by T. K. Toppin
He ran a thumb over Josie’s forehead; it was cool and pasty. He wondered what had possessed her to jump onto him and take most of the shock from the explosion.
Was it to really save me? Why would she do that? And how did she know the man was going to explode?
Grudgingly, he left when Aline arrived to prod him away. He cast another lingering glance at Josie’s sleeping form. Aline gently squeezed his shoulder, sensing his turmoil. She was six years older, and at times treated him just like his mother had: with a firm hand, sometimes scathing with rough love. And at rare times, like now, with such delicate affection and steadfast support he sometimes wished he could let her take over all his problems. John adored her, just as he did his older brother, Adam. His siblings were in every way a part of him and who he was. They were Lancasters and proud of it, despite their family’s shameful past.
“Go home, John.” Aline had positioned him toward the exit. “Let her rest. And you need it too. Not that you will.”
“I will.” John, unable to stop himself, turned his head back toward Josie’s room.
“No, you won’t. You’re too predictable. Now go. She’ll be fine. Go find Simon. You know you want to. Go dissect what happened with that fine-toothed comb you have. Go.”
With reluctance, John left. His sister was right. He hopped into an elevator and ordered it to the sub-levels. He and Simon would most definitely scour and extract every last detail of the events leading up to the explosion.
Chapter 25
I awoke, and wished I hadn’t. Agony pulsed all over, the deep-seated kind of pain that leaves you immobile, breathless, waiting for it to pass like a never-ending contraction. Fuzz filled my head, and when I breathed, sometimes, sharp and immeasurable pain pierced me. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath until it eased. My ears rang, annoying and loud. I flexed my jaw like a fish, hoping to dislodge the mono-tone alarm clock I swore blind someone shoved in my ears.
Glancing down, I noticed I was strapped together firmly. My shoulder seemed to be in some kind of molded plastic-metal harness that wrapped around to my other shoulder. From there, it extended over my entire ribcage, where an additional latch-like clasp pinned my right arm securely over my stomach. Underneath this harness, I was encased in a semi-flexible mold that emitted warmth alternating with coolness, which soothed my sore ribs. It was like a portable spa treatment, and I nearly moaned with pleasure.
A doctor with a black, pixie-cut hairstyle and stern brown eyes informed me of what had been done and that, when I healed, I shouldn’t be surprised at the scars on my torso, where I’d find three small round marks. She explained that she’d had to surgically bind and fuse my shattered ribs together so they wouldn’t fragment and damage my lung, and that if I cared to have skin enhancements later, they could schedule something for me. I shrugged with my eyebrows, the only part of me able to move without pain, and let her continue. She also said my shoulder might be prone to slipping back out if jarred unnecessarily, meaning that for the next while, I wasn’t allowed to jump and barrel people down. I noted her humor, ignored it, and nodded in silence, allowing her to fuss and prod me some more. She also mentioned some possible scarring along the back of my shoulder and arm, caused from the glass shards and debris slicing it up. That too could be corrected with enhancements. I listened in silence. Whatever. I didn’t care.
I was just so very tired of being told to rest and recuperate, constantly being sick and injured, and slipping further into mental turmoil. Since the day I woke a year ago, I had been nothing but a mess of mental distress and frailty. And pain. Always pain.
I hated it, loathed it. And it angered me.
When the doctor left, I rocked my aching head on the pillow and sobbed in silence, miserable. I couldn’t even cry out, since one morose sob stabbed me with sharp pain. The caress of absolute despair pulled me. And once more I thought of dying, of how I should’ve died three centuries ago. I didn’t belong in this future at all. It had proved to me yet again I wasn’t welcome here. I wanted to go home so badly.
My mind furred with a mass of thoughts, pitching and churning, but only one stood out from the rest. Lorcan. He wanted me dead. I just couldn’t fathom it, so I lay still and let the tears roll from my eyes. Perhaps if I lay here long enough, death would find me.
John found me like that, gulping and hitching painfully as the tears and misery consumed me. He looked as banged up as I felt, and in a weird way, the sight of all his ouchies made me feel a little better. A snort of laughter rose to my lips, but ended up in more tears. I was embarrassed at the thought of how I looked. I couldn’t even roll over to hide. And judging by how congested I was from all the crying, I’m pretty sure I had a bucket of snot smeared down my face.
He sat by the bed for a moment, quiet. After a while, he reached out and held my hand. His right arm was bulky, and a bandage peeked out from beneath his sleeve. He also sported a nice, grisly scratch high on his forehead, which disappeared into his hairline. His fingers had varying degrees of cuts and scratches, and his face looked like he hadn’t slept for days.
When he realized I wasn’t going to stop crying anytime soon, he spoke, muttering something about how I was otherwise. I responded with more tears. Who cared how I was? I didn’t. I just wanted to disappear.
John gently brushed a hand to my fevered brow. I closed my eyes, surprised by the immediate comfort it gave me. He spoke, soft and soothing, and I realized that just being in his presence made me feel better. Before I could stop myself, my traitorous hand reached out and gripped his. I knew only that if I didn’t, I’d be lost.
“Josie,” John sucked in a torturous sounding breath. “How did you know? How did you know he was going to explode?”
“I saw it before.” My voice meek, miserable. I cleared my throat and, with care, sniffed away the snot that choked me.
“I caught Lorcan once, late at night, watching a documentary about suicide bombers. That’s what he called it. He was always watching stuff like that. On the screen, there was this man. He was clearly agitated and sweating profusely, clutching at his stomach. He drank a glass of water, and seconds later blew up in a massive explosion. I remembered seeing the camera shake and a lot of smoke and…blood and body parts….
“I must’ve made a noise, because it made Lorcan jump. He got upset and told me off for sneaking up on him. When I asked why he was watching people blow up, he just said it was one of those documentaries and to forget about it. But he told me they were called hydro-bombers. They ingest specially-designed explosive gel balls that are activated by water, and they’re able pass through any bomb sensor without being detected. The more balls you swallowed, the greater the end result. The side effects are profuse sweating, stomach discomfort, and well…nervousness. Just like…that man.”
John’s smooth brow knitted. “They have no such explosives. Are you sure?”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t have to believe me; I knew what I’d seen. And I was right. More tears spilled at the thought. “Why would he want to kill me? Why?”
“Josie, don’t.” John held my hand, but I twisted it away and covered my face with it.
“He wants me dead. Do you hear? Dead.”
“Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Why? He said he would never hurt me. He said that. So why did he try to kill me? Why, John? Why?”
Another fit of tears crippled me, and I kept crying long after John left. Lorcan wanted me dead and gone. As if I never existed. Maybe that was a good thing. I didn’t belong here anyway. Ever since waking up, it had been nothing but pain, grief and horror, with people being killed right before my eyes. I was tired of it. Maybe it would be better if it all ended. Maybe I should just sit still and not be a moving target. That would make things much easier. Wouldn’t it?
When at last my tears dried up, I’d reached a conclusion. It was true. Lorcan. I really didn’t know him. I’d simply been fooling myself that someone like Lorcan could actually care for me. His past, h
is hate for the Lancasters, his obsession with his dead wife…
Who was I in all of that? Nobody. Just a dumb nuisance who can’t keep out of trouble. Good riddance to me.
“He’s forgotten all about me. He doesn’t care.” I mumbled.
He’d never cared.
Everybody always forgets about me.
Chapter 26
“Thank you for saving my life,” John said from behind her, unsure whether she heard or not.
Slack-shouldered, Josie stared out the window. She stood on her own without the aide of the walker, which, he wasn’t surprised to see, was lying on its side in the corner of her room. No doubt kicked away, as was her usual habit. Nearby, a suspicious-looking jug lay upturned, its plastic cup nowhere in sight.
After three days in the clinic, Josie was only expected to be there for another day or so. She appeared to be recovering quickly, though her mental state seemed to be on the decline again. She’d been listless and unresponsive to food, but Aline had assured him that no matter what Josie did, there were ways to keep her alive. Judging by the pink nutrient adhesive peeking up from under the hospital gown’s neckline at her back, where Josie couldn’t reach, Aline’s promise held fast.
John had spent a long and arduous night with Simon after he left the clinic the day of the explosion. They had tried to investigate the events leading up to the bombing, but had instead been required to deal with the resulting media frenzy. The independently-run media house had gotten wind of the blast, and reports circulated around the world in a matter of nanoseconds. It was reported as an assassination attempt on the World President with an unidentified woman saving his life. Speculation ran amok as to who this unidentified woman was, and what her connection with the World President was.
Armed with the information from Josie about the type of bomb, John and Simon had scoured and dug deep in their reservoir of data and finally made their first real link to Wellesley. The suicide bomber had once been called Jerrod Costas. He’d worked with Wellesley as a site supervisor, and was linked directly with the group calling themselves The Path, a brutal, violent organization that destroyed anything in their way, but had only one main agenda: to destroy the Lancaster government.
The Path, spawned about three years ago, was led by a fanatical leader. His identity was unknown, and no one alive would say who he was. But their track record so far showed they had absolutely no mercy, and no defined pattern or agenda other than to destroy and terrorize. This leader, he was the real ghost. And Gina Mancuso had once blown things up for The Path.
With news breaking, John had to fend off a slew of media conferences and lay down some damage control with his PR team. The official report: “Accident. Power generator in the Main Entrance holding facilities of the Citadel caused explosion, leading an unidentified woman to be in critical condition, with minor injuries to the World President and two guards.” He didn’t bother to explain why he was there in the first place.
In actual fact, the guard who had stood by the door had been blown clear through the glass window, through to the main office, to be impaled on the door of a storage cabinet—the door just happened to be open at the time. The guard had taken the full blast of the explosion; on seeing the panicked Josie run helter-skelter out, he’d had the good sense to engage the emergency door lock-down. Unfortunately, he wasn’t fast enough. Besides having no chest from the blast and no back from being impaled by the door, he also had no arms, and was missing his right foot and part of his head, which was found later in the air ducts in the ceiling. John had made a point of personally visiting the guard’s husband to offer his condolences.
John cleared his throat, hoping to prompt a response from Josie. She continued to gaze out the window. Outside, in her line of sight, a magnificent waterfall tumbled chaotically, stirring up white clouds of mist. The river beneath snaked lazily through the Citadel, glittering like a parade of amber and gold gems in the sunlight as it reflected the blazing glory of an early autumn.
“You’re looking well.” John rounded her and drew closer. Mimicking her, he took in the scenery. “We’re looking for Wellesley now. He’s done a runner.”
No reaction, just that vapid stare. Her eyes reflected the sky and water, and turned a burnished emerald color. The tiny yellow streaks in her irises cast off glints of golden sparks. She had a healing scratch on her nose, and a bruise near her mouth, but her face suggested she hadn’t cried in some time. It was hollow and ashen, and her lips were bloodless. Her cheekbones seemed sharper, and the dark circles under her eyes were like bruises.
“It’s not nice to stare,” she said at last, turning slowly to give him an accusing glare. The beginnings of a surly pout played across her lips.
Her comment and the note of sarcasm made John smile. He took her uninjured arm and gently turned her to face him. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed against it. “Why did you save me? I would not have thought I deserved it—from your point of view.”
“You were in my way.” She pushed up her brows and stared at something on his chest. Definitely pouting now. “I told you to run.”
No one tackles their former captor and takes a blast impact because they were unresponsive to an order. That thought made John broaden his smile. “Thank you anyway.”
He leaned forward and lightly kissed her mouth. Their lips barely brushed, but the promised heat from it had him swallowing hard, and something twitched near his lower stomach. He felt her stiffen a little.
“You’ll be moved to a new area, for your protection.” He watched her reaction carefully. “It’s much bigger, more…homey. But the area is secure, closer to, well…” John cleared his throat again. “My residence is nearby, as are Simon’s and Aline’s. You’ll be safe.”
He gently stroked the side of her face with his thumb; her eyes, half-closed, focused on a point over his shoulder. Her expression was conflicted. Then her eyes flicked to meet his gaze and held it for a moment, before opening her mouth as if to say something. She stopped. Taking a chance, John leant in and took her mouth in a proper kiss. Her mouth accepted, but didn’t respond. He explored tentatively with his tongue, and resisted the urge to press her against him and ravage her.
When he finally pulled away, face heated, mind muddled, and breath restricted to a struggling sigh, he whispered, “You’re welcome to stay for as long as you wish. This can be your home now. You’ll be safe, protected. It would please me if you decided stay.” John eased back and dropped her necklace into her hand. “After all, it’s not every day we get to play host to a three-hundred-year-old guest.”
Yes, he’d watched it. He watched and watched, and sat in his room the entire night, unbelieving, and unwilling to accept it. How could it be so? And yet, he knew it to be true.
The images were too real, the people in it, the places, the atmosphere. And the pictures of Josie at varying stages of her life, laughing and smiling, so alive and real. When he finished, he showed it to Simon, who gaped uncharacteristically. He then disappeared to make his own analysis, to return hours later and inform John that it was, indeed, real. It wasn’t doctored in any way. Josie had been telling the truth the entire time.
* * *
“So, you don’t think I’m a freak? An abomination? A disgusting, dusty old relic? You believe it?”
They sat, she on the bed, he on a chair. He wanted to sit next to her, but knew he’d have difficulty concentrating.
“I don’t know about dusty, but, no. Why should I?” John pulled his brows together. “I am still a bit…shocked. But I believe you. It was…what were my words? That I’d believe you depending on how convincing you were. I admit I was a little skeptical at first, when I saw the recordings. But having gotten to know you, I was convinced even before I saw it. I just didn’t expect that, as in, how old you are. But, yes, I believe you.”
Josie gave him a sideways scowl, one brow arched high. “That? Okay, I’m old, but you don’t have to say it like that.”
Her mood hadn’t ch
anged in any way, but at least she talked a little more freely, as if a burdensome weight had been lifted from her soul. She ran fingers over her lips; the hint of a smile curved them, as though she remembered his kiss. It even brought a little color back to them. The sight made John’s lips tingle.
“You can’t tell anyone, okay?” Her tone was suddenly harsh. “Please.”
He nodded and absently waved. “Simon knows.”
“Simon knows fucking everything. Is there anything he doesn’t know?” Josie squirmed, a common reaction where Simon was concerned. John had seen stronger people with similar reactions. Josie made a sucking noise and folded her left arm across her body. Her shoulders dropped as she closed her eyes. It appeared that little bit of emotion, that flash of temper in her words, caused pain.
John wanted to laugh out loud for no apparent reason other than that he was glad to hear her snippy remarks. He caught himself in time and broadened his smile. “I think we should let my sister know as well. She is, after all, your doctor now. And if I know her, she’ll know some things don’t add up with you and start her own line of questions. And you don’t want to go there. She is…tenacious.”
“Fine. Tell the whole fucking world, why don’t you,” Josie muttered, sullen. “I didn’t know she was your sister. Now I see the similarity.”
John curled a finger around her pinky. “Aline is my older sister. She runs this place like a, well, a true dictator.”
“Family trait?”