“Usually nowhere,” Daniel says with a sad smile. “But if they find us and there’s any chance they could get in, destroy our progress, then someplace less protected but more secret would, I think, be safer. Temporarily.”
Still, twenty-four hours. It feels oddly specific. One day. I can’t help but wonder how much progress he thinks we could possibly make in those twenty-four hours, but the discovery I just made makes me want to work harder.
Except that we’ve been trying to find a DNA/RNA match-up for days and nothing. But after that one tiny experiment with my blood, I have something to work with! If I knew the science better.
Do I dare to tell Daniel about my blood? Surely it would help things move forward more quickly. Don’t I owe the world that? Unless, as Thomas suspects, he has sinister intentions. If that’s true, it seems more likely I owe it to the world to keep silent.
Then I remember what Thomas said this afternoon. That he was a doctor, a scientist.
That maybe he could help.
Maybe I can get Thomas into Benson’s cell, and we can all share what we know.
Suddenly I’m incredibly impatient to get out of here and find Thomas.
“Daniel?” I say, my plan still forming in my head. “I’m starving, and I know I can create food and all, but I thought maybe I’d go down to the cafeteria and clear my head for a little while and then come back up and work late tonight.”
He looks at me for a long time, and I wonder if he can sense my lie. My half lie.
“I’m certainly not going to say no,” Daniel says. “Truth is, you don’t need my permission at all. I’m just concerned. I—we need you, and I don’t want you to burn out.”
“I won’t,” I promise, already pushing my stool back.
I get lucky and hear Alanna’s faux shriek as I’m about halfway down the stairs to the main atrium, which is Renaissance-themed today, with the serving staff bustling around in either corsets or breeches. My first thought is how incredibly unfair that is for the women, until I see two clearly female staff members dressed up like the guys. Well, okay then. If the others want to wear corsets and not breathe, that’s up to them.
Trying to be subtle I nudge up to Thomas and incline my head. He follows me to the buffet table, and I get a plateful of food as a prop while I whisper to him.
“Do you know where the holding cells are?”
“Are they down the plain white hallway south of our rooms?”
“Yes. Do you think you can meet me there in five or ten minutes?”
“Of course. Anything you need.”
“There’s a prisoner there I want you to talk to. About . . . well, I’ll tell you there.” I hear the squeal again, and this time it makes me grin. “Bring Alanna,” I add. “Tell her we’re going to need a distraction.”
“Her specialty,” Thomas says, peeling away from me.
I’m glad to be holding on to something to keep my hands from shaking as I walk toward the holding cells. When I pass the hallway that would take me to the room I technically still share with Logan, I can’t bear to look. Later. All of that will have to come later.
I take a moment to catch my breath at the doors of the security wing—this is where everything went so wrong only twenty-four hours ago. But I don’t have the time to indulge in my personal drama. I straighten my spine, raise my chin, and push through the doors. I don’t really have to say anything to the security staff this time. They know I’m allowed to see Benson, and I imagine we all feel a little awkward after last night. The tall woman gives me a weak smile as I walk through the door, and somehow that makes me feel better. I like her.
Benson doesn’t jerk up or even rise to his feet as I come in. He’s slumped in his chair with his knees pulled up in a posture that could look defeated, but doesn’t. It looks rebellious, like he’s intentionally daring some teacher to walk by and tell him to put his feet on the floor.
“Have they fed you yet?” I ask without introduction.
“I got a sandwich an hour ago. You know, for a bunch of people who can make any kind of food they want, they certainly haven’t manifested any degree of imagination with me.”
He’s clearly past the despairing stage and on to belligerence. He’s miserable. I know it’s my fault. But, well, it’s his fault too.
Though I don’t feel as angry as I did before. Like last night’s blowup put us on even ground. Strangely, it feels like we’re back at our library in Portsmouth and he’s had a bad day.
To be honest, the comparison makes me want to cry, but I shove my feelings back for now and take a seat.
Benson hastily straightens up and knocks the table with his knee. Coffee slops over the edge of his mug and onto the table. “Sorry,” he says, laying his napkin over the spill and soaking it completely. “I didn’t think you were actually going to . . . to sit.” He searches for something else to clean up the mess.
“Allow me,” I say dryly. I’ve finally gotten to the point where I actually think to use my abilities. I flick one finger, and the sopped napkin and spilled coffee disappear entirely.
Replaced by a new, steaming cup.
Benson doesn’t look as shocked as I expect, and I have to remind myself that he’s spent half his life surrounded by Earthbounds.
And then lying to me about them.
Forget that for now. “Here,” I say, setting the plate down between us. “There’s plenty for two.”
I guess I hadn’t consciously realized that I had filled the plate not with my favorites, but Benson’s. But when his eyes light up at the barbequed wings, the heap of raspberries, and a chunk of soft brie with crackers, I’m glad I did.
“I can’t stay very long,” I whisper, leaning in close.
“You don’t have to explain,” Benson says, popping two raspberries in his mouth. “I’ll take your company for as long or short a time as you can give me.” And he attempts a half grin, but things are still too unsettled between us, and it doesn’t last very long.
“You were right,” I say.
“About . . . what?” he asks. And he looks nervous.
“About my blood,” I whisper after I swallow. “I’m—” I look around, then mouth the final word, shielding my mouth so that no one else can see. “Immune. I’m . . . I’m trusting you with this,” I say, even as I think it rather odd that I’m trusting him with anything. But I don’t tell him more. Hell, I haven’t told anyone everything. But especially not him. Not after . . . just no. Only this one part that he helped with. That’s not betraying anyone, is it?
“I’m glad,” he whispers after a long pause. “So you definitely won’t die.”
“Not from the virus,” I mutter.
“Good enough,” he says softly.
I turn to look at him. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. And see just what I expect.
Rawness.
Regardless of the lies his mouth may have said, Benson has never been able to lie with his eyes. I always knew when he was troubled, worried. I often knew when he was lying; I just always thought it was about something small.
Now his eyes are burning with hope.
And I put it there.
What have I done?
I can’t look—not at something shining so brightly it’s almost blinding. And not when a tiny part of me wishes I had the same ability to believe.
I hear the door click behind me and glance back to see Thomas’s profile. Right on time. Now maybe I can get some answers. I face Benson again to explain our guest but swallow my words at the look of horror on his face.
I turn back to Thomas slowly, afraid of what I’m about to see. I should have kept looking at Benson. He nearly knocks me over as he flies by, and I let out a shriek as he plows into Thomas, knocking him flat on his back. Benson begins to pummel him with his fists as Thomas flails, trying to grab the fast-moving hands.
“Son of a bitch! I should have known. Lying bastard!”
All around me is a cacophony of chaos as the security personnel rush in and hands reach out and drag the two of them apart, Benson still shouting.
Alanna runs to Thomas—her entrance totally unnoticed in the scuffle—reaching him as he wipes a hand across his mouth, smearing the blood. He grabs Benson around the arm, and no one stops him. “It’s okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. It appears I need to have a little chat with my son.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Benson wrenches his arm away from Thomas. “Get your hands off me. I’m not your son. Not anymore.”
“I don’t give a damn what you think of me,” Thomas hisses, grabbing him again, pulling him close in a sham embrace, and I barely hear the words Thomas rasps into his ear. “Shut the hell up or you are going to ruin everything.” Something in Thomas’s tone makes Benson still. Makes Alanna and me still too. A deadly edge that reminds me that I’ve only ever seen one side of this man.
The security people look at me, and I nod with as much decisiveness as I can muster. They appear wary, but ultimately retreat. As soon as the door closes, Thomas crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Would you like to tell me just what the hell you’re doing here?”
“How about you tell me what the hell you are doing here?” Benson retorts.
Alanna snorts beside me. “Boys,” she whispers.
They stand facing each other, and I see the resemblance now. I wouldn’t have noticed the similarities between them without knowing to look, but they’re both tall and have the same hair and eyes, and it makes me wonder if—subconsciously—that’s why I liked Thomas more easily than Alanna, even after I knew her secret. Their profiles are similar as they stand, so tense, the blood smear on Thomas’s face looking incredibly macabre. Benson is still lanky and thin, but in Thomas I can see the way he’ll look when he’s older and his shoulders fill out.
And I am not disappointed. I cough to cover my completely inappropriate grin.
The small room is filling with a tension so thick it seems to hold our bodies in suspension, when a click from the door releases the spell and we all turn with soft gasps.
It’s Logan.
“Hell’s sake,” Alanna says. “Come in and close the door.”
Logan steps fully into the room, and my heart slows.
Both of them. Together. Like worlds colliding, and the only possible result is that they crash and shatter.
I hear a clatter and a yelp and imagine my thoughts brought to life as I whirl back to where Benson has backed up and tripped over his chair. His face is white as he stares at Logan from where he lies sprawled on the floor. I’d forgotten that the last time Benson saw Logan’s face it was in a two-hundred-year-old newspaper.
“What’s going on?” Logan says quietly, taking in the expressions of dismay all around him. So much for keeping everything on the down low by meeting in a freaking prison.
“My son apparently decided to take one look at me and hit me in the face,” Thomas says simply, as though that were all the explanation required.
“Then why is he staring at me like I’m a ghost?” Logan asks.
“Because you kind of are,” I say. “The last time he saw you it was in a newspaper article about you as Quinn Avery.”
Logan’s eyes furrow. “You told him about Quinn Avery?” He’s asking me, but he’s glaring at Benson.
I swallow hard. I guess I didn’t really explain everything last night. “Because he helped me find you.” I hope I sound calm. Casual.
Logan just sighs in frustration . . . and maybe a touch of defeat.
“Oh no,” Thomas says. “Please don’t tell me you’re the library friend from Portsmouth.”
Benson wordlessly spreads his hands out to the side in a here-I-am gesture.
Thomas glances at Alanna. “This is why we should have insisted on photos. A simple description clearly doesn’t cut it. If Mark and Sammi had sent us a photo I’d have realized it was Benson.”
“This is Benson?” Alanna asks, wonder in her eyes. “Benson, I—”
“You are the last person I want to hear anything from,” Benson says, cutting her off.
“Yeah, maybe you should leave, Alanna,” I say, letting myself sound bossy and superior. “We have a lot to talk about. I’m sure Thomas told you why you were supposed to come, but I think you’re no longer wanted in this room.” Please, please, please let her understand. When I told Thomas I needed her to be a distraction I meant, like, making noise in here or something while we discussed biochemistry. Now I seriously need her to divert the security people’s attention and keep them from hearing anything. Because I guarantee, after that little stunt, they’re all paying attention on the other side of the two-way mirror.
Her eyes instantly change back into those of Alanna in disguise. “Fine,” she snaps, sounding much like a two-year-old. Thank goodness. “But I’m not leaving. I’ll be out there.” She points at the two-way mirror, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “And I am not happy with you!” she shrieks as the door opens for her.
“Nice,” Benson says, his voice pure acid. “Good choice, Dad.”
I see Thomas’s jaw tighten, his instinct to defend Alanna—to let Benson know that whole thing was a sham. A facade. But after a second he calms down.
“Sammi never said your name,” Thomas says, sounding angry but in control. “Maybe she didn’t know it. But she didn’t think you were important until you and Tavia ran away together, and then she just kept referring to you as the library boy.” I realize Thomas is starting with stuff it probably doesn’t hurt for the Curatoria to know. He takes a seat and gestures to me to make more chairs.
That’s right; they don’t know he’s a Creator.
“You ran away with him?” Logan asks, his eyes flashing as he turns to me now.
“It wasn’t like that.” I protest, but at a pained noise from Benson I amend, “Okay, it was kind of like that.”
“Tave!”
“Just sit!” I command, making a chair for him.
“I can’t believe that was you,” Thomas is still saying. “You’re working for them?”
“He’s not,” I say, turning away from Logan’s accusing eyes. “Not anymore.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Thomas scoffs.
“And what was I supposed to do when you abandoned us and Mom went psycho?” Benson snaps. “Do you have any idea what happened after you left us?”
“Wait, did you know he was a Reduciate when you ran off with him?” Logan asks, more than a little caustically.
I shoot my eyes toward the two-way mirror, hoping Alanna is doing her job. This is not the kind of stuff I need spread all over the Curatoria headquarters. “No, I didn’t know,” I say between clenched teeth, “and he’s not really. And to be honest, it kind of is Thomas’s fault!”
Finally everyone stops talking and just looks at me. “Okay, thirty-second story, and then we move on.” I point at Thomas. “You left your family, Benson’s mom went crazy and moved them all in with the Reduciates. Benson traded helping them get me for his freedom. When he realized he . . . he just couldn’t do it, it was too late, and everyone died. Okay?” I turn to Logan and add, almost pleading, “Then he was at the Reduciata prison with us and told the Curatoriates about the painting that gave you your memories back, just like I said before.
“And now he’s here and brought a whole lot of attention to me and may have ruined everything because he’s still as hot-tempered as he was when he was eight,” Thomas finishes for me, but now it’s in a whisper, and our heads are all close together.
“Wonder where I get that from,” Benson mutters.
Thomas glares but says nothing.
Fabulous. How am I going to confess that I arranged for everyone to meet here because I trust Benson?
“That’s enough,” I snap as quietly as I can. “With luck Alanna is throwing a huge fit behind that mirror and covering up everything we’re saying. But even she can’t hold them off for long. So listen to me, all of you. We are working on something big here. Something that may literally mean saving the entire world from destruction. I don’t care what kind of drama is in all of our pasts.” I swallow hard, knowing everything I’m saying applies to me as well. “We have to put it to the side. Everything,” I say, glaring at Benson specifically now. “Finding a cure for this virus—particularly having now seen the destruction that occurs when it kills an Earthbound—is more important than anything any of us are feeling.” My chin shakes, and I clamp my jaw down on it. “Myself included.”
The room is silent as Logan glares at me, Thomas glares at Benson, and Benson? Well, he glares at everyone. I realize he’s truly the loser here. He has no one. He’s not aware that Logan and I are having issues; all he knows is his estranged father is here, happy with his new wife, and I’m here, happy with my old lover.
I clear my throat, needing to end this awful tension. “Thomas, Benson actually brought me some intelligence from the Reduciates. That’s why we’re here—because he needs to be a part of this. I believe we can trust him.”
Thomas’s eyes dart to me, the temptation of something new pulling his attention away from the son he hasn’t seen in over ten years.
Oh please, please, please let Alanna be screeching at the top of her lungs right at this moment, I think to myself. Then finally I get it out. “I’m immune.”
Thomas almost chokes in his surprise. “But . . . how . . . you’re sure?”
“I’ve tested it, and it’s true.” I explain what I did in the lab. “I feel like the thing with my blood should help,” I tell him. “But I don’t know how to use it.”
Thomas steeples his fingers and sways back and forth a few times.
“You’ve been looking for ways to directly disable the RNA?” he asks. When I nod he says, “Well, what if you isolated the proteins in your blood that repel the virus and then replicated them and inserted them into the former vaccine?”
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