by Tahereh Mafi
Ian mutters a quiet, angry thank-you, and lifts the cup to his lips. Suddenly, he stiffens. “And then there’s this,” he says, raising an eyebrow. As if all that weren’t enough, we have to deal with this douche bag.” Ian gestures, with the teacup, toward the entrance.
Shit.
Warner is here.
“She brought him here,” Ian is saying, but he has the sense, at least, to keep his voice down. “It’s because of her that we have to tolerate this asshole.”
“To be fair, that was originally Castle’s idea,” I point out.
Ian flips me off.
“What’s he doing here?” Brendan asks quietly.
I shake my head and take another unconscious sip of my disgusting tea. There’s something about the grossness that’s beginning to feel familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I look up again.
I haven’t spoken a word to Warner since that first day—The day J got attacked by Emmaline. He’s been a ghost since then. No one has really seen him, no one but the supreme kids, I think.
He went straight back to his roots.
It looks like he finally took a shower, though. No blood. And I’m guessing he healed himself, though there’s no way to be sure, because he’s fully clothed, wearing an outfit I can only assume was borrowed from Haider. A lot of leather.
I watch, for only a few seconds, as he stalks clear across the room—straight through people and conversations and apologizing to no one—toward Sonya and Sara, who are still talking to Castle.
Whatever.
Dude doesn’t even look at me anymore. Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence. Not that I care. It’s not like we were actually friends.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Somehow I’ve already drained my teacup, because Brendan’s refilled it. I throw back the fresh cup in a couple of quick gulps and shove a dry biscuit in my mouth. And then I shake my head. “All right, we’re getting distracted,” I say, and the words feel just a little too loud, even to my own ears. “Focus, please.”
“Right,” Winston says. “Focus. What are we focusing on?”
“New mission,” Ian says, sitting back in his chair. He counts off on his fingers: “Save Adam and James. Kill the other supreme commanders. Finally get some sleep.”
“Nice and easy,” Brendan says. “I like it.”
“You know what?” I say. “I think I should go talk to him.”
Winston raises an eyebrow. “Talk to who?”
“Warner, obviously.” My brain feels warm. A little fuzzy. “I should go talk to him. No one talks to him. Why are we just letting him revert back into an asshole? I should talk to him.”
“That’s a great idea,” Ian says, smiling as he sits forward. “Go for it.”
“Don’t you dare listen to him,” Winston says, shoving Ian back into his chair. “Ian just wants to watch you get murdered.”
“Fucking rude, Sanchez.”
Ian shrugs.
“On an unrelated note,” Winston says to me. “How does your head feel?”
I frown, gingerly touching my fingers to my skull. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Winston says, “that this is probably a good time to tell you I’ve been pouring whiskey in your tea all night.”
“What the hell?” I sit up too fast. Bad idea. “Why?”
“You seemed stressed.”
“I’m not stressed.”
Everyone stares at me.
“All right, whatever,” I say. “I’m stressed. But I’m not drunk.”
“No.” He peers at me. “But you probably need all the brain cells you can spare if you’re going to talk to Warner. I would. I’m not too proud to admit that I find him genuinely terrifying.”
Ian rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing terrifying about that guy. His only problem is that he’s an arrogant son of a puta with his own head stuck so far up his ass he ca—”
“Wait,” I say, blinking. “Where’d he go?”
Everyone spins around, looking for him.
I swear, five seconds ago he was standing right there. I swivel my head back and forth like a cartoon character, understanding only vaguely that I’m moving both a little too fast and a little too slow due to Winston, number one idiot slash well-meaning friend. But in the process of scanning the room for Warner, I spot the one person I’d been making an effort to avoid:
Nazeera.
I fling myself back down in my chair too hard, nearly knocking myself out. I hunch over, breathing a little funny, and then, for no rational reason, I start laughing. Winston, Ian, and Brendan are all staring at me like I’m insane, and I don’t blame them. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t even know why I’m hiding from Nazeera. There’s nothing scary about her, not exactly. Nothing more scary than the fact that we haven’t really discussed the last emotional conversation we had, shortly after she kicked me in the back and I nearly murdered her for it.
She told me I was her first kiss.
And then the sky melted and Juliette was possessed by her sister and the romantic moment was forever interrupted. It’s been about five days since she and I had that conversation, and ever since then it’s just been super stress and work and more stress and Anderson is an asshole and James and Adam are being held hostage.
Also: I’ve been pissed at her.
There’s a part of me that would really, really like to just carry her away to a private corner somewhere, but there’s another part of me that won’t allow it. Because I’m mad at her. She knew how much it meant to me to go after James, and she just shrugged it off with little to no sympathy. A little sympathy, I guess. But not much. Anyway, am I thinking too much? I think I’m thinking too much.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ian is staring at me, stunned.
“Nazeera is here.”
“So?”
“So, I don’t know, Nazeera is here,” I say, keeping my voice low. “And I don’t want to talk to her.”
“Why not?”
“Because my head is stupid right now, that’s why not.” I glare at Winston. “You did this to me. You made my head stupid, and now I have to avoid Nazeera, because if I don’t, I will almost certainly do and or say something extremely stupid and fuck everything up. So I need to hide.”
“Damn,” Ian says, and shrugs. “That’s too bad, because she’s heading straight here.”
I stiffen. Stare at him. And then, to Brendan: “Is he lying?”
Brendan shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, mate.”
“Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit.”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Kenji.”
I look up. She’s smiling.
Ugh, so pretty.
“Hi,” I say. “How are you?”
She looks around. Fights back a laugh. “I’m good,” she says. “How . . . are you?”
“Fine. Fine. Thanks for asking. It was nice seeing you.”
Nazeera glances from me to the other guys and back again. “I know you hate it when I ask you this, but— Are you drunk?”
“No,” I say too loudly. I slump down farther in my seat. “Not drunk. Just a little . . . fuzzy.” The whiskey is starting to settle now, warm, liquid fingers reaching up around my brain and squeezing.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Winston did it,” I say, and point.
He shakes his head and sighs.
“All right,” Nazeera says, but I can hear the mild irritation in her voice. “Well, this is not the ideal situation, but I’m going to need you on your feet.”
“What?” I crane my head. Look at her. “Why?”
“There’s been a development with Ella.”
“What kind of development?” I sit straight up, feeling suddenly sober. “Is she awake?”
Nazeera tilts her head. “Not exactly,” she says.
“Then what?”
“You should come see for yourself.”
ELLA
JULIET
TE
Adam feels close.
I can almost see him in my mind, a blurred form, watercolors bleeding through membrane, staining the whites of my eyes. He is a flooded river, blues in lakes so dark, water in oceans so heavy I sag, surrendering to the heft of the sea.
I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with tears, feathers of strange birds fluttering against my closed eyes. I see a flash of dirty-blond hair and darkness and stone I see blue and green and
Warmth, suddenly, an exhalation in my veins—
Emmaline.
Still here, still swimming.
She has grown quiet of late, the fire of her presence reduced to glowing embers. She is sorry for taking me from myself. Sorry for the inconvenience. Sorry to have disturbed my world so deeply. Still, she does not want to leave. She likes it here, likes stretching out inside my bones. She likes the dry air and the taste of real oxygen. She likes the shape of my fingers, the sharpness of my teeth. She is sorry, but not sorry enough to go back, so she is trying to be very small and very quiet. She hopes to make it up to me by taking up as little space as possible.
I don’t know how I understand this so clearly, except that her mind seems to have fused with mine. Conversation is no longer necessary. Explanations, redundant.
In the beginning, she inhaled everything.
Excited, eager—she took it all. New skin. Eyes and mouth. I felt her marvel at my anatomy, at the systems drawing in air through my nose. I seemed to exist here almost as an afterthought, blood pumping through an organ beating merely to pass the time. I was little more than a passenger in my own body, doing nothing as she explored and decayed in starts and sparks, steel scraping against itself, stunning contractions of pain like claws digging, digging. It’s better now that she’s settled, but her presence has faded to all but an aching sadness. She seems desperate to find purchase as she disintegrates, unwittingly taking with her bits and pieces of my mind. Some days are better than others. Some days the fire of her existence is so acute I forget to draw breath.
But most days I am an idea, and nothing more.
I am foam and smoke moonlighting as skin. Dandelions gather in my rib cage, moss growing steadily along my spine. Rainwater floods my eyes, pools in my open mouth, dribbles down the hinges holding together my lips.
I
continue
to
sink.
And then—
why now?
suddenly
surprisingly
chest heaving, lungs working, fists clenching, knees bending, pulse racing, blood pumping
I float
“Ms. Ferrars— That is, Ella—”
“Her name is Juliette. Just call her Juliette, for God’s sake.”
“Why don’t we call her what she wants to be called?”
“Right. Exactly.”
“But I thought she wanted to be called Ella.”
“There was never a consensus. Was there a consensus?”
Slowly, my eyelids flutter open.
Silence explodes, coating mouths and walls and doors and dust motes. It hangs in the air, cloaking everything, for all of two seconds.
Then
Shouts, screams, a million sounds. I try to count them all and my head spins, swims. My heart is pounding hard and fast in my chest, recklessly shaking me, shaking my hands, ringing my skull. I look around fast, too fast, head whipping back and forth and everything swings around and around and
So many faces, blurred and strange.
I’m breathing too hard, spots dotting my vision, and I place two hands down on the—I look down—bed below me and squeeze my eyes shut
What am I
Who am I
Where am I
Silence again, swift and complete, like magic, magic, a hush falls over everyone, everything, and I exhale, panic draining out of me and I sit back, soaking in the dregs when
Warm hands
touch mine.
Familiar.
I go suddenly still. My eyes stay closed. Feeling moves through me like a wildfire, flames devouring the dust in my chest, the kindling in my bones. Hands become arms around me and the fire blazes. My own hands are caught between us and I feel the hard lines of his body through the soft cotton of his shirt.
A face appears, disappears, behind my eyes.
There’s something so safe here in the feel of him, in the scent of him—something entirely his own. Being near him does something to me, something I can’t even explain, can’t control. I know I shouldn’t, know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but drag the tips of my fingers down the perfect lines of his torso.
I hear his breath catch.
Flames leap through me, jump up my lungs and I inhale, dragging oxygen into my body that only fans the flames further. One of his hands clasps the back of my head, the other grasps at my waist. A flash of heat roars up my spine, reaches into my skull. His lips are at my ear whispering, whispering
Come back to life, love
I’ll be here when you wake up
My eyes fly open.
The heat is merciless. Confusing. Consuming. It calms me, settles my raging heart. His hands move along my body, light touches along my arms, the sides of my torso. I claw my way back to him by memory, my shaking hands tracing the familiar shape of his back, my cheek still pressed against the familiar beat of his heart. The scent of him, so familiar, so familiar, and then I look up—
His eyes, something about his eyes
Please, he says, please don’t shoot me for this
The room comes into focus by degrees, my head settling onto my neck, my skin settling onto my bones, my eyes staring into the very desperately green eyes that seem to know too much, too well. Aaron Warner Anderson is bent over me, his worried eyes inspecting me, his hand caught in the air like he might’ve been about to touch me.
He jerks back.
He stares, unblinking, chest rising and falling.
“Good morning,” I assume. I’m unsure of my voice, of the hour and this day, of these words leaving my lips and this body that contains me.
His smile looks like it hurts.
“Something’s wrong,” he whispers. He touches my cheek. Soft, so soft, like he’s not sure if I’m real, like he’s afraid if he gets too close I’ll just oh, look she’s gone, she’s just disappeared. His four fingers graze the side of my face, slowly, so slowly before they slip behind my head, caught in that in-between spot just above my neck. His thumb brushes the apple of my cheek.
My heart implodes.
He keeps looking at me, looking into my eyes for help, for guidance, for some sign of a protest like he’s so sure I’m going to start screaming or crying or running away but I won’t. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to because I don’t want to. I want to stay here. Right here. I want to be paralyzed by this moment.
He moves closer, just an inch. His free hand reaches up to cup the other side of my face.
He’s holding me like I’m made of feathers. Like I’m a bird. White with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head.
I will fly.
A soft, shuddering breath leaves his body.
“Something’s wrong,” he says again, but distantly, like he might be talking to someone else. “Her energy is different. Tainted.”
The sound of his voice coils through me, spirals around my spine. I feel myself straighten even as I feel strange, jet-lagged, like I’ve traveled through time. I pull myself into a seated position and Warner shifts to accommodate me. I’m tired and weak from hunger, but other than a few general aches, I seem to be fine. I’m alive. I’m breathing and blinking and feeling human and I know exactly why.
I meet his eyes. “You saved my life.”
He tilts his head at me.
He’s still studying me, his gaze so intense I flush, confused, and turn away. The moment I do, I nearly jump out of my skin. Castle and Kenji and Winston and Brendan and a ton of other people I don’t recognize are all staring at me, at Warner’s ha
nds on me, and I’m suddenly so mortified I don’t even know what to do with myself.
“Hey, princess.” Kenji waves. “You okay?”
I try to stand and Warner tries to help me and the moment his skin brushes mine another sudden, destabilizing bolt of feeling runs me over. I stumble, sideways, into his arms and he pulls me in, his heat setting fire to my body all over again. I’m trembling, heart pounding, nervous pleasure pulsing through me.
I don’t understand.
I’m overcome by a sudden, inexplicable need to touch him, to press my skin against his skin until the friction sets fire to us both. Because there’s something about him—there’s always been something about him that’s intrigued me and I don’t understand it. I pull away, startled by the intensity of my own thoughts, but his fingers catch me under the chin. He tilts my face toward him.
I look up.
His eyes are such a strange shade of green: bright, crystal clear, piercing in the most alarming way. His hair is thick, the richest slice of gold. Everything about him is meticulous. Pristine. His breath is cool and fresh. I can feel it on my face.
My eyes close automatically. I breathe him in, feeling suddenly giddy. A bubble of laughter escapes my lips.
“Something’s definitely wrong,” someone says.
“Yeah, she doesn’t look like she’s okay.” Someone else.
“Oh, okay, so we’re all just saying really obvious things out loud? Is that what we’re doing?” Kenji.
Warner says nothing. I feel his arms tighten around me and my eyes flicker open. His gaze is fixed on mine, his eyes green flames that will not extinguish and his chest is rising and falling so fast, so fast, so fast. His lips are there, right there above mine.
“Ella?” he whispers.
I frown.
My eyes flick up, to his eyes, then down, to his lips.
“Love, do you hear me?”
When I don’t answer, his face changes.
“Juliette,” he says softly, “can you hear me?”
I blink at him. I blink and blink and blink at him and find I’m still fascinated by his eyes. Such a startling shade of green.