“Where are we going?” I ask as we climb into the truck.
“Does that matter?” Julia asks with another smile. “West. Past the border web. Beyond that, we’ll know when we get there. And share that food around.”
She closes the flap, plunging us into darkness. Topher has a small LED flashlight, which he clicks on as we shuffle on board, trying not to stand on any of the half-dozen children asleep on the floor. Just as the truck starts to move, a couple of moms pull their sleeping toddlers into their laps, clearing a small space for me and Topher to stash our packs and sit on them.
We pull out a bag of crackers and pass it around, whispering introductions. The moms relax a bit as we share the food. I kind of want to get their stories, but that would mean we have to share ours, and I’m already starting to forget what it’s supposed to be. Better to let the silence and the rocking of the slow-moving truck settle us. Topher flicks off his flashlight and lets his head fall onto my shoulder.
A few minutes pass like that, and we drift off until a child yelping in a nightmare startles us both to full wakefulness.
“This is really happening, right?” Topher whispers, his lips almost touching my ear. I nod. It’s quite warm in here, so I slip off my mitten and somehow find his hand in the dark, lacing our fingers together.
Once we get past the border I still have to figure out how to get up to Prince George to get the bus to the coast. I’m going to have to be discreet about it too, because if anyone from Garvin’s camp is still alive and gets wind of me, it could get very ugly. I’m counting on the fact that Garvin himself was on that helicopter and is therefore dead. Doesn’t seem like the kind of stupid thing he’d want to miss. I’m hoping some of the food will buy us somewhere to stay in Prince George until our travel passes arrive, at least. I’ll deliver the medicine Raven gave me to the hospital. Maybe there’s something that will help Dylan get better. If he’s still alive.
Topher squirms, adjusting his position and snaking one arm behind my back to squeeze me around the waist.
“I knew you’d come back for me,” he says.
I almost laugh out loud, because that’s about the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. The idea of my even being alive after the last time we saw each other, the idea of my making it through the web that he had repeatedly confirmed was impassible, the thought that by some bizarre impulse I would seek to get through it again, come the other way, and look for him? After he had unceremoniously dumped me in favor of his doomed attachment to Raven? Only a crazy person would do that.
He knows me so well.
RAVEN
August’s color changes as he sleeps. At first I think it’s just the warmth of the candlelight and the faint orange glow from the fire enlivening his gray tone. But as dawn seeps in through the small windows I see a faint pink tinge in his cheeks, his slightly parted lips, and the tips of his ears. As I watch, it grows, until his coloring is almost like that of a human. A very tall, slightly odd-looking human, and one who is maybe a little short on vitamins, but human nonetheless.
He’s just as beautiful as he was the first time I properly saw him, though now, being a bit more conscious and with time to let my eyes linger, I notice details I haven’t before. The scar that traverses from his temple to his mouth has drawn both one eyebrow and his upper lip slightly askew, as though fixing him in a permanent state of wariness, even while asleep. His hair is longer than I thought, and now that I’ve detangled it somewhat, it’s drying into soft black waves that fall over his ears and the nape of his neck. His skin is smooth, with just a shadow of a wispy mustache. There’s a thin sheen of glitter over not only his eyelashes but also his lips and teeth, as though his saliva also has a silver tinge. Do I look like this? I’m suddenly taken by an urge to examine myself in a mirror. Not much time has passed since I did my hair in the drugstore in Grande Prairie, but it feels like fundamentals about me have changed. I wonder if my appearance has too.
Moving quietly so as not to disturb him, I slip off the bed and kneel to snoop in the piles of human backpacks in the corner. There are other signs in this cabin that a group of humans was cornered and attacked—a crushed lock on the stones outside the door, parts of a broken chair piled by the fireplace. There’s even a dart embedded in one of the window frames.
I didn’t mention this to August. I doubt he was involved, and anyway, if he was, this isn’t the kind of thing that outrages me anymore, knowing what I now know. Maybe the people who attempted to take refuge here have been turned into mindless automatons; maybe they’re like me. Maybe they’re dead. It all seems small in comparison to what I know is coming. And the things these humans chose to bring with them on their attempted escape perplex me. There are obvious things like food and medicine, tampons and condoms, but there are also jewelry and money and phones, so many phones. It seems as though each person brought two or three. Who did they think they would call? All of them have dead batteries. They’re just elegant silver bricks now.
There’s a small makeup kit in the third pack I open. My heart breaks a little bit then at the idea that someone brought makeup all the way up here, to their last stand in the high mountains. How is mascara going to help at a time like that? But I’m grateful for the compact mirror, and turning toward the light coming in from the window, I examine my face.
Well, it’s embarrassingly dirty, for starters. In another pack I find baby wipes and set about scrubbing the grime off my face, hands, and ears. I slip the jacket off and use the wipes on my arms and neck. My week-old braids are still holding up quite well, but I unravel them, which leaves my hair nicely wavy and stretched so it hangs down over my ears. In another pack I find some moisturizing sunscreen, and that works to tamp down the frizz a bit. The final result pleases me, even though good hair isn’t going to help anyone either.
As the daylight increases, the changes to my coloring become more apparent, and I find that I have a metallic sheen over not just my skin but also my eyes and teeth, my hair, my eyebrows, everything. It’s as though I’m slightly gilded, like a girl caught halfway while transforming into a golden idol. Or transforming back. My freckles are like flecks of bronze. My fingernails, which were slightly ragged as a human, are now hard and glossy, as though painted with pearlized polish. The whole effect is preternatural but not hideous. More important, my attitude about it has changed. I kind of like it. I feel beautiful and strong.
Behind me, August sighs in his sleep, and I climb back up to sit on the bed next to him. His forearm is slung over his eyes as though to block out the morning light, and with his hand facing up like that, I notice that his palm is blistered and raw, as though it’s been badly burned. I’m about to lean over to grab a first-aid kit from the pile of backpacks when he stirs and opens his eyes, blinking up at me.
Your hair, he signs. Very pretty.
“Thank you.” Even after everything, everything I’ve seen and done and the war raging in my head, this makes my face hot.
August stretches and pulls himself upright, leaning against the wall behind the bed.
“Does that hurt?” I ask. “The burn on your hand?”
No. He closes his fist.
“It’s from when you caught the grenade, right?”
I’m repeat sorry about Tucker, he starts, but I interrupt him.
“That wasn’t your fault. You—”
No. No. I wanted to jump but I… forgot how. I forget things. Small things. Big things. My brain is half asleep. Half broken.
How can I tell him I’m glad he didn’t jump without sounding like the worst person? Like I’m saying I’m glad Tucker died and not him? But that’s the truth. And there’s another truth there, one that should probably never be spoken out loud.
Tucker knew. The moment I realized August wasn’t dead, Tucker put together the facts and figured out that he was superfluous to my life. But the final part of it is worse even than that, so unspeakable that it should be locked in a box and buried deep under a mountain.
; He could see that he was superfluous to Topher’s life too.
The way my brain now works, I think all Snowflakes’ brains work like that. Hyperobservant, analytical. Tucker knew I wanted August—anyone could see that. He knew Topher would only be harmed by any association with Nahx or Rogues or Snowflakes. And he knew we were in imminent danger of being killed by those unbelievably stupid humans.
Tucker’s brain made a million calculations in a fraction of a second and came up with the only solution that made sense. So he tore the missile out of August’s hand and dove for the helicopter, knowing the outcome would be his death.
His disintegration.
I look down to see that I have two handfuls of the tattered green dress clenched in my fists.
August covers one of my hands with his and we sit like that for several long minutes, while outside the day brightens. His touch instills me with momentary peace, enough to sort a few of the millions of thoughts in my head into a coherent idea about what I need to do, maybe not beyond the next few minutes but certainly in them. I need clarity—final answers about who I am.
“August,” I say, turning to face him. “Do you love me?”
His wonky eyebrow creeps upward, and he squeezes my hand as he nods. Then he makes a low, voiceless purr in the back of his throat, and his lips curve into a smirk.
“I love you too.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off me, but I can feel the skin of his hand start to pulse hot and cold as he tugs me, gently, as though inviting me closer. I slide forward and clamber over him to straddle his legs. Once I’m there, facing him, our bodies touching, I lose my nerve somewhat. I think I was planning to make him a bold proposition that he couldn’t refuse, but maybe he needs a gentler touch. He seems so innocent sometimes. And with me… well, aren’t we the first girl and boy to ever try this?
“Is this how you want it to be?” I ask, my heart pounding. “How you want us to be?”
He continues to purr while he nods and his eyes sparkle, reflecting the bright light from the window. I move his hands up to the open lapels of my jacket. He slips it off my shoulders and down my arms, letting it fall to the floor beside the bed. The green dress, which I’ve been wearing for weeks, is torn and dirty in the skirt, but the bodice is still in relatively good shape. It’s quite low cut, though, and shows more cleavage than I would normally choose to. August’s eyes linger there for a few seconds before flicking back up to my face.
“Is this why you chose this dress?” I ask. I’m nervous now, and if I’m not careful, I’ll start blathering overwrought nonsense. So I go with cheeky instead. “Because it shows off my tits?”
Thankfully he seems to get the joke. He flicks his head back and huffs his breathy laugh.
No. Repeat trees. Repeat earth. Repeat human. He lets his fingers trail in the folds of satin spread out on the bed around us. Made you look alive. So I could see you alive. He taps his forehead. In here. In my dreams.
I know exactly what he means. Images of dead people are fixed in my mind like they’re carved from stone. If I could, I would dress them in green too, to make them seem alive.
He edges toward me, letting his hands move behind my back. One of them rests on the bare skin of my neck; the other pulls me forward until we’re pressed together. I wrap my arms around him.
“Do you know what to do next?” I whisper.
No, he says, but then he kisses me.
I don’t know what I’m expecting—maybe a quick, tentative kiss or a long, deep, passionate kiss. What happens is kind of halfway between the two. Our lips meet softly at first, then part; our tongues touch as he purrs again, making my teeth vibrate. When he draws back he presses the tip of his nose to mine and seems to inhale, as though he’s trying to breathe me in.
It’s neither an invitation for more nor an affirmation of our bond nor any kind of expression or clarification of feelings. It’s deeper than that, as though the moment we kissed we were both opened up and laid bare as the people we really are. The same kind of people. Not human, exactly. Not Nahx. Not Snowflakes. Something older than that, something ancient and universal. Never enemies, more than friends, more than lovers, even. “Soul mates” isn’t quite right either.
Intertwined. Two paths that cross and meet and split apart and come back together and get tangled and messy until no sense can be made of it anymore.
August’s lack of experience makes everything seem new to me, too. When he removes his jacket and pulls off the silvery undershirt I feel as though I’ve never seen a boy’s body before, and I want to touch every inch of him, to run my fingers over his pale, muscular arms and the scars on his smooth chest. And when I slip off the green dress, his enthralled reaction is so priceless, I can’t help but laugh, and that makes him laugh. But as we wriggle under the covers and finish undressing, the mood changes and it starts to seem like we’re carefully diffusing a complicated bomb together, achingly slowly and gently, as each step, each soft caress or kiss or each place where our bodies touch might spell catastrophe. We take time with that part, exploring and discovering each other. I’m no expert, but apart from a few metal implants on his neck and around his joints, his body seems to be just like that of a very fit human boy about my age might be, lanky and toned, with fine dark hair on his legs, under his arms, trailing down from his navel. And it responds just like you’d expect from having a naked girl in bed with him.
Though neither of us is exactly human, it feels natural to proceed cautiously, just as two humans would. I have to help him with the condom because he hasn’t got a clue, and that makes me feel so strange that I pull back, both of us breathless, and take a moment.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask.
He hisses a little when he nods. Then covers his mouth apologetically, his eyes smiling. But moments later he’s serious again, his gaze fixed on mine, his hot hands resting on the curves of my hips as I move.
It doesn’t last very long, but while it’s happening my mind finally stops its incessant churning, and I float there, in a cloud of bliss and breathy silence—my silence, August’s silence, the silence of a world that has temporarily laid its weapons down.
The calm before the storm.
After, as I pull my dress back on, August stares at the ceiling, lost in thought.
“Have you ever done that before?”
He chuckles softly. No. It is forbidden.
“Sex is forbidden? Even among yourselves?”
He nods.
“I’m not sure, but I think our Rogue friends are having quite a lot of sex.”
He laughs then, shaking and huffing. I tentatively touch the implants on his neck.
“You don’t have any vocal cords, do you?”
No.
“They removed them? So they could implant things here?”
Yes. For breathing with the armor.
“Do you remember it? Remember having a voice?”
No.
August is not much of a talker, but I get the sense that he has something else to say, so I let the hut become quiet but for the windows rattling in the wind.
I have two lives, he says finally. One, a human, is not my true life, but I remember broken pieces of that.
“What kinds of things?”
Being small, he says, but then he puts his hands over his eyes, as though it’s painful to remember. But that wasn’t me, he finishes. I think he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.
“And your other life?” I ask.
My other life was on one of the round ships. I don’t remember much of that because the Fireflies stole… He stops, frowning. Stole my thoughts Some things have come back, but many are lost.
“Sky said it has something to do with the transponders. That’s why Blue was able to fly in and reboot Tucker’s memories. Because the Fireflies put a conduit for a transponder into his brain. Maybe Blue could do that to you, too.”
August grimaces up at the ceiling. No, thank you.
The window rattl
es again, and a cold draft blows over the bed. Even though neither of us is likely to be harmed by cold, I climb back into the bed and we snuggle together, me tucked into the crook of his shoulder. His body is very warm but pulsing slightly, the temperature dipping and rising by a degree or two in a rhythmic pattern. I know he can control this, but it’s also something he does during moments of high emotion, as he did after Liam shot me with an arrow. I don’t know which it is now—whether he’s doing it on purpose or just because of… everything. But I like it. It’s relaxing, almost like being rocked in a train or car, and soon my eyes drift shut. I open them again and, looking up, see that August is watching me and breathing with me. He gives me a little smile, and I feel myself smile with him. His eyes close. My eyes close and I drift, floating down and dissolving into sleep like a snowflake on the surface of a thawing lake.
But then I sink. Into darkness, into density, deeper and deeper until nothing lives or feels and nothing can escape, not even a thought. Bolts of lightning pop in the depths, arcing around me, and something moves, something older and heavier than night that pulls at my insides, as though twisting the very atoms of me.
Then the pain starts, like nothing human, like something worse than fire, but before I have time to scream in agony or dream myself away, I bolt awake. A swath of my vision is still blacked out and crackling with lightning. Behind it, I catch glimpses of a Nahx holding me, pinning me down on the bed as I writhe. He has one hand over my mouth. I flail at him, tearing at his hands, twisting until we both go crashing off the bed, my head slamming hard on the stone floor. The lightning storm breaks apart, dashing across my vision like escaping animals before each dark fragment pops and disappears in a flash.
My vision returns—the stone hut, the pile of human things, and the Nahx now above me, grasping me, my head pressed against his chest, one hand still over my mouth. I growl behind his hand and he releases me, veering back as I lunge for him. But I stop myself just in time.
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