“Not a very talkative bunch, are you?” Del directs her next intel-gathering attempt at Shannon. But he doesn’t even acknowledge her question, indicating instead that the two of us should sit down and wait. Del turns to me. “The stuff we have to go through to donate some blood around here! I bet they won’t even give us juice and cookies afterward.”
Quiet still, Shannon steps outside the observation room but is quick to return, carrying a large office binder and leaving us no time to snoop around.
He comes to me first and wedges some papers into my hands. I quickly sign the standard-seeming forms, the pen nearly tearing a hole when I apply too much force. The entire time, Shannon keeps his eyes trained on my shoulder, avoiding my face. I look up at him in surprise when he starts talking. “As you’re probably aware, Promise is under scientific observation. Here at the base, we double as a blood donation clinic and research facility. The document you just signed is a release form, allowing us to use some of your blood for research purposes.”
“Whoa, wait a moment there, soldier,” Del protests just as I’m about to ask Shannon why he thinks I’m probably aware that Promise is under scientific observation. “It says here that Promise is under some kind of observation.” Del points an accusing finger at the form. At least one of us bothered to read it. I feel all idiotic now, having signed a form without knowing what it said. Doreen would be horrified.
“Yes, I believe I just said that.” Shannon studies Del, a mix of amusement and annoyance in his eyes. I want to scream in frustration. We’ve only been reunited for a few minutes and his aloof manner is already driving me mad.
Del ignores his jab and rolls her eyes. “And it says there are potential risks to new arrivals who haven’t been exposed to Promise’s air pathogens from birth.… Risks like hallucinations and bouts of sleepwalking. Seriously, dude? Is there anything you should’ve told us about before we came into your creepy little tent? Maybe your people could’ve put a little warning sign right next to the one that says WELCOME TO PROMISE.” Del glares at Shannon before meeting my eyes. “Don’t know about you, but—”
“Blood is how we track the pathogens,” Shannon says slowly, careful to choose his words. He looks at me directly and adds, “I’m not sure exactly why you’re so surprised about this place, but I’ll make it quick since your friend’s clearly in a hurry to leave.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me.” Del stands up. “I’m most definitely not letting you poke me with a needle. I’ll even go so far as to say I don’t believe for a second that any of the blood collected here ever reaches a hospital. So I’ll just wait outside for Hayden to finish. That is, if you’re really going through with this?” From her I-dare-you pose, which makes her look like an outraged kitten, I know Del’s not expecting the words I’m about to say. But I need to ask Shannon some questions, and the only way I see to do it is by staying here a little bit longer. And that means letting him jab me with a needle.
“I’ll meet you outside.”
She walks out of the tent, shaking her head. With Del gone, I’m about to face up to Shannon’s aloofness and ask if he remembers me, but I get distracted when he takes off his Windbreaker, revealing a simple black tee underneath. It’s not tight exactly, but it’s definitely snug against his chest and arms. When he sits on the cot by my side, a thin scar on the side of his face comes into view: a precise line that runs down his neck, just avoiding his jaw. Noticing me looking, he shifts his head, hiding the scar in the shadow of his chin.
“Why are you here, Hayden?” he asks.
With his hands now gloved in plastic, he pulls up my sleeve and adjusts a tourniquet over my arm. His cold fingers are quick, practiced. Parts of me are tense and parts are relaxed. I just hope I won’t blush or blurt out something inappropriate as he prods my skin, looking for a vein.
I take it from his question that (a) he does remember me, and (b) he’s not too thrilled about me being here. “Because I haven’t been here for a while,” I snap. “I don’t need your or anyone’s permission to come back.”
He flinches at my outburst, but he’s quick to regain his composure as he continues to run his fingers over my exposed skin. I react to his probing with a shiver and goose bumps. “Freezing in here,” I say when our shared silence becomes too loaded and heavy.
He drops my hand like it’s hot. I watch him grab his discarded Windbreaker and offer it to me. After I stare at Shannon dumbly for long enough, he places the Windbreaker around my shoulders, semihugging me briefly in the process. Done with his chivalrous act, he meticulously changes his gloves, then takes my hand again and disinfects the patch of my skin that he’s about to pierce with a needle.
“You looked confused when I mentioned our research here at the facility. So I take it that your sudden return to Promise has nothing to do with your father’s work?” Despite his gruff tone, his hands on me are gentle.
“My father’s work?”
“It’ll only hurt a little.” The needle pierces my vein and Shannon quickly attaches a collection tube. A sudden buzzing in my head and my stomach’s queasiness have nothing to do with the numbing sensation of warmth in my arm. Why would Shannon mention Dad’s research?
As Shannon releases the tourniquet and lets my blood flow, my body weakens and I sway in my seat, the room dancing before my eyes. Shannon’s at my side, close, his sudden warmth bringing me reassurance. “You’re all right?” His eyes roam over my face.
“All good.”
“Not going to faint on me, Hay?”
Hearing my old childhood nickname makes me giddy and sad. “Nope, Shan.”
Shannon’s mouth wants to smile, but it doesn’t quite happen. “What was that you said about my father’s work?” I ask carefully, really hoping I got it all wrong, that I misheard or misinterpreted.
Carefully, Shannon pulls the needle out of my vein and presses a cotton pad to the burning spot. Then he reaches for my other hand and places my fingers over the pad. Gently. “Press it like that,” he instructs, and my breath hitches. I watch him as he peels off his plastic gloves and throws them into a medical waste bin.
I repeat my question. I can’t say I’m ready for the bomb he drops, but it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise when he finally tells me, “I thought maybe you were accompanying Professor Holland on a data-collection trip this month. I thought one day you might, since he’s back here so regularly.”
What? Dad, back in Promise? What is going on?
21
SOME TRUTHS BUT MOSTLY SPECULATIONS
A new sensation—like the beginning of an earthquake, a rumble—starts in my chest. How much weirdness can I take today? What did my earlier encounter with Gabriel Diamond really mean? Did I actually find three vials of blood in the Manor’s basement?
And did Shannon just say my father’s been coming to Promise on a regular basis? To collect data?
As an afterthought, I note that Shannon’s wording also implies he’s been thinking about me, wondering when I’d come back to Promise, but I decide not to dwell too much on that one, at least not now.
Pressing the cotton too strongly against my pierced skin, I wince in pain. “‘This month’? As in, Dad comes here once a month? Every month?” The rumble in my chest deepens, and I imagine I can hear the wind outside intensify, as if in response to my inner turmoil. On cue, furious raindrops hit the tent, attacking it from all angles. “My father’s been coming to Promise for months? Or is it years?”
“Well, yeah.” Shannon keeps his eyes down as he puts away the blood collection equipment and then marks the tube containing my sample, his handwriting neat and boy-ish. “Professor Holland comes here once a month. You know, for his research. He’s been coming for years. The first time he returned was a few months after you left. I thought you knew.”
Am I being unnecessarily dramatic, feeling so betrayed by this news? So what’s the big deal—my father’s been coming here. For his research, Shannon says. Research? Unwilling to show Shannon how shaken u
p and hurt I really am, I hear myself say, my voice dead, rough, “It’s Doctor Holland.”
“Huh?” Having finished taking my blood and filing it, Shannon looks lost, unsure of what to do with me next.
“It’s Doctor Holland. Not professor anymore—doctor. He’s been stripped of his tenure. But they couldn’t take away the doctor title, because his PhD’s still legit. Though I’m sure they’d like to revoke that, too, if they could.” I make every they sound like I’m talking about a league of devils. But the harsh reality is, it’s my father who’s to blame for his fall from academic grace.
I have one of those nasty epiphany moments that paints my world black. “He stays in the Manor when he comes here, doesn’t he?”
“Well, yeah.” Shannon looks at me funny again, oblivious to the fire consuming my world.
I want to go outside, expose my face to the slashing rain and scream, My mother was in a cult and my father is a crank and a liar. I’ve got really good genes, don’t I?
To my astonishment, what pisses me off the most about Dad’s little secret is that for all these years he’s been using the Manor as his own personal retreat—stocking it with eggs and wine—and all the while placating me with his we-must-leave-Promise-behind rhetoric, preventing me from claiming the house Mom owned and willed to me. But who’s more pathetic in this scenario? Dad for lying to me, or me for eating it up like some dumb goldfish?
My vision grows cloudy, as if a thick, gray fog has come down like a veil over my eyes. My chest’s about to explode. Crap. I haven’t felt this angry for years. And I remember too well what happened the last time I got all explosive on the inside. Jen Rickman happened, that’s what. Outside, the rain and wind are howling in sync, singing an ode to my fury.
“Are you all right?” Concern in Shannon’s voice has a soothing effect on me. I take a long breath while he continues, “You just got superpale superquick. You are going to faint, aren’t you?”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off but without much gusto. “I just need to get out of here.” I stand up and go stumbling toward where I think the exit is. Shannon follows, keeping close, probably scared to be held liable if I fall and break my head open.
“Your father’s research is important, Hayden,” he says, as if he could read my earlier thoughts.
Without slowing down, I fire back, “My dad’s been laughed at and ridiculed by his former colleagues and students for as long as I remember. But that all pales in comparison with the fact that he’s been lying to me about coming to Promise for years!”
“You didn’t know. That figures.”
I want to say something else—something dismissive—but I look back to catch a glimpse of Shannon’s expression, and its unexpected kindness stops me. I pause and turn to face Shannon, my heartbeat slowing down. “Well, thanks for the … personal treatment. It was nice to see you and all. But I want to get to the Manor before the weather gets any worse.”
The wind is wailing outside and I wonder how Del is holding up out there, especially since I have the car keys. She must be soaked by now. I’m about to walk off when Shannon asks, “Why are you really here, Hayden?”
Because my long-gone mother sent me on a creepy treasure hunt from beyond the grave.
Because I want to face my childhood demons.
Because not a day’s gone by since I left Promise that I didn’t think about you.
“Because Del and I have some time to kill over spring break, and Promise is as good a place as any,” I say.
With a nod, Shannon steps back, letting me go. If my dishonest answer has disappointed him, he doesn’t show it.
As I leave the tent, I hear the familiar, pompous notes of Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelung start to play. Haven’t heard that one in awhile. Also, not something you’d expect to hear at a militarized scientific base in the middle of the woods. Despite my determination to leave, I pause. In response, my heart quiets, and that bad kind of fog that was clouding my vision only seconds ago dissipates completely. Wagner’s subtle sounds, growing inspired, gain force, bringing Mom to my mind. In the months leading up to her disappearance, she’d listen to Wagner’s Nibelungen over and over again, enough times for some of her favorite pieces to become recurring earworms for me in the years to come.
“It’s Wagner. My mother loved it,” Shannon says faintly, so close that I feel his hot breath on my neck. I turn and meet his stormy-sky eyes and experience a brief but all-consuming sensation of falling.
“Mine, too,” I say.
22
UNCANNY
Uncanny is used to denote a type of emotional and cognitive dissonance one feels when encountering something that’s familiar but also scary and mysterious. Something that looks right but feels wrong.
In psychology, the concept of the uncanny was primarily shaped by Jentsch and Freud. The latter drew heavily on linguistics: In German, uncanny (unheimlich) denotes the unfamiliar, the awareness of nonbelonging that makes all your senses go haywire. Under the sway of the uncanny, you’re discombobulated—not quite at ease, not quite at home.
The bread and butter of horror movies, the uncanny is rooted in that moment when you look at a little boy’s face only to find it tainted with the all-black eyes of the possessed; when you watch a hapless protagonist tap her boyfriend’s shoulder and, as he turns around, shrink back at the signs of decay on his rotting skin.
Uncanny is how the grown-up, unfamiliar version of Shannon makes me feel. Home and not home, belonging and nonbelonging. This Shannon-provoked uncanniness is razor-sharp, rubbing against my heart: I know him, this handsome guy who looks at me like he knows me one moment and then the next studies me like I’m an alien-bug-specimen trapped in his net. I know I’m as good as a stranger to him now, and I have no right to expect a warm embrace … still, I can’t help but feel hurt by his unwelcome.
* * *
I come to find Del right outside the tent, hiding under a big black umbrella held by one of those burly, seemingly unarmed guards I noticed earlier. Dark hair cropped short, features wide and bold, the guy definitely qualifies as the tall dark stranger Del was promised earlier. Probably thinking the same thing, Del’s standing close to the guard, saying something into his ear, making him smile. Engrossed in the conversation, she doesn’t notice me.
Watching Del flirt up a storm, I welcome cold, rain-soaked air into my lungs, holding it in for ten long counts while going through the lyrics of Mom’s lullaby in my head. The lyrics normally calm me down, but this time, instead of bringing me peace, they disturb some dark chords of my psyche. The song features three protagonists, and it’s their blood that’s supposed to break down the walls keeping out a new world. Hmm … The blood of three. Three vials in the basement. Three ravens.
“Plotting world domination? Earth to Hayden?” Del’s finally taken notice of brooding, thinking me. I force a smile. Before she joins me on the way back to the car, she slips the guard what must be her phone number. But he’s shaking his head. “No reception here, Del. Unless you have a satellite phone, I can’t reach you.”
“And what are we going to do about it, Santiago?” she teases in her come-closer voice. Del didn’t waste any time while I had my skin poked and prodded by my former childhood friend.
“Around here, we do it the old-fashioned way: We agree on a day and time and I call on you then.”
“Call on me?” Del chuckles. Santiago looks dead serious. Captivated by the two of them, I ignore raindrops slapping my face.
“We’re staying at the Holland Manor.” When I speak up, Santiago pins me with his eyes and does a double take before his surprised features rearrange themselves into a pleasant expression. I wonder if I know him from somewhere, because he most definitely seems to have recognized me. Del looks at me funny, too, but I suspect for a different reason. Unperturbed, I continue, “We don’t have any plans and will be here all week. You can call on Delphine tomorrow evening.”
“Oh, I sure am going to.” Santiago winks at Del, man
aging to make it look cute and not cheesy. From the corner of my eye, I notice Shannon watching me as I observe the exchange between Del and Santiago. When our eyes meet, Shannon busies himself with his wristwatch. I hate that he rattles me so. My face warms up, and I want to leave the tent behind before Shannon can see me blushing.
Once we’re in the car, Del takes up the driver’s seat and scowls at me. “What is your problem, little Miss Busybody?”
“I thought I was helping!” I protest.
“Sure.… Thanks for your help.” She steps on the gas and twists the wheel. “Nice jacket, by the way.”
I must have a blank look on my face before I realize I still have Shannon’s Windbreaker around my shoulders. It faintly smells of him—that raw wild scent of the woods.
“Stop the car!” I start to pull the jacket off my shoulders, but Del shakes her head.
“No way! Too late now. Ugh, like we needed another reason for Santiago to visit.” Del’s grumpy outburst breaks the spell I’m under. The spot where the needle broke my skin prickles. I rub at it gently until the sensation disappears, taking with it a flushed memory of Shannon’s deft fingers running over the length of my arm.
As we cruise away from the research camp, Del breaks the silence and says, “Arranging my dates for me, are you?”
“I thought you liked the guy.”
“Of course, I liked him,” she scoffs, “but no one in their right mind agrees to be called on like this, not without running some background checks first. Besides, it’s always best to meet in neutral territory for the first time, and you just all but invited this dude we barely know and his brooding friend, the hot jerk who gives me the creeps, into our home. Nice move!”
“All right, I’m sorry! But Shannon already knows where we’re staying anyway, and if Santiago wanted to know where to find you, I’m sure he would’ve figured it out, with or without my help. Besides, I don’t remember inviting Shannon to come along, so you can relax on that account.” I don’t comment on the “gives me the creeps” part.
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