Follow Me Through Darkness

by Danielle Ellison

  I inhale as we walk, and press my finger into the branding on my neck. It’s a lot to hope that Thorne will understand this, that his love for me is stronger than this, because Bayard’s right. The people who love you don’t leave, and that’s exactly what I did. I faked my death to leave him, and he’ll never know why. A spark rushes through me from my branding, a warm heat coursing through my body that jolts me forward. The shock of it makes my feet fumble under me, and I run into Bayard, knocking the torch from his grip. My breath hitches at the sudden darkness that stretches before me.

  70 DAYS BEFORE ESCAPE

  MY BREATH HITCHES AS I SEE the outline of my father waiting for me at the end of a dark hallway in one of the lower levels of Headquarters. The branding on my neck tingles. Father is grinning, happy but devious. His blue eyes shimmer, and it chills me to the bone. Each step toward him feels as if it’s taking me further away from where I want to be. Each step makes my branding burn a little more.

  There’s a sudden jolt in my stomach, and I feel nauseous. It catches me so off-guard that I can’t catch my breath again. Thorne. His fear attacks me, this constant pressure washing over me. Where is he? What’s causing this? Thorne is never scared. Not like this. I look around the hallway, but there’s only my father at the other end.

  A scream echoes, barrels toward me. Pain spreads through my whole body, and I fall to my knees. I should get up, but nothing wants to move, muscles on strike and stiff. Fear and shock trample me. Thorne’s fear. Thorne’s agony. It’s like he’s dying, or I’m dying. The screams engulf me while I add my own to them, like a chorus. The sounds echo down the hallway-whether his or mine, I don’t know anymore. Then the pain subsides, but the fear and confusion are still very present. Thorne knows it’s coming again, and he’s terrified.

  “Look what I discovered, Cornelia,” my father says, pulling me to my feet.

  My fingers grip a large windowsill and my father’s arm as he holds me up to see. Thorne lies beyond the window, his arms and legs shackled to a table in a stark white room. There are poles and tubes running from his arms to a large machine in the ceiling.

  I yell Thorne’s name at the sight of him. Caramel eyes look in my direction, dark and glassy. His voice cries in low, steady groans, and then I read my name on his lips.

  There’s a noise, a simple buzzing, and a flicker of the lights in the hallway as the room he’s in fills with light. His body convulses. His wails are louder than before, and each one I mirror. The pain and fear are more intense than anything I’ve ever felt. The branding burns on my neck, but it’s so minor it barely compares to everything else. We connect more in times of intense emotion, and this is the strongest I have ever felt race through me. The emotions he’s feeling are so twisted and connected that my body is trying to process them, but it can’t. I can’t even think straight; everything is too jumbled. I want to run, but my body doesn’t seem to work. Burning waves vibrate through me-spreading and running through my veins. A constant piercing pressure, pulsing and throbbing. Fire burning through everything.

  “Please!” I beg my father. “Let him go.” It almost feels like it’s happening to me. I don’t know what he’s feeling or which emotion is the strongest, and that makes all this harder. I can’t take it from him. I can’t carry it for him. I can’t do anything except feel his terror and do nothing.

  Father’s stance doesn’t change, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes forward, his smile barely there but intentional. He’s so far from who he used to be that I don’t know if anyone can save him.

  “That’s interesting, isn’t it? How you can feel what he’s feeling?” my father says. He leans down to me, wiping a spot of blood off my lip. I must’ve bitten it. His eyes find the branding on my neck, and he pushes a finger against it. “Do not forget that I can take away everything you hold dear in your life if you disobey me.”

  Father signals to someone through the glass. He steps away from me. “See you at dinner, Cornelia.” The door closes and resounds back to me in the silence.

  Thorne’s pain is gone, just like that, but the memory of it lingers. It must be that memory that continues to ring through his body. Exhaustion, fear, pain, confusion, love-they all make me sick as they merge in my stomach. Thorne catches my gaze through the window. His eyes are heavy, darker, exhausted, and I can’t handle the look on his face-the pain my father put there, the love he carries for me, the confusion about all of this. I can’t handle it, so I look away.

  DEADLINE: 32D, 13H, 32M

  THE BURROWS

  BAYARD LOOKS AT ME, his eyes studying mine. “You need to stop?”

  He picks up the torch from the ground, and the soft glow of it lights an area between us. I lean against the wall, gasping. After a second, I push away and apologize. Bayard grunts at me, his eyes narrowed and his face scowling.

  I inhale a breath as we walk, but it’s hard to do. My head feels heavy, and I want to sleep, to curl up against a fluffy pillow and rest. I can’t shake the feeling of Thorne. About how I left him. How I let him think I died. How I betrayed him. Where is he right now? Would he recognize me if he saw me here, covered in dirt and shaded in lies?

  “You sure you’re okay?” Bayard asks.

  I nod, inhale the stale, sour air again. It burns in my chest until I have enough to form words. I need to steady my emotions, to change the subject. “How long have you been in the Burrows?”

  “I was born here. Most of us who live here are from original families,” Bayard talks without hesitation, continuing the story of the past. I like the distraction of his voice echoing around me. “The Elders never thought to check below, and they didn’t care about the rest of us. Our families were the ones who were left to die, either from the infected or from the elements. The infected killed each other, and we survived as ghosts.”

  The Elders don’t care about anyone but themselves. Even now. “How have you survived?”

  “The Mavericks provide for us. They bring us some supplies every few months-torches, food, water. After three hundred years, we’ve figured it out. There are some Remnants who go above occasionally. I am not one of them, but my youngest daughter, Faye, likes to explore.” Bayard’s voice is rough as he talks about his daughter, and when I look at him, his eyes are narrowed, brows furrowed.

  “You don’t approve?”

  “I don’t want her to get hurt. There’s a difference. To love means to worry and want to protect, and that’s all I want for her. Safety,” he says softly. Perhaps I have been too hard on Bayard. His demeanor isn’t about our journey or me; it’s about the people he loves. Love, worry, protect. I understand that concept completely.

  “Why don’t you go live above? Why stay in the darkness for centuries?”

  Not just him, but all the Remnants. If the Mavericks are living above in this world and thriving, so much that they can help the Remnants who live below ground, then everyone could thrive together. If they wanted to.

  Bayard holds the torch between us so the glow reflects off his face. His dark eyes peer from his dirt- covered face to explore mine, and then he gives me a curt nod. “This is all I know. Why should I trade this place for something that could be worse when I am safe and warm and have all I could need?”

  I gulp back everything I’m feeling. The inadequacy. The urge to turn around and run all the way back to the Compound. There are reasons to go above. I miss the feel of the sun, seeing the ocean and the sky. To experience the endlessness of the three as they meld into one. I say none of this though because it’s not my place to question him. His life isn’t mine. I don’t know what it’s like out here, and my time isn’t enough for me to pretend as if I do.

  “Why did you leave the Compound, Neely?” he asks.

  I start to walk past him, and he claps my arm. The harsh line of his lips demands an answer, but gentleness is present in his eyes. It’s that gentleness that reminds me of my father before all of this. Before he was made into something else.

  “Because I
had no choice,” I say.

  “We always have choices.” He releases me and walks on, the light of his torch leading the way.

  I had a choice; he’s right. My choice was to say nothing, to do nothing, and lose everything-or I could leave. I could fight. That’s what I’m doing, and it may end up costing me everything anyway.

  “What’s in San Francisco?” Bayard presses in my silence.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I reply. I don’t want to tell him about the Mavericks yet; even though the Remnants respect the Mavericks, not all of them agree and not all of them can be trusted. I’m told the Elders have ears and eyes everywhere.

  Bayard mumbles something under his breath. “This whole thing was rushed-you coming here, us helping you out. There a reason for that?”

  I shrug. “It’s urgent. I only have thirty-two days left to make it there.”

  “What happens if you don’t?”

  “I will lose.”

  “Lose what?” he asks.

  I avoid the question. I look around the Burrows while we move, studying the metal bars along the ground the best I can. I count the pieces of trash we pass and hum inside my head. I listen for the sound of his boots clomping. But even all the distractions can’t stop the word from coming out.

  “Everyone.”

  He doesn’t hear me. The word is barely whispered, inaudible and lost in the echo of darkness.

  62 DAYS BEFORE ESCAPE

  THERE’S AN ECHO AS I move down the stairs and into the dark depths of Xenith’s quarters. Mint lingers around me as if he’s painted the walls with his familiar scent. In all my life, I’ve never stepped into his quarters. I know that being here means something more than I ever expected to give in this fight. There’s no turning back after this. But I can still hear Thorne’s screams in my ears, feel his pain again and again. I’m doing this for him, for my father, and for all the people the Elders have ever hurt. I have to stop them.

  Xenith is hunched over a table, his blond hair falling in his face. His hand moves fiercely on the paper spread across the table. I can’t help but stare at him. He isn’t Thorne, whose beauty is simple and holistic, olive and dark, but Xenith is undeniably attractive. He has a strong chin, a sharp jawline, and blue eyes, dark and vast like the ocean. They always seemed much older than eighteen, wiser maybe, undeniable. I’ve always liked his eyes, ever since we were kids. The truth was always swirling in them, even when I didn’t want to see it.

  “Neely,” he says without looking up from whatever he’s working on. “Are you lost?”

  “No.”

  Xenith moves the paper over to a different stack and continues writing. The pencil in his hand moves quickly and I try to see what the words are, but they aren’t in English.

  “I’m here because-”

  He holds up a hand to me, and I bite my lip, waiting. His hand moves across the paper on his table, never pausing and never faltering. He doesn’t look up, so I wander around the room. To my left is a shelf full of trinkets. One is a small, round glass object with faint white lines etched into it. I reach out a hand, but Xenith says my name as a warning without even looking up. I step away from it like I’ve been scolded and feel childish. Alone and lost in a big world. I move toward another shelf, this one filled with books. My fingers graze one of the spines as I wait for him to stop me. He doesn’t.

  I watch him as he brushes his hair out of his eyes, leaning over the counter and writing like a madman on sheets of paper. Maybe he is a madman. A crazy, dangerous, genius of a madman. For someone who’s only eighteen, sometimes I feel like he’s so much more than I can ever be. As if he knows more than I can begin to understand.

  I shouldn’t be here with him. If Thorne or my father found out, then I’ll be in more trouble. I can find another way. I step back toward the stairs and hear him slam his hand on the table. When I turn around, he has a smile on his face.

  “Sorry. I was in the middle. Some things you have to finish before you can start others,” he says. He moves toward me and raises an eyebrow. “Leaving so soon?”

  I shake my head. “I need to talk to you.”

  He laughs. “I figured, since you’ve never set foot in my quarters before.”

  “It’s important.”

  Xenith nods his head at me and points at the far side of the room toward a beat-up leather couch. I lead the way, and we sit, me on the couch and him in a chair next to it. My heart dances in my chest, trying to escape or make too much noise and tell on me. I shouldn’t be here. Thorne wouldn’t like me trusting Xenith. He never has.

  “Do you want a drink?”

  I shake my head. “I’d rather get this over with.” My mouth is cotton, but I’m more scared of accepting anything more from him than I am about to.

  “What can I do for you, Neely?”

  His voice is smooth, confident. I know he’s been expecting me. Xenith has a way of knowing things that others don’t-especially with me. I inhale so a deep breath fills my lungs and calms me down, then clears my head. I’m here because I have to be.

  “I need to leave the Compound,” I say. “As soon as possible.”

  If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. His gaze is steady, focused on my face, and he shrugs. “Why are you coming to me?”

  “You’re the only one who can help me. I know that you can, that you know the way things work.” I lean forward on the edge of the chair. “I know that you know the way out.”

  Xenith meets my stare. “What is it you’re asking?”

  He wants to me say the words, to paint the picture I see, even if he already sees it. If I can’t say it, then how could I ever actually change it?

  I sit up straighter. “The Elders have something planned for me, something more than me being a director. I’ve read things about what they’ve done, what they plan to do. And my father is different. More out of control. I don’t know why, but I think they’ve done things to him. I found files in his office, notes on cases where the Elders had been experimenting on twins, and there was something about me in there.”

  “What was it?”

  My mind races back to the pages I read. “It said that I failed the experiment. It didn’t say what the experiment was, but on other twins, they used a special branding and it changed them.” I pause. “I think it’s changed all of us. Whatever they are doing, whatever they’re up to, it’s not good. My father told me they had a plan for me, Xenith, and I don’t want to be part of any plan they have. I definitely don’t want to be the director. I want the truth.”

  “About what?”

  “Whatever they are doing. To me, to Thorne, to all of us.” The globe on the shelf catches the corner of my eye, and I turn to look at it. The lines that outline the Old World are barely noticeable up close, but even from here, I can see them. America used to have life, and maybe it still does. Maybe the Old World isn’t as old as we are told. “I don’t believe anymore that we’re the only ones alive from the Preservation. I know there is someone in the Old World who can help us.” I look away for a heartbeat before looking back. “I feel it.”

  Xenith’s eyes grow dark, unmoving and still. He shrugs again and leans back in the chair. “But why are you coming to me?”

  “Because you hate the Elders.” Because they’re responsible for your family dying. I don’t say that, but it’s shared in a glance. He leans toward me, his hands crossed in front of him and resting on his knee. “And because I read things about your ancestor, Nicholas Taylor, who claimed there was still life outside. I believe him, and I think you know it’s true.”

  “My help has a price. Even for you-especially for you.”

  “I know,” I say. I don’t look away, which I know he expected. I know coming to him requires something of me. Xenith doesn’t give away information or time for free. There are whispers of people turning to his family over the years at the cost of information or time or a much-loved item. I’m ready for whatever he’s going to ask of me.

  Xenith moves from his
seat. I see him smile before he turns his back on me. He moves toward another shelf in the far corner of the room, takes down a book from the back-the same one I was looking at before-and sets it to rest on the table.

  “I can help.”

  “Just like that?”

  He smiles with a nod, and his shoulders drop. “There’s a group in the Old World, a secret organization if you will, called the Mavericks. They’ve been around a long time and they have a lot of power. They can help you. You can help them, too. You just have to get to them.”

  I nod in agreement, unable to process it all. He’s helping me. I’m going to leave the Compound and go into the Old World. It’s an adventure, a quest like the ones I’ve read about. Suddenly, it’s all very overwhelming. I don’t know if I can do it. Xenith’s eyes study me. I can’t let him see that I’m not sure, so I stand and move from the couch toward him. He turns to shield the book from me, and our bodies are only inches apart.

  “What do I need to do?” I ask. I fight down the part of me that wants to move closer. That part has always wondered what it would be like to be closer to Xenith. The other part, the stronger one, has kept me away.

  “Nothing. Wait for my word. I’ll get things together for you.” His gaze sends an unnerving chill down my spine, but I don’t move. “Is there something else?”

  I step back. There’s one piece of the puzzle that has to be fixed. The most important piece. The real reason I need to get a life away from here. The words hesitate in my mouth, frozen. It won’t be something easy for Xenith. In fact, this will probably be the worst thing I could ever ask him, and yet I have to ask him. “Can you protect Thorne while I’m gone?”

  Xenith clenches his jaw. His blue eyes peer into mine, harsh and sharp like ice.

  “Please. It’s that or let him come with me,” I say. Xenith knows what happened. He knows my father tortured Thorne. Everyone does.