by Zrinka Jelic
And, so, she was in the closest thing to a corner the domed room provided.
A young soldier in army fatigues walked by, and Grace went rigid, holding her breath until he passed.
He didn’t once glance in her direction. Grace’s breath flew from her frozen lungs even as her heart seized at the casual snub. She hugged herself tighter as she cursed her weak emotions. Without fail, every time her carefully cultivated armor of acerbic wit and slovenly appearance actually worked as she’d meant it to by keeping others away, her irrational side would come up bruised, as though it didn’t know perfectly well the reasons human contact was not in Grace’s cards.
She sighed almost silently, and forced herself to look cheerfully upon the fact that standing in the corner was working. She would make it through this. She would. It wouldn’t be like all of the other times. There would be no scene. No gut-wrenching screams shooting from her body without her control. No hysterical sobs. No sedation. No awkward return to work. No inevitable summons to the boss. No starting over with the knowledge that this was her life — on repeat.
She closed her eyes. The sad truth was, this was her life. And right now, she was huddled in the corner, praying to be invisible, worrying with all of her strength that someone would touch her.
But her friend’s impending death? Not even a blip on her emotional radar. Jericho Edwards was dying, and Grace was worried about herself.
Jericho was everyone’s favorite, but for a reason Grace couldn’t explain, he was her favorite as well. It had been thirteen long years since Grace considered a man as anything other than something to be avoided at all costs. Thirteen years since Grace had carefully erected a wall around her heart. And yet, somehow, Jericho found his way around that wall the tiniest bit.
It might have been the very obvious fact that Jericho would never, ever pose a threat to her. She’d known two seconds after being introduced to him that he was head over heels in love with someone: his Impulse mate, Dahlia. Jericho was nice to everyone, men and women alike. In fact, Grace had never met anyone so good.
And he’d taken one look at her — her frumpy clothes, excess body weight, bird’s nest of red hair, black-rimmed glasses, and man-hating glare — and deemed her a friend, working tirelessly at cultivating a relationship with her when everyone else just avoided her.
And now, he was dying. Worse, his survival depended upon Grace and Grace’s work.
Three months and a week or so ago, Jericho cut his finger on the sword — the artifact that Grace was commissioned to work on. It was a flesh wound that should have healed in seconds given that Jericho, Dahlia, Eli, and Abilene were all immortal after eating the fruit from the Tree of Eternal Life. But the simple wound hadn’t healed. And things came to a head a few days ago when Jericho returned to the facility with his brand new wife, Dahlia. In the process of moving, Jericho managed to rip the tiny, unhealed wound wide open from the tip of his finger into his palm. It had been bleeding profusely ever since, and his body couldn’t keep up.
And suddenly, Dr. Grace Tucker was very much in demand. She couldn’t count the number of times she had to remind them “I’m not that kind of doctor.” Their situation was so unique that her PhD in dead languages made her much more qualified to help Jericho than an MD would on its best day, but her work took more time than medication or surgery ever would.
She’d made her breakthrough this morning.
The ancient, dead language on the sword said What the Tree gives, the Sword takes. What the Sword takes, the Tree gives.
At least, she was ninety-nine percent sure that’s what it said.
Grace gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and reassured herself that she was never wrong when it came to her work. Never. She was wrong when it came to everything else, but her work was infallible.
That’s why she was here. She was the single most prestigious language expert in the world. And it was going to change her life. That was the plan. She’d worked hard to make sure no one noticed her. The weight she’d gained, the fashion-backward wardrobe, the overt hostility — when she couldn’t disappear into her surroundings, she kept people away with every weapon her extensive intelligence and vast vocabulary could come up with.
But Grace’s secret dream was recognition. She just wanted it on her terms. She was going to make the discovery of all time with this sword. It was the work she’d been waiting for her entire career. And now it was here. And, as long as her translation was right, it was about to save one of only four immortal human beings on the planet.
Career. Made.
Everyone would know her name; everyone would know she was something. And the best part? She’d be absolutely untouchable in a way she could not dream of cultivating on her own. No one walked up to the winner of the Nobel Prize and gave them a hug. They got the recognition without all the messy social baggage associated with being members of the human race. They were members of a class considered above such things. And Grace couldn’t wait to be admitted into their ranks.
Grace’s eyes snapped open when she heard the sharp clack of men’s shoes on the hard floor of the facility. Sergeant Collins was approaching.
Grace shrank back further into her corner, her shoulders bending in on themselves, but it was too late: he was looking right at her, and double damn, he’d noticed she was trying to turn into wallpaper if the arch of one of his salt and pepper eyebrows was any indication.
He stopped before her, and Grace couldn’t prevent the hitch in her breathing. Reaching distance. The man was within reaching distance. She bit her bottom lip to avoid a whimper.
“Dr. Tucker?” Sergeant Collins asked in his smooth, Southern whisky drawl. He then looked her over once more. His eyes softened. He took a step back and crossed his arms behind him, effecting “at ease” posture.
Relief flooded through her so strongly it momentarily overshadowed the embarrassment she felt at having someone else recognize her reticence at human contact. But only momentarily. Damn it, why couldn’t she be normal?
She straightened to her full height — a whole five feet five inches — and worked her hardest to look as un-crazy as possible. “What can I do for you, sir?” A lock of her frizzy, red hair fell over her glasses, blocking Sergeant Collins from sight. She shoved it out of the way, tucking it behind one of the pencils stuffed into her “style” of the day.
“Nothing more than you’ve done, ma’am,” he said with polite distance. “I’ve come to report that your findings seem to be accurate.”
Grace wanted to sag in relief, but was so wary of causing Sergeant Collins to think any less of her that she clenched her jaw and forced iron into her spine. No one would know how worried she’d been about her translation. She’d emitted cool confidence all day long. Her “findings” included the recommendation that whatever damage the sword caused could be un-done by administering the fruit of the Tree of Eternal Life topically. They’d been forcing the fruit down Jericho’s throat for days to no effect. It was a nuance of the language that had given Grace the idea to apply the fruit to the site of Jericho’s wound.
“So, Jericho’s recovering?” Grace forced herself to ask, alarmed a little at the obvious worry in her voice. She didn’t care about him that much, did she?
A new voice sounded as it approached. “His skin is knitting together before our eyes.” Dahlia Edward’s brown eyes peeked around Collins’s shoulder, warm for the first time ever that Grace witnessed.
Grace actually liked Dahlia a lot, and not just because Jericho did. Grace hadn’t met many people who seemed to hate all others as much as Dahlia did. She was even more socially hostile than Grace. It was … refreshing.
“They think he’ll wake up any moment now, and I want to be there when he does, but I had to come thank you first,” Dahlia continued.
Grace felt her eyes widen. “Thanks” often involved touch of some kind. “That’s not necessary,” Grace muttered, crowding the corner again.
Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Relax, Red,” she said with a laugh. �
��God, it’s not like we’re going to attack you with hugs or anything.”
Grace didn’t laugh. She didn’t even notice when the two before her exchanged a worried look as her eyes glazed, and her mind turned over one of Dahlia’s words.
Attack. Attack. Attack.
A loud snap erupted in front of her face.
Grace refocused to see Dahlia’s fingers before her eyes as the woman snapped again, this time accompanied by a sharp, “Grace!”
Grace sucked in a breath.
“Is she … ” Sergeant Collins trailed off as both women’s heads snapped around to glare at him.
Grace opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off with Dahlia’s curt, “She’s fine, Collins, God.” She then stood directly in front of Grace, blocking her from Collins’s sight, giving her a chance to compose herself. “Nothing some lunch and a good night’s sleep won’t fix. We’ve run her ragged. Give her some grace.” Dahlia snorted.
Collins threw Dahlia a wobbly smile. “I’ll just … um … call Miss Esperanza then. Tell her Jericho’s fine.” His mouth moved like a caress over the name of Dahlia’s former mother-in-law, his accent adding at least two syllables, and his eyes twinkling like a kid.
Dahlia looked at Grace and winked. “You do that, Collins.”
He cast one more concerned look toward Grace’s corner, not quite meeting her eyes, and backed off, hurrying away to his office.
As Dahlia watched him go, her hand fell to the small bump beneath her shirt. Grace was pretty sure she was the only person in the facility who had guessed that Jericho and Dahlia were expecting. There had been no announcement; there hadn’t been time before Jericho fell gravely ill. But Dahlia made that little movement often when she thought no one was looking.
She turned to Grace now and arched a perfect eyebrow.
“I really am fine,” Grace offered weakly.
Dahlia scoffed and muttered something in Spanish that Grace perfectly understood — dead languages weren’t her only specialty. Grace bristled. “Look, I’ll just get back to work.” The news of Jericho’s recovery was already spreading if the increased chatter in the room was any indication. She could re-join life now. She needed to get started on writing this up, though she knew publishing any of her top-secret findings was going to be an uphill battle. Possibly an impossible one.
Dahlia nodded once and began to turn away.
“Hey,” Grace blurted. Dahlia turned back to her. “Um … when he wakes up. Tell Jericho … I’m glad he’s okay.” Grace was shocked to find out she meant it.
Dahlia’s eyes roved Grace’s face for a moment, but then she smiled. “You’ve got it, Red.” She took two steps toward the medical wing, then stopped.
Grace watched the black waves cascading down Dahlia’s back rustle as the stunning Latina tilted her head to the side.
“Do you hear that?” Dahlia asked.
Grace frowned. “Hear what?”
Just then, the lights flickered. A distant rumbling seemed to seep in through the walls of the facility.
All of the hopeful chatter in the room faded and then fizzled out as people began to look around curiously.
A huge clap of thunder rent through the building with such force that loose items throughout the main room clattered where they sat.
The lights went out completely.
Emergency lights along the walls illuminated, casting Dahlia’s caramel skin in an unearthly glow as Grace stared at her in barely subdued panic. The others in the room began to mumble to each other, their voices rising in pitch. She felt her nails digging into the skin of her arms and realized she was hugging herself again.
A man in a lab coat raced into the main room, skidding around the door and barreling toward Dahlia as soon as he spotted her. “He’s waking!” he yelled at Jericho’s wife. “Come quickly.”
Dahlia took a quick step toward him, but then stumbled. She threw out an arm to catch herself against the wall. “Shit,” Grace heard her mutter.
Dahlia spun around and pinned Grace with a wide-eyed look. “Earthquake,” she told Grace in an odd, disbelieving tone. “Big one.”
Dahlia lunged forward and grabbed Grace by the arm, hauling her quickly to a nearby desk and shoving herself and Grace in the small area beneath it.
Shooting pains emanated from the skin Dahlia’s fingers touched. Grace hissed and tried to wrench her arm from Dahlia’s grip as she spluttered, “What — how do you — ”
“I can hear it coming,” she said impatiently. “Take cover!” she bellowed to all the gawkers.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than the first wave hit the building. A sound, louder than the eardrum-cracking clap of thunder, ricocheted through the room like a freight train, and Grace watched with wide eyes as the floor began to ripple at the edge of the room and move toward them like oncoming ocean waves.
And, even though paralyzed with fear, all Grace could think of was the scorching pain of Dahlia’s fingers where they still clutched her arm.
Screams began to echo as the men and women who worked at the facility realized what was happening. Feet thundered as everyone sought shelter.
But Grace scrambled away from Dahlia and out into the open as soon as the woman’s grip on Grace’s arm slackened.
Dahlia’s arm snaked out and captured the back of Grace’s jacket. “What the hell?”
“Don’t touch me!” Grace shrieked so loudly that Dahlia drew back in shock.
A huge chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling to land right beside Grace. A cloud of white exploded from its impact and dusted both of them. Desks began to skitter across the floor.
“Do you want to die?” Dahlia yelled, blinking the white powder from her lashes.
Die or be touched? No contest. Grace didn’t move.
The earthquake gained in intensity. The glass that made up the ceiling of the dome tinkled and Grace looked up as a crack spider-webbed from one end of the dome to the other.
“Okay,” Dahlia said fast and low. “I won’t touch you. Just get your ass under here right now!”
Grace dragged her eyes from the ceiling to look into the dim space beneath the desk. Dahlia pressed herself against the side, leaving more than enough room for Grace to fit without having to be against the other woman. And still she hesitated.
Across the dome, bookshelves began to fall like dominoes, each one hitting the ground with a resounding boom. The tinkling of the glass ceiling increased and one or two shards escaped and plummeted toward the ground.
With a deep breath for courage, Grace dove into the area beside Dahlia just as the ceiling gave way.
The glass chimed like clock-tower bells as it fell. It tinkled off of every surface and bounced from the floor in glittering arcs. Grace watched in horror as a huge shard caught one of the soldiers as he tried to dive under a desk a few feet away. His scream cut off as the glass sliced through his chest and pinned him to the floor right where Grace had been kneeling seconds before.
Grace huddled into the corner and buried her face against the wood of the desk so hard she thought her nose might break.
The waves of the ground moved as though alive beneath Grace, hitting her in the shins and knees again and again as she knelt and causing her stomach to lurch as though seasick. Beside her, she heard Dahlia begin to recite the rosary in Spanish in a low, breathless voice. As a backdrop, the glass on the floor clacked and pinged as the entire building shimmied with the rage of the earth.
And in the next heartbeat, everything stopped.
Grace’s frantic breaths in the sudden absence of sound were excruciatingly loud, but the silence didn’t last for long. Moans from the wounded began to fill the air.
She heard her boss, Eli Johnson, bellowing his past-due pregnant wife’s name as he barreled through the dome from his office and toward the medical wing.
“Jericho,” Dahlia breathed next to her. Then she scrambled from her hiding spot, sliding in the blood that slicked across the floor from the impaled man before g
aining purchase and sprinting in Eli’s wake.
Grace stared dumbfounded at the glassy eyes of the dead man in front of her before forcing herself to emerge from the desk.
Utter destruction waited for her. Her eyes skimmed over the demolished main room of the facility. Everything was … gone. Desks were smashed. Books were flung to every wall of the room. The glass on the floor glittered like diamonds among the pools of blood. It looked like after-pictures of a tornado.
But the trees stood resolute in the center of the room. Not one fruit had fallen from their branches. And on the desk beneath them, where Grace did her work, the sword glowed. The sword, usually covered with flickering green and gold flames, was now … angry. It was the only word she could use to describe what she was seeing. The green and gold flames had morphed into red and black. The metal, engraved with the words she had translated to say what the tree gives, the sword takes; what the sword takes, the tree gives was now pulsing with emotion. And coming off of the sword in waves was an otherworldly heat. The sword had always emitted a cool indifference. Now it was raging.
“Oh, God,” Grace gasped. Her breathing sped up even more, and black began to edge in on her vision.
Something had angered this inanimate object. Fear, so familiar and yet, in this case, so different, choked Grace’s throat. She had a gut feeling that in completing her job she betrayed a secret. The sword’s secret.
Someone was coming. Coming for them. Coming for her.
She had one thought before losing consciousness: What have I done?
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