Chapter 11: Feline Curiosity
WE'RE ON OUR way home, and Apollon veers off, saying he'll catch up with us later. As we've been walking, I've planned my words, hoping to get some answers once we get into the quieter streets. Now, I'm stuck with Jonas, and getting answers out of him will be like getting orange juice out of a cabbage. A nervous flutter fills my chest cavity. I clench my fingers into fists to keep my hands steady.
We enter an area that's completely quiet. "Wait," I say softly.
Jonas keeps walking.
"Wait," I say again, grabbing his wrist to stop him.
He turns to me, and jerks his arm away. "What?" he says, his voice filled with impatience.
My mouth is hanging, my eyes scanning his face. This isn't the opening I'd hoped for. And his barely-suppressed hostility sets me off-balance before I've even started the conversation. "You know what," I finally say.
He crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. His jaw sets. "I thought you knew what was good for you."
"Apparently not," I counter, tilting my chin up.
He looks at me warily and shakes his head.
Finally, I say, in what I think will be a nicer voice— but what comes out ringing with impatience— "Jonas..."
His eyes narrow thoughtfully. "You're such a pain," he says. "Why did we ever take you on?"
The words in themselves are hurtful, but there's something beneath them that takes away the sting. "Not like you had a choice," I drawl at him as we start walking again, very slowly. "You were kind of out-voted."
He snorts. "Just goes to show that democracy doesn't work."
I check our surroundings at the mention of politics. There's not a Sentry in sight, but a few men are walking toward us. I tug his arm and we turn down an alleyway. He eyes me as we walk in silence. We take the next left into an adjoining alleyway, turning back in our original direction. I slam on the brakes. Jonas gropes at me and pulls me back. The beggars are covered in blood. Their hands. Their mouths. They're hunched over something. Over someone. Their heads turn to look at us, eyes wild. We backpedal and run for the other end of the alley.
On the next street, we turn and walk, forcing our breathing to normal. I'm shivering, fixated on analyzing the glimpse of gore. When they turned toward us... I think one of them was that crazy boy from the fire barrels. I look at Jonas. His answering glance is filled with a warning. We say nothing.
"Anyway," he says, after we have walked for a moment, "you really are better off not knowing. You know what happens to kittens that get too curious, right?"
I can't get the image out of my mind. I shove it into its own dark box. Imagine pulse beams erasing it. Jonas. I narrow my eyes, focusing on him and his words. "I guess I'll just have to ask Miranda, then."
He shoots me a wide-eyed look of horror. So Miranda doesn't know.
I smile at him. It feels almost normal, now.
His eyes narrow. "You're going to get yourself killed. You know that?"
I half-wonder if it's a threat. When I speak, my voice sounds light. Easy. "What're you going to do? Eat me?"
Alarm flashes in Jonas' eyes, so brief I could easily have missed it.
I shrug. "Not like it was my idea to chose sides in a war between bad guys."
Jonas produces the faintest hint of a laugh— more just the movement of shoulders than any kind of real noise. Suddenly, his eyes are hard on my face. "But you did, didn't you?" he says. "You've already chosen a side."
I manage to smother the alarm before it shows on my face, but not the confusion. My mind is stumbling over the past few days, wondering if he's seen me talking to Matthew— if he thinks I've chosen that side.
But he says, carefully, like he's feeding me the ideas, "You chose us. You're one of us. Our side is your side."
I stare at him quietly. Finally, I say, "It's kind of hard to be on your side when I have no idea what that means. What we're even doing."
Now Jonas stops again, turning me to him, wrapping his fingers lightly around my forearms. The touch sends little shocks up my arms, even though it's through the sleeves of my jacket. His face is serious, but his voice is soft, barely audible. "We are getting the hell out of here," he says. His words, like his fingers, are full of electricity.
Again, I'm gaping, staring up into his green eyes. I don't want to break that connection. Don't want the moment of silence to pass. But I whisper, "Leaving?" My pulse is out of the starting gate and running like hell. The idea blazes up inside me. I am consumed.
He nods and looks away, his eyes quickly scanning the street around us, but no one is near.
I find my voice, though it comes in a broken, throaty squawk. "When? How are we going to—"
Jonas silences me with a look. His fingers tighten ever-so-slightly on my arms. He hesitates, then says, "I haven't told the others yet."
I frown. "Well," I say, "you two have never been great at sharing information, have you."
But he's shaking his head. "No," he says. "Apollon doesn't know either."
I take a moment to study him, but I can't quite figure him out. His face is written in a language I don't speak. Some of the words might look familiar, but the meaning is elusive, just beyond translation. I shift my arms, and his fingers fall away. I say, "So... it's not really a plan."
His eyes narrow on me. "It's a plan. It's the only plan."
I wrap my arms about myself and look away, my hair blowing across my face. Now that the idea of leaving has seared itself into my core, I can stand back and look at its smoldering edges. I can analyze its wisdoms and foolishnesses. There are plenty of both. How, exactly, would we manage to get our little group, eight-year-old boy included, out of the Outpost and all the way to... to who knows where? Where would we even go? My eyes flick to Jonas' wrist, though his scar is covered. I catch myself and look away, but I'm too late. He's caught it.
His face flushes dark, his jaw tightening.
"I'm all for leaving," I say, hoping to distract him. The statement is true enough, though I'm worried about the practicalities.
"Yeah?"
I nod, allowing my mind to consider the possibility of going. I imagine myself running, and again, I'm thinking about the white spire that haunts my dreams. Is it real? Could I find it? The hopeless urge to be there washes over me in the wan light of the waking world. I shiver and sigh.
Jonas pats my shoulder and we begin walking again. "Good," he says. "You can help me convince Apollon."
"Oh, no," I say. "That's all on you."