by T. K. Toppin
“Give me your hand,” I said, using the same words he had the night before.
A small line creased between his brows, but he complied. His face, slack and open with interest, made him look very young.
I pulled my necklace over my head and dropped it into his open hand. Haltingly, I explained to him how to open it and work the memory stick within. My face pulsed hot, and I’m sure he saw it glowing; and it didn’t help that I stammered a few times. My hand was still curled over his; it was as though electricity zapped me with tiny pricks of heat.
I let go with reluctance. “Please, take good care of it?”
John nodded with a shell-shocked paleness. I thought he might faint.
“Lorcan,” I winced, “he made it for me. It contains my entire life. Everything you ever wanted to know or needed to know about me is on that crystal. Don’t lose it, okay? It’s all I have left. When you see what’s on it, you’ll understand. Literally, it’s all I’ve got.” I blew out a breath like I’d just been on a stage making the speech of a lifetime.
With a firm nod, I turned to go, but he stopped me with a gentle hand to my arm. I turned to find him gaping. His mouth was actually hanging open. A feat, considering it was always clamped down tightly in a scowl.
“Why?” It sounded like it had trouble leaving his mouth.
Why? Because I want to. Because you need to know. And I want you to know.
Before a proper answer could form, Simon walked in, businesslike and abrupt. He glanced at me, pointedly stared at our linked limbs, then looked to John with a quick nod. “A word.”
John released me as if he’d been burned. He spared me a brief glance, but already his face grew stern. The tone in Simon’s voice sent a prickly chill down my spine. John stuffed the necklace into his breast pocket. A twinge of regret dashed through me for not having it close. With the briefest of glances to me, John followed Simon out the door.
Forty-five minutes passed after they left, leaving me once again to loiter about his office. Aida poked her head in and asked if I required any refreshments, which I declined. I skirted the holographic projection of the amphitheatre with determined effort, then finally settled into the seat opposite John’s desk.
That’s where John found me, fretfully inspecting my knee and grimacing when it stung as I bent it. He seemed troubled and approached, a hard, accusing stare aimed down at me.
In an instant I straightened, and a cold nugget dropped in my belly and spread. I desperately wanted my pendant back, and cast a quick glance at his breast pocket.
“Come with me.” His tone, flat. “Please.” Cold. Impersonal.
I got up and followed, quickening my stride to meet his giant steps. We went back into the elevator and stood in silence for a while. I sensed his eyes on me, glowering, and wanted to cringe. I refused to meet them. Instead, I found the panel lights on the elevator a comfort to look at. The so-called friendship we’d shared for the past few weeks seemed like a blurred and distant memory. In a blinding instant, the situation had reverted to what it really was: I was still a prisoner, and he my captor.
And I felt very foolish.
When I saw “Annex A–Entrance 1–Holding” play across the elevator panel, I frowned and glanced across at John. He returned my glance with a quick flick of his eyes, dark and brooding, then looked away. As the doors opened, he took my arm and directed me through some corridors, past security guards and rows of rooms like narrow cubicles.
Shit a brick. In my mind, the word “Holding” stood out like a stark neon sign. For what? Interrogations? A cold tremor rattled through me. This was it, then. They were done toying with me. I’d be grilled under a bright light and forced to talk. Probably tortured. I swallowed hard enough to make a small choking sound.
“Where are we?” It came out shaky.
John ignored me.
We stopped at a room where Simon muttered something to a security guard. All the guards here were dressed in a sort of dark brown as opposed to the gray where I was normally.
The room was colder, the air-conditioning cranked down to single-digit numbers as if masking something horrible. Decomposing bodies? I pushed the thought away. The single room was off-white, with desks, monitors, and some chairs scattered about, like the people inside had been told to vacate immediately. At one end, a glass window took up the entire wall, and next to it, a door. Beyond the glass was another room, empty except for chairs standing in a row. We entered this room; it was smaller, like an anteroom or an observation room, with the same glass window and a door in the corner. Through the door was a narrow corridor, and beyond that, yet another room. Within that room, a man sat at a table, his head bowed before him. From what I saw, he seemed agitated.
John, his hand still on my arm, tipped his head to indicate the sitting man. I looked, blinked, and turned back to John.
“Do you know this man?” Soft tone, chilled with ice. He watched me with a mixture of dread and fear, as if not wanting to know my answer.
I stared at the man. He sat at the narrow side of the table, his left side angled toward us as he nervously jiggled his foot. He stared hard at a glass of water, which was untouched—odd, considering he looked hot and slightly ill. Beads of sweat formed on his face, and the simple tan shirt he wore had stains of perspiration around the armpits and chest. He was an ordinary-looking man with brown hair, about early forties, pleasant-faced, unassuming, save the pain contorting his face. He really looked sick and, every so often, ran a hand over his stomach and swallowed hard—almost gagging.
But I had no idea who he was. I’d never seen him before—in this life or the previous.
“No, I don’t.” I turned to John. My earlier fear evaporated; relieved I wasn’t the object of interest. What was all this about? “What’s wrong with him? He looks like he’s going to puke.”
“He claims to have eaten something off from one of our food vendors. Are you sure?” John gave my arm a hard squeeze, as if that would spur my memory.
“Ow. Yes, I am.” Tugging my arm away, I scowled up at him.
John clamped his mouth tight, anger marring his features. “He claims he knows you. He says Wellesley sent him for you so you’ll not be worried.”
My head snapped back to inspect the man again. I stared long and hard, turning back to John only because I was so startled at what he’d said.
“I’ve never seen him before. I’m telling you the truth. Why would Lorcan send someone I don’t know? What… I don’t understand.” I squinted hard at the man, running through the many faces I’d seen in Lorcan’s basement. Did I know him? That aside, something about the way the man behaved sent a nervous tickle through me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
I sensed John next to me, glowering. “Go in. He said he wanted to speak to you—directly.”
“What? But I don’t know him. No—” Shock froze me. Something felt very wrong. I grabbed at John’s sleeve and took a step backward.
John prodded me forward, taking me as far as the door that led to the corridor. He turned me to face the other door, and the guard that stood sentry, opened it. I walked in on wooden legs.
The man jumped as if zapped by lightening. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood shakily.
Oh, shit. He’s going to throw up on me.
I looked back at John, disgust creeping up my face. He stood just outside the doorway and wore an odd expression. Worried? No. Disappointed. The guard’s left shoulder was visible between us, slightly in the way so I had to tip my head a little in order to convey my feelings to John.
The man cleared his throat, bringing my attention back to him. He glanced at the glass of water, and asked me to come closer because he couldn’t talk too loud. I swallowed a curse and made a sort of shuffle to stand about ten feet away, as close as I dared. My nose twitched. He smelled sour with sweat. In a rush of images and confusion, it finally came to me. I’d seen this before. Not the man, but his behavior. I froze and turned my head quickly to Joh
n—he still had that odd expression—then back to the man.
The man took the glass and drank it all in a few large gulps. Placing the glass down with care, he turned to me with a sudden, sickening gleam on his face.
“The path is clear…” was all he said. Was all I dared to hear.
I didn’t think. I just reacted.
Spinning around, I ran like hell toward the door—three quick steps. I saw John’s eyes widen, his mouth parting as if to say “what” even as I screamed, “Run!”
Why weren’t they running away?
I pushed past the security guard, launched myself at John, and caught him around the shoulders. He grunted in surprise, and we were just tipping over, falling, when a massive woofing sound—painful, sharp, with hot gusts of air—scooped us up in our mid-air flight and sent both of us flying across the room and nearly out the other door. My right side cracked into the doorframe and we tumbled to the floor, still tangled together. With a bone-jarring crash, my right shoulder smashed on the hard floor, taking both my weight and John’s.
* * *
It seemed like it took years to get to the surface, but to the surface of what? My breath burned in my chest, the world around me spun out of control. Someone shouted from a very far place. I tried to move my legs and arms to get up, but nothing seemed to work. My limbs had turned to rubber, and a mounting pain, an unbelievable agony, squeezed me like a vice—compressing me.
Blurred images came into view, colors sharpened, then faded and wobbled. I groped about. My hand caught something warm; it gripped back. I turned in that direction, barely able to see John struggling to stand, a wild expression on his face. The pain increased unbearably. I moaned, gasped. It hurt when I tried to speak. My eyes burned, abraded with grit and dust, and relieving tears poured out. I called out again and screamed. I heard myself; I sounded small and far away.
Then, as if the world instantly settled back onto itself with a crash, I saw with vivid clarity a gaping hole where I’d just been standing. It billowed with smoke, dust and heat, and I smelled the unmistakable stench of roasted flesh. John called out my name; blood ran down his face and arms. Simon’s voice came from above me; it sounded frantic. He was shouting orders. Blinding pain ripped through me, and I heard myself scream. My chest ignited with fire, agony, and my shoulder and neck felt as if they’d been ripped away.
The intensity of the pain was like madness. I screamed and screamed. I wanted it to stop, but it wouldn’t. My legs kicked and thrashed, skidding and slipping on the sharp shards of glass and dust and blood. John gripped my face and said something, but I couldn’t hear a word save my name. Another hand pressed me to the floor, preventing me from rising. Simon, above me now, cradled my face and said something, ordering me to understand. I nodded, though I didn’t know why.
I wanted to die, to close my eyes and make it all end.
Please let it end…
Chapter 24
The explosion rocked John’s world upside down. He forgot where he was and, for agonizing seconds, he was back in the park—
The memory of smoke and the stench of burning flesh, the sizzling sounds of singed body parts as they flopped back to the ground, smoking and charred, filled John’s senses. Beside him lay his younger cousin, terrified, wailing for his mother who only moments ago had been sitting under the tree passing around a bowl of salad.
John couldn’t breathe. Someone very heavy lay on his back. His hips were pinned to the ground by the person, and his mouth tasted of grass. Grass and blood. His cousin had crawled to a sitting position and continued to call for his mother. He wouldn’t stop, and his shrill voice shattered John’s already chaotic world. John’s other cousin was sprawled next to him, bleeding from his head.
Craning his neck, John looked around himself. Bits of…charred flesh and the tattered remains of clothing were everywhere, some delicately floating, like ragweed pollen in the air. He retched, horrified. The stink, unbelievable, like rawness, like falling into an open wound. People ran toward him calling out, panicked. His body-assistants, those who weren’t dead or injured, spoke with urgency and pulled him out from under a man. Someone hoisted him in their arms, his head flopped over their shoulder, and the last thing he remembered before fainting was a part of his youngest aunt’s face staring back at him, wedged between the tree roots and rocks—
John heaved to his knees, trying to focus. Where was he? Josie lay sprawled beside him, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. The sight punched him in the gut. He remembered now. She looked dead. Then she made a terrible moaning sound. Fear iced his insides.
Simon scrambled to them, shouting something at the top of his voice. He grabbed John by the shoulders, tried to drag him out of the madness. John reached out to Josie, pulling against Simon. She moved, her arm outstretched, groping. He took it and gripped hard, shouting her name, trying to make her look his way. He pulled her toward him, pushing Simon away, and clung to her. Where was she hurt? Her right shoulder and arm lay at an odd, grotesque angle, and her breath came in short, abrupt heaves.
She screamed, a sort of long, moaning wail, just like his cousin had done. John flinched. Stop it! He wanted to press hands to ears.
Simon brought him out of his daze by shoving him aside. “Stay out of the way, John. Just hold her steady, got that? Steady.”
John complied mutely.
Simon took a firm hold of Josie’s right shoulder and, with his other hand, stroked her face and spoke soothingly to her. “Listen carefully, Josie. Hey, darling…look at me. You’ve been hurt very badly. You’ve popped out your shoulder. I’m going to put it back where it should be. All right, darling? You understand that?”
A spasm of tears shivered through Josie, but she nodded with effort, her face red with exertion and set in a rictus. She made wailing noises through clenched teeth stained red as bubbles of blood foamed from her mouth.
A stab of horror lanced through John. What if Simon hurt her more? John came to his senses at last. “Simon, wait for the medics. She’s bleeding internally.”
“Her ribs are cracked. It’s punctured a lung. If she keeps thrashing about, it’ll get worse. Now just shut up and hold her down. This won’t take long.” As an afterthought, Simon glanced at his friend. “John. I know what I’m doing. Remember?”
Simon was quick and efficient. In one swift and sure motion, he gripped Josie’s arm firmly and thrust the bone back into place. She screamed, arching her neck until the veins stood out, then slumped, choking on a whimper before she passed out.
The medics came not long after, and quickly transported them to the clinic. John’s sister, Aline, took over with a deft skill. Before John could protest, his arm was bandaged, his cuts tended to, and he was told to lie back and wait.
Impatient, he got up and looked for Josie.
Aline was just finishing rigging the stabilizing harness around Josie’s chest and shoulders when John blundered through and halted. He gaped at his sister’s patient. Josie was still unconscious, and lay pale and limp.
Aline spared him a quick glance, shook her head, and instructed her assistant to finish up. She took John by the arm and led him away to another room.
“Simon still hasn’t lost his touch, has he?” she said. “You’re lucky he was there. Lucky her lungs didn’t collapse. Very lucky.”
John mumbled what he imagined was something in agreement. He glanced over his sister’s shoulder to the room they’d just left. Where Josie lay.
“She’ll be all right. Dislocated shoulder, torn tendons, some deep cuts around it from glass and debris. A hairline fracture on her collarbone, two badly cracked ribs—which we’ve fixed and fused—a banged-up liver, a puncture and abrasions on her right lung, and a bit of whiplash, considering the velocity with which she hit that doorway. Carrying your stupid weight too, so I hear. Lots of black and blue tomorrow, but she’ll be fine.” Aline regarded her younger brother, concern creasing her smooth high forehead she shared with her siblings. “As for you, your head is
still hard enough to take some knocks, but that piece of shrapnel we took out of your arm should’ve been from your brains! Are you an idiot?” Her voice rose like that of an annoyed mother. “Going down there into the holding cells, being in direct contact with the general public!”
John at last tuned in and stared hard at his sister.
Aline was as tall as Josie, and right now, from how she stood with hands on her hips, she was at her fiercest. “What the devil just happened? Have you lost your mind, exposing yourself to danger like this? One day all those death threats will take. I hear it was an explosion. Accident or intentional? Explain. And what’s she got to do with it?”
John muddled through an explanation while his attention kept darting to the other room. The worry and concern he felt toward Josie unsettled him. Every other thought was punctuated with one question: why?
“So, who is trying to kill you now?” Aline demanded. Her concern was what made her angry.
“Not me. Her.” He jabbed a finger toward the next room. “Haven’t you been listening? She’s the target, not me. Now, can I see her?” When Aline scowled back, he added, “Please. She just saved my sorry ass.”
Aline’s answer was to flap her arms in resignation. She jerked her head toward Josie’s room and strode away.
John crept into the room, still unable to come to terms with his emotions. He pulled up an armchair next to the bed and watched as Aline’s assistant finished tending to Josie. After the nurse left, he stayed awhile, watching Josie sleep. She twitched and moaned, but otherwise remained deep within the nightmares of her mind.
The sterile scents of the private clinic tickled John’s nose. At least Josie was safe here. The clinic was specifically for the World President and the Citadel’s ministers and VIPs, so boasted the tightest security features. His sister, Dr. Aline Lancaster, was head surgeon, and commanded a specialized team of the best doctors and nurses from around the world. This was her domain, and one John sometimes came to for varying reasons, whether it was to get patched up—yet again—from some minor mishap or to simply talk with his sister. He knew most of the doctors and nurses by name, and they greeted him with some familiarity. But he knew they were professionals, and discreet. Josie was in the best care possible. That was all that mattered right now.