“Fair enough. But what about a stranger? Now that we’re out for a few days, might be a good time to test it.”
My mind jumps immediately to Jude, whose number is up, so to speak, in only a few months. I hate that I know that, and there’s not much my heart wants more than to be able to change the outcome of his death at age eighteen. But trying means having hope and failing means dashing that hope to smithereens. Maybe I need to have more courage, to use my ability more often so I can see if there’s a way to harness it.
“What about that guy? Um, the one who showed up at the warehouse. You know about his…death. Now that you’re stronger, you might see more.”
I close my eyes and try to flick away the images of him bleeding in the purple hydrangeas, me standing over him. With a gun.
I don’t think I want to see more.
“Jude.” I may not have any intention of touching Jude Greene again if I can help it, but Goose bringing him up encourages me to voice an idea. “I was thinking he might be able to help us find Dane.”
“Really?”
My throat tightens at the excitement in Goose’s eyes. It means the possibility of talking to Jude again just crawled toward likely. “Yes. They let him go, but he knows about us. About what we can do. There’s no way they’re not keeping tabs, which means Jude probably knows how to contact Dane, or at least the CIA.”
“And you’re okay with seeing Jude? Asking him for help finding Dane?”
A memory of Dane Lee seated on a cold stone bench in the creeptastic yet beautiful Unitarian graveyard sends a shiver down my spine. The warm December sunshine strikes his glossy black hair, and his matching, bright eyes reflect understanding and concern—he promises that not fitting in right away isn’t the same as not fitting in at all, and that, at seventeen, no one expects me to have all of the answers.
It’s still hard, reconciling the Dane who put me at ease without even trying, who I thought had been my friend, with the Dane who had been lying the entire time in order to make sure the government didn’t lose a potential Asset.
The second one is the real Dane Lee. I know that. But I can’t shake the idea that maybe, just maybe, it’s possible that he’s a little bit of both.
“Earth to Gypsy…” Goose’s smile is lopsided, but there’s real concern in his chocolate gaze.
I shrug, unwilling to make a promise my heart might break. “No, I’m not okay with it. I don’t want to talk to either of them. But I’ll do it.”
He nods, understanding etched on his face. The twins were as okay as I was in the real world, but they weren’t as sorry to leave it. I wonder if he and Athena are at all worried about their hacker friend, the one who helped us crack the security on Dane’s laptop once we found out he was CIA, but I can’t remember his name so I don’t ask.
“You should go tonight. We’re coming up mostly empty with the internet. We need the information the CIA has on the Olders and honestly, now that we know something about Hatfield and the GRH-18, we have something to trade.”
“Yeah.” I worry my bottom lip. “There might be a basketball game or something.”
Jude’s the star of the high school basketball team, and even though his grades were declining fast before I left—his father can’t afford the school any longer and Jude doesn’t want him to feel guilty about it so has been trying to flunk out—I doubt he could have done enough damage in half a semester to get booted off the team.
“Well, look it up.” Goose gives me a crooked smile. “I have to say, I have missed cyberspace, even if it can literally fry your brain now.”
I wrinkle my nose but pull up the Charleston Academy website. There is a basketball game tonight, but it’s at home and an early one, six p.m. It’s a simple guess that everyone will head to Kaminsky’s for ice cream and coffee afterward, so I’m guessing he should be home before nine, just like the other night.
“We need to find someplace to stay, too,” I remind him. “Since you’re useless as far as research, apparently, how about you figure out the best homeless shelter in town. I mean the swankiest one, Goose. No fooling.”
“Now that sounds like a job for me.”
Pollyanna and Mole come through the kitchen, their laughter bouncing off the stainless appliances and ceramic floors, announcing their arrival. The racket wakes up Haint, and the twins and I put down our devices, ready for a break.
“Hey,” Polly says, a little breathless. She’s even more beautiful than usual with her cheeks pink from the cold, and I think for a brief, weird moment that I’m glad Mole can’t see her.
Which is awful, to be thankful for his blindness, but whatever.
“Hey,” I reply with a smile. It’s an attempt to make up for my horrible thought. “How was the walk?”
“Invigorating,” Mole replies, his sightless eyes chasing my voice. He looks better than yesterday, much improved since Madeline gave him the super dose of GRH-18, but he’s still too pale for comfort. “And we had a thought.”
“The two of you had one thought?” Goose grins. “That’s scary, my friend. You shouldn’t admit to having the same things going on in your head as in Pollyanna’s. She’s crazy cakes.”
Polly launches the nearest throw pillow at his face but Goose has already moved, standing over by Athena at the windows before the pillow hits the back of the sofa. It bounces onto my lap and she frowns.
“What’s the idea?” Haint prods us toward productivity, as usual.
“That maybe we should practice sparring.” Pollyanna sucks in a breath, not pausing long enough for anyone to interrupt. “Gypsy’s dad has a shed out back that probably has some tools in it, or maybe we could use kitchen knives or whatever.”
“We thought the training was a good idea,” Mole adds. “Most of us are too dependent on our abilities to help us out of sticky situations, and if the CIA has a nullifying serum, who’s to say other people don’t, too? Or that some people might be naturally immune?”
Pollyanna casts a glance his direction. “We also think everyone should go back on the GRH-18. At least until we’re done dealing with the CIA or can be sure we won’t need to heal quickly.”
If they’re waiting for any of us to argue, they must be disappointed. Their reasoning is sound, especially for someone like me who doesn’t have a talent to fall back on for defense. As far as the drugs, I’ve been thinking the same thing, even if it does let the Olders track us. They found us without it last December, and there’s not a doubt in my mind they could do it again.
“Yeah, okay. That sounds like a good idea.” Athena gets up, stretching his long legs. His quick agreement reminds me that we’re in the same boat, even if his super hearing is still the far more desirable ability.
“Let’s go check out the shed, then.” Polly purses her lips, her gaze falling to our closed laptops. “If y’all are ready for a break.”
We traipse out through the screened-in porch at the back of the house, across the brittle, frosty lawn, and into the blue shed that, thankfully, isn’t locked.
I never came in here while I was staying with my father in Charleston—he said he kept gardening and yard tools inside, and since it was winter and he employs a gardener, there was no reason to go snooping.
It’s a good thing I didn’t, too, because my overactive imagination might have come to the conclusion that my father is a serial killer based on all of the potential weapons hanging on the walls.
The shed is as clean as an outbuilding gets, the floors swept, everything organized. Hoses, saws, an axe, shovels, and a bunch of other crap hang on the slatted walls, and there’s a bench at the rear of the space that’s covered with drills and a nail gun and a scattering of small power tools.
“Dude, this is like Jeffrey Dahmer’s wet dream,” Athena comments, picking up a curved saw with a nasty-looking blade. “Wait, is he the one who cut up his victims?”
“You might be thinking of Hannibal Lecter,” Goose helps.
“He ate his victims, numbnuts.” Pollyanna
trails a finger over the blade of the axe.
“You’re telling me he didn’t need to cut them up first?” Athena gives her a look, like duh, and she shakes her head, looking a little green.
Haint frowns. “Let’s get serious. Whatever weapon you choose, make sure you can control it because we don’t have time to clean up messes. Or take a side trip to the hospital.”
“And try to keep it down. Don’t smash weapons together if you can help it,” I caution. “Most people probably aren’t home, but no reason to draw extra attention.”
Everyone selects something to fight with and we pair up. I’m across from Goose this time, even though after his performance with Pollyanna the other day, I feel as though I could do with more of a challenge. He’s wielding a pair of hedge clippers while I face him with a sharp spade with a handle that’s just long enough to keep me out of his reach.
Pollyanna challenges Mole, which leaves Athena across from Haint, who, lucky for him, is almost totally visible now. They’ve got hands full of saws, a length of pipe, and one shovel that looks like it weighs more than I do.
“Ready?” Goose raises his eyebrows at me, and I nod.
The clang of metal-on-metal suggests the others have started warming up, too, but from the moment Goose makes a move, everything else fades out.
He feints to the left, a choice that he betrayed seconds before actually doing it, and I’m waiting for him with a smack to the kidney. Goose grunts and falls backward, leaving me room to move in for another tap, this time to the gut. I’m touching him hard enough to make him feel it but not rough enough to really hurt him.
He regains his footing and lunges toward me, hedge clippers aimed at my neck. I fall sideways, shrieking when a chunk of my long, dark hair falls to the dusty floor. “Hey!”
Goose grunts in response, still trying to subdue me with his ridiculous choice of weapon, but losing some of my hair only makes me focus harder. I spin to one side as he rushes me, leaving me at his back, where I plant a firm foot in his backside and shove. He topples forward onto his face, clippers skittering across the floor, and rolls over to find the tip of my spade inches from his nose.
His hands go up, a lopsided smile emerging through a grimace. “Uncle.”
I wipe my sleeve across my forehead. “Good. Let’s go again.”
“Give me a minute.” Goose groans, rolling over onto his belly and then pushing up to all fours.
While he’s getting himself together, I check on everyone else’s progress. Haint and Athena are pretty evenly matched, both of them starting to sweat now as neither can get the upper hand, no matter how hard they work. Pollyanna and Mole are a different story. She gets the drop on him every time, and in the thirty or sixty seconds I watch them spar, she knocks him down four times. He keeps getting up, his jaw clenched and determination in his green eyes, but she doesn’t take it easy on him.
Not that I would expect her to. It’s Pollyanna, and anyway, what good is practicing with each other if we’re not going to face a challenge?
“He’s not doing too well, is he?” Goose is up, standing at my shoulder, his voice low.
Athena jerks at the sound, obviously attuned to the exact timbre of his twin’s voice, and it gives Haint the moment of advantage she needs to whack him in the spine with her pipe.
“Victory!” she crows.
He glares at her, rubbing his spine, but then we’re all watching Mole and Polly.
“I mean, he’s got a distinct disadvantage at hand fighting,” I mutter back to Goose, answering his original question.
“But he always seems to sense our movements so well, even though he can’t, you know, see us. I thought he would be able to pick this up.”
Pollyanna knocks him down again and turns to the rest of us, eyebrow raised in a silent challenge. None of us says anything and Mole rolls to his feet again, settling into a defensive stance.
Polly waves a hand in his direction. “No, let’s take a break or switch it up.”
The press of Mole’s lips says he wants to argue but is holding it back. In the silence, we take Polly’s suggestion, trading partners and going at it again as the late-afternoon sunlight grows weaker outside our tiny, dusty training ground.
The shelter Goose chose after an extensive five minutes of research isn’t the worst place in the world. There were more people here for dinner than I expected, but it’s slowed down for the night. A few men huddle in blankets having a chat, and a filthy young mother breastfeeds an infant while a toddler sleeps with his head on her knee. The workers have mostly gone home, but I doubt anyone would have noticed me leaving or cared to ask where and why even if the place had been packed.
A sharp chill sweeps into Charleston, along with a few clouds obscuring the moon as I hike the several blocks to Jude’s house. It’s not that late—a few minutes after nine—so he should be home or on his way there, at least. The streets are quiet since the entire city closes its doors against the nighttime when there aren’t tourists to entertain.
Then, instead of hiding behind the live oak across the street, I’m standing in front of the shambling single-story house staring at dark windows. Nothing moves inside, or in the yard, and for long moments I breathe the cold air in, blow it out, and try not to wish my life was completely different.
The front door swings open, and Jude’s tall, broad frame fills the doorway. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me gawking at him from the end of the driveway, despite the fact that it’s been weeks since we’ve spoken, and for a long moment, neither of us moves.
Then Jude bends his knees and plops down on the short, concrete step in front of the door. Unlike the grandeur of the houses in the historical district, including my father’s, Jude’s house has no sweeping patio or porch, no second-floor piazza designed to welcome a breeze on a sweltering summer day.
The single stoop seems altogether less inviting with Jude watching me, no smile of welcome or even surprise at seeing me here basically stalking him after ruining his life. He’s just watching me stand here like an idiot, and eventually my feet take control of my body, planting one in front of the other until I’m standing a couple of feet away, nerves jangling through my limbs. I wring my hands, glance around the yard, then back at the boy who kissed me just days before Christmas. The boy who gave me perfect gifts and said beautiful things and made me yearn harder than ever for some other seventeen-year-old’s life.
“Hey,” I mumble, my voice soft and odd to my ears.
“Hi.” His reply sounds gruff, as though begrudging me even that small response. “Sit?”
He doesn’t ask what I’m doing here, but maybe Maya told him I’ve been spying from across the street like some kind of deranged shadow.
Or maybe he doesn’t care.
I sit on the porch beside him, careful to leave at least six inches of space between his left hip and my right, which is about all the extra space the concrete allows. It transfers a chill through my jeans to my skin, but the cold helps jar my brain into focus. It doesn’t do anything for the anxiety twisting my stomach up like a dishrag, or stop my hands from shaking like leaves in a fall storm, but those are pretty average reactions to being in close proximity to Jude Greene.
We’re in some kind of standoff with unspoken rules, but one thing’s for sure—the boy sitting here might affect me like the old Jude, but Peter’s right that he’s different. He hasn’t offered the barest smile. He hasn’t touched me or asked me how I am or where I’ve been.
It makes me worry all over again that the government has gotten to him. Changed him or the way he thinks about the world. The way he thinks about me.
More likely he’s just pissed off at me for not telling him the whole truth, or like Maya, for leaving and disconnecting my phone at the same time.
The quiet has gone on for too long. If it stretches any further I’m afraid it will open its jaws wide enough to swallow whole the friendship we built with such care, brick by brick from the ground up, during the month of Decem
ber.
I can’t imagine anything much worse, so I swallow hard and do my best to muzzle the silent beast. “How are you?”
Jude snorts as though on instinct but seems to consider a more thoughtful response. “I’m still here. Which is more than I can say for my father.”
My heart stops in my chest, and the world blurs at the edges of my vision. “What?”
“He said he was going out to Darley the morning after…the whole warehouse thing went down. He never came home.”
It’s hard to breathe, hard to imagine what he’s been going through or why on earth Maya didn’t mention anything about Mr. Greene going missing. “Oh my lands, Jude. Do you know what happened to him?”
I’ve been trying not to look at him. My heart and high-flying emotions are easier to control without the reminder of how utterly handsome he is, how his kind eyes burrow straight through any resolve I have to keep him at arm’s length. A tiny voice from the depths tries to remind me that none of what’s happened is my fault, and that it’s happened to me, too, but the vision of me standing over Jude’s dead body brings with it a guilt that trumps everything else.
It takes every last ounce of courage to look Jude in the face. It’s the same as I remember but changed, too, with the pain and accusation in his eyes. They leave no room for any good humor or affection in an expression so twisted by misery and guilt.
“Yes. And I know what happened to you, too, in case you’re wondering. Nice that you and your friends are tucked away all comfy and safe in the country while my dad’s rotting in a government facility, probably being tortured for information he never had.”
I swallow again, trying to dispel the bile coating my throat. When I’d met Mr. Greene he’d been a sweet, if scattered, man who seemed more like a child than a grown-up. Thinking of him hurt or confused stings my eyes with tears, even if he is the one who started this whole mess.
Facing this Jude who’s totally new to me, one that’s angry and bitter, does nothing to salve my swollen throat.
The fact that what I want to ask most is how he knows where we’ve gone, and not what’s happened to his father, blackens my insides with a stain that’s been growing every day. “Who told you what happened to us after we left the warehouse?”
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