The Butterfly Code

by Wyshynski, Sue

  What is he saying? My confusion must be apparent for, as his steely eyes roam over my face, his expression changes.

  “He hasn’t told you, has he? That’s sick. Ha! Not what I expected from the noble Hunter Cayman. Save the news until cycle number two hits?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The recasting process that fixed your bones, made you stronger, heal faster. You’d have to be blind not to notice how abnormal Hunter and his people are. They’re strong as hell. Genetically perfect. You think they got like that by going through it once? It’s a cycle and every time they go through it, they turn more perfect. Their bones are like Kevlar, unbreakable. Their hearts are like newborns.”

  I think of the glass boxes in the hidden rooms beneath the garden and a dark shadow passes over me. That’s where they go when they’re sick—when they’re suffering through a “recasting” nightmare. That’s the awful sense of doom I felt in Hunter’s silent chamber, a vestigial agony that still lingers in that secret place. It’s one of the reasons he wants me to get better. That’s the dark secret he couldn’t bring himself to tell me. If I stay like one of them, it’s what I’ll have to look forward to. Always. Wondering when it’s going to hit. At Dad’s I swore I could never go through it again. Yet Hunter and Victoria, Lucy, Edward, Ian, all of them spend their days under its shadow, knowing the nightmare is coming.

  Wait—that’s why Hunter left the PRL. He wasn’t sick. He was recasting. I sensed his agony when I was in his study.

  King is telling the truth.

  And yet why am I so much stronger? Is it because I’ve been through two more small cycles, after missing my noon dose? This narrow hallway seems suddenly smaller; the crawling-vine wallpaper seems to choke the air so that I can’t get enough. Trembling, I shift my eyes to the rusted umbrella stand in the corner. Empty. The wallpaper is peeling behind it.

  So will my meds keep me from undergoing it again?

  I lick my dry lips. “How often—” My voice is hoarse. “How often does this … ‘recasting’ happen?”

  “Good, yes. Excellent question. Several times a year, from what I hear. Although apparently everyone responds differently. A severe injury can bring it on, obviously. It’s possible other stressors might trigger it. When it starts to take hold, you become quite dangerous. Irrational. Wild. Out of control. Like a rabid animal.”

  I flash back to my recent hospital emergency, to the monstrous way people looked when I lay strapped to the gurney. I remember how I screamed and struggled, trying to get my hands around Gage’s throat.

  If I change back to normal, would Hunter attack me when he was starting to recast? The way I tried to attack Gage and Dad in the hospital? Everything Hunter’s been trying to warn me about grows clear.

  King steps closer, allowing the door to close. “Clearly it’s a defense mechanism—a primitive need to ensure your own safety before it’s lights out. Once you’re in chrysalis mode, you have absolutely no way to defend yourself. It makes sense that you’d want to destroy anyone who’s not your kind.” He smiles at me. “You’re a killer, Aeris; you just don’t know it yet.”

  “That’s a lie.” As I whisper the words, I know what he’s saying is true. I tried to strangle Gage when they had me on that stretcher and the whole world had turned to monsters.

  “I’m here to help.”

  “You really think you can help me?”

  Hunter, where are you? Please come back! Please hurry! How do I drop my emotional wall and call you?

  “Yes. I do. Come on. Who recasts a person without explaining the implications? You have a life, don’t you? The Philharmonic? I understand you’re an exceptional talent.”

  I keep my face frozen to hide my shock.

  “Shame that you could also be a rabid killer. What if you start recasting during a performance? That won’t go over well in a concert hall. I can make you safe. Stable. Innocent people have been killed by your kind. Take Victoria—”

  “Stop!” I don’t want to hear it.

  “All right. Maybe you want to hear this then. The recasting gets worse. So painful that a number of your kind have killed themselves.”

  Blood drains from my face and I feel dizzy. Suicide?

  “What you experienced, my girl, was a walk in the park. There used to be seventeen of you. Now there are thirteen. Correction, fourteen, including you. Before you know it, you’ll be coming up on your second meltdown.”

  My hands tighten around the suit of armor’s forearms. “I won’t. I’m not like them.”

  “Is it really like being burned at the stake? Burned and melted for seven days without a second of relief?”

  I wrench the suit of armor up and over my head, ducking low at the same time. My strength astounds me. His arms come up but too slowly. I’ve caught him off guard. It smashes, helmet first, into his face. I push away from the alcove and run. I don’t know what I plan to do. Get to the kitchen. Find a knife. Hold him off until Hunter comes back. He’s fast, though; he catches hold of my wrist in his metallic grip.

  Blood drips from his smashed nose and forehead. He wipes his sleeve across those disturbing, marble-like eyes.

  “My car is out front,” he says.

  “Let go of me!”

  “I don’t appreciate being struck in the head, Aeris. Let’s do this the nice way. Be friends, allies. We’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other from now on.”

  “I told you I’m not like them! I was hurt, that’s all!”

  “This isn’t a game. This is my legacy. Not that you’d listen. But know this—Hunter’s a megalomaniac. He wants everything for himself. He’s not the only one who wants to keep someone dear alive.”

  I forgot—he came to Dad’s store and posed as a customer. He said there was a woman who wanted a horse. A dying woman. A relative? Mother, sister? Wife? She’s real?

  For once, I read emotion in those cold eyes. It almost takes my breath away. But he still can’t be trusted. He hurt Gage. And then I’m wrenching backward, and my hand is fastening around the porcelain nymph. I fling it at him.

  He smashes it away and squeezes my wrist, hard. “I’d rather not damage you.”

  I struggle to wrench free of his iron-fisted prosthetic. “You’re lying about the recasting.”

  “I’m not.”

  “How could you possibly know about it?”

  “Because after Hunter destroyed half a billion dollars of my research, I agreed to a truce if they’d let me talk with the Winterborn survivors. I wanted to understand their concerns.”

  Winterborn survivors? Is that what they’re called?

  “I flew to their facility, and we had an informative discussion. That’s how I learned about the problems with the genetic sequencing.”

  “Hunter said you have a truce. So let me go!”

  “Hunter broke it by saving you. What’s that saying? No good deed goes unpunished?”

  I sink down as if fainting, which I nearly am. My thoughts are confused. Whirling. He loosens his grip and I launch clear and skid away. Rounding the corner to the kitchen, my bare feet fight for control on the smooth tile.

  Uh-oh.

  I flail my arms, grasping at the doorjamb. Then I’m ripping the door off its hinges and slicing it at King. His hand punches through the wood as I spin away. The floor is slippery and I go down hard, my butt slamming into the ground. I’m up in an instant, running for the knife block.

  Except the kitchen is full of men.

  A Viking giant with blond hair and broad shoulders steps through the back door. My heart swells. Gage. He’s alive. He found me. By some miracle, he’s here.

  “Gage!” I cry.

  I sprint toward him.

  “Get out,” I scream. “Run!”

  Thirty-Five

  Gage’s eyes are on me. They’re ice blue. Cold as a winter pond.

  “Gage, we have to run!”

  Something’s wrong. He doesn’t answer.

  I sprint past the blur of people
and grab his arm. “Come on!”

  I’m pulling him now. Hard. He doesn’t budge. Those frigid pools are starting to terrify and break my heart.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” comes King’s voice. “Did you think he was your friend?”

  King stands in the doorway with his arms crossed over his wide chest.

  “Let go. Get your hands off me, dammit!” comes Charlie’s voice from across the kitchen.

  My gaze finds him in the crowd, seated in a chair. Jarhead’s behind him. The overpowered giant has his meaty fingers clamped to Charlie’s thin, struggling shoulders.

  A beaming King clears a path as he strides toward him. “And you must be Charlie.”

  “What in the bloody hell is this?” Charlie growls. “I told you we’d cooperate. Take her blood and get out.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re on our way.” King turns to Gage. “Take the girl to the helicopter.”

  “That’s not the deal,” Charlie says. “The deal’s a blood sample. Take it and get out!”

  Gage, meanwhile, walks toward me with such menace I begin to shake all over.

  “Don’t touch me!” I put the counter between us. “Gage, please! We’re friends, aren’t we? Please! We’re friends, you and me and Ella!”

  At this, Gage’s footsteps falter.

  “That’s right, they’ve brainwashed you. You can see that, can’t you?”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Charlie try to rise. A thug elbows his head so hard the crack makes my stomach turn. Gage stares at me over the butcher block, over the packet of forgotten smoked trout and a partially sliced baguette.

  “I told you,” Charlie rasps through rapidly swelling lips, “She’s not part of the deal. Take her blood and get the hell out of my house.”

  King comes face-to-face with him. “The deal was that I’d make sure you’d never grow a day older.”

  “Yes,” Charlie manages, grinding his words. “But—”

  “And I’m a man of my word. You, my friend, will never grow a day older. I guarantee it.” He pulls a gun from a pocket of his fatigues.

  “No!” I lunge past the counter to grab King’s arm.

  The explosion is stunning in this contained space. The stench of gunfire assaults my nose, and I panic. He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t!

  Jarhead steps away from the chair. Around King’s cobra-like back, I see Charlie slump sideways, see him tumble to the floor, see his wide, shocked eyes as he hits the ground. His hand reaches in slow disbelief to the hole in his chest. He draws it away and stares at the slick red wetness.

  “Charlie,” I sob. “No!” I throw myself past King, past all of them, and fall to my knees over him. In despair, I press my hands to the bleeding wound, try to stop his life from flowing out. “Oh, Charlie, no.”

  He swallows convulsively and grabs my slippery hand in his. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry, Aeris!”

  I squeeze his palm as if I could hold him here in this life, in his house, in his beloved kitchen.

  “I’ve been such a terrible old fool.” His faded eyes struggle to stay on mine.

  I can’t stop the escaping tears.

  “Hunter will never forgive me,” he says.

  “Hunter loves you,” I say.

  He coughs. “You are a good girl. Meant for him.” His eyes roam my face and then his kitchen as if to take it in one last time.

  “Stay with me!” I cry.

  “Hunter will stop these bastards from hurting you.”

  I nod, even though I know it’s too late.

  Charlie slumps, growing weaker, losing his fight. “Don’t tell him,” he whispers. “He’s so alone. He relied on me. He needs his roots. He needs to believe that I—”

  Through tears, I say, “He’ll never know. I promise.”

  “You are …” A look of gratitude spreads over his pained features. Then he grows still.

  I shake him hard. “No, no, come back! Don’t die! No!”

  His eyes stare sightlessly at the cupboard, at the drawer he pulled out to show me the picture of Hunter and him standing together like brothers. I think of him last night, singing at the top of his lungs, belting out “Sweet Chariot,” and squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Get up,” King says. “It’s time to go.”

  “The hell it is,” comes a livid, familiar voice.

  Hunter stands in the kitchen doorway. Slowly, he takes in the devastating scene.

  His inner presence comes across in a whisper of agonized rage. I focus on him hard, and my wall crumbles. Outside, he’s disturbingly calm. His arms rest at his sides in a devil-may-care pose. But under the surface, his energy is supercharged. He’s coiled like a beast.

  He heard my calls for help. Yet there’s no helping this. He’s strong. I’m strong. Yet we’re hopelessly outnumbered.

  “You’re trespassing,” Hunter tells King. “Leave. Now.”

  King laughs. “Or what?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “The girl’s out of your domain, Hunter. Plain and simple.”

  “We both know you’re wrong.”

  Then it’s like Hunter’s everywhere at once. Slamming men to the ground. Hunter dodges a blade that was aimed for his chest. It slashes his right forearm. He clamps down on the knife wielder’s wrist, and there come the sounds of breaking bones and screaming. Catching him by the throat and his belted pants, Hunter launches him hard. The thug hits the range hood and tears it down with him as he falls.

  King stands in the center of the room as Jarhead steps forward, arms flexing, fists drawn. He circles Hunter as though circling a wild dog, searching for his weakness. Blood trickles from the cut on Hunter’s forearm, but already it seems to be healing.

  King grows impatient. His hand rises, and with it, the gun.

  “Look out!” I scream, running and kicking King’s arm. Too late.

  The muzzle flashes.

  Hunter flicks sideways, impossibly fast. The bullet catches a man circling behind him between the eyes. A fountain of blood gushes outward—a devilish crimson halo expanding from the back of his head. I shut my eyes, reeling, trying to block out the image now stained on my closed lids, wishing I could unsee it, swallowing against the bile rising in my throat.

  Hunter’s foot moves in a blur, kicking the gun high in the air and then catching it in his fist. Then he crushes it. Crushes the thing to black-and-silver dust.

  “I told you to leave this house. Now, do it,” he grinds out.

  King picks up a slice of baguette and eats it. Slowly. Casually. Like he hasn’t just lost nearly all the men in the room. Only Hunter and King, Gage and Jarhead remain, facing off. Although King only has to call out for reinforcements.

  Hunter’s eyes flick to Charlie on the floor. They show nothing, yet I feel the blow of his grief slamming into my own. Blackness. Despair. A helpless feeling of floating away from the shore with no way back home. I watch his fists tighten at his sides.

  His head comes up and he crosses toward me, looking past my shoulder. “You’ve joined the party, have you, Gage?”

  Behind me, Gage grunts in acknowledgment.

  “Nice act back at the cliff. Here I thought you cared about Aeris.”

  King moves in a blur, pulling a cast-iron pan from the pot rack. Hunter turns a fraction too late. The blow meets his skull and sends his head snapping forward with a crack so loud I’m sure he’s dead. But then Hunter spins and the two of them go down, brawling, the pan flying wide and thudding into the cabinet, chairs scattering, the table legs breaking as they and it slam together against the far wall.

  Hunter is strong beyond all imagining. He crushed a gun in his bare hand! Yet King is strong, too. They’re on the floor, King on Hunter’s broad back. His iron hand makes mechanical tightening noises as it grinds around Hunter’s bicep, which is twisted up at an angle. He drives the weight of his knee into Hunter’s throat.

  “You didn’t think I’d actually be weak, did you?”
King gasps, panting. “I might not have your genetic advantage. Well—” He laughs. “Not yet. But I’m doing all right, as you can see. My mechanics can be quite effective. In fact, I’m rather surprised at the outcome. Aren’t you?”

  I throw myself on King, grab his jaw with both hands, and wrench his head back hard.

  Hunter kicks himself free.

  Jarhead is right there with a thin piece of metal flashing in his monstrous hands. A wire. Lightning fast, he loops it around Hunter’s throat. Hunter butts his head back, smashing Jarhead’s face, yet Jarhead continues to hold on. They fall back together, Hunter wrestling with the cord until they’re pressed against the oven. The man’s ugly lips curl as he tugs hard, causing the veins to stand out in Hunter’s throat.

  I scream and throw myself at them, trying to tear them apart.

  Jarhead’s foot comes up and smashes into my solar plexus. I’m airborne and flying across the kitchen. My body smashes up against the doorjamb, and then I’m lying on the hall floor. Gasping.

  “Get her to the helicopter,” King barks.

  I’d almost forgotten Gage. I dart around to see him leaping over the butcher block. His movements are almost doglike, the way his hands meet the surface of the counter and then his feet. I turn to run. He lands hard, jolting the floor with his weight, and grabs me from behind. One hand wraps in my hair, the other snakes around my chest and holds me intimately tight.

  “Please, Gage,” I gasp. “Please no. You told me you hated King!”

  His hand tightens over my chest, and he pulls me closer to him, lifting me in his arms.

  Hunter’s fury blasts into my consciousness, protective and jealous and seething with disgust. “Bastard,” he croaks. “I’ll kill you.”

  “Think of Ella, and Max! Your little brother!”

  Gage falters, seemingly confused. I struggle hard, pulling him around so we’re facing the kitchen.

  Inside, Hunter lurches forward, taking Jarhead with him. They smash against the stove. That’s when Hunter gets his hands up under the wire and rips it clear. In the next instant it’s manacled around Jarhead’s wrists, which are being twisted high and out of their sockets. Hunter switches on the gas burners and presses Jarhead’s scalp just inches from the flame.