Chasing Before

by Lenore Appelhans

  “I’d better go.”

  “Okay. But we have only a couple of months until Ascension Day. We’ll have to meet often if we want to catch the Morati before then. One of them might get selected to the seraphim guard.”

  No one wants to catch the Morati more than I do. “Will the Morati strike again? Would the trainees in the dorms be safer if they crossed the bridges into Areas One and Three?” As the resident expert in Morati psychology, Julian is the best person to consult.

  “Furukama asked me that too. I told him if they attack, they’ll attack where they can do the most damage. Moving people won’t help.”

  “That’s what I thought.” It’s for the best that Libby and Neil put on their mood enhancement concerts. At least people won’t be in a constant state of panic.

  “I’ll visit again as soon as I can.” I stand up and prepare to leave. Now that I have a valid reason to visit Julian, it’s probably time to tell Neil. My hand flies guiltily to the skep charm.

  As I walk toward the door, an electric current radiates from my heart to my extremities. There’s the tinny sound of a metal sign squeaking in the wind, followed by a dull boom. It’s happening again. I rush to Julian’s window.

  “What do you see?” he asks, urgency in his voice.

  Since we’re on the twelfth floor of the dorms, I have a full view of the east campus. Clouds of dust and debris are rising in the distance, where the eastern bridge crosses into Area Three. “I think . . . I think they blew up the eastern bridge.” I squeeze the skep charm tightly between my fingers, praying that Neil was nowhere near there.

  I’m knocked to the floor as the dorm rattles and shakes around me. Another blast, much closer this time.

  When the building settles, Julian groans. “What do you bet that was Western Bridge? They’ve cut us off from Areas One and Three.”

  “Two bombs,” I say softly as if in a trance. “And two memory globes.”

  “What?” Julian pops his head around the side of the sofa to look at me. “What did you say?”

  I lean heavily against the wall under the window. There’s no doubt of my guilt now. “It’s my fault. All this destruction is my fault.”

  twenty-five

  “YOU FAILED TO MENTION that the Morati delivered more memories.” The muffled quality of the end of Julian’s sentence makes me think he has face-planted onto the sofa out of exhaustion.

  “They were there when I got back from class today.” I didn’t want to believe that my actions were directly related to the bombings, but now I cannot ignore the timing. The Morati have made clear the price of retrieving my lost memories.

  Members of the security force are posted at the bridges to make sure only Careers pass back and forth. Did the security force get hit? Am I a killer? Are the deaths of the muse students at the library my fault? What about the healers? Should I be held responsible for them? And Neil. That first memory I viewed . . . and then Neil almost died. Megan did die. What have I done?

  I think back to Nate’s accusation that I’m self-absorbed. I’ve been so single-minded about retrieving my memories that I haven’t given enough thought to how my obsession is affecting others. How did I let things get so bad?

  Picking myself off the floor, I vow to make this right. To track down the Morati killers not for my own gain but for the good of all of Level Three. Furukama trusts my abilities, and with Julian helping me train, we will find out which of the seraphim guard candidates are Morati in disguise—before it’s too late. Maybe I don’t have to rely on Neil’s influence to be good. Maybe, in spite of my many flaws, I can develop the instinct to help people on my own.

  No matter how much they tempt me, I can’t view any more memories. Not from the Morati, and not from Nate.

  I pass Julian on my way out. He did indeed collapse face-first into the sofa. I pat his shoulder. “See you soon.”

  The chaos in the hallway makes me want to turn and hide in a dark corner of Julian’s room. By the time I reach the stairs, the stairwell is thick with shouting, jostling people desperate to leave the dorm. I’m pulled into the grinding gears of their elbows and knees, and am left hanging on for dear life and gasping for air as I work my way to the exit.

  It would be so much worse if they knew it was me who betrayed them. It’s not difficult to picture the mob. They would lash out at me, ripping at my clothes and skin and hair with their sharp fingernails and teeth, finally able to give direction to their fear and anger. I’d be torn into a million pieces, scattered into oblivion.

  I stare at the cracks in the walls as I’m forced along, trying to read the future of the dorm. The cracks aren’t long or deep enough to mean collapse. We emerge into the lobby, and the double doors spit us out onto Western Avenue.

  The security force is out in droves, herding us toward Assembly Hill. The mere presence of people who seem to be in charge brings down the level of panic. We settle into an orderly march. A hand grabs my wrist, and I turn to face Moby.

  “Did you hear?” Moby releases me and lets out a low whistle. “The bridges were destroyed.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” I dread the answer.

  “There’s no official statement yet.” He rubs his eyebrow, and we’re so close, I can’t help but notice the fangs of his snake tattoo peeking out from under the edge of his long sleeve. “But Neil and Libby are putting on a healing concert at Assembly Hill,” Moby says.

  They organized that incredibly quickly. Is there a way we can help? “We should join them onstage. Me on piano, you on bass?” We don’t have any experience at all in healing, but if they can use us somehow to calm everyone down, it’s the least I can do.

  “I’m down with that.”

  “Cool.” Having a plan of action distracts me from my self-loathing. And for some reason, whenever Moby’s around, things seem less dire. I like that about him. “Neil and I were working on a couple of duets for our muse audition. We could do those.”

  Moby suggests a few rock songs, even humming me the melody to one of his band’s hits. When I ask him what year it’s from, I’m bummed to learn that it was released after my car accident. Yet another reminder of what the Morati stole from me. I don’t even know what year I died or if I would have been around to hear him play or not.

  We hear Neil’s voice before we see him. It’s more beautiful than ever. The ballad he sings hypnotizes and calms the crowd. He has such an ability to connect with others through music. If I went onto the stage with him, would it allow us to reconnect?

  Moby nudges me forward. “Let’s do this.” Because the crowd has relaxed, people are no longer packed so tightly and we’re able to approach the crest of the hill with relative ease. Keegan is in the front row, staring up at Neil like Neil is some sort of rock star. Libby is onstage, next to Neil, clapping along. I catch her eye and wiggle my fingers like I’m playing piano, then point at myself and then at the stage. She waves me up.

  “Can you sing?” Moby says into my ear as we climb the steps to join Neil, who hasn’t noticed us yet because his eyes are closed and he’s lost in the moment. When I shake my head, Moby says, “I’ll back him up, then.”

  Moby and I materialize our instruments and position ourselves on either side of Neil. I set the piano at an angle, so that I can see Neil but still register the audience with my peripheral vision. Libby approaches and places her hand firmly on the base of my neck. She presses into the knot of my spine, and an electric current of energy flows into my shoulders, down my arms, and into my fingers. I don’t know this song, but I place my hands on the keys and play chords, the music taking a powerful shape around me. Moby finds his way in easily. Neil’s forehead creases slightly when he hears our instruments, his eyes fluttering open and taking us both in. But he doesn’t miss a single beat.

  When Neil hits the final notes and falls silent, he looks at me full on and smiles. I mouth the name of a song we practiced, a midtempo radio hit that Moby said he knew too. Neil nods, and I poise my fingers above the keys. Neil plays th
e opening chords and Moby catches on immediately, thumbing his strings hard to lay down the backing rhythm. When I start playing, Libby’s hand still on me, the notes soar all around, intoxicating, and I soon get caught up in our group dynamic. Moby harmonizes with Neil on the choruses, and his deeper, scratchier voice lends the song an unexpected gravitas.

  We all play the last notes together, and the crowd erupts in applause. It’s hard to believe these exuberant fans are part of the frightened huddle that accompanied me to the hill not that long ago. Music is truly a healing art.

  Letting Neil take the lead, Moby and I join him for a couple more upbeat songs. Then we exit the stage with Libby and watch as Neil sings a closing ballad to send the audience on their way. When our fellow students stream back to the dorms, they huddle in small groups, arms around one another and still singing. Keegan goes with them, hugging his baseball cap to his chest, his face lit up with joy for the first time since Kiara’s death.

  I’m giddy. There’s no greater high than this.

  Libby bows before Moby and me. “I’m impressed. You two must consider dropping seraphim guard and joining up with the healers.”

  She snaps her fingers, and my mind becomes razor-sharp again, the blade sinking in that there wouldn’t have been a concert without the horrors that came before.

  “Were they bad? The bombings?” I ask.

  Libby nods. “I told you before that only celestial beings have the power to fix or destroy certain eternal architecture like the records room. The bridges are like that. We can’t repair them without the help of an angel.”

  “Julian could have fixed them. Before.” I mean before he was thrown in the brimstone jail, and she knows it.

  “He also might have destroyed them, right?” Moby offers cautiously.

  “Except he didn’t.” I keep my voice low. I don’t necessarily want it to carry up to where Neil is still onstage, putting his guitar back into its case.

  “No. Not this time.” Libby says it diplomatically, but I can tell she hasn’t ruled out Julian having some sort of part in the whole mess. “And since Julian is . . . indisposed, and we don’t have any other willing angels on hand, we won’t be able to cross into Area One or Three for the time being, and the course instructors won’t be able to come here. We’ll have to rearrange or cancel classes.” The heads of the careers, such as Nate and Miss Claypool, stay in the administration building, but the other instructors commute every day.

  “But nobody died?” That last word sticks in my throat.

  Libby regards me curiously, with slightly narrowed eyes. “No. No reported deaths.”

  At least I didn’t murder anyone today.

  Neil comes down the stairs to the stage, holding his guitar case in front of him with both hands. “Great show, guys!”

  “Proud to jam with you, bro.” Moby claps him on the shoulder. “You have mad skills.”

  “Thanks.” Neil soaks in the compliment. He’s still amped, the aftershocks of the concert evident in the way his body trembles.

  “We plan to do a concert every evening, three hours before curfew,” Libby says. “Both of you are more than welcome to join us whenever you like.”

  She excuses herself for a meeting with Furukama, and the three of us return to the dorms. Moby’s building is farther down than ours, so we part ways with promises of getting together tomorrow to practice more songs.

  When Neil and I reach the entrance, he stops and caresses my cheek. “It meant a lot to me. What you did tonight. Thanks.”

  Little does he know much I did. And I can’t tell him either. Not if I want him to keep looking at me the way he is now.

  He opens the door for me and then holds my hand as we take the stairs. As we step into our hallway, he comes to an abrupt stop.

  “Umm . . . I was thinking,” he starts, but then doesn’t say anything more.

  “Yes?” I prompt.

  He puts down his guitar and then pulls at his collar with his free hand. “Do you want to stay with me tonight?”

  twenty-six

  NEIL’S INVITATION LEAVES me speechless. I have kept him in the dark about so many things. He wouldn’t be saying this to me if he knew I was the cause of the bombings and Kiara’s death. I have trouble looking him in the eye.

  When I don’t answer, Neil bites his lip. “Of course, I understand if you have too much homework.”

  “No . . . I mean . . . I’m surprised, that’s all. Are you sure?”

  “When I saw you onstage tonight, it made me realize how hard you’re trying to see things from my point of view. I don’t want you to think that I’m not trying to see things from yours.” He looks so sincere, it breaks my heart a little.

  “Thank you.” I can’t trust myself to say more, or the whole chain of events leading up to this moment might spill out.

  “So is that a yes?” Neil asks with a tentative smile.

  I nod, my mind going numb. My throat constricts as he leads me by the hand into his room. Neil and I both kick off our shoes, facing each other. I lie down on top of his covers at the very edge of his bed.

  Neil gets in beside me and presses himself against my back, nuzzling my neck. When he snakes his arm around me, hitching up my shirt and running his fingertips lightly right below my breastbone, every muscle in my body freezes even as every nerve ignites.

  I curl my toes in as he explores my curves under my clothes, touching me in places he has never dared to before. When I can’t stand the intensity of it any longer, I buck against his fingers. I turn into his waiting arms and find his mouth, kiss him with the pent-up need of hundreds of nights of waiting, thrust my fingers up the back of his neck and thread them through his hair.

  He shifts his weight, and all at once he’s kneeling between my legs, and my hands are on his hips. His trusting eyes meet mine, and guilt crushes my chest.

  I push him backward, rolling off the bed and into a crouch. I look up. His mouth forms a perfect O of surprise. “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I can’t do this.” But when his face registers hurt, I cover my real feelings with a lie. “It just hit me. I forgot about this super-important assignment for Furukama. If I don’t do it, he’ll kick me out. I might have to pull an all-nighter even.”

  Neil forces a smile as he sits up. “If he kicks you out, there’s always a place for you with the healers.”

  I stand and back away a few steps, reaching for my shoes and pulling them on quickly. I can’t keep my hands from fidgeting, and my feet are itching to run. “Thanks. But I have to see this through. If I can somehow stop the Morati plot, I have to try.”

  “It seems we both have our jobs, then.”

  He makes a move to get up, but I break for the door. “Okay, I better get started. See you tomorrow.”

  Before he can answer, I’m out of there. I fly down the hall, down the stairs, through the lobby, out the doors, and onto Western Avenue. It’s the semidark of twilight now, so curfew is in effect. But I don’t care. I run as fast as I can down the road, until I’m past all the university buildings, all except the seemingly endless row of dorms. Most of these sit empty, waiting for more trainees to ascend from Level Two.

  I pass Assembly Hill and I’m into the sports fields. I dash across a football field, then a soccer field, and finally a baseball diamond. I collapse onto home plate, exhausted from trying not to think about the scene with Neil.

  A rustling sound comes from the dugout, then a girlish giggle. Two people sit entwined, and when the girl turns slightly, I recognize Autumn. How strange that she’s all the way out here with some guy.

  Then the guy turns his face. It’s Cash, which I don’t get. They’re together a lot, it’s true, since they’re both on the security force. And Cash does seem to really admire Autumn. But I never detected any sparks between them. In any case, I’m glad she is happy.

  Autumn and Cash are so much in their own world, and I don’t want to startle them, so I start to tiptoe away as quietly as I can.

 
; “Felicia. It’s always Felicia,” Autumn says, and I freeze, thinking she’s spotted me. “Everyone chooses her over me. Even Furukama.”

  Cash mumbles something. I sneak closer to the dugout, but at an angle, to keep out of their line of sight.

  “I wish, just once, someone would see me,” Autumn says with the petulant tone that defines my memories of her. “And not her.”

  “Someone besides me?” Cash asks. He sounds vaguely annoyed. But then he laughs. “Isn’t my love enough for you?” From my vantage point next to the bleachers, I see him knock his shoulder into hers.

  “She showed me a memory of us when we were kids. I wrote a play and we performed it for the neighbors. And guess what?” She pauses.

  Silence. “What?” Cash finally asks.

  “Every single one of them fawned over Felicia and ignored me. Even my own parents. Maybe it was my fault, because I idolized her too. I wanted her to have the starring role.” I choke up thinking about how lucky I was to have her as a friend, and how I blew it not once, not twice, but apparently many times over.

  But then her voice hardens. “Felicia soaked it all up, like it was her right. She has always been like that.” Did people really ignore her? How could I have not noticed that?

  Cash whispers something into her ear, and she giggles again, shoving him playfully. They start to wrestle, which turns into kissing, and I leave while they’re occupied.

  The running helped me calm down a little bit, but I still don’t want to go back to my room.

  I walk somewhat aimlessly back in the direction I came, and I find myself turning right between two of the dorm buildings, onto the main thoroughfare to the bridge that leads to Area One. Or rather, the former bridge.

  Picking my way through shards of ancient stone, I approach the bridge slowly. The bridge bottomed out in the middle, but the stone edges that protrude from both sides of the chasm are remarkably smooth, with a gentle concave slope marred by the circular grooves made by the pulse bomb. I get as close as I dare, peering down into the canyon the bridge once spanned.