Freaks of Nature (The Psion Chronicles)

by Wendy Brotherlin

  And the dear brother I was forced to leave behind, too.

  Viktor emphatically assures me that Alek is no longer in that place, because the Romanian Government’s Psionic Center was closed down seven years ago. He promises me he’ll find him—somehow Viktor will find my dear brother and bring him back to me—but I have an unsettling feeling. I doubt that any psionic children ever made it out of that ghastly place alive.

  I wrap my sweater tighter about me and take one last long look over the sea.

  “May God protect you, Aleksei…wherever you are.” I feel the warmth of my tears trailing down my cheeks. “May you be safe and well cared-for.”

  It is my prayer for him. The one I have said nightly since the day we were separated. Losing my twin was like losing a very dear part of myself. And I miss him.

  Turning my back on the crashing waves, I return to the warmth of my room and slide closed the glass door to the balcony. A queen-sized bed with a soft down comforter and luxurious feather pillows takes up much of the room. The writing desk, bookshelves, and side tables are carved from sturdy Russian oak and stained a deep, majestic brown. They give weight to the room and add an old-world charm.

  Viktor’s father, Sergei Bogomolov, who I rarely see, spares no expense when it comes to my comfort. And for that, I am most grateful. It makes my long and painful recoveries all the more bearable.

  The most used feature in this room, outside of my overstuffed reading chair, is the 52-inch flat screen television that hangs on the wall across from my bed. Recovering from a healing session can take up to a week. That television gives me access to the outside world. It’s a way for me to seek freedom through the lives of others and imagine what kind of life I would have had, had I been born a baseline.

  Fluffing the pillow on my reading chair, I’m startled by the unexpected knock on my door.

  “Alya?”

  It’s Mrs. Mandelstam. What could she want at this impossible hour? “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Are you decent, child?” she asks me in Russian. It is a strict rule that only Russian be spoken in this household. The one exception is during my sessions with Viktor. And that’s only because his Russian is so terrible.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m dressed.”

  Mrs. Mandelstam opens my door, her reading glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose; her salt-and-pepper hair has been hastily swept back into a bun. Though she has taken the time to pull on the black matron dress that is her uniform, I notice that she hasn’t bothered with stockings. Heavy black work shoes adorn her feet.

  “Alya, you’re needed,” she says urgently. “Come quickly.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. “Is it Viktor?”

  Mrs. Mandelstam peers at me ominously over her glasses. “I’m afraid so.”

  “But it’s not even been a week,” I cry, as I rush about my room searching for my shoes. I only got out of bed yesterday from one of the most grueling healing sessions of my life. “How can this be?”

  “Ach, child, if I had all the answers…” Mrs. Mandelstam shakes her head in frustration as she unmakes my bed during her search for my favorite pillow. “Just be thankful that the master isn’t in. He pushes you too hard, you know.”

  “I push myself,” I say absently, falling into the routine of familiar conversation. “Mr. Bogomolov has been very good to me.”

  I hear Mrs. Mandelstam snort in disagreement. “I know what drives you, child. Everyone in this household adores Viktor. We all wish he could be rid of his terrible disease. But—” Her voice trails away as she spots my pillow.

  “But what?” I ask, looking at her pointedly, right shoe in hand.

  “I’ve said too much already.” She places my favorite pillow beneath her arm and plucks an afghan off a stool.

  I stand stock-still, watching her. “No, tell me, please. What were you going to say?”

  Mrs. Mandelstam stops fussing about and meets my gaze over the rim of her glasses. “You are a treasure, child. I’ve seen firsthand the miracles you perform.”

  “They’re not miracles,” I say softly. “I can’t bring back the dead. I can’t heal everybody.”

  Mrs. Mandelstam gazes pointedly at me. “But that won’t stop you from trying, now, will it?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Mandelstam’s smile grows as she proudly gazes back at me in that grandmotherly way of hers. “And therein lies the miracle. It’s you, child. Not your amazing power. Just simply…you.”

  My cheeks grow hot as Mrs. Mandelstam’s compliment blossoms inside of me with a warmth that I know is genuine and heartfelt. But that doesn’t make it any less difficult for me to accept. I am, after all, considered something less than human by my captor, Mr. Bogomolov. And I have no illusions that if I allow the leukemia to claim his most beloved son… he’ll have no problem ending my life, too.

  “We’d better get going,” I say, cramming my feet into my tennis shoes without properly tying them. Conversations like the one I’m having with Mrs. Mandelstam make me nervous. I have no control over my fate, and acting otherwise could get me killed or, worse, sent back to another, even more horrible psi-facilty in Romania.

  Mrs. Mandelstam holds open the door as I head into the hallway and press the call button for the elevator. My bedroom is on the third floor of the expansive, isolated mansion, but to find my room, one must know where the secret passage is located and have access to one of the three keys that power the elevator. It’s real cloak-and-dagger stuff, I know. But it keeps me out of sight and well away from the small army of Russian henchmen who patrol the house and grounds. Sergei Bogomolov trusts nobody—not even his closest allies. And that philosophy alone is probably what has kept him alive and in power for over twenty-two years.

  The elevator doors open and Mrs. Mandelstam and I get in. Without a word, she inserts her key and turns it once to the left. In an instant, the doors whisper closed and the elevator descends.

  “Back there, what I said,” says Mrs. Mandelstam, staring straight ahead at the door.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  The elevator eases to a stop and Mrs. Mandelstam withdraws her key. She turns to me then, as the doors open, and offers me a sweet smile. “I meant every word of it.”

  Before I can reply, she steps out of the elevator and hurries down the short passage to the hidden door that opens into Viktor’s closet. I’m right behind her, of course, but I find myself a bit puzzled by her behavior. Mrs. Mandelstam is not usually so chatty, let alone so emotional. Especially when Viktor’s life is at stake.

  Unless…

  I step into Viktor’s massive suite in time to see Mrs. Mandelstam exit through a door on the opposite side of the ornately decorated room. Strangely, the room is illuminated by candlelight, my pillow and afghan set neatly on an empty chair by the door. “Mrs. Mandelstam, where are you going? Mrs. Mandelstam?”

  “She’s off to the airport,” I hear Viktor say in English. He may not speak Russian very well, but at least he understands it somewhat when he hears it.

  “Airport?” I ask in heavily accented English as I turn toward the sound of his voice. I find him sitting propped up by pillows in his hospital bed, dressed to the nines in an elegant tuxedo, complete with crisp white gloves. His legs are covered by a thick comforter, but knowing Viktor, he’s probably managed to pull on the pants as well. I am stunned by how handsome he appears before me, the candlelight softening his sunken features, making him look older than his nineteen years and much, much healthier. His dark chocolate eyes twinkle in the light from the massive candelabras that sit on tables scattered throughout the room. And I notice for the first time that he has become a nicer-looking version of his father. Which is saying a lot, because Mr. Bogomolov is not exactly an ugly man.

  “Viktor?” I ask. “What’s going on? Why are you dressed like that, and why is Mrs. Mandelstam going to the airport?”

  He takes a deep breath, his eyes liquid and unreadable in the candlelight. “Because her services are
no longer required.”

  “What?!” I gasp, not believing my ears.

  “No, no, Alya. Wait,” he adds, quickly. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Then why did you fire her?”

  “To protect her.”

  “From what? Your father?”

  He looks away, staring pensively at the flickering candles on the bedstand. “You know, you and me… I’m not sure we were meant to endure our lives in this manner.”

  I step closer to his bed in an effort to assure him that I have no desire to be anywhere else but here. “I don’t mind my life, Victor. It’s comfortable.”

  “It’s a prison.”

  Sitting on the edge of his bed, I give him an encouraging smile. “Not when I’m with you, it’s not.”

  He lays his head back against the pillows and gives me a smile that almost overcomes the sadness in his eyes, but not quite. “Alya, you are my angel.”

  “No. I’m not.” I’m shaking my head, but when he looks at me in that way, I find myself grinning like a bashful child. “I’m just a girl who wants to see you well again.”

  “I wish that could be so.”

  “Perhaps it will one day.”

  He smiles at me again, the candlelight dancing in his eyes. “I have something for you.” He reaches for something on the tablestand and picks up a perfect rose. He holds it out to me. “I had all of the thorns removed. Mrs. Mandelstam told me you liked roses.”

  I take the rose and breathe in its rich fragrance. “Oh, Viktor, it’s beautiful. Thank you.” Touching the soft petals to my cheek, I find myself becoming suspicious of his overture. We are not lovers, nor am I in love with him. Viktor is my friend, my very dear friend, but our relationship is strictly platonic and I have never sensed anything from him other than brotherly devotion. So, then, why the tuxedoed presentation of a rose by candlelight?

  “Viktor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you let Mrs. Mandelstam go?”

  “Because I adore her, Alya. She’s been kinder to me than my biological mother ever was.” He pauses, the orange glow of the candlelight reflecting in his eyes. “This last year has been a very rough year for me. But what has pained me more than the ache in my bones is watching you suffer for weeks at a time as you work harder and harder to rid yourself of my disease.”

  “But it’s what I do. I have to take your disease into my body in order to repair you—that’s how my power works.”

  “I’m not blind, Alya. I know this disease is killing you, too.”

  “No. I can handle it.”

  He takes my hands and gazes deeply into my eyes. “Alya, my most dear and perfect friend. You have given me ten long, wonderful years of life—life I could never have had without you. Your laughter has given me so much joy, and your faith in me has lifted me to stellar heights.

  “But all I have to offer you now is pain and suffering and death. My disease is winning.”

  “No, don’t say that—”

  “Tonight, we must make our goodbyes.”

  The tears pour out of me, as a mixture of fear and loss blossoms inside my chest and quickly spreads to my extremities like a poisonous red tide. I have failed Viktor. And now both of our lives are forfeit. “Please, Viktor,” I beg, my voice trembling. “Give me just a little more time. I promise I’ll do better—try harder—I’ll figure something out.”

  “But I’m killing you, Alya.”

  “No, no—I can do this! I must!” I reach down deep within myself in an effort to control my rising panic. “I am not going to allow you to kill yourself—you can’t! I won’t let you!” I reach out to him, psionic power tingling in my fingertips. All it will take is but one touch, one caress, and I will instantly know the state of his remission.

  But Viktor takes my hand in his gloved ones and offers me a heartbreaking smile. “Alya, I never said anything about killing myself.”

  “Then why else would you make Mrs. Mandelstam leave?”

  His voice drops to a whisper as he says, “Because you’re leaving here, too. Tonight.”

  It takes me the breadth of a heartbeat to realize what he means, and the implication of his words will only mean a disastrous end for us both. “No! You can’t! You’ll die!”

  “I was supposed to die ten years ago.”

  “And that’s why I’m here. To help you get better—”

  “But there is no getting better for me, Alya. All we’re doing here is prolonging the inevitable.”

  “So? What’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything! I’m killing you!”

  “No, it’s not true! It’s just not true!” But even as I speak these words, I know he’s right. His disease cannot be healed. Not by me, anyway. I have failed him… I have failed myself.

  I am terrified of what will become of me.

  With tears rolling down my cheeks, my body trembling, I somehow manage to utter two little words. “I’m sorry.”

  Viktor’s sweet smile is more comfort than I deserve as he wipes the moisture from my cheek with his gloved fingertips. “Alya, you have nothing to apologize for.”

  I shake my head in reply, because I fear the torrent of choking sobs that threaten to spill out of me if I try to speak. No matter what happens here tonight, there will be no going back to the fragile sense of security I had only minutes ago. Minutes I had squandered, unable to fathom that Mrs. Mandelstam’s kind words to me were her way of saying goodbye.

  “I’ve often wondered,” Viktor continues with a faraway look in his eyes, “how many other people you could have healed out there in the world if you weren’t stuck here with me.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I reply weakly. “I like it here.”

  “There’s no future for you here.”

  “But you can’t just give up, Viktor. You have to go on living.”

  “And I will. Only without you to keep my disease at bay.”

  I lower my eyes. “Then you will die.”

  “Yes. I will die. But you won’t.” He gently tilts my face upward so that I am once again looking into his eyes. “You must leave here immediately, Alya.”

  The loss and fear inside me swirl together with the turbulent, gut-wrenching force of a whirlpool, which drains the fight right out of me, leaving me numb with fatigue. My death now certain, I embrace my fate. I knew this day was bound to come. I just had never expected it to arrive so soon.

  “But, Viktor,” I say softly, “I have nowhere to go.”

  “Yes, you do,” he says, positively beaming at me. “There are people I have met who can help you. Good people, Alya. They are with the Psionic Underground Network, and they can protect you. Even from people like my father.”

  “Your father will kill me if I leave here, Viktor,” I say in resignation. Surely, he already knows this, or he wouldn’t have forced Mrs. Mandelstam to go.

  “Not if he can’t find you.”

  I audibly sigh and turn away from him, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “But what’s the use of running? I have no one.”

  “Ah, but you do.”

  I shake my head in misery and allow my resignation to speak aloud what I have held secretly in my heart for years. “No, I don’t. My brother is dead.”

  “Actually,” Viktor replies, “he’s not.”

  I can hardly believe my ears. It takes me a moment to organize my thoughts enough to speak. “B-but how? It’s been so long.”

  “The Network found him. He was looking for you.”

  At that moment, Viktor’s plan becomes crystal clear. He has kept his promise to me and found my brother, the only other person in the world I cherish as much as Viktor himself. Viktor is sacrificing himself so that I may live.

  “Viktor,” I say, turning back to him and taking in his sweet, caring smile. “You did all of this for me?”

  “Yes.”

  I shake my head, overcome by his selflessness and feeling incredibly unworthy of his compassion. “Why?”

  “Like I told
you before, you’re an angel—my angel.” He reaches out to me, and I take his hand. “And it’s time for you to fly away from here. I’m setting you free.”

  “Then come with me.”

  “I can’t,” he says, shaking his head. “This is your adventure, not mine.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but Viktor holds up a gloved hand. “No, no,” he says. “No argument. Our time grows short. Now, you must listen to me very carefully.”

  I barely manage a nod, because it’s such a struggle to keep it together. My eyes cloud with brimming tears. I lean in closer, lingering on his every word.

  “You will meet up with Network freedom workers in Aberdeen, Texas, in three days’ time.”

  “Aberdeen, Texas,” I say breathlessly, my mind whirling with an endless tangle of questions. “But how am I supposed to get there? I have no money, no friends—I don’t even know where Aberdeen, Texas is.”

  Viktor gives me a patient smile. “What? You think I’d send you into that big bad world out there without an escort?”

  I feel my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. I’m usually not one to jump to conclusions, let alone voice my fears. And this is definitely not how I want Viktor to remember me. “No, of course not,” I say softly. “This is just all so—so—overwhelming right now.”

  Viktor’s smile strains just a bit, as his eyes meet mine once again. “Mrs. Mandelstam told me once of a little prayer you say every night for your brother.”

  I nod, once again fighting back tears. I’m working overtime to be brave and not lose what little composure I have left in front of one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. “Y-yes.”

  “Would you say one for me from time to time?”

  “Every night,” I manage to say, choking back a sob.

  He beams at me then. “That would be nice.”

  I put everything behind my smile. My love, my thankfulness, my friendship…my heart. And I hope—no, I pray—that in some small way, he can see it all in these final, heartbreaking moments. His supreme sacrifice will never be forgotten.

  He glances behind me, looking deep into the shadows. “Are you there, my friend?”