This doesn’t please Deshi; his eyebrows knit together as he leans closer until his cheek presses against mine. My eyes slip closed and a strange buzzing noise soaks the air. The last thing I hear before I fall asleep is Deshi’s voice.
It’s gentle, serene. “I’m watching you.”
CHAPTER 15.
The taste of bile lingers in my mouth, my head throbs, and claustrophobia presses down on every inch of my body. My arms and legs still feel weighted, as though they’ve sunk into the mattress. A fleeting image of lying in the snow, how it presses in and mutes the sounds of the world, crosses my mind. That ugly orange comforter clashes with the serenity of the image. Memories crash in and tumble around me, piling up until I throw off the covers. My bare legs and arms quiver in the cold, but the cloying sense of entrapment refuses to leave. I stop wheezing as reality sinks in.
At least, what I think is reality.
I won’t know for sure until I go down for breakfast.
This morning my feet don’t drag, I don’t linger in the shower, and I don’t stop to reread the note folded inside my necklace. I throw on jeans and a sweater, brush my teeth, and hurry down to the kitchen.
The smell of strawberries and sausage wafts through the air. I summon all my courage and dart a glance at the stove. No Mrs. Morgan.
Mr. Morgan looks up from his paper and coffee. “Thea, darling, you’re up rather early. Sit down and have some breakfast. They delivered something new today.”
A tower of waffles topped with strawberries covers my plate. Caution paints my every move as I slide into my chair, irrational fear curling knots into my shoulders. The sense that if I make a sudden movement the entire scene will dissolve into reality. The one where Mr. Morgan remembers what happened last night and panics over the loss of his Partner, over the Others’ ability to control his mind.
He seems unharmed. He peers at me over his paper again and an automatic smile slips onto my lips. Mr. Morgan returns it. Except…it’s shaking slightly. Like the chemistry Monitor’s. As though he’s not sure why he’s smiling, or if he wants to smile at all.
“Dad, are you okay?”
“Fine, dear. It’s just, well, waffles aren’t the same as cranberry pancakes.”
My heart withers as he goes back to his paper and I finish eating breakfast. He’s right about the waffles. The dirty dishes in the sink even strike me as sad, a visible reminder Mrs. Morgan won’t be washing them. I wonder if someone will be sent to take care of it. I rinse them off and leave them there.
Breathing through the smothering secrets and grief in the house is like sucking air through a wet towel. I wouldn’t normally leave for another half hour, but even braving the cold is actually more appealing than spending one more silent minute across the table from Mr. Morgan.
The dreary, barren street soaks into my bones. Fall steals away more warmth and sunlight with each passing day. Before long I stand in front of the boundary fence at the edge of the park, staring out into the Wilds. Early morning birdsong serenades me and the clean, cold scent of frost clears my head.
I’ve spent all my life not questioning the happiness of people, certain that something was wrong with me for feeling differently—for feeling at all. This morning I let myself feel everything without trying to squelch it. The crunch of individual brown blades of grass under my tennis shoes. The way the rough bark covering knots in the tree trunks scrapes across my fingertips. I gaze at an unbelievably blue sky, not worrying, not caring. Just being.
I no longer know anything about my world. Not for sure. I believed the Others when they said the boundaries exist to keep us alive, that everything they do is in the interest of our safety. Now I suspect the fences aren’t to keep the animals out. They’re to keep us in.
My eyes are open wide, and closing them again is impossible. What’s out there, what they’re keeping from us, remains hidden behind a heavy curtain, but last night laid bare a glaring truth.
The Others control everything. Even people’s minds.
Burning rage tears into my blood, pushing it closer and closer to the surface of my skin as my palms heat up. It replaces any lingering fear in an instant, and if a Warden happened upon me I’d kick him in his pain-inflicting, lying face. An overwhelming desire to yank down the boundary with my bare hands slams into me and I make fists to keep from ripping at the electrified metal. Wild desire aches, boils through me with no outlet in sight.
I want out.
I want to hide inside that world out there, a pristine place not possessed by the Others. My foot connects with my backpack in a swift kick and it tumbles into the boundary. I close my eyes and wait for the crackle of electricity, the scent of burning material. But nothing happens.
My eyes fly open to spy my bag pressed up against the fence, perfectly whole and unharmed. I reach out a tentative hand, glancing around and behind me to check for Wardens. There are cameras on the boundary at measured intervals, but the nearest one is barely visible from here. Adrenaline speeds up my heart as I twine my fingers through the fence, half expecting to disappear into ashes, but I remain as untouched as my bag.
There may not be a way to prove the Others control minds, or that they killed Mrs. Morgan. But I could prove they’re lying about the animals.
Once the idea pops into my head it won’t let go, determination to prove them wrong on this one thing overshadowing everything else. Even if it’s the last thing I do.
I find a foothold, take a deep breath, and brace my weight against the boundary.
Climbing is harder than I think it will be. Every time I loosen a toe or let go to grab another link my body sways back and forth on the wobbly metal. It takes longer than it should to scale the twenty feet, since I stop and press against it each time this happens, and am soaked with sweat and exhausted before I’m halfway finished.
The top of the fence lands under my grasp and I haul myself over it. A huge gust of wind pushes me against the outside of the wire. I hear a sizzle, see an explosion of sparks.
I’m frying.
No, I’m not. I open my eyes and check my body. Not fried. The breeze must have blown some debris into the barrier farther down. My brow creases at the realization that the fence is working in some places; it makes me hustle the rest of the way down. By the time I land on the soft earth my legs wobble and my breath comes in short gasps, but none of that can stop the silly grin stretching my lips.
The Monitors tell stories in Primer Cell about a time before the fences. How small children wandered away from their parents and were eaten in a single gulp by a bear, or a lion, or most often a wolf. But no beady yellow eyes peer at me from the forest. No animals rush me, or eat me, or even show themselves during my first tentative steps into the brush.
Branches sway above my head and birds continue their morning chirps, unconcerned by my alien presence in their world. Hot anger at the sheer multitude of lies recedes to make way for a wonder so complete it leaves no space for fear or rage in my heart.
A small gray animal with a bushy tail scurries up a trunk, chattering in an odd voice. I search my brain for its name, try to recall that particular science lesson. A squirrel, I think.
A rodent. According to the Others, one of the worst conduits for disease.
I remember Fils, Lucas’s fish, and try to feel better.
The trees tower above me, their bare limbs forming a patchwork roof that lets the sun through in glinting patterns. I walk a little farther, far enough to miss detection by a patrol, before flopping down on my stomach. I press my face into the chilly, hard ground and breathe in deep. It should smell the same as the grass in the park, but it doesn’t. Instead it smells crisp, and fresh, and promising—like freedom, whatever that really means.
I roll over onto my back and stare at the brilliant cerulean sky through the white puffs of air floating from my lips. The filtered sun dusts my cheeks, not warm but bright and comforting. Squirrels and birds dance with one another as they flit and leap between branches, greeting
the new day with chatter and songs. The squirrels can hop from one tree to another as if they’re flying. Some birds are huge and black, their voices coarse and raw as their songs emerge from sharp beaks. Others are tiny and yellow with impossibly fragile legs. Dazzling red and blue birds swoop in crisscross patterns, each distinct and beautiful.
The sight of a medium-sized bird with a bright orange head, a black-and-white checkerboard back, and a white breast catches the breath in my chest. My eyes follow as it flutters among its companions, finally settles on the side of a tree, and begins to peck. A hollow, rapid-fire thumping fills the forest. I don’t know what kind of bird it is, and none of the others resemble it even a little bit. The freckle-backed bird goes about its business, finding another tree to pound a hole in, then yet another.
Wind meanders across me, freezing my sweaty clothes to my skin. The forest is somehow full of both blessed silence and myriad sounds; the mixture bleeds peace into an empty space inside me I’m not aware of until this instant.
Fear hovers around the corners of my consciousness, and I sense that what the Others teach is not totally false, that some form of danger likely lurks out here. A breeze sighs through the woods and whispers to the animals, as though they keep secrets from those of us without the ability to understand. They are fortunate to grasp truth without it being explained to them. Even though I can’t decipher a word, this glimpse into a real world, a wild world where no being is told what to feel, who to love, or how to act, is enough. For today, just to know such a place exists spills warmth through me in grateful ripples.
The hole inside me fills the tiniest bit at the simple act of being, of feeling without fear. Not one animal stops and takes note, grows confused and horrified at the unhappy, redheaded girl on the forest floor.
A squirrel grabs an acorn in its tiny mouth and scurries down the tree trunk nearest me. I follow his progress, turning my neck until my left cheek presses against the ground. When he lands on the ground, his black nose and twitchy gray tail are less than two feet from my own nose.
The perfect blackness of his eye engulfs me. At first I see only my own reflection in the shiny surface, but once I look harder, dig underneath, a new understanding emerges. I see the world the way he does, from the tops of the trees, tiny feet curled around tremulous branches. I feel what it’s like to leap and have the wind catch under my tail, carry me to safety on its back. His eyes hold a special kind of knowledge, of instinct that I somehow know is part of me, too. A swish of wind sends leaves scattering his direction and he starts, dropping the acorn as he spins and disappears.
I sit up and brush the leaves and dirt from my hair, reaching out to pick up his abandoned acorn, smooth on the bottom with a rough cap. Despite my residual trepidation about disease, the idea that I could prove the Others lie about the food, also, is too intriguing to resist. I experiment after swiping the acorn clean, sliding it between my back teeth and biting down. Nothing happens. Squirrel teeth must be sharper than mine.
Determined now, I drop the acorn and stand, slamming the heel of my tennis shoe down on it. No results other than embedding it in the muddy earth. It takes a minute, but I find a good-sized, flat rock and place the acorn carefully in the center. I smash it with my foot again, this time receiving a satisfying crunch in return for my efforts. I pick apart the ruined shell and cradle what’s left—a soft, orange nut—in my palm.
The animals aren’t all dangerous. What about the food? The Others insist that only the food they deliver to our homes is safe for consumption. That bright red berries that grow on bushes and nuts that fall from the trees are deadly. They won’t just make us sick or give us a bellyache—they’ll kill us.
I lift my palm to my nose and sniff. It doesn’t smell like anything really, just earthy and slightly sweet. I nibble off a tiny corner and crush it between my teeth. A bitter, sour taste coats my tongue and I spit on the ground a couple of times. I almost toss the acorn, but instead stow it away in my pocket. After several seconds, the flavor fades from my mouth and I’m not dead or even queasy.
Still, the squirrels can keep the acorns for themselves.
The Others are obviously not what they seem. The damage they could inflict is endless. Their lies—their destruction—could even spread out here, where things are pure and true.
Dread fills my veins, followed at once by white-hot rage at the thought.
If I don’t leave now I’ll be late for Cell, but I give myself another minute. As I lay in this bright, natural, alive place, I’m not even sure the Others exist at all—their world is so flat, like a drawing in a textbook.
As I scurry back over the fence with slightly more grace, I know I was wrong.
The Others aren’t controlling everything.
They’re not in control of me.
CHAPTER 16.
The peaceful feeling of belonging bleeds out of me with each step toward Cell. The hole in my middle doesn’t totally empty, and I squeeze tight around the seed of knowledge that I’ve been to a place where I’m not abnormal. I can prove the Others are lying to us. For the first time, my separateness from my peers makes me feel right instead of wrong.
By the time the building comes into sight, that tiny ray of light is barely visible through my thick, black dread as I remember who else will be at Cell—Deshi. In a few minutes I’ll have to face him and pretend I don’t know he spends his spare time torturing Others and threatening people. The words he whispered last night lingered, infiltrating my dreams and chasing the comforting shadows away. Deshi is watching me. I don’t know why, or what he hopes to find out, but I can guess.
The Others are looking for something, hoping to find it by interviewing the Terminal classes in at least four cities. I’m pretty sure Deshi suspects it might be me.
I’m worried he’s right.
Nothing feels different about Cell until the students start to stare at me. My whole life, even in the instances when my self-control slips, they never stare. Maybe they can tell I left the boundary. I feel so different that maybe there’s a visible mark revealing my intrusion on nature.
Leah plants herself in my path. Despite her nasty attitude of late, kinship blooms with the knowledge we’ve both survived a refreshing with the Others. Even though, according to Elij, they left her damaged in some way, which makes her unpredictable. Which makes her dangerous.
Her hands rest on her slim hips. “Hey, you. Morgan. What’s your first name?”
The question is purposefully rude, since she’s heard my name called during attendance for weeks, I’m too surprised by the fact that she’s speaking directly to me to be annoyed. “Uh, Althea.”
“That’s a funny name.” Brittany walks over, her corn-silk blond hair swinging down her back in a long braid.
“Sorry.” I shrug. “I didn’t pick it.”
My lungs constrict as Deshi moves toward us, stopping in front of me and slinging a heavy arm around Leah’s shoulders. Well, that’s interesting.
“Rumor is a Healer went to your house last night. And a couple of Wardens.” Brittany toys with the frayed end of her braid, smiling up at me from under thick lashes.
There were no Wardens at our house. How many memories had the Others changed? Deshi’s gaze burns holes through the side of my face, and pressure to answer the right way stifles my fading confidence.
I slide a hand into my pocket and grasp the acorn remains. “Um, yeah. That’s true.”
“So, what happened?” Leah’s eyes shine with bright curiosity, her angelic face opposed by a cruel expression. She’s delighting in this event, in the gossip.
“My mom…she Broke. They took her away.”
Their eyes widen in concert. The stares colliding with mine are baffled, wondering. Not a sympathetic one among them. The acorn slips through my sweaty fingers. Panic rises inside me like a tide; the way they’re gathered around unnerves me, traps me inside their unfeeling circle. The memory of Deshi’s cheek pressed against mine, of his low, menacing voice, curls root
s of dread into my abdomen. A drop of sweat puddles in the corner of my eye, burning. The ray of light from this morning’s rebellion disappears and deposits me alone and cold in my reality.
Then a hand slips into mine, freezing cold and strong. Pine burns my nostrils. I cling to his sturdy presence to smother the breakdown. He looks down at me and the compassion in his eyes nearly undoes my tenuous control. I know then that whether or not I’ve given him permission to be my friend, Lucas is my friend.
The rest of the kids disperse, leaving Lucas and I alone, still holding hands. The respite allows me to dig my fingernails into my self-control. I’m not letting go. I won’t give Deshi any reason to take me, Break me. Lucas’s familiar scent offers comfort; nothing he could say would be more powerful right now.
I tug my hand loose and offer a small smile. Our eyes meet and that tingling, sweet sensation skims through my bloodstream. “Thanks.”
His voice is soft, like a warm hand against my cheek. “Anytime.”
The entire rest of the day is a blur. The girls go back to ignoring me at lunch and both Lucas and Deshi stay at a boys’ table where they belong. The short twenty minutes I spent in the woods leaves me wishing for a way to re-create the feeling it gave me. Questions from last night, wondering at what it all means, distract me from hearing my lessons. Empowerment, borne of the surety that it’s not me that’s all wrong, but this Other-controlled world that isn’t right, resurfaces and pumps the desire to find out why I’m different through my blood like fire.
My mind takes apart the puzzle of what the Others are searching for among the Terminal classes. I need to first find out where they’re holding the interviews in order to design a way to “accidentally” overhear one. It’s not even totally about my survival anymore—though that’s part of it; my interview is in three weeks, now—but the need to understand why these creatures with such obvious power can’t simply take whatever it is they need.
Dark Roses: Eight Paranormal Romance Novels Page 41