Legacy of the Lost

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  From the other room, I could hear Raiden talking—to Emi, I could only assume. Like me, he’d left his personal cell phone behind, but he’d brought a burner phone in its place, a pre-pay cell phone he’d programmed with a single number—that of another burner phone held by his mom. Less traceable, he’d explained. Not untraceable, just less.

  I honed in on Raiden’s voice, lowered but still audible, preferring it to the chaos of my own thoughts.

  “That’s not the point,” Raiden said, then paused. I assumed he was listening to whatever his mom was saying on the other end of the line. “No, you’re not hearing me, Mom.” His voice was still hushed, but there was a hard edge to it. He was upset. “You should have told me before.”

  I wondered what the issue was. What had Emi not told him that was setting him off? About the Custodes Veritatis? She’d filled him in about that before we left Blackthorn Manor. Or had she finally told him about the Atlanteans? Had she finally confessed the truth about me?

  “I get that, Mom, I really do,” he said, “but if I’d known they were hunting us, I never would have left to—” His words cut off, and he was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah, no, I get it. You’re right. You made the right call.” He blew out a breath. “I just wish—” He paused, not to listen, I didn’t think, but to collect his thoughts. “I wish I’d known. I would’ve stayed.” His tone had softened, his mood calming. “I could’ve helped.”

  I imagined I was in his place, talking to my mom on the phone. What would I say to her? Would I yell? Would I cry? Would I demand answers? An explanation? A reason for all of the lies? Would I confess to the horrible things I’d seen—I’d done—just to stay alive? Or would I be so relieved to hear her voice that I would forget about everything else?

  “I’m not sure,” Raiden said. “Stay here for a day or two, at least until I get Cora’s alternative documentation squared away.”

  The pull of sleep was too strong, and now that the heat had faded from Raiden’s voice, his words were growing distant to my ears. To my mind.

  “No, I know,” he said. “We can’t stay here. We have to keep moving.”

  Remotely, I registered that he was talking about me, now.

  But the distance between my mind and Raiden’s voice grew, until his words were a far-off, muffled hum and blessed sleep drowned out the world.

  14

  I’m eleven years old, sitting at the big desk in the library with my mom. We’re both studying a map spread out atop the desk. Our shoulders are close, but we’re careful not to touch. Not touching is automatic by now. It’s like blinking, or breathing.

  The map is an ancient thing, the parchment yellowed by age and the edges frayed. It’s a centuries-old copy of Philip Bauche’s 1737 map showing Antarctica divided into two islands.

  “And see this here,” my mom says, pointing to a space of ocean between two land masses. “This is where Bauche claimed that Antarctica was broken into two islands rather than one large land mass.”

  I look at my mom. “Is it broken into two islands?”

  She shakes her head. “Not today. But, the Transantarctic Mountains—the mountain range dividing the continent into East and West Antarctica—suggest that Antarctica is the product of two islands colliding a very long time ago.”

  “Kind of like India and the Himalayas?” I ask.

  “Exactly,” my mom says, flashing me a brilliant smile. “The curious part, though, is wondering if Bauche knew Antarctica used to be two separate land masses—or was he just guessing?”

  I frown, studying the map once more. It’s so detailed. So calculated. So precise. There’s no sense of uncertainty about it. “It doesn’t look like he was guessing,” I say.

  “My thoughts exactly,” my mom says. “Which leads to the next question—how did he know about the two islands?”

  I straighten and shrug. “Maybe he saw them on another map?”

  My mom stares at me for a moment, then sits up straighter and starts to laugh as she shakes her head. “We’ll find a way to make it safe for you to get out there one day, Cora,” she says. “You’re going to make one hell of an archaeologist.”

  Abruptly, the scene shifts.

  I’m no longer in the library at Blackthorn Manor, but in a cavernous room twenty times the size of the library. The walls are white, the high, arched ceiling supported by polished metal beams. I’ve never been here before, at least, not that I can recall, but there’s a sense of familiarity about the place.

  And I’m no longer sitting beside my mom. I’m sitting at a hexagonal table in the center of the room, a severe looking middle-aged woman in the next chair over. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, and her hair is a deep blue-black. Her features are fine, sharp almost, and I think she might even be beautiful if she smiled. I don’t recognize the woman, but just like the room, there’s something familiar about her. I have the strangest feeling that I know her—that I know her well—though I can’t put a name to her face. I know, in my gut, that she rarely smiles.

  “Your progress has surpassed all of my expectations,” she says, placing a closed fist on the table, fingers down.

  Though I can understand the meaning of her words, I still recognize them as some unfamiliar language, the vowels and consonants fitting together in strange, new ways to my ears. When she uncurls her fingers and moves her hand away, a small, golden disk remains on the table, the metal set with a perfectly rounded, perfectly clear stone roughly the size of my thumbnail. It’s a pendant, and it’s for me. And it means something. Something huge.

  My eyes widen, and my lips part in surprise. I reach for the offering, but hesitate before touching it. I look from the pendant to the woman, half expecting her to laugh in my face and take it back.

  “You’ve earned it,” she says, her lips softening, if not fully curving into a smile. “Report to Genetec in the morning to begin the enhancement process. You’re going to make one hell of an Amazon.”

  The scene shifts again.

  I’m seventeen years old, standing in the foyer of Blackthorn Manor, shoulder leaned against the open door as I watch the driver tote my mom’s bags out to his town car. My mom is heading to Morocco, where she’ll assemble a team for an underwater “exploration”—her code word for an unofficial, undocumented, and highly illegal excavation—of the coastal areas along the Strait of Gibraltar.

  My mom comes tromping down the stairs, one last messenger bag strapped across her body. “Thanks for watching my bags,” she says as she approaches me. Her eyes shift to the driver, and she lowers her voice to say, “Nobody can be trusted . . .” She winks.

  I snort a laugh and roll my eyes. Her paranoid mistrust has become a long-running inside joke.

  My mom stands in front of me and reaches for the end of my braid—the closest she can get to touching me without risking triggering an episode. Her blue eyes are alight with hope. “It’s still not too late for you to join me, Cora-bora . . .”

  I force a smile, though I know it must look strained, and shake my head. “I’d just get in the way.” I avert my gaze to the Persian rug covering the teak floor of the entryway, eyes tracing the maroon and gold design, heart brimming with shame.

  We planned this expedition together. It was supposed to be my first real adventure. We ordered what practically amounted to an entire new wardrobe of leather clothing—my armor, as my mom called it. And so many pairs of gloves.

  But fear slowly crept in, chiseling away at my excitement, and I became convinced that no amount of preparation or precaution could safeguard my sanity. I officially chickened out a few nights ago.

  I know my mom had been holding out hope that I would come around. But now, I watch that hope drain out of her, dimming her eyes and turning down the corners of her mouth, until all that remains is disappointment. In me.

  She inhales deeply, exhaling in a sigh. “Well, there’s always next time . . .”

  Once again, the scene shifts.

  I’m sitting on my thinking rock, a
bench-shaped boulder teetering on the edge of the bluff. It’s a five-minute walk from Blackthorn Manor through the woods to get here, and the trees block the house from view, giving this spot an illusion of seclusion. I come here when I feel like I need to get away. When I’m here, perched on the boulder, looking out at the mass of blue-gray water, I can pretend that I’m somewhere else. Someone else. At least, for a little while.

  I hear quiet footsteps on the well-worn trail behind me. I don’t turn around. I already know who it is.

  “Can I join you?” Raiden asks.

  “It’s a free country,” I say, curling my legs up so I can hug my knees to my chest. I rest my chin on top of my knees and take a deep breath. I suppose it’s a free country because of people like him, but I’m not willing to voice that thought, not after all of the spiteful things I said to him earlier.

  Raiden climbs onto the boulder and sits, leaving about a hand’s width between us. He rests his forearms on his upraised knees, letting his hands hang over his sneakers. “It’s not you,” he says, his deep voice soft, almost apologetic.

  I roll my eyes and laugh bitterly. It’s funny his words are the same used so often in the movies when people break up. We aren’t a couple or anything like that—never have been, and never will be—but I love him, all the same. He’s my other half, even if I’m not his. And now he’s leaving, again. Reenlisting. Some elite force, or something, and I’m terrified that the next time he leaves will be the last.

  I hate him for leaving me, again.

  “I was never good at school—at books and computers and all that stuff, not like you—but I’m good at this,” Raiden says. “These past four years, I feel like I’ve actually been able to make a difference in the world . . . like I matter.”

  My chin trembles, and my eyes sting with unshed tears. I choke on the words, “You matter to me,” and clear my throat instead of speaking.

  Raiden is quiet for a long moment, but in time, he inhales deeply, and I know he’s about to say more. “I need it, Cora—that feeling.”

  The tears spill over the brims of my eyes, and I hastily swipe them from my cheeks. “Great,” I say, voice thick with emotion. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Bullshit,” Raiden says. I can feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to look at him. “What do you want me to do, Cora?” There’s heat in his voice now. My reaction is hurting him. “Tell me what you want me to do—right here, right now—and I’ll do it. Do you want me to stay?”

  I scoff and shake my head. Like I would ever tell him to stay. Like I could ever—ever—do that to him, when leaving was all I’d ever wanted. I stand, slide down the backside of the boulder, and wipe off my butt. “Go,” I say as I walk away. “Just go.”

  Leave me behind, I don’t say.

  The scene shifts, once more.

  I’m standing at the mouth of a massive ice cave, watching a half-dozen women in tight, black suits reminiscent of diving wetsuits stream into a sleek submarine. Another group of people follow the women, some male, some female, clothed in what looks like refined, white hazmat suits, the hoods and masks draped down their backs, exposing their faces. Everyone has pale, almost translucent skin and high, pronounced cheekbones, though hair color varies from the lightest blond to sapphire blue to the blackest black.

  There’s something off about these people, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. They’re all slightly too pale or slightly too tall or slightly too fine-boned or slightly too something.

  “You’re disappointed I didn’t select you for this mission,” a woman says from beside me.

  I look at her, recognizing her as the woman who gave me the pendant. Interest sparkles in her gray eyes as she stares at me.

  This is a test. This, right here, right now. How I behave will determine my future.

  If I’m petulant, if I show her that I only care about myself, about my advancement in the rank of Amazons, I’ll be stuck in our frozen city for who-knows-how-long. But if I show her I’m willing to do whatever is best for our people—even if that means remaining behind while others go out and explore this new, wild world—then I’ll prove to her that I can put the needs of our people before my own.

  “It’s fine,” I say, blanking my expression and returning my focus to the submarine.

  Everyone is on board the submarine now, and I’m desperate to join them.

  “If I can best serve our people here, then this is where I belong,” I say. I lie. I just hope she believes me.

  “Indeed,” the woman says. “Besides, there’s always next time.”

  I fight the urge to smile. Even so, the corner of my mouth rises, just a little. Next time, I won’t be left behind. I’ll make damn sure of that.

  I woke slowly, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling. It had a strange, lumpy texture, and I wondered if this was what I’d heard called a “popcorn ceiling” on the home renovation shows I sometimes watched in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. Late afternoon light streamed in through the narrow cracks in the vertical blinds, drawing amber stripes across the ceiling.

  Another string of strange, vivid dreams had plagued my sleep. Some of the dreams were memories from my past, but they’d been broken up by scenes from what felt like an alternate reality. Those other dreams had felt just as real—just as much like memories—only they weren’t my memories. It left me feeling fractured, like there was a disconnect within my mind.

  But across that disconnect, a single thought echoed through my mind, a remnant from the dreams: I won’t be left behind.

  Twenty-six years of hiding had been more than enough for me. I wouldn’t do it anymore. I was ready to take my future into my own hands. I was ready to take action. No more next times. This was the time. It was now or never.

  I had a plan. I knew what I was going to do. I felt brave. Determined. And not remotely afraid.

  It was like I was channeling that alternate me from the dreams, the one who wasn’t real. The one who was strong and bold. Who was capable. Who never let fear hold her back. The one who could be real, if I let her be.

  I would retrace my mom’s steps until I discovered what happened to her. Dead or alive, I would find her.

  I’d been left behind too many times before. Not this time.

  15

  “Here,” Raiden said, holding his open hand out in front of my face so I could see it. There was a single, tiny blue pill resting on his palm. “Take this.”

  I sat up a little, momentarily raising my head from its place of safety between my knees to cast a sidelong glance at Raiden. The faux-leather airport seat creaked as I moved. I put up mental blinders, doing my best to ignore the hoard of people swarming all around us. SeaTac Airport made the Bellingham Airport look like a child’s toy.

  I was light-headed, my heart hammering in my chest, my breaths quick and shallow. I held in the words, “I don’t think I can do this,” for the umpteenth time. This whole run-off-to-Rome, track-down-my-mom thing had been my idea in the first place. I couldn’t back out now. We were at the airport—at the gate—minutes away from boarding.

  I eyed the pill in Raiden’s hand, thinking it looked a hell of a lot like a Valium, but trying not to get my hopes up. “What is it?” I asked.

  I’d tried countless medications over the years in a vain attempt to get a handle on my condition; brain chemistry being the special butterfly that it is, some didn’t work on me at all, while others seemed to have an exaggerated effect. Valium—diazepam—fell into the latter category.

  “Valium,” Raiden told me.

  “Oh, thank God,” I said, reaching for the pill without hesitation. I was wearing one of my thinner pairs of gloves, despite the apparent state of remission my condition had gone into—better safe than sorry—and deftly picked up the pill with my leather-covered thumb and forefinger.

  I hadn’t taken any form of sedative in years, preferring avoidance over medication when it came to managing my condition. But right now, after having survived airpo
rt security—I shuddered simply remembering the terror I’d felt while watching the guy in front of me get pulled out of line for a pat down—I wasn’t about to turn down a happy pill. Just the idea of having some stranger’s hands roaming all over me . . .

  I popped the pill into my mouth and swallowed it dry.

  “Here,” Raiden said, unscrewing the cap on a bottle of water and handing it to me.

  I remotely recalled making a pit stop in a little convenience shop en route from the hell that was passing through security to the slightly lesser hell that was waiting at the gate. Raiden must have picked up the bottle of water there. The whole airport experience was sort of a blur. An endless, hellish blur.

  I accepted the bottle of water and took a swig. “Thanks,” I said, gulping down a little more, then holding my hand out for the cap.

  I twisted the cap onto the bottle, grateful that in a half hour I would be feeling pretty damn good. I took a deep breath, letting the air out slowly. I just had to keep it together until then.

  Raiden nodded, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He stared ahead, his eyes slowly scanning our surroundings. Our backs were to a wall of glass, the runway and an endless string of airplanes visible on the other side. But there were hundreds—thousands—of people on this side of the glass. So many potential threats.

  There was no reason for the people who were after us to suspect we’d gone to the airport; Raiden had taken every precaution to ensure we weren’t being watched and hadn’t been followed. But considering this was the main international hub in the area and the most likely place to hop on a plane and hitch a ride out of the country to, oh say, my mom’s last known whereabouts, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that they might have someone posted here as a precaution.