by Unknown
I glare at my reflection—at the small spot on my forehead where my little mark—not even truly a scar—used to be, and I picture using a very light touch of a fan brush to apply the lightest stroke of paint.
And the mark is back.
I raise my chin in satisfaction and turn away from the mirror before I can question why this matters to me so much.
Logan is slouched on a chair in the waiting room, and I feel weak with relief when I see him.”Hey,” he says when I appear. “You look cute,” he adds, wrapping his arms around me. “You just need one more thing.” His mouth is close to my cheek, and I can feel his breath as he speaks.
“What?” I ask, not caring that my voice shakes.
“This.” I nearly melt at the touch of his fingers on my ear and the scent of gardenias. I raise my fingers and feel silky petals tucked behind my ear. “Flowers every day,” Logan promises. He twines his fingers through mine and points me toward the door.
“You didn’t have to wait,” I say once the doors close behind us.
He snorts. “Where else would I go?”
“True,” I say with a grin. But it’s a little bit forced. My mind is focused on what I’ve just heard from Audra.
I’m broken.
I mean, I guess I’ve known that for a long time, but I’m so broken I may never remember this life. What does that mean for me? For us? I’m not sure I know. I guess I should just be happy that I managed to resurge.
Too bad I took out the power in the Curatoria headquarters at the same time.
“Clean bill of health?” Logan asks, giving my hand a squeeze.
My throat is suddenly tight. “As clean as it ever could be,” I mumble.
“What do you mean?”
“I still . . . I have . . .” I point at the right side of my head. “You know.”
“They can’t fix it?” he asks, and I realize that he was hoping they could too.
I shake my head.
“That’s okay.”
I turn to him. “Really?”
“Of course.” He shrugs. “Why wouldn’t it be? Every lifetime we deal with something. This is just another thing.”
Tears glisten in my eyes instantly, and I’m having trouble breathing. He’s so accepting, so casual even, that I can’t tell him that this thing might have eternal consequences. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Logan says, stopping and smudging a tear away with his thumb. “You okay?”
I make myself smile through my tears. He doesn’t understand how different everything is now. How hard it is to focus, to find all the right words, to think as clearly as I used to. “It’s just been a long day,” I answer. “Meeting Daniel, the horrible thing in the South Pacific, this.” I gesture at the etched-glass doors to the medical wing still just in sight down the hallway.
He threads his fingers through mine, and we walk quietly for a while.
“So you’re going to do it,” Logan says more than asks. “Work with Daniel.”
“What other option is there? Leave here, hole up somewhere, and hope we don’t catch the virus?” I ask. “It’s in the water cycle; it’s affecting the weather, Logan. How long do you think it will be before you can catch it simply by walking out in the rain?”
“I guess it’s better to give the Curatoria what they want instead of the Reduciata.”
“Is this what they want?” I ask, more to myself than to Logan. “The super powerful Transformist in their lab?”
“Don’t you think so?” he asks. “I mean, this is it, right? Your secret?”
I hesitate, then back into a corner slightly protected by a pillar along the hallway and pull him close. I figure this is as close as we’ll get to a truly safe place to talk. “It seems like it must be, doesn’t it?” I ask.
“Does the whole Transforming thing spark any memories?” Logan matches my barely audible whisper.
“No, but seriously, my memories are so screwed up anyway.” I feel tears prick my eyes at that but force them back.
“What do you think?” His head is so close to mine that all I want to do is lean in and forget everything.
But that’s not an option.
I consider all the information I have. Which isn’t much. “I think this must be it. What else could it be? Something bigger?”
He grins, though there’s an odd edge to it. “What could be bigger than the fact that you are literally the strongest Earthbound in the world and the only Transformist in existence?”
I laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. “It sounds ridiculous when you say it that way,” I agree. But I sober. “I couldn’t transform when I was Rebecca, though.” I poke his stomach, “Right?”
The poke is supposed to inject a bit of levity into the discussion, but Logan’s face turns stony. “You’re right. You couldn’t.”
“So there must be something else. Maybe just something in addition to transforming. Complementing it, maybe.”
He sighs and lowers his lips to the skin right where my neck and shoulder meet. “You are indeed a mystery.”
A smile takes over my face, and I want to laugh in pure bliss.
“I don’t want to let you go tomorrow, even for the day,” Logan says, pulling me close and twisting his arm around my waist.
“We can stay together while I work,” I promise him, slipping my hands into his back pockets and lifting my face for a light kiss. “You can sit on a stool and . . . watch,” I say, realizing how lame and boring that sounds.
His brow furrows. “Actually, I thought I would explore the headquarters while you were doing lab stuff.”
I raise my eyebrow in question, and Logan’s eyes dart to one side then the other, as though someone might be listening . . . which might very well be the case. “You know, check things out, report back to you. Find out what the Curatoriates are up to.”
“Spy?” I said with a half grin.
“If you want to put it that way.”
“You don’t trust them?”
He purses his lips then says, “I’m not sure I trust anyone anymore. Now that . . . that I know who I am, everything’s different.”
I nod, even though it doesn’t feel that different to me.
“We’ve never trusted them entirely. I’m not saying you shouldn’t work with Daniel, because after . . . after this morning I think it’s clear that you need to. But when you’re finished, if it’s okay, I’d like to leave.”
A bark of laughter escapes me. “Trust me. It is okay.” I can’t point out any one thing that’s suspect here. In fact, everything has been amazing. But I can’t help but feel like we shouldn’t be here any longer than necessary.
“And if we can take some solid evidence with us, that helps everyone.”
I consider this for a few seconds and then smile and nod, feeling a new sense of solidarity between us.
Solidarity in rebellion, I guess.
We go back to walking hand-in-hand down the softly lit hallway. As the buzz from the atrium grows louder I feel the calmness and security that surrounded us in the deserted hallway start to break away. Once again, we’re strangers among people who might be friends or enemies, and once again, it’s him and me against the world.
A world we’re both desperate to save even though it might turn on us at any moment.
I gasp in surprise when we open the door to our room and find it completely empty. It takes a second to remember that Alanna literally eviscerated all the furniture.
“Cheery,” Logan says in a flat tone.
“I forgot.”
“I think we both had reason to.”
We stand for a long time just staring at the bare room. A trickle of an idea begins to take root in my head, and I shove Logan back out the door, grinning the whole time. “Give me sec,” I say, shutting the door on him before he can protest.
For me it’s
more than just the emptiness of the room; I can’t bear the sight of the stripped walls, imagining what they were like when Sammi and Mark lived here.
What they were like just this morning.
Elizabeth once told me that one of the most effective ways to heal from bad memories was to replace them with good ones. So I cover Mark and Sammi’s bare walls with wooden paneling and replace the vacant spot where their bed was with a feather mattress on a rough wooden frame. Next, I conjure red gingham curtains to cover the faux windows and install a fireplace up against one wall. In less than five minutes our room is a perfect replica of the home we shared when we were Rebecca and Quinn.
I turn to the door, but one more thought hits me. I look down at myself and transform my jeans and tank top to a long-skirted dress like the one I saw Rebecca wearing in my vision. I pat my braids one more time, take a deep breath, and swing the door open.
Logan enters slowly, his eyes wide. He stares at each wall, one by one, taking in the details with an expression I can’t quite fathom.
“I hope it’s okay,” I say quietly, suddenly second-guessing my plan.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers, but he’s not looking at the room now; he’s looking at me.
He takes a few more steps forward and slides his arm behind my neck, pulling my face to his. With a sigh that gives my entire body permission to finally relax, I kiss him back. The feel of his touch on my skin lets me forget everything.
Not forever.
Not even completely.
But for a few minutes the world is a dull roar hiding behind the shivers that ripple up my spine as he runs his nose along the bare skin on the side of my neck.
“I love it,” Logan says into my skin, his mouth pressed against my neck so hard I almost can’t understand him. “I feel like we’re back in that life before everything went wrong.” He raises his head and leans forward to touch the tip of my nose with his. “I wish we could go back sometimes. Don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” I agree, but it’s without much commitment. Being me feels so much more real than being Rebecca.
“You okay?” he asks, his fingers finding the sore muscles along my spine.
I let out a little moan as he massages away knots that have been there for weeks. I make a little note to myself to make a deep—modern—tub in the bathroom later. “Tired,” I confess. “I don’t think I’ve stopped being tired since my plane went down.”
I close my eyes, tempted to surrender as Logan unfastens a few buttons and lays tickling kisses across the top of my back. “Logan?” I ask, and even I can hear the breathy touch in my voice. “Am I different?”
His hands slide up my ribs. “It’s been two hundred years—of course you’re different.” He kisses me hard, clearly wanting more. “I’m different too, aren’t I?”
A shrug is the only answer I can give. “I couldn’t transform things when I was Rebecca, but I had my secret, right?” I manage to say when his hands slip higher and nothing but the feelings he’s invoking seem important.
“Yep. That’s all you told me,” he says, his tone dismissive. He’s not interested in this right now.
“Because it was too dangerous for you to know as well.”
“Mm-hmmm.”
But I need answers. Before the black hole of despair opening beneath me swallows me. “So I’m suddenly a Transformist, and super strong, and it’s all because of something that happened in the last two hundred years that I can’t remember, that may or may not be related to what I knew as Rebecca. Which I didn’t tell you.” I look over at him and can’t keep myself from pushing a golden lock of hair off his sharp cheekbone. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
Something sure as hell bothered him down in Daniel’s office.
Logan pulls his hands away, and even though I’ve managed to get his attention, I wish he was still touching me. He’s silent for a long time, then, thankfully, his hands return to my hips, gripping them tightly as though for balance. “It is strange,” he finally says. “And I don’t like that we’re different now. We’ve always been the same, more or less.” He moves closer, looking serious, but a tic at the corner of his mouth gives him away an instant before he bends low and scoops me against his chest. I let out a gasp and twine my arms around his neck, my heart pounding in both surprise and delight. “Plus, I’m a guy; I’ll always hate that I’m weak and you’re strong. But I guess it’s a taste of my own medicine. Probably good for me,” he adds with a grimace that I can’t help but giggle at.
“But it doesn’t change things,” he says, angling himself over me again. “And it certainly doesn’t change how I feel about you. I love you.” He pauses, and he’s practically sitting on my thighs as he looks down at me with a devotion that almost—almost—makes me uncomfortable. “I love you so much it almost hurts to be in a different room. Like earlier today, when they separated us for our exams. It was like my life just paused because you weren’t with me. So, yes, you’re different—the problems with your brain make you more . . . more human, I guess, but this new transforming thing makes you all the more godlike.”
After a pause that may have been broken by several kisses down the side of my neck, he whispers, “It gives you a chance to do really cool things.” He smiles now, and it’s like the sun rose in our room. “And if I’m a little jealous, well, can you blame me?” And then he’s kissing me again, his hands fumbling at my buttons with an urgency that tells me he’s ready to be finished talking. “I bet you could use a nice long bath,” he says in a whisper. “You took care of this room; I don’t mind being in charge of the bathroom.” He rises from the bed, letting his hands run over my entire body, from shoulders to toes. “You still like the water super hot?” he asks with a boyish grin.
I nod, then watch as he lifts his arms over his head and strips off his T-shirt.
Will that ever get old? I hope not.
My eyes follow his bare back all the way through the bathroom doorway. Then my brow wrinkles. Even in familiar surroundings, everything I do with Logan has the odd feel of being an actress in a play. I want him, I love being with him, I know the women in my head love him. But do I love him? I must.
I certainly feel something! And what other word could describe this immense, overwhelming feeling?
It seems strange to even question it after everything we’ve done in the last few days. After everything he just said to me. And it’s not that I regret anything we’ve done together—not a single moment of it. It’s just that I sense there should be more. I wonder why I don’t seem to feel as deeply as Logan does.
But then, is it me he loves, or the woman I’ve been for thousands and thousands of years? And is that person really all that different from who I am now?
I hate that I can’t remember. It’s like I’m a thousand-piece puzzle, but as Tavia, only ten of the pieces are there.
I try to shake away my doubt-filled thoughts. If he loves even this broken, all-too-human version of me, isn’t that proof that he loves all of me? And how foolish would I have to be to turn away the most eternal, perfect love in the world?
With a smile and a new spurt of cheer, I pad barefoot across the smooth wooden floor to the sound of running water.
And the soft scent of Rebecca’s favorite soap.
SIXTEEN
“You hungry?” I call as I towel my damp hair, sitting cross-legged on our bed in a newly created pair of yoga pants and tank top that do not match the decor. But please, corsets and woolen undies? Let’s just say ladies’ wear has come a long way since Rebecca’s time. Still, the combination is nice: quaint and homey, but all about comfort.
“Starving,” Logan says, striding in from the bathroom in loose breeches that are very reminiscent of our setting. He lifts an eyebrow. “I made breakfast; you want to make dinner?”
I laugh and say, “Sure,” but realize I have no idea what he likes. I consider making
him a cheeseburger and fries but stop myself just in time. They’re not Logan’s favorites. I clear my throat and push my memories of sharing french fries with Benson aside. Way aside. “So . . . what are you in the mood for?” I ask, seriously wondering what this person I’ve spent the night with likes to munch on.
Our relationship is so weird—we know so little about each other and yet have spent lifetimes together. We feel so deeply for each other but have been a couple so short a time that we still haven’t made it past the slightly awkward stage. Or the I-want-to-grab-your-face-and-kiss-you-every-moment-of-the-day stage, I think ruefully as I watch him stretch his long arms before yanking on a loose T-shirt.
I’ve seen the other Earthbounds around here, and most of them are not nearly as amazingly hot as Logan. I count my blessings that even if fate or luck—or whatever—had to deal me such a shitty hand in this life, at least the guy I get to be with forever is seriously smoking. Makes one believe in karma.
“When you were Rebecca you used to make me these awesome venison sandwiches, remember?” he asks.
I should. I should remember. And if I sit here long enough and sift through memories, I probably will.
But I need to get some food into him a little sooner than that.
“What else was on it?” I ask, in what’s probably a really obviously faux-casual tone as I wrack my brain trying to recall if I’ve ever eaten venison. It feels even sillier to not be able to remember when I’m sitting in a replica of my old life. But I’m not coming up with anything.
“You don’t know?” he asks, his eyes darting over to me with a flash of worry.
“Not . . . really,” I say slowly. “It’s—well, my therapist, who’s dead now, thought it was because of the—the brain thing,” I say in a mumble, realizing just how full of crazy that sentence was.
His jaw muscles flex a few times, not like he’s mad, but like he’s thinking. Then he smiles, and all the tension melts off his face. “I got it,” he says, and before I know it he’s holding two pieces of coarse brown bread with a huge hunk of meat in between them covered in a sauce I don’t recognize. There’s not a slice of tomato or lettuce in sight. He takes a bite and groans in pleasure. “Damn, I forgot how good these are,” he says. “Do you want one?”