Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set

by Bridget E. Baker

  Wesley mutters, but he stands up and walks toward the door. Sam may be able to understand him, but I can't.

  “Good night,” I say. “Thank you for all your help and support over the past week. It means more than you can possibly understand.”

  He bobs his head and forces a half smile. “Night Rubes. Please get some sleep.”

  I grin. “I promise.”

  After the door shuts behind Wesley, I shove all the way back against the headboard, lean back against it, and gesture for Sam to come sit by me. He meets my eyes for a moment, but doesn't move.

  “Sam, please talk to me. I can't read your mind, so I won't know what you're feeling unless you say the words. I could barely tolerate monosyllabic Sam. I fell in love with a man who knows how to use his words.”

  His implacable facade cracks then, and the hurt in his eyes stabs my chest.

  I pat the bed beside me again and he stands, crosses to the bed and hops up next to me.

  “You kissed Wesley before you came to Galveston?” He shakes his head. “Why?”

  My head’s pounding. I slept on the ground last night, then faced off with my sadistic father, donated blood to him, got locked in prison, had a chunk of hair ripped out of my head, escaped the cell, ran through a foreign city, confronted Sam's possessive private physician, got caught again and threatened, and learned my bio dad wouldn’t bat an eye at shooting me, since he has kids all over the place. I threatened suicide, and then watched my mom shoot my biological father dead. Oh, and I almost unleashed Sam on an untold number of innocent people.

  Why was all of that easier to face than this?

  “It wasn't a big deal Sam, I swear. Everyone knew you were dead, okay? We all agreed no one could survive six gunshots.”

  “You sure moved on fast.”

  Tears well up in my eyes. “I didn’t move on. I struggled with it a lot. It was a rough few days for me, dark days, desperate days. Until Rhonda told me what she saw.”

  “What she saw?”

  “She told me you'd been shot before.”

  Sam leans back against the headboard. “I should've told you before that I was a lab rat.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I don’t tell him it hurt me, that Rhonda knew it about him and I didn’t. I don’t admit that I felt betrayed, that I felt like I didn’t even know him.

  “I didn’t want you to know,” he says.

  I hate the whiny note in my voice. “Why not?”

  “I'm not. . . normal, okay?”

  I twist around until I’m looking up into his eyes. His abnormal, golden greenish eyes. “I don't like normal. Normal’s boring.” I take his hand with mine and interlace our fingers. “And you're not a lab rat. Actually, I've been thinking of a few names, but so far my favorite is Super Sam.”

  He smiles at me, and it reaches his eyes this time. “Super Sam is corny. You’ll be trying to stuff me into a lycra suit next.”

  “Your cape fitting is scheduled for tomorrow at noon. I was thinking black and red. Manly colors.”

  Sam laughs. “No cape, no matter the color, is manly.”

  “Healing from those bullet wounds was miraculous.”

  “It still hurt.”

  I lay my face down on his chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry you thought I was dead.”

  “I wish you’d told me,” I say.

  “I should have. I guess Rhonda told you how our parents experimented on me, and said I healed quickly?”

  I nod my head. “Freaky fast, which explained a lot, actually. Your speed, your strength, your accuracy, your hearing and eyesight.”

  He shrugs. “I'm not sure anymore which of the things I can do came from the enhancements, and what I might've done without them.”

  I release his hand and turn it over, palm up. I trace his fingers, one by one. “I don't care, you know. Every part of you is perfect to me. I just want to know each part of you.”

  Sam leans toward me, our lips drawing nearer. My heart accelerates like always. I wonder whether he can hear it. I hope he can. His perfect lips hover an inch from mine, so close I can smell him. Leather, gunmetal, sweat, and the woods. I breathe it in hungrily, but instead of closing the space between us like I’m dying for him to do, Sam turns away.

  “If you think I'm so perfect, how could you kiss him days after you thought I died?”

  I should come clean. I should tell him I kissed Wesley twice, and that once, the second time, there was no compelling reason. I had no real excuse, and I should be honest about it. Lies never help, and I know this.

  But my head hurts, and I can't face a fight tonight. I can't deal with him leaving me, not now. I need Sam. I need things to be okay with us. I can't face a coronation, and a hundred thousand Marked kids dying, and everything else I have to do alone. I can't.

  So I lie.

  “It was for you, you big goofball.”

  His eyebrows rise. “What does that mean?”

  “We hadn't gotten word from Solomon yet. I only had Rhonda's story about you healing from a gunshot in a week. I had no reason to believe you'd survive, other than an insane story and my own desperate hope, but I knew.” I press my fist to my heart. “As soon as she said you'd been enhanced, I knew I never should've left. I should've thrown myself from the truck that day on the bridge, and crawled my way back to your side. But the blood. There was so much blood.”

  I choke back tears and push ahead. This is about me kissing Wes. “I told Wesley the next morning that I thought you were alive, and he agreed to help me escape.”

  Sam frowns. “Escape from what?”

  “The Marked were pretty excited when I turned up. In fact, if not for Rafe, I'd probably have been torn to shreds by all the people who were desperate for my blood.”

  “Who's Rafe?”

  I pause. Do I tell him now? Or wait? I decide tonight's not the best time. “He's the leader of the Marked. But the point is that, while they're good people, and I think they really are, they weren't about to let me wander off on a suicide mission. They need me there for blood tests, and research studies and whatnot.”

  Sam nods. “And?”

  “Right. Wesley said he'd help. He brought me a new jacket so I could keep the hood up and sneak off. He'd been sent to gather the last cow or two-”

  At Sam's raised eyebrow I chuckle. “That's a story for another day. But the point is, he had transportation, and he was willing to risk Rafe's anger to get me to you. That should earn him a little credit.”

  “You kissed him as a thank you?” Sam sounds dubious.

  “Sam, let me finish. We were sneaking away, holding hands because everyone knew I had yelled at him pretty loudly that morning to leave me alone. We planned that, too. Anyhow, everyone was supposed to think he'd found a revenge girlfriend, who obviously wasn't me since we'd gotten in a fight. It would fall apart if anyone took a good look at my face or saw my hair, but it was working. Until we saw his friend Mark or Matt or something walking down the street toward us. He pulled me up against a wall and kissed me, so his friend didn't stop us and ask any questions.”

  Sam frowns. “Had this guy met you? Would he know who you were? Did you even know that he really was Wesley's friend?”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “Sam, let it go. I kissed him to escape so I could come to you.”

  “You didn't need to do that,” Sam says. “I would've escaped and found you without any heroics on your part. It would've been easier than this mess, probably.”

  “Oh, please. I had no idea if you were even alive, and either way I needed the journal. Beyond that, if you did survive and were so badly injured you couldn't move, you'd have needed my help. And without me, the Cleansing would still have hung over our heads,” I say.

  “Solomon was dying before you came along. After he croaked, Josephine wouldn't have moved ahead with it.”

  “I don't think she'd even have been the next monarch. These Heads of Port sound like bad news. In fact, I think tomorrow—” />
  Sam takes my face in his hands and whispers. “You need to trust me more.”

  My heart aches. I should tell him. I kissed Wesley because I was afraid. Because I don't know what I want, or whether I'm good enough for him. Maybe Wesley's right. Maybe I was trying to ruin things.

  Either way, I need to tell Sam the truth.

  His golden eyes burn into mine, and something in my belly tightens. I can't lose him, not Sam, not my Sam. It was one kiss. It doesn't even matter. Why does he even need to know?

  Slowly, one millimeter at a time, Sam brings his face down toward mine. When his lips finally cover my mouth, the butterflies inside my heart take flight, and the tightness in my chest eases. My heart speeds, and the exhaustion stretched over my entire body dissipates like water on a hot pan. I pull him closer and deepen the kiss. Sam groans satisfyingly.

  “Not in a bed, Ruby, I can’t kiss you in this bed. Not tonight, not with all of this hanging over us like a fog. I can't. Not if you want me to stay here and sleep with you, and I want you near me. I want to know you're safe tonight.”

  I exhale, frustrated, but he's right. I need sleep, and so does he. I put one hand to his chest. “Are you really alright?”

  He smiles. “Wanna see?”

  “Without Wesley here to complain?” I ask. “Absolutely.”

  He lifts his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor. My fingers reach out, tentatively at first. When my fingertips touch the first of six pink circles, Sam inhales sharply. I move slowly from one entry wound to the other, brushing each gently, one at a time.

  Two went into his lungs on the right side, and one into his lung on the left. One hit his sternum, and one hit a rib and glanced off, based on the shape of the scar. But the last. I gasp and touch the hole on the left side near his sternum, but not quite. “Did this one hit your heart?”

  He takes my hand in his and pulls me up against his chest, my head resting against his pectoral muscle. When he talks, I hear the words, and feel the exhalation of air at the same time. “It nicked the top corner, or so Claudia says.”

  I lay my ear against his chest and listen to the beating of his heart, steady as a drum. “I'm glad you're okay. Actually, glad doesn't even begin to describe what I felt when I saw you again.”

  He beams at me. “Me, too.”

  I look downward, away from his eyes when I ask this, an unfair question I'm not sure I even want to know. “Did you kiss her? I won't judge, I swear.” I cross my heart with my fingers. “But I think I want to know the truth.” Even though I don’t deserve it.

  Sam shakes his head. “She tried a few times, but I feigned a leg cramp once, and trouble breathing the other time.” He grins sheepishly.

  I frown. “Why didn't you just tell her about me?”

  “I needed a way out, Ruby. I could tell she was infatuated with me. I’m pretty sure she found me attractive,” he says.

  I roll my eyes so hard I worry they might get stuck inside my eye sockets. “Ya think?”

  “But more than that, watching my body heal was like a religious experience for her. She thought God worked through her to save me, and it made her willing to help me in ways she shouldn’t have been. I planned to use her to escape, so I had to flirt with her, encourage her fascination. I actually felt a little guilty about it, but it was the easiest path back to you.”

  I lay my head on his chest. “I'm glad we made it back to each other. We belong together.”

  “Yes,” Sam says, “let's not part again, okay?”

  I agree entirely. I fall asleep that way, my face pressed to his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his solid, healthy, heart.

  19

  I joked about Sam’s cape fitting, and I shouldn’t have. Karma sucks. Since the Marking, we’ve lacked many things, but clothes aren’t one of them. When everyone began to starve, no one cared about their wardrobe. Entire stores full of clothes are free for the taking in every city and town.

  Even so, my mom stuffs all of us into actual fittings with seamstresses. Honest to goodness seamstresses who measure our waists, our thighs and our bust. Clucking and chirping. Later we have to go back and let the same women pin fabric around us, poking us occasionally.

  Wesley grins his way through tuxedo fittings, food tastings, china and flower selections, and program details the next day. I actually enjoy watching him in his element, making decisions right and left with confidence and excitement. I'm delighted someone else wants to handle things. If one more person asks me about the colors, textures, or flavors for the coronation celebration, my head might explode.

  Apparently preparing a coronation gown usually takes months, so cramming it into three days results in a gaggle of panicked dressmakers. I finish my second fitting of the day and practically sprint for the Blue Room. Wesley may love this, but I'm beginning to feel like an overfed fox with starving hounds on my tail.

  I duck into my room and nearly stumble over a brown messenger bag on my way to the bathroom. A book slides out when I kick it. My heart leaps into my throat. How could I have forgotten about my dad's journal? I only read the last entry once, and I glossed over it in my panicked escape last week. I pick it up and clutch it to my chest.

  I wish Dad was here to answer my questions. I have so many I'll probably never find an answer to, but if this has the answers we need to glue the world back together, I'll never complain about his absence again. Or I’ll try not to complain at least.

  I open the first page and flip one by one through equation after equation, looking for any mention of a hacker virus, or anything like it. If my antibodies don't work, this virus my dad made that eats other viruses may be our only hope. Dad's last journal mentioned he dosed himself with it, and I desperately hope it wasn't his only sample. And that any others he had weren't destroyed after his death, or in the police investigation.

  Two-thirds of the way through the book, I find one paragraph of narrative among the scientific notations.

  Breakthrough today. The attack virus I made will now bond to a blood key, which is the first step to adding the epithelial transfer mechanism. I want this to be as communicable as the Rotavirus or Malaria, because unlike those plagues, this virus will heal humanity. Once infected, no other virus will be able to find a foothold. It will transform the health of the human race, freeing us from fear, from despair, and from dependency on big pharma. I may call it the hacker virus, because Pfizer and the others are going to hate this more than the FBI hates cyber hackers when it succeeds.

  For now, it's only transferrable via blood infusion. I have three samples here, and of course they'll replicate fast once I get the green light for human testing. I called Jack and he's going to expedite the approvals. He's planning to come over and check out my progress tomorrow. I can't wait to show him these samples.

  I flip through the rest of the pages, but other than the last entry, which I already read, there's no mention of the attack virus or where it went. I'm sure a lot of the notes deal with the development of it, but I have no idea how to go about recreating a virus that was spliced from the guts of several others. Just the prospect of trying to splice live viruses scares me. Maybe Aunt Anne could do it with the proper equipment? What we really need to do is figure out who this partner is.

  We need to find Jack.

  He stole Tercera, and I'd gamble every dime I have, including all of WPN's wealth, that he stole the other two samples of the hacker virus. But what did he do with them? Why not share them when Tercera spread, even if it had to be passed by a blood injection?

  A knock at the door startles me, and I slam the book shut and shove it back into the messenger bag.

  I stand up just in time to see my mom's head peek through the doorway. “Darling, there's a group of Marked kids, including a demanding one with a bright reddish mohawk, asking for you on the end of the bridge. They're threatening to attack if we don't prove to them you're safe.”

  I chuckle. “Well, maybe now's a good time for Sam to meet his broth
er.”

  Josephine raises one eyebrow. “His brother’s Marked? Doesn't he know?”

  I shake my head. “His brother isn't just Marked, he's the outspoken, irritating, mohawked leader of the Marked. But I need to talk to Sam about it first, okay?”

  “Sure darling, that's fine. I still don't think it's a great idea for you to leave Galveston just now, though. I know you want to help the Marked, but you must see how much you're needed here.”

  I knew this was going to be a battle.

  “The thing is, Mom, the Marked need me too, and not just in the general way that they need help. They need me specifically. You know Dad injected me with antibodies, but it's more than that. I've studied science under his sister, and my cousin Job is all alone right now. You met him, and at this very moment he's working on figuring out what we can do for them with my antibodies. Right now they're only fixing people who were recently infected, but we're hoping to improve on that, and we don't have much time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your lie was partially true. Tercera hasn't mutated that we know of, but the hormone suppressants started failing a year ago, and people are dying already.”

  Her shoulders slump. “Oh no.”

  I nod. “Many of those kids are entering their third year. They're dying Mom, and I can stop it, I think. And if I don't go, or maybe even if I do, when they start dying, they're going to get desperate. Not to mention, they're barely feeding themselves now, and it's going to get worse when most of them can't work anymore.”

  She frowns. “This only makes me more convinced that you shouldn't go. They're getting desperate? It sounds like a lost cause. Please tell me you aren't planning to leave your people here so you can what? Give blood out there?”

  I nod. “I am, exactly that. There are babies being born, Mom, babies my blood cures.”

  “Why not bring the newborns and the research here? We can provide supplies to help them, and our facilities are much more sophisticated, I promise you that. You wouldn’t have to work with only your cousin for support. You’d have an army of people to command.”