“What, Tavia?” And his voice is edged with an impatience that I understand, but I have to ask this first.
“You keep saying vaccine. Won’t this also be an antidote?”
His jaw tightens, and I know the answer. “I don’t think there’s anything that can stop this virus after someone has already contracted it. It’s simply too strong and too fast.”
I swallow hard and nod as Daniel returns to his computer and starts telling me about the different parts of DNA. I try to focus—I have to learn this! Because even if we succeed in creating the vaccine today, it will still be too late for the thousands of people who don’t know they caught it yesterday.
The sound of a clock ticking seems to fill my head, blocking out all other thought.
And it sounds like the countdown on a bomb.
EIGHTEEN
My back hurts from hunching over the microscope for hours, but even though I’ve been in the lab all day, I’m not yet ready to head back to my room.
It’s time for me to face him.
I skirt the edges of the main atrium as I try to remember how I got to the “holding cells.” The people I pass whisper about the virus—one hundred and fifty thousand dead from the disease, five thousand new cases today, this on top of the two million killed in the South Pacific. The countdown clock that echoed in my head in the lab grows louder and louder with each passing step.
And yet, I can’t help but notice that for all the Curatoriates’ talk about the virus and its effects, they still had time to redecorate the atrium. Today it has a Baroque theme. I scarcely had time to register it when I snuck away from Logan this morning, but now I see that intricate buttresses and colonnades have replaced the splendor of ancient Rome. Tapestries and beautiful swaths of silk and brocade drape the walls; suits of armor stand guard at every corner. There are even musicians playing ancient-looking stringed instruments, and today’s dinner buffet, which I don’t have time to partake of, unfortunately—a self-created bagel on the run will have to do—features a whole pig with an apple in its mouth surrounded by fruits and meats. Dozens upon dozens of candles flicker and glow in elaborate sconces on the wall, and an enormous fireplace—complete with a roaring blaze—fills almost an entire alcove. Two Curatoriates—a Creator and a Destroyer—must have spent hours decorating.
I put my head down as I walk along the stretch of railing in sight of the alcove below, wishing that I had left my hair down so it could fall over my face. I don’t want anyone to see me.
Not even Logan.
Maybe especially Logan.
I hug the wall as I dart around the final corner and run into Alanna. Like, literally, bodies crashing. Just great.
Not only is she annoying and frustrating on her own, she’s also incredibly loud. Not so helpful when I’m trying to be stealthy.
“Careful!” Alanna chirrups, her hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Wouldn’t want to damage you any worse than you already are.” She squeezes my arms and smiles patronizingly at me like I’m a little kid. I resist the urge to fling her hands away but can’t help reaching up to pat my tightly braided hair, just to make sure my scar is still covered. Protected.
She notices nothing when I try to sidestep her to get away, simply falls into step with me. “Did you work with Daniel today?” she asks, her voice breathy and excited. I’m struck by how immature she seems compared to Audra, who must be at least ten years younger than her.
“Maybe,” I grumble, hating that she brings out such surliness in me. But what else am I supposed to say? I’m certainly not going to tell her about Daniel’s and my project.
When did it become mine and Daniel’s? When did it become mine at all? It’s not about me; it’s for the world. To prevent the horrendous tragedy of yesterday from happening again.
Assuming we can do it.
Assuming we’re not too late.
“—wouldn’t tell us where you were. He’s a squirrely one, your diligo.”
“What?” I say, coming back to the present. “You were with Logan today?” I ask lightly. The hell was she doing with Logan? is what I think, but I don’t want to cause a scene, or worse, raise suspicions about what Logan’s doing.
Alanna turns to face me squarely now. “Yep, Thomas and I hung out with him for hours. Helped show him around. He wouldn’t tell us where you were.” For about three seconds she looks serious and more her age. Then her face crinkles into a childish grin and in her sing-song voice she chants, “But we gueeee-eeeessed.” She leans forward before I can turn to walk away and says, “I assumed you two had slept in because . . . well, because he kept you up late last night,” she says, waggling her eyebrows. “But Thomas said he saw you with Daniel this morning. Early.” She stands straight and puts her hand over her heart with an exaggerated sigh. “That man, he sees everything. I’d be lost without him. Hands off!” she adds with her squealy laugh, and I can’t make myself stay any longer.
“Listen, I really need to go,” I say, trying to get by her. “What I really need now is a . . . a shower,” I lie.
“I’ll bet you do,” Alanna says. “Make sure he washes you everywhere.” Then she calls out in a suggestive voice, “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”
“Yeah, uh-huh. Great,” I mumble, then I push away from the wall, almost running toward the hallway that will lead me to the cells.
Fleeing.
I don’t even care that she can tell I’m not going to my room. I have to get away from this woman. She irritates me more than our brief interactions can logically justify. There’s just something so awful about her.
She calls after me, but I block out her voice and turn a corner, then slap my back against the wall just outside the security rooms and wait. For several minutes I stand there, but Alanna doesn’t follow. No one comes around the corner. Why would they? Most sane people would avoid what is essentially the Curatoria’s prison.
It takes several deep breaths before I feel truly in control, but by the time I find the strength to push away from the wall, I’ve reined in my emotions.
I’m ready.
Or, at least, as ready as I’ll ever be.
I knock on the door and see the face of the woman from last night, dressed in the same plain, cream-colored clothes. She looks tired, and I wonder if she’s slept. Wonder how demanding her job as a warden is.
“Miss Michaels, I’m so glad you came before I got off shift,” she says with a smile that speaks of a more genuine kindness than almost anyone else has shown since I’ve arrived here. “I’m hopeful he’ll cooperate more if he sees we’re willing to work with him.”
I nod sharply. I’ve never wanted to run away and hide so badly. I square my shoulders and straighten my spine as I round the final corner and see him through the glass.
He’s on his feet, braced against the wall with his hands in his pockets—still without a shirt, why, gods?—looking more than a little pissed. I’m so focused on Benson I barely register that someone is talking to me. I turn and face a man I don’t recognize from last night—I guess it makes sense that there would be several security people who rotate shifts—as he finishes his lecture. I nod, though I have no idea what I just agreed to.
“Don’t worry,” he says, patting my shoulder. “You’ll be safe.”
Oh. They’re worried about my safety. My physical safety. I should tell them they don’t need to be concerned. It’s only my heart that’s at risk.
“Are you ready?” I look over at the quiet woman. Her hands are on the door handle.
Ready? Never. “Of course.”
The door opens; I walk through.
Benson shoots away from the wall, instantly on alert. But his hands drop to his sides when he sees me.
“Tavia.” The word is so quiet that even in the tiny, echoing room, I barely hear it. “I almost didn’t believe you would come. I mean, they said . . . It doesn’
t matter,” he finishes in a mumble.
My eyes can’t help but wander over his bare skin. He looks so incredibly sexy in his current getup of faded jeans and no shirt. “Put some clothes on,” I finally say, harsher than I intended.
Benson’s entire expression wilts, and I can’t look at him as I hold up a hand, conjuring a white T-shirt.
Just his size. The soft, brushed cotton I know he prefers.
I turn to the side and wait, my ears honing in on the sound of fabric skimming his skin as he pulls the shirt over his head. Only when I’m sure he’s covered do I pivot to face him.
“You wanted to see me?” I say, my voice quivering. I don’t know what to say. How to talk to this person who I thought could look into my soul only two weeks ago but who’s now a stranger.
“They think I’m a Reduciate,” he says so quietly.
“Aren’t you?”
“I never wanted to be.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that you belong to an organization that has killed practically everyone who has ever mattered to me. Or Logan,” I add, even though I know it’s a low blow to bring him up.
“Do you really think one tattoo defines who I am? Forever?”
I start to speak but clamp my mouth shut again. Do I? And if he were to get a feather and flame symbol on the other side, what would that make him? Does his mark mean so much to me?
I wave my hand, and a table and two chairs appear. It’s already too late when I realize it’s the table from the library in Portsmouth. Our table. Creating is just too easy for me. My ability practically reads my thoughts. My secret thoughts.
“Sit,” I say, grabbing my chair and plopping down into it. “Talk.”
But he hesitates, standing there with his arms folded over his chest, not in a rebellious way, but more like he’s trying to keep himself warm. He towers over me, but somehow he’s the small one.
“Are you sure you want to hear the truth?” he asks.
“I don’t see why not,” I reply with a casualness I don’t feel. “I’m the one who’s been suffering the consequences for a mark that supposedly doesn’t define you. I may as well know why.”
“But then you’ll know how much I lied to you.”
I keep my eyes neutral but consider his words carefully. Do I want to know? The last time I heard the truth about him was when Marie told me he was a Reduciate. That revelation destroyed my confidence and kept me awake for days. Even now, I don’t dare believe I can ever fully trust anyone again, much less him.
Could anything he might say today be worse?
“As far as I’m concerned, every word you’ve ever spoken to me was a lie,” I say, looking up at him. “I don’t think you’re going to shock me.” But even though everything I’ve said is technically true, it rings false at the same time. I want him to shock me. I want to be convinced that I was right to trust him—that I was wrong to ever doubt him.
A hollow pang reverberates through my chest as if my insides are asking me, and where would that leave Logan? I don’t let myself answer.
“Sit,” I command again. He’s still for a few more seconds, and I wonder if he’ll refuse. Then his whole body sags in surrender, and he drops into the seat and lays his head down on his arms.
“I don’t have all night,” I say after he’s motionless for almost a minute.
He lifts his head just enough to peer out at me with those bright blue eyes, and a tiny piece of the ice around my heart cracks.
Maybe it was a bad decision to come see him.
It’s too late now.
“I . . . I’m not really sure where to start,” he says, his voice unsteady.
“How about with how you got here?” I ask, gesturing to the room around us.
“Same way you did,” he mutters.
“What are you talking about?”
“We were in the same prison. The Reduciata one. Three days ago. I . . . I saw you for just a second and I tried to—it doesn’t matter. It didn’t work.”
I almost forgot. The voice that struck me into stillness. The one that called my name. Of course. Of course it was Benson. He’s not lying. And somehow that makes everything worse.
“When the Curatoriates came in and rescued you, they, like, raided the place after you were gone.” He shrugs. “I convinced them to take me with them.”
“Why the hell would they want you?” I don’t mean to sound so sharp, but it doesn’t make any sense.
“After you made my bars disappear, I ran after them. I wanted to get out of there so badly I didn’t care that I was technically going to the ‘other side.’ I told them I had—well I didn’t have, but I knew where they were keeping the painting from the cave.”
My entire body stills, and I know my face must be pale. I turn my head, trying not to let him see.
“See, I had this theory that you could use it for . . . I guess it doesn’t matter,” he mumbles. “You obviously found a way on your own.”
“How do you know I found a way?” I snap, paranoid all over again.
“Your hair,” Benson says simply. “It’s been more than five minutes and it hasn’t gone short again. It was never long enough to braid before. It’s cute,” he adds, more to his lap than me.
“Keeps my scar hidden a lot more effectively,” I volunteer. For a moment—just a moment—it feels like before. Then our eyes meet and I remember that I’m furious at him. “Why didn’t they just take the painting?” I ask. “Why bother with you?”
He looks guilty now. “I told them I could see the Earthscript and that the Reduciates were using me for that.”
“The what?” I narrow my eyes.
“The triangles. The ones you kept seeing in Portsmouth. The ones that glimmer.”
My mouth falls open, but then I remember how he hesitated when I asked him if he could see the triangle over the door of a house I took him to in Portsmouth. “Benson,” I say, my heart pounding. “Why can you see the triangles?”
He leans back against his chair now and lets out a heavy sigh. “Because my father is an Earthbound.”
NINETEEN
“What?”
He runs both hands through his hair. “That’s how I got into this whole thing in the first place.”
“How long have you known?”
“Technically, it started when I was eight. Not that anything seemed weird at the time. As far as I was concerned I had a great life. Mom, dad, annoying older brother, but I couldn’t really do anything about that. And then one day my dad came home looking really, really weird, and he told my mom he had to go find the woman he loved, and he left.”
“He just left?”
“Didn’t take a single thing with him.”
“He must have done something that triggered his memories,” I say softly.
“That’s what they figured too.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“The Reduciata.”
I furrow my brows. “I don’t understand how we jumped to them.”
“Well, I’ve since learned that Reduciates often prey on what you might call the ‘victims’ of Earthbounds. Families that get left behind. Lovers, children, people who don’t matter anymore,” he finishes in a bitter grumble, and I clench my jaw at those words. First the woman at the Reduciata prison, then Daniel, then Logan, now Benson. I don’t ever want to hear about people ceasing to matter again. “The Reduciates search for them just like they search for Earthbounds.”
“Why?”
Benson lifts haggard eyes to me. “Because they can feed their bitterness and turn them into weapons. They’ve been doing it for ages. When some people in fancy suits came to my mom and told her they knew where my dad was and that they could help her give him what he deserved, she jumped at the idea.” Benson waves his hand vaguely. “At first it was promises of child support and stuff, but eventual
ly they told her the truth.”
“And she believed them?” I remember how hard it was for me to believe it myself, even when I had proof sitting in front of my face.
“Not at first, but she did believe me.”
I’m silent, waiting for him to go on, not understanding any of this.
“After the Reduciates told her what my dad was she backpedaled big time. She was sure she’d almost fallen for a scam. But then they pulled out a bunch of cards and asked both me and my brother what we saw. My brother didn’t see anything. I saw a bunch of shapes in what looked like sparkling paint.”
I can hardly think enough to get the words out. “But you’re not . . . you’re not . . .”
“I’m not an Earthbound,” Benson says with fierce determination—like it would be so awful if he were. “You can’t just make a new Earthbound. But the children of Earthbounds sometimes have latent—watered down, I guess—abilities. Most commonly, seeing the Earthscript.”
“Earthscript,” I echo. The name sounds right now that I say it.
“I suspect the fact that I could see something she couldn’t is the reason my mom decided to listen. And that’s when my life really ended. Even more so than when my dad left. My mom became obsessed with her role in the Reduciata. They kept telling her that surely he had gone to the Curatoriates, but they could never find him. For years she worked for the Reduciata—doing anything they wanted—in exchange for them continuing to look for my father.”
“Doesn’t she know what they do? What they have planned?”
Benson shrugs. “As much as anyone does.” He leans forward, his forearms braced against the table now. “You don’t understand how it is, Tave. They feed your hatred and anger until you’re blind to everything else. It’s how she was. How she is,” he amends. “So tunnel-visioned by her hate and desperation for revenge that nothing is more important than that. If she’d been allowed to just take time to heal and mourn and all of the things that normal people do, I think she would have been fine.” He shakes his head. “But the Reduciata got a hold of her and they’ve . . . they’ve twisted her until she’s almost unrecognizable.”