Whatever the vial contained, it erased her memories. All of them. But not as effectively as they hoped. Sam could feel it, the nudge of them returning. Not just the short-term memories. The memories of what came before this place. Who she was. One of the Gifted, a human with genes that gave them supernatural abilities. Illusionists and memory-bringers. She was a memory-bringer, from a family of memory-bringer elders.
How she experienced people’s memories—past and future. And Reed’s memory of his mother calling him Rocky wasn’t the first she’d experienced. But there was a way to do it, a way to control it. Having Reed’s memory overtake her wasn’t right. Children lacked control, not grown women. They went through training to learn how to call memories at will. If she could just tap into that training, she could find more chinks in everyone’s armor. Reed. Coop. Jennings. It had to be useful somehow.
And Coop brought up a more pressing matter. What were they testing? Where had they taken Amy and the old lady? How could she stop it?
Sam reached out her hand, slowly sweeping the floor for the water Coop said he’d left. Her throat was scratchy with thirst, but did she trust him? She licked her lips. If she was this thirsty already, Sam feared she had little choice. It was a risk she had to take.
She hit the bowl, making it wobble, and winced. She needed to be careful. She couldn’t risk getting wet again, especially as the cold pushed through her thin clothes. Sitting up, Sam sniffed the bowl. It didn’t smell like anything, but that didn’t mean it was safe.
Resolve settled. She’d risk it. A few drops of water escaped the bowl and dribbled down her face as she drank, and she cursed her inability to stop when it disappeared. Her stomach rumbled as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. It always had to be something.
She pushed herself up, swaying slightly on her feet as the blood rushed to her head and her vision dimmed. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself back to normal. She took a step forward and froze.
She had socks on.
Coop? He’d let her keep the socks the first time. Jennings? He’d promised to get her out. Could Jennings and Coop be working together? It seemed possible.
They’d all met in the hallway on the way to the infirmary. Sam racked her memory. Had they looked at each other? Said anything? She made an exasperated noise. No, she’d been too distracted by seeing Coop.
Stupid. She paced the cell—it was empty except for the water container—and considered her options. They were testing on the old lady. She had to do something to stop it, but nothing would happen from this holding cell. She either had to wait until someone came to rescue her or get out on her own, cameras be damned.
Sam stopped at the door. Maybe Coop had failed to lock up again. The cameras would ensure she’d be caught, but these people didn’t want her dead. She could use that to her advantage. Get more information. See how far she could push the guards. Placing her hand over the handle, she pushed down.
Locked.
Sam kicked the door. The pain came quick and hot, and she whirled around and plopped down, angry at the throbbing of her foot. But she felt it—the beginnings of a memory. It started as a small twitch in her fingers. An answering shudder in her arms. The movement built up and overtook her body.
A thin strip of road appeared in front of them. She didn’t know the time, but it was long after the sun had set and too soon for the sun to rise. The compound, tucked into a valley in the mountains like some kind of sick and twisted asylum, had disappeared from their rear view mirror, but its presence clawed at her neck, making it difficult to breathe.
They’d been driving for hours.
She imagined what lay in front of them. Nothing but fields and forests. Flat lands, as far as she could see.
“Almost there,” he said, pulling her out of her thoughts.
“Is it safe?” She wanted to know—had to know.
His silence made her grow uncomfortable. “As safe as it can be.”
The answer left a sour taste in her mouth. She twisted in the seat to look at him. The glow of the dashboard lights barely illuminated his face, his mouth tight and pinched.
“I don’t want to exchange one prison for another.”
Something bumped and hit her back, snapping her out of the memory. “Oof.”
“Sam?”
Not Coop.
“Who’s there?” The last remaining tendrils of the memory made her sound sleepy.
“Jennings.” The door pushed into her back. “What’s blocking the door?”
“Me.”
The pressure on the door lessened so fast she almost fell against it.
“Oh. Can I come in?”
She made a face. “Do I have a choice?”
“Right. Um. Well, uh. Can you move? So I can come in?”
She slid away. "I've moved."
"Oh. Okay."
Jennings eased into the cell. She scooted back further and asked, "What do you want?"
"I—well, I just wanted to, you know, stop by..."
A social call? Sam didn’t think so. But rather than encouraging him to continue, she knew he’d talk faster if she said nothing at all.
Silence motivated.
He rubbed the back of his neck and stepped to the side, shutting the door with as much caution as he’d opened it. The light faded so much she could barely see his outline.
"Okay, well. I came because… I want to know how much you remember. So I can help you."
Everyone wanted to know about her memories. She didn’t dare tell anyone; these people were not her friends. The guards belonged to the Hunters—named because they’d spent the last forty years hunting the Gifted. They called themselves the Northern Alliance Betterment Society, a name designed to conceal their true intents. They snatched memory-bringers and illusionists from their homes. Too many without a Gift believed the world was better off if everyone had no Gifts at all.
And so the memory-bringers and illusionists had suffered. Sam needed full control over her memories and memory-bringer abilities if she was going to get out.
But certain things remained hazy. And that memory she'd been having before Jennings interrupted her? She didn't think it was a past memory. Past memories felt more concrete. The man in the car and her memory associated with it was spongy. Pliable. He wasn't from her past.
Memories were odd. Far more volatile and changeable than anyone realized.
"I don't remember anything."
"So you don't remember me?"
He sounded forlorn. Poor kid. Sam didn’t know how old he was, but with his hesitation and awkward mannerisms, he seemed young.
"No," she lied.
"Oh. Well, I meant what I said earlier. And I know you don't remember it, but I said it and I mean it."
We'll get you out of here.
Younger, and perhaps a little dense too. "What did you say to me?"
"Oh. Right. Yeah. I told you that we'd get you out of here."
She let that hang in the air, not quite sure what to do with it, just as she had been when she'd first heard it. "How?"
Cameras are everywhere. We’re always watching.
"Um. I haven't quite figured that out yet." Even with the low light, she could see him shrug.
She had no response; he knew more about the compound.
"I mean, we know we have to get you out of here, before they start testing you. No one has survived the testing, and we can't lose you..."
No survivors? That was murder, not testing. Coop had said they were testing on the old lady, and Sam trembled as another memory tumbled out. The old lady hadn't originally been alone. She'd been with a man. Her husband.
But he'd disappeared, the prisoners had forgotten, and the old lady had lost her will to live. Did she remember what she lost? Or was she plagued by a sense of emptiness without knowing why?
Sam wondered what the testing accomplished. The nurse had said they hadn't done enough testing—not determined the long-term effects of the drug. The memory suppressing drug. She’d l
ost her memories after Reed injected her. That could be the Hunters’ plan: create drugs that take away the Gifts. Without her memories—without the ability to have memories—she was like any other non-Gifted.
But her abilities were reasserting themselves. The serum had dampened her memories for a brief time, but it hadn’t stopped them. Not surprising for something that was wired into her DNA. Sam was beginning to remember, and that meant whatever they were doing wasn’t as effective as they hoped. She could be next. But if Sam could fit all the puzzle pieces together, she’d find a way out. With or without Jennings's help.
"What’s so special about me?" It seemed unfair that she should be spared when no one else was.
"You don't belong. You’re not helping here. We need you out there, doing more." Jennings shuffled his feet.
It hadn’t answered her question, but he opened the door, illuminating his features. Sam cocked her head. Was he the man in the car? The man’s features had been blurred even though she’d sat next to him. He could be anyone.
She could have been anyone. Her memories sometimes carried the fates of others, told from their points of view. Her grandma had trained her to distinguish herself from others in memories years ago, but whatever they were doing to her messed with her abilities. She had to relearn how to manage memories without her grandma’s help—how to tap into the energy flowing within her to control the memories.
But if that memory was hers, she had a chance to escape. Hope surged. She’d escape and find her grandma. She’d do what no Gifted—memory-bringer or illusionist—had done yet: put a stop to the Hunters. The Gifted had let their persecution go on too long. The Hunters were intent on wiping out the Gifted—and their Gifts—and it was time to fight back. She’d petition her uncle and grandma for an army—for anything that would help them win and stay alive.
"I'll do what I can for you," Jennings whispered. "I don't have a lot of authority, but they don't pay a lot of attention to me. I'll try to get you something to eat. You..." He paused for a moment. "You look awful."
And then he was gone.
She snorted. They were starving her. Keeping her locked in a cold holding cell. She hadn't slept. Been beaten up. Of course she looked awful.
She lay back down. Jennings had said we. He wasn’t working alone. Coop? She wiggled her toes. He confused her.
Jennings seemed more earnest, but something about him niggled and told her not to trust him completely. He didn’t appear to be very confident, but his timidity made it easier to pass under everyone’s radar. Was it all an act? He was easy to underestimate, and that was dangerous.
She couldn’t trust anyone.
The door banged open. She flinched at the noise, so loud in her quiet space, and squinted against the light.
"Oh good. You're awake.” Reed. He was the worst. “I was wondering when you'd return to the living. Luckily I caught Jennings as he was leaving. He assured me you were fine. Get up. I want to show you something."
His giddiness spelled trouble for her. But the possibility of getting answers loomed. She needed to know. Pain shot through her shoulders when she rolled them. Resisting Reed would likely end in another beating. In the end, it didn’t matter. She wanted to see.
Sam stood up. “Lead the way.”
They went past the intersection and into another part of the T-shaped compound. Every hallway looked the same. Gray walls, gray tiles, white doors on the outside. Her door was black on the inside. So were the walls. Unlike her original holding cell, far away from people, it was busier here, and they passed people—all guards, their uniforms making waves of dark green through the hallway—as they walked. No one made eye contact. The hum of the fluorescent lights and squeaks of boots were the only sounds along the way.
“Why the tour of the compound, Rocky? You gonna give me free reign of the place soon?”
He snorted. “I’m teaching you your place in the world.”
“In charge of this place, you mean?” She angled her head up at him and smiled.
He looked down his nose at her, contempt raising his eyebrows and distaste puckering his lips. “Never.” He paused and lifted his hand toward her. She recoiled and tried to slap it away, but stopped herself. It would make him happy to know his touch disgusted her.
“Your people are better off dead.”
Her people? “No one deserves death.”
“Foolish girl. The Gifted use memories and illusions to control the non-Gifted. They must be stopped and neutralized before they destroy us completely.” Reed clucked and grabbed her upper arm, harder than necessary, and dragged her to one of the white doors. There were no identifying marks on the door. “Here we go.”
She let him haul her into the room, blinking as everything hit her all at once. Squinting against the brightness, she took in the room: white floors, white walls, blinding white light. Her holding cell in reverse.
The white did little to put her at ease.
After she’d adjusted to the room’s extremes, other details popped. The whir of an unseen fan. Another door leading further in. A small observing window to the right of the door. Jennings standing guard. She raised an eyebrow.
“Sir.” He nodded at Reed, then looked at her. He quirked the corner of his mouth up in a smile.
“I see you and the prisoner are getting along well.”
Jennings’s eyes widened and he caught himself in the middle of a nod. “Ye—no, sir.”
“Fraternizing with the prisoners is frowned upon.”
“Yes, sir. I-I would never, sir.”
“Right.” Reed chuckled and winked, slapping Jennings on the shoulder. As Reed peeked through the window, he squeezed Sam’s arm to hold her still. She shifted her weight, eyeing Jennings. He gave her a sheepish shrug.
Reed yanked on her arm, pulling her through the door he’d opened.
Someone screamed, long and searing, and the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stood up. A shiver rippled across her skin, turning into fear and skittering down her spine. She’d never heard someone scream like that. And that, more than anything, terrified her. She closed her eyes. Whatever the room held, she didn’t want to see it.
“This is the testing you’ve escaped, darling.”
The testing. Sam swallowed, not trusting herself to speak. She wasn’t the one being tested, but that didn’t mean she’d escaped; until she left the compound, this could be her fate. Unshed tears burned in her eyes. She would never let him see how this demonstration affected her.
“At least for now,” he added. “The old lady won’t last much longer, I’m afraid. The memory-bringer gene is tricky to isolate, and though we’re close to finding out where it is and how to cut it off, we keep running into certain complications.”
Sam kept her eyes closed. The way he said complications gave her chills. This wasn’t what she wanted to see. The old lady had encouraged Sam to fight back. And this testing would continue if Sam didn’t. Resolve settled over her. She would get out and convince her grandma, her uncle, and the other memory-bringer elders to end this. Somehow.
Another scream rippled through the air and cut off.
“Aww,” he said. “And that’s the end. How unsatisfying. Now we’ll have to start all over again with someone new.”
As she shuddered, a hand gripped her chin. She tried unsuccessfully to pull away.
“I want you to see this.”
He moved her head and she squeezed her eyes harder. No. She didn’t want to see this. She gritted her teeth. Icy fingers landed on her face, making her flinch. She shook her head. No.
He pried her eyes open. She glanced up at the ceiling to avoid looking, but the lights blinded her and forced her eyes downward. The phantom lights flashed in her vision before the room fell into focus.
Sam wished she could erase the image in front of her.
The old lady was strapped to a metal table, much like the one Sam had found in the lab outside her original holding cell, her skin wrinkled and translucent, vei
ns prominent. The continuous beeping of one of the machines penetrated her ears. Tubes, pads, and needles stuck out of her body, a bag of liquid hanging on a stand next to the table.
Reed let her go, walking to the table. Sam thought of fleeing, but froze. She couldn’t find the strength or energy to move.
He pointed to the pads. “These track and monitor her vitals. Not working now, obviously, but very helpful.” He pointed to his left. “The testing team is behind the mirror. They can see through. Some brilliant minds there.”
The mirror reflected the image of the old lady on the table. Had her own reflection been the last image she saw?
“The tubes and needles pump a sort of tracking solution into the body. We use it to see how certain drugs interact with your abilities. Once we know how your body reacts, we can find the genetic source of your Gifts and erase them.”
She continued to stare. No words formed. It was inconceivable. Inhumane.
His face filled her vision. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
He’d meant to shock her. Terrify her. And he’d succeeded. But crush her hopes or destroy her spirit? Never. And in the process, she’d recovered a memory of her own.
She sat in a small office, which was filled with books and figurines. Her grandma’s office. The familiar scent of cloves permeated the air.
“Emily, you must take care with your gift,” her grandma said to the girl, about twelve, who was sitting on the other side of the desk. Sam sat in the corner as an observer. Her grandma had chosen Sam to take over her elder duties; when her grandma deemed her ready, she’d be conducting her own consulting sessions with the minors under her care. Those would be the bulk of her duties since Sam’s uncle already managed the memory-bringer relationships with the illusionists and non-Gifted.
“I am careful,” Emily said, her tone petulant.
Sam’s grandma smiled and nodded. “Yes, dear. You’ve been trained well.”
Emily beamed. “You trained me.”
Sam’s grandma reached across the desk and took Emily’s hand. “But we—all of us, even me—must exercise more caution than normal. The movement against the Gifted grows stronger every day. They don’t believe we should have the ability to have our memories—or that the illusionists should have theirs—and they’re prepared to fight to make sure we don’t.”
“But the memories are ours,” Emily insisted. But she was young, inexperienced. Naive.
“The memories aren’t always ours,” Sam’s grandma explained. “Sometimes they belong to others. Or the future. Some non-Gifted in the north think that’s too much power. They want it for their own.”
Emily stared at Sam’s grandma uncomprehendingly, and Sam understood her confusion. The memory-bringers—their people—had lived in peace for years. The most trouble had come from the illusionists—the other Gifted—but the memory-bringers had chosen to divide the Gifted people rather than fight a war. Unlike the illusionists, the memory-bringers lived with non-Gifted people without trouble or hatred.
People came to the memory-bringers for advice and peace—and some of the brave ones still did. The people trusted the memory-bringers. They depended on the memory-bringers.
Like Emily, Sam was baffled by the Hunters’ distrust. They didn’t steal memories. No one was hurt by their memories. Granted, illusionists felt the intrusion on their Gifted energy—probably a reason for their distrust—but the act of retrieving a memory was harmless. There were rules and laws put in place to govern how and when memory-bringers could use memories.
But Emily was sheltered in this community and didn’t understand the hatred that others harbored. They’d been lucky, living deep in the south, an area that revered memory-bringers. But the Hunters gained traction every day—Sam had seen it in her uncle’s reports—and they had to take more precautions.
Sam’s grandma continued, “You must guard your Gift carefully. Your training isn’t finished yet, and we have a few years before you’re able to serve your community.”
Emily nodded, eager. To be able to serve their community was an honor, and Sam knew from earlier sessions that Emily placed a lot of importance on being able to help others. Sam herself had waited all her childhood for the opportunity to hone the memories, call them at will, and see others’ memories. Like Emily, she wanted to help and bring peace to those she could. It was meant to share for good.
“They’ve begun hunting young memory-bringers, Emily. We don’t want this to happen. We’d hate to lose you.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Mrs. Benson.”
Sam’s grandma ruffled Emily’s hair and smiled. “I certainly hope not.”
Emily had been among the first taken by the Hunters.
And they’d imprisoned Sam too. With her grandma and uncle as memory-bringer elders—and groomed for the duties herself—Sam held more power and knowledge than the average memory-bringer. The Hunters sought to study and disassemble the memory-bringer ability; they’d be doing the same to illusionists. Especially since the illusionists had learned how to infuse their abilities into inanimate objects—something that made them effective against the Hunters when used defensively. Some illusionist sects were against the practice, but the technology existed and the Hunters probably wanted it.
Why hadn’t the memory-bringers heard more about illusionists? Even with the separation between the Gifted people, word should have traveled.
Reed deposited her back in her cell after his educational field trip. For once, returning held a certain amount of relief. It was cold and dark here, but safer than any other place in the compound. As long as she stayed, no one would experiment on her and steal her memories—the very essence of who she was.