, sad laugh.
“Maybe I was too young, and maybe I didn’t know much about the world, but
there was something about you I was immediately drawn to. It’s like I just
wanted to be near you, like you had this—this goodness I never found in my life.
This sweetness that I never found at home. I just wanted to hear you talk. I
wanted you to see me, to smile at me. Every single day I promised myself I
would talk to you. I wanted to know you. But every day I was a coward. And one
day you just disappeared.
“I’d heard the rumors, but I knew better. I knew you’d never hurt anyone.”
He looks down. The earth cracks open and I’m falling into the fissure. “It sounds
crazy,” he says finally, so quietly. “To think that I cared so much without ever
talking to you.” He hesitates. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I couldn’t
stop wondering where you went. What would happen to you. I was afraid you’d
never fight back.”
He’s silent for so long I want to bite through my tongue.
“I had to find you,” he whispers. “I asked around everywhere and no one had
answers. The world kept falling apart. Things were getting worse and I didn’t
know what to do. I had to take care of James and I had to find a way to live and I
didn’t know if joining the army would help but I never forgot about you. I
always hoped,” he falters, “that one day I would see you again.”
I’ve run out of words. My pockets are full of letters I can’t string together
and I’m so desperate to say something that I say nothing and my heart is about to
burst through my chest.
“Juliette . . . ?”
“You found me.” 3 syllables. 1 whisper of astonishment.
“Are you . . . upset?”
I look up and for the first time I realize he’s nervous. Worried. Uncertain
how I’ll react to this revelation. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or kiss
every inch of his body. I want to fall asleep to the sound of his heart beating in
the atmosphere. I want to know he’s alive and well, breathing in and out, strong
and sane and healthy forever. “You’re the only one who ever cared.” My eyes
are filling with tears and I’m blinking them back and feeling the burn in my
throat and everything everything everything hurts. The weight of the entire day
crashes into me, threatens to break my bones. I want to cry out in happiness, in
agony, in joy and the absence of justice. I want to touch the heart of the only
person who ever gave a damn.
“I love you,” I whisper. “So much more than you will ever know.”
His eyes are a midnight moment filled with memories, the only windows into
my world. His jaw is tight. His mouth is tight. He looks up and tries to clear his
throat and I know he needs a moment to pull himself together. I tell him he
should probably put James in bed. He nods. Cradles his brother to his chest. Gets
to his feet and carries James to the storage closet that’s become his bedroom.
I watch him walk away with the only family he has left and I know why
Adam joined the army.
I know why he suffered through being Warner’s whipping boy. I know why
he dealt with the horrifying reality of war, why he was so desperate to run away,
so ready to run away as soon as possible. Why he’s so determined to fight back.
He’s fighting for so much more than himself.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Why don’t I take a look at those cuts?”
Adam is standing in front of James’ door, his hands tucked into his pockets.
He’s wearing a dark red T-shirt that hugs his torso. His arms are expertly
chiseled, professionally painted with tattoos I now know how to recognize. He
catches me staring.
“I didn’t really have a choice,” he says, now examining the consecutive
black bands of ink etched into his forearms. “We had to survive. It was the only
job I could get.”
I meet him across the room, touch the designs on his skin. Nod. “I
understand.”
He almost laughs, nearly smiles. Shakes his head just a millimeter.
“What?” I jerk my hand away.
“Nothing.” He grins. Slips his arms around my waist. “It just keeps hitting
me. You’re really here. In my house.”
Heat rushes up my neck and I fall off a ladder holding a paintbrush dipped in
red. Compliments are not things I know how to process. I bite my lip. “Where’d
you get your tattoo from?”
“These?” He looks at his arms again.
“No.” I reach for his shirt, tugging it up so unsuccessfully he nearly loses his
balance. He stumbles back against the wall. I push the material up toward his
collar. Fight back a blush. Touch his chest. Touch the bird. “Where’d you get
this from?”
“Oh.” He’s looking at me but I’m suddenly distracted by the beauty of his
body and the cargo pants set a little too low on his hips. I realize he must’ve
taken his belt off. I force my eyes upward. Allow my fingers to fumble down his
abs. He takes a tight breath. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just—I kept dreaming
about this white bird. Birds used to fly, you know.”
“You used to dream about it?”
“Yeah. All the time.” He smiles a little, exhales a little, remembering. “It was
nice. It felt good—hopeful. I wanted to hold on to that memory because I wasn’t
sure it would last. So I made it permanent.”
I cover the tattoo with the palm of my hand. “I used to dream about this bird
all the time.”
“This bird?” His eyebrows could touch the sky.
I nod. “This exact one.” Something like realization slides into place. “Until
the day you showed up in my cell. I haven’t dreamt of it ever since.” I peek up at
him.
“You’re kidding.” But he knows I’m not.
I drop his shirt and lean my forehead on his chest. Breathe in the scent of
him. He wastes no time pulling me closer. Rests his chin on my head, his hands
on my back.
And we stand like that until I’m too old to remember a world without his
warmth.
Adam cleans my cuts in a bathroom set a little off to the side of the space. It’s a
miniature room with a toilet, a sink, a small mirror, and a tiny shower. I love all
of it. By the time I get out of the bathroom, finally changed and washed up for
bed, Adam is waiting for me in the dark. There are blankets and pillows laid out
on the floor and it looks like heaven. I’m so exhausted I could sleep through a
few centuries.
I slip in beside him and he scoops me into his arms. The temperature is
significantly lower in this place, and Adam is the perfect furnace. I bury my face
in his chest and he pulls me tight. I trail my fingers down his naked back, feel
the muscles tense under my touch. I rest my hand on the waist of his pants. Hook
my finger into a belt loop. Test the taste of the words on my tongue. “I meant it,
you know.”
His breath is a beat too late. His heart just a beat too fast. “Meant what . . . ?”
Though he knows exactly what I mean.
I feel so shy so suddenly. So blind, so unnecessarily bold. I know nothing
about what I’m venturing into. All I know is I don’t want anyone’s hands on me
but his. Forever.
Adam leans back and I can just make out the outline of his face, his eyes
always shining in the darkness. I stare at his lips when I speak. “I’ve never asked
you to stop.” My fingers rest on the button holding his pants together. “Not
once.”
He’s staring at me, his chest rising and falling a few times a second. He
seems almost numb with disbelief.
I lean into his ear. “Touch me.”
And he’s nearly undone.
My face is in his hands and my lips are at his lips and he’s kissing me and
I’m oxygen and he’s dying to breathe. His body is almost on top of mine, one
hand in my hair, the other feeling its way down my silhouette, slipping behind
my knee to pull me closer, higher, tighter. He drops kisses down my throat like
ecstasy, electric energy searing into me, setting me on fire. I’m on the verge of
combusting from the sheer thrill of every moment. I want to dive into his being,
experience him with all 5 senses, drown in the waves of wonder enveloping my
existence.
I want to taste the landscape of his body.
He takes my hands and presses them against his chest, guides my fingers as
they trail down the length of his torso before his lips meet mine again and again
and again drugging me into a delirium I never want to escape. But it’s not
enough. It’s still not enough. I want to melt into him, trace the form of his figure
with my lips alone. My heart is racing through my blood, destroying my selfcontrol, spinning everything into a cyclone of intensity. He breaks for air and I
pull him back, aching, desperate, dying for his touch. His hands slip up under my
shirt, skirting my sides, touching me like he’s never dared to before, and my top
is nearly over my head when a door squeaks open. We both freeze.
“Adam . . . ?”
He can hardly breathe. He tries to lower himself onto the pillow beside me
but I can still feel his heat, his figure, his heart pounding in my ears. I’m
swallowing back a million screams. Adam leans his head up, just a little. Tries to
sound normal. “James?”
“Can I come sleep out here with you?”
Adam sits up. He’s breathing hard but he’s suddenly alert. “Of course you
can.” A pause. His voice slows, softens. “You have bad dreams?”
James doesn’t answer.
Adam is on his feet.
I hear the muffled hiccup of 10-year-old tears, but can barely distinguish the
outline of Adam’s body holding James together. “I thought you said it was
getting better,” I hear him whisper, but his words are kind, not accusing.
James says something I can’t hear.
Adam picks him up, and I realize how tiny James seems in comparison. They
disappear into the bedroom only to return with bedding. Only once James is
tucked securely in place a few feet from Adam does he finally give in to
exhaustion. His heavy breathing is the only sound in the room.
Adam turns to me. I’ve been a slice of silence, struck, shocked, cut deep by
this reminder. I have no idea what James has witnessed at such a tender age. I
have no idea what Adam has had to endure in leaving him behind. I have no idea
how people live anymore. How they survive.
I don’t know what’s become of my parents.
Adam brushes my cheek. Slips me into his arms. Says, “I’m sorry,” and I
kiss the apology away.
“When the time is right,” I tell him.
He swallows. Leans into my neck. Inhales. His hands are under my shirt. Up
my back.
I bite back a gasp. “Soon.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Adam and I forced ourselves 5 feet apart last night, but somehow I wake up in
his arms. He’s breathing softly, evenly, steadily, a warm hum in the morning air.
I blink, peering into the daylight only to be met by a set of big blue eyes on a 10year-old’s face.
“How come you can touch him?” James is standing over us with his arms
crossed, back to the stubborn boy I remember. There’s no trace of fear, no hint
of tears threatening to spill down his face. It’s like last night never happened.
“Well?” His impatience startles me.
I jump away from Adam’s uncovered upper half so quickly it jolts him
awake. A little.
He reaches for me. “Juliette . . . ?”
“You’re touching a girl!”
Adam sits up so quickly he tangles in the sheets and falls back on his elbows.
“Jesus, James—”
“You were sleeping next to a girl!”
Adam opens and closes his mouth several times. He glances at me. Glances
at his brother. Shuts his eyes and finally sighs. Runs a hand through his morning
hair. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I thought you said she couldn’t touch anyone.” James is staring at me now,
suspicious.
“She can’t.”
“Except for you?”
“Right. Except for me.”
And Warner.
“She can’t touch anyone except for you.”
And Warner.
“Right.”
“That seems awfully convenient.” James narrows his eyes.
Adam laughs out loud. “Where’d you learn to talk like that?”
James frowns. “Benny says that a lot. She says my excuses are ‘awfully
convenient.’” He makes air quotes with two fingers. “She says it means I don’t
believe you. And I don’t believe you.”
Adam gets to his feet. The early morning light filters through the small
windows at the perfect angle, the perfect moment. He’s bathed in gold, his
muscles taut, his pants still a little low on his hips and I have to force myself to
think straight. I’m shocked by my own lack of self-control, but I’m not sure I
know how to contain these feelings. Adam makes me hungry for things I never
knew I could have.
I watch as he drapes an arm over his brother’s shoulders before squatting
down to meet his gaze. “Can I talk to you about something?” he says.
“Privately?”
“Just me and you?” James glances at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Yeah. Just me and you.”
“Okay.”
I watch the two of them disappear into James’ room and wonder what Adam
is going to tell him. It takes me a moment to realize James must feel threatened
by my sudden appearance. He finally sees his brother after nearly 6 months only
to have him come home with a strange girl with crazy magical powers. I nearly
laugh at the idea. If only it were magic that made me this way.
I don’t want James to think I’m taking Adam away from him.
I slip back under the covers and wait. The morning is cool and brisk and my
thoughts begin to wander to Warner. I need to remember that we’re not safe. Not
yet, maybe not ever. I need to remember never to get too comfortable. I sit up.
Pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my ankles.
I wonder if Adam has a plan.
James’ door squeaks open. The two brothers step out, the younger before the
older. James looks a little pink and he can hardly meet my eyes. He looks
embarrassed and I wonder if Adam punished him.
My heart fails for a moment.
Adam claps James on the shoulder. Squeezes. “You okay?”
“I know what a girlfriend is—”
“I never said you didn’t—”
“So you’re his girlfriend?” James crosses his arms, looks at me.
There are 400 cotton balls caught in my windpipe. I look at Adam because I
don’t know what else to do.
“Hey, maybe you should be getting ready for school, huh?” Adam opens the
refrigerator and hands James a new foil package. I assume it’s his breakfast.
“I don’t have to go,” James protests. “It’s not like a real school, no one has
to—”
“I want you to,” Adam cuts him off. He turns back to his brother with a small
smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here when you get back.”
James hesitates. “You promise?”
“Yeah.” Another grin. Nods him over. “Come here.”
James runs forward and clings to Adam like he’s afraid he’ll disappear.
Adam pops the foil food into the Automat and presses a button. He musses
James’ hair. “You need to get a haircut, kid.”
James wrinkles his nose. “I like it.”
“It’s a little long, don’t you think?”
James lowers his voice. “I think her hair is really long.”
James and Adam glance back at me and I melt into pink Play-Doh. I touch
my hair without intending to, suddenly self-conscious. I look down. I’ve never
had a reason to cut my hair. I’ve never even had the tools. No one offers me
sharp objects.
I chance a peek and see Adam is still staring at me. James is staring at the
Automat.
“I like her hair,” Adam says, and I’m not sure who he’s talking to.
I watch the two of them as Adam helps his brother get ready for school.
James is so full of life, so full of energy, so excited to have his brother around. It
makes me wonder what it must be like for a 10-year-old to live on his own.
What it must be like for all the kids who live on this street.
I’m itching to get up and change, but I’m not sure what I should do. I don’t
want to take up the bathroom in case James needs it, or if Adam needs it. I don’t
want to take up any more space than I already have. It feels so private, so
personal, this relationship between Adam and James. It’s the kind of bond I’ve
never had, will never have. But being around so much love has managed to thaw
my frozen parts into something human. I feel human. Like maybe I could be a
part of this world. Like maybe I don’t have to be a monster. Maybe I’m not a
monster.
Maybe things can change.
Chapter Thirty-Five
James is at school, Adam is in the shower, and I’m staring at a bowl of granola
Adam left for me to eat. It feels so wrong to be eating this food when James has
to eat the unidentifiable substance in the foil container. But Adam says James is
allocated a certain portion for every meal, and he’s required to eat it by law. If
he’s found wasting it or discarding it, he could be punished. All the orphans are
expected to eat the foil food that goes in their Automat. James claims it “doesn’t
taste too bad.”
I shiver slightly in the cool morning air and smooth a hand over my hair, still
damp from the shower. The water here isn’t hot. It isn’t even warm. It’s freezing.
Warm water is a luxury.
Someone is pounding on the door.
I’m up.
Spinning.
Scanning.
Scared.
They found us is the only thing I can think of. My stomach is a flimsy crepe,
my heart a raging woodpecker, my blood a river of anxiety.
Adam is in the shower.
James is at school.
I’m absolutely defenseless.
I rummage through Adam’s duffel bag until I find what I’m looking for. 2
guns, 1 for each hand. 2 hands, just in case the guns fail. I’m finally wearing the
kind of clothes that would be comfortable to fight in. I take a deep breath and
beg my hands not to shake.
The pounding gets harder.
I point the guns at the door.
“Juliette . . . ?”
I spin back to see Adam staring at me, the guns, the door. His hair is wet. His
eyes are wide. He nods toward the extra gun in my hand and I toss it to him
without a word.
“If it were Warner he wouldn’t be knocking,” he says, though he doesn’t
lower his weapon.
I know he’s right. Warner would’ve shot down the door, used explosives,
killed a hundred people to get to me. He certainly wouldn’t wait for me to open
the door. Something calms inside of me but I won’t allow myself to get
comfortable. “Who do you think—?”
“It might be Benny—she usually checks up on James—”
“But wouldn’t she know he’d be at school right now?”
“No one else knows where I live—”
The pounding is getting weaker. Slower. There’s a low, guttural sound of
agony.
Adam and I lock eyes.
One more fist flailing into the door. A slump. Another moan. The thud of a
body against the door.
I flinch.
Adam rakes a hand through his hair.
“Adam!” someone cries. Coughs. “Please, man, if you’re in there—”
I freeze. The voice sounds familiar.
Adam’s spine straightens in an instant. His lips are parted, his eyes
astonished. He punches in the pass code and turns the latch. Points his gun
toward the door as he eases it open.
“Kenji?”
A short wheeze. A muffled groan. “Shit, man, what took you so long?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Click. I can hardly see through the small
slit of the door, but it’s clear Adam isn’t happy to have company. “Who sent you
here? Who are you with?”
Kenji swears a few more times under his breath. “Look at me,” he demands,
though it sounds more like a plea. “You think I came up here to kill you?”
Adam pauses. Breathes. Doubts. “I have no problem putting a bullet in your
back.”
“Don’t worry, bro. I already have a bullet in my back. Or my leg. Or some
shit. I don’t even know.”
Adam opens the door. “Get up.”
“It’s all right, I don’t mind if you drag my ass inside.”
Adam works his jaw. “I don’t want your blood on my carpet. It’s not
something my brother needs to see.”
Kenji stumbles up and staggers into the room. I’d heard his voice once
before, but never seen his face. Though this probably isn’t the best time for first
impressions. His eyes are puffy, swollen, purple; there’s a huge gash in the side
of his forehead. His lip is split, slightly bleeding, his body slumped and broken.
He winces, takes short breaths as he moves. His clothes are ripped to shreds, his
upper body covered by nothing but a tank top, his well-developed arms cut and
bruised. I’m amazed he didn’t freeze to death. He doesn’t seem to notice me
until he does.
He stops. Blinks. Breaks into a ridiculous smile dimmed only by a slight
grimace from the pain. “Holy shit,” he says, still drinking me in. “Holy shit.” He
tries to laugh. “Dude, you’re insane—”
“The bathroom is over here.” Adam is set in stone.
Kenji moves forward but keeps looking back. I point the gun at his face. He
laughs harder, flinches, wheezes a bit. “Dude, you ran off with the crazy chick!
You ran off with the psycho girl!” he’s calling after Adam. “I thought they made
that shit up. What the hell were you thinking? What are you going to do with the
psycho chick? No wonder Warner wants you dead—OW, MAN, what the hell
—”
“She’s not crazy. And she’s not deaf, asshole.”
The door slams shut behind them and I can only make out their muffled
argument. I have a feeling Adam doesn’t want me to hear what he has to say to
Kenji. Either that, or it’s the screaming.
I have no idea what Adam is doing, but I assume it has something to do with
dislodging a bullet from Kenji’s body and generally repairing the rest of his
wounds as best he can. Adam has a pretty extensive first aid supply and strong,
steady hands. I wonder if he picked up these skills in the army. Maybe for taking
care of himself. Or maybe his brother. It would make sense.
Health insurance was a dream we lost a long time ago.
I’ve been holding this gun in my hand for nearly an hour. I’ve been listening to
Kenji scream for nearly an hour and I only know that because I like counting the
seconds as they pass by. I have no idea what time it is. I think there’s a clock in
James’ bedroom but I don’t want to go into his room without permission.
I stare at the gun in my hand, at the smooth, heavy metal, and I’m surprised
to find that I enjoy the way it feels in my grip. Like an extension of my body. It
doesn’t frighten me anymore.
It frightens me more that I might use it.
The bathroom door opens and Adam walks out. He has a small towel in his
hands. I get to my feet. He offers me a small smile. He reaches into the tiny
fridge for the even tinier freezer section. Grabs a couple of ice cubes and drops
them into the towel. Disappears into the bathroom again.
I sit back on the couch.
It’s raining today. The sky is weeping for us.
Adam comes out of the bathroom, this time empty-handed, still alone.
I stand back up.
He rubs his forehead, the back of his neck. Meets me on the couch. “I’m
sorry,” he says.
My eyes are wide. “For what?”
“Everything.” He sighs. “Kenji was a sort of friend of mine back on base.
Warner had him tortured after we left. For information.”
I swallow a gasp.
“He says he didn’t say anything—didn’t have anything to say, really—but he
got messed up pretty bad. I have no idea if his ribs are broken or just bruised, but
I managed to get the bullet out of his leg.”
I take his hand. Squeeze.
“He got shot running away,” Adam says after a moment.
And something slams into my consciousness. I panic. “The tracker serum—”
Adam nods, his eyes heavy, distraught. “I think it might be dysfunctional,
but I have no way of knowing for sure. I do know that if it were working as it
should, Warner would be here by now. But we can’t risk it. We have to get out,
and we have to get rid of Kenji before we go.”
I’m shaking my head, caught between colliding currents of disbelief. “How
did he even find you?”
Adam’s face hardens. “He started screaming before I could ask.”
“And James?” I whisper, almost afraid to wonder.
Adam drops his head into his hands. “As soon as he gets home, we have to
go. We can use this time to prepare.” He meets my eyes. “I can’t leave James
behind. It’s not safe for him here anymore.”
I touch his cheek and he leans into my hand, holds my palm against his face.
Closes his eyes.
“Son of a motherless goat—”
Adam and I break apart. I’m blushing past my hairline. Adam looks
annoyed. Kenji is leaning against the wall in the bathroom hallway, holding the
makeshift ice pack to his face. Staring at us.
“You can touch her? I mean—shit, I just saw you touch her but that’s not
even—”
“You have to go,” Adam says to him. “You’ve already left a chemical trace
leading right to my home. We need to leave, and you can’t come with us.”
“Oh hey—whoa—hold on.” Kenji stumbles into the living room, wincing as
he puts pressure on his leg. “I’m not trying to slow you down, man. I know a
place. A safe place. Like, a legit, super-safe place. I can take you. I can show
you how to get there. I know a guy.”
“Bullshit.” Adam is still angry. “How did you even find me? How did you
manage to show up at my door, Kenji? I don’t trust you—”
“I don’t know, man. I swear I don’t remember what happened. I don’t know
where I was running after a certain point. I was just jumping fences. I found a
huge field with an old shed. Slept in there for a while. I think I blacked out at
one point, either from the pain or from the cold—it is cold as hell out here—and
the next thing I know, some dude is carrying me. Drops me off at your door.
Tells me to shut up about Adam, because Adam lives right here.” He grins. Tries
to wink. “I guess I was dreaming about you in my sleep.”
“Wait—what?” Adam leans forward. “What do you mean some guy was
carrying you? What guy? What was his name? How did he know my name?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me, and it’s not like I had the presence of mind
to ask. But dude was huge. I mean, he had to be if he was going to lug my ass
around.”
“You can’t honestly expect me to believe you.”
“You have no choice.” Kenji shrugs.
“Of course I have a choice.” Adam is on his feet. “I have no reason to trust
you. No reason to believe a word that’s coming out of your mouth.”
“Then why am I here with a bullet in my leg? Why hasn’t Warner found you
yet? Why am I unarmed—”
“This could be a part of your plan!”
“And you helped me anyway!” Kenji dares to raise his voice. “Why didn’t
you just let me die? Why didn’t you shoot me dead? Why did you help me?”
Adam falters. “I don’t know.”
“You do know. You know I’m not here to mess you up. I took a goddamn
beating for you—”
“You weren’t protecting any information of mine.”
“Well, shit, man, what the hell do you want me to say? They were going to
kill my ass. I had to run. It wasn’t my fault some dude dropped me off at your
door—”
“This isn’t just about me, don’t you understand? I’ve worked so hard to find
a safe place for my brother and in one morning you ruined years of planning.
What the hell am I supposed to do now? I have to run until I can find a way to
keep him safe. He’s too young to have to deal with this—”
“We’re all too young to have to deal with this shit.” Kenji is breathing hard.
“Don’t fool yourself, bro. No one should have to see what we’ve seen. No one
should have to wake up in the morning and find dead bodies in their living room,
but shit happens. We deal with it, and we find a way to survive. You’re not the
only one with problems.”
Adam sinks into the sofa. 80 pounds of worry weigh down his shoulders. He
leans forward with his head in his hands.
Kenji stares at me. I stare back.
He grins and hobbles forward. “You know, you’re pretty sexy for a psycho
chick.”
Click.
Kenji is backing up with his hands in the air. Adam is pressing a gun to his
forehead. “Show some respect, or I will burn it into your skull.”
“I was kidding—”
“Like hell you were.”
“Damn, Adam, calm the hell down—”
“Where’s the ‘super-safe place’ you can take us?” I’m up, gun still gripped
in my hand. I move into position next to Adam. “Or are you making that up?”
Kenji lights up. “No, that’s real. Very real. In fact, I may or may not have
mentioned something about you. And the dude who runs the place may or may
not be ridiculously interested in meeting you.”
“You think I’m some kind of freak you can show off to your friends?”
Locked. Loaded.
Kenji clears his throat. “Not a freak. Just . . . interesting.”
I point my gun at his nose. “I’m so interesting I can kill you with my bare
hands.”
A barely perceptible flash of fear flickers in his eyes. He swallows a few
gallons of humility. Tries to smile. “You sure you’re not crazy?”
“No.” I cock my head. “I’m not sure.”
Kenji grins. Looks me up and down. “Well damn. But you make crazy sound
so good.”
“I’m about five inches from breaking your face,” Adam warns him, his voice
like steel, his body stiff with anger, his eyes narrowed, unflinching. There’s no
hint of humor in his expression. “I don’t need another reason.”
“What?” Kenji laughs, undeterred. “I haven’t been this close to a chick in
way too long, bro. And crazy or not—”
“I’m not interested.”
Kenji turns to face me. “Well I’m not sure I blame you. I look like hell right
now. But I clean up okay.” He attempts a grin. “Give me a couple days. You
might change your mind—”
Adam elbows him in the face and doesn’t apologize.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kenji is swearing, bleeding, running out of expletives and tripping his way
toward the bathroom, holding his nose together.
Adam pulls me into James’ bedroom.
“Tell me something,” he says. He stares up at the ceiling, takes a hard breath.
“Tell me anything—”
I try to focus his eyes, grasp his hands, gentle gentle gentle. I wait until he’s
looking at me. “Nothing is going to happen to James. We’ll keep him safe. I
promise.”
His eyes are full of pain like I’ve never seen them before. He parts his lips.
Presses them together. Changes his mind a million times until his words tumble
through the air between us. “He doesn’t even know about our dad.” It’s the first
time he’s acknowledged the issue. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged that I
know anything about it. “I never wanted him to know. I made up stories for him.
I wanted him to have a chance to be normal.” His lips are spelling secrets and
my ears are spilling ink, staining my skin with his stories. “I don’t want anyone
to touch him. I don’t want to screw him up. I can’t—God I can’t let it happen,”
he says to me. Hushed. Quiet.
I’ve searched the world for all the right words and my mouth is full of
nothing.
“It’s never enough,” he whispers. “I can never do enough. He still wakes up
screaming. He still cries himself to sleep. He sees things I can’t control.” He
blinks a million times. “So many people, Juliette.”
I hold my breath.
“Dead.”
I touch the word on his lips and he kisses my fingers. His eyes are two pools
of perfection, open, honest, humble. “I don’t know what to do,” he says, and it’s
like a confession that costs him so much more than I can understand. Control is
slipping through his fingers and he’s desperate to hold on. “Tell me what to do.”
I can hear our heartbeats in the silence between us. I study the shape of his
lips, the strong lines of his face, the eyelashes any girl would kill for, the deep
dark blue of the eyes I’ve learned to swim in. I offer him the only possibility I
have. “Kenji’s plan might be worth considering.”
“You trust him?” Adam leans back, surprised.
“I don’t think he’s lying about knowing a place we can go.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Why not . . . ?”
Something that might not be a laugh. “I might kill him before we even get
there.”
My lips twist into a sad smile. “There isn’t any other place for us to hide, is
there?”
The sun is revolving around the moon when he responds. He shakes his
head. Once. Fast. Tight.
I squeeze his hand. “Then we have to try.”
“What the hell are you doing in there?” Kenji shouts through the door.
Pounds it a couple times. “I mean, shit, man, I don’t think there’s ever a bad time
to get naked, but now is probably not the best time for a nooner. So unless you
want to get killed, I suggest you get your ass out here. We have to get ready to
go.”
“I might kill him right now,” Adam changes his mind.
I take his face in my hands, tip up on my toes and kiss him. His lips are 2
pillows, so soft, so sweet. “I love you.”
He’s looking into my eyes and looking at my mouth and his voice is a husky
whisper. “Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
The 3 of us are packed and ready to go before James comes home from school.
Adam and I collected the most important basic necessities: food, clothes, money
Adam saved up. He keeps looking around the small space like he can’t believe
he’s lost it so easily. I can only imagine how much work he put into it, how hard
he tried to make a home for his little brother. My heart is in pieces for him.
His friend is an entirely different species.
Kenji is nursing new bruises, but seems in reasonable spirits, excited for
reasons I can’t fathom. He’s oddly resilient and upbeat. It seems impossible to
discourage him and I can’t help but admire his determination. But he won’t stop
staring at me.
“So how come you can touch Adam?” he says after a moment.
“I don’t know.”
He snorts. “Bull.”
I shrug. I don’t feel the need to convince him that I have absolutely no idea
how I got so lucky.
“How’d you even know you could touch him? Some kind of sick
experiment?”
I hope I’m not blushing. “Where’s this place you’re taking us?”
“Why are you changing the subject?” He’s grinning. I’m sure he’s grinning. I
refuse to look at him, though. “Maybe you can touch me, too. Why don’t you
try?”
“You don’t want me to touch you.”
“Maybe I do.” He’s definitely grinning.
“Maybe you should leave her alone before I put that bullet back in your leg,”
Adam offers.
“I’m sorry—is a lonely man not allowed to make a move, Kent? Maybe I’m
actually interested. Maybe you should back the hell off and let her speak for
herself.”
Adam runs a hand through his hair. Always the same hand. Always through
his hair. He’s flustered. Frustrated. Maybe even embarrassed.
“I’m still not interested,” I remind him, an edge to my voice.
“Yes, but let’s not forget that this”—he motions to his battered face—“is not
permanent.”
“Well, I’m permanently uninterested.” I want so badly to tell him that I’m
unavailable. I want to tell him that I’m in a serious relationship. I want to tell
him that Adam’s made me promises.
But I can’t.
I have no idea what it means to be in a relationship. I don’t know if saying “I
love you” is code for “mutually exclusive,” and I don’t know if Adam was
serious when he told James I was his girlfriend. Maybe it was an excuse, a cover,
an easy answer to an otherwise complicated question. I wish he would say
something to Kenji—I wish he would tell him that we’re together officially,
exclusively.
But he doesn’t.
And I don’t know why.
“I don’t think you should decide until the swelling goes down,” Kenji
continues matter-of-factly. “It’s only fair. I have a pretty spectacular face.”
Adam chokes on a cough that I think was a laugh.
“You know, I could’ve sworn we used to be cool,” Kenji says, leveling his
gaze at Adam.
“I can’t remember why.”
Kenji bristles. “Is there something you want to say to me?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Then why am I still here?”
“Because I trust her.”
Kenji turns to look at me. He manages a goofy smile. “Aw, you trust me?”
“As long as I have a clear shot.” I tighten my hold on the gun in my hand.
His grin is crooked. “I don’t know why, but I kind of like it when you
threaten me.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot.”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “You’ve got a sexy voice. Makes everything
sound naughty.”
Adam stands up so suddenly he nearly knocks over the coffee table.
Kenji bursts out laughing, wheezing against the pain of his injuries. “Calm
down, Kent, damn. I’m just messing with you guys. I like seeing psycho chick
get all intense.” He glances at me, lowers his voice. “I mean that as a
compliment—because, you know”—he waves a haphazard hand in my direction
—“psycho kind of works for you.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Adam turns on him.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Kenji crosses his arms, annoyed.
“Everyone is so uptight in here.”
Adam squeezes the gun in his hand. Walks to the door. Walks back. He’s
pacing.
“And don’t worry about your brother,” Kenji adds. “I’m sure he’ll be here
soon.”
Adam doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t stop pacing. His jaw twitches. “I’m not
worried about my brother. I’m trying to decide whether to shoot you now or
later.”
“Later,” Kenji says, collapsing onto the couch. “You still need me right
now.”
Adam tries to speak but he’s out of time.
The door clicks, beeps, unlatches open.
James is home.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“I’m really happy you’re taking it so well—I am—but James, this really isn’t
something to be excited about. We’re running for our lives.”
“But we’re doing it together,” he says for the fifth time, a huge grin
overcrowding his face. He took a liking to Kenji almost too quickly, and now the
pair of them are conspiring to turn our predicament into some kind of elaborate
mission. “And I can help!”
“No, it’s not—”
“Of course you can—”
Adam and Kenji speak at the same time. Kenji recovers first. “Why can’t he
help? Ten years old is old enough to help.”
“That’s not your call,” Adam says, careful to control his voice. I know he’s
staying calm for his brother’s sake. “And it’s none of your business.”
“I’ll finally get to come with you,” James says, undeterred. “And I want to
help.”
James took the news in stride. He didn’t even flinch when Adam explained
the real reason why he was home, and why we were together. I thought seeing
Kenji’s bruised and battered face would scare him, unnerve him, instill a sense
of fear in his heart, but James was eerily unmoved. It occurred to me he must’ve
seen much worse.
Adam takes a few deep breaths before turning to Kenji. “How far?”
“By foot?” Kenji looks uncertain for the first time. “At least a few hours. If
we don’t do anything stupid, we should be there by nightfall.”
“And if we take a car?”
Kenji blinks. His surprise dissolves into an enormous grin. “Well, shit, Kent,
why didn’t you say so sooner?”
“Watch your mouth around my brother.”
James rolls his eyes. “I hear worse stuff than that every day. Even Benny
uses bad words.”
“Benny?” Adam’s eyebrows stumble up his forehead.
“Yup.”
“What does she—” He stops. Changes his mind. “That doesn’t mean it’s
okay for you to keep hearing it.”
“I’m almost eleven!”
“Hey, little man,” Kenji interrupts. “It’s okay. It’s my fault. I should be more
careful. Besides, there are ladies present.” Kenji winks at me.
I look away. Look around.
It’s difficult for me to leave this humble home, so I can only imagine what
Adam must be experiencing right now. I think James is too excited about the
dangerous road ahead of us to realize what’s happening. To truly understand that
he’ll never be coming back here.
We’re all fugitives running for our lives.
“So, what—you stole a car?” Kenji asks.
“A tank.”
Kenji barks out a laugh. “NICE.”
“It’s a little conspicuous for daytime, though.”
“What’s conspicuous mean?” James asks.
“It’s a little too . . . noticeable.” Adam cringes.
“SHIT.” Kenji stumbles up to his feet.
“I told you to watch your mouth—”
“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what—?”
Kenji’s eyes are darting in every direction. “Is there another way out of
here?”
Adam is up. “JAMES—”
James runs to his brother’s side. Adam checks his gun. I’m slinging bags
over my back, Adam is doing the same, his attention diverted by the front door.
“HURRY—”
“How close—?”
“THERE’S NO TIME—”
“What do you—”
“KENT, RUN—”
And we’re running, following Adam into James’ room. Adam rips a curtain
off of one wall to reveal a hidden door just as 3 beeps sound from the living
room.
Adam shoots the lock on the exit door.
Something explodes not 15 feet behind us. The sound shatters in my ears,
vibrates through my body. I nearly collapse from the impact. Gunshots are
everywhere. Footsteps are pounding into the house but we’re already running
through the exit. Adam hauls James up and into his arms and we’re flying
through the sudden burst of light blinding our way through the streets. The rain
has stopped. The roads are slick and muddy. There are children everywhere,
bright colors of small bodies suddenly screaming at our approach. There’s no
point being inconspicuous anymore.
They’ve already found us.
Kenji is lagging behind, stumbling his way through the last of his adrenaline
rush. We turn into a narrow alleyway and he slumps against the wall. “I’m
sorry,” he pants, “I can’t—you can leave me—”
“We can’t leave you—,” Adam shouts, looking everywhere, drinking in our
surroundings.
“That’s sweet, bro, but it’s okay—”
“We need you to show us where to go!”
“Well, shit—”
“You said you would help us—”
“I thought you said you had a tank—”
“If you hadn’t noticed, there’s been an unexpected change of plans—”
“I can’t keep up, Kent. I can barely walk—”
“You have to try—”
“There are rebels on the loose. They are armed and ready to fire. Curfew is
now in effect. Everyone return to their homes immediately. There are rebels on
the loose. They are armed and ready to fi—”
The loudspeakers sound around the streets, drawing attention to our bodies
huddled together in the narrow alley. A few people see us and scream. Boots are
getting louder. Gunshots are getting wilder.
I take a moment to analyze the surrounding buildings and realize we’re not
in a settled compound. The street James lives on is unregulated turf: a series of
abandoned office buildings crammed together, leftovers from our old lives. I
don’t understand why he’s not living in a compound like the rest of the
population. I don’t have time to figure out why I only see two age groups
represented, why the elderly and the orphaned are the only residents, why
they’ve been dumped on illegal land with soldiers who are not supposed to be
here. I’m afraid to consider the answers to my own questions and in a panicked
moment I fear for James’ life. I spin around as we run, glimpsing his small body
bundled in Adam’s arms.
His eyes are squeezed shut so tight I’m sure it hurts.
Adam swears under his breath. He kicks down the first door we can find of a
deserted building and yells for us to follow him inside.
“I need you to stay here,” he says to Kenji. “And I’m out of my mind, but I
need to leave James with you. I need you to watch out for him. They’re looking
for Juliette, and they’re looking for me. They won’t even expect to find you
two.”
“What are you going to do?” Kenji asks.
“I need to steal a car. Then I’ll come back for you.” James doesn’t even
protest as Adam puts him down. His little lips are white. His eyes wide. His
hands trembling. “I’ll come back for you, James,” Adam says again. “I
promise.”
James nods over and over and over again. Adam kisses his head, once, hard,
fast. Drops our duffel bags on the floor. Turns to Kenji. “If you let anything
happen to him, I will kill you.”
Kenji doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t scowl. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll take care
of him.”
“Juliette?”
He takes my hand, and we disappear into the streets.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The roads are packed with pedestrians trying to escape. Adam and I hide our
guns in the waistbands of our pants, but our wild eyes and jerky movements
seem to give us away. Everyone stays away from us, darting in opposite
directions, some squeaking, shouting, crying, dropping the things in their hands.
But for all the people, I don’t see a single car in sight. They must be hard to
come by, especially in this area.
Adam pushes me to the ground just as a bullet flies past my head. He shoots
down another door and we run through the ruins toward another exit, trapped in
the maze of what used to be a clothing store. Gunshots and footsteps are close
behind. There must be at least a hundred soldiers following us through these
streets, clustered in different groups, dispersed in different areas of the city,
ready to capture and kill.
But I know they won’t kill me.
It’s Adam I’m worried about.
I try to stay as close as possible to his body because I’m certain Warner has
given them orders to bring me back alive. My efforts, however, are weak at best.
Adam has enough height and muscle to dwarf me. Anyone with an excellent shot
would be able to target him. They could shoot him right in the head.
Right in front of me.
He turns to fire two shots. One falls short. Another elicits a strangled cry.
We’re still running.
Adam doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tell me to be brave. He doesn’t ask
me if I’m okay, if I’m scared. He doesn’t offer me encouragement or assure me
that we’ll be just fine. He doesn’t tell me to leave him behind and save myself.
He doesn’t tell me to watch his brother in case he dies.
He doesn’t need to.
We both understand the reality of our situation. Adam could be shot right
now. I could be captured at any moment. This entire building might suddenly
explode. Someone could’ve discovered Kenji and James. We might all die today.
The facts are obvious.
But we know we need to take the chance just the same.
Because moving forward is the only way to survive.
The gun is growing slick in my hands, but I hold on to it anyway. My legs
are screaming against the pain, but I push them faster anyway. My lungs are
sawing my rib cage in half, but I force them to process oxygen anyway. I have to
keep moving. There’s no time for human deficiencies.
The fire escape in this building is nearly impossible to find. Our feet pound
the tiled floors, our hands searching through the bleak light for some kind of
outlet, some kind of access to the streets. This building is larger than we
anticipated, massive, with hundreds of possible directions. I realize it must have
been a warehouse and not just a store. Adam ducks behind an abandoned desk,
pulling me down with him.
“Don’t be stupid, Kent—you can only run for so long!” someone shouts. The
voice isn’t more than 10 feet away.
Adam swallows. Clenches his jaw. The people trying to kill him are the same
ones he used to eat lunch with. Train with. Live with. He knows these guys. I
wonder if that knowledge makes this worse.
“Just give us the girl,” a new voice adds. “Just give us the girl and we won’t
shoot you. We’ll pretend we lost you. We’ll let you go. Warner only wants the
girl.”
Adam is breathing hard. He grips the gun in his hand. Pops his head out for a
split second and fires. Someone falls to the floor, screaming.
“KENT, YOU SON OF A—”
Adam uses the moment to run. We jump out from behind the desk and fly
toward a stairwell. Gunshots miss us by millimeters. I wonder if these two men
are the only ones who followed us inside.
The spiral staircase winds into a lower level, a basement of some kind.
Someone is trying to aim for Adam, but our erratic movements make it almost
impossible. The chance of him hitting me instead are too high. He’s unleashing a
mass of expletives in our wake.
Adam knocks things over as we run, trying to create any kind of distraction,
any kind of hazard to slow down the soldier behind us. I spot a pair of storm
cellar doors and realize this area must’ve been ravaged by tornadoes. The
weather is turbulent; natural disasters are common. Cyclones must have ripped
this city apart. “Adam—” I tug on his arm. We hide behind a low wall. I point to
our only possible escape route.
He squeezes my hand. “Good eye.” But we don’t move until the air shifts
around us. A misstep. A muffled cry. It’s almost blindingly black down here; it’s
obvious the electricity was disconnected a long time ago. The soldier has tripped
on one of the obstacles Adam left behind.
Adam holds the gun close to his chest. Takes a deep breath. Turns and takes
a swift shot.
His aim is excellent.
An uncontrolled explosion of curse words confirms it. Adam takes a hard
breath. “I’m only shooting to disable,” he says. “Not to kill.”
“I know,” I tell him. Though I wasn’t sure.
We run for the doors and Adam struggles to pull the latch open. It’s nearly
rusted shut. We’re getting desperate. I don’t know how long it’ll be until we’re
discovered by another set of soldiers. I’m about to suggest we shoot it open
when Adam finally manages to break it free.
He kicks open the doors and we stumble out onto the street. There are 3 cars
to choose from.
I’m so happy I could cry.
“It’s about time,” he says.
But it’s not Adam who says it.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
There’s blood everywhere.
Adam is on the ground, clutching his body, but I don’t know where he’s been
shot. There are soldiers swarming around him and I’m clawing at the arms
holding me back, kicking the air, crying out into the emptiness. Someone is
dragging me away and I can’t see what they’ve done to Adam. Pain is seizing
my limbs, cramping my joints, breaking every single bone in my body. I want to
shriek through the sky, I want to fall to my knees and sob into the earth. I don’t
understand why the agony isn’t finding escape in my screams. Why my mouth is
covered with someone else’s hand.
“If I let go, you have to promise not to scream,” he says to me.
He’s touching my face with his bare hands and I don’t know where I dropped
my gun.
Warner drags me into a still-functioning building and kicks open a door. Hits
a switch. Fluorescent lights flicker on with a dull hum. There are paintings taped
to the walls, alphabet rainbows stapled to corkboards. Small tables scattered
across the room. We’re in a classroom.
I wonder if this is where James goes to school.
Warner drops his hand. His glassy green eyes are so delighted I’m petrified.
“God I missed you,” he says to me. “You didn’t actually think I’d let you go so
easily?”
“You shot Adam,” are the only words I can think of. My mind is muddled
with disbelief. I keep seeing his beautiful body crumpled on the ground, red red
red. I need to know if he’s alive. He has to be alive.
Warner’s eyes flash. “Kent is dead.”
“No—”
Warner backs me into a corner and I realize I’ve never been so defenseless in
my life. Never so vulnerable. 17 years I spent wishing my curse away, but in this
moment I’m more desperate than ever to have it back. Warner’s eyes warm
unexpectedly. His constant shifts in emotion are difficult to anticipate. Difficult
to counter.
“Juliette,” he says. He touches my hand so gently it startles me. “Did you
notice? It seems I am immune to your gift.” He studies my eyes. “Isn’t that
incredible? Did you notice?” he asks again. “When you tried to escape? Did you
feel it . . . ?”
Warner who misses absolutely nothing. Warner who absorbs every single
detail.
Of course he knows.
But I’m shocked by the tenderness in his voice. The sincerity with which he
wants to know. He’s like a feral dog, crazed and wild, thirsty for chaos,
simultaneously aching for recognition and acceptance.
Love.
“We can really be together,” he says to me, undeterred by my silence. He
pulls me close, too close. I’m frozen in five hundred layers of fear. Stunned in
grief, in disbelief.
His hands reach for my face, his lips for mine. My brain is on fire, ready to
explode from the impossibility of this moment. I feel like I’m watching it
happen, detached from my own body, incapable of intervening. More than
anything else, I’m shocked by his gentle hands, his earnest eyes.
“I want you to choose me,” he says. “I want you to choose to be with me. I
want you to want this—”
“You’re insane,” I choke. “You’re psychotic—”
“You’re only afraid of what you’re capable of.” His voice is soft. Easy.
Slow. Deceptively persuasive. I’d never realized before just how attractive his
voice is. “Admit it,” he says. “We’re perfect for each other. You want the power.
You love the feel of a weapon in your hand. You’re . . . attracted to me.”
I try to swing my fist but he catches my arms. Pins them to my sides. Presses
me up against the wall. He’s so much stronger than he looks. “Don’t lie to
yourself, Juliette. You’re going to come back with me whether you like it or not.
But you can choose to want it. You can choose to enjoy it—”
“I will never,” I breathe, broken. “You’re sick—you’re a sick, twisted
monster—”
“That’s not the right answer,” he says, and seems genuinely disappointed.
“It’s the only answer you’ll ever get from me.”
His lips come too close. “But I love you.”
“No you don’t.”
His eyes close. He leans his forehead against mine. “You have no idea what
you do to me.”
“I hate you.”
He shakes his head very slowly. Dips down. His nose brushes the nape of my
neck and I stifle a horrified shiver that he misunderstands. His lips touch my skin
and I actually whimper. “God I’d love to just take a bite out of you.”
I notice the gleam of silver in his inside jacket pocket.
I feel a thrill of hope. A thrill of horror. Brace myself for what I need to do.
Spend a moment mourning the loss of my dignity.
And I relax.
He feels the tension seep out of my limbs and responds in turn. He smiles,
loosens his clamp on my shoulders. Slips his arms around my waist. I swallow
the vomit threatening to give me away.
His military jacket has a million buttons and I wonder how many I’ll have to
undo before I can get my hands on the gun. His hands are exploring my body,
slipping down my back to feel the form of my figure and it’s all I can do to keep
from doing something reckless. I’m not skilled enough to overpower him and I
have no idea why he’s able to touch me. I have no idea why I was able to crash
through concrete yesterday. I have no idea where that energy came from.
Today he’s got every advantage and it’s not time to give myself away.
Not yet.
I place my hands on his chest. He presses me into the curve of his body. Tilts
my chin up to meet his eyes. “I’ll be good to you,” he whispers. “I’ll be so good
to you, Juliette. I promise.”
I hope I’m not visibly shaking.
And he kisses me. Hungrily. Desperately. Eager to break me open and taste
me. I’m so stunned, so horrified, so cocooned in insanity I forget myself. I stand
there frozen, disgusted. My hands slip from his chest. All I can think about is
Adam and blood and Adam and the sound of gunshots and Adam lying in a pool
of blood and I nearly shove him off of me. But Warner will not be discouraged.
He breaks the kiss. Whispers something in my ear that sounds like nonsense.
Cups my face in his hands and this time I remember to pretend. I pull him closer,
grab a fistful of his jacket and kiss him as hard as I can, my fingers already
attempting to release the first of his buttons. Warner grips my hips and allows
his hands to conquer my body. He tastes like peppermint, smells like gardenias.
His arms are strong around me, his lips soft, almost sweet against my skin.
There’s an electric charge between us I hadn’t anticipated.
My head is spinning.
His lips are on my neck, tasting me, devouring me, and I force myself to
think straight. I force myself to understand the perversion of this situation. I
don’t know how to reconcile the confusion in my mind, my hesitant repulsion,
my inexplicable chemical reaction to his lips. I need to get this over with. Now.
I reach for his buttons.
And he’s unnecessarily encouraged.
Warner lifts me by the waist, hoists me up against the wall, his hands
cupping my backside, forcing my legs to wrap around him. He doesn’t realize
he’s given me the perfect angle to reach into his coat.
His lips find my lips, his hands slip under my shirt and he’s breathing hard,
tightening his grip around me, and I practically rip open his jacket in
desperation. I can’t let this go on much longer. I have no idea how far Warner
wants to push things, but I can’t keep encouraging his insanity.
I need him to lean forward just an inch more—
My hands wrap around the gun.
I feel him freeze. Pull back. I watch his face phase through frames of
confusion/dread/anguish/horror/anger. He drops me to the floor just as my
fingers pull the trigger for the very first time.
The power and strength of the weapon is disarming, the sound so much
louder than I anticipated. The reverberations are vibrating through my ears and
every pulse in my body.
It’s a sweet sort of music.
A small sort of victory.
Because this time the blood is not Adam’s.
Chapter Forty
Warner is down.
I am up and running away with his gun.
I need to find Adam. I need to steal a car. I need to find James and Kenji. I
need to learn how to drive. I need to drive us to safety. I need to do everything in
exactly that order.
Adam can’t be dead.
Adam is not dead.
Adam will not be dead.
My feet slap the pavement to a steady rhythm, my shirt and face spattered
with blood, my hands still shaking slightly in the setting sun. A sharp breeze
whips around me, jolting me out of the crazed reality I seem to be swimming in.
I take a hard breath, squint up at the sky, and realize I don’t have much time
before I lose the light. The streets, at least, have long since been evacuated. But I
have exactly zero idea where Warner’s men might be.
I wonder if Warner has the tracker serum as well. I wonder if they’d know if
he were dead.
I duck into dark corners, try to read the streets for clues, try to remember
where Adam fell to the ground, but my memory is too weak, too distracted, my
brain too broken to process these kinds of details. That horrible instant is one
mess of insanity in my mind. I can’t make any sense of it and Adam could be
anywhere by now. They could’ve done anything to him.
I don’t even know what I’m looking for.
I might be wasting my time.
I hear sudden movement and dart into a side street, my fingers tightening
around the weapon slick in my grip. Now that I’ve actually fired a gun, I feel
more confident with it in my hands, more aware of what to expect, how it
functions. But I don’t know if I should be happy or horrified that I’m so
comfortable so quickly with something so lethal.
Footsteps.
I slide up against the wall, my arms and legs flat against the rough surface. I
hope I’m buried in the shadows. I wonder if anyone’s found Warner yet.
I watch a soldier walk right past me. He has rifles slung across his chest, a
smaller sort of automatic weapon in his hands. I glance down at the gun in my
own hand and realize I have no idea how many different kinds there are. All I
know is some are bigger than others. Some have to be reloaded constantly.
Some, like the one I’m holding, do not. Maybe Adam can teach me the
differences.
Adam.
I suck in my breath and move as stealthily as I can through the streets. I spot
a particularly dark shadow on a stretch of the sidewalk ahead of me and make an
effort to avoid it. But as I get closer I realize it’s not a shadow. It’s a stain.
Adam’s blood.
I squeeze my jaw shut until the pain scares away the screams. I take short,
tiny, too-quick breaths. I need to focus. I need to use this information. I need to
pay attention— I need to follow the trail of blood.
Whoever dragged Adam away still hasn’t come back to clean the mess.
There’s a steady spattered drip that leads away from the main roads and into the
poorly lit side streets. The light is so dim I have to bend down to search for the
spots on the ground. I’m losing sight of where they lead. There are fewer here. I
think they’ve disappeared entirely. I don’t know if the dark spots I’m finding are
blood or old gum pounded into the pavement or drops of life from another
person’s flesh. Adam’s path has disappeared.
I back up several steps and retrace the line.
I have to do this 3 times before I realize they must’ve taken him inside.
There’s an old steel structure with an older rusted door that looks like it’s never
been opened. It looks like it hasn’t been used in years. I don’t see any other
options.
I wiggle the handle. It’s locked.
I shift my entire weight into breaking it open, slamming it open, but I’ve
only managed to bruise my body. I could shoot it down like I’ve seen Adam do,
but I’m not certain of my aim nor my skill with this gun, and I’m not sure I can
afford the noise. I can’t make my presence known.
There has to be another way into this building.
There is no other way into this building.
My frustration is escalating. My desperation is crippling. My hysteria is
threatening to break me and I want to scream until my lungs collapse. Adam is in
this building. He has to be in this building.
I’m standing right outside this building and I can’t get inside.
This can’t be happening.
I clench my fists, try to beat back the maddening futility enveloping me in its
embrace but I feel crazed. Wild. Insane. The adrenaline is slipping away, my
focus is slipping away, the sun is setting on the horizon and I remember James
and Kenji and Adam Adam Adam and Warner’s hands on my body and his lips
on my mouth and his tongue tasting my neck and all the blood everywhere
everywhere
everywhere
and I do something stupid.
I punch the door.
In one instant my mind catches up to my muscle and I brace myself for the
impact of steel on skin, ready to feel the agony of shattering every bone in my
right arm. But my fist flies through 12 inches of steel like it’s made of butter.
I’m stunned. I harness the same volatile energy and kick my foot through the
door. I use my hands to rip the steel to shreds, clawing my way through the
metal like a wild animal.
It’s incredible. Exhilarating. Completely feral.
This must be how I broke through the concrete in Warner’s torture chamber.
Which means I still have no idea how I broke through the concrete in Warner’s
torture chamber.
I climb through the hole I’ve created and slip into the shadows. It’s not hard.
The entire place is cloaked in darkness. There are no lights, no sounds of
machines or electricity. Just another abandoned warehouse left to the elements.
I check the floors but there’s no sign of blood. My heart soars and plummets
at the same time. I need him to be okay. I need him to be alive. Adam is not
dead. He can’t be.
Adam promised James he’d come back for him.
He’d never break that promise.
I move slowly at first, wary, worried that there might be soldiers around, but
it doesn’t take long for me to realize there’s no sound of life in this building. I
decide to run.
I tuck caution in my pocket and hope I can reach for it if I need to. I’m flying
through doors, spinning around turns, drinking in every detail. This building
wasn’t just a warehouse. It was a factory.
Old machines clutter the walls, conveyor belts are frozen in place, thousands
of boxes of inventory stacked precariously in tall heaps. I hear a small breath, a
stifled cough.
I’m bolting through a set of swinging double doors, searching out the feeble
sound, fighting to focus on the tiniest details. I strain my ears and hear it again.
Heavy, labored breathing.
The closer I get, the more clearly I can hear him. It has to be him. My gun is
up and aimed to fire, my eyes careful now, anticipating attackers. My legs move
swiftly, easily, silently. I nearly shoot a shadow the boxes have cast on the floor.
I take a steadying breath. Round another corner.
And nearly collapse.
Adam is hanging from bound wrists, shirtless, bloodied and bruised
everywhere. His head is bent, his neck limp, his left leg drenched in blood
despite the tourniquet wrapped around his thigh. I don’t know how long the
weight of his entire body has been hanging from his wrists. I’m surprised he
hasn’t dislocated his shoulders. He must still be fighting to hold on.
The rope wrapped around his wrists is attached to some kind of metal rod
running across the ceiling. I look more closely and realize the rod is a part of a
conveyor belt. That Adam is on a conveyor belt.
That this isn’t just a factory.
It’s a slaughterhouse.
I’m too poor to afford the luxury of hysteria right now.
I need to find a way to get him down, but I’m afraid to approach. My eyes
search the space, certain that there are guards around here somewhere, soldiers
prepared for this kind of ambush. But then it occurs to me that perhaps I was
never really considered a threat. Not if Warner managed to drag me away.
No one would expect to find me here.
I climb onto the conveyor belt and Adam tries to lift his head. I have to be
careful not to look too closely at his wounds, not to let my imagination cripple
me. Not here. Not now.
“Adam . . . ?”
His head snaps up with a sudden burst of energy. His eyes find me. His face
is almost unscathed; there are only minor cuts and bruises to account for.
Focusing on the familiar gives me a modicum of calm.
“Juliette—?”
“I need to cut you down—”
“Jesus, Juliette—how did you find me?” He coughs. Wheezes. Takes a tight
breath.
“Later.” I reach up to touch his face. “I’ll tell you everything later. First, I
need to find a knife.”
“My pants—”
“What?”
“In”—he swallows—“in my pants—”
I reach for his pocket and he shakes his head. I look up. “Where—”
“There’s an inside pocket in my pants—”
I practically rip his clothes off. There’s a small pocket sewn into the lining of
his cargo pants. I slip my hand inside and retrieve a compact pocketknife. A
butterfly knife. I’ve seen these before.
They’re illegal.
I start stacking boxes on the conveyor belt. Climb my way up and hope to
God I know what I’m doing. The knife is extremely sharp, and it works quickly
to undo the bindings. I realize a little belatedly that the rope holding him
together is the same cord we used to escape.
Adam is cut free. I’m climbing down, refolding the knife and tucking it into
my pocket. I don’t know how I’m going to get Adam out of here. His wrists are
rubbed raw, bleeding, his body pounded into one piece of pain, his leg bloodied
through with a bullet.
He nearly falls over.
I try to hold on as tenderly as possible, try to hold him close as best I can
without hurting him. He doesn’t say a word about the pain, tries so hard to hide
the fact that he’s having trouble breathing. He’s wincing against the torture of it
all, but doesn’t whisper a word of complaint. “I can’t believe you found me,” is
all he says.
And I know I shouldn’t. I know now isn’t the time. I know it’s impractical.
But I kiss him anyway.
“You are not going to die,” I tell him. “We are going to get out of here. We
are going to steal a car. We are going to find James and Kenji. And then we’re
going to get safe.”
He stares at me. “Kiss me again,” he says.
And I do.
It takes a lifetime to make it back to the door. Adam had been buried deep in
the recesses of this building, and finding our way to the front is even more
difficult than I expected. Adam is trying so hard, moving as fast as he can, but he
still isn’t fast at all. “They said Warner wanted to kill me himself,” he explains.
“That he shot me in the leg on purpose, just to disable me. It gave him a chance
to drag you away and come back for me later. Apparently his plan was to torture
me to death.” He winces. “He said he wanted to enjoy it. Didn’t want to rush
through killing me.” A hard laugh. A short cough.
His hands on my body his hands on my body his hands on my body “So they
just tied you up and abandoned you here?”
“They said no one would ever find me. They said the building is made
entirely of concrete and reinforced steel and no one can break in. Warner was
supposed to come back for me when he was ready.” He stops. Looks at me.
“God, I’m so happy you’re okay.”
I offer him a smile. Try to keep my organs from falling out. Hope the holes
in my head aren’t showing.
He pauses when we reach the door. The metal is a mangled mess. It looks
like a wild animal attacked it and lost. “How did you—”
“I don’t know,” I admit. Try to shrug, be indifferent. “I just punched it.”
“You just punched it.”
“And kicked it a little.”
He’s smiling and I want to sob into his arms. I have to focus on his face. I
can’t let my eyes digest the travesty of his body.
“Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go do something illegal.”
I leave Adam in the shadows and dart up to the edge of the main road,
searching for abandoned vehicles. We have to travel up 3 different side streets
until we finally find one.
“How are you holding up?” I ask him, afraid to hear the answer.
He presses his lips together. Does something that looks like a nod. “Okay.”
That’s not good.
“Wait here.”
It’s pitch-black, not a single street lamp in sight. This is good. Also bad. It
gives me an extra edge, but makes me extra vulnerable to attack. I have to be
careful. I tiptoe up to the car.
I’m fully prepared to smash the glass open, but check the handle first. Just in
case.
The door is unlocked.
The keys are in the ignition.
There’s a bag of groceries in the backseat.
Someone must’ve panicked at the sound of the alarm and unexpected curfew.
They must’ve dropped everything and run for cover. Unbelievable. This would
be absolutely perfect if I had any idea how to drive.
I run back for Adam and help him hobble into the passenger side. As soon as
he sits down I can tell just how much pain he’s in. Bending his body in any way
at all. Putting pressure on his ribs. Straining his muscles. “It’s okay,” he tells me,
he lies to me. “I can’t stand on my feet for much longer.”
I reach into the back and rummage through the grocery bags. There’s real
food inside. Not just strange bouillon cubes designed to go into Automats, but
fruit and vegetables. Even Warner never gave us bananas.
I hand the yellow fruit to Adam. “Eat this.”
“I don’t think I can eat—” He pauses. Stares at the form in his hands. “Is this
what I think it is?”
“I think so.”
We don’t have time to process the impossibility. I peel it open for him.
Encourage him to take a small bite. I hope it’s a good thing. I heard bananas
have potassium. I hope he can keep it down.
I try to focus on the machine under my feet.
“How long do you think we’ll have until Warner finds us?” Adam asks.
I take a few bites of oxygen. “I don’t know.”
A pause. “How did you get away from him . . . ?”
I’m staring straight out the windshield when I answer. “I shot him.”
“No.” Surprise. Awe. Amazement.
I show him Warner’s gun. It has a special engraving in the hilt.
Adam is stunned. “So he’s . . . dead?”
“I don’t know,” I finally admit, ashamed. I drop my eyes, study the grooves
in the steering wheel. “I don’t know for sure.” I took too long to pull the trigger.
It was stiffer than I expected it to be. Harder to hold the gun between my hands
than I’d imagined. Warner was already dropping me when the bullet flew into
his body. I was aiming for his heart.
I hope to God I didn’t miss.
We’re both too quiet.
“Adam?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know how to drive.”
Chapter Forty-One
“You’re lucky this isn’t a stick shift.” He tries to laugh.
“Stick shift?”
“Manual transmission.”
“What’s that?”
“A little more complicated.”
I bite my lip. “Do you remember where we left James and Kenji?” I don’t
even want to consider the possibility that they’ve moved. Been discovered.
Anything. I can’t fathom the idea.
“Yes.” I know he’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking.
“How do I get there?”
Adam tells me the right pedal is for gas. The left is to brake. I have to shift
into D for drive. I use the steering wheel to turn. There are mirrors to help see
behind me. I can’t turn on my headlights and will have to rely on the moon to
light my way.
I turn on the ignition, press the brake, shift into drive. Adam’s voice is the
only navigation system I need. I release the brake. Press the gas. Nearly crash
into a wall.
This is how we finally get back to the abandoned building.
Gas. Brake. Gas. Brake. Too much gas. Too much brake. Adam doesn’t
complain and it’s almost worse. I can only imagine what my driving is doing for
his injuries. I’m grateful that at least we’re not dead, not yet.
I don’t know why no one has spotted us. I wonder if maybe Warner really is
dead. I wonder if everything is in chaos. I wonder if that’s why there are no
soldiers in this city. They’ve all disappeared.
I think.
I almost forget to put the car in park when we reach the vaguely familiar
broken building. Adam has to reach over and do it for me. I help him transition
into the backseat, and he asks me why.
“Because I’m making Kenji drive, and I don’t want your brother to have to
see you like this. It’s dark enough that he won’t see your body. I don’t think he
should have to see you hurt.”
He nods after an infinite moment. “Thank you.”
And I’m running toward the broken building. Pulling the door open. I can
only barely make out two figures in the dark. I blink and they come into focus.
James is asleep with his head in Kenji’s lap. The duffel bags are open, cans of
food discarded on the floor. They’re okay.
Thank God they’re okay.
I could die of relief.
Kenji pulls James up and into his arms, struggling a little under the weight.
His face is smooth, serious, unflinching. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t say
anything stupid. He studies my eyes like he already knows, like he already
understands why it took us so long to get back, like there’s only one reason why
I must look like hell right now, why I have blood all over my shirt. Probably on
my face. All over my hands. “How is he?”
And I nearly lose it right there. “I need you to drive.”
He takes a tight breath. Nods several times. “My right leg is still good,” he
says to me, but I don’t think I’d care even if it weren’t. We need to get to his
safe place, and my driving isn’t going to get us anywhere.
Kenji settles a sleeping James into the passenger side, and I’m so happy he’s
not awake for this moment.
I grab the duffel bags and carry them to the backseat. Kenji slides in front.
Looks in the rearview mirror. “Good to see you alive, Kent.”
Adam almost smiles. Shakes his head. “Thank you for taking care of James.”
“You trust me now?”
A small sigh. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take a maybe.” He grins. Turns on the car. “Let’s get the hell out of
here.”
Adam is shaking.
His bare body is finally cracking under the cold weather, the hours of torture,
the strain of holding himself together for so long. I’m scrambling through the
duffel bags, searching for a coat, but all I find are shirts and sweaters. I don’t
know how to get them on his body without causing him pain.
I decide to cut them up. I take the butterfly knife to a few of his sweaters and
slice them open, draping them around his figure like a blanket. I glance up.
“Kenji—does this car have a heater?”
“It’s on, but it’s pretty crappy. It’s not working very well.”
“How much longer until we get there?”
“Not too much.”
“Have you seen anyone that might be following us?”
“No.” He pauses. “It’s weird. I don’t understand why no one has noticed a
car flying through these streets after curfew. Something’s not right.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t know what it is, but obviously my tracker serum isn’t working.
Either they really just don’t give a shit about me, or it’s legit not working, and I
don’t know why.”
A tiny detail sits on the outskirts of my consciousness. I examine it. “Didn’t
you say you slept in a shed? That night you ran away?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Where was it . . . ?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Some huge field. It was weird. Crazy shit growing
in that place. I almost ate something I thought was fruit before I realized it
smelled like ass.”
My breath catches. “It was an empty field? Barren? Totally abandoned?”
“Yeah.”
“The nuclear field,” Adam says, a dawning realization in his voice.
“What nuclear field?” Kenji asks.
I take a moment to explain.
“Holy crap.” Kenji grips the steering wheel. “So I could’ve died? And I
didn’t?”
I ignore him. “But then how did they find us? How did they figure out where
you live—?”
“I don’t know,” Adam sighs. Closes his eyes. “Maybe Kenji is lying to us.”
“Come on, man, what the hell—”
“Or,” Adam interrupts, “maybe they bought out Benny.”
“No.” I gasp.
“It’s possible.”
We’re all silent for a long moment. I try to look out the window but it’s very
nearly useless. The night sky is a vat of tar suffocating the world around us.
I turn to Adam and find him with his head tilted back, his hands clenched,
his lips almost white in the blackness. I wrap the sweaters more tightly around
his body. He stifles a shudder.
“Adam . . .” I brush a strand of hair away from his forehead. His hair has
gotten a little long and I realize I’ve never really paid attention to it before. It’s
been cropped short since the day he stepped into my cell. I never would’ve
thought his dark hair would be so soft. Like melted chocolate. I wonder when he
stopped cutting it.
He flexes his jaw. Pries his lips open. Lies to me over and over again. “I’m
okay.”
“Kenji—”
“Five minutes, I promise—I’m trying to gun this thing—”
I touch his wrists, trace the tender skin with my fingertips. The bloodied
scars. I kiss the palm of his hand. He takes a broken breath. “You’re going to be
okay,” I tell him.
His eyes are still closed. He tries to nod.
“Why didn’t you tell me you two were together?” Kenji asks unexpectedly.
His voice is even, neutral.
“What?” Now is not the time to be blushing.
Kenji sighs. I catch a glimpse of his eyes in the rearview mirror. The
swelling is almost completely gone. His face is healing. “I’d have to be blind to
miss something like that. I mean, hell, just the way he looks at you. It’s like the
guy has never seen a woman in his life. Like putting food in front of a starving
man and telling him he can’t eat it.”
Adam’s eyes fly open. I try to read him but he won’t look at me.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Kenji says again.
“I never had a chance to ask,” Adam answers. His voice is less than a
whisper. His energy levels are dropping too fast. I don’t want him to have to
talk. He needs to conserve his strength.
“Wait—are you talking to me or her?” Kenji glances back at us.
“We can discuss this later—,” I try to say, but Adam shakes his head.
“I told James without asking you. I made . . . an assumption.” He stops. “I
shouldn’t have. You should have a choice. You should always have a choice.
And it’s your choice if you want to be with me.”
“Hey, so, I’m just going to pretend like I can’t hear you guys anymore,
okay?” Kenji makes a random motion with his hand. “Go ahead and have your
moment.”
But I’m too busy studying Adam’s eyes, his soft soft lips. His furrowed
brow.
I lean into his ear, lower my voice. Whisper the words so only he can hear
me.
“You’re going to get better,” I promise him. “And when you do, I’m going to
show you exactly what choice I’ve made. I’m going to memorize every inch of
your body with my lips.”
He exhales suddenly, shaky, uneven. Swallows hard.
His eyes are burning into me. He looks almost feverish, and I wonder if I’m
making things worse.
I pull back and he stops me. Rests his hand on my thigh. “Don’t go,” he says.
“Your touch is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“We’re here, and it’s nighttime. So according to my calculations, we must not
have done anything stupid.”
Kenji shifts into park. We’re underground again, in some kind of elaborate
parking garage. One minute we were aboveground, the next we’ve disappeared
into a ditch. It’s next to impossible to locate, much less to spot in the darkness.
Kenji was telling the truth about this hideout.
I’ve been busy trying to keep Adam awake for the past few minutes. His
body is fighting exhaustion, blood loss, hunger, a million different points of
pain. I feel so utterly useless.
“Adam has to go straight to the medical wing,” Kenji announces.
“They have a medical wing?” My heart is parasailing in the springtime.
Kenji grins. “This place has everything. It will blow your goddamn mind.”
He hits a switch on the ceiling. A faint light illuminates the old sedan. Kenji
steps out the door. “Wait here—I’ll get someone to bring out a stretcher.”
“What about James?”
“Oh.” Kenji’s mouth twitches. “He, uh—he’s going to be asleep for a little
while longer.”
“What do you mean . . . ?”
He clears his throat. Once. Twice. Smooths out the wrinkles in his shirt. “I,
uh, may or may not have given him something to . . . ease the pain of this
journey.”
“You gave a ten-year-old a sleeping pill?” I’m afraid I’m going to break his
neck.
“Would you rather he were awake for all of this?”
“Adam is going to kill you.”
Kenji glances at Adam’s drooping lids. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m lucky he
won’t be able to kill me tonight.” He hesitates. Ducks into the car to run his
fingers through James’s hair. Smiles a little. “The kid is a saint. He’ll be perfect
in the morning.”
“I can’t believe you—”
“Hey, hey—” He holds up his hands. “Trust me. He’s going to be just fine. I
just didn’t want him to be any more traumatized than he had to be.” He shrugs.
“Hell, maybe Adam will agree with me.”
“I’m going to murder you.” Adam’s voice is a soft mumble.
Kenji laughs. “Keep it together, bro, or I’ll think you don’t really mean it.”
Kenji disappears.
I watch Adam, encourage him to stay awake. Tell him he’s almost safe.
Touch my lips to his forehead. Study every shadow, every outline, every cut and
bruise of his face. His muscles relax, his features lose their tension. He exhales a
little more easily. I kiss his top lip. Kiss his bottom lip. Kiss his cheeks. His
nose. His chin.
Everything happens so quickly after that.
4 people run out toward the car. 2 older than me, 2 older than them. A pair of
men. A pair of women. “Where is he?” the older woman asks. They’re all
looking around, anxious. I wonder if they can see me staring at them.
Kenji opens Adam’s door. Kenji is no longer smiling. In fact, he looks . . .
different. Stronger. Faster. Taller, even. He’s in control. A figure of authority.
These people know him.
Adam is lifted onto the stretcher and assessed immediately. Everyone is
talking at once. Something about broken ribs. Something about losing blood.
Something about airways and lung capacity and what happened to his wrists?
Something about checking his pulse and how long has he been bleeding? The
young male and female glance in my direction. They’re all wearing strange
outfits.
Strange suits. All white with gray stripes down the side. I wonder if it’s a
medical uniform.
They’re carrying Adam away.
“Wait—” I trip out of the car. “Wait! I want to go with him—”
“Not now.” Kenji stops me. Softens. “You can’t be with him for what they
need to do. Not now.”
“What do you mean? What are they going to do to him?” The world is fading
in and out of focus, shades of gray flickering as stilted frames, broken
movements. Suddenly nothing makes sense. Suddenly everything is confusing
me. Suddenly my head is a piece of pavement and I’m being trampled to death. I
don’t know where we are. I don’t know who Kenji is. Kenji was Adam’s friend.
Adam knows him. Adam. My Adam. Adam who is being taken away from me
and I can’t go with him and I want to go with him but they won’t let me go with
him and I don’t know why—
“They’re going to help him—Juliette—I need you to focus. You can’t fall
apart right now. I know it’s been a crazy day—but I need you to stay calm.” His
voice. So steady. So suddenly articulate.
“Who are you . . . ?” I’m beginning to panic. I want to grab James and run
but I can’t. He’s done something to James and even if I knew how to wake him
up, I can’t touch him. I want to rip my nails out. “Who are you—”
Kenji sighs. “You’re starving. You’re exhausted. You’re processing shock
and a million other emotions right now. Be logical. I’m not going to hurt you.
You’re safe now. Adam is safe. James is safe.”
“I want to be with him—I want to see what they’re going to do to him—”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“What are you going to do to me? Why did you bring me here . . . ?” My
eyes are wide, darting in every direction. I’m spinning, stranded in the middle of
the ocean of my own imagination and I don’t know how to swim. “What do you
want from me?”
Kenji looks down. Rubs his forehead. Reaches into his pocket. “I really
didn’t want to have to do this.”
I think I’m screaming.
Chapter Forty-Three
I’m an old creaky staircase when I wake up.
Someone has scrubbed me clean. My skin is like satin. My eyelashes are
soft, my hair is smooth, brushed out of its knots; it gleams in the artificial light, a
chocolate river lapping the pale shore of my skin, soft waves cascading around
my collarbone. My joints ache; my eyes burn from an insatiable exhaustion. My
body is naked under a heavy sheet. I’ve never felt so pristine.
I’m too tired to be bothered by it.
My sleepy eyes take inventory of the space I’m in, but there’s not much to
consider. I’m lying in bed. There are 4 walls. 1 door. A small table beside me. A
glass of water on the table. Fluorescent lights humming above me. Everything is
white.
Everything I’ve ever known is changing.
I reach for the glass of water and the door opens. I pull the sheet up as high
as it will go.
“How are you feeling?”
A tall man is wearing plastic glasses. Black frames. A simple sweater.
Pressed pants. His sandy-blond hair falls into his eyes.
He’s holding a clipboard.
“Who are you?”
He grabs a chair I hadn’t noticed was sitting in the corner. Pushes it forward.
Sits down beside my bed. “Do you feel dizzy? Disoriented?”
“Where’s Adam?”
He’s holding his pen to a sheet of paper. Writing something down. “Do you
spell your last name with two rs? Or just one?”
“What did you do with James? Where’s Kenji?”
He stops. Looks up. He can’t be more than 30. He has a crooked nose. A day
of scruff. “Can I at least make sure you’re doing all right? Then I’ll answer your
questions. I promise. Just let me get through the basic protocol here.”
I blink.
How do I feel. I don’t know.
Did I have any dreams. I don’t think so.
Do I know where I am. No.
Do I think I’m safe. I don’t know.
Do I remember what happened. Yes.
How old am I. 17.
What color are my eyes. I don’t know.
“You don’t know?” He puts down his pen. Takes off his glasses. “You can
remember exactly what happened yesterday, but you don’t know the color of
your own eyes?”
“I think they’re green. Or blue. I’m not sure. Why does it matter?”
“I want to be sure you can recognize yourself. That you haven’t lost sight of
your person.”
“I’ve never really known my eye color, though. I’ve only looked in the
mirror once in the last three years.”
The stranger stares at me, his eyes crinkled in concern. I finally have to look
away.
“How did you touch me?” I ask.
“I’m sorry?”
“My body. My skin. I’m so . . . clean.”
“Oh.” He bites his thumb. Marks something on his papers. “Right. Well, you
were covered in blood and filth when you came in, and you had some minor cuts
and bruises. We didn’t want to risk infection. Sorry for the personal intrusion—
but we can’t allow anyone to bring that kind of bacteria in here. We had to do a
superficial detox.”
“That’s fine—I understand,” I hurry on. “But how?”
“Excuse me?”
“How did you touch me?” Surely he must know. How could he not know?
God I hope he knows.
“Oh—” He nods, distracted by the words he’s scribbling on his clipboard.
Squints at the page. “Latex.”
“What?”
“Latex.” He glances up for a second. Sees my confusion. “Gloves?”
“Right.” Of course. Gloves. Even Warner used gloves until he figured it out.
Until he figured it out. Until he figured it out. Until he figured it out.
I replay the moment over and over and over in my mind. The split second I
took too long to jump from the window. The moment of hesitation that changed
everything. The instant I lost all control. All power. Any point of dominance.
He’s never going to stop until he finds me and it’s my own fault.
I need to know if he’s dead.
I have to force myself to be still. I have to force myself not to shake,
shudder, or vomit. I need to change the subject. “Where are my clothes?” I toy
with the perfect white sheet hiding my bones.
“They’ve been destroyed for the same reasons you needed to be sanitized.”
He picks up his glasses. Slips them on. “We have a special suit for you. I think
it’ll make your life a lot easier.”
“A special suit?” I look up. Part my lips in surprise.
“Yes. We’ll get to that part a bit later.” He pauses. Smiles. There’s a dimple
in his chin. “You’re not going to attack me like you did Kenji, are you?”
“I attacked Kenji?” I cringe.
“Just a little bit.” He shrugs. “At least now we know he’s not immune to
your touch.”
“I touched him?” I sit up straight and nearly forget to pull my sheet up with
me. I’m burning from head to toe, blushing through my mind, clutching at the
sheet like a lifeline. “I’m so sorry—”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate the apology.” Blondie is studying his notes
religiously, suddenly fascinated by his own handwriting. “But it’s all right.
We’ve been expecting some destructive tendencies. You’ve been having one hell
of a week.”
“Are you a psychologist?”
“Sort of.” He brushes the hair away from his forehead.
“Sort of?”
He laughs. Pauses. Rolls the pen between his fingers. “Yes. For all intents
and purposes, I am a psychologist. Sometimes.”
“What is that supposed to mean . . . ?”
He parts his lips. Presses them shut. Seems to consider answering me but
examines me instead. He stares for so long I feel my face go hot. He starts
scribbling furiously.
“What am I doing here?” I ask him.
“Recovering.”
“How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been asleep for almost fourteen hours. We gave you a pretty
powerful sedative.” Looks at his watch. “You seem to be doing well.” Hesitates.
“You look very well, actually. Stunning, really.”
I have a handful of scrambled words in my mouth. A blush flushing up my
face. “Where’s Adam?”
He takes a deep breath. Underlines something on his papers. His lips twitch
into a smile.
“Where is he?”
“Recovering.” He finally looks up.
“He’s okay?”
Nods. “He’s okay.”
I stare at him. “What does that mean?”
2 knocks at the door.
The bespectacled stranger doesn’t move. He rereads his notes. “Come in,” he
calls.
Kenji walks inside, a little hesitant at first. He peeks at me, his eyes cautious.
I never thought I’d be so happy to see him. But while it’s a relief to see a face I
recognize, my stomach immediately twists into a knot of guilt, knocking me over
from the inside. I wonder how badly I must’ve hurt him. He steps forward.
My guilt disappears.
I look more closely and realize he’s perfectly unharmed. His leg is working
fine. His face is back to normal. His eyes are no longer puffy, his forehead is
repaired, smooth, untouched. He was right.
He does have a spectacular face.
A defiant jawline. Perfect eyebrows. Eyes as pitch-black as his hair. Sleek.
Strong. A bit dangerous.
“Hey, beautiful.”
“I’m sorry I almost killed you,” I blurt out.
“Oh.” He startles. Shoves his hands into his pockets. “Well. Glad we got that
out of the way.” I notice he’s wearing a destroyed T-shirt. Dark jeans. I haven’t
seen anyone wear jeans in such a long time. Army uniforms, cotton basics, and
fancy dresses are all I’ve known lately.
I can’t really look at him. “I panicked,” I try to explain. I clasp and unclasp
my fingers.
“I figured.” He cocks an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
I nod. “You look better.”
He cracks a grin. Stretches. Leans against the wall, arms crossed at his chest,
legs crossed at the ankles. “This must be difficult for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Looking at my face. Realizing I was right. Realizing you made the wrong
decision.” He shrugs. “I understand. I’m not a proud man, you know. I’d be
willing to forgive you.”
I gape at him, unsure whether to laugh or throw something. “Don’t make me
touch you.”
He shakes his head. “It’s incredible how someone can look so right and feel
so wrong. Kent is a lucky bastard.”
“I’m sorry—” Psychologist-man stands up. “Are you two finished here?” He
looks to Kenji. “I thought you had a purpose.”
Kenji pushes off the wall. Straightens his back. “Right. Yeah. Castle wants to
meet her.”
Chapter Forty-Four
“Now?” Blondie is more confused than I am. “But I’m not done examining her.”
Kenji shrugs. “He wants to meet her.”
“Who’s Castle?” I ask.
Blondie and Kenji look at me. Kenji looks away. Blondie doesn’t.
He cocks his head. “Kenji didn’t tell you anything about this place?”
“No.” I falter, uncertain, glancing at Kenji, who won’t look at me. “He never
explained anything. He said he knew someone who had a safe place and thought
he could help us—”
Blondie gapes. Laughs so hard he snorts. Stands up. Cleans his glasses with
the hem of his shirt. “You’re such an ass,” he says to Kenji. “Why didn’t you
just tell her the truth?”
“She never would’ve come if I told her the truth.”
“How do you know?”
“She nearly killedme—”
My eyes are darting from one face to the other. Blond hair to black hair and
back again. “What is going on?” I demand. “I want to see Adam. I want to see
James. And I want a set of clothes—”
“You’re naked?” Kenji is suddenly studying my sheet and not bothering to
be subtle about it.
I flush despite my best efforts, flustered, frustrated. “Blondie said they
destroyed my clothes.”
“Blondie?” Blond man is offended.
“You never told me your name.”
“Winston. My name is Winston.” He’s not smiling anymore.
“Didn’t you say you had a suit for me?”
He frowns. Checks his watch. “We won’t have time to go through that right
now.” Sighs. “Get her something to wear temporarily, will you?” He’s talking to
Kenji. Kenji who is still staring at me.
“I want to see Adam.”
“Adam isn’t ready to see you yet.” Blondie Winston tucks his pen into a
pocket. “We’ll let you know when he’s ready.”
“How am I supposed to trust any of you if you won’t even let me see him? If
you won’t let me see James? I don’t even have my basic things. I want to get out
of this bed and I need something to wear.”
“Go fetch, Moto.” Winston is readjusting his watch.
“I’m not your dog, Blondie,” Kenji snaps. “And I told you not to call me
Moto.”
Winston pinches the bridge of his nose. “No problem. I’ll also tell Castle it’s
your fault she’s not meeting with him right now.”
Kenji mutters something obscene under his breath. Stalks off. Almost slams
the door.
A few seconds pass in a strained sort of silence.
I take a deep breath. “So what’s moto mean?”
Winston rolls his eyes. “Nothing. It’s just a nickname—his last name is
Kishimoto. He gets mad when we chop it in half. Gets sensitive about it.”
“Well why do you chop it in half?”
He snorts. “Because it’s hard as hell to pronounce.”
“How is that an excuse?”
He frowns. “What?”
“You got mad that I called you Blondie and not Winston. Why doesn’t he
have the right to be mad that you’re calling him Moto instead of Kenji?”
He mumbles something that sounds like, “It’s not the same thing.”
I slide down a little. Rest my head on the pillow. “Don’t be a hypocrite.”
Chapter Forty-Five
I feel like a clown in these oversized clothes. I’m wearing someone else’s Tshirt. Someone else’s pajama pants. Someone else’s slippers. Kenji says they had
to destroy the clothes in my duffel bag, too, so I have no idea whose outfit is
currently hanging on my frame. I’m practically swimming in the material.
I try to knot the extra fabric and Kenji stops me. “You’re going to mess up
my shirt,” he complains.
I drop my hands. “You gave me your clothes?”
“Well what did you expect? It’s not like we have extra dresses just lying
around.” He shoots me a look, like I should be grateful he’s even sharing.
Well. I guess it’s better than being naked. “So who’s Castle again?”
“He’s in charge of everything,” Kenji tells me. “The head of this entire
movement.”
My ears snap off. “Movement?”
Winston sighs. He seems so uptight. I wonder why. “If Kenji hasn’t already
told you anything, you should probably wait to hear it from Castle himself. Hang
tight. I promise we’re going to answer your questions.”
“But what about Adam? Where is James—”
“Wow.” Winston runs a hand through his floppy hair. “You’re just not going
to give it up, huh?”
“He’s fine, Juliette,” Kenji intervenes. “He needs a little more time to
recover. You have to start trusting us. No one here is going to hurt you, or
Adam, or James. They’re both fine. Everything is fine.”
But I don’t know if fine is good enough.
We’re walking through an entire city underground, hallways and passageways,
smooth stone floors, rough walls left untouched. There are circular disks drilled
into the ground, glowing with artificial light every few feet. I notice computers,
all kinds of gadgets I don’t recognize, doors cracked open to reveal rooms filled
with nothing but technological machinery.
“How do you find the electricity necessary to run this place?” I look more
closely at the unidentifiable machines, the flickering screens, the unmistakable
humming of hundreds of computers built into the framework of this underground
world.
Kenji tugs on a stray strand of my hair. I spin around. “We steal it.” He grins.
Nods down a narrow path. “This way.”
People both young and old and of all different shapes and ethnicities shuffle
in and out of rooms, all along the halls. Many of them stare, many of them are
too distracted to notice us. Some of them are dressed like the men and women
who rushed out to our car last night. It’s an odd kind of uniform. It seems
unnecessary.
“So . . . everyone dresses like that?” I whisper, gesturing to the passing
strangers as inconspicuously as possible.
Kenji scratches his head. Takes his time answering. “Not everyone. Not all
the time.”
“What about you?” I ask him.
“Not today.”
I decide not to indulge his cryptic tendencies, and instead ask a more
straightforward question. “So are you ever going to tell me how you healed so
quickly?”
“Yes,” Kenji says, unfazed. “We’re going to tell you a lot of things,
actually.” We make an abrupt turn down an unexpected hallway. “But first—”
Kenji pauses outside of a huge wooden door. “Castle wants to meet you. He’s
the one who requested you.”
“Requested—?”
“Yeah.” Kenji looks uncomfortable for just a wavering second.
“Wait—what do you mean—”
“I mean it wasn’t an accident that I ended up in the army, Juliette.” He sighs.
“It wasn’t an accident that I showed up at Adam’s door. And I wasn’t supposed
to get shot or get beaten half to death, but I did. Only I wasn’t dropped off by
some random dude.” He almost grins. “I’ve always known where Adam lived. It
was my job to know.” A pause. “We’ve all been looking for you.”
My mouth is sitting on my kneecaps.
“Go ahead.” Kenji pushes me inside. “He’ll be out when he’s ready.”
“Good luck,” is all Winston says to me.
1,320 seconds walk into the room before he does.
He moves methodically, his face a mask of neutrality as he brushes wayward
dreadlocks into a ponytail and seats himself at the front of the room. He’s thin,
fit, impeccably dressed in a simple suit. Dark blue. White shirt. No tie. There are
no lines on his face, but there’s a streak of silver in his hair and his eyes confess
he’s lived at least 100 years. He must be in his 40s. I look around.
It’s an empty space, impressive in its sparseness. The floors and ceilings are
built by bricks carefully pieced together. Everything feels old and ancient, but
somehow modern technology is keeping this place alive. Artificial lighting
illuminates the cavernous dimensions, small monitors are built into the stone
walls. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what to expect. I have no
idea what kind of person Castle is but after spending so much time with Warner,
I’m trying not to get my hopes up. I don’t even realize I’ve stopped breathing
until he speaks.
“I hope you’re enjoying your stay so far.”
My neck snaps up to meet his dark eyes, his smooth voice, silky and strong.
His eyes are glinting with genuine curiosity, a smattering of surprise. I’ve
forgotten I know how to speak.
“Kenji said you wanted to meet me,” is the only response I offer.
“Kenji would be correct.” He takes his time breathing. He takes his time
shifting in his seat. He takes his time studying my eyes, choosing his words,
touching two fingers to his lips. He seems to have dominated the concept of
time. Impatience is likely not a word in his vocabulary. “I’ve heard . . . stories.
About you.” Smiles. “I simply wanted to know if they were true.”
“What have you heard?”
He smiles with teeth so white it looks like snow falling on the chocolate
valleys of his face. He opens his hands. Studies them for a moment. Looks up.
“You can kill a man with nothing but your bare skin. You can crush five feet of
concrete with the palm of your hand.”
I’m climbing a mountain of air and my feet keep slipping. I need to get a grip
on something.
“Is it true?” he asks.
“Rumors are more likely to kill you than I am.”
He studies me for too long. “I’d like to show you something,” he says after a
moment.
“I want answers to my questions.” This has gone on too long. I don’t want to
be lulled into a false sense of security. I don’t want to assume Adam and James
are okay. I don’t want to trust anyone until I have proof. I can’t pretend like any
of this is all right. Not yet. “I want to know that I’m safe,” I tell him. “And I
want to know that my friends are safe. There was a ten-year-old boy with us
when we arrived and I want to see him. I need to make certain he is healthy and
unharmed. I won’t cooperate otherwise.”
His eyes inspect me a few moments longer. “Your loyalty is refreshing,” he
says, and he means it. “You will do well here.”
“My friends—”
“Yes. Of course.” He’s on his feet. “Follow me.”
This place is far more complex, far more organized than I’d ever imagined it
to be. There are hundreds of different directions to get lost in, almost as many
rooms, some bigger than others, each dedicated to different pursuits.
“The dining hall,” Castle says to me.
“The dormitories.” On the opposite wing.
“The training facilities.” Down that hall.
“The common rooms.” Right through here.
“The bathrooms.” On either end of the floor.
“The meeting halls.” Just past that door.
Each space is buzzing with bodies, each body adapted to a particular routine.
People look up when they see us. Some wave, smile, delighted. I realize they’re
all looking at Castle. He nods his head. His eyes are kind, humble. His smile is
strong, reassuring.
He’s the leader of this entire movement, is what Kenji said. These people are
depending on him for something more than basic survival. This is more than a
fallout shelter. This is much more than a hiding space. There is a greater goal in
mind. A greater purpose.
“Welcome,” Castle says to me, gesturing with one hand, “to Omega Point.”
Chapter Forty-Six
“Omega Point?”
“The last letter in the Greek alphabet. The final development, the last in a
series.” He stops in front of me and for the first time I notice the omega symbol
stitched into the back of his jacket. “We are the only hope our civilization has
left.”
“But how—with such small numbers—how can you possibly hope to
compete—”
“We’ve been building for a long time, Juliette.” It’s the first time he’s said
my name. His voice is strong, smooth, stable. “We’ve been planning, organizing,
mapping out our strategy for many years now. The collapse of our human
society should not come as a surprise. We brought it upon ourselves.
“The question wasn’t whether things would fall apart,” he continues. “Only
when. It was a waiting game. A question of who would try to take power and
how they would try to use it. Fear,” he says to me, turning back for just a
moment, his footsteps silent against the stone, “is a great motivator.”
“That’s pathetic.”
“I agree. Which is why part of my job is reviving the stalled hearts that’ve
lost all hope.” We turn into another corridor. “And to tell you that almost
everything you’ve learned about the state of our world is a lie.”
I stop in place. Nearly fall over. “What do you mean?”
“I mean things are not nearly as bad as The Reestablishment wants us to
think they are.”
“But there’s no food—”
“That they give you access to.”
“The animals—”
“Are kept hidden. Genetically modified. Raised on secret pastures.”
“But the air—the seasons—the weather—”
“Is not as bad as they’ll have us believe. It’s probably our only real problem
—but it’s one caused by the perverse manipulations of Mother Earth. Man-made
manipulations that we can still fix.” He turns to face me. Focuses my mind with
one steady gaze.
“There is still a chance to change things. We can provide fresh drinking
water to all people. We can make sure crops are not regulated for profit; we can
ensure that they are not genetically altered to benefit manufacturers. Our people
are dying because we are feeding them poison. Animals are dying because we
are forcing them to eat waste, forcing them to live in their own filth, caging them
together and abusing them. Plants are withering away because we are dumping
chemicals into the earth that make them hazardous to our health. But these are
things we can fix.
“We are fed lies because believing them makes us weak, vulnerable,
malleable. We depend on others for our food, health, sustenance. This cripples
us. Creates cowards of our people. Slaves of our children. It’s time for us to fight
back.” His eyes are bright with feeling, his fists clenched in fervor. His words
are powerful, heavy with conviction, articulate and meaningful. I have no doubt
he’s swayed many people with such fanciful thoughts. Hope for a future that
seems lost. Inspiration in a bleak world with nothing to offer. He is a natural
leader. A talented orator.
I have a hard time believing him.
“How can you know for certain that your theories are correct? Do you have
proof?”
His hands relax. His eyes quiet down. His lips form a small smile. “Of
course.” He almost laughs.
“Why is that funny?”
He shakes his head. Just a bit. “I’m amused by your skepticism. I admire it,
actually. It’s never a good idea to believe everything you hear.”
I catch his double meaning. Acknowledge it. “Touché, Mr. Castle.”
A pause. “You are French, Ms. Ferrars?”
“My mother, perhaps.” I look away. “So where is your proof?”
“This entire movement is proof enough. We survive because of these truths.
We seek out food and supplies from the various storage compounds The
Reestablishment has constructed. We’ve found their fields, their farms, their
animals. They have hundreds of acres dedicated to crops. The farmers are slaves,
working under the threat of death to themselves or their family members. The
rest of society is either killed or corralled into sectors, sectioned off to be
monitored, carefully surveyed.”
I keep my face blank, smooth, neutral. I still haven’t decided whether or not I
believe him. “And what do you need with me? Why do you care if I’m here?”
He stops at a glass wall. Points through to the room beyond. Doesn’t answer
my question. “Your Adam is healing because of our people.”
I nearly trip in my haste to see him. I press my hands against the glass and
peer into the brightly lit space. Adam is asleep, his face perfect, peaceful. This
must be the medical wing.
“Look closely,” Castle tells me. “There are no needles attached to his body.
No machines keeping him alive. He arrived with three broken ribs. Lungs close
to collapsing. A bullet in his thigh. His kidneys were bruised along with the rest
of his body. Broken skin, bloodied wrists. A sprained ankle. He’d lost more
blood than most hospitals would be able to replenish.”
My heart is about to fall out of my body. I want to break through the glass
and cradle him in my arms.
“There are close to two hundred people at Omega Point,” Castle says. “Less
than half of whom have some kind of gift.”
I spin around, stunned.
“I brought you here,” he says to me carefully, quietly, “because this is where
you belong. Because you need to know that you are not alone.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
My jaw is dangling from my shoelace.
“You would be invaluable to our resistance,” he tells me.
“There are others . . . like me?” I can hardly breathe.
Castle offers me eyes that empathize with my soul. “I was the first to realize
my affliction could not be mine alone. I sought out others, following rumors,
listening for stories, reading the newspapers for abnormalities in human
behavior. At first it was just for companionship.” He pauses. “I was tired of the
insanity. Of believing I was inhuman; a monster. But then I realized that what
seemed a weakness was actually a strength. That together we could be
something extraordinary. Something good.”
I can’t catch my breath. I can’t find my feet. I can’t cough up the
impossibility caught in my throat.
Castle is waiting for my reaction.
I feel so nervous so suddenly. “What is your . . . gift?” I ask him.
His smile disarms my insecurity. He holds out his hand. Cocks his head. I
hear the creak of a distant door opening. The sound of air and metal; movement.
I turn toward the sound only to see something hurtling in my direction. I duck.
Castle laughs. Catches it in his hand.
I gasp.
He shows me the key now caught between his fingers.
“You can move things with your mind?” I don’t even know where I found
the words to speak.
“I have an impossibly advanced level of psychokinesis.” He twists his lips
into a smile. “So yes.”
“There’s a name for it?” I think I’m squeaking. I try to steady myself.
“For my condition? Yes. For yours?” He pauses. “I’m uncertain.”
“And the others—what—they’re—”
“You can meet them, if you’d like.”
“I—yes—I’d like that,” I stammer, excited, 4 years old and still believing in
fairies.
I freeze at a sudden sound.
Footsteps are pounding the stone. I catch the pant of strained breathing.
“Sir—” someone shouts.
Castle starts. Stills. Pivots around a corner toward the runner. “Brendan?”
“Sir!” he pants again.
“You have news? What have you seen?”
“We’re hearing things on the radio,” he begins, his broken words thick with
a British accent. “Our cameras are picking up more tanks patrolling the area than
usual. We think they may be getting closer—”
The sound of static energy. Static electricity. Garbled voices croaking
through a weak radio line.
Brendan curses under his breath. “Sorry, sir—it’s not usually this distorted—
I just haven’t learned to contain the charges lately—”
“Not to worry. You just need practice. Your training is going well?”
“Very well, sir. I have it almost entirely under my command.” Brendan
pauses. “For the most part.”
“Excellent. In the meantime, let me know if the tanks get any closer. I’m not
surprised to hear they’re getting a little more vigilant. Try to listen for any
mention of an attack. The Reestablishment has been trying to pinpoint our
whereabouts for years, but now we have someone particularly valuable to their
efforts and I’m certain they want her back. I have a feeling things are going to
develop rather quickly from now on.”
A moment of confusion. “Sir?”
“There’s someone I’d like for you to meet.”
Silence.
Brendan and Castle step around the corner. Come into view. And I have to
make a conscious effort to keep my jaw from unhinging. I can’t stop staring.
Castle’s companion is white from head to toe.
Not just his strange uniform, which is a blinding shade of shimmering white,
but his skin is paler than mine. Even his hair is so blond it can only be accurately
described as white. His eyes are mesmerizing. They’re the lightest shade of blue
I’ve ever seen. Piercing. Practically transparent. He looks to be my age.
He doesn’t seem real.
“Brendan, this is Juliette,” Castle introduces us. “She arrived just yesterday. I
was giving her an overview of Omega Point.”
Brendan’s smile is so bright I nearly flinch. He sticks out his hand and I
almost panic before he frowns. Pulls back, says, “Er, wait—sorry—,” and flexes
his hands. Cracks his knuckles. A few sparks fly out of his fingers. I’m gaping at
him.
He shrinks back. Smiles a bit sheepishly. “Sometimes I electrocute people by
accident.”
Something in my heavy armor snaps off. Melts away. I feel suddenly
understood. Unafraid of being myself. I can’t help my grin. “Don’t worry,” I tell
him. “If I shake your hand I might kill you.”
“Blimey.” He blinks. Stares. Waits for me to take it back. “You’re serious?”
“Very.”
He laughs. “Right then. No touching.” Leans in. Lowers his voice. “I have a
bit of a problem with that myself, you know. Girls are always talking about
electricity in their romance, but none are too happy to actually be electrocuted,
apparently. Bloody confusing, is what it is.” He shrugs.
My smile is wider than the Pacific Ocean. My heart is so full of relief,
comfort, acceptance. Adam was right. Maybe things can be okay. Maybe I don’t
have to be a monster. Maybe I do have a choice.
I think I’m going to like it here.
Brendan winks. “It was very nice meeting you, Juliette. I’ll be seeing you?”
I nod. “I think so.”
“Brilliant.” He shoots me another smile. Turns to Castle. “I’ll let you know if
I hear anything, sir.”
“Perfect.”
And Brendan disappears.
I turn to the glass wall keeping me from the other half of my heart. Press my
head against the cool surface. Wish he would wake up.
“Would you like to say hello?”
I look up at Castle, who is still studying me. Always analyzing me.
Somehow his attention doesn’t make me uncomfortable. “Yes,” I tell him. “I
want to say hello.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Castle uses the key in his hand to open the door.
“Why does the medical wing have to be locked?” I ask him.
He turns to me. He’s not very tall, I realize for the first time. “If you’d
known where to find him—would you have waited patiently behind this door?”
I drop my eyes. Don’t answer. Hope I’m not blushing.
He tries to be encouraging. “Healing is a delicate process. It can’t be
interrupted or influenced by erratic emotions. We’re lucky enough to have two
healers among us—a set of twins, in fact. But most fascinating is that they each
focus on a different element—one on the physical incapacitations, and one on
the mental. Both facets must be addressed, otherwise the healing will be
incomplete, weak, insufficient.” He turns the door handle. “But I think it’s safe
for Adam to see you now.”
I step inside and my senses are almost immediately assaulted by the scent of
jasmine. I search the space for the flowers but find none. I wonder if it’s a
perfume. It’s intoxicating.
“I’ll be just outside,” Castle says to me.
The room is filled with a long row of beds, simply made. All 20 or so of
them are empty except for Adam’s. There’s a door at the end of the room that
probably leads to another space, but I’m too nervous to be curious right now.
I pull up an extra chair and try to be as quiet as possible. I don’t want to
wake him, I just want to know he’s okay. I clasp and unclasp my hands. I’m too
aware of my racing heart. And I know I probably shouldn’t touch him, but I
can’t help myself. I cover his hand with mine. His fingers are warm.
His eyes flutter for just a moment. They don’t open. He takes a sudden
breath and I freeze.
I almost collapse into tears.
“What are you doing?”
My neck snaps at the sound of Castle’s panicked voice.
I drop Adam’s hand. Push away from the bed, eyes wide, worried. “What do
you mean?”
“Why are you—you just—you can touch him—?” I never thought I’d see
Castle so confused, so perplexed. He’s lost his composure, one arm half
extended in an effort to stop me.
“Of course I can tou—” I stop. Try to stay calm. “Kenji didn’t tell you?”
“This young man has immunity from your touch?” Castle’s words are
whispered, astonished.
“Yes.” I look from him to Adam, still sound asleep. So does Warner.
“That’s . . . astounding.”
“Is it?”
“Very.” Castle’s eyes are bright, so eager. “It certainly isn’t coincidence.
There is no coincidence in these kinds of situations.” He pauses. Paces.
“Fascinating. So many possibilities—so many theories—” He’s not even talking
to me anymore. His mind is working too quickly for me to keep up. He takes a
deep breath. Seems to remember I’m still in the room. “My apologies. Please,
carry on. The girls will be out soon—they’re assisting James at the moment. I
must report this new information as soon as possible.”
“Wait—”
He looks up. “Yes?”
“You have theories?” I ask him. “You—you know why these things are
happening . . . to me?”
“You mean to us?” Castle offers me a gentle smile.
I try not to blush. I manage to nod.
“We have been doing extensive research for years,” he says. “We think we
have a pretty good idea.”
“And?” I can hardly breathe.
“If you should decide to stay at Omega Point, we’ll have that conversation
very soon, I promise. Besides, I’m sure now is probably not the best time.” He
nods at Adam.
“Oh.” I feel my cheeks burn. “Of course.”
Castle turns to leave.
“But do you think that Adam—” The words tumble out of my mouth too
quickly. I try to pace myself. “Do you think he’s . . . like us, too?”
Castle pivots back around. Studies my eyes. “I think,” he says carefully,
“that it is entirely possible.”
I gasp.
“My apologies,” he says, “but I really must get going. And I wouldn’t want
to interrupt your time together.”
I want to say yes, sure, of course, absolutely. I want to smile and wave and
tell him it’s no problem. But I have so many questions, I think I might explode; I
want him to tell me everything he knows.
“I know this is a lot of information to take in at once.” Castle pauses at the
door. “But we’ll have plenty of opportunities to talk. You must be exhausted and
I’m sure you’d like to get some sleep. The girls will take care of you—they’re
expecting you. In fact, they’ll be your new roommates at Omega Point. I’m sure
they’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.” He clasps my
shoulders before he goes. “It’s an honor to have you with us, Ms. Ferrars. I hope
you will seriously consider joining us on a permanent basis.”
I nod, numb.
And he’s gone.
We have been doing extensive research for years, he said. We think we have
a pretty good idea, he said. We’ll have that conversation very soon, I promise.
For the first time in my life I might finally understand what I am and it
doesn’t seem possible. And Adam. Adam. I shake myself and take my seat next
to him. Squeeze his fingers. Castle could be wrong. Maybe this is all
coincidence.
I have to focus.
I wonder if anyone has heard from Warner lately.
“Juliette?”
His eyes are half open. He’s staring at me like he’s not sure if I’m real.
“Adam!” I have to force myself to be still.
He smiles and the effort seems to exhaust him. “God it’s good to see you.”
“You’re okay.” I grip his hand, resist pulling him into my arms. “You’re
really okay.”
His grin gets bigger. “I’m so tired. I feel like I could sleep for a few years.”
“Don’t worry, the sedative will wear off soon.”
I spin around. Two girls with exactly the same green eyes are staring at us.
They smile at the same time. Their long brown hair is thick and stick-straight in
high ponytails on their heads. They’re wearing matching silver bodysuits. Gold
ballet flats.
“I’m Sonya,” the girl on the left says.
“I’m Sara,” her sister adds.
I have no idea how to tell them apart.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” they say at exactly the same time.
“I’m Juliette,” I manage. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”
“Adam is almost ready for release,” one says to me.
“Sonya is an excellent healer,” the other one chimes in.
“Sara is better than I am,” says the first.
“He should be okay to leave just as soon as the sedative is out of his system,”
they say together, smiling.
“Oh—that’s great—thank you so much—” I don’t know who to look at.
Who to answer. I glance back at Adam. He seems thoroughly amused.
“Where’s James?” he asks.
“He’s playing with the other children.” I think it’s Sara who says it.
“We just took him on a bathroom break,” says the other.
“Would you like to see him?” Back to Sara.
“There are other children?” My eyes are as wide as my face.
The girls nod at the same time.
“We’ll go get him,” they chorus. And disappear.
“They seem nice,” Adam says after a moment.
“Yeah. They do.” This whole place seems nice.
Sonya and Sara come back with James, who seems happier than I’ve ever seen
him, almost happier than seeing Adam for the first time. He’s thrilled to be here.
Thrilled to be with the other kids, thrilled to be with “the pretty girls who take
care of me because they’re so nice and there’s so much food and they gave me
chocolate, Adam—have you ever tasted chocolate?” and he has a big bed and
tomorrow he’s going to class with the other kids and he’s already excited.
“I’m so happy you’re awake,” he says to Adam, practically jumping up and
down on his bed. “They said you got sick and that you were resting and now
you’re awake so that means you’re better, right? And we’re safe? I don’t really
remember what happened on our way here,” he admits, a little embarrassed. “I
think I fell asleep.”
I think Adam is looking to break Kenji’s neck at this point.
“Yeah, we’re safe,” Adam tells him, running a hand through his messy blond
hair. “Everything is okay.”
James runs back to the playroom with the other kids. Sonya and Sara invent
an excuse to leave so we have some privacy. I’m liking them more and more.
“Has anyone told you about this place yet?” Adam asks me. He manages to
sit up. His sheet slides down. His chest is exposed. His skin is perfectly healed—
I can hardly reconcile the image I have in my memory with the one in front of
me. I forget to answer his question.
“You have no scars.” I touch his skin like I need to feel it for myself.
He tries to smile. “They’re not very traditional in their medical practices
around here.”
I look up, startled. “You . . . know?”
“Did you meet Castle yet?”
I nod, bewildered.
He shifts. Sighs. “I’ve heard rumors about this place for a long time. I got
really good at listening to whispers, mostly because I was looking out for
myself. But in the army we hear things. Any and all kinds of enemy threats.
Possible ambushes. There was talk of an unusual underground movement from
the moment I enlisted. Most people said it was crap. That it was some kind of
garbage concocted to scare people—that there was no way it could be real. But I
always hoped it had some basis in truth, especially after I found out about you—
I hoped we’d be able to find others with similar abilities. But I didn’t know who
to ask. I had no connections—no way of knowing how to find them.” He shakes
his head. “And all this time, Kenji was working undercover.”
“He said he was looking for me.”
Adam nods. Laughs. “Just like I was looking for you. Just like Warner was
looking for you.”
“I don’t understand,” I mumble. “Especially now that I know there are others
like me—stronger, even—why did Warner want me?”
“He discovered you before Castle did,” Adam says. “He felt like he claimed
you a long time ago.” Adam leans back. “Warner’s a lot of things, but he’s not
stupid. I’m sure he knew there was some truth to those rumors—and he was
fascinated. Because as much as Castle wanted to use his abilities for good,
Warner wanted to manipulate those abilities for his own cause. He wanted to
become some kind of superpower.” A pause. “He invested a lot of time and
energy just studying you. I don’t think he wanted to let that effort go to waste.”
“Adam,” I whisper.
He takes my hand. “Yeah?”
“I don’t think he’s dead.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
“He’s not.”
Adam turns. Frowns at the voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Wow. What a greeting, Kent. Be careful not to pull a muscle thanking me
for saving your ass.”
“You lied to all of us.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You sedated my ten-year-old brother!”
“You’re still welcome.”
“Hey, Kenji.” I acknowledge him.
“My clothes look good on you.” He steps a bit closer, smiles.
I roll my eyes. Adam examines my outfit for the first time.
“I didn’t have anything else to wear,” I explain.
Adam nods a little slowly. Looks at Kenji. “Did you have a message to
deliver?”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to show you where you’ll be staying.”
“What do you mean?”
Kenji grins. “You and James are going to be my new roommates.”
Adam swears under his breath.
“Sorry, bro, but we don’t have enough rooms for you and Hot Hands over
here to have your own private space.” He winks at me. “No offense.”
“I have to leave right now?”
“Yeah, man. I want to go to sleep soon. I don’t have all day to wait around
for your lazy ass.”
“Lazy—?”
I hurry to interrupt before Adam has a chance to fight back. “What do you
mean, you want to go to sleep? What time is it?”
“It’s almost ten at night,” Kenji tells me. “It’s hard to tell underground, but
we all try to be aware of the clocks. We have monitors in the hallways, and most
of us try to wear watches. Losing track of night and day can screw us up pretty
quickly. And now is not the time to be getting too comfortable.”
“How do you know Warner isn’t dead?” I ask, nervous.
“We just saw him on camera,” Kenji says. “He and his men are patrolling
this area pretty heavily. I managed to hear some of their conversation. Turns out
Warner got shot.”
I suck in my breath, try to silence my heartbeats.
“That’s why we got lucky last night—apparently the soldiers got called back
to base because they thought Warner was dead. There was a shift in power for a
minute. No one knew what to do. What orders to follow. But then it turned out
he wasn’t dead. Just wounded pretty bad. His arm was all patched up and in a
sling,” Kenji adds.
Adam finds his voice before I do. “How safe is this place from attack?”
Kenji laughs. “Safe as hell. I don’t even know how they managed to get as
close as they did. But they’ll never be able to find our exact location. And even
if they do, they’ll never be able to break in. Our security is just about
impenetrable. Plus we have cameras everywhere. We can see what they’re doing
before they even plan it.
“It doesn’t really matter, though,” he goes on. “Because they’re looking for a
fight, and so are we. We’re not afraid of an attack. Besides, they have no idea
what we’re capable of. And we’ve been training for this shit forever.”
“Do you—” I pause. Flush. “Can you—I mean, do you have a . . . gift, too?”
Kenji smiles. And disappears.
He’s really gone.
I stand up. Try to touch the space he was just standing in.
He reappears just in time to jump out of reach. “HEY—whoa, careful—just
because I’m invisible doesn’t mean I can’t feel anything—”
“Oh!” I pull back. Cringe. “I’m sorry—”
“You can make yourself invisible?” Adam looks more irritated than
interested.
“Just blew your mind, didn’t I?”
“How long have you been spying on me?” Adam narrows his eyes.
“As long as I needed to.” But his grin is laced with mischief.
“So you’re . . . corporeal?” I ask.
“Look at you, using big fancy words.” Kenji crosses his arms. Leans against
the wall.
“I mean—you can’t, like, walk through walls or anything, can you?”
He snorts. “Nah, I’m not a ghost. I can just . . . blend, I guess is the best
word. I can blend into the background of any space. Shift myself to match my
surrounds. It’s taken me a long time to figure it out.”
“Wow.”
“I used to follow Adam home. That’s how I knew where he lived. And that’s
how I was able to run away—because they couldn’t really see me. They tried to
shoot at me anyway,” he adds, bitter, “but I managed not to die, at least.”
“Wait, but why were you following Adam home? I thought you were looking
for me?” I ask him.
“Yeah—well, I enlisted shortly after we got wind of Warner’s big project.”
He nods in my direction. “We’d been trying to find you, but Warner had more
security clearance and access to more information than we did—we were having
a hard time tracking you down. Castle thought it would be easier to have
someone on the inside paying attention to all the crazy shit Warner was
planning. So when I heard that Adam was the main guy involved in this
particular project and that he had this history with you, I sent the information to
Castle. He told me to watch out for Adam, too—you know, in case Adam turned
out to be just as psycho as Warner. We wanted to make sure he wasn’t a threat to
you or our plans. But I had no idea you’d try to run away together. Messed me
the hell up.”
We’re all silent for a moment.
“So how much did you spy on me?” Adam asks him.
“Well, well, well.” Kenji cocks his head. “Is Mr. Adam Kent suddenly
feeling a little intimidated?”
“Don’t be a jackass.”
“You hiding something?”
“Yeah. My gun—”
“Hey!” Kenji claps his hands together. “So! Are we ready to get out of here,
or what?”
“I need a pair of pants.”
Kenji looks abruptly annoyed. “Seriously, Kent? I don’t want to hear that
shit.”
“Well, unless you want to see me naked, I suggest you do something about
it.”
Kenji shoots Adam a dirty look and stalks off, grumbling something about
lending people all of his clothes. The door swings shut behind him.
“I’m not really naked,” Adam tells me.
“Oh,” I gasp. Look up. My eyes betray me.
He can’t bite back his grin in time. His fingers graze my cheek. “I just
wanted him to leave us alone for a second.”
I’m blushing through my bones. Fumbling for something to say. “I’m so
happy you’re okay.”
He says something I don’t hear.
Takes my hand. Pulls me up beside him.
He’s leaning in and I’m leaning in until I’m practically on top of him and
he’s slipping me into his arms and kissing me with a new kind of desperation, a
new kind of passion, a burning need. His hands are threaded in my hair, his lips
so soft, so urgent against mine, like fire and honey exploding in my mouth. My
whole body is steaming.
Adam pulls back just a tiny bit. Kisses my bottom lip. Bites it for just a
second. His skin is 100 degrees hotter than it was a moment ago. His lips are
pressed against my neck and my hands are on a journey down his upper body
and I’m wondering why there are so many freight trains in my heart, why his
chest is a broken harmonica. I’m tracing the bird caught forever in flight on his
skin and I realize for the first time that he’s given me wings of my own. He’s
helped me fly away and now I’m stuck in centripetal motion, soaring right into
the center of everything. I bring his lips back up to mine.
“Juliette,” he says. 1 breath. 1 kiss. 10 fingers teasing my skin. “I need to see
you tonight.”
Yes.
Please.
2 hard knocks send us flying apart.
Kenji slams open the door. “You do realize this wall is made of glass, don’t
you?” He looks like he’s bitten the head off a worm. “No one wants to see that.”
He throws a pair of pants at Adam.
Nods to me. “Come on, I’ll take you to Sonya and Sara. They’ll set you up
for tonight.” Turns to Adam. “And don’t ever give those pants back to me.”
“What if I don’t want to sleep?” Adam asks, unabashed. “I’m not allowed to
leave my room?”
Kenji presses his lips together. Narrows his eyes. “I will not use this word
often, Kent, but please don’t try any fancy secret-sneaking-away shit. We have
to regulate things around here for a reason. It’s the only way to survive. So do
everyone a favor and keep your pants on. You’ll see her in the morning.”
But morning feels like a million years from now.
Chapter Fifty
The twins are still asleep when someone knocks. Sonya and Sara showed me
where the girls’ bathrooms are so I had a chance to shower last night, but I’m
still wearing Kenji’s oversized clothes. I feel a little ridiculous as I pad my way
toward the door.
I open it.
Blink. “Hey, Winston.”
He looks me up and down. “Castle thought you might like to change out of
those clothes.”
“You have something for me to wear?”
“Yeah—remember? We made you something custom.”
“Oh. Wow. Yeah, that sounds great.”
I slip outside silently, following Winston through the dark halls. The
underground world is quiet, its inhabitants still asleep. I ask Winston why we’re
up so early.
“I figured you’d want to meet everyone at breakfast. This way you can jump
into the regular routine of things around here—even get started on your
training.” He glances back. “We all have to learn how to harness our abilities in
the most effective manner possible. It’s no good having no control over your
body.”
“Wait—you have an ability, too?”
“There are exactly fifty-six of us who do. The rest are our family members,
children, or close friends who help out with everything else. So yes, I’m one of
those fifty-six. So are you.”
I’m nearly stepping on his feet in an effort to keep up with his long legs. “So
what can you do?”
He doesn’t answer. And I can’t be sure, but I think he’s blushing.
“I’m sorry—” I backpedal. “I don’t mean to pry—I shouldn’t have asked—”
“It’s okay,” he cuts me off. “I just think it’s kind of stupid.” He laughs a
short, hard laugh. “Of all the things I should be able to do,” he sighs. “At least
you can do something interesting.”
I stop walking, stunned. Horrified. “You think this is a competition? To see
which magic trick is more twisted? To see who can inflict the most pain?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I don’t think it’s interesting to be able to kill someone by accident. I don’t
think it’s interesting to be afraid to touch a living thing.”
His jaw is tense. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . . I wish I were more
useful. That’s all.”
I cross my arms. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
He rolls his eyes. Runs a hand through his hair. “I’m just—I’m very . . .
flexible,” he says.
It takes me a moment to process his admission. “Like—you can bend
yourself into a pretzel?”
“Sure. Or stretch myself if I need to.”
I’m gawking so openly I must be embarrassing myself. “Can I see?”
He bites his lip. Readjusts his glasses. Looks both ways down the empty hall.
And loops one arm around his waist. Twice.
I’m gaping like a dead fish. “Wow.”
“It’s stupid,” he grumbles. “And useless.”
“Are you insane?” I lean back to look at him. “That’s incredible.”
But his arm is back to normal and he’s walking away again. I have to run to
catch up.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I try to tell him. “It’s nothing to be ashamed
of.” But he’s not listening and I’m wondering when I became a motivational
speaker. When I made the switch from hating myself to accepting myself. When
it became okay for me to choose my own life.
Winston leads me to the room I met him in. The same white walls. The same
small bed. Only this time, Adam and Kenji are waiting inside. My heart kicks
into gear and I’m suddenly nervous.
Adam is up. He’s standing on his own and he looks perfect. Beautiful.
Unharmed. There’s not a single drop of blood on his body. He walks forward
with only a slight discomfort, smiles at me with no difficulty. His skin is a little
paler than normal, but positively radiant compared to his complexion the night
we arrived. His natural tan offsets a pair of eyes a shade of blue in a midnight
sky.
“Juliette,” he says.
I can’t stop staring at him. Marveling at him. Amazed by how incredible it
feels to know that he’s all right. “Hey.” I manage to smile.
“Good morning to you, too,” Kenji interjects.
I startle. I’m pinker than a summer sunset, and shrinking just as quickly.
“Oh, hi.” I wave a limp hand in his direction.
He snorts.
“All right. Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Winston walks toward one of
the walls, which turns out to be a closet. There’s one pop of color inside. He
pulls it off the hanger.
“Can I, uh, have a moment alone with her?”
Winston takes off his glasses. Rubs his eyes. “I need to follow protocol. I
have to explain everything—”
“I know—that’s fine,” Adam says. “You can do it after. I just need a minute,
I promise. I haven’t really had a chance to talk to her since we got here.”
Winston frowns. Looks at me. Looks at Adam. Sighs.
“All right. But then we’ll be back. I need to make sure everything fits and I
have to check the—”
“Perfect. That sounds great. Thanks, man—” And he’s shoving them out the
door.
“Wait!” Winston slams the door back open. “At least get her to put the suit
on while we’re outside. That way it won’t be a complete waste of my time.”
Adam stares at the material in Winston’s outstretched hand. Winston rubs his
forehead and mumbles something about people always wasting his time, and
Adam suppresses a grin. Glances at me. I shrug. “Okay,” he says, grabbing the
suit. “But now you have to get out—” And pushes them both back into the
hallway.
“We’re going to be right outside,” Kenji shouts. “Like five seconds away—”
Adam closes the door behind them. Turns around. His eyes are burning into
me.
I don’t know how to calm my heart. I try to speak and fail.
He finds his voice first. “I never had a chance to say thank you,” he says.
I drop my eyes. Pretend heat isn’t fighting its way up my face. Pinch myself
for no real reason.
He steps forward. Leans in. Takes my hands. “Juliette.”
I peek up at him.
“You saved my life.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. It seems so silly to say “You’re welcome” for
saving someone’s life. I don’t know what to do. “I’m just so happy you’re
okay,” is all I manage.
He’s staring at my lips and I’m aching everywhere. If he kisses me right now
I don’t think I’ll let him stop. He takes a sharp breath. Seems to remember he’s
holding something. “Oh. Maybe you should put this on?” He hands me a slinky
piece of something purple. It looks tiny. Like a jumpsuit that could fit a small
child. It weighs less than nothing.
I offer Adam a blank stare.
He grins. “Try it on.”
I stare differently.
“Oh.” He jumps back, a little bashful. “Right—I’ll just—I’ll turn around—”
I wait until his back is to me before I exhale. I look around. There don’t seem
to be any mirrors in this room. I shed the oversized outfit. Drop each piece on
the floor. I’m standing here, completely naked, and for a moment I’m too
petrified to move. But Adam doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t say a word. I
examine the shiny purple material. I imagine it’s supposed to stretch.
It does.
In fact, it’s unexpectedly easy to slip on—like it was designed specifically
for my body. There’s built-in lining for where underwear is supposed to be, extra
support for my chest, a collar that goes right up to my neck, sleeves that touch
my wrists, legs that touch my ankles, a zipper that pulls it all together. I examine
the ultrathin material. It feels like I’m wearing nothing. It’s the richest shade of
purple, skintight but not tight at all. It’s breathable, oddly comfortable.
“How does it look . . . ?” Adam asks. He sounds nervous.
“Can you help me zip it up?”
He turns around. His lips part, falter, form an incredible smile. His eyebrows
are touching the ceiling. I’m blushing so hard I don’t even know where to look.
He steps forward and I turn around, only too eager to hide my face, the
butterflies racing through my chest. Adam touches my hair and I realize it’s
almost all the way down my back. Maybe it’s time I cut it.
His fingers are so careful. He pushes the waves over my shoulder so they
won’t get caught in the zipper. Trails a line from the base of my neck down to
the start of the seam, down to the dip in my lower back. I can hardly keep myself
upright. My spine is conducting enough electricity to power a city. He takes his
time zipping me up. Runs his hands down the length of my silhouette. “God you
look incredible,” is the first thing he says to me.
I turn around. He’s pressing his fist to his mouth, trying to hide his smile,
trying to stop the words from tumbling out of his lips.
I touch the material. Decide I should probably say something. “It’s very . . .
comfortable.”
“Sexy.”
I look up.
He’s shaking his head. “It’s sexy as hell.”
He steps forward. Slips me into his arms.
“I look like a gymnast,” I mumble.
“No,” he whispers, hot hot hot against my lips. “You look like a superhero.”
Epilogue
I’m still tingling when Kenji and Winston burst back into the room.
“So how is this suit supposed to make my life easier?” I ask anyone who’ll
answer.
But Kenji is frozen in place, staring without apology. Opens his mouth.
Closes it. Shoves his hands into his pockets.
Winston steps in. “It’s supposed to help with the touching issue,” he tells me.
“You don’t have to worry about being covered from head to toe in this
unpredictable weather. The material is designed to keep you cool or keep you
warm based on the temperature. It’s light and breathable so your skin doesn’t
suffocate. It will keep you safe from hurting someone unintentionally, but offers
you the flexibility of touching someone . . . intentionally, too. If you ever needed
to.”
“That’s amazing.”
He smiles. Big. “You’re welcome.”
I study the suit more closely. Realize something. “But my hands and feet are
totally exposed. How’s that supposed to—”
“Oh—shoot,” Winston interrupts. “I almost forgot.” He runs over to the
closet and pulls out a pair of flat-heeled black ankle boots and a pair of black
gloves that stop right before the elbow. He hands them to me. I study the soft
leather of the accessories and marvel at the springy, flexible build of the boots. I
could do ballet and run a mile in these shoes. “These should fit you,” he says.
“They complete the outfit.”
I slip them on and tip up on my toes, luxuriate in the feeling of my new
outfit. I feel invincible. I really wish I had a mirror for once in my life. I look
from Kenji to Adam to Winston. “What do you think? Is it . . . okay?”
Kenji makes a strange noise.
Winston looks at his watch.
Adam can’t stop smiling.
He and I follow Kenji and Winston out of the room, but Adam pauses to slip
off my left glove. He takes my hand. Intertwines our fingers. Offers me a smile
that manages to kiss my heart.
And I look around.
Flex my fist.
Touch the material hugging my skin.
I feel incredible. My bones feel rejuvenated; my skin feels vibrant, healthy. I
take big lungfuls of air and savor the taste.
Things are changing, but this time I’m not afraid. This time I know who I
am. This time I’ve made the right choice and I’m fighting for the right team. I
feel safe. Confident.
Excited, even.
Because this time?
I’m ready.
Acknowledgments
My infinite thanks go to:
My husband, my best friend, my biggest fan, and the only man in the world
who understands the inside of my brain. You are the brightest star in my
universe.
My parents, who’ve been cheering for me every minute of my life, never
once doubting me, never once discouraging me. You inspire me every single
day.
My brothers, because no one knows our stories like we do. Because we stick
together. Because you’ve always believed in me and I will forever believe in
you.
Tana & Randa, for everything. For every moment, every word of
encouragement, every laugh, every cherished memory. You’ve been there from
the very beginning.
Sarah, who gave me the strength to be brave. You held my hand in the
moments I needed it most and I will never forget that.
Jodi Reamer, the most incredible superhuman I’ve ever known. You’ve filled
my days with shooting stars, and one day I will pluck the moon from the sky and
fit it in your mailbox.
Alec Shane, who gave me the one chance that changed my world.
Tara Weikum, the best editor a girl could ask for. It’s been such a privilege
working with someone who so absolutely understands my story. My characters
are safe with you in a way they wouldn’t have been anywhere else and I still
can’t believe I got so lucky. You are unbelievable and I adore you.
A big thank-you to everyone at HarperCollins and Writers House who work
tirelessly behind the scenes to make my dreams come true: Melissa Miller, for
being nothing less than fabulous; Christina Colangelo, Diane Naughton, and
Lauren Flower, for their endless enthusiasm and marketing genius; and Allison
Verost, my fearless publicist! Thanks also to Alison Donalty, art director and
purse carrier and coffee savior—you are an absolute gem; Ray Shappell, the
brilliant man behind the cover design; Brenna Franzitta, whose copyediting
skills are worth millions; Cecilia de la Campa, for her indefatigable efforts in
acquiring foreign rights; and Beth Miller, for being one of my first cheerleaders.
To all of my first readers, including Sumayyah, Bahareh, and Saba, as well
as my brilliant blog and Twitter friends who make my days so much brighter and
infinitely more beautiful: Thank you for sharing my journey and honoring me
with your friendship—I hope you know I’m always cheering for you!
And for every reader who picks up this book: Well. Without you, where
would we be?
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Credits
Cover art © 2012 by Colin Anderson
Cover art inspired by a photograph by Sharee Davenport
Cover design by Cara E. Petrus
Copyright
SHATTER ME
Copyright © 2011 by Tahereh Mafi
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the
required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of
this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled,
reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form
or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express
written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Mafi, Tahereh.
Shatter me / Tahereh Mafi. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Ostracized or incarcerated her whole life, seventeen-year-old Juliette is freed on the
condition that she use her horrific abilities in support of The Reestablishment, a postapocalyptic
dictatorship, but Adam, the only person ever to show her affection, offers hope of a better future.
ISBN 978-0-06-208548-1 (trade bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-211420-4 (international edition)
[1. Science fiction. 2. Ability—Fiction. 3. Love—Fiction. 4. Soldiers—Fiction. 5. Dictatorship—
Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.M2695Sh 2011
[Fic]—dc23
2011019370
CIP
AC
11 12 13 14 15
CG/BV
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN 9780062085511
Version 10172012
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Excerpt from Warner’s Files
Copyright
Prologue
I’ve been shot.
And, as it turns out, a bullet wound is even more uncomfortable than I had
imagined.
My skin is cold and clammy; I’m making a herculean effort to breathe.
Torture is roaring through my right arm and making it difficult for me to focus. I
have to squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and force myself to pay attention.
The chaos is unbearable.
Several people are shouting and too many of them are touching me, and I
want their hands surgically removed. They keep shouting “Sir!” as if they’re still
waiting for me to give them orders, as if they have no idea what to do without
my instruction. The realization exhausts me.
“Sir, can you hear me?” Another cry. But this time, a voice I don’t detest.
“Sir, please, can you hear me—”
“I’ve been shot, Delalieu,” I manage to say. I open my eyes. Look into his
watery ones. “I haven’t gone deaf.”
All at once the noise disappears. The soldiers shut up. Delalieu looks at me.
Worried.
I sigh.
“Take me back,” I tell him, shifting, just a little. The world tilts and steadies
all at once. “Alert the medics and have my bed prepared for our arrival. In the
meantime, elevate my arm and continue applying direct pressure to the wound.
The bullet has broken or fractured something, and this will require surgery.”
Delalieu says nothing for just a moment too long.
“Good to see you’re all right, sir.” His voice is a nervous, shaky thing. “Good
to see you’re all right.”
“That was an order, Lieutenant.”
“Of course,” he says quickly, head bowed. “Certainly, sir. How should I direct
the soldiers?”
“Find her,” I tell him. It’s getting harder for me to speak. I take a small breath
and run a shaky hand across my forehead. I’m sweating in an excessive way that
isn’t lost on me.
“Yes, sir.” He moves to help me up, but I grab his arm.
“One last thing.”
“Sir?”
“Kent,” I say, my voice uneven now. “Make sure they keep him alive for me.”
Delalieu looks up, his eyes wide. “Private Adam Kent, sir?”
“Yes.” I hold his gaze. “I want to deal with him myself.”
One
Delalieu is standing at the foot of my bed, clipboard in hand.
His is my second visit this morning. The first was from my medics, who
confirmed that the surgery went well. They said that as long as I stay in bed this
week, the new drugs they’ve given me should accelerate my healing process.
They also said that I should be fit to resume daily activities fairly soon, but I’ll
be required to wear a sling for at least a month.
I told them it was an interesting theory.
“My slacks, Delalieu.” I’m sitting up, trying to steady my head against the
nausea of these new drugs. My right arm is essentially useless to me now.
I look up. Delalieu is staring at me, unblinking, Adam’s apple bobbing in his
throat.
I stifle a sigh.
“What is it?” I use my left arm to steady myself against the mattress and force
myself upright. It takes every ounce of energy I have left, and I’m clinging to the
bed frame. I wave away Delalieu’s effort to help; I close my eyes against the
pain and dizziness. “Tell me what’s happened,” I say to him. “There’s no point
in prolonging bad news.”
His voice breaks twice when he says, “Private Adam Kent has escaped, sir.”
My eyes flash a bright, dizzying white behind my eyelids.
I take a deep breath and attempt to run my good hand through my hair. It’s
thick and dry and caked with what must be dirt mixed with my own blood. I’m
tempted to punch my remaining fist through the wall.
Instead I take a moment to collect myself.
I’m suddenly too aware of everything in the air around me, the scents and
small noises and footsteps outside my door. I hate these rough cotton pants
they’ve put me in. I hate that I’m not wearing socks. I want to shower. I want to
change.
I want to put a bullet through Adam Kent’s spine.
“Leads,” I demand. I move toward my bathroom and wince against the cold
air as it hits my skin; I’m still without a shirt. Trying to remain calm. “Tell me
you have not brought me this information without leads.”
My mind is a warehouse of carefully organized human emotions. I can almost
see my brain as it functions, filing thoughts and images away. I lock away the
things that do not serve me. I focus only on what needs to be done: the basic
components of survival and the myriad things I must manage throughout the
day.
“Of course,” Delalieu says. The fear in his voice stings me a little; I dismiss it.
“Yes, sir,” he says, “we do think we know where he might’ve gone—and we
have reason to believe that Private Kent and the—and the girl—well, with
Private Kishimoto having run off as well—we have reason to believe that they
are all together, sir.”
The drawers in my mind are rattling to break open. Memories. Theories.
Whispers and sensations.
I shove them off a cliff.
“Of course you do.” I shake my head. Regret it. Close my eyes against the
sudden unsteadiness. “Do not give me information I’ve already deduced for
myself,” I manage to say. “I want something concrete. Give me a solid lead,
Lieutenant, or leave me until you have one.”
“A car,” he says quickly. “A car was reported stolen, sir, and we were able to
track it to an unidentified location, but then it disappeared off the map. It’s as if
it ceased to exist, sir.”
I look up. Give him my full attention.
“We followed the tracks it left in our radar,” he says, speaking more calmly
now, “and they led us to a stretch of isolated, barren land. But we’ve scoured the
area and found nothing.”
“This is something, at least.” I rub the back of my neck, fighting the weakness
I feel deep in my bones. “I will meet you in the L Room in one hour.”
“But sir,” he says, eyes trained on my arm, “you’ll need assistance—there’s a
process—you’ll require a convalescent aide—”
“You are dismissed.”
He hesitates.
Then, “Yes, sir.”
Two
I manage to bathe without losing consciousness.
It was more of a sponge bath, but I feel better nonetheless. I have an
extremely low threshold for disorder; it offends my very being. I shower
regularly. I eat six small meals a day. I dedicate two hours of each day to
training and physical exercise. And I detest being barefoot.
Now, I find myself standing naked, hungry, tired, and barefoot in my closet.
This is not ideal.
My closet is separated into various sections. Shirts, ties, slacks, blazers, and
boots. Socks, gloves, scarves, and coats. Everything is arranged according to
color, then shades within each color. Every article of clothing it contains is
meticulously chosen and custom made to fit the exact measurements of my
body. I don’t feel like myself until I’m fully dressed; it’s part of who I am and
how I begin my day.
Now I haven’t the faintest idea how I’m supposed to dress myself.
My hand shakes as I reach for the little blue bottle I was given this morning. I
place two of the square-shaped pills on my tongue and allow them to dissolve.
I’m not sure what they do; I only know they help replenish the blood I’ve lost.
So I lean against the wall until my head clears and I feel stronger on my feet.
This, such an ordinary task. It wasn’t an obstacle I was anticipating.
I put socks on first; a simple pleasure that requires more effort than shooting a
man. Briefly, I wonder what the medics must’ve done with my clothes. The
clothes, I tell myself, only the clothes; I’m focusing only on the clothes from that
day. Nothing else. No other details.
Boots. Socks. Slacks. Sweater. My military jacket with its many buttons.
The many buttons she ripped open.
It’s a small reminder, but it’s enough to spear me.
I try to fight it off but it lingers, and the more I try to ignore the memory, it
multiplies into a monster that can no longer be contained. I don’t even realize
I’ve fallen against the wall until I feel the cold climbing up my skin; I’m
breathing too hard and squeezing my eyes shut against the sudden wash of
mortification.
I knew she was terrified, horrified, even, but I never thought those feelings
were directed toward me. I’d seen her evolve as we spent time together; she
seemed more comfortable as the weeks passed. Happier. At ease. I allowed
myself to believe she’d seen a future for us; that she wanted to be with me and
simply thought it impossible.
I’d never suspected that her newfound happiness was a consequence of Kent.
I run my good hand down the length of my face; cover my mouth. The things
I said to her.
A tight breath.
The way I touched her.
My jaw tenses.
If it were nothing but sexual attraction I’m sure I would not suffer such
unbearable humiliation. But I wanted so much more than her body.
All at once I implore my mind to imagine nothing but walls. Walls. White
walls. Blocks of concrete. Empty rooms. Open space.
I build walls until they begin to crumble, and then I force another set to take
their place. I build and build and remain unmoving until my mind is clear,
uncontaminated, containing nothing but a small white room. A single light
hanging from the ceiling.
Clean. Pristine. Undisturbed.
I blink back the flood of disaster pressing against the small world I’ve built; I
swallow hard against the fear creeping up my throat. I push the walls back,
making more space in the room until I can finally breathe. Until I’m able to
stand.
Sometimes I wish I could step outside of myself for a while. I want to leave
this worn body behind, but my chains are too many, my weights too heavy. This
life is all that’s left of me. And I know I won’t be able to meet myself in the
mirror for the rest of the day.
I’m suddenly disgusted with myself. I have to get out of this room as soon as
possible, or my own thoughts will wage war against me. I make a hasty decision
and for the first time, pay little attention to what I’m wearing. I tug on a fresh
pair of pants and go without a shirt. I slip my good arm into the sleeve of a
blazer and allow the other shoulder to drape over the sling carrying my injured
arm. I look ridiculous, exposed like this, but I’ll find a solution tomorrow.
First, I have to get out of this room.
Three
Delalieu is the only person here who does not hate me.
He still spends the majority of his time in my presence cowering in fear, but
somehow he has no interest in overthrowing my position. I can feel it, though I
don’t understand it. He’s likely the only person in this building who’s pleased
that I’m not dead.
I hold up a hand to keep away the soldiers who rush forward as I open my
door. It takes an intense amount of concentration to keep my fingers from
shaking as I wipe the slight sheen of perspiration off my forehead, but I will not
allow myself a moment of weakness. These men do not fear for my safety; they
only want a closer look at the spectacle I’ve become. They want a first look at
the cracks in my sanity. But I have no wish to be wondered at.
My job is to lead.
I’ve been shot; it will not be fatal. There are things to be managed; I will
manage them.
This wound will be forgotten.
Her name will not be spoken.
My fingers clench and unclench as I make my way toward the L Room. I
never before realized just how long these corridors are and just how many
soldiers line the halls. There’s no reprieve from their curious stares and their
disappointment that I did not die. I don’t even have to look at them to know what
they’re thinking. But knowing how they feel only makes me more determined to
live a very long life.
I will give no one the satisfaction of my death.
“No.”
I wave away the tea and coffee service for the fourth time. “I do not drink
caffeine, Delalieu. Why do you always insist on having it served at my meals?”
“I suppose I always hope you will change your mind, sir.”
I look up. Delalieu is smiling that strange, shaky smile. And I’m not entirely
certain, but I think he’s just made a joke.
“Why?” I reach for a slice of bread. “I am perfectly capable of keeping my
eyes open. Only an idiot would rely on the energy of a bean or a leaf to stay
awake throughout the day.”
Delalieu is no longer smiling.
“Yes,” he says. “Certainly, sir.” And stares down at his food. I watch as his
fingers push away the coffee cup.
I drop the bread back onto my plate. “My opinions,” I say to him, quietly this
time, “should not so easily break your own. Stand by your convictions. Form
clear and logical arguments. Even if I disagree.”
“Of course, sir,” he whispers. He says nothing for a few seconds. But then I
see him reach for his coffee again.
Delalieu.
He, I think, is my only course for conversation.
He was originally assigned to this sector by my father, and has since been
ordered to remain here until he’s no longer able. And though he’s likely fortyfive years my senior, he insists on remaining directly below me. I’ve known
Delalieu’s face since I was a child; I used to see him around our house, sitting in
on the many meetings that took place in the years before The Reestablishment
took over.
There was an endless supply of meetings in my house.
My father was always planning things, leading discussions and whispered
conversations I was never allowed to be a part of. The men of those meetings are
running this world now, so when I look at Delalieu I can’t help but wonder why
he never aspired to more. He was a part of this regime from the very beginning,
but somehow seems content to die just as he is now. He chooses to remain
subservient, even when I give him opportunities to speak up; he refuses to be
promoted, even when I offer him higher pay. And while I appreciate his loyalty,
his dedication unnerves me. He does not seem to wish for more than what he
has.
I should not trust him.
And yet, I do.
But I’ve begun to lose my mind for a lack of companionable conversation. I
cannot maintain anything but a cool distance from my soldiers, not only because
they all wish to see me dead, but also because I have a responsibility as their
leader to make unbiased decisions. I have sentenced myself to a life of solitude,
one wherein I have no peers, and no mind but my own to live in. I looked to
build myself as a feared leader, and I’ve succeeded; no one will question my
authority or posit a contrary opinion. No one will speak to me as anything but
the chief commander and regent of Sector 45. Friendship is not a thing I have
ever experienced. Not as a child, and not as I am now.
Except.
One month ago, I met the exception to this rule. There has been one person
who’s ever looked me directly in the eye. The same person who’s spoken to me
with no filter; someone who’s been unafraid to show anger and real, raw feeling
in my presence; the only one who’s ever dared to challenge me, to raise her
voice to me—
I squeeze my eyes shut for what feels like the tenth time today. I unclench my
fist around this fork, drop it to the table. My arm has begun to throb again, and I
reach for the pills tucked away in my pocket.
“You shouldn’t take more than eight of those within a twenty-four-hour
period, sir.”
I open the cap and toss three more into my mouth. I really wish my hands
would stop shaking. My muscles feel too tight, too tense. Stretched thin.
I don’t wait for the pills to dissolve. I bite down on them, crunching against
their bitterness. There’s something about the foul, metallic taste that helps me
focus. “Tell me about Kent.”
Delalieu knocks over his coffee cup.
The dining aides have left the room at my request; Delalieu receives no
assistance as he scrambles to clean up the mess. I sit back in my chair, staring at
the wall just behind him, mentally tallying up the minutes I’ve lost today.
“Leave the coffee.”
“I—yes, of course, sorry, sir—”
“Stop.”
Delalieu drops the sopping napkins. His hands are frozen in place, hovering
over his plate.
“Speak.”
I watch his throat move as he swallows, hesitates. “We don’t know, sir,” he
whispers. “The building should’ve been impossible to find, much less to enter.
It’d been bolted and rusted shut. But when we found it,” he says, “when we
found it, it was . . . the door had been destroyed. And we’re not sure how they
managed it.”
I sit up. “What do you mean, destroyed?”
He shakes his head. “It was . . . very odd, sir. The door had been . . . mangled.
As if some kind of animal had clawed through it. There was only a gaping,
ragged hole in the middle of the frame.”
I stand up entirely too fast, gripping the table for support. I’m breathless at the
thought of it, at the possibility of what must’ve happened. And I can’t help but
allow myself the painful pleasure of recalling her name once more, because I
know it must’ve been her. She must’ve done something extraordinary, and I
wasn’t even there to witness it.
“Call for transport,” I tell him. “I will meet you in the Quadrant in exactly ten
minutes.”
“Sir?”
I’m already out the door.
Four
Clawed through the middle. Just like an animal. It’s true.
To an unsuspecting observer it would be the only explanation, but even then it
wouldn’t make any sense. No animal alive could claw through this many inches
of reinforced steel without amputating its own limbs.
And she is not an animal.
She is a soft, deadly creature. Kind and timid and terrifying. She’s completely
out of control and has no idea what she’s capable of. And even though she hates
me, I can’t help but be fascinated by her. I’m enchanted by her pretendinnocence; jealous, even, of the power she wields so unwittingly. I want so much
to be a part of her world. I want to know what it’s like to be in her mind, to feel
what she feels. It seems a tremendous weight to carry.
And now she’s out there, somewhere, unleashed on society.
What a beautiful disaster.
I run my fingers along the jagged edges of the hole, careful not to cut myself.
There’s no design to it, no premeditation. Only an anguished fervor so readily
apparent in the chaotic ripping-apart of this door. I can’t help but wonder if she
knew what she was doing when this happened, or if it was just as unexpected to
her as it was the day she broke through that concrete wall to get to me.
I have to stifle a smile. I wonder how she must remember that day. Every
soldier I’ve worked with has walked into a simulation knowing exactly what to
expect, but I purposely kept those details from her. I thought the experience
should be as undiluted as possible; I hoped the spare, realistic elements would
lend authenticity to the event. More than anything else, I wanted her to have a
chance to explore her true nature—to exercise her strength in a safe space—and
given her past, I knew a child would be the perfect trigger. But I never could’ve
anticipated such revolutionary results. Her performance was more than I had
hoped for. And though I wanted to discuss the effects with her afterward, by the
time I found her she was already planning her escape.
My smile falters.
“Would you like to step inside, sir?” Delalieu’s voice jolts me back to the
present. “There’s not much to see within, but it is interesting to note that the hole
is just big enough for someone to easily climb through. It seems clear, sir, what
the intent was.”
I nod, distracted. My eyes carefully catalog the dimensions of the hole; I try to
imagine what it must’ve been like for her, to be here, trying to get through. I
want so much to be able to talk to her about all of this.
My heart twists so suddenly.
I’m reminded, all over again, that she’s no longer with me. She does not live
on base anymore.
It’s my fault she’s gone. I allowed myself to believe she was finally doing
well and it affected my judgment. I should’ve been paying closer attention to
details. To my soldiers. I lost sight of my purpose and my greater goal; the entire
reason I brought her on base. I was stupid. Careless.
But the truth is, I was distracted.
By her.
She was so stubborn and childish when she first arrived, but as the weeks
passed she’d seemed to settle; she felt less anxious to me, somehow less afraid. I
have to keep reminding myself that her improvements had nothing to do with
me.
They had to do with Kent.
A betrayal that somehow seemed impossible. That she would leave me for a
robotic, unfeeling idiot like Kent. His thoughts are so empty, so mindless; it’s
like conversing with a desk lamp. I don’t understand what he could’ve offered
her, what she could’ve possibly seen in him except a tool for escape.
She still hasn’t grasped that there’s no future for her in the world of common
people. She doesn’t belong in the company of those who will never understand
her. And I have to get her back.
I only realize I’ve said that last bit out loud when Delalieu speaks.
“We have troops all across the sector searching for her,” he says. “And we’ve
alerted the neighboring sectors, just in case the group of them should cross ove
—”
“What?” I spin around, my voice a quiet, dangerous thing. “What did you just
say?”
Delalieu has turned a sickly shade of white.
“I was unconscious for all of one night! And you’ve already alerted the other
sectors to this catastrophe—”
“I thought you would want to find them, sir, and I thought, if they should try
to seek refuge elsewhere—”
I take a moment to breathe, to gather my bearings.
“I’m sorry, sir, I thought it would be safest—”
“She is with two of my own soldiers, Lieutenant. Neither one of them are
stupid enough to guide her toward another sector. They have neither the
clearance nor the tools to obtain said clearance in order to cross the sector line.”
“But—”
“They’ve been gone one day. They are badly wounded and in need of aid.
They’re traveling on foot and with a stolen vehicle that is easily trackable. How
far,” I say to him, frustration breaking into my voice, “could they have gone?”
Delalieu says nothing.
“You have sent out a national alert. You’ve notified multiple sectors, which
means the entire country now knows. Which means the capitals have received
word. Which means what?” I curl my only working hand into a fist. “What do
you think that means, Lieutenant?”
For a moment, he seems unable to speak.
Then
“Sir,” he gasps. “Please forgive me.”
Five
Delalieu follows me to my door.
“Gather the troops in the Quadrant tomorrow at ten hundred hours,” I say to
him by way of good-bye. “I’ll have to make an announcement about these recent
events as well as what’s to come.”
“Yes, sir,” Delalieu says. He doesn’t look up. He hasn’t looked at me since we
left the warehouse.
I have other matters to worry about.
Not counting Delalieu’s stupidity, there are an infinite number of things I
must take care of right now. I can’t afford any more difficulties, and I cannot be
distracted. Not by her. Not by Delalieu. Not by anyone. I have to focus.
This is a terrible time to be wounded.
News of our situation has already hit a national level. Civilians and
neighboring sectors are now aware of our minor uprising, and we have to tamp
down the rumors as much as possible. I have to somehow defuse the alerts
Delalieu has already sent out, and simultaneously suppress any hope of rebellion
among the citizens. They’re already too eager to resist, and any spark of
controversy will reignite their fervor. Too many have died already, and they still
don’t seem to understand that standing against The Reestablishment is asking for
more destruction. The civilians must be pacified.
I do not want war in my sector.
Now more than ever, I need to be in control of myself and my responsibilities.
But my mind is scattered, my body fatigued and wounded. All day I’ve been
inches from collapsing, and I don’t know what to do. I have no idea how to fix it.
This weakness is foreign to my being.
In just two days, one girl has managed to cripple me.
I’ve taken even more of these disgusting pills, but I feel weaker than I did this
morning. I thought I could ignore the pain and inconvenience of a wounded
shoulder, but the complication refuses to diminish. I am now wholly dependent
on whatever will carry me through these next weeks of frustration. Medicine,
medics, hours in bed.
All this for a kiss.
It’s almost unbearable.
“I’ll be in my office for the rest of the day,” I tell Delalieu. “Have my meals
sent to my room, and do not disturb me unless there are any new developments.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’ll be all, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
I don’t even realize how ill I feel until I close the bedroom door behind me. I
stagger to the bed and grip the frame to keep from falling over. I’m sweating
again and decide to strip the extra coat I wore on our outside excursion. I yank
off the blazer I’d carelessly tossed over my injured shoulder this morning and
fall backward onto my bed. I’m suddenly freezing. My good hand shakes as I
reach for the medic call button.
I need to get the dressing on my shoulder changed. I need to eat something
substantial. And more than anything else, I desperately need to take a real
shower, which seems altogether impossible.
Someone is standing over me.
I blink several times but can only make out the general outline of their figure.
A face keeps coming in and out of focus until I finally give up. My eyes fall
closed. My head is pounding. Pain is searing through my bones and up my neck;
reds and yellows and blues blur together behind my eyelids. I catch only clips of
the conversation around me.
—seems to have developed a fever— —probably sedate him— —how many
did he take?— They’re going to kill me, I realize. This is the perfect opportunity.
I’m weak and unable to fight back, and someone has finally come to kill me.
This is it. My moment. It has arrived. And somehow I can’t seem to accept it.
I take a swipe at the voices; an inhuman sound escapes my throat. Something
hard hits my fist and crashes to the floor. Hands clamp down on my right arm
and pin it in place. Something is being tightened around my ankles, my wrist.
I’m thrashing against these new restraints and kicking desperately at the air. The
blackness seems to be pressing against my eyes, my ears, my throat. I can’t
breathe, can’t hear or see clearly, and the suffocation of the moment is so
terrifying that I’m almost certain I’ve lost my mind.
Something cold and sharp pinches my arm.
I have only a moment to reflect on the pain before it engulfs me.
Six
“Juliette,” I whisper. “What are you doing here?”
I’m half-dressed, getting ready for my day, and it’s too early for visitors.
These hours just before the sun rises are my only moments of peace, and no one
should be in here. It seems impossible she gained access to my private quarters.
Someone should’ve stopped her.
Instead, she’s standing in my doorway, staring at me. I’ve seen her so many
times, but this is different—it’s causing me physical pain to look at her. But
somehow I still find myself drawn to her, wanting to be near her.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, and she’s wringing her hands, looking away from
me. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I notice what she’s wearing.
It’s a dark-green dress with fitted sleeves; a simple cut made of stretch cotton
that clings to the soft curves of her figure. It complements the flecks of green in
her eyes in a way I couldn’t have anticipated. It’s one of the many dresses I
chose for her. I thought she might enjoy having something nice after being caged
as an animal for so long. And I can’t quite explain it, but it gives me a strange
sense of pride to see her wearing something I picked out myself.
“I’m sorry,” she says for the third time.
I’m again struck by how impossible it is that she’s here. In my bedroom.
Staring at me without my shirt on. Her hair is so long it falls to the middle of her
back; I have to clench my fists against this unbidden need to run my hands
through it. She’s so beautiful.
I don’t understand why she keeps apologizing.
She shuts the door behind her. She’s walking over to me. My heart is beating
quickly now, and it doesn’t feel natural. I do not react this way. I do not lose
control. I see her every day and manage to maintain some semblance of dignity,
but something is off; this isn’t right.
She’s touching my arm.
She’s running her fingers along the curve of my shoulder, and the brush of her
skin against mine is making me want to scream. The pain is excruciating, but I
can’t speak; I’m frozen in place.
I want to tell her to stop, to leave, but parts of me are at war. I’m happy to
have her close even if it hurts, even if it doesn’t make any sense. But I can’t
seem to reach for her; I can’t hold her like I’ve always wanted to.
She looks at me.
She searches me with those odd, blue-green eyes and I feel guilty so suddenly,
without understanding why. But there’s something about the way she looks at
me that always makes me feel insignificant, as if she’s the only one who’s
realized I’m entirely hollow inside. She’s found the cracks in this cast I’m forced
to wear every day, and it petrifies me.
That this girl would know exactly how to shatter me.
She rests her hand against my collarbone.
And then she grips my shoulder, digs her fingers into my skin like she’s trying
to tear off my arm. The agony is so blinding that this time I actually scream. I
fall to my knees before her and she wrenches my arm, twisting it backward until
I’m heaving from the effort to stay calm, fighting not to lose myself to the pain.
“Juliette,” I gasp, “please—”
She runs her free hand through my hair, tugs my head back so I’m forced to
meet her eyes. And then she leans into my ear, her lips almost touching my
cheek. “Do you love me?” she whispers.
“What?” I breathe. “What are you doing—”
“Do you still love me?” she asks again, her fingers now tracing the shape of
my face, the line of my jaw.
“Yes,” I tell her. “Yes I still do—”
She smiles.
It’s such a sweet, innocent smile that I’m actually shocked when her grip
tightens around my arm. She twists my shoulder back until I’m sure it’s being
ripped from the socket. I’m seeing spots when she says, “It’s almost over now.”
“What is?” I ask, frantic, trying to look around. “What’s almost over—”
“Just a little longer and I’ll leave.”
“No—no, don’t go—where are you going—”
“You’ll be all right,” she says. “I promise.”
“No,” I’m gasping, “no—”
All at once she yanks me forward, and I’m awake so quickly I can’t breathe.
I blink several times only to realize I’ve woken up in the middle of the night.
Absolute blackness greets me from the corners of my room. My chest is heaving;
my arm is bound and pounding, and I realize my pain medication has worn off.
There’s a small remote wedged under my hand; I press the button to replenish
the dosage.
It takes a few moments for my breathing to stabilize. My thoughts slowly
retreat from panic.
Juliette.
I can’t control a nightmare, but in my waking moments her name is the only
reminder I will permit myself.
The accompanying humiliation will not allow me much more than that.
Seven
“Well, isn’t this embarrassing. My son, tied down like an animal.”
I’m half-convinced I’m having another nightmare. I blink my eyes open
slowly; I stare up at the ceiling. I make no sudden movements, but I can feel the
very real weight of restraints around my left wrist and both ankles. My injured
arm is still bound and slung across my chest. And though the pain in my
shoulder is present, it’s dulled to a light hum. I feel stronger. Even my head feels
clearer, sharper somehow. But then I taste the tang of something sour and metal
in my mouth and wonder how long I’ve been in bed.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” he asks, amused.
He moves closer to my bed, his footsteps reverberating right through me.
“You have Delalieu whimpering apologies for disturbing me, begging my men
to blame him for the inconvenience of this unexpected visit. No doubt you
terrified the old man for doing his job, when the truth is, I would’ve found out
even without his alerts. This,” he says, “is not the kind of mess you can conceal.
You’re an idiot for thinking otherwise.”
I feel a light tugging on my legs and realize he’s undoing my restraints. The
brush of his skin against mine is abrupt and unexpected, and it triggers
something deep and dark within me, enough to make me physically ill. I taste
vomit at the back of my throat. It takes all my self-control not to jerk away from
him.
“Sit up, son. You should be well enough to function now. You were too stupid
to rest when you were supposed to, and now you’ve overcorrected. Three days
you’ve been unconscious, and I arrived twenty-seven hours ago. Now get up.
This is ridiculous.”
I’m still staring at the ceiling. Hardly breathing.
He changes tactics.
“You know,” he says carefully, “I’ve actually heard an interesting story about
you.” He sits down on the edge of my bed; the mattress creaks and groans under
his weight. “Would you like to hear it?”
My left hand has begun to tremble. I clench it fast against the bedsheets.
“Private 45B-76423. Fletcher, Seamus.” He pauses. “Does that name sound
familiar?”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Imagine my surprise,” he says, “when I heard that my son had finally done
something right. That he’d finally taken initiative and dispensed with a traitorous
soldier who’d been stealing from our storage compounds. I heard you shot him
right in the forehead.” A laugh. “I congratulated myself—told myself you’d
finally come into your own, that you’d finally learned how to lead properly. I
was almost proud.
“That’s why it came as an even greater shock to me to hear Fletcher’s family
was still alive.” He claps his hands together. “Shocking, of course, because you,
of all people, should know the rules. Traitors come from a family of traitors, and
one betrayal means death to them all.”
He rests his hand on my chest.
I’m building walls in my mind again. White walls. Blocks of concrete. Empty
rooms and open space.
Nothing exists inside of me. Nothing stays.
“It’s funny,” he continues, thoughtful now, “because I told myself I’d wait to
discuss this with you. But somehow, this moment seems so right, doesn’t it?” I
can hear him smile. “To tell you just how tremendously . . . disappointed I am.
Though I can’t say I’m surprised.” He sighs. “In a single month you’ve lost two
soldiers, couldn’t contain a clinically insane girl, upended an entire sector, and
encouraged rebellion among the citizens. And somehow, I’m not surprised at
all.”
His hand shifts; lingers at my collarbone.
White walls, I think.
Blocks of concrete.
Empty rooms. Open space.
Nothing exists inside of me. Nothing stays.
“But what’s worse than all this,” he says, “is not that you’ve managed to
humiliate me by disrupting the order I’d finally managed to establish. It’s not
even that you somehow got yourself shot in the process. But that you would
show sympathy to the family of a traitor,” he says, laughing, his voice a happy,
cheerful thing. “This is unforgivable.”
My eyes are open now, blinking up at the fluorescent lights above my head,
focused on the white of the bulbs blurring my vision. I will not move. I will not
speak.
His hand closes around my throat.
The movement is so rough and violent I’m almost relieved. Some part of me
always hopes he’ll go through with it; that maybe this time he’ll actually let me
die. But he never does. It never lasts.
Torture is not torture when there’s any hope of relief.
He lets go all too soon and gets exactly what he wants. I jerk upward,
coughing and wheezing and finally making a sound that acknowledges his
existence in this room. My whole body is shaking now, my muscles in shock
from the assault and from remaining still for so long. My skin is cold sweat; my
breaths are labored and painful.
“You’re very lucky,” he says, his words too soft. He’s up now, no longer
inches from my face. “So lucky I was here to make things right. So lucky I had
time to correct the mistake.”
I freeze.
The room spins.
“I was able to track down his wife,” he says. “Fletcher’s wife and their three
children. I hear they sent their regards.” A pause. “Well, this was before I had
them killed, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, but my men told me they
said hello. It seems she remembered you,” he says, laughing softly. “The wife.
She said you went to visit them before all this . . . unpleasantness occurred. You
were always visiting the compounds, she said. Asking after the civilians.”
I whisper the only two words I can manage.
“Get out.”
“This is my boy!” he says, waving a hand in my direction. “A meek, pathetic
fool. Some days I’m so disgusted by you I don’t know whether to shoot you
myself. And then I realize you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? To be able to
blame me for your downfall? And I think no, best to let him die of his own
stupidity.”
I stare blankly ahead, fingers flexing against the mattress.
“Now tell me,” he says, “what happened to your arm? Delalieu seemed as
clueless as the others.”
I say nothing.
“Too ashamed to admit you were shot by one of your own soldiers, then?”
I close my eyes.
“And what about the girl?” he asks. “How did she escape? Ran off with one of
your men, didn’t she?”
I grip the bedsheet so hard my fist starts shaking.
“Tell me,” he says, leaning into my ear. “How would you deal with a traitor
like that? Are you going to go visit his family, too? Make nice with his wife?”
And I don’t mean to say it out loud, but I can’t stop myself in time. “I’m
going to kill him.”
He laughs out loud so suddenly it’s almost a howl. He claps a hand on my
head and musses my hair with the same fingers he just closed around my throat.
“Much better,” he says. “So much better. Now get up. We have work to do.”
And I think yes, I wouldn’t mind doing the kind of work that would remove
Adam Kent from this world.
A traitor like him does not deserve to live.
Eight
I’m in the shower for so long I actually lose track of time.
This has never happened before.
Everything is off, unbalanced. I’m second-guessing my decisions, doubting
everything I thought I didn’t believe in, and for the first time in my life, I am
genuinely, bone-achingly tired.
My father is here.
We are sleeping under the same godforsaken roof; a thing I’d hoped never to
experience again. But he’s here, staying on base in his own private quarters until
he feels confident enough to leave. Which means he’ll be fixing our problems by
wreaking havoc on Sector 45. Which means I will be reduced to becoming his
puppet and messenger, because my father never shows his face to anyone except
those he’s about to kill.
He is the supreme commander of The Reestablishment, and prefers to dictate
anonymously. He travels everywhere with the same select group of soldiers,
communicates only through his men, and only in extremely rare circumstances
does he ever leave the capital.
News of his arrival at Sector 45 has probably spread around base by now, and
has likely terrified my soldiers. Because his presence, real or imagined, has only
ever signified one thing: torture.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt like a coward.
But this, this is bliss. This protracted moment—this illusion—of strength.
Being out of bed and able to bathe: it’s a small victory. The medics wrapped my
injured arm in some kind of impermeable plastic for the shower, and I’m finally
well enough to stand on my own. My nausea has settled, the dizziness is gone. I
should finally be able to think clearly, and yet, my choices still seem so
muddled.
I’ve forced myself not to think about her, but I’m beginning to realize I’m still
not strong enough; not just yet, and especially not while I’m still actively
searching for her. It’s become a physical impossibility.
Today, I need to go back to her room.
I need to search her things for any clues that might help me find her. Kent’s
and Kishimoto’s bunks and lockers have already been cleared out; nothing
incriminating was found. But I’d ordered my men to leave her room—Juliette’s
room—exactly as it was. No one but myself is allowed to reenter that space. Not
until I’ve had the first look.
And this, according to my father, is my first task.
“That’ll be all, Delalieu. I’ll let you know if I require assistance.”
He’s been following me around even more than usual lately. Apparently he
came to check on me when I didn’t show for the assembly I’d called two days
ago, and had the pleasure of finding me completely delirious and half out of my
mind. He’s somehow managed to lay the blame for all this on himself.
If he were anyone else, I would’ve had him demoted.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. And please forgive me—I never meant to cause
additional problems—”
“You are in no danger from me, Lieutenant.”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” he whispers. His shoulders fall. His head bows.
His apologies are making me uncomfortable. “Have the troops reassemble at
thirteen hundred hours. I still need to address them about these recent
developments.”
“Yes, sir,” he says. He nods once, without looking up.
“You are dismissed.”
“Sir.” He drops his salute and disappears.
I’m left alone in front of her door.
Funny, how accustomed I’d become to visiting her here; how it gave me a
strange sense of comfort to know that she and I were living in the same building.
Her presence on base changed everything for me; the weeks she spent here
became the first I ever enjoyed living in these quarters. I looked forward to her
temper. Her tantrums. Her ridiculous arguments. I wanted her to yell at me; I
would’ve congratulated her had she ever slapped me in the face. I was always
pushing her, toying with her emotions. I wanted to meet the real girl trapped
behind the fear. I wanted her to finally break free of her own carefully
constructed restraints.
Because while she might be able to feign timidity within the confines of
isolation, out here—amid chaos, destruction—I knew she’d become something
entirely different. I was just waiting. Every day, patiently waiting for her to
understand the breadth of her own potential; never realizing I’d entrusted her to
the one soldier who might take her away from me.
I should shoot myself for it.
Instead, I open the door.
The panel slides shut behind me as I cross the threshold. I find myself alone,
standing here, in the last place she touched. The bed is messy and unmade, the
doors to her armoire hanging open, the broken window temporarily taped shut.
There’s a sinking, nervous pain in my stomach that I choose to ignore.
Focus.
I step into the bathroom and examine the toiletries, the cabinets, even the
inside of the shower.
Nothing.
I walk back over to the bed and run my hand over the rumpled comforter, the
lumpy pillows. I allow myself a moment to appreciate the evidence that she was
once here, and then I strip the bed. Sheets, pillowcases, comforter, and duvet; all
tossed to the floor. I scrutinize every inch of the pillows, the mattress, and the
bed frame, and again find nothing.
The side table. Nothing.
Under the bed. Nothing.
The light fixtures, the wallpaper, each individual piece of clothing in her
armoire. Nothing.
It’s only as I’m making my way toward the door that something catches my
foot. I look down. There, caught just under my boot, is a thick, faded rectangle.
A small, unassuming notebook that could fit in the palm of my hand.
And I’m so stunned that for a moment I can’t even move.
Nine
How could I have forgotten?
This notebook was in her pocket the day she was making her escape. I’d
found it just before Kent put a gun to my head, and at some point in the chaos, I
must’ve dropped it. And I realize I should’ve been looking for this all along.
I bend down to pick it up, carefully shaking out bits and pieces of glass from
the pages. My hand is unsteady, my heart pounding in my ears. I have no idea
what this might contain. Pictures. Notes. Scrambled, half-formed thoughts.
It could be anything.
I flip the notebook over in my hands, my fingers memorizing its rough, worn
surface. The cover is a dull shade of brown, but I can’t tell if it’s been stained by
dirt and age, or if it was always this color. I wonder how long she’s had it.
Where she might’ve acquired it.
I stumble backward, the backs of my legs hitting her bed. My knees buckle,
and I catch myself on the edge of the mattress. I take in a shaky breath and close
my eyes.
I’d seen footage from her time in the asylum, but it was essentially useless.
The lighting was always too dim; the small window did little to illuminate the
dark corners of her room. She was often an indistinguishable form; a dark
shadow one might never even notice. Our cameras were only good at detecting
movement—and maybe a lucky moment when the sun hit her at the right angle
—but she rarely moved. Most of her time was spent sitting very, very still, on
her bed or in a dark corner. She almost never spoke. And when she did, it was
never in words. She spoke only in numbers.
Counting.
There was something so unreal about her, sitting there. I couldn’t even see her
face; couldn’t discern the outline of her figure. Even then she fascinated me.
That she could seem so calm, so still. She would sit in one place for hours at a
time, unmoving, and I always wondered where she was in her mind, what she
might be thinking, how she could possibly exist in that solitary world. More than
anything else, I wanted to hear her speak.
I was desperate to hear her voice.
I’d always expected her to speak in a language I could understand. I thought
she’d start with something simple. Maybe something unintelligible. But the first
time we ever caught her talking on camera, I couldn’t look away. I sat there,
transfixed, nerves stretched thin, as she touched one hand to the wall and
counted.
4,572.
I watched her count. To 4,572.
It took five hours.
Only afterward did I realize she was counting her breaths.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her after that. I was distracted long before she
arrived on base, constantly wondering what she might be doing and whether
she’d speak again. If she wasn’t counting out loud, was she counting in her
head? Did she ever think in letters? Complete sentences? Was she angry? Sad?
Why did she seem so serene for a girl I’d been told was a volatile, deranged
animal? Was it a trick?
I’d seen every piece of paper documenting the critical moments in her life. I’d
read every detail in her medical records and police reports; I’d sorted through
school complaints, doctors’ notes, her official sentencing by The
Reestablishment, and even the asylum questionnaire submitted by her parents. I
knew she’d been pulled out of school at fourteen. I knew she’d been through
severe testing and was forced to take various—and dangerous—experimental
drugs, and had to undergo electroshock therapy. In two years she’d been in and
out of nine different juvenile detention centers and had been examined by more
than fifty different doctors. All of them described her as a monster. They called
her a danger to society and a threat to humanity. A girl who would ruin our
world and had already begun by murdering a small child. At sixteen, her parents
suggested she be locked away. And so she was.
None of it made sense to me.
A girl cast off by society, by her own family—she had to contain so much
feeling. Rage. Depression. Resentment. Where was it?
She was nothing like the other inmates at the asylum—the ones who were
truly disturbed. Some would spend hours hurling themselves at the wall,
breaking bones and fracturing skulls. Others were so deranged they would claw
at their own skin until they drew blood, literally ripping themselves to pieces.
Some had entire conversations with themselves out loud, laughing and singing
and arguing. Most would tear their clothes off, content to sleep and stand naked
in their own filth. She was the only one who showered regularly or even washed
her clothes. She would take her meals calmly, always finishing whatever she was
given. And she spent most of her time staring out the window.
She’d been locked up for almost a year and had not lost her sense of
humanity. I wanted to know how she could suppress so much; how she’d
achieved such outward calm. I’d asked for profiles on the other prisoners
because I wanted comparisons. I wanted to know if her behavior was normal.
It wasn’t.
I watched the unassuming outline of this girl I could not see and did not know,
and I felt an unbelievable amount of respect for her. I admired her, envied her
composure—her steadiness in the face of all she’d been forced to endure. I don’t
know that I understood what it was, exactly, I was feeling at the time, but I knew
I wanted her all to myself.
I wanted to know her secrets.
And then one day, she stood up in her cell and walked over to the window. It
was early morning, just as the sun was rising; I caught a glimpse of her face for
the very first time. She pressed her palm to the window and whispered two
words, just once.
Forgive me.
I hit rewind too many times.
I could never tell anyone I’d developed a newfound fascination with her. I had
to effect a pretense, an outward indifference—an arrogance—toward her. She
was to be our weapon and nothing more, just an innovative instrument of torture.
A detail I cared very little about.
My research had led me to her files by pure accident. Coincidence. I did not
seek her out in search of a weapon; I never had. Far before I’d ever seen her on
film, and far, far before I ever spoke a word to her, I had been researching
something else. For something else.
My motives were my own.
Utilizing her as a weapon was a story I fed to my father; I needed an excuse to
have access to her, to gain the necessary clearance to study her files. It was a
charade I was forced to maintain in front of my soldiers and the hundreds of
cameras that monitor my existence. I did not bring her on base to exploit her
ability. And I certainly did not expect to fall for her in the process.
But these truths and my real motivations will be buried with me.
I fall hard onto the bed. Clap a hand over my forehead, drag it down the length
of my face. I never would’ve sent Kent to stay with her if I could’ve taken the
time to go myself. Every move I made was a mistake. Every calculated effort
was a failure. I only wanted to watch her interact with someone. I wondered if
she’d seem different; if she’d shatter the expectations I’d already formed in my
mind by simply having a normal conversation. But watching her talk to someone
else made me crazy. I was jealous. Ridiculous. I wanted her to know me; I
wanted her to talk to me. And I felt it then: this strange, inexplicable sense that
she might be the only person in the world I could really care about.
I force myself to sit up. I hazard a glance at the notebook still clutched in my
hand.
I lost her.
She hates me.
She hates me and I repulse her and I might never see her again, and it is
entirely my own doing. This notebook might be all I have left of her. My hand is
still hovering over the cover, tempting me to open it and find her again, even if
it’s only for a short while, even if it’s only on paper. But part of me is terrified.
This might not end well. This might not be anything I want to see. And so help
me, if this turns out to be some kind of diary concerning her thoughts and
feelings about Kent, I might just throw myself out the window.
I pound my fist against my forehead. Take a long, steadying breath.
Finally, I flip it open. My eyes fall to the first page.
And only then do I begin to understand the weight of what I’ve found.
I keep thinking I need to stay calm, that it’s all in my head, that
everything is going to be fine and someone is going to open the door
now, someone is going to let me out of here. I keep thinking it’s going to
happen. I keep thinking it has to happen, because things like this don’t
just happen. This doesn’t happen. People aren’t forgotten like this. Not
abandoned like this.
This doesn’t just happen.
My face is caked with blood from when they threw me on the ground,
and my hands are still shaking even as I write this. This pen is my only
outlet, my only voice, because I have no one else to speak to, no mind but
my own to drown in and all the lifeboats are taken and all the life
preservers are broken and I don’t know how to swim I can’t swim I can’t
swim and it’s getting so hard. It’s getting so hard. It’s like there are a
million screams caught inside of my chest but I have to keep them all in
because what’s the point of screaming if you’ll never be heard and no
one will ever hear me in here. No one will ever hear me again.
I’ve learned to stare at things.
The walls. My hands. The cracks in the walls. The lines on my fingers.
The shades of gray in the concrete. The shape of my fingernails. I pick
one thing and stare at it for what must be hours. I keep time in my head
by counting the seconds as they pass. I keep days in my head by writing
them down. Today is day two. Today is the second day. Today is a day.
Today.
It’s so cold. It’s so cold it’s so cold.
Please please please
I slam the cover shut.
I’m shaking again, and this time I can’t stop it. This time the shaking is
coming from deep within my core, from a profound realization of what I’m
holding in my hands. This journal is not from her time spent here. It has nothing
to do with me, or Kent, or anyone at all. This journal is a documentation of her
days spent in the asylum.
And suddenly this small, battered notebook means more to me than anything
I’ve ever owned.
Ten
I don’t even know how I manage to get myself back to my own rooms so
quickly. All I know is that I’ve locked the door to my bedroom, unlocked the
door to my office only to lock myself inside, and now I’m sitting here, at my
desk, stacks of papers and confidential material shoved out of the way, staring at
the tattered cover of something I’m very nearly terrified to read. There’s
something so personal about this journal; it looks as if it’s been bound together
by the loneliest feelings, the most vulnerable moments of one person’s life. She
wrote whatever lies within these pages during some of the darkest hours of her
seventeen years, and I’m about to get exactly what I’ve always wanted.
A look into her mind.
And though the anticipation is killing me, I’m also acutely aware of just how
badly this might backfire. I’m suddenly not sure I even want to know. And yet I
do. I definitely do.
So I open the book, and turn to the next page. Day three.
I started screaming today.
And those four words hit me harder than the worst kind of physical pain.
My chest is rising and falling, my breaths coming in too hard. I have to force
myself to keep reading.
I soon realize there’s no order to the pages. She seems to have started back at
the beginning after she came to the end of the notebook and realized she’d run
out of space. She’s written in the margins, over other paragraphs, in tiny and
nearly illegible fonts. There are numbers scrawled all over everything,
sometimes the same number repeating over and over and over again. Sometimes
the same word has been written and rewritten, circled and underlined. And
nearly every page has sentences and paragraphs almost entirely crossed out.
It’s complete chaos.
My heart constricts at this realization, at this proof of what she must’ve
experienced. I’d hypothesized about what she might’ve suffered in all that time,
locked up in such dark, horrifying conditions. But seeing it for myself—I wish I
weren’t right.
And now, even as I try to read in chronological order, I find I’m unable to
keep up with the method she’s used to number everything; the system she
created on these pages is something only she’d be able to decipher. I can only
flip through the book and seek out the bits that are most coherently written.
My eyes freeze on a particular passage.
It’s a strange thing, to never know peace. To know that no matter
where you go, there is no sanctuary. That the threat of pain is always a
whisper away. I’m not safe locked into these 4 walls, I was never safe
leaving my house, and I couldn’t even feel safe in the 14 years I lived at
home. The asylum kills people every day, the world has already been
taught to fear me, and my home is the same place where my father locked
me in my room every night and my mother screamed at me for being the
abomination she was forced to raise.
She always said it was my face.
There was something about my face, she said, that she couldn’t stand.
Something about my eyes, the way I looked at her, the fact that I even
existed. She’d always tell me to stop looking at her. She’d always scream
it. Like I might attack her. Stop looking at me, she’d scream. You just
stop looking at me, she’d scream.
She put my hand in the fire once.
Just to see if it would burn, she said. Just to check if it was a regular
hand, she said.
I was 6 years old then.
I remember because it was my birthday.
I knock the notebook to the floor.
I’m upright in an instant, trying to steady my heart. I run a hand through my
hair, my fingers caught at the roots. These words are too close to me, too
familiar. The story of a child abused by its parents. Locked away and discarded.
It’s too close to my mind.
I’ve never read anything like this before. I’ve never read anything that could
speak directly to my bones. And I know I shouldn’t. I know, somehow, that it
won’t help, that it won’t teach me anything, that it won’t give me clues about
where she might’ve gone. I already know that reading this will only make me
crazy.
But I can’t stop myself from reaching for her journal once more.
I flip it open again.
Am I insane yet?
Has it happened yet?
How will I ever know?
My intercom screeches so suddenly that I trip over my own chair and have to
catch myself on the wall behind my desk. My hands won’t stop shaking; my
forehead is beaded with sweat. My bandaged arm has begun to burn, and my
legs are suddenly too weak to stand on. I have to focus all my energy on
sounding normal as I accept the incoming message.
“What?” I demand.
“Sir, I only wondered, if you were still—well, the assembly, sir, unless of
course I got the time wrong, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you—”
“Oh for the love of God, Delalieu.” I try to shake off the tremble in my voice.
“Stop apologizing. I’m on my way.”
“Yes, sir,” he says. “Thank you, sir.”
I disconnect the line.
And then I grab the notebook, tuck it in my pocket, and head out the door.
Eleven
I’m standing at the edge of the courtyard above the Quadrant, looking out at the
thousands of faces staring back at me. These are my soldiers. Standing singlefile line in their assembly uniforms. Black shirts, black pants, black boots.
No guns.
Left fists pressed against their hearts.
I make an effort to focus on—and care about—the task at hand; but somehow
I can’t help but be hyperaware of the notebook tucked away in my pocket, the
shape of it pressing against my leg and torturing me with its secrets.
I am not myself.
My thoughts are tangled in words that are not my own. I have to take a sharp
breath to clear my head; I clench and unclench my fist.
“Sector 45,” I say, speaking directly into the square of microphonic mesh.
They shift at once, dropping their left hands and instead placing their right
fists on their chests.
“We have a number of important things to discuss today,” I tell them, “the
first of which is readily apparent.” I gesture to my arm. Study their carefully
crafted emotionless faces.
Their traitorous thoughts are so obvious.
They think of me as little more than a deranged child. They do not respect me;
they are not loyal to me. They are disappointed that I stand before them; angry;
disgusted, even, that I am not dead of this wound.
But they do fear me.
And that is all I require.
“I was injured,” I say, “while in pursuit of two of our defecting soldiers.
Private Adam Kent and Private Kenji Kishimoto collaborated their escape in an
effort to abduct Juliette Ferrars, our newest transfer and critical asset to Sector
45. They have been charged with the crime of unlawfully seizing and detaining
Ms. Ferrars against her will. But, and most importantly, they have been rightly
convicted of treason against The Reestablishment. When found, they will be
executed on sight.”
Terror, I realize, is one of the easiest feelings to read. Even on a soldier’s stoic
face.
“Second,” I say, more slowly this time, “in an effort to expedite the process of
stabilizing Sector 45, its citizens, and the ensuing chaos resulting from these
recent disruptions, the supreme commander of The Reestablishment has joined
us on base. He arrived,” I tell them, “not thirty-six hours ago.”
Some men have dropped their fists. Forgotten themselves. Their eyes are
wide.
Petrified.
“You will welcome him,” I say.
They drop to their knees.
It’s strange, wielding this kind of power. I wonder if my father is proud of
what he’s created. That I’m able to bring thousands of grown men to their knees
with only a few words; with only the sound of his title. It’s a horrifying,
addicting kind of thing.
I count five beats in my head.
“Rise.”
They do. And then they march.
Five steps backward, forward, standing in place. They raise their left arms,
curl their fingers into fists, and fall on one knee. This time, I do not let them up.
“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen,” I say to them. “We will not rest until Kent
and Kishimoto are found and Ms. Ferrars has returned to base. I will confer with
the supreme commander in these next twenty-four hours; our newest mission
will soon be clearly defined. In the interim you are to understand two things:
first, that we will defuse the tension among the citizens and take pains to remind
them of their promises to our new world. And second, be certain that we will
find Privates Kent and Kishimoto.” I stop. Look around, focusing on their faces.
“Let their fates serve as an example to you. We do not welcome traitors in The
Reestablishment. And we do not forgive.”
Twelve
One of my father’s men is waiting for me outside my door.
I glance in his direction, but not long enough to discern his features. “State
your business, soldier.”
“Sir,” he says, “I’ve been instructed to inform you that the supreme
commander requests your presence in his quarters for dinner at twenty-hundred
hours.”
“Consider your message received.” I move to unlock my door.
He steps forward, blocking my path.
I turn to face him.
He’s standing less than a foot away from me: an implicit act of disrespect; a
level of comfort even Delalieu does not allow himself. But unlike my men, the
sycophants who surround my father consider themselves lucky. Being a member
of the supreme commander’s elite guard is considered a privilege and an honor.
They answer to no one but him.
And right now, this soldier is trying to prove he outranks me.
He’s jealous of me. He thinks I’m unworthy of being the son of the supreme
commander of The Reestablishment. It’s practically written on his face.
I have to stifle my impulse to laugh as I take in his cold gray eyes and the
black pit that is his soul. He wears his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, his
military tattoos clearly defined and on display. The concentric black bands of ink
around his forearms are accented in red, green, and blue, the only sign on his
person to indicate that he is a soldier highly elevated in rank. It’s a sick branding
ritual I’ve always refused to be a part of.
The soldier is still staring at me.
I incline my head in his direction, raise my eyebrows.
“I am required,” he says, “to wait for verbal acceptance of this invitation.”
I take a moment to consider my choices, which are none.
I, like the rest of the puppets in this world, am entirely subservient to my
father’s will. It’s a truth I’m forced to contend with every day: that I’ve never
been able to stand up to the man who has his fist clenched around my spine.
It makes me hate myself.
I meet the soldier’s eyes again and wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he has a
name, before I realize I couldn’t possibly care less. “Consider it accepted.”
“Yes, s—”
“And next time, soldier, you will not step within five feet of me without first
asking permission.”
He blinks, stunned. “Sir, I—”
“You are confused.” I cut him off. “You assume your work with the supreme
commander grants you immunity from rules that govern the lives of other
soldiers. Here, you are mistaken.”
His jaw tenses.
“Never forget,” I say, quietly now, “that if I wanted your job, I could have it.
And never forget that the man you so eagerly serve is the same man who taught
me how to fire a gun when I was nine years old.”
His nostrils flare. He stares straight ahead.
“Deliver your message, soldier. And then memorize this one: do not ever
speak to me again.”
His eyes are focused on a point directly behind me now, his shoulders rigid.
I wait.
His jaw is still tight. He slowly lifts his hand in salute.
“You are dismissed,” I say.
I lock my bedroom door behind me and lean against it. I need just a moment. I
reach for the bottle I left on my nightstand and shake out two of the square pills;
I toss them into my mouth, closing my eyes as they dissolve. The darkness
behind my eyelids is a welcome relief.
Until the memory of her face forces itself into my consciousness.
I sit down on my bed and drop my head into my hand. I shouldn’t be thinking
about her right now. I have hours of paperwork to sort through and the additional
stress of my father’s presence to contend with. Dinner with him should be a
spectacle. A soul-crushing spectacle.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and make a weak effort to build the walls that
would surely clear my mind. But this time, they don’t work. Her face keeps
cropping up, her journal taunting me from its place in my pocket. And I begin to
realize that some small part of me doesn’t want to wish away the thoughts of her.
Some part of me enjoys the torture.
This girl is destroying me.
A girl who has spent the last year in an insane asylum. A girl who would try to
shoot me dead for kissing her. A girl who ran off with another man just to get
away from me.
Of course this is the girl I would fall for.
I close a hand over my mouth.
I am losing my mind.
I tug off my boots. Pull myself up onto my bed and allow my head to hit the
pillows behind me.
She slept here, I think. She slept in my bed. She woke up in my bed. She was
here and I let her get away.
I failed.
I lost her.
I don’t even realize I’ve tugged her notebook out of my pocket until I’m
holding it in front of my face. Staring at it. Studying the faded cover in an
attempt to understand where she might’ve acquired such a thing. She must’ve
stolen it from somewhere, though I can’t imagine where.
There are so many things I want to ask her. So many things I wish I could say
to her.
Instead, I open her journal, and read.
Sometimes I close my eyes and paint these walls a different color.
I imagine I’m wearing warm socks and sitting by a fire. I imagine
someone’s given me a book to read, a story to take me away from the
torture of my own mind. I want to be someone else somewhere else with
something else to fill my mind. I want to run, to feel the wind tug at my
hair. I want to pretend that this is just a story within a story. That this
cell is just a scene, that these hands don’t belong to me, that this window
leads to somewhere beautiful if only I could break it. I pretend this pillow
is clean, I pretend this bed is soft. I pretend and pretend and pretend
until the world becomes so breathtaking behind my eyelids that I can no
longer contain it. But then my eyes fly open and I’m caught around the
throat by a pair of hands that won’t stop suffocating suffocating
suffocating My thoughts, I think, will soon be sound.
My mind, I hope, will soon be found.
The journal drops out of my hand and onto my chest. I run my only free hand
across my face, through my hair. I rub the back of my neck and haul myself up
so fast that my head hits the headboard and I’m actually grateful. I take a
moment to appreciate the pain.
And then I pick up the book.
And turn the page.
I wonder what they’re thinking. My parents. I wonder where they are.
I wonder if they’re okay now, if they’re happy now, if they finally got
what they wanted. I wonder if my mother will ever have another child. I
wonder if someone will ever be kind enough to kill me, and I wonder if
hell is better than here. I wonder what my face looks like now. I wonder
if I’ll ever breathe fresh air again.
I wonder about so many things.
Sometimes I’ll stay awake for days just counting everything I can find.
I count the walls, the cracks in the walls, my fingers and toes. I count the
springs in the bed, the threads in the blanket, the steps it takes to cross
the room and back. I count my teeth and the individual hairs on my head
and the number of seconds I can hold my breath.
But sometimes I get so tired that I forget I’m not allowed to wish for
things anymore, and I find myself wishing for the one thing I’ve always
wanted. The only thing I’ve always dreamt about.
I wish all the time for a friend.
I dream about it. I imagine what it would be like. To smile and be
smiled upon. To have a person to confide in; someone who wouldn’t
throw things at me or stick my hands in the fire or beat me for being
born. Someone who would hear that I’d been thrown away and would try
to find me, who would never be afraid of me.
Someone who’d know I’d never try to hurt them.
I fold myself into a corner of this room and bury my head in my knees
and rock back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and I
wish and I wish and I wish and I dream of impossible things until I’ve
cried myself to sleep.
I wonder what it would be like to have a friend.
And then I wonder who else is locked in this asylum. I wonder where
the other screams are coming from.
I wonder if they’re coming from me.
I’m trying to focus, telling myself these are just empty words, but I’m lying.
Because somehow, just reading these words is too much; and the thought of her
in pain is causing me an unbearable amount of agony.
To know that she experienced this.
She was thrown into this by her own parents, cast off and abused her entire
life. Empathy is not an emotion I’ve ever known, but now it’s drowning me,
pulling me into a world I never knew I could enter. And though I’ve always
believed she and I shared many things in common, I did not know how deeply I
could feel it.
It’s killing me.
I stand up. Start pacing the length of my bedroom until I’ve finally worked up
the nerve to keep reading. Then I take a deep breath.
And turn the page.
There’s something simmering inside of me.
Something I’ve never dared to tap into, something I’m afraid to
acknowledge. There’s a part of me clawing to break free from the cage
I’ve trapped it in, banging on the doors of my heart, begging to be free.
Begging to let go.
Every day I feel like I’m reliving the same nightmare. I open my mouth
to shout, to fight, to swing my fists, but my vocal cords are cut, my arms
are heavy and weighted down as if trapped in wet cement and I’m
screaming but no one can hear me, no one can reach me and I’m caught.
And it’s killing me.
I’ve always had to make myself submissive, subservient, twisted into a
pleading, passive mop just to make everyone else feel safe and
comfortable. My existence has become a fight to prove I’m harmless, that
I’m not a threat, that I’m capable of living among other human beings
without hurting them.
And I’m so tired I’m so tired I’m so tired I’m so tired and sometimes I
get so angry I don’t know what’s happening to me.
“God, Juliette,” I gasp.
And fall to my knees.
“Call for transport immediately.” I need to get out. I need to get out right now.
“Sir? I mean, yes, sir, of course—but where—”
“I have to visit the compounds,” I say. “I should make my rounds before my
meeting this evening.” This is both true and false. But I’m willing to do anything
right now that might get my mind off this journal.
“Oh, certainly, sir. Would you like me to accompany you?”
“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant, but thank you for the offer.”
“I—s-sir,” he stammers. “Of course, it’s m-my pleasure, sir, to assist you—”
Good God, I have taken leave of my senses. I never thank Delalieu. I’ve likely
given the poor man a heart attack.
“I will be ready to go in ten minutes.” I cut him off.
He stutters to a stop. Then, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
I’m pressing my fist to my mouth as the call disconnects.
Thirteen
We had homes. Before.
All different kinds.
1-story homes. 2-story homes. 3-story homes.
We bought lawn ornaments and twinkle lights, learned to ride bikes
without training wheels. We purchased lives confined within 1, 2, 3
stories already built, stories caught inside of structures we could not
change.
We lived in those stories for a while.
We followed the tale laid out for us, the prose pinned down in every
square foot of space we’d acquired. We were content with the plot twists
that only mildly redirected our lives. We signed on the dotted line for the
things we didn’t know we cared about. We ate the things we shouldn’t,
spent money when we couldn’t, lost sight of the Earth we had to inhabit
and wasted wasted wasted everything. Food. Water. Resources.
Soon the skies were gray with chemical pollution, and the plants and
animals were sick from genetic modification, and diseases rooted
themselves in our air, our meals, our blood and bones. The food
disappeared. The people were dying. Our empire fell to pieces.
The Reestablishment said they would help us. Save us. Rebuild our
society.
Instead they tore us all apart.
I enjoy coming to the compounds.
It’s an odd place to seek refuge, but there’s something about seeing so many
civilians in such a vast, open space that reminds me of what I’m meant to be
doing. I’m so often confined within the walls of Sector 45 headquarters that I
forget the faces of those we’re fighting and those we’re fighting for.
I like to remember.
Most days I visit each cluster on the compounds; I greet the residents and ask
about their living conditions. I can’t help but be curious about what life must be
like for them now. Because while the world changed for everyone else, it always
stayed the same for me. Regimented. Isolated. Bleak.
There was a time when things were better, when my father wasn’t always so
angry. I was about four years old then. He used to let me sit on his lap and search
his pockets. I’d get to keep anything I wanted as long as my argument was
convincing enough. It was his idea of a game.
But this was all before.
I wrap my coat more tightly around my body, feel the material press against
my back. I flinch without meaning to.
The life I know now is the only one that matters. The suffocation, the luxury,
the sleepless nights, and the dead bodies. I’ve always been taught to focus on
power and pain, gaining and inflicting.
I grieve nothing.
I take everything.
It’s the only way I know how to live in this battered body. I empty my mind of
the things that plague me and burden my soul, and I take all that I can from what
little pleasantness comes my way. I do not know what it is to live a normal life; I
do not know how to sympathize with the civilians who’ve lost their homes. I do
not know what it must’ve been like for them before The Reestablishment took
over.
So I enjoy touring the compounds.
I enjoy seeing how other people live; I like that the law requires them to
answer my questions. I would have no way of knowing, otherwise.
But my timing is off.
I paid little attention to the clock before I left base and didn’t realize how soon
the sun would be setting. Most civilians are returning home to retire for the
evening, their bodies bowed, huddled against the cold as they shuffle toward the
metal clusters they share with at least three other families.
These makeshift homes are built from forty-foot shipping containers; they’re
stacked side by side and on top of one another, lumped together in groups of four
and six. Each container has been insulated; fitted with two windows and one
door. Stairs to the upper levels are attached on either side. The roofs are lined
with solar panels that provide free electricity for each grouping.
It’s something I’m proud of.
Because it was my idea.
When we were seeking temporary shelter for the civilians, I suggested
refurbishing the old shipping containers that line the docks of every port around
the world. Not only are they cheap, easily replicated, and highly customizable,
but they’re stackable, portable, and built to withstand the elements. They’d
require minimal construction, and with the right team, thousands of housing
units could be ready in a matter of days.
I’d pitched the idea to my father, thinking it might be the most effective
option; a temporary solution that would be far less cruel than tents; something
that would provide true, reliable shelter. But the result was so effective that The
Reestablishment saw no need to upgrade. Here, on land that used to be a landfill,
we’ve stacked thousands of containers; clusters of faded, rectangular cubes that
are easy to monitor and keep track of.
The people are still told that these homes are temporary. That one day they
will return to the memories of their old lives, and that things will be bright and
beautiful again. But this is all a lie.
The Reestablishment has no plans to move them.
Civilians are caged on these regulated grounds; these containers have become
their prisons. Everything has been numbered. The people, their homes, their
level of importance to The Reestablishment.
Here, they’ve become a part of a huge experiment. A world wherein they
work to support the needs of a regime that makes them promises it will never
fulfill.
This is my life.
This sorry world.
Most days I feel just as caged as these civilians; and that’s likely why I always
come here. It’s like running from one prison to another; an existence wherein
there is no relief, no refuge. Where even my own mind is a traitor.
I should be stronger than this.
I’ve been training for just over a decade. Every day I’ve worked to hone my
physical and mental strengths. I’m five feet, nine inches and 170 pounds of
muscle. I’ve been built to survive, to maximize endurance and stamina, and I’m
most comfortable when I’m holding a gun in my hand. I can fieldstrip, clean,
reload, disassemble, and reassemble more than 150 different types of firearms. I
can shoot a target through the center from almost any distance. I can break a
person’s windpipe with only the edge of my hand. I can temporarily paralyze a
man with nothing but my knuckles.
On the battlefield, I’m able to disconnect myself from the motions I’ve been
taught to memorize. I’ve developed a reputation as a cold, unfeeling monster
who fears nothing and cares for less.
But this is all very deceiving.
Because the truth is, I am nothing but a coward.
Fourteen
The sun is setting.
Soon I’ll have no choice but to return to base, where I’ll have to sit still and
listen to my father speak instead of shooting a bullet through his open mouth.
So I stall for time.
I watch from afar as the children run around while their parents herd them
home. I wonder about how one day they’ll get old enough to realize that the
Reestablishment Registration cards they carry are actually tracking their every
movement. That the money their parents make from working in whichever
factories they were sorted into is closely monitored. These children will grow up
and finally understand that everything they do is recorded, every conversation
dissected for whispers of rebellion. They don’t know that profiles are created for
every citizen, and that every profile is thick with documentation on their
friendships, relationships, and work habits; even the ways in which they choose
to spend their free time.
We know everything about everyone.
Too much.
So much, in fact, that I seldom remember we’re dealing with real, live people
until I see them on the compounds. I’ve memorized the names of nearly every
person in Sector 45. I like to know who lives within my jurisdiction, soldiers and
civilians alike.
That’s how I knew, for example, that Private Seamus Fletcher, 45B-76423,
was beating his wife and children every night.
I knew he was spending all his money on alcohol; I knew he’d been starving
his family. I monitored the REST dollars he spent at our supply centers and
carefully observed his family on the compounds. I knew his three children were
all under the age of ten and hadn’t eaten in weeks; I knew that they’d repeatedly
been to the compounds’ medic for broken bones and stitches. I knew he’d
punched his nine-year-old daughter in the mouth and split her lip, fractured her
jaw, and broken her two front teeth; and I knew his wife was pregnant. I also
knew that he hit her so hard one night she lost the child the following morning.
I knew, because I was there.
I’d been stopping by each residence, visiting with the civilians, asking
questions about their health and overall living situations. I’d wanted to know
about their work conditions and whether any members of their family were ill
and needed to be quarantined.
She was there that day. Fletcher’s wife. Her nose was broken so badly that
both her eyes had swollen shut. Her frame was so thin and frail, her color so
sallow that I thought she might snap in half just by sitting down. But when I
asked about her injuries, she wouldn’t look me in the eye. She said she’d fallen
down; that because of her fall, she’d lost the pregnancy and managed to break
her nose in the process.
I nodded. Thanked her for her cooperation in answering my questions.
And then I called for an assembly.
I’m well aware that the majority of my soldiers steal from our storage
compounds. I oversee our inventory closely, and I know that supplies go missing
all the time. But I allow these infractions because they do not upset the system.
A few extra loaves of bread or bars of soap keep my soldiers in better spirits;
they work harder if they are healthy, and most are supporting spouses, children,
and relatives. So it is a concession I allow.
But there are some things I do not forgive.
I don’t consider myself a moral man. I do not philosophize about life or bother
with the laws and principles that govern most people. I do not pretend to know
the difference between right and wrong. But I do live by a certain kind of code.
And sometimes, I think, you have to learn how to shoot first.
Seamus Fletcher was murdering his family. And I shot him in the forehead
because I thought it’d be kinder than ripping him to pieces by hand.
But my father picked up where Fletcher left off. My father had three children
and their mother shot dead, all because of the drunken bastard they’d depended
on to provide for them. He was their father, her husband, and the reason they all
died a brutal, untimely death.
And some days I wonder why I insist on keeping myself alive.
Fifteen
Once I’m back on base, I head straight down.
I ignore the soldiers and their salutes as I pass by, paying little attention to the
blend of curiosity and suspicion in their eyes. I didn’t even realize I was headed
this way until I arrived at headquarters; but my body seems to know more about
what I need right now than my mind does. My footfalls are heavy; the steady,
clipping sound of my boots echoes along the stone path as I reach the lower
levels.
I haven’t been here in nearly two weeks.
The room has been rebuilt since my last visit; the glass panel and the concrete
wall have been replaced. And as far as I’m aware, she was the last person to use
this room.
I brought her here myself.
I push through a set of swinging double doors into the locker room that sits
adjacent to the simulation deck. My hand searches for a switch in the dark; the
light beeps once before it flickers to life. A dull hum of electricity vibrates
through these vast dimensions. Everything is quiet, abandoned.
Just as I like it.
I strip as quickly as this injured arm will allow me to. I still have two hours
before I’m expected to meet my father for dinner, so I shouldn’t be feeling so
anxious, but my nerves are not cooperating. Everything seems to be catching up
with me at once. My failures. My cowardice. My stupidity.
Sometimes I’m just so tired of this life.
I’m standing barefoot on this concrete floor in nothing but an arm sling, hating
the way this injury constantly slows me down. I grab the shorts stashed in my
locker and pull them on as quickly as I can, leaning against the wall for support.
When I’m finally upright, I slam the locker shut and make my way into the
adjoining room.
I hit another switch, and the main operational deck whirs to life. The
computers beep and flash as the program recalibrates; I run my fingers along the
keyboard.
We use these rooms to generate simulations.
We manipulate the technology to create environments and experiences that
exist entirely in the human mind. Not only are we able to create the framework,
but we can also control minute details. Sounds, smells, false confidence,
paranoia. The program was originally designed to help train soldiers for specific
missions, as well as aid them in overcoming fears that would otherwise cripple
them on the battlefield.
I use it for my own purposes.
I used to come here all the time before she arrived on base. This was my safe
space; my only escape from the world. I only wish it didn’t come with a
uniform. These shorts are starchy and uncomfortable, the polyester itchy and
irritating. But the shorts are lined with a special chemical that reacts with my
skin and feeds information to the sensors; it helps place me in the experience,
and will enable to me to run for miles without ever running into actual, physical
walls in my true environment. And in order for the process to be as effective as
possible, I have to be wearing next to nothing. The cameras are hypersensitive to
body heat, and work best when not in contact with synthetic materials.
I’m hoping this detail will be fixed in the next generation of the program.
The mainframe prompts me for information; I quickly enter an access code
that grants me clearance to pull up a history of my past simulations. I look up
and over my shoulder as the computer processes the data; I glance through the
newly repaired two-way mirror that sees into the main chamber. I still can’t
believe she broke down an entire wall of glass and concrete and managed to
walk away uninjured.
Incredible.
The machine beeps twice; I spin back around. The programs in my history are
loaded and ready to be executed.
Her file is at the top of the list.
I take a deep breath; try to shake off the memory. I don’t regret putting her
through such a horrifying experience; I don’t know that she would’ve ever
allowed herself to finally lose control—to finally inhabit her own body—if I
hadn’t found an effective method of provoking her. Ultimately, I really believe it
helped her, just as I intended it to. But I do wish she hadn’t pointed a gun at my
face and jumped out a window shortly afterward.
I take another slow, steadying breath.
And select the simulation I came here for.
Sixteen
I’m standing in the main chamber.
Facing myself.
This is a very simple simulation. I didn’t change my clothes or my hair or
even the room’s carpeted floors. I didn’t do anything at all except create a
duplicate of myself and hand him a gun.
He won’t stop staring at me.
One.
He cocks his head. “Are you ready?” A pause. “Are you scared?”
My heart kicks into gear.
He lifts his arm. Smiles a little. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s almost over
now.”
Two.
“Just a little longer and I’ll leave,” he says, pointing the gun directly at my
forehead.
My palms are sweating. My pulse is racing.
“You’ll be all right,” he lies. “I promise.”
Three.
Boom.
Seventeen
“You sure you’re not hungry?” my father asks, still chewing. “This is really
quite good.”
I shift in my seat. Focus on the ironed creases in these pants I’m wearing.
“Hm?” he asks. I can actually hear him smiling.
I’m acutely aware of the soldiers lining the walls of this room. He always
keeps them close, and always in constant competition with one another. Their
first assignment was to determine which of the eleven of them was the weakest
link. The one with the most convincing argument was then required to dispose of
his target.
My father finds these practices amusing.
“I’m afraid I’m not hungry. The medicine,” I lie, “destroys my appetite.”
“Ah,” he says. I hear him put his utensils down. “Of course. How
inconvenient.”
I say nothing.
“Leave us.”
Two words and his men disperse in a matter of seconds. The door slides shut
behind them.
“Look at me,” he says.
I look up, my eyes carefully devoid of emotion. I hate his face. I can’t stand to
look at him for too long; I don’t like experiencing the full impact of how very
inhuman he is. He is not tortured by what he does or how he lives. In fact, he
enjoys it. He loves the rush of power; he thinks of himself as an invincible
entity.
And in some ways, he’s not wrong.
I’ve come to believe that the most dangerous man in the world is the one who
feels no remorse. The one who never apologizes and therefore seeks no
forgiveness. Because in the end it is our emotions that make us weak, not our
actions.
I turn away.
“What did you find?” he asks, with no preamble.
My mind immediately goes to the journal I’ve stowed away in my pocket, but
I make no movement. I do not dare flinch. People seldom realize that they tell
lies with their lips and truths with their eyes all the time. Put a man in a room
with something he’s hidden and then ask him where he’s hidden it; he’ll tell you
he doesn’t know; he’ll tell you you’ve got the wrong man; but he’ll almost
always glance at its exact location. And right now I know my father is watching
me, waiting to see where I might look, what I might say next.
I keep my shoulders relaxed and take a slow, imperceptible breath to steady
my heart. I do not respond. I pretend to be lost in thought.
“Son?”
I look up. Feign surprise. “Yes?”
“What did you find? When you searched her room today?”
I exhale. Shake my head as I lean back in my chair. “Broken glass. A
disheveled bed. Her armoire, hanging open. She took only a few toiletries and
some extra pairs of clothes and undergarments. Nothing else was out of place.”
None of this is a lie.
I hear him sigh. He pushes away his plate.
I feel the outline of her notebook burning against my upper leg.
“And you say you do not know where she might’ve gone?”
“I only know that she, Kent, and Kishimoto must be together,” I tell him.
“Delalieu says they stole a car, but the trace disappeared abruptly at the edge of a
barren field. We’ve had troops on patrol for days now, searching the area, but
they’ve found nothing.”
“And where,” he says, “do you plan on searching next? Do you think they
might’ve crossed over into another sector?” His voice is off. Entertained.
I glance up at his smiling face.
He’s only asking me these questions to test me. He has his own answers, his
own solution already prepared. He wants to watch me fail by answering
incorrectly. He’s trying to prove that without him, I’d make all the wrong
decisions.
He’s mocking me.
“No,” I tell him, my voice solid, steady. “I don’t think they’d do something as
idiotic as cross into another sector. They don’t have the access, the means, or the
capacity. Both men were severely wounded, rapidly losing blood, and too far
from any source of emergency aid. They’re probably dead by now. The girl is
likely the only survivor, and she can’t have gone far because she has no idea
how to navigate these areas. She’s been blind to them for too long; everything in
this environment is foreign to her. Furthermore, she does not know how to drive,
and if she’d somehow managed to commandeer a vehicle, we would’ve received
word of stolen property. Considering her overall health, her propensity toward
physical inexertion, and her general lack of access to food, water, and medical
attention, she’s probably collapsed within a five-mile radius of this supposed
barren field. We have to find her before she freezes to death.”
My father clears his throat.
“Yes,” he says, “those are interesting theories. And perhaps under ordinary
circumstances, they might actually hold true. But you are failing to recall the
most important detail.”
I meet his gaze.
“She is not normal,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And she is not the
only one of her kind.”
My heartbeat quickens. I blink too fast.
“Oh come now, surely you’d suspected? You’d hypothesized?” He laughs. “It
seems statistically impossible that she’d be the only mistake manufactured by
our world. You knew this, but you didn’t want to believe it. And I came here to
tell you that it’s true.” He cocks his head at me. Smiles a big, vibrant smile.
“There are more of them. And they’ve recruited her.”
“No,” I breathe.
“They infiltrated your troops. Lived among you in secret. And now they’ve
stolen your toy and run away with it. God only knows how they hope to
manipulate her for their own benefit.”
“How can you be certain?” I ask. “How do you know they’ve succeeded in
taking her with them? Kent was half-dead when I left him—”
“Pay attention, son. I’m telling you that they are not normal. They do not
follow your rules; there is no logic that binds them. You have no idea what
oddities they might be capable of.” A pause. “Furthermore, I have known for
some time now that a group of them exists undercover in this area. But in all
these years they’ve always kept to themselves. They did not interfere with my
methods, and I thought it best to allow them to die off on their own without
infecting in our civilians unnecessary panic. You understand, of course,” he
says. “After all, you could hardly contain even one of them. They’re freakish
things to behold.”
“You knew?” I’m on my feet now. Trying to stay calm. “You knew of their
existence, all this time, and yet you did nothing? You said nothing?”
“It seemed unnecessary.”
“And now?” I demand.
“Now it seems pertinent.”
“Unbelievable!” I throw my hands in the air. “That you would withhold such
information from me! When you knew of my plans for her—when you knew
what pains I’d taken to bring her here—”
“Calm yourself,” he says. He stretches out his legs; rests the ankle of one on
the knee of the other. “We are going to find them. This barren field Delalieu
speaks of—the area where the car was no longer traceable? That is our target
location. They must be located underground. We must find the entrance and
destroy them quietly, from within. Then we will have punished the guilty among
them, and kept the rest from rising up and inspiring rebellion in our people.”
He leans forward.
“The civilians hear everything. And right now they are vibrating with a new
kind of energy. They’re feeling inspired that anyone was able to run away, and
that you’ve been wounded in the process. It makes our defenses seem weak and
easily penetrable. We must destroy this perception by righting the imbalance.
Fear will return everything to its proper place.”
“But they’ve been searching,” I tell him. “My men. Every day they’ve scoured
the area and found nothing. How can we be sure we’ll find anything at all?”
“Because,” he says, “you will lead them. Every night. After curfew, while the
civilians are asleep. You will cease your daylight searches; you will not give the
citizens anything else to talk about. Act quietly, son. Do not show your moves. I
will remain on base and oversee your responsibilities through my men; I will
dictate to Delalieu as necessary. And in the interim, you shall find them, so that I
may destroy them as swiftly as possible. This nonsense has gone on long
enough,” he says, “and I’m no longer feeling gracious.”
Eighteen
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry I’m so
sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so
sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry
I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry
I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m
so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so
sorry. I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so
sorry I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry. I’m sorry
I’m so sorry please forgive me.
It was an accident.
Forgive me
Please forgive me
There is little I allow anyone to discover about me. There’s even less I’m
willing to share about myself. And of the many things I’ve never discussed, this
is one of them.
I like to take long baths.
I’ve had an obsession with cleanliness for as long as I can remember. I’ve
always been so mired in death and destruction that I think I’ve overcompensated
by keeping myself pristine as much as possible. I take frequent showers. I brush
and floss three times a day. I trim my own hair every week. I scrub my hands
and nails before I go to bed and just after I wake up. I have an unhealthy
preoccupation with wearing only freshly laundered clothes. And whenever I’m
experiencing any extreme level of emotion, the only thing that settles my nerves
is a long bath.
So that’s what I’m doing right now.
The medics taught me how to bind my injured arm in the same plastic they
used before, so I’m able to sink beneath the surface without a problem. I
submerge my head for a long while, holding my breath as I exhale through my
nose. I feel the small bubbles rise to the surface.
The warm water makes me feel weightless. It carries my burdens for me,
understanding that I need a moment to relieve my shoulders of this weight. To
close my eyes and relax.
My face breaks the surface.
I don’t open my eyes; only my nose and lips meet the oxygen on the other
side. I take small, even breaths to help steady my mind. It’s so late that I don’t
know what time it is; all I know is that the temperature has dropped
significantly, and the cold air is tickling my nose. It’s a strange sensation, to
have 98 percent of my body floating at a warm, welcome temperature, while my
nose and lips twitch from the cold.
I sink my face below the water again.
I could live here, I think. Live where gravity does not know my name. Here I
am unbound, untethered by the chains of this life. I am a different body, a
different shell, and my weight is carried by the hands of friends. So many nights
I’ve wished I could fall asleep under this sheet.
I sink deeper.
In one week my entire life has changed.
My priorities, shifted. My concentration, destroyed. Everything I care about
right now revolves around one person, and for the first time in my life, it’s not
myself. Her words have been burned into my mind. I can’t stop picturing her as
she must’ve been, can’t stop imagining what she must’ve experienced. Finding
her journal has crippled me. My feelings for her have spiraled out of control.
I’ve never been so desperate to see her, to talk to her.
I want her to know that I understand now. That I didn’t understand before. She
and I really are the same; in so many more ways than I could’ve known.
But now she’s out of reach. She’s gone somewhere with strangers who do not
know her and would not care for her as I would. She’s been dropped into another
foreign environment with no time to transition, and I’m worried about her. A
person in her situation—with her past—does not recover overnight. And now,
one of two things is bound to happen: She’s either going to completely shut
down, or she’s going to explode.
I sit up too fast, breaking free of the water, gasping for air.
I push my wet hair out of my face. I lean back against the tiled wall, allowing
the cool air to calm me, to clear my thoughts.
I have to find her before she breaks.
I’ve never wanted to cooperate with my father before, never wanted to agree
with his motives or his methods. But in this instance, I’m willing to do just about
anything to get her back.
And I’m eager for any opportunity to snap Kent’s neck.
That traitorous bastard. The idiot who thinks he’s won himself a pretty girl.
He has no idea who she is. No idea what she’s about to become.
And if he thinks he’s even remotely suited to match her, he’s even more of an
idiot than I gave him credit for.
Nineteen
“Where’s the coffee?” I ask, my eyes scanning the table.
Delalieu drops his fork. The silverware clangs against the china plates. He
looks up, eyes wide. “Sir?”
“I’d like to try it,” I tell him, attempting to spread butter on my toast with my
left hand. I toss a look in his direction. “You’re always going on about your
coffee, aren’t you? I thought I—”
Delalieu jumps up from the table without a word. Bolts out the door.
I laugh silently into my plate.
Delalieu carts the tea and coffee tray in himself and stations it by my chair. His
hands shake as he pours the dark liquid into a teacup, places it on a saucer, sets it
on the table, and pushes it in my direction.
I wait until he’s finally sitting down again before I take a sip. It’s a strange,
obscenely bitter sort of drink; not at all what I expected. I glance up at him,
surprised to discover that a man like Delalieu would begin his day by bracing
himself with such a potent, foul-tasting liquid. I find I respect him for it.
“This isn’t terrible,” I tell him.
His face splits into a smile so wide, so beatific, I wonder if he’s misheard me.
He’s practically beaming when he says, “I take mine with cream and sugar. The
taste is far better that w—”
“Sugar.” I put my cup down. Press my lips together, fight back a smile. “You
add sugar to it. Of course you do. That makes so much more sense.”
“Would you like some, sir?”
I hold up my hand. Shake my head. “Call back the troops, Lieutenant. We’re
going to halt daytime missions and instead launch in the evening, after curfew.
You will remain on base,” I tell him, “where the supreme will dictate orders
through his men; carry out any demands as they are required. I shall lead the
group myself.” I stop. Hold his eyes. “There will be no more talk of what has
transpired. Nothing for the civilians to see or speak of. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, his coffee forgotten. “I’ll issue the orders at once.”
“Good.”
He stands up.
I nod.
He leaves.
I’m beginning to feel real hope for the first time since she left. We’re going to
find her. Now, with this new information—with an entire army against a group
of clueless rebels—it seems impossible we won’t.
I take a deep breath. Take another sip of this coffee.
I’m surprised to discover how much I enjoy the bitter taste of it.
Twenty
He’s waiting for me when I return to my room.
“The orders have been issued,” I tell him without looking in his direction.
“We will mobilize tonight.” I hesitate. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have other
matters to contend with.”
“What’s it like,” he asks, “to be so crippled?” He’s smiling. “How can you
stand to look at yourself, knowing that you’ve been disabled by your own
subordinates?”
I pause outside the adjoining door to my office. “What do you want?”
“What,” he says, “is your fascination with that girl?”
My spine goes rigid.
“She is more to you than just an experiment, isn’t she?” he says.
I turn around slowly. He’s standing in the middle of my room, hands in his
pockets, smiling at me like he might be disgusted.
“What are you talking about?”
“Look at yourself,” he says. “I haven’t even said her name and you fall apart.”
He shakes his head, still studying me. “Your face is pale, your only working
hand is clenched. You’re breathing too fast, and your entire body is tense.” A
pause. “You have betrayed yourself, son. You think you’re very clever,” he says,
“but you’re forgetting who taught you your tricks.”
I go hot and cold all at once. I try to unclench my fist and I can’t. I want to tell
him he’s wrong, but I’m suddenly feeling unsteady, wishing I’d eaten more at
breakfast, and then wishing I’d eaten nothing at all.
“I have work to do,” I manage to say.
“Tell me,” he says, “that you would not care if she died along with the
others.”
“What?” The nervous, shaky word escapes my lips too soon.
My father drops his eyes. Clasps and unclasps his hands. “You have
disappointed me in so many ways,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. “Please
don’t let this be another.”
For a moment I feel as though I exist outside of my body, as if I’m looking at
myself from his perspective. I see my face, my injured arm, these legs that
suddenly seem unable to carry my weight. Cracks begin to form along my face,
all the way down my arms, my torso, my legs.
I imagine this is what it’s like to fall apart.
I don’t realize he’s said my name until he repeats it twice more.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, surprised to hear how calm I sound.
“You’ve walked into my room without permission; you stand here and accuse
me of things I don’t have time to understand. I am following your rules, your
orders. We will leave tonight; we will find their hideout. You can destroy them
as you see fit.”
“And your girl,” he says, cocking his head at me. “Your Juliette?”
I flinch at the sound of her name. My pulse is racing so fast it feels like a
whisper.
“If I were to shoot three holes in her head, how would that make you feel?”
He stares at me. Watches me. “Disappointed, because you’d have lost your pet
project? Or devastated, because you’d have lost the girl you love?”
Time seems to slow down, melting all around me.
“It would be a waste,” I say, ignoring the tremble I feel deep inside me,
threatening to tip me over, “to lose something I’ve invested so much time in.”
He smiles. “It’s good to know you see it that way,” he says. “But projects are,
after all, easily replaced. And I’m certain we’ll be able to find a better, more
practical use of your time.”
I blink at him so slowly. Part of my chest feels as if it’s collapsed.
“Of course,” I hear myself say.
“I knew you’d understand.” He claps me on my injured shoulder as he leaves.
My knees nearly buckle. “It was a good effort, son. But she’s cost us too much
time and expense, and she’s proven completely useless. This way we’ll be
disposing of many inconveniences all at once. We’ll just consider her collateral
damage.” He shoots me one last smile before walking past me and out the door.
I fall back against the wall.
And crumble to the floor.
Twenty-One
Swallow the tears back often enough and they’ll start feeling like acid
dripping down your throat.
It’s that terrible moment when you’re sitting still so still so still
because you don’t want them to see you cry you don’t want to cry but
your lips won’t stop trembling and your eyes are filled to the brim with
please and I beg you and please and I’m sorry and please and have
mercy and maybe this time it’ll be different but it’s always the same.
There’s no one to run to for comfort. No one on your side.
Light a candle for me, I used to whisper to no one.
Someone
Anyone
If you’re out there
Please tell me you can feel this fire.
It’s day five of our patrols, and still, nothing.
I lead the group every night, marching into the silence of these cold, winter
landscapes. We search for hidden passageways, camouflaged manholes—any
indication that there might be another world under our feet.
And every night we return to base with nothing.
The futility of these past few days has washed over me, dulling my senses,
settling me into a kind of daze I haven’t been able to claw my way out of. Every
day I wake up searching for a solution to the problems I’ve forced upon myself,
but I have no idea how to fix this.
If she’s out there, he will find her. And he will kill her.
Just to teach me a lesson.
My only hope is to find her first. Maybe I could hide her. Or tell her to run. Or
pretend she’s already dead. Or maybe I’ll convince him that she’s different,
better than the others; that she’s worth keeping alive.
I sound like a pathetic, desperate idiot.
I am a child all over again, hiding in dark corners and praying he won’t find
me. Hoping he’ll be in a good mood today. That maybe everything will be all
right. That maybe my mother won’t be screaming this time.
How quickly I revert back to another version of myself in his presence.
I’ve gone numb.
I’ve been performing my tasks with a sort of mechanical dedication; it
requires minimal effort. Moving is simple enough. Eating is something I’ve
grown accustomed to.
I can’t stop reading her notebook.
My heart actually hurts, somehow, but I can’t stop turning the pages. I feel as
if I’m pounding against an invisible wall, as if my face has been bandaged in
plastic and I can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t hear any sound but my own heart
beating in my ears.
I’ve wanted few things in this life.
I’ve asked for nothing from no one.
And now, all I’m asking for is another chance. An opportunity to see her
again. But unless I can find a way to stop him, these words will be all I’ll ever
have of her.
These paragraphs and sentences. These letters.
I’ve become obsessed. I carry her notebook with me everywhere I go,
spending all my free moments trying to decipher the words she’s scribbled in the
margins, developing stories to go along with the numbers she’s written down.
I’ve also noticed that the last page is missing. Ripped out.
I can’t help but wonder why. I’ve searched through the book a hundred times,
looking for other sections where pages might be gone, but I’ve found none. And
somehow I feel cheated, knowing there’s a piece I might’ve missed. It’s not even
my journal; it’s none of my business at all, but I’ve read her words so many
times now that they feel like my own. I can practically recite them from
memory.
It’s strange being in her head without being able to see her. I feel like she’s
here, right in front of me. I feel like I now know her so intimately, so privately.
I’m safe in the company of her thoughts; I feel welcome, somehow. Understood.
So much so that some days I manage to forget that she’s the one who put this
bullet hole in my arm.
I almost forget that she still hates me, despite how hard I’ve fallen for her.
And I’ve fallen.
So hard.
I’ve hit the ground. Gone right through it. Never in my life have I felt this.
Nothing like this. I’ve felt shame and cowardice, weakness and strength. I’ve
known terror and indifference, self-hate and general disgust. I’ve seen things that
cannot be unseen.
And yet I’ve known nothing like this terrible, horrible, paralyzing feeling. I
feel crippled. Desperate and out of control. And it keeps getting worse. Every
day I feel sick. Empty and somehow aching.
Love is a heartless bastard.
I’m driving myself insane.
I fall backward onto my bed, fully dressed. Coat, boots, gloves. I’m too tired to
take them off. These late-night shifts have left me very little time to sleep. I feel
as though I’ve been existing in a constant state of exhaustion.
My head hits the pillow and I blink once. Twice.
I collapse.
Twenty-Two
“No,” I hear myself say. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
She’s sitting on my bed. She’s leaning back on her elbows, legs outstretched
in front of her, crossed at the ankles. And while some part of me understands I
must be dreaming, there’s another, overwhelmingly dominant part of me that
refuses to accept this. Part of me wants to believe she’s really here, inches away
from me, wearing this short, tight black dress that keeps slipping up her thighs.
But everything about her looks different, oddly vibrant; the colors are all wrong.
Her lips are a richer, deeper shade of pink; her eyes seem wider, darker. She’s
wearing shoes I know she’d never wear. And strangest of all: she’s smiling at
me.
“Hi,” she whispers.
It’s just one word, but my heart is already racing. I’m inching away from her,
stumbling back and nearly slamming my skull against the headboard, when I
realize my shoulder is no longer wounded. I look down at myself. My arms are
both fully functional. I’m wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and my
underwear.
She shifts positions in an instant, propping herself up on her knees before
crawling over to me. She climbs onto my lap. She’s now straddling my waist.
I’m suddenly breathing too fast.
Her lips are at my ear. Her words are so soft. “Kiss me,” she says.
“Juliette—”
“I came all the way here.” She’s still smiling at me. It’s a rare smile, the kind
she’s never honored me with. But somehow, right now, she’s mine. She’s mine
and she’s perfect and she wants me, and I’m not going to fight it.
I don’t want to.
Her hands are tugging at my shirt, pulling it up over my head. Tossing it to the
floor. She leans forward and kisses my neck, just once, so slowly. My eyes fall
closed.
There aren’t enough words in this world to describe what I’m feeling.
I feel her hands move down my chest, my stomach; her fingers run along the
edge of my underwear. Her hair falls forward, grazing my skin, and I have to
clench my fists to keep from pinning her to my bed.
Every nerve ending in my body is awake. I’ve never felt so alive or so
desperate in my life, and I’m sure if she could hear what I’m thinking right now,
she’d run out the door and never come back.
Because I want her.
Now.
Here.
Everywhere.
I want nothing between us.
I want her clothes off and the lights on and I want to study her. I want to unzip
her out of this dress and take my time with every inch of her. I can’t help my
need to just stare; to know her and her features: the slope of her nose, the curve
of her lips, the line of her jaw. I want to run my fingertips across the soft skin of
her neck and trace it all the way down. I want to feel the weight of her pressed
against me, wrapped around me.
I can’t remember a reason why this can’t be right or real. I can’t focus on
anything but the fact that she’s sitting on my lap, touching my chest, staring into
my eyes like she might really love me.
I wonder if I’ve actually died.
But just as I lean in, she leans back, grinning before reaching behind her,
never once breaking eye contact with me. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “It’s
almost over now.”
Her words seem so strange, so familiar. “What do you mean?”
“Just a little longer and I’ll leave.”
“No.” I’m blinking fast, reaching for her. “No, don’t go—where are you going
—”
“You’ll be all right,” she says. “I promise.”
“No—”
But now she’s holding a gun.
And pointing it at my heart.
Twenty-Three
These letters are all I have left.
26 friends to tell my stories to.
26 letters are all I need. I can stitch them together to create oceans
and ecosystems. I can fit them together to form planets and solar systems.
I can use letters to construct skyscrapers and metropolitan cities
populated by people, places, things, and ideas that are more real to me
than these 4 walls.
I need nothing but letters to live. Without them I would not exist.
Because these words I write down are the only proof I have that I’m
still alive.
It’s extraordinarily cold this morning.
I suggested we make a smaller, more low-key trip to the compounds earlier in
the day today, just to see if any of the civilians seemed suspicious or out of
place. I’m beginning to wonder if Kent and Kishimoto and all the others are
living among the people in secret. They must, after all, have to have some source
for food and water—something that ties them to society; I doubt they can grow
anything underground. But of course, these are all assumptions. They might very
well have a person who can grow food out of thin air.
I quickly address my men; instruct them to disperse and remain
inconspicuous. Their job is to watch everyone today, and report their findings
directly to me.
Once they’re gone, I’m left to look around and be alone with my thoughts. It’s
a dangerous place to be.
God, she seemed so real in my dream.
I close my eyes, dragging a hand down my face; my fingers linger against my
lips. I could feel her. I could really feel her. Even thinking about it now makes
my heart race. I don’t know what I’m going to do if I keep having such intense
dreams about her. I won’t be able to function at all.
I take a deep, steadying breath and focus. I allow my eyes to wander naturally,
and I can’t help but be distracted by the children running around. They seem so
spirited and carefree. In a strange way, it makes me sad that they’ve been able to
find happiness in this life. They have no idea what they’ve missed; no idea what
the world used to be like.
Something barrels into the backs of my legs.
I hear a strange, labored sort of panting; I turn around.
It’s a dog.
A tired, starving dog, so thin and frail it looks like it could be knocked over by
the wind. But it’s staring at me. Unafraid. Mouth open. Tongue lolling.
I want to laugh out loud.
I glance around quickly before scooping the dog into my arms. I don’t need to
give my father any more reasons to castrate me, and I don’t trust my soldiers not
to report something like this.
That I would play with a dog.
I can already hear the things my father would say to me.
I carry the whimpering creature over to one of the recently vacated housing
units—I just saw all three families leave for work—and duck down behind one
of the fences. The dog seems smart enough to understand that now is not the
time to bark.
I tug off my glove and reach into my pocket for the Danish I grabbed at
breakfast this morning; I hadn’t had a chance to eat anything before our early
start today. And though I haven’t the faintest idea what dogs eat, exactly, I offer
the Danish anyway.
The dog practically bites off my hand.
It chokes down the Danish in two bites and starts licking my fingers, jumping
against my chest in excitement, finally plowing into the warmth of my open
coat. I can’t control the easy laughter that escapes my lips; I don’t want to. I
haven’t felt like laughing in so long. And I can’t help but be amazed at the
power such small, unassuming animals wield over us; they so easily break down
our defenses.
I run my hand along its shabby fur, feeling its ribs jut out at sharp,
uncomfortable angles. But the dog doesn’t seem to mind its starved state, at least
not right now. Its tail is wagging hard, and it keeps pulling back from my coat to
look me in the eye. I’m starting to wish I’d stuffed all the Danishes in my pocket
this morning.
Something snaps.
I hear a gasp.
I spin around.
I jump up, alert, searching for the sound. It seemed close by. Someone saw
me. Someone— A civilian. She’s already darting away, her body pressed against
the wall of a nearby unit.
“Hey!” I shout. “You there—”
She stops. Looks up.
I nearly collapse.
Juliette.
She’s staring at me. She’s actually here, staring at me, her eyes wide and
panicked. My legs are suddenly made of lead. I’m rooted to the ground, unable
to form words. I don’t even know where to start. There’s so much I want to say
to her, so much I’ve never told her, and I’m just so happy to see her—God, I’m
so relieved— She’s disappeared.
I spin around, frantic, wondering whether I’ve actually begun to lose my grip
on reality. My eyes land on the little dog still sitting there, waiting for me, and I
stare at it, dumbfounded, wondering what on earth just happened. I keep looking
back at the place I thought I saw her, but I see nothing.
Nothing.
I run a hand through my hair, so confused, so horrified and angry with myself
that I’m tempted to rip it out of my head.
What is happening to me.
Excerpt from Warner’s Files
Copyright
DESTROY ME
Copyright © 2012 by Tahereh Mafi
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the
required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of
this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled,
reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form
or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express
written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780062208194
Version 10222012
FIRST EDITION
DEDICATION
For my mother. The best person I’ve ever known.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Acknowledgments
Credits
Copyright
ONE
The world might be sunny-side up today.
The big ball of yellow might be spilling into the clouds, runny and yolky and
blurring into the bluest sky, bright with cold hope and false promises about fond
memories, real families, hearty breakfasts, stacks of pancakes drizzled in maple
syrup sitting on a plate in a world that doesn’t exist anymore.
Or maybe not.
Maybe it’s dark and wet today, whistling wind so sharp it stings the skin off
the knuckles of grown men. Maybe it’s snowing, maybe it’s raining, I don’t
know maybe it’s freezing it’s hailing it’s a hurricane slip slipping into a tornado
and the earth is quaking apart to make room for our mistakes.
I wouldn’t have any idea.
I don’t have a window anymore. I don’t have a view. It’s a million degrees
below zero in my blood and I’m buried 50 feet underground in a training room
that’s become my second home lately. Every day I stare at these 4 walls and
remind myself I’m not a prisoner I’m not a prisoner I’m not a prisoner but
sometimes the old fears streak across my skin and I can’t seem to break free of
the claustrophobia clutching at my throat.
I made so many promises when I arrived here.
Now I’m not so sure. Now I’m worried. Now my mind is a traitor because
my thoughts crawl out of bed every morning with darting eyes and sweating
palms and nervous giggles that sit in my chest, build in my chest, threaten to
burst through my chest, and the pressure is tightening and tightening and
tightening Life around here isn’t what I expected it to be.
My new world is etched in gunmetal, sealed in silver, drowning in the scents
of stone and steel. The air is icy, the mats are orange; the lights and switches
beep and flicker, electronic and electric, neon bright. It’s busy here, busy with
bodies, busy with halls stuffed full of whispers and shouts, pounding feet and
thoughtful footsteps. If I listen closely I can hear the sounds of brains working
and foreheads pinching and fingers tap tapping at chins and lips and furrowed
brows. Ideas are carried in pockets, thoughts propped up on the tips of every
tongue; eyes are narrowed in concentration, in careful planning I should want to
know about.
But nothing is working and all my parts are broken.
I’m supposed to harness my Energy, Castle said. Our gifts are different
forms of Energy. Matter is never created or destroyed, he said to me, and as our
world changed, so did the Energy within it. Our abilities are taken from the
universe, from other matter, from other Energies. We are not anomalies. We are
inevitabilities of the perverse manipulations of our Earth. Our Energy came from
somewhere, he said. And somewhere is in the chaos all around us.
It makes sense. I remember what the world looked like when I left it.
I remember the pissed-off skies and the sequence of sunsets collapsing
beneath the moon. I remember the cracked earth and the scratchy bushes and the
used-to-be-greens that are now too close to brown. I think about the water we
can’t drink and the birds that don’t fly and how human civilization has been
reduced to nothing but a series of compounds stretched out over what’s left of
our ravaged land.
This planet is a broken bone that didn’t set right, a hundred pieces of crystal
glued together. We’ve been shattered and reconstructed, told to make an effort
every single day to pretend we still function the way we’re supposed to. But it’s
a lie, it’s all a lie.
I do not function properly.
I am nothing more than the consequence of catastrophe.
2 weeks have collapsed at the side of the road, abandoned, already forgotten.
2 weeks I’ve been here and in 2 weeks I’ve taken up residence on a bed of
eggshells, wondering when something is going to break, when I’ll be the first to
break it, wondering when everything is going to fall apart. In 2 weeks I
should’ve been happier, healthier, sleeping better, more soundly in this safe
space. Instead I worry about what will happen when if I can’t get this right, if I
don’t figure out how to train properly, if I hurt someone on purpose by accident.
We’re preparing for a bloody war.
That’s why I’m training. We’re all trying to prepare ourselves to take down
Warner and his men. To win one battle at a time. To show the citizens of our
world that there is hope yet—that they do not have to acquiesce to the demands
of The Reestablishment and become slaves to a regime that wants nothing more
than to exploit them for power. And I agreed to fight. To be a warrior. To use my
power against my better judgment. But the thought of laying a hand on someone
brings back a world of memories, feelings, a flush of power I experience only
when I make contact with skin not immune to my own. It’s a rush of
invincibility; a tormented kind of euphoria; a wave of intensity flooding every
pore in my body. I don’t know what it will do to me. I don’t know if I can trust
myself to take pleasure in someone else’s pain.
All I know is that Warner’s last words are caught in my chest and I can’t
cough out the cold or the truth hacking at the back of my throat.
Adam has no idea that Warner can touch me.
No one does.
Warner was supposed to be dead. Warner was supposed to be dead because I
was supposed to have shot him but no one supposed I’d need to know how to
fire a gun so now I suppose he’s come to find me.
He’s come to fight.
For me.
TWO
A sharp knock and the door flies open.
“Ah, Ms. Ferrars. I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by sitting in the
corner.” Castle’s easy grin dances into the room before he does.
I take a tight breath and try to make myself look at Castle but I can’t. Instead
I whisper an apology and listen to the sorry sound my words make in this large
room. I feel my shaking fingers clench against the thick, padded mats spread out
across the floor and think about how I’ve accomplished nothing since I’ve been
here. It’s humiliating, so humiliating to disappoint one of the only people who’s
ever been kind to me.
Castle stands directly in front of me, waits until I finally look up. “There’s no
need to apologize,” he says. His sharp, clear brown eyes and friendly smile make
it easy to forget he’s the leader of Omega Point. The leader of this entire
underground movement dedicated to fighting The Reestablishment. His voice is
too gentle, too kind, and it’s almost worse. Sometimes I wish he would just yell
at me. “But,” he continues, “you do have to learn how to harness your Energy,
Ms. Ferrars.”
A pause.
A pace.
His hands rest on the stack of bricks I was supposed to have destroyed. He
pretends not to notice the red rims around my eyes or the metal pipes I threw
across the room. His gaze carefully avoids the bloody smears on the wooden
planks set off to the side; his questions don’t ask me why my fists are clenched
so tight and whether or not I’ve injured myself again. He cocks his head in my
direction but he’s staring at a spot directly behind me and his voice is soft when
he speaks. “I know this is difficult for you,” he says. “But you must learn. You
have to. Your life will depend upon it.”
I nod, lean back against the wall, welcome the cold and the pain of the brick
digging into my spine. I pull my knees up to my chest and feel my feet press into
the protective mats covering the ground. I’m so close to tears I’m afraid I might
scream. “I just don’t know how,” I finally say to him. “I don’t know any of this.
I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing.” I stare at the ceiling and
blink blink blink. My eyes feel shiny, damp. “I don’t know how to make things
happen.”
“Then you have to think,” Castle says, undeterred. He picks up a discarded
metal pipe. Weighs it in his hands. “You have to find links between the events
that transpired. When you broke through the concrete in Warner’s torture
chamber—when you punched through the steel door to save Mr. Kent—what
happened? Why in those two instances were you able to react in such an
extraordinary way?” He sits down some feet away from me. Pushes the pipe in
my direction. “I need you to analyze your abilities, Ms. Ferrars. You have to
focus.”
Focus.
It’s one word but it’s enough, it’s all it takes to make me feel sick. Everyone,
it seems, needs me to focus. First Warner needed me to focus, and now Castle
needs me to focus.
I’ve never been able to follow through.
Castle’s deep, sad sigh brings me back to the present. He gets to his feet. He
smooths out the only navy-blue blazer he seems to own and I catch a glimpse of
the silver Omega symbol embroidered into the back. An absent hand touches the
end of his ponytail; he always ties his dreads in a clean knot at the base of his
neck. “You are resisting yourself,” he says, though he says it gently. “Maybe
you should work with someone else for a change. Maybe a partner will help you
work things out—to discover the connection between these two events.”
My shoulders stiffen, surprised. “I thought you said I had to work alone.”
He squints past me. Scratches a spot beneath his ear, shoves his other hand
into a pocket. “I didn’t actually want you to work alone,” he says. “But no one
volunteered for the task.”
I don’t know why I suck in my breath, why I’m so surprised. I shouldn’t be
surprised. Not everyone is Adam.
Not everyone is safe from me the way he is. No one but Adam has ever
touched me and enjoyed it. No one except for Warner. But despite Adam’s best
intentions, he can’t train with me. He’s busy with other things.
Things no one wants to tell me about.
But Castle is staring at me with hopeful eyes, generous eyes, eyes that have
no idea that these new words he’s offered me are so much worse. Worse because
as much as I know the truth, it still hurts to hear it. It hurts to remember that
though I might live in a warm bubble with Adam, the rest of the world still sees
me as a threat. A monster. An abomination.
Warner was right. No matter where I go, I can’t seem to run from this.
“What’s changed?” I ask him. “Who’s willing to train me now?” I pause.
“You?”
Castle smiles.
It’s the kind of smile that flushes humiliated heat up my neck and spears my
pride right through the vertebrae. I have to resist the urge to bolt out the door.
Please please please do not pity me, is what I want to say.
“I wish I had the time,” Castle says to me. “But Kenji is finally free—we
were able to reorganize his schedule—and he said he’d be happy to work with
you.” A moment of hesitation. “That is, if that’s all right with you.”
Kenji.
I want to laugh out loud. Kenji would be the only one willing to risk working
with me. I injured him once. By accident. But he and I haven’t spent much time
together since he first led our expedition into Omega Point. It was like he was
just doing a task, fulfilling a mission; once complete, he went back to his own
life. Apparently Kenji is important around here. He has a million things to do.
Things to regulate. People seem to like him, respect him, even.
I wonder if they’ve ever known him as the obnoxious, foul-mouthed Kenji I
first met.
“Sure,” I tell Castle, attempting a pleasant expression for the first time since
he arrived. “That sounds great.”
Castle stands up. His eyes are bright, eager, easily pleased. “Perfect. I’ll have
him meet you at breakfast tomorrow. You can eat together and go from there.”
“Oh but I usually—”
“I know.” Castle cuts me off. His smile is pressed into a thin line now, his
forehead creased with concern. “You like to eat your meals with Mr. Kent. I
know this. But you’ve hardly spent any time with the others, Ms. Ferrars, and if
you’re going to be here, you need to start trusting us. The people of Omega Point
feel close to Kenji. He can vouch for you. If everyone sees you spending time
together, they’ll feel less intimidated by your presence. It will help you adjust.”
Heat like hot oil spatters across my face; I flinch, feel my fingers twitch, try
to find a place to look, try to pretend I can’t feel the pain caught in my chest.
“They’re—they’re afraid of me,” I tell him, I whisper, I trail off. “I don’t—I
didn’t want to bother anyone. I didn’t want to get in their way....”
Castle sighs, long and loud. He looks down and up, scratches the soft spot
beneath his chin. “They’re only afraid,” he says finally, “because they don’t
know you. If you just tried a little harder—if you made even the smallest effort
to get to know anyone—” He stops. Frowns. “Ms. Ferrars, you have been here
two weeks and you hardly even speak to your roommates.”
“But that’s not—I think they’re great—”
“And yet you ignore them? You spend no time with them? Why?”
Because I’ve never had girl friends before. Because I’m afraid I’ll do
something wrong, say something wrong and they’ll end up hating me like all the
other girls I’ve known. And I like them too much, which will make their
inevitable rejection so much harder to endure.
I say nothing.
Castle shakes his head. “You did so well the first day you arrived. You
seemed almost friendly with Brendan. I don’t know what happened,” Castle
continues. “I thought you would do well here.”
Brendan. The thin boy with platinum-blond hair and electric currents running
through his veins. I remember him. He was nice to me. “I like Brendan,” I tell
Castle, bewildered. “Is he upset with me?”
“Upset?” Castle shakes his head, laughs out loud. He doesn’t answer my
question. “I don’t understand, Ms. Ferrars. I’ve tried to be patient with you, I’ve
tried to give you time, but I confess I’m quite perplexed. You were so different
when you first arrived—you were excited to be here! But it took less than a
week for you to withdraw completely. You don’t even look at anyone when you
walk through the halls. What happened to conversation? To friendship?”
Yes.
It took 1 day for me to settle in. 1 day for me to look around. 1 day for me to
get excited about a different life and 1 day for everyone to find out who I am and
what I’ve done.
Castle doesn’t say anything about the mothers who see me walking down the
hall and yank their children out of my way. He doesn’t mention the hostile stares
and the unwelcoming words I’ve endured since I’ve arrived. He doesn’t say
anything about the kids who’ve been warned to stay far, far away, and the
handful of elderly people who watch me too closely. I can only imagine what
they’ve heard, where they got their stories from.
Juliette.
A girl with a lethal touch that saps the strength and energy of human beings
until they’re limp, paralyzed carcasses wheezing on the floor. A girl who spent
most of her life in hospitals and juvenile detention centers, a girl who was cast
off by her own parents, labeled as certifiably insane, and sentenced to isolation
in an asylum where even the rats were afraid to live.
A girl.
So power hungry that she killed a small child. She tortured a toddler. She
brought a grown man gasping to his knees. She doesn’t even have the decency to
kill herself.
None of it is a lie.
So I look at Castle with spots of color on my cheeks and unspoken letters on
my lips and eyes that refuse to reveal their secrets.
He sighs.
He almost says something. He tries to speak but his eyes inspect my face and
he changes his mind. He only offers me a quick nod, a deep breath, taps his
watch, says, “Three hours until lights-out,” and turns to go.
Pauses in the doorway.
“Ms. Ferrars,” he says suddenly, softly, without turning around. “You’ve
chosen to stay with us, to fight with us, to become a member of Omega Point.”
A pause. “We’re going to need your help. And I’m afraid we’re running out of
time.”
I watch him leave.
I listen to his departing footsteps and lean my head back against the wall.
Close my eyes against the ceiling. Hear his voice, solemn and steady, ringing in
my ears.
We’re running out of time, he said.
As if time were the kind of thing you could run out of, as if it were measured
into bowls that were handed to us at birth and if we ate too much or too fast or
right before jumping into the water then our time would be lost, wasted, already
spent.
But time is beyond our finite comprehension. It’s endless, it exists outside of
us; we cannot run out of it or lose track of it or find a way to hold on to it. Time
goes on even when we do not.
We have plenty of time, is what Castle should have said. We have all the
time in the world, is what he should have said to me. But he didn’t because what
he meant tick tock is that our time tick tock is shifting. It’s hurtling forward
heading in an entirely new direction slamming face-first into something else and
tick
tick
tick
tick
tick
it’s almost
time for war.
THREE
I could touch him from here.
His eyes, dark blue. His hair, dark brown. His shirt, too tight in all the right
places and his lips, his lips twitch up to flick the switch that lights the fire in my
heart and I don’t even have time to blink and exhale before I’m caught in his
arms.
Adam.
“Hey, you,” he whispers, right up against my neck.
I bite back a shiver as the blood rushes up to blush my cheeks and for a
moment, just for this moment, I drop my bones and allow him to hold me
together. “Hey.” I smile, inhaling the scent of him.
Luxurious, is what this is.
We rarely ever see each other alone. Adam is staying in Kenji’s room with
his little brother, James, and I bunk with the healer twins. We probably have less
than 20 minutes before the girls get back to this room, and I intend to make the
most of this opportunity.
My eyes fall shut.
Adam’s arms wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, and the pleasure is
so tremendous I can hardly keep myself from shaking. It’s like my skin and
bones have been craving contact, warm affection, human interaction for so many
years that I don’t know how to pace myself. I’m a starving child trying to stuff
my stomach, gorging my senses on the decadence of these moments as if I’ll
wake up in the morning and realize I’m still sweeping cinders for my
stepmother.
But then Adam’s lips press against my head and my worries put on a fancy
dress and pretend to be something else for a while.
“How are you?” I ask, and it’s so embarrassing because my words are
already unsteady even though he’s hardly held me but I can’t make myself let
go.
Laughter shakes the shape of his body, soft and rich and indulgent. But he
doesn’t respond to my question and I know he won’t.
We’ve tried so many times to sneak off together, only to be caught and
chastised for our negligence. We are not allowed outside of our rooms after
lights-out. Once our grace period—a leniency granted on account of our very
abrupt arrival—ended, Adam and I had to follow the rules just like everyone
else. And there are a lot of rules to follow.
These security measures—cameras everywhere, around every corner, in
every hallway—exist to prepare us in the case of an attack. Guards patrol at
night, looking for any suspicious noise, activity, or sign of a breach. Castle and
his team are vigilant in protecting Omega Point, and they’re unwilling to take
even the slightest risks; if trespassers get too close to this hideout, someone has
to do anything and everything necessary to keep them away.
Castle claims it’s their very vigilance that’s kept them from discovery for so
long, and if I’m perfectly honest, I can see his rationale in being so strict about
it. But these same strict measures keep me and Adam apart. He and I never see
each other except during mealtimes, when we’re always surrounded by other
people, and any free time I have is spent locked in a training room where I’m
supposed to “harness my Energy.” Adam is just as unhappy about it as I am.
I touch his cheek.
He takes a tight breath. Turns to me. Tells me too much with his eyes, so
much that I have to look away because I feel it all too acutely. My skin is
hypersensitive, finally finally finally awake and thrumming with life, humming
with feelings so intense it’s almost indecent.
I can’t even hide it.
He sees what he does to me, what happens to me when his fingers graze my
skin, when his lips get too close to my face, when the heat of his body against
mine forces my eyes to close and my limbs to tremble and my knees to buckle
under pressure. I see what it does to him, too, to know that he has that effect on
me. He tortures me sometimes, smiling as he takes too long to bridge the gap
between us, reveling in the sound of my heart slamming against my chest, in the
sharp breaths I fight so hard to control, in the way I swallow a hundred times just
before he moves to kiss me. I can’t even look at him without reliving every
moment we’ve had together, every memory of his lips, his touch, his scent, his
skin. It’s too much for me, too much, so much, so new, so many exquisite
sensations I’ve never known, never felt, never even had access to before.
Sometimes I’m afraid it will kill me.
I break free of his arms; I’m hot and cold and feeling unsteady, hoping I can
get myself under control, hoping he’ll forget how easily he affects me, and I
know I need a moment to pull myself together. I stumble backward; I cover my
face with my hands and try to think of something to say but everything is
shaking and I catch him looking at me, looking like he might inhale the length of
me in one breath.
No is the word I think I hear him whisper.
All I know next are his arms, the desperate edge to his voice when he says
my name, and I’m unraveling in his embrace, I’m frayed and falling apart and
I’m making no effort to control the tremors in my bones and he’s so hot his skin
is so hot and I don’t even know where I am anymore.
His right hand slides up my spine and tugs on the zipper holding my suit
together until it’s halfway down my back and I don’t care. I have 17 years to
make up for and I want to feel everything. I’m not interested in waiting around
and risking the who-knows and the what-ifs and the huge regrets. I want to feel
all of it because what if I wake up to find this phenomenon has passed, that the
expiration date has arrived, that my chance came and went and would never
return. That these hands will feel this warmth never again.
I can’t.
I won’t.
I don’t even realize I’ve pressed myself into him until I feel every contour of
his frame under the thin cotton of his clothes. My hands slip up under his shirt
and I hear his strained breath; I look up to find his eyes squeezed shut, his
features caught in an expression resembling some kind of pain and suddenly his
hands are in my hair, desperate, his lips so close. He leans in and gravity moves
out of his way and my feet leave the floor and I’m floating, I’m flying, I’m
anchored by nothing but this hurricane in my lungs and this heart beating a skip
a skip a skip too fast.
Our lips
touch
and I know I’m going to split at the seams. He’s kissing me like he’s lost me
and he’s found me and I’m slipping away and he’s never going to let me go. I
want to scream, sometimes, I want to collapse, sometimes, I want to die knowing
that I’ve known what it was like to live with this kiss, this heart, this soft soft
explosion that makes me feel like I’ve taken a sip of the sun, like I’ve eaten
clouds 8, 9, and 10.
This.
This makes me ache everywhere.
He pulls away, he’s breathing hard, his hands slip under the soft material of
my suit and he’s so hot his skin is so hot and I think I’ve already said that but I
can’t remember and I’m so distracted that when he speaks I don’t quite
understand.
But it’s something.
Words, deep and husky in my ear but I catch little more than an
unintelligible utterance, consonants and vowels and broken syllables all mixed
together. His heartbeats crash through his chest and topple into mine. His fingers
are tracing secret messages on my body. His hands glide down the smooth,
satiny material of this suit, slipping down the insides of my thighs, around the
backs of my knees and up and up and up and I wonder if it’s possible to faint and
still be conscious at the same time and I’m betting this is what it feels like to
hyper, to hyperventilate when he tugs us backward. He slams his back into the
wall. Finds a firm grip on my hips. Pulls me hard against his body.
I gasp.
His lips are on my neck. His lashes tickle the skin under my chin and he says
something, something that sounds like my name and he kisses up and down my
collarbone, kisses along the arc of my shoulder, and his lips, his lips and his
hands and his lips are searching the curves and slopes of my body and his chest
is heaving when he swears and he stops and he says God you feel so good and
my heart has flown to the moon without me.
I love it when he says that to me. I love it when he tells me that he likes the
way I feel because it goes against everything I’ve heard my entire life and I wish
I could put his words in my pocket just to touch them once in a while and remind
myself that they exist.
“Juliette.”
I can hardly breathe.
I can hardly look up and look straight and see anything but the absolute
perfection of this moment but none of that even matters because he’s smiling.
He’s smiling like someone’s strung the stars across his lips and he’s looking at
me, looking at me like I’m everything and I want to weep.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers.
And I trust him.
So I do.
My eyes fall closed and he kisses one, then the other. Then my chin, my
nose, my forehead. My cheeks. Both temples.
Every
inch
of my neck
and
he pulls back so quickly he bangs his head against the rough wall. A few
choice words slip out before he can stop them. I’m frozen, startled and suddenly
scared. “What happened?” I whisper, and I don’t know why I’m whispering.
“Are you okay?”
Adam fights not to grimace but he’s breathing hard and looking around and
stammering “S-sorry” as he clutches the back of his head. “That was—I mean I
thought—” He looks away. Clears his throat. “I—I think—I thought I heard
something. I thought someone was about to come inside.”
Of course.
Adam is not allowed to be in here.
The guys and the girls stay in different wings at Omega Point. Castle says
it’s mostly to make sure the girls feel safe and comfortable in their living
quarters—especially because we have communal bathrooms—so for the most
part, I don’t have a problem with it. It’s nice not to have to shower with old men.
But it makes it hard for the two of us to find any time together—and during
whatever time we do manage to scrounge up, we’re always hyperaware of being
discovered.
Adam leans back against the wall and winces. I reach up to touch his head.
He flinches.
I freeze.
“Are you okay …?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I just—I mean—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Drops his voice. His eyes. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”
“Hey.” I brush my fingertips against his stomach. The cotton of his shirt is
still warm from his body heat and I have to resist the urge to bury my face in it.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You were just being careful.”
He smiles a strange, sad sort of smile. “I’m not talking about my head.”
I stare at him.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Pries it open again. “It’s—I mean, this—” He
motions between us.
He won’t finish. He won’t look at me.
“I don’t understand—”
“I’m losing my mind,” he says, but whispers it like he’s not sure he’s even
saying it out loud.
I look at him. I look and blink and trip on words I can’t see and can’t find
and can’t speak.
He’s shaking his head.
He grips the back of his skull, hard, and he looks embarrassed and I’m
struggling to understand why. Adam doesn’t get embarrassed. Adam never gets
embarrassed.
His voice is thick when he finally speaks. “I’ve waited so long to be with
you,” he says. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you for so long and now, after
everything—”
“Adam, what are y—”
“I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep and I think about you all—all the time and I can’t
—” He stops. Presses the heels of his hands to his forehead. Squeezes his eyes
shut. Turns toward the wall so I can’t see his face. “You should know—you have
to know,” he says, the words raw, seeming to drain him, “that I have never
wanted anything like I’ve wanted you. Nothing. Because this—this—I mean,
God, I want you, Juliette, I want—I want—”
His words falter as he turns to me, eyes too bright, emotion flushing up the
planes of his face. His gaze lingers along the lines of my body, long enough to
strike a match to the lighter fluid flowing in my veins.
I ignite.
I want to say something, something right and steady and reassuring. I want to
tell him that I understand, that I want the same thing, that I want him, too, but
the moment feels so charged and urgent that I’m half convinced I’m dreaming.
It’s like I’m down to my last letters and all I have are Qs and Zs and I’ve only
just remembered that someone invented a dictionary when he finally rips his
eyes away from me.
He swallows, hard, his eyes down. Looks away again. One of his hands is
caught in his hair, the other is curled into a fist against the wall. “You have no
idea,” he says, his voice ragged, “what you do to me. What you make me feel.
When you touch me—” He runs a shaky hand across his face. He almost laughs,
but his breathing is heavy and uneven; he won’t meet my eyes. He steps back,
swears under his breath. Pumps his fist against his forehead. “Jesus. What the
hell am I saying. Shit. Shit. I’m sorry—forget that—forget I said anything—I
should go—”
I try to stop him, try to find my voice, try to say, It’s all right, it’s okay, but
I’m nervous now, so nervous, so confused, because none of this makes any
sense. I don’t understand what’s happening or why he seems so uncertain about
me and us and him and me and he and I and all of those pronouns put together.
I’m not rejecting him. I’ve never rejected him. My feelings for him have always
been so clear—he has no reason to feel unsure about me or around me and I
don’t know why he’s looking at me like something is wrong— “I’m so sorry,”
he says. “I’m—I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just—I’m—shit. I shouldn’t
have come. I should go—I have to go—”
“What? Adam, what happened? What are you talking about?”
“This was a bad idea,” he says. “I’m so stupid—I shouldn’t have even been
here—”
“You are not stupid—it’s okay—everything is okay—”
He laughs, loud, hollow. The echo of an uncomfortable smile lingers on his
face as he stops, stares at a point directly behind my head. He says nothing for a
long time, until finally he does. “Well,” he says. He tries to sound upbeat.
“That’s not what Castle thinks.”
“What?” I breathe, caught off guard. I know we’re not talking about our
relationship anymore.
“Yeah.” His hands are in his pockets.
“No.”
Adam nods. Shrugs. Looks at me and looks away. “I don’t know. I think so.”
“But the testing—it’s—I mean”—I can’t stop shaking my head—“has he
found something?”
Adam won’t look at me.
“Oh my God,” I say, and I whisper it like if I whisper, it’ll somehow make
this easier. “So it’s true? Castle’s right?” My voice is inching higher and my
muscles are beginning to tighten and I don’t know why this feels like fear, this
feeling slithering up my back. I shouldn’t be afraid if Adam has a gift like I do; I
should’ve known it couldn’t have been that easy, that it couldn’t have been so
simple. This was Castle’s theory all along—that Adam can touch me because he
too has some kind of Energy that allows it. Castle never thought Adam’s
immunity from my ability was a happy coincidence. He thought it had to be
bigger than that, more scientific than that, more specific than that. I always
wanted to believe I just got lucky.
And Adam wanted to know. He was excited about finding out, actually.
But once he started testing with Castle, Adam stopped wanting to talk about
it. He’s never given me more than the barest status updates. The excitement of
the experience faded far too fast for him.
Something is wrong.
Something is wrong.
Of course it is.
“We don’t know anything conclusive,” Adam tells me, but I can see he’s
holding back. “I have to do a couple more sessions—Castle says there are a few
more things he needs to … examine.”
I don’t miss the mechanical way Adam is delivering this information.
Something isn’t right and I can’t believe I didn’t notice the signs until just now. I
haven’t wanted to, I realize. I haven’t wanted to admit to myself that Adam
looks more exhausted, more strained, more tightly wound than I’ve ever seen
him. Anxiety has built a home on his shoulders.
“Adam—”
“Don’t worry about me.” His words aren’t harsh, but there’s an undercurrent
of urgency in his tone I can’t ignore, and he pulls me into his arms before I find
a chance to speak. His fingers work to zip up my suit. “I’m fine,” he says.
“Really. I just want to know you’re okay. If you’re all right here, then I am too.
Everything is fine.” His breath catches. “Okay? Everything is going to be fine.”
The shaky smile on his face is making my pulse forget it has a job to do.
“Okay.” It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Okay sure but—”
The door opens and Sonya and Sara are halfway into the room before they
freeze, eyes fixed on our bodies wound together.
“Oh!” Sara says.
“Um.” Sonya looks down.
Adam swears under his breath.
“We can come back later—,” the twins say together.
They’re headed out the door when I stop them. I won’t kick them out of their
own room.
I ask them not to leave.
They ask me if I’m sure.
I take one look at Adam’s face and know I’m going to regret forfeiting even
a minute of our time together, but I also know I can’t take advantage of my
roommates. This is their personal space, and it’s almost time for lights-out. They
can’t be wandering the corridors.
Adam isn’t looking at me anymore, but he’s not letting go, either. I lean
forward and leave a light kiss on his heart. He finally meets my eyes. Offers me
a small, pained smile.
“I love you,” I tell him, quietly, so only he can hear me.
He exhales a short, uneven breath. Whispers, “You have no idea,” and pulls
himself away. Pivots on one heel. Heads out the door.
My heart is beating in my throat.
The girls are staring at me. Concerned.
Sonya is about to speak, but then
a switch
a click
a flicker
and the lights are out.
FOUR
The dreams are back.
They’d left me for a while, shortly after I’d been freshly imprisoned on base
with Warner. I thought I’d lost the bird, the white bird, the bird with streaks of
gold like a crown atop its head. It used to meet me in my dreams, flying strong
and smooth, sailing over the world like it knew better, like it had secrets we’d
never suspect, like it was leading me somewhere safe. It was my one piece of
hope in the bitter darkness of the asylum, just until I met its twin tattooed on
Adam’s chest.
It was like it flew right out of my dreams only to rest atop his heart. I thought
it was a signal, a message telling me I was finally safe. That I’d flown away and
finally found peace, sanctuary.
I didn’t expect to see the bird again.
But now it’s back and looks exactly the same. It’s the same white bird in the
same blue sky with the same yellow crown. Only this time, it’s frozen. Flapping
its wings in place like it’s been caught in an invisible cage, like it’s destined to
repeat the same motion forever. The bird seems to be flying: it’s in the air; its
wings work. It looks as if it’s free to soar through the skies. But it’s stuck.
Unable to fly upward.
Unable to fall.
I’ve had the same dream every night for the past week, and all 7 mornings
I’ve woken up shaking, shuddering into the earthy, icy air, struggling to steady
the bleating in my chest.
Struggling to understand what this means.
I crawl out of bed and slip into the same suit I wear every day; the only article of
clothing I own anymore. It’s the richest shade of purple, so plum it’s almost
black. It has a slight sheen, a bit of a shimmer in the light. It’s one piece from
neck to wrists to ankles and it’s skintight without being tight at all.
I move like a gymnast in this outfit.
I have springy leather ankle boots that mold to the shape of my feet and
render me soundless as I pad across the floor. I have black leather gloves that
prevent me from touching something I’m not supposed to. Sonya and Sara lent
me one of their hair ties and for the first time in years I’ve been able to pull my
hair out of my face. I wear it in a high ponytail and I’ve learned to zip myself up
without help from anyone. This suit makes me feel extraordinary. It makes me
feel invincible.
It was a gift from Castle.
He had it custom-made for me before I arrived at Omega Point. He thought I
might like to finally have an outfit that would protect me from myself and others
while simultaneously offering me the option of hurting others. If I wanted to. Or
needed to. The suit is made of some kind of special material that’s supposed to
keep me cool in the heat and keep me warm in the cold. So far it’s been perfect.
So far so far so far
I head to breakfast by myself.
Sonya and Sara are always gone by the time I’m awake. Their work in the
medical wing is never-ending—not only are they able to heal the wounded but
they also spend their days trying to create antidotes and ointments. The one time
we ever had a conversation, Sonya explained to me how some Energies can be
depleted if we exert ourselves too much—how we can exhaust our bodies
enough that they’ll just break down. The girls say that they want to be able to
create medicines to use in the case of multiple injuries they can’t heal all at once.
They are, after all, only 2 people. And war seems imminent.
Heads still spin in my direction when I walk into the dining hall.
I am a spectacle, an anomaly even among the anomalies. I should be used to
it by now, after all these years. I should be tougher, jaded, indifferent to the
opinions of others.
I should be a lot of things.
I clear my eyes and keep my hands to my sides and pretend I’m unable to
make eye contact with anything but that spot, that little mark on the wall 50 feet
from where I’m standing.
I pretend I’m just a number.
No emotions on my face. Lips perfectly still. Back straight, hands
unclenched. I am a robot, a ghost slipping through the crowds.
6 steps forward. 15 tables to pass. 42 43 44 seconds and counting.
I am scared
I am scared
I am scared
I am strong.
Food is served at only 3 times throughout the day: breakfast from 7:00 to
8:00 a.m., lunch from 12:00 to 1:00 p.m., and dinner from 5:00 to 7:00 p.m.
Dinner is an hour longer because it’s at the end of the day; it’s like our reward
for working hard. But mealtimes aren’t a fancy, luxurious event—the experience
is very different from dining with Warner. Here we just stand in a long line, pick
up our prefilled bowls, and head toward the eating area—which is nothing more
than a series of rectangular tables arranged in parallel lines across the room.
Nothing superfluous so nothing is wasted.
I spot Adam standing in line and head in his direction.
68 69 70 seconds and counting.
“Hey, gorgeous.” Something lumpy hits me in the back. Falls to the floor. I
turn around, my face flexing the 43 muscles required to frown before I see him.
Kenji.
Big, easy smile. Eyes the color of onyx. Hair even darker, sharper, stickstraight and slipping into his eyes. His jaw is twitching and his lips are twitching
and the impressive lines of his cheekbones are appled up into a smile struggling
to stay suppressed. He’s looking at me like I’ve been walking around with toilet
paper in my hair and I can’t help but wonder why I haven’t spent time with him
since we got here. He did, on a purely technical level, save my life. And Adam’s
life. James’, too.
Kenji bends down to pick up what looks like a wadded ball of socks. He
weighs them in his hand like he’s considering throwing them at me again.
“Where are you going?” he says. “I thought you were supposed to meet me
here? Castle said—”
“Why did you bring a pair of socks in here?” I cut him off. “People are
trying to eat.”
He freezes for only a split second before he rolls his eyes. Pulls up beside
me. Tugs on my ponytail. “I was running late to meet you, your highness. I
didn’t have time to put my socks on.” He gestures to the socks in his hand and
the boots on his feet.
“That’s so gross.”
“You know, you have a really strange way of telling me you’re attracted to
me.”
I shake my head, try to bite back my amusement. Kenji is a walking paradox
of Unflinchingly Serious Person and 12-Year-Old Boy Going Through Puberty
all rolled into one. But I’d forgotten how much easier it is to breathe around him;
it seems natural to laugh when he’s near. So I keep walking and I’m careful not
to say a word, but a smile is still tugging at my lips as I grab a tray and head into
the heart of the kitchen.
Kenji is half a step behind me. “So. We’re working together today.”
“Yup.”
“So, what—you just walk right past me? Don’t even say hello?” He clutches
the socks to his chest. “I’m crushed. I saved us a table and everything.”
I glance at him. Keep walking.
He catches up. “I’m serious. Do you have any idea how awkward it is to
wave at someone and have them ignore you? And then you’re just looking
around like a jackass, trying to be all, ‘No, really, I swear, I know that girl’ and
no one believes y—”
“Are you kidding?” I stop in the middle of the kitchen. Spin around. My face
is pulled together in disbelief. “You’ve spoken to me maybe once in the two
weeks I’ve been here. I hardly even notice you anymore.”
“Okay, hold up,” he says, turning to block my path. “We both know there’s
no way you haven’t noticed all of this”—he gestures to himself—“so if you’re
trying to play games with me, I should let you know up front that it’s not going
to work.”
“What?” I frown. “What are you talking abou—”
“You can’t play hard to get, kid.” He raises an eyebrow. “I can’t even touch
you. Takes ‘hard to get’ to a whole new level, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh my God,” I mouth, eyes closed, shaking my head. “You are insane.”
He falls to his knees. “Insane for your sweet, sweet love!”
“Kenji!” I can’t lift my eyes because I’m afraid to look around, but I’m
desperate for him to stop talking. To put an entire room between us at all times. I
know he’s joking, but I might be the only one.
“What?” he says, his voice booming around the room. “Does my love
embarrass you?”
“Please—please get up—and lower your voice—”
“Hell no.”
“Why not?” I’m pleading now.
“Because if I lower my voice, I won’t be able to hear myself speak. And
that,” he says, “is my favorite part.”
I can’t even look at him.
“Don’t deny me, Juliette. I’m a lonely man.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“You’re breaking my heart.” His voice is even louder now, his arms making
sad, sweeping gestures that almost hit me as I back away, panicked. But then I
realize everyone is watching him.
Entertained.
I manage an awkward smile as I glance around the room and I’m surprised to
find that no one is looking at me now. They’re all grinning, clearly accustomed
to Kenji’s antics, staring at him with a mixture of adoration and something else.
Adam is staring, too. He’s standing with his tray in his hands, his head
cocked and his eyes confused. He smiles a tentative sort of smile when our gazes
meet.
I head toward him.
“Hey—wait up, kid.” Kenji jumps up to grab my arm. “You know I was just
messing with—” He follows my eyes to where Adam is standing. Slaps a palm
to his forehead. “Of course! How could I forget? You’re in love with my
roommate.”
I turn to face him. “Listen, I’m grateful you’re going to help me train now—
really, I am. Thank you for that. But you can’t go around proclaiming your fake
love to me—especially not in front of Adam—and you have to let me cross this
room before the breakfast hour is over, okay? I hardly ever get to see him.”
Kenji nods very slowly, looks a little solemn. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I get
it.”
“Thank you.”
“Adam is jealous of our love.”
“Just go get your food!” I push him, hard, fighting back an exasperated
laugh.
Kenji is one of the only people here—with the exception of Adam, of course
—who isn’t afraid to touch me. In truth, no one really has anything to fear when
I’m wearing this suit, but I usually take my gloves off when I eat and my
reputation is always walking 5 feet ahead of me. People keep their distance. And
even though I accidentally attacked Kenji once, he’s not afraid. I think it would
take an astronomical amount of something horrible to get him down.
I admire that about him.
Adam doesn’t say much when we meet. He doesn’t have to say more than
“Hey,” because his lips quirk up on one side and I can already see him standing
a little taller, a little tighter, a little tenser. And I don’t know much about
anything in this world but I do know how to read the book written in his eyes.
The way he looks at me.
His eyes are heavy now in a way that worries me, but his gaze is still so
tender, so focused and full of feeling that I can hardly keep myself out of his
arms when I’m around him. I find myself watching him do the simplest things—
shifting his weight, grabbing a tray, nodding good morning to someone—just to
track the movement of his body. My moments with him are so few that my chest
is always too tight, my heart too spastic. He makes me want to be impractical all
the time.
He never lets go of my hand.
“You okay?” I ask him, still feeling a little apprehensive about the night
before.
He nods. Tries to smile. “Yeah. I, uh …” Clears his throat. Takes a deep
breath. Looks away. “Yeah, I’m sorry about last night. I kind of … I freaked out
a little.”
“About what, though?”
He’s looking over my shoulder. Frowning.
“Adam …?”
“Yeah?”
“Why were you freaked out?”
His eyes meet mine again. Wide. Round. “What? Nothing.”
“I don’t understa—”
“Why the hell are you guys taking so long?”
I spin around. Kenji is standing just behind me, so much food piled on his
tray I’m surprised no one said anything. He must’ve convinced the cooks to give
him extra.
“Well?” Kenji is staring, unblinking, waiting for us to respond. He finally
cocks his head backward, in a motion that says follow me, before walking away.
Adam blows out his breath and looks so distracted that I decide to drop the
subject of last night. Soon. We’ll talk soon. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure it’s
nothing at all.
We’ll talk soon and everything is going to be fine.
FIVE
Kenji is waiting for us at an empty table.
James used to join us at mealtimes, but now he’s friends with the handful of
younger kids at Omega Point, and prefers sitting with them. He seems the
happiest of all of us to be here—and I’m happy he’s happy—but I have to admit
I miss his company. I’m afraid to mention it though; sometimes I’m not sure if I
want to know why he doesn’t spend time with Adam when I’m around. I don’t
think I want to know if the other kids managed to convince him that I’m
dangerous. I mean, I am dangerous, but I just
Adam sits down on the bench seat and I slide in next to him. Kenji sits across
from us. Adam and I hide our linked hands under the table and I allow myself to
enjoy the simple luxury of his proximity. I’m still wearing my gloves but just
being this close to him is enough; flowers are blooming in my stomach, the soft
petals tickling every inch of my nervous system. It’s like I’ve been granted 3
wishes: to touch, to taste, to feel. It’s the strangest phenomenon. A crazy happy
impossibility wrapped in tissue paper, tied with a bow, tucked away in my heart.
It often feels like a privilege I don’t deserve.
Adam shifts so the length of his leg is pressed against mine.
I look up to find him smiling at me, a secret, tiny sort of smile that says so
many things, the kinds of things no one should be saying at a breakfast table. I
force myself to breathe as I suppress a grin. I turn to focus on my food. Hope
I’m not blushing.
Adam leans into my ear. I feel the soft whispers of his breath just before he
begins to speak.
“You guys are disgusting, you know that, right?”
I look up, startled, and find Kenji frozen midmovement, his spoon halfway to
his mouth, his head cocked in our direction. He gestures with his spoon at our
faces. “What the hell is this? You guys playing footsie under the table or
someshit?”
Adam moves away from me, just an inch or 2, and exhales a deep, irritated
sigh. “You know, if you don’t like it, you can leave.” He nods at the tables
around us. “No one asked you to sit here.”
This is Adam making a concerted effort to be nice to Kenji. The 2 of them
were friends back on base, but somehow Kenji knows exactly how to provoke
Adam. I almost forget for a moment that they’re roommates.
I wonder what it must be like for them to live together.
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Kenji says. “I told you this morning that I
had to sit with you guys. Castle wants me to help the two of you adjust.” He
snorts. Nods in my direction. “Listen, I don’t have a clue what you see in this
guy,” he says, “but you should try living with him. The man is moody as hell.”
“I am not moody—”
“Yeah, bro.” Kenji puts his utensils down. “You are moody. It’s always ‘Shut
up, Kenji.’ ‘Go to sleep, Kenji.’ ‘No one wants to see you naked, Kenji.’ When I
know for a fact that there are thousands of people who would love to see me
naked—”
“How long do you have to sit here?” Adam looks away, rubs his eyes with
his free hand.
Kenji sits up straighter. Picks up his spoon only to stab it through the air
again. “You should consider yourself lucky that I’m sitting at your table. I’m
making you cool by association.”
I feel Adam tense beside me and decide to intervene. “Hey, can we talk
about something else?”
Kenji grunts. Rolls his eyes. Shovels another spoonful of breakfast into his
mouth.
I’m worried.
Now that I’m paying closer attention, I can see the weariness in Adam’s
eyes, the heaviness in his brow, the stiff set of his shoulders. I can’t help but
wonder what he’s going through. What he’s not telling me. I tug on Adam’s
hand a little and he turns to me.
“You sure you’re okay?” I whisper. I feel like I keep asking him the same
question over and over and over
His eyes immediately soften, looking tired but slightly amused. His hand
releases mine under the table just to rest on my lap, just to slip down my thigh,
and I almost lose control of my vocabulary before he leaves a light kiss in my
hair. I swallow too hard, almost drop my fork on the floor. It takes me a moment
to remember that he hasn’t actually answered my question. It’s not until he’s
looked away, staring at his food, when he finally nods, says, “I’m okay.” But
I’m not breathing and his hand is still tracing patterns on my leg.
“Ms. Ferrars? Mr. Kent?”
I sit up so fast I slam my knuckles under the table at the sound of Castle’s
voice. There’s something about his presence that makes me feel like he’s my
teacher, like I’ve been caught misbehaving in class. Adam, on the other hand,
doesn’t seem remotely startled.
I cling to Adam’s fingers as I lift my head.
Castle is standing over our table and Kenji is leaving to deposit his bowl in
the kitchen. He claps Castle on the back like they’re old friends and Castle
flashes Kenji a warm smile as he passes.
“I’ll be right back,” Kenji shouts over his shoulder, twisting to flash us an
overly enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Try not to get naked in front of everyone, okay?
There are kids in here.”
I cringe and glance at Adam but he seems oddly focused on his food. He
hasn’t said a word since Castle arrived.
I decide to answer for the both of us. Paste on a bright smile. “Good
morning.”
Castle nods, touches the lapel of his blazer; his stature is strong and poised.
He beams at me. “I just came to say hello and to check in. I’m so happy to see
that you’re expanding your circle of friends, Ms. Ferrars.”
“Oh. Thank you. But I can’t take credit for the idea,” I point out. “You’re the
one who told me to sit with Kenji.”
Castle’s smile is a little too tight. “Yes. Well,” he says, “I’m happy to see
that you took my advice.”
I nod at my food. Rub absently at my forehead. Adam looks like he’s not
even breathing. I’m about to say something when Castle cuts me off. “So, Mr.
Kent,” he says. “Did Ms. Ferrars tell you she’ll be training with Kenji now? I’m
hoping it will help her progress.”
Adam doesn’t answer.
Castle soldiers on. “I actually thought it might be interesting for her to work
with you, too. As long as I’m there to supervise.”
Adam’s eyes snap up to attention. Alarmed. “What are you talking about?”
“Well—” Castle pauses. I watch his gaze shift between the two of us. “I
thought it would be interesting to run some tests on you and her. Together.”
Adam stands up so quickly he almost bangs his knee into the table.
“Absolutely not.”
“Mr. Kent—,” Castle starts.
“There’s no chance in hell—”
“It’s her choice to make—”
“I don’t want to discuss this here—”
I jump to my feet. Adam looks ready to set something on fire. His fists are
clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed into a tight glare; his forehead is taut,
his entire frame shaking with energy and anxiety.
“What is going on?” I demand.
Castle shakes his head. He’s not addressing me when he speaks. “I only want
to see what happens when she touches you. That’s it.”
“Are you insane—”
“This is for her,” Castle continues, his voice careful, extra calm. “It has
nothing to do with your progress—”
“What progress?” I cut in.
“We’re just trying to help her figure out how to affect nonliving organisms,”
Castle is saying. “Animals and humans we’ve figured out—we know one touch
is sufficient. Plants don’t seem to factor into her abilities at all. But everything
else? It’s … different. She doesn’t know how to handle that part yet, and I want
to help her. That’s all we’re doing,” he says. “Helping Ms. Ferrars.”
Adam takes a step closer to me. “If you’re helping her figure out how to
destroy nonliving things, why do you need me?”
For a second Castle actually looks defeated. “I don’t really know,” he says.
“The unique nature of your relationship—it’s quite fascinating. Especially with
everything we’ve learned so far, it’s—”
“What have you learned?” I jump in again.
“—entirely possible,” Castle is still saying, “that everything is connected in a
way we don’t yet understand.”
Adam looks unconvinced. His lips are pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t
look like he wants to answer.
Castle turns to me. Tries to sound excited. “What do you think? Are you
interested?”
“Interested?” I look at Castle. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.
And I want to know why no one is answering my questions. What have you
discovered about Adam?” I ask. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong?” Adam is
breathing extra hard and trying not to show it; his hands keep clenching and
unclenching. “Someone, please, tell me what’s going on.”
Castle frowns.
He’s studying me, confused, his eyebrows pulled together. “Mr. Kent,” he
says, still looking at me. “Am I to understand that you have not yet shared our
discoveries with Ms. Ferrars?”
“What discoveries?” My heart is racing hard now, so hard it’s beginning to
hurt.
“Mr. Kent—”
“That’s none of your business,” Adam snaps.
“She should know—”
“We don’t know anything yet!”
“We know enough.”
“Bullshit. We’re not done yet—”
“The only thing left is to test the two of you together—”
Adam steps directly in front of Castle, grabbing his breakfast tray with a
little too much strength. “Maybe,” he says very, very carefully, “some other
time.”
He turns to leave.
I touch his arm.
He stops. Drops his tray, pivots in my direction. There’s less than half an
inch between us and I almost forget we’re standing in a crowded room. His
breath is hot and his breathing shallow and the heat from his body is melting my
blood only to splash it across my cheeks.
Panic is doing backflips in my bones.
“Everything is fine,” he says. “Everything is going to be fine. I promise.”
“But—”
“I promise,” he says again, grabbing my hand. “I swear. I’m going to fix this
—”
“Fix this?” I think I’m dreaming. I think I’m dying. “Fix what?” Something
is breaking in my brain and something is happening without my permission and
I’m lost, I’m so lost, I’m so much everything confused and I’m drowning in
confusion. “Adam, I don’t underst—”
“I mean, really though?” Kenji is making his way back to our group. “You’re
going to do that here? In front of everyone? Because these tables aren’t as
comfortable as they look—”
Adam pulls back and slams into Kenji’s shoulder on his way out.
“Don’t.”
Is all I hear him say before he disappears.
SIX
Kenji lets out a low whistle.
Castle is calling Adam’s name, asking him to slow down, to speak to him, to
discuss things in a rational manner. Adam never looks back.
“I told you he was moody,” Kenji mutters.
“He’s not moody,” I hear myself say, but the words feel distant,
disconnected from my lips. I feel numb, like my arms have been hollowed out.
Where did I leave my voice I can’t find my voice I can’t find my “So! You
and me, huh?” Kenji claps his hands together. “Ready to get your ass kicked?”
“Kenji.”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to take me to wherever they went.”
Kenji is looking at me like I’ve just asked him to kick himself in the face.
“Uh, yeah—how about a warm hell no to that request? Does that work for you?
Because it works for me.”
“I need to know what’s going on.” I turn to him, desperate, feeling stupid.
“You know, don’t you? You know what’s wrong—”
“Of course I know.” He crosses his arms. Levels a look at me. “I live with
that poor bastard and I practically run this place. I know everything.”
“So why won’t you tell me? Kenji, please—”
“Yeah, um, I’m going to pass on that, but you know what I will do? I will
help you to remove yourself the hell out of this dining hall where everyone is
listening to everything we say.” This last bit he says extra loudly, looking around
at the room, shaking his head. “Get back to your breakfasts, people. Nothing to
see here.”
It’s only then that I realize what a spectacle we’ve made. Every eye in the
room is blinking at me. I attempt a weak smile and a twitchy wave before
allowing Kenji to shuffle me out of the room.
“No need to wave at the people, princess. It’s not a coronation ceremony.”
He pulls me into one of the many long, dimly lit corridors.
“Tell me what’s happening.” I have to blink several times before my eyes
adjust to the lighting. “This isn’t fair—everyone knows what’s going on except
for me.”
He shrugs, leans one shoulder against the wall. “It’s not my place to tell. I
mean, I like to mess with the guy, but I’m not an asshole. He asked me not to say
anything. So I’m not going to say anything.”
“But—I mean—is he okay? Can you at least tell me if he’s okay?”
Kenji runs a hand over his eyes; exhales, annoyed. Shoots me a look. Says,
“All right, like, have you ever seen a train wreck?” He doesn’t wait for me to
answer. “I saw one when I was a kid. It was one of those big, crazy trains with a
billion cars all hitched up together, totally derailed, half exploded. Shit was on
fire and everyone was screaming and you just know people are either dead or
they’re about to die and you really don’t want to watch but you just can’t look
away, you know?” He nods. Bites the inside of his cheek. “This is kind of like
that. Your boy is a freaking train wreck.”
I can’t feel my legs.
“I mean, I don’t know,” Kenji goes on. “Personally? I think he’s
overreacting. Worse things have happened, right? Hell, aren’t we up to our
earlobes in crazier shit? But no, Mr. Adam Kent doesn’t seem to know that. I
don’t even think he sleeps anymore. And you know what,” he adds, leaning in,
“I think he’s starting to freak James out a little, and to be honest it’s starting to
piss me off because that kid is way too nice and way too cool to have to deal
with Adam’s drama—”
But I’m not listening anymore.
I’m envisioning the worst possible scenarios, the worst possible outcomes.
Horrible, terrifying things that all end with Adam dying in some miserable way.
He must be sick, or he must have some kind of terrible affliction, or something
that causes him to do things he can’t control or oh, God, no “You have to tell
me.”
I don’t recognize my own voice. Kenji is looking at me, shocked, wide-eyed,
genuine fear written across his features and it’s only then that I realize I’ve
pinned him against the wall. My 10 fingers are curled into his shirt, fistfuls of
fabric clenched in each hand, and I can only imagine what I must look like to
him right now.
The scariest part is that I don’t even care.
“You’re going to tell me something, Kenji. You have to. I need to know.”
“You, uh”—he licks his lips, looks around, laughs a nervous laugh—“you
want to let go of me, maybe?”
“Will you help me?”
He scratches behind his hear. Cringes a little. “No?”
I slam him harder into the wall, recognize a rush of some wild kind of
adrenaline burning in my veins. It’s strange, but I feel as though I could rip
through the ground with my bare hands.
It seems like it would be easy. So easy.
“Okay—all right—goddamn.” Kenji is holding his arms up, breathing a little
fast. “Just—how about you let me go, and I’ll, uh, I’ll take you to the research
labs.”
“The research labs.”
“Yeah, that’s where they do the testing. It’s where we do all of our testing.”
“You promise you’ll take me if I let go?”
“Are you going to bash my brain into the wall if I don’t?”
“Probably,” I lie.
“Then yeah. I’ll take you. Damn.”
I drop him and stumble backward; make an effort to pull myself together. I
feel a little embarrassed now that I’ve let go of him. Some part of me feels like I
must’ve overreacted.
“I’m sorry about that,” I tell him. “But thank you. I appreciate your help.” I try
to lift my chin with some dignity.
Kenji snorts. He’s looking at me like he has no idea who I am, like he’s not
sure if he should laugh or applaud or run like hell in the opposite direction. He
rubs the back of his neck, eyes intent on my face. He won’t stop staring.
“What?” I ask.
“How much do you weigh?”
“Wow. Is that how you talk to every girl you meet? That explains so much.”
“I’m about one hundred seventy-five pounds,” he says. “Of muscle.”
I stare at him. “Would you like an award?”
“Well, well, well,” he says, cocking his head, the barest hint of a smile
flickering across his face. “Look who’s the smart-ass now.”
“I think you’re rubbing off on me,” I say.
But he’s not smiling anymore.
“Listen,” he says. “I’m not trying to flatter myself by pointing this out, but I
could toss you across the room with my pinkie finger. You weigh, like, less than
nothing. I’m almost twice your body mass.” He pauses. “So how the hell did you
pin me against the wall?”
“What?” I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you”—he points at me—“pinning me”—he points at
himself—“against the wall.” He points at the wall.
“You mean you actually couldn’t move?” I blink. “I thought you were just
afraid of touching me.”
“No,” he says. “I legit could not move. I could hardly breathe.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Have you ever done that before?”
“No.” I’m shaking my head. “I mean I don’t think I …” I gasp, as the
memory of Warner and his torture chamber rushes to the forefront of my mind; I
have to close my eyes against the influx of images. The barest recollection of
that event is enough to make me feel unbearably nauseous; I can already feel my
skin break into a cold sweat. Warner was testing me, trying to put me in a
position where I’d be forced to use my power on a toddler. I was so horrified, so
enraged that I crashed through the concrete barrier to get to Warner, who was
waiting on the other side. I’d pinned him against the wall, too. Only I didn’t
realize he was cowed by my strength. I thought he was afraid to move because
I’d gotten too close to touching him.
I guess I was wrong.
“Yeah,” Kenji says, nodding at something he must see on my face. “Well.
That’s what I thought. We’ll have to remember this juicy tidbit when we get
around to our real training sessions.” He throws me a loaded look. “Whenever
that actually happens.”
I’m nodding, not really paying attention. “Sure. Fine. But first, take me to the
research rooms.”
Kenji sighs. Waves his hand with a bow and a flourish. “After you,
princess.”
SEVEN
We’re trailing down a series of corridors I’ve never seen before.
We’re passing all of the regular halls and wings, past the training room I
normally occupy, and for the first time since I’ve been here, I’m really paying
attention to my surroundings. All of a sudden my senses feel sharper, clearer; my
entire being feels like it’s humming with a renewed kind of energy.
I am electric.
This entire hideout has been dug out of the ground—it’s nothing but
cavernous tunnels and interconnected passageways, all powered by supplies and
electricity stolen from secret storage units belonging to The Reestablishment.
This space is invaluable. Castle told us once that it took him at least a decade to
design it, and a decade more to get the work done. By then he’d also managed to
recruit all of the other members of this underground world. I can understand why
he’s so relentless about security down here, why he’s not willing to let anything
happen to it. I don’t think I would either.
Kenji stops.
We reach what looks like a dead end—what could be the very end of Omega
Point.
Kenji pulls out a key card I didn’t know he was hiding, and his hand fumbles
for a panel buried in the stone. He slides the panel open. Does something I can’t
see. Swipes the key card. Hits a switch.
The entire wall rumbles to life.
The pieces are coming apart, shifting out of place until they reveal a hole big
enough for our bodies to clamber through. Kenji motions for me to follow his
lead and I scramble through the entryway, glancing back to watch the wall close
up behind me.
My feet hit the ground on the other side.
It’s like a cave. Massive, wide, separated into 3 longitudinal sections. The
middle section is the most narrow and serves as a walkway; square glass rooms
fit with slim glass doors make up the left and right sections. Each clear wall acts
as a partition to rooms on either side—everything is see-through. There’s an
electric aura engulfing the entire space; each cube is bright with white light and
blinking machinery; sharp and dull hums of energy pulse through the vast
dimensions.
There are at least 20 rooms down here.
10 on either side, all of them unobstructed from view. I recognize a number
of faces from the dining hall down here, some of them strapped to machines,
needles stuck in their bodies, monitors beeping about some kind of information I
can’t understand. Doors slide open and closed open and closed open and closed;
words and whispers and footsteps, hand gestures and half-formed thoughts
collect in the air.
This.
This is where everything happens.
Castle told me 2 weeks ago—the day after I arrived—that he had a pretty
good idea why we are the way we are. He said that they’d been doing research
for years.
Research.
I see figures running, gasping on what resemble inordinately fast treadmills.
I see a woman reloading a gun in a room bursting with weapons and I see a man
holding something that emits a bright blue flame. I see a person standing in a
chamber full of nothing but water and there are ropes stacked high and strung
across the ceiling and all kinds of liquids, chemicals, contraptions I can’t name
and my brain won’t stop screaming and my lungs keep catching fire and it’s too
much too much too much too much Too many machines, too many lights, too
many people in too many rooms taking notes, talking amongst themselves,
glancing at the clocks every few seconds and I’m stumbling forward, looking too
closely and not closely enough and then I hear it. I try so hard not to but it’s
barely contained behind these thick glass walls and there it is again.
The low, guttural sound of human agony.
It hits me right in the face. Punches me right in the stomach. Realization
jumps on my back and explodes in my skin and rakes its fingernails down my
neck and I’m choking on impossibility.
Adam.
I see him. He’s already here, in one of the glass rooms. Shirtless. Strapped
down to a gurney, arms and legs clamped in place, wires from a nearby machine
taped to his temples, his forehead, just below his collarbone. His eyes are
pressed shut, his fists are clenched, his jaw is tight, his face too taut from the
effort not to scream.
I don’t understand what they’re doing to him.
I don’t know what’s happening I don’t understand why it’s happening or why
he needs a machine or why it keeps blinking or beeping and I can’t seem to
move or breathe and I’m trying to remember my voice, my hands, my head, and
my feet and then he jerks.
He convulses against the stays, strains against the pain until his fists are
pounding the padding of the gurney and I hear him cry out in anguish and for a
moment the world stops, everything slows down, sounds are strangled, colors
look smeared and the floor seems set on its side and I think wow, I think I’m
actually going to die. I’m going to drop dead or I’m going to kill the person
responsible for this.
It’s one or the other.
That’s when I see Castle. Castle, standing in the corner of Adam’s room,
watching in silence as this 18-year-old boy rages in agony while he does
nothing. Nothing except watch, except to take notes in his little book, to purse
his lips as he tilts his head to the side. To glance at the monitor on the beeping
machine.
And the thought is so simple when it slips into my head. So calm. So easy.
So, so easy.
I’m going to kill him.
“Juliette—no—”
Kenji grabs me by the waist, arms like bands of iron around me and I think
I’m screaming, I think I’m saying things I’ve never heard myself say before and
Kenji is telling me to calm down, he’s saying, “This is exactly why I didn’t want
to bring you in here—you don’t understand—it’s not what it looks like—”
And I decide I should probably kill Kenji, too. Just for being an idiot.
“LET GO OF ME—”
“Stop kicking me—”
“I’m going to murder him—”
“Yeah, you should really stop saying that out loud, okay? You’re not doing
yourself any favors—”
“LET GO OF ME, KENJI, I SWEAR TO GOD—”
“Ms. Ferrars!”
Castle is standing at the end of the walkway, a few feet from Adam’s glass
room. The door is open. Adam isn’t jerking anymore, but he doesn’t appear to be
conscious, either.
White, hot rage.
It’s all I know right now. The world looks so black-and-white from here, so
easy to demolish and conquer. This is anger like nothing I’ve known before. It’s
an anger so raw, so potent it’s actually calming, like a feeling that’s finally found
its place, a feeling that finally sits comfortably as it settles into my bones.
I’ve become a mold for liquid metal; thick, searing heat distributes itself
throughout my body and the excess coats my hands, forging my fists with a
strength so breathtaking, an energy so intense I think it might engulf me. I’m
light-headed from the rush of it.
I could do anything.
Anything.
Kenji’s arms drop away from me. I don’t have to look at him to know that
he’s stumbling back. Afraid. Confused. Probably disturbed.
I don’t care.
“So this is where you’ve been,” I say to Castle, and I’m surprised by the
cool, fluid tone of my voice. “This is what you’ve been doing.”
Castle steps closer and appears to regret it. He looks startled, surprised by
something he sees on my face. He tries to speak and I cut him off.
“What have you done to him?” I demand. “What have you been doing to him
—”
“Ms. Ferrars, please—”
“He is not your experiment!” I explode, and the composure is gone, the
steadiness in my voice is gone and I’m suddenly so unstable again I can hardly
keep my hands from shaking. “You think you can just use him for your research
—”
“Ms. Ferrars, please, you must calm yourself—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I can’t imagine what they must have done to
him down here, testing him, treating him like some kind of specimen.
They’re torturing him.
“I would not have expected you to have such an adverse reaction to this
room,” Castle says. He’s trying to be conversational. Reasonable. Charismatic,
even. It makes me wonder what I must look like right now. I wonder if he’s
afraid of me. “I thought you understood the importance of the research we do at
Omega Point,” he says. “Without it, how could we possibly hope to understand
our origins?”
“You’re hurting him—you’re killing him! What have you done—”
“Nothing he hasn’t asked to be a part of.” Castle’s voice is tight and his lips
are tight and I can see his patience is starting to wear thin. “Ms. Ferrars, if you
are insinuating that I’ve used him for my own personal experimentation, I would
recommend you take a closer look at the situation.” He says the last few
syllables with a little too much emphasis, a little too much fire, and I realize I’ve
never seen him angry before.
“I know that you’ve been struggling here,” Castle continues. “I know you are
unaccustomed to seeing yourself as part of a group, and I’ve made an effort to
understand where you might be coming from—I’ve tried to help you adjust. But
you must look around!” He gestures toward the glass walls and the people
behind them. “We are all the same. We are working on the same team! I have
subjected Adam to nothing I have not undergone myself. We are simply running
tests to see where his supernatural abilities lie. We cannot know for certain what
he is capable of if we do not test him first.” His voice drops an octave or 2. “And
we do not have the luxury of waiting several years until he accidentally
discovers something that might be useful to our cause right now.”
And it’s strange.
Because it’s like a real thing, this anger.
I feel it wrapping itself around my fingers like I could fling it at his face. I
feel it coiling itself around my spine, planting itself in my stomach and shooting
branches down my legs, up my arms, through my neck. It’s choking me.
Choking me because it needs release, needs relief. Needs it now.
“You,” I tell him, and I can hardly spit the words out. “You think you’re any
better than The Reestablishment if you’re just using us—experimenting on us to
further your cause—”
“MS. FERRARS!” Castle bellows. His eyes are flashing bright, too bright,
and I realize everyone in this underground tunnel is now staring at us. His
fingers are in fists at his sides and his jaw is unmistakably set and I feel Kenji’s
hand on my back before I realize the earth is vibrating under my feet. The glass
walls are beginning to tremble and Castle is planted right in the middle of
everything, rigid, raw with anger and indignation and I remember that he has an
impossibly advanced level of psychokinesis.
I remember that he can move things with his mind.
He lifts his right hand, palm splayed outward, and the glass panel not a few
feet away begins to shake, shudder, and I realize I’m not even breathing.
“You do not want to upset me.” Castle’s voice is far too calm for his eyes.
“If you have a problem with my methods, I would gladly invite you to state your
claims in a rational manner. I will not tolerate you speaking to me in such a
fashion. My concerns for the future of our world may be more than you can
fathom, but you should not fault me for your own ignorance!” He drops his right
hand and the glass buckles back just in time.
“My ignorance?” I’m breathing hard again. “You think because I don’t
understand why you would subject anyone to—to this—” I wave a hand around
the room. “You think that means I’m ignorant—?”
“Hey, Juliette, it’s okay—,” Kenji starts.
“Take her away,” Castle says. “Take her back to her training quarters.” He
shoots an unhappy look at Kenji. “And you and I—we will discuss this later.
What were you thinking, bringing her here? She’s not ready to see this—she can
hardly even handle herself right now—”
He’s right.
I can’t handle this. I can’t hear anything but the sounds of machines beeping,
screeching in my head, can’t see anything but Adam’s limp form lying on a thin
mattress. I can’t stop imagining what he must’ve been going through, what he
had to endure just to understand what he might be and I realize it’s all my fault.
It’s my fault he’s here, it’s my fault he’s in danger, it’s my fault Warner
wants to kill him and Castle wants to test him and if it weren’t for me he’d still
be living with James in a home that hasn’t been destroyed; he’d be safe and
comfortable and free from the chaos I’ve introduced to his life.
I brought him here. If he’d never touched me none of this would’ve
happened. He’d be healthy and strong and he wouldn’t be suffering, wouldn’t be
hiding, wouldn’t be trapped 50 feet underground. He wouldn’t be spending his
days strapped to a gurney.
It’s my fault it’s my fault it’s my fault it’s all my fault it’s all my fault I snap.
It’s like I’ve been stuffed full of twigs and all I have to do is bend and my
entire body will break. All the guilt, the anger, the frustration, the pent-up
aggression inside of me has found an outlet and now it can’t be controlled.
Energy is coursing through me with a vigor I’ve never felt before and I’m not
even thinking but I have to do something I have to touch something and I’m
curling my fingers and bending my knees and pulling back my arm and
punching
my
fist
right
through
the
floor.
The earth fissures under my fingers and the reverberations surge through my
being, ricocheting through my bones until my skull is spinning and my heart is a
pendulum slamming into my rib cage. My eyesight fades in and out of focus and
I have to blink a hundred times to clear it only to see a crack creaking under my
feet, a thin line splintering the ground. Everything around me is suddenly offbalance. The stone is groaning under our weight and the glass walls are rattling
and the machines are shifting out of place and the water is sloshing against its
container and the people— The people.
The people are frozen in terror and horror and the fear in their expressions
rips me apart.
I fall backward, cradling my right fist to my chest and try to remind myself I
am not a monster, I do not have to be a monster, I do not want to hurt people I do
not want to hurt people I do not want to hurt people and it’s not working.
Because it’s all a lie.
Because this was me, trying to help.
I look around.
At the ground.
At what I’ve done.
And I understand, for the first time, that I have the power to destroy
everything.
EIGHT
Castle is limp.
His jaw is unhinged. His arms are slack at his sides, his eyes wide with
worry and wonder and a sliver of intimidation and though he moves his lips he
can’t seem to make a sound.
I feel like now might be a good time to jump off a cliff.
Kenji touches my arm and I turn to face him only to realize I’m petrified. I’m
always waiting for him and Adam and Castle to realize that being kind to me is a
mistake, that it’ll end badly, that I’m not worth it, that I’m nothing more than a
tool, a weapon, a closet murderer.
But he takes my right fist in his hand so gently. Takes care not to touch my
skin as he slips off the now-tattered leather glove and sucks in his breath at the
sight of my knuckles. The skin is torn and blood is everywhere and I can’t move
my fingers.
I realize I am in agony.
I blink and stars explode and a new torture rages through my limbs in such a
hurry I can no longer speak.
I gasp and
the
world
di s a p
p
e
a
r
s
NINE
My mouth tastes like death.
I manage to pry my eyes open and immediately feel the wrath of hell ripping
through my right arm. My hand has been bandaged in so many layers of gauze
it’s rendered my 5 fingers immobile and I find I’m grateful for it. I’m so
exhausted I don’t have the energy to cry.
I blink.
Try to look around but my neck is too stiff.
Fingers brush my shoulder and I discover myself wanting to exhale. I blink
again. Once more. A girl’s face blurs in and out of focus. I turn my head to get a
better view and blink blink blink some more.
“How’re you feeling?” she whispers.
“I’m okay,” I say to the blur, but I think I’m lying. “Who are you?”
“It’s me,” she says. Even without seeing her clearly I can hear the kindness
in her voice. “Sonya.”
Of course.
Sara is probably here, too. I must be in the medical wing.
“What happened?” I ask. “How long have I been out?”
She doesn’t answer and I wonder if she didn’t hear me.
“Sonya?” I try to meet her eyes. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“You’ve been really sick,” she says. “Your body needed time—”
“How long?” My voice drops to a whisper.
“Three days.”
I sit straight up and know I’m going to be sick.
Luckily, Sonya’s had the foresight to anticipate my needs. A bucket appears
just in time for me to empty the meager contents of my stomach into it and then
I’m dry-heaving into what is not my suit but some kind of hospital gown and
someone is wiping a hot, damp cloth across my face.
Sonya and Sara are hovering over me, the hot cloths in their hands, wiping
down my bare limbs, making soothing sounds and telling me I’m going to be
fine, I just need to rest, I’m finally awake long enough to eat something, I
shouldn’t be worried because there’s nothing to worry about and they’re going to
take care of me.
But then I look more closely.
I notice their hands, so carefully sheathed in latex gloves; I notice the IV
stuck in my arm; I notice the urgent but cautious way they approach me and then
I realize the problem.
The healers can’t touch me.
TEN
They’ve never had to deal with a problem like me before.
Injuries are always treated by the healers. They can set broken bones and
repair bullet wounds and revive collapsed lungs and mend even the worst kinds
of cuts—I know this because Adam had to be carried into Omega Point on a
stretcher when we arrived. He’d suffered at the hands of Warner and his men
after we escaped the military base and I thought his body would be scarred
forever. But he’s perfect. Brand-new. It took all of 1 day to put him back
together; it was like magic.
But there are no magic medicines for me.
No miracles.
Sonya and Sara explain that I must’ve suffered some kind of immense shock.
They say my body overloaded on its own abilities and it’s a miracle I even
managed to survive. They also think my body has been passed out long enough
to have repaired most of the psychological damage, though I’m not so sure that’s
true. I think it’d take quite a lot to fix that sort of thing. I’ve been
psychologically damaged for a very long time. But at least the physical pain has
settled. It’s little more than a steady throbbing that I’m able to ignore for short
periods of time.
I remember something.
“Before,” I tell them. “In Warner’s torture rooms, and then with Adam and
the steel door—I never—this never happened—I never injured myself—”
“Castle told us about that,” Sonya tells me. “But breaking through one door
or one wall is very different from trying to split the earth in two.” She attempts a
smile. “We’re pretty sure this can’t even compare to what you did before. This
was a lot stronger—we all felt it when it happened. We actually thought
explosives had gone off. The tunnels,” she says. “They almost collapsed in on
themselves.”
“No.” My stomach turns to stone.
“It’s okay,” Sara tries to reassure me. “You pulled back just in time.”
I can’t catch my breath.
“You couldn’t have known—,” Sonya starts.
“I almost killed—I almost killed all of you—”
Sonya shakes her head. “You have an amazing amount of power. It’s not
your fault. You didn’t know what you were capable of.”
“I could’ve killed you. I could’ve killed Adam—I could’ve—” My head
whips around. “Is he here? Is Adam here?”
The girls stare at me. Stare at each other.
I hear a throat clear and I jerk toward the sound.
Kenji steps out of the corner. He waves a half wave, offers me a crooked
smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry,” he says to me, “but we had to keep
him out of here.”
“Why?” I ask, but I’m afraid to know the answer.
Kenji pushes his hair out of his eyes. Considers my question. “Well. Where
should I begin?” He counts off on his fingers. “After he found out what
happened, he tried to kill me, he went ballistic on Castle, he refused to leave the
medical wing, and then he wou—”
“Please.” I stop him. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Never mind. Don’t. I can’t.”
“You asked.”
“Where is he?” I open my eyes. “Is he okay?”
Kenji rubs the back of his neck. Looks away. “He’ll be all right.”
“Can I see him?”
Kenji sighs. Turns to the girls. Says, “Hey, can we get a second alone?” and
the 2 of them are suddenly in a hurry to go.
“Of course,” Sara says.
“No problem,” Sonya says.
“We’ll give you some privacy,” they say at the same time.
And they leave.
Kenji grabs 1 of the chairs pushed up against the wall and carries it over to
my bed. Sits down. Props the ankle of 1 foot on the knee of the other and leans
back. Links his hands behind his head. Looks at me.
I shift on the mattress so I’m better seated to see him. “What is it?”
“You and Kent need to talk.”
“Oh.” I swallow. “Yes. I know.”
“Do you?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” He nods. Looks away. Taps his foot too fast against the floor.
“What?” I ask after a moment. “What are you not telling me?”
His foot stops tapping but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He covers his mouth
with his left hand. Drops it. “That was some crazy shit you pulled back there.”
All at once I feel humiliated. “I’m sorry, Kenji. I’m so sorry—I didn’t think
—I didn’t know—”
He turns to face me and the look in his eyes stops me in place. He’s trying to
read me. Trying to figure me out. Trying, I realize, to decide whether or not he
can trust me. Whether or not the rumors about the monster in me are true.
“I’ve never done that before,” I hear myself whisper. “I swear—I didn’t
mean for that to happen—”
“Are you sure?”
“What?”
“It’s a question, Juliette. It’s a legitimate question.” I’ve never seen him so
serious. “I brought you here because Castle wanted you here. Because he
thought we could help you—he thought we could provide you with a safe place
to live. To get you away from the assholes trying to use you for their own
benefit. But you come here and you don’t even seem to want to be a part of
anything. You don’t talk to people. You don’t make any progress with your
training. You do nothing, basically.”
“I’m sorry, I really—”
“And then I believe Castle when he says he’s worried about you. He tells me
you’re not adjusting, that you’re having a hard time fitting in. That people heard
negative things about you and they’re not being as welcoming as they should be.
And I should kick my own ass for it, but I feel sorry for you. So I tell him I’ll
help. I rearrange my entire goddamn schedule just to help you deal with your
issues. Because I think you’re a nice girl who’s just a little misunderstood.
Because Castle is the most decent guy I’ve ever known and I want to help him
out.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised it’s not bleeding.
“So I’m wondering,” he says to me. He drops the foot he was resting on his
knee. Leans forward. Props his elbows on his thighs. “I’m wondering if it’s
possible that all of this is just coincidence. I mean, was it just some crazy
coincidence that I ended up working with you? Me? One of the very few people
here who have access to that room? Or was it coincidence that you managed to
threaten me into taking you down to the research labs? That you then, somehow,
accidentally, coincidentally, unknowingly punched a fist into the ground that
shook this place so hard we all thought the walls were caving in?” He stares at
me, hard. “Was it a coincidence,” he says, “that if you’d held on for just a few
more seconds, this entire place would’ve collapsed in on itself?”
My eyes are wide, horrified, caught.
He leans back. Looks down. Presses 2 fingers to his lips.
“Do you actually want to be here?” he asks. “Or are you just trying to bring
us down from the inside?”
“What?” I gasp. “No—”
“Because you either know exactly what you’re doing—and you’re a hell of a
lot sneakier than you pretend to be—or you really have no clue what you’re
doing and you just have really shitty luck. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Kenji, I swear, I never—I n-never—” I have to bite back the words to blink
back the tears. It’s crippling, this feeling, this not knowing how to prove your
own innocence. It’s my entire life replayed over and over and over again, trying
to convince people that I’m not dangerous, that I never meant to hurt anyone,
that I didn’t intend for things to turn out this way. That I’m not a bad person.
But it never seems to work out.
“I’m so sorry,” I choke, the tears flowing fast now. I’m so disgusted with
myself. I tried so hard to be different, to be better, to be good, and I just went
and ruined everything and lost everything all over again and I don’t even know
how to tell him he’s wrong.
Because he might be right.
I knew I was angry. I knew I wanted to hurt Castle and I didn’t care. In that
moment, I meant it. In the anger of that moment, I really, truly meant it. I don’t
know what I would’ve done if Kenji hadn’t been there to hold me back. I don’t
know. I have no idea. I don’t even understand what I’m capable of.
How many times, I hear a voice whisper in my head, how many times will
you apologize for who you are?
I hear Kenji sigh. Shift in his seat. I don’t dare lift my eyes.
“I had to ask, Juliette.” Kenji sounds uncomfortable. “I’m sorry you’re
crying but I’m not sorry I asked. It’s my job to constantly be thinking of our
safety—and that means I have to look at every possible angle. No one knows
what you can do yet. Not even you. But you keep trying to act like what you’re
capable of isn’t a big deal, and it’s not helping anything. You need to stop trying
to pretend you’re not dangerous.”
I look up too fast. “But I’m not—I’m n-not trying to hurt anyone—”
“That doesn’t matter,” he says, standing up. “Good intentions are great, but
they don’t change the facts. You are dangerous. Shit, you’re scary dangerous.
More dangerous than me and everyone else in here. So don’t ask me to act like
that knowledge, in and of itself, isn’t a threat to us. If you’re going to stay here,”
he says to me, “you have to learn how to control what you do—how to contain
it. You have to deal with who you are and you have to figure out how to live
with it. Just like the rest of us.”
3 knocks at the door.
Kenji is still staring at me. Waiting.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“And you and Kent need to sort out your drama ASAP,” he adds, just as
Sonya and Sara walk back into the room. “I don’t have the time, the energy, or
the interest to deal with your problems. I like to mess with you from time to time
because, well, let’s face it”—he shrugs—“the world is going to hell out there
and I suppose if I’m going to be shot dead before I’m twenty-five, I’d at least
like to remember what it’s like to laugh before I do. But that does not make me
your clown or your babysitter. At the end of the day I do not give two shits about
whether or not you and Kent are going steady. We have a million things to take
care of down here, and less than none of them involve your love life.” A pause.
“Is that clear?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“So are you in?” he says.
Another nod.
“I want to hear you say it. If you’re in, you’re all in. No more feeling sorry
for yourself. No more sitting in the training room all day, crying because you
can’t break a metal pipe—”
“How did you kn—”
“Are you in?”
“I’m in,” I tell him. “I’m in. I promise.”
He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his hair. “Good. Meet me
outside of the dining hall tomorrow morning at six a.m.”
“But my hand—”
He waves my words away. “Your hand, nothing. You’ll be fine. You didn’t
even break anything. You messed up your knuckles and your brain freaked out a
little and basically you just fell asleep for three days. I don’t call that an injury,”
he says. “I call that a goddamn vacation.” He stops to consider something. “Do
you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve gone on vacation—”
“But aren’t we training?” I interrupt him. “I can’t do anything if my hand is
wrapped up, can I?”
“Trust me.” He cocks his head. “You’ll be fine. This … is going to be a little
different.”
I stare at him. Wait.
“You can consider it your official welcome to Omega Point,” he says.
“But—”
“Tomorrow. Six a.m.”
I open my mouth to ask another question but he presses a finger to his lips,
offers me a 2-finger salute, and walks backward toward the exit just as Sonya
and Sara head over to my bed.
I watch as he nods good-bye to both of them, pivots on 1 foot, and strides out
the door.
6:00 a.m.
ELEVEN
I catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall and realize it’s only 2:00 in the
afternoon.
Which means 6:00 a.m. is 16 hours from now.
Which means I have a lot of hours to fill.
Which means I have to get dressed.
Because I need to get out of here.
And I really need to talk to Adam.
“Juliette?”
I jolt out of my own head and back to the present moment to find Sonya and
Sara staring at me. “Can we get you anything?” they ask. “Are you feeling well
enough to get out of bed?”
But I look from one set of eyes to another and back again, and instead of
answering their questions, I feel a crippling sense of shame dig into my soul and
I can’t help but revert back to another version of myself. A scared little girl who
wants to keep folding herself in half until she can’t be found anymore.
I keep saying, “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry about everything, for all of
this, for all the trouble, for all the damage, really, I’m so, so sorry—”
I hear myself go on and on and on and I can’t get myself to stop.
It’s like a button in my brain is broken, like I’ve developed a disease that
forces me to apologize for everything, for existing, for wanting more than what
I’ve been given, and I can’t stop.
It’s what I do.
I’m always apologizing. Forever apologizing. For who I am and what I never
meant to be and for this body I was born into, this DNA I never asked for, this
person I can’t unbecome. 17 years I’ve spent trying to be different. Every single
day. Trying to be someone else for someone else.
And it never seems to matter.
But then I realize they’re talking to me.
“There’s nothing to apologize for—”
“Please, it’s all right—”
Both of them are trying to speak to me, but Sara is closer.
I dare to meet her eyes and I’m surprised to see how soft they are. Gentle and
green and squinty from smiling. She sits down on the right side of my bed. Pats
my bare arm with her latex glove, unafraid. Unflinching. Sonya stands just next
to her, looking at me like she’s worried, like she’s sad for me, and I don’t have
long to dwell on it because I’m distracted. I smell the scent of jasmine filling the
room, just as it did the very first time I stepped in here. When we first arrived at
Omega Point. When Adam was injured. Dying.
He was dying and they saved his life. These 2 girls in front of me. They
saved his life and I’ve been living with them for 2 weeks and I realize, right
then, exactly how selfish I’ve been.
So I decide to try a new set of words.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I feel myself begin to blush and I wonder at my inability to be so free with
words and feelings. I wonder at my incapacity for easy banter, smooth
conversation, empty words to fill awkward moments. I don’t have a closet filled
with umms and ellipses ready to insert at the beginnings and ends of sentences. I
don’t know how to be a verb, an adverb, any kind of modifier. I’m a noun
through and through.
Stuffed so full of people places things and ideas that I don’t know how to
break out of my own brain. How to start a conversation.
I want to trust but it scares the skin off my bones.
But then I remember my promise to Castle and my promise to Kenji and my
worries over Adam and I think maybe I should take a risk. Maybe I should try to
find a new friend or 2. And I think of how wonderful it would be to be friends
with a girl. A girl, just like me.
I’ve never had one of those before.
So when Sonya and Sara smile and tell me they’re “happy to help” and
they’re here “anytime” and that they’re always around if I “need someone to talk
to,” I tell them I’d love that.
I tell them I’d really appreciate that.
I tell them I’d love to have a friend to talk to.
Maybe sometime.
TWELVE
“Let’s get you back into your suit,” Sara says to me.
The air down here is cool and cold and often damp, the winter winds
relentless as they whip the world above our heads into submission. Even in my
suit I feel the chill, especially early in the morning, especially right now. Sonya
and Sara are helping me out of this hospital dress and back into my normal
uniform and I’m shaking in my skin. Only once they’ve zipped me up does the
material begin to react to my body temperature, but I’m still so weak from being
in bed for so long that I’m struggling to stay upright.
“I really don’t need a wheelchair,” I tell Sara for the third time. “Thank you
—really—I-I appreciate it,” I stammer, “but I need to get the blood flowing in
my legs. I have to be strong on my feet.” I have to be strong, period.
Castle and Adam are waiting for me in my room.
Sonya told me that while I was talking to Kenji, she and Sara went to notify
Castle that I was awake. So. Now they’re there. Waiting for me. In the room I
share with Sonya and Sara. And I’m so afraid of what is about to happen that
I’m worried I might conveniently forget how to get to my own room. Because
I’m fairly certain that whatever I’m about to hear isn’t going to be good.
“You can’t walk back to the room by yourself,” Sara is saying. “You can
hardly stand on your own—”
“I’m okay,” I insist. I try to smile. “Really, I should be able to manage as
long as I can stay close to the wall. I’m sure I’ll be back to normal just as soon as
I start moving.”
Sonya and Sara glance at each other before scrutinizing my face. “How’s
your hand?” they ask at the same time.
“It’s okay,” I tell them, this time more earnestly. “It feels a lot better. Really.
Thank you so much.”
The cuts are practically healed and I can actually move my fingers now. I
inspect the brand-new, thinner bandage they’ve wrapped across my knuckles.
The girls explained to me that most of the damage was internal; it seems I
traumatized whatever invisible bone in my body is responsible for my curse
“gift.”
“All right. Let’s go,” Sara says, shaking her head. “We’re walking you back
to the room.”
“No—please—it’s okay—” I try to protest but they’re already grabbing my
arms and I’m too feeble to fight back. “This is unnecessary—”
“You’re being ridiculous,” they chorus.
“I don’t want you to have to go through the trouble—”
“You’re being ridiculous,” they chorus again.
“I—I’m really not—” But they’re already leading me out of the room and
down the hall and I’m hobbling along between them. “I promise I’m fine,” I tell
them. “Really.”
Sonya and Sara share a loaded look before they smile at me, not unkindly,
but there’s an awkward silence between us as we move through the halls. I spot
people walking past us and immediately duck my head. I don’t want to make eye
contact with anyone right now. I can’t even imagine what they must’ve heard
about the damage I’ve caused. I know I’ve managed to confirm all of their worst
fears about me.
“They’re only afraid of you because they don’t know you,” Sara says quietly.
“Really,” Sonya adds. “We barely know you and we think you’re great.”
I’m blushing fiercely, wondering why embarrassment always feels like ice
water in my veins. It’s like all of my insides are freezing even though my skin is
burning hot too hot.
I hate this.
I hate this feeling.
Sonya and Sara stop abruptly. “Here we are,” they say together.
We’re in front of our bedroom door. I try to unlatch myself from their arms
but they stop me. Insist on staying with me until they’re sure I’ve gotten inside
okay.
So I stay with them.
And I knock on my own door, because I’m not sure what else to do.
Once.
Twice.
I’m waiting just a few seconds, just a few moments for fate to answer when I
realize the full impact of Sonya’s and Sara’s presence beside me. They’re
offering me smiles that are supposed to be encouraging, bracing, reinforcing.
They’re trying to lend me their strength because they know I’m about to face
something that isn’t going to make me happy.
And this thought makes me happy.
If only for a fleeting moment.
Because I think wow, I imagine this is what it’s like to have friends.
“Ms. Ferrars.”
Castle opens the door just enough for me to see his face. He nods at me.
Glances down at my injured hand. Back up at my face. “Very good,” he says,
mostly to himself. “Good, good. I’m happy to see you’re doing better.”
“Yes,” I manage to say. “I—th-thank you, I—”
“Girls,” he says to Sonya and Sara. He offers them a bright, genuine smile.
“Thank you for all you’ve done. I’ll take it from here.”
They nod. Squeeze my arms once before letting go and I sway for just a
second before I find my footing. “I’m all right,” I tell them as they try to reach
for me. “I’ll be fine.”
They nod again. Wave, just a little, as they back away.
“Come inside,” Castle says to me.
I follow him in.
THIRTEEN
1 bunk bed on one side of the wall.
1 single bed on the other side.
That’s all this room consists of.
That, and Adam, who is sitting on my single bed, elbows propped up on his
knees, face in his hands. Castle shuts the door behind us, and Adam startles.
Jumps up.
“Juliette,” he says, but he’s not looking at me; he’s looking at all of me. His
eyes are searching my body as if to ensure I’m still intact, arms and legs and
everything in between. It’s only when he finds my face that he meets my gaze; I
step into the sea of blue in his eyes, dive right in and drown. I feel like
someone’s punched a fist into my lungs and snatched up all my oxygen.
“Please, have a seat, Ms. Ferrars.” Castle gestures to Sonya’s bottom bunk,
the bed right across from where Adam is sitting. I make my way over slowly,
trying not to betray the dizziness, the nausea I’m feeling. My chest is rising and
falling too quickly.
I drop my hands into my lap.
I feel Adam’s presence in this room like a real weight against my chest but I
choose to study the careful wrapping of my new bandage—the gauze stretched
tight across the knuckles of my right hand—because I’m too much of a coward
to look up. I want nothing more than to go to him, to have him hold me, to
transport me back to the few moments of bliss I’ve ever known in my life but
there’s something gnawing at my core, scraping at my insides, telling me that
something is wrong and it’s probably best if I stay exactly where I am.
Castle is standing in the space between the beds, between me and Adam.
He’s staring at the wall, hands clasped behind his back. His voice is quiet when
he says, “I am very, very disappointed in your behavior, Ms. Ferrars.”
Hot, terrible shame creeps up my neck and forces my head down again.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Castle takes a deep breath. Exhales very slowly. “I have to be frank with
you,” he says, “and admit that I’m not ready to discuss what happened just yet. I
am still too upset to be able to speak about the matter calmly. Your actions,” he
says, “were childish. Selfish. Thoughtless! The damage you caused—the years
of work that went into building and planning that room, I can’t even begin to tell
you—”
He catches himself, swallows hard.
“That will be a subject,” he says steadily, “for another time. Perhaps just
between the two of us. But I am here today because Mr. Kent asked me to be
here.”
I look up. Look at Castle. Look at Adam.
Adam looks like he wants to run.
I decide I can’t wait any longer. “You’ve learned something about him,” I
say, and it’s less of a question than it is a fact. It’s so obvious. There’s no other
reason why Adam would bring Castle here to talk to me.
Something terrible has already happened. Something terrible is about to
happen.
I can feel it.
Adam is staring at me now, unblinking, his hands in fists pressed into his
thighs. He looks nervous; scared. I don’t know what to do except to stare back at
him. I don’t know how to offer him comfort. I don’t even know how to smile
right now. I feel like I’m trapped in someone else’s story.
Castle nods, once, slowly.
Says, “Yes. Yes, we’ve discovered the very intriguing nature of Mr. Kent’s
ability.” He walks toward the wall and leans against it, allowing me a clearer
view of Adam. “We believe we now understand why he’s able to touch you, Ms.
Ferrars.”
Adam turns away, presses one of his fists to his mouth. His hand looks like it
might be shaking but he, at least, seems to be doing better than I am. Because
my insides are screaming and my head is on fire and panic is stepping on my
throat, suffocating me to death. Bad news offers no returns once received.
“What is it?” I fix my eyes on the floor and count stones and sounds and
cracks and nothing.
1
2, 3, 4
1
2, 3, 4
1
2, 3, 4
“He … can disable things,” Castle says to me.
5, 6, 7, 8 million times I blink, confused. All my numbers crash to the floor,
adding and subtracting and multiplying and dividing. “What?” I ask him.
This news is wrong. This news doesn’t sound horrible at all.
“The discovery was quite accidental, actually,” Castle explains. “We weren’t
having much luck with any of the tests we’d been running. But then one day I
was in the middle of a training exercise, and Mr. Kent was trying to get my
attention. He touched my shoulder.”
Wait for it.
“And … suddenly,” Castle says, pulling in a breath, “I couldn’t perform. It
was as if—as if a wire inside of my body had been cut. I felt it right away. He
wanted my attention and he inadvertently shut me off in an attempt to redirect
my focus. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” He shakes his head. “We’ve
now been working with him to see if he can control his ability at will. And,”
Castle adds, excited, “we want to see if he can project.
“You see, Mr. Kent does not need to make contact with the skin—I was
wearing my blazer when he touched my arm. So this means he’s already
projecting, if only just a little bit. And I believe, with some work, he’ll be able to
extend his gift to a greater surface area.”
I have no idea what that means.
I try to meet Adam’s eyes; I want him to tell me these things himself but he
won’t look up. He won’t speak and I don’t understand. This doesn’t seem like
bad news. In fact, it sounds quite good, which can’t be right. I turn to Castle. “So
Adam can just make someone else’s power—their gift—whatever it is—he can
just make it stop? He can turn it off?”
“I appears that way, yes.”
“Have you tested this on anyone else?”
Castle looks offended. “Of course we have. We’ve tried it on every gifted
member at Omega Point.”
But something isn’t making sense.
“What about when he arrived?” I ask. “And he was injured? And the girls
were able to heal him? Why didn’t he cut off their abilities?”
“Ah.” Castle nods. Clears his throat. “Yes. Very astute, Ms. Ferrars.” He
paces the length of the room. “This … is where the explanation gets a little
tricky. After much study, we’ve been able to conclude that his ability is a kind of
… defense mechanism. One that he does not yet know how to control. It’s
something that’s been working on autopilot his entire life, even though it only
works to disable other preternatural abilities. If there was ever a risk, if Mr. Kent
was ever in any state of danger, in any situation where his body was on high
alert, feeling threatened or at risk of injury, his ability automatically set in.”
He stops. Looks at me. Really looks at me.
“When you first met, for example, Mr. Kent was working as a soldier, on
guard, always aware of the risks in his surroundings. He was in a constant state
of electricum—a term we use to define when our Energy is ‘on,’ so to speak—
because he was always in a state of danger.” Castle tucks his hands into his
blazer pockets. “A series of tests have further shown that his body temperature
rises when he is in a state of electricum—just a couple of degrees higher than
normal. His elevated body temperature indicates that he is exerting more energy
than usual to sustain this. And, in short,” Castle says, “this constant exertion has
been exhausting him. Weakening his defenses, his immune system, his selfcontrol.”
His elevated body temperature.
That’s why Adam’s skin was always so hot when we were together. Why it
was always so intense when he was with me. His ability was working to fight
mine. His energy was working to defuse mine.
It was exhausting him. Weakening his defenses.
Oh.
God.
“Your physical relationship with Mr. Kent,” Castle says, “is, in truth, none of
my business. But because of the very unique nature of your gifts, it’s been of
great interest to me on a purely scientific level. But you must know, Ms. Ferrars,
that though these new developments no doubt fascinate me, I take absolutely no
pleasure in them. You’ve made it clear that you do not think much of my
character, but you must believe that I would never find joy in your troubles.”
My troubles.
My troubles have arrived fashionably late to this conversation, inconsiderate
beasts that they are.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please just tell me what the problem is. There’s a
problem, isn’t there? Something is wrong.” I look at Adam but he’s still staring
away, at the wall, at everything but at my face, and I feel myself rising to my
feet, trying to get his attention. “Adam? Do you know? Do you know what he’s
talking about? Please—”
“Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says quickly. “I beg you to sit down. I know this must
be difficult for you, but you must let me finish. I’ve asked Mr. Kent not to speak
until I’m done explaining everything. Someone needs to deliver this information
in a clear, rational manner, and I’m afraid he is in no position to do so.”
I fall back onto the bed.
Castle lets out a breath. “You brought up an excellent point earlier—about
why Mr. Kent was able to interact with our healer twins when he first arrived.
But it was different with them,” Castle says. “He was weak; he knew he needed
help. His body would not—and, more importantly, could not—refuse that kind
of medical attention. He was vulnerable and therefore unable to defend himself
even if he wanted to. The last of his Energy was depleted when he arrived. He
felt safe and he was seeking aid; his body was out of immediate danger and
therefore unafraid, not primed for a defensive strategy.”
Castle looks up. Looks me in the eye.
“Mr. Kent has begun having a similar problem with you.”
“What?” I gasp.
“I’m afraid he doesn’t know how to control his abilities yet. It’s something
we’re hoping we can work on, but it will take a lot of time—a lot of energy and
focus—”
“What do you mean,” I hear myself ask, my words heavy with panic, “that
he has already begun having a similar problem with me?”
Castle takes a small breath. “It—it seems that he is weakest when he is with
you. The more time he spends in your company, the less threatened he feels.
And the more … intimate you become,” Castle says, looking distinctly
uncomfortable, “the less control he has over his body.” A pause. “He is too open,
too vulnerable with you. And in the few moments his defenses have slipped thus
far, he’s already felt the very distinct pain associated with your touch.”
There it is.
There’s my head, lying on the floor, cracked right open, my brain spilling out
in every direction and I can’t I don’t I can’t even I’m sitting here, struck, numb,
slightly dizzy.
Horrified.
Adam is not immune to me.
Adam has to work to defend himself against me and I’m exhausting him. I’m
making him sick and I’m weakening his body and if he ever slips again. If he
ever forgets. If he ever makes a mistake or loses focus or becomes too aware of
the fact that he’s using his gift to control what I might do— I could hurt him.
I could kill him.
FOURTEEN
Castle is staring at me.
Waiting for my reaction.
I haven’t been able to spit the chalk out of my mouth long enough to string a
sentence together.
“Ms. Ferrars,” he says, rushing to speak now, “we are working with Mr.
Kent to help him control his abilities. He’s going to train—just as you are—to
learn how to exercise this particular element of who he is. It will take some time
until we can be certain he’ll be safe with you, but it will be all right, I assure you
—”
“No.” I’m standing up. “No no no no no.” I’m tripping sideways. “NO.”
I’m staring at my feet and at my hands and at these walls and I want to
scream. I want to run. I want to fall to my knees. I want to curse the world for
cursing me, for torturing me, for taking away the only good thing I’ve ever
known and I’m stumbling toward the door, searching for an outlet, for escape
from this nightmare that is my life and
“Juliette—please—”
The sound of Adam’s voice stops my heart. I force myself to turn around. To
face him.
But the moment he meets my eyes his mouth falls closed. His arm is
outstretched toward me, trying to stop me from 10 feet away and I want to sob
and laugh at the same time, at the terrible hilarity of it all.
He will not touch me.
I will not allow him to touch me.
Never again.
“Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says gently. “I’m sure it’s hard to stomach right now,
but I’ve already told you this isn’t permanent. With enough training—”
“When you touch me,” I ask Adam, my voice breaking, “is it an effort for
you? Does it exhaust you? Does it drain you to have to constantly be fighting me
and what I am?”
Adam tries to answer. He tries to say something but instead he says nothing
and his unspoken words are so much worse.
I spin in Castle’s direction. “That’s what you said, isn’t it?” My voice is even
shakier now, too close to tears. “That he’s using his Energy to extinguish mine,
and that if he ever forgets—if he ever gets c-carried away or t-too vulnerable—
that I could hurt him—that I’ve already h-hurt him—”
“Ms. Ferrars, please—”
“Just answer the question!”
“Well yes,” he says, “for now, at least, that’s all we know—”
“Oh, God, I—I can’t—” I’m tripping to reach the door again but my legs are
still weak, my head is still spinning, my eyes are blurring and the world is being
washed of all its color when I feel familiar arms wrap around my waist, tugging
me backward.
“Juliette,” he says, so urgently, “please, we have to talk about this—”
“Let go of me.” My voice is barely a breath. “Adam, please—I can’t—”
“Castle.” Adam cuts me off. “Do you think you can give us some time
alone?”
“Oh.” He startles. “Of course,” he says, just a beat too late. “Sure, yes, yes,
of course.” He walks to the door. Hesitates. “I will—well, right. Yes. You know
where to find me when you’re ready.” He nods at both of us, offers me a strained
sort of smile, and leaves the room. The door clicks shut behind him.
Silence pours into the space between us.
“Adam, please,” I finally say, and hate myself for saying it. “Let go of me.”
“No.”
I feel his breath on the back of my neck and it’s killing me to be so close to
him. It’s killing me to know that I have to rebuild the walls I’d so carelessly
demolished the moment he came back into my life.
“Let’s talk about this,” he says. “Don’t go anywhere. Please. Just talk to me.”
I’m rooted in place.
“Please,” he says again, this time more softly, and my resolve runs out the
door without me.
I follow him back to the beds. He sits on one side of the room. I sit on the
other.
He stares at me. His eyes are too tired, too strained. He looks like he hasn’t
been eating enough, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He hesitates, licks his lips
before pressing them tight, before he speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry
I didn’t tell you. I never meant to upset you.”
And I want to laugh and laugh and laugh until the tears dissolve me.
“I understand why you didn’t tell me,” I whisper. “It makes perfect sense.
You wanted to avoid all of this.” I wave a limp hand around the room.
“You’re not mad?” His eyes are so terribly hopeful. He looks like he wants
to walk over to me and I have to hold out a hand to stop him.
The smile on my face is literally killing me.
“How could I be mad at you? You were torturing yourself down there just to
figure out what was happening to you. You’re torturing yourself right now just
trying to find a way to fix this.”
He looks relieved.
Relieved and confused and afraid to be happy all at the same time. “But
something’s wrong,” he says. “You’re crying. Why are you crying if you’re not
upset?”
I actually laugh this time. Out loud. Laugh and hiccup and want to die, so
desperately. “Because I was an idiot for thinking things could be different,” I tell
him. “For thinking you were a fluke. For thinking my life could ever be better
than it was, that I could ever be better than I was.” I try to speak again but
instead clamp a hand over my mouth like I can’t believe what I’m about to say. I
force myself to swallow the stone in my throat. I drop my hand. “Adam.” My
voice is raw, aching. “This isn’t going to work.”
“What?” He’s frozen in place, his eyes too wide, his chest rising and falling
too fast. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t touch me,” I tell him. “You can’t touch me and I’ve already hurt
you—”
“No—Juliette—” Adam is up, he’s cleared the room, he’s on his knees next
to me and he reaches for my hands but I have to snatch them back because my
gloves were ruined, ruined in the research lab and now my fingers are bare.
Dangerous.
Adam stares at the hands I’ve hidden behind my back like I’ve slapped him
across the face. “What are you doing?” he asks, but he’s not looking at me. He’s
still staring at my hands. Barely breathing.
“I can’t do this to you.” I shake my head too hard. “I don’t want to be the
reason why you’re hurting yourself or weakening yourself and I don’t want you
to always have to worry that I might accidentally kill you—”
“No, Juliette, listen to me.” He’s desperate now, his eyes up, searching my
face. “I was worried too, okay? I was worried too. Really worried. I thought—I
thought that maybe—I don’t know, I thought maybe it would be bad or that
maybe we wouldn’t be able to work through it but I talked to Castle. I talked to
him and explained everything and he said that I just have to learn to control it.
I’ll learn how to turn it on and off—”
“Except when you’re with me? Except when we’re together—”
“No—what? No, especially when we’re together!”
“Touching me—being with me—it takes a physical toll on you! You run a
fever when we’re together, Adam, did you realize that? You’d get sick just
trying to fight me off—”
“You’re not hearing me—please—I’m telling you, I’ll learn to control all of
that—”
“When?” I ask, and I can actually feel my bones breaking, 1 by 1.
“What? What do you mean? I’ll learn now—I’m learning now—”
“And how’s it going? Is it easy?”
His mouth falls closed but he’s looking at me, struggling with some kind of
emotion, struggling to find composure. “What are you trying to say?” he finally
asks. “Are you”—he’s breathing hard—“are you—I mean—you don’t want to
make this work?”
“Adam—”
“What are you saying, Juliette?” He’s up now, a shaky hand caught in his
hair. “You don’t—you don’t want to be with me?”
I’m on my feet, blinking back the tears burning my eyes, desperate to run to
him but unable to move. My voice breaks when I speak. “Of course I want to be
with you.”
He drops his hand from his hair. Looks at me with eyes so open and
vulnerable but his jaw is tight, his muscles are tense, his upper body is heaving
from the effort to inhale, exhale. “Then what’s happening right now? Because
something is happening right now and it doesn’t feel okay,” he says, his voice
catching. “It doesn’t feel okay, Juliette, it feels like the opposite of whatever the
hell okay is and I really just want to hold you—”
“I don’t want to h-hurt you—”
“You’re not going to hurt me,” he says, and then he’s in front of me, looking
at me, pleading with me. “I swear. It’ll be fine—we’ll be fine—and I’m better
now. I’ve been working on it and I’m stronger—”
“It’s too dangerous, Adam, please.” I’m begging him, backing away, wiping
furiously at the tears escaping down my face. “It’s better for you this way. It’s
better for you to just stay away from me—”
“But that’s not what I want—you’re not asking me what I want—,” he says,
following me as I dodge his advances. “I want to be with you and I don’t give a
damn if it’s hard. I still want it. I still want you.”
I’m trapped.
I’m caught between him and the wall and I have nowhere to go and I
wouldn’t want to go even if I could. I don’t want to have to fight this even
though there’s something inside of me screaming that it’s wrong to be so selfish,
to allow him to be with me if it’ll only end up hurting him. But he’s looking at
me, looking at me like I’m killing him and I realize I’m hurting him more by
trying to stay away.
I’m shaking. Wanting him so desperately and knowing now, more than ever,
that what I want will have to wait. And I hate that it has to be this way. I hate it
so much I could scream.
But maybe we can try.
“Juliette.” Adam’s voice is hoarse, broken with feeling. His hands are at my
waist, trembling just a little, waiting for my permission. “Please.”
And I don’t protest.
He’s breathing harder now, leaning into me, resting his forehead against my
shoulder. He places his hands flat against the center of my stomach, only to inch
them down my body, slowly, so slowly and I gasp.
There’s an earthquake happening in my bones, tectonic plates shifting from
panic to pleasure as his fingers take their time moving around my thighs, up my
back, over my shoulders and down my arms. He hesitates at my wrists. This is
where the fabric ends, where my skin begins.
But he takes a breath.
And he takes my hands.
For a moment I’m paralyzed, searching his face for any sign of pain or
danger but then we both exhale and I see him attempt a smile with new hope, a
new optimism that maybe everything is going to work out.
But then he blinks and his eyes change.
His eyes are deeper now. Desperate. Hungry. He’s searching me like he’s
trying to read the words etched inside of me and I can already feel the heat of his
body, the power in his limbs, the strength in his chest and I don’t have time to
stop him before he’s kissing me.
His left hand is cupping the back of my head, his right tightening around my
waist, pressing me hard against him and destroying every rational thought I’ve
ever had. It’s deep. So strong. It’s an introduction to a side of him I’ve never
known before and I’m gasping gasping gasping for air.
It’s hot rain and humid days and broken thermostats. It’s screaming
teakettles and raging steam engines and wanting to take your clothes off just to
feel a breeze.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes you realize oxygen is overrated.
And I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I know it’s probably stupid and
irresponsible after everything we’ve just learned but someone would have to
shoot me to make me want to stop.
I’m pulling at his shirt, desperate for a raft or a life preserver or something,
anything to anchor me to reality but he breaks away to catch his breath and rips
off his shirt, tosses it to the floor, pulls me into his arms and we both fall onto
my bed.
Somehow I end up on top of him.
He reaches up only to pull me down and he’s kissing me, my throat, my
cheeks, and my hands are searching his body, exploring the lines, the planes, the
muscle and he pulls back, his forehead is pressed against my own and his eyes
are squeezed shut when he says, “How is it possible,” he says, “that I’m this
close to you and it’s killing me that you’re still so far away?”
And I remember I promised him, 2 weeks ago, that once he got better, once
he’d healed, I would memorize every inch of his body with my lips.
I figure now is probably a good time to fulfill that promise.
I start at his mouth, move to his cheek, under his jawline, down his neck to
his shoulders and his arms, which are wrapped around me. His hands are
skimming my suit and he’s so hot, so tense from the effort to remain still but I
can hear his heart beating hard, too fast against his chest.
Against mine.
I trace the white bird soaring across his skin, a tattoo of the one impossible
thing I hope to see in my life. A bird. White with streaks of gold like a crown
atop its head.
It will fly.
Birds don’t fly, is what the scientists say, but history says they used to. And
one day I want to see it. I want to touch it. I want to watch it fly like it should,
like it hasn’t been able to in my dreams.
I dip down to kiss the yellow crown of its head, tattooed deep into Adam’s
chest. I hear the spike in his breathing.
“I love this tattoo,” I tell him, looking up to meet his eyes. “I haven’t seen it
since we got here. I haven’t seen you without a shirt on since we got here,” I
whisper. “Do you still sleep without your shirt on?”
But Adam answers with a strange smile, like he’s laughing at his own private
joke.
He takes my hand from his chest and tugs me down so we’re facing each
other, and it’s strange, because I haven’t felt a breeze since we got here, but it’s
like the wind has found a home in my body and it’s funneling through my lungs,
blowing through my blood, mingling with my breath and making it hard for me
to breathe.
“I can’t sleep at all,” he says to me, his voice so low I have to strain to hear
it. “It doesn’t feel right to be without you every night.” His left hand is threaded
in my hair, his right wrapped around me. “God I’ve missed you,” he says, his
words a husky whisper in my ear. “Juliette.”
I am
lit
on fire.
It’s like swimming in molasses, this kiss, it’s like being dipped in gold, this
kiss, it’s like I’m diving into an ocean of emotion and I’m too swept up in the
current to realize I’m drowning and nothing even matters anymore. Not my hand
which no longer seems to hurt, not this room that isn’t entirely mine, not this war
we’re supposed to be fighting, not my worries about who or what I am and what
I might become.
This is the only thing that matters.
This.
This moment. These lips. This strong body pressed against me and these firm
hands finding a way to bring me closer and I know I want so much more of him,
I want all of him, I want to feel the beauty of this love with the tips of my fingers
and the palms of my hands and every fiber and bone in my being.
I want all of it.
My hands are in his hair and I’m reeling him in until he’s practically on top
of me and he breaks for air but I pull him back, kissing his neck, his shoulders,
his chest, running my hands down his back and the sides of his torso and it’s
incredible, the energy, the unbelievable power I feel in just being with him,
touching him, holding him like this. I’m alive with a rush of adrenaline so
potent, so euphoric that I feel rejuvenated, indestructible—
I jerk back.
Push away so quickly that I’m scrambling and I fall off the bed only to slam
my head into the stone floor and I’m swaying as I attempt to stand, struggling to
hear the sound of his voice but all I hear are wheezing, paralyzed breaths and I
can’t think straight, I can’t see anything and everything is blurry and I can’t, I
refuse to believe this is actually happening—
“J-Jul—” He tries to speak. “I-I c-ca—”
And I fall to my knees.
Screaming.
Screaming like I’ve never screamed in my entire life.
FIFTEEN
I count everything.
Even numbers, odd numbers, multiples of 10. I count the ticks of the clock I
count the tocks of the clock I count the lines between the lines on a sheet of
paper. I count the broken beats of my heart I count my pulse and my blinks and
the number of tries it takes to inhale enough oxygen for my lungs. I stay like this
I stand like this I count like this until the feeling stops. Until the tears stop
spilling, until my fists stop shaking, until my heart stops aching.
There are never enough numbers.
Adam is in the medical wing.
He is in the medical wing and I have been asked not to visit him. I have been
asked to give him space, to give him time to heal, to leave him the hell alone. He
is going to be okay, is what Sonya and Sara told me. They told me not to worry,
that everything would be fine, but their smiles were a little less exuberant than
they usually are and I’m beginning to wonder if they, too, are finally beginning
to see me for what I truly am.
A horrible, selfish, pathetic monster.
I took what I wanted. I knew better and I took it anyway. Adam couldn’t
have known, he could never have known what it would be like to really suffer at
my hands. He was innocent of the depth of it, of the cruel reality of it. He’d only
felt bursts of my power, according to Castle. He’d only felt small stabs of it and
was able and aware enough to let go without feeling the full effects.
But I knew better.
I knew what I was capable of. I knew what the risks were and I did it
anyway. I allowed myself to forget, to be reckless, to be greedy and stupid
because I wanted what I couldn’t have. I wanted to believe in fairy tales and
happy endings and pure possibility. I wanted to pretend that I was a better person
than I actually am but instead I managed to out myself as the terror I’ve always
been accused of being.
My parents were right to get rid of me.
Castle isn’t even speaking to me.
Kenji, however, still expects me to show up at 6:00 a.m. for whatever it is
we’re supposed to be doing tomorrow, and I find I’m actually kind of grateful
for the distraction. I only wish it would come sooner. Life will be solitary for me
from now on, just as it always has been, and it’s best if I find a way to fill my
time.
To forget.
It keeps hitting me, over and over and over again, this complete and utter
loneliness. This absence of him in my life, this realization that I will never know
the warmth of his body, the tenderness of his touch ever again. This reminder of
who I am and what I’ve done and where I belong.
But I’ve accepted the terms and conditions of my new reality.
I cannot be with him. I will not be with him. I won’t risk hurting him again,
won’t risk becoming the creature he’s always afraid of, too scared to touch, to
kiss, to hold. I don’t want to keep him from having a normal life with someone
who isn’t going to accidentally kill him all the time.
So I have to cut myself out of his world. Cut him out of mine.
It’s much harder now. So much harder to resign myself to an existence of ice
and emptiness now that I’ve known heat, urgency, tenderness, and passion; the
extraordinary comfort of being able to touch another being.
It’s humiliating.
That I thought I could slip into the role of a regular girl with a regular
boyfriend; that I thought I could live out the stories I’d read in so many books as
a child.
Me.
Juliette with a dream.
Just the thought of it is enough to fill me with mortification. How
embarrassing for me, that I thought I could change what I’d been dealt. That I
looked in the mirror and actually liked the pale face staring back at me.
How sad.
I always dared to identify with the princess, the one who runs away and finds
a fairy godmother to transform her into a beautiful girl with a bright future. I
clung to something like hope, to a thread of maybes and possiblys and
perhapses. But I should’ve listened when my parents told me that things like me
aren’t allowed to have dreams. Things like me are better off destroyed, is what
my mother said to me.
And I’m beginning to think they were right. I’m beginning to wonder if I
should just bury myself in the ground before I remember that technically, I
already am. I never even needed a shovel.
It’s strange.
How hollow I feel.
Like there might be echoes inside of me. Like I’m one of those chocolate
rabbits they used to sell around Easter, the ones that were nothing more than a
sweet shell encapsulating a world of nothing. I’m like that.
I encapsulate a world of nothing.
Everyone here hates me. The tenuous bonds of friendship I’d begun to form
have now been destroyed. Kenji is tired of me. Castle is disgusted, disappointed,
angry, even. I’ve caused nothing but trouble since I arrived and the 1 person
who’s ever tried to see good in me is now paying for it with his life.
The 1 person who’s ever dared to touch me.
Well. 1 of 2.
I find myself thinking about Warner too much.
I remember his eyes and his odd kindness and his cruel, calculating
demeanor. I remember the way he looked at me when I first jumped out the
window to escape and I remember the horror on his face when I pointed his own
gun at his heart and then I wonder at my preoccupation with this person who is
nothing like me and still so similar.
I wonder if I will have to face him again, sometime soon, and I wonder how
he will greet me. I have no idea if he wants to keep me alive anymore, especially
not after I tried to kill him, and I have no idea what could propel a 19-year-old
man boy person into such a miserable, murderous lifestyle and then I realize I’m
lying to myself. Because I do know. Because I might be the only person who
could ever understand him.
And this is what I’ve learned:
I know that he is a tortured soul who, like me, never grew up with the
warmth of friendship or love or peaceful coexistence. I know that his father is
the leader of The Reestablishment and applauds his son’s murders instead of
condemning them and I know that Warner has no idea what it’s like to be
normal.
Neither do I.
He’s spent his life fighting to fulfill his father’s expectations of global
domination without questioning why, without considering the repercussions,
without stopping long enough to weigh the worth of a human life. He has a
power, a strength, a position in society that enables him to do too much damage
and he owns it with pride. He kills without remorse or regret and he wants me to
join him. He sees me for what I am and expects me to live up to that potential.
Scary, monstrous girl with a lethal touch. Sad, pathetic girl with nothing else
to contribute to this world. Good for nothing but a weapon, a tool for torture and
taking control. That’s what he wants from me.
And lately I’m not sure if he’s wrong. Lately, I’m not sure of anything.
Lately, I don’t know anything about anything I’ve ever believed in, not anymore,
and I know the least about who I am. Warner’s whispers pace the space in my
head, telling me I could be more, I could be stronger, I could be everything; I
could be so much more than a scared little girl.
He says I could be power.
But still, I hesitate.
Still, I see no appeal in the life he’s offered. I see no future in it. I take no
pleasure in it. Still, I tell myself, despite everything, I know that I do not want to
hurt people. It’s not something I crave. And even if the world hates me, even if
they never stop hating me, I will never avenge myself on an innocent person. If I
die, if I am killed, if I am murdered in my sleep, I will at least die with a shred of
dignity. A piece of humanity that is still entirely mine, entirely under my control.
And I will not allow anyone to take that from me.
So I have to keep remembering that Warner and I are 2 different words.
We are synonyms but not the same.
Synonyms know each other like old colleagues, like a set of friends who’ve
seen the world together. They swap stories, reminisce about their origins and
forget that though they are similar, they are entirely different, and though they
share a certain set of attributes, one can never be the other. Because a quiet night
is not the same as a silent one, a firm man is not the same as a steady one, and a
bright light is not the same as a brilliant one because the way they wedge
themselves into a sentence changes everything.
They are not the same.
I’ve spent my entire life fighting to be better. Fighting to be stronger.
Because unlike Warner I don’t want to be a terror on this Earth. I don’t want to
hurt people.
I don’t want to use my power to cripple anyone.
But then I look at my own 2 hands and I remember exactly what I’m capable
of. I remember exactly what I’ve done and I’m too aware of what I might do.
Because it’s so difficult to fight what you cannot control and right now I can’t
even control my own imagination as it grips my hair and drags me into the dark.
SIXTEEN
Loneliness is a strange sort of thing.
It creeps up on you, quiet and still, sits by your side in the dark, strokes your
hair as you sleep. It wraps itself around your bones, squeezing so tight you
almost can’t breathe. It leaves lies in your heart, lies next to you at night,
leaches the light out from every corner. It’s a constant companion, clasping your
hand only to yank you down when you’re struggling to stand up.
You wake up in the morning and wonder who you are. You fail to fall asleep
at night and tremble in your skin. You doubt you doubt you doubt do I
don’t I
should I
why won’t I
And even when you’re ready to let go. When you’re ready to break free.
When you’re ready to be brand-new. Loneliness is an old friend standing beside
you in the mirror, looking you in the eye, challenging you to live your life
without it. You can’t find the words to fight yourself, to fight the words
screaming that you’re not enough never enough never ever enough.
Loneliness is a bitter, wretched companion.
Sometimes it just won’t let go.
“Helloooooo?”
I blink and gasp and flinch away from the fingers snapping in front of my
face as the familiar stone walls of Omega Point come back into focus. I manage
to spin around.
Kenji is staring at me.
“What?” I shoot him a panicked, nervous look as I clasp and unclasp my
ungloved hands, wishing I had something warm to wrap my fingers in. This suit
does not come with pockets and I wasn’t able to salvage the gloves I ruined in
the research rooms. I haven’t received any replacements, either.
“You’re early,” Kenji says to me, cocking his head, watching me with eyes
both surprised and curious.
I shrug and try to hide my face, unwilling to admit that I hardly slept through
the night. I’ve been awake since 3:00 a.m., fully dressed and ready to go by 4:00.
I’ve been dying for an excuse to fill my mind with things that have nothing to do
with my own thoughts. “I’m excited,” I lie. “What are we doing today?”
He shakes his head a bit. Squints at something over my shoulder as he speaks
to me. “You, um”—he clears his throat—“you okay?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just, you know.” A haphazard gesture toward
my face. “You don’t look so good, princess. You look kind of like you did that
first day you showed up with Warner back on base. All scared and dead-looking
and, no offense, but you look like you could use a shower.”
I smile and pretend I can’t feel my face shaking from the effort. I try to relax
my shoulders, try to look normal, calm, when I say, “I’m fine. Really.” I drop
my eyes. “I’m just—it’s a little cold down here, that’s all. I’m not used to being
without my gloves.”
Kenji is nodding, still not looking at me. “Right. Well. He’s going to be
okay, you know.”
“What?” Breathing. I’m so bad at breathing.
“Kent.” He turns to me. “Your boyfriend. Adam. He’s going to be fine.”
1 word, 1 simple, stupid reminder of him startles the butterflies sleeping in
my stomach before I remember that Adam is not my boyfriend anymore. He’s
not my anything anymore. He can’t be.
And the butterflies drop dead.
This.
I can’t do this.
“So,” I say too brightly. “Shouldn’t we get going? We should get going,
right?”
Kenji shoots me an odd look but doesn’t comment. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah,
sure. Follow me.”
SEVENTEEN
Kenji leads me to a door I’ve never seen before. A door belonging to a room I’ve
never been in before.
I hear voices inside.
Kenji knocks twice before turning the handle and all at once the cacophony
overwhelms me. We’re walking into a room bursting with people, faces I’ve
only ever seen from far away, people sharing smiles and laughter I’ve never
been welcome to. There are individual desks with individual chairs set up in the
vast space so that it resembles a classroom. There’s a whiteboard built into the
wall next to a monitor blinking with information. I spot Castle. Standing in the
corner, looking over a clipboard with such focus that he doesn’t even notice our
entry until Kenji shouts a greeting.
Castle’s entire face lights up.
I’d noticed it before, the connection between them, but it’s now becoming
increasingly apparent to me that Castle harbors a special kind of affection for
Kenji. A sweet, proud sort of affection that’s usually reserved for parents. It
makes me wonder about the nature of their relationship. Where it began, how it
began, what must’ve happened to bring them together. It makes me wonder at
how little I know about the people of Omega Point.
I look around at their eager faces, men and women, youthful and middleaged, all different ethnicities, shapes, and sizes. They’re interacting with one
another like they’re part of a family and I feel a strange sort of pain stabbing at
my side, poking holes in me until I deflate.
It’s like my face is pressed up against the glass, watching a scene from far,
far away, wishing and wanting to be a part of something I know I’ll never really
be a part of. I forget, sometimes, that there are people out there who still manage
to smile every day, despite everything.
They haven’t lost hope yet.
Suddenly I feel sheepish, ashamed, even. Daylight makes my thoughts look
dark and sad and I want to pretend I’m still optimistic, I want to believe that I’ll
find a way to live. That maybe, somehow, there’s still a chance for me
somewhere.
Someone whistles.
“All right, everyone,” Kenji calls out, hands cupped around his mouth.
“Everyone take a seat, okay? We’re doing another orientation for those of you
who’ve never done this before, and I need all of you to get settled for a bit.” He
scans the crowd. “Right. Yeah. Everyone just take a seat. Wherever is fine. Lily
—you don’t have to—okay, fine, that’s fine. Just settle down. We’re going to get
started in five minutes, okay?” He holds up an open palm, fingers splayed. “Five
minutes.”
I slip into the closest empty seat without looking around. I keep my head
down, my eyes focused on the individual grains of wood on the desk as everyone
collapses into chairs around me. Finally, I dare to glance to my right. Bright
white hair and snow-white skin and clear blue eyes blink back at me.
Brendan. The electricity boy.
He smiles. Offers me a 2-finger wave.
I duck my head.
“Oh—hey,” I hear someone say. “What are you doing here?”
I jerk toward my left to find sandy-blond hair and black plastic glasses sitting
on a crooked nose. An ironic smile twisted onto a pale face. Winston. I
remember him. He interviewed me when I first arrived at Omega Point. Said he
was some kind of psychologist. But he also happens to be the one who designed
the suit I’m wearing. The gloves I destroyed.
I think he’s some kind of genius. I’m not sure.
Right now, he’s chewing on the cap of his pen, staring at me. He uses an
index finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I remember he’s asked
me a question and I make an effort to answer.
“I’m not actually sure,” I tell him. “Kenji brought me here but didn’t tell me
why.”
Winston doesn’t seem surprised. He rolls his eyes. “Him with the freaking
mysteries all the time. I don’t know why he thinks it’s such a good idea to keep
people in suspense. It’s like the guy thinks his life is a movie or something.
Always so dramatic about everything. It’s irritating as hell.”
I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that. I can’t help thinking that
Adam would agree with him and then I can’t help thinking about Adam and then
I
“Ah, don’t listen to him.” An English accent steps into the conversation. I
turn around to see Brendan still smiling at me. “Winston’s always a bit beastly
this early in the morning.”
“Jesus. How early is it?” Winston asks. “I would kick a soldier in the crotch
for a cup of coffee right now.”
“It’s your own fault you never sleep, mate,” Brendan counters. “You think
you can survive on three hours a night? You’re mad.”
Winston drops his chewed-up pen on the desk. Runs a tired hand through his
hair. Tugs his glasses off and rubs at his face. “It’s the freaking patrols. Every
goddamn night. Something is going on and it’s getting intense out there. So
many soldiers just walking around? What the hell are they doing? I have to
actually be awake the whole time—”
“What are you talking about?” I ask before I can stop myself. My ears are
perked and my interest is piqued. News from the outside is something I’ve never
had the opportunity to hear before. Castle was so intent on me focusing all my
energy on training that I never heard much more than his constant reminders that
we’re running out of time and that I need to learn before it’s too late. I’m
beginning to wonder if things are worse than I thought.
“The patrols?” Brendan asks. He waves a knowing hand. “Oh, it’s just, we
work in shifts, right? In pairs—take turns keeping watch at night,” he explains.
“Most of the time it’s no problem, just routine, nothing too serious.”
“But it’s been weird lately,” Winston cuts in. “It’s like they’re really
searching for us now. Like it’s not just some crazy theory anymore. They know
we’re a real threat and it’s like they actually have a clue where we are.” He
shakes his head. “But that’s impossible.”
“Apparently not, mate.”
“Well, whatever it is, it’s starting to freak me out,” Winston says. “There are
soldiers all over the place, way too close to where we are. We see them on
camera,” he says to me, noticing my confusion. “And the weirdest part,” he
adds, leaning in, lowering his voice, “is that Warner is always with them. Every
single night. Walking around, issuing orders I can’t hear. And his arm is still
injured. He walks around with it in a sling.”
“Warner?” My eyes go wide. “He’s with them? Is that—is that … unusual?”
“It’s quite odd,” Brendan says. “He’s CCR—chief commander and regent—
of Sector 45. In normal circumstances he would delegate this task to a colonel, a
lieutenant, even. His priorities should be on base, overseeing his soldiers.”
Brendan shakes his head. “He’s a bit daft, I think, taking a risk like that.
Spending time away from his own camp. Seems strange that he’d be able to get
away so many nights.”
“Right,” Winston says, nodding his head. “Exactly.” He points at the 2 of us,
stabbing at the air. “And it makes you wonder who he’s leaving in charge. The
guy doesn’t trust anyone—he’s not known for his delegation skills to begin with
—so for him to leave the base behind every night?” A pause. “It doesn’t add up.
Something is going on.”
“Do you think,” I ask, feeling scared and feeling brave, “that maybe he’s
looking for someone something?”
“Yup.” Winston exhales. Scratches the side of his nose. “That’s exactly what
I think. And I’d love to know what the hell he’s looking for.”
“Us, obviously,” Brendan says. “He’s looking for us.”
Winston seems unconvinced. “I don’t know,” he says. “This is different.
They’ve been searching for us for years, but they’ve never done anything like
this. Never spent so much manpower on this kind of a mission. And they’ve
never gotten this close.”
“Wow,” I whisper, not trusting myself to posit any of my own theories. Not
wanting to think too hard about who what it is, exactly, Warner is searching for.
And all the time wondering why these 2 guys are speaking to me so freely, as if
I’m trustworthy, as if I’m one of their own.
I don’t dare mention it.
“Yeah,” Winston says, picking up his chewed-up pen again. “Crazy.
Anyway, if we don’t get a fresh batch of coffee today, I am seriously going to
lose my shit.”
I look around the room. I don’t see coffee anywhere. No food, either. I
wonder what that means for Winston. “Are we going to have breakfast before we
start?”
“Nah,” he says. “Today we get to eat on a different schedule. Besides, we’ll
have plenty to choose from when we get back. We get first picks. It’s the only
perk.”
“Get back from where?”
“Outside,” Brendan says, leaning back in his chair. He points up at the
ceiling. “We’re going up and out.”
“What?” I gasp, feeling true excitement for the first time. “Really?”
“Yup.” Winston puts his glasses back on. “And it looks like you’re about to
get your first introduction to what it is we do here.” He nods at the front of the
room, and I see Kenji hauling a huge trunk onto a table.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “What are we doing?”
“Oh, you know.” Winston shrugs. Clasps his hands behind his head. “Grand
larceny. Armed robbery. That sort of thing.”
I begin to laugh when Brendan stops me. He actually puts his hand on my
shoulder and for a moment I’m mildly terrified. Wondering if he’s lost his mind.
“He’s not joking,” Brendan says to me. “And I hope you know how to use a
gun.”
EIGHTEEN
We look homeless.
Which means we look like civilians.
We’ve moved out of the classroom and into the hallway, and we’re all
wearing a similar sort of ensemble, tattered and grayish and frayed. Everyone is
adjusting their outfits as we go; Winston slips off his glasses and shoves them
into his jacket only to zip up his coat. The collar comes up to his chin and he
huddles into it. Lily, one of the other girls among us, wraps a thick scarf around
her mouth and pulls the hood of her coat over her head. I see Kenji pull on a pair
of gloves and readjust his cargo pants to better hide the gun tucked inside.
Brendan shifts beside me.
He pulls a skullcap out of his pocket and tugs it on over his head, zipping his
coat up to his neck. It’s startling the way the blackness of the beanie offsets the
blue in his eyes to make them even brighter, sharper than they looked before. He
flashes me a smile when he catches me watching. Then he tosses me a pair of
old gloves 2 sizes too big before bending down to tighten the laces on his boots.
I take a small breath.
I try to focus all my energy on where I am, on what I’m doing and what I’m
about to do. I tell myself not to think of Adam, not to think about what he’s
doing or how he’s healing or what he must be feeling right now. I beg myself not
to dwell on my last moments with him, the way he touched me, how he held me,
his lips and his hands and his breaths coming in too fast— I fail.
I can’t help but think about how he always tried to protect me, how he nearly
lost his life in the process. He was always defending me, always watching out
for me, never realizing that it was me, it was always me who was the biggest
threat. The most dangerous. He thinks too highly of me, places me on a pedestal
I’ve never deserved.
I definitely don’t need protection.
I don’t need anyone to worry for me or wonder about me or risk falling in
love with me. I am unstable. I need to be avoided. It’s right that people fear me.
They should.
“Hey.” Kenji stops beside me, grabs my elbow. “You ready?”
I nod. Offer him a small smile.
The clothes I’m wearing are borrowed. The card hanging from my neck,
hidden under my suit, is brand-new. Today I was given a fake RR card—a
Reestablishment Registration card. It’s proof that I work and live on the
compounds; proof that I’m registered as a citizen in regulated territory. Every
legal citizen has one. I never did, because I was tossed into an asylum; it was
never necessary for someone like me. In fact, I’m fairly certain they just
expected me to die in there. Identification was not necessary.
But this RR card is special.
Not everyone at Omega Point receives a counterfeit card. Apparently they’re
extremely difficult to replicate. They’re thin rectangles made out of a very rare
type of titanium, laser-etched with a bar code as well as the owner’s biographical
data, and contain a tracking device that monitors the whereabouts of the citizen.
“RR cards track everything,” Castle explained. “They’re necessary for
entering and exiting compounds, necessary for entering and exiting a person’s
place of work. Citizens are paid in REST dollars—wages based on a
complicated algorithm that calculates the difficulty of their profession, as well as
the number of hours they spend working, in order to determine how much their
efforts are worth. This electronic currency is dispensed in weekly installments
and automatically uploaded to a chip built into their RR cards. REST dollars can
then be exchanged at Supply Centers for food and basic necessities. Losing an
RR card,” he said, “means losing your livelihood, your earnings, your legal
status as a registered citizen.
“If you’re stopped by a soldier and asked for proof of identification,” Castle
continued, “you must present your RR card. Failure to present your card,” he
said, “will result in … very unhappy consequences. Citizens who walk around
without their cards are considered a threat to The Reestablishment. They are
seen as purposely defying the law, as characters worthy of suspicion. Being
uncooperative in any way—even if that means you simply do not want your
every movement to be tracked and monitored—makes you seem sympathetic to
rebel parties. And that makes you a threat. A threat,” he said, “that The
Reestablishment has no qualms about removing.
“Therefore,” he said, taking a deep breath, “you cannot, and you will not,
lose your RR card. Our counterfeit cards do not have the tracking device nor the
chip necessary for monitoring REST dollars, because we don’t have the need for
either. But! That does not mean they are not just as valuable as decoys,” he said.
“And while for citizens on regulated territory, RR cards are part of a life
sentence, at Omega Point, they are considered a privilege. And you will treat
them as such.”
A privilege.
Among the many things I learned in our meeting this morning, I discovered
that these cards are only granted to those who go on missions outside of Omega
Point. All of the people in that room today were hand-selected as being the best,
the strongest, the most trustworthy. Inviting me to be in that room was a bold
move on Kenji’s part. I realize now that it was his way of telling me he trusts
me. Despite everything, he’s telling me—and everyone else—that I’m welcome
here. Which explains why Winston and Brendan felt so comfortable opening up
to me. Because they trust the system at Omega Point. And they trust Kenji if he
says he trusts me.
So now I am one of them.
And as my first official act as a member?
I’m supposed to be a thief.
NINETEEN
We’re heading up.
Castle should be joining us any moment now to lead our group out of this
underground city and into the real world. It will be my first opportunity to see
what’s happened to our society in almost 3 years.
I was 14 when I was dragged away from home for killing an innocent child. I
spent 2 years bouncing from hospital to law office to detention center to psych
ward until they finally decided to put me away for good. Sticking me in the
asylum was worse than sending me to prison; smarter, according to my parents.
If I’d been sent to prison, the guards would’ve had to treat me like a human
being; instead, I spent the past year of my life treated like a rabid animal, trapped
in a dark hole with no link to the outside world. Most everything I’ve witnessed
of our planet thus far has been out of a window or while running for my life.
And now I’m not sure what to expect.
But I want to see it.
I need to see it.
I’m tired of being blind and I’m tired of relying on my memories of the past
and the bits and pieces I’ve managed to scrape together of our present.
All I really know is that The Reestablishment has been a household name for
10 years.
I know this because they began campaigning when I was 7 years old. I’ll
never forget the beginning of our falling apart. I remember the days when things
were still fairly normal, when people were only sort-of dying all the time, when
there was enough food for those with enough money to pay for it. This was
before cancer became a common illness and the weather became a turbulent,
angry creature. I remember how excited everyone was about The
Reestablishment. I remember the hope in my teachers’ faces and the
announcements we were forced to watch in the middle of the school day. I
remember those things.
And just 4 months before my 14-year-old self committed an unforgivable
crime, The Reestablishment was elected by the people of our world to lead us
into a better future.
Hope. They had so much hope. My parents, my neighbors, my teachers and
classmates. Everyone was hoping for the best when they cheered for The
Reestablishment and promised their unflagging support.
Hope can make people do terrible things.
I remember seeing the protests just before I was taken away. I remember
seeing the streets flooded with angry mobs who wanted a refund on their
purchase. I remember how The Reestablishment painted the protesters red from
head to toe and told them they should’ve read the fine print before they left their
houses that morning.
All sales are final.
Castle and Kenji are allowing me on this expedition because they’re trying to
welcome me into the heart of Omega Point. They want me to join them, to really
accept them, to understand why their mission is so important. Castle wants me to
fight against The Reestablishment and what they have planned for the world.
The books, the artifacts, the language and history they plan on destroying; the
simple, empty, monochromatic life they want to force upon the upcoming
generations. He wants me to see that our Earth is still not so damaged as to be
irreparable; he wants to prove that our future is salvageable, that things can get
better as long as power is put in the right hands.
He wants me to trust.
I want to trust.
But I get scared, sometimes. In my very limited experience I’ve already
found that people seeking power are not to be trusted. People with lofty goals
and fancy speeches and easy smiles have done nothing to calm my heart. Men
with guns have never put me at ease no matter how many times they promised
they were killing for good reason.
It has not gone past my notice that the people of Omega Point are very
excellently armed.
But I’m curious. I’m so desperately curious.
So I’m camouflaged in old, ragged clothes and a thick woolen hat that nearly
covers my eyes. I wear a heavy jacket that must’ve belonged to a man and my
leather boots are almost hidden by the too-large pants puddling around my
ankles. I look like a civilian. A poor, tortured civilian struggling to find food for
her family.
A door clicks shut and we all turn at once. Castle beams. Looks around at the
group of us.
Me. Winston. Kenji. Brendan. The girl named Lily. 10 other people I still
don’t really know. We’re 16 altogether, including Castle. A perfectly even
number.
“All right, everyone,” Castle says, clapping his hands together. I notice he’s
wearing gloves, too. Everyone is. Today, I’m just a girl in a group wearing
normal clothes and normal gloves. Today, I’m just a number. No one of
significance. Just an ordinary person. Just for today.
It’s so absurd I feel like smiling.
And then I remember how I nearly killed Adam yesterday and suddenly I’m
not sure how to move my lips.
“Are we ready?” Castle looks around. “Don’t forget what we discussed,” he
says. A pause. A careful glance. Eye contact with each one of us. Eyes on me for
a moment too long. “Okay then. Follow me.”
No one really speaks as we follow Castle down these corridors, and I’m left to
wonder how easy it would be to just disappear in this inconspicuous outfit. I
could run away, blend into the background and never be found again.
Like a coward.
I search for something to say to shake the silence. “So how are we getting
there?” I ask anyone.
“We walk,” Winston says.
Our feet pound the floors in response.
“Most civilians don’t have cars,” Kenji explains. “And we sure as hell can’t
be caught in a tank. If we want to blend in, we have to do as the people do. And
walk.”
I lose track of which tunnels break off in which directions as Castle leads us
toward the exit. I’m increasingly aware of how little I understand about this
place, how little I’ve seen of it. Although if I’m perfectly honest, I’ll admit I
haven’t made much of an effort to explore anything.
I need to do something about that.
It’s only when the terrain under my feet changes that I realize how close we
are to getting outside. We’re walking uphill, up a series of stone stairs stacked
into the ground. I can see what looks like a small square of a metal door from
here. It has a latch.
I realize I’m a little nervous.
Anxious.
Eager and afraid.
Today I will see the world as a civilian, really see things up close for the
very first time. I will see what the people of this new society must endure now.
See what my parents must be experiencing wherever they are.
Castle pauses at the door, which looks small enough to be a window. Turns
to face us. “Who are you?” he demands.
No one answers.
Castle draws himself up to his full height. Crosses his arms. “Lily,” he says.
“Name. ID. Age. Sector and occupation. Now.”
Lily tugs the scarf away from her mouth. She sounds slightly robotic when
she says, “My name is Erica Fontaine, 1117-52QZ. I’m twenty-six years old. I
live in Sector 45.”
“Occupation,” Castle says again, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice.
“Textile. Factory 19A-XC2.”
“Winston,” Castle orders.
“My name is Keith Hunter, 4556-65DS,” Winston says. “Thirty-four years
old. Sector 45. I work in Metal. Factory 15B-XC2.”
Kenji doesn’t wait for a prompt when he says, “Hiro Yamasaki, 8891-11DX.
Age twenty. Sector 45. Artillery. 13A-XC2.”
Castle nods as everyone takes turns regurgitating the information etched into
their fake RR cards. He smiles, satisfied. Then he focuses his eyes on me until
everyone is staring, watching, waiting to see if I screw it up.
“Delia Dupont,” I say, the words slipping from my lips more easily than I
expected.
We’re not planning on being stopped, but this is an extra precaution in the
event that we’re asked to identify ourselves; we have to know the information on
our RR cards as if it were our own. Kenji also said that even though the soldiers
overseeing the compounds are from Sector 45, they’re always different from the
guards back on base. He doesn’t think we’ll run into anyone who will recognize
us.
But.
Just in case.
I clear my throat. “ID number 1223-99SX. Seventeen years old. Sector 45. I
work in Metal. Factory 15A-XC2.”
Castle stares at me for just a second too long.
Finally, he nods. Looks around at all of us. “And what,” he says, his voice
deep and clear and booming, “are the three things you will ask yourself before
you speak?”
Again, no one answers. Though it’s not because we don’t know the answer.
Castle counts off on his fingers. “First! Does this need to be said? Second!
Does this need to be said by me? And third! Does this need to be said by me
right now?”
Still, no one says a word.
“We do not speak unless absolutely necessary,” Castle says. “We do not
laugh, we do not smile. We do not make eye contact with one another if we can
help it. We will not act as if we know each other. We are to do nothing at all to
encourage extra glances in our direction. We do not draw attention to ourselves.”
A pause. “You understand this, yes? This is clear?”
We nod.
“And if something goes wrong?”
“We scatter.” Kenji clears his throat. “We run. We hide. We think of only
ourselves. And we never, ever betray the location of Omega Point.”
Everyone takes a deep breath at the same time.
Castle pushes the small door open. Peeks outside before motioning for us to
follow him, and we do. We scramble through, one by one, silent as the words we
don’t speak.
I haven’t been aboveground in almost 3 weeks. It feels like it’s been 3
months.
The moment my face hits the air, I feel the wind snap against my skin in a
way that’s familiar, admonishing. It’s as if the wind is scolding me for being
away for so long.
We’re in the middle of a frozen wasteland. The air is icy and sharp, dead
leaves dancing around us. The few trees still standing are waving in the wind,
their broken, lonely branches begging for companionship. I look left. I look
right. I look straight ahead.
There is nothing.
Castle told us this area used to be covered in lush, dense vegetation. He said
when he first sought out a hiding place for Omega Point, this particular stretch of
ground was ideal. But that was so long ago—decades ago—that now everything
has changed. Nature itself has changed. And it’s too late to move this hideout.
So we do what we can.
This part, he said, is the hardest. Out here, we’re vulnerable. Easy to spot
even as civilians because we’re out of place. Civilians have no business being
anywhere outside of the compounds; they do not leave the regulated grounds
deemed safe by The Reestablishment. Being caught anywhere on unregulated
turf is considered a breach of the laws set in place by our new
pseudogovernment, and the consequences are severe.
So we have to get ourselves to the compounds as quickly as possible.
The plan is for Kenji—whose gift enables him to blend into any background
—to travel ahead of the pack, making himself invisible as he checks to make
sure our paths are clear. The rest of us hang back, careful, completely silent. We
keep a few feet of distance between ourselves, ready to run, to save ourselves if
necessary. It’s strange, considering the tight-knit nature of the community at
Omega Point, that Castle wouldn’t encourage us to stay together. But this, he
explained, is for the good of the majority. It’s a sacrifice. One of us has to be
willing to get caught in order for the others to escape.
Take one for the team.
Our path is clear.
We’ve been walking for at least half an hour and no one seems to be
guarding this deserted piece of land. Soon, the compounds come into view.
Blocks and blocks and blocks of metal boxes, cubes clustered in heaps across the
ancient, wheezing ground. I clutch my coat closer to my body as the wind flips
on its side just to fillet our human flesh.
It’s too cold to be alive today.
I’m wearing my suit—which regulates my body heat—under this outfit and
I’m still freezing. I can’t imagine what everyone else must be going through
right now. I glance at Brendan only to find him already doing the same. Our eyes
meet for less than a second but I could swear he smiled at me, his cheeks slapped
into pinks and reds by a wind jealous of his wandering eyes.
Blue. So blue.
Such a different, lighter, almost transparent shade of blue but still, so very,
very blue. Blue eyes will always remind me of Adam, I think. And it hits me
again. Hits me so hard, right in the core of my very being.
The ache.
“Hurry!” Kenji’s voice reaches us through the wind, but his body is nowhere
in sight. We’re not 5 feet from setting foot in the first cluster of compounds, but
I’m somehow frozen in place, blood and ice and broken forks running down my
back.
“MOVE!” Kenji’s voice booms again. “Get close to the compounds and keep
your faces covered! Soldiers at three o’clock!”
We all jump up at once, rushing forward while trying to remain
inconspicuous and soon we’ve ducked behind the side of a metal housing unit;
we get low, each pretending to be one of the many people picking scraps of steel
and iron out from the heaps of trash stacked in piles all over the ground.
The compounds are set in one big field of waste. Garbage and plastic and
mangled bits of metal sprinkled like craft confetti all over a child’s floor. There’s
a fine layer of snow powdered over everything, as if the Earth was making a
weak attempt to cover up its ugly bits just before we arrived.
I look up.
Look over my shoulder.
Look around in ways I’m not supposed to but I can’t help it. I’m supposed to
keep my eyes on the ground like I live here, like there’s nothing new to see, like
I can’t stand to lift my face only to have it stung by the cold. I should be huddled
into myself like all the other strangers trying to stay warm. But there’s so much
to see. So much to observe. So much I’ve never been exposed to before.
So I dare to lift my head.
And the wind grabs me by the throat.
TWENTY
Warner is standing not 20 feet away from me.
His suit is tailor-made and closely fitted to his form in a shade of black so
rich it’s almost blinding. His shoulders are draped in an open peacoat the color
of mossy trunks 5 shades darker than his green, green eyes; the bright gold
buttons are the perfect complement to his golden hair. He’s wearing a black tie.
Black leather gloves. Shiny black boots.
He looks immaculate.
Flawless, especially as he stands here among the dirt and destruction,
surrounded by the bleakest colors this landscape has to offer. He’s a vision of
emerald and onyx, silhouetted in the sunlight in the most deceiving way. He
could be glowing. That could be a halo around his head. This could be the
world’s way of making an example out of irony. Because Warner is beautiful in
ways even Adam isn’t.
Because Warner is not human.
Nothing about him is normal.
He’s looking around, eyes squinting against the morning light, and the wind
blows open his unbuttoned coat long enough for me to catch a glimpse of his
arm underneath. Bandaged. Bound in a sling.
So close.
I was so close.
The soldiers hovering around him are waiting for orders, waiting for
something, and I can’t tear my eyes away. I can’t help but experience a strange
thrill in being so close to him, and yet so far away. It feels almost like an
advantage—being able to study him without his knowledge.
He is a strange, strange, twisted boy.
I don’t know if I can forget what he did to me. What he made me do. How I
came so close to killing all over again. I will hate him forever for it even though
I’m sure I’ll have to face him again.
One day.
I never thought I’d see Warner on the compounds. I had no idea he even
visited the civilians—though, in truth, I never knew much about how he spent
his days unless he spent them with me. I have no idea what he’s doing here.
He finally says something to the soldiers and they nod, once, quickly. Then
disappear.
I pretend to be focused on something just to the right of him, careful to keep
my head down and cocked slightly to the side so he can’t catch a glimpse of my
face even if he does look in my direction. My left hand reaches up to tug my hat
down over my ears, and my right hand pretends to sort trash, pretends to pick out
pieces of scraps to salvage for the day.
This is how some people make their living. Another miserable occupation.
Warner runs his good hand over his face, covering his eyes for just a moment
before his hand rests on his mouth, pressing against his lips as though he has
something he can’t bear to say.
His eyes look almost … worried. Though I’m sure I’m just reading him
wrong.
I watch him as he watches the people around him. I watch him closely
enough to be able to notice that his gaze lingers on the small children, the way
they run after each other with an innocence that says they have no idea what
kind of world they’ve lost. This bleak, dark place is the only thing they’ve ever
known.
I try to read Warner’s expression as he studies them, but he’s careful to keep
himself completely neutral. He doesn’t do more than blink as he stands perfectly
still, a statue in the wind.
A stray dog is heading straight toward him.
I’m suddenly petrified. I’m worried for this scrappy creature, this weak,
frozen little animal probably seeking out small bits of food, something to keep it
from starving for the next few hours. My heart starts racing in my chest, the
blood pumping too fast and too hard and
I don’t know why I feel like something terrible is about to happen.
The dog bolts right into the backs of Warner’s legs, as if it’s half blind and
can’t see where it’s going. It’s panting hard, tongue lolling to the side like it
doesn’t know how to get it back in. It whines and whimpers a little, slobbering
all over Warner’s very exquisite pants and I’m holding my breath as the golden
boy turns around. I half expect him to take out his gun and shoot the dog right in
the head.
I’ve already seen him do it to a human being.
But Warner’s face breaks apart at the sight of the small dog, cracks forming
in the perfect cast of his features, surprise lifting his eyebrows and widening his
gaze for just a moment. Long enough for me to notice.
He looks around, his eyes swift as they survey his surroundings before he
scoops the animal into his arms and disappears around a low fence—one of the
short, squat fences that are used to section off squares of land for each
compound. I’m suddenly desperate to see what he’s going to do and I’m feeling
anxious, so anxious, still unable to breathe.
I’ve seen what Warner can do to a person. I’ve seen his callous heart and his
unfeeling eyes and his complete indifference, his cool, collected demeanor
unshaken after killing a man in cold blood. I can only imagine what he has
planned for an innocent dog.
I have to see it for myself.
I have to get his face out of my head and this is exactly what I need. It’s
proof that he’s sick, twisted, that he’s wrong, and will always be wrong.
If only I could stand up, I could see him. I could see what he’s doing to that
poor animal and maybe I could find a way to stop him before it’s too late but I
hear Castle’s voice, a loud whisper calling us. Telling us the coast is clear to
move forward now that Warner is out of sight. “We all move, and we move
separately,” he says. “Stick to the plan! No one trails anyone else. We all meet at
the drop-off. If you don’t make it, we will leave you behind. You have thirty
minutes.”
Kenji is tugging on my arm, telling me to get to my feet, to focus, to look in
the right direction. I look up long enough to see that the rest of the group has
already dispersed; Kenji, however, refuses to budge. He curses under his breath
until finally I stand up. I nod. I tell him I understand the plan and motion for him
to move on without me. I remind him that we can’t be seen together. That we
cannot walk in groups or pairs. We cannot be conspicuous.
Finally, finally, he turns to go.
I watch Kenji leave. Then I take a few steps forward only to spin around and
dart back to the corner of the compound, sliding my back up against the wall,
hidden from view.
My eyes scan the area until I spot the fence where I last saw Warner; I tip up
on my toes to peer over.
I have to cover my mouth to keep from gasping out loud.
Warner is crouched on the ground, feeding something to the dog with his
good hand. The animal’s quivering, bony body is huddled inside of Warner’s
open coat, shivering as its stubby limbs try to find warmth after being frozen for
so long. The dog wags its tail hard, pulling back to look Warner in the eye only
to plow into the warmth of his jacket again. I hear Warner laugh.
I see him smile.
It’s the kind of smile that transforms him into someone else entirely, the kind
of smile that puts stars in his eyes and a dazzle on his lips and I realize I’ve
never seen him like this before. I’ve never even seen his teeth—so straight, so
white, nothing less than perfect. A flawless, flawless exterior for a boy with a
black, black heart. It’s hard to believe there’s blood on the hands of the person
I’m staring at. He looks soft and vulnerable—so human. His eyes are squinting
from all his grinning and his cheeks are pink from the cold.
He has dimples.
He’s easily the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And I wish I’d never seen it.
Because something inside of my heart is ripping apart and it feels like fear, it
tastes like panic and anxiety and desperation and I don’t know how to
understand the image in front of me. I don’t want to see Warner like this. I don’t
want to think of him as anything other than a monster.
This isn’t right.
I shift too fast and too far in the wrong direction, suddenly too stupid to find
my footing and hating myself for wasting time I could’ve used to escape. I know
Castle and Kenji would be ready to kill me for taking such a risk but they don’t
understand what it’s like in my head right now, they don’t understand what I’m
—
“Hey!” he barks. “You there—”
I look up without intending to, without realizing that I’ve responded to
Warner’s voice until it’s too late. He’s up, frozen in place, staring straight into
my eyes, his good hand paused midmovement until it falls limp at his side, his
jaw slack; stunned, temporarily stupefied.
I watch as the words die in his throat.
I’m paralyzed, caught in his gaze as he stands there, his chest heaving so
hard and his lips ready to form the words that will surely sentence me to my
death, all because of my stupid, senseless, idiotic—
“Whatever you do, don’t scream.”
Someone closes a hand over my mouth.
TWENTY-ONE
I don’t move.
“I’m going to let go of you, okay? I want you to take my hand.”
I reach out without looking down and feel our gloved hands fit together.
Kenji lets go of my face.
“You are such an idiot,” he says to me, but I’m still staring at Warner.
Warner who’s now looking around like he’s just seen a ghost, blinking and
rubbing his eyes like he’s confused, glancing at the dog like maybe the little
animal managed to bewitch him. He grabs a tight hold of his blond hair, mussing
it out of its perfect state, and stalks off so fast my eyes don’t know how to follow
him.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Kenji is saying to me. “Are you even
listening to me? Are you insane?”
“What did you just do? Why didn’t he—oh my God,” I gasp, sparing a look
at my own body.
I’m completely invisible.
“You’re welcome,” Kenji snaps, dragging me away from the compound.
“And keep your voice down. Being invisible doesn’t mean the world can’t hear
you.”
“You can do that?” I try to find his face but I might as well be speaking to
the air.
“Yeah—it’s called projecting, remember? Didn’t Castle explain this to you
already?” he asks, eager to rush through the explanation so he can get back to
yelling at me. “Not everyone can do it—not all abilities are the same—but
maybe if you manage to stop being a dumbass long enough not to die, I might be
able to teach you one day.”
“You came back for me,” I say to him, struggling to keep up with his brisk
pace and not at all offended by his anger. “Why’d you come back for me?”
“Because you’re a dumbass,” he says again.
“I know. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
“Well, help it,” he says, his voice gruff as he yanks me by the arm. “We’re
going to have to run to recover all the time you just wasted.”
“Why’d you come back, Kenji?” I ask again, undeterred. “How’d you know
I was still here?”
“I was watching you,” he says.
“What? What do you—”
“I watch you,” he says, his words rushing out again, impatient. “It’s part of
what I do. It’s what I’ve been doing since day one. I enlisted in Warner’s army
for you and only you. It’s what Castle sent me for. You were my job.” His voice
is clipped, fast, unfeeling. “I already told you this.”
“Wait, what do you mean, you watch me?” I hesitate, tugging on his
invisible arm to slow him down a little. “You follow me around everywhere?
Even now? Even at Omega Point?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his words are reluctant. “Sort
of.”
“But why? I’m here. Your job is done, isn’t it?”
“We’ve already had this conversation,” he says. “Remember? Castle wanted
me to make sure you were okay. He told me to keep an eye on you—nothing
serious—just, you know, make sure you weren’t having any psychotic
breakdowns or anything.” I hear him sigh. “You’ve been through a lot. He’s a
little worried about you. Especially now—after what just happened? You don’t
look okay. You look like you want to throw yourself in front of a tank.”
“I would never do something like that,” I say to him.
“Yeah,” he says. “Fine. Whatever. I’m just pointing out the obvious. You
only function on two settings: you’re either moping or you’re making out with
Adam—and I have to say, I kind of prefer the moping—”
“Kenji!” I nearly yank my hand out of his. His grip tightens around my
fingers.
“Don’t let go,” he snaps at me again. “You can’t let go or it breaks the
connection.” Kenji is dragging me through the middle of a clearing. We’re far
enough from the compounds now that we won’t be overheard, but we’re still too
far from the drop-off to be considered safe just yet. Luckily the snow isn’t
sticking enough for us to leave tracks.
“I can’t believe you spied on us!”
“I was not spying on you, okay? Damn. Calm down. Hell, both of you need
to calm down. Adam was already all up in my face about it—”
“What?” I feel the pieces of this puzzle finally beginning to fit together. “Is
that why he was being mean to you at breakfast last week?”
Kenji slows our pace a little. He takes a deep, long breath. “He thought I
was, like, taking advantage of the situation.” He says advantage like it’s a
strange, dirty word. “He thinks I get invisible just to see you naked or
something. Listen—I don’t even know, okay? He was being an idiot about it.
I’m just doing my job.”
“But—you’re not, right? You’re not trying to see me naked or anything?”
Kenji snorts, chokes on his laughter. “Listen, Juliette,” he says through
another laugh, “I’m not blind, okay? On a purely physical level? Yeah, you’re
pretty sexy—and that suit you have to wear all the time doesn’t hurt. But even if
you didn’t have that whole ‘I kill you if I touch you’ thing going on, you are
definitely not my type. And more importantly, I’m not some perverted asshole,”
he says. “I take my job seriously. I get real shit done in this world, and I like to
think people respect me for it. But your boy Adam is a little too blinded by his
pants to think straight. Maybe you should do something about that.”
I drop my eyes. Say nothing for a moment. Then: “I don’t think you’ll have
to worry about that anymore.”
“Ah, shit.” Kenji sighs, like he can’t believe he got stuck listening to
problems about my love life. “I just walked right into that, didn’t I?”
“We can go, Kenji. We don’t have to talk about this.”
An irritated breath. “It’s not that I don’t care about what you’re going
through,” he says. “It’s not like I want to see you all depressed or whatever. It’s
just that this life is messed up enough as it is,” he says. “And I’m sick of you
being so caught up in your own little world all the time. You act like this whole
thing—everything we do—is a joke. You don’t take any of it seriously—”
“What?” I cut him off. “That’s not true—I do take this seriously—”
“Bullshit.” He laughs a short, sharp, angry laugh. “All you do is sit around
and think about your feelings. You’ve got problems. Boo-freaking-hoo,” he says.
“Your parents hate you and it’s so hard but you have to wear gloves for the rest
of your life because you kill people when you touch them. Who gives a shit?”
He’s breathing hard enough for me to hear him. “As far as I can tell, you’ve got
food in your mouth and clothes on your back and a place to pee in peace
whenever you feel like it. Those aren’t problems. That’s called living like a king.
And I’d really appreciate it if you’d grow the hell up and stop walking around
like the world crapped on your only roll of toilet paper. Because it’s stupid,” he
says, barely reining in his temper. “It’s stupid, and it’s ungrateful. You don’t
have a clue what everyone else in the world is going through right now. You
don’t have a clue, Juliette. And you don’t seem to give a damn, either.”
I swallow, so hard.
“Now I am trying,” he says, “to give you a chance to fix things. I keep giving
you opportunities to do things differently. To see past the sad little girl you used
to be—the sad little girl you keep clinging to—and stand up for yourself. Stop
crying. Stop sitting in the dark counting out all your individual feelings about
how sad and lonely you are. Wake up,” he says. “You’re not the only person in
this world who doesn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. You’re not the
only one with daddy issues and severely screwed-up DNA. You can be whoever
the hell you want to be now. You’re not with your shitty parents anymore.
You’re not in that shitty asylum, and you’re no longer stuck being Warner’s
shitty little experiment. So make a choice,” he says. “Make a choice and stop
wasting everyone’s time. Stop wasting your own time. Okay?”
Shame is pooling in every inch of my body.
Heat has flamed its way up my core, singeing me from the inside out. I’m so
horrified, so terrified to hear the truth in his words.
“Let’s go,” he says, but his voice is just a tiny bit gentler. “We have to run.”
And I nod even though he can’t see me.
I nod and nod and nod and I’m so happy no one can see my face right now.
TWENTY-TWO
“Stop throwing boxes at me, jackass. That’s my job.” Winston laughs and grabs
a package heavily bandaged in cellophane only to chuck it at another guy’s head.
The guy standing right next to me.
I duck.
The other guy grunts as he catches the package, and then grins as he offers
Winston an excellent view of his middle finger.
“Keep it classy, Sanchez,” Winston says as he tosses him another package.
Sanchez. His name is Ian Sanchez. I just learned this a few minutes ago
when he and I and a few others were grouped together to form an assembly line.
We are currently standing in one of the official storage compounds of The
Reestablishment.
Kenji and I managed to catch up to everyone else just in time. We all
congregated at the drop-off (which turned out to be little more than a glorified
ditch), and then Kenji gave me a sharp look, pointed at me, grinned, and left me
with the rest of the group while he and Castle communicated about the next part
of our mission.
Which was getting into the storage compound.
The irony, however, is that we traveled aboveground for supplies only to
have to go back underground to get them. The storage compounds are, for all
intents and purposes, invisible.
They’re underground cellars filled with just about everything imaginable:
food, medicine, weapons. All the things needed to survive. Castle explained
everything in our orientation this morning. He said that while having supplies
buried underground is a clever method of concealment against the civilians, it
actually worked out in his favor. Castle said he can sense—and move—objects
from a great distance, even if that distance is 25 feet belowground. He said that
when he approaches one of the storage facilities he can feel the difference
immediately, because he can recognize the energy in each object. This, he
explained, is what allows him to move things with his mind: he’s able to touch
the inherent energy in everything. Castle and Kenji have managed to track down
5 compounds within 20 miles of Omega Point just by walking around; Castle
sensing, Kenji projecting to keep them invisible. They’ve located 5 more within
50 miles.
The storage compounds they access are on a rotation. They never take the
same things and never in the same quantity, and they take from as many
different facilities as possible. The farther the compound, the more intricate the
mission becomes. This particular compound is closest, and therefore the mission
is, relatively speaking, the easiest. That explains why I was allowed to come
along.
All the legwork has already been done.
Brendan already knows how to confuse the electrical system in order to
deactivate all the sensors and security cameras; Kenji acquired the pass code
simply by shadowing a soldier who punched in the right numbers. All of this
gives us a 30-minute window of time to work as quickly as possible to get
everything we need into the drop-off, where we’ll spend most of the day waiting
to load our stolen supplies into vehicles that will carry the items away.
The system they use is fascinating.
There are 6 vans altogether, each slightly different in appearance, and all
scheduled to arrive at different times. This way there are fewer chances of
everyone being caught, and there’s a higher probability that at least 1 of the vans
will get back to Omega Point without a problem. Castle outlined what seemed
like 100 different contingency plans in case of danger.
I’m the only one here, however, who appears even remotely nervous about
what we’re doing. In fact, with the exception of me and 3 others, everyone here
has visited this particular compound several times, so they’re walking around
like it’s familiar territory. Everyone is careful and efficient, but they feel
comfortable enough to laugh and joke around, too. They know exactly what
they’re doing. The moment we got inside, they split themselves into 2 groups: 1
team formed the assembly line, and the other collected the things we need.
Others have more important tasks.
Lily has a photographic memory that puts photographs to shame. She walked
in before the rest of us and immediately scanned the room, collecting and
cataloging every minute detail. She’s the one who will make sure that we leave
nothing behind when we exit, and that, aside from the things we take, nothing
else is missing or out of place. Brendan is our backup generator. He’s managed
to shut off power to the security system while still lighting the dark dimensions
of this room. Winston is overseeing our 2 groups, mediating between the givers
and the takers, making sure we’re securing the right items and the right
quantities. His arms and legs have the elastic ability to stretch at will, which
enables him to reach both sides of the room quickly and easily.
Castle is the one who moves our supplies outside. He stands at the very end
of the assembly line, in constant radio contact with Kenji. And as long as the
area is clear, Castle needs to use only one hand to direct the hundreds of pounds
of supplies we’ve hoarded into the drop-off.
Kenji, of course, is standing as lookout.
If it weren’t for Kenji, the rest of this wouldn’t even be possible. He’s our
invisible eyes and ears. Without him, we’d have no way of being so secure, so
sure that we’ll be safe on such a dangerous mission.
Not for the first time today, I’m beginning to realize why he’s so important.
“Hey, Winston, can you get someone to check if they have any chocolate in
here?” Emory—another guy on my assembly team—is smiling at Winston like
he’s hoping for good news. But then, Emory is always smiling. I’ve only known
him for a few hours, but he’s been smiling since 6:00 a.m., when we all met in
the orientation room this morning. He’s super tall, super bulky, and he has a
super-huge afro that somehow manages to fall into his eyes a lot. He’s moving
boxes down the line like they’re full of cotton.
Winston is shaking his head, trying not to laugh as he passes the question
along. “Seriously?” He shoots a look at Emory, nudging his plastic glasses up
his nose at the same time. “Of all the things in here, you want chocolate?”
Emory’s smile vanishes. “Shut up, man, you know my mom loves that stuff.”
“You say that every time.”
“That’s because it’s true every time.”
Winston says something to someone about grabbing another box of soap
before turning back to Emory. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your
mom eat a piece of chocolate before.”
Emory tells Winston to do something very inappropriate with his
preternaturally flexible limbs, and I glance down at the box Ian has just handed
to me, pausing to study the packaging carefully before passing it on.
“Hey, do you know why these are all stamped with the letters R N W?”
Ian turns around. Stunned. Looks at me like I’ve just asked him to take his
clothes off. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “She speaks.”
“Of course I speak,” I say, no longer interested in speaking at all.
Ian passes me another box. Shrugs. “Well, now I know.”
“Now you do.”
“The mystery has been solved.”
“You really didn’t think I could speak?” I ask after a moment. “Like, you
thought I was mute?” I wonder what other things people are saying about me
around here.
Ian looks over his shoulder at me, smiles like he’s trying not to laugh. Shakes
his head and doesn’t answer me. “The stamp,” he says, “is just regulation. They
stamp everything RNW so they can track it. It’s nothing fancy.”
“But what does RNW mean? Who’s stamping it?”
“RNW,” he says, repeating the 3 letters like I’m supposed to recognize them.
“Reestablished Nations of the World. Everything’s gone global, you know. They
all trade commodities. And that,” he says, “is something no one really knows.
It’s another reason why the whole Reestablishment thing is a pile of crap.
They’ve monopolized the resources of the entire planet and they’re just keeping
it all for themselves.”
I remember some of this. I remember talking to Adam about this when he
and I were locked in the asylum together. Back before I knew what it was like to
touch him. To be with him. To hurt him. The Reestablishment has always been a
global movement. I just didn’t realize it had a name.
“Right,” I say to Ian, suddenly distracted. “Of course.”
Ian pauses as he hands me another package. “So is it true?” he asks, studying
my face. “That you really have no clue what’s happened to everything?”
“I know some things.” I bristle. “I’m just not clear on all the details.”
“Well,” Ian says, “if you still remember how to speak when we get back to
Point, maybe you should join us at lunch sometime. We can fill you in.”
“Really?” I turn to face him.
“Yeah, kid.” He laughs, tosses me another box. “Really. We don’t bite.”
TWENTY-THREE
Sometimes I wonder about glue.
No one ever stops to ask glue how it’s holding up. If it’s tired of sticking
things together or worried about falling apart or wondering how it will pay its
bills next week.
Kenji is kind of like that.
He’s like glue. He works behind the scenes to keep things together and I’ve
never stopped to think about what his story might be. Why he hides behind the
jokes and the snark and the snide remarks.
But he was right. Everything he said to me was right.
Yesterday was a good idea. I needed to get away, to get out, to be
productive. And now I need to take Kenji’s advice and get over myself. I need to
get my head straight. I need to focus on my priorities. I need to figure out what
I’m doing here and how I can help. And if I care at all about Adam, I’ll try to
stay out of his life.
Part of me wishes I could see him; I want to make sure he’s really going to
be okay, that he’s recovering well and eating enough and getting sleep at night.
But another part of me is afraid to see him now. Because seeing Adam means
saying good-bye. It means really recognizing that I can’t be with him anymore
and knowing that I have to find a new life for myself. Alone.
But at least at Omega Point I’ll have options. And maybe if I can find a way
to stop being scared, I’ll actually figure out how to make friends. To be strong.
To stop wallowing in my own problems.
Things have to be different now.
I grab my food and manage to lift my head; I nod hello to the faces I
recognize from yesterday. Not everyone knows about my being on the trip—the
invitations to go on missions outside of Omega Point are exclusive—but people,
in general, seem to be a little less tense around me. I think.
I might be imagining it.
I try to find a place to sit down but then I see Kenji waving me over. Brendan
and Winston and Emory are sitting at his table. I feel a smile tug at my lips as I
approach them.
Brendan scoots over on the bench seat to make room for me. Winston and
Emory nod hello as they shovel food into their mouths. Kenji shoots me a half
smile, his eyes laughing at my surprise to be welcomed at his table.
I’m feeling okay. Like maybe things are going to be okay.
“Juliette?”
And suddenly I’m going to tip over.
I turn very, very slowly, half convinced that the voice I’m hearing belongs to
a ghost, because there’s no way Adam could’ve been released from the medical
wing so soon. I wasn’t expecting to have to face him so soon. I didn’t think we’d
have to have this talk so soon. Not here. Not in the middle of the dining hall.
I’m not prepared. I’m not prepared.
Adam looks terrible. He’s pale. Unsteady. His hands are stuffed in his
pockets and his lips are pressed together and his eyes are weary, tortured, deep
and bottomless wells. His hair is messy. His T-shirt is straining across his chest,
his tattooed forearms more pronounced than ever.
I want nothing more than to dive into his arms.
Instead, I’m sitting here, reminding myself to breathe.
“Can I talk to you?” he says, looking like he’s half afraid to hear my answer.
“Alone?”
I nod, still unable to speak. Abandon my food without looking back at Kenji
or Winston or Brendan or Emory so I have no idea what they must be thinking
right now. I don’t even care.
Adam.
Adam is here and he’s in front of me and he wants to talk to me and I have to
tell him things that will surely be the death of me.
But I follow him out the door anyway. Into the hall. Down a dark corridor.
Finally we stop.
Adam looks at me like he knows what I’m going to say so I don’t bother
saying it. I don’t want to say anything unless it becomes absolutely necessary.
I’d rather just stand here and stare at him, shamelessly drink in the sight of him
one last time without having to speak a word. Without having to say anything at
all.
He swallows, hard. Looks up. Looks away. Blows out a breath and rubs the
back of his neck, clasps both hands behind his head and turns around so I can’t
see his face. But the effort causes his shirt to ride up his torso and I have to
actually clench my fingers to keep from touching the sliver of skin exposed low
on his abdomen, his lower back.
He’s still looking away from me when he says, “I really—I really need you
to say something.” And the sound of his voice—so wretched, so agonized—
makes me want to fall to my knees.
Still, I do not speak.
And he turns.
Faces me.
“There has to be something,” he says, his hands in his hair now, gripping his
skull. “Some kind of compromise—something I can say to convince you to
make this work. Tell me there’s something.”
And I’m so scared. So scared I’m going to start sobbing in front of him.
“Please,” he says, and he looks like he’s about to crack, like he’s done, like
this is it he’s about to fall apart and he says, “say something, I’m begging you
—”
I bite my trembling lip.
He freezes in place, watching me, waiting.
“Adam,” I breathe, trying to keep my voice steady. “I will always, a-always
love you—”
“No,” he says. “No, don’t say that—don’t say that—”
And I’m shaking my head, shaking it fast and hard, so hard it’s making me
dizzy but I can’t stop. I can’t say another word unless I want to start screaming
and I can’t look at his face, I can’t bear to see what I’m doing to him—
“No, Juliette—Juliette—”
I’m backing away, stumbling, tripping over my own feet as I reach blindly
for the wall when I feel his arms around me. I try to pull away but he’s too
strong, he’s holding me too tight and his voice is choked when he says, “It was
my fault—this is my fault—I shouldn’t have kissed you—you tried to tell me but
I didn’t listen and I’m so—I’m so sorry,” he says, gasping the words. “I
should’ve listened to you. I wasn’t strong enough. But it’ll be different this time,
I swear,” he says, burying his face in my shoulder. “I’ll never forgive myself for
this. You were willing to give it a shot and I screwed everything up and I’m
sorry, I’m so sorry—”
I have officially, absolutely collapsed inside.
I hate myself for what happened, hate myself for what I have to do, hate that
I can’t take his pain away, that I can’t tell him we can try, that it’ll be hard but
we’ll make it work anyway. Because this isn’t a normal relationship. Because
our problems aren’t fixable.
Because my skin will never change.
All the training in the world won’t remove the very real possibility that I
could hurt him. Kill him, if we ever got carried away. I will always be a threat to
him. Especially during the most tender moments, the most important, vulnerable
moments. The moments I want most. Those are the things I can never have with
him, and he deserves so much more than me, than this tortured person with so
little to offer.
But I’d rather stand here and feel his arms around me than say a single thing.
Because I’m weak, I’m so weak and I want him so much it’s killing me. I can’t
stop shaking, I can’t see straight, I can’t see through the curtain of tears
obscuring my vision.
And he won’t let go of me.
He keeps whispering “Please” and I want to die.
But I think if I stay here any longer I will actually go insane.
So I raise a trembling hand to his chest and feel him stiffen, pull back, and I
don’t dare look at his eyes, I can’t stand to see him looking hopeful, even if it’s
for only a second.
I take advantage of his momentary surprise and slackened arms to slip away,
out of the shelter of his warmth, away from his beating heart. And I hold out my
hand to stop him from reaching for me again.
“Adam,” I whisper. “Please don’t. I can’t—I c-can’t—”
“There’s never been anyone else,” he says, not bothering to keep his voice
down anymore, not caring that his words are echoing through these tunnels. His
hand is shaking as he covers his mouth, as he drags it across his face, through his
hair. “There’s never going to be anyone else—I’m never going to want anyone
else—”
“Stop it—you have to stop—” I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe
“You don’t want this—you don’t want to be with someone like me—someone
who will only end up h-hurting you—”
“Dammit, Juliette”—he turns to slam his palms against the wall, his chest
heaving, his head down, his voice broken, catching on every other syllable
—“you’re hurting me now,” he says. “You’re killing me—”
“Adam—”
“Don’t walk away,” he says, his voice tight, his eyes squeezed shut like he
already knows I’m going to. Like he can’t bear to see it happen. “Please,” he
whispers, tormented. “Don’t walk away from this.”
“I-I wish,” I tell him, shaking violently now, “I wish I d-didn’t have to. I
wish I could love you less.”
And I hear him call after me as I bolt down the corridor. I hear him shouting
my name but I’m running, running away, running past the huge crowd gathered
outside the dining hall, watching, listening to everything. I’m running to hide
even though I know it will be impossible.
I will have to see him every single day.
Wanting him from a million miles away.
And I remember Kenji’s words, his demands for me to wake up and stop
crying and make a change, and I realize fulfilling my new promises might take a
little longer than I expected.
Because I can’t think of anything I’d rather do right now than find a dark
corner and cry.
TWENTY-FOUR
Kenji finds me first.
He’s standing in the middle of my training room. Looking around like he’s
never seen the place before, even though I’m sure that can’t be true. I still don’t
know exactly what he does, but it’s at least become clear to me that Kenji is one
of the most important people at Omega Point. He’s always on the move. Always
busy. No one—except for me, and only lately—really sees him for more than a
few moments at a time.
It’s almost as if he spends the majority of his days … invisible.
“So,” he says, nodding his head slowly, taking his time walking around the
room with his hands clasped behind his back. “That was one hell of a show back
there. That’s the kind of entertainment we never really get underground.”
Mortification.
I’m draped in it. Painted in it. Buried in it.
“I mean, I just have to say—that last line? ‘I wish I could love you less’?
That was genius. Really, really nice. I think Winston actually shed a tear—”
“SHUT UP, KENJI.”
“I’m serious!” he says to me, offended. “That was, I don’t know. It was kind
of beautiful. I had no idea you guys were so intense.”
I pull my knees up to my chest, burrow deeper into the corner of this room,
bury my face in my arms. “No offense, but I really don’t want to t-talk to you
right now, okay?”
“Nope. Not okay,” he says. “You and me, we have work to do.”
“No.”
“Come on,” he says. “Get. Up.” He grabs my elbow, tugging me to my feet
as I try to take a swipe at him.
I wipe angrily at my cheeks, scrub at the stains my tears left behind. “I’m not
in the mood for your jokes, Kenji. Please just go away. Leave me alone.”
“No one,” he says, “is joking.” Kenji picks up one of the bricks stacked
against the wall. “And the world isn’t going to stop waging war against itself just
because you broke up with your boyfriend.”
I stare at him, fists shaking, wanting to scream.
He doesn’t seem concerned. “So what do you do in here?” he asks. “You just
sit around trying to … what?” He weighs the brick in his hand. “Break this
stuff?”
I give up, defeated. Fold myself onto the floor.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. I sniff away the last of my tears. Try to wipe my
nose. “Castle kept telling me to ‘focus’ and ‘harness my Energy.’” I use air
quotes to illustrate my point. “But all I know about myself is that I can break
things—I don’t know why it happens. So I don’t know how he expects me to
replicate what I’ve already done. I had no idea what I was doing then, and I
don’t know what I’m doing now, either. Nothing’s changed.”
“Hold up,” Kenji says, dropping the brick back onto the stack before falling
on the mats across from me. He splays out on the ground, body stretched out,
arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. “What are we talking
about again? What events are you supposed to be replicating?”
I lie back against the mats, too; mimic Kenji’s position. Our heads are only a
few inches apart. “Remember? The concrete I broke back in Warner’s psycho
room. The metal door I attacked when I was looking for A-Adam.” My voice
catches and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to quell the pain.
I can’t even say his name right now.
Kenji grunts. I feel him nodding his head on the mats. “All right. Well, what
Castle told me is that he thinks there’s more to you than just the touching thing.
That maybe you also have this weird superhuman strength or something.” A
pause. “That sound about right to you?”
“I guess.”
“So what happened?” he asks, tilting his head back to get a good look at me.
“When you went all psycho-monster on everything? Do you remember if there
was a trigger?”
I shake my head. “I don’t really know. When it happens, it’s like—it’s like I
really am completely out of my mind,” I tell him. “Something changes in my
head and it makes me … it makes me crazy. Like, really, legitimately insane.” I
glance over at him but his face betrays no emotion. He just blinks, waiting for
me to finish. So I take a deep breath and continue. “It’s like I can’t think straight.
I’m just so paralyzed by the adrenaline and I can’t stop it; I can’t control it. Once
that crazy feeling takes over, it needs an outlet. I have to touch something. I have
to release it.”
Kenji props himself up on one elbow. Looks at me. “So what gets you all
crazy, though?” he asks. “What were you feeling? Does it only happen when
you’re really pissed off?”
I take a second to think about it before I say, “No. Not always.” I hesitate.
“The first time,” I tell him, my voice a little unsteady, “I wanted to kill Warner
because of what he made me do to that little kid. I was so devastated. I was
angry—I was really angry—but I was also … so sad.” I trail off. “And then
when I was looking for Adam?” Deep breaths. “I was desperate. Really
desperate. I had to save him.”
“And what about when you went all Superman on me? Slamming me into
the wall like that?”
“I was scared.”
“And then? In the research labs?”
“Angry,” I whisper, my eyes unfocused as I stare up at the ceiling,
remembering the rage of that day. “I was angrier than I’ve ever been in my entire
life. I never even knew I could feel that way. To be so mad. And I felt guilty,” I
add, so quietly. “Guilty for being the reason why Adam was in there at all.”
Kenji takes a deep, long breath. Pulls himself up into a sitting position and
leans against the wall. He says nothing.
“What are you thinking …?” I ask, shifting to sit up and join him.
“I don’t know,” Kenji finally says. “But it’s obvious that all of these
incidents were the result of really intense emotions. Makes me think the whole
system must be pretty straightforward.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like there has to be some kind of trigger involved,” he says. “Like, when
you lose control, your body goes into automatic self-protect mode, you know?”
“No?”
Kenji turns so he’s facing me. Crosses his legs underneath him. Leans back
on his hands. “Like, listen. When I first found out I could do this invisible thing?
I mean, it was an accident. I was nine years old. Scared out of my mind. Fastforward through all the shitty details and my point is this: I needed a place to
hide and couldn’t find one. But I was so freaked out that my body, like,
automatically did it for me. I just disappeared into the wall. Blended or
whatever.” He laughs. “Tripped me the hell out, because I didn’t realize what’d
happened for a good ten minutes. And then I didn’t know how to turn myself
back to normal. It was crazy. I actually thought I was dead for a couple of days.”
“No way,” I gasp.
“Yup.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That’s what I said.”
“So … so, what? You think my body taps into its defense mode when I freak
out?”
“Pretty much.”
“Okay.” I think. “Well, how am I supposed to tap into my defense mode?
How did you figure yours out?”
He shrugs. “Once I realized I wasn’t some kind of ghost and I wasn’t
hallucinating, it actually became kind of cool. I was a kid, you know? I was
excited, like I could tie on a cape and kill bad guys or something. I liked it. And
it became this part of me that I could access whenever I wanted. But,” he adds,
“it wasn’t until I really started training that I learned how to control and maintain
it for long periods of time. That took a lot of work. A lot of focus.”
“A lot of work.”
“Yeah—I mean, all of this takes a lot of work to figure out. But once I
accepted it as a part of me, it became easier to manage.”
“Well,” I say, leaning back again, blowing out an exasperated breath, “I’ve
already accepted it. But it definitely hasn’t made things easier.”
Kenji laughs out loud. “My ass you’ve accepted it. You haven’t accepted
anything.”
“I’ve been like this my entire life, Kenji—I’m pretty sure I’ve accepted it—”
“No.” He cuts me off. “Hell no. You hate being in your own skin. You can’t
stand it. That’s not called acceptance. That’s called—I don’t know—the opposite
of acceptance. You,” he says, pointing a finger at me, “you are the opposite of
acceptance.”
“What are you trying to say?” I shoot back. “That I have to like being this
way?” I don’t give him a chance to respond before I say, “You have no idea
what it’s like to be stuck in my skin—to be trapped in my body, afraid to breathe
too close to anything with a beating heart. If you did, you’d never ask me to be
happy to live like this.”
“Come on, Juliette—I’m just saying—”
“No. Let me make this clear for you, Kenji. I kill people. I kill them. That’s
what my ‘special’ power is. I don’t blend into backgrounds or move things with
my mind or have really stretchy arms. You touch me for too long and you die.
Try living like that for seventeen years and then tell me how easy it is to accept
myself.”
I taste too much bitterness on my tongue.
It’s new for me.
“Listen,” he says, his voice noticeably softer. “I’m not trying to judge, okay?
I’m just trying to point out that because you don’t want it, you might
subconsciously be sabotaging your efforts to figure it out.” He puts his hands up
in mock defeat. “Just my two cents. I mean, obviously you’ve got some crazy
powers going on. You touch people and bam, done. But then you can crush
through walls and shit, too? I mean, hell, I’d want to learn how to do that, are
you kidding me? That would be insane.”
“Yeah,” I say, slumping against the wall. “I guess that part wouldn’t be so
bad.”
“Right?” Kenji perks up. “That would be awesome. And then—you know, if
you leave your gloves on—you could just crush random stuff without actually
killing anyone. Then you wouldn’t feel so bad, right?”
“I guess not.”
“So. Great. You just need to relax.” He gets to his feet. Grabs the brick he
was toying with earlier. “Come on,” he says. “Get up. Come over here.”
I walk over to his side of the room and stare at the brick he’s holding. He
gives it to me like he’s handing over some kind of family heirloom. “Now,” he
says. “You have to let yourself get comfortable, okay? Allow your body to touch
base with its core. Stop blocking your own Energy. You’ve probably got a
million mental blocks in your head. You can’t hold back anymore.”
“I don’t have mental blocks—”
“Yeah you do.” He snorts. “You definitely do. You have severe mental
constipation.”
“Mental what—”
“Focus your anger on the brick. On the brick,” he says to me. “Remember.
Open mind. You want to crush the brick. Remind yourself that this is what you
want. It’s your choice. You’re not doing this for Castle, you’re not doing it for
me, you’re not doing it to fight anyone. This is just something you feel like
doing. For fun. Because you feel like it. Let your mind and body take over.
Okay?”
I take a deep breath. Nod a few times. “Okay. I think I’m—”
“Holy shit.” He lets out a low whistle.
“What?” I spin around. “What happened—”
“How did you not just feel that?”
“Feel what—”
“Look in your hand!”
I gasp. Stumble backward. My hand is full of what looks like red sand and
brown clay pulverized into tiny particles. The bigger chunks of brick crumble to
the floor and I let the debris slip through the cracks between my fingers only to
lift the guilty hand to my face.
I look up.
Kenji is shaking his head, shaking with laughter. “I am so jealous right now
you have no idea.”
“Oh my God.”
“I know. I KNOW. So badass. Now think about it: if you can do that to a
brick, imagine what you could do to the human body—”
That wasn’t the right thing to say.
Not now. Not after Adam. Not after trying to pick up the pieces of my hopes
and dreams and fumbling to glue them back together. Because now there’s
nothing left. Because now I realize that somewhere, deep down, I was harboring
a small hope that Adam and I would find a way to work things out.
Somewhere, deep down, I was still clinging to possibility.
And now that’s gone.
Because now it’s not just my skin Adam has to be afraid of. It’s not just my
touch but my grip, my hugs, my hands, a kiss—anything I do could injure him.
I’d have to be careful just holding his hand. And this new knowledge, this new
information about just exactly how deadly I am— It leaves me with no
alternative.
I will forever and ever and ever be alone because no one is safe from me.
I fall to the floor, my mind whirring, my own brain no longer a safe space to
inhabit because I can’t stop thinking, I can’t stop wondering, I can’t stop
anything and it’s like I’m caught in what could be a head-on collision and I’m
not the innocent bystander.
I’m the train.
I’m the one careening out of control.
Because sometimes you see yourself—you see yourself the way you could
be—the way you might be if things were different. And if you look too closely,
what you see will scare you, it’ll make you wonder what you might do if given
the opportunity. You know there’s a different side of yourself you don’t want to
recognize, a side you don’t want to see in the daylight. You spend your whole
life doing everything to push it down and away, out of sight, out of mind. You
pretend that a piece of yourself doesn’t exist.
You live like that for a long time.
For a long time, you’re safe.
And then you’re not.
TWENTY-FIVE
Another morning.
Another meal.
I’m headed to breakfast to meet Kenji before our next training session.
He came to a conclusion about my abilities yesterday: he thinks that the
inhuman power in my touch is just an evolved form of my Energy. That skin-toskin contact is simply the rawest form of my ability—that my true gift is actually
a kind of all-consuming strength that manifests itself in every part of my body.
My bones, my blood, my skin.
I told him it was an interesting theory. I told him I’d always seen myself as
some sick version of a Venus flytrap and he said, “OH MY GOD. Yes. YES.
You are exactly like that. Holy shit, yes.”
Beautiful enough to lure in your prey, he said.
Strong enough to clamp down and destroy, he said.
Poisonous enough to digest your victims when the flesh makes contact.
“You digest your prey,” he said to me, laughing as though it was amusing, as
though it was funny, as if it was perfectly acceptable to compare a girl to a
carnivorous plant. Flattering, even. “Right? You said that when you touch
people, it’s, like, you’re taking their energy, right? It makes you feel stronger?”
I didn’t respond.
“So you’re exactly like a Venus flytrap. You reel ’em in. Clamp ’em down.
Eat ’em up.”
I didn’t respond.
“Mmmmmmm,” he said. “You’re like a sexy, super-scary plant.”
I closed my eyes. Covered my mouth in horror.
“Why is that so wrong?” he said. Bent down to meet my gaze. Tugged on a
lock of my hair to get me to look up. “Why does this have to be so horrible?
Why can’t you see how awesome this is?” He shook his head at me. “You are
seriously missing out, you know that? This could be so cool if you would just
own it.”
Own it.
Yes.
How easy it would be to just clamp down on the world around me. Suck up
its life force and leave it dead in the street just because someone tells me I
should. Because someone points a finger and says “Those are the bad guys.
Those men over there.” Kill, they say. Kill because you trust us. Kill because
you’re fighting for the right team. Kill because they’re bad, and we’re good. Kill
because we tell you to. Because some people are so stupid that they actually
think there are thick neon lines separating good and evil. That it’s easy to make
that kind of distinction and go to sleep at night with a clear conscience. Because
it’s okay.
It’s okay to kill a man if someone else deems him unfit to live.
What I really want to say is who the hell are you and who are you to decide
who gets to die. Who are you to decide who should be killed. Who are you to tell
me which father I should destroy and which child I should orphan and which
mother should be left without her son, which brother should be left without a
sister, which grandmother should spend the rest of her life crying in the early
hours of the morning because the body of her grandchild was buried in the
ground before her own.
What I really want to say is who the hell do you think you are to tell me that
it’s awesome to be able to kill a living thing, that it’s interesting to be able to
ensnare another soul, that it’s fair to choose a victim simply because I’m capable
of killing without a gun. I want to say mean things and angry things and hurtful
things and I want to throw expletives in the air and run far, far away; I want to
disappear into the horizon and I want to dump myself on the side of the road if
only it will bring me toward some semblance of freedom but I don’t know where
to go. I have nowhere else to go.
And I feel responsible.
Because there are times when the anger bleeds away until it’s nothing but a
raw ache in the pit of my stomach and I see the world and wonder about its
people and what it’s become and I think about hope and maybe and possibly and
possibility and potential. I think about glasses half full and glasses to see the
world clearly. I think about sacrifice. And compromise. I think about what will
happen if no one fights back. I think about a world where no one stands up to
injustice.
And I wonder if maybe everyone here is right.
If maybe it’s time to fight.
I wonder if it’s ever actually possible to justify killing as a means to an end
and then I think of Kenji. I think of what he said. And I wonder if he would still
call it awesome if I decided to make him my prey.
I’m guessing not.
TWENTY-SIX
Kenji is already waiting for me.
He and Winston and Brendan are sitting at the same table again, and I slide
into my seat with a distracted nod and eyes that refuse to focus in front of me.
“He’s not here,” Kenji says, shoving a spoonful of breakfast into his mouth.
“What?” Oh how fascinating look at this fork and this spoon and this table.
“What do y—”
“Not here,” he says, his mouth still half full of food.
Winston clears his throat, scratches the back of his head. Brendan shifts in
his seat beside me.
“Oh. I—I, um—” Heat flushes up my neck as I look around at the 3 guys
sitting at this table. I want to ask Kenji where Adam is, why he isn’t here, how
he’s doing, if he’s okay, if he’s been eating regularly. I want to ask a million
questions I shouldn’t be asking but it’s blatantly clear that none of them want to
talk about the awkward details of my personal life. And I don’t want to be that
sad, pathetic girl. I don’t want pity. I don’t want to see the uncomfortable
sympathy in their eyes.
So I sit up. Clear my throat.
“What’s going on with the patrols?” I ask Winston. “Is it getting any worse?”
Winston looks up midchew, surprised. He swallows down the food too
quickly and coughs once, twice. Takes a sip of his coffee—tar black—and leans
forward, looking eager. “It’s getting weirder,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yeah, so, remember how I told you guys that Warner was showing up every
night?”
Warner. I can’t get the image of his smiling, laughing face out of my head.
We nod.
“Well.” He leans back in his chair. Holds up his hands. “Last night?
Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Brendan’s eyebrows are high on his forehead. “What do you
mean, nothing?”
“I mean no one was there.” He shrugs. Picks up his fork. Stabs at a piece of
food. “Not Warner, not a single soldier. Night before last?” He looks around at
us. “Fifty, maybe seventy-five soldiers. Last night, zero.”
“Did you tell Castle about this?” Kenji isn’t eating anymore. He’s staring at
Winston with a focused, too-serious look on his face. It’s worrying me.
“Yeah.” Winston nods as he takes another sip of his coffee. “I turned in my
report about an hour ago.”
“You mean you haven’t gone to sleep yet?” I ask, eyes wide.
“I slept yesterday,” he says, waving a haphazard hand at me. “Or the day
before yesterday. I can’t remember. God, this coffee is disgusting,” he says,
gulping it down.
“Right. Maybe you should lay off the coffee, yeah?” Brendan tries to grab
Winston’s cup.
Winston slaps at his hand, shoots him a dark look. “Not all of us have
electricity running through our veins,” he says. “I’m not a freaking powerhouse
of energy like you are.”
“I only did that once—”
“Twice!”
“—and it was an emergency,” he says, looking a little sheepish.
“What are you guys talking about?” I ask.
“This guy”—Kenji jerks a thumb at Brendan—“can, like, literally recharge
his own body. He doesn’t need to sleep. It’s insane.”
“It’s not fair,” Winston mutters, ripping a piece of bread in half.
I turn to Brendan, jaw unhinged. “No way.”
He nods. Shrugs. “I’ve only done it once.”
“Twice!” Winston says again. “And he’s a freaking fetus,” he says to me.
“He’s already got way too much energy as it is—shit, all of you kids do—and
yet he’s the one who comes with a rechargeable battery life.”
“I am not a fetus,” Brendan says, spluttering, glancing at me as heat colors
his cheeks. “He’s—that’s not—you’re mad,” he says, glaring at Winston.
“Yeah,” Winston says, nodding, his mouth full of food again. “I am mad. I’m
pissed off.” He swallows. “And I’m cranky as hell because I’m tired. And I’m
hungry. And I need more coffee.” He shoves away from the table. Stands up.
“I’m going to go get more coffee.”
“I thought you said it was disgusting.”
He levels a look at me. “Yes, but I am a sad, sad man with very low
standards.”
“It’s true,” Brendan says.
“Shut up, fetus.”
“You’re only allowed one cup,” Kenji points out, looking up to meet
Winston’s eyes.
“Don’t worry, I always tell them I’m taking yours,” he says, and stalks off.
Kenji is laughing, shoulders shaking.
Brendan is mumbling “I am not a fetus” under his breath, stabbing at his
food with renewed vigor.
“How old are you?” I ask, curious. He’s so white-blond and pale-blue-eyed
that he doesn’t seem real. He looks like the kind of person who could never age,
who would remain forever preserved in this ethereal form.
“Twenty-four,” he says, looking grateful for a chance at validation. “Just
turned twenty-four, actually. Had my birthday last week.”
“Oh, wow.” I’m surprised. He doesn’t look much older than 18. I wonder
what it must be like to celebrate a birthday at Omega Point. “Well, happy
birthday,” I say, smiling at him. “I hope—I hope you have a very good year.
And”—I try to think of something nice to say—“and a lot of happy days.”
He’s staring back at me now, amused, looking straight into my eyes.
Grinning. He says, “Thanks.” Smiles a bit wider. “Thanks very much.” And he
doesn’t look away.
My face is hot.
I’m struggling to understand why he’s still smiling at me, why he doesn’t
stop smiling even when he finally looks away, why Kenji keeps glancing at me
like he’s trying to hold in a laugh and I’m flustered, feeling oddly embarrassed
and searching for something to say.
“So what are we going to do today?” I ask Kenji, hoping my voice sounds
neutral, normal.
Kenji drains his water cup. Wipes his mouth. “Today,” he says, “I’m going
to teach you how to shoot.”
“A gun?”
“Yup.” He grabs his tray. Grabs mine, too. “Wait here, I’m gonna drop these
off.” He moves to go before he stops, turns back, glances at Brendan and says,
“Put it out of your head, bro.”
Brendan looks up, confused. “What?”
“It’s not going to happen.”
“Wha—”
Kenji stares at him, eyebrows raised.
Brendan’s mouth falls closed. His cheeks are pink again. “I know that.”
“Uh-huh.” Kenji shakes his head, and walks away.
Brendan is suddenly in a hurry to go about his day.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Juliette? Juliette!”
“Please wake up—”
I gasp as I sit straight up in bed, heart pounding, eyes blinking too fast as
they try to focus. I blink blink blink. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
“Kenji is outside,” Sonya says.
“He says he needs you,” Sara adds, “that something happened—”
I’m tripping out of bed so fast I pull the covers down with me. I’m groping
around in the dark, trying to find my suit—I sleep in a pajama set I borrowed
from Sara—and making an effort not to panic. “Do you know what’s going on?”
I ask. “Do you know—did he tell you anything—”
Sonya is shoving my suit into my arms, saying, “No, he just said that it was
urgent, that something happened, that we should wake you up right away.”
“Okay. I’m sure it’s going to be okay,” I tell them, though I don’t know why
I’m saying it, or how I could possibly be of any reassurance to them. I wish I
could turn on a light but all the lights are controlled by the same switch. It’s one
of the ways they conserve power—and one of the ways they manage to maintain
the semblance of night and day down here—by only using it during specific
hours.
I finally manage to slip into my suit and I’m zipping it up, heading for the
door when I hear Sara call my name. She’s holding my boots.
“Thank you—thank you both,” I say.
They nod several times.
And I’m tugging on my boots and running out the door.
I slam face-first into something solid.
Something human. Male.
I hear his sharp intake of breath, feel his hands steady my frame, feel the
blood in my body run right out from under me. “Adam,” I gasp.
He hasn’t let go of me. I can hear his heart beating fast and hard and loud in
the silence between us and he feels too still, too tense, like he’s trying to
maintain some kind of control over his body.
“Hi,” he whispers, but it sounds like he can’t really breathe.
My heart is failing.
“Adam, I—”
“I can’t let go,” he says, and I feel his hands shake, just a little, as if the
effort to keep them in one place is too much for him. “I can’t let go of you. I’m
trying, but I—”
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m here then, isn’t it?” Kenji yanks me out of
Adam’s arms and takes a deep, uneven breath. “Jesus. Are you guys done here?
We have to go.”
“What—what’s going on?” I stammer, trying to cover up my embarrassment.
I really wish Kenji weren’t always catching me in the middle of such vulnerable
moments. I wish he could see me being strong and confident. And then I wonder
when I began caring about Kenji’s opinion of me. “Is everything okay?”
“I have no idea,” Kenji says as he strides down the dark halls. He must have
these tunnels memorized, I think, because I can’t see a thing. I have to
practically run to keep up with him. “But,” he says, “I’m assuming some kind of
shit has officially hit the fan. Castle sent me a message about fifteen minutes ago
—said to get me and you and Kent up to his office ASAP. So,” he says, “that’s
what I’m doing.”
“But—now? In the middle of the night?”
“Shit hitting the fan doesn’t work around your schedule, princess.”
I decide to stop talking.
We follow Kenji to a single solitary door at the end of a narrow tunnel.
He knocks twice, pauses. Knocks 3 times, pauses. Knocks once.
I wonder if I need to remember that.
The door creaks open on its own and Castle waves us in.
“Close the door, please,” he says from behind his desk. I have to blink
several times to readjust to the light in here. There’s a traditional reading lamp
on Castle’s desk with just enough wattage to illuminate this small space. I use
the moment to look around.
Castle’s office is nothing more than a room with a few bookcases and a
simple table that doubles as a workstation. Everything is made of recycled metal.
His desk looks like it used to be a pickup truck.
There are heaps of books and papers stacked all over the floor; diagrams,
machinery, and computer parts shoved onto the bookcases, thousands of wires
and electrical units peeking out of their metal bodies; they must either be
damaged or broken or perhaps part of a project Castle is working on.
In other words: his office is a mess.
Not something I was expecting from someone so incredibly put-together.
“Have a seat,” he says to us. I look around for chairs but only find two
upside-down garbage cans and a stool. “I’ll be right with you. Give me one
moment.”
We nod. We sit. We wait. We look around.
Only then do I realize why Castle doesn’t care about the disorganized nature
of his office.
He seems to be in the middle of something, but I can’t see what it is, and it
doesn’t really matter. I’m too focused on watching him work. His hands shift up
and down, flick from side to side, and everything he needs or wants simply
gravitates toward him. A particular piece of paper? A notepad? The clock buried
under the pile of books farthest from his desk? He looks for a pencil and lifts his
hand to catch it. He’s searching for his notes and lifts his fingers to find them.
He doesn’t need to be organized. He has a system of his own.
Incredible.
He finally looks up. Puts his pencil down. Nods. Nods again. “Good. Good;
you’re all here.”
“Yes, sir,” Kenji says. “You said you needed to speak with us.”
“Indeed I do.” Castle folds his hands over his desk. “Indeed I do.” Takes a
careful breath. “The supreme commander,” he says, “has arrived at the
headquarters of Sector 45.”
Kenji swears.
Adam is frozen.
I’m confused. “Who’s the supreme commander?”
Castle’s gaze rests on me. “Warner’s father.” His eyes narrow, scrutinizing
me. “You didn’t know that Warner’s father is the supreme commander of The
Reestablishment?”
“Oh,” I gasp, unable to imagine the monster that must be Warner’s father. “I
—yes—I knew that,” I tell him. “I just didn’t know what his title was.”
“Yes,” Castle says. “There are six supreme commanders around the world,
one for each of the six divisions: North America, South America, Europe, Asia,
Africa, and Oceania. Each section is divided into 555 sectors for a total of 3,330
sectors around the globe. Warner’s father is not only in charge of this continent,
he is also one of the founders of The Reestablishment, and currently our biggest
threat.”
“But I thought there were 3,333 sectors,” I tell Castle, “not 3,330. Am I
remembering that wrong?”
“The other three are capitals,” Kenji says to me. “We’re pretty sure that one
of them is somewhere in North America, but no one knows for certain where any
of them are located. So yeah,” he adds, “you’re remembering right. The
Reestablishment has some crazy fascination with exact numbers. 3,333 sectors
altogether and 555 sectors each. Everyone gets the same thing, regardless of
size. They think it shows how equally they’ve divided everything, but it’s just a
bunch of bullshit.”
“Wow.” Every single day I’m floored by how much I still need to learn. I
look at Castle. “So is this the emergency? That Warner’s dad is here and not at
one of the capitals?”
Castle nods. “Yes, he …” He hesitates. Clears his throat. “Well. Let me start
from the beginning. It is imperative that you be aware of all the details.”
“We’re listening,” Kenji says, back straight, eyes alert, muscles tensed for
action. “Go on.”
“Apparently,” Castle says, “he’s been in town for some time now—he
arrived very quietly, very discreetly, a couple of weeks ago. It seems he heard
what his son has been up to lately, and he wasn’t thrilled about it. He …” Castle
takes a deep, steady breath. “He is … particularly angry about what happened
with you, Ms. Ferrars.”
“Me?” Heart pounding. Heart pounding. Heart pounding.
“Yes,” Castle says. “Our sources say that he’s angry Warner allowed you to
escape. And, of course, that he lost two of his soldiers in the process.” He nods
in Adam and Kenji’s direction. “Worse still, rumors are now circulating among
the citizens about this defecting girl and her strange ability and they’re starting
to put the pieces together; they’re starting to realize there’s another movement
—our movement—preparing to fight back. It’s creating unrest and resistance
among the civilians, who are all too eager to get involved.
“So.” Castle clasps his hands. “Warner’s father has undoubtedly arrived to
spearhead this war and remove all doubt of The Reestablishment’s power.” He
pauses to look at each of us. “In other words, he’s arrived to punish us and his
son at the same time.”
“But that doesn’t change our plans, does it?” Kenji asks.
“Not exactly. We’ve always known that a fight would be inevitable, but this
… changes things. Now that Warner’s father is in town, this war is going to
happen a lot sooner than we hoped,” Castle says. “And it’s going to be a lot
bigger than we anticipated.” He levels his gaze at me, looking grave. “Ms.
Ferrars, I’m afraid we’re going to need your help.”
I’m staring at him, struck. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t—aren’t you still angry with me?”
“You are not a child, Ms. Ferrars. I would not fault you for an overreaction.
Kenji says he believes that your behavior lately has been the result of ignorance
and not malicious intent, and I trust his judgment. I trust his word. But I do want
you to understand that we are a team,” he says, “and we need your strength.
What you can do—your power—it is unparalleled. Especially now that you’ve
been working with Kenji and have at least some knowledge of what you’re
capable of, we’re going to need you. We’ll do whatever we can to support you—
we’ll reinforce your suit, provide you with weapons and armor. And Winston—”
He stops. His breath catches. “Winston,” he says, quieter now, “just finished
making you a new pair of gloves.” He looks into my face. “We want you on our
team,” he says. “And if you cooperate with me, I promise you will see results.”
“Of course,” I whisper. I match his steady, solemn gaze. “Of course I’ll
help.”
“Good,” Castle says. “That is very good.” He looks distracted as he leans
back in his chair, runs a tired hand across his face. “Thank you.”
“Sir,” Kenji says, “I hate to be so blunt, but would you please tell me what
the hell is going on?”
Castle nods. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, yes, of course. I—forgive me. It’s been a
difficult night.”
Kenji’s voice is tight. “What happened?”
“He … has sent word.”
“Warner’s father?” I ask. “Warner’s father sent word? To us?” I glance
around at Adam and Kenji. Adam is blinking fast, lips just barely parted in
shock. Kenji looks like he’s about to be sick.
I’m beginning to panic.
“Yes,” Castle says to me. “Warner’s father. He wants to meet. He wants …
to talk.”
Kenji jumps to his feet. His entire face is leached of color. “No—sir—this is
a setup—he doesn’t want to talk, you must know he’s lying—”
“He’s taken four of our men hostage, Kenji. I’m afraid we don’t have
another choice.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“What?” Kenji has gone limp. His voice is a horrified rasp. “Who? How—”
“Winston and Brendan were patrolling topside tonight.” Castle shakes his
head. “I don’t know what happened. They must’ve been ambushed. They were
too far out of range and the security footage only shows us that Emory and Ian
noticed a disturbance and tried to investigate. We don’t see anything in the tapes
after that. Emory and Ian,” he says, “never came back either.”
Kenji is back in his chair again, his face in his hands. He looks up with a
sudden burst of hope. “But Winston and Brendan—maybe they can find a way
out, right? They could do something—they have enough power between the two
of them to figure something out.”
Castle offers Kenji a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know where he’s taken
them or how they’re being treated. If he’s beaten them, or if he’s already”—he
hesitates—“if he’s already tortured them, shot them—if they’re bleeding to
death—they certainly won’t be able to fight back. And even if the two of them
could save themselves,” he says after a moment, “they wouldn’t leave the others
behind.”
Kenji presses his fists into his thighs.
“So. He wants to talk.” It’s the first time Adam has said a word.
Castle nods. “Lily found this package where they’d disappeared.” He tosses
us a small knapsack and we take turns rummaging through it. It contains only
Winston’s broken glasses and Brendan’s radio. Smeared in blood.
I have to grip my hands to keep them from shaking.
I was just getting to know these guys. I’d only just met Emory and Ian. I was
just learning to build new friendships, to feel comfortable with the people of
Omega Point. I just had breakfast with Brendan and Winston. I glance at the
clock on Castle’s wall; it’s 3:31 a.m. I last saw them about 20 hours ago.
Brendan’s birthday was last week.
“Winston knew,” I hear myself say out loud. “He knew something was
wrong. He knew there was something weird about all those soldiers everywhere
—”
“I know,” Castle says, shaking his head. “I’ve been reading and rereading all
of his reports.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index
finger. Closes his eyes. “I’d only just begun to piece it all together. But it was
too late. I was too late.”
“What do you think they were planning?” Kenji asks. “Do you have a
theory?”
Castle sighs. Drops his hand from his face. “Well, now we know why
Warner was out with his soldiers every night—how he was able to leave the base
for as long as he did for so many days.”
“His father,” Kenji says.
Castle nods. “Yes. It’s my opinion that the supreme sent Warner out himself.
That he wanted Warner to begin hunting us more aggressively. He’s always
known about us,” Castle says to me. “He’s never been a stupid man, the
supreme. He’s always believed the rumors about us, always known that we were
out here. But we’ve never been a threat to him before. Not until now,” he says.
“Because now that the civilians are talking about us, it’s upsetting the balance of
power. The people are reenergized—looking for hope in our resistance. And
that’s not something The Reestablishment can afford right now.
“Anyway,” he goes on, “I think it’s clear that they couldn’t find the entrance
to Omega Point, and settled for taking hostages, hoping to provoke us to come
out on our own.” Castle retrieves a piece of paper from his pile. Holds it up. It’s
a note. “But there are conditions,” he says. “The supreme has given us very
specific directions on how next to proceed.”
“And?” Kenji is rigid with intensity.
“The three of you will go. Alone.”
Holy crap.
“What?” Adam gapes at Castle, astonished. “Why us?”
“He hasn’t asked to see me,” Castle says. “I’m not the one he’s interested
in.”
“And you’re just going to agree to that?” Adam asks. “You’re just going to
throw us at him?”
Castle leans forward. “Of course not.”
“You have a plan?” I ask.
“The supreme wants to meet with you at exactly twelve p.m. tomorrow—
well, today, technically—at a specific location on unregulated turf. The details
are in the note.” He takes a deep breath. “And, even though I know this is
exactly what he wants, I think we should all be ready to go. We should move
together. This is, after all, what we’ve been training for. I’ve no doubt he has bad
intentions, and I highly doubt he’s inviting you to chat over a cup of tea. So I
think we should be ready to defend against an offensive attack. I imagine his
own men will be armed and ready to fight, and I’m fully prepared to lead mine
into battle.”
“So we’re the bait?” Kenji asks, his eyebrows pulled together. “We don’t
even get to fight—we’re just the distraction?”
“Kenji—”
“This is bullshit,” Adam says, and I’m surprised to see such emotion from
him. “There has to be another way. We shouldn’t be playing by his rules. We
should be using this opportunity to ambush them or—I don’t know—create a
diversion or a distraction so we can attack offensively! I mean, hell, doesn’t
anyone burst into flames or something? Don’t we have anyone who can do
something crazy enough to throw everything off? To give us an advantage?”
Castle turns to stare at me.
Adam looks like he might punch Castle in the face. “You are out of your
mind—”
“Then no,” he says. “No, we don’t have anyone else that can do something
so … earth-shattering.”
“You think that’s funny?” Adam snaps.
“I’m afraid I’m not trying to be funny, Mr. Kent. And your anger is not
helping our situation. You may opt out if you like, but I will—respectfully—
request Ms. Ferrars’ assistance in this matter. She is the only one the supreme
actually wants to see. Sending the two of you with her was my idea.”
“What?”
All 3 of us are stunned.
“Why me?”
“I really wish I could tell you,” Castle says to me. “I wish I knew more. As
of right now, I can only do my best to extrapolate from the information I have,
and all I’ve concluded thus far is that Warner has made a glaring error that needs
to be set right. Somehow you managed to get caught in the middle.” A pause.
“Warner’s father,” he says, “has asked very specifically for you in exchange for
the hostages. He says if you do not arrive at the appointed time, he will kill our
men. And I have no reason to doubt his word. Murdering the innocent is
something that comes very naturally to him.”
“And you were just going to let her walk into that!” Adam knocks over his
garbage can as he jumps to his feet. “You weren’t even going to say anything?
You were going to let us assume that she wasn’t a target? Are you insane?”
Castle rubs his forehead. Takes a few calming breaths. “No,” he says, his
voice carefully measured. “I was not going to let her walk right into anything.
What I’m saying is that we will all fight together, but you two will go with Ms.
Ferrars. The three of you have worked together before, and both you and Kenji
have military training. You’re more familiar with the rules, the techniques, the
strategy they might employ. You would help keep her safe and embody the
element of surprise—your presence could be what gives us an advantage in this
situation. If he wants her badly enough, he’ll have to find a way to juggle the
three of you—”
“Or—you know, I don’t know,” Kenji says, affecting nonchalance, “maybe
he’ll just shoot us both in the face and drag Juliette away while we’re too busy
being dead to stop him.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll do it. I’ll go.”
“What?” Adam is looking at me, panic forcing his eyes wide. “Juliette—no
—”
“Yeah, you might want to think about this for a second,” Kenji cuts in,
sounding a little nervous.
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” I tell them. “But I’ll go.”
Castle smiles, relief written across his features.
“This is what we’re here for, right?” I look around. “We’re supposed to fight
back. This is our chance.”
Castle is beaming, his eyes bright with something that might be pride. “We
will be with you every step of the way, Ms. Ferrars. You can count on it.”
I nod.
And I realize this is probably what I’m meant to do. Maybe this is exactly
why I’m here.
Maybe I’m just supposed to die.
TWENTY-NINE
The morning is a blur.
There’s so much to do, so much to prepare for, and there are so many people
getting ready. But I know that ultimately this is my battle; I have unfinished
business to deal with. I know this meeting has nothing to do with the supreme
commander. He has no reason to care so much about me. I’ve never even met
the man; I should be nothing more than expendable to him.
This is Warner’s move.
It has to be Warner who asked for me. This has something and everything to
do with him; it’s a smoke signal telling me he still wants me and he’s not yet
given up. And I have to face him.
I only wonder how he managed to get his father to pull these strings for him.
I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
Someone is calling my name.
I stop in place.
Spin around.
James.
He runs up to me just outside the dining hall. His hair, so blond; his eyes, so
blue, just like his older brother’s. But I’ve missed his face in a way that has
nothing to do with how much he reminds me of Adam.
James is a special kid. A sharp kid. The kind of 10-year-old who is always
underestimated. And he’s asking me if we can talk. He points to one of the many
corridors.
I nod. Follow him into an empty tunnel.
He stops walking and turns away for a moment. Stands there looking
uncomfortable. I’m stunned he even wants to talk to me; I haven’t spoken a
single word to him in 3 weeks. He started spending time with the other kids at
Omega Point shortly after we arrived, and then things somehow got awkward
between us. He stopped smiling when he’d see me, stopped waving hello from
across the dining hall. I always imagined he’d heard rumors about me from the
other kids and decided he was better off staying away. And now, after
everything that’s happened with Adam—after our very public display in the
tunnel—I’m shocked he wants to say anything to me.
His head is still down when he whispers, “I was really, really mad at you.”
And the stitches in my heart begin to pop. One by one.
He looks up. Looks at me like he’s trying to gauge whether or not his
opening words have upset me, whether or not I’m going to yell at him for being
honest with me. And I don’t know what he sees in my face but it seems to
disarm him. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Rubs his sneaker in circles on
the floor. Says, “You didn’t tell me you killed someone before.”
I take an unsteady breath and wonder if there will ever be a proper way to
respond to a statement like that. I wonder if anyone other than James will ever
even say something like that to me. I think not. So I just nod. And say, “I’m
really sorry. I should’ve told y—”
“Then why didn’t you?” he shouts, shocking me. “Why didn’t you tell me?
Why did everyone else know except for me?”
And I’m floored for a moment, floored by the hurt in his voice, the anger in
his eyes. I never knew he considered me a friend, and I realize I should have.
James hasn’t known many people in his life; Adam is his entire world. Kenji and
I were 2 of the only people he’d ever really met before we got to Omega Point.
And for an orphaned child in his circumstances, it must’ve meant a lot to have
new friends. But I’ve been so concerned with my own issues that it never
occurred to me that James would care so much. I never realized my omission
would’ve seemed like a betrayal to him. That the rumors he heard from the other
children must’ve hurt him just as much as they hurt me.
So I decide to sit down, right there in the tunnel. I make room for him to sit
down beside me. And I tell him the truth. “I didn’t want you to hate me.”
He glares at the floor. Says, “I don’t hate you.”
“No?”
He picks at his shoelaces. Sighs. Shakes his head. “And I didn’t like what
they were saying about you,” he says, quieter now. “The other kids. They said
you were mean and nasty and I told them you weren’t. I told them you were
quiet and nice. And that you have nice hair. And they told me I was lying.”
I swallow, hard, punched in the heart. “You think I have nice hair?”
“Why did you kill him?” James asks me, eyes so open, so ready to be
understanding. “Was he trying to hurt you? Were you scared?”
I take a few breaths before I answer.
“Do you remember,” I say to him, feeling unsteady now, “what Adam told
you about me? About how I can’t touch anyone without hurting them?”
James nods.
“Well, that’s what happened,” I say. “I touched him and he died.”
“But why?” he asks. “Why’d you touch him? Because you wanted him to
die?”
My face feels like cracked china. “No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I was
young—only a couple of years older than you, actually. I didn’t know what I
was doing. I didn’t know that I could kill people by touching them. He’d fallen
down at the grocery store and I was just trying to help him get to his feet.” A
long pause. “It was an accident.”
James is silent for a while.
He takes turns looking at me, looking at his shoes, at the knees he’s tucked
up against his chest. He’s staring at the ground when he finally whispers, “I’m
sorry I was mad at you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth,” I whisper back.
He nods. Scratches a spot on his nose. Looks at me. “So can we be friends
again?”
“You want to be friends with me?” I blink hard against the stinging in my
eyes. “You’re not afraid of me?”
“Are you going to be mean to me?”
“Never.”
“Then why would I be afraid of you?”
And I laugh, mostly because I don’t want to cry. I nod too many times.
“Yes,” I say to him. “Let’s be friends again.”
“Good,” he says, and gets to his feet. “Because I don’t want to eat lunch with
those other kids anymore.”
I stand up. Dust off the back of my suit. “Eat with us,” I tell him. “You can
always sit at our table.”
“Okay.” He nods. Looks away again. Tugs on his ear a little. “So did you
know Adam is really sad all the time?” He turns his blue eyes on me.
I can’t speak. Can’t speak at all.
“Adam says he’s sad because of you.” James looks at me like he’s waiting
for me to deny it. “Did you hurt him by accident too? He was in the medical
wing, did you know that? He was sick.”
And I think I’m going to fall apart, right there, but somehow I don’t. I can’t
lie to him. “Yes,” I tell James. “I hurt him by accident, but now—n-now I stay
away from him. So I can’t hurt him anymore.”
“Then why’s he still so sad? If you’re not hurting him anymore?”
I’m shaking my head, pressing my lips together because I don’t want to cry
and I don’t know what to say. And James seems to understand.
He throws his arms around me.
Right around my waist. Hugs me and tells me not to cry because he believes
me. He believes I only hurt Adam by accident. And the little boy, too. And then
he says, “But be careful today, okay? And kick some ass, too.”
I’m so stunned that it takes me a moment to realize that not only did he use a
bad word, he just touched me for the very first time. I try to hold on for as long
as I can without making things awkward between us, but I think my heart is still
in a puddle somewhere on the floor.
And that’s when I realize: everyone knows.
James and I walk into the dining hall together and I can already tell that the
stares are different now. Their faces are full of pride, strength, and
acknowledgment when they look at me. No fear. No suspicion. I’ve officially
become one of them. I will fight with them, for them, against the same enemy.
I can see what’s in their eyes because I’m beginning to remember what it
feels like.
Hope.
It’s like a drop of honey, a field of tulips blooming in the springtime. It’s
fresh rain, a whispered promise, a cloudless sky, the perfect punctuation mark at
the end of a sentence.
And it’s the only thing in the world keeping me afloat.
THIRTY
“This isn’t how we wanted it to happen,” Castle says to me, “but these things
never usually go according to plan.” Adam and Kenji and I are being fitted for
battle. We’re camped out in one of the larger training rooms with 5 others I’ve
never met before. They’re in charge of weapons and armor. It’s incredible how
every single person at Omega Point has a job. Everyone contributes. Everyone
has a task.
They all work together.
“Now, we still don’t know yet exactly why or how you can do what you do,
Ms. Ferrars, but I’m hoping that when the time comes, your Energy will present
itself. These kinds of high-stress situations are perfect for provoking our abilities
—in fact, seventy-eight percent of Point members reported initial discovery of
their ability while in critical, high-risk circumstances.”
Yup, I don’t say to him. That sounds about right.
Castle takes something from one of the women in the room—Alia, I think is
her name. “And you shouldn’t worry about a thing,” he says. “We’ll be right
there in case something should happen.”
I don’t point out that I never once said I was worried. Not out loud, anyway.
“These are your new gloves,” Castle says, handing them to me. “Try them
on.”
These new gloves are shorter, softer: they stop precisely at my wrist and
fasten with a snap-button. They feel thicker, a little heavier, but they fit my
fingers perfectly. I curl my hand into a fist. Smile a little. “These are incredible,”
I tell him. “Didn’t you say Winston designed them?”
Castle’s face falls. “Yes,” he says quietly. “He finished them just yesterday.”
Winston.
His was the very first face I saw when I woke up at Omega Point. His
crooked nose, his plastic glasses, his sandy-blond hair and his background in
psychology. His need for disgusting coffee.
I remember the broken glasses we found in the knapsack.
I have no idea what’s happened to him.
Alia returns with a leather contraption in her hands. It looks like a harness.
She asks me to lift my arms and helps me slip into the piece, and I recognize it
as a holster. There are thick leather shoulder straps that intersect in the center of
my back, and 50 different straps of very thin black leather overlapping around
the highest part of my waist—just underneath my chest—like some kind of
incomplete bustier. It’s like a bra with no cups. Alia has to buckle everything
together for me and I still don’t really understand what I’m wearing. I’m waiting
for some kind of explanation.
Then I see the guns.
“There was nothing in the note about arriving unarmed,” Castle says as Alia
passes him two automatic handguns in a shape and size I’ve come to recognize. I
practiced shooting with these just yesterday.
I was terrible at it.
“And I see no reason for you to be without a weapon,” Castle is saying. He
shows me where the holsters are on either side of my rib cage. Teaches me how
the guns fit, how to snap the holder into place, where the extra cartridges go.
I don’t bother to mention that I have no idea how to reload a weapon. Kenji
and I never got to that part in our lesson. He was too busy trying to remind me
not to use a gun to gesticulate while asking questions.
“I’m hoping the firearms will be a last resort,” Castle says to me. “You have
enough weapons in your personal arsenal—you shouldn’t need to shoot anyone.
And, just in case you find yourself using your gift to destroy something, I
suggest you wear these.” He holds up a set of what look like elaborate variations
on brass knuckles. “Alia designed these for you.”
I look from her to Castle to the foreign objects in his hand. He’s beaming. I
thank Alia for taking the time to create something for me and she stammers out
an incoherent response, blushing like she can’t believe I’m talking to her.
I’m baffled.
I take the pieces from Castle and inspect them. The underside is made up of
4 concentric circles welded together, big enough in diameter to fit like a set of
rings, snug over my gloves. I slip my fingers through the holes and turn my hand
over to inspect the upper part. It’s like a mini shield, a million pieces of
gunmetal that cover my knuckles, my fingers, the entire back of my hand. I can
curl my fist and the metal moves with the motion of my joints. It’s not nearly as
heavy as it looks.
I slip the other piece on. Curl my fingers. Reach for the guns now strapped to
my body.
Easy.
I can do this.
“Do you like it?” Castle asks. I’ve never seen him smile so wide before.
“I love it,” I tell him. “Everything is perfect. Thank you.”
“Very good. I’m so pleased. Now,” he says, “if you’ll excuse me, I must
attend to a few other details before we leave. I will return shortly.” He offers me
a curt nod before heading out the door. Everyone but me, Kenji, and Adam
leaves the room.
I turn to see how the guys are doing.
Kenji is wearing a suit.
Some kind of bodysuit. He’s black from head to toe, his jet-black hair and
eyes a perfect match for the outfit molded to every contour of his body. The suit
seems to have a synthetic feel to it, almost like plastic; it gleams in the
fluorescent lighting of the room and looks like it’d be too stiff to move around
in. But then I see him stretching his arms and rolling back and forth on the balls
of his feet and the suit suddenly looks fluid, like it moves with him. He’s
wearing boots but no gloves, and a harness, just like me. But his is different: it
has simple holsters that sling over his arms like the straps of a backpack.
And Adam.
Adam is gorgeous wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt, dark blue and dangerously
tight across his chest. I can’t help but linger over the details of his outfit, can’t
help but remember what it was like to be held against him, in his arms. He’s
standing right in front of me and I miss him like I haven’t seen him in years. His
black cargo pants are tucked into the same pair of black boots he was wearing
when I first met him in the asylum, shin-high and sleek, created from smooth
leather that fits him so perfectly it’s a surprise they weren’t made for his body.
But there are no weapons on his person.
And I’m curious enough to ask.
“Adam?”
He lifts his head to look up and freezes. Blinks, eyebrows up, lips parted. His
eyes travel down every inch of my body, pausing to study the harness framing
my chest, the guns slung close to my waist.
He says nothing. He runs a hand through his hair, presses the heel of his
palm to his forehead and says something about being right back. He leaves the
room.
I feel sick.
Kenji clears his throat, loud. Shakes his head. Says, “Wow. I mean, really,
are you trying to kill the guy?”
“What?”
Kenji is looking at me like I’m an idiot. “You can’t just go around all ‘Oh,
Adam, look at me, look at how sexy I am in my new outfit’ and bat your
eyelashes—”
“Bat my eyelashes?” I balk at him. “What are you talking about? I’m not
batting my eyelashes at him! And this is the same outfit I’ve worn every day—”
Kenji grunts. Shrugs and says, “Yeah, well, it looks different.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I am just saying,” he says, hands up in mock surrender, “that if I were him?
And you were my girl? And you were walking around looking like that, and I
couldn’t touch you?” He looks away. Shrugs again. “I am just saying I do not
envy the poor bastard.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper. “I’m not trying to hurt him—”
“Oh hell. Forget I said anything,” he says, waving his hands around.
“Seriously. It is none of my business.” He shoots me a look. “And do not
consider this an invitation for you to start telling me all of your secret feelings
now.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not going to tell you anything about my
feelings.”
“Good. Because I don’t want to know.”
“Have you ever had a girlfriend, Kenji?”
“What?” He looks mortally offended. “Do I look like the kind of guy who’s
never had a girlfriend? Have you even met me?”
I roll my eyes. “Forget I asked.”
“I can’t even believe you just said that.”
“You’re the one who’s always going on about not wanting to talk about your
feelings,” I snap.
“No,” he says. “I said I don’t want to talk about your feelings.” He points at
me. “I have zero problem talking about my own.”
“So do you want to talk about your feelings?”
“Hell no.”
“Bu—”
“No.”
“Fine.” I look away. Pull at the straps tugging at my back. “So what’s up
with your suit?” I ask him.
“What do you mean, what’s up with it?” He frowns. He runs his hands down
his outfit. “This suit is badass.”
I bite back a smile. “I just meant, why are you wearing a suit? Why do you
get one and Adam doesn’t?”
He shrugs. “Adam doesn’t need one. Few people do—it all depends on what
kind of gift we have. For me, this suit makes my life a hell of a lot easier. I don’t
always use it, but when I need to get serious about a mission, it really helps.
Like, when I need to blend into a background,” he explains, “it’s less
complicated if I’m shifting one solid color—hence, the black. And if I have too
many layers and too many extra pieces floating around my body, I have to focus
that much more on making sure I blend all the details. If I’m one solid piece and
one solid color, I’m a much better chameleon. Besides,” he adds, stretching out
the muscles in his arms, “I look sexy as hell in this outfit.”
It takes all the self-control I have not to burst into laughter.
“So, but what about Adam?” I ask him. “Adam doesn’t need a suit or guns?
That doesn’t seem right.”
“I do have guns,” Adam says as he walks back into the room. His eyes are
focused on the fists he’s clenching and unclenching in front of him. “You just
can’t see them.”
I can’t stop looking at him, can’t stop staring.
“Invisible guns, huh?” Kenji smirks. “That’s cute. I don’t think I ever went
through that phase.”
Adam glares at Kenji. “I have nine different weapons concealed on my body
right now. Would you like to choose the one I use to shoot you in the face? Or
should I?”
“It was a joke, Kent. Damn. I was joking—”
“All right, everyone.”
We all spin around at the sound of Castle’s voice.
He examines the 3 of us. “Are you ready?”
I say, “Yes.”
Adam nods.
Kenji says, “Let’s do this shit.”
Castle says, “Follow me.”
THIRTY-ONE
It’s 10:32 a.m.
We have exactly 1 hour and 28 minutes before we’re supposed to meet the
supreme commander.
This is the plan:
Castle and every able body from Omega Point are already in position. They
left half an hour ago. They’re hiding in the abandoned buildings skirting the
circumference of the meeting point indicated in the note. They will be ready to
engage in an offensive strike just as soon as Castle gives the signal—and Castle
will only give that signal if he senses we’re in danger.
Adam and Kenji and I are going to travel by foot.
Kenji and Adam are familiar with unregulated turf because as soldiers, they
were required to know which sections of land were strictly off-limits. No one is
allowed to trespass on the grounds of our past world. The strange alleyways, side
streets, old restaurants and office buildings are forbidden territory.
Kenji says our meeting point is in one of the few suburban areas still
standing; he says he knows it well. Apparently as a soldier he was sent on
several errands in this area, each time required to drop off unmarked packages in
an abandoned mailbox. The packages were never explained, and he wasn’t
stupid enough to ask.
He says it’s odd that any of these old houses are even functional, especially
considering how strict The Reestablishment is about making sure the civilians
never try to go back. In fact, most of the residential neighborhoods were torn
down immediately after the initial takeover. So it’s very, very rare to find
sections left untouched. But there it is, written on the note in too-tight capital
letters: 1542 SYCAMORE
We’re meeting the supreme commander inside of what used to be someone’s
home.
“So what do you think we should do? Just ring the doorbell?” Kenji is leading us
toward the exit of Omega Point. I’m staring straight ahead in the dim light of this
tunnel, trying not to focus on the woodpeckers in my stomach. “What do you
think?” Kenji asks again. “Would that be too much? Maybe we should just
knock?”
I try to laugh, but the effort is halfhearted at best.
Adam doesn’t say a word.
“All right, all right,” Kenji says, all seriousness now. “Once we get out there,
you know the drill. We link hands. I project to blend the three of us. One of you
on either side of me. Got it?”
I’m nodding, trying not to look at Adam as I do.
This is going to be one of the first tests for him and his ability; he’ll have to
be able to turn off his Energy just as long as he’s linked to Kenji. If he can’t
manage it, Kenji’s projection won’t work on Adam, and Adam will be exposed.
In danger.
“Kent,” Kenji says, “you understand the risks, right? If you can’t pull this
off?”
Adam nods. His face is unflinching. He says he’s been training every day,
working with Castle to get himself under control. He says he’s going to be fine.
He looks at me as he says it.
My emotions jump out of a plane.
I hardly even notice we’re nearing the surface when Kenji motions for us to
follow him up a ladder. I climb and try to think at the same time, going over and
over the plan we spent the early hours of the morning strategizing.
Getting there is the easy part.
Getting inside is where things get tricky.
We’re supposed to pretend we’re doing a swap—our hostages are supposed
to be with the supreme commander, and I’m supposed to oversee their release.
It’s supposed to be an exchange.
Me for them.
But the truth is that we have no idea what will actually happen. We don’t
know, for example, who will answer the door. We don’t know if anyone will
answer the door. We don’t even know if we’re actually meeting inside the house
or if we’re simply meeting outside of it. We also don’t know how they’ll react to
seeing Adam and Kenji and the makeshift armory we have strapped to our
bodies.
We don’t know if they’ll start shooting right away.
This is the part that scares me. I’m not worried for myself as much as I am
for Adam and Kenji. They are the twist in this plan. They are the element of
surprise. They’re either the unexpected pieces that give us the only advantage we
can afford right now, or they’re the unexpected pieces that end up dead the
minute they’re spotted. And I’m starting to think this was a very bad idea.
I’m starting to wonder if I was wrong. If maybe I can’t handle this.
But it’s too late to turn back now.
THIRTY-TWO
“Wait here.”
Kenji tells us to lie low as he pops his head out of the exit. He’s already
disappeared from sight, his figure blending into the background. He’s going to
let us know if we’re clear to surface.
I’m too nervous to speak.
Too nervous to think.
I can do this we can do this we have no choice but to do this, is all I keep
saying to myself.
“Let’s go.” I hear Kenji’s voice from above our heads. Adam and I follow
him up the last stretch of the ladder. We’re taking one of the alternate exit routes
out of Omega Point—one that only 7 people know about, according to Castle.
We’re taking as many precautions as necessary.
Adam and I manage to haul our bodies aboveground and I immediately feel
the cold and Kenji’s hand slip around my waist. Cold cold cold. It cuts through
the air like little knives slicing across our skin. I look down at my feet and see
nothing but a barely perceptible shimmer where my boots are supposed to be. I
wiggle my fingers in front of my face.
Nothing.
I look around.
No Adam and no Kenji except for Kenji’s invisible hand, now resting at the
small of my back.
It worked. Adam made it work. I’m so relieved I want to sing.
“Can you guys hear me?” I whisper, happy no one can see me smiling.
“Yup.”
“Yeah, I’m right here,” Adam says.
“Nice work, Kent,” Kenji says to him. “I know this can’t be easy for you.”
“It’s fine,” Adam says. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”
“Done.”
We’re like a human chain.
Kenji is between me and Adam and we’re linked, holding hands as Kenji
guides us through this deserted area. I have no idea where we are, and I’m
starting to realize that I seldom do. This world is still so foreign to me, still so
new. Spending so much time in isolation while the planet crumbled to pieces
didn’t do me any favors.
The farther we go, the closer we get to the main road and the closer we get to
the compounds that are settled not a mile from here. I can see the boxy shape of
their steel structures from where we’re standing.
Kenji jerks to a halt.
Says nothing.
“Why aren’t we moving?” I ask.
Kenji shushes me. “Can you hear that?”
“What?”
Adam pulls in a breath. “Shit. Someone’s coming.”
“A tank,” Kenji clarifies.
“More than one,” Adam adds.
“So why are we still standing here—”
“Wait, Juliette, hold on a second—”
And then I see it. A parade of tanks coming down the main road. I count 6 of
them altogether.
Kenji unleashes a series of expletives under his breath.
“What is it?” I ask. “What’s the problem?”
“There was only one reason Warner ever ordered us to take more than two
tanks out at a time, on the same route,” Adam says to me.
“What—”
“They’re preparing for a fight.”
I gasp.
“He knows,” Kenji says. “Dammit! Of course he knows. Castle was right. He
knows we’re bringing backup. Shit.”
“What time is it, Kenji?”
“We have about forty-five minutes.”
“Then let’s move,” I tell him. “We don’t have time to worry about what’s
going to happen afterward. Castle is prepared—he’s anticipating something like
this. We’ll be okay. But if we don’t get to that house on time, Winston and
Brendan and everyone else might die today.”
“We might die today,” he points out.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “That, too.”
We’re moving through the streets quickly now. Swiftly. Darting through the
clearing toward some semblance of civilization and that’s when I see it: the
remnants of an achingly familiar universe. Little square houses with little square
yards that are now nothing more than wild weeds decaying in the wind. The
dead grass crunches under our feet, icy and uninviting. We count down the
houses.
1542 Sycamore.
It must be this one. It’s impossible to miss.
It’s the only house on this entire street that looks fully functional. The paint
is fresh, clean, a beautiful shade of robin’s-egg blue. A small set of stairs leads
up to the front porch, where I notice 2 white wicker rocking chairs and a huge
planter full of bright blue flowers I’ve never seen before. I see a welcome mat
made of rubber, wind chimes hanging from a wooden beam, clay pots and a
small shovel tucked into a corner. It’s everything we can never have anymore.
Someone lives here.
It’s impossible that this exists.
I’m pulling Kenji and Adam toward the home, overcome with emotion,
almost forgetting that we’re no longer allowed to live in this old, beautiful
world.
Someone is yanking me backward.
“This isn’t it,” Kenji says to me. “This is the wrong street. Shit. This is the
wrong street—we’re supposed to be two streets down—”
“But this house—it’s—I mean, Kenji, someone lives here—”
“No one lives here,” he says. “Someone probably set this up to throw us off
—in fact, I bet that house is lined with C4. It’s probably a trap designed to catch
people wandering unregulated turf. Now come on”—he yanks at my hand again
—“we have to hurry. We have seven minutes!”
And even though we’re running forward, I keep looking back, waiting to see
some sign of life, waiting to see someone step outside to check the mail, waiting
to see a bird fly by.
And maybe I’m imagining it.
Maybe I’m insane.
But I could’ve sworn I just saw a curtain flutter in an upstairs window.
THIRTY-THREE
90 seconds.
The real 1542 Sycamore is just as dilapidated as I’d originally imagined it
would be. It’s a crumbling mess, its roof groaning under the weight of too many
years’ negligence. Adam and Kenji and I are standing just around the corner, out
of sight even though we’re technically still invisible. There is not a single person
anywhere, and the entire house looks abandoned. I’m beginning to wonder if this
was all just an elaborate joke.
75 seconds.
“You guys stay hidden,” I tell Kenji and Adam, struck by sudden inspiration.
“I want him to think I’m alone. If anything goes wrong, you guys can jump in,
okay? There’s too much of a risk that your presence will throw things off too
quickly.”
They’re both quiet a moment.
“Damn. That’s a good idea,” Kenji says. “I should’ve thought of that.”
I can’t help but grin, just a little. “I’m going to let go now.”
“Hey—good luck,” Kenji says, his voice unexpectedly soft. “We’ll be right
behind you.”
“Juliette—”
I hesitate at the sound of Adam’s voice.
He almost says something but seems to change his mind. He clears his
throat. Whispers, “Promise you’ll be careful.”
“I promise,” I say into the wind, fighting back emotion. Not now. I can’t deal
with this right now. I have to focus.
So I take a deep breath.
Step forward.
Let go.
10 seconds and I’m trying to breathe 9
and I’m trying to be brave 8
but the truth is I’m scared out of my mind 7
and I have no idea what’s waiting for me behind that door 6
and I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a heart attack 5
but I can’t turn back now 4
because there it is
3
the door is right in front of me 2
all I have to do is knock 1
but the door flies open first.
“Oh good,” he says to me. “You’re right on time.”
THIRTY-FOUR
“It’s refreshing, really,” he says. “To see that the youth still value things like
punctuality. It’s always so frustrating when people waste my time.”
My head is full of missing buttons and shards of glass and broken pencil tips.
I’m nodding too slowly, blinking like an idiot, unable to find the words in my
mouth either because they’re lost or because they never existed or simply
because I have no idea what to say.
I don’t know what I was expecting.
Maybe I thought he’d be old and slumped and slightly blind. Maybe he’d be
wearing a patch on one eye and have to walk with a cane. Maybe he’d have
rotting teeth and ragged skin and coarse, balding hair and maybe he’d be a
centaur, a unicorn, an old witch with a pointy hat anything anything anything but
this. Because this isn’t possible. This is so hard for me to understand and
whatever I was expecting was wrong so utterly, incredibly, horribly wrong.
I’m staring at a man who is absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful.
And he is a man.
He has to be at least 45 years old, tall and strong and silhouetted in a suit that
fits him so perfectly it’s almost unfair. His hair is thick, smooth like hazelnut
spread; his jawline is sharp, the lines of his face perfectly symmetrical, his
cheekbones hardened by life and age. But it’s his eyes that make all the
difference. His eyes are the most spectacular things I’ve ever seen.
They’re almost aquamarine.
“Please,” he says, flashing me an incredible smile. “Come in.”
And it hits me then, right in that moment, because everything suddenly
makes sense. His look; his stature; his smooth, classy demeanor; the ease with
which I nearly forgot he was a villain—this man.
This is Warner’s father.
I step into what looks like a small living room. There are old, lumpy couches
settled around a tiny coffee table. The wallpaper is yellowed and peeling from
age. The house is heavy with a strange, moldy smell that indicates the cracked
glass windows haven’t been opened in years, and the carpet is forest green under
my feet, the walls embellished with fake wood panels that don’t make sense to
me at all. This house is, in a word, ugly. It seems ridiculous for a man so striking
to be found inside of a house so horribly inferior.
“Oh wait,” he says, “just one thing.”
“Wha—”
He’s pinned me against the wall by the throat, his hands carefully sheathed in
a pair of leather gloves, already prepared to touch my skin to cut off my oxygen,
choke me to death and I’m so sure I’m dying, I’m so sure that this is what it feels
like to die, to be utterly immobilized, limp from the neck down. I try to claw at
him, kicking at his body with the last of my energy until I’m giving up,
forfeiting to my own stupidity, my last thoughts condemning me for being such
an idiot, for thinking I could actually come in here and accomplish anything until
I realize he’s undone my holsters, stolen my guns, put them in his pockets.
He lets me go.
I drop to the floor.
He tells me to have a seat.
I shake my head, coughing against the torture in my lungs, wheezing into the
dirty, musty air, heaving in strange, horrible gasps, my whole body in spasms
against the pain. I’ve been inside for less than 2 minutes and he’s already
overpowered me. I have to figure out how to do something, how to get through
this alive. Now’s not the time to hold back.
I press my eyes shut for a moment. Try to clear my airways, try to find my
head. When I finally look up I see he’s already seated himself on one of the
chairs, staring at me as though thoroughly entertained.
I can hardly speak. “Where are the hostages?”
“They’re fine.” This man whose name I do not know waves an indifferent
hand in the air. “They’ll be just fine. Are you sure you won’t sit down?”
“What—” I try to clear my throat and regret it immediately, forcing myself
to blink back the traitorous tears burning my eyes. “What do you want from
me?”
He leans forward in his seat. Clasps his hands. “You know, I’m not entirely
sure anymore.”
“What?”
“Well, you’ve certainly figured out that all of this”—he nods at me, around
the room—“is just a distraction, right?” He smiles that same incredible smile.
“Surely you’ve realized that my ultimate goal was to lure your people out into
my territory? My men are waiting for just one word. One word from me and they
will seek out and destroy all of your little friends waiting so patiently within this
half-mile radius.”
Terror waves hello to me.
He laughs a little. “If you think I don’t know exactly what’s going on in my
own land, young lady, you are quite mistaken.” He shakes his head. “I’ve let
these freaks live too freely among us, and it was my mistake. They’re causing
me too much trouble, and now it’s time to take them out.”
“I am one of those freaks,” I tell him, trying to control the tremble in my
voice. “Why did you bring me here if all you want is to kill us? Why me? You
didn’t have to single me out.”
“You’re right.” He nods. Stands up. Shoves his hands into his pockets. “I
came here with a purpose: to clean up the mess my son made, and to finally put
an end to the naive efforts of a group of idiotic aberrations. To erase the lot of
you from this sorry world. But then,” he says, laughing a little, “just as I began
drafting my plans, my son came to me and begged me not to kill you. Just you.”
He stops. Looks up. “He actually begged me not to kill you.” Laughs again. “It
was just as pathetic as it was surprising.
“Of course then I knew I had to meet you,” he says, smiling, staring at me
like he might be enchanted. “‘I must meet the girl who’s managed to bewitch my
boy!’ I said to myself. This girl who’s managed to make him lose sight of his
pride—his dignity—long enough to beg me for a favor.” A pause. “Do you
know,” he says to me, “when my son has ever asked me for a favor?” He cocks
his head. Waits for me to answer.
I shake my head.
“Never.” He takes a breath. “Never. Not once in nineteen years has he ever
asked me for anything. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” His smile is wider, brilliant. “I
take full credit, of course. I raised him well. Taught him to be entirely selfreliant, self-possessed, unencumbered by the needs and wants that break most
other men. So to hear these disgraceful, pleading words come out of his mouth?”
He shakes his head. “Well. Naturally, I was intrigued. I had to see you for
myself. I needed to understand what he’d seen, what was so special about you
that it could’ve caused such a colossal lapse in judgment. Though, to be
perfectly honest,” he says, “I really didn’t think you’d show up.” He takes one
hand out of his pocket, gestures with it as he speaks. “I mean I certainly hoped
you would. But I thought if you did, you’d at least come with support—some
form of backup. But here you are, wearing this spandex monstrosity”—he laughs
out loud—“and you’re all alone.” He studies me. “Very stupid,” he says. “But
brave. I like that. I can admire bravery.
“Anyhow, I brought you here to teach my son a lesson. I had every intention
of killing you,” he says, assuming a slow, steady walk around the room. “And I
preferred to do it where he would be sure to see it. War is messy,” he adds,
waving his hand. “It’s easy to lose track of who’s been killed and how they died
and who killed whom, et cetera, et cetera. I wanted this particular death to be as
clean and simple as the message it would convey. It’s not good for him to form
these kinds of attachments, after all. It’s my duty as his father to put an end to
that kind of nonsense.”
I feel sick, so sick, so tremendously sick to my stomach. This man is far
worse than I ever could have imagined.
My voice is one hard breath, one loud whisper when I speak. “So why don’t
you just kill me?”
He hesitates. Says, “I don’t know. I had no idea you were going to be quite
so lovely. I’m afraid my son never mentioned how beautiful you are. And it’s
always so difficult to kill a beautiful thing,” he sighs. “Besides, you surprised
me. You arrived on time. Alone. You were actually willing to sacrifice yourself
to save the worthless creatures stupid enough to get themselves caught.”
He takes a sharp breath. “Maybe we could keep you. If you don’t prove
useful, you might prove entertaining, at the very least.” He tilts his head,
thoughtful. “Though if we did keep you, I suppose you’d have to come back to
the capital with me, because I can’t trust my son to do anything right anymore.
I’ve given him far too many chances.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I tell him. “But I’d really rather jump off a cliff.”
His laughter is like a hundred little bells, happy and wholesome and
contagious. “Oh my.” He smiles, bright and warm and devastatingly sincere. He
shakes his head. Calls over his shoulder toward what looks like it might be
another room—maybe the kitchen, I can’t be sure—and says, “Son, would you
come in here, please?”
And all I can think is that sometimes you’re dying, sometimes you’re about
to explode, sometimes you’re 6 feet under and you’re searching for a window
when someone pours lighter fluid in your hair and lights a match on your face.
I feel my bones ignite.
Warner is here.
THIRTY-FIVE
He appears in a doorway directly across from where I’m now standing and he
looks exactly as I remember him. Golden hair and perfect skin and eyes too
bright for their faded shade of emerald. His is an exquisitely handsome face, one
I now realize he’s inherited from his father. It’s the kind of face no one believes
in anymore; lines and angles and easy symmetry that’s almost offensive in its
perfection. No one should ever want a face like that. It’s a face destined for
trouble, for danger, for an outlet to overcompensate for the excess it stole from
an unsuspecting innocent.
It’s overdone.
It’s too much.
It frightens me.
Black and green and gold seem to be his colors. His pitch-black suit is
tailored to his frame, lean but muscular, offset by the crisp white of his shirt
underneath and complemented by the simple black tie knotted at his throat. He
stands straight, tall, unflinching. To anyone else he would look imposing, even
with his right arm still in a sling. He’s the kind of boy who was only ever taught
to be a man, who was told to erase the concept of childhood from his life’s
expectations. His lips do not dare to smile, his forehead does not crease in
distress. He has been taught to disguise his emotions, to hide his thoughts from
the world and to trust no one and nothing. To take what he wants by whatever
means necessary. I can see all of this so clearly.
But he looks different to me.
His gaze is too heavy, his eyes, too deep. His expression is too full of
something I don’t want to recognize. He’s looking at me like I succeeded, like I
shot him in the heart and shattered him, like I left him to die after he told me he
loved me and I refused to think it was even possible.
And I see the difference in him now. I see what’s changed.
He’s making no effort to hide his emotions from me.
My lungs are liars, pretending they can’t expand just to have a laugh at my
expense and my fingers are fluttering, struggling to escape the prison of my
bones as if they’ve waited 17 years to fly away.
Escape, is what my fingers say to me.
Breathe, is what I keep saying to myself.
Warner as a child. Warner as a son. Warner as a boy who has only a limited
grasp of his own life. Warner with a father who would teach him a lesson by
killing the one thing he’d ever be willing to beg for.
Warner as a human being terrifies me more than anything else.
The supreme commander is impatient. “Sit down,” he says to his son,
motioning to the couch he was just sitting on.
Warner doesn’t say a word to me.
His eyes are glued to my face, my body, to the harness strapped to my chest;
his gaze lingers on my neck, on the marks his father likely left behind and I see
the motion in his throat, I see the difficulty he has swallowing down the sight in
front of him before he finally rips himself away and walks into the living room.
He’s so like his father, I’m beginning to realize. The way he walks, the way he
looks in a suit, the way he’s so meticulous about his hygiene. And yet there is no
doubt in my mind that he detests the man he fails so miserably not to emulate.
“So I would like to know,” the supreme says, “how, exactly, you managed to
get away.” He looks at me. “I’m suddenly curious, and my son has made it very
difficult to extract these details.”
I blink at him.
“Tell me,” he says. “How did you escape?”
I’m confused. “The first or the second time?”
“Twice! You managed to escape twice!” He’s laughing heartily now; he
slaps his knee. “Incredible. Both times, then. How did you get away both
times?”
I wonder why he’s stalling for time. I don’t understand why he wants to talk
when so many people are waiting for a war and I can’t help but hope that Adam
and Kenji and Castle and everyone else haven’t frozen to death outside. And
while I don’t have a plan, I do have a hunch. I have a feeling our hostages might
be hidden in the kitchen. So I figure I’ll humor him for a little while.
I tell him I jumped out the window the first time. Shot Warner the second
time.
The supreme is no longer smiling. “You shot him?”
I spare a glance at Warner to see his eyes are still fixed firmly on my face,
his mouth still in no danger of moving. I have no idea what he’s thinking and
I’m suddenly so curious I want to provoke him.
“Yes,” I say, meeting Warner’s gaze. “I shot him. With his own gun.” And
the sudden tension in his jaw, the eyes that drop down to the hands he’s gripping
too tightly in his lap—he looks as if he’s wrenched the bullet out of his body
with his own 5 fingers.
The supreme runs a hand through his hair, rubs his chin. I notice he seems
unsettled for the first time since I’ve arrived and I wonder how it’s possible he
had no idea how I escaped.
I wonder what Warner must have said about the bullet wound in his arm.
“What’s your name?” I ask before I can stop myself, catching the words just
a moment too late. I shouldn’t be asking stupid questions but I hate that I keep
referring to him as “the supreme,” as if he’s some kind of untouchable entity.
Warner’s father looks at me. “My name?”
I nod.
“You may call me Supreme Commander Anderson,” he says, still confused.
“Why does that matter?”
“Anderson? But I thought your last name was Warner.” I thought he had a
first name I could use to distinguish between him and the Warner I’ve grown to
know too well.
Anderson takes a hard breath, spares a disgusted glance at his son.
“Definitely not,” he says to me. “My son thought it would be a good idea to take
his mother’s last name, because that’s exactly the kind of stupid thing he’d do.
The mistake,” he says, almost announcing it now, “that he always makes, time
and time again—allowing his emotions to get in the way of his duty—it’s
pathetic,” he says, spitting in Warner’s direction. “Which is why as much as I’d
like to let you live, my dear, I’m afraid you’re too much of a distraction in his
life. I cannot allow him to protect a person who has attempted to kill him.” He
shakes his head. “I can’t believe I even have to have this conversation. What an
embarrassment he’s proven to be.”
Anderson reaches into his pocket, pulls out a gun, aims it at my forehead.
Changes his mind.
“I’m sick of always cleaning up after you,” he barks at Warner, grabbing his
arm, pulling him up from the couch. He pushes his son directly across from me,
presses the gun into his good hand.
“Shoot her,” he says. “Shoot her right now.”
THIRTY-SIX
Warner’s gaze is locked onto mine.
He’s looking at me, eyes raw with emotion and I’m not sure I even know
him anymore. I’m not sure I understand him, I’m not sure I know what he’s
going to do when he lifts the gun with a strong, steady hand and points it directly
at my face.
“Hurry up,” Anderson says. “The sooner you do this, the sooner you can
move on. Now get this over with—”
But Warner cocks his head. Turns around.
Points the gun at his father.
I actually gasp.
Anderson looks bored, irritated, annoyed. He runs an impatient hand across
his face before he pulls out another gun—my other gun—from his pocket. It’s
unbelievable.
Father and son, both threatening to kill each other.
“Point the gun in the right direction, Aaron. This is ridiculous.”
Aaron.
I almost laugh in the middle of this insanity.
Warner’s first name is Aaron.
“I have no interest in killing her,” Warner Aaron he says to his father.
“Fine.” Anderson points the gun at my head again. “I’ll do it then.”
“Shoot her,” Warner says, “and I will put a bullet through your skull.”
It’s a triangle of death. Warner pointing a gun at his father, his father
pointing a gun at me. I’m the only one without a weapon and I don’t know what
to do.
If I move, I’m going to die. If I don’t move, I’m going to die.
Anderson is smiling.
“How charming,” he says. He’s wearing an easy, lazy grin, his grip on the
gun in his hand so deceptively casual. “What is it? Does she make you feel
brave, boy?” A pause. “Does she make you feel strong?”
Warner says nothing.
“Does she make you wish you could be a better man?” A little chuckle. “Has
she filled your head with dreams about your future?” A harder laugh.
“You have lost your mind,” he says, “over a stupid child who’s too much of
a coward to defend herself even with the barrel of a gun pointed straight at her
face. This,” he says, pointing the gun harder in my direction, “is the silly little
girl you’ve fallen in love with.” He exhales a short, hard breath. “I don’t know
why I’m surprised.”
A new tightness in his breathing. A new tightness in his grip around the gun
in his hand. These are the only signs that Warner is even remotely affected by
his father’s words.
“How many times,” Anderson asks, “have you threatened to kill me? How
many times have I woken up in the middle of the night to find you, even as a
little boy, trying to shoot me in my sleep?” He cocks his head. “Ten times?
Maybe fifteen? I have to admit I’ve lost count.” He stares at Warner. Smiles
again. “And how many times,” he says, his voice so much louder now, “were
you able to go through with it? How many times did you succeed? How many
times,” he says, “did you burst into tears, apologizing, clinging to me like some
demented—”
“Shut your mouth,” Warner says, his voice so low, so even, his frame so still
it’s terrifying.
“You are weak,” Anderson spits, disgusted. “Too pathetically sentimental.
Don’t want to kill your own father? Too afraid it’ll break your miserable heart?”
Warner’s jaw tenses.
“Shoot me,” Anderson says, his eyes dancing, bright with amusement. “I
said shoot me!” he shouts, this time reaching for Warner’s injured arm, grabbing
him until his fingers are clenched tight around the wound, twisting his arm back
until Warner actually gasps from the pain, blinking too fast, trying desperately to
suppress the scream building inside of him. His grip on the gun in his good hand
wavers, just a little.
Anderson releases his son. Pushes him so hard that Warner stumbles as he
tries to maintain his balance. His face is chalk-white. The sling wrapped around
his arm is seeping with blood.
“So much talk,” Anderson says, shaking his head. “So much talk and never
enough follow-through. You embarrass me,” he says to Warner, face twisted in
repulsion. “You make me sick.”
A sharp crack.
Anderson backhands Warner in the face so hard Warner actually sways for a
moment, already unsteady from all the blood he’s losing. But he doesn’t say a
word.
He doesn’t make a sound.
He stands there, bearing the pain, blinking fast, jaw so tight, staring at his
father with absolutely no emotion on his face; there’s no indication he’s just
been slapped but the bright red mark across his cheek, his temple, and part of his
forehead. But his arm sling is more blood than cotton now, and he looks far too
ill to be on his feet.
Still, he says nothing.
“Do you want to threaten me again?” Anderson is breathing hard as he
speaks. “Do you still think you can defend your little girlfriend? You think I’m
going to allow your stupid infatuation to get in the way of everything I’ve built?
Everything I’ve worked toward?” Anderson’s gun is no longer pointed at me. He
forgets me long enough to press the barrel of his gun into Warner’s forehead,
twisting it, jabbing it against his skin as he speaks. “Have I taught you nothing?”
he shouts. “Have you learned nothing from me—”
I don’t know how to explain what happens next.
All I know is that my hand is around Anderson’s throat and I’ve pinned him
to the wall, so overcome by a blind, burning, all-consuming rage that I think my
brain has already caught on fire and dissolved into ash.
I squeeze a little harder.
He’s sputtering. He’s gasping. He’s trying to get at my arms, clawing limp
hands at my body and he’s turning red and blue and purple and I’m enjoying it.
I’m enjoying it so, so much.
I think I’m smiling.
I bring my face less than an inch away from his ear and whisper, “Drop the
gun.”
He does.
I drop him and grab the gun at the same time.
Anderson is wheezing, coughing on the floor, trying to breathe, trying to
speak, trying to reach for something to defend himself with and I’m amused by
his pain. I’m floating in a cloud of absolute, undiluted hatred for this man and all
that he’s done and I want to sit and laugh until the tears choke me into a
contented sort of silence. I understand so much now. So much.
“Juliette—”
“Warner,” I say, so softly, still staring at Anderson’s body slumped on the
floor in front of me, “I’m going to need you to leave me alone right now.”
I weigh the gun in my hands. Test my finger on the trigger. Try to remember
what Kenji taught me about taking aim. About keeping my hands and arms
steady. Preparing for the kickback—the recoil—of the shot.
I tilt my head. Take inventory of his body parts.
“You,” Anderson finally manages to gasp, “you—”
I shoot him in the leg.
He’s screaming. I think he’s screaming. I can’t really hear anything anymore.
My ears feel stuffed full of cotton, like someone might be trying to speak to me
or maybe someone is shouting at me but everything is muffled and I have too
much to focus on right now to pay attention to whatever annoying things are
happening in the background. All I know is the reverberation of this weapon in
my hand. All I hear is the gunshot echoing through my head. And I decide I’d
like to do it again.
I shoot him in the other leg.
There’s so much screaming.
I’m entertained by the horror in his eyes. The blood ruining the expensive
fabric of his clothes. I want to tell him he doesn’t look very attractive with his
mouth open like that but then I think he probably wouldn’t care about my
opinion anyway. I’m just a silly girl to him. Just a silly little girl, a stupid child
with a pretty face who’s too much of a coward, he said, too much of a coward to
defend herself. And oh, wouldn’t he like to keep me. Wouldn’t he like to keep
me as his little pet. And I realize no. I shouldn’t bother sharing my thoughts with
him. There’s no point wasting words on someone who’s about to die.
I take aim at his chest. Try to remember where the heart is.
Not quite to the left. Not quite in the center.
Just—there.
Perfect.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I am a thief.
I stole this notebook and this pen from one of the doctors, from one of his lab
coats when he wasn’t looking, and I shoved them both down my pants. This was
just before he ordered those men to come and get me. The ones in the strange
suits with the thick gloves and the gas masks with the foggy plastic windows
hiding their eyes. They were aliens, I remember thinking. I remember thinking
they must’ve been aliens because they couldn’t have been human, the ones who
handcuffed my hands behind my back, the ones who strapped me to my seat.
They stuck Tasers to my skin over and over for no reason other than to hear me
scream but I wouldn’t. I whimpered but I never said a word. I felt the tears
streak down my cheeks but I wasn’t crying.
I think it made them angry.
They slapped me awake even though my eyes were open when we arrived.
Someone unstrapped me without removing my handcuffs and kicked me in both
kneecaps before ordering me to rise. And I tried. I tried but I couldn’t and finally
6 hands shoved me out the door and my face was bleeding on the concrete for a
while. I can’t really remember the part where they dragged me inside.
I feel cold all the time.
I feel empty, like there is nothing inside of me but this broken heart, the only
organ left in this shell. I feel the bleats echo within me, I feel the thumping
reverberate around my skeleton. I have a heart, says science, but I am a
monster, says society. And I know it, of course I know it. I know what I’ve done.
I’m not asking for sympathy.
But sometimes I think—sometimes I wonder—if I were a monster, surely, I
would feel it by now?
I would feel angry and vicious and vengeful. I’d know blind rage and
bloodlust and a need for vindication.
Instead I feel an abyss within me that’s so deep, so dark I can’t see within it;
I can’t see what it holds. I do not know what I am or what might happen to me.
I do not know what I might do again.
THIRTY-EIGHT
An explosion.
The sound of glass shattering.
Someone yanks me back just as I pull the trigger and the bullet hits the
window behind Anderson’s head.
I’m spun around.
Kenji is shaking me, shaking me so hard I feel my head jerk back and forth
and he’s screaming at me, telling me we have to go, that I need to drop the gun,
he’s breathing hard and he’s saying, “I’m going to need you to walk away, okay?
Juliette? Can you understand me? I need you to back off right now. You’re
going to be okay—you’re going to be all right—you’re going to be fine, you just
have to—”
“No, Kenji—” I’m trying to stop him from pulling me away, trying to keep
my feet planted where they are because he doesn’t understand. He needs to
understand. “I have to kill him. I have to make sure he dies,” I’m telling him. “I
just need you to give me another second—”
“No,” he says, “not yet, not right now,” and he’s looking at me like he’s
about to break, like he’s seen something in my face that he wishes he’d never
seen, and he says, “We can’t. We can’t kill him yet. It’s too soon, okay?”
But it’s not okay and I don’t understand what’s happening but Kenji is
reaching for my hand, he’s prying the gun out of the fingers I didn’t realize were
wrapped so tightly around the handle. And I’m blinking. I feel confused and
disappointed. I look down at my hands. At my suit. And I can’t understand for a
moment where all the blood came from.
I glance at Anderson.
His eyes are rolled back in his head. Kenji is checking his pulse. Looks at
me, says, “I think he fainted.” And my body has begun to shake so violently I
can hardly stand.
What have I done.
I back away, needing to find a wall to cling to, something solid to hold on to
and Kenji catches me, he’s holding me so tightly with one arm and cradling my
head with his other hand and I feel like I might want to cry but for some reason I
can’t. I can’t do anything but endure these tremors rocking the length of my
entire frame.
“We have to go,” Kenji says to me, stroking my hair in a show of tenderness
I know is rare for him. I close my eyes against his shoulder, wanting to draw
strength from his warmth. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks me. “I need you
to walk with me, all right? We’ll have to run, too.”
“Warner,” I gasp, ripping out of Kenji’s embrace, eyes wild. “Where’s—”
He’s unconscious.
A heap on the floor. Arms bound behind his back, an empty syringe tossed
on the carpet beside him.
“I took care of Warner,” Kenji says.
Suddenly everything is slamming into me all at the same time. All the
reasons why we were supposed to be here, what we were trying to accomplish in
the first place, the reality of what I’ve done and what I was about to do. “Kenji,”
I’m gasping, “Kenji, where’s Adam? What happened? Where are the hostages?
Is everyone okay?”
“Adam is fine,” he reassures me. “We slipped in the back door and found Ian
and Emory.” He looks toward the kitchen area. “They’re in pretty bad shape, but
Adam’s hauling them out, trying to get them to wake up.”
“What about the others? Brendan? A-and Winston?”
Kenji shakes his head. “I have no idea. But I have a feeling we’ll be able to
get them back.”
“How?”
Kenji nods at Warner. “We’re going to take this kid hostage.”
“What?”
“It’s our best bet,” he says to me. “Another trade. A real one, this time.
Besides, it’ll be fine. You take away his guns, and this golden boy is harmless.”
He walks toward Warner’s unmoving figure. Nudges him with the toe of his
boot before hauling him up, flipping Warner’s body over his shoulder. I can’t
help but notice that Warner’s injured arm is now completely soaked through
with blood.
“Come on,” Kenji says to me, not unkindly, eyes assessing my frame like
he’s not sure if I’m stable yet. “Let’s get out of here—it’s insanity out there and
we don’t have much time before they move into this street—”
“What?” I’m blinking too fast. “What do you mean—”
Kenji looks at me, disbelief written across his features. “The war, princess.
They’re all fighting to the death out there—”
“But Anderson never made the call—he said they were waiting for a word
from him—”
“No,” Kenji says. “Anderson didn’t make the call. Castle did.”
Oh
God.
“Juliette!”
Adam is rushing into the house, whipping around to find my face until I run
forward and he catches me in his arms without thinking, without remembering
that we don’t do this anymore, that we’re not together anymore, that he
shouldn’t be touching me at all. “You’re okay—you’re okay—”
“LET’S GO,” Kenji barks for the final time. “I know this is an emotional
moment or whatever, but we have to get our asses the hell out of here. I swear,
Kent—”
But Kenji stops.
His eyes drop.
Adam is on his knees, a look of fear and pain and horror and anger and terror
etched into every line on his face and I’m trying to shake him, I’m trying to get
him to tell me what’s wrong and he can’t move, he’s frozen on the ground, his
eyes glued to Anderson’s body, his hands reaching out to touch the hair that was
so perfectly set almost a moment ago and I’m begging him to speak to me,
begging him to tell me what happened and it’s like the world shifts in his eyes,
like nothing will ever be right in this world and nothing can ever be good again
and he parts his lips.
He tries to speak.
“My father,” he says. “This man is my father.”
THIRTY-NINE
“Shit.”
Kenji presses his eyes shut like he can’t believe this is happening. “Shit shit
shit.” He shifts Warner against his shoulders, wavers between being sensitive
and being a soldier and says, “Adam, man, I’m sorry, but we really have to get
out of here—”
Adam gets up, blinking back what I can only imagine are a thousand
thoughts, memories, worries, hypotheses, and I call his name but it’s like he
can’t even hear it. He’s confused, disoriented, and I’m wondering how this man
could possibly be his father when Adam told me his dad was dead.
Now is not the time for these conversations.
Something explodes in the distance and the impact rattles the ground, the
windows, the doors of this house, and Adam seems to snap back to reality. He
jumps forward, grabs my arm, and we’re bolting out the door.
Kenji is in the lead, somehow managing to run despite the weight of
Warner’s body, limp, hanging over his shoulder, and he’s shouting at us to stay
close behind. I’m spinning, analyzing the chaos around us. The sounds of
gunshots are too close too close too close.
“Where are Ian and Emory?” I ask Adam. “Did you get them out?”
“A couple of our guys were fighting not too far from here and managed to
commandeer one of the tanks—I got them to carry those two back to Point,” he
tells me, shouting so I can hear him. “It was the safest transport possible.”
I’m nodding, gasping for air as we fly through the streets and I’m trying to
focus on the sounds around us, trying to figure out who’s winning, trying to
figure out if our numbers have been decimated. We round the corner.
You’d think it’d be a massacre.
50 of our people are fighting against 500 of Anderson’s soldiers, who are
unloading round after round, shooting at anything that could possibly be a target.
Castle and the others are holding their ground, bloody and wounded but fighting
back as best they can. Our men and women are armed and storming forward to
match the shots of the opposition; others are fighting the only way they know
how: one man has his hands to the ground, freezing the earth beneath the
soldiers’ feet, causing them to lose balance; another man is darting through the
soldiers with such speed he’s nothing but a blur, confusing the men and
knocking them down and stealing their guns. I look up and see a woman hiding
in a tree, throwing what must be knives or arrows in such rapid succession that
the soldiers don’t have a moment to react before they’re hit from above.
Then there’s Castle in the middle of it all, his hands outstretched over his
head, collecting a whirlwind of particles, debris, scattered strips of steel and
broken branches with nothing more than the coercion of his fingertips. The
others have formed a human wall around him, protecting him as he forms a
cyclone of such magnitude that even I can see he’s straining to maintain control
of it.
Then
he lets go.
The soldiers are shouting, screaming, running back and ducking for cover
but most are too slow to escape the reach of so much destruction and they’re
down, impaled by shards of glass and stone and wood and broken metal but I
know this defense won’t last for long.
Someone has to tell Castle.
Someone has to tell him to go, to get out of here, that Anderson is down and
that we have 2 of our hostages and Warner in tow. He has to get our men and
women back to Omega Point before the soldiers get smart and someone throws a
bomb big enough to destroy everything. Our numbers won’t hold up for much
longer and this is the perfect opportunity for them to get safe.
I tell Adam and Kenji what I’m thinking.
“But how?” Kenji shouts above the chaos. “How can we get to him? If we
run through there we’re dead! We need some kind of distraction—”
“What?” I yell back.
“A distraction!” he shouts. “We need something to throw off the soldiers
long enough for one of us to grab Castle and give him the green light—we don’t
have much time—”
Adam is already trying to grab me, he’s already trying to stop me, he’s
already begging me not to do what he thinks I’m going to do and I tell him it’s
okay. I tell him not to worry. I tell him to get the others to safety and promise
him I’m going to be just fine but he reaches for me, he’s pleading with his eyes
and I’m so tempted to stay here, right next to him, but I break away. I finally
know what I need to do; I’m finally ready to help; I’m finally kind of a little bit
sure that maybe this time I might be able to control it and I have to try.
So I stumble back.
I close my eyes.
I let go.
I fall to my knees and press my palm to the ground and feel the power
coursing through me, feel it curdling in my blood and mixing with the anger, the
passion, the fire inside of me and I think of every time my parents called me a
monster, a horrible terrifying mistake and I think of all the nights I sobbed
myself to sleep and see all the faces that wanted me dead and then it’s like a
slide show of images reeling through my mind, men and women and children,
innocent protesters run over in the streets; I see guns and bombs, fire and
devastation, so much suffering suffering suffering and I steel myself. I flex my
fist. I pull back my arm and
I
shatter
what’s left of this earth.
FORTY
I’m still here.
I open my eyes and I’m momentarily astonished, confused, half expecting to
find myself dead or brain-damaged or at the very least mangled on the ground,
but this reality refuses to vanish.
The world under my feet is rumbling, rattling, shaking and thundering to life
and my fist is still pressed into the ground and I’m afraid to let go. I’m on my
knees, looking up at both sides of this battle and I see the soldiers slowing down.
I see their eyes dart around. I see their feet slipping failing to stay standing and
the snaps, the groans, the unmistakable cracks that are now creaking through the
middle of the pavement cannot be ignored and it’s like the jaws of life are
stretching their joints, grinding their teeth, yawning themselves awake to witness
our disgrace.
The ground looks around, its mouth gaping open at the injustice, the
violence, the calculated ploys for power that stop for no one and nothing and are
sated only by the blood of the weak, the screams of the unwilling. It’s as if the
earth thought to take a peek at what we’ve been doing all this time and it’s
terrifying just how disappointed it sounds.
Adam is running.
He’s dashing through a crowd still gasping for air and an explanation for the
earthquake under their feet and he tackles Castle, he pins him down, he’s
shouting to the men and the women and he ducks, he dodges a stray bullet, he
pulls Castle to his feet and our people have begun to run.
The soldiers on the opposite side are stumbling over each other and tripping
into a tangle of limbs as they try to outrun one another and I’m wondering how
much longer I have to hold on, how much longer this must go on before it’s
sufficient, and Kenji shouts, “Juliette!”
And I spin around just in time to hear him tell me to let go.
So I do.
The wind the trees the fallen leaves all slip and slide back into place with one
giant inhalation and everything stops and for a moment I can’t remember what
it’s like to live in a world that isn’t falling apart.
Kenji yanks me up by the arm and we’re running, we’re the last of our group
to leave and he’s asking me if I’m okay and I’m wondering how he’s still
carrying Warner, I’m thinking Kenji must be a hell of a lot stronger than he
looks, and I’m thinking I’m too hard on him sometimes, I’m thinking I don’t
give him enough credit. I’m just beginning to realize that he’s one of my favorite
people on this planet and I’m so happy he’s okay.
I’m so happy he’s my friend.
I cling to his hand and let him lead me toward a tank abandoned on our side
of the divide and suddenly I realize I can’t see Adam, that I don’t know where
he’s gone and I’m frantic, I’m screaming his name until I feel his arms around
my waist, his words in my ear, and we’re still diving for cover as the final shots
sound in the distance.
We clamber into the tank.
We close the doors.
We disappear.
FORTY-ONE
Warner’s head is on my lap.
His face is smooth and calm and peaceful in a way I’ve never seen it and I
almost reach out to stroke his hair before I remember exactly how awkward this
actually is.
Murderer on my lap
Murderer on my lap
Murderer on my lap
I look to my right.
Warner’s legs are resting on Adam’s knees and he looks just as
uncomfortable as I am.
“Hang tight, guys,” Kenji says, still driving the tank toward Omega Point. “I
know this is about a million different kinds of weird, but I didn’t exactly have
enough time to think of a better plan.”
He glances at the 2 3 of us but no one says a word until
“I’m so happy you guys are okay.” I say it like those 9 syllables have been
sitting inside of me for too long, like they’ve been kicked out, evicted from my
mouth, and only then do I realize exactly how worried I was that the 3 of us
wouldn’t make it back alive. “I’m so, so happy you’re okay.”
Deep, solemn, steady breathing all around.
“How are you feeling?” Adam asks me. “Your arm—you’re all right?”
“Yeah.” I flex my wrist and try not to wince. “I’m okay. These gloves and
this metal thing actually helped, I think.” I wiggle my fingers. Examine my
gloves. “Nothing is broken.”
“That was pretty badass,” Kenji says to me. “You really saved us back
there.”
I shake my head. “Kenji—about what happened—in the house—I’m really
sorry, I—”
“Hey, how about let’s not talk about that right now.”
“What’s going on?” Adam asks, alert. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Kenji says quickly.
Adam ignores him. Looks at me. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“I just—I j-just—” I struggle to speak. “What happened—with Warner’s da
—”
Kenji swears very loudly.
My mouth freezes midmovement.
My cheeks burn as I realize what I’ve said. As I remember what Adam said
just before we ran from that house. He’s suddenly pale, pressing his lips together
and looking away, out the tiny window of this tank.
“Listen …” Kenji clears his throat. “We don’t have to talk about that, okay?
In fact, I think I might rather not talk about that? Because that shit is just too
weird for me to—”
“I don’t know how it’s even possible,” Adam whispers. He’s blinking,
staring straight ahead now, blinking and blinking and blinking and “I keep
thinking I must be dreaming,” he says, “that I’m just hallucinating this whole
thing. But then”—he drops his head in his hands, laughs a harsh laugh—“that is
one face I will never forget.”
“Didn’t—didn’t you ever meet the supreme commander?” I dare to ask. “Or
even see a picture of him …? Isn’t that something you’d see in the army?”
Adam shakes his head.
Kenji speaks. “His whole kick was always being, like, invisible. He got some
sick thrill out of being this unseen power.”
“Fear of the unknown?”
“Something like that, yeah. I heard he didn’t want his pictures anywhere—
didn’t make any public speeches, either—because he thought if people could put
a face on him, it would make him vulnerable. Human. And he always got his
thrills from scaring the shit out of everyone. Being the ultimate power. The
ultimate threat. Like—how can you fight something if you can’t even see it?
Can’t even find it?”
“That’s why it was such a big deal for him to be here,” I realize out loud.
“Pretty much.”
“But you thought your dad was dead,” I say to Adam. “I thought you said he
was dead?”
“Just so you guys know,” Kenji interjects, “I’m still voting for the we don’t
have to talk about this option. You know. Just so you know. Just putting that out
there.”
“I thought he was,” Adam says, still not looking at me. “That’s what they
told me.”
“Who did?” Kenji asks. Catches himself. Winces. “Shit. Fine. Fine. I’m
curious.”
Adam shrugs. “It’s all starting to come together now. All the things I didn’t
understand. How messed up my life was with James. After my mom died, my
dad was never around unless he wanted to get drunk and beat the crap out of
someone. I guess he was living a completely different life somewhere else.
That’s why he used to leave me and James alone all the time.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Kenji says. “I mean, not the parts about your
dad being a dick, but just, like, the whole scope of it. Because if you and Warner
are brothers, and you’re eighteen, and Warner is nineteen, and Anderson has
always been married to Warner’s mom—”
“My parents were never married,” Adam says, eyes widening as he speaks
the last word.
“You were the love child?” Kenji says, disgusted. “I mean—you know, no
offense to you—it’s just, I do not want to think about Anderson having some
kind of passionate love affair. That is just sick.”
Adam looks like he’s been frozen solid. “Holy shit,” he whispers.
“But I mean, why even have a love affair?” Kenji asks. “I never understood
that kind of crap. If you’re not happy, just leave. Don’t cheat. Doesn’t take a
genius to figure that shit out. I mean”—he hesitates—“I’m assuming it was a
love affair,” Kenji says, still driving and unable to see the look on Adam’s face.
“Maybe it wasn’t a love affair. Maybe it was just another dude-being-a-jackass
kind of th—” He catches himself, cringes. “Shit. See, this is why I do not talk to
people about their personal problems—”
“It was,” Adam says, barely breathing now. “I have no idea why he never
married her, but I know he loved my mom. He never gave a damn about the rest
of us,” he says. “Just her. It was always about her. Everything was about her.
The few times a month he was ever at home, I was always supposed to stay in
my room. I was supposed to be very quiet. I had to knock on my own door and
get permission before I could come out, even just to use the bathroom. And he
used to get pissed whenever my mom would let me out. He didn’t want to see
me unless he had to. My mom had to sneak me my dinner just so he wouldn’t go
nuts about how she was feeding me too much and not saving anything for
herself,” he says. He shakes his head. “And he was even worse when James was
born.”
Adam blinks like he’s going blind.
“And then when she died,” he says, taking a deep breath, “when she died all
he ever did was blame me for her death. He always told me it was my fault she
got sick, and it was my fault she died. That I needed too much, that she didn’t eat
enough, that she got weak because she was too busy taking care of us, giving
food to us, giving … everything to us. To me and James.” His eyebrows pull
together. “And I believed him for so long. I figured that was why he left all the
time. I thought it was some kind of punishment. I thought I deserved it.”
I’m too horrified to speak.
“And then he just … I mean he was never around when I was growing up,”
Adam says, “and he was always an asshole. But after she died he just … lost his
mind. He used to come by just to get piss-drunk. He used to force me to stand in
front of him so he could throw his empty bottles at me. And if I flinched—if I
flinched—”
He swallows, hard.
“That’s all he ever did,” Adam says, his voice quieter now. “He would come
over. Get drunk. Beat the shit out of me. I was fourteen when he stopped coming
back.” Adam stares at his hands, palms up. “He sent some money every month
for us to survive on and then—” A pause. “Two years later I got a letter from our
brand-new government telling me my father was dead. I figured he probably got
wasted again and did something stupid. Got hit by a car. Fell into the ocean.
Whatever. It didn’t matter. I was happy he was dead, but I had to drop out of
school. I enlisted because the money was gone and I had to take care of James
and I knew I wouldn’t find another job.”
Adam shakes his head. “He left us with nothing, not a single penny, not even
a piece of meat to live off of, and now I’m sitting here, in this tank, running from
a global war my own father has helped orchestrate”—he laughs a hard, hollow
laugh—“and the one other worthless person on this planet is lying unconscious
in my lap.” Adam is actually laughing now, laughing hard, disbelieving, his hand
caught in his hair, tugging at the roots, gripping his skull. “And he’s my brother.
My own flesh and blood.
“My father had an entirely separate life I didn’t know about and instead of
being dead like he should be, he gave me a brother who almost tortured me to
death in a slaughterhouse—” He runs an unsteady hand over the length of his
face, suddenly cracking, suddenly slipping, suddenly losing control and his
hands are shaking and he has to curl them into fists and he presses them against
his forehead and says, “He has to die.”
And I’m not breathing, not even a little bit, not even at all, when he says,
“My father,” he says, “I have to kill him.”
FORTY-TWO
I’m going to tell you a secret.
I don’t regret what I did. I’m not sorry at all.
In fact, if I had a chance to do it again I know this time I’d do it right. I’d
shoot Anderson right through the heart.
And I would enjoy it.
FORTY-THREE
I don’t even know where to begin.
Adam’s pain is like a handful of straw shoved down my throat. He has no
parents but a father who beat him, abused him, abandoned him only to ruin the
rest of the world and left him a brand-new brother who is exactly his opposite in
every possible way.
Warner whose first name is no longer a mystery, Adam whose last name
isn’t actually Kent.
Kent is his middle name, Adam said to me. He said he didn’t want to have
anything to do with his father and never told people his real last name. He has
that much, at least, in common with his brother.
That, and the fact that both of them have some kind of immunity to my
touch.
Adam and Aaron Anderson.
Brothers.
I’m sitting in my room, sitting in the dark, struggling to reconcile Adam with
his new sibling who is really nothing more than a boy, a child who hates his
father and as a result, a child who made a series of very unfortunate decisions in
life. 2 brothers. 2 very different sets of choices.
2 very different lives.
Castle came to me this morning—now that all the injured have been set up in
the medical wing and the insanity has subsided—he came to me and he said,
“Ms. Ferrars, you were very brave yesterday. I wanted to extend my gratitude to
you, and thank you for what you did—for showing your support. I don’t know
that we would’ve made it out of there without you.”
I smiled, struggled to swallow the compliment and assumed he was finished
but then he said, “In fact, I’m so impressed that I’d like to offer you your first
official assignment at Omega Point.”
My first official assignment.
“Are you interested?” he asked.
I said yes yes yes of course I was interested, I was definitely interested, I was
so very, very interested to finally have something to do—something to
accomplish—and he smiled and he said, “I’m so happy to hear it. Because I
can’t think of anyone better suited to this particular position than you.”
I beamed.
The sun and the moon and the stars called and said, “Turn down the
beaming, please, because you’re making it hard for us to see,” and I didn’t listen,
I just kept on beaming. And then I asked Castle for the details of my official
assignment. The one perfectly suited to me.
And he said
“I’d like you to be in charge of maintaining and interrogating our new
visitor.”
And I stopped beaming.
I stared at Castle.
“I will, of course, be overseeing the entire process,” Castle continued, “so
feel free to come to me with questions and concerns. But we’ll need to take
advantage of his presence here, and that means trying to get him to speak.”
Castle was quiet a moment. “He … seems to have an odd sort of attachment to
you, Ms. Ferrars, and—forgive me—but I think it would behoove us to exploit
it. I don’t think we can afford the luxury of ignoring any possible advantages
available to us. Anything he can tell us about his father’s plans, or where our
hostages might be, will be invaluable to our efforts. And we don’t have much
time,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll need you to get started right away.”
And I asked the world to open up, I said, world, please open up, because I’d
love to fall into a river of magma and die, just a little bit, but the world couldn’t
hear me because Castle was still talking and he said, “Perhaps you can talk some
sense into him? Tell him we’re not interested in hurting him? Convince him to
help us get our remaining hostages back?”
I said, “Oh,” I said surely, “he’s in some kind of holding cell? Behind bars or
something?”
But Castle laughed, amused by my sudden, unexpected hilarity and said
don’t be silly, Ms. Ferrars, “We don’t have anything like that here. I never
thought we’d need to keep anyone captive at Omega Point. But yes, he’s in his
own room, and yes, the door is locked.”
“So you want me to go inside of his room?” I asked. “With him? Alone?”
Calm! Of course I was calm. I was definitely absolutely everything that is the
opposite of calm.
But then Castle’s forehead tightened, concerned. “Is that a problem?” he
asked me. “I thought—because he can’t touch you—I actually thought you
might not feel as threatened by him as the others do. He’s aware of your
abilities, is he not? I imagine he would be wise to stay away from you for his
own benefit.”
And it was funny, because there it was: a vat of ice, all over my head,
dripping leaking seeping into my bones, and actually no, it wasn’t funny at all,
because I had to say, “Yes. Right. Yes, of course. I almost forgot. Of course he
wouldn’t be able to touch me,” you’re quite right, Mr. Castle, sir, what on earth
was I thinking.
Castle was relieved, so relieved, as if he’d taken a dip in a warm pool he was
sure would be frozen.
And now I’m here, sitting in exactly the same position I was in 2 hours ago
and I’m beginning to wonder
how much longer
I can keep this secret to myself.
FORTY-FOUR
This is the door.
This one, right in front of me, this is where Warner is staying. There are no
windows and there is no way to see inside of his room and I’m starting to think
that this situation is the exact antonym of excellent.
Yes.
I am going to walk into his room, completely unarmed, because the guns are
buried deep down in the armory and because I’m lethal, so why would I need a
gun? No one in their right mind would lay a hand on me, no one but Warner, of
course, whose half-crazed attempt at stopping me from escaping out of my
window resulted in this discovery, his discovery that he can touch me without
harming himself.
And I’ve said a word of this to exactly no one.
I really thought that perhaps I’d imagined it, just until Warner kissed me and
told me he loved me and then, that’s when I knew I could no longer pretend this
wasn’t happening. But it’s only been about 4 weeks since that day, and I didn’t
know how to bring it up. I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to bring it up. I really,
quite desperately didn’t want to bring it up.
And now, the thought of telling anyone, of making it known to Adam, of all
people, that the one person he hates most in this world—second only to his own
father—is the one other person who can touch me? That Warner has already
touched me, that his hands have known the shape of my body and his lips have
known the taste of my mouth—never mind that it wasn’t something I actually
wanted—I just can’t do it.
Not now. Not after everything.
So this situation is entirely my own fault. And I have to deal with it.
I steel myself and step forward.
There are 2 men I’ve never met before standing guard outside Warner’s
door. This doesn’t mean much, but it gives me a modicum of calm. I nod hello in
the guards’ direction and they greet me with such enthusiasm I actually wonder
whether they’ve confused me with someone else.
“Thanks so much for coming,” one of them says to me, his long, shaggy
blond hair slipping into his eyes. “He’s been completely insane since he woke up
—throwing things around and trying to destroy the walls—he’s been threatening
to kill all of us. He says you’re the only one he wants to talk to, and he’s only
just calmed down because we told him you were on your way.”
“We had to take out all the furniture,” the other guard adds, his brown eyes
wide, incredulous. “He was breaking everything. He wouldn’t even eat the food
we gave him.”
The antonym of excellent.
The antonym of excellent.
The antonym of excellent.
I manage a feeble smile and tell them I’ll see what I can do to sedate him.
They nod, eager to believe I’m capable of something I know I’m not and they
unlock the door. “Just knock to let us know when you’re ready to leave,” they
tell me. “Call for us and we’ll open the door.”
I’m nodding yes and sure and of course and trying to ignore the fact that I’m
more nervous right now than I was meeting his father. To be alone in a room
with Warner—to be alone with him and to not know what he might do or what
he’s capable of and I’m so confused, because I don’t even know who he is
anymore.
He’s 100 different people.
He’s the person who forced me to torture a toddler against my will. He’s the
child so terrorized, so psychologically tormented that he’d try to kill his own
father in his sleep. He’s the boy who shot a defecting soldier in the forehead; the
boy who was trained to be a cold, heartless murderer by a man he thought he
could trust. I see Warner as a child desperately seeking his dad’s approval. I see
him as the leader of an entire sector, eager to conquer me, to use me. I see him
feeding a stray dog. I see him torturing Adam almost to death. And then I hear
him telling me he loves me, feel him kissing me with such unexpected passion
and desperation that I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know what I’m walking
into.
I don’t know who he’ll be this time. Which side of himself he’ll show me
today.
But then I think this must be different. Because he’s in my territory now, and
I can always call for help if something goes wrong.
He’s not going to hurt me.
I hope.
FORTY-FIVE
I step inside.
The door slams shut behind me but the Warner I find inside this room is not
one I recognize at all. He’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs
outstretched in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing nothing but
socks, a simple white T-shirt, and a pair of black slacks. His coat, his shoes, and
his fancy shirt are all discarded on the ground. His body is toned and muscular
and hardly contained by his undershirt; his hair is a blond mess, disheveled for
what’s probably the first time in his life.
But he’s not looking at me. He doesn’t even look up as I take a step closer.
He doesn’t flinch.
I’ve forgotten how to breathe again.
Then
“Do you have any idea,” he says, so quietly, “how many times I’ve read
this?” He lifts his hand but not his head and holds up a small, faded rectangle
between 2 fingers.
And I’m wondering how it’s possible to be punched in the gut by so many
fists at the same time.
My notebook.
He’s holding my notebook.
Of course he is.
I can’t believe I’d forgotten. He was the last person to touch my notebook;
the last person to see it. He took it from me when he found that I’d hidden it in
the pocket of my dress back on base. This was just before I escaped, just before
Adam and I jumped out the window and ran away. Just before Warner realized
he could touch me.
And now, to know that he’s read my most painful thoughts, my most
anguished confessions—the things I wrote while in complete and utter isolation,
certain that I would die in that very cell, so certain no one would ever read the
things I wrote down—to know that he’s read these desperate whispers of my
private mind.
I feel absolutely, unbearably naked.
Petrified.
So vulnerable.
He flips the notebook open at random. Scans the page until he stops. He
finally looks up, his eyes sharper, brighter, a more beautiful shade of green than
they’ve ever been and my heart is beating so fast I can’t even feel it anymore.
And he begins to read.
“No—,” I gasp, but it’s too late.
“I sit here every day,” he says. “175 days I’ve sat here so far. Some days I
stand up and stretch and feel these stiff bones, these creaky joints, this trampled
spirit cramped inside my being. I roll my shoulders, I blink my eyes, I count the
seconds creeping up the walls, the minutes shivering under my skin, the breaths I
have to remember to take. Sometimes I allow my mouth to drop open, just a little
bit; I touch my tongue to the backs of my teeth and the seam of my lips and I
walk around this small space, I trail my fingers along the cracks in the concrete
and wonder, I wonder what it would be like to speak out loud and be heard. I
hold my breath, listen closely for anything, any sound of life and wonder at the
beauty, the impossibility of possibly hearing another person breathing beside
me.”
He presses the back of his fist to his mouth for just a moment before
continuing.
“I stop. I stand still. I close my eyes and try to remember a world beyond
these walls. I wonder what it would be like to know that I’m not dreaming, that
this isolated existence is not caged within my own mind.
“And I do,” he says, reciting the words from memory now, his head resting
back against the wall, eyes pressed shut as he whispers, “I do wonder, I think
about it all the time. What it would be like to kill myself. Because I never really
know, I still can’t tell the difference, I’m never quite certain whether or not I’m
actually alive. So I sit here. I sit here every single day.”
I’m rooted to the ground, frozen in my own skin, unable to move forward or
backward for fear of waking up and realizing that this is actually happening. I
feel like I might die of embarrassment, of this invasion of privacy, and I want to
run and run and run and run and run
“Run, I said to myself.” Warner has picked up my notebook again.
“Please.” I’m begging him. “Please s-stop—”
He looks up, looks at me like he can really see me, see into me, like he wants
me to see into him and then he drops his eyes, he clears his throat, he starts over,
he reads from my journal.
“Run, I said to myself. Run until your lungs collapse, until the wind whips
and snaps at your tattered clothes, until you’re a blur that blends into the
background.
“Run, Juliette, run faster, run until your bones break and your shins split
and your muscles atrophy and your heart dies because it was always too big for
your chest and it beat too fast for too long and run.
“Run run run until you can’t hear their feet behind you. Run until they drop
their fists and their shouts dissolve in the air. Run with your eyes open and your
mouth shut and dam the river rushing up behind your eyes. Run, Juliette.
“Run until you drop dead.
“Make sure your heart stops before they ever reach you. Before they ever
touch you.
“Run, I said.”
I have to clench my fists until I feel pain, anything to push these memories
away. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to think about these things
anymore. I don’t want to think about what else I wrote on those pages, what else
Warner knows about me now, what he must think of me. I can only imagine how
pathetic and lonely and desperate I must appear to him. I don’t know why I care.
“Do you know,” he says, closing the cover of the journal only to lay his hand
on top of it. Protecting it. Staring at it. “I couldn’t sleep for days after I read that
entry. I kept wanting to know which people were chasing you down the street,
who it was you were running from. I wanted to find them,” he says, so softly,
“and I wanted to rip their limbs off, one by one. I wanted to murder them in
ways that would horrify you to hear.”
I’m shaking now, whispering, “Please, please give that back to me.”
He touches the tips of his fingers to his lips. Tilts his head back, just a little.
Smiles a strange, unhappy smile. Says, “You must know how sorry I am. That
I”—he swallows—“that I kissed you like that. I confess I had no idea you would
shoot me for it.”
And I realize something. “Your arm,” I breathe, astonished. He wears no
sling. He moves with no difficulty. There’s no bruising or swelling or scars I can
see.
His smile is brittle. “Yes,” he says. “It was healed when I woke up to find
myself in this room.”
Sonya and Sara. They helped him. I wonder why anyone here would do him
such a kindness. I force myself to take a step back. “Please,” I tell him. “My
notebook, I—”
“I promise you,” he says, “I never would’ve kissed you if I didn’t think you
wanted me to.”
And I’m so shocked that for a moment I forget all about my notebook. I meet
his heavy gaze. Manage to steady my voice. “I told you I hated you.”
“Yes,” he says. He nods. “Well. You’d be surprised how many people say
that to me.”
“I don’t think I would.”
His lips twitch. “You tried to kill me.”
“That amuses you.”
“Oh yes,” he says, his grin growing. “I find it fascinating.” A pause. “Would
you like to know why?”
I stare at him.
“Because all you ever said to me,” he explains, “was that you didn’t want to
hurt anyone. You didn’t want to murder people.”
“I don’t.”
“Except for me?”
I’m all out of letters. Fresh out of words. Someone has robbed me of my
entire vocabulary.
“That decision was so easy for you to make,” he says. “So simple. You had a
gun. You wanted to run away. You pulled the trigger. That was it.”
He’s right.
I keep telling myself I have no interest in killing people but somehow I find a
way to justify it, to rationalize it when I want to.
Warner. Castle. Anderson.
I wanted to kill every single one of them. And I would have.
What is happening to me.
I’ve made a huge mistake coming here. Accepting this assignment. Because I
can’t be alone with Warner. Not like this. Being alone with him is making my
insides hurt in ways I don’t want to understand.
I have to leave.
“Don’t go,” he whispers, eyes on my notebook again. “Please,” he says. “Sit
with me. Stay with me. I just want to see you. You don’t even have to say
anything.”
Some crazed, confused part of my brain actually wants to sit down next to
him, actually wants to hear what he has to say before I remember Adam and
what he would think if he knew, what he would say if he were here and could
see I was interested in spending my time with the same person who shot him in
the leg, broke his ribs, and hung him on a conveyor belt in an abandoned
slaughterhouse, leaving him to bleed to death one minute at a time.
I must be insane.
Still, I don’t move.
Warner relaxes against the wall. “Would you like me to read to you?”
I’m shaking my head over and over and over again, whispering, “Why are
you doing this to me?”
And he looks like he’s about to respond before he changes his mind. Looks
away. Lifts his eyes to the ceiling and smiles, just a tiny bit. “You know,” he
says, “I could tell, the very first day I met you. There was something about you
that felt different to me. Something in your eyes that was so tender. Raw. Like
you hadn’t yet learned how to hide your heart from the world.” He’s nodding
now, nodding to himself about something and I can’t imagine what it is.
“Finding this,” he says, his voice soft as he pats the cover of my notebook, “was
so”—his eyebrows pull together—“it was so extraordinarily painful.” He finally
looks at me and he looks like a completely different person. Like he’s trying to
solve a tremendously difficult equation. “It was like meeting a friend for the very
first time.”
Why are my hands trembling.
He takes a deep breath. Looks down. Whispers, “I am so tired, love. I’m so
very, very tired.”
Why won’t my heart stop racing.
“How much time,” he says after a moment, “do I have before they kill me?”
“Kill you?”
He stares at me.
I’m startled into speaking. “We’re not going to kill you,” I tell him. “We
have no intention of hurting you. We just want to use you to get back our men.
We’re holding you hostage.”
Warner’s eyes go wide, his shoulders stiffen. “What?”
“We have no reason to kill you,” I explain. “We only need to barter with
your life—”
Warner laughs a loud, full-bodied laugh. Shakes his head. Smiles at me in
that way I’ve only ever seen once before, looking at me like I’m the sweetest
thing he’s ever decided to eat.
Those dimples.
“Dear, sweet, beautiful girl,” he says. “Your team here has greatly
overestimated my father’s affection for me. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but
keeping me here is not going to give you the advantage you were hoping for. I
doubt my father has even noticed I’m gone. So I would like to request that you
please either kill me, or let me go. But I beg you not to waste my time by
confining me here.”
I’m checking my pockets for spare words and sentences but I’m finding
none, not an adverb, not a preposition or even a dangling participle because there
doesn’t exist a single response to such an outlandish request.
Warner is still smiling at me, shoulders shaking in silent amusement.
“But that’s not even a viable argument,” I tell him. “No one likes to be held
hostage—”
He takes a tight breath. Runs a hand through his hair. Shrugs. “Your men are
wasting their time,” he says. “Kidnapping me will never work to your advantage.
This much,” he says, “I can guarantee.”
FORTY-SIX
Time for lunch.
Kenji and I are sitting on one side of the table, Adam and James on the other.
We’ve been sitting here for half an hour now, deliberating over my
conversation with Warner. I conveniently left out the parts about my journal,
though I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve mentioned it. I’m also starting to
wonder if I should just come clean about Warner being able to touch me. But
every time I look at Adam I just can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t even know
why Warner can touch me. Maybe Warner is the fluke I thought Adam was.
Maybe all of this is some kind of cosmic joke told at my expense.
I don’t know what to do yet.
But somehow the extra details of my conversation with Warner seem too
personal, too embarrassing to share. I don’t want anyone to know, for example,
that Warner told me he loves me. I don’t want anyone to know that he has my
journal, or that he’s read it. Adam is the only other person who even knows it
exists, and he, at least, was kind enough to respect my privacy. He’s the one who
saved my journal from the asylum, the one who brought it back to me in the first
place. But he said he never read the things I wrote. He said he knew they
must’ve been very private thoughts and that he didn’t want to intrude.
Warner, on the other hand, has ransacked my mind.
I feel so much more apprehensive around him now. Just thinking about being
near him makes me feel anxious, nervous, so vulnerable. I hate that he knows
my secrets. My secret thoughts.
It shouldn’t be him who knows anything about me at all.
It should be him. The one sitting right across from me. The one with the
dark-blue eyes and the dark-brown hair and the hands that have touched my
heart, my body.
And he doesn’t seem okay right now.
Adam’s head is down, his eyebrows drawn, his hands clenched together on
the table. He hasn’t touched his food and he hasn’t said a word since I
summarized my meeting with Warner. Kenji has been just as quiet. Everyone’s
been a bit more solemn since our recent battle; we lost several people from
Omega Point.
I take a deep breath and try again.
“So what do you think?” I ask them. “About what he said about Anderson?”
I’m careful not to use the word dad or father anymore, especially around James.
I don’t know what, if anything, Adam has said to James about the issue, and it’s
not my business to pry. Worse still, Adam hasn’t said a word about it since we
got back, and it’s already been 2 days. “Do you think he’s right that Anderson
won’t care if he’s been taken hostage?”
James squirms around in his seat, eyes narrowed as he chews the food in his
mouth, looking at the group of us like he’s waiting to memorize everything we
say.
Adam rubs his forehead. “That,” he finally says, “might actually have some
merit.”
Kenji frowns, folds his arms, leans forward. “Yeah. It is kind of weird. We
haven’t heard a single thing from their side, and it’s been over forty-eight
hours.”
“What does Castle think?” I ask.
Kenji shrugs. “He’s stressed out. Ian and Emory were really messed up when
we found them. I don’t think they’re conscious yet, even though Sonya and Sara
have been working around the clock to help them. I think he’s worried we won’t
get Winston and Brendan back at all.”
“Maybe,” Adam says, “their silence has to do with the fact that you shot
Anderson in both his legs. Maybe he’s just recovering.”
I almost choke on the water I was attempting to drink. I chance a look at
Kenji to see if he’s going to correct Adam’s assumption, but he doesn’t even
flinch. So I say nothing.
Kenji is nodding. Says, “Right. Yeah. I almost forgot about that.” A pause.
“Makes sense.”
“You shot him in the legs?” James asks, eyes wide in Kenji’s direction.
Kenji clears his throat but is careful not to look at me. I wonder why he’s
protecting me from this. Why he thinks it’s better not to tell the truth about what
really happened. “Yup,” he says, and takes a bite of his food.
Adam exhales. Pushes up his shirtsleeves, studies the series of concentric
circles inked onto his forearms, military mementos of a past life.
“But why?” James asks Kenji.
“Why what, kid?”
“Why didn’t you kill him? Why just shoot him in the legs? Didn’t you say
he’s the worst? The reason why we have all the problems we have now?”
Kenji is quiet for a moment. He’s gripping his spoon, poking at his food.
Finally he puts the spoon down. Motions for James to join him on our side of the
table. I slide down to make room. “Come here,” he says to James, pulling him
tight against the right side of his body. James wraps his arms around Kenji’s
waist and Kenji drops his hand on James’ head, mussing his hair.
I had no idea they were so close.
I keep forgetting that the 3 of them are roommates.
“So, okay. You ready for a little lesson?” he says to James.
James nods.
“It’s like this: Castle always teaches us that we can’t just cut off the head,
you know?” He hesitates; collects his thoughts. “Like, if we just kill the enemy
leader, then what? What would happen?”
“World peace,” James says.
“Wrong. It would be mass chaos.” Kenji shakes his head. Rubs the tip of his
nose. “And chaos is a hell of a lot harder to fight.”
“Then how do you win?”
“Right,” Kenji says. “Well that’s the thing. We can only take out the leader
of the opposition when we’re ready to take over—only when there’s a new
leader ready to take the place of the old one. People need someone to rally
around, right? And we’re not ready yet.” He shrugs. “This was supposed to be a
fight against Warner—taking him out wouldn’t have been an issue. But to take
out Anderson would be asking for absolute anarchy, all over the country. And
anarchy means there’s a chance someone else—someone even worse, possibly—
could take control before we do.”
James says something in response but I don’t hear it.
Adam is staring at me.
He’s staring at me and he’s not pretending not to. He’s not looking away.
He’s not saying a word. His gaze moves from my eyes to my mouth, focusing on
my lips for a moment too long. Finally he turns away, just for a brief second
before his eyes are fixed on mine again. Deeper. Hungrier.
My heart is starting to hurt.
I watch the hard movement in his throat. The rise and fall of his chest. The
tense line of his jaw and the way he’s sitting so perfectly still. He doesn’t say
anything, anything at all.
I want so desperately to touch him.
“Smartass.” Kenji is chuckling, shaking his head as he reacts to something
James just said. “You know that’s not what I meant. Anyway,” he sighs, “we’re
not ready to deal with that kind of insanity just yet. We take out Anderson when
we’re ready to take over. That’s the only way to do this right.”
Adam stands up abruptly. He pushes away his untouched bowl of food and
clears his throat. Looks at Kenji. “So that’s why you didn’t kill him when he was
right in front of you.”
Kenji scratches the back of his head, uncomfortable. “Listen man, if I had
any idea—”
“Forget it.” Adam cuts him off. “You did me a favor.”
“What do you mean?” Kenji asks. “Hey man—where’re you going—”
But Adam is already walking away.
FORTY-SEVEN
I go after him.
I’m following Adam down an empty corridor as he exits the dining hall even
though I know I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t be talking to him like this,
shouldn’t be encouraging the feelings I have for him but I’m worried. I can’t
help it. He’s disappearing into himself, withdrawing into a world I can’t
penetrate and I can’t even blame him for it. I can only imagine what he must be
experiencing right now. These recent revelations would be enough to drive a
weaker person absolutely insane. And even though we’ve managed to work
together lately, it’s always been during such high-stress situations that there’s
hardly been any time for us to dwell on our personal issues.
And I need to know that he’s all right.
I can’t just stop caring about him.
“Adam?”
He stops at the sound of my voice. His spine goes rigid with surprise. He
turns around and I see his expression shift from hope to confusion to worry in a
matter of seconds. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is everything okay?”
Suddenly he’s in front of me, all 6 feet of him, and I’m drowning in
memories and feelings I’ve made no effort to forget. I’m trying to remember
why I wanted to talk to him. Why I ever told him we couldn’t be together. Why I
would ever keep myself from a chance at even 5 seconds in his arms and he’s
saying my name, saying, “Juliette—what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
I want so desperately to say yes, yes, horrible things have happened, and I’m
sick, I’m so sick and tired and I really just want to collapse in your arms and
forget the rest of the world. Instead I manage to look up, manage to meet his
eyes. They’re such a dark, haunting shade of blue. “I’m worried about you,” I
tell him.
And his eyes are immediately different, uncomfortable, closed off. “You’re
worried about me.” He blows out a hard breath. Runs a hand through his hair.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay—”
He’s shaking his head in disbelief. “What are you doing?” he says. “Are you
mocking me?”
“What?”
He’s pounding a closed fist against his lips. Looking up. Looking like he’s
not sure what to say and then he speaks, his voice strained and hurt and confused
and he says, “You broke up with me. You gave up on us—on our entire future
together. You basically reached in and ripped my heart out and now you’re
asking me if I’m okay? How the hell am I supposed to be okay, Juliette? What
kind of a question is that?”
I’m swaying in place.
“I didn’t mean—” I swallow, hard. “I-I was t-talking about your—your dad
—I thought maybe—oh, God, I’m sorry—you’re right, I’m so stupid—I
shouldn’t have come, I sh-shouldn’t—”
“Juliette,” he says, so desperately, catching me around the waist as I back
away. His eyes are shut tight. “Please,” he says, “tell me what I’m supposed to
do. How am I supposed to feel? It’s one shitty thing right after another and I’m
trying to be okay—God, I’m trying so hard but it’s really freaking difficult and I
miss”—his voice catches—“I miss you,” he says. “I miss you so much it’s
killing me.”
My fingers are clenched in his shirt.
My heart is hammering in the silence.
I see the difficulty he has in meeting my eyes when he whispers, “Do you
still love me?”
And I’m straining every muscle in my body just to keep myself from
reaching forward to touch him. “Adam—of course I still love you—”
“You know,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, “I’ve never had
anything like this before. I can barely remember my mom, and other than that it
was just me and James and my piece-of-shit dad. And James has always loved
me in his own way, but you—with you—” He falters. Looks down. “How am I
supposed to go back?” he asks, so quietly. “How am I supposed to forget what it
was like to be with you? To be loved by you?”
I don’t even realize I’m crying until it’s too late.
“You say you love me,” he says. “And I know I love you.” He looks up,
meets my eyes. “So why the hell can’t we be together?”
And I don’t know how to say anything but “I’m s-sorry, I’m so sorry, you
have no idea how sorry I am—”
“Why can’t we just try?” He’s gripping my shoulders now, his words urgent,
anguished; our faces too dangerously close. “I’m willing to take whatever I can
get, I swear, I just want to know I have you in my life—”
“We can’t,” I tell him. “It won’t be enough, Adam, and you know it. One day
we’ll take a stupid risk or take a chance we shouldn’t. One day we’ll think it’ll
be okay and it won’t. And it won’t end well.”
“But look at us now,” he says. “We can make this work—I can be close to
you without kissing you—I just need to spend a few more months training—”
“Your training might never be enough.” I cut him off, knowing I need to tell
him everything now. Knowing he has a right to know the same things I do.
“Because the more I train, the more I learn exactly how dangerous I am. And
you c-can’t be near me. It’s not just my skin anymore. I could hurt you just by
holding your hand.”
“What?” He blinks several times. “What are you talking about?”
I take a deep breath. Press my palm flat against the side of the tunnel before
digging my fingers in and dragging them right through the stone. I punch my fist
into the wall and grab a handful of rough rock, crush it in my hand, allow it to
sift as sand through my fingers to the floor.
Adam is staring at me. Astonished.
“I’m the one who shot your father,” I tell him. “I don’t know why Kenji was
covering for me. I don’t know why he didn’t tell you the truth. But I was so
blinded by this—this all-consuming rage—I just wanted to kill him. And I was
torturing him,” I whisper. “I shot him in his legs because I was taking my time.
Because I wanted to enjoy that last moment. That last bullet I was about to put
through his heart. And I was so close. I was so close, and Kenji,” I tell him,
“Kenji had to pull me away. Because he saw that I’d gone insane.
“I’m out of control.” My voice is a rasp, a broken plea. “I don’t know what’s
wrong with me or what’s happening to me and I don’t even know what I’m
capable of yet. I don’t know how much worse this is going to get. Every day I
learn something new about myself and every day it terrifies me. I’ve done
terrible things to people,” I whisper. I swallow back the sob building in my
throat. “And I’m not okay,” I tell him. “I’m not okay, Adam. I’m not okay and
I’m not safe for you to be around.”
He’s staring at me, so stunned he’s forgotten how to speak.
“Now you know that the rumors are true,” I whisper. “I am crazy. And I am
a monster.”
“No,” he breathes. “No—”
“Yes.”
“No,” he says, desperate now. “That’s not true—you’re stronger than this—I
know you are—I know you,” he says. “I’ve known your heart for ten years,” he
says, “and I’ve seen what you had to live through, what you had to go through,
and I’m not giving up on you now, not because of this, not because of something
like this—”
“How can you say that? How can you still believe that, after everything—
after all of this—”
“You,” he says to me, his hands gripping me tighter now, “are one of the
bravest, strongest people I’ve ever met. You have the best heart, the best
intentions—” He stops. Takes a tight, shaky breath. “You’re the best person I’ve
ever known,” he says to me. “You’ve been through the worst possible
experiences and you survived with your humanity still intact. How the hell,” he
says, his voice breaking now, “am I supposed to let go of you? How can I walk
away from you?”
“Adam—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I refuse to believe that this is the end of us.
Not if you still love me. Because you’re going to get through this,” he says, “and
I will be waiting for you when you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere. There
won’t be another person for me. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted and that’s
never,” he says, “that’s never going to change.”
“How touching.”
Adam and I freeze. Turn around slowly to face the unwelcome voice.
He’s right there.
Warner is standing right in front of us, his hands tied behind his back, his
eyes blazing bright with anger and hurt and disgust. Castle comes up behind him
to lead him in whatever whichever wherever direction and he sees where Warner
is stuck, still, staring at us, and Adam is like one block of marble, not moving,
not making any effort to breathe or speak or look away. I’m fairly certain I’m
burning so bright I’ve burnt to a crisp.
“You’re so lovely when you’re blushing,” Warner says to me. “But I really
wish you wouldn’t waste your affections on someone who has to beg for your
love.” He cocks his head at Adam. “How sad for you,” he says. “This must be
terribly embarrassing.”
“You sick bastard,” Adam says to him, his voice like steel.
“At least I still have my dignity.”
Castle shakes his head, exasperated. Pushes Warner forward. “Please get
back to work—both of you,” he shouts at us as he and Warner make their way
past. “You’re wasting valuable time standing out here.”
“You can go to hell,” Adam shouts at Warner.
“Just because I’m going to hell,” Warner says, “doesn’t mean you’ll ever
deserve her.”
And Adam doesn’t answer.
He just watches, eyes focused, as Warner and Castle disappear around the
corner.
FORTY-EIGHT
James joins us during our training session before dinner.
He’s been hanging out with us a lot since we got back, and we all seem
happier when he’s around. There’s something about his presence that’s so
disarming, so welcome. It’s so good to have him back.
I’ve been showing him how easily I can break things now.
The bricks are nothing. It feels like crushing a piece of cake. The metal pipes
bend in my hands like plastic straws. Wood is a little tricky because if I break it
the wrong way I can catch a splinter, but just about nothing is difficult anymore.
Kenji has been thinking of new ways to test my abilities; lately he’s been trying
to see if I can project—if I can focus my power from a distance.
Not all abilities are designed for projection, apparently. Lily, for example,
has that incredible photographic memory. But she’d never be able to project that
ability onto anyone else.
Projection is, by far, the most difficult thing I’ve ever attempted to do. It’s
extremely complicated and requires both mental and physical exertion. I have to
be wholly in control of my mind, and I have to know exactly how my brain
communicates with whichever invisible bone in my body is responsible for my
gift. Which means I have to know how to locate the source of my ability—and
how to focus it into one concentrated point of power I can tap into from
anywhere.
It’s hurting my brain.
“Can I try to break something, too?” James is asking. He grabs one of the
bricks off the stack and weighs it in his hands. “Maybe I’m super strong like
you.”
“Have you ever felt super strong?” Kenji asks him. “Like, you know,
abnormally strong?”
“No,” James says, “but I’ve never tried to break anything, either.” He blinks
at Kenji. “Do you think maybe I could be like you guys? That maybe I have
some kind of power, too?”
Kenji studies him. Seems to be sorting some things out in his head. Says,
“It’s definitely possible. Your brother’s obviously got something in his DNA,
which means you might, too.”
“Really?” James is practically jumping up and down.
Kenji chuckles. “I have no idea. I’m just saying it might be possi—no,” he
shouts, “James—”
“Oops.” James is wincing, dropping the brick to the floor and clenching his
fist against the gash bleeding in the palm of his hand. “I think I pressed too hard
and it slipped,” he says, struggling not to cry.
“You think?” Kenji is shaking his head, breathing fast. “Damn, kid, you can’t
just go around slicing your hand open like that. You’re going to give me a
freaking heart attack. Come here,” he says, more gently now. “Let me take a
look.”
“It’s okay,” James says, cheeks flushed, hiding his hand behind his back.
“It’s nothing. It’ll go away soon.”
“That kind of cut is not just going to go away,” Kenji says. “Now let me take
a look at it—”
“Wait.” I interrupt him, caught by the intense look on James’ face, the way
he seems to be so focused on the clenched fist he’s hiding. “James—what do you
mean it’ll ‘go away’? Do you mean it’s going to get better? On its own?”
James blinks at me. “Well yeah,” he says. “It always gets better really
quickly.”
“What does? What gets better really quickly?” Kenji is staring too now,
already catching on to my theory and throwing looks at me, mouthing Holy shit
over and over again.
“When I get hurt,” James says, looking at us like we’ve lost our minds. “Like
if you cut yourself,” he says to Kenji, “wouldn’t it just get better?”
“It depends on the size of the cut,” Kenji tells him. “But for a gash like the
one on your hand?” He shakes his head. “I’d need to clean it to make sure it
didn’t get infected. Then I’d have to wrap it up in gauze and some kind of
ointment to keep it from scarring. And then,” he says, “it would take at least a
couple days for it to scab up. And then it would begin to heal.”
James is blinking like he’s never heard of something so absurd in his life.
“Let me see your hand,” Kenji says to him.
James hesitates.
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “Really. We’re just curious.”
Slowly, so slowly, James shows us his clenched fist. Even more slowly, he
uncurls his fingers, watching our reactions the whole time. And exactly where
just a moment ago there was a huge gash, now there’s nothing but perfect pink
skin and a little pool of blood.
“Holy shit on a cracker,” Kenji breathes. “Sorry,” he says to me, jumping
forward to grab James’ arm, barely able to rein in his smiles, “but I need to get
this guy over to the medical wing. That okay? We can pick up again tomorrow
—”
“But I’m not hurt anymore,” James protests. “I’m okay—”
“I know, kid, but you’re going to want to come with me.”
“But why?”
“How would you like,” he says, leading James out the door, “to start
spending some time with two very pretty girls....”
And they’re gone.
And I’m laughing.
Sitting in the middle of the training room all by myself when I hear 2
familiar knocks at my door.
I already know who it’s going to be.
“Ms. Ferrars.”
I whip around, not because I’m surprised to hear Castle’s voice, but because
I’m surprised at the intonation. His eyes are narrowed, his lips tight, his eyes
sharp and flashing in this light.
He is very, very angry.
Crap.
“I’m sorry about the hallway,” I tell him, “I didn’t—”
“We can discuss your public and wildly inappropriate displays of affection at
a later time, Ms. Ferrars, but right now I have a very important question to ask
you and I would advise you to be honest, as acutely honest as is physically
possible.”
“What”—I can hardly breathe—“what is it?”
Castle narrows his eyes at me. “I have just had a conversation with Warner,
who says he is able to touch you without consequence, and that this information
is something you are well aware of.”
And I think, Wow, I did it. I actually managed to die of a stroke at age 17.
“I need to know,” Castle hurries on, “whether or not this information is true
and I need to know right now.”
There’s glue all over my tongue, stuck to my teeth, my lips, the roof of my
mouth, and I can’t speak, I can’t move, I’m pretty sure I just had a seizure or an
aneurysm or heart failure or something equally as awful but I can’t explain any
of this to Castle because I can’t move my jaw even an inch.
“Ms. Ferrars. I don’t think you understand how important this question is. I
need an answer from you, and I need it thirty seconds ago.”
“I … I—”
“Today, I need an answer today, right now, this very moment—”
“Yes,” I choke out, blushing through my skull, horribly ashamed,
embarrassed, horrified in every possible way and the only thing I can think of is
Adam Adam Adam how will Adam respond to this information now, why does
this have to happen now, why did Warner say anything at all and I want to kill
him for sharing the secret that was mine to tell, mine to hide, mine to hoard.
Castle looks like he’s a balloon that fell in love with a pushpin that got too
close and ruined him forever. “So it’s true, then?”
I drop my eyes. “Yes, it’s true.”
He falls to the floor right across from me, astonished. “How is it even
possible, do you think?”
Because Warner is Adam’s brother, I don’t tell him.
And I don’t tell him because it is Adam’s secret to tell and I will not talk
about it until he does, even though I desperately want to tell Castle that the
connection must be in their blood, that they both must share a similar kind of gift
or Energy, or oh oh oh
Oh God.
Oh no.
Warner is one of us.
FORTY-NINE
“It changes everything.”
Castle isn’t even looking at me. “This—I mean—this means so many
things,” he says. “We’ll have to tell him everything and we’ll have to test him to
be sure, but I’m fairly positive it’s the only explanation. And he would be
welcome to take refuge here if he wanted it—I would have to give him a regular
room, allow him to live among us as an equal. I cannot keep him here as a
prisoner, at the very least—”
“What—but, Castle—why? He’s the one who almost killed Adam! And
Kenji!”
“You have to understand—this news might change his entire outlook on
life.” Castle is shaking his head, one hand almost covering his mouth, his eyes
wide. “He might not take it well—he might be thrilled—he might lose his mind
completely—he might wake up a new man in the morning. You would be
surprised what these kinds of revelations will do to people.
“Omega Point will always be a place of refuge for our kind,” he continues.
“It’s an oath I made to myself many years ago. I cannot deny him food and
shelter if, for example, his father were to cast him out entirely.”
This can’t be happening.
“But I don’t understand,” Castle says suddenly, looking up at me. “Why
didn’t you say anything? Why not report this information? This is important for
us to know and it doesn’t condemn you in any way—”
“I didn’t want Adam to know,” I admit out loud for the first time, my voice 6
broken bits of shame strung together. “I just …” I shake my head. “I didn’t want
him to know.”
Castle actually looks sad for me. He says, “I wish I could help you keep your
secret, Ms. Ferrars, but even if I wanted to, I’m not sure Warner will.”
I focus on the mats laid out on the floor. My voice sounds tiny when I ask,
“Why did he even tell you? How did that even come up in conversation?”
Castle rubs his chin, thoughtful. “He told me of his own accord. I
volunteered to take him on his daily rounds—walking him to the restroom, et
cetera—because I wanted to follow up and ask him questions about his father
and see what he knew about the state of our hostages. He seemed perfectly fine.
In fact, he looked much better than he was when he first showed up. He was
compliant, almost polite. But his attitude changed rather dramatically after we
stumbled upon you and Adam in the hall....” His voice trails off, his eyes snap
up, his mind working quickly to fit all the pieces together and he’s gaping at me,
staring at me in a way that is entirely foreign to Castle, in a way that says he is
utterly, absolutely baffled.
I’m not sure if I should be offended.
“He’s in love with you,” Castle whispers, a dawning, groundbreaking
realization in his voice. He laughs, once, hard, fast. Shakes his head. “He held
you captive and managed to fall in love with you in the process.”
I’m staring at the mats like they’re the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen
in my life.
“Oh, Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says to me. “I do not envy you your predicament. I
can see now why this situation must be uncomfortable for you.”
I want to say to him, You have no idea, Castle. You have no idea because
you don’t even know the entire story. You don’t know that they’re brothers,
brothers who hate each other, brothers who only seem to agree on one thing, and
that one thing happens to be killing their own father.
But I don’t say any of those things. I don’t say anything, in fact.
I sit on these mats with my head in my hands and I’m trying to figure out
what else could possibly go wrong. I’m wondering how many more mistakes I’ll
have to make before things finally fall into place.
If they ever will.
FIFTY
I’m so humiliated.
I’ve been thinking about this all night and I came to a realization this
morning. Warner must’ve told Castle on purpose. Because he’s playing games
with me, because he hasn’t changed, because he’s still trying to get me to do his
bidding. He’s still trying to get me to be his project and he’s trying to hurt me.
I won’t allow it.
I will not allow Warner to lie to me, to manipulate my emotions to get what
he wants. I can’t believe I felt pity for him—that I felt weakness, tenderness for
him when I saw him with his father—that I believed him when he told me his
thoughts about my journal. I’m such a gullible fool.
I was an idiot to ever think he might be capable of human emotion.
I told Castle that maybe he should put someone else on this assignment now
that he knows Warner can touch me; I told him it might be dangerous now. But
he laughed and he laughed and he laughed and he said, “Oh, Ms. Ferrars, I’m
quite, quite certain you will be able to defend yourself. In fact, you’re probably
much better equipped against him than any of us. Besides,” he added, “this is an
ideal situation. If he truly is in love with you, you must be able to use that to our
advantage somehow. We need your help,” he said to me, serious again. “We
need all the help we can find, and right now you’re the one person who might be
able to get the answers we need. Please,” he said. “Try to find out anything you
can. Anything at all. Winston and Brendan’s lives are at risk.”
And he’s right.
So I’m shoving my own concerns aside because Winston and Brendan are
out there, hurting somewhere, and we need to find them. And I’m going to do
whatever I can to help.
Which means I have to talk to Warner again.
I have to treat him just like the prisoner that he is. No more side
conversations. No falling for his efforts to confuse me. Not again and again and
again. I’m going to be better. Smarter.
And I want my notebook back.
The guards are unlocking his room for me and I’m marching in, I’m sealing
the door shut behind me and I’m getting ready to give him the speech I’ve
already prepared when I stop in place.
I don’t know what I was expecting.
Maybe I thought I’d catch him trying to break a hole in the wall or maybe
he’d be plotting the demise of every person at Omega Point or I don’t know I
don’t know I don’t know anything because I only know how to fight an angry
body, an insolent creature, an arrogant monster, and I do not know what to do
with this.
He’s sleeping.
Someone put a mattress in here, a simple rectangle of average quality, thin
and worn but better than the ground, at least, and he’s lying on top of it in
nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.
His clothes are on the floor.
His pants, his shirts, his socks are slightly damp, wrinkled, obviously handwashed and laid out to dry; his coat is folded neatly over his boots, and his
gloves are resting right next to each other on top of his coat.
He hasn’t moved an inch since I stepped into this room.
He’s resting on his side, his back to the wall, his left arm tucked under his
face, his right arm against his torso, his entire body perfect bare, strong, smooth,
and smelling faintly of soap. I don’t know why I can’t stop staring at him. I don’t
know what it is about sleep that makes our faces appear so soft and innocent, so
peaceful and vulnerable, but I’m trying to look away and I can’t. I’m losing sight
of my own purpose, forgetting all the brave things I said to myself before I
stepped in here. Because there’s something about him—there’s always been
something about him that’s intrigued me and I don’t understand it. I wish I could
ignore it but I can’t.
Because I look at him and wonder if maybe it’s just me? Maybe I’m naive?
But I see layers, shades of gold and green and a person who’s never been
given a chance to be human and I wonder if I’m just as cruel as my own
oppressors if I decide that society is right, that some people are too far gone, that
sometimes you can’t turn back, that there are people in this world who don’t
deserve a second chance and I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t help but disagree.
I can’t help but think that 19 is too young to give up on someone, that 19
years old is just the beginning, that it’s too soon to tell anyone they will never
amount to anything but evil in this world.
I can’t help but wonder what my life would’ve been like if someone had
taken a chance on me.
So I back away. I turn to leave.
I let him sleep.
I stop in place.
I catch a glimpse of my notebook lying on the mattress next to his
outstretched hand, his fingers looking as if they’ve only just let go. It’s the
perfect opportunity to steal it back if I can be stealthy enough.
I tiptoe forward, forever grateful that these boots I wear are designed to make
no sound at all. But the closer I inch toward his body, the more my attention is
caught by something on his back.
A little rectangular blur of black.
I creep closer.
Blink.
Squint.
Lean in.
It’s a tattoo.
No pictures. Just 1 word. 1 word, typed into the very center of his upper
back. In ink.
IGNITE
And his skin is shredded with scars.
Blood is rushing to my head so quickly I’m beginning to feel faint. I feel
sick. Like I might actually, truly upturn the contents of my stomach right now. I
want to panic, I want to shake someone, I want to know how to understand the
emotions choking me because I can’t even imagine, can’t even imagine, can’t
even imagine what he must’ve endured to carry such suffering on his skin.
His entire back is a map of pain.
Thick and thin and uneven and terrible. Scars like roads that lead to nowhere.
They’re gashes and ragged slices I can’t understand, marks of torture I never
could have expected. They’re the only imperfections on his entire body,
imperfections hidden away and hiding secrets of their own.
And I realize, not for the first time, that I have no idea who Warner really is.
“Juliette?”
I freeze.
“What are you doing here?” His eyes are wide, alert.
“I—I came to talk to you—”
“Jesus,” he gasps, jumping away from me. “I’m very flattered, love, but you
could’ve at least given me a chance to put my pants on.” He’s pulled himself up
against the wall but makes no effort to grab his clothes. His eyes keep darting
from me to the pants on the floor like he doesn’t know what to do. He seems
determined not to turn his back to me.
“Would you mind?” he says, nodding to the clothes next to my feet and
affecting an air of nonchalance that does little to hide the apprehension in his
eyes. “It gets chilly in here.”
But I’m staring at him, staring at the length of him, awed by how incredibly
flawless he looks from the front. Strong, lean frame, toned and muscular without
being bulky. He’s fair without being pale, skin tinted with just enough sunlight
to look effortlessly healthy. The body of a perfect boy.
What a lie appearances can be.
What a terrible, terrible lie.
His gaze is fixed on mine, his eyes green flames that will not extinguish and
his chest is rising and falling so fast, so fast, so fast.
“What happened to your back?” I hear myself whisper.
I watch as the color drains from his face. He looks away, runs a hand across
his mouth, his chin, down the back of his neck.
“Who hurt you?” I ask, so quietly. I’m beginning to recognize the strange
feeling I get just before I do something terrible. Like right now. Right now I feel
like I could kill someone for this.
“Juliette, please, my clothes—”
“Was it your father?” I ask, my voice a little sharper. “Did he do this to you
—”
“It doesn’t matter.” Warner cuts me off, frustrated now.
“Of course it matters!”
He says nothing.
“That tattoo,” I say to him, “that word—”
“Yes,” he says, though he says it quietly. Clears his throat.
“I don’t …” I blink. “What does it mean?”
Warner shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair.
“Is it from a book?”
“Why do you care?” he asks, looking away again. “Why are you suddenly so
interested in my life?”
I don’t know, I want to tell him. I want to tell him I don’t know but that’s not
true.
Because I feel it. I feel the clicks and the turns and the creaking of a million
keys unlocking a million doors in my mind. It’s like I’m finally allowing myself
to see what I really think, how I really feel, like I’m discovering my own secrets
for the first time. And then I search his eyes, search his features for something I
can’t even name. And I realize I don’t want to be his enemy anymore.
“It’s over,” I say to him. “I’m not on base with you this time. I’m not going
to be your weapon and you’ll never be able to change my mind about that. I
think you know that now.” I study the floor. “So why are we still fighting each
other? Why are you still trying to manipulate me? Why are you still trying to get
me to fall for your tricks?”
“I have no idea,” he says, looking at me like he’s not sure I’m even real, “no
idea what you’re talking about.”
“Why did you tell Castle you could touch me? That wasn’t your secret to
share.”
“Right.” He exhales a deep breath. “Of course.” Seems to return to himself.
“Listen, love, could you at least toss me my jacket if you’re going to stay here
and ask me all these questions?”
I toss him his jacket. He catches it. Slides down to the floor. And instead of
putting his jacket on, he drapes it over his lap. Finally, he says, “Yes, I did tell
Castle I could touch you. He had a right to know.”
“That wasn’t any of his business.”
“Of course it’s his business,” Warner says. “The entire world he’s created
down here thrives on exactly that kind of information. And you’re here, living
among them. He should know.”
“He doesn’t need to know.”
“Why is it such a big deal?” he asks, studying my eyes too carefully. “Why
does it bother you so much for someone to know that I can touch you? Why does
it have to be a secret?”
I struggle to find the words that won’t come.
“Are you worried about Kent? You think he’d have a problem knowing I can
touch you?”
“I didn’t want him to find out like this—”
“But why does it matter?” he insists. “You seem to care so much about
something that makes no difference in your personal life. It wouldn’t,” he says,
“make any difference in your personal life. Not if you still claim to feel nothing
but hatred for me. Because that’s what you said, isn’t it? That you hate me?”
I fold myself to the floor across from Warner. Pull my knees up to my chest.
Focus on the stone under my feet. “I don’t hate you.”
Warner seems to stop breathing.
“I think I understand you sometimes,” I tell him. “I really do. But just when I
think I finally get you, you surprise me. And I never really know who you are or
who you’re going to be.” I look up. “But I know that I don’t hate you anymore.
I’ve tried,” I say, “I’ve tried so hard. Because you’ve done so many terrible,
terrible things. To innocent people. To me. But I know too much about you now.
I’ve seen too much. You’re too human.”
His hair is so gold. His eyes so green. His voice is tortured when he speaks.
“Are you saying,” he says, “that you want to be my friend?”
“I-I don’t know.” I’m so petrified, so, so petrified of this possibility. “I didn’t
think about that. I’m just saying that I don’t know”—I hesitate, breathe—“I
don’t know how to hate you anymore. Even though I want to. I really want to
and I know I should but I just can’t.”
He looks away.
And he smiles.
It’s the kind of smile that makes me forget how to do everything but blink
and blink and I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t know why I
can’t convince my eyes to find something else to focus on.
I don’t know why my heart is losing its mind.
He touches my notebook like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. His fingers
run the length of the cover once, twice, before he registers where my eyes have
gone and he stops.
“You wrote these words?” He touches the notebook again. “Every single
one?”
I nod.
He says, “Juliette.”
I stop breathing.
He says, “I would like that very much. To be your friend,” he says. “I’d like
that.”
And I don’t really know what happens in my brain.
Maybe it’s because he’s broken and I’m foolish enough to think I can fix
him. Maybe it’s because I see myself, I see 3, 4, 5, 6, 17-year-old Juliette
abandoned, neglected, mistreated, abused for something outside of her control
and I think of Warner as someone who’s just like me, someone who was never
given a chance at life. I think about how everyone already hates him, how hating
him is a universally accepted fact.
Warner is horrible.
There are no discussions, no reservations, no questions asked. It has already
been decided that he is a despicable human being who thrives on murder and
power and torturing others.
But I want to know. I need to know. I have to know.
If it’s really that simple.
Because what if one day I slip? What if one day I fall through the cracks and
no one is willing to pull me back? What happens to me then?
So I meet his eyes. I take a deep breath.
And I run.
I run right out the door.
FIFTY-ONE
Just a moment.
Just 1 second, just 1 more minute, just give me another hour or maybe the
weekend to think it over it’s not so much it’s not so hard it’s all we ever ask for
it’s a simple request.
But the moments the seconds the minutes the hours the days and years
become one big mistake, one extraordinary opportunity slipped right through
our fingers because we couldn’t decide, we couldn’t understand, we needed
more time, we didn’t know what to do.
We don’t even know what we’ve done.
We have no idea how we even got here when all we ever wanted was to wake
up in the morning and go to sleep at night and maybe stop for ice cream on the
way home and that one decision, that one choice, that one accidental
opportunity unraveled everything we’ve ever known and ever believed in and
what do we do?
What do we do
from here?
FIFTY-TWO
Things are getting worse.
The tension among the citizens of Omega Point is getting tighter with each
passing hour. We’ve tried to make contact with Anderson’s men to no avail—
we’ve heard nothing from their team or their soldiers, and we have no updates
on our hostages. But the civilians of Sector 45—the sector Warner used to be in
charge of, the sector he used to oversee—are beginning to grow more and more
unsettled. Rumors about us and our resistance are spreading too quickly.
The Reestablishment tried to cover up the news of our recent battle by
calling it a standard attack on rebel party members, but the people are getting
smarter. Protests are breaking out among them and some are refusing to work,
standing up to authority, trying to escape the compounds, and running back to
unregulated territory.
It never ends well.
The losses have been too many and Castle is anxious to do something. We
all have a feeling we’re going to be heading out again, and soon. We haven’t
received any reports that Anderson is dead, which means he’s probably just
biding his time—or maybe Adam is right, and he’s just recovering. But whatever
the reason, Anderson’s silence can’t be good.
“What are you doing here?” Castle says to me.
I’ve just collected my dinner. I’ve just sat down at my usual table with Adam
and Kenji and James. I blink at Castle, confused.
Kenji says, “What’s going on?”
Adam says, “Is everything all right?”
Castle says, “My apologies, Ms. Ferrars, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I confess
I’m just a bit surprised to see you here. I thought you were currently on
assignment.”
“Oh.” I startle. Glance at my food and back at Castle again. “I—well yes, I
am—but I’ve talked to Warner twice already—I actually just saw him yesterday
—”
“Oh, that’s excellent news, Ms. Ferrars. Excellent news.” Castle clasps his
hands together; his face is the picture of relief. “And what have you been able to
discover?” He looks so hopeful that I actually begin to feel ashamed of myself.
Everyone is staring at me and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to
say.
I shake my head.
“Ah.” Castle drops his hands. Looks down. Nods to himself. “So. You’ve
decided that your two visits have been more than sufficient?” He won’t look at
me. “What is your professional opinion, Ms. Ferrars? Do you think it would be
best to take your time in this particular situation? That Winston and Brendan will
be relaxing comfortably until you find an opportunity in your busy schedule to
interrogate the only person who might be able to help us find them? Do you
think that y—”
“I’ll go right now.” I grab my tray and jump up from table, nearly tripping
over myself in the process. “I’m sorry—I’m just—I’ll go right now. I’ll see you
guys at breakfast,” I whisper, and run out the door.
Brendan and Winston
Brendan and Winston
Brendan and Winston, I keep telling myself.
I hear Kenji laughing as I leave.
I’m not very good at interrogation, apparently.
I have so many questions for Warner but none of them have to do with our
hostage situation. Every time I tell myself I’m going to ask the right questions,
Warner somehow manages to distract me. It’s almost like he knows what I’m
going to ask and is already prepared to redirect the conversation.
It’s confusing.
“Do you have any tattoos?” he’s asking me, smiling as he leans back against
the wall in his undershirt; pants on, socks on, shoes off. “Everyone seems to
have tattoos these days.”
This is not a conversation I ever thought I’d have with Warner.
“No,” I tell him. “I’ve never had an opportunity to get one. Besides, I don’t
think anyone would ever want to get that close to my skin.”
He studies his hands. Smiles. Says, “Maybe someday.”
“Maybe,” I agree.
A pause.
“So what about your tattoo?” I ask. “Why IGNITE?”
His smile is bigger now. Dimples again. He shakes his head, says, “Why
not?”
“I don’t get it.” I tilt my head at him, confused. “You want to remind
yourself to catch on fire?”
He smiles, presses back a laugh. “A handful of letters doesn’t always make a
word, love.”
“I … have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He takes a deep breath. Sits up straighter. “So,” he says. “You used to read a
lot?”
I’m caught off guard. It’s a strange question, and I can’t help but wonder for
a moment if it’s a trick. If admitting to such a thing might get me into trouble.
And then I remember that Warner is my hostage, not the other way around.
“Yes,” I say to him. “I used to.”
His smile fades into something a bit more serious, calculated. His features
are carefully wiped clean of emotion. “And when did you have a chance to
read?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs slowly, glances at nothing across the room. “It just seems strange
that a girl who’s been so wholly isolated her entire life would have much access
to literature. Especially in this world.”
I say nothing.
He says nothing.
I breathe a few beats before answering him.
“I … I never got to choose my own books,” I tell him, and I don’t know why
I feel so nervous saying this out loud, why I have to remind myself not to
whisper. “I read whatever was available. My schools always had little libraries
and my parents had some things around the house. And later …” I hesitate.
“Later, I spent a couple of years in hospitals and psychiatric wards and a juvenile
d-detention center.” My face enflames as if on cue, always ready to be ashamed
of my past, of who I’ve been and continue to be.
But it’s strange.
While one part of me struggles to be so candid, another part of me actually
feels comfortable talking to Warner. Safe. Familiar.
Because he already knows everything about me.
He knows every detail of my 17 years. He has all of my medical records,
knows all about my incidents with the police and the painful relationship I have
had with my parents. And now he’s read my notebook, too.
There’s nothing I could reveal about my history that would surprise him;
nothing about what I’ve done would shock or horrify him. I don’t worry that
he’ll judge me or run away from me.
And this realization, perhaps more than anything else, rattles my bones.
And gives me some sense of relief.
“There were always books around,” I continue, somehow unable to stop
now, eyes glued to the floor. “In the detention center. A lot of them were old and
worn and didn’t have covers, so I didn’t always know what they were called or
who wrote them. I just read anything I could find. Fairy tales and mysteries and
history and poetry. It didn’t matter what it was. I would read it over and over and
over again. The books … they helped keep me from losing my mind altogether
…” I trail off, catching myself before I say much more. Horrified as I realize just
how much I want to confide in him. In Warner.
Terrible, terrible Warner who tried to kill Adam and Kenji. Who made me
his toy.
I hate that I should feel safe enough to speak so freely around him. I hate that
of all people, Warner is the one person I can be completely honest with. I always
feel like I have to protect Adam from me, from the horror story that is my life. I
never want to scare him or tell him too much for fear that he’ll change his mind
and realize what a mistake he’s made in trusting me; in showing me affection.
But with Warner there’s nothing to hide.
I want to see his expression; I want to know what he’s thinking now that I’ve
opened up, offered him a personal look at my past, but I can’t make myself face
him. So I sit here, frozen, humiliation perched on my shoulders and he doesn’t
say a word, doesn’t shift an inch, doesn’t make a single sound. Seconds fly by,
swarming the room all at once and I want to swat them all away; I want to catch
them and shove them into my pockets just long enough to stop time.
Finally, he interrupts the silence.
“I like to read, too,” he says.
I look up, startled.
He’s leaned back against the wall, one hand caught in his hair. He runs his
fingers through the golden layers just once. Drops his hand. Meets my gaze. His
eyes are so, so green.
“You like to read?” I ask.
“You’re surprised.”
“I thought The Reestablishment was going to destroy all of those things. I
thought it was illegal.”
“They are, and it will be,” he says, shifting a little. “Soon, anyway. They’ve
destroyed some of it already, actually.” He looks uncomfortable for the first
time. “It’s ironic,” he says, “that I only really started reading when the plan was
in place to destroy everything. I was assigned to sort through some lists—give
my opinion on which things we’d keep, which things we’d get rid of, which
things we’d recycle for use in campaigns, in future curriculum, et cetera.”
“And you think that’s okay?” I ask him. “To destroy what’s left of culture—
all the languages—all those texts? Do you agree?”
He’s playing with my notebook again. “There … are many things I’d do
differently,” he says, “if I were in charge.” A deep breath. “But a soldier does
not always have to agree in order to obey.”
“What would you do differently?” I ask. “If you were in charge?”
He laughs. Sighs. Looks at me, smiles at me out of the corner of his eye.
“You ask too many questions.”
“I can’t help it,” I tell him. “You just seem so different now. Everything you
say surprises me.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “You’re just … so calm. A little less crazy.”
He laughs one of those silent laughs, the kind that shakes his chest without
making a sound, and he says, “My life has been nothing but battle and
destruction. Being here?” He looks around. “Away from duties, responsibilities.
Death,” he says, eyes intent on the wall. “It’s like a vacation. I don’t have to
think all the time. I don’t have to do anything or talk to anyone or be anywhere.
I’ve never had so many hours to simply sleep,” he says, smiling. “It’s actually
kind of luxurious. I think I’d like to get held hostage more often,” he adds,
mostly to himself.
And I can’t help but study him.
I study his face in a way I’ve never dared to before and I realize I don’t have
the faintest idea what it must be like to live his life. He told me once that I didn’t
have a clue, that I couldn’t possibly understand the strange laws of his world,
and I’m only just beginning to see how right he was. Because I don’t know
anything about that kind of bloody, regimented existence. But I suddenly want to
know.
I suddenly want to understand.
I watch his careful movements, the effort he makes to look unconcerned,
relaxed. But I see how calculated it is. How there’s a reason behind every shift,
every readjustment of his body. He’s always listening, always touching a hand to
the ground, the wall, staring at the door, studying its outline, the hinges, the
handle. I see the way he tenses—just a little bit—at the sound of small noises,
the scratch of metal, muffled voices outside the room. It’s obvious he’s always
alert, always on edge, ready to fight, to react. It makes me wonder if he’s ever
known tranquillity. Safety. If he’s ever been able to sleep through the night. If
he’s ever been able to go anywhere without constantly looking over his own
shoulder.
His hands are clasped together.
He’s playing with a ring on his left hand, turning and turning and turning it
around his pinkie finger. I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to notice he’s
wearing it; it’s a solid band of jade, a shade of green pale enough to perfectly
match his eyes. And then I remember, all at once, seeing it before.
Just one time.
The morning after I’d hurt Jenkins. When Warner came to collect me from
his room. He caught me staring at his ring and quickly slipped his gloves on.
It’s déjà vu.
He catches me looking at his hands and quickly clenches his left fist, covers
it with his right.
“Wha—”
“It’s just a ring,” he says. “It’s nothing.”
“Why are you hiding it if it’s nothing?” I’m already so much more curious
than I was a moment ago, too eager for any opportunity to crack him open, to
figure out what on earth goes on inside of his head.
He sighs.
Flexes and unflexes his fingers. Stares at his hands, palms down, fingers
spread. Slips the ring off his pinkie and holds it up to the fluorescent light; looks
at it. It’s a little O of green. Finally, he meets my eyes. Drops the ring into the
palm of his hand and closes a fist around it.
“You’re not going to tell me?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Why not?”
He rubs the side of his neck, massages the tension out of the lowest part, the
part that just touches his upper back. I can’t help but watch. Can’t help but
wonder what it would feel like to have someone massage the pain out of my
body that way. His hands look so strong.
I’ve just about forgotten what we were talking about when he says, “I’ve had
this ring for almost ten years. It used to fit my index finger.” He glances at me
before looking away again. “And I don’t talk about it.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
“Oh.” I bite down on my bottom lip. Disappointed.
“Do you like Shakespeare?” he asks me.
An odd segue.
I shake my head. “All I know about him is that he stole my name and spelled
it wrong.”
Warner stares at me for a full second before he bursts into laughter—strong,
unrestrained gales of laughter—trying to rein it in and failing.
I’m suddenly uncomfortable, nervous in front of this strange boy who laughs
and wears secret rings and asks me about books and poetry. “I wasn’t trying to
be funny,” I manage to tell him.
But his eyes are still full of smiles when he says, “Don’t worry. I didn’t
know much about him until roughly a year ago. I still don’t understand half the
things he says, so I think we’re going to get rid of most of it, but he did write a
line I really liked.”
“What was it?”
“Would you like to see it?”
“See it?”
But Warner is already on his feet, unbuttoning his pants and I’m wondering
what could possibly be happening, worried I’m being tricked into some new sick
game of his when he stops. Catches the horrified look on my face. Says, “Don’t
worry, love. I’m not getting naked, I promise. It’s just another tattoo.”
“Where?” I ask, frozen in place, wanting and not wanting to look away.
He doesn’t answer.
His pants are unzipped but hanging low on his waist. His boxer-briefs are
visible underneath. He tugs and tugs on the elastic band of his underwear until it
sits just below his hipbone.
I’m blushing through my hairline.
I’ve never seen such an intimate area of any boy’s body before, and I can’t
make myself look away. My moments with Adam were always in the dark and
always interrupted; I never saw this much of him not because I didn’t want to,
but because I never had a chance to. And now the lights are on and Warner’s
standing right in front of me and I’m so caught, so intrigued by the cut of his
frame. I can’t help but notice the way his waist narrows into his hips and
disappears under a piece of fabric. I want to know what it would be like to
understand another person without those barriers.
To know a person so thoroughly, so privately.
I want to study the secrets tucked between his elbows and the whispers
caught behind his knees. I want to follow the lines of his silhouette with my eyes
and the tips of my fingers. I want to trace rivers and valleys along the curved
muscles of his body.
My thoughts shock me.
There’s a desperate heat in the pit of my stomach I wish I could ignore.
There are butterflies in my chest I wish I could explain away. There’s an ache in
my core that I’m unwilling to name.
Beautiful.
He’s so beautiful.
I must be insane.
“It’s interesting,” he says. “It feels very … relevant, I think. Even though it
was written so long ago.”
“What?” I rip my eyes away from his lower half, desperately trying to keep
my imagination from drawing in the details. I look back at the words tattooed
onto his skin and focus this time. “Oh,” I say. “Yes.”
It’s 2 lines. Font like a typewriter inked across the very bottom of his torso.
hell is empty
and all the devils are here
Yes. Interesting. Yes. Sure.
I think I need to lie down.
“Books,” he’s saying, pulling his boxer-briefs up and rezipping his pants,
“are easily destroyed. But words will live as long as people can remember them.
Tattoos, for example, are very hard to forget.” He buttons his button. “I think
there’s something about the impermanence of life these days that makes it
necessary to etch ink into our skin,” he says. “It reminds us that we’ve been
marked by the world, that we’re still alive. That we’ll never forget.”
“Who are you?”
I don’t know this Warner. I’d never be able to recognize this Warner.
He smiles to himself. Sits down again. Says, “No one else will ever need to
know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know who I am,” he says. “That’s enough for me.”
I’m silent a moment. I frown at the floor. “It must be great to go through life
with so much confidence.”
“You are confident,” he says to me. “You’re stubborn and resilient. So brave.
So strong. So inhumanly beautiful. You could conquer the world.”
I actually laugh, look up to meet his eyes. “I cry too much. And I’m not
interested in conquering the world.”
“That,” he says, “is something I will never understand.” He shakes his head.
“You’re just scared. You’re afraid of what you’re unfamiliar with. You’re too
worried about disappointing people. You stifle your own potential,” he says,
“because of what you think others expect of you—because you still follow the
rules you’ve been given.” He looks at me, hard. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“I wish you’d stop expecting me to use my power to kill people.”
He shrugs. “I never said you had to. But it will happen along the way; it’s an
inevitability in war. Killing is statistically impossible to avoid.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Definitely not.”
“You can always avoid killing people, Warner. You avoid killing them by
not going to war.”
But he grins, so brilliantly, not even paying attention. “I love it when you say
my name,” he says. “I don’t even know why.”
“Warner isn’t your name,” I point out. “Your name is Aaron.”
His smile is wide, so wide. “God, I love that.”
“Your name?”
“Only when you say it.”
“Aaron? Or Warner?”
His eyes close. He tilts his head back against the wall. Dimples.
Suddenly I’m struck by the reality of what I’m doing here. Sitting here,
spending time with Warner like we have so many hours to waste. Like there isn’t
a very terrible world outside of these walls. I don’t know how I manage to keep
getting distracted and I promise myself that this time I won’t let the conversation
veer out of control. But when I open my mouth he says “I’m not going to give
you your notebook back.”
My mouth falls closed.
“I know you want it back,” he says, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to
keep it forever.” He holds it up, shows it to me. Grins. And then puts it in his
pocket. The one place I’d never dare to reach.
“Why?” I can’t help but ask. “Why do you want it so much?”
He spends far too long just looking at me. Not answering my question. And
then he says “On the darkest days you have to search for a spot of brightness, on
the coldest days you have to seek out a spot of warmth; on the bleakest days you
have to keep your eyes onward and upward and on the saddest days you have to
leave them open to let them cry. To then let them dry. To give them a chance to
wash out the pain in order to see fresh and clear once again.”
“I can’t believe you have that memorized,” I whisper.
He leans back again. Closes his eyes again. Says, “Nothing in this life will
ever make sense to me but I can’t help but try to collect the change and hope it’s
enough to pay for our mistakes.”
“I wrote that, too?” I ask him, unable to believe it’s possible he’s reciting the
same words that fell from my lips to my fingertips and bled onto a page. Still
unable to believe he’s now privy to my private thoughts, feelings I captured with
a tortured mind and hammered into sentences I shoved into paragraphs, ideas I
pinned together with punctuation marks that serve no function but to determine
where one thought ends and another begins.
This blond boy has my secrets in his mouth.
“You wrote a lot of things,” he says, not looking at me. “About your parents,
your childhood, your experiences with other people. You talked about hope and
redemption and what it would be like to see a bird fly by. You wrote about pain.
And what it’s like to think you’re a monster. What it was like to be judged by
everyone before you’d even spoken two words to them.” A deep inhale. “So
much of it was like seeing myself on paper,” he whispers. “Like reading all the
things I never knew how to say.”
And I wish my heart would just shut up shut up shut up shut up.
“Every single day I’m sorry,” he says, his words barely a breath now. “Sorry
for believing the things I heard about you. And then for hurting you when I
thought I was helping you. I can’t apologize for who I am,” he says. “That part
of me is already done; already ruined. I gave up on myself a long time ago. But I
am sorry I didn’t understand you better. Everything I did, I did because I wanted
to help you to be stronger. I wanted you to use your anger as a tool, as a weapon
to help harness the strength inside of you; I wanted you to be able to fight the
world. I provoked you on purpose,” he says. “I pushed you too far, too hard, did
things to horrify and disgust you and I did it all on purpose. Because that’s how I
was taught to steel myself against the terror in this world. That’s how I was
trained to fight back. And I wanted to teach you. I knew you had the potential to
be more, so much more. I could see greatness in you.”
He looks at me. Really, really looks at me.
“You’re going to go on to do incredible things,” he says. “I’ve always known
that. I think I just wanted to be a part of it.”
And I try. I try so hard to remember all the reasons why I’m supposed to hate
him, I try to remember all the horrible things I’ve seen him do. But I’m tortured
because I understand too much about what it’s like to be tortured. To do things
because you don’t know any better. To do things because you think they’re right
because you were never taught what was wrong.
Because it’s so hard to be kind to the world when all you’ve ever felt is hate.
Because it’s so hard to see goodness in the world when all you’ve ever
known is terror.
And I want to say something to him. Something profound and complete and
memorable but he seems to understand. He offers me a strange, unsteady smile
that doesn’t reach his eyes but says so much.
Then
“Tell your team,” he says, “to prepare for war. Unless his plans have
changed, my father will be ordering an attack on civilians the day after tomorrow
and it will be nothing short of a massacre. It will also be your only opportunity
to save your men. They are being held captive somewhere in the lower levels of
Sector 45 Headquarters. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
“How did you—”
“I know why you’re here, love. I’m not an idiot. I know why you’re being
forced to spend time with me.”
“But why offer the information so freely?” I ask him. “What reason do you
have to help us?”
There’s a flicker of change in his eyes that doesn’t last long enough for me to
examine it. And though his expression is carefully neutral, something in the
space between us feels different all of a sudden. Charged.
“Go,” he says. “You must tell them now.”
FIFTY-THREE
Adam, Kenji, Castle, and I are camped out in his office trying to discuss
strategy.
Last night I ran straight to Kenji—who then took me to Castle—to tell him
what Warner told me. Castle was both relieved and horrified, and I think he still
hasn’t digested the information yet.
He told me he was going to meet with Warner in the morning, just to follow
up, just to see if Warner would be willing to elaborate at all (he wasn’t), and that
Kenji, Adam, and I should meet him in his office at lunch.
So now we’re all crammed into his small space, along with 7 others. The
faces in this room are many of the same ones I saw when we journeyed into The
Reestablishment’s storage compound; that means they’re important, integral to
this movement. And it makes me wonder when I ever became a part of Castle’s
core group at Omega Point.
I can’t help but feel a little proud. A little thrilled to be someone he relies on.
To be contributing.
And it makes me wonder how much I’ve changed in such a short period of
time. How different my life has become, how much stronger and how much
weaker I feel now. It makes me wonder whether things would’ve turned out
differently if Adam and I had found a way to stay together. If I ever would’ve
ventured outside of the safety he introduced to my life.
I wonder about a lot of things.
But when I look up and catch him staring at me, my wonders disappear; and
I’m left with nothing but the pains of missing him. Left wishing he wouldn’t
look away the moment I look up.
This was my miserable choice. I brought it upon myself.
Castle is sitting at his desk, elbows propped up on the table, chin resting on
clasped hands. His eyebrows are furrowed, his lips pursed, his eyes focused on
the papers in front of him.
He hasn’t said a word in 5 minutes.
Finally, he looks up. Looks at Kenji, who is sitting right in front of him,
between me and Adam. “What do you think?” he says. “Offensive or
defensive?”
“Guerrilla warfare,” Kenji says without hesitation. “Nothing else.”
A deep breath. “Yes,” Castle says. “I thought so too.”
“We need to be split up,” Kenji says. “Do you want to assign groups, or
should I?”
“I’ll assign the preliminary groups. I’d like you to look them over and
suggest changes, if any.”
Kenji nods.
“Perfect. And weapons—”
“I’ll oversee that,” Adam says. “I can make sure everything is clean, loaded,
ready to go. I’m already familiar with the armory.”
I had no idea.
“Good. Excellent. We’ll assign one group to try and get on base to find
Winston and Brendan; everyone else will spread out among the compounds. Our
mission is simple: save as many civilians as possible. Take out only as many
soldiers as is absolutely necessary. Our fight is not against the men, but against
their leaders—we must never forget that. Kenji,” he says, “I’d like you to
oversee the groups entering the compounds. Do you feel comfortable doing
that?”
Kenji nods.
“I will lead the group onto base,” Castle says. “While you and Mr. Kent
would be ideal for infiltrating Sector 45, I’d like you to stay with Ms. Ferrars;
the three of you work well together, and we could use your strengths on the
ground. Now,” he says, spreading out the papers in front of him, “I’ve been
studying these blueprints all ni—”
Someone is banging on the glass window in Castle’s door.
He’s a youngish man I’ve never seen before, with bright, light-brown eyes
and hair cropped so close to the crown I can’t even make out the color. His eyes
are pulled together, his forehead tight, tense. “Sir!” he’s shouting, he’s been
shouting, I realize, but his voice is muffled and only then does it dawn on me
that this room must be soundproof, if only just a little bit.
Kenji jumps out of his chair, yanks the door open.
“Sir!” The man is out of breath. It’s clear he ran all the way here. “Sir, please
—”
“Samuel?” Castle is up, around his desk, charging forward to grip this boy’s
shoulders, trying to focus his eyes. “What is it—what’s wrong?”
“Sir,” Samuel says again, this time more normally, his breathing almost
within his grasp. “We have a—a situation.”
“Tell me everything—now is not the time to hold back if something has
happened—”
“It’s nothing to do with anything topside, sir, it’s just—” His eyes dart in my
direction for one split second. “Our … visitor—he—he is not cooperating, sir,
he’s—he’s giving the guards a lot of trouble—”
“What kind of trouble?” Castle’s eyes are two slits.
Samuel drops his voice. “He’s managed to make a dent in the door, sir. He’s
managed to dent the steel door, sir, and he’s threatening the guards and they’re
beginning to worry—”
“Juliette.”
No.
“I need your help,” Castle says without looking at me. “I know you don’t
want to do this, but you’re the only one he’ll listen to and we can’t afford this
distraction, not right now.” His voice is so thin, so stretched it sounds as if it
might actually crack. “Please do what you can to contain him, and when you
deem it safe for one of the girls to enter, perhaps we can find a way to sedate
him without endangering them in the process.”
My eyes flick up to Adam almost accidentally. He doesn’t look happy.
“Juliette.” Castle’s jaw tightens. “Please. Go now.”
I nod. Turn to leave.
“Get ready,” Castle adds as I walk out the door, his voice too soft for the
words he speaks next. “Unless we have been deceived, the supreme will be
massacring unarmed civilians tomorrow, and we can’t afford to assume Warner
has given us false information. We leave at dawn.”
FIFTY-FOUR
The guards let me into Warner’s room without a single word.
My eyes dart around the now partially furnished space, heart pounding, fists
clenching, blood racing racing racing. Something is wrong. Something has
happened. Warner was perfectly fine when I left him last night and I can’t
imagine what could’ve inspired him to lose his mind like this but I’m scared.
Someone has given him a chair. I realize now how he was able to dent the
steel door. No one should’ve given him a chair.
Warner is sitting in it, his back to me. Only his head is visible from where
I’m standing.
“You came back,” he says.
“Of course I came back,” I tell him, inching closer. “What’s wrong? Is
something wrong?”
He laughs. Runs a hand through his hair. Looks up at the ceiling.
“What happened?” I’m so worried now. “Are you—did something happen to
you? Are you okay?”
“I need to get out of here,” he says. “I need to leave. I can’t be here
anymore.”
“Warner—”
“Do you know what he said to me? Did he tell you what he said to me?”
Silence.
“He just walked into my room this morning. He walked right in here and said
he wanted to have a conversation with me.” Warner laughs again, loud, too loud.
Shakes his head. “He told me I can change. He said I might have a gift like
everyone else here—that maybe I have an ability. He said I can be different,
love. He said he believes I can be different if I want to be.”
Castle told him.
Warner stands up but doesn’t turn around all the way and I see he’s not
wearing a shirt. He doesn’t even seem to mind that I can see the scars on his
back, the word IGNITE tattooed on his body. His hair is messy, untamed, falling
into his face and his pants are zipped but unbuttoned and I’ve never seen him so
disheveled before. He presses his palms against the stone wall, arms
outstretched; his body is bowed, his head down as if in prayer. His entire body is
tense, tight, muscles straining against his skin. His clothes are in a pile on the
floor and his mattress is in the middle of the room and the chair he was just
sitting in is facing the wall, staring at nothing at all and I realize he’s begun to
lose his mind in here.
“Can you believe that?” he asks me, still not looking in my direction. “Can
you believe he thinks I can just wake up one morning and be different? Sing
happy songs and give money to the poor and beg the world to forgive me for
what I’ve done? Do you think that’s possible? Do you think I can change?”
He finally turns to face me and his eyes are laughing, his eyes are like
emeralds glinting in the setting sun and his mouth is twitching, suppressing a
smile. “Do you think I could be different?” He takes a few steps toward me and I
don’t know why it affects my breathing. Why I can’t find my mouth.
“It’s just a question,” he says, and he’s right in front of me and I don’t even
know how he got there. He’s still looking at me, his eyes so focused and so
simultaneously unnerving, brilliant, blazing with something I can never place.
My heart it will not be still it refuses to stop skipping skipping skipping “Tell
me, Juliette. I’d love to know what you really think of me.”
“Why?” Barely a whisper in an attempt to buy some time.
Warner’s lips flicker up and into a smile before they fall open, just a bit, just
enough to twitch into a strange, curious look that lingers in his eyes. He doesn’t
answer. He doesn’t say a word. He only moves closer to me, studying me and
I’m frozen in place, my mouth stuffed full of the seconds he doesn’t speak and
I’m fighting every atom in my body, every stupid cell in my system for being so
attracted to him.
Oh.
God.
I am so horribly attracted to him.
The guilt is growing inside of me in stacks, settling on my bones, snapping
me in half. It’s a cable twisted around my neck, a caterpillar crawling across my
stomach. It’s the night and midnight and the twilight of indecision. It’s too many
secrets I no longer contain.
I don’t understand why I want this.
I am a terrible person.
And it’s like he sees what I’m thinking, like he can feel the change
happening in my head, because suddenly he’s different. His energy slows down,
his eyes are deep, troubled, tender; his lips are soft, still slightly parted and now
the air in this room is too tight, too full of cotton and I feel the blood rushing
around in my head, crashing into every rational region of my brain.
I wish someone would remind me how to breathe.
“Why can’t you answer my question?” He’s looking so deeply into my eyes
that I’m surprised I haven’t buckled under the intensity and I realize then, right
in this moment I realize that everything about him is intense. Nothing about him
is manageable or easy to compartmentalize. He’s too much. Everything about
him is too much. His emotions, his actions, his anger, his aggression.
His love.
He’s dangerous, electric, impossible to contain. His body is rippling with an
energy so extraordinary that even when he’s calmed down it’s almost palpable.
It has a presence.
But I’ve developed a strange, frightening faith in who Warner really is and
who he has the capacity to become. I want to find the 19-year-old boy who
would feed a stray dog. I want to believe in the boy with a tortured childhood
and an abusive father. I want to understand him. I want to unravel him.
I want to believe he is more than the mold he was forced into.
“I think you can change,” I hear myself saying. “I think anyone can change.”
And he smiles.
It’s a slow, delighted smile. The kind of smile that breaks into a laugh and
lights up his features and makes him sigh. He closes his eyes. His face is so
touched, so amused. “It’s just so sweet,” he says. “So unbearably sweet. Because
you really believe that.”
“Of course I do.”
He finally looks at me when he whispers, “But you’re wrong.”
“What?”
“I’m heartless,” he says to me, his words cold, hollow, directed inward. “I’m
a heartless bastard and a cruel, vicious being. I don’t care about people’s
feelings. I don’t care about their fears or their futures. I don’t care about what
they want or whether or not they have a family, and I’m not sorry,” he says.
“I’ve never been sorry for anything I’ve done.”
It actually takes me a few moments to find my head. “But you apologized to
me,” I tell him. “You apologized to me just last night—”
“You’re different,” he says, cutting me off. “You don’t count.”
“I’m not different,” I tell him. “I’m just another person, just like everyone
else. And you’ve proven you have the capacity for remorse. For compassion. I
know you can be kind—”
“That’s not who I am.” His voice is suddenly hard, suddenly too strong.
“And I’m not going to change. I can’t erase the nineteen miserable years of my
life. I can’t misplace the memories of what I’ve done. I can’t wake up one
morning and decide to live on borrowed hopes and dreams. Someone else’s
promises for a brighter future.
“And I won’t lie to you,” he says. “I’ve never given a damn about others and
I don’t make sacrifices and I do not compromise. I am not good, or fair, or
decent, and I never will be. I can’t be. Because to try to be any of those things
would be embarrassing.”
“How can you think that?” I want to shake him. “How can you be ashamed
of an attempt to be better?”
But he’s not listening. He’s laughing. He’s saying, “Can you even picture
me? Smiling at small children and handing out presents at birthday parties? Can
you picture me helping a stranger? Playing with the neighbor’s dog?”
“Yes,” I say to him. “Yes I can.” I’ve already seen it, I don’t say to him.
“No.”
“Why not?” I insist. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
“That kind of life,” he says, “is impossible for me.”
“But why?”
Warner clenches and unclenches 5 fingers before running them through his
hair. “Because I feel it,” he says, quieter now. “I’ve always been able to feel it.”
“Feel what?” I whisper.
“What people think of me.”
“What …?”
“Their feelings—their energy—it’s—I don’t know what it is,” he says,
frustrated, stumbling backward, shaking his head. “I’ve always been able to tell.
I know how everyone hates me. I know how little my father cares for me. I know
the agony of my mother’s heart. I know that you’re not like everyone else.” His
voice catches. “I know you’re telling the truth when you say you don’t hate me.
That you want to and you can’t. Because there’s no ill will in your heart, not
toward me, and if there was I would know. Just like I know,” he says, his voice
husky with restraint, “that you felt something when we kissed. You felt the same
thing I did and you’re ashamed of it.”
I’m dripping panic everywhere.
“How can you know that?” I ask him. “H-how—you can’t just know things
like that—”
“No one has ever looked at me like you do,” he whispers. “No one ever talks
to me like you do, Juliette. You’re different,” he says. “You’re so different. You
would understand me. But the rest of the world does not want my sympathies.
They don’t want my smiles. Castle is the only man on Earth who’s been the
exception to this rule, and his eagerness to trust and accept me only shows how
weak this resistance is. No one here knows what they’re doing and they’re all
going to get themselves slaughtered—”
“That’s not true—that can’t be true—”
“Listen to me,” Warner says, urgently now. “You must understand—the only
people who matter in this wretched world are the ones with real power. And
you,” he says, “you have power. You have the kind of strength that could shake
this planet—that could conquer it. And maybe it’s still too soon, maybe you
need more time to recognize your own potential, but I will always be waiting. I
will always want you on my side. Because the two of us—the two of us,” he
says, he stops. He sounds breathless. “Can you imagine?” His eyes are intent on
mine, eyebrows drawn together. Studying me. “Of course you can,” he whispers.
“You think about it all the time.”
I gasp.
“You don’t belong here,” he says. “You don’t belong with these people.
They will drag you down with them and get you killed—”
“I have no other choice!” I’m angry now, indignant. “I’d rather stay here
with those who are trying to help—trying to make a difference! At least they’re
not murdering innocent people—”
“You think your new friends have never killed before?” Warner shouts,
pointing at the door. “You think Kent has never killed anyone? That Kenji has
never put a bullet through a stranger’s body? They were my soldiers!” he says. “I
saw them do it with my own eyes!”
“They were trying to survive,” I tell him, shaking, fighting to ignore the
terror of my own imagination. “Their loyalties were never with The
Reestablishment—”
“My loyalties,” he says, “do not lie with The Reestablishment. My loyalties
lie with those who know how to live. I only have two options in this game,
love.” He’s breathing hard. “Kill. Or be killed.”
“No,” I tell him, backing away, feeling sick. “It doesn’t have to be like that.
You don’t have to live like that. You could get away from your father, from that
life. You don’t have to be what he wants you to be—”
“The damage,” he says, “is already done. It’s too late for me. I’ve already
accepted my fate.”
“No—Warner—”
“I’m not asking you to worry about me,” he says. “I know exactly what my
future looks like and I’m okay with it. I’m happy to live in solitude. I’m not
afraid of spending the rest of my life in the company of my own person. I do not
fear loneliness.”
“You don’t have to have that life,” I tell him. “You don’t have to be alone.”
“I will not stay here,” he says. “I just wanted you to know that. I’m going to
find a way out of here and I’m going to leave as soon as I have the chance. My
vacation,” he says, “has officially come to an end.”
FIFTY-FIVE
Tick tock.
Castle called an impromptu meeting to brief everyone on the details of
tomorrow’s fight; there are less than 12 hours until we leave. We’ve gathered in
the dining hall because it’s the easiest place to seat everyone at once.
We had 1 final meal, a handful of forced conversation, 2 tense hours filled
with brief, spastic moments of laughter that sounded more like choking. Sara and
Sonya were the last to sneak into the hall, both spotting me and waving a quick
hello before they sat down on the other side of the room. Then Castle began to
speak.
Everyone will need to fight.
All able-bodied men and women. The elderly unable to enter battle will stay
back with the youngest ones, and the youngest ones will include James and his
old group of friends.
James is currently crushing Adam’s hand.
Anderson is going after the people, Castle says. The people have been
rioting, raging against The Reestablishment now more than ever. Our battle gave
them hope, Castle says to us. They’d only heard rumors of a resistance, and the
battle concretized those rumors. They are looking to us to support them, to stand
by them, and now, for the first time, we will be fighting with our gifts out in the
open.
On the compounds.
Where the civilians will see us for what we are.
Castle is telling us to prepare for aggression on both sides. He says that
sometimes, especially when frightened, people will not react positively to seeing
our kind. They prefer the familiar terror as opposed to the unknown or the
inexplicable, and our presence, our public display might create new enemies.
We have to be ready for that.
“Then why should we care?” someone shouts from the back of the room. She
gets to her feet and I notice her sleek black hair, one heavy sheet of ink that stops
at her waist. Her eyes are glittering under the fluorescent lights. “If they’re only
going to hate us,” she says, “why should we even defend them? That’s
ridiculous!”
Castle takes a deep breath. “We cannot fault them all for the foolishness of
one.”
“But it’s not just one, is it?” a new voice chimes in. “How many of them are
going to turn on us?”
“We have no way of knowing,” Castle says. “It could be one. It could be
none. I am merely advising you to be cautious. You must never forget that these
civilians are innocent and unarmed. They are being murdered for their
disobedience—for merely speaking out and asking for fair treatment. They are
starved and they’ve lost their homes, their families. Surely, you must be able to
relate. Many of you still have family lost, scattered across the country, do you
not?”
There’s a general murmur among the crowd.
“You must imagine that it is your mother. Your father. Your brothers and
sisters among them. They are hurting and they are beaten down. We have to do
what little we can to help. It’s the only way. We are their only hope.”
“What about our men?” Another person gets to his feet. He must be in his
late 40s, round and robust, towering over the room. “Where is the guarantee that
we will get Winston and Brendan back?”
Castle’s gaze drops for only a second. I wonder if I’m the only one who
noticed the pain flit in and out of his eyes. “There is no guarantee, my friend.
There never is. But we will do our best. We will not give up.”
“Then what good was it to take the kid hostage?” he protests. “Why not just
kill him? Why are we keeping him alive? He’s done us no good and he’s eating
our food and using resources that should go to the rest of us!”
The crowd bursts into an aggravated frenzy, angry, insane with emotions.
Everyone is shouting at once, shouting things like, “Kill him!” and “That’ll show
the supreme!” and “We have to make a statement!” and “He deserves to die!”
There’s a sudden constriction in my heart. I’ve almost begun to
hyperventilate and I realize, for the very first time, that the thought of Warner
dead is anything but appealing to me.
It horrifies me.
I look to Adam for a different kind of reaction but I don’t know what I was
expecting. I’m stupid to be surprised at the tension in his eyes, his forehead, the
stiff set of his lips. I’m stupid to have expected anything but hatred from Adam.
Of course Adam hates Warner. Of course he does.
Warner tried to murder him.
Of course he, too, wants Warner dead.
I think I’m going to be sick.
“Please!” Castle shouts. “I know you’re upset! Tomorrow is a difficult thing
to face, but we can’t channel our aggression onto one person. We have to use it
as fuel for our fight and we have to remain united. We cannot allow anything to
divide us. Not now!”
6 ticks of silence.
“I won’t fight until he’s dead!”
“We kill him tonight!”
“Let’s get him now!”
The crowd is a roar of angry bodies, determined, ugly faces so scary, so
savage, so twisted in inhuman rage. I hadn’t realized that the people of Omega
Point were harboring so much resentment.
“STOP!” Castle’s hands are in the air, his eyes on fire. Every table and chair
in the room has begun to rattle. People are looking around, scattered and scared,
unnerved.
They’re still unwilling to undermine Castle’s authority. At least for now.
“Our hostage,” Castle begins, “is no longer a hostage.”
Impossible.
It’s impossible.
It’s not possible.
“He has come to me, just tonight,” Castle says, “and asked for sanctuary at
Omega Point.”
My brain is screaming, raging against the 14 words Castle has just confessed.
It can’t be true. Warner said he was going to leave. He said he was going to
find a way to get out.
But Omega Point is even more shocked than I am. Even Adam is shaking
with anger beside me. I’m afraid to look at his face.
“SILENCE! PLEASE!” Castle holds out another hand to quell the explosion
of protests.
He says, “We have recently discovered that he, too, has a gift. And he says
he wants to join us. He says he will fight with us tomorrow. He says he will fight
against his father and help us find Brendan and Winston.”
Chaos
Chaos
Chaos
explodes in every corner of the room.
“He’s a liar!”
“Prove it!”
“How can you believe him?”
“He’s a traitor to his own people! He’ll be a traitor to us!”
“I’ll never fight beside him!”
“I’ll kill him first!”
Castle’s eyes narrow, flashing under the fluorescent lights, and his hands
move through the air like whisks, gathering up every plate, every spoon, every
glass cup in the room and he holds them there, right in midair, daring someone
to speak, to shout, to disagree.
“You will not touch him,” he says quietly. “I took an oath to help the
members of our kind and I will not break it now. Think of yourselves!” he
shouts. “Think of the day you found out! Think of the loneliness, the isolation,
the terror that overcame you! Think of how you were cast off by your families
and your friends! You don’t think he could be a changed man? How have you
changed, friends? You judge him now! You judge one of your own who asks for
amnesty!”
Castle looks disgusted.
“If he does anything to compromise any of us, if he does one single thing to
disprove his loyalty—only then are you free to pass judgment upon his person.
But we first give him a chance, do we not?” He is no longer bothering to hide his
anger. “He says he will help us find our men! He says he will fight against his
father! He has valuable information we can use! Why should we be unwilling to
take a chance? He is no more than a child of nineteen! He is only one and we are
many more!”
The crowd is hushed, whispering amongst itself and I hear snippets of
conversation and things like “naive” and “ridiculous” and “he’s going to get all
of us killed!” but no one speaks up and I’m relieved. I can’t believe what I’m
feeling right now and I wish I didn’t care at all about what happens to Warner.
I wish I could want him dead. I wish I felt nothing for him.
But I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
“How do you know?” someone asks. A new voice, a calm voice, a voice
struggling to be rational.
The voice sitting right beside me.
Adam gets to his feet. Swallows, hard. Says, “How do you know he has a
gift? Have you tested him?”
And he looks at me, Castle looks at me, he stares at me as if to will me to
speak and I feel like I’ve sucked all of the air out of this room, like I’ve been
thrown into a vat of boiling water, like I will never find my heartbeat ever again
and I am begging praying hoping and wishing he will not say the words he says
next but he does.
Of course he does.
“Yes,” Castle says. “We know that he, like you, can touch Juliette.”
FIFTY-SIX
It’s like spending 6 months just trying to inhale.
It’s like forgetting how to move your muscles and reliving every nauseous
moment in your life and struggling to get all the splinters out from underneath
your skin. It’s like that one time you woke up and tripped down a rabbit hole and
a blond girl in a blue dress kept asking you for directions but you couldn’t tell
her, you had no idea, you kept trying to speak but your throat was full of rain
clouds and it’s like someone has taken the ocean and filled it with silence and
dumped it all over this room.
It’s like this.
No one is speaking. No one is moving. Everyone is staring.
At me.
At Adam.
At Adam staring at me.
His eyes are wide, blinking too fast, his features shifting in and out of
confusion and anger and pain and confusion so much confusion and a touch of
betrayal, of suspicion, of so much more confusion and an extra dose of pain and
I’m gaping like a fish in the moments before it dies.
I wish he would say something. I wish he would at least ask or accuse or
demand something but he says nothing, he only studies me, stares at me, and I
watch as the light goes out of his eyes, as the anger gives way to the pain and the
extraordinary impossibility he must be experiencing right now and he sits down.
He does not look in my direction.
“Adam—”
He’s up. He’s up. He’s up and he’s charging out of the room and I scramble
to my feet, I chase him out the door and I hear the chaos erupt in my wake, the
crowd dissolving into anger all over again and I almost slam right into him, I’m
gasping and he spins around and he says
“I don’t understand.” His eyes are so hurt, so deep, so blue.
“Adam, I—”
“He’s touched you.” It’s not a question. He can hardly meet my eyes and he
looks almost embarrassed by the words he speaks next. “He’s touched your
skin.”
If only it were just that. If only it were that simple. If only I could get these
currents out of my blood and Warner out of my head and why am I so confused
“Juliette.”
“Yes,” I tell him, I hardly move my lips. The answer to his nonquestion is
yes.
Adam touches his fingers to his mouth, looks up, looks away, makes a
strange, disbelieving sound. “When?”
I tell him.
I tell him when it happened, how it all began, I tell him how I was wearing
one of the dresses Warner always made me wear, how he was fighting to stop
me before I jumped out the window, how his hand grazed my leg and how he
touched me and nothing happened.
I tell him how I tried to pretend it was all just a figment of my imagination
until Warner caught us again.
I don’t tell him how Warner told me he missed me, how he told me he loved
me and he kissed me, how he kissed me with such wild, reckless intensity. I
don’t tell him that I pretended to return Warner’s affections just so I could slip
my hands under his coat to get the gun out of his inside pocket. I don’t tell him
that I was surprised, shocked, even, at how it felt to be in his arms, and that I
pushed away those strange feelings because I hated Warner, because I was so
horrified that he’d shot Adam that I wanted to kill him.
All Adam knows is that I almost did. That I almost killed Warner.
And now Adam is blinking, digesting the words I’m telling him, innocent of
the things I’ve kept to myself.
I really am a monster.
“I didn’t want you to know,” I manage to say. “I thought it would complicate
things between us—after everything we’ve had to deal with—I just thought it
would be better to ignore it and I don’t know.” I fumble, fail for words. “It was
stupid. I was stupid. I should have told you and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t
want you to find out like this.”
Adam is breathing hard, rubbing the back of his head before running a hand
through his hair and he says, “I don’t—I don’t get it—I mean—do we know why
he can touch you? Is it like me? Can he do what I do? I don’t—God, Juliette, and
you’ve been spending all that time alone with him—”
“Nothing happened,” I tell him. “All I did was talk to him and he never tried
to touch me. And I have no idea why he can touch me—I don’t think anyone
does. He hasn’t started testing with Castle yet.”
Adam sighs and drags a hand across his face and says, so quietly only I can
hear him, “I don’t even know why I’m surprised. We share the same goddamn
DNA.” He swears under his breath. Swears again. “Am I ever going to catch a
break?” he asks, raising his voice, talking to the air. “Is there ever going to be a
time when some shitty thing isn’t being thrown in my face? Jesus. It’s like this
insanity is never going to end.”
I want to tell him that I don’t think it ever will.
“Juliette.”
I freeze at the sound of his voice.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight, so tight, refusing to believe my ears. Warner
cannot be here. Of course he’s not here. It’s not even possible for him to be out
here but then I remember. Castle said he’s no longer a hostage.
Castle must’ve let him out of his room.
Oh.
Oh no.
This can’t be happening. Warner is not standing so close to me and Adam
right now, not again, not like this not after everything this cannot be happening
but Adam looks over my shoulder, looks behind me at the person I’m trying
so hard to ignore and I can’t lift my eyes. I don’t want to see what’s about to
happen.
Adam’s voice is like acid when he speaks. “What the hell are you doing
here?”
“It’s good to see you again, Kent.” I can actually hear Warner smile. “We
should catch up, you know. Especially in light of this new discovery. I had no
idea we had so much in common.”
You really, truly have no idea, I want to say out loud.
“You sick piece of shit,” Adam says to him, his voice low, measured.
“Such unfortunate language.” Warner shakes his head. “Only those who
cannot express themselves intelligently would resort to such crude substitutions
in vocabulary.” A pause. “Is it because I intimidate you, Kent? Am I making you
nervous?” He laughs. “You seem to be struggling to hold yourself together.”
“I will kill you—” Adam charges forward to grab Warner by the throat just as
Kenji slams into him, into both of them, shoving them apart with a look of
absolute disgust on his face.
“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” His eyes are blazing. “I
don’t know if you’ve noticed but you’re standing right in front of the doorway
and you’re scaring the shit out of the little kids, Kent, so I’m going to have to
ask you to calm your ass down.” Adam tries to speak but Kenji cuts him off.
“Listen, I don’t have a clue what Warner is doing out of his room, but that’s not
my call to make. Castle is in charge around here, and we have to respect that.
You can’t go around killing people just because you feel like it.”
“This is the same guy who tried to torture me to death!” Adam shouts. “He
had his men beat the shit out of you! And I have to live with him? Fight with
him? Pretend everything is fine? Has Castle lost his mind—”
“Castle knows what he’s doing,” Kenji snaps. “You don’t need to have an
opinion. You will defer to his judgment.”
Adam throws his hands in the air, furious. “I don’t believe this. This is a
joke! Who does this? Who treats hostages like they’re on some kind of retreat?”
he shouts again, making no effort to keep his voice down. “He could go back
and give away every detail of this place—he could give away our exact
location!”
“That’s impossible,” Warner says. “I have no idea where we are.”
Adam turns on Warner so quickly that I spin around just as fast, just to catch
the action. Adam is shouting, saying something, looking like he might attack
Warner right here in this moment and Kenji is trying to restrain him but I can
hardly hear what’s going on around me. The blood is pounding too hard in my
head and my eyes are forgetting to blink because Warner is looking at me, only
me, his eyes so focused, so intent, so heart-wrenchingly deep it renders me
completely still.
Warner’s chest is rising and falling, strong enough that I can see it from
where I’m standing. He’s not paying attention to the commotion beside him, the
chaos of the dining hall or Adam trying to pummel him into the ground; he’s not
moved a single inch. He will not look away and I know I have to do it for him.
I turn my head.
Kenji is yelling at Adam to calm down about something and I reach out, I
grab Adam’s arm, I offer him a small smile and he stills. “Come on,” I tell him.
“Let’s go back inside. Castle isn’t finished yet and we need to hear what he’s
saying.”
Adam makes an effort to regain control of himself. Takes a deep breath.
Offers me a quick nod and allows me to lead him forward. I’m forcing myself to
focus on Adam so I can pretend Warner isn’t here.
Warner isn’t a fan of my plan.
He’s now standing in front of us, blocking our path and I look at him despite
my best intentions only to see something I’ve never seen before. Not to this
degree, not like this.
Pain.
“Move,” Adam snaps at him, but Warner doesn’t seem to notice.
He’s looking at me. He’s looking at my hand clenched around Adam’s
covered arm and the agony in his eyes is breaking my knees and I can’t speak, I
shouldn’t speak, I wouldn’t know what to say even if I could speak and then he
says my name. He says it again. He says, “Juliette—”
“Move!” Adam barks again, this time losing restraint and pushing Warner
with enough strength to knock him to the floor. Except Warner doesn’t fall. He
trips backward, just a little, but the movement somehow triggers something
within him, some kind of dormant anger he’s all too eager to unleash and he’s
charging forward, ready to inflict damage and I’m trying to figure out what to do
to make it stop, I’m trying to come up with a plan and I’m stupid.
I’m stupid enough to step in the middle.
Adam grabs me to try and pull me back but I’m already pressing a palm to
Warner’s chest and I don’t know what I’m thinking but I’m not thinking at all
and that seems to be the problem. I’m here, I’m caught in the milliseconds
standing between 2 brothers willing to destroy one another and it’s not even me
who manages to do anything at all.
It’s Kenji.
He grabs both boys by the arms and tries to pry them apart but the sudden
sound that rips through his throat is a torture and a terror I wish I could tear out
of my skull.
He’s down.
He’s on the ground.
He’s choking, gasping, writhing on the floor until he goes limp, until he can
hardly breathe and then he’s still, too still, and I think I’m screaming, I keep
touching my lips to see where this sound is coming from and I’m on my knees.
I’m trying to shake him awake but he’s not moving, he’s not responding and I
have no idea what just happened.
I have no idea if Kenji is dead.
FIFTY-SEVEN
I’m definitely screaming.
Arms are pulling me up off the floor and I hear voices and sounds I don’t
care to recognize because all I know is that this can’t happen, not to Kenji, not to
my funny, complicated friend who keeps secrets behind his smiles and I’m
ripping away from the hands holding me back and I’m blind, I’m bolting into the
dining hall and a hundred blurry faces blend into the background because the
only one I want to see is wearing a navy-blue blazer and headful of dreads tied
into a ponytail.
“Castle!” I’m screaming. I’m still screaming. I may have fallen to the floor,
I’m not sure, but I can tell my kneecaps are starting to hurt and I don’t care I
don’t care I don’t care—“Castle! It’s Kenji—he’s—please—”
I’ve never seen Castle run before.
He charges through the room at an inhuman speed, past me and into the hall.
Everyone in the room is up, frantic, some shouting, panicked, and I’m chasing
Castle back into the tunnel and Kenji is still there. Still limp. Still.
Too still.
“Where are the girls?” Castle is shouting. “Someone—get the girls!” He’s
cradling Kenji’s head, trying to pull Kenji’s heavy body into his arms and I’ve
never heard him like this before, not even when he talked about our hostages, not
even when he talked about what Anderson has done to the civilians. I look
around and see the members of Omega Point standing all around us, pain carved
into their features and so many of them have already started crying, clutching at
each other and I realize I never fully recognized Kenji. I didn’t understand the
reach of his authority. I’d never really seen just how much he means to the
people in this room.
How much they love him.
I blink and Adam is one of 50 different people trying to help carry Kenji and
now they’re running, they’re hoping against hope and someone is saying,
“They’ve gone to the medical wing! They’re preparing a bed for him!” And it’s
like a stampede, everyone rushing after them, trying to find out what’s wrong
and no one will look at me, no one will meet my eyes and I pull myself away,
out of sight, around the corner, into the darkness. I taste the tears as they fall into
my mouth, I count each salty drop because I can’t understand what happened,
how it happened, how this is even possible because I wasn’t touching him, I
couldn’t have been touching him please please please I couldn’t have touched
him but then I freeze. Icicles form along my arms as I realize: I’m not wearing
my gloves.
I forgot my gloves. I was in such a rush to get here tonight that I just jumped
out of the shower and left my gloves in my room and it doesn’t seem real, it
doesn’t seem possible that I could’ve done this, that I could’ve forgotten, that I
could be responsible for yet another life lost and I just I just I just I fall to the
floor.
“Juliette.”
I look up. I jump up.
I say, “Stay away from me” and I’m shaking, I’m trying to push the tears
back but I’m shrinking into nothingness because I’m thinking this must be it.
This must be my ultimate punishment. I deserve this pain, I deserve to have
killed one of my only friends in the world and I want to shrivel up and disappear
forever. “Go away—”
“Juliette, please,” Warner says, coming closer. His face is cast in shadow.
This tunnel is only half lit and I don’t know where it leads. All I know is that I
do not want to be alone with Warner.
Not now. Not ever again.
“I said stay away from me.” My voice is trembling. “I don’t want to talk to
you. Please—just leave me alone!”
“I can’t abandon you like this!” he says. “Not when you’re crying!”
“Maybe you wouldn’t understand that emotion,” I snap at him. “Maybe you
wouldn’t care because killing people means nothing to you!”
He’s breathing hard. Too fast. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Kenji!” I explode. “I did that! It’s my fault! It’s my fault
you and Adam were fighting and it’s my fault Kenji came out to stop you and
it’s my fault—” My voice breaks once, twice. “It’s my fault he’s dead!”
Warner’s eyes go wide. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “He’s not dead.”
I’m agony.
I’m sobbing about what I’ve done and how of course he’s dead, didn’t you
see him, he wasn’t even moving and I killed him and Warner remains utterly
silent. He doesn’t say a single thing as I hurl awful, horrible insults at him and
accuse him of being too coldhearted to understand what it’s like to grieve. I
don’t even realize he’s pulled me into his arms until I’m nestled against his chest
and I don’t fight it. I don’t fight it at all. I cling to him because I need this
warmth, I miss feeling strong arms around me and I’m only just beginning to
realize how quickly I came to rely on the healing properties of an excellent hug.
How desperately I’ve missed this.
And he just holds me. He smooths back my hair, he runs a gentle hand down
my back, and I hear his heart beat a strange, crazy beat that sounds far too fast to
be human.
His arms are wrapped entirely around me when he says, “You didn’t kill
him, love.”
And I say, “Maybe you didn’t see what I saw.”
“You are misunderstanding the situation entirely. You didn’t do anything to
hurt him.”
I shake my head against his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“It wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t you.”
I pull back. Look up into his eyes. “How can you know something like that?”
“Because,” he says. “It wasn’t you who hurt Kenji. It was me.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
“What?”
“He’s not dead,” Warner says, “though he is severely injured. I suspect they
should be able to revive him.”
“What”—I’m panicking, panicking in my bones—“what are you talking
about—”
“Please,” Warner says. “Sit down. I’ll explain.” He folds himself onto the
floor and pats the place beside him. I don’t know what else to do and my legs are
now officially too shaky to stand on their own.
My limbs spill onto the ground, both our backs against the wall, his right side
and my left side divided only by a thin inch of air.
1
2
3 seconds pass.
“I didn’t want to believe Castle when he told me I might have a … a gift,”
Warner says. His voice is pitched so low that I have to strain to hear it even
though I’m only inches away. “A part of me hoped he was trying to drive me
mad for his own benefit.” A small sigh. “But it did make a bit of sense, if I really
thought about it. Castle told me about Kent, too,” Warner says. “About how he
can touch you and how they’ve discovered why. For a moment I wondered if
perhaps I had a similar ability. One just as pathetic. Equally as useless.” He
laughs. “I was extremely reluctant to believe it.”
“It’s not a useless ability,” I hear myself saying.
“Really?” He turns to face me. Our shoulders are almost touching. “Tell me,
love. What can he do?”
“He can disable things. Abilities.”
“Right,” he says, “but how will that ever help him? How could it ever help
him to disable the powers of his own people? It’s absurd. It’s wasteful. It won’t
help at all in this war.”
I bristle. Decide to ignore that. “What does any of this have to do with
Kenji?”
He turns away from me again. His voice is softer when he says, “Would you
believe me if I told you I could sense your energy right now? Sense the tone and
weight of it?”
I stare at him, study his features and the earnest, tentative note in his voice.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I think I’d believe you.”
Warner smiles in a way that seems to sadden him. “I can sense,” he says,
taking a deep breath, “the emotions you’re feeling most strongly. And because I
know you, I’m able to put those feelings into context. I know the fear you’re
feeling right now, for example, is not directed toward me, but toward yourself,
and what you think you’ve done to Kenji. I sense your hesitation—your
reluctance to believe that it wasn’t your fault. I feel your sadness, your grief.”
“You can really feel that?” I ask.
He nods without looking at me.
“I never knew that was possible,” I tell him.
“I didn’t either—I wasn’t aware of it,” he says. “Not for a very long time. I
actually thought it was normal to be so acutely aware of human emotions. I
thought perhaps I was more perceptive than most. It’s a big factor in why my
father allowed me to take over Sector 45,” he tells me. “Because I have an
uncanny ability to tell whenever someone is hiding something, or feeling guilty,
or, most importantly, lying.” A pause. “That,” he says, “and because I’m not
afraid to deliver consequences if the occasion calls for it.
“It wasn’t until Castle suggested there might be something more to me that I
really began to analyze it. I nearly lost my mind.” He shakes his head. “I kept
going over it, thinking of ways to prove and disprove his theories. Even with all
my careful deliberation, I dismissed it. And while I am a bit sorry—for your
sake, not for mine—that Kenji had to be stupid enough to interfere tonight, I
think it was actually quite serendipitous. Because now I finally have proof. Proof
that I was wrong. That Castle,” he says, “was right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I took your Energy,” he tells me, “and I didn’t know I could. I could feel it
all very vividly when the four of us connected. Adam was inaccessible—which,
by the way, explains why I never suspected him of being disloyal. His emotions
were always hidden; always blocked off. I was naive and assumed he was
merely robotic, devoid of any real personality or interests. He eluded me and it
was my own fault. I trusted myself too much to be able to anticipate a flaw in my
system.”
And I want to say, Adam’s ability isn’t so useless after all, is it?
But I don’t.
“And Kenji,” Warner says after a moment. He rubs his forehead. Laughs a
little. “Kenji was … very smart. A lot smarter than I gave him credit for—which,
as it turns out, was exactly his tactic. Kenji,” he says, blowing out a breath, “was
careful to be an obvious threat as opposed to a discreet one.
“He was always getting into trouble—demanding extra portions at meals,
fighting with the other soldiers, breaking curfew. He broke simple rules in order
to draw attention to himself. In order to trick me into seeing him as an irritant
and nothing more. I always felt there was something off about him, but I
attributed it to his loud, raucous behavior and his inability to follow rules. I
dismissed him as a poor soldier. Someone who would never be promoted.
Someone who would always be recognized as a waste of time.” He shakes his
head. Raises his eyebrows at the ground. “Brilliant,” he says, looking almost
impressed. “It was brilliant. His only mistake,” Warner adds after a moment,
“was being too openly friendly with Kent. And that mistake nearly cost him his
life.”
“So—what? You were trying to finish him off tonight?” I’m still so
confused, trying to make an attempt to refocus the conversation. “Did you hurt
him on purpose?”
“Not on purpose.” Warner shakes his head. “I didn’t actually know what I
was doing. Not at first. I’ve only ever just sensed Energy; I never knew I could
take it. But I touched yours simply by touching you—there was so much
adrenaline among the group of us that yours practically threw itself at me. And
when Kenji grabbed my arm,” he says, “you and I, we were still connected. And
I … somehow I managed to redirect your power in his direction. It was quite
accidental but I felt it happen. I felt your power rush into me. Rush out of me.”
He looks up. Meets my eyes. “It was the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever
experienced.”
I think I’d fall down if I weren’t already sitting.
“So you can take—you can just take other people’s powers?” I ask him.
“Apparently.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t hurt Kenji on purpose?”
Warner laughs, looks at me like I’ve just said something highly amusing. “If
I had wanted to kill him, I would have. And I wouldn’t have needed such a
complicated setup to accomplish it. I’m not interested in theatrics,” he says. “If I
want to hurt someone, I won’t require much more than my own two hands.”
I’m stunned into silence.
“I’m actually amazed,” Warner says, “how you manage to contain so much
without finding ways to release the excess. I could barely hold on to it. The
transfer from my body to Kenji’s was not only immediate, it was necessary. I
couldn’t tolerate the intensity for very long.”
“And I can’t hurt you?” I blink at him, astonished. “At all? My power just
goes into you? You just absorb it?”
He nods. Says, “Would you like to see?”
And I’m saying yes with my head and my eyes and my lips and I’ve never
been more terrified to be excited in my life. “What do I have to do?” I ask him.
“Nothing,” he says, so quietly. “Just touch me.”
My heart is beating pounding racing running through my body and I’m
trying to focus. Trying to stay calm. This is going to be fine, I say to myself. It’s
going to be fine. It’s just an experiment. There’s no need to get so excited about
being able to touch someone again, I keep saying to myself.
But oh, I am so, so excited.
He holds out his bare hand.
I take it.
I wait to feel something, some feeling of weakness, some depletion of my
Energy, some sign that a transfer is taking place from my body to his but I feel
nothing at all. I feel exactly the same. But I watch Warner’s face as his eyes
close and he makes an effort to focus. Then I feel his hand tighten around mine
and he gasps.
His eyes fly open and his free hand goes right through the floor.
I jerk back, panicked. I’m tipping sideways, my hands catching me from
behind. I must be hallucinating. I must be hallucinating the hole in the floor not
4 inches from where Warner is still sitting on the ground. I must’ve been
hallucinating when I saw his resting palm press too hard and go right through. I
must be hallucinating everything. All of this. I’m dreaming and I’m sure I’m
going to wake up soon. That must be it.
“Don’t be afraid—”
“H-how,” I stammer, “how did you d-do that—”
“Don’t be frightened, love, it’s all right, I promise—it’s new for me, too—”
“My—my power? It doesn’t—you don’t feel any pain?”
He shakes his head. “On the contrary. It’s the most incredible rush of
adrenaline—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known. I actually feel a little lightheaded,” he says, “in the best possible way.” He laughs. Smiles to himself.
Drops his head into his hands. Looks up. “Can we do it again?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
He’s grinning. “Are you sure?”
“I can’t—I just, I still can’t believe you can touch me. That you really—I
mean”—I’m shaking my head—“there’s no catch? There are no conditions? You
touch me and no one gets hurt? And not only does no one get hurt, but you enjoy
it? You actually like the way it feels to touch me?”
He’s blinking at me now, staring like he’s not sure how to answer my
question.
“Well?”
“Yes,” he says, but it’s a breathless word.
“Yes, what?”
I can hear how hard his heart is beating. I can actually hear it in the silence
between us. “Yes,” he says. “I like it.”
Impossible.
“You never have to be afraid of touching me,” he says. “It won’t hurt me. It
can only give me strength.”
I want to laugh one of those strange, high-pitched, delusional laughs that
signals the end of a person’s sanity. Because this world, I think, has a terrible,
terrible sense of humor. It always seems to be laughing at me. At my expense.
Making my life infinitely more complicated all the time. Ruining all of my bestlaid plans by making every choice so difficult. Making everything so confusing.
I can’t touch the boy I love.
But I can use my touch to strengthen the boy who tried to kill the one I love.
No one, I want to tell the world, is laughing.
“Warner.” I look up, hit with a sudden realization. “You have to tell Castle.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because he has to know! It would explain Kenji’s situation and it could
help us tomorrow! You’ll be fighting with us and it might come in handy—”
Warner laughs.
He laughs and laughs and laughs, his eyes brilliant, gleaming even in this
dim light. He laughs until it’s just a hard breath, until it becomes a gentle sigh,
until it dissolves into an amused smile. And then he grins at me until he’s
grinning to himself, until he looks down and his gaze drops to my hand, the one
lying limp on my lap and he hesitates just a moment before his fingers brush the
soft, thin skin covering my knuckles.
I don’t breathe.
I don’t speak.
I don’t even move.
He’s hesitant, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll pull away and I should, I know I
should but I don’t. So he takes my hand. Studies it. Runs his fingers along the
lines of my palm, the creases at my joints, the sensitive spot between my thumb
and index finger and his touch is so tender, so delicate and gentle and it feels so
good it hurts, it actually hurts. And it’s too much for my heart to handle right
now.
I snatch back my hand in a jerky, awkward motion, face flushing, pulse
tripping.
Warner doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t even seem surprised.
He only stares at his now empty hands as he speaks. “You know,” he says, his
voice both strange and soft, “I think Castle is little more than an optimistic fool.
He tries too hard to welcome too many people and it’s going to backfire, simply
because it’s impossible to please everyone.” A pause. “He is the perfect example
of the kind of person who doesn’t know the rules of this game. Someone who
thinks too much with his heart and clings too desperately to some fantastical
notion of hope and peace. It will never help him,” he sighs. “In fact, it will be the
end of him, I’m quite sure of it.
“But there is something about you,” Warner says, “something about the way
you hope for things.” He shakes his head. “It’s so naive that it’s oddly endearing.
You like to believe people when they speak,” he says. “You prefer kindness.” He
smiles, just a little. Looks up. “It amuses me.”
All at once I feel like an idiot. “You’re not fighting with us tomorrow.”
Warner is smiling openly now, his eyes so warm. “I’m going to leave.”
“You’re going to leave.” I’m numb.
“I don’t belong here.”
I’m shaking my head, saying, “I don’t understand—how can you leave? You
told Castle you’re going to fight with us tomorrow—does he know you’re
leaving? Does anyone know?” I ask him, searching his face. “What do you have
planned? What are you going to do?”
He doesn’t answer.
“What are you going to do, Warner—”
“Juliette,” he whispers, and his eyes are urgent, tortured all of a sudden. “I
need to ask you somethi—”
Someone is bolting down the tunnels.
Calling my name.
Adam.
FIFTY-NINE
I jump up, frantic, and tell Warner I’ll be right back.
I’m saying don’t leave yet, don’t go anywhere just yet I’ll be right back but I
don’t wait for his response because I’m on my feet and I’m running toward the
lighted hallway and I almost slam right into Adam. He steadies me and pulls me
tight, so close, always forgetting not to touch me like this and he’s anxious and
he says, “Are you okay?” and “I’m so sorry,” and “I’ve been looking for you
everywhere,” and “I thought you’d come down to the medical wing,” and “it
wasn’t your fault, I hope you know that—”
It keeps hitting me in the face, in the skull, in the spine, this knowledge of
just how much I care about him. How much I know he cares about me. Being
close to him like this is a painful reminder of everything I had to force myself to
walk away from. I take a deep breath.
“Adam,” I ask, “is Kenji okay?”
“He’s not conscious yet,” he says to me, “but Sara and Sonya think he’s
going to be okay. They’re going to stay up with him all night, just to be sure he
makes it through in one piece.” A pause. “No one knows what happened,” he
says. “But it wasn’t you.” His eyes lock mine in place. “You know that, right?
You didn’t even touch him. I know you didn’t.”
And even though I open my mouth a million times to say, It was Warner.
Warner did it. He’s the one who did this to Kenji, you have to get him and catch
him and stop him he is lying to all of you! He’s going to escape tomorrow! I
don’t say any of it and I don’t know why.
I don’t know why I’m protecting him.
I think part of me is afraid to say the words out loud, afraid to make them
true. I still don’t know whether or not Warner is really going to leave or even
how he’s going to escape; I don’t know if it’s even possible. And I don’t know if
I can tell anyone about Warner’s ability yet; I don’t think I want to explain to
Adam that while he and the rest of Omega Point were tending to Kenji, I was
hiding in a tunnel with Warner—our enemy and hostage—holding his hand and
testing out his new power.
I wish I weren’t so confused.
I wish my interactions with Warner would stop making me feel so guilty.
Every moment I spend with him, every conversation I have with him makes me
feel like I’ve somehow betrayed Adam, even though technically we’re not even
together anymore. My heart still feels so tied to Adam; I feel bound to him, like I
need to make up for already having hurt him so much. I don’t want to be the
reason for the pain in his eyes, not again, and somehow I’ve decided that
keeping secrets is the only way to keep him from getting hurt. But deep down, I
know this can’t be right. Deep down, I know it could end badly.
But I don’t know what else to do.
“Juliette?” Adam is still holding me tight, still so close and warm and
wonderful. “Are you okay?”
And I’m not sure what makes me ask it, but suddenly I need to know.
“Are you ever going to tell him?”
Adam pulls back, just an inch. “What?”
“Warner. Are you ever going to tell him the truth? About the two of you?”
Adam is blinking, stunned, caught off guard by my question. “No,” he finally
says. “Never.”
“Why not?”
“Because it takes a lot more than blood to be family,” he says. “And I want
nothing to do with him. I’d like to be able to watch him die and feel no
sympathy, no remorse. He’s the textbook definition of a monster,” Adam says to
me. “Just like my dad. And I’ll drop dead before I recognize him as my brother.”
Suddenly I’m feeling like I might fall over.
Adam grabs my waist, tries to focus my eyes. “You’re still in shock,” he
says. “We need to get you something to eat—or maybe some water—”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m okay.” I allow myself to enjoy one last second in
his arms before I break away, needing to breathe. I keep trying to convince
myself that Adam is right, that Warner has done terrible, awful things and I
shouldn’t forgive him. I shouldn’t smile at him. I shouldn’t even talk to him.
And then I want to scream because I don’t think my brain can handle the split
personality I seem to be developing lately.
I tell Adam I need a minute. I tell him I need to stop by the bathroom before
we head over to the medical wing and he says okay, he says he’ll wait for me.
He says he’ll wait for me until I’m ready.
And I tiptoe back into the dark tunnel to tell Warner that I have to leave, that
I won’t be coming back after all, but when I squint into the darkness I can’t see a
thing.
I look around.
He’s already gone.
SIXTY
We don’t have to do anything at all to die.
We can hide in a cupboard under the stairs our whole life and it’ll still find
us. Death will show up wearing an invisible cloak and it will wave a magic wand
and whisk us away when we least expect it. It will erase every trace of our
existence on this earth and it will do all this work for free. It will ask for nothing
in return. It will take a bow at our funeral and accept the accolades for a job well
done and then it will disappear.
Living is a little more complex. There’s one thing we always have to do.
Breathe.
In and out, every single day in every hour minute and moment we must
inhale whether we like it or not. Even as we plan to asphyxiate our hopes and
dreams still we breathe. Even as we wither away and sell our dignity to the man
on the corner we breathe. We breathe when we’re wrong, we breathe when
we’re right, we breathe even as we slip off the ledge toward an early grave. It
cannot be undone.
So I breathe.
I count all the steps I’ve climbed toward the noose hanging from the ceiling
of my existence and I count out the number of times I’ve been stupid and I run
out of numbers.
Kenji almost died today.
Because of me.
It’s still my fault that Adam and Warner were fighting. It’s still my fault that
I stepped between them. It’s still my fault that Kenji felt the need to pull them
apart and if I hadn’t been caught in the middle Kenji never would’ve been hurt.
And I’m standing here. Staring at him.
He’s barely breathing and I’m begging him. I’m begging him to do the one
thing that matters. The only thing that matters. I need him to hold on but he’s not
listening. He can’t hear me and I need him to be okay. I need him to pull
through. I need him to breathe.
I need him.
Castle didn’t have much more to say.
Everyone was standing around, some wedged into the medical wing, others
standing on the other side of the glass, watching silently. Castle gave a small
speech about how we need to stick together, how we’re a family and if we don’t
have each other then who do we have? He said we’re all scared, sure, but now is
the time for us to support one another. Now is the time to band together and fight
back. Now is the time, he said, for us to take back our world.
“Now is the time for us to live,” he said.
“We’ll postpone tomorrow’s departure just long enough for everyone to have
a final breakfast together. We cannot go into battle divided,” he said. “We have
to have faith in ourselves and in each other. Take a little more time in the
morning to find peace with yourselves. After breakfast we leave. As one.”
“What about Kenji?” someone asked, and I was startled to hear the familiar
voice.
James. He was standing there with his fists clenched, tearstains streaked
across his face, his bottom lip trembling even as he fought to hide the pain in his
voice.
My heart split clean in half.
“What do you mean?” Castle asked him.
“Will he fight tomorrow?” James demanded, sniffing back the last of his
tears, fists beginning to shake. “He wants to fight tomorrow. He told me he
wants to fight tomorrow.”
Castle’s face creased as it pulled together. He took his time responding. “I …
I’m afraid I don’t think Kenji will be able to join us tomorrow. But perhaps,” he
said, “perhaps you could stay and keep him company?”
James didn’t respond. He only stared at Castle. Then he stared at Kenji. He
blinked several times before pushing through the crowd to clamber onto Kenji’s
bed. Burrowed into his side and promptly fell asleep.
We all took that as our cue to leave.
Well. Everyone but me, Adam, Castle, and the girls. I find it interesting that
everyone refers to Sonya and Sara as “the girls,” as if they’re the only girls in
this entire place. They’re not. I don’t even know how they got that nickname and
while a part of me wants to know, another part of me is too exhausted to ask.
I curl into my seat and stare at Kenji, who is struggling to breathe in and out.
I prop my head up on my fist, fighting the sleep weaving its way into my
consciousness. I don’t deserve to sleep. I should stay here all night and watch
over him. I would, too, if I could touch him without destroying his life.
“You two should really get to bed.”
I jolt awake, jerking up, not realizing I’d actually dozed off for a second.
Castle is staring at me with a soft, strange look on his face.
“I’m not tired,” I lie.
“Go to bed,” he says. “We have a big day tomorrow. You need to sleep.”
“I can walk her out,” Adam says. He moves to stand up. “And then I can be
right back—”
“Please.” Castle cuts him off. “Go. I’ll be fine with the girls.”
“But you need to sleep more than we do,” I tell him.
Castle smiles a sad smile. “I’m afraid I won’t be getting any sleep tonight.”
He turns to look at Kenji, his eyes crinkling in happiness or pain or
something in between. “Did you know,” Castle says to us, “that I’ve known
Kenji since he was a small boy? I found him shortly after I’d built Omega Point.
He grew up here. When I first met him he was living in an old shopping cart
he’d found on the side of the highway.” Castle pauses. “Has he ever told you
that story?”
Adam sits back down. I’m suddenly wide-awake. “No,” we both say at the
same time.
“Ah—forgive me.” Castle shakes his head. “I shouldn’t waste your time with
these things,” he says. “I think there’s too much on my mind right now. I’m
forgetting which stories to keep to myself.”
“No—please—I want to know,” I tell him. “Really.”
Castle stares into his hands. Smiles a little. “There’s not much to it,” he says.
“Kenji has never talked to me about what happened to his parents, and I try not
to ask. All he ever had was a name and an age. I stumbled upon him quite
accidentally. He was just a boy sitting in a shopping cart. Far from civilization. It
was the dead of winter and he was wearing nothing but an old T-shirt and a pair
of sweatpants a few sizes too big for him. He looked like he was freezing, like he
could use a few meals and place to sleep. I couldn’t just walk away,” Castle
says. “I couldn’t just leave him there. So, I asked him if he was hungry.”
He stops, remembering.
“Kenji didn’t say a single thing for at least thirty seconds. He simply stared
at me. I almost walked away, thinking I’d frightened him. But then, finally, he
reached out, grabbed my hand, placed it in his palm and shook it. Very hard.
And then he said, ‘Hello, sir. My name is Kenji Kishimoto and I am nine years
old. It’s very nice to meet you.’” Castle laughs out loud, his eyes shining with an
emotion that betrays his smiles. “He must’ve been starving, the poor kid. He
always,” Castle says, blinking up at the ceiling now, “he always had a strong,
determined sort of personality. So much pride.
Unstoppable, that boy.”
We’re all silent for a while.
“I had no idea,” Adam says, “that you two were so close.”
Castle stands up. Looks around at us and smiles too brightly, too tightly.
Says, “Yes. Well, I’m sure he’s going to be just fine. He’ll be just fine in the
morning, so you two should definitely get some sleep.”
“Are you su—”
“Yes, please, get to bed. I’ll be fine here with the girls, I promise.”
So we get up. We get up and Adam manages to lift James from Kenji’s bed
and into his arms without waking him. And we walk out.
I glance back.
I see Castle fall into his chair and drop his head into his hands and rest his
elbows on his knees. I see him reach out a shaky hand to rest on Kenji’s leg and
I wonder at how much I still don’t know about these people I live with. How
little I’ve allowed myself to become a part of their world.
And I know I want to change that.
SIXTY-ONE
Adam walks me to my room.
It’s been lights-out for about an hour now, and, with the exception of faint
emergency lights glowing every few feet, everything is, quite literally, out. It’s
absolute blackness, and even still, the guards on patrol manage to spot us only to
warn us to go straight to our separate quarters.
Adam and I don’t really speak until we reach the mouth of the women’s
wing. There’s so much tension, so many unspoken worries between us. So many
thoughts about today and tomorrow and the many weeks we’ve already spent
together. So much we don’t know about what’s already happening to us and
what will eventually happen to us. Just looking at him, being so close and being
so far away from him—it’s painful.
I want so desperately to bridge the gap between our bodies. I want to press
my lips to every part of him and I want to savor the scent of his skin, the strength
in his limbs, in his heart. I want to wrap myself in the warmth and reassurance
I’ve come to rely on.
But.
In other ways, I’ve come to realize that being away from him has forced me
to rely on myself. To allow myself to be scared and to find my own way through
it. I’ve had to train without him, fight without him, face Warner and Anderson
and the chaos of my mind all without him by my side. And I feel different now. I
feel stronger since putting space between us.
And I don’t know what that means.
All I know is that it’ll never be safe for me to rely on someone else again, to
need constant reassurance of who I am and who I might someday be. I can love
him, but I can’t depend on him to be my backbone. I can’t be my own person if I
constantly require someone else to hold me together.
My mind is a mess. Every single day I’m confused, uncertain, worried I’m
going to make a new mistake, worried I’m going to lose control, worried I’m
going to lose myself. But it’s something I have to work through. Because for the
rest of my life, I’ll always, always be stronger than everyone around me.
But at least I’ll never have to be scared anymore.
“Are you going to be okay?” Adam asks, finally dispelling the silence
between us. I look up to find that his eyes are worried, trying to read me.
“Yes,” I tell him. “Yes. I’m going to be fine.” I offer him a tight smile, but it
feels wrong to be this close to him without being able to touch him at all.
Adam nods. Hesitates. Says, “It’s been one hell of a night.”
“And it’ll be one hell of day tomorrow, too,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, still looking at me like he’s trying to find
something, like he’s searching for an answer to an unspoken question and I
wonder if he sees something different in my eyes now. He grins a small grin.
Says, “I should probably go,” and nods at James bundled in his arms.
I nod, not sure what else to do. What to say.
So much is uncertain.
“We’ll get through this,” Adam says, answering my silent thoughts. “All of
it. We’re going to be okay. And Kenji will be fine.” He touches my shoulder,
allows his fingers to trail down my arm and stop just short of my bare hand.
I close my eyes, try to savor the moment.
And then his fingers graze my skin and my eyes fly open, my heart racing in
my chest.
He’s staring at me like he might’ve done much more than touch my hand if
he weren’t holding James against his chest.
“Adam—”
“I’m going to find a way,” he says to me. “I’m going to find a way to make
this work. I promise. I just need some time.”
I’m afraid to speak. Afraid of what I might say, what I might do; afraid of the
hope ballooning inside of me.
“Good night,” he whispers.
“Good night,” I say.
I’m beginning to think of hope as a dangerous, terrifying thing.
SIXTY-TWO
I’m so tired when I walk into my room that I’m only half conscious as I change
into the tank top and pajama pants I sleep in. They were a gift from Sara. It was
her recommendation that I change out of my suit while I sleep; she and Sonya
think it’s important to give my skin direct contact with fresh air.
I’m about to climb under the covers when I hear a soft knock at my door.
Adam
is my first thought.
But then I open the door. And promptly close it.
I must be dreaming.
“Juliette?”
Oh. God.
“What are you doing here?” I shout-whisper through the closed door.
“I need to speak with you.”
“Right now. You need to speak with me right now.”
“Yes. It’s important,” Warner says. “I heard Kent telling you that those twin
girls would be in the medical wing tonight and I figured it would be a good time
for us to speak privately.”
“You heard my conversation with Adam?” I begin to panic, worried he
might’ve heard too much.
“I have zero interest in your conversation with Kent,” he says, his tone
suddenly flat, neutral. “I left just as soon as I heard you’d be alone tonight.”
“Oh.” I exhale. “How did you even get in here without guards stopping
you?”
“Maybe you should open the door so I can explain.”
I don’t move.
“Please, love, I’m not going to do anything to hurt you. You should know
that by now.”
“I’m giving you five minutes. Then I have to sleep, okay? I’m exhausted.”
“Okay,” he says. “Five minutes.”
I take a deep breath. Crack the door open. Peek at him.
He’s smiling. Looking entirely unapologetic.
I shake my head.
He slips past me and sits down directly on my bed.
I close the door, make my way across the room from him, and sit on Sonya’s
bed, suddenly all too aware of what I’m wearing and how incredibly exposed I
feel. I cross my arms over the thin cotton clinging to my chest—even though I’m
sure he can’t actually see me—and make an effort to ignore the cold chill in the
air. I always forget just how much the suit does to regulate my body temperature
so far belowground.
Winston was a genius to design it for me.
Winston.
Winston and Brendan.
Oh how I hope they’re okay.
“So … what is it?” I ask Warner. I can’t see a single thing in this darkness; I
can hardly make out the form of his silhouette. “You just left earlier, in the
tunnel. Even though I asked you to wait.”
A few beats of silence.
“Your bed is so much more comfortable than mine,” he says quietly. “You
have a pillow. And an actual blanket?” He laughs. “You’re living like a queen in
these quarters. They treat you well.”
“Warner.” I’m feeling nervous now. Anxious. Worried. Shivering a little and
not from the cold. “What’s going on? Why are you here?”
Nothing.
Still nothing.
Suddenly.
A tight breath.
“I want you to come with me.”
The world stops spinning.
“When I leave tomorrow,” he says. “I want you to come with me. I never had
a chance to finish talking to you earlier and I thought asking you in the morning
would be bad timing all around.”
“You want me to come with you.” I’m not sure I’m still breathing.
“Yes.”
“You want me to run away with you.” This can’t possibly be happening.
A pause. “Yes.”
“I can’t believe it.” I’m shaking my head over and over and over again. “You
really have lost your mind.”
I can almost hear him smile in the dark. “Where’s your face? I feel like I’m
talking to a ghost.”
“I’m right here.”
“Where?”
I stand up. “I’m here.”
“I still can’t see you,” he says, but his voice is suddenly much closer than it
was before. “Can you see me?”
“No,” I lie, and I’m trying to ignore the immediate tension, the electricity
humming in the air between us.
I take a step back.
I feel his hands on my arms, I feel his skin against my skin and I’m holding
my breath. I don’t move an inch. I don’t say a word as his hands drop to my
waist, to the thin material making a poor attempt to cover my body. His fingers
graze the soft skin of my lower back, right underneath the hem of my shirt and
I’m losing count of the number of times my heart skips a beat.
I’m struggling to get oxygen in my lungs.
I’m struggling to keep my hands to myself.
“Is it even possible,” he whispers, “that you can’t feel this fire between us?”
His hands are traveling up my arms again, his touch so light, his fingers slipping
under the straps of my shirt and it’s ripping me apart, it’s aching in my core, it’s
a pulse beating in every inch of my body and I’m trying to convince myself not
to lose my head when I feel the straps fall down and everything stops.
The air is still.
My skin is scared.
Even my thoughts are whispering.
2
4
6 seconds I forget to breathe.
Then I feel his lips against my shoulder, soft and scorching and tender, so
gentle I could almost believe it’s the kiss of a breeze and not a boy.
Again.
This time on my collarbone and it’s like I’m dreaming, reliving the caress of
a forgotten memory and it’s like an ache looking to be soothed, it’s a steaming
pan thrown in ice water, it’s a flushed cheek pressed to a cool pillow on a hot hot
hot night and I’m thinking yes, I’m thinking this, I’m thinking thank you thank
you thank you before I remember his mouth is on my body and I’m doing
nothing to stop him.
He pulls back.
My eyes refuse to open.
His finger t-touches my bottom lip.
He traces the shape of my mouth, the curves the seam the dip and my lips
part even though I asked them not to and he steps closer. I feel him so much
closer, filling the air around me until there’s nothing but him and his body heat,
the smell of fresh soap and something unidentifiable, something sweet but not,
something real and hot, something that smells like him, like it belongs to him,
like he was poured into the bottle I’m drowning in and I don’t even realize I’m
leaning into him, inhaling the scent of his neck until I find his fingers are no
longer on my lips because his hands are around my waist and he says “You,” and
he whispers it, letter by letter he presses the word into my skin before he
hesitates.
Then.
Softer.
His chest, heaving harder this time. His words, almost gasping this time.
“You destroy me.”
I am falling to pieces in his arms.
My fists are full of unlucky pennies and my heart is a jukebox demanding a
few nickels and my head is flipping quarters heads or tails heads or tails heads or
tails heads or tails “Juliette,” he says, and he mouths the name, barely speaking
at all, and he’s pouring molten lava into my limbs and I never even knew I could
melt straight to death.
“I want you,” he says. He says “I want all of you. I want you inside and out
and catching your breath and aching for me like I ache for you.” He says it like
it’s a lit cigarette lodged in his throat, like he wants to dip me in warm honey and
he says “It’s never been a secret. I’ve never tried to hide that from you. I’ve
never pretended I wanted anything less.”
“You—you said you wanted f-friendship—”
“Yes,” he says, he swallows, “I did. I do. I do want to be your friend.” He
nods and I register the slight movement in the air between us. “I want to be the
friend you fall hopelessly in love with. The one you take into your arms and into
your bed and into the private world you keep trapped in your head. I want to be
that kind of friend,” he says. “The one who will memorize the things you say as
well as the shape of your lips when you say them. I want to know every curve,
every freckle, every shiver of your body, Juliette—”
“No,” I gasp. “Don’t—don’t s-say that—”
I don’t know what I’ll do if he keeps talking I don’t know what I’ll do and I
don’t trust myself “I want to know where to touch you,” he says. “I want to
know how to touch you. I want to know how to convince you to design a smile
just for me.” I feel his chest rising, falling, up and down and up and down and
“Yes,” he says. “I do want to be your friend.” He says “I want to be your best
friend in the entire world.”
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe
“I want so many things,” he whispers. “I want your mind. Your strength. I
want to be worth your time.” His fingers graze the hem of my top and he says “I
want this up.” He tugs on the waist of my pants and says “I want these down.”
He touches the tips of his fingers to the sides of my body and says, “I want to
feel your skin on fire. I want to feel your heart racing next to mine and I want to
know it’s racing because of me, because you want me. Because you never,” he
says, he breathes, “never want me to stop. I want every second. Every inch of
you. I want all of it.”
And I drop dead, all over the floor.
“Juliette.”
I can’t understand why I can still hear him speaking because I’m dead, I’m
already dead, I’ve died over and over and over again He swallows, hard, his
chest heaving, his words a breathless, shaky whisper when he says “I’m so—I’m
so desperately in love with you—”
I’m rooted to the ground, spinning while standing, dizzy in my blood and in
my bones and I’m breathing like I’m the first human who’s ever learned to fly,
like I’ve been inhaling the kind of oxygen only found in the clouds and I’m
trying but I don’t know how to keep my body from reacting to him, to his words,
to the ache in his voice.
He touches my cheek.
Soft, so soft, like he’s not sure if I’m real, like he’s afraid if he gets too close
I’ll just oh, look she’s gone, she’s just disappeared. His 4 fingers graze the side
of my face, slowly, so slowly before they slip behind my head, caught in that inbetween spot just above my neck. His thumb brushes the apple of my cheek.
He keeps looking at me, looking into my eyes for help, for guidance, for
some sign of a protest like he’s so sure I’m going to start screaming or crying or
running away but I won’t. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to because I
don’t want to. I want to stay here. Right here. I want to be paralyzed by this
moment.
He moves closer, just an inch. His free hand reaches up to cup the other side
of my face.
He’s holding me like I’m made of feathers.
He’s holding my face and looking at his own hands like he can’t believe he’s
caught this bird who’s always so desperate to fly away. His hands are shaking,
just a little bit, just enough for me to feel the slight tremble against my skin.
Gone is the boy with the guns and the skeletons in his closet. These hands
holding me have never held a weapon. These hands have never touched death.
These hands are perfect and kind and tender.
And he leans in, so carefully. Breathing and not breathing and hearts beating
between us and he’s so close, he’s so close and I can’t feel my legs anymore. I
can’t feel my fingers or the cold or the emptiness of this room because all I feel
is him, everywhere, filling everything and he whispers “Please.”
He says “Please don’t shoot me for this.”
And he kisses me.
His lips are softer than anything I’ve ever known, soft like a first snowfall,
like biting into cotton candy, like melting and floating and being weightless in
water. It’s sweet, it’s so effortlessly sweet.
And then it changes.
“Oh God—”
He kisses me again, this time stronger, desperate, like he has to have me, like
he’s dying to memorize the feel of my lips against his own. The taste of him is
making me crazy; he’s all heat and desire and peppermint and I want more. I’ve
just begun reeling him in, pulling him into me when he breaks away.
He’s breathing like he’s lost his mind and he’s looking at me like something
has broken inside of him, like he’s woken up to find that his nightmares were
just that, that they never existed, that it was all just a bad dream that felt far too
real but now he’s awake and he’s safe and everything is going to be okay and
I’m falling.
I’m falling apart and into his heart and I’m a disaster.
He’s searching me, searching my eyes for something, for yeses or nos or
maybe a cue to keep going and all I want is to drown in him. I want him to kiss
me until I collapse in his arms, until I’ve left my bones behind and floated up
into a new space that is entirely our own.
No words.
Just his lips.
Again.
Deep and urgent like he can’t afford to take his time anymore, like there’s so
much he wants to feel and there aren’t enough years to experience it all. His
hands travel the length of my back, learning every curve of my figure and he’s
kissing my neck, my throat, the slope of my shoulders and his breaths come
harder, faster, his hands suddenly threaded in my hair and I’m spinning, I’m
dizzy, I’m moving and reaching up behind his neck and clinging to him and it’s
ice-cold heat, it’s an ache that attacks every cell in my body. It’s a wanting so
desperate, a need so exquisite that it rivals everything, every happy moment I
ever thought I knew.
I’m against the wall.
He’s kissing me like the world is rolling right off a cliff, like he’s trying to
hang on and he’s decided to hold on to me, like he’s starving for life and love
and he’s never known it could ever feel this good to be close to someone. Like
it’s the first time he’s ever felt anything but hunger and he doesn’t know how to
pace himself, doesn’t know how to eat in small bites, doesn’t know how to do
anything anything anything in moderation.
My pants fall to the floor and his hands are responsible.
I’m in his arms in my underwear and a tank top that’s doing little to keep me
decent and he pulls back just to look at me, to drink in the sight of me and he’s
saying “you’re so beautiful” he’s saying “you’re so unbelievably beautiful” and
he pulls me into his arms again and he picks me up, he carries me to my bed and
suddenly I’m resting against my pillows and he’s straddling my hips and his
shirt is no longer on his body and I have no idea where it went. All I know is that
I’m looking up and into his eyes and I’m thinking there isn’t a single thing I
would change about this moment.
He has a hundred thousand million kisses and he’s giving them all to me.
He kisses my top lip.
He kisses my bottom lip.
He kisses just under my chin, the tip of my nose, the length of my forehead,
both temples, my cheeks, all across my jawline. Then my neck, behind my ears,
all the way down my throat and his hands
slide
down
my body. His entire form is moving down my figure, disappearing as he
shifts downward and suddenly his chest is hovering above my hips; suddenly I
can’t see him anymore. I can only make out the top of his head, the curve of his
shoulders, the unsteady rise and fall of his back as he inhales, exhales. He’s
running his hands down and around my bare thighs and up again, up past my
ribs, around my lower back and down again, just past my hip bone. His fingers
hook around the elastic waist of my underwear and I gasp.
His lips touch my bare stomach.
It’s just a whisper of a kiss but something collapses in my skull. It’s a
feather-light brush of his mouth against my skin in a place I can’t quite see. It’s
my mind speaking in a thousand different languages I don’t understand.
And I realize he’s working his way up my body.
He’s leaving a trail of fire along my torso, one kiss after another, and I really
don’t think I can take much more of this; I really don’t think I’ll be able to
survive this. There’s a whimper building in my throat, begging to break free and
I’m locking my fingers in his hair and I’m pulling him up, onto me, on top of
me.
I need to kiss him.
I’m reaching up only to slip my hands down his neck, over his chest and
down the length of his body and I realize I’ve never felt this, not to this degree,
not like every moment is about to explode, like every breath could be our last,
like every touch is enough to ignite the world. I’m forgetting everything,
forgetting the danger and the horror and the terror of tomorrow and I can’t even
remember why I’m forgetting, what I’m forgetting, that there’s something I
already seem to have forgotten. It’s too hard to pay attention to anything but his
eyes, burning; his skin, bare; his body, perfect.
He’s completely unharmed by my touch.
He’s careful not to crush me, his elbows propped up on either side of my
head, and I think I must be smiling at him because he’s smiling at me, but he’s
smiling like he might be petrified; he’s breathing like he’s forgotten he’s
supposed to, looking at me like he’s not sure how to do this, hesitating like he’s
unsure how to let me see him like this. Like he has no idea how to be so
vulnerable.
But here he is.
And here I am.
Warner’s forehead is pressed against mine, his skin flushed with heat, his
nose touching my own. He shifts his weight to one arm, uses his free hand to
softly stroke my cheek, to cup my face like it’s spun from glass and I realize I’m
still holding my breath and I can’t even remember the last time I exhaled.
His eyes shift down to my lips and back again. His gaze is heavy, hungry,
weighed down by emotion I never thought him capable of. I never thought he
could be so full, so human, so real. But it’s there. It’s right there. Raw, written
across his face like it’s been ripped out of his chest.
He’s handing me his heart.
And he says one word. He whispers one thing. So urgently.
He says, “Juliette.”
I close my eyes.
He says, “I don’t want you to call me Warner anymore.”
I open my eyes.
“I want you to know me,” he says, breathless, his fingers pushing a stray
strand of hair away from my face. “I don’t want to be Warner with you,” he
says. “I want it to be different now. I want you to call me Aaron.”
And I’m about to say yes, of course, I completely understand, but there’s
something about this stretch of silence that confuses me; something about this
moment and the feel of his name on my tongue that unlocks other parts of my
brain and there’s something there, something pushing and pulling at my skin and
trying to remind me, trying to tell me and it slaps me in the face
it punches me in the jaw
it dumps me right into the ocean.
“Adam.”
My bones are full of ice. My entire being wants to vomit. I’m tripping out
from under him and pulling myself away and I almost fall right to the floor and
this feeling, this feeling, this overwhelming feeling of absolute self-loathing
sticks in my stomach like the slice of a knife too sharp, too thick, too lethal to
keep me standing and I’m clutching at myself, I’m trying not to cry and I’m
saying no no no this can’t happen this can’t be happening I love Adam, my heart
is with Adam, I can’t do this to him and Warner looks like I’ve shot him all over
again, like I’ve wedged a bullet in his heart with my bare hands and he gets to
his feet but he can hardly stand. His frame is shaking and he’s looking at me like
he wants to say something but every time he tries to speak he fails.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer, “I’m so sorry—I never meant for this to happen—I
wasn’t thinking—”
But he’s not listening.
He’s shaking his head over and over and over and he’s looking at his hands
like he’s waiting for the part where someone tells him this isn’t real and he
whispers “What’s happening to me? Am I dreaming?”
And I’m so sick, I’m so confused, because I want him, I want him and I want
Adam, too, and I want too much and I’ve never felt more like a monster than I
have tonight.
The pain is so plain on his face and it’s killing me.
I feel it. I feel it killing me.
I’m trying so hard to look away, to forget, to figure out how to erase what
just happened but all I can think is that life is like a broken tire swing, an unborn
child, a fistful of wishbones. It’s all possibility and potential, wrong and right
steps toward a future we’re not even guaranteed and I, I am so wrong. All of my
steps are wrong, always wrong. I am the incarnation of error.
Because this never should have happened.
This was a mistake.
“You’re choosing him?” Warner asks, barely breathing, still looking as if he
might fall over. “Is that what just happened? You’re choosing Kent over me?
Because I don’t think I understand what just happened and I need you to say
something, I need you to tell me what the hell is happening to me right now—”
“No,” I gasp. “No, I’m not choosing anyone—I’m not—I’m n-not—”
But I am. And I don’t even know how I got here.
“Why?” he says. “Because he’s the safer choice for you? Because you think
you owe him something? You are making a mistake,” he says, his voice louder
now. “You’re scared. You don’t want to make the difficult choice and you’re
running away from me.”
“Maybe I just d-don’t want to be with you.”
“I know you want to be with me!” he explodes.
“You’re wrong.”
Oh my God what am I saying I don’t even know where I’m finding these
words, where they’re coming from or which tree I’ve plucked them from. They
just keep growing in my mouth and sometimes I bite down too hard on an
adverb or a pronoun and sometimes the words are bitter, sometimes they’re
sweet, but right now everything tastes like romance and regret and liar liar pants
on fire all the way down my throat.
Warner is still staring.
“Really?” He struggles to rein in his temper and takes a step closer, so much
closer, and I can see his face too clearly, I can see his lips too clearly, I can see
the anger and the pain and the disbelief etched into his features and I’m not so
sure I should be standing anymore. I don’t think my legs can carry me much
longer.
“Y-yes.” I pluck another word from the tree lying in my mouth, lying lying
lying on my lips.
“So I’m wrong.” He says the sentence quietly, so, so quietly. “I’m wrong
that you want me. That you want to be with me.” His fingers graze my
shoulders, my arms; his hands slide down the sides of my body, tracing every
inch of me and I’m pressing my mouth shut to keep the truth from falling out but
I’m failing and failing and failing because the only truth I know right now is that
I’m mere moments from losing my mind.
“Tell me something, love.” His lips are whispering against my jaw. “Am I
blind, too?”
I am actually going to die.
“I will not be your clown!” He breaks away from me. “I will not allow you
to make a mockery of my feelings for you! I could respect your decision to shoot
me, Juliette, but doing this—doing—doing what you just did—” He can hardly
speak. He runs a hand across his face, both hands through his hair, looking like
he wants to scream, to break something, like he’s really, truly about to lose his
mind. His voice is a rough whisper when he finally speaks. “It’s the play of a
coward,” he says. “I thought you were so much better than that.”
“I’m not a coward—”
“Then be honest with yourself!” he says. “Be honest with me! Tell me the
truth!”
My head is rolling around on the floor, spinning like a wooden top, circling
around and around and around and I can’t make it stop. I can’t make the world
stop spinning and my confusion is bleeding into guilt which quickly evolves into
anger and suddenly it’s bubbling raging rising to the surface and I look at him. I
clench my shaking hands into fists. “The truth,” I tell him, “is that I never know
what to think of you! Your actions, your behavior—you’re never consistent!
You’re horrible to me and then you’re kind to me and you tell me you love me
and then you hurt the ones I care most about!
“And you’re a liar,” I snap, backing away from him. “You say you don’t care
about what you do—you say you don’t care about other people and what you’ve
done to them but I don’t believe it. I think you’re hiding. I think the real you is
hiding underneath all of the destruction and I think you’re better than this life
you’ve chosen for yourself. I think you can change. I think you could be
different. And I feel sorry for you!”
These words these stupid stupid words they won’t stop spilling from my
mouth.
“I’m sorry for your horrible childhood. I’m sorry you have such a miserable,
worthless father and I’m sorry no one ever took a chance on you. I’m sorry for
the terrible decisions you’ve made. I’m sorry that you feel trapped by them, that
you think of yourself as a monster who can’t be changed. But most of all,” I tell
him, “most of all I’m sorry that you have no mercy for yourself!”
Warner flinches like I’ve slapped him in the face.
The silence between us has slaughtered a thousand innocent seconds and
when he finally speaks his voice is barely audible, raw with disbelief.
“You pity me.”
My breath catches. My resolve wavers.
“You think I’m some kind of broken project you can repair.”
“No—I didn’t—”
“You have no idea what I’ve done!” His words are furious as he steps
forward. “You have no idea what I’ve seen, what I’ve had to be a part of. You
have no idea what I’m capable of or how much mercy I deserve. I know my own
heart,” he snaps. “I know who I am. Don’t you dare pity me!”
Oh my legs are definitely not working.
“I thought you could love me for me,” he says. “I thought you would be the
one person in this godforsaken world who would accept me as I am! I thought
you, of all people, would understand.” His face is right in front of mine when he
says, “I was wrong. I was so horribly, horribly wrong.”
He backs away. He grabs his shirt and he turns to leave and I should let him
go, I should let him walk out the door and out of my life but I can’t, I catch his
arm, I pull him back and I say, “Please—that’s not what I meant—”
He spins around and he says, “I do not want your sympathy!”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you—”
“The truth,” he says, “is a painful reminder of why I prefer to live among the
lies.”
I can’t stomach the look in his eyes, the wretched, awful pain he’s making no
effort to conceal. I don’t know what to say to make this right. I don’t know how
to take my words back.
I know I don’t want him to leave.
Not like this.
He looks as if he might speak; he changes his mind. He takes a tight breath,
presses his lips together as if to stop the words from escaping and I’m about to
say something, I’m about to try again when he pulls in a shaky breath, when he
says, “Good-bye, Juliette.”
And I don’t know why it’s killing me, I can’t understand my sudden anxiety
and I need to know, I have to say it, I have to ask the question that isn’t a
question and I say “I won’t see you again.”
I watch him struggle to find the words, I watch him turn to me and turn away
and for one split second I see what’s happened, I see the difference in his eyes,
the shine of emotion I never would’ve dreamed him capable of and I know, I
understand why he won’t look at me and I can’t believe it. I want to fall to the
floor as he fights himself, fights to speak, fights to swallow back the tremor in
his voice when he says, “I certainly hope not.”
And that’s it.
He walks out.
I’m split clean in half and he’s gone.
He’s gone forever.
SIXTY-THREE
Breakfast is an ordeal.
Warner has disappeared and he’s left a trail of chaos in his wake.
No one knows how he escaped, how he managed to get out of his room and
find his way out of here and everyone is blaming Castle. Everyone is saying he
was stupid to trust Warner, to give him a chance, to believe he might have
changed.
Angry is an insult to the level of aggression in here right now.
But I’m not going to be the one to tell everyone that Warner was already out
of his room last night. I’m not going to be the one to tell them that he probably
didn’t have to do much to find the exit. I won’t explain to them that he’s not an
idiot.
I’m sure he figured it out easily enough. I’m sure he found a way to get past
the guards.
Now everyone is ready to fight, but for all the wrong reasons. They want to
murder Warner: first for all he’s done; second for betraying their trust. More
frightening still, everyone is worried that he’ll give away all of our most
sensitive information. I have no idea what Warner managed to discover about
this place before he left, but nothing that happens now can possibly be good.
No one has even touched their breakfasts.
We’re all dressed, armed, ready to face what could be an almost instant
death, and I’m feeling little more than entirely numb. I didn’t sleep at all last
night, my heart and mind plagued and conflicted and I can’t feel my limbs, I
can’t taste the food I’m not eating and I can’t see straight, I can’t focus on the
things I’m supposed to be hearing. All I can think about are all the casualties and
Warner’s lips on my neck, his hands on my body, the pain and passion in his
eyes and the many possible ways I could die today. I can only think about
Warner touching me, kissing me, torturing me with his heart and Adam sitting
beside me, not knowing what I’ve done.
It probably won’t even matter after today.
Maybe I’ll be killed and maybe all the agony of these past 17 years will have
been for naught. Maybe I’ll just fall right off the face of the Earth, gone forever,
and all of my adolescent angst will have been a ridiculous afterthought, a
laughable memory.
But maybe I’ll survive.
Maybe I’ll survive and I’ll have to face the consequences of my actions. I’ll
have to stop lying to myself; I’ll have to actually make a decision.
I have to face the fact that I’m battling feelings for someone who has no
qualms about putting a bullet in another man’s head. I have to consider the
possibility that I might really be turning into a monster. A horrible, selfish
creature who cares only about herself.
Maybe Warner was right all along.
Maybe he and I really are perfect for each other.
Just about everyone has filed out of the dining hall. People are saying lastminute good-byes to the old and the young ones they’re leaving behind. James
and Adam had a lengthy good-bye just this morning. Adam and I have to head
out in about 10 minutes.
“Well damn. Who died?”
I spin around at the sound of his voice. Kenji is up. He’s in this room. He’s
standing next to our table and he looks like he’s about to fall right over but he’s
awake. He’s alive.
He’s breathing.
“Holy crap.” Adam is gaping. “Holy shit.”
“Good to see you too, Kent.” Kenji grins a crooked grin. He nods at me.
“You ready to kick some ass today?”
I tackle him.
“WHOA—hey—thank you, yeah—that’s—uh—” He clears his throat. Tries
to shift away from me and I flinch, pull back. I’m covered everywhere except for
my face; I’m wearing my gloves and my reinforced knuckles, and my suit is
zipped up to my neck. Kenji never usually shies away from me.
“Hey, uh, maybe you should hold off on touching me for a little while,
yeah?” Kenji tries to smile, tries to make it sound like he’s joking, but I feel the
weight of his words, the tension and the sliver of fear he’s trying so hard to hide.
“I’m not too steady on my feet just yet.”
I feel the blood rush out of me, leaving me weak in the knees and needing to
sit down.
“It wasn’t her,” Adam says. “You know she didn’t even touch you.”
“I don’t know that, actually,” Kenji says. “And it’s not like I’m blaming her
—I’m just saying maybe she’s projecting and doesn’t know it, okay? Because
last I checked, I don’t think we have any other explanations for what happened
last night. It sure as hell wasn’t you,” he says to Adam, “and shit, for all we
know, Warner being able to touch Juliette could just be a fluke. We don’t know
anything about him yet.” A pause. He looks around. “Right? Unless Warner
pulled some kind of magical rabbit out of his ass while I was busy being dead
last night?”
Adam scowls. I don’t say a word.
“Right,” Kenji says. “That’s what I thought. So. I think it’s best if, unless
absolutely necessary, I stay away.” He turns to me. “Right? No offense, right? I
mean, I did nearly just die. I think you could cut me some slack.”
I can hardly hear my own voice when I say, “Yeah, of course.” I try to laugh.
I try to figure out why I’m not telling them about Warner. Why I’m still
protecting him. Probably because I’m just as guilty as he is.
“So anyway,” Kenji says. “When are we leaving?”
“You’re insane,” Adam tells him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Bullshit I’m not.”
“You can barely stand up on your own!” Adam says.
And he’s right. Kenji is clearly leaning on the table for support.
“I’d rather die out there than sit in here like some kind of idiot.”
“Kenji—”
“Hey,” Kenji says, cutting me off. “So I heard through the very loud
grapevine that Warner got his ass the hell out of here last night. What’s that
about?”
Adam makes a strange sound. It’s not quite a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Who
even knows. I never thought it was a good idea to keep him hostage here. It was
an even stupider idea to trust him.”
“So first you insult my idea, and then you insult Castle’s, huh?” Kenji’s
eyebrow is cocked.
“They were bad calls,” Adam says. “Bad ideas. Now we have to pay for it.”
“Well how was I supposed to know Anderson would be so willing to let his
own son rot in hell?”
Adam flinches and Kenji backpedals.
“Oh, hey—I’m sorry, man—I didn’t mean to say it like that—”
“Forget it.” Adam cuts him off. His face is suddenly hard, suddenly cold,
closed off. “Maybe you should get back to the medical wing. We’re leaving
soon.”
“I’m not going anywhere but out of here.”
“Kenji, please—”
“Nope.”
“You’re being unreasonable. This isn’t a joke,” I tell him. “People are going
to die today.”
But he laughs at me. Looks at me like I’ve said something obliquely
entertaining. “I’m sorry, are you trying to teach me about the realities of war?”
He shakes his head. “Are you forgetting that I was a soldier in Warner’s army?
Do you have any idea how much crazy shit we’ve seen?” He gestures between
himself and Adam. “I know exactly what to expect today. Warner was insane. If
Anderson is even twice as bad as his son, then we are diving right into a
bloodbath. I can’t leave you guys hanging like that.”
But I’m caught on one sentence. One word. I just want to ask. “Was he really
that bad … ?”
“Who?” Kenji is staring at me.
“Warner. Was he really that ruthless?”
Kenji laughs out loud. Laughs louder. Doubles over. He’s practically
wheezing when he says, “Ruthless? Juliette, the guy is sick. He’s an animal. I
don’t think he even knows what it means to be human. If there’s a hell out there,
I’m guessing it was designed especially for him.”
It’s so hard to pull this sword out of my stomach.
A rush of footsteps.
I turn around.
Everyone is supposed to exit the tunnels in a single-file line in an attempt to
maintain order as we leave this underground world. Kenji and Adam and I are
the only fighters who haven’t joined the group yet.
We all get to our feet.
“Hey—so, does Castle know what you’re doing?” Adam is looking at Kenji.
“I don’t think he’d be okay with you going out there today.”
“Castle wants me to be happy,” Kenji says matter-of-factly. “And I won’t be
happy if I stay here. I’ve got work to do. People to save. Ladies to impress. He’d
respect that.”
“What about everyone else?” I ask him. “Everyone was so worried about you
—have you even seen them yet? To at least tell them you’re okay?”
“Nah,” Kenji says. “They’d probably shit a brick if they knew I was going
up. I thought it’d be safer to keep it quiet. I don’t want to freak anyone out. And
Sonya and Sara—poor kids—they’re passed the hell out. It’s my fault they’re so
exhausted, and they’re still talking about heading out today. They want to fight
even though they’re going to have a lot of work to do once we’re done with
Anderson’s army. I’ve been trying to convince them to stay here but they can be
so damn stubborn. They need to save their strength,” he says, “and they’ve
already wasted too much of it on me.”
“It’s not a waste—,” I try to tell him.
“Anywayyy,” Kenji says. “Can we please get going? I know you’re all about
hunting down Anderson,” he says to Adam, “but personally? I would love to
catch Warner. Put a bullet through that worthless piece of crap and be done with
it.”
Something punches me in the gut so hard I’m afraid I’m actually going to be
sick. I’m seeing spots, struggling to keep myself standing, fighting to ignore the
image of Warner dead, his body crumpled in red.
“Hey—you okay?” Adam pulls me to the side. Takes a good look at my face.
“I’m okay,” I lie to him. Nod too many times. Shake my head once or twice.
“I just didn’t get enough sleep last night, but I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive,” I lie again. I pause. Grab his shirt. “Hey—just be careful out
there, okay?”
He exhales a heavy breath. Nods once. “Yeah. You too.”
“Let’s go let’s go let’s go!” Kenji interrupts us. “Today is our day to die,
ladies.”
Adam shoves him. A little.
“Oh, so now you’re abusing the crippled kid, huh?” Kenji takes a moment to
steady himself before punching Adam in the arm. “Save your angst for the
battlefield, bro. You’re going to need it.”
A shrill whistle sounds in the distance.
It’s time to go.
SIXTY-FOUR
It’s raining.
The world is weeping at our feet in anticipation of what we’re about to do.
We’re all supposed to split off into clusters, fighting in tight groups so we
can’t all be killed at once. We don’t have enough people to fight offensively so
we have to be stealthy. And though I feel a pang of guilt for admitting it, I’m so
happy Kenji decided to come with us. We would’ve been weaker without him.
But we have to get out of the rain.
We’re already soaked through, and while Kenji and I are wearing suits that
offer at least a modicum of protection against the natural elements, Adam is
wearing nothing but crisp cotton basics, and I’m worried we won’t last long like
this. All members of Omega Point have already scattered. The immediate area
above the Point is still nothing but a barren stretch of land that leaves us
vulnerable upon exiting.
Lucky for us, we have Kenji. The 3 of us are already invisible.
Anderson’s men aren’t far from here.
All we know is that ever since Anderson arrived, he’s been going out of his
way to make a point about his power and the iron grip of The Reestablishment.
Any voice of opposition, no matter how weak or feeble, no matter how
unthreatening or innocuous, has been silenced. He’s angry that we’ve inspired
rebellion and now he’s trying to make a statement. What he really wants is to
destroy all of us.
The poor civilians are just caught in his friendly fire.
Gunshots.
We automatically move toward the sound echoing in the distance. We aren’t
saying a word. We understand what we need to do and how we have to operate.
Our only mission is to get as close as possible to the devastation and then to take
out as many of Anderson’s men as we can. We protect the innocent. We support
our fellow Point men and women.
We try very hard not to die.
I can make out the compounds creeping closer in the distance, but the rain is
making it difficult to see. All the colors are bleeding together, melting into the
horizon, and I have to strain to discern what lies ahead of us. I instinctively
touch the guns attached to the holsters on my back and I’m momentarily
reminded of my last encounter with Anderson—my only encounter with the
horrible, despicable man—and I wonder what’s happened to him. I wonder if
maybe Adam was right when he said that Anderson might be severely wounded,
that perhaps he’s still struggling to recuperate. I wonder if Anderson will make
an appearance on the battlefield. I wonder if perhaps he’s too much of a coward
to fight in his own wars.
The screams tell us we’re getting closer.
The world around us is a blurry landscape of blues and grays and mottled
hues and the few trees still standing have a hundred shaky, quivering arms
ripping through their trunks, reaching up to the sky as if in prayer, begging for
relief from the tragedy they’ve been rooted in. It’s enough to make me feel sorry
for the plants and animals forced to bear witness to what we’ve done.
They never asked for this.
Kenji guides us toward the outskirts of the compounds and we slip forward
to stand flush against the wall of one of the little square houses, huddled under
the extra bit of roof that, at least for a moment, grants us reprieve from the
clenched fists falling from the sky.
Wind is gnawing at the windows, straining against the walls. Rain is popping
against the roof like popcorn against a pane of glass.
The message from the sky is clear: we are pissed.
We are pissed and we will punish you and we will make you pay for the
blood you spill so freely. We will not sit idly by, not anymore, not ever again.
We will ruin you, is what the sky says to us.
How could you do this to me? it whispers in the wind.
I gave you everything, it says to us.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
I’m wondering why I still can’t see any sign of the army. I don’t see anyone else
from Omega Point. I don’t see anyone at all. In fact, I’m starting to feel like this
compound is a little too peaceful.
I’m about to suggest we move when I hear a door slam open.
“This is the last of them,” someone shouts. “She was hiding out over here.”
A soldier is dragging a crying woman out from the compound we’re huddled
against and she’s screaming, she’s begging for mercy and asking about her
husband and the soldier barks at her to shut up.
I have to keep the emotions from spilling out of my eyes, my mouth.
I do not speak.
I do not breathe.
Another soldier jogs over from somewhere I can’t see. He shouts some kind
of approving message and makes a motion with his hands that I don’t
understand. I feel Kenji stiffen beside me.
Something is wrong.
“Toss her in with everyone else,” the second soldier shouts. “And then we’ll
call this area clear.”
The woman is hysterical. She’s screeching, clawing at the soldier, telling him
she’s done nothing wrong, she doesn’t understand, where is her husband, she’s
been looking for her daughter everywhere and what is happening, she cries, she
screams, she flails her fists at the man gripping her like an animal.
He presses the barrel of his gun to her neck. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll shoot
you right now.”
She whimpers once, twice, and then she’s limp. She’s fainted in his arms and
the soldier looks disgusted as he pulls her out of sight toward wherever they’re
keeping everyone else. I have no idea what’s happening. I don’t understand
what’s happening.
We follow them.
The wind and the rain pick up in pace and there’s enough noise in the air and
distance between us and the soldiers that I feel safe to speak. I squeeze Kenji’s
hand. He’s still the glue between me and Adam, projecting his powers to keep us
all invisible. “What do you think is going on?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away.
“They’re rounding them up,” he says after a moment. “They’re creating
groups of people to kill all at once.”
“The woman—”
“Yeah.” I hear him clear his throat. “Yeah, she and whoever else they think
might be connected to the protests. They don’t just kill the inciters,” he tells me.
“They kill the friends and the family members, too. It’s the best way to keep
people in line. It never fails to scare the shit out of the few left alive.”
I have to swallow back the vomit threatening to overpower me.
“There has to be a way to get them out of there,” Adam says. “Maybe we can
take out the soldiers in charge.”
“Yeah, but listen, you guys know I’m going to have to let go of you, right?
I’m already kind of losing strength; my Energy is fading faster than normal. So
you’ll be visible,” Kenji says. “You’ll be a clearer target.”
“But what other choice do we have?” I ask.
“We could try to take them out sniper-style,” Kenji says. “We don’t have to
engage in direct combat. We have that option.” He pauses. “Juliette, you’ve
never been in this kind of situation before. I want you to know I’d respect your
decision to stay out of the direct line of fire. Not everyone can stomach what we
might see if we follow those soldiers. There’s no shame or blame in that.”
I taste metal in my mouth as I lie. “I’ll be okay.”
He’s quiet a moment. “Just—all right—but don’t be afraid to use your
abilities to defend yourself,” he says to me. “I know you’re all weird about not
wanting to hurt people or whatever, but these guys aren’t messing around. They
will try to kill you.”
I nod even though I know he can’t see me. “Right,” I say. “Yeah.” But I’m
panicked through my mind.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
SIXTY-FIVE
I can’t feel my knees.
There are 27 people lined up, standing side by side in the middle of a big,
barren field. Men and women and children of all different ages. All different
sizes. All standing before what could be called a firing squad of 6 soldiers. The
rain is rushing down around us, hard and angry, pelting everything and everyone
with teardrops as hard as my bones. The wind is absolutely frantic.
The soldiers are deciding what to do. How to kill them. How to dispose of
the 27 sets of eyes staring straight ahead. Some are sobbing, some are shaking
from fear and grief and horror, others still are standing perfectly straight, stoic in
the face of death.
One of the soldiers fires a shot.
The first man crumples to the ground and I feel like I’ve been whipped in the
spine. So many emotions rush in and out of me in the span of a few seconds that
I’m afraid I might faint; I’m clinging to consciousness with an animal
desperation and trying to swallow back the tears, trying to ignore the pain
spearing through me.
I can’t understand why no one is moving, why we’re not moving, why none
of the civilians are moving even just to jump out of the way and it occurs to me,
it dawns on me that running, trying to escape or trying to fight back is simply not
a viable option. They are utterly overpowered. They have no guns. No
ammunition of any kind.
But I do.
I have a gun.
I have 2, in fact.
This is the moment, this is where we have to let go, this is where we fight
alone, just the 3 of us, 3 ancient kids fighting to save 26 faces or we die trying.
My eyes are locked on a little girl who can’t be much older than James, her eyes
so wide, so terrified, the front of her pants already wet from fear and it rips me to
pieces, it kills me, and my free hand is already reaching for my gun when I tell
Kenji I’m ready.
I watch the same soldier focus his weapon on the next victim when Kenji
releases us.
3 guns are up, aimed to fire, and I hear the bullets before they’re released
into the air; I see one find its mark in a soldier’s neck and I have no idea if it’s
mine.
It doesn’t matter now.
There are still 5 soldiers left to face, and now they can see us.
We’re running.
We’re dodging the bullets aimed in our direction and I see Adam dropping to
the ground, I see him shooting with perfect precision and still failing to find a
target. I look around for Kenji only to find that he’s disappeared and I’m so
happy for it; 3 soldiers go down almost instantly. Adam takes advantage of the
remaining soldiers’ distraction and takes out a fourth. I shoot the fifth from
behind.
I don’t know whether or not I’ve killed him.
We’re screaming for the people to follow us, we’re herding them back to the
compounds, yelling for them to stay down, to stay out of sight; we tell them help
is coming and we’ll do whatever we can to protect them and they’re trying to
reach out to us, to touch us, to thank us and take our hands but we don’t have
time. We have to hurry them to some semblance of safety and move on to
wherever the rest of this decimation is taking place.
I still haven’t forgotten the one man we weren’t able to save. I haven’t
forgotten number 27.
I never want that to happen again.
We’re bolting across the many miles of land dedicated to these compounds
now, not bothering to keep ourselves hidden or to come up with a definitive
plan. We still haven’t spoken. We haven’t discussed what we’ve done or what
we might do and we only know that we need to keep moving.
We follow Kenji.
He weaves his way through a demolished cluster of compounds and we
know something has gone horribly wrong. There’s no sign of life anywhere. The
little metal boxes that used to house civilians are completely destroyed and we
don’t know if there were people inside when this happened.
Kenji tells us we have to keep looking.
We move deeper through the regulated territory, these pieces of land
dedicated to human habitation, until we hear a rush of footsteps, the sound of a
softly churning mechanical sound.
The tanks.
They run on electricity so they’re less conspicuous as they move through the
streets, but I’m familiar enough with these tanks to be able to recognize the
electric thrum. Adam and Kenji do too.
We follow the noise.
We’re fighting against the wind trying push us away and it’s almost as if it
knows, as if the wind is trying to protect us from whatever is waiting on the
other side of this compound. It doesn’t want us to have to see this. It doesn’t
want us to have to die today.
Something explodes.
A raging fire rips through the atmosphere not 50 feet from where we’re
standing. The flames lick the earth, lapping up the oxygen, and even the rain
can’t douse the devastation all at once. The fire whips and sways in the wind,
dying down just enough, humbled into submission by the sky.
We need to be wherever that fire is.
Our feet fight for traction on the muddy ground and I don’t feel the cold as
we run, I don’t feel the wet, I only feel the adrenaline coursing through my
limbs, forcing me to move forward, gun clenched too tight in my fist, too ready
to aim, too ready to fire.
But when we reach the flames I almost drop my weapon.
I almost fall to the floor.
I almost can’t believe my eyes.
SIXTY-SIX
Dead dead dead is everywhere.
So many bodies mixed and meshed into the earth that I have no idea whether
they’re ours or theirs and I’m beginning to wonder what it means, I’m beginning
to doubt myself and this weapon in my hand and I can’t help but wonder about
these soldiers, I wonder how they could be just like Adam, just like a million
other tortured, orphaned souls who simply needed to survive and took the only
job they could get.
My conscience has declared war against itself.
I’m blinking back tears and rain and horror and I know I need to move my
legs, I know I need to push forward and be brave, I have to fight whether I like it
or not because we can’t let this happen.
I’m tackled from behind.
Someone pins me down and my face is buried in the ground and I’m kicking,
I’m trying to scream but I feel the gun wrenched out of my grip, I feel an elbow
in my spine and I know Adam and Kenji are gone, they’re deep in battle and I
know I’m about to die. I know it’s over and it doesn’t feel real, somehow, it feels
like this is a story someone else is telling, like death is a strange, distant thing
you’ve only ever seen happen to people you’ve never known and surely it
doesn’t happen to me, to you, to any of the rest of us.
But here it is.
It’s a gun in the back of my head and a boot pressed down on my back and
it’s my mouth full of mud and it’s a million worthless moments I never really
lived and it’s all right in front of me. I see it so clearly.
Someone flips me over.
The same someone who held a gun to my head is now pointing it at my face,
inspecting me as if trying to read me and I’m confused, I don’t understand his
angry gray eyes or the stiff set of his mouth because he’s not pulling the trigger.
He’s not killing me and this, this more than anything else is what petrifies me.
I need to take off my gloves.
My captor shouts something I don’t catch because he’s not talking to me,
he’s not looking in my direction because he’s calling to someone else and I use
his moment of distraction to yank off the steel knuckle brace on my left hand
only to toss it to the ground. I have to get my glove off. I have to get my glove
off because it’s my only chance for survival but the rain has made the leather too
wet and it’s sticking to my skin, refusing to come off easily and the soldier spins
back too soon. He sees what I’m trying to do and he yanks me to my feet, pulls
me into a headlock and presses the gun to my skull. “I know what you’re trying
to do, you little freak,” he says. “I’ve heard about you. You move even an inch
and I will kill you.”
Somehow, I don’t believe him.
I don’t think he’s supposed to shoot me, because if he wanted to, he
would’ve done it already. But he’s waiting for something. He’s waiting for
something I don’t understand and I need to act fast. I need a plan but I have no
idea what to do and I’m only clawi