Lucas’s polite talk, banter, and sweet glances my direction convinces everyone he’s relaxed and enjoying the mixer, but not me.
He and Deshi spend most of the evening with their heads bent together, murmuring too low to be heard through the rest of the din, amplifying my paranoia that they’re plotting against me. The second the clock hits eight-thirty Lucas stands up, grabs my pink ball and his blue one, and returns them to their shelves. The rest of the Terms are slower to respond to the time, since we have another half an hour before we’re required to be home.
Helping me to my feet, Lucas clears his throat and announces, “See everyone at Cell.”
“What’s the hurry?” Leah asks, still oddly aggressive.
“Yes, Lucas. What’s the hurry? Want Althea all to yourself for a few minutes, perhaps to do a little talking?” Deshi smiles at his own suggestion, but a fleeting challenge lights his eyes.
Through our clasped hands, Lucas trembles as his face goes white. “No. I promised her dad we wouldn’t be late, is all. See you.”
He bites off the words and hauls me out the door so fast I have to trot to keep up. After we turn a corner he stops, sucking in ragged, deep breaths. I wait, a little dumbfounded.
He casts his eyes at the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“For what?”
“Losing it back there. I don’t like talking to Deshi.”
He could be trying to trick me, but his words feel honest, like most of our conversations. All but one, the one that stops me from taking a chance. Still, relief washes through me at his confession—he senses the off quality in Deshi as well.
“I know what you mean. It’s like he thinks he’s better than us.”
Lucas doesn’t answer, just drops my hand and starts toward home. I take care to leave space between us, because even though my pulse has returned to normal, cold air still blasts off Lucas. I want to know more about why Deshi bothers him, if he notices the Barbarus’s odor or thinks anything of it, but he probably won’t tell me.
We pass the rest of the way back to the Morgans’ in silence. Lucas trudges next to me all the way onto the porch, where his face is half hidden between the bright glow of the porch light and the deepening night shadows. His eyes glitter with a desire so fierce I look away.
He grabs my hands. “I wish we could be friends. Can’t we?”
Every cell in my body wants to say yes. I have to clamp my lips shut to keep the assent from escaping, but the memory of his untruth withers the word on my tongue. It seems safer to go back to my solitude, even though it’s a miserable state, because at least that way no one can figure out my secrets. So I don’t say anything and we stare at each other for a long time. I wonder what he’s thinking, wish he would tell me.
Finally he leans in, hesitates for a split second, then brushes his cool lips across my warm cheek. A pleasant shudder rolls down from my shoulders and curls my toes, leaving warm, seeping heat in their wake. That combined with the walls in between us squeeze my heart so hard it can hardly beat.
“Good night, Althea. I’ll see you at Cell.” Lucas drops my hands, his defeated air trampling the mood.
He slumps down the front steps, onto the sidewalk, and all the way to his front door. He never looks back but he knows I’m watching. It’s easy to see in the way his shoulders hunch up as though they can protect him from my gaze. My intestines twist into knots and for once the sweat forming over my body has nothing to do with an internal loss of control.
Lucas did it. With his nearness. With his lips. With that look in his eyes, the one that makes me feel like I’m looking into my own.
I can’t change my mind about him, no matter how desperate I am to trust someone, to finally have an ally in life. I understand the defeat in his posture. As much as I want to talk to him and hold nothing back—to share sorrow, and pain, and anger—letting my guard down isn’t smart.
That’s why I feel desperate and defeated. I don’t know why he does.
I try for some normalcy and attempt to relax while brushing my teeth, changing my clothes, and crawling under the comforter, but it doesn’t bring me any answers. That his reasons mirror my own is too much to hope for, but what else could be behind his inhuman, myriad emotions baffles me. I wonder again if he’s Broken and somehow manages to keep it hidden. It’s hard to imagine no one else ever notices he’s not always happy. I know from experience how hard a thing it is to hide, especially as a child. Sighing, I force my eyes closed and try to tempt sleep. Lucas might be thinking about me, too.
Inside where no one, not even me, can squash it…I hope he is.
CHAPTER 11.
My emotional state falls into deeper unrest over the next several days. The leftover nervousness from the mixer, combined with the certainty that I’ll be taken after my interview in less than a month, fill my mind and spill over into the rest of me. It results in an increased obsession with questioning everything I’ve ever been told. Despite the fact that the Others live apart from us, I’ve never second-guessed their truthfulness. They’re frighteningly unfeeling and even cruel, but why would they need to lie?
I waste hours worrying over what to do about Lucas and Deshi. I observe the change in Leah, quietly severe and frightening. Two more Term girls are taken away during the third week of interviews. Greg’s empty seat in astronomy boils my blood. The more I think about the day he Broke, the more certain I am that Deshi hurt him on purpose.
There must be a way to find out what’s going on. My need to take action, to find out what’s going on this autumn generates an idea. I could eavesdrop on a Warden interview. If only I knew what they wanted, what they were looking for, I could figure out how to make sure they don’t think I’ve got it.
It’s the most dangerous idea I’ve ever had, and getting caught would cement my presence in their minds. On the other hand, I’m so incredibly tired of playing these questions on an endless loop but being too afraid to try to find out the answers to what makes me so different. The logistics of how to listen in and not get caught are still rattling around in my mind.
Today I scoot in the Morgans’ door and participate in the evening ritual. Dinner is roast duck, rice, and zucchini. Mrs. Morgan’s rice, potatoes, and vegetables are seasoned to perfection, as always. The Others’ duck, shipped out of a regional factory, tastes bland in comparison. My autumn parents don’t notice anything amiss about my attitude, which is good.
And bad.
A storm builds in my belly, filling it so that choking down dinner is a monumental task. I try to shake it off, focusing on the Morgans’ conversation instead.
“Yes, I saw them today when I was cleaning the curtains in the front room. Two Wardens. Walked straight into the house next door.” Mrs. Morgan utters the observation with the same tone she uses to call me to dinner or comment on Mr. Morgan’s shirt and tie combination in the morning.
My jaw freezes in mid-chew as Mr. Morgan responds.
“Coming to register the new baby, no doubt.”
The Others register every baby once it survives its first year. I’ve never seen the process in person, but we’re told registering consists of a simple medical procedure and the issuing of identification.
Mrs. Morgan nods, sawing off a piece of duck and swirling it around in the sweet, hot mustard on her plate. “When we saw the little guy—Roark—at this month’s Outing I thought his face was too flat, his ears too small. Something is funny about the way his eyes are slanted, too. At any rate, the Wardens took Roark when they left.”
“Yes. Broken, sure as the day is long. Too bad.” Mr. Morgan doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s too bad. He sounds like he’d rather be eating than having this conversation.
Without warning, the storm inside me breaks loose. A million grievances built up over sixteen years. The Broken baby next door. The Morgans’ casual discussion of the news. Simmering resentment over Lucas and his lies, wild fear over Deshi’s attention. Leah. Greg. The Wardens. The interviews.
; Shoving the chair back so hard it topples, I loom over the table as the Morgans gape at me with baffled expressions. Anger escapes my tenuous hold, rocketing straight out of my mouth. “What is wrong with you people? Don’t you get that the neighbors had their child taken away? Their child!”
The last words shriek from my lips, scraping my throat raw and causing Mrs. Morgan to slide a few feet away from the table. Her eyes meet mine and I hold onto her gaze, willing her to understand.
Why does the child have to go away? Don’t you notice when I go away? Do you miss me at all?
I push these thoughts at her, all the questions I’ve ever wanted to ask. They scream in my mind, directed at the poor woman who, in all fairness, has never done anything but take care of me.
To my utter astonishment her eyes focus on me, really focus, for the first time.
Instead of her normal, pleasant demeanor, fright slithers onto her face. Uncertainty joins it moments later, and she stands and backs away.
“Who…who are you?” She points at me, her hand trembling, and then looks at her Partner. “Who is she? Why is she here? She’s not ours!”
Mr. Morgan returns her stare, quizzical but not disturbed, and remains silent. Whatever’s happening isn’t affecting him. Just her. A closer look reveals pain etched in her every wrinkle.
Certainty that my outburst has done something more than simply shock her sneaks in, but I push it away. It’s impossible. I don’t even know what’s happening.
All I know is I have to fix this. Fix her.
“What? Of course I’m yours.”
My feeble attempt to calm the situation achieves nothing and Mrs. Morgan’s panic shoots up faster than a dandelion in the springtime. She presses against the door leading to the backyard. Her hand snakes behind her, scrabbling for the knob.
You can’t let her leave.
Cognitive ability returns with that one clear, simple command. Mrs. Morgan somehow knows I’m a Dissident, and she can’t run all over Danbury screaming about it.
My own panic rises, emotions flailing haplessly as I search for a solution. The temperature in the kitchen climbs toward unbearable. Steam rises out of the water-filled pots in the sink and fogs up the windows. Custard, simmering on the stove, starts to boil.
Do something. Anything!
“Dad! Stop her, she needs a Healer!”
My voice spurs Mr. Morgan into action and he crosses the small kitchen in three steps, grabbing his Partner by the arm. He speaks in a soothing voice, the fixed smile never leaving his face. “Now, Angie, calm down. I don’t know what’s wrong, but we’re going to get you fixed up.”
Their eyes lock, hers huge and incredulous. “Fixed up? I don’t want to be fixed up. I want to be free! What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see what they’ve done? What’s happened to everyone?”
Each shouted word pushes Mr. Morgan farther away. His hands cover his ears as he falls back into his chair at the dinner table where he gawks at his Partner. She scans the room in an unceasing circle, making me worry her eyeballs might fall out of her head. The thought of hurting her closes my throat, but my choices ooze away like sap down a tree trunk. She shrinks away as I approach, as though she’s hoping to disappear right through the door.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. All I know is she has to shut up.
Without any idea of how to accomplish this, I reach out and grab her shoulders as tight as I dare. She meets my eyes, terror widening her pupils until all I see is black.
“You know what they’ve done, don’t you? What are you?” She whispers the words so softly there’s no way Mr. Morgan hears. For a moment I’m too stunned to move. The need to question her overtakes my fear, but then Mr. Morgan gets up from his chair again, moving toward us with uncertain steps. Before he gets close enough to ask what I’m doing or what she’s saying, I shove her.
Hard.
CHAPTER 12.
The crack of her head against the door makes me sick, and my hands fall from her shoulders. Mrs. Morgan’s eyes roll back in her head and flutter shut as she slumps to the floor at my feet.
Mr. Morgan stares over my shoulder, looking down at his Partner with his mouth hanging open. “What happened?”
He’d seen the entire thing. Hadn’t he?
“She, um, collapsed. Get her to the couch. I’ll call the Healer.”
He scoops Mrs. Morgan off the floor and disappears into the living room. Disbelief crowds my mind as the back door holds me upright. I knocked someone out. My fake mother, no less. Giggles threaten to erupt, out of place and inappropriate. I’m probably in the process of Breaking.
Stalling any longer will do nothing except arouse suspicion. The communication console is in the den, down the dimly lit hall behind the third door on the left. A standard fifty-two-inch screen hangs suspended on the wall to my right. Mr. Morgan’s desk sits across from it, a twenty-inch model mounted to the top. The large screen is for connecting with his work supervisors. Mr. Morgan works in Travel. His days have to be boring, given that few people travel except the Others, and they don’t need people like Mr. Morgan. They come and go as they please.
The smaller screen on the desk is for contacting the Others. Healers are human, but we aren’t allowed direct communication with one another. We have to go through them.
There’s a red button on the lower right-hand side of the screen that connects me to an operator of sorts. I push it, and after a second an Other pops up, sitting behind a large desk. His blond hair is grown out past his ears and shines like the sun is pouring onto it. The empty, glinting black gaze threatens to swallow me whole.
I avert my gaze, his stunning features sparking a sharp, persistent ache behind my eyes. I look to the side of the screen so I can see him, but not directly.
His voice matches his expression. Exquisite but bored. “Yes, how can I help?”
My features rearrange into a pleasant expression. “My mother collapsed. We need a Healer.”
“Very well.” He taps a few buttons on the screen in front of him. “One has been dispatched. Estimated arrival time: three and a half minutes. Good day.”
He clicks another button without waiting for a response and the screen goes black. Lingering in the darkness for a minute helps me calm down, but my skin heats up again when the front door buzzes.
I drag myself out of the den and back toward the living room. Mrs. Morgan lies on the couch with Mr. Morgan kneeling on the floor beside her. His face betrays keen interest but no worry, lacks even a touch of concern. Even an evening this out of the ordinary can’t get under his skin.
A middle-aged man, presumably the Healer, hovers over them both. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Standing in the shadowy hallway, my presence still undetected, I hold my breath and wait. My legs ache with unspent energy, ready to take off running at the first whiff of trouble.
Mr. Morgan rubs his face, the first chink in his armor since the episode began. “She…well, we were eating dinner. Then she started shouting funny things and went to the back door like she was going to run outside. Then our daughter, Thea…Thea, where are you?”
I slink forward, still with a clear path to the front door.
“Ah, there you are. Anyhow, Thea suggested we needed a Healer because of how Angie looked—her eyes were rolling around and wild. Then she just fell down on the floor. I carried her in here and Thea went to call you.”
Utter disbelief pours through me at Mr. Morgan’s version of the story. He didn’t even mention my outburst. The air around me, previously sticky and hot, drops a few degrees. Something thick and oily drips in globs between my fingers. When I jerk my hand off the wall, its imprint remains melted into the paint.
Oops. Good thing the hallway is dark.
The Healer’s eyebrows, thick and reddish brown like his hair, scrunch together. He rubs his generous waistline with one hand and considers this information. He places a hand on Mrs. Morgan’s chest, then touches her forehead. “Go grab a wet
towel, please, girl?”
I don’t want to go, but I don’t refuse. Enough rules have been broken for one night. And this way I can rinse the white paint off my hand.
The kitchen light is still on, the scene a blaring reminder of what transpired. Feeling guilty, I right my chair and return it to its place at the table. I grab Mrs. Morgan’s from where it’s scooted near the door and reposition it as well. The custard burns on the stove with an acrid, sweeter-than-candy smell. I dump it in the sink and fill the pot with water. The rags are in a drawer by the stove. I wet one down, fold it, and return to the living room.
The Healer takes it from me and places it on Mrs. Morgan’s forehead while I resume my post by the front door. My mind races, attempting to make some sort of sense out of what’s happening. How after all these years Mrs. Morgan finally saw me, recognized me for what I am—whatever that is.
The Healer looks thoughtful, his jewel green eyes studying his patient. “I believe, based on what you told me, that your Partner is going to be fine. Her vital signs are strong but she meets several criteria. I’m going to have to take her with me for observation.”
“Criteria? What criteria?” My mouth races ahead of my brain. Luckily, the Healer doesn’t seem to think it’s odd.
“If an injury or illness has certain symptoms I’m required to have the Regional Healer examine her before she returns to her life.”
“What’s a Regional Healer?”
His eyes narrow on mine. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, um. I’m about to get a Career at the end of the year and I’m interested in healing, that’s all.”
He laughs, loosening my anxiety a bit.
“Don’t set your sights on being a Regional Healer, girl. He is Other.” He turns to Mr. Morgan. “Where is the communicator?”
Dark Roses: Eight Paranormal Romance Novels Page 38