by M. D. Waters
Noah sits and wraps his arms around upturned knees. “Ready to tell me what happened?”
I cannot look at him, nor am I ready to talk about what happened. I am too embarrassed. “What were you doing in the hall?”
He chuckles. “I feel like I live in that hall. Adrienne sleeps in my room. If I’m in there, she won’t go down, so I wait in the hall. She woke up and caught me painting.”
I am instantly jealous he has the means to do this. I have not touched a brush to canvas in too long. “Painting? At this hour?” Not that I know the hour, but it feels like it is very early in the morning.
“Couldn’t sleep. Your turn.”
I hesitate, wondering how best to explain, then decide on, “Bad dream.”
“Now tell me something I didn’t already know.”
I look in his eyes before I realize what I have done. He looks tired behind his interest in my story. I do not want to tell him and break this content moment, but he will not give up until he hears the details. “I dream of death. I feel it pulling me, and every night, it gets closer and closer to taking me. I did not think I would wake up this time.”
We turn away from each other at the same time. When he does not respond, I say, “Anyway, I was a little disoriented when I woke up, and I panicked.”
“I’m glad I was there, then.”
“Me too.”
Silence envelopes us again. We lie back on the soft grass and stare into the sky. At the stories laid out in a series of constellations, most of which Noah knows somehow. I know only a handful of them and do not see the three he pointed out to me in one of my few memories.
“Will you tell me what you see?” I ask. “What story plays tonight?”
He is quiet for too long. I find him staring at me with unfiltered shock.
“You do not have to,” I say, and look away. “If it—”
“Centaurus,” he cuts in, then points straight up.
“I do not know which stars you are looking at.”
Noah scoots closer and takes my hand, sending tingles racing over my arm. He opens my palm without pause, as if the fire I feel is mine alone. In it, he places dots in several places and then draws invisible lines to connect them.
When he is finished, I look up and find the grouping. “What is Centaurus?”
Our hands drift apart and lie between us. I feel the heat of his skin beside mine, so close, yet very far.
“Centaurus is about a centaur named Chiron,” he says. “He was a wise half-human, half-horse who tutored Hercules and Jason. One day Hercules accidentally wounded him. Being immortal, he would live with the pain forever and begged the gods to put him out of his misery.”
Noah pauses and drops his head to face me. I wonder if he has chosen this story on purpose. Am I supposed to be Hercules? He the wounded centaur unable to escape the pain I have inflicted?
“So did they?” I ask. “Put him out of his misery?”
“Yes. And gave him a place among the stars.”
A protracted moment ends with us turning away at the same moment. The heat of his skin is suddenly too much and far too close. I sit up to end the intimacy of lying beside him.
“You always know the best stories,” I say, thinking back to the memory of us on the beach.
He sits up and wraps his arms around his knees again. “Why don’t you tell me one?”
The wind blowing through a nearby cluster of trees cloaks the release of my sigh. I am wary of where his question will lead. “What story would you like to hear?”
“The one where you tell me where you’ve been all this time.”
“Nothing to tell.”
One heartbeat.
Two.
I resist the urge to comb down his hair, which stands up in the wind.
“You never could lie to me,” he says.
These words speak of a history together. The day I left, this was what I wanted from him more than anything. He could not give it to me then, and now that it seems he can, he is too far away to reach.
I stand and tighten the blanket. “I have been searching for my parents.” I turn away once the words are out. I need to walk. Sitting with him feels dangerous.
Noah catches up to me at the end of the footbridge. “Did you find them?”
I do not answer until we reach the middle. I lean over the railing and watch the gentle ripples of water bathed in moonlight. “No.”
My wedding ring falls and swings heavy from my neck, a reminder of the man who would rearrange entire continents to find me, thus halting my search. I lift and finger the band, staring absently at the water. “I thought I was finally getting somewhere in Mexico. The man I was meeting was ex-resistance. It turns out he only knew a woman named Lily Garrett. That was all I learned before Declan’s announcement.” I point to my bruised cheek. “That is when the man gave me this and I spent the following hour or so running from an entire village in the central highlands of Mexico.”
Noah reaches out and takes the ring from where I roll the band around my fingertip. “Your wedding ring,” he says, letting it drop.
I tuck the jewelry back under my shirt, mentally flogging myself. I may as well have flaunted my marriage to Declan in his face. Careless. “I no longer have a luckenbooth to stave off any would-be husbands,” I explain.
Noah rests his forearms on the railing. We look down at the branded luckenbooth on his right hand. I do not have a memory of him doing this, but I know he did it when we married. I loved him for it because he turned something tainted and ugly into a symbol of our love.
He pushes off the railing and backs away. “What will you do now?”
I turn and rest against the barrier. “The same thing I have done for more than a year. Look for my parents.”
Noah stands with arms folded, his gaze cast far behind me. “The price Declan Burke has on you won’t make that easy.”
“All I need is shelter for a couple of days. Until I figure out a safe place to—”
“You’re safe with me,” he cuts in, his gaze fastening on me. A moment later, his arms fall, as do his eyes. His weight shifts. “Let me help you.”
My head tilts to the side, drawn down with the cinching around my heart. “I cannot ask you to do that. If Declan finds me with you, it will wreck everything you have done using Tucker Securities.”
It seems he can look at me again, and I am unable to tear my gaze away for even a moment. “He won’t find you.” He sounds so sure I almost believe him.
“Your men think I am a traitor, and if you protect me—”
“Let me worry about them.” He takes a step closer. “Tell me you’re staying, Emma.”
He will thwart any excuse I throw his way, but in truth, I do not want to leave. Despite all warnings to the contrary, I want to be near him and Adrienne, and maybe with the access to his computers, I can make headway in my search.
“Okay.”
He nods once and tries unsuccessfully to contain a smile. “Okay.”
CHAPTER 7
Declan stands outside his building in Richmond, wind tunneling strong down the walkway. The erratic whoosh of air brushes the mic held by the reporter. The flash of bulbs adds light to the morning sun.
“Unfortunately,” Declan says to the small gathering of reporters, “what we hoped was a breakthrough in Emma’s whereabouts ended shrouded in mystery. But at least I know she is still alive and trying to come home where she belongs.”
He looks directly into the camera, the sea in his eyes bordering on a storm. “Emma, if you’re hearing this, I will find you.”
• • •
Declan’s warning races over my spine in the guise of an icy shiver. If his intent was to frighten me, it worked. I have no idea how I will get out of this situation short of ending up exactly where he wants me: on Dr. Travista’s table.
/>
I shut off the vid screen and toss the remote to the table next to my bed. Declan has managed an entire news conference before normal people have breakfast. He must be getting desperate. But why?
A knock sounds on the door, startling me. Who would want to see me this early? At least I am already dressed for the day. “Come in,” I call out, deciding it must be Foster. He promised to take me to breakfast, but I assumed it would not be for another half hour.
The door slides aside for Noah, who has Adrienne propped on his hip. I jump off the side of the bed, unable to take my eyes off her. This close, I see the resemblance to my own face. She has my hazel eyes, my nose with its rounded tip, and my heart-shaped face. She also has Noah’s full lips, as well as his naturally wavy hair. She is absolutely beautiful.
Noah closes the door, glances around the quiet room, and gives me a wary smile. “We aren’t interrupting anything, are we?”
I wonder what he believes he would interrupt. It is not as if I have had time to plan a secret tryst. “No. I was just watching the news conference.” I glance at Adrienne, who watches me from the corner of her eye, her head buried in Noah’s shoulder. “Hi,” I say to her, and the word is barely audible.
Noah bounces her when she does not respond. “Say hi, chicken.”
“Chicken?”
A soft blush fills his cheeks. “Yeah. I’ve always called her that. Just sort of happened with no rhyme or reason.”
I love this more than I can say, but I am also jealous of the obvious bond they share. It feels wrong that I am a stranger to my own daughter, but I did this. I put myself on the outside all on my own.
“Anyway,” Noah says, casting his gaze around the room, “we were just getting ready to head to breakfast, and I thought you’d like to meet her.”
I can only nod, not trusting my voice as I watch Adrienne watch me. Her little fists clutch tight to Noah’s shirt, and she tries to be invisible, which is something she will never be. Not in a million years.
Noah kneels and sets Adrienne on the floor. She stands but does not release his shirt, forcing him to sit on the concrete floor with a sigh.
“She’s shy,” he tells me, and pulls her into his lap.
I kneel in front of them, itching to touch her but unable to move my arm to do so. “Me too,” I admit.
He bounces her on his knee. “Let’s see what we can do to change that.”
• • •
Foster retrieves me for breakfast shortly after my visitors depart. The best Noah could do during their visit was to get Adrienne to walk freely around my room as she kept one eye on me at all times. She did not speak at all, but I learned she uses sign language to communicate with Noah. It was a good start.
Breakfast is a group affair, loud with the sound of laughter, conversation, and scraping of utensils. Foster leads me to one of the copious number of long stainless steel tables in the too-bright and cavernous cafeteria.
We are sitting no more than five seconds when I hear, “Hello, Miss Emma.”
My tense shoulders slump and I force a smile up at Dr. Malcolm. “Good morning, Dr. Malcolm.”
Foster waves a finger between us. “You two know each other?”
Dr. Malcolm beams almost as bright as the reflection of fluorescent lighting on his bald head. “I had the pleasure yesterday.”
“He and Sonya left just before you arrived,” I explain.
The doctor bounces and rocks on the balls of his feet, unusually quiet, as if in desperate need of something to say to prolong his visit. His fingers tap the underside of his tray.
I cannot take it and have no wish to be rude. “Would you like to sit?” I ask, and cross my fingers that he declines.
Dr. Malcolm slides across from me and is already sitting when he says, “Yes, thank you.”
Foster’s knee knocks against mine, but I am careful not to react.
“How was your first night?” Dr. Malcolm asks.
I stir my yogurt, watching the pink layers swirl. “Like every other night.”
The doctor’s eyes flick between Foster and me. “I’d be curious to know what you dreamed about, if you remember, of course. Did I tell you how I once spent some time studying oneirology? Fascinating what dreams can tell us about a person’s—”
A silver tray clatters on the table beside Dr. Malcolm, startling the doctor into silence. A man begins to sit and Dr. Malcolm has to move before the man and his female companion sit on him. I do not know them but am already grateful for the interruption. The last thing I want to talk about is my dreams. Especially not with this doctor.
The woman is stunning. Layers of long brown hair roll down her back in large waves. Her eyes are simply unfair: bright green and in the shape of large almonds. Thinly trimmed brows arch to points over them. Her pink lips form a natural pout and her olive skin is flawless. She is tall, slim, and curvy. Unfair. Everything about her is unfair.
The guy with her is also attractive. Messy brown hair. One eyebrow permanently notched higher than the other. Full lips in a smirk. He is the guy who makes the kids laugh while making the adults exasperated.
The woman folds her arms over the table and leans forward, sharp eyes holding my gaze. “‘’Tis some visitor tapping at my chamber door,’” she says.
I recognize the line instantly. My Edgar Allan Poe fascination is fairly recent, and “The Raven” is one of my favorites. Peter gave me a new appreciation for classic literature that She never had. “‘Only this and nothing more,’” I finish.
She angles me a single nod. “Hello, Clone.”
“Hello, Human.”
Her smile widens and she exchanges a look with the man beside her. She then reaches across the table for a handshake. “I’m Nicoleigh Bennett. You used to call me Leigh.”
The guy next to her snorts. “That’s not what she used to call you.”
Dr. Malcolm turns to face the four of us, eyes alert, his entire body nearly vibrating with excitement. “This is a perfect display of establishing dominance in a social group. Typically, in this day and age, it would be between two males given the fact that there are so few females to fight over. You see, with her choice of mates, the female doesn’t have to show her feathers, so to speak, when meeting another female. I find it interesting that the two of you—”
“Yes, Doc P. So interesting,” Leigh says, smirking at me.
Her friend nods at me with a big smile. “I’m Miles Trumble. Best not get into what you used to call me, because you hated the fuck out of me.”
I cannot imagine how I did not like either of them. I appreciate their honesty and willingness to socialize despite what the rest of the room must be feeling.
“Was the feeling mutual?” I ask Miles.
He leans forward and gives me a smoldering look that is no more serious in nature than Leigh’s attempt at being mean. “Baby, I wanted nothing more than to get in those—”
“Finish that sentence and perish, my friend,” Foster says. He aims a fork at Miles. “Try making a decent impression this time around.”
Leigh’s smile dims and, unfortunately, that does nothing to alleviate her stunning features. “Foster says you’re having a hard time—”
“That’s not what I said.”
“—and I think you deserve a chance. Emma 1.0 would have given you one, and so, for her, I will too.”
I am touched into speechlessness. This is the last thing I expected after they sat down.
Miles shrugs a single shoulder. “I just want another shot at the one that got away.”
I chuckle. “Try holding your breath while you wait. We will see who caves first.”
“Did you know,” Dr. Malcolm says, “that it’s physically impossible to hold your breath to the point of death?”
The four of us stare blankly at him. I do not know about anyone else, but I expect hi
m to explain further. Instead, he simply dips a spoon into his oatmeal and eats as if nothing happened.
Leigh clears her throat and raises her eyebrows at me. “We’re going to the range for target practice after this. Interested?”
I exchange a quick glance with Foster, wondering if he will signal this to be a bad idea, but he does not. So I say, “I am not fond of using any weapons. I do not even like fighting hand to hand.”
Miles chokes on his orange juice.
Leigh blinks rapidly. “Excuse me?”
“If it is a last resort . . .” I trail off and shrug. The one and only time I held a gun was when Foster and I faced down an entire room of Declan’s security. The guilt over taking lives has never lessened.
She holds both hands up as if to halt me in my tracks. “Let me get this straight. Declan Burke has the entire world looking for your ass, and you’re going to . . . what? Sit on your hands?”
The plan was to hide and cross my fingers, but when the situation is put that way, my plan does not sound very smart. Not after what happened in Mexico and Vegas.
“I do not know if I am even allowed—”
“You’re allowed.” Foster pushes away his empty plate. “And Leigh’s right. You need to be able to defend yourself.”
“But Clint Reid—”
“—is Clint Reid,” Leigh cuts in, and her tone suggests his name on her tongue has replaced a rather noxious expletive.
Foster adds, “A little training won’t hurt you or anyone else.”
Dr. Malcolm sits up straight. “Mind if I tag along? Certain traits, such as Miss Emma’s ability to fight, for example, could be genetic—passed down from one or both parents—and will come naturally to her. It’s clear to me from the news footage that you retained the physical responses to attack when cloned, so naturally I am curious if this will hold true—”
“Maybe next time,” I say. When he frowns, I add, “I have not even agreed to go.”
It is at this moment I hear a child’s giggle and look to the other side of the room. Noah, Sonya, and Adrienne walk down the aisle to an empty table. Sonya tickles Adrienne, who is in her arms, and nods at something Noah says. He carries two trays of food and smiles down at Sonya.