“Just so long as you remember that. Come on.” He led her down the hall and around the corner. Knocked on a door and poked his head in, said something low she couldn’t hear, before opening it fully and stepping inside, waving her in after him.
Reese sat cross-legged on the bed, back to the wall, wearing a shirt this time – the part of her that was sixteen, and female, and breathing regretted the plain black-long-sleeve, and the way it covered his muscled torso – and polishing a wicked-looking knife. Without the black paint, his face proved to be narrow, jaw and cheekbones prominent, chin pointed, his nose narrow and sharp. The eyes, though, when they lifted to her, were the same, cold and inscrutable.
Cass became very aware, suddenly, that she was wearing one of her brothers’ old t-shirts and ratty sweatpants. She tucked her hands inside her sleeves and approached the bed carefully, glad Mercy was still back there, lingering in the open doorway.
“Hi, Reese.”
His gaze pinged down to her slipper-clad feet and back to her face, managing not to linger anywhere in between. “Hello.” He said it awkwardly, like a line he’d rehearsed.
She’d known what she wanted to say; she wasn’t shy, by nature, and so rarely felt at a loss for words. But she found herself tongue-tied now, not because he was beautiful – which he was – but because he stared at her, without a shred of self-consciousness. Like Tarzan, she thought with in inward, giddy laugh. Like a boy raised in the wild, who hadn’t the foggiest notion that it was impolite to look at someone so directly like this, without making any sort of ease-putting facial expression.
She gathered a breath and plunged on. “I wanted to thank you,” she said, “for saving me. That was…that was really…really good of you. So yeah. Thanks.”
He stared at her a moment longer, blinked, and then resumed polishing his knife, gaze dropping to the task. “You’re welcome.” And that sounded rote, too.
She wanted to ask him so many questions.
Where are you from?
Why are you like this?
Are you some sort of robot? Or half a robot? Like on Star Trek?
But she couldn’t. She had no idea where to begin.
“Thanks,” she said again, softer, and when he didn’t acknowledge her, she turned for the door.
Mercy shrugged apologetically, as if to say, What can you do?
Cass walked back to her room feeling even more unsettled, and a little breathless, and a little fizzy, like she’d drunk too much Coke.
Whatever that feeling meant, she had a sense he’d wind up in her dreams after all.
~*~
Albie had put just enough whiskey in his coffee to take the sharp edges off his pain. He sat at the island in the kitchen, staring down into his mug, working up the…not courage. Because this didn’t feel like something brave he had to do. And he wasn’t really afraid. But his feet didn’t want to move, and he hadn’t found the words yet, so he sat, and he waited, and over in the pantry, just as all their other captives had, sat his brother. His new brother, the unknown one. Taped, and chained, and not going anywhere. Nicky had said he’d awakened about an hour ago, but had refused food or drink.
“Maybe he’s not,” Axelle said, quietly, across from him.
“You saw him.” And so had he. So had all of them. He might have dismissed his own vision – half that it was – as a hallucination. But for Fox to think it…and Phil…
No. That kid in there was their brother, no doubt.
“He’s young,” she said.
“Seventeen. Maybe eighteen,” he agreed wearily.
She didn’t say anything else, and that was good; he was honestly tired of her trying to put any sort of comforting spin on this.
He was tired of everything, really.
He threw down the rest of his coffee and got unsteadily to his feet. He heard Axelle’s stool scrape back, like she was coming to help him, and he waved her off without looking.
He didn’t know what sort of face she made – he didn’t risk looking – but he needed to do this alone.
He felt ancient, walking along on bent knees, felt naked without his usual grace. He stepped into the pantry and dismissed Nicky with a nod of his head. Eased the door shut after him.
The boy tied to the chair lifted his head, and stared at him with that same emotionless calm as Reese. Alive, but not human.
Albie leaned back against the shut door. He would have to speak first, he realized. Of course he would. A good little soldier would never open his mouth out of turn.
It would have been awkward to stare at a normal stranger, but this boy was no such thing, so Albie looked. Scrutinized him, head to toe, from his undercut – the glossy dark hair on the top of his head that looked so much like Charlie’s – to the shape of his nose, the angle of his jaw. He was lanky, taller than Albie, and Fox, and most of them, really, but underfed. Where his shirt had slipped, prominent collarbones showed, the shadows beneath them so deep they looked like bruises.
Everything about him struck a chord, plucked at memories, all of him achingly familiar. He saw Tommy in his cheekbones, and Miles in his chin, and Fox in the careless sprawl of his hips, even though he was tied up. But the eyes were the true evidence.
There was no denying he was Devin Green’s son.
“What’s your name?” Albie asked.
The boy stared back, unrepentant. But not defiant. Albie kept struggling to find labels that didn’t compare him to a loyal attack dog. “They call me Emerald. And Subject.”
“They call you that to your face?”
He tipped his head in silent question, trying to parse out what Albie meant.
“That’s how they address you when they speak to you?”
A beat. “They call me that when they talk to each other.”
Albie took a breath. “What do you call yourself in your head?”
He blinked, and didn’t answer.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“I was trained and tutored in the facility.”
Albie suppressed a shudder. Just like Mercy’s Reese, he thought: a wind-up soldier not made for the real world. “Why are you willing to answer my questions?”
“My commanding officers are dead.”
“Right. So, shouldn’t you self-destruct? Refuse to talk to us?”
He hesitated – and it was a true hesitation, and not the guileless blank-faced stare of before. His eyes tracked across Albie’s face, actively searching for something now. A burst of humanity coming through. “I’m supposed to refuse. But I don’t want to.”
Albie felt something almost like…pride.
The boy wet his lips. “Why does he look like me?”
“Who?”
“The man I fought.” He bared his teeth in a grimace. He’d failed, Albie realized, and that brought him shame. “He looks like me.”
“Well, see.” Albie slumped back against the door. “That’s a long story…”
~*~
Everyone settled into an uneasy holding pattern. The proper authorities were handling the crime scene, and Eden had slipped them all the files they would need for press conferences and further arrests. But a tension lingered. A needling sense that things hadn’t been put to rest; that it wasn’t finished.
Morgan and Abe went back to their respective homes, hollow-eyed, faces etched with pain.
“It’ll be alright, Charlie,” Abe said, quietly, and patted his shoulder like he had when Fox was a boy.
The actual boy, the brother – they all, out of some unagreed-upon urge, avoided calling him anything, their comments about him back and forth just hints and hand-waves – was no longer tied to a chair, but they kept him confined. He was talking, though the conversations always left the other party rattled and sweating, afterward.
Vivian went back to her flat, but Eden lingered, and Fox didn’t understand that.
He wasn’t sure he understood anything.
And then the letter came, finally. Of course it was addressed to Fox. He read it alone, at Phillip’s desk, rain pattering at the windowpane behind him.
Charlie,
I know you all hate me, and you should. I’m sorry, but I know you won’t accept my apology, and you shouldn’t. I’m a shit father, and always have been. But I wanted to explain, because I know that you, especially, will want the answers. I owe you at least that.
It’s true what Morris said: I was the only one they didn’t sterilize. Abe says he was the better subject, and maybe he was, yeah, but I was the ruthless one. The others all had their soft spots, but not me. When the funding went away, Morris had a choice. He knew that he had to kill the project, and that if he ever managed to scrape anything together again, we’d all be too old, too assimilated, too out of practice. We were fairly assimilated already. They made us too human. All but me. I was supposed to go out and sire children. To bring him back a candidate for the next generation. He called it Project Prodigal Son.
The idea was for me to have several children, so he could pick the best one. And I did that. But. Yeah…he couldn’t collect, and I didn’t help him, and the whole thing got away from me.
You were the best, Charlie. That’s why I took you to Abe. That’s why__________ But I couldn’t do that either. I couldn’t because you’re my boy, and I l___
They finally got me. Sent a lady agent after me to get knocked up. Produce one more candidate. That’s Number Ten. You’ve met him by now, I’m sure. And if I know you, you’ve got him locked up, and you’re thinking about ways to make him a real boy, and not just a puppet. You were always more tender-hearted than you let on, and you always loved your family. Even me, even though I didn’t deserve it.
It’s all over, Charlie boy. You did well. You see, even though you were the best, you were always a shit choice for the project, because you have a soul. And I don’t. I never have.
Take care of your brothers and sisters. All of them. Like you always have. Marry that woman of yours, and don’t think about me. Don’t let me hang over your head like a raincloud. I’m not worth it, son. I’m really not.
~Devin
Thirty-Eight
“I’m only saying,” Simon said on the other end of the phone Eden held pressed to her ear. “We work well together, and it would be a pay increase. Just think about it.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I know.”
He laughed. “You could at least try to sound a little interested.”
“I am interested. It’s just…” She flicked another handful of bread crumbs to the pigeons who’d gathered on the rooftop a few paces away. The first day, she’d tossed them the crust from her sandwich, but in the days since she’d made a point of bringing something specifically for them. Watching them waddle and peck was soothing in a way she hadn’t known she’d needed, and like her, they didn’t seem to mind the misty rain.
She felt strange. Hollow. But how to explain it to Simon?
“Eden,” he said, carefully, after the silence had stretched too long. “I’m worried about you.”
She didn’t answer.
“Your mum said–”
“Aw, Jesus, you talked to her?”
“She said you’re still at Baskerville Hall.”
“What if I am?”
A pause. He said, “Are you and Fox–”
“I don’t know. What does that matter?”
“Eden,” he said, patiently, “I think it matters to you.”
She started to answer, but found the words wouldn’t come.
“You’ve worked so hard since you were just a kid in her first uniform,” he continued, “and I think you’re tired. And I think you want more than a job. And that’s okay.”
“I know it’s okay. I don’t need your permission.”
He chuckled, low and fond. “Okay, okay. I won’t push you, then. You have a job with my firm if you want it. But, off the record? I think maybe a vacation’s in order.”
“Maybe,” she said, and sounded sullen. She heard the door open behind her. “I’ve got to go.”
“Say hello to all your bikers for me,” he said, and hung up.
She slipped her phone away and tipped her head back, looked at Fox from beneath the dripping hood of her jacket as he walked up, and settled down to sit beside her, heedless of the damp. He wore a bland expression, but a muscle twitched in his jaw; he was mulling something over, she knew.
“Who was that?” he asked, looking out at the pigeons.
“Simon. He called to offer me a job.”
“Huh.”
“I turned him down.”
“’Kay.”
They’d done this several times now: wound up on the roof together, sitting in relative silence, the weight of things unsaid lying heavy across their shoulders. Eden would have thought it was only her, but she’d seen the looks Fox had snuck her way when he thought she wasn’t looking; noticed the way he fiddled with the zipper of his jacket.
Today felt heavier; pregnant like the rain clouds overhead.
“I was downstairs talking to Phil,” he said, finally, and she sent him what she hoped was an encouraging look. “I think–” He took a breath, wet his lips. Scraped think off the sentence like a bit of old gum off the bottom of a shoe. “I’ve decided I’m going back to America.”
“Oh,” she said, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. “I always assumed you would.” And the stupid thing was, she had. He’d been living in Texas for years now, and he’d only come here now for his father. Without Devin, and with bad memories here, she’d known he would return to the States.
So why did she feel like this?
“No, but.” He made a face. Shook his head. “I’m going to Tennessee. Moving there for good. Mercy’s taking Reese back, and then there’s Evan. And…the new one. Someone needs to work with those kids, make sure they turn out halfway normal.” He snorted, like he doubted the possibility.
“I don’t think there’s any hope for Evan,” Eden said. “He’s an idiot.”
A fast, fierce grin.
Sadness moved through her, a slow, relentless wave. She would miss him. She would ache she missed him so badly.
“I talked to Ghost,” he continued. “And he’s really trying to expand the business side of things. He’s always looking for smart, capable people to back. Businesses that can contribute to Knoxville, you know?”
“Yeah,” she murmured, and started to turn away.
He laid a hand on her arm, drew her gaze up to his face. His eyes big, and blue, and…hopeful. Maybe.
“I want you to come with me, is what I’m getting at,” he said.
And oh.
Oh.
“You can run your own PI business there. Or whatever you want to do. But. I’m asking, yeah? You wanna move to Tennessee with me?”
There were men – good men – who would have offered moving love confessions. Promises of comfortable lives, and fine houses, and the kind of stability that would make anybody leap at the chance. But Fox was offering her a spark of hope, and Tennessee, and a career a long way from home.
Eden took a deep breath, and she thought about her years as a cop, as an MI5 agent. The sleepless nights chasing leads; the tension headaches, the scrapes and bruises. Pushing herself to be the best, to be better than her best. The accolades…
The loneliness. The monotony of job, after job, after job, and her mother’s brittle disdain for everything she did.
Then she thought of warm weather, and green fields, and bright sunshine. Of a lazy river, and orange ballcaps, and Southern drawls, and biscuits, and a big loud club full of people, and…
Charlie. Mostly of Charlie. And what might have been.
She thought of all that, and she said, “Yes.”
~*~
Axelle hesitated, hands in her jacket pockets, breath pluming like smoke as she stared up at the carefully hand-crafted sign that read Maude’s, its paint fresh, its edges smoothed down by years of rain. When Eden told he
r she was moving to Tennessee to start a PI firm there, Axelle had breathed a deep, deep sigh of relief, and imagined she could already smell the wood smoke and leaf mold of home. London had been a wild adventure, but she missed America; missed the mountains and rivers and gorgeous greenery of Tennessee. And now, the thought of going back didn’t fill her with the sharp pain of losing Daddy.
It touched her with melancholy, though. Which was why she’d told Eden that she would take her up on her offer, but that she wanted to check something first. Something most likely pointless.
Eden had offered a small smile so understanding Axelle had been forced to turn away from it, afraid of what the other woman might see in her eyes.
And now here she stood, breathing up at the sign, gathering a kind of courage she’d never thought she’d need.
She opened the door and went in, a bell chiming above her.
Albie sat at his desk, pencil in his hand, slumped over a sketchbook, tumbler of whiskey at his elbow. His black eye had gone truly black now, fading into green and yellow, less swollen, so he could actually see out of it. He moved better, but carried himself stiffly, still sore. The ribs would take a long time to knit back together and stop hurting him. She was struck, in that first moment, by how vulnerable he looked, sitting there alone, surrounded by furniture, shoulders pulled in tight.
His head lifted, and for a moment, his face soft, gaze fuzzy from having stared at his sketches, he looked completely lost.
But then he blinked, and his expression firmed, and he was all buttoned up again.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” She settled onto the stool across from him.
He reached under the desk and pulled out a second glass, tilting it in offering. When she nodded, her poured her a generous finger and slid it over.
“I thought you’d be on a plane by now.”
A fluttering in her chest, nerves that weren’t pleasant. “We leave tomorrow around noon.”
He nodded, and picked his pencil back up.
“That’s actually why I walked over,” she began, hesitant. She hated the waver in her voice, but found she couldn’t smooth it. “I agreed to go work for Eden in Knoxville.”
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