Archetype

by M. D. Waters

  Something black and sleek with big teeth leaps out of the jungle brush, and Noah stumbles off the stool, barely keeping his footing.

  My heart pounds with anxiety over his presence, but I cannot help but laugh at his reaction. I have grown used to the jungle cats. He must not have heard me arrive, because his head whips around at the sound of my laughter and he flushes.

  “This shit is no joke,” he says, running a hand through his raised mess of blond waves.

  I take note of how he has not shaved since I saw him last. The scruffy look does not hurt him. In fact, he looks better. Sexier, even. I shake my head to clear it. I should not think of him like that, especially since he is plotting my death.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah. I know.” I take the tablet computer from him and shut the hologram down.

  “You ever use any of them to paint by?”

  I eye him carefully, wondering when the other shoe is going to drop. He is being very calm. “Some.”

  “The beaches?”

  “No. Those I paint from memory.” I prop a hip on the edge of my stool. “Are you bipolar or something?”

  He raises a single eyebrow. Chuckles a little. A very little. “No. Why?”

  “Someone might mistake you for nice.”

  He nods in understanding, looking slightly apologetic. “I’ve had some time to think; that’s all.”

  “Does that mean you have not come to kill me?”

  “No. Actually”—he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a slim powder-blue box—“I brought you something. I know it’s not my place, but I thought you might want them. You know, just in case.”

  I take the box and look for something to explain what he is giving me.

  “Birth control,” he says. “Sonya said one pill a day will prevent pregnancy.”

  My jaw falls open and I slam it shut. “Oh God, thank you. Really.” I tap the box in my palm, making the pills rattle. “You read my mind.”

  Noah tucks his hands in his front pockets and looks around at the white walls.

  “Was there something else?” I ask, hoping he came to spill the truth once and for all.

  He rocks forward on the balls of his feet. “I owe you an apology.”

  I wait for him to continue, but when he does not, my already short fuse sparks. I do not want this lame attempt to make things right. I want honesty. Instead of starting an argument, I stand and head for my supply closet to gather everything I will need. I think I will paint a target. With Noah’s head in the center.

  Noah leans into the doorframe, watching me pick through brushes. “Emma—”

  “Has my life always been like this?” I ask, slamming a couple of brushes down on the shelf.

  “Like what?”

  “Never knowing who to trust. Expecting betrayal around every turn. Plotting and secrecy. Anger,” I add through gritted teeth.

  “You have every right to be angry at me.”

  I nod and swivel my head to look at him. “Glad to know we are on the same page.”

  “Hey,” he says, his voice rising, “you’re hiding something from me, too, so don’t climb your high horse just yet.”

  “The difference here is that I would tell you everything if you would only pay me the same respect, Noah. It is a simple thing.” If only I knew why knowing about his dead wife was so important.

  “Do you know how she died?” he asks, and his voice cracks.

  I shake my head and avert my eyes. I cannot see the pain in his face. I have seen it too many times now. I still do. The dreams do not come as often, but they come, and his grief never lessens.

  “She went into a WTC to free the girls, and then I don’t know. I wish to God I did. But I lost her that night.”

  • • •

  The cluster of bodies in the hallway kept growing. Fighting hand to hand at this point was useless. More WTC security joined the small group we’d originally encountered and opened fire on the entire group, paying no mind to their own people. Our only option was to try to take cover and wait for backup.

  I backed away, aiming into the wave of men decked out in the best armor available on the market. Our plasma fire did nothing to penetrate it. With their helmets on, I had only a tiny window of vulnerable neck and chin to aim for. Too small a target while on the move.

  Foster wailed beside me and collapsed, clutching his left knee. His lower leg barely hung on, and blood flowed like a river from the open wound. I ignored my turning stomach and slipped an arm under one of his. Very carefully, I pulled him into the nearest room, closing us inside.

  The office was empty except for an aluminum desk and several chairs. Awards and framed medals for valor covered the grayish green walls. I wouldn’t have minded taking a blowtorch to the entire room, except the goddamn teleporter made my heart leap with joy.

  I dragged Foster over and switched the machine to outside controls.

  “Fuck no,” Foster said, wincing. “You are not sending me off and staying behind.”

  I maneuvered him inside. “Who says I won’t be right behind you?”

  He gripped my jacket front and forced me to look at him. He’d already lost too much blood. His pallor frightened me. “He’ll fucking kill me for leaving you here.”

  “I’m right behind you.” It was a necessary lie. I wasn’t leaving my people here to fight this battle alone, and I needed to get him to Sonya.

  I shoved him in, ignoring his screams of pain and protest. When the keypad illuminated before me, I keyed in the port number, and in five seconds Foster disappeared.

  I aimed my gun for the top of the machine, where a small computer stored the memory. I fired and it exploded in a shower of yellow sparks. It left the teleporter useless, but at least no one could follow the trail.

  The door slid open to the hall just as I ran for it. One of the security officers stood on the other side. He lifted his gun, and then a flash of blue plasma fire filled my vision.

  Searing pain lit up my chest.

  CHAPTER 34

  I drop to my knees, clutching and jostling the shelf. A cup of brushes falls and rolls to the floor with a clatter.

  Noah drops to one knee beside me and lays a hand on my back. “What? What is it?”

  This memory was bad. So bad. Nothing like floating in water or seeing Toni’s murder. Nothing like remembering the pain of being branded Declan’s wife. Those were bad.

  This one is worse.

  “I was shot,” I say, fending off tears.

  Silence is his only response, so I look to him for confirmation.

  He drops to his butt, then nods reluctantly. “Yeah.”

  Noah brings his knees up and props his elbows, then runs his hands through his hair. He clutches fistfuls of hair over his crown, his head bent to hide his expression. This grief-stricken reaction yanks at my heart, and for the first time, there is no tug-of-war between my heart and my mind. I have to make this pain go away. His and mine. And though what I plan to do makes no sense, I cannot stop myself. It is as necessary as breathing.

  Heart drumming, I reach forward, loosen his fist, and draw it away. I wait for him to pull back, say something cutting, or worse, attack. Instead, his warm palm opens and slips perfectly, solidly, around mine.

  Tingles race across my skin with his gentle touch. My bones are swept up in a fire that soon encompasses my entire body, finding and filling all my cold, dark spaces. The sensation steals my breath.

  Noah’s other hand slides up the back of my hand and up my forearm, leaving a tantalizing trail of heat in its wake. I realize we are both holding our breath when that same hand lifts to cup my cheek. I turn into his palm as if this is the most natural thing to do and close my eyes. His thumb wipes away a rogue tear.

  He gives me the gentlest of tugs, and I twist my body around, turning in to him. Still clasping his right hand, I pull his arm around me and sit between his legs. He holds me against his chest and rests his chin on the crown of my head. His breath shudders behind me even as his
arm tightens as if he will never let me go. I find I do not want him to. I feel as if I am exactly where I was meant to be and do not care if it makes any sense. This is right.

  I run my thumb over the area between the knuckles of his thumb and index finger. The strange texture of skin there draws my attention. I lift his hand for closer inspection. There is discoloration that is barely a shade darker than his pale skin.

  A memory slams into me. The warning Emma Wade gives Tucker when he decides to brand a luckenbooth on his hand for her.

  No one will take you seriously.

  No one has to know. I’ll wear Plasti-skin over it.

  “Emma—”

  “Plasti-skin,” I whisper and bolt upright.

  He yanks his hand away and I shift my focus to his face. His expression is tight with emotion: pain, frustration, confusion. His eyes glaze over, and suddenly I know. He is Tucker. My Tucker.

  I am torn between throwing my arms around him and slapping the hell out of him. “Why did you lie to me?”

  He shakes his head fiercely. “No. I didn’t lie.”

  “But it is you. In my memories of Mexico.” I steal his hand back and scrape away the fake skin, revealing my evidence. The linked hearts practically barrel down the erected walls of the labyrinth in my head. My heart beats fast. Each breath rushes as if it is trying to pace my too fast heartbeat. “You have a brand. Are you going to tell me this is a lie, too? And you have to explain to me why I was in a tank of water. What is that about?”

  Noah stiffens. “What?”

  Something else occurs to me. It is like an outpouring of theories that are actually making sense, and I cannot get them out fast enough to hold on to all of them. “Did that happen after I was shot? Your doctor, Sonya, kept referring to me and someone else as patients one and two. Me and someone named Adrienne. Were we being healed from injuries or something?”

  Noah leaps to his feet, his eyes wide and darting. “Where did you hear that name?”

  Standing, I fist my hands, wanting desperately to strike him in frustration. Instead, I settle for a simple glare. “You know what I am talking about. Why do you insist on keeping my past a secret from me? If you are trying to protect me, stop. I do not need your protection. I need the truth before this gets any worse. I mean, my God, Noah. I am married to another man. Tell me how—”

  The familiar hum of the teleporter cuts me off. I yank open the cabinet of drop cloths beside me and force Noah inside. It is large and practically empty at the moment, so he fits comfortably. He does not hesitate and we catch each other’s gaze for only a moment before I close the doors.

  The rattle in my back pocket startles me into remembering the evidence I carry, and I toss the birth control in with him. “Just, uh, leave those here. I will come back for them,” I whisper.

  I turn just as Declan steps into view, my heart pounding so hard the sound floods my ears. I put on my most brilliant smile. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

  “Who are you talking to?” he asks with a wry smirk.

  My mouth is suddenly dry. I rock back on a heel and onto a fallen paintbrush. I nod at my disaster of a shelf and the resulting mess on the floor. “Chastising myself for being so clumsy. Pretend you never saw this side of me.”

  He chuckles and motions me forward. We meet outside the closet and he kisses me. His hair loosens from the carefully slicked-back style, and strands brush my forehead. “I couldn’t work another minute,” he says in a husky tone I know too well. “I thought we could get some alone time in before dinner.”

  “And by alone time you mean . . .” I trail off, unable to finish the thought, let alone think about performing the actual act. This has become yet another war I fight with myself, because I truly do love him, but I am also hurt by the lengths he will go to hide my real past.

  And God . . . Noah. Noah is the man on the beach. What I feel for him torches and buries any emotions I feel for Declan.

  Declan nods and grins over my lips, then kisses me again. “What do you say?”

  I have no other choice, and I let him take me to the teleporter, sick because the man I really need to be with is in my closet. I had been so close to getting answers, and now I have no idea how long I will have to wait.

  At home, Declan wastes no time. I taste bourbon on his tongue, so I know he was drinking at lunch. That coupled with any ideas he had been dreaming up meant there would be no talking my way out of this.

  We cross the threshold into the bedroom, and a rack of clothes catches my eye. I pull away and stare because it was not there before and several dresses hang from it.

  Yay! She yells. A diversion. Take it.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t choose a dress for tonight, so I had several styles delivered.” He tries to start kissing me again, but I press my forearms against his chest.

  “I want to see first.”

  I step around him and approach the rack. It is not full; there are only five or six dresses hanging in clear plastic. I do not care about what hangs here. I only need a moment to catch my breath and prepare myself for what is about to happen. What had Noah called it in the gym?

  Sleeping with the enemy, She offers.

  Thanks, I tell Her with a roll of my eyes.

  I finger the dresses until I get to one in particular that stirs a memory. While I lift it and pull the plastic off, Declan watches nearby. He hangs his shirt and jacket like always, only he doesn’t bother finding something else to wear.

  The dress is teal. Wraparound and calf length. Only instead of short sleeves, they are long. I think even the fabric is the same. “You must have been feeling nostalgic when you picked this one,” I say. “Only I cannot imagine why—”

  I stop abruptly and slowly lift my chin. I do not turn toward the utter stillness—the man of stone—standing to my right. I cannot look at him because I cannot believe I have been so foolish.

  Girl taken down by a stupid dress, She says. Oh man. This is no good.

  “You remember,” he says finally.

  “It happened two days ago,” I whisper. “But only that one day.” I hang the dress and turn to face him. “So I know you lied to me about how we met.” I lift my left hand and show him the unmarked back of it. “Did you have Dr. Travista remove the brand?”

  Declan reaches for a sweater and pulls it over his undershirt. “How come you didn’t say something two days ago? Why hide it?”

  “I figured you had a good reason.”

  He pulls his phone from a pocket and nods at me. “Yeah. I do.”

  He turns and walks out of the room, lifting the phone to his ear. I follow close behind, my heart racing. What is he doing? Does he know I am lying about remembering everything—or close enough—or is the recollection of one memory enough for him to do whatever he has planned? I cannot even imagine what he has planned.

  “It’s me,” he says into the phone. “She remembered something. No, I’m sure. She admitted it.” He faces me. “She claims it happened a couple days ago.” Turning, he nods and says, “We’ll be right there.”

  He hangs up and leans back into the island. He silently fingers the phone, staring at it but past it all at once.

  My stomach turns uneasily. “We will be right where?” I ask.

  “We’ve been careful to avoid subjects that would bring back your memory. I must have said something that triggered it with the story about your accident.”

  Just keep playing along, She says. Maybe you can talk him out of what he’s got planned. That innocent act of yours is the only thing that can save you right now.

  I have to agree with Her, so I take a step closer to Declan. Attempt and fail at a smile. “I do not understand. I thought you wanted me to remember.”

  He shakes his head. “No. I never wanted that. I only told you that so you wouldn’t ask questions. But it’s an easy fix.” With that, he straightens and holds out his hand. “Come on.”

  I step back, eyeing his hand. There was a time w
hen I never would have hesitated. When did things go so horribly wrong? “Where?”

  “To see Arthur.”

  CHAPTER 35

  W-why?” I step away now. “Why him?”

  Declan’s hand falls heavily to his side. “You don’t have to be scared, Emma. He’s not going to hurt you. I would never let anything happen to you. You know that.”

  I shake my head. Step back once more and hit the frame of the bedroom door. “I do not know anything of the sort.”

  That isn’t exactly playing along, She says. Think about what you’re doing. He doesn’t know what you know. Stop reacting and just think.

  “Dr. Travista will run tests,” I add hurriedly. “You know how I feel about his tests.”

  He turns and presses his palms into the island countertop, leaning in, head bent forward. “You don’t understand, Emma.”

  “So explain it to me. What are you so afraid of?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says and pushes off the counter. “After today, you won’t remember any of this.”

  I slide to the right, my mind’s eye on the sliding glass door and the world outside. I do not know where I can go, but away sounds good enough to me. “What do you mean, I will not remember? What will he do?”

  “Erase the memory, and if there are any others, you may as well tell me now. Arthur already suspects you remember a lot more than you’re letting on. He’s wanted to get his hands on you since before the opening.”

  Goddamn seagulls, She says.

  “I will not let you do this to me,” I tell him.

  Declan steps cautiously forward. “Do you think I want to do this? Emma, I spent many nights lying awake praying this day wouldn’t come.”

  I slide over again. “It is only one memory and I have not run from you. I still love you despite it. I would never hurt you, Declan. Please. Do not let him do this to me.” My fingers graze the corner leading back into the dining room. “Can you not just love me as I am?”

  Something in these words causes pain to glance across his face. “It’s too dangerous. I love you too much to risk it.”