by Tahereh Mafi
Too late.
The roof of the nearby building collapses with a scream, and with a final, violent shove, Castle tears off a wall. With one arm he shoves aside the few of our teammates standing in harm’s way, and with the other he drops the ton of wall to the ground, where it lands with an explosive crash. Glass flies everywhere, wooden beams groaning as they buckle and break. A few supreme soldiers escape, diving for cover, but at least three of them get caught under the rubble. We all brace for a retaliatory attack—
But Anderson holds up a single arm.
His soldiers go instantly still, weapons going slack in their hands. Almost in unison, they stand at attention.
Waiting.
I glance at Castle for a directive, but he’s got eyes on Anderson just like the rest of us. Everyone seems paralyzed by a delirious hope that this war might be over. I watch Castle turn and lock eyes with Nouria, who’s still cradling Sam to her chest. A moment later, Castle raises his arm. A temporary standstill.
I don’t trust it.
Silence coats the night as Anderson staggers forward, his lips a violent, liquid red, his hand casually holding a handkerchief to his neck. We’d heard about this, of course—about his ability to heal himself—but seeing it actually happen in real time is something else altogether. It’s wild.
When he speaks, his voice shatters the quiet. Breaks the spell. “Enough,” he says. “Where is my son?”
Murmurs move through the crowd of bloodied fighters, a red sea slowly parting at his approach. It’s not long before Warner appears, striding forward in the silence, his face spattered in red. A machine gun is locked in his right hand.
He looks up at his father. He says nothing.
“What did you do with her?” Anderson says softly, and spits blood on the ground. He wipes his lips with the same cloth he’s using to contain the open wound on his neck. The whole scene is disgusting.
Warner continues to say nothing.
I don’t think any of us know where he hid her. J seems to have disappeared, I realize.
Seconds pass in a silence so intense we all begin to worry about the fate of our standstill. I see a few of the supreme soldiers lift their guns in Warner’s direction, and not a second later a single lightning bolt fractures the sky above us.
Brendan.
I glance at him, then at Castle, but Anderson once again lifts his arm to stall his soldiers. Once again, they stand down.
“I will only ask you one more time,” Anderson says to his son, his voice trembling as it grows louder. “What did you do with her?”
Still, Warner stares impassively.
He’s spattered in unknown blood, holding a machine gun like it might be a briefcase, and staring at his father like he might be staring at the ceiling. Anderson can’t control his temper the way Warner can—and it’s obvious to everyone that this is a battle of wills he’s going to lose.
Anderson already looks half out of his mind.
His hair is matted and sticking up in places. Blood is congealing on his face, his eyes shot through with red. He looks so deranged—so unlike himself—that I honestly have no idea what’s going to happen next.
And then he lunges for Warner.
He’s like a belligerent drunk, wild and angry, unhinged in a way I’ve never seen before. His swings are wild but strong, unsteady but studied. He reminds me, in a sudden, frightening flash of understanding, of the father Adam so often described to me. A violent drunk fueled by rage.
Except that Anderson doesn’t appear to be drunk at the moment. No. This is pure, unadulterated anger.
Anderson seems to have lost his mind.
He doesn’t just want to shoot Warner. He doesn’t want someone else to shoot Warner. He wants to beat him to a pulp. He wants physical satisfaction. He wants to break bones and rupture organs with his own hands. Anderson wants the pleasure of knowing that he and he alone was able to destroy his own son.
But Warner isn’t giving him that satisfaction.
He meets Anderson blow for blow in fluid, precise movements, ducking and sidestepping and twisting and defending. He never misses a beat.
It’s almost like he can read Anderson’s mind.
I’m not the only one who’s stunned. I’ve never seen Warner move like this, and I almost can’t believe I’ve never seen it before. I feel a sudden, unbidden surge of respect for him as I watch him block attack after attack. I keep waiting for him to knock the dude out, but Warner makes no effort to hit Anderson; he only defends. And only when I see the increasing fury on Anderson’s face do I realize that Warner is doing this on purpose.
He’s not fighting back because he knows it’s what Anderson wants. The cool, emotionless expression on Warner’s face is driving Anderson insane. And the more he fails to rattle his son, the more enraged Anderson gets. Blood still trickles, slowly, from the half-healed wound on his neck when he cries out, angrily, and pulls free a gun from inside his jacket pocket.
“Enough,” he shouts. “That is enough.”
Warner takes a careful step back.
“Give me the girl, Aaron. Give me the girl and I will spare the rest of these idiots. I only want the girl.”
Warner is an immovable object.
“Fine,” Anderson says angrily. “Seize him.”
Six supreme guards begin advancing on Warner, and he doesn’t so much as flinch. I exchange glances with Winston and it’s enough; I throw my invisibility over Winston just as he throws his arms out, his ability to stretch his limbs knocking three of them to the ground. In the same moment, Haider pulls a machete from somewhere inside the bloodied chain mail he’s wearing under his coat, and tosses it to Warner, who drops the machine gun and catches the blade by the hilt without even looking.
A fucking machete.
Castle is on his knees, arms toward the sky as he breaks off more pieces of the half-devastated building, but this time Anderson’s men don’t give him the chance. I run forward, too late to help as Castle is knocked out from behind, and still I throw myself into the fight, battling for ownership of the soldier’s gun with skills I developed as a teenager: a single, solid punch to the nose. A clean uppercut. A hard kick to the chest. A good old-fashioned strangulation.
I look up, gasping for breath, hoping for good news—
And do a double take.
Ten men have closed in on Warner, and I don’t understand where they came from. I thought we were down to three or four. I spin around, confused, turning back just in time to watch Warner drop to one knee and swing up with the machete in a sudden, perfect arc, gutting the man like a fish. Warner turns, another strong swing slicing through the guy on his left, disconnecting the dude’s spine in a move so horrific I have to look away. In the second it takes me to turn back, another guard has already charged forward. Warner pivots sharply, shoving the blade directly up the guy’s throat and into his open, screaming mouth. With a final tug, Warner pulls the blade free, and the man falls to the ground with a single, soft thud.
The remaining members of the Supreme Guard hesitate.
I realize then, that—whoever these new soldiers are—they’ve been given specific orders to attack Warner, and no one else. The rest of us are suddenly without an obvious task, free to sink into the ground, disappear into exhaustion.
Tempting.
I search for Castle, wanting to make sure he’s okay, and realize he looks stricken.
He’s staring at Warner.
Warner, who’s staring at the blood pooling beneath his feet, his chest heaving, his fist still clenched around the shank of the machete. All this time, Castle really thought Warner was just a nice boy who’d made some simple mistakes. The kind of kid he could bring back from the brink.
Not today.
Warner looks up at his father, his face more blood than skin, his body shaking with rage.
“Is this what you wanted?” he cries.
But even Anderson seems surprised.
Another guard moves forward so silently
I don’t even see the gun he’s aimed in Warner’s direction until the soldier screams and collapses to the ground. His eyes bulge as he clutches at his throat, where a shard of glass the size of my hand is caught in his jugular.
I whip my head around to face Warner. He’s still staring at Anderson, but his free hand is now dripping blood.
Jesus Christ.
“Take me, instead,” Warner says, his voice piercing the quiet.
Anderson seems to come back to himself. “What?”
“Leave her. Leave them all. Give me your word that you will leave her alone, and I will come back with you.”
I go suddenly still. And then I look around, eyes wild, for any indication that we’re going to stop this idiot from doing something reckless, but no one meets my eyes. Everyone is riveted.
Terrified.
But when I feel a familiar presence suddenly materialize beside me, relief floods through my body. I reach for her hand at the same time she reaches for mine, squeezing her fingers once before breaking the brief connection. Right now, it’s enough to know she’s here, standing next to me.
Nazeera is okay.
We all wait in silence for the scene to change, hoping for something we don’t even know how to name.
It doesn’t come.
“I wish it were that simple,” Anderson says finally. “I really do. But I’m afraid we need the girl. She is not so easily replaced.”
“You said that Emmaline’s body was deteriorating.” Warner’s voice is low, but clear. Miraculously steady. “You said that without a strong enough body to contain her, she’d become volatile.”
Anderson visibly stiffens.
“You need a replacement,” Warner says. “A new body. Someone to help you complete Operation Synthesis.”
“No,” Castle cries. “No— Don’t do this—”
“Take me,” Warner says. “I will be your surrogate.”
Anderson’s eyes go cold.
He sounds almost convincingly calm when he says, “You would be willing to sacrifice yourself—your youth and your health and your entire life—to let that damaged, deranged girl continue to walk the earth?” Anderson’s voice begins to rise in pitch. He seems suddenly on the verge of another breakdown.
“Do you even understand what you’re saying? You have every opportunity—all the potential—and you’d be willing to throw it all away? In exchange for what?” he cries. “Do you even know the kind of life to which you’d be sentencing yourself ?”
A dark look passes over Warner’s face. “I think I would know better than most.”
Anderson pales. “Why would you do this?”
It becomes clear to me then that even now, despite everything, Anderson doesn’t actually want to lose Warner. Not like this.
But Warner is unmoved.
He says nothing. Betrays nothing. He only blinks as someone else’s blood drips down his face.
“Give me your word,” Warner finally says. “Your word that you will leave her alone forever. I want you to let her disappear. I want you to stop tracking her every move. I want you to forget she ever existed.” He pauses. “In exchange, you can have what’s left of my life.”
Nazeera gasps.
Haider takes a sudden, angry step forward and Stephan grabs his arm, somehow still strong enough to restrain Haider even as his own body bleeds out. “This is his choice,” Stephan gasps, wrapping his free arm around a tree for support. “Leave him.”
“This is a stupid choice,” Haider cries. “You can’t do this, habibi. Don’t be an idiot.”
But Warner doesn’t seem to hear anyone anymore. He stares only at Anderson, who seems genuinely distraught.
“I will stop fighting you,” Warner says. “I will do exactly as you ask. Whatever you want. Just let her live.”
Anderson is silent for so long it sends a chill through me. Then:
“No.”
Without warning, Anderson raises his arm and fires two shots. The first, at Nazeera, hitting her square in the chest. The second—
At me.
Several people scream. I stumble, then sway, before collapsing.
Shit.
“Find her,” Anderson says, his voice booming. “Burn the whole place to the ground if you have to.”
The pain is blinding.
It moves through me in waves, electric and searing. Someone is touching me, moving my body. I’m okay, I try to say. I’m okay. I’m okay. But the words don’t come. He’s hit me in my shoulder, I think. Just shy of my chest. I’m not sure. But Nazeera— Someone needs to get to Nazeera.
“I had a feeling you’d do something like this,” I hear Anderson say. “And I know you used one of these two”—I imagine him pointing to my prone body, to Nazeera’s—“in order to make it happen.”
Silence.
“Oh, I see,” Anderson says. “You thought you were clever. You thought I didn’t know you had any powers at all.” Anderson’s voice seems suddenly loud, too loud. He laughs. “You thought I didn’t know? As if you could hide something like that from me. I knew it the day I found you in her holding cell. You were sixteen. You think I didn’t have you tested after that? You think I haven’t known, all these years, what you yourself didn’t realize until six months ago?”
A fresh wave of fear washes over me.
Anderson seems too pleased and Warner’s gone quiet again, and I don’t know what any of that means for us. But just as I’m beginning to experience full-blown panic, I hear a familiar cry.
It’s a sound of such horrific agony I can’t help but try to see what’s happening, even as flashes of white blur my vision.
I catch a mottled glimpse:
Warner standing over Anderson’s body, his right hand clenched around the handle of the machete he’s buried in his father’s chest. He plants his right foot on his father’s gut, and, roughly, pulls out the blade.
Anderson’s moan is so animal, so pathetic I almost feel sorry for him. Warner wipes the blade on the grass, and tosses it back to Haider, who catches it easily by the hilt even as he stands there, stunned, staring at—me, I realize. Me and Nazeera. I’ve never seen him so unmasked. He seems paralyzed by fear.
“Watch him,” Warner shouts to someone. He examines a gun he stole from his father, and, satisfied, he’s off, running after the Supreme Guard. Shots ring out in the distance.
My vision begins to go spotty.
Sounds bleed together, shifting focus. For moments at a time all I hear is the sound of my own breathing, my heart beating. At least, I hope that’s the sound of my heart beating. Everything smells sharp, like rust and steel. I realize then, in a sudden, startling moment, that I can’t feel my fingers.
Finally I hear the muffled sounds of nearby movement, of hands on my body, trying to move me.
“Kenji?” Someone shakes me. “Kenji, can you hear me?” Winston.
I make a sound in my throat. My lips seem fused together.
“Kenji?” More shaking. “Are you okay?”
With great difficulty, I pry my lips apart, but my mouth makes no sound. Then, all at once: “Heyyyyybuddy.”
Weird.
“He’s conscious,” Winston says, “but disoriented. “We don’t have much time. I’ll carry these two. See if you can find a way to transport the others. Where are the girls?”
Someone says something back to him, and I don’t catch it. I reach out suddenly with my good hand, clamping down on Winston’s forearm.
“Don’t let them get J,” I try to say. “Don’t let—”
ELLA
JULIETTE
When I open my eyes, I feel steel.
Strapped and molded across my body, thick, silver stripes pressed against my pale skin. I’m in a cage the exact size and shape of my silhouette. I can’t move. Can hardly part my lips or bat an eyelash; I only know what I look like because I can see my reflection in the stainless steel of the ceiling.
Anderson is here.
I see him right away, standing i
n a corner of the room, staring at the wall like he’s both pleased and angry, a strange sneer plastered to his face. There’s a woman here, too, someone I’ve never seen before. Blond, very blond. Tall and freckled and willowy. She reminds me of someone I’ve seen before, someone I can’t presently remember.
And then, suddenly—
My mind catches up to me with a ferociousness that’s nearly paralyzing. James and Adam, kidnapped by Anderson. Kenji, falling ill. New memories from my own life, continuing to assault my mind and taking with them, bits and pieces of me.
And then, Emmaline.
Emmaline, stealing into my consciousness. Emmaline, her presence so overwhelming I was forced into near oblivion, coaxed to sleep. I remember waking, eventually, but my recollection of that moment is vague. I remember confusion, mostly. Distorted reels.
I take a moment to check in with myself. My limbs. My heart. My mind. Intact?
I don’t know.
Despite a bit of disorientation, I feel almost fully myself. I can still sense pockets of darkness in my memories, but I feel like I’ve finally broken the surface of my own consciousness. And it’s only then that I realize I no longer feel even a whisper of Emmaline.
Quickly, I close my eyes again. I feel around for my sister in my head, seeking her out with a desperate panic that surprises me.
Emmaline? Are you still here?
In response, a gentle warmth rushes through me. A single, soft shudder of life. She must be close to the end, I realize.
Nearly gone.
Pain shoots through my heart.
My love for Emmaline is at once new and ancient, so complicated I don’t even know how to properly articulate my feelings about it. I only know that I have nothing but compassion for her. For her pain, her sacrifices, her broken spirit, her longing for all that her life could’ve been. I feel no anger or resentment toward her for infiltrating my mind, for violently disrupting my world to make room for herself in my skin. Somehow I understand that the brutality of her act was nothing more than a desperate plea for companionship in the last days of her life.