After what sounded like a cursory search of the room next door, the footsteps continued up the hallway. Toward my bedroom.
Tila scurried out from under the bed before I could stop her. She ran to the door, her nails scraping on the hardwood floor. The hairs along her spine were raised, once more, and a deep, menacing growl rumbled in her chest.
“Tila!” I whispered, snapping my fingers.
She glanced at me, but turned back to the door, too deep into guard-dog mode. A moment later, she lunged at the door, a string of baritone barks warning the intruders to stay away.
Raiden scooped Tila up, wrapping his free arm around her middle. He held her tightly, even as she struggled to get free, limbs flailing and teeth snapping. He sidestepped away from the door a heartbeat before a burst of automatic gunfire cut through the wood, the bullets splintering the floorboards mere feet from where I was laying.
I stared at the shredded hardwood for a fraction of a second, then scurried back farther under the bed. In the moment of quiet following the gunfire, my whole body trembled, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears. I sucked in a shaky breath, holding the air in my lungs.
The intruders were just outside. Would they fire again? Or would they burst into the room, guns blazing?
Raiden didn’t wait to find out. He tossed Tila off to the side, swapped gun hands, and reached for the doorknob. In one quick jerk, he yanked the door open.
I couldn’t see much from under the bed, just two sets of black combat boots, one set notably smaller than the other, like it belonged to a woman.
My view was obscured further as Tila lunged at the intruders, a dark, snarling blur of fur and fury. The smaller pair of boots disappeared, pushed deeper into the hallway by the powerful dog.
The pop of gunfire made me jump, and I whacked the back of my head against the bottom of the bed.
A heartbeat later, the larger intruder dropped his rifle on the floor, then fell to his knees and toppled onto his side. His fingers twitched a few times, and then he was still.
There was a small bullet hole in his brow, dead center between his sightless eyes. Eyes that stared straight at me. His irises were pale, contrasting with his darker skin, though whether they were blue, green, or even gray, I couldn’t tell in the dim lighting.
Raiden stepped out into the hallway, where the struggle continued between my dog and the other intruder.
I knew my attention should have been locked on Raiden, on the remaining threat in the hallway, but I couldn’t look away from the dead man’s eyes. His lifeless stare entranced me. Who was he, and why had he come here? My mom’s words whispered through my mind, and I couldn’t suppress the sickening suspicion that this man—these people—had broken into my home looking for me.
Two quick gunshots broke my stare with the dead man. I sucked in a breath, and my eyes locked on the doorway. I couldn’t see Raiden or Tila or the other intruder out in the hallway—just darkness, deep and deafening. I didn’t know who had fired, and nothing else mattered. The rest of the world faded away, and all of existence narrowed down to that patch of darkness.
A body thudded onto the floor out of sight, an arm flopping into the doorway a fraction of a second later. It was small and gloved. Not Raiden’s, I realized, relief flooding my body.
I watched Tila pad out of the darkness and back into the bedroom, her hackles still raised. She was panting, her tongue lolling out to one side, and the patch of white fur spanning from chin to chest was stained crimson. She trotted toward the bed, stopping and turning around when she reached it. Still panting, she stretched out on the floor, head raised and ears alert. She was resting, but she was ready to attack again, if necessary.
Raiden was still out in the hallway. Or, at least, I thought he was. I wanted to ask him if it was over, but I didn’t seem to be able to take in enough air to speak. My lungs worked in tiny, frantic movements, making my breaths quick and shallow.
I waited under the bed, paralyzed by terror, for what felt like ages. In time, my breathing slowed, and I was left feeling cold and numb, distant and withdrawn. It was as though I’d witnessed the whole deadly struggle through a television screen.
I started at the sound of hushed voices out in the hallway. The arm stretching halfway across the doorway disappeared suddenly, dragged out of the dim patch of light from the lamp on the bedside table, and my eyes locked onto the pair of feet that appeared in its place. They were bare and small, feminine and familiar.
They were Emi’s feet.
Some of the tension humming through my body eased, relaxing my muscles, just a little. Emi was fine. Whatever else had happened while I was hiding under the bed, at least she was okay.
Emi walked into the room, closely followed by Raiden. From under the bed, I watched her pick her way around the body on the floor. “Where’s Cora?”
“Under there,” Raiden said, passing his mom and heading for the bed. He stopped beside Tila, and a moment later, his hand appeared in the gap between the floor and the bedframe, partially blocking my view of his mom’s feet. “You can come out, Cora,” he said. “It’s safe, now.”
Robotically, I scooted forward and out from under the bed. I avoided Raiden’s proffered hand and reached for the bedpost, using it to help me stand. My legs felt shaky, and I couldn’t stop staring at Emi.
She stood in the center of the room, a shotgun gripped in one hand and her buttercup-yellow silk pajamas spattered with blood. Her braid was slightly mussed, and her cheeks were flushed, but she looked fine. Clearly, she’d fought the intruders, just as I’d feared, and clearly it had been a brutal, bloody battle. But it was just as clear that she’d come out on top. Little Emi. Gentle, brilliant, ruthless Emi.
I hugged my mom’s journal to my chest, clinging to the tangible feel of it. Nothing was making any sense anymore. It was like I’d stepped into someone else’s life. Like I was in a video game. Was this what shock felt like? Was I in shock?
Ever so slowly, I started to shake my head. Or maybe I wasn’t in shock. Maybe I was dreaming. That made more sense. The package, the secret passage and hidden study, my mom’s video and the journal, the break in—it was all part of a strangely vivid, twisted dream.
Raiden looked from me to Emi and back. “She’s in shock,” he said to his mom. “We should—”
“There’s no time,” Emi said, cutting him off. She took a deep breath, then set the shotgun on the mattress before turning away from both Raiden and me and heading for the closet. She switched on the closet light and pulled the door open, disappearing within for a moment before reemerging with a duffel bag. She crossed the room, heading for the bed, and set the bag on the mussed comforter, unzipping it and running her hands along the inside to open it more fully.
“You need to pack,” she said, raising her gaze to meet mine and planting her hands on her hips. “Now, Cora.”
“What?” I was still shaking my head. Still not understanding a single thing that had happened tonight. Still not sure any of this was real. “Why?”
“Because,” Emi said, “This was only the first wave.”
Instinctively, my focus shifted to the dead man on the floor near her feet. Bloody pieces of skull and hair and brain were spattered on the floor and walls beyond him.
“Now that the Order knows about you,” Emi said, “more will come.”
I looked at her. The Order. So, it was them—and as insane as it sounded, they had come here looking for me.
“Did you read it?” Emi asked, glancing at the journal.
I gulped and nodded, not bothering to mention I’d only read the first part.
“Good,” she said. “Then you’re up to speed on the situation.”
“How—” Again, I shook my head. “This isn’t a dream?”
“No,” Emi said, eyes locking with mine. Her face was a mask of sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Cora. I wish there was more time to help you understand, but the Order is ruthless and relentless. More will come for you,” she said. “And th
ey won’t stop until they have you.”
10
Besides the countless trips to the dozens of experts my mom consulted those first few years after my condition became apparent, I could count the number of times I had stepped foot off the San Juan Islands on one hand. My mom hadn’t ever taken me out when I was little, before my condition became obvious. I never understood why. Until now.
She was afraid. Of being found. Of losing me. Of losing everything.
The first time I ever left the safe familiarity of the islands, I was five. It was the week after my dismal stint in kindergarten, and I could clearly remember my mom telling me it was time for me to see a real city. She took me to Bellingham—not exactly a big city, but to me it was enormous.
During that first trip, we visited her “friend”—a child psychologist, I now realized after reliving the experience in my dreams—and took a driving tour of the city. I remembered feeling overwhelmed by the sheer volume of buildings and people, but thankfully we remained within the safety of the car the whole time, only getting out to grab lunch at a tiny cafe on the waterfront. We even stayed in the car on the ferry.
The flurry of appointments and consultations over the next three years took me to the mainland every month or two. But after those stopped, I remained on Orcas for years.
The next time I left the islands, I was twelve and deep into my studies of the history of Washington State. I had just learned about the Great Seattle Fire of 1889 that led to the city getting a complete facelift—a literal lift, with the street level being raised over 20 feet—and little twelve-year-old me wanted to see the remains of the old city, now called Underground Seattle, with all my heart. I hounded my mom non-stop with pleas to go on a tour until she relented. Seattle had overwhelmed me so much that we never even made it to the tour.
The next and final time I left the islands, it was for a three-day backpacking trip through Mt. Rainier National Park with Raiden and his Eagle Scout troop. Emi and my mom had gone as chaperones, and I’d been allowed to tag along. I was thirteen at the time, having the time of my life, absorbing the natural splendor of the park and interacting with a group of some of the most genuinely kind boys around. They were a few years older, and they had all seemed to go out of their way to make me feel welcome and included.
Well, I had been having the time of my life, up until the morning of day three, when one of the boys caught me alone after a trip to the bathroom—no harm intended—and made the mistake of grabbing my hand. The touch triggered an episode, and I was knocked unconscious for a solid two hours. Even though it was an accident and the boy truly didn’t mean to hurt me, Emi and my mom were outraged. But it was Raiden’s reaction that surprised me the most. I still didn’t know exactly what happened, other than that he broke the troop’s zero-tolerance violence policy and was not only kicked off the troop, but banned from Eagle Scouts completely.
That episode was the first I had experienced out of sight from my mom, Emi, or Raiden since that initial visit to the child psychologist. Once we returned home and a sense of safety and security settled in, I could remember—vividly—the moment I realized that I could never leave . . . could never have a normal life. That was the moment I accepted my fate as a prisoner of my own mind. That was also when I became obsessive about wearing gloves.
Another thirteen years passed without me leaving the San Juan Islands. Thirteen years of acceptance. Of complacency. Of going through the motions.
That was all about to change.
Now, I didn’t have a choice. I had to leave Blackthorn Manor—had to leave my beloved islands, my safe haven. My life depended on it. Even so, I was just as terrified of leaving this place as I was of the people who’d invaded it. Of the people who were driving me away.
I was just grateful that I didn’t have to run alone. Raiden was coming with me. Emi had already filled him in on the gist of the situation while I was packing, glossing over my supposed alien origins with a vague explanation about genetic testing and me being a “coveted asset” of the Order’s, so he would be prepared for what we were up against. Emi, however, was dead set on staying behind—with Tila—planting diversions and misdirections before catching up with us in a few days.
“You’re sure she’ll be all right?” I asked Raiden as we loaded our bags onto our boat, the Argo. The thirty-five-foot Pursuit Drummond Island Runner was made more for island cruising and casual fish trolling than quick getaways, but we had to make do with what we had.
Raiden tossed his duffel bag onto the Argo’s deck, then took mine and tossed it in, too. “She can take care of herself,” he said, repeating a variation of the assurances both he and his mom had already given me. A million other questions spun around in my mind, but I’d been fixated on that one since Emi announced her intention to remain behind. That question didn’t require me to acknowledge the things I wasn’t ready to face, yet.
“But—”
“We don’t have time for this, Cora.” Raiden turned to face me, raising his hands like he was about to grab my shoulders but stopping himself short when I flinched. Now that the danger was less imminent, it seemed easier for him to remember that I was a no-touch zone.
He took a deep breath, balling his hands into fists, and crossed his arms over his chest. “My mother will be fine. She’ll be safe and sound in the hill house, where she’ll be able to monitor the Blackthorn Manor for any activity. Besides, she’ll have Tila to keep her safe,” he added. “The only person you should be worrying about right now is yourself.”
I jutted my lower jaw forward. There was no condescension in his voice, just matter-of-fact this-is-how-it-is. Emi was strong, capable. I was weak, needing to be protected. These were facts, plain and simple. I knew it—I accepted it—but I hated it.
Raiden gestured to the boat. “Now, can we please get moving?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice not to wobble. After tightening the shoulder straps of my backpack and pulling up the faux-fur-lined hood of my black, waterproof parka, I stepped closer to the boat, placing my gloved hands on top of the boat’s fiberglass side and kicking my leg over, just as I’d done a thousand times before.
For years, the Argo had given me an illusion of freedom. One of the beautiful things about the San Juan Islands was that there were so many little islands, many of which were uninhabited, rife for fishing and exploring. Those islands had made my tiny world feel a little bigger. Now that I was facing leaving my sheltered existence behind, I could see that sense of freedom for what it had really been all along—an illusion.
While Raiden untied the boat’s mooring lines, I moved our bags off to one side of the deck, arranging them on top of some unstowed fishing gear. The full moon peeking through the clouds provided plenty of light to work under.
The strap of Raiden’s duffel bag caught on the four-pronged tip of Emi’s fishing spear, and I had to crouch down to unsnag the strap. Once I was satisfied with the arrangement of our bags, I set about folding up the boat’s canvas cover.
The Argo rocked as Raiden boarded, and I glanced up, meeting his eyes for the briefest moment. “Ready?” he asked.
Feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, I nodded. That nod was the single biggest lie I had ever told.
After a quick return nod, Raiden headed for the helm, starting the boat with the turn of a key. The engine rumbled to life beneath my feet, and I moved to the stern to sit on the bench seat.
Once we were out of the tiny marina and cutting across Cascade Bay, skipping over the larger swells, Raiden killed all of the boat’s lights. The sky was partially overcast, the clouds blotting out the stars, but the moon was full, leaving us plenty of light to navigate the familiar waters. The frigid March wind burned my nostrils, and the icy sea spray felt like razorblades on my cheeks. I hunched my shoulders, hugging myself to hold in my body heat.
Slowly, something that resembled calm returned to me, and my thoughts circled back to one of the night’s significant, if not urgent, happenings—Raiden
had touched me. Full contact. Skin-to-skin.
Raiden had touched me, and nothing had happened.
No dizzy spell. No flashes of deranged hallucinations. No loss of consciousness. Absolutely, blissfully nothing. Just like nothing had happened when I’d brushed arms with Emi, earlier. Skin-to-skin contact with another person without repercussions—that hadn’t happened in as far back as I could remember. Once could be a fluke, but multiple times—that was huge, even in the face of all the craziness of the night.
Was it possible that I was finally growing out of my miserable affliction?
Or was it something else?
My thoughts turned to the pendant hanging heavy around my neck. Was this its doing?
In her note, my mom had said the pendant and orb should help, that they would make it so I wouldn’t have to live in fear anymore. I couldn’t help but cling to the last shreds of skepticism, but with the intruders, and Emi backing my mom’s story, and me touching people without ill effects—was I experiencing evidence of the truth of my mom’s wild claims? And if the Order was real and the necklace really did help me, were the other things she’d written true, too? The things about her past? The things about me?
I could feel myself beginning to accept it. Could feel my brain fitting together the pieces of evidence to transform what seemed impossible to not just possible, but probable. My sense of self-identity was tenuous, at best. I was a house of cards—one more blow, and I would collapse in on myself. The person my twenty-six years of limited life experience had shaped me into would cease to be.
We were almost to the tip of the island when Raiden killed the Argo’s engine, snapping me out of my thoughts and back to reality.
The boat slowed, bobbing in the swells as it drifted. I stared at Raiden’s moonlit form. He was absolutely still, his head cocked to the side like he was listening for something.
I stood, feet spread wide and knees bent to steady myself against the boat’s unpredictable motion. “What is it?” I asked, joining Raiden at the helm.
Legacy of the Lost Page 7