Falls the Shadow

by Stefanie Gaither

  The only thing my mind is processing now, over and over with the cruelest kind of clarity, is a memory. The memory of that call, of my father’s voice, the buzz of hospital noise in the background, and the only three words I heard out of everything he said: She’s gone, sweetie.

  The memory of dropping the phone and then going into Violet’s room and just sitting there, cross-legged in the middle of that ugly green throw rug, staring up at the poster of the solar system that I got her as a birthday gift after she told me she wanted to be an astronaut. I felt exactly the same then as I do now: lost. Empty. Like someone split me open, took out all the important parts, and then didn’t even bother to close me up again.

  But Violet’s replacement came quick enough back then, and she filled up some of those empty spaces, stitched me together with threads of safe, familiar things before I had time to completely fall apart.

  It’s different this time, though. It feels like she’s died all over again, only this time I can’t see how she’s going to come back.

  And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that.

  “Why did you jump between us like that?” Jaxon finally manages to ask. His voice is so quiet that, even as close as he is, it’s almost lost in the wind breezing through the windows, scattering leaves and trash around us. “Are you insane?”

  “I didn’t think she would . . .” The rest of me is soaked, but my mouth is so dry that talking actually hurts, each word a knife in my throat. “I don’t know what happened,” I choke. “I don’t . . . I don’t know why she did that.”

  He sits the rest of the way back, moving into a bright patch of moonlight that’s streaming in through the dirty glass roof, and I get a good look at a face that doesn’t seem like it could be his. There’s no trace of his usual smile. All of his features are strangely gaunt, his skin pale and ghostlike. Like his hair, his clothes are still dripping wet and clinging to his body. There’s faint red, splashed like water-color paint, all down the right side of his shirt. Blood.

  Mine? Or his?

  I’m not sure which would be worse. I don’t like the thought of my sister hurting anybody. Not Samantha, not me—and definitely not the boy I’ve been daydreaming about since sixth grade, even if he is the son of the CCA’s president. Because regardless of what’s happened between us these past few days, all I know is that he’s still here now. He still hasn’t given up on me.

  What sort of mess have I pulled him into, exactly?

  I slowly lift my hand to the place that hurts the worst—my head. My fingers trail down across my cheek, and I feel it all over: the sticky, still slightly warm blood. It’s dried in some places too, and with even the smallest movement it pulls at the little hairs along the side of my face.

  “Don’t touch it,” Jaxon says, his fingers closing around my wrist and gently pulling my hand back down.

  “Is it bad?”

  “It’s . . . It’s going to be okay. Don’t worry.” I can tell he’s trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “Seth is going to be back in a minute, after he takes care of your sister’s clone, and then we’ll—”

  “Where is she?” The thought of Violet sets off a throb of pain, right between my eyes.

  “In the room. Unconscious.” His voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it. “Seth hit her with several shots from the tranquilizer gun. She’ll be out for a while, at least.”

  But not out long enough, his tone suggests, and my chest tightens, squeezing the air from my lungs and sending the room into a tailspin. Because I know everything else he’s thinking, all the other unspoken words that come loaded in that tone. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m thinking the same things.

  I’m thinking I might have been wrong.

  Because now I know.

  If Violet could have killed me, then she could have killed Samantha Voss.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Shadow

  There’s nothing but soft moonlight illuminating our sad little hotel room when I open my eyes who knows how many hours later.

  Everything that’s happened comes flooding back all at once. My sister, my family—my entire world feels as broken and bruised as my body. All I want is to be back in my room. In my safe place in the closet, hidden away where no one can find me ever again.

  I would cry, but I can’t find the strength for it; I’m so, so tired. My body. My mind. Everything. And for being made of nothing but lumps and springs, this bed is surprisingly comfortable. I don’t want to leave it behind. I don’t even want to move, but I force myself to stretch out, to unbury my face from the pillow that—courtesy of me—now smells like chlorine and blood. The first place I look to is the bed across from me, where my unconscious, possibly murderous sister was resting when I collapsed here earlier.

  She’s not there.

  I feel much stronger all of a sudden.

  “Where . . .” I bolt upright in a panic, and a rush of dizziness hits me. I spin away from my sister’s bed, reaching for the wall on the other side of me—for something to brace myself against. But my hand doesn’t reach the wall. It hits a person instead. I blink several times in the darkness, hoping I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing. But then Violet speaks.

  “Hello, Birdy,” she says, using the nickname that the first Violet gave me, and that she’s always insisted on calling me by even though she knows I despise it. And I didn’t think it was possible, but I hate it even more now. Because we’re so bitterly far from the moment Violet first came up with that name that it just sounds wrong. I don’t want this Violet using it. Especially not while she’s sitting there, giving me this huge grin while her voice is light and cheerful.

  It’s like she’s completely oblivious to the fact that she nearly killed me just a few hours ago.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asks.

  I don’t think. I just throw my covers off and dive at her.

  She jumps back in surprise and lands in the small crack between the bed and the wall, but leaps back to me just as easily, moving with that speed and refinement that’s borderline inhuman. The bed sinks below her, old springs squeaking and groaning as she crouches in front of me.

  “What the hell, Birdy?”

  “Okay, one: Stop calling me by that stupid nickname. And two: What the hell, Birdy? Are you serious? How about what the hell, Violet? You almost killed me! And Jaxon! What were you doing? And what are you doing now? Why are you here, and what about . . . what . . .” I twist around, fear suddenly seizing me. Because I just realized: She’s awake, and there is no one in this room except us.

  Jaxon. Seth. Where are they? What happened? What did she do now?

  “Jaxon was gone when I woke up,” Violet says. I jerk my gaze back to her. She’s studying her nails intently, like the possibility that she chipped one is much more concerning than the terror in my voice. “I think I scared him off,” she adds with a smile that’s almost mischievous. “And as for Seth . . . I simply got even with him.”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  She motions toward the second bed. I jump up and rush to the other side of it, only vaguely aware now of the pain in my every step. And there Seth is, sprawled out on the floor behind the bed. I drop to my knees beside him and feel for a pulse.

  Slow and faint, but still there.

  I barely have time to sigh with relief before I sense my sister behind me. I straighten up, take several deep breaths, and try to get my own raging pulse under control. But I can’t. My hand raises and flies straight for Violet as I turn to meet her. She’s too fast, though, and she stops the slap just centimeters from her face. Her fingers clench my wrist and she holds it there, studying it like she’s not sure why I feel like slapping her.

  “I didn’t think you liked Seth,” she says, still not lowering my arm.

  “That doesn’t mean I wanted you to shoot him!”

  “He shot me first, you know.”

  “Because you were trying to kill me!”

  Something flic
kers in her eyes. I want to call it regret, but I’m afraid that might be wishful thinking at this point. She does finally let go of my wrist, though. For a long time she’s silent, looking from me to Seth’s unconscious body, then back to the cuts on my arms and face.

  “I wasn’t trying to kill you,” she says, quieter now. “I just—”

  “Oh, and I suppose you weren’t trying to kill Jaxon, either, holding that glass to his neck like that?”

  Anger flashes in her eyes. “All I did was ask him where you were. He wouldn’t tell me. He just kept following me, demanding answers about Samantha, calling me a murderer—and so yes, I eventually lost my temper, and he got what he deserved.” She looks close to losing it again and has to take several deep breaths before she continues. “What does it matter, anyway? You said you knew who he was. That he was CCA.” She spits out the letters like she’s trying to rid her mouth of a nasty taste. “So it’s me that should be asking the questions, isn’t it? Because I would so love to know, my dear little sister, exactly what he’s done to you to convince you to join his side.”

  I almost laugh, because of how incredibly wrong she is. Except then I decide it’s not very funny at all. Because they haven’t convinced me of anything, of course—I’ve been running all over to find proof that she’s innocent, and that I was right not to help the CCA find her. But all I’ve found out is how very wrong I am, and the thought of that doesn’t make me want to laugh.

  It makes me want to vomit.

  Suddenly I feel incredibly stupid, and incredibly embarrassed to be standing here in the wake of all her violence. With Seth unconscious beside me, and with fresh blood still trickling free from the cuts on my arms every time I move them. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And naive.

  How could I have been so naive?

  “So you aren’t going to deny it, then?” she asks. Her mouth twists into a knowing smirk, and any trace of what might have been regret—of what suggested the old Violet I knew and loved—disappears. I don’t want to see her like this. But no matter how many times I try to look away, I can’t.

  I can’t overlook that maybe President Cross was right. That maybe this isn’t my sister at all, but only a shadow of her—something much darker, something much emptier than the actual thing. An impersonation. And that remorse I saw in her eyes was nothing but a piece of my real sister that she’s only copied, along with all the thoughts and memories of us.

  “So much for sibling loyalty, I suppose?” she says.

  “Did you kill Samantha Voss?” I ask, because I can’t take another second of not knowing.

  Violet’s eyes narrow. “Would you even believe me if I told you I didn’t?”

  “Just answer my question.”

  But she doesn’t. Not right away. And that smirk doesn’t fade, either. It doesn’t even twitch; the only movement she makes is with her eyes, her gaze sliding toward Seth, and then back to me without losing any of its venom.

  “Maybe I don’t remember what happened that night.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Violet.”

  “I’m not laughing, am I?”

  “Answer my question,” I repeat. “Tell me the truth. Tell me the truth or I swear to God—”

  “Why don’t you tell me the truth first? Why are you helping CCA members track me down?”

  “It isn’t like that. And this isn’t about me, anyway.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” she says, smoothing a hand through my hair. I shiver at her touch, even though it’s so hot in here I can barely breathe. “About me and you and all of Huxley’s wonderful plans for our kind—”

  “Have you lost your mind?” I say, jerking away from her touch. “There’s nothing wonderful about any of this, and I’m not going to be a part of any of Huxley’s plans—and neither are you, so just . . . just stop it, all right? Stop talking crazy.”

  She makes no attempt to close the distance between us. The confusion from before flashes in her eyes, but she blinks it away just as quickly. Then she simply smiles and says, “Soon. You’ll be gone soon, and the new Catelyn—the real Catelyn—will understand.”

  The words slide like ice against my skin, lifting the little hairs along my arms. I fumble for the edge of the bed, searching for something, anything, to brace myself against. What I really want to do is collapse down beside it, to crawl up underneath and somehow get away from all of the awful things she’s saying. But I can’t. So instead I make myself look her in the eyes, and I very quietly say, “I understand right now. I understand that Huxley has brainwashed you, that they’re filling your mind with lies and trying to turn you into something . . . something that’s all wrong.” I have to fight to keep my voice from breaking. Realizing that President Cross might have been right and forcing myself to accept it are two totally different things.

  They aren’t the same person. I can believe that—I have to believe that. But I still can’t let go of the pieces of my sister that I see in this Violet. I don’t want to let go of them, because I’m afraid that letting go will lead to forgetting.

  And I’m not ready to forget.

  “You’re so desperate for someone besides Jaxon to be the bad guy,” she’s saying. “If anyone’s been brainwashed, it’s you.”

  I don’t answer immediately, because I’m not sure what to say. It’s not like I can say he’s never tricked me before, or that I completely trust him after everything he kept from me. Still, though, there are bad guys and then there are bad guys. And I don’t want to think that Jaxon is either one, really. I just want to tell Violet, again, that she’s talking crazy. I want to tell her to shut up. But all I end up doing is turning away, hoping that she might drop it if I refuse to argue back.

  That tactic has never really worked with her, though, so I’m not surprised when it doesn’t work now.

  “Would it make any difference,” she asks, her voice low and cold, “if I told you that he’s the reason Samantha died that night?”

  I keep my back to her. I don’t want her to see the pained confusion that crosses my face, or the frustrated tears threatening to spill from the corners of my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  I hear her take a step closer to me, but she doesn’t answer. Not until I wipe my eyes dry and spin around to find her watching me with a smug look. “You trust him so much,” she says then, “so why don’t you ask him for yourself?”

  “He’s here to find out what happened to Samantha. That’s the whole reason he decided to help me find you.” The argument that sounded so convincing coming from him seems weak and flimsy in my voice. I’m just tired, maybe. Tired of fighting, and of trying to make sense of all this.

  “You just believe everything he says, then, do you?”

  “I have to believe something, don’t I?” I practically shout. “And it’s hard to believe you about anything when you’re holding weapons to people’s throats, or else drowning or shooting them!”

  She glances over at Seth’s still body, and her mouth twitches into a perplexed little smile, as if she’d forgotten about him. “So that’s it, then?” she says, her gaze flickering back to me. “Now we know whose side you’re on, plain and simple. I wonder how long it will be before Huxley decides to come for you now. Sooner than they’d planned on, I bet.”

  So is that true too, then? What Cross said about Huxley going after origins? What else was President Cross right about? Everything? Was I wrong not to cooperate with her?

  “I do so hate the thought of them sending someone else to initiate your replacement, though,” Violet says, taking another step toward me. I stumble back and trip over Seth’s outstretched arm. I catch myself on the bed and crawl over it, putting as much space as I can between us without taking my eyes away from her. Something is off about the way she’s looking at me; it’s the same as it was in the pool room—a sharp, terrifying sort of focus. Only now it’s narrowed on me instead of Jaxon, and there’s no one else here to stop her.

  “Stay away from me,” I warn.

  Her ey
es light up with a terrible sort of excitement. “All these years we’ve pretended,” she says, voice smooth as silk, “pretended that things were the same, that you and I were so dear to each other. So close. Just like sisters should be.” She moves around the bed toward me, her steps quick and quiet. Like a tiger stalking its prey. “Sister, sister, sister,” she sings. “Does it bother you, when they call me that?”

  No. Tell her no.

  Why can’t I tell her no?

  I feel around behind me, searching the nightstand she’s backed me up against for some kind of weapon. There’s nothing but the dusty lamp. On the table on the far side of the room, I can see the glint of guns in the moonlight, but there’s no way I’ll be able to get around her and get to them before she stops me.

  “Because you know I’m not your sister,” she says. “I’ve seen the way you avert your eyes when people talk about me. I’ve seen the way your lip curls in disgust when they tell you we look so much alike.”

  “That’s not true.”

  God, I wish it wasn’t true.

  “You’re not the actress you think you are,” she says. “But it’s okay. Because I’m a little disgusted with the masquerade myself—which is why I think maybe I should end it.”

  My hand finds the narrow part of the lamp base, and I grip it as tightly as I can.

  “Because maybe you’re not my sister either,” she continues. “Maybe my sister is sleeping, safe and sound at Huxley. And all I have to do—”

  I swing. The lamp hits her in the side of her head and shatters, pieces of ceramic showering the floor. I drop what’s left of it and jump to the bed, bounce off it, and land hard on the other side, sending a jarring pain shooting up into my knees. Violet lets out an enraged scream that I’m surprised doesn’t wake Seth—even as drugged up as he is—and dives after me.

  I try to twist out of the way, but I’m not fast enough; she slams into me and sends me spinning into the wall. My head hits hard enough to leave a dent, and sends little flecks of plaster raining around me. Blood trickles down from the reopened cut beneath my eye; I lift a shaky hand to try to wipe it away and turn around to find myself face to face with Violet.