Skin Dive

by Ava Gray

  “Yeah, I guess I better.” But she was new at this, so she didn’t have one. Gillie tousled her shorter hair as best she could and smiled for the camera.

  To her surprise, it didn’t take long at all to make her Shocker ID card, and she nodded while receiving the spiel about everything on campus it could be used for, including the library and loading money for food or copy machines. Just like that, and she was officially Grace Evans, transfer student from Ohio. She would do her best to fit in, like Tanager wanted, while keeping her eyes and ears open. For what, she didn’t know exactly. Maybe she would learn more if she found something out of the ordinary here, though part of her wondered, In Kansas? Really? But doubtless people thought Virginia was totally wholesome, too, and look what had happened there.

  “Now don’t lose it,” the girl said, grinning as she handed the card over.

  “Thanks.”

  And just like that, she became a student.

  Gillie tried to acclimate herself to becoming Grace from Ohio. She read a bunch of classics in the evenings, attended classes, bought textbooks, rode her bike eight miles a day, and spent long hours in the library. In the back of her mind, Taye burned like a quiet candle, flickering warmth. But she couldn’t have him right now. First she had to prove to herself—and to everyone else—that she could handle the real world on her own. She looked on this separation as a test, and once she passed—

  “I see you here just about every afternoon.” A kid—with his tousled emo hair and his rock T-shirt, she couldn’t think of him any other way—stood beside her table, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

  She nodded. “I switched majors. I feel like I have some catching up to do.”

  Was that normal? Casual tone, no big deal. But it was, actually. This was the first conversation she’d had with anybody on campus apart from pass these back.

  “Oh?” Uninvited, he took the chair across from her.

  She chanced a look around the library; this wasn’t the only vacant table. From all the endless television she’d watched, he had either placed a bet with his frat buddies that he could bang her or he was interested in getting to know her better. Gillie stifled a grin, wondering how many people based their insights into human nature on teen dramas that aired on The WB.

  “I was taking business in Ohio, but it’s boring. When I transferred, I decided to try counseling. See if I can help people.”

  “That’s cool. I’m majoring in music.”

  From the hair and the personal style, she’d surmised as much. “And you play guitar.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “I like your streaks,” he said.

  My . . . oh. Right. I’m a brunette now. If only she could get used to the contacts.

  “Thanks.”

  When Gillie checked the clock on the far wall, she saw it was almost time for her next class. “Gotta bounce.” Did people actually say that or was it a TV thing? She felt like such a loser faking this stuff.

  “Hey, you didn’t tell me your name.”

  Gillie.

  “Grace.”

  “I’m Brandon.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you around.” That sounded suitably disinterested.

  Gillie lifted a hand as she shouldered her bag and headed out. Over the next day, she noticed she was more earnest and dedicated than everyone else. The other undergrads milled around campus, met in coffee shops, and made plans to attend parties.

  And that was the aspect of college she couldn’t figure out. The classes were pure pleasure—and far easier to fall into the work than worry about socialization. But if she didn’t find a way to break that last barrier, she might as well still be a prisoner with Rowan bringing her books. Sitting in classrooms with other people didn’t make her free.

  But she wasn’t going to worry about that today. Not when the sun was out, reflected on the melting snow. She rode her bike home, backpack bulging with books. Tonight she had papers to write and assigned reading. Maybe it was weird, but she liked being graded—tangible reward for work.

  But all the normal vanished in the blink of an eye. In her apartment, she found a strange man waiting. He was tall and thin, more than Taye, not as much as Silas. He had coppercast hair and odd, achromatic eyes—a true gray, no color at all. His skin was heavily freckled, no scars or distinguishing marks. She took all that information in a glance, adding that he appeared to carry no weapons. He wasn’t wearing a jacket either.

  The silence grew weighty. She tried not to panic. If he was from the Foundation, he wouldn’t be extending a hand for her to shake. But Gillie realized she was wrong belatedly; this wasn’t a handshake. His grip became implacable, but he still didn’t say a word.

  Then the world flashed away in a blinding rush. At a carnival, before she was taken, she had once been on a ride that spun you so fast that it operated on the principals of centrifugal force. This motion felt the same, along with the same rising nausea. Just when she felt she couldn’t bear it, the movement stopped, colors clarified, and they were entirely somewhere else.

  The room was clearly rigged as an infirmary, and four people lay on cots. Blood and burned flesh scented the air. Her heart froze. Though part of her was still reeling over the way he’d brought her here, she knew he had to work for Mockingbird. She didn’t think she could bear it if Taye was one of the people she had to heal. Gillie studied each of their faces, a cool trickle of relief spilling through her as she catalogued the injuries.

  Once she’d finished, a large man with a wild spill of dark hair and colorful tattoos running up his arms stepped into the doorway. After a moment, she recognized him as Silas. He gave a tiny shake of his head. No names. You don’t know me anymore. Gillie acknowledged that and waited for her instructions.

  “I’m Hawk. These folks are casualties of a raid on the Foundation . . . and we can’t take them to a hospital without risking recapture, but they won’t survive without treatment.”

  “Tanager calls me Cardinal. I take it he’s one of yours?” She indicated the thin man.

  “That’s Heron. Sorry if he scared you. He doesn’t speak.”

  For an instant, she wondered why not, whether it was something that had plagued him since birth or whether he could blame the Foundation. It wasn’t the kind of thing she felt free to ask. Not on first acquaintance.

  “So I noticed. Are they all—”

  “Test subjects? Yeah. We lost a few. But we saved a whole lot more.”

  “I’ll get started.” She examined all four of the injured and then did something she never had before. Triage. Gillie touched them lightly in turn and listened to their wounds; it became immediately clear who needed treatment first. “This guy’s not going to last much longer.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “Yeah. Sterilize a knife.” She’d never tried to heal someone who had lost so much blood before. Remembering the scar she’d taken from Tanager’s gunshot wound, she had the feeling this wouldn’t be pretty.

  God. I don’t want to do this.

  But if she didn’t, he’d die. Nobody’s making you. This wasn’t for money. It was just to save the life of a man from whom the Foundation had already stolen everything else. Gillie squared her shoulders and waited for the blade. Hawk handed it to her presently and she sliced the tips of her index fingers and then laid her hands on the bare wound.

  Blood to blood. A chemical hiss sprang from her fingers; he screamed and tried to pull away. God only knew what he thought she was doing to him. Gillie hung on, knowing when her healing kicked in. The rush made the top of her head numb, as if she were losing her own blood and health in the process. She didn’t think she could do four in a row, but she didn’t let herself consider failure.

  With Hawk watching over her shoulder, she stood firm until the wound sealed. It aged before her eyes until it was little more than an old scar, and then that vanished as well, her blood drawing the damage as it did disease. Gillie raised her shirt and found a t
hin line bisecting her abdomen. Shit. I guess I won’t be wearing a bikini. As she straightened, a wave of dizziness swept her.

  “I could use some orange juice,” she said. “Or cookies or crackers if you have them.”

  “Heron?”

  The thin man nodded and headed out the door, which he closed behind him. Gillie had the idea they didn’t want her to know the location or anything about how to find this place. Hawk helped her to a crate, where she sank down and put her head between her knees. Her vision showed sparkles of color, first signs of an impending lapse in consciousness.

  She regulated her breathing and kept it together until Heron got back. Hawk tried to distract her from the welling nausea, but she lost the thread of his words, trapped in the cotton around her head. With trembling hands, she drank the juice and forced down the sugar cookies. These looked like the ones her mother used to buy in colorful Christmas tins.

  “Better?” Hawk asked.

  “Yeah. But there’s no way I can do more today. It would kill me.” Not drama. She felt weak and lethargic, almost as shitty as she’d felt as a kid. Those memories haunted her, along with the faces of thin-faced children who never made it home from the cancer wards. That, and the endless visits from magicians and clowns, like balloon animals could fix everything.

  “That leaves us with a problem.” He glanced at the other three patients and then at Heron.

  The thin man got out a notepad and scrawled, It would be better if I go back for her tomorrow. Near as she could figure, people would call what he did teleportation, although it didn’t feel instantaneous.

  “Can you keep them alive until then?” she asked.

  Not that it mattered. She had nothing more to give.

  Hawk lifted a big shoulder in a half shrug. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Is . . . Crow doing okay?” She’d almost slipped up. Almost called him by his name.

  “Just tired. He’s around here somewhere.”

  Oh, God. She ached for a glimpse of him. Just from a distance, just a smile, or a wave. It was pathetic, she knew. It hadn’t been that long.

  “Could you send him in?” Gillie held her breath, wondering if he understood the significance of the request.

  “Sure. I’ll go roust him.” He proved he did know when he signaled Heron to follow, so she’d have a few moments of privacy with Taye.

  While she waited, she paced—or she tried to. On her second circuit of the small room, it tipped sideways and she had to resume her seat on the crate, waiting for the world to steady. He came in then, clad as usual in jeans and a white T-shirt. No leather jacket; they were indoors, and it was warm enough.

  “Thanks for coming to help. The situation was messier than we expected.”

  With such casual friendliness, he smiled like it hadn’t broken her heart to say good-bye to him, as if he’d never made love to her with his mouth, and she didn’t know what his face looked like when he came. Taye gave no sign he’d argued passionately against her working for Mockingbird, maybe because she had some chance of crossing his path, making a clean break more difficult. He didn’t speak her name.

  In her head, Gillie heard slamming doors, breaking glass.

  “This is the first time he’s used me. Wounds are easier than diseases.”

  Easier but no less painful, no lessening of consequence.

  She drank him in. Taye propped himself against the wall, not stepping far enough into the room to approach her, his manner distant. But she saw through his façade—his eyes burned with green fire, lambent with banked longing; his skin held a nacreous gleam, textured by the red gold bristles of his jaw, and he didn’t look quite human, more polished and finely drawn, as if his inner fire had burned away that part of him. As usual, he hadn’t shaved in several days, and his face fell somewhere between the stages of I can’t be bothered and I’m growing a beard, really. Shadows cradled his eyes as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. But then they both had nightmares. Probably always would.

  “Settling into your new life all right?” he asked.

  No. It’s empty, and I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t want to. But that was a weak, quiet part of her, and one whose words she would never give voice. She was stronger than that, stronger than fear, stronger than captivity and confinement. Through the long looks and mutual assessment, Taye didn’t reach for her. Other than his eyes, he gave no sign this was hard for him. Gillie took that as her cue.

  “Yeah. I’m a good student.”

  “Knew you would be.” Awkward pause. Long silence. And so many words she wanted to hear from him. They all died in that void. “Well, I’m glad you’re doing fine, but I have to—”

  “Me, too,” she said softly.

  Hurt, so much of it. It drowned her. I can’t do this again. Say good-bye, she told herself, and mean it this time. It was possible she would never change his mind; he meant for the separation to be permanent. The next time Heron brought her to tend the wounded, she wouldn’t ask about him. She would not. If they ever saw each other again, he could do all the running. And maybe some begging.

  “Take care of yourself,” he said.

  Impersonal wish. Gillie lifted her chin and gave Taye the same careless wave she’d offered Brandon in the library. This time, she did watch him walk away. She wanted it emblazoned on her memory, so she’d remember the pain.

  Hawk gave her five minutes to collect herself before sending Heron back. When the porter held out his slim, freckled hand, she was ready. The twist and pull didn’t take her by surprise, though the spin didn’t do her stomach any good. When they returned to her apartment, she dropped to hands and knees, breathing deep through her nose. He seemed unaffected, probably used to the movement.

  In his notebook, he wrote, You gonna be okay?

  Somehow Gillie didn’t think he meant the trip. She nodded and held back the anger until after he ported away. Stupid, stubborn bastard. He’ll be so lucky if it’s not too late by the time he realizes what he’s lost. She didn’t weep; that was weakness. In her kitchen, she had a whole cupboard full of dishes to break, and it gave her tremendous satisfaction to smash that first plate, while imagining Taye’s face.

  Later, once her rage subsided, she decided she would never be helpless again, never looking to a man for guidance and protection; it was time to take back some power. Steely with determination, she dialed a local shooting range.

  “You have classes for women? When does the next one start?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Initial intel from Hausen indicated T-89, born Tyler Golden, had grown up in Miami; that wasn’t strictly true. They were deep in the mangrove swamp. Heavy trees overhung the road, and Cale imagined the whir of insects beneath the roar of the engine. He had been raised on a council estate in Seven Sisters, so while he was used to fighting and scratching, he wasn’t used to nature. Even the army had sent him to cities and deserts in need of pacification. No swamps.

  He wasn’t clear on whether this was part of the Everglades, but it was hot, murky green, and sticky as hell. Beside him, Kestrel was quiet, but tears slipped down her cheeks now and then. He didn’t know what to do in the face of so much pain and sorrow. Usually, there was something you could say or a solution to be had, but he didn’t know how to fix it when the problem was in her brain.

  And he shouldn’t care whether she hurt constantly, but over the course of their journey, he’d offered caffeine, which sometimes helped with pain by dilating blood vessels. Coffee, chocolate, he offered them to her, feeling helpless and tentative. She drank the former and declined the latter. And at night, in their separate beds, he listened to her tossing and turning; he didn’t want to sympathize with her. That would make it difficult to do his job.

  “Don’t you have something you can take?” he asked.

  “Before I was betrayed, Mockingbird was working on finding medicine to help me. And in between tasks, he let me take sleeping pills, so I could rest. The Foundation doesn’t care. They’ll use me until
I can’t take it anymore and I find a way to kill myself. Or until my brain fries from the constant stimulus.” She turned her head and eyed him with quiet resignation. “Just as you will, so don’t pretend you’re different. You only care about the money.”

  That hit pretty close to home, so he went back to driving. In silence, he navigated the last of the turns and parked. There was no proper drive; he had to park on the shoulder of the road and walk up the track that led deeper into the swamp. According to the GPS, this was as far as the roads went. Kestrel followed him, stumbling with pain and weariness, because the constant movement in her head wouldn’t let her sleep. Wordlessly, he put a hand beneath her arm and guided her over the gnarled roots into what passed for the Goldens’ front yard. When she didn’t pull away, it warmed him; constant hatred and suspicion got old.

  Before he could think better of it, he said, “I’ll get you something when we leave here, so you can sleep at night.”

  She flashed him an incredulous look. “Why would you do that for me?”

  “You’ll be no use to me if you burn out,” he muttered.

  But that wasn’t the truth, and by some feminine intuition, she knew as much. Her smile said so. Cale ignored her, walking on.

  The house was worse than he expected, even given their surroundings—an ancient tar-paper shack with debris littering the area outside, old tires, a rusted cookstove, piles of scrap tin. This place could easily double as a rubbish heap. An old man sat in a lawn chair wearing a ball cap, a pair of overalls, and little else; his long beard grew into his tufts of white chest hair. He raised a can of beer as Cale came closer, but he didn’t speak, nor did he get up. The old hound laying next to him raised his head and gave a halfhearted growl of warning, but it was too warm for even the dog to take it seriously.

  “Are you Amos Golden?” he asked.

  “Might be, unless you’re from the government. But with an accent like that, I don’t guess you are.”