The Gender Fall

by Bella Forrest

  “We are not doing that,” said Ms. Dale, a note of finality in her voice. “Nobody is being used as bait again. It’s too unpredictable, and it’s certainly not humane.” I almost sagged in relief as I heard her say it; then I felt a surge of guilt, as though cowardice had a flavor and I suddenly tasted it on my tongue. Could I save the boys by sacrificing myself? But at the same time, a more rational part of my mind protested as well. While Tabitha had been evil, she had also been exploitable. Her temper and arrogance had often gotten the better of her, and that had been her weak point. I’d known that going in.

  Desmond had plans and fallbacks and a calm, rational mind that could cut through any gamble we took almost before we could conceive it. Even if I was willing to make that sacrifice—something I couldn’t consider until I was fully functional again, at least—I wouldn’t do it unless we had a foolproof plan.

  I felt Viggo place his hand on my shoulder, and without thinking, I reached up and took it, appreciating the support. After a heartbeat or two, I looked up and met Owen’s gaze. His expression morphed into one of regret when he met my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice coming out a whisper. “You’re right, of course. I just…” His hands curled into fists as he trailed off, and then he shook his head. “I don’t think I should be here right now. I’m… I’m going to go get some air.”

  We watched as he left, walking out of the room with sharp, agitated steps, as if he had just lit a match and set the whole place on fire. As I watched him go, I couldn’t help but feel that, in a way, he had. But instead of being angry, now it just made me feel worse for the choices before him. As much as it made my heart ache, there was nothing I could do for him right now. I knew, better than most, that this was a fight he had to face himself.

  Sighing, I turned back to the others. “We have some pieces of a good plan here,” I said. “I think we should move forward with seeing if we can duplicate the identification papers. Ms. Dale, are you okay with finding a woman to send out to get her papers?”

  Ms. Dale nodded her assent. Everyone else seemed to agree wordlessly, and I noticed Amber and Thomas’ eyes were still trained on the door. The plan wasn’t optimal, and neither were any of our states of mind… but I had hopes for this mission. To me, this conflict was like a series of walls. If we broke enough of them down, we would eventually get to Desmond and Elena. By then, I hoped we would have the weight of the people behind us. And hopefully, my dearly bought video would be the catalyst.

  30

  Viggo

  Ian was struggling beneath me, his eye bulging as I tightened my hands around his throat. He kicked furiously, his little arms fruitlessly trying to push my weight off him, and I smiled and pressed my hands deeper into his neck, tightening them as he gagged for air. I felt his heart beating against my chest, light and fast, like a bird’s wings flapping, harder, faster, until…

  I jerked awake, my heart pounding and my breath coming in sharp, agonized pants. Sweat dotted my forehead, and in the cool of night, it chilled my skin. I looked over to where Violet lay sleeping on her side, her back to me, the fuzz of newly growing hair on her head just visible in the pale light from the window. She let out a soft snore and tossed fitfully, turning toward me, and I sighed, trying to calm my pulse.

  Slipping the blanket off my body, I moved out of her way just as her arm flopped over where my chest would’ve been had I remained in bed. I felt a pang of regret, but it did nothing to stop me from standing up. Moving over to the window, I grabbed my shirt from the back of a chair, using it to wipe the sweat off my forehead. Tossing it back over the chair, I pulled open the dresser in the corner of the room, grabbed another shirt I had pilfered from my cabin, and threw it over my head.

  Looking out the window, I saw that the sun was finally coming up over the mountains. The yard was still gray in the pre-dawn light. My eyes immediately flicked over to where the guards were supposed to be standing post, checking to make sure none of them had drifted off or were out of position for any reason. They weren’t, and I leaned my hip against the desk near the window, accepting that my pitiful efforts at distracting myself from the nightmare haunting me for the last couple of hours had failed.

  I looked around the room, feeling trapped by its bare, medical confines. My muscles itched, looking for something to do, and I had to leave. It wasn’t a desire, but a necessity.

  As quietly as I could, I slipped out the door, pulling it closed behind me. I grabbed my jacket from the sofa in the main living area and slipped it onto my shoulders, thinking of heading to the barn. Maybe practicing some martial arts would help me…

  I didn’t even know if I wanted anything to help. I just knew I felt the press of anxiety in my chest, and needed to do something productive—or else risk something worse happening. Training would help with that. If I kept training, maybe I could prevent something like this from happening in the future. It was a feeble thought, but it was the only thing I could cling to at the moment.

  I pushed open the front door, my eyes focused on the barn. A light mist coated the ground, its vague curls already dissipating under the softly forming rays of the sun, but still thick enough to swirl around my ankles as I strode through it. As I walked, hands in my pockets to ward off the chill, I reminded myself to wrap my knuckles before striking anything. They were scabbed over from the night before last, and even forming a fist stung, but if I wrapped them today and took extra care, then they would be…

  I did a double take, pausing in my inner monologue and looking back at the tree line my gaze had brushed in passing. My tired eyes hadn’t deceived me; Owen was sitting near the edge of the woods, right next to his brother’s grave. His gaze was unfocused and lost, and he sat hunched over, his arms wrapped around his legs, perhaps for warmth.

  I came to a full stop, indecision tearing through me. I knew I was the last person Owen wanted to see, and I couldn’t blame him for that. But seeing him like this was too much. He needed someone right now, and I was the only one available.

  Turning, I headed toward him, moving slowly. I paused about ten feet away as his eyes flicked over to me, registering my presence. They held my gaze for several seconds, and then flicked back over to whatever he had been staring at before. My guess was nothing and everything all at the same time. He didn’t say anything, didn’t tell me to go, and I knew that was as close to permission as I was going to get from him.

  I closed the gap between us and sat down next to him. I didn’t have a plan beyond that, but in truth, there was no room for any plan I could have made. I was there completely at Owen’s discretion; I would follow his will here. If he wanted to talk, I would talk. If he wanted to yell and scream, I would take it. If he wanted to cry, I would do my best to comfort him. And if he just wanted to sit there in silence, well, I would sit there with him, if only so he didn’t have to do it alone.

  The silence stretched out, and I resigned myself that it was what Owen wanted. As much as I wanted to talk to him, to apologize even, I knew it wouldn’t do any good. His grief was too deep, and my words wouldn’t absolve either one of us.

  We sat there long enough for the sun to fully come up over the mountains, for the camp to begin to stir.

  “Everyone says I shouldn’t blame you.” His voice came so suddenly it took me a second to register that he was actually speaking to me. I turned toward him, and was surprised to see him looking at me. “They keep telling me it wasn’t your fault. You were just trying to help.”

  I disagreed. Not about trying to help—I had been doing that—but that it wasn’t my fault. No, maybe I wasn’t solely responsible, but there was no way of telling what had finally caused Ian’s heart to give out. The result was still the same. He had died in my arms.

  I bit my tongue to refrain from saying anything to the contrary. Owen didn’t need my validation or an affirmation of guilt. He didn’t want to hear any of it. He just wanted to talk.

  “I know they are right. Logically, I mean. I can see it
as being a messed-up situation where you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I mean, we both were, I guess.” He drew his hands into fists and looked at them, shaking his head. “I can see the logic,” he repeated, his voice thick with emotion. “But so help me, I can’t feel it.”

  He looked away then, his hand going up to brush across his eyes, almost mechanically. He took a deep breath and turned his eyes to the sky. “I hate everyone so much for trying to, I don’t know, defuse me with their logic. I hate them for trying to spare you my anger.” He turned, meeting my gaze. “I hate you too,” he whispered, his eyes glistening wetly. “I hate that they are right, and I hate you for it. Because I can’t… I can’t blame you like I want to.”

  I met his gaze head on, accepting everything he was saying. He clenched his teeth and then looked away. “I can’t even look at you,” he said hoarsely, his voice breaking. “I can’t. Not without wanting you dead. Not without wanting to… to… hurt you. I know it’s not right. I know it’s not fair. But nothing about this is right. Nothing about this is fair.”

  I just nodded. I felt a deep anger and a simmering hurt on behalf of my friend, and I wished, once again, there was something I could do to help him. Something anyone could do to help him—I wasn’t selfish. I didn’t care how he started to feel better, as long as he started. One day, at least.

  “I hate feeling like this,” Owen admitted after a moment. “I hate hating you. You are one of my best friends, in spite of everything. But… I can’t stay here. I won’t. I need time and… and… space. Away from you. From this. I mean… I actually suggested using Violet as bait, dammit! That isn’t me, but at the same time, in that moment… it was me. I wanted that. So… I can’t be here.”

  I let out a breath, a fresh wave of guilt moving through me. Not only had his brother died, but now he was running away from everyone here who cared about him. I hated it, but I could understand it. He had to do this. Or at least, he thought he did, and that was all that really mattered.

  Owen slowly picked himself off the ground, as if every muscle and bone in his body bore the brunt of his sorrow. Casting me one last look, he simply moved away from me, heading toward the tents. I watched him go, a desperate, concerned part of me wanting to catch up with him and try to convince him to stay, but unable to figure out what combination of words would dissuade him.

  But maybe it was better to let him go. After all, if he needed time and space, then he should get it. He’d given enough—too much—in this fight. He’d earned a reprieve. I just hoped it would also lead to peace.

  31

  Violet

  “Owen’s gone,” Ms. Dale announced, and I gaped at her, shock rolling through my body.

  “Gone?” I repeated back to her, certain I had misheard. It didn’t make sense. I had sat with him for a while again last night, the day after his brother’s funeral, after the camp work had been done and the reports from the scouts had come in, and he hadn’t told me anything about intending to leave.

  Ms. Dale nodded, dropping into a chair next to mine, her lips pursed. “He came to me early this morning.”

  I checked my watch—it was barely after eleven in the morning—and then looked back down at the papers I had been perusing before she came in. The words on them seemed to blur together; I couldn’t remember what they had meant.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, looking back up at her. “Why would he just leave us? I mean… he didn’t even say goodbye.”

  Ms. Dale gave me a sympathetic look and reached over, patting my hand. “I think saying goodbye would have been a bit too much for him, Violet. He’s hurting. Badly.”

  “Is this because of Viggo?”

  Ms. Dale sighed and leaned back into her chair. “Probably,” she admitted with a small shake of her head. My face must’ve reflected the sudden stab of irritation I felt, because she leaned forward again, catching my gaze in hers. “You have to give them a little latitude, Violet. They’re both blaming Viggo.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” I replied hoarsely. “How many ways have we tried to convince them of that?”

  “Violet, we all know that. I think even Owen knows that. But logic doesn’t hold a candle to what they are both feeling. Honestly, I think this might be for the best. Owen needs some distance from all this, and I think getting him out of the center of action will give him some time to heal.”

  I exhaled and considered her words. “Where would he even go?”

  Ms. Dale’s smile was genuine. “Don’t worry. I didn’t let him stray too far. I put him in charge of guarding King Maxen and watching over Solomon.”

  I shook my head, feeling a rueful smile playing on my lips. “I mean, Solomon is one thing. I wouldn’t mind being able to check in on him myself. But King Maxen?” I made a face. “Yech.”

  Ms. Dale chuckled, her eyes dancing. “Tell me about it. The guards I have assigned to him hate the detail. He’s more than a little bit of a handful.”

  “No kidding,” I replied. “I do not envy their job.” I picked up the sheaf of papers I had been holding before Ms. Dale had come in, and then set them down again with a sigh, realizing I still couldn’t focus. “I just hate the idea of Owen trying to go through this alone,” I admitted quietly.

  “It’s his choice,” she said. “But, for the record, I don’t like it either. I hope he’ll come back to us soon.”

  “I mean, I just don’t understand men! Why are they so damn stubborn?”

  Ms. Dale’s laughter filled the room, and she shook her head, combing her fingers back through her hair. “Honestly, I have no idea. If I did, I might hold the secret to winning this war.”

  I grinned, meeting her eyes as I leaned forward on the table. “Does that mean Henrik is getting better, and you’re having… problems?”

  Ms. Dale regarded me with a flat stare. “I believe that is none of your business, Ms. Bates,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

  “Interesting you should say that,” I replied, smirking. “Because I get the feeling your days of teasing Viggo and me are numbered.”

  Snorting, Ms. Dale stood up, tugging at the hem of her shirt. “Absurd,” she said tartly. “You and Mr. Croft simply flirt too much, especially in the most impractical and dangerous of situations.”

  I laughed, our little mock fight helping to distract me from the ache of Owen’s departure. It was a silly thing, but if I had learned anything over the last few months, it was that humor was one of the only effective coping mechanisms.

  Ms. Dale smiled warmly, and then nodded toward the papers under my hand. “What’s the verdict on the identification papers?”

  “Oh.” I looked down at the papers, smoothing my hand over them. The woman we’d sent to get her city identification had come back yesterday and given us her full report, as well as the papers themselves. She hadn’t really seemed like the type to cry on command, but I guessed she must have been—whatever act she’d pulled off was what had gotten her back here safely. “Well, when Stacey brought them back and described the part of the process she’d seen, we were certain we could duplicate them, but now we’re not sure.”

  “Really? Why? What’s the holdup?”

  “It’s the ink,” said Thomas from where he was sitting at the end of the table. I blinked, mortified that I had completely forgotten he was in the room. He had been so quiet since Ms. Dale’s entrance. I hadn’t even checked to see how he was doing with the news of Owen leaving us. “At first it appeared to be simple, natural ink, but actually, there’s coding printed almost microscopically in each line, especially in the crest and the borders.”

  “Can’t you replicate it?” Ms. Dale asked, leaning on the table.

  Thomas frowned. “No. Well, at least not without another set of identification papers to compare for patterns… but honestly, I’m guessing each bit of code is unique in its own way, meant to bring up a corresponding file on whoever owns them. I wouldn’t be able to do it without finding the server where they are keeping the re
gistry, fabricating our own identification sets, and then writing the code that corresponded to the file. Without direct access to their mainframe, it would be impossible, and even then, I’d need…” He paused, his eyes becoming unfocused while his mouth moved silently, clearly doing the math. “About ninety minutes per identification set.”

  Ms. Dale whistled and shook her head. “Even if we could get you that time, we wouldn’t be able to get you into the city to access their mainframes. Not without the papers in the first place.”

  Thomas nodded. “Yes. It would be oxymoronic, to say the least. I am looking at other options, however.”

  “Like?” I perked up. Thomas and I had been sitting there for an hour looking at the papers, but this was the first I was hearing about an alternative plan.

  “Well, there is a chance some of the tunnels are unguarded, for one. We might be able to access some of them using one of the outer hatches, but seeing as Desmond knew about the tunnels…”

  “We can’t count on her leaving them unguarded,” I finished for him with a frustrated sigh.

  Ms. Dale leaned back on the table, deep in thought. “There has to be a way in,” she murmured.

  “Well, there are a few things to consider,” said Thomas. “We could just have several individuals go in and get identification papers, but that poses a high risk of someone being discovered. Not to mention, if they have scanners at the border, our disguises would have to be flawless.”