The Philosopher answers in my mind as sharp as if he stands in front of me, dark eyes blazing with what I’d assumed for so long was passionate concern.
Why should you care about what happens to them, Gypsy? They don’t care what happens to you.
“This is great and all,” Mole begins. It’s so clear to me that he’s working hard to keep his voice strong and nonchalant—normal Mole—but his energy is dipping. “But why should we trust you when you’ve done nothing but keep things from us since we met?”
“Yeah, and by met he means grabbed us on the street and stabbed us in the neck with hypodermic needles,” Goose spits.
“Filled with experimental drugs,” Pollyanna adds for good measure.
Chameleon pinches the bridge of his nose, again playing the father losing his patience. “You are Cavies. We are Cavies. None of us has a life that is ours alone. You were most likely told this from a young age, but your brief stint in the real world gave you ideas. Ideas that you deserve answers to your questions, that you have a choice other than to continue to be living, breathing experiments. Do not believe it.”
It’s a crap answer, one that brings my blood to a raging boil. How dare he suggest we have no right to decide for ourselves where we go from here? That we don’t deserve to know what we are, the extent of our capabilities, and who is interested in enhancing and researching them.
The bottom line is that he’s not giving us a single reason to trust him or the others sitting with us in this graveyard. Maybe that’s his point. That we can’t trust anyone, and he’s not exempt.
It’s not a fun thing to contemplate, but maybe that’s just our reality. After all, I couldn’t even trust my friends in Charleston, or my father, with the truth, instead spinning a web of lies to ensure they can’t get in.
Because, at the end of the day, the truth doesn’t belong to just me. It belongs to all of us, every Cavy, and since our secrets put us all in jeopardy, they aren’t mine to tell.
“What about Flicker?” Pollyanna asks, her blue eyes as fragile as a robin’s egg in the light of the rising moon. The Olders’ eyes stray to Fake Flicker, who startles just enough to prove our point.
I catch the redheaded woman from earlier, the one who tried to help Mole after his seizure, watching me with an expectant gaze. She doesn’t look away, raising her eyebrows at me instead. As if she’s impressed.
“What about her?” Chameleon asks.
I glare at him and his eyes lock on mine like a missile. My heart thuds but I push away the idea that revealing our hand will make them turn on us, on the offensive. If we want to be equals in this game, we need to start demanding to be treated that way. “We know she’s upstairs in that sensory deprivation tank,” I snap, pointing at Fake Flicker. “That one’s a fake.”
Chameleon sends a tired nod toward Fake Flicker, and Sepasiph emerges from inside Flicker’s likeness. Once she’s standing in front of us, I give her a long look. Nothing about her posture or expression suggests she’s sorry for lying—or for basically spying on us for the past two weeks—but I guess she doesn’t have a reason to be. In her mind.
It only fuels my rage. “Why didn’t you tell us you had her? And if the GRH-18 fixes us, makes us stronger and more able to control our mutations, why aren’t you helping her?”
“Your friends at the CIA could tell you more about the first years that your teleporter was away from Darley.” Chameleon nods to Mist, the tall, lanky, quiet Older to his left. “He encountered her while on a mission for them—she was injured when we brought her here. We put her in a medically induced coma and into the tank to ensure she wouldn’t teleport during her distress.”
“But you’ve been giving her the GRH-18, right?” I ask, waiting to see if they’ll keep lying. “So, why is she still in a coma?”
“Your Flicker is the first Unstable Cavy we’ve had the privilege of hosting, but our research in the area is far from complete. We’re not certain the GRH-18 would be strong enough to keep her here in her current, semiconscious state. It seemed better to study her until we’re sure we won’t lose her again.”
“So, you’re just planning on letting her rot away in there?” Polly asks.
“On the contrary. If the seven of you would like to take responsibility for her safety, we will bring her out of the coma immediately.” Chameleon gives us a smile that’s all teeth and ghoulish in the half darkness. “Of course, should you choose to leave Saint Stephen’s, we will have to discuss your continued access to GRH-18.”
“Fine.” My teeth are clenched, my heart pounding as though it wants to explode in the face of their shameless manipulation. “We don’t want it.”
“Are you sure?” His beady gaze flicks to Mole, then to where Haint hovers invisibly at my side, her hot breath on the side of my neck.
“Yes.” Mole’s knuckles are white as he grips the edge of the headstone behind him. He’s barely holding himself up.
It’s a tad odd that they don’t seem all that concerned about being lit on fire, but maybe they’re confident in their own abilities to counteract any loss of control on our parts.
Nerves rattle around in my middle, because there’s always a chance that just because the Olders have lied about some things doesn’t mean they’re lying about trying to help us. If the GRH-18 lets us heal quickly, if it improves our talents and lets us access them around the CIA, maybe we shouldn’t be so hasty.
Not to mention, he didn’t lie about the adverse effects. Mole and Haint are proof enough of that.
“We won’t be around to assist you in the coming days, I’m afraid; most of us will be leaving in the morning on business. I cannot say when we’ll return.” He frowns, clearly unhappy about whatever turn of events is taking them away. He hadn’t seemed that upset about it in his office earlier, but something has changed. “If you would like to come with me, I’ll show you how to wean your friend off the drugs immediately.”
Chapter Seven
We enjoy an extra couple hours of sleep the next morning since the Olders aren’t around to insist we all attend breakfast at seven a.m., but it doesn’t do me much good. My head’s loaded with clacking marbles the next morning, and my mouth feels like I’ve spent the last week trekking through the Sahara instead of taking part in minimally invasive medical testing.
It might be that I’m coming down with something, or the stress might be getting to me.
Or the GRH-18 injections are altering even more than we suspect.
I don’t want to think about the last option, especially since today will be day two of detox, so I pop three ibuprofen, chug a big glass of water, and spend too long in the bath.
The other girls are awake and dressed by the time I shuffle back down the hall and into our room—at least, I assume Haint’s awake and moving based on the soft thuds around her bed and the sound of her breath.
None of us speaks, and the silence makes me yearn for the days at Darley Hall when we never shut up for more than a collective two minutes straight. Sure, Pollyanna always had something snotty to say, and maybe Reaper had to try harder than the rest of us to come up with funny banter, but we were comfortable. If not with who and what we were, then at least with one another. Back then we knew the days wouldn’t hold anything we couldn’t handle.
I go over to my dresser and start getting ready for the day, but all I can think about is how much I hate what Jude’s father did to us when his reporter nose and conspiracy theories led him to our lifelong sanctuary. But it’s not fair to blame him. Leaving Darley didn’t do this to us.
The Philosopher, and the Professor, and the Scientist did. They started all this when they lied about our origins, about what the CIA would one day expect. They left us without defenses, without the equipment and knowledge we need to navigate the perilous waters filled with sharks on all sides.
An idea brews in the back of my mind, one that could be a compromise between staying to help Flicker—who was still comatose when we went to bed last night—and leav
ing to find out what we can on our own. If we had access to the internet, we could try to find out who’s funding the research here, and if we could find Dane Lee we could ask him more about what working for the CIA would entail.
The Olders said the government is going to ask for our help, maybe even with this current computer virus. We need to be prepared with the right answer.
Anything we learn would be more than we know, and we can’t keep sitting here letting other people—people who may not have our best interests at heart—spoon-feed us information when they feel like it and think it’s okay to keep us in the dark about our own bodies.
We trudge down the hallway in a group, headed for breakfast, and find the boys at our regular table. It’s the only thing about the room that’s familiar, since there are only two Olders present. One of them is the redhead from the graveyard—she’s also the one who stopped Flicker’s medicine last night and gave us the files outlining her care. I’m not sure what this woman’s talent is but she’s younger than most of the Olders, with freckles so thick you can barely tell the color of her skin.
The other left-behind Older is Gills. The hippie wannabe that we met in Charleston last month doesn’t look up when we enter the room.
“Walk,” Polly mutters, poking me in the ribs.
I do as I’m told, mostly because her finger feels like a knife in my kidney, and we get plates of bread and butter and scrambled eggs and sit down. The sight of Mole hunched across from me drives all thought of plans and scheming right out of my mind. He looks worse than he did yesterday after his seizure—worse than I’ve ever seen him look. Instead of merely pale, the skin on his face is dry, stretched over his cheekbones. His familiar sightless, pea-green eyes are bloodshot and ringed by deep-purple wreaths.
“Oh my God,” Haint wheezes out of thin air, sounding almost as horrified as I feel.
Mole is the strong one. The steady one. The one who keeps me together, who knows all the right questions and manages to ask them with the right dose of humor. To see him like this—frail, so not himself—scares me so much it’s hard to breathe.
“Good gravy boats, Gypsy. Is that the face you’re going to wear to my funeral? Because I’ve got to say, you’re going to regret it when you see the pictures.” His faint smile turns into a cough.
“You can’t see my face, moron,” I squeak, trying my hardest to act normal.
“I can sense it. It has a miserable vibe about it. Like gamey meat.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Exactly.”
“Mole…”
“Drop it.” His teeth are clenched, but it’s hard to say if it’s because of my reaction or the pain. “I’ll be fine. It was a rough night, that’s all.”
In an instant, my fear is gone. Lifted from my shoulders and replaced with a buoyant glee that paints a giant, goofy smile on my face. I can’t even remember what was bothering me a moment ago, honestly.
Then my gaze lands on Mole, and something about the way he looks sends the slightest concern through my mind before it’s gone again.
I realize what’s happening and grit my teeth, trying to glare at Pollyanna but smiling harder instead. “Stop it.”
“What?”
“Pollyanna.” I press my lips together, fighting her control.
She shrugs and the smile drops from my face. My cheeks ache and I rub them, struggling to control the crash of my emotions. My eyes prick with tears at the strength of the flood, the return of worry and fear.
“That wasn’t cool.” Goose glares at Polly for me.
“Hey, she looked like she was about to melt down. I was only trying to help.”
“How about I help you in the sparring ring tomorrow?” I challenge, still pissed.
“You’re on,” she sneers back.
“Okay, you two, seriously,” Mole rasps, looking exhausted. “Give it a rest. Pollyanna, I know there’s no Professor to rein you in now, so how about you do a better job controlling yourself?”
She doesn’t reply, pouting into her bread and butter. When everyone has dug in, I clear my throat, reminding myself that there was something I wanted to bring up, that, given Mole’s condition, is more important than ever.
The sound is like a thunderclap among the quiet scrape of forks against plates, and everyone stops eating to look at me. Strange that there’s really no reason to wait until we’re alone now that we have no more secrets from the Olders, but even so, I keep my voice low.
“I wanted to talk to y’all about something.”
“What?” Mole asks, perking up a little. Despite our win last night regarding Flicker, I can’t be the only one feeling more trapped than ever.
“I know we’re committed to helping Flicker out of the coma and getting her stable—and I’m on board with that. But what if there was a way to do that and try to figure out which side is the right one before the CIA asks us to help, maybe with this computer virus?”
Pollyanna frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“We could go to Charleston, maybe Beaufort. Grab the twins’ computers and mine, a couple of iPads. Try to get some more information.” I pause. “Not to mention, we have the name Hatfield now. I’d like to find out exactly who they are and why they have an interest in Saint Stephen’s. And us. The more we know, the more leverage we have against everyone.”
“If we find Hatfield, we might be able to find someone who can help Flicker. Really help her.” Pollyanna perks up, looking interested in my idea for the first time.
Athena pales, so much that he goes almost transparent. “You want to use computers while a virus is going around the world killing people through their computers?”
“I don’t think it could be that pervasive or you would have heard more specifics. There would be alerts telling people to stay off the internet,” I reason, dismissing his worry even though my gut senses it’s a risk. “Aren’t you tired of being everyone’s pawns? We’re not without power here—we just have to figure out what weapons we have and how to wield them.”
Mole nods. “I agree.”
“So do I,” Geoff adds. “But I’ll be honest, learning more about our own origins intrigues me more than researching this virus or whatever it is. Let the government worry about terrorists.”
“You know,” Goose adds, thoughtful. “While we’re in town it might not be the worst thing to look up Dane Lee.”
Everyone’s eyes trail my direction at the mention of Dane, even now that they’re aware his recruitment speech worked on Reaper, not on me.
My stomach hurts at the mention of Dane Lee. When it comes to him, my feelings and thoughts and anger have snarled into such a tight ball that there’s no way to untangle them. All I know for sure is that when I saw him lying there, stabbed and bleeding in that warehouse, I didn’t like it.
And that makes me angrier than anything else.
I shake the lingering discomfort away and shrug, trying to force disinterest. “I was thinking that, too. He’d be a good place to start, but the CIA might not have kept him on our case or in Charleston?”
“We don’t know,” Mole tries, his hand snaking my direction but stopping short of my bare skin. “But it can’t hurt to check. He might be willing to tell us a few things about the Olders, since they’ve been dealing with them longer.”
Dane had told me more than once not to trust the Olders. That they weren’t what they seemed, that they wouldn’t help us unless something was in it for them. He was right, of course, and it’s easy to assume the government knows more about our new benefactors than they’re saying.
“I’m sure the government knows more about the Olders than we do,” I concede. “Whether Dane will tell us anything is the bigger mystery.”
“And more about Darley Hall and Saint Catherine’s,” Geoff adds.
“Okay, okay.” Polly pinches the bridge of her nose. “But what about Flicker?”
“We won’t be gone long, and maybe one of us could stay here and look after her.”
“How would we even get into town?” Haint’s disembodied voice wonders. “We’re close enough to maybe walk to Beaufort, but even that would take a whole day.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, knowing they’re not going to understand why I kept my visits from them. I’m not even sure I understand it myself, but the time has come to talk about it. We need to do this, and I can help it happen faster.
“The Olders have a car in the barn,” I mumble. “It’s not the ones they use to run errands. It’s pretty beat up, but it works.”
Their mouths drop and eyes narrow, asking the silent question of how I know this and why I’m just telling them about it now.
“I’ve been back to Charleston a few times,” I admit. “Just to…check on people.”
“But you don’t know how to drive!” Haint hisses.
“I do now… I mean, I don’t have a license, but it’s not that hard.”
“Oh my God. What if you had gotten arrested?” Geoff looks horrified at the prospect.
“I didn’t. And now two of us know how to drive and there’s a car that can get us into town. If we want to go.” I wonder if they’re upset about me driving or getting caught or the fact that, for the first time, I’ve kept something serious from them. It hurts my chest to think about hurting them.
Everyone’s silent for a few moments, but nobody keeps eating. Mole tosses the last bites of his bread back on his plate, and Goose pushes the dinnerware away from him. We’re all wondering if the risk could be worth the reward, but I don’t see how anyone could decide it’s not.
One by one, everyone nods.
Mole nods last, his sightless eyes locked on me. “Let’s go as soon as we can.”
“We need to keep an eye on Flicker, at least for the next day or so until she wakes up,” Pollyanna argues. “And who’s going to stay behind?”
“I’ll stay,” Geoff volunteers. “I spent more time around coma drugs than any of you.”
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