by Tahereh Mafi
I pull James into my arms again, hold him tight. “I’m so sorry,” I say gently. “That sounds horrible. And they wouldn’t let you see Adam at all? Not even once?” I pull back. Look him in the eye. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m sure he’s okay, little man. We’ll find him. Don’t worry.”
Warner makes a sound. A sound that seems almost like a laugh.
I spin around angrily. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I say. “This isn’t funny.”
“Isn’t it? I find the situation hilarious.”
I’m about to say something to Warner I really shouldn’t say in front of a ten-year-old, but when I glance back at James, I pull up short. James is rapidly shaking his head at me, his bottom lip trembling. He looks like he’s about to cry again.
I turn back to Warner. “Okay, what is going on?”
Warner almost smiles when he says, “They weren’t kidnapped.”
My eyebrows fly up my forehead. “Say what now?”
“They weren’t kidnapped.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“This is not the time, bro. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Kent tracked down Anderson on his own,” Warner says, his gaze shifting to James. “He offered his allegiance in exchange for protection.”
My entire body goes slack. I nearly fall off the bed.
Warner goes on: “Kent wasn’t lying when he said he would try for amnesty. But he left out the part about being a traitor.”
“No. No way. No fucking way.”
“There was never an abduction,” Warner says. “No kidnapping. Kent bartered himself in exchange for James’s protection.”
This time, I actually fall off the bed. “Barter himself— how?” I manage to drag myself up off the floor, stumbling to my feet. “What does Adam even have to barter with? Anderson already knows all our secrets.”
It’s James who says quietly, “He gave them his power.”
I stare at the kid, blinking like an idiot.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “How can you give someone your power? You can’t just give someone your power. Right? It’s not like a pair of pants you can just take off and hand over.”
“No,” Warner says. “But it’s something The Reestablishment knows how to harvest. How else do you think my father took Sonya’s and Sara’s healing powers?”
“Adam told them what he can d-do,” James says, his voice breaking. “He told them that he can use his power to turn other people’s powers off. He thought it m-might be useful to them.”
“Imagine the possibilities,” Warner says, affecting awe. “Imagine how they might weaponize a power like that for global use—how they could make such a thing so powerful they could effectively shut down every single rebel group in the world. Reduce their Unnatural opposition to zero.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I think I’m going to pass out. I actually feel faint. Dizzy. Like I can’t breathe. Like this is impossible. “No way,” I’m saying. I’m practically breathing the words. “No way. Not possible.”
“I once said that Kent’s ability was useless,” Warner says quietly. “But I see now that I was a fool.”
“He didn’t want to do it,” James says. He’s actively crying now, the silent tears moving down his face. “I swear he only did it to save me. He offered the only thing he had—the only thing he thought they’d want—to keep me safe. I know he didn’t want to do it. He was just desperate. He thought he was doing the right thing. He kept telling me he was going to keep me safe.”
“By running into the arms of the man who abused him his whole life?” I’m clutching my hair in my hands. “This doesn’t make any sense. How does this— How—? How?”
I look up suddenly, realizing.
“And then look what he did,” I say, stunned. “After everything, Anderson still used you as bait. He brought you here as leverage. He would’ve killed you, even after everything Adam gave up.”
“Kent was a desperate idiot,” Warner says. “That he was ever willing to trust my father with James’s well-being tells you exactly how far gone he was.”
“He was desperate, but he’s not an idiot,” James says angrily, his eyes refilling with tears. “He loves me and he was just trying to keep me safe. I’m so worried about him. I’m so scared something happened to him. And I’m so scared Anderson did something awful to him.” James swallows, hard. “What are we going to do now? How are we going to get Adam and Juliette back?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, try to take deep breaths. “Listen, don’t stress about this, okay? We’re going to get them back. And when we do, I’m going to murder Adam myself.”
James gasps.
“Ignore him,” Warner says. “He doesn’t mean it.”
“Yes, I damn well do mean it.”
Warner pretends not to hear me. “According to the information I gathered just moments before you barged in here,” he says calmly, “it sounds like my father was holding court back in Sector 45, just as Sam predicated. But he won’t be there now, of that I’m certain.”
“How can you be certain of anything right now?”
“Because I know my father,” he says. “I know what matters most to him. And I know that when he left here, he was severely, gruesomely injured. There’s only one place he’d go in a state like that.”
I blink at him. “Where?”
“Oceania. Back to Maximillian Sommers, the only person capable of piecing him back together.”
That stops me dead. “Oceania? Please tell me you’re joking. We have to go back to Oceania?” I groan. “Dammit. That means we have to steal another plane.”
“We,” he says, irritated, “aren’t doing anything.”
“Of course we—”
Just then, the girls walk in. They come up short at the sight of me and Warner. Two sets of eyes blink at us.
“What are you doing here?” they ask at the same time.
Warner is on his feet in an instant. “I was just leaving.”
“I think you mean we were just leaving,” I say sharply.
Warner ignores me, nods at James, and heads for the door. I’m following him out of the room before I remember, suddenly—
“James,” I say, spinning around. “You’re going to be okay, you know that, right? We’re going to find Adam and bring him home and make all of this okay. Your job from here on out is to relax and eat chocolate and sleep. All right? Don’t worry about anything. Do you understand?”
James blinks at me. He nods.
“Good.” I step forward to plant a kiss on the top of his head. “Good,” I say again. “You’re going to be just fine. Everything is going to be fine. I’m going to make sure everything is fine, okay?”
James stares up at me. “Okay,” he says, wiping away the last of his tears.
“Good,” I say for the third time, and nod, still staring at his small, innocent face. “Okay, I’m going to go make that happen now. Cool?”
Finally, James smiles. “Cool.”
I smile back, giving him everything I’ve got, and then dart out the door, hoping to catch Warner before he tries to rescue J without me.
ELLA
JULIETTE
It is a relief not to speak.
Something changed between us this morning, something broke. Anderson seems relaxed in front of me in a way that seems unorthodox, but it’s not my business to question him. I’m honored to have this position, to be his most trusted supreme soldier, and that’s all that matters. Today is my first official day of work, and I’m happy to be here, even when he ignores me completely.
In fact, I enjoy it.
I find comfort in pretending to disappear. I exist only to shadow him as he moves from one task to another. I stand aside, staring straight ahead. I do not watch him as he works, but I feel him, constantly. He takes up all available space. I am attuned to his every movement, his every sound. It is my job now to know him completely, to anticipat
e his needs and fears, to protect him with my life, and to serve his interests entirely.
So I listen, for hours, to the details.
The creak of his chair as he leans back, considering. The sighs that escape him as he types. Leather chair and wool pants meeting, shifting. The dull thud of a ceramic mug hitting the surface of a wooden desk. The tinkle of crystal, the quick pour of bourbon. The sharp, sweet scent of tobacco and the rustle of tissue-thin paper. Keystrokes. A pen scratching. The sudden tear and fizz of a match. Sulfur. Keystrokes. A snap of a rubber band. Smoke, making my eyes tear. A stack of papers slapping together like a settling deck of cards. His voice, deep and melodic on a series of phone calls so brief I can’t tell them apart. Keystrokes. He never seems to require use of the bathroom. I do not think about my own needs, and he does not ask. Keystrokes. Occasionally he looks up at me, studying me, and I keep my eyes straight ahead. Somehow, I can feel his smile.
I am a ghost.
I wait.
I hear little. I learn little.
Finally—
“Come.”
He’s on his feet and out the door and I hasten to follow. We’re up high, on the top floor of the compound. The hallways circle around an interior courtyard, in the center of which is a large tree, branches heavy with orange and red leaves. Fall colors. I glance, without moving my head, outside one of the many tall windows gracing the halls, and my mind registers the incongruence of the two images. Outside, things are a strange mix of green and desolate. Inside, this tree is warm and rosy-hued. Perfect autumn foliage.
I shake off the thought.
I have to walk twice as fast to keep up with Anderson’s long strides. He stops for no one. Men and women in lab coats jump aside as we approach, mumbling apologies in our wake, and I’m surprised by the giddy sensation that rises up inside of me. I like their fear. I enjoy this power, this feeling of unapologetic dominion.
Dopamine floods my brain.
I pick up speed, still hurrying to keep up. It occurs to me then that Anderson never looks back to make sure I’m following him, and it makes me wonder what he’d do if he discovered I was missing. And then, just as quickly, the thought strikes me as bizarre. He has no reason to look back. I would never go missing.
The compound feels busier than usual today. Announcements blare through the speakers and the air around me fills with fervor. Names are called; demands made. People come and go.
We take the stairs.
Anderson never stops, never seems out of breath. He moves with the strength of a younger man but with the kind of confidence acquired only by age. He carries himself with a certainty both terrifying and aspirational. Faces pale at the sight of him. Most look away. Some can’t help but stare. One woman nearly faints when his body brushes against hers, and Anderson doesn’t even break his stride when she causes a scene.
I am fascinated.
The speakers crackle. A smooth, robotic female voice announces a code-green situation so calmly I can’t help but be surprised by the collective reaction. I witness something akin to chaos as doors slam open around the building. It all seems to happen in sync, a domino effect echoing along corridors from top to bottom of the compound. Men and women in lab coats surge and swarm all levels, jamming the walkways as they scuttle along.
Still, Anderson does not stop. The world revolves around him, makes room for him. Slows when he speeds up. He does not accommodate anyone. Anything.
I am taking notes.
Finally, we reach a door. Anderson presses his hand against the biometric scanner, then peers into a camera that reads his eyes.
The door fissures open.
I smell something sterile, like antiseptic, and the moment we step into the room the scent burns my nose, causing my eyes to tear. The entrance is unusual; a short hallway that hides the rest of the room from immediate view. As we approach, I hear three monitors beep at three different decibel levels. When we round the corner, the room quadruples in size. The space is vast and bright, natural light combining with the searing white glow of artificial bulbs overhead.
There’s little else here but a single bed and the figure strapped into it. The beeping is coming not from three machines, but seven, all of which seem to be affixed to the unconscious body of a boy. I don’t know him, but he can’t be much older than I am. His hair is cropped close to his scalp, a soft buzz of brown interrupted only by the wires drilled into his skull. There’s a sheet pulled up to his neck, so I can’t see much more than his resting face, but the sight of him there, strapped down like that, reminds me of something.
A flash of memory flares through me.
It’s vague, distorted. I try to peel back the hazy layers, but when I manage a glimpse of something—a cave, a tall black man, a tank full of water—I feel a sharp, electrifying sting of rage that leaves my hands shaking. It unmoors me.
I take a jerky step back and shake my head a fraction of an inch, trying to compose myself, but my mind feels foggy, confused. When I finally pull myself together, I realize Anderson is watching me.
Slowly, he takes a step forward, his eyes narrowed in my direction. He says nothing, but I feel, without knowing why, exactly, that I’m not allowed to look away. I’m supposed to maintain eye contact for as long as he wants. It’s brutal.
“You felt something when you walked in here,” he says.
It’s not a question. I’m not sure it requires an answer. Still—
“Nothing of consequence, sir.”
“Consequence,” he says, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. He takes a few steps toward one of the massive windows, clasps his hands behind his back. For a while, he’s silent.
“So interesting,” he says finally. “That we never did discuss consequences.”
Fear slithers, creeps up my spine.
He’s still staring out the window when he says softly, “You will not withhold anything from me. Everything you feel, every emotion you experience—it belongs to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You felt something when you walked in here,” he says again. This time, his voice is heavy with something, something dark and terrifying.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what was it?”
“I felt anger, sir.”
He turns around at that. Raises his eyebrows.
“After anger, I felt confusion.”
“But anger,” he says, stepping toward me. “Why anger?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Do you recognize this boy?” he says, pointing at the prone body without even looking at it.
“No, sir.”
“No.” His jaw clenches. “But he reminds you of someone.”
I hesitate. Tremors threaten, and I will them away. Anderson’s gaze is so intense I can hardly meet his eyes.
I glance again at the boy’s sleeping face.
“Yes, sir.”
Anderson’s eyes narrow. He waits for more.
“Sir,” I say quietly. “He reminds me of you.”
Unexpectedly, Anderson goes still. Surprise rearranges his expression and suddenly, startlingly—
He laughs.
It’s a laugh so genuine it seems to shock him even more than it shocks me. Eventually, the laughter settles into a smile. Anderson shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the window frame. He stares at me with something resembling fascination, and it’s such a pure moment, a moment so untainted by malice that he strikes me, suddenly, as beautiful.
More than that.
The sight of him—something about his eyes, something about the way he moves, the way he smiles— The sight of him suddenly stirs something in my heart. Ancient heat. A kaleidoscope of dead butterflies kicked up by a brief, dry gust of wind.
It leaves me feeling sick.
The stony look returns to his face. “That. Right there.” He draws a circle in the air with his index finger. “That look on your face. What was that?”
My eyes widen. Unease flood
s through me, heating my cheeks.
For the first time, I falter.
He moves swiftly, charging toward me so angrily I wonder at my ability to remain steady. Roughly, he takes my chin in his hand, tilts up my face. There are no secrets here, this close to him. I can hide nothing.
“Now,” he says, his voice low. Angry. “Tell me now.”
I break eye contact, trying desperately to gather my thoughts, and he barks at me to look at him.
I force myself to meet his eyes. And then I hate myself, hate my mouth for betraying my mind. Hate my mind for thinking at all.
“You— You are extremely handsome, sir.”
Anderson drops his hand like he’s been burned. He backs away, looking, for the first time—
Uncomfortable.
“Are you—” He stops, frowns. And then, too soon, anger clouds his expression. His voice is practically a growl when he says, “You are lying to me.”
“No, sir.” I hate the sound of my voice, the breathy panic.
His eyes sharpen. He must see something in my expression that gives him pause, because the anger evaporates from his face.
He blinks at me.
Then, carefully, he says: “In the middle of all of this”— he waves around the room, at the sleeping figure hooked up to the machines—“of all the things that could be going through your mind, you were thinking . . . that you find me attractive.”
A traitorous heat floods my face. “Yes, sir.”
Anderson frowns.
He seems about to say something, and then hesitates. For the first time, he seems unmoored.
A few seconds of tortured silence stretch between us, and I’m not sure how best to proceed.
“This is unsettling,” Anderson finally says, and mostly to himself. He presses two fingers to the inside of his wrist, and lifts his wrist to his mouth.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Tell Max there’s been an unusual development. I need to see him at once.”
Anderson spares me a brief glance before dismissing, with a single shake of his head, the entire mortifying exchange.